Chapter Text
Towards the end of my seventeenth winter, my pops decided that I was depressed. That was probably because I sort of never left the house, spent a whole bunch of time in my bed, read this one book over and over and rarely ate. Also, I thought a lot about death.
I've come to notice that whenever you read cancer books and websites, there's always this list of side effects. Depresssion's always listed. But,really, depression isn't a side effect of cancer. Depression? It's a side effect of dying. (Really, if you think about it, cancer is also a side effect of dying. If you think even more, you'll discover that eveything sort of is.) But, pops believed I needed treatment, so he took me to Regular Doctor Peggy. She agreed that I was basically flying high in my own depression sky. Because of this, she decided that my meds needed to be kicked up a few notches and also that I should attend a weekly Support Group.
The prescribed Support Group played home to a variety of ever changing twelve to eighteen year olds that were all in various tumorific stages.
Why was the group ever changing? That's a side effect of dying.
As one can imagine, Support Group was just depressing as hell. It met up every Wednesday in the basement of a church shaped like a cross. All of us side effects sat in a circle. It was right in the middle of the cross, or the place where the two boards would have met, or the place where Jesus's heart would have been.
I only knew that because Wade, the only person over eighteen and the Support Group Leader, talked about the heart of Jesus every single meeting. We heard, every week, all about how we, young survivors, were sitting right in Christ's super sacred heart and stuff. Every week.
Basically, this is how it went in Jesus's heart: Somewhere between six and ten of us "young survivors" came in (either by foot or by wheel), pretended to enjoy a sort of pathetic selection of Safeway cookies and juice, sat down in the Circle of Trust, and listened to (for the millionth time, at least) Wade recount the story of his sad, miserable life. He used to have cancer in his balls. Everyone thought he was gonna kick the bucket, but he didn't. Now, as a full-grown, divorced, video game dependent, lonely man, he stood in the basement of a church where he exploited his canceriffic past every Wednesday for a small sum of money that he called a living. He claimed to be working to get a master's degree. It wouldn't improve his career options, like, at all. Basically, he's just waiting for the Grim Reaper to come along and provide him the sweet relief that eluded him all those years ago when his cancer stole is nuts but left behind what a very optimistic person might call his life.
AND YOU TOO COULD BE SO FORTUNATE!
We all introduced ourselves after the ball story. Name. Age. Diagnosis. How we're currently doing. I'm Peter, I'd always say. SIxteen. Thyroid originiallly, but also with a rather rockin' and old satellite colony in my lungs. And I'm doing okay.
Once the whole circle had been introduced, Wade asked if anyone wanted to share. Thus began the circle jerk of emotion and support with everyone talking about battling and winning and scanning and shrinking. To be fair to poor Wade, he did let us talk about dying. Most of them weren't dying. Most would live to be adults, just like Wade. This, of course, resulted in lots of competition. Eerybody wanted to not only beat their cancer, but the other people in the room. This probably sounds, like, crazy as hell, but. When you're told you have about a 20 percent chance of living for another five years, math starts to settle in and you're figuring that that's like, one in five... so then you're looking around like, I've gotta outlive four of these bitches.
The only decent part of going to Support Group was this one guy named Clint who had these perpetually grumpy looking eyes. Incidentally, his eyes were the problem. He had some incredibly improbable eye cancer that had already taken one eye back when he was younger. He had a glass eye. His one remaining eye was in danger of coming out due to a recurrence. Clint and I had worked communication via sighing into a science. Whenever someone mentioned trying some diet made to keep cancer away or whatever, he'd glance to me with his half glass, half real eyes and give this small sigh. I would, in turn, shake my head in a way that was designed to be practically unnoticeable to anyone but Clint and exhale. It was a total science.
Support Group sucked. After a few weeks, I began protesting my weak involvement. As a matter of fact, the Wednesday I met Harry Osborn, I put my best effort into not getting in the car and going to the Literal Heart of Jesus. I was just trying to keep up my twelve-hour marathon of the last season of the Real Housewives of Atlanta. Honestly, I'd already watched it, but whatever. Details. The whole conversation with pops pretty much went like this:
Me: "I'm not going to Support Group. I refuse."
Pops: "One of the symptoms of depression happens to be disinterest in activities."
Me: "Watching Real Housewives is an activity; can't I just do that?"
Pops: "Watching TV is a passivity."
Me: "Ugh! Pops, please."
Pops: "Peter, you're a teenager; not a little boy. You need to be in the real world, making friends, living life."
Me: "If the goal is to get me to be a teenager, then buy me a fake ID so I can get into clubs and drink vodka and take pot and not go to Support Group."
