Peter’s brows furrow. He never wants Harry to feel like this again—but he doesn’t know what he can do to prevent that. Maybe it was all just in the past, and Harry won’t… But Peter has personal experience with this, of course, and he knows intimately how easy it is to relapse…
"Harry," he murmurs, trying for firm. "How— how are you feeling now? You tell me if there’s anything I can do, ever, okay?” It’s a pathetic effort, as pathetic as he feels here with no idea what to do, how to help. But it’s all he can think to say.
"I'm--" Harry falters, an ironic half-smirk frozen on his face. How does he feel now? "That's... the shitty thing, actually. See, I, uh--" His hands drop away from Peter and he takes an unconscious step away, turning, running a hand across his mouth as a mirthless chuckle escapes him. When he turns back he tells himself that those aren't tears pricking at his eyes. Absolutely not. He opens his mouth, and the words seem to tumble forth in a desperate rush, with him powerless to stop them.
"I tried to kill myself senior year, Pete. I was drunk, and I downed a bottle of Aspirin with the scotch my dad sent me for my birthday. Obviously that's not the way to do it, and I wound up in the hospital, getting my stomach pumped, wishing more than ever that I was dead. Later, my dad came to visit me in the hospital. He told me... how disappointed he was," Harry's mouth twisted, like he was trying with all his might to keep a passive face, and his hands were shaking fiercely, balled into fists so tight his knuckles were white. "He'd never been more ashamed in me than in that moment. After that, I didn't see him again until he was the one on his death bed. But I made a decision right then-- I decided to live. Even if it was just to spite my father..." He pauses for a moment, catching his breath, attempting with everything he has to maintain his composure.
"And now..." his voice breaks, but he covers it up with forced laughter. "I don't have a choice. He took even that away from me."
