It's cloudy today. The overhang casts gray shadows over the city, giving it a dreary quality that matches the drizzle. They didn't have the luxury of stars in such a polluted metropolis as this-so he should be thankful for the flashing billboards and jumbotrons that brightened the night in their stead.

Harry stares at a commercial for health insurance beaming at him from an electronics store window, pretending to be distracted so he doesn't have to answer the impossible question trapping him in the street.

MJ stands next to him, bundled in the faded leather jacket that she's had since high school. The hem is worn and the sleeves are a little too short for her arms, a loose thread sticks out of a stitch on one of the sleeves and waves in the wind. Harry offered to buy her a new one, but she told him to save his pennies. It's cold out, but she isn't bothered by the chill because she's too busy staring at him with big pleading green eyes, the coffee clasped in her hands sending wisps of steam into her face.

Harry takes a ginger sip of his own coffee and pretends to consider the health insurance, even though it'd take an arm and a leg to afford. MJ ignores his attempt at avoiding her question by inching into his line of sight.

"Please, Har? Just for one night."

Every fiber of his being tells him to say "no" and run as far away from this conversation as possible. Just the idea makes his stomach plummet into his sneakers and his skin crawl with ants.

He shuffles his feet and averts his eyes, tugging up the collar of his jacket to hide, but MJ didn't become one of the Bugle's most promising reporters by giving up every time someone refused to give her an answer.

"Look, I know it's asking a lot, but this assignment could be my ticket to bigger stories at the Bugle. I know it's last minute, but I need a date. Please, I'll owe you forever."

Harry's face pinches, and he looks up at the dark overhang. A few fat drops of rain splash his face. He wishes it was pouring so he had a reason to run for cover-not that it would stop MJ. She was the most stubborn, determined person he's ever met, and he both loved and hated her for it. The weight of his silence presses heavy between them as he drags a hand down his neck.

He can say no. She'd understand. But MJ moved mountains for him; pulled his head above the water when he felt like drowning; kept him together when he thought he'd crumble into a million pieces. If their roles were reversed, she'd say yes to him.

"You won't have to talk to him," MJ says, her voice softening. "I'm just supposed to cover the event and get a few statements from the big buyers. Even if we see him, I'll do the talking. I just need a plus-one. Arm candy. All you have to do is stand there and look pretty."

Harry snorts softly, but the mention of " him " cracks a few bones, gives him heart palpitations, and a rash in his throat. He pushes a red curl out of his face, running his hand over his head.

"Fine," he sighs. She dives in for a hug before it's past his lips.

"Thank you, thank you! You're a lifesaver. The party is tomorrow. Wear something fancy."

He snorts, but hugs her back, feeling a little better in her excitement, despite the weight sitting heavy on his chest. "I'm always fancy," he says, which is more or less true. Due to his childhood upbringing, having a good appearance was drilled into his head. In spite of that (or maybe because of it), he likes looking nice, and mixing and matching outfits was one of the few talents he felt confident in. He may not have thousand-dollar suits or designer brands anymore, but he can put together a good-looking ensemble from a thrift store.

MJ can't disagree. He's helped her out of a fashion pickle more than once.

She smiles at him broadly, but it turns soft around the edges and she squeezes his hand, "Hey, if we see him, I'll kick him in the nuts personally and we can get kicked out together."

His smile is a little more genuine this time. "Thanks, but let me get a few kicks in too, okay? If we're going to get kicked out, I want to carry my own weight."

Violence isn't his style. He's more likely to swallow his discomfort and find the nearest exit, but she doesn't call him out. She gives his hand another squeeze.

"Thanks again, Harry. You're the best."

He nods and she lets go. Next to him, the screens shift to a new channel and the flash of cameras and colors catch his attention. It's a Daily Bugle TV segment. The video under discussion is from a press release earlier this week. The title card at the bottom reads, " Oscorp Heir Opens Up About Upcoming Banquet ." A crowd of reporters and news crews gather around a podium like flies on a carcass as someone steps up to the microphone.

Harry's eyes rove over the youthful face, not much older than him, and his stomach twists violently. Bitterness sours his tongue at the sight of brown hair swept back and neatly styled; a pearly grin that flashes the crowd with a charisma learned from years of experience. Brown eyes that stare through the screen, directly at Harry, like he knew he was there. Harry's grip on his coffee tightens, just shy of popping the lid off and scalding his hand.

MJ follows his eyes and her face twists into a sneer, "What a prick." Harry nods. He can't do anything else. Words often fail him when face-to-face with the person he once trusted with his whole heart. Someone Harry would've created cities for if only he'd asked. Now, if given the chance, he'd spit in his face.

