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Everything changes when Harley Keener moves to New York.
Flash sits in the back of the class in first period, has his head resting on the crook of his elbow, arm settled on the top of his desk as he uses the hand of his other arm to idly scroll through his phone. There’s nothing all that important about the day, other than it’s a Tuesday and he’s planning to order pizza when he gets home because his parents are out of town again and transferred enough cash onto his card to be able to buy enough groceries for at least a month, and he thinks, a bit numbly, that the hours at school will pass in a hazy sort of uninteresting blur until the final bell rings and he gets to leave.
Then someone new comes in, stands in the doorway just long enough to sort of catch Flash’s eye, and suddenly, unexpectedly, he can’t really look away.
The thing about Harley Keener is that he’s an odd combination of confident and bashful, and, for some reason, he already knows Parker, gets waved over excitedly after Peter sees him standing there and happily sits next to him. He sports a wide yet careful grin and looks kind of timid when he talks to Ned, then he looks more sure of himself when Flash catches a part of their conversation—an amused, odd kind of twitch to his lips when Peter whines, “Dude, you can’t just steal my friends. They are literally the only friends I have. No one else is gonna wanna put up with me!”
And then there’s a sort of matter of fact tone to Harley’s voice when he responds with, “Not stealing. I’m just statin’ facts. I like them. I also like you. No harm, no foul.”
He has a slight southern lilt, thickens it when he’s asked to come to the front of the class and introduce himself, and Flash, still in the back row and confused about why his eyes keep getting stuck on this new kid, sees the way that Harley kind of brightens a bit with a satisfied look on his face when the drawl of his words and the way he calls the teacher darlin’ makes Peter snort out a laugh. Something indefinable settles over Flash’s chest and stays there, and he tries not to keep looking when he sees the way Peter and Harley pass notes back and forth the entirety of the class.
In second period, they have assigned seats.
Flash doesn’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse, has always hated it when teacher’s pulled out seating charts at the beginning of the class, but there’s an empty spot next to him and that’s where Harley’s told to sit, which he does with a little nod, a glance around the room—likely looking for one of his new friends, who are not in this specific Calculus class—and then a small, sort of shy but openly friendly half smile at Flash as he settles into his seat, sets his backpack on the floor and lets out a long, slow breath.
“You’re new,” Flash says, knows that it takes Miss T at least five minutes to take attendance before really starting class. There’s time to chat a bit, and he feels the need to introduce himself.
Harley glances at him, eyes a bit squinted. “Yeah,” he says, kind of slow, cautious. “Harley. You?”
Unexplainably giddy despite the wary way Harley is eyeing him, Flash chirpily responds with, “Oh, I’m Flash. Flash Thompson. I’m in first period with you, so you don’t have to introduce yourself again.”
“Okay…” Harley trails off, looks away as he goes to pull a notebook and calculator out of his bag, preparing for whatever they’ll be doing that day. Flash bites his tongue, but can’t stop himself from trying to keep a conversation going, asks stupid little questions and makes idiotic little comments until Harley huffs a bit and tells him, “I don’t wanna be rude, man, but I’m not really good at the whole talking to strangers thing without some kinda middle person that I already know, so, if you could, like—”
“Yeah,” Flash interrupts, feels oddly deflated as he smiles and nods. “Yeah, I get that. I’ll leave you be.”
Harley lets out a relieved kind of sigh. Flash has to look away, and he doesn’t understand why.
Despite popular belief, Eugene Thompson does not hate Peter Parker.
Really—and he knows that it doesn’t look like it—Flash wanted to be Peter’s friend, when they started their freshman year at Midtown and ended up sitting next to each other in biology. The kid was scrawny and wide eyed and nerdy beyond belief, but it was a nerdy sort of school and Flash thought that he was nice and kind of funny after a few days of awkwardly trying to talk during lulls in class. Fourteen and pretty damn lonely, Flash was more than ecstatic when him and thirteen year old Peter started getting along, but there was always a part of Flash that didn’t like Peter at all. It’s an ugly part of him, he’s well aware, and he knows it’s bred from the fear of never being enough to make his parents proud, those angry sort of seeds planting within his withering chest every time his father would look at him with a frown and disappointment in his eyes, fertilized and grown with the anxieties that told him he would never be able to achieve the things that his parents wanted him to. While Flash wanted a friend, he couldn’t help but flinch every time Peter got a question right that Flash didn’t know the answer to, swallowed the lumps that formed in his throat at the A’s on Peter’s tests while his came back with B’s and C’s that his father always scowled at. Even when Flash did get A’s, the pride was overshadowed by the fact that Peter was better.
The half assed name calling and borderline bullying had started in the flames of a childish jealousy, something that Flash regretted after the first week, but the way that Peter looked at him in some kind of horrible betrayal when Flash tripped him in the hall told him that there was no going back. He was too young, was never taught the proper ways to apologize and mend things after making mistakes, so he never did anything, just kept calling Peter names and pushing him around and lying to himself, saying that he was doing it because of faults that Peter didn’t have, made up flaws and things to make him feel annoyed, until he almost believed himself, almost convinced himself that the hatred was genuine.
However, it never was, and even now, when Harley starts attending Midtown at the start of April, over halfway through their junior year, Flash still knows that he’s never really hated Peter. In his head, it’s just far too late for him to try and change things. They’re Flash and Peter. They don’t get along.
That’s just how it is.
But Harley and Peter get along wonderfully, and it’s evident in the way they interact in the halls, how they murmur and snicker and joke around in class. Flash watches, doesn’t really know why he’s watching, from tables away during lunch, when Harley pushes a chocolate pudding onto Peter’s already piled up tray of food and bursts into laughter when Peter gives him a deadpan sort of glare, There’s context, there, something that Flash doesn’t know, whatever sort of inside joke that makes such a simple action so gut busting, but Harley is wiping away tears by the time he stops laughing and Peter is trying to hide his smile behind the spoon as he shovels the pudding in his mouth. Ned and MJ, never the center of Flash’s attention whenever he finds himself looking, snicker along and subtly high five under the table.
Flash thinks he understands why.
Something about the two of them, about Harley and Peter, about Peter and Harley, is magnetic. Flash pretends he isn’t observing, but he sees it, when Harley doesn’t really but kind of joins the decathlon team and cheers whenever Peter gets a question right, when Peter notices Harley searching his bag for something to write with and silently hands him a pencil with a wide smile. And something about it, about them, makes Flash’s stomach twist. He assumes it’s a negative feeling, thinks that the ways they interact must annoy him in some sort of way, starts rolling his eyes even as he fights off the smiles that he doesn’t understand in the slightest. Clearly, it must be disdain that causes the odd little twist in his gut.
Then Peter and Harley don’t show up to school one day, and Flash misses them.
It doesn’t make sense, the way something in his chest sort of pangs and aches when the bell rings and first period starts and both of their chairs are empty. He’s become to accustomed to letting his focus drift to them, he realizes, doesn’t really know what to do when the boring moments in class can’t be fixed up by dragging his gaze to where they sit. By lunch time, he feels antsy in a way he never really has before, even more so when he notices the fact that both Ned and MJ have left school halfway through the day.
