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Yes, this is still the same story, the same idea. I'm just rewriting it because...well, more writing experience, I guess. I loved this story, but I'd written myself into a corner and I wasn't sure I liked the direction it was heading. So, here, once again, is You Instead of Me. Enjoy, and remember: concrit is always welcome.
“PETE!”
Venom turned and roared, dropping the spike. Without a word, Harry began a collision course, intending only to get him away from Peter long enough to finish him off. And his plan, however vague, worked: Venom jumped out of the way and Harry quickly halted midair before his friend and sent a stream of flame at the monster. He shrieked; Harry took advantage of his injury by throwing a pumpkin bomb, then another and another. The screams of Eddie and Venom blended together, Harry shielded his eyes from the blaze, and finally both monster and master were gone.
Harry jumped off his glider, slashed Peter’s bonds with his arm blades, caught him just before he hit the ground and gently lowered him the rest of the way. An angry red stain soaked the front of his costume and the wound was nearly the size of Harry’s fist, but he shook his friend gently anyway.
“Pete? Peter, say something!”
Peter opened his eyes, and Harry knew calling for help would be useless. “Harry?” His voice was raspy, barely audible.
“Peter, no…don’t…don’t do this to me…”
He smiled weakly, used the last of his strength to clasp Harry’s shoulder. “Harry…thanks. Take…take care of MJ for me, ‘kay?”
Tears stung his eyes. “I…I will, Pete. I will.”
He smiled one last time before the blue eyes closed, the hand slipped from Harry’s shoulder, and he breathed his last. Tears fell freely down Harry’s cheeks.
Peter Parker was dead.
Contrary to all reason, the sun shone brightly in a pastel blue sky. A few wispy white clouds attempted to drift in front of the sun, but did nothing to obscure its brilliance. A bird chirped from a nearby branch, and Harry glared at it. How could anything manage to sing today?
Two or three camera crews stood several dozen yards from the casket, reporters quietly relating events to viewers. Harry didn’t know exactly who would be watching the broadcasts; it seemed as if all of New York City had come to pay their last respects to their hero. The cemetery was surrounded by onlookers who pressed against the gates, eyes fixed upon the coffin. Every few moments, a choking sob could be heard from an undisclosed source. Allowing only friends, family and the press into the cemetery had been pointless since everyone in the city came anyway. All the same, Harry was grateful he wasn’t forced to stand among strangers.
He felt something gently press itself against his shoulder, and he turned his head to see Mary Jane leaning against him.
“I can’t believe he’s gone!” she whispered.
Harry put both arms around her and she returned the embrace. “I can’t, either.” Tears sprang to his eyes as the memory of Peter’s death replayed in his mind, and he squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to keep them from falling.
The minister began his speech, but Harry tuned it out. He and Mary Jane held each other, weeping quietly as Peter’s coffin was lowered into the grave. Time didn’t exist. It could have been hours or minutes while they stood there, each keeping the other from falling to pieces.
Eventually, the crowd began to disperse. Harry was dimly aware of mourners filing silently past them like black-clad ghosts.
“He can’t be gone,” Mary Jane whispered, voice choked with tears.
“No,” Harry agreed. “He shouldn’t be.”
"I don't know what I'll do without him. He was..." She buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing.
Harry couldn't speak. Words seemed inappropriate. Instead, he lowered his head and cried with her, minutes ticking away until he, Mary Jane, and Aunt May were left standing by Peter's grave alone.