"Come on," MJ says, "Let's go, I told Aunt May we wouldn't be late."

Harry casts one more look at the screen, at the face of Oscorp's heir as he addresses the multitude of reporters with a smile, and follows her.

Peter Parker can go to hell, for all he cares.

<><><>LINE BREAK<><><>

They make it to Aunt May's house before the rain really starts coming down. Harry hangs his coat up in the entryway, hoping the leak in Aunt May's roof is fixed, and makes a note to ask her about it as he kicks off his shoes and follows MJ into the kitchen.

The smell of stew and fresh bread welcomes him like a hug and Harry embraces it with both arms. The kitchen is warm from the heat of the oven and the old furnace that clicks and clangs if it's been on for too long. Aunt May is standing at the counter, running a cube of butter over the top of golden rolls fresh out of the oven that have Harry's mouth watering on sight.

"Hey, Aunt May," MJ says, and Aunt May looks up with a smile, showing off the wrinkles around her eyes.

"There you two are, I was starting to get worried." She wipes her hands on her apron before pulling MJ into a hug, and then Harry. Her hands are still dusted with flour and it leaves a powdery smudge on Harry's black shirt. He doesn't mind. "I thought the rain got you."

Harry laughs. "It almost did, but Ms. Caffeine-Addict here," —he gestured to the culprit—"wanted to stop by the Silver Spoon." MJ holds up her empty coffee cup and shrugs unapologetically.

"You weren't complaining when you got one too, Mr. Hypocrite."

Aunt May shakes her head, eyes full of a fondness that still leaves Harry glowing inside. He thought after 5 years he'd gotten used to Aunt May's motherly warmth. But he hasn't. His eyes still water when she fretfully adjusts his tie when it's crooked, or sits him down with tea and soup when she notices he's coming down with the sniffles. It's embarrassing, honestly. He should be able to spend an hour in Aunt May's company without dabbing his eyes with a tissue. Give him a handkerchief and a fainting couch, and he'd be your typical Victorian socialite.

He dumps his coffee cup in the trash and wipes his hands on a fresh towel. "Need any help?"

"Oh, yes," Aunt May shuffles back, waving her hands fretfully around her head. She hands him the stick of butter, "Finish buttering these for me, will you dear? I need to check on the stew. MJ, can you get the jam and honey for me? Jam's in the fridge, honey is in the cupboard — yes, that's the one. Thank you."

Harry spreads butter over the remaining rolls and fights the urge to sneak a piece. Aunt May has eyes in the back of her head, he is more likely to escape prison then get away with picking in the food. Once finished, he grabs a large platter from the cupboard to stack them in and brings them to the table, where Aunt May's placed the steaming pot of stew and MJ's setting plates and cups.

As they sit down to eat, the room fills with talks of their day; indignation that the neighbor next door keeps letting their dog poop in Aunt May's front lawn; laughter when Harry recounts his tale of woe about a car splashing him with gutter water; congratulations for MJ's most recently published article. He'd almost forgotten about his promise to her until she awkwardly cleared her throat and said, "I'm attending the Oscorp Banquet tomorrow as an assignment for the Bugle."

The glass Aunt May brings to her lips wavers for a second. She takes a dainty sip. "Is that so?" Just like every other conversation about Oscorp, the mood slants to the side. Speaking it aloud is the same as bringing a bad omen into the house. It taints the air.

"Yeah," MJ shifts awkwardly in her seat, "This might get me that promotion into investigative journalism. Robbie says if I can nail this story, and show a little more diversity in my skill set, he'll let me start shadowing Urich."

"That's good," Aunt May says, suddenly very interested in her drink.

"Yeah, I'm...I'm going as her date," Harry adds, swirling his spoon in his stew, unable to meet Aunt May's eyes.

Silence follows, only broken by the clinking of spoons against bowls. He doesn't need to look at Aunt May to see the concern on her face, it's the same one she got whenever she thought something was a bad idea.

"Will he-" she cuts herself off.

"He'll be there," MJ says, picking apart her roll.

Aunt May puts down her spoon, staring at a picture on the wall. It is her with two other people: an old man with graying brown hair and a little boy with too-large glasses. A hand presses over her chest, her eyes are soft and sad.

Harry isn't the only one Peter Parker screwed over. Aunt May was hit just as hard, and she didn't have the luxury of breaking down like Harry did. She's been his stone wall. A stitch when he was tearing at the seams. She had carried on after what happened, exchanging one boy for another. But while Harry took Peter's place in the Parker household, he didn't take his place in Aunt May's heart. He never will. She loved Peter like a son. She raised him since he was a 7-year-old boy; that isn't something you got over easily.

