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Parker Industries might have taken over the Baxter Building, but Johnny still stubbornly thinks of it as home. Even Peter’s renovations can’t change that. The Baxter Building has been renovated and redesigned so many times anyway, although usually because it was recently destroyed and not just because it was under new ownership. He suspects Harry Osborn probably had more than a little influence about the cold and impersonal interior design aesthetic, but he’s fine with it. He’s fine. It just means that when Sue and Reed and Franklin and Val come back they’ll have to redecorate again.
He takes the elevator up to Peter’s office, trying not to be disoriented by the hallways and doors that aren’t where they’re supposed to be. He ends up turned around at the dead end of a long hallway that shouldn’t exist, and he stands there, seething with misdirected anger at the wall covering up the door to where Franklin’s room used to be, when he hears footsteps behind him.
“You lost?”
Johnny turns around and goes still when he sees Harry Osborn saunter down the hallway, hands in the pockets of his well-fitting suit.
There’s a flash of recognition when their eyes meet, and Johnny straightens his posture.
“No. There’s just walls where there shouldn’t be. But that’s fine. We’ll just redecorate anyway, when it’s ours again.” Harry rolls his eyes, and Johnny opens his mouth to reply, but it seems to dawn on both of them that this time there’s no Peter here to referee, and he shuts his mouth. The two of them stare each other down, Harry smirking.
The standoff is interrupted by a phone ringing, and Harry holds his phone up to answer.
“Hey, Pete,” Harry says, and Johnny tries not to scowl openly. Guessing by the humor in Harry’s eyes, he’s not having much success. “Yeah, your boy is here, actually,” he drawls. “Guess he got a little turned around.” And while that’s strictly true, Johnny rolls his eyes. “Sure. I’ll let him know. See you later.” Harry lowers the phone and slips it back into his suit jacket pocket. He’s still standing a few feet away, as if the effort to move closer is beneath him.
Johnny feels scrutinized under his gaze in a way that no one else can make him feel. He guesses that’s part of his issue with Harry; why they’ve never clicked. They have more in common than most people--more in common with each other than with Peter, really, what with both being the motherless sons of genius fathers who eventually became criminals. But Harry grew up privileged and Johnny still remembers Sue working two jobs to support them on top of finishing high school. He might be welcomed into the same circles that now ostracize Harry thanks to his celebrity, but he never belonged there in the same way.
“The meeting with China is running late,” Harry says, managing to sound both bored and dismissive. “You can go.”
A muscle in Johnny’s jaw twitches, and he counts to ten because Harry is Peter’s friend, for reasons passing understanding, and, as much as he wants to, he can’t just light Harry’s suit on fire.
“I’ll wait in Pete’s office until he’s done,” Johnny replies, and smiles broadly, politeness weaponized. “Thanks for passing on Pete’s message.”
Harry shrugs casually, the cut of his suit accentuating the broadness of his shoulders and Johnny follows the line of the fabric, down the sharp crease of his trousers to his professionally shined shoes, remembering when he used to be able to afford suits like that. Right now he’s wearing a t-shirt he stole from Pete, which means it’s a little more snug than it should be and a pair of jeans that have definitely seen better days. He knows he’s not dressed up, but standing this close to Harry makes him feel...shabby. Seeing Harry walking around the Baxter Building like he owns the place, wearing suits that cost more than Johnny’s first car, suits he can’t afford anymore, is testing Johnny’s already limited patience.
When he looks back up, Harry is looking at him with an expression that is definitely not bored, and he has knows that look--has been on the receiving end of it in bars, clubs, events, even from strangers on the street. It’s want. It’s surprising, to say the least, to see it on Harry Osborn’s face.
“Let me show you to Pete’s office,” Harry says, smoothly.
“I know the way,” he replies, pointedly. “I used to live here.”
