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It wasn't very long after seeing him again that you find yourself unable to stop thinking about him. You've been planning on keeping your secret to yourself until you're able to find the answer yourself, but the idea of just telling him everything about what's going on is so so tempting. To spill your gut, your curse, onto your best friend seemed like the most obvious thing in the world. But alas, you could never.
Instead, you drown yourself in alcohol and you skip meetings, relying on Felicia to relay information to you both to and from the company. You're basically speeding up the process you haven't figured out how to stop and you don't think you care much anymore.
But still you think about him constantly. Even in drunken stupors where you swear you'll pass out you still think about that mop of brown hair, those sappy doe eyes, his slender lank body that swings into every step he takes. You think about how much you tried to forget about him and it fills you with regret and it makes you want to drink more until it's suddenly the morning and you want to die from the pain.
One morning in particular, you wake up to a message on your phone and a voicemail that's less than a minute long. You groan the moment you check it, contemplating throwing the thing and smashing it against the wall, but you don't. Curiously enough, however, it seems that you were the one that reached out first, a call from you that lasted enough for him to have picked up before you hung up. You weigh your options bitterly, aching and hungover, and then you listen to the voicemail.
"Harry," his voice is brilliance, quiet, and soft and it makes you cringe and guilty all at once, "You uh, called me and you sounded really distressed and I just wanted to make sure you were okay." You roll over in your bed, bottles clanking against each other with the movement. There's a pause that doesn't last more than a few seconds but it feels like ages, "I'm here for you Harry. Any time. I'll come if you need me." There's some fumbling and a cough and then the voicemail cuts off.
Glaring at absolutely nothing, you grip your phone hard and then throw it across the room, your whole body vaulting into motion before regretting it instantly.
You spend the day hungover and angry: a regular day for you. Felicia has learned to only bother you when it's really important and today doesn't seem to be a day like that so you lay around in your room, moving from couch to bed to floor as you feel like it, always drinking some sort of sickly amber liquid to keep yourself just on the border of "still there" and "not there at all" and it feels amazing.
The TV in your room buzzes quietly in your background at all times and you catch the news reporting about something to do with Spider-Man and you're not surprised at all, this city is so enamored by the guy and you aren't really sure how that makes you feel. Jealous, yeah, but also slightly wary. You don't really understand it to say the least.
When the sun falls and the lights of the city burns into your eyes, you drink more and more until you're sobbing on the floor and you wish you were dead.
The next night goes about the same and this time you're actually conscious when you call him.
"Harry?" He sounds tired and you wonder why he's up at this time. You wonder if sleep is as hard for him as it is for you. Probably not. "What's up are you alright?"
"Peter," you murmur and damn if your voice doesn't sound like shit. It scratches against the back of your throat and tastes like bile as you try to follow it up, "Peter I'm--" You can't tell him.
"Harry it's okay," he soothes. You feel the tears slip through, the cream colour of the couch definitely stained with countless of them by now. Oh how Norman would be proud. "It'll be okay."
"It's not okay," You sound so broken and it disgusts you so much. "It'll never be okay."
He seems at a loss for words and honestly how shitty of you to put this all on him, to make him feel an obligation to make you feel better. You just want someone to make it better but it never will be, yet somewhere deep inside you wish Peter would be the one.
"I'll come over," Peter says suddenly and he sounds like he's already moving.
"No!" you all but yell, surprising yourself. You sit up in a flurry, "No no, no. You don't-- need to come. I'm fine," You choke on a sob and you can literally feel the look Peter is no doubt giving you, "It's stupid and it's late. I'm sorry for calling you."
"Don't be sorry Harry," Peter says immediately, no hint of joking or mockery in his voice at all. It's strange to hear, you think, "But honestly, I will come over. I will if you need me."
"No. I don't. I'm sorry."
