Work Text:
August 28th, 1961
The hotel room in Monte Carlo was painful hot, dreadful heat gripping onto the Deadliest Man Alive’s face as he rested on his pitifully hard hotel mattress. His hand resting over his beating heart, pressed into it with his fingernails, as it moved at a million beats a minute. He almost forgot he had a heart for a time, he never used it, his emotions buried under the rubble that crushed Owen Carvour in 1957.
In a desperate attempt to not feel like he was rotting in the fiery pits of hell, a hell he’d one day go to knowing what he’s done, he ripped off the mask covering his face, revealing his true skin he never let anyone see. He had scars before, terrible third-degree burns, but nothing like this, nothing that hurt quite like this, scars invisible to the naked eye that made people call Owen crazy, but if you trusted him, he’d tell you they were there, and he’d tell you they hurt like nothing anyone had ever felt.
He felt lighter once the mask was off, thrown onto the floor away from him, and he unbuttoned his shirt a bit, letting an awkward feeling rise in his chest as he looked back up at the ceiling with chipped paint and a leak in the corner with a bucket, Owen going to enough hotels to know it would never get fixed.
“He’s fucking back,” he muttered to himself, wiping his face of the sweat that coded his skin.
He remembered earlier that day when Curt Mega, the real Curt Mega, stopped his arms deal in his usual over the top dramatic fashion. He stood there all high and mighty with his ego back and the ugliest beard Owen had ever seen that made him want to grab his face and tear every hair off of it.
“I even fucking told him ‘don’t grow a beard’ and he does that. Jesus Christ, Mega,” Owen laughed for a moment, before feeling his chest burn again. Laughing at the stupid things Curt did wasn’t something that he enjoyed anymore, it hurt. His heart ached, his face burned, the fingerprints Curt left remained, and they were everywhere.
He sat up, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, before he felt a crumpled piece of paper shoved into them. He pulled it out, looking at the old yellow paper, before unfolding it in his hands, an intense familiarity was in the paper that had creases from over half a decade ago that he toyed with, almost guilty for a while that he had tarnished a perfect page.
May 3rd, 1954
Owen sat on Curt’s childhood bed, Curt himself curled up next to him, his breathing heavier than normal. Owen felt his heart pound as he looked at him, a smile breaking onto his face. Owen had never described Curt as adorable. Handsome, cocky, egotistical, those were all words you could use to describe the great Secret Agent Curt Mega. But adorable? That was a new one. But right now, as he chewed on his lip in his sleep with the blanket brought up over most of his face, covering him with the light blue coloring that made him look all cuddly and warm? He was adorable.
Looking at Curt never got boring per say, but Owen had also never been in his home before. It felt weird knowing Curt’s mother was down the hall, his chest tightened thinking about what would happen if she knew. He pushed that dread aside and looked around Curt’s room. Posters of sports teams Owen had never heard of, clothing thrown around that were never cleaned, pictures of him and his mother when he was a kid. Curt was an adorable child, that’s another time Curt could be described that way. He looked so different, but his smile remained the same toothy grin, whether he had a gap in his tooth or not it was always full of suave charm that made Owen swoon. After the pictures found himself staring at a half-opened box on Curt’s messy desk, with something about it that made Owen crave to be nearer to it. He got up and went closer to it. The box had small, blue and white stripes on it. He knew he shouldn’t look in it, but curiosity got the better of him, as he sat at Curt’s dark wooden desk chair to open it.
Inside were 20, hell, 30 poems all written with Owen’s name on them at the top, sappy shit that he never showed him, unspoken words Curt never told him, that he never dared say in Owen’s earshot. Owen skimmed through a few of them, before hearing Curt stir. He panicked, grabbing one and throwing it into his bag, before climbing back into bed with Curt, watching him closely as he fell back into his full sleeping state. He kissed his head, before curling himself back up next to him.