Pops: "...you don't take pot, you know."
Me: "I would know if you bought me a fake ID!"
Pops: "You're going to your Support Group."
Me: "UGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!"
Pops: "Peter. You deserve a life."
That always got me. I never could quite understand how my showing up to Support Group was the same thing as having and living a life. I still agreed to show up, just as long as I could record the 1.5 episodes of RHOA that I was gonna miss.
I only went to Support Group for the same reason that I used to willingly let grossly inexperienced nurses poison me with chemicals that had weird ass names. I wanted to make my dads happy. The only thing that could ever be shittier than dying from cancer when you're sixteen is having a kid that died from cancer.
Pops drove into the driveway behind the church four minutes before it all started. To kill another minute or so, I pretended to be messing with my oxygen tank. It was always guranteed to work, because who was gonna make a kid that was potentially saving their own life by adjusting the amount of oxygen being fed into their nose hurry up and get a move on? Exactly.
"Do you want me to carry it in for you?"
"Nah, I'm fine." I shook my head. My tank only weighed, like, a few pounds. I even had this sweet cart that carried it around for me. It gave me two liters of oxygen every minute through this cannula-a tube that went under my shirt, behind my ears, and into my nostrils for all of you normal breathing, non-cannula having folk. I needed it because, basically? My lungs were pretty shitty at being lungs.
"Love you," pops said as I finally made my way out of the car.
"You too, pops. See you at six."
"Make friends!" he advised as I walked off. Yeah, okay. Will do.
I never took the elevator. Taking the elevator is like, a Last Days on Earth sort of activity at Support Group. I grabbed myself a crappy, store-bought cookie and poured myself some crappy, off-brand juice into one of those cups that belonged in the '90s. When I turned around, a boy was totally staring at me. I was positive I hadn't seen him in the Literal Heart before. He was shorter than I was, but not in a weird way. He was toned without being like, muscular an all of that. It worked. His hair was this weird cross between dirty blonde and light brown. It was in this style that was pretty straight, for the most part, but had this weirdly hot wave thing going on in the front. He was probably my age, maybe about a year older. His posture was aggresively perfect.
I dropped my gaze to the floor, feeling very self-conscious i that moment. My jeans were old and I had on a Jonas Brothers shirt. They didn't even exist anymore. Also my glasses made me look like a nerd, which I was. My hair was on point in a literal sense: I always gelled it to make it look just sort of fluffy but mostly spikey. Maybe it would make up for my incredibly chipmunkish cheeks, which just so happened to be a side effect of my treatment. I looked like a normal scrawny person, only with this huge face. Also, cankles. Major cankles. Despite all of this, I glanced over at oddly hot boy. Oddly hot boy was still staring.
I realized why it's called eye contact in that moment.
I walked into the circle and took a seat next to Clint. Oddly hot boy was just on Clint's other side. I glanced up again and, what do you know, still staring. I mean, like. When a not hot guy stares at you this hard and long, it's awkward at best and a form of assault at worst. But, when the dude was hot? Different story altogether.
I grabbed my phone to check the time. One minute to showtime. Slowly, the rest of the circle was filled with the rest of the group of minors. Wade led us all in the prayer of serenity: God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
Hot guy was still staring a me and I started to feel pretty blush-ish. I finally decided that what I needed to do was to stare right back at him. Hot boys don't, like, run the Staring Game, right? I stared right at him while Wade once again told us all about his tragic loss of his balls. It turned into some sort of staring contest pretty soon. After a while longer, Hot Boy smiled and his shockingly blue eyes glanced away. He looked back at me, and I had this I win look on my face.
Hot Boy shrugged as Wade kept on with his sad tale. Pretty soon, it was time for introductions and all of that. "Hey, Clint. Maybe you wanna go first? I know you're going through a rough time."
"Yeah," Clint nodded. "I'm Clint, as you heard. Seventeen. Looks like I need surgery to take out the other eye in a few weeks, which means I'm gonna be blind. Not that I'm complaining; lots of us definitely have it worse. But, yeah. I mean, being blind sorta sucks, I guess. My girlfriend helps a lot. So do friends like Harry." Clint nodded towards Hot Boy, who now was Harry. "So, yeah, I guess." Clint went on. He kept his eyes on his hands. "Nothing to be done about it."
"We're here for you, Clint." Wade promised. "Let him know, guys." We all went on to parrot Wade's words in this horrible monotone.
Next came this kid, Michael. He was the youngest in the group. He had leukemia. He'd always had it. He said he was okay, but he had taken the elevator up.
