Harry trudges into work the next day and the first thing he does is make himself the most caffeinated coffee he's legally allowed to make. The sweet aroma of fresh pastries and ground coffee beans rouses him, even before he takes the first sip, but it doesn't cure the heavy bags under his eyes, so he ducks his head and avoids eye contact as he walks past his fellow employees to grab his apron. With caffeine surging through his veins, he straightens up, plasters on a smile, and greets customers.

"Welcome to the Silver Spoon. What can I get you?"

After years of preparing to take over Norman's business, Harry still can't believe that he works at a cafe. It was the type of job other kids talked about getting over summer vacation, or the one they complained about at school because they were saving up for a car, or a game, or some other device that their parents couldn't afford out of pocket.

It was embarrassing at first. The day he got the job, they handed him an apron and ordered him to start washing dishes; he slunk off to do just that, face flushed red and shoulders to his ears. Despite recently being cast out, he couldn't help but wonder: what would dad think seeing me like this? Back when Harry still thought of him as "dad," that is. For months, Harry's worst nightmare was Norman walking through the flourish decorated door and spotting him across the counter. He could see the sneer that would twist Norman's face. The twinkle of malice in his eyes. The judgment.

A look was usually all it took to make Harry feel as insignificant as a fly.

But here he is, years later; employee of the month for 2 months in a row, and hoping for a promotion to manager once their current one leaves for her new job. Sure, the work is tedious, and there are days when Harry would rather gouge out his own eyes than be within 5 feet of a coffee machine; but he enjoys the hours of rolling out dough, coming up with frosting designs, and watching people gobble up his creations as quickly as he can make them.

Free coffee is a pleasant bonus, too.

"Yeah, a mocha iced coffee. Extra whip." The young man in line mumbles. "And, uh..." he surveys the pastries in the display case, "a churro donut, please."

"Sure thing. What size would you like that coffee?"

"Twenty ounce."

Harry nods, typing it into the register. "Alright, your total will be five dollars and sixty-two cents."

The man smiles, digging through his wallet for his card, and while it's a tired smile, it's also very kind. He's blonde, a little shorter than Harry, with a book bag slung over his shoulder. A college student, maybe? He looks run-through enough to be one.

He hands his card to Harry, and Harry swipes it, handing him the receipt to sign.

"Alright, here's your number," Harry slid him a number card, "We'll call when it's ready."

The man smiles again, and it's warmer this time. He grabs the card and Harry's not sure if the way their hands graze is intentional or not. He wants to think it's intentional. The stranger isn't bad looking, and he seems nice enough. He takes a seat at one of the laminated wood tables, decorated with a plastic box of flowers and paper doily. Harry moves onto the next customer.

MJ will be thrilled he's expressing interest in anyone, even if it's something as small as their smile. She keeps telling him to "get out of your comfort zone, you big loser loner" and " get some nookie, it'll make you feel better. " Which is silly, because it's not like Harry hasn't been in a relationship before. He's dated a handful of girls in high school, back in that embarrassing phase when he was still trying to convince himself he was straight. Even in the past few years, having come into his own as a full-fledged gay, he's had a few on and off relationships. Even a handful of one-night stands.

"You're telling me you're happy with one-night stands?" MJ asked, crossing her arms in condemnation, when Harry told her as such.

"Yes," Harry lied. " Perfectly content."

"Content isn't happy."

"Perfectly happy, then."

She gave him a look that said, ' I know you're full of shit and I'm just waiting for you to admit you're full of shit," and Harry shuffled off before he did just that.

Look, it's not that Harry doesn't want a long-term relationship. It sounds nice. Great even. Positively superb. He's seen couples walk hand in hand on the street, swinging their arms like they didn't have a care in the world, and went: god, I wish that were me. He's seen couples laugh at each other from across the table, smiling and sneaking kisses, and pretends he isn't jealous as he furiously sweeps the tiled floor. He's seen enough couples come into the cafe that he could tell the difference between someone still in their honeymoon phase, and someone who's been at it a lot longer. Which is kind of sad, but who's going to judge him?

And yes, maybe he craves having that kind of connection with someone else. Many people do. He's not that special. And it's never as easy as the movies make it out to be. You never know when you and your partner will drift apart. You never know if they'll stay faithful. You never know if they'll lose feelings for you, and suddenly the person you spent so much time with doesn't want to be around you anymore, and they leave you in the dust, and you're stuck wondering what the hell you did wrong.

He's expressed such issues to MJ, and yes, they both know the source of that insecurity; no he doesn't want to talk about it, and no, he still can't afford a therapist.