Harry squeezes Aunt May's other hand and her head snaps back to him. "Are you okay?" he asks.

Immediately her facade changes and she squeezes back. "Of course," she says. "The question is, are you going to be okay?" She looks at MJ. "The both of you."

"We'll be fine," MJ promises. "This banquet is pretty big so the chances of us running into him, well - he'll probably be too busy for us anyway."

Bitterness coats her tone. Harry agrees. Not that he cares. The fact that they won't see him is reassuring, and he heartily takes another spoonful of soup.

Aunt May doesn't reply, just nods and sips her drink again. She doesn't like talking about Peter. Not anymore. She was so certain he would come back. She'd say, "this wasn't like him," and, " He'll come to his senses," and, "He'll walk through the door any day and apologize and come home."

She stopped talking about him eventually.

Harry's heart pangs.

Their conversation buzzes around his head later as he washes dishes, no matter how much he swats at it and tells it to leave him alone. .

Maybe he does want to see Peter, if just to tell him he left a good thing behind. That he took for granted an amazing, caring woman who still–for some reason–thought the world of him. Peter doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as her. And, yeah, maybe Harry daydreams about crossing paths with him in the future, so Peter can see how well he's doing. See that Harry isn't the scared little boy he used to be. That he isn't shattered into a million little pieces.

In fact, he'll thank Peter. He'll rub his happiness in his face and smear it around.

"Scrub that any harder and you're going to break it," MJ says, coming up next to him with a drying towel, starting on the washed bowls.

Harry relaxes his hand and watches the plate slip into the bubbly water, "Sorry," he mutters. "Just...have a lot on my mind."

"I can see that."

They work in silence.

"Do you think," Harry hesitates. "Do you think he ever thinks of us?"

MJ frowns at the cup she's drying. "I don't know, Har. I don't know much about Peter anymore. I'm not sure if I want to."

He looks down, tapping the rim of the sink thoughtfully. She was right. Peter Parker...was Peter Parker. There's no point in wasting brain cells on him. God , he's spent so many nights wasting brain cells on him; wondering what he was doing, how high society was treating him, and whether or not their friendship was a lie from the start. It used to eat him up, piece by piece, until he was as old and ratty as a worn coat.

"Is it bad that I kind of want to see him?" MJ whispers, turning her back to him as she puts silverware in the drawer.

"No," Harry stares at his hands through the soapy water. "I don't think so."

He's wanted to see Peter for a while. Finally get answers to the questions picking at him for years. He's just...scared of what he'll hear.

Maybe MJ feels the same way. After all, she's known Peter far longer. They were glued to each other's sides as kids. They did everything together.

She bumps her shoulder into his. "Whatever happens, we'll handle it."

"Totally."

Let's just hope we don't have to, is what goes unsaid.

<><><>LINE BREAK<><><>

Aunt May insists that they stay the night and they're happy to oblige. MJ takes the guest bedroom and Harry takes his old room. Peter's old room. Where the blue wallpaper that was once covered in science posters, was now decorated with pictures of bands and TV shows Harry used to like. His old blanket is gone–moved to his apartment– so he uses a spare blanket from the closet, but the mattress is as springy and worn as the day he left it. Perfect.

Most of the room had been cleared out when Harry moved in. There are still a few trinkets here and there, but a majority of Peter's stuff is stored in the basement. Out of sight, out of mind.

Harry stares at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, listening to the patter of rain on the window. Once upon a time he wanted to grab a butterknife and pry them off. Peel the stars from the sky and throw them in the trash can. But he never did. As silly as it sounds, it feels like crossing a line. Like he is stripping the room of its innocence.

It feels too much like pretending Peter never existed. Like Harry is the only one who paced its floors and stumbled out of bed. Like he was the only one to stub his toe on the doorway because it went out a little too far on the left. Harry can't pretend Peter doesn't exist when every inch of this house tells him otherwise. Every picture, every box hidden away, every mark on the walls.

Aunt May never makes him feel this way, but sometimes, Harry feels like a stranger in this house. A temporary guest to fill the space until its true owner came back.

But he isn't coming back.

Harry stares at the stars. Does Peter miss them? These tacky, green pieces of plastic that can't cost more than $5. As an "Osborn", he can buy the night sky and pin it to his ceiling. The cosmos at his fingertips, galaxies and possibilities lulling him to sleep.

Harry may not have the cosmos anymore, but these stars? They were strong. Permanent. Even after all these years, they clung to the ceiling, determined to light the darkness for scared children. Space was exploding stars, black-holes, and shifting matter. It was changing all the time. Permanent for only as long as the closest star stayed intact.

But these weren't going anywhere and Harry found comfort in that.

He turned over and closed his eyes.