Two nights later and you're calling him again. You were good for a day, the day right after your conversation, Peter had texted you and you had replied. It made you feel a little better, made you feel a little more alive. Conversation wasn't something you actively sought out anymore and you thought you had done so well without it. Shows what you knew. But that one good day wasn't enough and you couldn't uncover enough to save yourself. You were fighting a losing battle and the desperation sent you back to the bottle where everything was easier and you could just drift in and out of reality and forget any of that was even happening.
"I'm coming over," Is how he answers the phone and you sob even harder at that. You had sat on that damn couch for hours, thumb hovering over his name with tears littering your lap before actually calling and fuck if you weren't the most messed up you've been in a while.
"No--" you choke out but he's already hung up the phone. You slam it down onto the cushion, yelling out in frustration before storming over to that damned table and sending a message to your security to let Peter Parker in all the way up to you. It's too damn late and too damn ridiculous, but you get only confirmation in return and it makes you feel powerful and sick all at the same time.
He's there, in your room, frighteningly quick and you would question it if you weren't so drunk. You don't hear him call your name and you don't think you could have handled hearing the disappointment in his voice anyway, but he's low in front of you in an instant, arms wrapping tightly around your shoulders as he hugs you, making you feel safe.
You relax into his grip, but he pulls away too quick.
Big warm hands are on your face then, pushing your bangs back and pressing against your forehead, your cheeks. He's wiping away your tears, you realize suddenly, and you swat at his hands. He let's go of you immediately, backing away and giving you your space. You lean back on the couch, trying to breathe, trying to calm your heart as it thuds away mercilessly in your chest. He looks so worried and it completely breaks your heart.
"You didn't need to come," you whisper, examining him closely. He doesn't flinch, doesn't move, just stares right back with nothing but hope and worry and something else way too sincere in his eyes.
"I think I did."
He's right, and you know it, which makes tears fall where they had only just been threatening and you look away in shame, a self deprecating grin tugging at your lips. Peter touches your arm and you let him, but you still try your best to keep your eyes averted. "What' wrong?" he asks and the tone of his voice hurts you; so innocent and worried and sincere. You haven't had anyone talk to you like this in so so long, hell, the last person to do so was probably the same guy doing it now. It's been too long and you've become too broken: you can't help but think this is all a dream.
"Too many things," you whisper, your own voice scratching at your own throat.
"We'll fix them. I'll help you, please Har, let me help you."
You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself out of this dream as hard as you can but fuck it's not a dream is it? Peter can't be willed away. Peter is real. Too real.
"You can't help," you sob, looking at Peter after a moment though too puffy eyes, "There's nothing you can do."
The look he gives you breaks your heart over and over again.
"There's always something," he whispers, looking too determined to be talking about saving you, "There's always something we can do."
Slowly, you lean forward to him again until you're right up against him, laying your forehead on his shoulder. You're sobbing again suddenly and Peter holds you tightly, your own hands gripping at the loose material on his torso. He's rubbing your back, leaning his head against yours. You swear you feel the lightest of kisses against the side of your head and it just makes you sob more. You're dying and he makes you want to feel alive. You're dying and you can't stop it and neither can Peter. You're dying and you can't bring yourself to tell your best friend.
When you wake up, you're tucked away in your bed and there's a glass of water on the bedside table. You're in different clothes and your sheets feel cleaner and more fluffy. It's bright, probably late in the day, and you don't actually feel too bad. You squint at the sun, glaring as it glares right back at you and you contemplate showering, contemplate working. The alcohol still feels sick in the pit of your stomach but there's something else that feels lighter all the same and it feels good. Feels like hope.
Days later when the feelings crush you again, you call Peter and he comes so easily and you let it. You wonder how long this will go on, how long you'll be able to hold off telling your friend what's really wrong. You wonder if he really could help you. You'll wonder how long this all will last and you find yourself thinking that you want it to last forever. You close your eyes against the burning sun and think to yourself that you wouldn't mind having this last forever, just under different circumstances. However, later, you'll deny ever thinking that as everything you know, everything you've come to love and trust, slowly turns into your very own personal Hell.