Grumbling, mood turned sour, he takes the next customer's order, gives them a number, swaps places with one of the other employees to take a quick bathroom break, comes back, and nearly trips over his feet.

The man waiting at the register freezes too, his napkin-fiddling coming to a stop as surprise blooms on his face. Speak of the devil and he will appear.

"Harry?"

"Peter?"

Harry turns to walk away, but his colleague already spotted him and waves him over. "Good, I was wondering what was taking so long. I've got to check on the cinnamon buns." She passes the register off to him, and Harry desperately tries to make eye contact, pleading for her to pick up on his suffering—don't do this to him, Eloise. For god's sake have mercy —but she's already shouldering past him.

It's just him and Peter, and the line growing behind him. Harry can already hear the scolding he'd get if he allows the line to get any bigger, so he shambles to the counter, doing everything in his power to avoid looking at the person in front of him.

Until a thought strikes him, Why do I have to be the one who feels this way? This is my home turf, not his. He should be the one shuffling his feet and trying to avoid eye contact. Not me!

Not to be cowed at his own workplace, Harry straightens, pulls on a plastic smile, and asks, "Welcome to the Silver Spoon. What can I get you today?"

Peter blinks, but smiles back in a less manufactured way. "An iced coffee and a bagel, please."

"Sure, coming right up." He punches it into the register. "That'll be six dollars and fifty cents."

Peter hands over a sleek black card with a golden Oscorp logo stamped in the corner. Harry stares at it for a long second, the warped reflection in the gloss sending him back to a time when he used to own one, before sliding it through the card-reader.

"I didn't know you were working here," Peter says, leaning casually against the counter. Why is he acting like that? There is nothing casual about any of this. Does he not feel the impeding wall of awkwardness that Harry does? That's bullshit. He should shrink away in shame and flee from sight. The fact that he isn't is an insult of the highest degree.

Don't take the bait.

Harry clenches his jaw and hands the card back. "Yeah, well, you would if you ever visited."

Damn it.

Peter's smile falters. "I've wanted to, but..."

"But Norman wouldn't let you," Harry guesses. "Wow, if only someone had spent hours after school telling you about all the things his controlling father wouldn't let him do." His tone is sharp enough to break skin, and if his manager heard him talking like this to a customer—their history be damned—he'd be fired on the spot and forced to apologize for having genuine human emotions. But he's on a roll now, and all that anxiety and caginess he felt at the party is gone. The Silver Spoon is his home court, and he feels more confident in an apron and cap than he ever did in a suit and tie.

"Speaking of dear ol' dad," he barrels on, "what did he think of our little chat last night? Can't imagine he was too happy about it."

This time he gets a reaction out of Peter, but he's not sure what to make of it. Peter stops leaning against the counter, as if realizing Norman might not approve of such behavior, and straightens his sweater (perfectly tailored to fit him, Harry might add); he folds his arms, muscles bunching under the fabric, and Harry refuses to acknowledge them. Peter's not defensive, but not casual anymore, either.

"I'm not supposed to be in contact with you, actually," he confesses.

Harry hums, "Figured. But if that's all, then you got off easy." He slid a receipt over to Peter. "Sign this. Do you want a receipt?"

"Uh, no thanks."

Harry shrugs. Peter grabs a pen from the cup near the register and scribbles his name on it. He slides it back to Harry, and Harry hands over coffee and a bagel in return.

"You know," Harry can't help but add. "My old friend wouldn't have given a shit about anything Norman told him to do." He looks Peter in the eye. "I wonder where he went."

Peter doesn't respond. He slides a small wad of bills over to Harry. "Your tip."

With that, he leaves, moving easily through the café and stepping out into the street, gone within seconds. Harry scowls at the money (a very large tip, indeed) but his stomach rolls. He grabs the bills, preparing to stuff them in the tip jar meant for all the employees, when a piece of paper slips out, falling on the counter.

On it, in Peter's messy scribble, is a number. Written below it is a message: Just because he doesn't want me to, doesn't mean I can't.

Harry stares at it long and hard.

Does he actually expect Harry to call him? After everything? Just because he decides he wants to get back in touch? The paper crinkles in his hand and Harry looks past it, at the trashcan under the counter. All he has to do is drop it in and pretend this never happened. Peter isn't in his life anymore, and he doesn't get to barge back in whenever he feels like it.

The next customer in line loudly clears her throat and Harry's head snaps up.

"Uh, hi, welcome to the Silver Spoon. What can I get you?"

