honey , i'm home ! . . . flash's head turns toward the exclamation , the whimper of the windowsill forcing him to smile when he had originally planned to play it cool . it sounds most like a belated blessing , peter's voice . . . always is . it's chipper in all the ways that managed to light flash on fire . so often full of fearlessness , and of bravery . of the cannibalism that would gnaw him to the bone . his strong suit had never honed in on that art — the one that looked like kaleidoscope virtue , and sounded like his favorite song . often in his own peace , he could find something that left him paresthesic . even on nights like this , when they traded the wounds they'd lick in the comfort of this bloodthirsty apartment . when they would grasp for the other's comfort beneath the stench of stale beer and costco microwave dinners . even when the hardwood floors dripped red and black and all of the colors that dyed their blood — staining the walls , leaking with a fear so disastrous there would never be another choice but to cover them up . flash thinks that's one of the things he likes most about peter . that he could whither within himself and never hear a word about it . and never have to say a word . it was safer that neither of them tore down the wallpaper .
flash knows peter doesn't like beer . not light . not dark . he had garnered some poor attention with corona , and again with a kentucky specialty beer he had completely forgotten the name of . flash has never been so sure why peter will drink it anyway . he gripes , he'll gag , but he'll choke that shit down like there's no other choice . . . he thinks that it's an unfortunate pattern between the two of them . yet another thing neither of them would talk about ( flash wasn't sure sobriety welcomed him so much , plagued with no - other - choice's like liquor ) . he's pretty sure , even in his current state , that it was probably better that peter didn't ask why flash chose the bottle . he never really enjoyed hearing his father's voice from the bottom of it . he didn't want to see the look of fright in his friend's eyes as he forced himself to explain that thinking for too long can't convince him against reckless temptation . that this is the solution to slow it down . at least that's what he's going with for now .
the party . . . flash neglects to tell him that he hadn't expected to see peter tonight . . . that if he hadn't returned , he might have been halfway down a bottle of jack by the height of midnight , and he isn't too sure what morning would have looked like . probably a lot like every other morning after . but he could never be too sure . he didn't usually like being home when the walls began to soak .
flash tips his head back to watch peter take their home in his hands again . slowly it shifts from something haunted , into renaissance and kiwi sweet peculiarity . the peter parker effect , flash liked to uncreatively call it . something that has managed to convince flash in these past few months that the throes of malignant thoughts could dissipate through a single glance . something the color of auburn and something he's never been too good at explaining .
🙶 well , hurry it up 'fore it's gone ! 🙷 i'll wait . he thinks , always . the sound of the running shower reminds him that he needs to call someone about the stove . he can't pay attention to the rot of the television ( the corner still has that glitch peter noticed three weeks ago ) with the water running . his urgency has flash grinning to himself , ears buried beneath the cup of the cushion underneath his head . how quickly he relieved himself of the scars of the city's deepest secrets , all to join flash like a bullet to his side . when he enters the room , he thinks about switching the channel to hell's kitchen ( flash is just glad he never forgets to record it ) . but he's pretty sure he only thinks about it .
peter sits , flash watching his curls cling to the compliments of his face . that length looks good on you . eyes heady , it takes flash a moment to recognize his attire . it was a loan , the crewneck . a keepsake from a man who took a . 50 cal to the left eye in bagram . usually flash would tell him the story . that attached to the sleeves was a memory that could never be erased in the wash , or through the times it will be worn in future years . but instead , he cannot breathe . it hangs from peter's shoulders like a painting from a wall , decorating him in marine corps green . he's appalled , how he can turn such a war ridden color into something austerely alluring . captured by the perfectionist's paintbrush he's cast by the television's dim hue , lithe edges of his body bounce from place to place as he reaches for an unopened can . nimble fingers snap the tab , and flash cannot help his own grin when peter drinks .
he isn't sure how long they talk for . he's even less sure of what they talk about . the squeeze of his chest every time peter looks over at him instead of at the television with the glitch in the corner makes everything else that less important . those stealing eyes that ensure flash he'd let the world burn if it meant he could die looking into them . his head is heavy , but he thinks he could keep his gaze locked on peter until the sun rises . when the light accompanies the warmth swallowing the two of them , when they are reminded of their day - to - day duties , the recollection that immortality does not exist for them . that they too must die without knowing each other inside and out .
flash flinches at his own thoughts . peter's beauty was not a subject he felt comfortable dwelling on , and yet . . . fuck , he's the last star in a grainy sky . he's the cold side of the pillow , and the watermelon during summertime . he's the smell of pacific waters . he's that whiskey kiss of light that cures across mountain tops . he's the lure of home .
