[ after leaving harry’s office, andrew
dives straight into his research. he
wants to start healing harry as soon
as possible so the suit and glider are
never needed again. with his phone
and laptop both open to google, andrew
pores over websites, pictures, medical
texts; dissecting and memorizing until
he understands exactly what he’s getting
into. the process takes a couple days;
he needs to be sure he’s got it before he
messes around with harry’s vital organs. but
when he knocks again at harry’s door, it’s
with much more comprehensive knowledge
of the functions of the adrenal glands. no
matter what’s inside harry’s room or his
body, he’s ready for whatever he finds. ]
of everyone in the house so
far, harry is the one who jason
experiences regular resistance
with. it is not as much about
disagreement as it is about
puzzlement, feeling as if they
are so dissimilar that there might
just be a great but uncanny
amount of understanding
between them, though too fraught
and thus hidden. jason has since
last christmas hushed a few
wishes for harry to get the memo
of his gift, and yet he would not
trust them if someone would have
told him that he would be drinking
coffee in his company at this
particular noon.
though here he is, outside a
coffeehouse with his back leaning
against its condensed wall of glass to
protect himself from the summertime
rain that others rush through with
either umbrellas or briefcases held
over their heads. harry has yet to
arrive, and so while jason awaits him,
he leisurely pulls up the collar of his
hoodie over the tip of his nose before
he begins to blow hot air against the
fabric to shoo off the slight cold. harry
should be here any minute now, so he
might just as well keep waiting outside
for a bit longer. letting go of his collar
which causes the hoodie to flatten out,
jason sighs out a worry and inhales a
wishful thought for the noon to go well
while he watches the raindrops run off
the blinds. hopefully harry will not walk
past him despite wearing the hood over
his humid curls and a darker jacket that
blends in with the shade over new york.
but if he does, may his presence be as
grand as it can be if he too has chosen
an umbrella for a shield.
silent as a ghost and with the empty-eyed stare of one, andrew walks mechanically from harry’s office back to his bedroom, leaving the former in complete shambles after his disastrous discovery of the glider inside it.
once safe behind his own locked door, he curls his shaking knees to his chest and his spine around them, coiling himself into a trembling little ball in the corner as he struggles to process everything that just happened between him and harry. a thousand powerful emotions rush through his head and course through his veins, and all he can do to keep them at bay is focus on breathing deeply and calmly. with his eyes closed and the pressure of his ribs swelling against his thighs guiding him through the murk inside his mind, he starts to unravel some of them.
mostly -- (and it always seems to come down to this, doesn’t it) -- mostly, he’s afraid. afraid of harry, afraid of himself, afraid of what he has done and what he might have done. he fears being hated, being seen as a monster, being rejected from the only home he has by the only friends he has. though he left harry alive, he knows their friendship will never be the same again after he’d threatened his life and the thing that was saving it. he’s already pushed julius away with his his stupid, impulsive violence, with his uncontrollable urge to control, and he can only imagine he’s just done the same to harry.
there's a distracting weight in his pocket that draws him out of his head and back into the rest of his body. his fingers dig into his half-zipped hoodie and retrieve the roll of bandages he'd meant to give to harry. how ironic. why is it that nearly every time he tries to help someone, he ends up hurting them? as he stares down at the bandages, his eyes begin to water hopelessly and a drop of blood falls from his sniffling nose to stain the white fibers red. though he stands by his assertion that he is not responsible for the other harry's death -- that he'd done everything he could at the time and that harry had left the house of his own volition -- that doesn't stop him from crying over him now, mourning the loss of the friend he was too late to save. the guilt of it crushes down on him, made heavier by the thought that even now that he has the power to heal sitting literally within his hands, it still feels like the past is about to repeat itself and he’ll lose everything he’s fought so hard for. though he's been in this world for three whole years now, he feels just as lost and lonely as he had when he first got here.
