“Yeah, well, before you were at Pride. Everyone was wearing spandex.” But Harry’s sass fell flat. Crossing his arms in front of his chest to guard against the chill of some imagined summer breeze — or else, from the withering look he was sure Spider-Man was giving him under that mask — Harry shrugged his shoulders. He wasn’t sure how he knew. Maybe he just had a sense of these things, given that it was the only way his father had ever looked at him. Which, granted, wasn’t much.
“Stop looking at me like that,“ Harry tugged absently at a loose thread on the sleeve of his black t-shirt. Looking at the ground would have seemed to resigned, but he couldn’t look at Spider-Man, so he chose a point just over Spider-Man’s left shoulder to focus on. This was bull shit. This guy didn’t know who Harry was, what his life was like, where he was coming from, or what he was about. Who the fuck was he to tell Harry he had a problem when Harry knew he didn’t? Or at least, he didn’t have this problem.
“Why do you even care?” He shot back, deciding the best defense was a good offense. “Nobody gives a shit about what happens to me.”