“Of course.” Harry gestures down the hallway, and Johnny moves past him, brushing against Harry deliberately, close enough to feel the smooth fabric--expensive Italian wool, if he’s not mistaken--against his bare forearm, and the promise of a hard, lean body. He doesn’t feel cold, so he doesn’t shiver. It’s Harry’s body heat that shimmers over his skin as he heads down the hallway to Peter’s office.
Harry follows closely beside him, which five minutes ago would be grating, but now is something else. The walk to Peter’s office is short, and they don’t say anything. Johnny drifts towards Harry when they turn the corners, because once is a test, but he’s been around enough science nerds to be unable to resist trying to reproduce the same reaction.
The door to Peter’s office is locked, so he lets Harry open the door for him even though Peter had given him the code. Once inside, he brushes past one last time and heads for the wall of windows. The view is the one thing about the Baxter Building that remains unchanged, and every time he’s here, visiting Peter, he has to take a moment to remember it. Remember them.
When he turns away from the windows, he catches Harry looking at him again, with that same expression. Want. And maybe something else. If he had to guess, he’d say it was envy. As soon as Harry realizes he’s caught, he looks Johnny up and down, his gaze openly appraising. Maybe he really is as vain as all the gossip rags say he is, because he’s enjoying that look probably more than he should. It’s been a long time since he’s been looked at this way, an object of interest. Of desire. This is more comfortable ground for him. He can cruise with the best of them, even when he’s 100% not interested. He’s always been good at getting people to want him.
“You can get back to whatever it is you were doing,” Johnny says, magnanimously. To his surprise, Harry doesn’t move.
Instead, he leans against Peter’s desk, an obscene monstrosity of wood and glass and metal. “I could,” he drawls. “But then you’d be alone, and well, what kind of a friend would I be if I didn’t make sure that my best buddy Pete’s friend is being entertained.”
Johnny crosses his arms over his chest. “It bothers you,” he observes. “That Peter’s my friend.”
Harry shakes his head and rubs the back of his neck, as if distracted. He avoids Johnny’s gaze when he replies. “I just find it interesting that a celebrity like the Human Torch is palling around with the head of a multi-million dollar tech corporation.”
“Peter interned for my brother-in-law,” Johnny reminds him. “Honestly, you should be asking Peter why the head of a multi-million dollar tech corporation is hanging out with a C-list celebrity.”
“Other than the obvious?”
Johnny huffs a bitter laugh. “Believe me, being Peter Parker’s boytoy would be so much simpler than our actual relationship.”
“And what is your actual relationship?” Harry’s not bothering to hide his suspicion now, and Johnny sighs.
“None of your damn business,” he shoots back. “But I can also pretty much guarantee it’s not what you’re thinking,” he adds, with a rueful smile. “I’m not Peter’s type.”
Harry studies him, head cocked to one side, and then shakes his head. “Speaking as someone who’s known Peter a long time...beautiful blondes are exactly his type. Especially if they’re smarter than they look.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Johnny asks with a wry twist of lips. “Yeah, you know Peter,” he adds, dryly. “Always a sucker for a pretty face.” He turns away from the windows. “But still. I’m pretty sure Peter doesn’t see me that way.”
“Peter’s never been good at knowing what he wants.” Harry says, and it sounds sad. Resigned. “Or who. Until it’s too late.”
Tell me something I don’t know,
Johnny thinks. That’s the thing. Peter is never going to want him. But Johnny’s decided that being around Peter and wanting is better than not being around Peter at all.
“And yourself?” he asks. Harry is leaning against Peter’s desk, so Johnny moves to stand in front of him, gauging Harry’s reactions as he moves closer. “What do you do when you see what you want?” It’s not his best line, but it gets the reaction he’s looking for.
There’s a moment when Johnny thinks he’s pushed too far, a pained expression appearing for a moment on Harry’s face, but then it’s gone, and Harry’s studying him with a new focus, determined. He pushes away from the table and Johnny moves on autopilot, taking a step back. And then he’s stopped. Harry reaches out and grips Johnny’s wrist tightly. Their eyes meet again, and something else passes between them.