Gwen was sixteen and was the sort of stereotypically pretty girl that Hot Guy Harry would have had his eye on if life was, like, normal. She'd been coming in for a while. She was in tis long remission from appendiceal cancer, which I didn't even know existed until I met her. Every time she came, she said she felt strong, which definitely felt like some bitchy form of braggery to me as I felt oxygen flood into my nostrils. Whatever.
There were about five other kids before it was his turn. He smiled just slightly when his turn came to be. His voice was low and, basically? It sounded like sex. "My name is Harry Osborn," he began. "I'm seventeen I had a bit of osteosarcoma about a year and a half ago, but I'm only here because Clnit asked me to come."
"How are you feeling, Harry?" Wade asked.
"Oh, I'm just dandy." Harry smiled with a corner of his mouth and it looked a little too hot. "I'm on a roller coaster that only goes up, my friend."
When it was my turn, I said, "My name is Peter. I'm sixteen. Thyroid with some mets in my lungs. I'm okay." The seconds of the hour ticked on and on. Fights were spoken about, battles that were all won in a war that would only be lost, hope was clung to, families were praised and denounced, we agreed that friends just didn't understand, tears were shed, comfort was offered in the form of a monotonous we're here for you. I didn't talk for a while. Neither did Harry, until Wade said, "Harry, why don't you share your fears with the group?"
"My fears?"
"That's right."
"I fear oblivion," he announced without a second of hesitation.
"I fear it like a blind man fears the dark."
"Too soon man." Clint grinned. It might have been the first time.
"That wasn't insensitive, was it? I tend to be a little blind to other's feelings."
Clint was totally laughing, but Wade wasn't having it. "Harry, please. Why don't we return to you and your struggle. You fear oblivion?"
"I do." Harry replied.
Wade looked lost. Poor thing. "Would-uh, would anyone... like to speak, ah, to that?"
I was a naturally shy person. On top of that, I hadn't been in an actual school in like, three years. Also, my best friends were my adopted dads and an author that was not aware of the fact that I was a person. That probably didn't help any. I wasn't the hand-raising type of guy unless it was, like... yeah, no. I wasn't the type.
All the same, I felt the need to speak up. Slowly, my hand raised to just above my shoulder. Wade's eyes lit up like I had just made his life by deciding to voice an opinion. "Peter!" He had to be proud. I was, like, becoming Part of the Group.
I looked at Harry Osborn, who then looked back at me. Damn, were his eyes blue. "Th-There will come a time," did I mention I have a slight stutter sometimes, "when... all of us will be dead. Everyone, like, all of us. There will come a t-time when there aren't any humans around to remember that there was ever, like, anyone that ever existed or tha-that our species ever did things. There won't be anyone to remember who Aristotle was, or Cleopatra, let alone you. Everything that humans ever did or wrote or thought or found is gonna stop being remembered and then all of this" I gestured to the room- "will have all been for, like, naught. Maybe that time's coming soon, or maybe it's millions and millios of years away. Even if we survive the collapse of the sun, we won't survive forever. There was time before beings were conscious, and thre's gonna be time after. If the inevitability of human oblivion scares you, I suggest you... ignore it. God knows that's what everyone else does."
I learned all of tha from my aforementioned bestie, Tony Stark, the author of An Imperial Affliction. That book was as close to a Bible as any book I had.
Tony Sark was the only person I knew of that understood what it's like to be dying, but having not died. Kinda incredible. After I finished my monologue, there was this period of silence that actually went on for a while before this crazy big grin spread out on Harry Osborn's face. It didn't look like the grin guys usually gave when they wanted to look super sexy or anything. It looked genuine. "Goddamn," Harry all but whispered. "Aren't you something else."
Neither of us spoke up again for the rest of Support Group. At the end, we all held hands and Wade led the group in a prayer. "Lord Jesus Christ, we are gathered here together, literally in your heart, as survivors of cancer. Only you know us the way we know ourselves, Lord. Guide us to life and Your Light in our times of struggle. We pray for Clint's eyes, Michael and Jamie's blood, for Harry's bones, for Peter's lungs, for James's throat. We pray for You to heal us and that we might all feel Your love and Your peace, which passes all understanding. And, we remember in our hearts those whom we knew and loved who have all gone home to you, Lord. Maria, Kate, Haley, Hoseph, Abigail, Taylor, Angelina, Gabriel..." The list went on. The world happens to contain lots of dead people. While Wade read the list of dead because there wasn't any way he could memorize that many kids, I just kept my eyes closed. I was trying to think, like, prayerful thoughts. Mostly, I just imagined the day when my name would make its way onto the list. At the end, when everyone stopped listening.
