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Otto wonders if Norman enjoys his men with stubble. Or if he prefers the smell of aftershave. If he does, how much? What brand? What sort of smell? Musky, earthy, floral? It's been quite some time since he's cared to pay attention to his appearance, much less cared what others thought of it.
Otto finishes his shave job, and carefully inspects the state of affairs. It is clean, for the most part, and that is a small victory, but he soon takes notice of every mole and wrinkle that dots his face. Otto silently curses himself for falling in love again - forty-eight is hardly the age to regress into schoolboy insecurities. He's kept his hair and his sanity, and that should be enough, shouldn't it? With a gentle pair of fingers, Otto dots his wrists and neck with an aging bottle of Aramis 900 cologne. His slacks are from the eighties and his blazer from the seventies - damn that Norman in his newly-tailored Prada, prancing around as though he's New York’s own Mansa Musa. As he struggles to close the buttons on his freshly-ironed dress shirt, his chest too big to fit comfortably, he briefly ponders if Norman’s taste in men includes those in pajamas.
Otto does eventually win the battle against his own clothing, and he celebrates his victory by tucking a plucked camellia into his lapel. Stepping into the chill of an East Coast autumn night, he hails a taxi, waving awkwardly as he tries to maintain the sanctity of his shirt buttons. The taxi pulls to the curb, and as Otto enters, he notices the distinct lack of an alcoholic stench in the backseat. Not only this, but as the drive continues, New York City seems… kinder than usual. Traffic is smooth, drivers all weaving in intricate patterns to make it home for the night. The moon hangs lazily in the sky, dotting the inky blackness of air pollution, and Otto swears he can spot a star twinkling. How lovely a place, this city, when you care to notice it.
The taxi pulls into the parking lot of Norman’s apartment complex, grinding to a halt as it stops at the curb. Otto winces at the jerking force, his neck twinging violently. If it weren't for his promise to stay out of trouble, he’d pluck out the driver and fold the car like an origami crane. Rubbing the nape of his neck and silently cursing his degenerating discs, Otto exits, the rough pavement scuffing his aging leather shoes. The screech of the taxi’s tires hardly registers in his mind as it peels out of the lot, skidding out into the hustle and bustle of New York traffic.
By the time Otto nears the top floor, his stomach is churning. Pursuing Norman was easier when the playing field was level; the only differences between a young Otto Octavius and a young Norman Osborn were their STEM majors and their favorite brand of cheap booze. Nowadays, Norman buys watches that could pay off Otto’s mortgage and knows people that Otto has only seen on morning talk shows. As the elevator chime rings out, Otto adjusts his tie, puffs his chest, and strides into the hallway, trying his best to not let his trepidation show.
Otto stands before Norman’s front door, and for a second, he pauses at the door knocker. pressing the doorbell and waiting with bated breath.
As he waits, Otto realizes how thankful he is that Norman has given his lavishly oversized mansion to Harry. The mere thought of crossing a landscaped courtyard on foot would be enough to deter him from trying to pursue his old flame. Footsteps approach, taking Otto out of his head, and he finds his heart beating unusually fast as the locks click.
“Otto!” Norman laughs, the door swinging open to reveal him. He wears a sleek black suit, his silver cufflinks catching the hallway lights with a glint. Otto can't help but think about how handsome Norman is in black. Norman grabs Otto’s hand, pulling them inside with a hurried flourish. The door closes behind them, Norman fumbling to lock it with one hand, and Otto is surprised that Norman is still… so… touchy-feely. That much hasn't changed, it seems. Norman guides them down the oak-floored hallway and into the living room, flames crackling in the brick fireplace. With no other lights on, it casts stretching shadows onto the coffee table and couches, illuminating the various bookshelves and wall hangings.
“Beautiful place,” Otto mumbles, thumb rubbing Norman’s hand as he takes in the understated luxury. “I try to make the place look nice,” Norman beams. “It helps keep me busy.” Otto knows that Norman has struggled with retirement far more than most men their age would. Norman had always found himself a workaholic, and that staunch refusal to take breaks or get sufficient sleep had plagued him since their college years. Otto takes comfort in the knowledge that Norman has found ways to occupy the time between therapy appointments and blood work.
“I want to show you something.” Norman breaks away from Otto’s hand, striding over to the fireplace. Otto feels a pang of disappointment at the fact that he’s no longer holding Norman’s hand, but makes his way across the stretch to Norman’s side nonetheless. The warmth of the fire licks at Otto’s thighs, and he watches intently as Norman rifles through the trinkets and antiques that litter the mantel. Norman finally plucks a worn slip of paper from between a Newton’s cradle and a framed college diploma, a grin parting his face. He places it wordlessly into the palm of Otto’s hand, expectantly staring up at him.