Johnny could turn on the flame and be free in an instant, but there’s something in Harry’s expression, something haunted, that keeps him curious enough to stay close, and he nods once. Consent.
Triumph gleams for a moment, and then Harry drops Johnny’s wrist quickly, looking shocked at himself, and Johnny stares in bewilderment. He steps closer, back into Osborn’s space, and when he steps forward, Harry steps back, and he crowds him back against the desk as the dynamic shifts again.
He licks his lips and watches Harry’s eyes dart towards his mouth, hungry, and Johnny smiles, feeling back on solid ground, feeling the thrill of something darker, something dangerous, that he didn’t expect to find.
“I was enjoying that,” he complains, just a little bit petulant. He actually has been, too. He’s had more than one fantasy about Peter using his infamous spider-strength to hold him down.
Another dark emotion flashes across Harry’s face, one that Johnny can’t parse out before Harry is moving, reversing their positions so Johnny is trapped against the desk with Harry’s mouth inches from his own. Harry’s eyes grow dark, and then he curls his hand in Johnny’s shirt and that’s all the warning he gets before he finds out what Harry Osborn tastes like.
He’s surprised to discover himself kissing back. He grinds against Harry, encouraging Harry to press him back, drag him almost horizontal on top of Peter’s desk. Harry’s not a small man, and the angle makes him feel like the air being squeezed from his lungs, but it’s exactly what he wants right now.
He tugs Harry down, more firmly on top of him. Out of nowhere comes the realization that he wants Harry to fuck him right here. Right now. On Peter Parker’s executive desk that he’s just realized is where his kitchen table used to be. Fuck Peter Parker. Fuck Parker Industries. Fuck Reed and Sue and Ben for leaving him here. Fuck Harry Osborn for being Peter Parker’s best friend. Oh yeah, and fuck himself too, because Johnny couldn’t even hold on to their home to keep it safe for them.
He squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself back to the present. The present where Harry Osborn is grinding against him. He fists Harry’s hair and bites down sharply on his lip, causing Harry’s hands to tighten around his hips, which earns a surprised moan from Johnny. He throws his head back, feels Harry’s mouth against his neck and he moans again, louder. The slightly hysterical impulse goes through him to moan even louder, next time, maybe even exaggerate it, because it would serve Peter right to walk in on this.
Harry pulls back, slightly, and Johnny takes advantage of the breathing room to prop himself up on his elbows and look. He expects Osborn to look scared, or shaken, but he not. He’s staring at Johnny with another one of those unreadable, haunted expressions.
“You with me, Osborn?”
Harry’s eyes focus on his, and Johnny reaches up, slides his finger under Harry’s tie and tugs on it to loosen it. “There we go,” he murmurs. “You’re supposed to be entertaining me, remember?” He slides the tie through the collar and tosses it aside, fingers deftly unbuttoning the shirt, exposing skin. Hot fingers follow the line of Harry’s collarbones, and those eyes focus even more intensely. When Harry pulls back again this time, it’s to strip off of his suit coat.
Harry’s watching him, the want back, and then he pushes up Johnny’s t-shirt, palming the exposed skin. Johnny leverages himself up using the edge of the desk and curling his hands around his shoulders as Harry’s tighten back around his hips.
“You want to fuck me, Harry?” he murmurs. “Bend me over Peter’s desk?”
Harry’s hands squeeze convulsively, hard enough to bruise, and Johnny makes a soft, pleading noise. “All this time you’ve been watching me come by Peter’s office...you’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you? Peter fucking me in this room. On this desk. With you next door.” He keeps talking, because ever time he says Peter’s name Harry’s hands tighten.
