The losing touch
After the first month of repeating junior year, Happy pulled up to the firelane and honked at him. Peter had left his last class a little late when his bag spilled out on the floor, and he was planning to sprint to the subway to catch the right train into Queens. During this endeavor, he didn’t register that the beeping car was for him, so when the window rolled down and his name was called, he startled.
“Huh–what?” He blinked a few times, then hopped off the curb and approached the car. “Hello,” He said, confused.
Happy jerked a thumb to the backseat, gruff. “Get in.”
Peter peered into the back, then looked at Happy, then pointed at himself. The man nodded, so he opened the door and slid in. The car was just pulling onto the street again when his brain seemed to turn back on.
“Is this a kidnapping?” He asked, leaning up to the divider. It was still down at the moment, so he could clearly see Happy’s frown as he glanced at him through the rearview mirror.
“You know who I am,” He replied, his voice still clipped and rough.
“The majority of kidnappings are done by people you know. Usually family. Only twenty eight percent of kidnappings are done by strangers,” Peter recited. He was sure he’d probably heard that from Michelle, or maybe he’d googled it himself at some point. Happy was not as impressed by this as he should’ve been.
He turned back to look at the road, his fingers readjusting around the wheel. “We’re going to the Compound. Your aunt suggested it.”
Ah, he thought, May is finally plotting against me. He sat back, pulling his backpack into his lap and sitting quietly. He watched the buildings stretch by, inconsistent as they blurred through traffic and backroads. He felt Happy’s eyes on him a few times, and he felt like he should probably say something.
Peter stretched his legs as he got out of the car, and then he realized Happy had also gotten out, standing a few steps away and scrutinizing him. Maybe he should’ve told him the story of how Abe and Cindy had caused a fire in a microwave on their first week back. Or maybe the one about how Mr. Harrington had sneezed directly on a stack of test papers so it was pushed back to the next day. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so quiet the entire ride. He never used to be quiet.
“Sorry,” He found himself saying, just as the older man stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. Happy hugged tightly, and his arms seemed to envelop him completely, hiding him from the world. He squeezed him once, and when he let go, he could tell his eyes were a little misty. Peter kind of gaped at him, trying hard not to cry himself.
“I’ll walk you in,” He said, clearing his throat, and Peter just nodded dumbly, trailing after him and into the building.
Pepper greeted him with the same amount of warmth and enthusiasm, and it left him standing there, stunned and frayed, trying to imagine what he could’ve done to receive such a welcome. Was it turning to ash? Disappearing for five years? Getting a crisp one hundred on a Spanish test he’d already taken the year before?
He found himself holding a can of soda and walking aimlessly towards the lab. Happy watched from the end of the hall, and Pepper turned back to the kitchen, pretending like she wasn’t glancing over her shoulders. He felt tired, exposed and raw in all the places he had kept buried for months. He wouldn’t cry. He counted to ten, then back up from one.
He let the door slide shut behind him, dropping his backpack to the floor and gazing blearily around the room. It felt empty, too sterile and untouchable; another room that had to be rebuilt after the battle. He didn’t know what he expected. He kind of thought he would see Tony sitting in his usual spot, hunched over a project or musing at a screen. He wasn’t sure why he felt so unbalanced when he wasn’t. He wasn’t sure how he didn’t notice the other boy in the room until he was inches away from him, reaching out a hand to poke his shoulder.
Peter’s entire body jolted, and he snapped back into himself. “Hello!” He said, too loudly and too delayed.
“Hi,” The other replied, his face both concerned and amused. Peter recognized him, belatedly, from the funeral. He had approached him at the tree. He slowly took his hand away, pointing at the Pepsi in his hand. “Are you going to drink that?”
“Um, well,” Peter looked down at the drink, then back at the boy. “If you want it more I can get another one,” He was already offering it, reaching forward and trying to place it in his hands.
“No!” He reassured, quickly, and seemed a little embarrassed. “No, sorry, I don’t want it. I was…sorry, I’m bad at starting conversations. I’m Harley.”
Peter stared at him. “Do you not like Pepsi?” Then, more hurriedly, he realized he had sort of missed the entire point. “I’m Peter,” He held out the soda, then switched hands, and Harley accepted the handshake, equally as flustered.
Harley, it seemed, was also someone Tony had taken a liking to, and had subsequently begun mentoring. He didn’t disappear with the rest of the population, so he wandered between Tennessee and the Stark’s residence while five years wasted away. Peter felt like he should be jealous, or slighted that he had been somewhat replaced, but it only made him feel a tiny rush of relief. That his mentor wasn’t all alone in his lab, stuck on memories of a kid who had disobeyed him and gotten himself disintegrated. Decimated , everyone had been calling it.
“He thought the world of you,” Harley told him, as if it was supposed to make him feel good, not more hollow. They had moved further in, sitting on rolling chairs and fiddling with DUM-E. The robot's claw was whirring on and off, and at some point Peter had offered up his empty soda can, which it took greedily. The boy looked at him, his eyes steady and his fingers fidgeting. “He risked the world for you, too,”
Peter wondered if he was searching his expression to see what exactly made him so special. He also wondered the same thing, intermittently, and he hated how it made his insides feel sticky and hot. He hated that he didn’t know what made him worth saving. Worth dying for.
He sort of shook his head, his mouth dry. “I didn’t deserve it.”
“Well,” He tapped his fingers along the edge of the table, his thumb hanging over the edge. “Maybe it’s not something you earned. Maybe it was just given to you. Just because of who you are,”
“That’s dumb,” He said on reflex, and closed his eyes. “I’m nothing special. I…” He was going to say he didn’t deserve recognition for merely existing, but it didn’t seem right. He huffed a laugh. “It’s weird to think he loved me so much when all I knew him as was a sarcastic, detached man who tried to value his own ego over a proper mentorship.”
“Y’know, he made it seem like you were a lot nicer,” Harley joked, a tired kind of amusement pulling at his mouth, like he was resigned to finding Peter funny.
“I think I was,” Peter shrugged. “Didn’t mean I was oblivious to his big head.”
Harley looked at him funny, and DUM-E gave him back his empty can, slightly crushed, and he had an excuse to flee, making his way towards the recycling bin. He ignored how bitter the words tasted in his mouth. He ignored how it made him feel; a twisted perception of himself being thrown in his face from the mouth of a dead man. He counted to ten.