Owen held the poem in his hand, a poem he had read a million times over he could recite it all word for word from memory. A poem he had thrown into his bag out of panic while Curt stirred 7 years ago. Curt didn’t know he had it, if he did, he never brought it up. Knowing Curt, the Curt that didn’t have the ugliest beard imaginable, his Curt, he would’ve tried to grab it from Owen’s hand and said it was private. It was private. And Owen needed it more than anything.
He read through it again out loud, his heart pounding in his chest as he read the words that had given him so much comfort.
Soft Spoken Whispers
My Owen,
I think back to the time we first met,
The cold, demeaning things you said to me,
“Don't fuck this one up,” you scowled,
All, in soft spoken whispers
I soon grew fond of our short time together,
As the hate you felt turned to something else,
“Don't fuck this one up,” you smirked,
All, in soft spoken whispers
I then learned what it is like to be near to you
And see things meant for my eyes alone,
“Don't fuck this one up,” you laughed,
All, in soft spoken whispers
I now know how it feels to be loved,
You look at me, in a room full of people,
“Don't fuck this one up,” you smile,
All, in soft spoken whispers
“I love you,”
I smile back,
All, in soft spoken whispers.
-Curt Mega
He found himself off the bed and pacing around his hotel room, his hand falling onto a pack of cigarettes and a silver lighter that once belonged to Curt, a birthday present for Owen. Curt knew how much Owen loved it, the way it reflected Curt’s eyes as they stood on balconies of hotel rooms, their hands touching as they let out drags of the cigarette they shared in the always fading sunlight, their skin never seeing the moon like this. There was never enough sun on Curt’s skin, Owen wanted Curt to bathe in the light that kissed his body that made him radiate joy, his perfect smile as he would turn to Owen and kiss the top of his hand. The scorching heat was gone now, Owen felt cold and empty once more. He wandered to the balcony which was not much different to the ones he and Curt would find themselves on during their nights together, Curt’s hands on Owen’s body that left him with invisible scars that burned when he thought too hard. He was thinking about them too hard right now. Despite the cold, they burned, his skin left in agony again. He should’ve kept the mask on, he didn’t feel this way when he had it over his face so that he could hide the tears caused by the man he once loved, the man he knew he couldn’t get over no matter how hard he tried to convince himself he could.
He ripped off the part of the poem with the words Curt never told him, three words that used to make his heart flutter but now filled him with a dread like no other, a dread that he never let himself feel, dread he wasn’t supposed to feel. He was supposed to be over Curt, supposed to have moved on. And now here Curt was, with the worst beard imaginable and his signature smug look on his face that made Owen want to crumble at his feet again, that made him want to grab onto his ankles and beg like a peasant for the god he worshiped to show him mercy.
He clicked open the lighter, taking a cigarette out of the pack and lighting it, taking a long drag as he looked at the poem that once held so much comfort, the yellowed pages stained with darkened tear, tears Owen never let Curt see, only crying in the nights as he let his head fall onto Curt’s back, knowing Curt would wake up with tears on his skin, knowing he would know who they were from, almost hoping he’d mention them. There must have been a poem that mentioned them, there had to be.
Owen watched as the smoke trailed off into the night as he held the lighter up to the paper, clicking it on as the flame ignited and the paper caught fire, the light reflecting onto Owen’s tear stained skin under the pale light of the moon that he once thrived in, light he would lie awake in while Curt slept on his chest, Owen’s hand in his hair, playing with his curls.
But that was then, this was now. And now he was holding onto a damp piece of old paper with words he always wanted Curt to say, but never did. He felt his legs give out as he crumbled onto the dirty balcony, his knees scraping against the concrete and the cigarette falling to his side as he used the rest of his strength to make the flame die out, as he held onto words that hurt him, words he used to crave to hear from Curt’s mouth but now knew they’d make him want to die if he did.
He let himself fall, he didn’t mind. Falling at the thought of Curt wasn’t anything new, and he hated it all the same, back in 1954, and still now in 1961.