Glow in the Dark Stars

Chapter 2: Old Ghosts

Returning to high-class life is more stressful than Harry expects, and he isn't even supposed to be here. He's a plus one. A guest of a guest.

He joins the soirée of people through the magnificent Beekman Tower, congregating in a large room that takes up almost the entire first floor. Harry tugs at the collar of his rented tux as he steps onto a glossy floor, already claustrophobic.

A server offers him a flute of champagne, which he downs in one go. The server gives him an aghast look when Harry grabs two more flutes and shuffles past him. Memories of parties, grandeur, and boring conversation nip at his heels like puppies vying for attention.

His only solace is MJ. Her dress is slim and black, a purchase she made years ago for assignments like this. She'd done her hair in an elegant coif of red curls that she slyly brushes off her bare shoulders when she's charming the business aristocrats into giving her a statement. The prey she's wheedling right now follows every movement with rapt attention, all too eager to answer her questions, much to the chagrin of her husband.

Harry covers his mouth and stares at the floor to hide a laugh when the man grabs his wife's hand and leads her away. MJ holds up her phone in victory, "And another round goes to me."

Harry claps and MJ bows. "Thank you, thank you. You're too kind."

"I thought he was going to pop a vein," Harry snickers as they make their way to the tables set up around the perimeter of the room.

"I thought he was going to bite off my head."

"A few more minutes and he might've."

Harry takes a sip of champagne and nearly spits it up when a young man with brown hair laughs, a breaking laugh that makes Harry's stomach churn with familiarity. MJ jumps back to avoid getting anything on her dress, before thumping him on the back. "Whoa, whoa, you okay?"

Harry nods, grimacing at the surrounding people turning to see the commotion, and motions for them to carry on, including the brunette. The man quirks his green eyes but turns away, slipping his arm around his date.

It isn't him. It isn't Peter. He is too tall, shoulders too slim, and his bone structure is different. He has a beard. Peter doesn't have a beard. He wouldn't look good with a beard. MJ loops an arm around him, smiles at their spectators, and leads him away.

"Maybe you should go easy on those," she says, grabbing the flute. When Harry doesn't meet her eyes, she plants a hand on her hip. "What's wrong?"

"Are you talking emotionally, or-?"

She cocks her hip.

"Fine. I'm fine. It's nothing."

She takes a slow, deliberate sip of his champagne.

"Alright, I just..." Harry tugs on his tie, loosening its stranglehold. "I thought...that guy looked a little...familiar."

MJ looks at the man in question and grimaces. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"I haven't seen Peter around. Or Norman, for that matter," she swirls the champagne, frowning. "Maybe they're running late."

"An Osborn is never late," Harry recites automatically, eyes roaming over the mingling crowd. He rubs his clammy hands on his pants. Just the mention of Norman makes him ill. Where Peter is a shadow on the wall, Norman is the monster under the bed. Harry doesn't even toy with the thought of seeing his ex-dad again. He's not there yet with his imaginary therapist.

Peter stabbed him in the heart, but Norman knows how to dissect him piece by piece. Harry can handle Peter; he can not handle Norman Osborn.

His eyes jump to the exit. He could be home right now, in his apartment, watching rom-coms on his cheap TV and eating old Chinese. He's calculating how much longer he needs to endure this before his 'good friend' quota is full when MJ grabs his elbow.