Harley comes back the day after that, but there’s a slump in his shoulders and Peter’s still not there and something about it feels like boulders being dropped on Flash’s chest until something splinters. The crushing weight of it only lessens a bit when he sees Ned laughing his ass off of in the hallway while Harley watches him in confused amusement a couple days later, and he thinks that it must be a good sign, then, because they wouldn’t look happy if something was really wrong, but even then it feels a little bit like something big is squeezing him because Peter’s chair is still empty every morning for days in a row.
After nearly a full week of this, he can’t keep acting like he hasn’t noticed, but he doesn’t really know how to approach the subject in a way that won’t raise suspicion to the confusing mess that is the inside of Flash’s brain. So, he tries to play it cool, shoulders past Harley—he’s never done that before, has only ever shoved by Peter, and it’s so odd when his heart kind of skips at the contact—and manages to pull some twisted version of his usual smile before he asks, “So, where the hell has Parker been? Missed Decathlon all week. MJ still won’t let me take his spot even though he always flakes on us—” which isn’t true, because he’s never asked MJ to takes Peter’s spot, knows it’s not a spot he can fill, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to admit that out loud, “—so what’s going on?”
He sees it, the way Harley’s jaw clenches for a moment before he puts on the fakest smile possible and uses a faux chirpy voice to reply, “Pretty sure that’s none of your business. He’ll be back soon.”
Flash knows it isn’t his business, knows he’s being an asshole by trying to find out information he doesn’t have the right to be told, but there’s still that tugging of some kind of worry weighing him down and he’s more than capable of being a persistent little shit when he wants to be, so he doesn’t drop it, doesn’t let it end there, his mind conjuring up the worst possibility and his mouth moving too quick for his brain to keep up as he fearfully asks, “What, did someone die?”
And that’s the moment that Flash sees a whole new side of Harley Keener that he’s never witnessed once since Harley started at Midtown and stole Flash’s attention. There’s only a second or two that passes before Harley has Flash shoved against the lockers, fingers curled into fists against his shoulders and features twisted in some kind of furious sort of snarl. Flash thinks he’s going to be punched, braces himself for it and knows it’s his own fault, but the hit never comes. Instead, Harley drops his hands with a deep breath, then just shoves a finger harshly into Flash’s chest as he sneers, “I told you, it’s none of your fucking business, Eugene.”
“Please—” and he’s really begging, pleading and hoping and praying to God’s that he doesn’t really believe in, real fear clawing at his throat, “—don’t tell me his aunt died.”
Because Flash can’t do that again.
When Ben Parker died, everyone at Midtown knew. It had been on the local news, their big camera’s catching glimpses of fourteen year old Peter Parker from a distance, behind the reporter telling the story. Peter hadn’t shown up to school for days after it happened, and in the halls, people whispered, pulled out their phones and showed their friends the clips of shaky, pale, blood stained Peter sitting in the back of an ambulance, staring off into space with a blank expression on his tear stained face. When Peter finally did return to school again, he was so different, and Flash had found himself wishing, for the hundredth time, that he never let his jealously take over, that he had become Peter’s friend, because he only had Ned, at that point, and it was clear that Ned was floundering, didn’t really know what to do when Peter started crying in class or had to be taken to the nurse’s office at lunch because he wasn’t paying attention and tripped and got a bloody nose while walking to his usual lunch table. Flash spent months avoiding Peter entirely, because he didn’t know how to act around him, didn’t know what to say or do. He simply waited until Peter started acting more like Peter again before picking up his teasing and pushing as if nothing ever happened, and he remembers an almost sort of relief on Peter’s face, like all he had been craving was a sense of normalcy, and Flash felt sick when he realized that him treating Peter Parker like shit had become so engrained in both of them that it helped bring back that feeling of something normal.
The closest thing Flash has ever gotten to helping Peter Parker was when he started bullying him again.
“Did his aunt—?”
Harley looks confused, puts space between them, and Flash practically melts with relief when Harley tells him, “No.” Another step farther, more space, but at least Flash feels like he can breathe again, at least he knows something. Harley looks at him like he’s waiting for Flash to attack. “Why do you care?”
And he can’t admit that he does, because he’s weak and scared and doesn’t have an ounce of bravery in his bones. He has to put on that mask, has to keep pretending, scrunches his nose and scoffs in a way that he hopes is believable, and he says, “I don’t care, Keener. It was just—” don’t say it, don’t say it, god, please don’t say it, “—annoyingly depressing seeing him walking around after his uncle was killed. I don’t want—” to see him look so sad again, “—Parker to bum everyone out again. It took months before people could look at him without feeling—” like something inside of me was broken, “—awkward.”
“Killed?”
There’s a specific shine of vulnerability and heart ache in Harley’s eyes when he says that, some kind of weak hope that maybe he heard Flash wrong, and it makes Flash feel even worse, makes him feel sick to his stomach because he assumed, due to how attached by the hip the two of them have been, Harley must have already known about Ben Parker. Everyone else does, even if it doesn’t come up anymore. But now Flash is the asshole who spilled something regarding Peter’s past to someone he hasn’t told yet. Swallowing back bile, he looks down the hall, hopes that someone will interrupt them and save him from fucking this up even more, and half-heartedly shrugs when no saving grace comes. “Yeah,” he chokes out, sounds mostly normal when he does. “Dude got shot in the street. I guess—” except he knows what happened, he just can’t bring himself to say it, “—Parker saw it happen, or whatever.” Then, his tone shifts a bit, becomes a little strained at the memories of the ghost of Peter Parker walking through the halls in the following months, and he says, “It fucked him up for a while.”
When he looks back, it’s obvious that Harley’s gone pale, a sickly flush to his cheeks that makes Flash worry that he might throw up. It also makes Flash want to die, just a little bit.
“Look, just—” he stops, pauses and sighs and scrubs at his face because he can’t leave it there, he has to offer something, and it’s clear, really, that the reaction Harley had to Flash asking if anyone died means that someone either did die, or came really close to it, and that thought alone is kind of terrifying and bone chilling and hard to swallow. “I don’t like Parker.” Not true, he thinks. “He doesn’t like me.” That one is unfortunately true. “We aren’t friends, we never will be, and that’s just how it is, but both of us are only really friends with people on the Decathlon team, so there’s some kind of respect, I think.”
Really, Peter should have no respect for Flash, should hate Flash’s guts and push him down and kick him because he fucking deserves it. But Peter has never done anything like that, still tries to smile at Flash if they ever happen to meet eyes across the room, still offers to work together in classes they share. Peter Parker is too good for this world and he deserves good people like Harley Keener, not someone as twisted and fucked up and shattered inside—not someone like Flash.
“Point is—” wow, and talking around the lump in his throat kind of hurts, but he forces the words out, “—and I’ll deny this if you ever tell anyone I said this, if someone important to him died again, then I have a feeling it’s gonna be pretty bad. So, whatever happened, I…”
What does he say that won’t expose the inner workings of his chest?
“I hope he handles it better than last time. Because last time was—”
horrible, painful, heartbreaking, soul shatteringly sad
“—fucking awkward.”
