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In all his life, Harry has been overshadowed.
Growing up, all eyes were always on his father. Oscorp cast a huge shadow over everything their family did, and no one ever really asked or took much interest about the quiet, big eyed kid always tugging at Norman’s pant leg who asked to be picked up or played with. He’s grown used to that disinterest, as well as the gossip and the teasing . It’s all part of being an Osborn, his father says, and that one day they won’t laugh. So he shuts it all out and waits patiently.
But never has he felt like he was second-best.
Not until Peter Parker.
He’s there, a background character as Peter longs after Mary Jane year after year. He’s there when he first musters up the courage to talk to her. He sits and watches and listens to them, and lets his heart sink. He relaxes into the feeling, the heartache, because he’s brought it onto himself. It really does serve him right for falling for his best friend.
But that’s not really the problem. It’s the history they never speak of. Hell, Harry would probably be okay and be able to recover from the inevitable heartbreak, if it wasn’t for the one mistake they made years ago. The one night they’ve never said a word about to one another.
That night of their first kiss.
They’re both giggling, half delirious with lack of sleep. Peter’s sprawled out on the floor, laughing into the carpet at Harry’s latest dumb joke, which have started making less and less sense as the night goes on.
“You’re so dumb,” He says, still laughing as he rolls over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “That was such a bad joke.”
Harry grins. “But you still laughed.”
“Touché.” Peter’s head comes up to look at Harry. As Peter sits up, Harry hops off of his bed and joins him on the floor, crawling over to sit opposite to him.
From the open window, a late night breeze blows through. Harry shivers. Peter watches him, eyes heavy with sleep and something else Harry can’t put a label on. Their eyes lock, electric.
Then the breeze calms, and the moment is broken. Peter blinks a few times, seemingly to clear the sleep that’s gathered there, reaches behind him and grabs one of his fuzzy blankets (which he likely stole from the linen closet on the way to Harry’s room) he has lying on the floor. He hands it to Harry, who wraps it around himself.
“Thanks, Pete.”
Peter nods, and moves closer to him. Their bodies are little more than a foot apart now. The closeness is nothing new, but this… is new. It feels different this time, though Harry can’t quite place why.
The silence resumes, and the room is dead quiet once more. Harry can hear the ticking of the clock, the passing cars far below them, the faint honking of the drivers. He can hear Peter’s warm breaths, can feel them where they ghost on his skin. It feels pleasant in an odd way.
“Hey Har…” Peter whispers, looking at Harry. “Have you had your first kiss?”
“What?”
Peter’s gaze is suddenly serious. “Have you?”
“No.. why?” Harry finally manages to get out. He’s more than a little confused, considering Peter knows that he hasn’t been with anyone before. They always tell each other stuff like that, about their crushes on girls they have in their homerooms, girls they pass in the hallways. It’s all shared information between them, so why Peter would ask this is beyond him.
Peter hesitates at this. His tongue runs over his lips as his eyes dart around, avoiding eye contact. “Wouldn’t it be hilarious if we were each other’s first kiss?” He finally says, a nervous smile on his face.
An equivalent of a slow motion car crash and subsequent explosion happens in Harry’s mind. His brain screeches to a halt as he desperately attempts to process what Peter’s just proposed.
A first kiss? With Peter? Peter Parker, the world’s biggest nerd, the scrawny kid with glasses who gets pushed around by those bigger than him? The same Peter he’s grown up with all his life? As inexperienced as Harry is with relationships, he’s smart enough to know that it’s probably not a good idea.
But the more he thinks about the idea of kissing Peter of all people, of that touch that could be shared between them, the more his judgment shifts, and the more his wacked-out teenage hormonal brain screams YES!!
So he thinks about it for a split second, thinks about what he’s doing, and decides fuck it.
“Yeah, it’d be hilarious.” He responds.
His voice is steady but his heart is racing and his hands are clammy. He’s never kissed anyone before, only ever seen it in school hallways (ugh) and TV and movies. He’s going in blind here, but they both are.
Peter’s blue eyes widen, clearly not expecting Harry to say yes. “Really?”
“Yeah, sure, why not?” Harry tries for a casual tone so as to not betray his rampant nervousness.
And with that, he starts leaning in. He knows most people close their eyes, but he’s sort of terrified and shit, Peter’s got his hand on his jaw and pulls him closer and-
Their lips abruptly smush together. It’s not graceful or romantic in the slightest, and the angle is awkward and hurts Harry’s nose. There’s no movement, both of them frozen in place without a clue where to go from here. It’s beyond awkward and he feels like he might literally implode from embarrassment, but also…
He feels Peter start giggling against his lips, opens his eyes, and something wonderfully unfamiliar sweeps through him, a full body shiver that nearly knocks the wind out of him.
He’s never really looked at Peter’s eyes until now, and he finds he doesn’t want to stop looking now that he’s seen them. They’re so close together, they’re kissing, it wouldn’t make a difference if Harry were to tilt his head and move his lips, deepen it, chase that feeling in his chest, would it?
Peter pulls away and bursts out laughing. Harry smiles half-heartedly, reeling.
What made him feel like that, and why Peter of all people? Does kissing anyone do that, or is it something only certain people can make him feel?
He knows if he doesn’t kiss him again, properly this time, he’ll never know the answer. He looks at him once more.
“Hey Pete.”
Peter’s eyes shoot up, wiping his eyes from laughing so hard. “Yeah?”
“You wanna try that again?”
Harry watches as Peter’s breath quickens, that strange fluttery feeling going stronger every moment.
“That’s.. probably a good idea.” Peter breathes out softly.
And once again, Harry decides fuck it , and launches himself at Peter, bowling him over so he’s on top of him. They’re pressed torso to torso, eye to eye, locked together. His longer legs find a place between Peter’s.
