Chapter Text
"I can't exactly describe how I feel, but it's not quite right. And it leaves me cold."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Love of the Last Tycoon
Enough.
You wanted to say. Throw things at the wall—pencils, pens, rocks, papers, your rubrix cube, the piled up folders on your desk, anything with so much as a weight. Mass. Throw and hear the impact. The crashing sound, the damaged surface. Just so there's a hit. There's a sound, exploding, violent, crashing when collided. Just so there's a release, an outlet, an exit. A way out.
Just so you could do. Just so you could feel.
Fucking feel.
Because there were days when you feel like giving the fuck up and walking out and leaving all this to rot in its own fucking mess. There were days were you felt gutted, truly gutted, and sickened so much to the stomach you could hardly do this anymore- you could hardly carry on. There were days when you wanted to drown, walk yourself into mental voids, actual rivers, actual ponds, turn on that tap in the bath and take a little time to sit with yourself and let the water wash over you. There were days when you wanted to spilt, tear yourself apart, grab that sharpest kitchen knife in the drawer and slit your arms. Feel blood. See the red. Breathe it in. Let it out. Forget.
Time was pushing the fast forward button on your life. Rag dolls of businessmen twice your age were ignoring you on a daily basis and took care to let you know they paid you half the respect they had for their own children. Then there's the company, an empire so hastily tossed in your hands after Norman's death that you barely had the chance to get to know.
You're sitting on a bench in the waiting area of the parking lot of a mall. Lights were up and flickering and yellow. It was half past eleven pm. The area was deserted. You'd told your driver to leave ("Are you sure, Mr. Osborn?" "Get the fuck out or I'm firing you.") and then there was silence.
There were days when you wanted to disappear—not from the crowds, not from the paparazzi, but from your life.
Even from him.
You couldn't let him see you like this.
Much less see you at all, the way you were feeling now.
There were days when you wanted to shake yourself awake and ask. Scream senseless. I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask for this father. I didn't ask for this company. I didn't ask for this life.
I didn't ask to suffer. I didn't ask for pain. I didn't ask for complications. I didn't ask for unresolved questions. I didn't ask to feel.
I didn't want you as my father. I didn't want to do this. I didn't want to be this- be him, whatever you wanted me to be, whatever kind of monster you had crafted of me. I didn't want to live.
Why must you?
When things were falling apart, when you were tiring yourself out fighting for your life. When most of the people you interacted with on a daily basis loathed you. When the goddamn plan to obtain Spiderman's blood didn't come through. When love was an illusion and feeling happy was a lie.
He turned up then, as if out of thin air, at one end of the parking lot, walking towards you, backlit by the lights like he's some kind of savior slash angel. As if.
You turned away, refused to face him, cowered on your bench. Folded up your legs. Hugged your knees to your chest and swallowed your words.
You could sense him when he was near—you'd know that odor anywhere. He was a few inches away from you, on the bench, you could feel the extra weight.
He shouldn't even be here. It's Monday night, hadn't he a date with that Stacy girl for dim sum or some variation of Asian fusion food in Chinatown?
Didn't matter. How your brain managed to recall Peter's schedule almost to a T and neglected to care about meeting minutes or press briefings you wouldn't understand. (You knew why. You were only lying to yourself. Another way to get by, face another morning, another cup of ristretto, another eight hours caged in the same office, another way to go on, you supposed.)
You spoke first, because you knew he'd kept silent- wanted to probe your state of mind first- to feel that you weren't too critical to deal with.
(He'd faced you at that stage once. Regrets.)
What are you doing here, you muttered to your knees, brusque.
Your driver called, he explained, voice steady, He—well, we—we're worried about you.
I'm fine, you retorted, automatic, a machine gun at the ready, that fast, guilty response of those who were far from fine.
I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm good. I'm feeling well. I'm fantastic. Fresh as a daisy. Just peachy. Doing amazing.
How many times had you heard people used them in passing? How many times had you used and meant them?
Answer: Never.
You thought too much, they always said, that fuck buddy from prep school, your therapist, Peter. Everyone you'd ever met and slipped into emotional intimacy with. (the fuck buddy- there was post coital delirium, sweating bodies tangled up on crumbled sheets and hairs stuck to your forehead and breaths that seemed to suck the life out of you. There were morning afters when you'd just woken up and were too isolated, detached from reality, from the skin and weight of the body curled up next to you, reeking of sex and cocks, to really care.)
You though too much. You overanalyze. You draw yourself up a maze and purposely lose the keys. You thought too much. You were left alone. Voices in your head echoed, and you were only trying to follow. You thought too much. Certain things that couldn't be fixed and were too transient and temporary to pay attention to and certain things of monumental impact and significant consequences that you neglected.
