Work Text:
Nobody is a villain in their own story. We're all heroes of our own stories.
---George R.R. Martin
A villain.
Was that what they had come to call you? Was that what you had finally become?
A villain, like some criminal in a darkened alley, awaiting his prey. A villain, like some dishonest, shady character you and Peter used to read about in books when you were children. A villain, like your already twisted, much eroded, dilapidated, flawed human heart was dipped in poison and black ink and infected with monstrosity, with malign.
A villain, like you'd switched sides and transformed into someone society should abhor, someone preferably locked away and secure and safeguarded for the sake and safety of the rest of New York City.
A villain, like the efforts, the drastic lengths you had gone through to save your own fucking life, because you wanted to save your own fucking life, because nobody was willing to save your own fucking life, because nobody listened. Because nobody cared, were so sinful. Were so wrong. Were so damnable.
It was the early part of your life, ever since you were eleven and sent away and left horribly scarred of being alone and forced into surviving by yourself. It was that particular part, happening to you all over again.
A villain, some disgusting term. Because who really decided? Who really branded, stamped on the label, marked, separated, selected, people in blatant red? Who really did? Who were you to point the finger to?
Who were you to demand fairness and justice from?
(As if they existed. As. If.
Even with vigilantes roaming the City, the basic rules of life still stood, you a villain or not.
Nothing was justified (properly, anyway), and nothing was ever fair (not really, anyway).
A villain, and you were morphed, green all over, flying around on your glider with a demented, shrill laugh.
He left you. He betrayed you, that's all your best friend (Was that all you thought he was? Was it? No. You'd seen them, those chocolate browns. You'd seen them. You'd remembered them, more vividly than any memory of yours. And you'd been haunted by them. Awfully. Days and nights when you'd twisted in bed, awake, two eyes wide open and heart beating fast. Two eyes wide open and mind always, always occupied by him. Hands. Touch. Asking. Answer. Yes, as Joyce would say. Yes, you'd scream at him, touch me. Fill me up, take me, fuck me until I'm begging. Fuck me until I'm gone, forgotten your name. Fuck me, until I collapse on the bed beside you, body and heart and mind, spent and consumed by yours, willingly, wholeheartedly, fully. Yours.
It happened when you were eleven and in front of his doorstep, hands entwined in his, fingers fitted into gaps and warm arms that drew you in and had to let go.
You'd glanced up at him then, when he fell silent. Didn't say a word, tears on his cheeks.
You'd glanced up at him, lanky and taller than you were even then, amiable smile, bright eyes, thin lips. Long nose. His shaky laugh. His lukewarm voice.
You didn't know what it was, this rush, this urgency. That you needed him. You wanted him. Him, as a person, body and mind and heart. Him, for you and you alone. Him, a person you could call, "Mine."
Maybe it was love. Maybe it wasn't.
Nobody had ever shown you any. That imaginary love people were always on about, that so called magical feeling. Nobody had ever shown you any, so you could never decipher for yourself what the feeling was.
More than affections, that's for sure. Oozing and overwhelming, like it'd spill out of you any second when you lost yourself back in those chocolate browns. Sprawling and relentless, restless, wanted you to move. Be moved. Wanted you to feel.
And you felt. You did.
You blamed yourself for feeling. For falling.
You blamed yourself for letting him let go. You'd clung to him, begged. And he'd listened. And he'd let go.
He already had someone. Stacy, whatever her name was. You'd come back, returned to your place, foolish enough to expect the norms to have remained- seriously, him, that rare breed of cute, adorkable nerd? Who would?
(Except you, of course, except you.)
She would, and she did. Torn him away from you, the one person you felt the most intense attachment to in your life.
It's complicated, he said, and you'd quickly dismissed the word, as was your tendency to.
I don't do complicated, you replied. Lying with a straight face, they didn't teach that in prep school, but you'd pretty much perfected it there. I don't do complicated- read: I don't do you, I can't do you. I won't do you, though I desperately want to. I desperately want more than anything for you to do me. But I won't ask for it. I won't beg for it. I won't let it show. I can't let it show. You've got her. You've got her, and maybe she's the only complicated you need, or want?, in your life. The only complicated. Because isn't there room for only one? A heart has its four rooms, but I don't want to compete against her for one of yours, when she's already had a strong hold, when she's already been a part of it for so long- I can tell from your voice, when you talk about her. So no, I don't do complicated. I can't do complicated. I don't do you.
I'd had enough complicated in my life, without you being involved. I'd had enough complicated in my life, those nights when I was without you. I'd had enough complicated in my life, wanting what I can't have, longing for what I can't buy.
And the worst part is, you know what, the worst part is, I can't do anything about any of it. I can't do anything about you.
Fuck those who keep saying let it go, fuck them. Because I won't. Let go. I won't.
Even if you have. Let go. Of me.
Even if you have.
She's your complicated, and you are hers. She's your complicated, and you are mine.
That's all there is. That's all that matters to me. That's all I'll know.
You are mine.)
had ever done for you. He didn't really want to help.
It comes and it goes, you'd told someone. You'd been fortunate enough to feel yourself, to glimpse yourself, to be yourself, to move in a human skin, to speak in your own drawling voice, to taste the bitterness on your lips, on days when he didn't come back for you, the Goblin.
Ask: Did you ever want this to happen? Did the concept of, ooh...say, villainy (the word sounded ridiculous in your head) occur to you when all you wanted was to save your own fucking life?
Answer: of course not. Never. When everyone else had already let go. When your life, your hope was dangling by a string. When no one was there to save you. When no one was there for you.
You had to save yourself.
Be your own hero, that's all there was. That's all that mattered to you. That's all you would know.
You were your own hero. You'd survived. You were alive- you are alive.
Shattered, broken heart pending, but you are alive.
And you were mine, you wanted to tell him, and you were mine.