He hates himself, he really does, and he knows he deserves to be yelled at for such a half-assed attempt at being kind of good but not too good, holding back due to the fear of becoming vulnerable. Before he can see what he assumes will be anger and hatred flash through Harley’s eyes, he walks away.
He thinks that the least he can do is continue that normalcy, like he did before. Peter comes back to school with kind of dull eyes and a distant look on his features and Flash hates it but he hopes that continuing to call him names and push him around like nothing happened just might help ground him a bit.
But he’s not good at being helpful, even when it’s such a twisted way of helping, and it only takes two days before he fucks it up, goes to trip Peter in the hall because sometimes Peter will stumble and roll his eyes, but sometimes he jumps over Flash’s outstretched foot and turns to him and laughs like it’s a game. Maybe he shouldn’t have hoped for a laugh, maybe he should have prepared for some kind of lashing out or something like that, but nothing could have prepared him for the way the textbook tumbles from Peter’s grip and slams against the floor with a resounding sound that echoes down the hall, and Flash can see the moment that Peter is no longer mentally present, can see the way his eyes glaze over and his face goes pale and before Flash can do anything other than realize how the noise of the textbook falling sounding awfully similar to a gun going off, Harley is glaring at him and helping Peter to his feet and they both disappear into the bathroom down the hall, Peter looking seconds away from being sick.
Flash feels his hands shake as the people in the hall look at him with wide eyes, and it’s almost like they all know something he doesn’t, because there’s judgment but there’s some kind of almost-sympathy, too. He ignores it, ignores them, and just shakily makes his way to the bathroom because he needs to apologize for something like that, needs it to be known that he would never in a million years intentionally do that to anyone, but when he silently pushes open the door, he can hear the sound of gagging and labored breathing and Harley’s gentle voice whispering words too soft for Flash to understand, and he knows that this isn’t the right time for him to say sorry.
He stumbles to the other boys bathroom by the cafeteria and loses his lunch, instead.
A couple days later, Flash does manage to apologize, though he has to bite it out harshly in order to prevent the churn in his stomach from making him throw up again. It’s not the apology he wanted to give, and Harley is there for the whole thing, and the two of them are standing so close that their sides are pressed together and Flash realizes in a sudden moment of whiplash that they’re not just inseparable friends, they’re some kind of soulmates. And then, the day after that, he turns the corner to get something from his locker during lunch and he sees them giggling and kissing and it all seems to click into place.
He likes them.
Both of them, somehow, though it doesn’t make much sense because he’s never had a crush on multiple people at the same time before, but the way his heart thuds heavily at the sight of them, at Harley leaning against the wall and Peter leaning against Harley while they make out, is impossible to deny. The fascination when Harley showed up in class, the way Flash always seems to wind up looking at them without ever really meaning to, the way Flash achingly missed them when they were both gone…
It’s a gut clenching kind of realization, and it’s one he can never do anything about, so he simply swallows back the bile threatening to rise in his throat, and he turns away and leaves.
The school year ends with Harley and Peter holding hands and Flash pretending he isn’t looking.
Summer starts in a haze of missing them, even though there’s nothing for him to miss. They aren’t his friends, aren’t his—it hurts to think—more than friends, and he doesn’t deserve to wish he was with them. He barely leaves his house, doesn’t really have anywhere to go because it’s not like he really has that many friends who might actually want him around, and he stays up all night because, when he sleeps, he has dreams of what could have been, dreams where he never got jealous and got to take Peter to Homecoming their sophomore year instead of him going with Liz, dreams where Harley moves to New York and it’s not easy, figuring out how to make it work, but the three of them really like each other so they figure it out anyway, dreams where Harley and Peter hold hands, but they hold Flash’s hand, too.
He finds sad, sappy songs, plays them at full volume and only leaves his bed to eat and use the bathroom and take the occasional shower, sometimes sings along to the music until his voice cracks and he pretends not to notice it when he starts to cry. The days and the weeks go by and Flash is drowning in his own regret, his own self-hatred, writes down lyrics from the songs that hit the hardest
(you’re staring while i’m blinking, just don’t tell me what you see)
and his parents are hardly ever home, taking his sister with them on a vacation that he pretends he would have refused to go on even if they had asked if he wanted to go, and something about the empty house and the silent halls and the total seclusion only sends him deeper into his own despair and it’s
(and you think that i’m okay, ‘cause i won’t let you see my true face)
entirely his own fault and he fucking knows it, knows that it’s his own stubbornness, his own jealousy, his own incapability to understand and deal with his emotions that’s lead him to this point and he sees
(what if i’m someone i don’t want around?)
the video on Harley’s Snapchat, on August 10th, and the camera zooms in on a large cake filled with flickering candles and then it swivels over and focuses on Peter, who has these weird glasses on and looks pale and shaky and wrong, somehow, but he’s also grinning and jokingly glaring at the camera and he blows out the candles as what sounds like dozens of voices call out happy birthday’s and then, after that, a picture, too, clearly taken by someone else, showing Harley sitting on Peter’s lap and kissing his cheek while the two of them hold plates with slices of cake and scoops of ice cream and it just says one more year until eighteen written across the photo and Flash can feel his heart in his throat and he
(and one day these bones will heal and they’ll leave me with the truth)
sends a happy birthday message to Peter with shaking fingers and so much guilt pressing into him that he can barely breathe through it, can’t feel anything other than the way it twists and pushes and aches and
(trying to figure this out but, my god, i’m so human)
Peter responds with a smiley face and a heart and a simple little thank you and—
And Flash decides that he wants to change.
He can’t magically take back what he’s done, can’t offer an apology and act like he never fucked up in the first place, and he definitely can’t do anything about his stupid, hopeless crush on two people who are clearly more than happy together, who don’t need him to complicate their lives, but he can start acting differently. He can stop with the dumb names, can start smiling at them and being friendly with them and maybe, if he’s lucky, by the end of their senior year, he’ll have done enough to improve the way they remember him. Instead of looking back and thinking of that asshole from high school, they might look back and remember the guy who wasn’t all that great for a while, but was kind of alright by the end.
Summer ends with a hope and a wish and some kind of semblance of a plan.
They sense the change almost immediately.
It’s obvious in the way they both warily eye him in the classes they share, how they speak, slow and cautious, when he doesn’t immediately say something snarky and borderline cruel. Really, Flash can’t blame them, knows that it must seem so odd, so suspicious, to have him change his behavior out of seemingly no where, but two, three weeks into the school year, they seem to relax, and they don’t treat him like a friend, per se, but they don’t seem to be expecting the other shoe to drop. Peter grins at him in the halls and laughs at the jokes he makes in class and Harley partners up with him in AP Calc and shares weird looks with him when their teacher goes on yet another rant about her grandchildren. It’s already a hundred times more anything Flash could ever ask for, some semblance of a solid foundation, and he doesn’t want to be greedy with it. The only downside is that, maybe, it was easier when he ignored them.
Maybe, in a fucked up sort of way, it’s worse now, being able to be closer to them, to talk to them and see the way they smile at each other up close. They aren’t across the room, an unreachable wish that feels galaxies away. Sometimes, Peter texts him random memes and videos and things he finds funny. Sometimes, Harley brings milkshakes to class and lets Flash steal a few drinks here and there.