You're doing ok, from the outside. In the public eye. On the covers of magazines. In the tabloids. Between the lines of articles in your interviews. You're doing ok, from the smiles you threw at the crowds, the kisses you blew at the fangirls, the paparazzi, as if they would never run out, as if you'd have plenty left to share. You're doing ok, from the outside, and little did they knew how rotten you really were. How your life was crumbling down before your eyes, how your brain lazed around and willed itself to forget what mattered, how your heart longed to escape and to slap itself awake- to start anew when you barely could.
When chances had run out and you were caught on the verge of deciding. When doors had closed in your face and you wondered how long you could stay like this.
Live this way.
Be a disappointment to the dead Norman. (Because he was never your anything. That was the way you remembered it. That was the way it was going to be.)
You're not fine, his voice was loud in your ears, as he slid to your side, hand on your arm, You're not. How many times would I have to tell you that?
I'm not okay, you whispered to yourself in your head, I'm not okay.
I'm not okay, and I'm living. I'm not okay, and I'm breathing. Feeling. Thinking. Still wanting. Still needing. Still stubborn. Still running away from reality, from life. Still chasing imaginary rabbits down bottomless holes.
Still here.
That was the point, still here.
Your lips tightened, quivered, and your heart shrunk to a minuscule size, a tiny, blinking dot against the darkened back drop of your chest.
You didn't answer.
Swatted away his hand. Hugged your knees closer to your chest. Tighter. And you wanted to dissolve. Morph into some insignificant, unnoticeable drop. Be left the fuck alone.
Harry, he called, wrapped his arm around your shoulders this time (great effort on his part), Don't do this.
Don't do this. Don't do that.
When would people ever learn they couldn't give you orders? They could, if it so pleased them, if it so much as made them even the slightest bit more content with their lives to move on after they'd dropped this burden on you- then go ahead, and you wouldn't listen.
I don't want you here, you replied, forced the words out somehow (because you still cared. The little conscience remaining in your head told you that. You still cared.) I meant it, Pete.
His arm was still around you.
I'm not leaving.
Resolute. Was that the best he could do? When would he ever learn?
Harry, he started again, I'm here because I wanted to. I'm here because I wanted to be with you. Even like this.
His voice went on, echoes against the concrete and the bare white walls. And you two stayed there, a boy huddled into himself and a boy with his arm around the other.
I wanted to listen. I wanted to help.
You can't, you cried out suddenly, like his last word had grazed an open wound in your heart, You don't fucking understand.
And your lips quivered. The dam broke. A tear slid down your cheek, your throat tight. It started slow—couple of of sobs, seconds in between, droplets of rain before a storm. Then it became a downpour—sobs that wrecked your body, doubled you over, chest heaving, breathing in tears and tasting salt on your tongue. Hands reached out, blind, fingers splayed, spread wide, wanted to grasp, to hold on to something, anything.
You grabbed onto his shoulders, twisted around, and buried yourself in his arms.
You don't fucking understand. You don't fucking understand, you kept chanting under your breath, like a prayer, a curse, a mantra.
His hand rubbed your back. His lips kissed on the top of your head.
I can't say it'll be ok, he said, breaths warm, But I wanted to say it will pass. It's temporary, and it'll pass. The pain.
And we can't all be okay right now, his voice sounded distant, far away.
Maybe we'll never be okay, ever, and that's a possibility.
But it's temporary. The ups and downs. We're lucky, so lucky to ever feel that lurch of happiness at all, because it's so rare. If you are living, then you are feeling. If you are living, then expect pain. Expect suffering. Happiness is that moment distinguishable from the long period of pain, of merely living.
I wanted to say I believe in you. I always have, and I know they can tear your down, and you're hurting in places you've never known could hurt. You're writhing on the floor and screaming and picturing yourself drenched in blood and no one's listening—or noticing you. It can get that bad. It can seem to be at its worst, even when time moves on and you stay still. And you'll look back someday, and say it was all for nothing—the worries you piled onto yourself, the anxieties, the stress, the exasperated nights. You'd come out from this storm a different person than you were, than who you used to be, and you would be stronger. Learned. You would understand.
Even if you fail, even when you want to give up and leave—even then. It's a hiccup in your journey, if you look at it from somewhere farther away. One long look, and there's still room. There's much room...to fall. It's a mistake, a failure. There's time spent, days ruined, but it's not the end. Because you've got to go on. Focus. Try again.
I don't understand. I really wouldn't understand. No one knows your problems better than yourself. No one can take the first step to fix them better than you.
So let me stay.
You'd stopped crying somewhere in the middle of his speech, hands clinging to him, limp, breathing ragged.
Your throat hurt. Your nose was stuffed, and your cheeks were tainted, wet with drying tears.
I don't know how, you mumbled, voice reduced to that of an indecisive child, small, toneless.
They say not to let them see you cry.
You had been at one of your worst tonight, a real wreck, and he was still here.
I don't know how, Pete. I don't know how.
He took your hand in his, folded his palm over yours, and the warmth seeping through his skin seemed to sear straight into your heart.
Together, that's how, he answered, You and me. Together.