Breathing in
They finished eating quickly enough, and Peter offered to give Harley a rundown of his favorite spots. The southern boy had been to Manhattan with Tony, and he’d spent enough time wandering New York City from the eyes of a tourist, but he’d never spent much time in Queens. Peter tried not to dwell too much on the meaning behind it, about his mentor avoiding the place he was from, about the memory of him lingering through universes.
They threw their trash away, made sure Peter’s hat was low enough to hide his eyes, and they were off.
They walked past his favorite Thai place, the best convenience stores, and paid a second visit to the churro vendor. He made sure to point out everything that he remembered, everything that was the same, like the flyers for the animal shelter along the lampposts, the slushie machine that carried strawberry instead of cherry, the best spots to watch dogs pass during their walks. He felt like his jaw would break with how much he was smiling, he’d forgotten how nice it felt to be home, to be with someone.
Harley took everything with the utmost attentiveness, nodding at all of his little stories, laughing at the right times and asking the right questions to keep him going. He felt a little bad, wondering if he was talking too much, or if everything he was showing was boring, but he caught Harley’s grin out of the corner of his eye, and it seemed genuine enough.
“So, the pigeon was like, reading the newspaper, I swear to God,” Peter emphasized his sincerity, gesturing to the very spot he’d seen the phenomenon. They had circled back to the park, throwing their slushie cups away and making their way towards the center. There was a fountain, and a few historical monuments, but Peter was more focused on the bird populace.
Harley quirked an eyebrow, amused. “Was the column any good?”
“I think it was The Times?”
Harley scoffed. “What a fucking prick,”
They broke off into laughter, and Peter walked ahead, catching his breath and bumping his knee against concrete. He looked up, startled that he hadn’t noticed his proximity to the statue, but then froze in his tracks.
“Oh,” He said, and his voice sounded funny, even to his own ears. “That’s…me,”
He remembered seeing the monument be put up in his world, of course honoring the legacy of Iron Man. It didn’t occur to him, in the few hours they had been out of the Compound, that all of those murals and statues and memorials would be for him, now. That his own face would be staring right back at him.
Harley seemed like he didn’t know what to say, his mouth opening and closing as he reached for his forearm. “Peter,” He managed, but it was fuzzy, like the whole world was reaching through static just to make contact with him. Everything except for the statue, with his name on the plaque, and the lenses of his mask staring back at him in copper. He looked brave, confident—all of the things you would associate with the savior of the universe.
You were so scared, he heard, echoed somewhere in the back of his mind, spoken by the tearful voice of Tony Stark.
He looked away, and it took everything in him to perform the simple action of turning his chin, averting his eyes. He pulled the hat lower on his head, feeling like an imposter, feeling like he wasn’t supposed to be seeing this. He wasn’t supposed to be here.
“Peter,” Harley said, more firmly, and he snapped back to it. His hand was gripping his arm, his nails digging into the fabric bunched around his elbow. He seemed to realize it, too, as Peter came back to him, and he slipped his hand to hold his wrist. “Are you alright?”
“I…” He swallowed, trying to find the right words past the thickness in his throat. He wondered if Harley noticed the quiver in his voice, if he knew he was on the verge of tears. “I’m–”
“Peter?” A voice called, just to his left, and he felt his heart sink into his stomach. He recognized it, light and confused and wary. Harley clutched at his arm, his mouth doing a funny wobble between stunned and guilty. His eyes were wide, his mouth pursed, and Peter felt his shoulder tighten. “Peter Parker?” The voice reiterated, and he turned, almost automatically, finding his body obeying the strained identification.
Betty Brant stared back at him, a messenger bag over her shoulder, her hair tied back in a ponytail. He thought, for a brief second, that the flimsy baseball cap he was wearing had actually done the trick, and she was merely calling out to the monument. Maybe he was too old, too unrecognizable. Maybe he was forgettable. Then, she gasped.
“Shit,” Harley began to pull him away, frantic. He realized they were not the only ones in the park, and they were not the only ones to hear Betty’s exclamation. No one immediately jumped, or shouted at him, or began to surround him. But there were eyes, and he felt like his throat was closing. “Let’s go,” Harley urged, and he stumbled as he was dragged.