Sometimes, if feels possible, liking them and having them like him back.
That sometmes is stifling, suffocating, a painful sting in the center of his chest. It makes him hope for something he shouldn’t hope for, and he pulls back in fear, starts avoiding them in the halls and not looking at them in class and it almost works, but after a week of this, he misses them again. There has to be a balance, something that makes it so his heart doesn’t ache in his chest and it doesn’t feel like there’s a knife buried in his ribcage, the stabbing pain increading with every uneven breath. If there is a middle ground, he can’t seem to find it, just continuously bounces back and forth from being and almost-friend and acting like a complete stranger, a cycle that goes and goes and goes.
It’s something, though. It’s better than before, and he’s grateful for that, he is.
He just wishes he didn’t become more smitten every time he looked at the two of them.
Jesse barges in his room, two weeks before Halloween, plops on his bed, over his homework, and says, “Mom and Dad are taking us to Disney for Halloween!”
Flash raises his brows at her. “Us?”
“Yeah,” Jesse nods. “I said I wouldn’t go unless you got to come this time.”
It’s heartwarming, the way she tries, but Flash just lets out a long, strained sigh. His parents never wanted a son, he knows. They weren’t even sure if they wanted children at all when they ended up having him, but Rosie Thompson was raised against abortion, so, despite not wanting a kid, they hadn’t gotten rid of him. On some levels, they resent him. He supposes it’s fair, since he resents them, too.
But they decided they liked the idea of a daughter, when Flash was a year or two old. When they had Jesse, they were overjoyed. Flash supposes that’s fair, too. He would do anything for his sister. He’s happy that she’s not being raised the way that he was, with distant parents who barely looked at him.
“I don’t think I’m gonna go, Jess,” he tells her, tries to keep it sweet and kind so that she doesn’t get worried. “I’m probably just gonna be studying on Halloween, anyway. There’s some big tests coming up that I need to prepare for. If I went, I’d just drag you guys down with all my school stuff.” There are no tests—at least, none that Flash is worried enough about to have to study on Halloween—but Jesse doesn’t need to know that, and Flash would rather not explain the real reason he doesn’t want to go.
“Seriously?” Jesse asks, sounding so dejected and Flash almost gives in, right then and there, almost agrees to go just to see her smile, but he knows it wouldn’t be worth it, knows that he’d spend the entire time in the shadows, watching his parents and his sister act like a family he doesn’t belong in. So, even though it sucks, seeing her sad frown, he shakes his head, and she sighs. “Are you sure, Genie?”
That makes him smile, a little bit—Harrison and Rosie won’t let Jesse call him Flash, insisting that it’s a ridiculoous name and that they gave him the one they gave him for a reason, but Jesse, even though she’s only eleven, knows how much he hates the name Eugene and found a nickname from it that’s close enough to satisfy their parents, but far enough away that it doesn’t make Flash’s stomach churn when he hears it. He has, perhaps, the best sister one could ask for. “I’m sure,” he tells her, turns in his desk to dig through the top drawer, until he finds his stash of candy bars that he hides in there. Holding out a king sized Kit Kat bar, he lowers his voice to a whisper and says, “But if you manage to bring me back a hat, I’ll make sure there’s a bag of Halloween candy waiting for you when you get back, one that Mom and Dad won’t know about, okay? That way, you can have it all to yourself and not have to share. Deal?”
Jesse grins, takes the Kit Kat bar and shakes his hand the way their father taught them to, a firm grip and a high chin and an aura of confidence that Flash has to fake but that Jesse wears like a second skin, and she sounds all business and no play when she says, “We have a deal. No take backs, Genie.”
“I always keep my promises to you, Jess,” Flash assures, and he keeps smiling, even after Jesse has left, candy bar tucked into the waistband of her pajama’s to keep it hidden.
And then he realizes that—oh. The house will be empty on Halloween.
Maybe…
Maybe he can do something about that.
It’s not supposed to be big, because Flash isn’t a freshman anymore and doesn’t do everything for the attention from his peers that his parents never give him. No, it’s his senior year, he’s finally growing the fuck up, and, honestly, he doesn’t want to clean up the mess that a raging party woiuld bring. Instead, he wants something small scale, something fun, with people he can either call friends or decent acquantences, people who don’t seem to hate him, might even tolerate him, sometimes.
He invites Abe, first, before classes start. Then he invites Charles, and Cindy, and Betty, and even finds it pretty easy to approach Ned and Michelle, too, and the other few people he tolerates—basically, really, the rest of the decathlon team—get asked to come, too. That’s almost everyone that he wants to invite, everyone except Harley and Peter, and it takes him half the school day to hype himself up enough to approach them, can’t even look them in the eyes, tries to sound nonchalant and unbothered but thinks he probably sounds nervous and tense, and his stomach is in knots when he walks away but he was able to do it and that’s what matters, really. He wants them there. He does.
But he also knows they probably won’t show up. Why would they? They have every right to hate Flash, they probably do hate Flash but are too polite to tell him that now that he isn’t actively being a dick to them, and they probably aren’t the kind of people who go to parties. Or, not Flash’s parties.
Still, he invited them, and he didn’t throw up afterwards, so that has to count for something.
Wiithin an hour, way too many people have shown up at his house, and Flash is panicking.
Internally, of course—he may be changing but there’s a certain exterior he has to keep up, and having an anxiety attack over an abundance of strangers being in his house does not fit with his façade—but the panic is there nonetheless, bubbling beneath his skin and making his hands shake as he gulps down a cup of the spooky themed punch he made for the ten people he actually invited to this thing. He’s able to grin at people he recognizes (which isn’t that many people, and, god, this is a mess) but his mouth feels dry from his somewhat uneven breathing and he refills his cup with the stupid punch to try and fix it.
He loses track of how many times he refills his cup, is just trying to get rid of the feeling of sandpaper in his throat and calm himself down because he can’t think clearly if he’s actively suppressing a the panic attack trying to claw its way out from the center of his chest, where his anxiety and his fears and his insecurities are locked in the same box he keeps his heart in, protected from everyone but himself. It doesn’t seem to be helping, really, but then it does, the panic leeching out of him as his mind goes fuzzy and a warm feeling spreads throughout his limbs and he’s so grateful to have the tension bleed from his trembling muscles that it takes him a while to realize that this isn’t just calming down, this is intoxication, knows how it feels from the one time he was curious and snuck a case of his mom’s Mike’s Hard Lemonade to his room, knowing she would either not notice it missing or simply not care.
It doesn’t make sense in his scrambled up brain, thoughts hard to piece together and comprehend. He made this punch, looked up the recipe and went out to buy the ingredients, and he knows for a fact that he never put a single drop of alcohol in there. It’s a party punch, a deep red color that feels fitting because it’s Halloween, and he found the recipe online, and all that’s supposed to be in it is Hawaiian Punch, pineapple juice, and Ginger Ale. Very simple, very sober, things.