He drops the paper in the trash and takes her order. He makes a coffee, hands over a donut, takes another order, makes two coffees, and then fishes the paper out of the trash and stuffs it in his pocket.

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

Hours later, Harry plods into the FEAST center, a glower on his face and Peter's number burning a hole in his pocket. He greets Aunt May with as much cheerfulness as he can muster and gets to work hauling donation boxes into the back room. After living with her for so long, it takes exactly 1.5 seconds for her to realize something is wrong. But she has restraint and waits 10 minutes before wiping her hands on her apron and asking, "Alright, what is it?"

Harry purposefully turns his back to her and picks up another box. She wards off his deflection by planting her hands on her hips. "Come on, Harry, I know something is bothering you."

"It's nothing," Harry says, sidestepping her.

She doesn't call him out on his bullshit. She's craftier than that. She waits. And waits. And waits. Because she knows he'll break, eventually; he's got the foundations of a paper house. He doesn't know how she does it, but her silence pricks at his inner turmoil, encouraging it to unravel under her slim, withered fingers.

"Alright," he finally relents, plopping into a padded chair that was losing its stuffing, "I'll tell you, just please stop picking my brain."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, dear."

Harry snorts. Sure she doesn't. He rubs a tired hand over his face and looks at the floor between his sneakers. "I saw Peter today," he says, and Aunt May's smile turns down. She takes the chair next to him.

"Oh."

"Yeah, he came by the Silver Spoon. But I don't think he knew I was going to be there."

"What happened?"

"He ordered coffee and a bagel. We talked. He said some things. I said some things..."

Aunt May tilts her head, creases forming on her forehead. "What kind of things?"

Harry huffs out a breath. "Okay, he didn't really say much. But...I mean, I guess I was trying to get under his skin a little. I asked him what Norman thought of us talking at the party, and," at Aunt May's surprised expression, he sits up, "—oh, right, I didn't tell you about that."

"No, you did not."

So he does. Recounting the events of last night, finishing with him and MJ fleeing the party and heading home. "He told me I wasn't allowed to see him anymore," Harry said. "Heh, which is ridiculous because we haven't even seen each other, you know? I...I told him that my old friend wouldn't have...you know...cared about what Norman said."

When Harry doesn't go on, Aunt May gently prods, "And what did he do?"

"Nothing. He gave me a tip and left."

"I see." Aunt May looks up contemplatively. "Do you....wish he did something?"

"No, I-" Harry buried his head in one hand and reached into his pocket with the other, pulling out the paper. "He left me his number."

Aunt May picks it out of his hand and reads aloud, "Just because he doesn't want me to, doesn't mean I can't." Her voice is cool. Stoic. Harry can't bring himself to look at her, wishing he hadn't brought it up at all. She's too affected by all of this already. She doesn't deserve to carry more on her shoulders. He peeks through his fingers in surprise when her hand falls on his back. "How are you feeling?"

His shoulders crumble. "I don't know," he admits. "I just...this is the second time I've seen him, Aunt May. In years. He's coming in, acting like he's so happy to see me; like the last few years of radio silence doesn't matter at all. Like- like I should just...let him back in." He glares at the paper, but it fizzles into something small and feeble. "I'm...I'm angry that, after all of it, I still kind of want to see him. Is...is that stupid?"

Aunt May contemplates this, before scooting over and clasping her hands over Harry's, "Look, Harry, I...I know Peter made some bad choices, and he hurt you a lot. I still love him, even now, but I love you too, and I want what's best for you."

"So, you think I should call him?"

"I think that is entirely up to you and what you want. Peter is," she chuckles weakly, "he's always been a smart kid, but that doesn't mean he doesn't make mistakes. His actions have consequences, and that's an important lesson to learn. He's reaching out to you, but it's up to you if you want to reach back. You won't be wrong if you decide you don't want to rebuild a relationship with him. You do what is best for you. You don't owe him anything, okay?"

"But...he went against Norman. He's putting his neck on the line. That means something, right?"

"It could, but it's at his own expense. Not yours. You've made amazing progress, Harry, and I'm so proud of you. I love Peter. I wish he'd come home, but not at the expense of you or your health. Do what you want and don't let anyone else dictate the choice you make."

The choice he makes. Heh. That's an option that wasn't available to him for most of his life. Norman dictated everything he did. From his schedule, to his clothes, to the food he ate.

I get to decide. The words are like a blast of clean air rifling through his thoughts, dragging away all the unease, anxiety, and doubt. I get to decide. I GET TO DECIDE.

Aunt May slips the paper back into his hand and he rubs it between the pad of his fingers. "Thanks, Aunt May."