--
it takes andrew weeks to gather up the courage to talk to harry.
since julius and jason are gone, and tensions have been high with lucien ever since andrew found out that he'd known about the glider all along and never told him, andrew has to ride this out alone, finding his own ways to cope with the aftermath of the confrontation. he spends the time in his room alone with just his camera and turtle, only leaving through the window or late at night to evade any encounters. (he’s very skilled at this; a remnant of years lived hiding from an abusive parent within his own home.) what finally gets him to stop avoiding harry is a lot of meditation and self-reflection on his visit to seattle after his fight with the first harry, bringing him to the same conclusion he had come to there; that being open and honest is the only way to rebuild a friendship. he knows a “sorry” won’t be enough to absolve him of his brash actions, no matter how justified he thinks they were -- a painful lesson he learned during his last argument with julius -- but he has to at least try, or else he'll never have a chance to help harry like he’s always wanted to.
with this resolve in mind, he finally unlocks the door to his room and takes heavy, measured steps in the direction of harry’s. the roll of bandages is in his pocket again, ready to be returned for good, this time with his own blood speckled on it as penance and proof that he’s ready to make amends. he may be too late to save the first harry, but maybe he can still save this one.
Well, one of the living rooms. He chooses a new one every night and so far he has successfully evaded Andrew’s watchful eye. Or he hasn’t and the kid is just pretending not to see him sneaking out. It’s not like there are no tangible results. The nightmares have lessened ever since he moved to Andrew’s room but his insomnia has worsened and his eyes burn as he aimlessly scrolls through his Twitter feed, reading Wall Street articles and 10 Ways To Get Safely To An Underground Bunker, in case North Korea decides to drop a bomb over Manhattan just in time for brunch. He stays like that until the sun comes up and the rays of sunlight filtering through the half-open window alert him that he spent another night sleepless.
Tonight is different.
He wants a drink, something strong and mind-numbing. He was in his father’s place again, jumping off the bridge, only this time the water was filled with giant, ferocious eels. He saw himself dead, surrounded by them, but he felt the pain as if he was alive as they bit his limp body, immersed in muddy water. He woke up with his chest twinging sharply, brushing his fingers softly against his scars.
He gets up soon after to escape.
He’s opening a bottle of whiskey, taken straight off the bar (because there’s always one), fingers twitching mid-movement, stilling, when a voice calls out to him. He recognizes his own voice, the tone betraying the presence of another double, but it sounds even more condescending than he usually does.
“That bottle is probably worth more than your house. The least you can do is wait for me.” The man says. He makes a pause and though Lockhart can’t see him yet, the lights of the room low, his double standing by the door, he can hear the smile in his voice.
“To share.” He then adds and Lockhart puts the bottle down. Looks at the shadowy figure as if he can find all the answers he needs just by looking at his stance. Arms crossed, leaning casually on the side wall. Comfortable.
“You own this house, don’t you?” Lockhart asks him and the man finally walks inside, flops down on the couch in movements that are neither graceful, nor clumsy. He puts his feet on the glass table.
“Harry Osborn. Yes, I own everything here. And yet … I somehow missed this new arrival. You are?”
Someone who’s been trying to hunt you down for a month, Lockhart wants to say. The invisible man. “My name’s Lockhart. Been here a while.”
Harry nods slowly, humming. “So you have.” He looks back at the bar. “You know, I make a mean Suburban.” He opens the glass doors and starts placing different bottles on the tabletop. Lockhart eyes the rum with interest.
Harry pours them both drinks, mixes them up with the ease of someone who’s done it before and offers one to Lockhart. When he moves to take it, Harry pulls his hand back and shakes his head, smirking. “You gotta win this first."
Lockhart barely swallows down his sigh and says nothing. Harry seems pleased with that and drinks a sip from his own drink. "So, what’s your damage?”
Lockhart blinks. “Excuse me?”
Harry chuckles. “Listen, I’ve seen this before. You can’t sleep, you drink at 5am with no company. Your eyes say you can’t even bare to see yourself in the mirror.” His lips are upturned into a smile but his eyes are suddenly burning holes into Lockhart’s skull. The moment is over as quickly as it began and Harry flops down on the couch again, gaze once more flippant and uncaring.