But he hadn’t been by the punch for a while, when people started showing up. He’d been trying to frantically hide anything of value, anything his parents would kill him for getting damaged or ruined, and he can see, even from where he’s standing right now, that a lot of the unfamiliar faces here seem older than him, college people, true adults, not like his measly almost-eighteen.
Somebody spiked the punch, he realized, probably the only thought in his brain that he hears with crisp, clean clarity, everything else blocked out and muffled by the fuzziness of intoxication. For a second, something claws at him, some kind of fear, because this isn’t what he wants, he doesn’t want to be drunk, not when there’s an endless sea of strangers in his home, even more still showing up at his front door and steadily filling up the space that he grew up in, and it doesn’t matter if that growing up wasn’t particularly ideal because this space is all he knows and he needs to keep it safe. This is where he watched cartoons with his mother, one time, and she had laughed at something in the show and didn’t seem bothered to have him around. This is where his father talked him through his homework patiently when he didn’t understand a question, made it clear that he knows Flash is smart, and, yeah, maybe Harrison had then looked him in the eye and told him that he needed to figure things out on his own if he was going to get anywhere, but Flash was too busy soaking in the pleasant feeling of having his dad’s undevided attention in what was likely the first time in his life. This is where he had a babysitter that actually seemed to care for him, maybe, definitely, too much, though he doesn’t like to think about her, doesn’t like to remember how she showed it. This is where Jesse took her first steps, where she made him drawings of superheroes and her favorite characters from her favorite shows that he still has pinned up in his room because she is the most important person in his life and that will never, ever change.
This is—home isn’t the right word, because it’s never felt much like one before—but it’s all he has, and he can’t see anyone he knows, and he hates this. He hates that he’s itching to reach for his phone and call someone just to find comfort in a familiar face but he had no one to call and—and—and—
And he sees Peter, leaning against the wall by the bathroom and looking around and he’s a fucking saving grace if Flash has ever seen one, an angel in a fucking bee onesie of all things, with yellow eye shadow and black eye liner and Flash is honestly so excited to see someone he knows, even more so to see Peter, specifically, that it’s like that everything he was freaking out about before it gets shoved back into the fuzzy abyss of his brain, and he doesn’t even realize he’s making his way over until he calls Peter’s name and he’s suddenly looking into somewhat bewildered brown eyes and a small, friendly smile.
“Hey, Flash,” Peter says—two words, nothing special, but Flash stumbles when he hears them, trips over his own feet and has to catch himself on the wall and he’s beaming. Peter frowns. “Are you okay?”
And he is—Flash is definitely okay, because he’s not standing by himself and feeling like he’s about to explode in his own house, and the warm, fuzzy feeling that’s flowing through his veins is making him some kind of giddy and he feels good and he says at such, rambles it out and doesn’t really process his own words but they pour out of his anyway, without thought or reason. Peter has a look on his face like he’s not sure how to handle the situation, but Flash can’t even be bothered by that because Peter is here and he tells Flash that Harley is here, too, by the kitchen with Michelle, and—
“I don’t hate you,” Peter tells him, before Flash even realizes the fact that he kind of revealed that assumption out loud. And then he says, “Harley doesn’t, either,” and it’s almost too much to take.
They’re here, is the thing—Harley and Peter, his crushes that he is absolutely going insane over, are at his stupid Halloween party, and that’s mind boggling enough as it is because Flash never thought, in a thousand years, that they would ever voluntarily come to his house, would never choose to be somewhere he is, only deals with him being around them out of necessity of school, but they’re here, and they don’t hate him, and he honestly feels like he’s about to cry at that infortmation. “You don’t hate me?”
Peter, Perfect Peter Parker, shakes his head and says, “Of course not,” like it’s the most obvious fact in the world even though it shouldn’t be a fact at all. Flash is reeling, can’t even focus on the rest of what Peter says to him, just looks at this boy that Flash could have been friends with all these time, maybe even could have been more with, and he—he doesn’t think. He doesn’t think it through, and it’s so, so stupid.
“I’m a jealous asshole,” he states, and then he kisses Peter Parker.
It’s the worst thing he could have done, and he knows it, because—because he didn’t ask if he could, first of all, and that’s such a shitty thing to do, but he also knows that Peter and Harley are dating, has known for a fucking while now, and he just kissed someone who isn’t single. And, to make it, somehow, even fucking worse, Peter’s boyfriend is Flash’s other fucking crush.
“You should hate me,” he says, after the fact, while Peter stares at him in confusion, because it was true before, but it’s definitely true now. “Like, you—you really should. But you don’t. And I’m an asshole. I’m the worst person and I need to—”
Stupid. Stupid. He shouldn’t do this. He shouldn’t, and he knows that he shouldn’t, but his common sense is being smothered and silenced by the liquid fire in his veins and he moves anyway.
“I need to do something.”
And he goes and he kisses Harley, too.
Somewhere, in his drunken brain, he thinks that makes it better, kissing both of them. That way, it’s even and he isn’t showing favoritism and maybe that’ll make it easier to forget it ever even happen at all. Michelle doesn’t seem to agree when he tells her this without meaning to tell her anything, just shakes her head at him and hands him a bottle of water that he chugs, suddenly realizing how parched he feels. “You’re an idiot, Flash,” she tells him, but there’s also some kind of smile pulling at her lips and she almost seems fond when she says it. “There were literally a million other ways you could have handled this, and you chose to get wasted and kiss them at a party.”
“I didn’t choose to get drunk,” Flash grumbles, finishes the bottle of water and gratefully accepts the next one she holds out for him. “I didn’t know they spiked the punch. I don’t like being drunk. Or big parties. Or doing stupid things. This sucks and I kind of hate it and never want it to happen again.”
Michelle almost seems to be sad by that. She grabs another water bottle. “Let’s focus on getting you sober,” she says, placing the water on the counter in front of him before ransacking the kitchen until she finds half a subway sandwich in the fridge, which she unwraps and puts in front of him, too.
Flash frowns at it, stomach churning in protest at the sight. “M’not hungry.”
“You’re eating it,” she tells him. “It’ll help.”
He doesn’t believe her, but he eats it anyway, and it does help, somehow, the food in his system and the water he’s still sipping at helping to clear out some of the fuzziness in his brain, his limps feeling less warm and floaty, more heavy and hard to carry. Not to say that he’s sober, no, because he definitely isn’t, but he’s not so far gone that his brain isn’t working anymore, can actually function, just a little bit.
Michelle seems pleased by this. “You ready to deal with this?”
“No,” he grumbles. “Fuck off.”
But she just laughs a bit, says, “Come on,” and leads him out of the kitchen.
Six words start to repeat in his head.
Harry Osborn is at my party. Harry Osborn is at my party. Harry Osborn is at my party.
Because, of course, Peter Parker is the kind of person who would casually be childhood friends with the heir to Oscorp. And, of course, Harry Osborn is the kind of person to show up at a Halloween party in an outfit that looks more expensive than Flash’s house—which is saying a lot, considering that Flash’s house costs a fucking lot—and, on top of that, he looks insanely good in it.