They stare at each other, eyes meeting, and Harry leans down once more.
This time, the tension’s already been broken, so Peter’s lips are soft and pliant. He can feel him breathing beneath him as he keeps their lips together, a chaste kiss.
And just like before, something electric shoots through him.
Harry hesitantly moves his lips once, trying to copy what he’s seen on TV, and a shiver runs down his spine as Peter clearly attempts to reciprocate. Neither of them have the slightest clue what they’re doing, of course, so the kiss is sloppy and uncoordinated, but they find a sort of rhythm as they move together.
The feeling unlocks something within him he didn’t even know he could feel, much less towards his best friend. Every time Peter clumsily moves his mouth, sparks fly through his body. He feels lightheaded, although that could just be from the lack of oxygen.
At some point, Harry forgets the apparent reason why they’re kissing. All he can think of is the boy beneath him and how he never wants this to end, how he wants to live in this heady feeling forever. Now that he’s found paradise, he doesn’t want to leave.
But despite his brain’s wishes, his lungs have a limit, and it can’t last forever.
Peter gasps when they finally pull apart. His lips, spit-slick, are parted slightly as he pants, eyes shut tight, lashes fluttering.
“Fuck..” He manages to get out between inhales.
Fuck is right.
Harry’s never felt like that before, and he’s not about to think about it more than he has to. It’s probably normal that he’s… sort of attracted to his best friend, right? Experimentation leads to those feelings in everyone, and surely he’s not gay or anything like that.
The thoughts swirl in his head, circling like sharks, threatening to consume him if he thinks about it too hard. His mind races, his body feels suddenly flushed with heat, but his sleep-deprived brain is on the verge of shutting down. Thirty seconds later, he’s surrendering to exhaustion and laying his head on the floor, letting the sleep that’s been persistently tugging at him take him over. The last thing he sees is Peter sleepily grasping his own blanket and pulling it over himself.
Neither of them talk about it in the morning. Harry’s glad.
Now Harry’s a (sort of, unofficially) out and proud bisexual young man, and he knows that the kiss he had with Peter was his awakening. He also knows that it wasn’t, in fact, normal to be attracted to and want to kiss your good friend. Which means that he’s had a big fat crush for the past several years.
They’re both 18 now, the age of apparent maturity. Harry doesn’t feel mature. Considering that his pesky feelings for Peter just won’t die, he feels more like a preteen schoolgirl with her first crush. It’s ridiculous, really, but he can’t kill the way he feels.
Peter is staring at MJ again with his big blue eyes, lips parted ever so slightly. His eyes move with her as she walks past them with a friendly little wave. He’s relentless in his pining after her. Regardless of anything and everything, he still looks at her first. Him and his dorky smile, his soft brown hair, chapped lips and warm hands. He who Harry can only look at and wonder what if, what if .
And Harry knows he absolutely needs to let it go, drop the bitterness he feels towards Mary Jane and towards Peter for being so blind that he fails to see what’s directly in front of him, because if only he could see how much better he’d be for him, how good he could be…
The months roll by, a blur of study nights together, takeout boxes and dumb jokes, and watching Peter moon over MJ while Harry desperately tries to keep him away from her.
One day, over an impromptu lunch with Mary Jane, he realizes. She’s looking at him the way Peter looks at her, and Harry suddenly knows . If he takes her off the market, Peter will have no choice but to turn away. He’ll be forced to look elsewhere, anywhere but her. And then maybe, just maybe, Harry would have a chance. The logic is inherently flawed, he knows, but it’s the only thing he’s got.
Harry doesn’t want her, not really. But the manipulation somehow doesn’t bother him. If it’s the only way he can get Peter to really look at him, he’d do anything. So he puts on his best performance, lying smoothly through his teeth, and soon enough Mary Jane is with him at his house, sitting on his lap and playing with his hair as they flirt back and forth.
It feels too easy. It feels almost like a violation, but he’s doing this for Peter.
She studies his face for a moment, her hand lifting his chin up. Then she leans in to kiss him.
Harry closes his eyes and pretends that the warmth of her lips belongs to someone else. She tastes unfamiliar, her lips bearing a trace of the strawberry chapstick she always wears.
Still, he flashes back to that night, and his touch turns hungry.
Her eyes aren’t the same shade of blue. Her hair isn’t a soft brown, it’s copper red. It’s long, falling down to her shoulders, not cropped short and swept to the side. Her chest isn’t flat, her voice is high, her hips are pronounced. She’s everything Peter’s not, everything he will never be, but Harry’s imagination can never fail him. Not now.
It’s surprisingly easy to continually fake interest. Harry’s no actor, but he plays his role exceptionally.
Mary Jane’s pretty, sure, but she’ll never be what Peter is. He’s attracted to her at some base level, which makes it all bearable, but he still pretends she’s someone else each time they touch.
Peter’s angry at him too now. It’s a few months after Harry first tells him, and though he seems to be making a valiant effort to remain civil about the whole thing, it’s easy to tell how upset he is by it. It’s a valid reaction, and Harry can’t hold it against him, but a naive part of him hoped that once MJ was out of the picture his sights would automatically turn to him. That part hasn’t seemed to grasp the notion that Harry’s also now out of the picture.
And so Harry lets the time go by, lets the days fly by like errant birds. He takes MJ on dates and spends most of his nights in the apartment he shares with Peter. Things move like clockwork, predictable and infinitely repeatable. It’s routine. It’s easy.
But he’s never wanted it easy, never really wanted it like this. He knows what he wants, and knows that he can’t ever have it.
So he resigns himself to his new life and meets Peter every night within his dreams instead.