Johnny rolls his hips again and Harry groans, raw-sounding. “Or maybe me under the desk, on my knees, sucking his cock. Maybe even while he was talking to you. The way you looked at me when I walked in...I bet you can’t even look at me without picturing me with him.” It’s said bitterly, because Johnny feels it too. He can’t look at Harry without seeing him with Peter. Laughing. Smiling. Years of history. Calling him his best friend, because for decades Johnny didn’t even know who Peter was. He only knew Spider-Man.
Johnny’s dragged out of his thoughts by Harry’s mouth on his, and he sighs against it, tugging Harry close by his belt loops and deftly working his hand inside. He can feel Harry’s cock, hard and growing harder as he strokes and squeezes.
“C’mon, Harry,” he murmurs. “Don’t tell me you don’t want this.”
When Harry pulls back this time, his eyes are wild. He looks freaked, and for a moment Johnny thinks he’s going to run for it, but then he’s pulling back just enough to unbuckle his belt and shove his pants down. Then he’s reaching for him again, drawing Johnny close.
Harry’s mouth is on his neck, teeth sharp against his skin, earning a moan. “I really hope you have something.” Johnny murmurs, breathlessly. He pushes his hand inside Harry’s boxers, tugging again.
“Me? No. I don’t...” Harry’s pupils are blown, and he’s breathing hard. Johnny gets the sense again that Harry could bolt at a moment's notice.
“I guess I could bring you off right here.” It’s not what he wants, but since when does Johnny ever get what he wants? “Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Osborn,”
“Lyman,” Harry corrects, soft.
Johnny raises an eyebrow and pulls his hand from Harry’s pants. “You’re practically running this company for Peter. Don’t tell me you’re not. Peter is great at a lot of things, but he is absolutely unreliable. And yet... this is his office. His name on the building. Don’t tell me you don’t think it shouldn’t be Oscorp Industries hanging outside.”
It’s a gamble, invoking Harry’s father. Especially after everything. But when Harry meets his gaze again, that heat is back. Anger, but not at him, even though he’s the current target of it. Harry moves to the other side of the desk, to Peter’s oversized black leather executive chair, and sits down, his gaze on Johnny.
Game on. Johnny trails his fingers along the glass top of the desk as he comes around the other side. Harry turns in the chair, and Johnny takes that as an invitation. He straddles Harry’s lap, knees on either side of his hips, hears the chair groan under their combined weight, but it’s worth it for the way Harry’s eyes glaze over and his mouth goes slack. He’s looking up at Johnny with some strange combination of worship and resentment. Johnny kisses him, bites down again where he’d bitten earlier, and Harry’s hands are sliding up under his t-shirt. He pulls back to tug it over his head and drops it onto Peter’s desk.
Harry’s hand slides down his stomach and then lower, and Johnny pushes into it, needy.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he breathes. But that’s not what he wants right now. He gets off the chair and drops to his knees, hands sliding down Harry’s thighs. He spreads them wide and settles between them.
Harry has that look again, the one that could read as desire or disdain. The feeling is mutual. Johnny gets Harry’s cock out, and begins stroking again, keeping his eyes on Harry’s. God, they’re both so fucked up. He’s blowing his best friend’s best friend because he can, because he can’t blow Peter. He doesn’t know much about Harry, but he assumes it’s the same, except more twisted.
When Johnny takes him into his mouth, Harry groans. There’s that heady sensation of power. Ego, he thinks, distantly, as he licks Harry’s cock. He wants this sloppy. Messy. Sucking cock is a power trip--at least for him. At least right now. He wants Harry as desperate as he feels.
“Shit, your mouth is so hot. " Harry's hand moves, tightens in Johnny's hair and tugs, forcing him to take his rock deeper. He doea.>
It’s so easy, Johnny thinks. It’s so easy to focus on the cock in his mouth, the low throb of his own arousal. He often chases his orgasms so quickly they’re over as soon as they start, so it feels good to ride this one out, to rub against the fly of his jeans as he swallows Harry down, and then pull back, take a breath, and spread his legs a little wider.