Which is—okay, not fair. Flash is trying to apologize to his crushes about nonconsensually kissing them in a way that hopefully won’t require admitting that he has a crush on them. He doesn’t need to deal with a super attractive guy sitting in his room, too. It’s like the world is out to get him, or something.
But then, after Flash has managed to focus his brain enough to piece together what he wants to say and then rambles out a shitty version of it, Harry surprises him—he looks him in the eyes, and he has really, really pretty eyes, too, and he tells Flash, “The whole never being good enough for your parents thing? That’s my life, man, so I understand,” and there’s only sincerity in his gaze, each word heavy yet somehow making the weight on Flash’s shoulder ease up enough for him to breathe. And this is Harry Fucking Osborn, Flash knows, can’t get over how insane that is, but it feels a lot less important when Harry mentions his mother dying, his father sending him to boarding school, acting out just to feel worthy of his dad’s disappointment, and this isn’t the son of Norman Osborn anymore, but just some guy at a party that’s letting Flash know, loud and clear and to the point— “I get it, is the point.”
Someone gets it. Someone understands.
And maybe—maybe it isn’t that simple, really, because circumstances are different, no one is exactly the same, but it’s something. Harry understands the foundations of why Flash is so fucked up. He gets it.
So, Flash Thompson is a coward.
He knows this. It isn’t anything new, But, usually, he tries not to be obvious about it.
It’s impossible to pretend he isn’t terrified of accepting… whatever the hell this is. Them, all of them, Michelle and Ned and Harley and Peter all trying to invite him to hang out with them, like they really are friends, now, even though Flash has never had real friends, even though they’re a puzzle he doesn’t fit in. Nothing about it makes sense to him—they shouldn’t want him around. It doesn’t matter that it had been fun, hanging out with them at Stark Tower, watching movie after movie until they all fell asleep on the floor, because he’s still Flash, and he’s not supposed to be their friend. He ducks around corners and leaves classes as fast as he can so that they can’t keep up with him and they’re supposed to give up on him but they don’t, rather trying again and again to talk to him, until they corner him in the hall, all four of them, and he’s so sure they’re tired of his shit already and are going to call him out on being a ridiculous asshole, but then they smile at him and invite him to hang out at the tower again.
There’s hope, somewhere in his chest, that he’s afraid to have. Hope that this is something that might be real. Hope that, even though he doesn’t deserve it, maybe he can earn it, somehow, anyway.
But he’s still so, so afraid, and he’s not planning to go on Saturday, is already considering new ways to avoid them, when Harry Osborn texts him. Flash vaguely remembers swapping numbers sometime after leaving the party but before they all fell asleep. Honestly, he assumed nothing would come from it, was expecting to delete the number from his contacts after years of never hearing from it, but…
FROM: harry osborn ?? [ 3:02 pm ]
hello hi whats up
this is flash right
like
u gave me ur actual number right
this is harry btw
osborn
if this isnt flash pretend this never happened and please don’t post my number anywhere
TO: harry osborn ?? [ 3:05 pm ]
um
yes
hi
i mean yes like yes this is flash
and i saved ur number so i know who it is
FROM: harry osborn ?? [ 3:06 pm ]
nice! hell yeah cool
people have given me fake numbers before so i figured i’d make sure lmao
anyway are u comin on saturday
TO: harry osborn ?? [ 3:06 pm ]
what
FROM: harry osborn ?? [ 3:07 pm ]
saturday ? peter said they invited u
so like,,,
are u going ??
TO: harry osborn ?? [ 3:07 pm ]
why ??????????
FROM: harry osborn ?? [ 3:07 pm ]
what do you mean, why??
bc u seem cool and i wanna hang out w you that’s why
i don’t give random people my number mr flash i don’t know ur middle or last name sir
there are Reasons behind my actions
for example, being able to ask if i’m gonna be able to hang out w you on saturday or not
TO: harry osborn ?? [ 3:08 pm ]
i
????
i don’t know
probably not
FROM: harry osborn ?? [ 3:10 pm ]
probably not because ur busy or probably not bc ur avoiding people
TO: harry osborn ?? [ 3:10 pm ]
?????????
FROM: harry osborn [ 3:11 pm ]
okay look
we. do not know each other. but i was being serious when i said i understand, and if u think it isn’t completely obvious that you’re trying to hide rn then ur kinda being dumb
which like
probably not my place to say sorry
so instead, i’ll just say to please reconsider because you seriously seem really cool and i went like eight years in fuck all private school in fuckin france with no friends so im trying to make as many as possible
obviously you’re not like required to go or to talk to anything or literally anything but just
you got invited bc you’re wanted there so like
idk
think about it i guess
also do you wanna see a video of a dog playing with bubbles because i just found a video of a dog playing with bubbles and it’s the cutest thing i’ve ever seen and i need to share it with anyone and everyone
It’s a cute video.
He still isn’t planning to go.
On Saturday, he shows up, anyway, and it… it’s fun. It’s good.
He stops trying to avoid it and starts trying to let himself feel worthy of something that’s good.
Which… is not easy. It’s really hard, actually, trying to rationalize why he should be able to enjoy having friends, why he shouldn’t go running for the hills. But, he tries. He keeps trying.
(It gets a little easier, eventually. And then a little easier than that, too.)
Harry texts him a lot, and it’s weird, because Flash never considered a world where he would know someone like Harry Osborn, but now they’re here, over a month and a half after Halloween, and they talk every day. They have a streak on Snapchat and send each other memes and, sometimes, Harry says really nice things to him, about him, and, sometimes, he says things that might be flirting but might be a joke, and Flash gets detention for being on his phone in class but he doesn’t mind. It’s worth it, he thinks, because Harry is really funny and seems to understand the way Flash thinks and he’s never had someone like that in his life before. His closest friend has always been his sister. He thinks Harry’s a close second.
And suddenly, somehow, it’s Christmas Eve Eve, and they’re at the tower again and they’ve been watching movies for hours and Flash is dreading going home because Harrison and Rosie are taking Jesse somewhere nice again, and he’s going to spend the holiday’s alone again, but he isn’t alone right now and he’s been to the tower so many times in the past two months that it feels familiar and comfortable in a way his own house never, ever has. He’s had so much hot chocolate that his stomach is starting to hurt, but he’s so warm that he doesn’t even care, just glances around the room, sees MJ curled up on one recliner, Ned on the other, Harley and Peter cuddled together on the smaller sofa, and Flash is on the bigger sofa with Harry, who’s laying down with his head in Flash’s lap and he realizes, out of no where, without really even meaning to, that he’s so busy thinking about Harry, so busy playing with Harry’s hair and looking at him only to look away a moment later, that he hasn’t been looking at Harley and Peter, not as much, not nearly as often, and when he has, it’s been normal, no big deal.