"Of course, sweetie." She pulls Harry into a warm embrace that he sinks into like a blanket. It's amazing how one conversation with this woman made him feel like he could take on the entire world. It's what made her perfect for running the FEAST center. Every life that she touched got a little richer. Norman Osborn could never.

When they pull apart, Aunt May turns around quickly and Harry has a split-second glimpse of her red-rimmed eyes. She sniffs softly, but her voice wavers only a little, "Now come on, let's finish unpacking these boxes."

Suddenly, Harry feels awful for not asking how she is doing. She listened to him spill his guts about Peter, and whether or not he wanted to talk or see him again, when seeing Peter was all she wanted. It was like barging into her home and rubbing mud all over the carpet, and then asking her to help him clean it.

He opens his mouth, but she shoves a box into his hand before he says anything. "Lets get unpacking. We have a lot to do before lunch." She bustles off and starts on her own box, and Harry can take a hint. Unfortunately, Aunt May isn't weak to her own tactics, and waiting her out won't work as easily on her than it does on him. Stuffing the paper in his pocket, determining he'll decide later, he opens the box and begins.

He may not be able to help her like she helped him, but he can do this at least.

They unpack the load of donated blankets and clothes, sort them into piles, and begin folding. 30 minutes into it, Aunt May's phone rings, and after conversing with the recipient for a couple minutes, she ends the call and beckons Harry towards her.

"Come here, Harry, there are a few people I want you to meet."

They travel back outside, where two other men are waiting by the truck.

"Harry, these are our newest volunteers," Aunt May beams. "This is Luke," she gestures to a dark-skinned man wearing a hoodie with the sleeves cut off. He's bald and massive, with arms thicker than Harry's head and a square jaw that looks like it could crush bricks, but his smile is kind and his eyes are soft. "And this is Danny." The other man is shorter, with a head of blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and a black-stringed necklace around his neck. He's wearing a tank top with a picture of a cartoon sun with sunglasses, a pair of shorts, and flip-flops that give off a beach bum vibe. There's a distance about him that Harry can't quite place. He wonders if he's ever done drugs. His mellow eyes fall on Harry, as if picking up his thoughts, and his lips tilt upward.

Harry waves. "Uh, nice to meet you."

"You too," Danny says. His voice is smooth, reminding Harry of syrup. He sticks out his hand, and Harry shakes it, and then does the same with Luke.

"Uh, I guess if you need anything, and can't find Aunt May, I can answer any questions you have."

"Good to know." Luke's voice is a deep rumble that sounds distinctly like thunder. He loads 4 large boxes in his arms. "Where do these go?"

Harry stares, wide-eyed. "Just, uh...in the main room is fine."

"Got it."

Was he even breaking a sweat?

Well damn.

Harry grabs two boxes. Struggles to pick up two boxes. Gets rid of one box and follows him up the steps.

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

He glares at the paper laying propped against his pillow. His jacket is itchy against his cheek, but he doesn't want to lift his head from his arms, so he rubs it against his shoulder, hoping the itch and the fabric will cancel each other out.

The paper smiles up at him. Innocent, small, and driving him crazy.

He ignored it at the FEAST center, but he's home now, and there is nothing to keep his attention from its constant whispering and poking. His phone lays next to the pillow, and as his eyes jump between the two of them, he weighs the pros and cons.

Pro— talking with Peter can give him answers that are crucial to him finding closure.

Con— those answers could make him spiral again and put him back in a dark place.

Pro— he gets to possibly reconcile with an old friend.

Con— that same friend stabbed him in the back and cast him out in the street to take his place in his dad's business empire.

Harry drops his head and screams into the blanket. Why is this so hard? Emotions are officially exhausting and he's ending his subscription. He's been going in so many circles he feels dizzy and nauseous.

Looking up, he huffs and his breath flutters the paper.

Who says he has to call Peter?

Pursing his lips, Harry snatches the phone and punches in the number. His thumbs hover over the keyboard. Hi, sounds too casual. Hello, sounds too formal. What's up makes it sound like they're still friends, and that's the last impression he wants to give. It has to be something that tells Peter he's willing to talk, but he's not taking any more shit either.

With his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, Harry settles on:

Don't make me regret this.

He hesitates. Backtracks. Retypes it. And before he can talk himself out of it, presses send and tosses the phone to the side. A breath escapes his trapped lungs, and he sits up. There. Done. No going back now.

He's about to get up and start dinner when his phone lights up with a new message. It's from Peter. Two words with the potential to change everything:

I won't.