"So, what’s your damage?” he shakes Lockhart’s drink in his hand, liquid sloshing around, as if to remind him of the prize of his collaboration. Lockhart wants to punch him in the face. He wants to leave the room. He replies.
“Most days.” He motions at the drink. “Did I win?”
Harry presses his lips together, moving the drink further away, close to his chest.
“How did you die?”
“Drowned.” He risks the question. “How did you?”
Harry’s eyes twitch. “None of your concern."
Lockhart looks down, smiling to himself. He knows when he’s in a disadvantaged position. "Of course.” He licks his lips. “Anything else?"
"Are you going to cause me any problems?”
“Does draining your alcohol reserves count?”
Harry exhales through his noise in what Lockhart recognizes as a laugh. His smile widens, eyes turning calculating. "Are you going to offer anything to me?“
Lockhart pretends to think about it. "I’m very good at illegal money schemes.”
After a moment he adds. “I was a blue-collar. Wall street.”
Harry hums. “Ruthless, I’m sure. I do admire it. Ruthlessness. Here."
He passes the drink over and Lockhart takes it. "Is the interrogation over?”
Harry raises an eyebrow. “An interrogation? I’m offended. Think of it more like a … job interview. I might have work for you.”
Lockhart takes a sip, the alcohol burning as it travels down his throat. This man is not fucking around.
ooc// LOL GUESS WHO GOT HAROLD FOR SECRET SANTA!!11!!1!!! i was gonna go with the obvious choice of high school au since you like that, @osborncurse, but in the end i decided on an au where everything your soulmate writes on their skin shows up on yours, too! it’s really just a few vignettes that form a quick study of the space in between making a friend and falling in love with them-- it’s cute. promise.
i think.
word count: 2412
feel free to either read oh, maybe, you could devastate me on ao3 or below the cut (tbh i’d prefer you to read it on ao3 because it’s likely that i missed out on correcting some mistakes/adding a few italics on tumblr lol)! if you read it on ao3, please consider dropping a review because i’m a thirsty binch. merry christmas, sky!
oh, maybe, you could
devastate me
Harry is twenty-one years old and completely hungover the first time it happens.
It’s midday, and he’s still lying languidly in the bed that is much too large for comfort in an apparent attempt to ascertain how long he can remain tucked away in his bedroom before someone comes looking for him. The lingering silence in his room is shattered by the slow rustling of sheets as he shifts his legs atop the mattress, and for a moment, he finds that the allure of going back to sleep may just win him over.
He’s just heaved out what seems to be the upteenth sigh, and blindly raises his arms up above his head to stretch them out before finally opening his eyes, and furrowing his brows as his gaze settles on… A flower.
“The Hell?” He whispers, immediately drawing his arm close and rubbing insistently at the mark (even though there’s hardly any use-- not when it has clearly been drawn on with permanent marker). It takes a moment, but Harry eventually gathers the strength to roll over until he’s sliding from the bed and his feet are hitting the floor. With a residual gait from his drunken state during the previous night, he makes his way towards the desk located by the window and snatches up a marker of his own to hastily shade over the symbol.
It’s dangerous to start assuming things so quickly-- especially with the past that Harry’s had.
When he collapses into bed once more, however, marker still in hand, he’s gazing directly at his forearm when another flower is scrawled next to the first (which is now nothing more than a collection of nonsensical scribbles, thanks to Harry). His intended whisper of various expletives is caught in his throat as he stares, and he’s quick to pop the marker’s cap off before connecting the tip of the pen with his arm once more.
He spends minutes (many more than necessary, if he’s being completely honest with himself) trying to think of something suitable to say, but when his pen disconnects from his skin, the resulting words are rather childish.
Stop drawing on me, idiot.
It’s a test.
As Harry sits there in the near-darkness of his bedroom, he quick to assert that he’s not scared (he is). With each moment that passes, he tries to tell himself that holding his arm up so close to his face that he begins to go cross-eyed is hardly going to determine whether or not he’ll get a reply (he does it anyway).