When Wade was all finished, we said this mantra that I always thought was kinda stupid- LIVING OUR BEST LIFE TODAY - and it was all over. Harry Osborn got up from his chair and walked over to me. He walked like he smiled: crooked. He kept enough distance so he wouldn't have to crane his neck to look into my eyes. "What's your name?" he asked.
"Peter."
"No, your full name."
"Ah, Peter Benjamin Rogers-Barnes-Parker." Before he could speak again, Clint approached "Hold on," Harry said with a raised finger as he turned to Isaac. "That was seriously worse than you made it out to be."
"I told you; it's bleak."
"Why do you bother with it?"
"I dunno. Kinda helps?"
Harry leaned in so he thought that I probaly couldn't hear him. "He's a regular?" I couldn't hear what Clint said in response, but Harry replied, "I'll say." He clasped both of Clints shoulders before turning to look at me. "Tell Peter about clinic."
Clint leaned against the snack table. "Okay. Like, I went into clinic this morning and I was telling my surgeon that I'd rather be deaf than blind. He said, 'It doesn't work that way' so I said, 'Yeah, I realize it doesn't actually work that way; I'm just saying that if I had a choice, I'd rather be deaf than blind', and he seriously said, 'Well the good news is that you're not going to be deaf', and I'm standing there like, 'Thanks for explaining that my eye cancer isn't going to cause me to go deaf. I feel safe in your capable hands. Thank you, oh intellectual giant, for deigning to operate on me.'"
"He sounds like a total winner. I wana get me some eye cancer. You know, just so I can meet this guy." I nodded.
"Good luck with that. I should go- Natasha's waiting for me. I gotta look at her while I still can."
"Counterinsurgence tomorrow?" Harry asked.
"Definitely." Clint turned, taking the stairs two steps at a time as he went.
Harry Osborn then turned to look at me again. "Literally."
"Literally?"
"We are literaly in the heart of Jesus. I mean, I thought it was just a church basement, but. Literally the heart of Jesus."
"Well, ah- someone should tell Jesus, you know? Like, havin' children with cancer in your heart? That's probably dangerous or whatever." I mumbled. Me talking to people in general? A mess. Me talking to hot boys? Oh, good god. What a trainwreck.
"I would tell Him myself, but it seems that, unfortunately for both myself and for Jesus, I am literally stuck inside His heart; He wouldn't be able to hear me." It made me laugh. I was just glad I didn't giggle. I had a giggling habit. Harry just, like, stood there, shaking his head and looking at me.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing," he shrugged.
"Why're you lookin' at me like that?"
Harry gave me another one of his crooked little grins. "Because you're beautiful. I happen to enjoy looking at beautiful people, and I decided some time ago not to deny myself the simple pleasures that come with being alive." The silence that followed was obviously a little bit awkward. Really? What kind of damn seventeen year old went aroundsaying that kind of thning? And, to me, of all people? Had he missed the balloon face thing I had going on? The awkard silence could only last so long before Harry kept on: "I mean, I might as well, right? As you pointed out so deliciously, this is all gonna end in oblivion and everything."
I kind of coughed, kind of sighed. "Man, I'm not bea-"
"You're like... a dude version of Natile Portman. I mean, V for Vendetta Natalie Portman." What the hell kind of comparison-?
"I haven't, ah, haven't seen it."
"Really?" he asked, as if I had just said I didn't know my own name. "All about this gorgeous girl that doesn't play by authority's rules and falls for a bad boy despite her better judgement. Despite the chick part, I'm pretty sure it's your autobiography."
I wasn't sure how one person managed to flirt that much in the span of two sentences. That had to be an art form. This guy? He kinda turned me on. I wasn't even aware that I could be turned on, like, in real life.
A young-ish girl walked by. "How's it going, Emma?" he asked her. She smiled and gave a shy wave, "Hi, Harry."
"Memorial kids," he explained. Memorial was the big research hospital in the area. "Where do you go?"
"Children's," I replied. I was glad I hadn't stuttered over the big, bad, two-syllable word. Suckishly enough, I still managed to sound kinda like a human Bambi. I had to work on that. He gave a nod, and the conversation was probably over. I nodded towards the steps that removed us dangerous youths from poor Jesus's heart. I towed my cart behind me. Harry limped right by my side. "See you next time, perhaps?" I asked, feeling pretty swaggerific for not stuttering or sounding like a human cartoon animal just this once.
"You should definitely see it. Vendetta, I mean. You should see it."
"I'll, ah, look it up." I nodded.
"No, no. With me, right now. At my house."
That got me to stop moving. "Harry Osborn, I hardly know who you are. You could be a psycho."