they hit a lull of silence. the television ( with the glitch . . . the fucking glitch ) wasn't appealing anymore . all he wants was the man to his right . selfishly , he wishes . afflicted by invasive desires , his heart begins to race in a way he can only perceive as rage . fear , fear , fear . he swallows it down ( or so he thinks ) , but flash thompson has never been good at stifling the things he feels . especially when their roots are of anger .
thompson knows . he knows he's stepped on a mine before it goes off . they share that , he's certain . the way they wear their anger . it comes on swift with gashing teeth and bloody fingernails . it rises with boiling waters and sharpened eyes . thompson knew anger evolved as peter's was , he wrongly thinks for a moment about his father , dying in that hospital bed surrounded by dust mites and haphazard forgiveness from his only son . while not in any comparison ( peter could never be harrison thompson ) , he held an onlooker's gaze . like he was peering through a foggy window in the dead of winter , wondering why his breath wouldn't clear it up ( news flash ! the call's coming from inside the house ) . he's cold . he's haunted . peter's angry . flash only has so much time . three to five seconds to run before he's blown apart . a couple of moments to pray he hasn't just ruined the greatest no - other - choice of his life . ( that's what you're greatest at , eugene thompson . . . maybe peter's better off without you anyway . . . maybe you're better off without him ) . why is it so hard to breathe ?
as much as he hates to be acknowledged ( liar ) , he listens to the way peter grits his teeth through a few discoursing lines that sound like he's reading from a script . if that's the case , he's a fucking phenomenal actor , and thompson has half a mind to tell him to stop fucking around . peter was best at ignoring things . why didn't he ignore him ? why are things not going back to how they were two minutes ago ? before eugene thompson pulled the pin and flipped the spoon ? why was the explosion so loud even though he's closed his ears ? why must everything be a fucking war ?
🙶 all these years , 'n you still don't know shit . 🙷 he bites , lip curled nastily . suddenly he's wading through broken glass , the fear that he's just washed away years of gratifying trepidation with the swing of the proverbial sword . he's certain he should have regretted those words . but his lungs feel heavy , and his heart feels full of liquid . like he was being forced out of his own body . the skin on his arm raised , hairs on his arms running up from the fear in thompson's gut . maybe they should walk away for the night . peter smells of blood , still ( it may have just been flash's alarm system ) , and flash's heart has begun to clog . ( who are you? ) 🙶 don't know a damn thing about me . 🙷
he squeezes his eyes shut , face closing up . vision swimming in deep eigengrau , fists balled up over cuffed joggers . an apology is lost somewhere on his tongue , but he can't seem to force it forward . he can't seem to end the death that makes this conversation so fierce , he can't seem to cough up a quick i'm going to bed . . . peter would surely have to ignore it the next day . act like it never happened . something so awkward and uncomfortable , all stuck in the cavity of his empty chest . and still peter has the nerve to tell flash what he's never forgotten .
🙶 i could have . . . 🙷 what the fuck are you talking about , eugene ? 🙶 you . 🙷 can't you just be grateful for what you have ? the voice sounds frighteningly like his father's . his face drains of color as his own revelation washes over his body . like he's been dunked into a freezing pool on a late august day . how could he tell the earth that he’s drowning on land ? he's naked . ribs open to expose what's lain inside of him for longer than he would die instead to admit . he's too visible — and the window is too close .
peter's anger is cutting still . avulsions unable to stitch dishonoring his previous bravado . he vaguely remembers a man saying a thing to him , the symbiote acting as the seal between eugene thompson and the war hero this country seems to forget about ( that's okay , he prefers that . . . they should see him in this light ) . this was a line of fire he could not evade , and suddenly he was wishing the enemy had taken more than his legs . his fingers begin scratching at poorly kept fabric . all defenses he's ever thrown up suddenly come crumbling down in a fit of active frustration . the romans are at his gates , he's lost all contact , he's bunkered and aching in more places than what he can actively name in his tiresome assault . stop . you're not at war . this is peter . peter suddenly feels like war . like blood and viscera and all of the things he thought he wouldn't have to know from him . and he caused it . all with one stupid thought that should have remained buried within the catacombs eugene carries with him .
he's pretty sure this is a foreign feeling . an entity of which he had no way of naming . a phantom that could get away with murder all because flash tended to forget it was even there in the first place . he watches the expression cross peter's face when he seems to have named it . eugene is not far behind in that , choking on unspoken words . frustrations of past . struggles between sheets and with every girl he had brushed off as being not the one . his mouth is taut . peter's rage makes his skin crawl , he can't stop fucking thinking about it . even in it , he couldn't look away . he never wants to look away . everything feels wrong . 🙶 don't . . . 🙷 ( don't what ? ) 🙶 just . . . 🙷 ( pathetic . ) 🙶 don't . 🙷 everything's wrong .