“Storm,” Harry gasps, and he sounds wrecked. “Johnny--I’m--” His hands tighten in Johnny’s hair. Johnny pulls back in time to stroke him through it, watching Harry’s face as his orgasm hits, spills into Johnny’s hands. It’s a moment of triumph, and then the realization that he has a handful of come. He makes a face and wipes his hand off on some kind of inter office memo he sees in Peter’s executive trash can.
Harry’s panting, his eyes closed, as Johnny gets to his feet. He did that. To Harry Osborn. In Peter’s chair. There’s a twisted kind of satisfaction that he’s enjoying more than the half-hard arousal he’s been neglecting. Harry opens his eyes and swallows, licks his lips when he realizes Johnny still needs to come.
The quid pro quo has gone unstated, so he appreciates it when Harry reaches for his jeans without being prompted to. He’s a little rough about it too--more than he expected from a guy who just had an amazing orgasm. Once he’s freed Johnny’s cock he reaches for it without hesitation. Johnny’s going to have to rethink his theory about whether Harry Osborn’s had sex with men before based on his enthusiasm and skill level.
Arousal and want are escalating quickly, and Johnny holds onto Peter’s desk. If he closes his eyes and squints, the dark head bobbing over his cock could be someone else. He lets his fantasy take over. Peter’s mouth on him. Peter moaning softly, causing vibrations he feels at the base of his spine. He was not expecting Harry to be this good, to be honest, and he’s having a little difficulty keeping control.
He finally gives up, moaning openly, because Harry is ruthless. He rushes towards his orgasm, and when he comes he’s left with the strange sensation that he’s been played, somehow. Harry cleans him up with a brisk efficiency that leaves Johnny feeling unbalanced as he tucks himself away.
For a long moment they just regard each other. Harry is the first one to look away, towards the skyline outside.
“Peter….” Harry begins. And for a brief, panicked moment, Johnny thinks that Peter’s standing behind him. He looks over his shoulder quickly, and then slumps in relief. Harry’s mouth twists in something like amusement, and shifts his gaze back to meet Johnny’s.
“Peter cares about you,” Harry clarifies, and there’s no more envy in his voice, or resentment. Just resignation.
“Sure,” Johnny replies. That part he doesn’t question. Peter cares about him. They’ve been friends for years. He doesn’t know what Harry’s game is, now. “He’s a pal.”
Harry shakes his head and gestures around the room. “I told you. I’ve known Peter a long time. When he does something this ridiculous, like buying the most expensive skyscraper in Manhattan, because he can’t stand the idea of it belonging to someone else, well… Peter’s always been one to make grand gestures when he’s in love.”
Johnny avoids Harry’s gaze and readjusts his jeans. “Yeah,” he says, quietly. “Maybe tell him that.”
They share another look. Quiet, resigned. But Johnny thinks, in that moment, that maybe he’s never been understood by anyone as well as he's understood by Harry Osborn. And he realizes that he now understands a side of Harry that Peter never will.
Johnny’s lips twitch, a soft, almost smile. On impulse, he decides waiting around for Peter is the last thing he wants to do tonight. "Tell Peter I got tired of waiting.” He moves away from the desk. “You’ve been a fantastic host,” he adds, wryly. “No need to get up--I’ll show myself out.”
He leaves Harry there, in Peter's executive chair in Peter's executive office, and travels past Valeria’s bedroom, past the old living room. There’s a wall where Ben’s chair used to be, an ugly carpet where he used to sit with Franklin and Val and watch TV. Everywhere he turns, he only sees what he’s lost. When he makes his way down to the lobby, he pauses for a moment in front of the statue that stands there now. The statue that Peter commissioned from Alicia. When he first saw it, he thought Peter had commissioned it for him. Now, he’s not so sure Peter didn’t do it for himself. All these months, he’s been holding on desperately to Peter, remembering what they’ve both lost. He wonders how Harry Osborn’s been doing it for years.