When he finally receives a response, it isn’t exactly anything along the lines of the words that he’d been hoping to first exchange with his soulmate.
You will be alone always and then you will die.
The silence seems to hang on Harry’s shoulders heavily as he squints down at the words for a moment or two. It’s… Well, it feels strangely familiar, rather than foreboding.
Hang on.
His phone is ripped mercilessly from its charging station, and he is quick to type the statement into Google before letting out a triumphant snort when his suspicions are proved correct.
“‘Every morning the same big and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out… You will be alone always and then you will die,’” are the words Harry reads aloud from the poetry website. Eyes narrowing, his phone is soon tossed carelessly onto his sheets so that he may pick up his marker once more.
Siken? Really? Pretentious ass.
It would seem I’ve been matched with an intellectual. Thank God.
Almost immediately, he rolls his eyes as a scoff rushes past his lips. Even if I wasn’t, you’d still be stuck with me.
It’s not exactly the best way to bond-- but Harry’s always had an awful temper; this person is just going to have to get used to it. He shoves his arms beneath his pillow and makes a quick resolution to wear long sleeves for the rest of the day, but his curiosity eventually wins out. When he moves his forearm into view once more, the written reply causes him to heave out yet another tired heave of his shoulders as he lets out a frustrated sigh.
Unfortunately.
Fucking soulmates.
-----
Once they (mostly Harry) are both calm enough to uphold both ends of a conversation without inserting any expletives or allowing their tempers to leak into their responses, the pair exchange basic niceties with the use of their arms. Soon enough, Harry finds out that his soulmate’s name is Lucien, he lives in New York City too, and he’s also twenty-one.
It would be almost too easy to narrow him down to a page of names and addresses based on that information alone (it’s what his father had done with his mother), but Harry eventually decides that it would take the fun out of it.
He isn’t usually one to take up a challenge like this-- to get to know Lucien slowly, rather than appear at his door with roses and chocolates accompanied by a demand that they fall in love on his terms-- but it’s a change to his usual pace of rushed romances that are filled with a flurry of alcohol and mistakes that had been realised too late, and Harry learns to welcome this change.
-----
After a few weeks, Lucien tells Harry that he isn’t ready to meet him in person just yet.
He’s had some kind of bad experience before. Some guy had a one-sided soulmate bond with him, and while Lu’s marks showed up on his body, it was never reciprocated. It fucked both of us up, especially since we’d been friends. Him more than me, I think.
When Harry asks where he is now, the answer he gets is soon scrawled rather slowly across his forearm. He's dead. As he continues to survey the reply, further explanation appears. I didn't kill him, if that's what you're wondering.
Almost unconsciously, Harry begins to wonder whether all of Lucien’s hasty flowers and scrolling displays of penmanship continue to adorn the man’s body like expressions of sorrow even as he lies in his grave.
How did he die, then?
The problem with you seems to be that you’re smart, but you’re not smart enough. Learn how to take a hint.
At this rate, Lucien is going to give Harry premature wrinkles-- but he seeks to answer his own question as his eyes run over their previous exchanges, fingertips trailing close behind.
It fucked both of us up, are the words that finally click the answer into place for Harry. Him more than me. Oh.
-----
It takes a long time for Harry to finally reveal that an identical scenario had been forced upon himself a few years earlier. His name was Peter, he writes with trembling hands that wish to scratch the name from his skin as soon as it’s been inked in-- there's always a chance that removing the mark will also erase every memory that Harry has of Peter’s hasty shopping list appearing on the back of his own hand, of his excitement at the realisation and the subsequent pain in his heart as it tore into half upon realising that Pete hadn't received any of the tentative doodles that Harry had scrawled across his own palm in reply.
His best friend had been matched with someone else. A girl. Pretty, blonde, normal. In response, Harry had told himself that it was fine-- that he didn’t do complicated, anyway.