“What's this?” Otto asks, gaze meeting Norman’s. “Read it.” Unfolding the wrinkled paper, he finds long-smudged text greeting him, black ink set against yellowing notebook paper. Bringing it closer to his face and squinting carefully, Otto is able to decipher the sentence: “Org chem class. You sit across from me. I saw the patch on your bag. Want to get drinks? Otto. 347-007-1968”. Otto chuckles heartily, nostalgia warming his chest as he straightens the crinkled scrap. “You kept this?” Otto says, admiring the decades old note. “I couldn't just throw it away, could I?” Norman reaches over to Otto, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I needed to keep the evidence that the most handsome guy on campus wanted to take me out for drinks,” Norman laughs, his gaze softening. Otto’s heart thumps as Norman’s fingers splay on his shoulder, gently smoothing the crinkles in his suit.
It’s only now that he realizes that Norman has only grown more gorgeous with age. The way he does his hair, the suits he chooses, the way he speaks; he is no longer the bright boy who sat across from him in that stuffy lecture hall in 1969, but a man that Otto respects. A man he finds himself wildly attracted to. Otto places the scrap back onto the mantel, Norman’s hand slipping from his shoulder, and turns to face him. He brings his hand to Norman’s face, thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbones. Otto’s heart hitches as he notices Norman’s face flushing red.
“Osborn,” Otto breathes, “You’ve always been more handsome than me.” With a swift motion, he bridges the gap, enveloping Norman in a kiss. The smell of Norman’s cologne floods Otto’s nostrils, a soft and sweet vanilla that punctuates the blooming warmth in his chest. Otto’s hands cup Norman’s face, and he finds that Norman’s skin is warmer than the heat radiating from the fire; Otto smiles to himself. Norman’s still easy to fluster.
Otto pulls away, panting slightly. Norman’s eyes flutter open, and he gazes up at Otto with something between awe and admiration. “My god,” Norman mutters, “You're still phenomenal.” Otto chuckles, smoothing his now-rumpled hair. “I was worried you'd think I wasn't.” Norman presses his hands to Otto’s broad chest, stepping closer to the taller man. A smirk paints Norman’s face, a giddiness betraying him as he meets Otto’s gaze. “You've always been phenomenal, Otto.”
With a mischievous grin, Otto tilts Norman’s chin upwards, planting his lips softly on the space where Norman’s neck meets his chin. Otto’s hands clasp together at Norman’s back, arms wrapped snugly around him as they waddle backwards onto the sofa. Once firmly planted, Norman now sitting in Otto’s lap, Otto moves his hands upwards. His fingers brush Norman’s chest as they find their place at his shoulders, squeezing them gently. “You seem tense,” Otto whispers. “That's because I am.” Wordlessly, Otto works his hands, each finger finding knots and cramps as he runs them along Norman’s narrow shoulders. Norman breathes easier now, and he allows himself to melt into Otto’s chest, eyes fluttering shut. The physical therapist said that relearning fine motor skills was key, after all. Otto could do those tedious exercises, but this use of his hands was a far better alternative. Otto presses his face against Norman’s, almost nudging as he pecks his cheek.
“Thank you,” Norman breathes, a melting pile against Otto’s husky frame. “Of course,” Otto purrs, the baritone sending a shiver down Norman’s spine. Otto plants a gentle kiss on Norman’s neck, beginning a slow sequence that makes Norman giggle and blush like a lovesick teenager. Otto can't help but part his lips, tongue meeting skin and making Norman yelp. “Otto, you aren't-” Norman’s protest is cut off by a brief kiss on the cheek, Otto’s eyes meeting him in a gentle stare. “Well, only if you want me to.” Norman sighs, nodding as he sinks back into his spot on Otto’s lap. Otto resumes his pursuit to make Norman’s neck a mural of love bites, his hands resting now on Norman’s stomach. They shift with each happy exhale he blows out, and Otto revels in Norman’s warmth.