He nodded. "Well, I suppose that's true, Peter Parker." He had dropped the other five thousand parts of my name. It was just my birth name, sans middle name. It sounded nice to hear. I hadn't been called Peter Parker since before I was adopted. Harry kept limping on past me. I decided that green was a good color on his skin and really complimented his hair and eyes. I mentally chastised myself for sounding so stereotypically homosexual in my own mind. I then went on to realize that his limp was caused by the fact that one leg was a prosthetic. Osterosarcoma was kinda greedy in that it sometimes took away limbs. You know, to see if it liked how a person tasted. If it liked the taste, it took the rest.
I followed him slowly up the stairs, as my lugs and fast stair walking did not go well together. We were out of Jesus's literal heart (much to Jesus's joy, I imagine.) Pops wasn't there, which I thought was pretty weird. He was always waiting for me in the parking lot. A quick glance around the parking lot rewarded me with the sight of a sort of tall, curvy red head that had Clint pinned to a church wall. They were kissing like their lips might fall off at any given moment. I was, sadly, close enough to hear all of their gross slurping noises. The word /always/ was tossed around quite a bit. Like a ninja in the night, Harry was suddenly right by my side. He leaned in and whispered, "They're very pro-PDA."
"What's with the 'always' thing?" I asked, hoping I was speaking just loud enough to distract from their make out noises without being loud enoughh for either of them to hear.
"Always is, like, their thing. They're always gonna love each other and all of that. I imagine they've sent somewhere around four million texts consisting of nothing but always to each other this last year alone."
Cars continued speeding into the parking lot, taking more kids with them. Clint and Natasha were still making out. Harry and I were still stuck watching them. It was kinda like a trainwreck. Clint's hand dove in for Natasha's boob like they weren't against a damn church. He pawed at it in a way that only looked awkwardly painful from where I stood. I briefly wondered if that was supposed to feel good for either of them. I doubted it, but. Clint was going blind, so he got a pass.
"...imagine the last drive. The one to the hospital. The last time he's ever gonna drive a car."
"Peter Parker? You're killing my vibe," Harry admonished without so much as a glance in my direction. "I'm trying to witness this touching display of young love in its full awkward glory."
"Think he's hurting her boob," I mumbled.
"It is difficult to figure out if he's set to arouse or perform a breast exam." Harry Osborn then reached into his pocket and had the nerve to pull out a damn pack of cigarettes. Really? He put one in between his lips. Really?
"Oh, my god. Are you serious?" I asked, my voice a mix of shock, disappointment, and a little bit of rage. "Do you think that's, like, cool? Dude, you just ruined this whole thing!"
"Which whole thing?" he asked, facing me. That damn cigarette was dangling in his mouth.
"You know-the whole thing where a guy who's hot and smart and isn't glaringly messed up stares at me and comments on the incorrect usage of literality and, like, genderbendingly compares me to actresses and asks me to randomly watch a movie at his house. Of course, ther's always a hamartia and yours is that, literal Jesus Christ, despite having HAD CANCER, you buy something that will help you get MORE CANCER. Oh, my god! Let me tell you, not being able to breathe sucks a lot. This is totally disappointing. Totally."
"A hamartia?" he asked. That cigarette was still in his mouth, and it was doing a great job of pointing out just how hot his jawline was. Damn.
"A fatal flaw," I muttered out, turning away from him as dramatically as I could with an oxygen tank. Finally, pops came to my rescue. It was like he was waiting for me to make friends and all that. Great.
I was strangely upset by this sudden disappointment. Also, I was pretty angry. Honestly, I was just a melting pot of confusing emotions all because of Harry Osborn. I wanted to smack Harry Osborn, and I also wanted to replace my lungs with not shittastic lungs. The little things. Right before pops could pull all the way up, I felt a hand grab onto my own.
I yanked my hand away, but I still turned to look at him.
"They don't kill you unless you actually light them," he pointed out as pops arrived. "And, I've never. Lit one, I mean. It's a metaphor, see: you put the killing thing right between your teeth, but you don't give it the power to do its killing."
"A... metaphor." I slowly turned the word over, my innter conflict over if I should actually believe that.
"It's a metaphor," he confirmed.
"You actually, like, choose your behaviors based on their metaphorical resonances..." I spoke slowly.
A grin spread out on his face. "Mhm. I'm a fan of the metaphor, Peter Parker."
I turned to the car that was waiting for me. My horribly chewed down nails rapped on the window. It rolled down.
"I'm going to go see a movie with Harry Osborn," I informed him. "Please record the next several episodes of the RHOA marathon for me."