But his feelings towards Pete had been anything but complicated, really.
In the end, the marks had faded, and nothing else had replaced them. After Peter, Harry hadn’t expected to see someone else’s words decorate his body ever again. He’d heard of people having more than one soulmate throughout their lives, but hadn’t thought that he’d be deserving enough to attain a second chance.
Apparently, he and Lucien had both been a little lucky in the end (or perhaps just deserving of each other).
-----
They talk at the strangest times-- ultimately, it’s when they need each other the most.
In an apparent act of fate, Harry wakes up at an ungodly hour one morning to find that Lucien is drunk beyond reason and alone and needs advice, needs a friend to comfort him so that he won’t turn to the cigarettes that have burnt his skin multiple times before in an attempt to feel something, anything other than the loneliness that had encircled his heart ever since his father had walked out of his home and never returned. He’s not used to the whole ‘comfort’ thing, but he gives it a try anyway.
When the conversation slowly evolves from pain and hurt and regret to a debate on the complete ridiculousness of modern consumerism, Harry knows that he’s done his job.
Conversely, Harry finds comfort in Lucien when he’s waiting to enter the boardroom of Oscorp days later, the weight of his father’s death hanging over his shoulders like a suit that is far too big as he sits by a window and rolls up his sleeve in search of a distraction.
Instead of a blank canvas, he finds lines of poetry that stir certain emotions in his chest that are unlike anything he’s ever felt before, and he can’t stop the small smile that spreads across his lips when he raises his other hand to trace the delicate curves of the vowels and edges of the consonants. For once, Harry stops thinking about what Norman would say upon finding out that he’d been paired with another boy, or the disappointment his father would undoubtedly harbour due to the way he’s decided to run the company. He’s happy, and he stays that way until Felicia enters the room to inform him that his employees are ready for him.
-----
On one particular Wednesday afternoon, Harry finds himself stepping into a Starbucks branch to escape the usual chill that sweeps through the city a few days before Christmas. It’s not the place he’s used to visiting when it comes to fulfilling his caffeine needs-- most of the staff at his regular haunt greet him by name and remember his coffee order-- but he’s due to attend a meeting in a nearby building in fifteen minutes, and he’s desperate for an Eggnog Latte.
A shiver ripples through his body as he steps into the space (which is warm in both atmosphere and temperature), but soon feels relaxed enough to withdraw his gloved hands from the pockets of his jacket. His search for enough single dollar notes to fulfil the amount needed for his order begins as soon as he steps into the line leading up to the counter, but Harry is soon distracted by a loud voice that sounds from across the room.
He’s blonde. He’s wearing a disgustingly long coat and a maroon scarf, and his hands move exuberantly when he speaks to the barista from his position at the front of the order line (it almost gives Harry a feeling that he isn’t simply talking about coffee orders). His laugh echoes throughout the room and settles comfortably around Harry’s ribcage as if it had been made to fit in the space where his heart is, and the brunette just knows that it’s him.
His voice entrances him like music, and Harry has to take a moment to wonder how the Hell someone like Lucien was matched with someone like him.
He looks down at his bare wrist every minute or so while he waits for his order. It’s kind of endearing, actually-- Harry’s heart swells when he realises, and subsequently begins to wonder whether or not he unconsciously does the same (and if so, do people notice? Do they smile, too? Or do they simply roll their eyes at the rather unsubtle hint towards a newfound bond and move on?).
He can’t bring himself to look away from the young man even as his hands hastily dive back into his pockets to search for the pen that he usually keeps in his jacket, and when he withdraws the writing tool, he’s quick to uncap the lid with a firm grasp. When the lid falls to the floor with a clatter, Harry doesn’t bother to pick it up-- rather, he’s much too busy with his current task of thinking about what he could possibly say, what he could possibly write that won’t make his soulmate think that he’s being a complete stalker.
The music they’re playing in here sucks.
--Well, he tried.