The realization is—well, it’s strange, because that’s been a constant since Harley started at Midtown back in April, and now, apparently, that’s changed. He isn’t always thinking about them. He isn’t—
Harry turns on his side, tugs a blanket over him and curls into a ball and presses his forehead to Flash’s stomach and it’s like the world stops, everything freezes and all he can do is stare down at this guy that’s letting out the lightest little snores and trying to press closer, even in his sleep, and that’s it. That’s all there is to it, really. Flash’s crush on Harley and Peter isn’t gone, no—it’s been festering beneath his skin for too long that he knows it’ll take a few months to fully shake it away from him—but his crush on them is different than this. It’s childish and naïve, but this is nothing like that, because Harry isn’t some unobtainable hope, isn’t a reminder of how shitty Flash had been less than a year ago. Sure, they’re, somehow, friends now, and he enjoys being around them, but at the start of their senior year, Flash was overwhelmed being so close to them, kept running away because it—it hurt, almost, how he felt when he looked at them. It doesn’t hurt now. It’s just nice, being their friend. There’s that little nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach that tells him his crush is still somewhere in there, but then he looks at Harry, who is all brown hair and blue eyes that look back at Flash with understanding and kindness in his gaze.
He looks at Harry Osborn and feels his heart pick up speed in his chest and it’s different.
It’s better. It’s nice. It’s special and good and he really, really likes it. He really, really likes him.
New Years Eve, 2017, saw Flash sitting on the couch in his living room and watching the ball drop on TV. His parents hadn’t even bothered to tell him where they were going, had just left without saying a word, only waiting in the doorway long enough for Jesse to tackle her brother in a hug and grin at him in all her ten year old joy and jokingly said, “See you next year, Genie,” and then he was alone.
He was always, always, always alone.
At some point during the night, when the new year was less than an hour away, he had raided his parents liquor cabinet and watched the countdown with a bottle of vodka in his hand that he hadn’t even bothered to open, rather just tempted the thought before putting it away, untouched, and crawling into his bed and thinking to himself that nothing was going to change, that resollutions are pointless and making wishes on stars is stupid and that it only ever really hurt, hoping that, one day, he wouldn’t be so alone anymore.
New Years Eve, 2018, and Flash is surrounding by the fucking Avengers, and it’s not even the first time, because he was here the day after Thanksgiving and he vividly remembers the fucking Falcon and Winter Fucking Soldier laugh at something he said, and it’s just as insane of a concept now, but at least it’s a little bit familiar. Plus, he’s here with his friends—and a kid named Miles, who Flash has seen in the halls at Midtown, a freshman that, apparently, has been somewhat adopted by Harley and Peter.
(Like, legitimately, too, because Miles is here with his parents, and Flash watches with his own two eyes when Miles rolls his eyes at something Harley says and responds with, “You’re annoying.”
And Rio Morales points at her son and sternly says, “Don’t backtalk your fathers like that.”
“Wh—” Miles splutters, while Ned and Peter, standing a few feet away, practically collapse in instant, overwhelming laughter. “Mom! Are you serious right now? They’re not—I’m not—Dad!”
Flash wishes he had his phone out and was recording this moment, because Jefferson, Harley, and Peter all simultaneously respond, “Yes?” before busting up laughing at the pure defeat on Miles’s face.)
There’s an abundance of cupcakes lining the table in main area of the communal floor—which, Flash has eaten, like, ten of so far, but they’re really good and not too rich and he wants a lifetime supply—and Friday is playing music and, from Stark Tower, they can see where the ball is gonna drop through the windows and from the balcony. Jesse isn’t here, because Harrison and Rosie are taking her somewhere fun to celebrate New Years Eve again this year, like they always do, but Flash wishes he could have brought her again, thinks she would get along with Miles, and her and Charlotte, Ned’s little sister, have been pretty inseparable since meeting in November. Flash settles for video chatting with her for a little bit, so she can see everyone and say hi real quick, before telling her, “See you next year, Jess,” and ending the call.
But, the thing is… Harry isn’t here.
“I guess they’re having some kind of gala thing at Oscorp,” Peter explains, looking vaguely disgrunted as he loops an arm around Harley’s waist and huffs in annoyance. “His dad is making him attend, so…”
“That’s bullshit,” Flash spits, before even really realizing he’s opened his mouth to speak. No one comments on the actual venom in his words, just nods along in agreement, because Norman Osborn is a piece of shit and there’s a reason Harry pretty much lives in Stark Tower now, away from his dad. But, in the end, there’s not much they can do about it, so Flash doesn’t rant about how stupid it is, rather gulps down a glass of lemonade and huddles to the corner and takes out his phone to send a quick text.
TO: harry styles but american [ 11:16 pm ]
hey
ur dads a dick and im sorry he’s making u stay there
i hope it isnt the worst thing ever
FROM: harry styles but american [ 11:18 pm ]
it’s worse than the worst thing ever i am so god damn bored holy shit
but i mean it’s not exactly a new thing lmao
better than spending new years eve locked in my dorm in fuck all france like last year
TO: harry styles but american [ 11:18 pm ]
i mean that’s fair but like
idk it’d just be better if you were here and not there
FROM: harry styles but american [ 11:19 pm ]
better how?
flash?
TO: harry styles but american [ 11:24 pm ]
well i mean i know he’s ur dad and all but like i said he’s a dick and he treats u like shit and it’d be better if you were here because then you could start 2019 with your friends and people who care about you and actually treat you like a person and want you to be happy and shit and like also i just wish u were here
if that
if that makes sense ?
FROM: harry styles but american [ 11:31 pm ]
you sure do have a way with words, flash thompson
i wish i was there, too ))):
this stupid party is dumb
it’s just old rich people who pretend to like me bc they’re scared of Nosy Norman and random dudes trying to sneak me glasses of champagne to win my friendship or some shit idfk
TO: harry styles but american [ 11:33 pm ]
wh
they do know that u literally JUST turned 18 last month, right?
like. you are not of legal age. what the fuck.
FROM: harry styles but american [ 11:34 pm ]
flash u were literally drunk when we met
and it’s not like i’m even taking the drinks lmao
TO: harry styles but american [ 11:34 pm ]
okay maybe i was but it was an ACCIDENT
and i’m not judging YOU if you wanna sneak champagne than go for it, as long as ur safe and not like putting urself in danger or anything than that’s ur choice to make and that’s fine
i’m judging the ADULTS that are trying to smuggle alcohol to a teenager
like that isn’t ? okay ??
parker agrees with me and is debating telling stark so he can come save u
FROM: harry styles but american [ 11:35 pm ]
i don’t need to be saved
TO: harry styles but american [ 11:35 pm ]
you don’t need to be, no, but you obviosuly don’t wanna be there so
FROM: harry styles but american [ 11:36 pm ]
ur a sweetheart thompson
but its ok
i’ll be there tomorrow, i can handle this dumb party for a little longer
TO: harry styles but american [ 11:36 pm ]
:/// if ur sure, osborn
FROM: harry styles but american [ 11:39 pm ]
i’m sure
thanks, though
<3
Five minutes to midnight finds all of them on the balcony, sipping their respective drinks and making small talk and waiting, a sort of excited electricity hanging in the air.
“I still can’t get over this view,” Ned says, awestruck as he grips the railing of the balcony. “I mean, like—I already knew how close to Times Square the tower is, but, that—that’s it. That’s it, right there. We’re gonna be able to see the ball drop without having to leave. That’s insane.”