When Norman’s neck is sufficiently covered, Otto draws away, taking a second's reprieve before resting his head on Norman’s shoulder. He gently grabs Norman’s chin and guides his head sideways, urging him to turn around. Norman obliges, legs awkwardly shifting as he turns to face Otto. They now sit achingly close, and Otto cranes his neck downwards, pressing his forehead to Norman’s and planting a soft kiss. Smell, taste, touch, sound, sight. All five of Otto’s senses have confirmed the reality that Norman Osborn is alive and well. He is sitting in his lap, kissing him with all the same fervor that made those summer nights in college just a little bit warmer.
Otto pulls Norman closer, straining to hear the sound of his breathing. Subtle sounds get lost in the shuffle these days, but for now, the gift of mental quiet is one Otto is grateful for. It allows him the gift of appreciation. The sound of Norman Osborn drawing breath is one he spent two years dreaming of, and if this multiversal shuffle is nothing but one of those dreams, he wants to sleep in just a bit longer. Norman’s voice pushes through the membrane of Otto’s thoughts.
“Otto,” he says, his voice hardly a whisper, “What was it like? Without me?” Otto reclines, running a hand up Norman’s neck and catching the curve of his jaw. Otto’s brows furrow, and he loosens the tightness of his tie, fearing he may choke on the words in his throat. “It - how can I even explain?” Otto chuckles nervously, patting his free hand on Norman’s thigh. This grounding gesture does little to keep Otto stable. “It wasn’t the same, if…” - Otto glances askew, his line of sight kept far away from Norman’s - “If that’s what you’re wondering.”
But Otto explains.
“On the night you died, I wasn’t awake. Neither was Rosie. Harry, being your next-of-kin, was the only one formally notified by the police. And so I woke up, and so did Rosie, and my God, was her coffee good that morning. We always had the French press going by 5AM, enough to get us through our showers, and she would do her hair and I would do mine, and then we’d have breakfast and watch the news by 6:30 sharp. I was drinking my coffee, and I see that our answering machine is flashing ten times a second, and when Rosie turns on the TV, it says something about you being found dead. And Rosie drops the pot, and I’m barely able to grab her before she falls into the glass shards and hot coffee. And I had to keep holding her, because she was shaking like a leaf, and once she could stand on her own again, I had to go into our bedroom and sleep. And I slept most of the day, and then I slept through most of the week, and no one ever called to ask about my absence because the entire company was barely functioning without you there.”
A silence ensues. It hangs thick in the air, choking out the space left for words. Norman stares, something between confusion and pain lingering in his expression, and Otto can feel hot tears streaming down his cheeks. Three decades of emotions have bubbled to the surface, a noxious mixture that melts away the layer of decency that has kept Otto away from the shame of crying. He begins to laugh - not a nervous laugh, but a real, genuine belly laugh, one that crumples him in half as he chuckles heartily. Norman grabs a hold of Otto’s shoulders with a grip that turns his knuckles white, his lips drawn in a concerned frown. “Are you alright?”
Otto inhales, a desperate attempt to compose himself through the howling tears of a madman. He kisses the top of Norman’s head, allowing himself a moment to feel the softness of Norman’s slicked hair against his cheek. He brings himself to meet Norman’s gaze, allowing his tears to fall freely as he stares at the man he could never bring himself to see one last time. “Norman,” he snickers, “The world’s gone absolutely fucking mad, hasn’t it?” Norman quirks an eyebrow, concern etched in every line of his face. “Super serum, metal tentacles, Harry’s playmate has gone arachnid. Good God, Osborn, you’re alive! Right now, right here!” When Norman still doesn’t understand, Otto lowers his voice and draws closer to Norman, deciding to take a gentler approach to his tangled mess of thoughts.
“We’re lucky, aren’t we? To find ourselves at the nexus of some grand cosmic design. Something that we can barely understand brings everything together, and against its rules, we are alive. You are alive, Norman. And here we are, spending a Saturday night in, dressed like we have any damned intention to go out!”
Norman seems to understand, and if he doesn’t, he doesn’t seem to mind - he wipes away the drying tear streaks on Otto’s cheeks, and he kisses him. Otto draws him in close, drinking in the warmth of both Norman and the dying fire, and they fall backwards onto the couch. The night wears on (though clothes do not), and by the end of it all, Norman has fallen asleep in Otto’s embrace, his thin fingers pressed against the cool metal that runs down Otto’s spine.
The crumpled note, once buried in a box alongside yearbooks and college transcripts, now sits proudly atop Norman Osborn’s nightstand, placed in a much-too-large picture frame - though Otto is tempted to take credit for the idea, it was Norman’s insistence that prompted its presence. And as Otto falls asleep, straining to hear Norman’s breathing, he hopes that it will stay there.