He almost doesn't realise he's moving out of the line and towards the counter until he has come to an abrupt halt in front of the blonde, and it’s as if he's been drawn towards him by an unseen force-- although, Harry wouldn't be surprised if the entire world felt like this; if every living being found themselves happily orbiting around the magnetic pull of the miniature sun, the Apollo reincarnate on their undeserving Earth who is currently standing before him.
Lucien’s brows furrow as he reads what Harry has written on his wrist, and he turns to look around the store with such grace that Harry thinks that he could almost be mistaken for living marble as he draws close. This new vantage point from which he may look at the blonde with a fresh view gives him the strangest urge to reach up and brush away the stray flakes of snow that are smattered lightly across his shoulders.
Though he seems quite confused at first, his soulmate is smiling as he glances from the writing on his own arm to the pen in Harry’s hands. After taking a hesitant step forward, he reaches for Harry’s own forearm and gazes down at it once he has willingly surrendered the limb to the blonde's grasp.
When he has found the confirmation that he had been searching for (the childish complaint, still standing out strikingly against Harry’s pale skin in the place where he’d initially scrawled it on his wrist), Lucien looks up with an expression so startlingly happy that Harry almost keels over.
While he is actively resisting the urge to reach out, to voice his soul's insistent cry of “oh, there you are. I’ve been looking for you forever,” Lucien saves him from the embarrassment of saying anything particularly sappy by chiming in with a teasing opinion of his own.
“I’ll have you know that White Christmas is a classic, Harry.”
[ andrew’s the last to make it
to the park with vincent and
his ridiculous suit in tow. once
he spots lucien and harry standing
by one of the picnic tables they’d
commandeered for the real party,
he lopes over to them with his
camera in his hands and a big
grin stretched across his face. ]
[ since his illness still isn’t
letting up, andrew has decided
to go searching for some medicine
as per lucien’s suggestion. he read
online that pneumonia -- which is
what he’s decided he must have --
requires antibiotics. he’s not sure
if those are regularly kept in people’s
houses, but this is a big house with
a lot of people so he figures someone’s
got to have some. he’s not in the proper
state to go out and buy any, especially
not with it being so cold out lately, so
he’s got to try his luck in here. he’s
currently on his knees in the bathroom,
digging under the sink where he knows
the first aid kit is kept, or at least was
kept before some new resident must
have moved it, trying to stifle each
cough that he feels rising in his throat. ]
[ for almost ten minutes, now, lucien
has been pacing back and forth in front
of the closed door leading to the living
room-- the room that he knows harry is
in, because he’s looked for the doppelganger
everywhere else in the house, and everyone
he asked had informed him that harry hadn’t
left the penthouse since yesterday. after
another fourteen seconds, he finally decides
to just walk in there, because he’s lucien
fucking carr, dammit, and he’s supposed
to be the one in control. so, with a deep breath,
he wrenches the door open and steps inside the
brightly-lit room, refusing to look at harry quite
yet because he knows that if he does, he’ll do
something stupid, like forget what he’s supposed
to be saying. his words come out in a series of
constant layers and threads-- much like the layered
petals of the peonies he had been gifted with during
their last encounter. ]
Look, just-- don’t say anything right now.
Let me talk. I want-- I need to say this, I
need to tell you that I can’t be in a relationship
now because I’m still fucking hung up over
Allen fucking Ginsberg, and kisses are very
unsettling for me right now, because I want
kisses to lead to a relationship but I’m not
ready for a relationship, and I don’t want us
to be stuck in this constant circle of talking
and kissing and fighting because that’s not
what I need at the moment, I need friends and
I need you to be my friend-- for now, at the
very least, because I’m still fucked over
from some stupid poet who died almost
twenty years ago in this universe, and I
need to get my life sorted out before I invite
any kind of romance into it, and--
[ but his gaze has finally been caught by harry,
now; and the mere sight of him is enough to stop
lucien mid-rant, because the doppelganger is wearing
the strangest looking scarf, and is scratching at his
neck with the wildest look in his eyes, and all lucien
can think is-- ]
--What are you trying to cover up?
Have you moved on already?