“It’s kinda crazy, yeah,” Flash agrees, resting his elbows on the railing and gazing out at the city, taking in just how beautiful it looks. He’s never really bothered to take in the view before, but this is… stunning.
Tony seems to materialize next to them, humming lightly before holding out a hand and pointing into the distance. “You kids see that, over there? The white building, one of the tallest ones?” It takes a moment of looking, but, eventually, both Ned and Flash nod, able to spot what it is he’s talking about. Tony cracks a grin, sips his soda, and tells them, “That was supposed to be Stark Tower, but Pep decided she liked this one more, and I’m kind of her bitch, so—”
Rhodey steps forward with a laugh. “Tones, I don’t think you’re supposed to say that in front of kids.”
“I’ve heard them say worse,” Tony shrugs, unbothered. “I’m serious, though. Stark’s are flashy, and I wanted my building to be in Times Square, but Pepper found this place and talked me into it. Which, to be honest, I’m pretty glad she did, because this building is pretty much perfect, but still. Imagine what the view would be like if we had gotten that place instead.”
Ned looks out at the view again, eyes wide. “Wow. That’d be incredible.”
“I think I prefer this,” Peter jumps in, kind of shivering under the sweatshirt he’s wearing and leaning heavily against Harley. “I mean, just—being closer, I think it’d be… overwhelming, y’know?”
“Fair point,” Tony nods. “You cold, kiddie?”
Peter lifts his head and glares at him, speaks through chattering teeth sarcastically to say, “Not at all.”
Tony rolls his eyes, holds up his hands in surrender. “It was just a question, Pete. I can go grab you a blanket real quick if you need it, since that hoodie clearly isn’t enough.”
The glare drops from Peter’s face, but he just shakes his head. “Thanks, Mister Stark, but it’s fine. There’s only, like, a minute left, anyway, and I’d feel really bad if you missed the ball drop.”
“You sure?” Tony asks, and honestly, Flash doesn’t mean to zone out of the conversation, usually is so attentive while he’s here, always soaking in the company of his heroes and the people he never thought he’d get to call his friends, but his focus drifts off anyway. He takes a sip from his glass and looks out at the lights of the city, and, even though he’s surrounded by people, that alone feeling starts to crawl up his spine, quiet but insistent and itchy and spreading slowly but surely throughout his body.
“One minute until midnight,” Friday suddenly informs them.
From the other side of the balcony, Sam whoops. “Almost there!”
Flash doesn’t even blink.
It should not be there, that feeling, but it is, consuming him so suddenly that the cupcakes and the lemonade and everything he’s had tonight churns dangerously in his stomach and he has to set his glass down because his hands are shaking. He isn’t alone, he knows that—not anymore, not like last year. He’s at Stark Tower, for Christ’s sake, because he was invited here, he’s wanted here, by his friends, because he has those now, has friends that seem to actually like having him around, but it’s still so unfamiliar and terrifying, not being by himself anymore, and this… this full body chill of loneliness that washes over him, it’s almost comforting, because that’s what he’s used to, feeling secluded, out of place. This is the feeling he grew up with.
“Thirty seconds,” Friday informs them, and the chattering has seemingly come to a stop, it seems, everyone holding their breath. Flash just keep staring at the lights. “Ten seconds.”
“Nine,” everyone instantly chimes in, beginning the countdown to midnight.
Flash doesn’t join in, feels something lodged in his throat and wonder if he’s even really here. In the distance, the crowds of people in Times Square are counting down, too, the sound echoing throughout the city, and it would be magical, he thinks, if his mind wasn’t currently shutting down.
Eight, and Flash doesn’t think he’s breathing. Seven, and he wonders if he should have just stayed at home, because he’s not alone here, not really, but Ned and MJ are holding up their phones to capture this moment on camera, and Harley and Peter are standing so close together, clearly prepared for mignight, and everyone else is either paired up or in their little groups and Flash is standing by himself.
By himself, like he always—six—is and like he probably always will be, because he’s Eugene Thompson and even his—five—own parents never even wanted him and all he really has—four—is his little sister and—
Three, and the door to the balcony is pushed open, but Flash isn’t even aware enough to hear the countdown anymore, feels lost and queasy as he stares blankly into the distance. Two, and there are nimble fingers wrapping around his wrist and it makes Flash jump in shock, the air returning to his lungs to fast that he feels dizzy, and half of the movement is of his own accord, turning around to see who it is, but the other half of it is because whoever grabbed him is spinning him around.
One, and he has just enough time to widen his eyes when he sees that it’s Harry, looking kind of red in the face and frantic, like he sprinted here, and Flash goes to ask what the hell he’s doing here, but—
But then it’s midnight and Harry is kissing him, pressing him against the railing of the balcony, the hand on Flash’s wrist trailing up his arm and over his shoulder to settle gently on the nape of his neck, other hand coming up to cradle Flash’s face in his palm, and it’s—it’s something, it’s something good, it makes everything else disappear and it makes Flash’s heart flutter and his stomach swarm with butterflies and there’s no one else but them as he grips the balcony railing in one hand and uses the other to fist the material of the suit that Harry must have been wearing for the Oscorp event and he doesn’t know how long they stay like that, doesn’t care because it feels—it feels—but they have to pull away eventually, even though they don’t go far, only an inch or two between their faces as they catch their breath.
“You—” Flash stops, breathes. “I thought you—the—the party—?”
“It was boring,” Harry says, and the grin on his face is so bashful and sheepish and there’s a sort of nervous blush warming his cheeks and he’s—he’s gorgeous. “I doubt my dad will notice that I’m gone, anyway, and I kind of really wanted to, you know, to—to do that. At midnight. With, um… with you.”
He’s still cupping Flash’s face in his hand, but neither of them make a move to change that, just take a moment to stand there. Flash clears his throat. “You could… I mean, you can do it again. If you want.”
The way that Harry’s entire face lights up make Flash’s heart lodge in his throat. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Flash murmurs around his racing heart. “Definitely. If you want to.”
It looks like Harry’s breath catches, his eyes wide and sparkling. “I want to. I want you.”
It’s so incredibly stupid, really, how close Flash feels to fucking bursting into tears at those words, but he swallows it back, decides to pick through his jumbled mess of thoughts and make sense of the combination of feelings swelling in his chest another time, and just tilts his head instead and then they’re kissing again and he’s—he’s worthy of this, worthy of being wanted, worthy of feeling good, worthy of happiness. He knows this, believes this, and it’s a wonderful, wonderful feeling.
He has friends, now—and he deserves to have friends, too, doesn’t deserve seclusion, doesn’t deserve the suffocation of constant loneliness. He has his sister—he’s always had her, but he’s overlooked that fact, he thinks, always focusing instead of having no one else. He has Harry, now, too, and Harry is something—something precious. Harry is different, unlike everyone else, unlike his friends, unlike Tony Stark or Pepper Potts or even May Parker, too, who once noticed that Flash seemed a little upset during a movie night and brought him a milkshake without saying a word. There are so many people who seem to give a shit about him now, but out of them, Harry is just—he’s special.
And Flash isn’t alone. He‘s not alone. Not anymore.
Hopefully—if he’s lucky—not ever again.