He couldn’t help but look over his shoulder, towards Betty, standing still, so utterly stricken. She looked like she was going to cry, or laugh, or fall over. She used to sit behind him in pre-algebra, and she would share pretzels with him during Decathlon practice, and she would take notes for him when he was sick, even if he didn’t ask. He remembered how they had hugged after being apart for five years, becoming friends from classmates, finding familiarity in each other in a world that had changed so much. All he’d had to do was stay the same, and she had sought him out in the hall, grabbing him and pulling him towards her.
She was his friend, even after all of it, and she was standing right in front of him.
“Hold on,” He garbled, shaking out of Harley’s grip and marching over to Betty, where she was still frozen, watching him move with trembling lips. He glanced at her, for permission, then reached for her hand. She wrapped her fingers against his palm, reflexively, and he turned back around, leading her along with him. Harley watched, wide-eyed, rushing to catch up as he sped walked down the pavement.
He didn’t stop his brisk pace until they had left the park, and not even when they’d passed Delmar’s, or the 7/11. He walked until he could breathe, albeit with a hitch, and then he let go of her, crossing to the nearest bench and sinking into it.
He heard Harley, making a small noise from his throat, as if he wanted to say something but was out of breath. He heard Betty take the spot next to him, but he was too afraid to look at her.
“Peter,” She whispered, and he closed his eyes. “Peter, what the actual fuck?”
“I’m sorry,” He peeked at her, out of the corner of his eye, and she looked pale. He turned, fully, taking his cap off, despite the choked sound that escaped Harley, still keeping his distance. “No one’s supposed to know,”
Her eyes were red, and she wiped a hand along her cheeks, leaning back as she inhaled deep. “Okay,” She sounded like she was talking mainly to herself, and he waited for her to look at him again. “You’re alive? How…you…it’s been so long, Peter,”
“I know,” He said, then bit his lip, trying to think of a lie. His tongue sat heavy in his mouth, guilty, and he exhaled through his nose. “I’m about to say something really crazy, and I just…you can’t tell anyone. You have to promise me,”
“Peter—” She began, but he shook his head.
“You have to promise.”
She stared at him, searching his expression, and finding something that scared her, he could tell by the twitch of her eyelashes. “Okay,” Her voice was strained, calm, but too tight to be genuine. “Okay, I promise,”
He nodded, playing with the clasp at the back of the hat, to adjust the band size, trying to find the right words. He wouldn’t tell her the whole thing, he knew, but he would tell her the truth. As much as he could manage.
It was a long time before he finished, describing how his world had worked, how he hadn’t died, how he fell into the woods in the middle of upstate. He stumbled a few times, not used to mentioning his secret identity so plainly, but meeting her eyes, steady and disbelieving. He waited for her to call him a liar, to ask where the cameras were, to get up and walk away.
She just looked at him, gripping the straps of her bag. “So you…you’re not like an apparition sent to torture me?”
He let out a startled laugh, ripping from the lump in his throat, cracked and raw. “What? No,” He felt another chuckle build inside him, and he put his head in his hands, torn between sobbing and giggling. The giggles won, and soon, Betty was joining him. “Why would I be haunting you?” He gasped, and she shoved his shoulder, hard.
“I don’t know! Maybe I never paid you back for the vending machine?” He covered his snort with his hand, but it wasn’t effective. She scrubbed at her eyes again. “You can’t blame me, seeing you standing in front of a statue of…well, you? That’s some haunting shit,”
“Yeah,” He felt lighter, somehow, his face warm and his throat sore. “I really am sorry. I’m technically not even supposed to be, like, walking around. I didn’t think anyone would recognize me. I didn’t…it’s good to see you,”
She sobered, her smile slipping. “It’s good to see you, too. But…you have to leave, don’t you?”
He nodded, wishing that he was better at consoling people. Wishing that he was better at avoiding them, too. “I can’t have anyone else see me,” He sighed. “You really can’t tell anyone, please. Not until…well,”
“I won’t,” She promised, and he believed her.
“Thank you,” He began to stand, putting his hat back on, hoping he didn’t look like he had been bawling.
“Wait,” She reached out, desperately grabbing the edge of his sleeve. He felt his feet freeze, locking him in place, forced to face the tears welling up in her eyes. “Let me give you my number. I—I can put you in the Decathlon chat, in case you…in case,”
Peter gave her a long, indescribable look, then nodded once, slowly, followed by a sharp exhale. “Okay,”
She let go, reluctantly, and they both got out their phones. Peter wasn’t sure exactly how well his would work, having come from a completely different dimension, but they sent each other messages to solidify their contacts, and suddenly he was getting a chat invite.
“We missed you, Pete,” She said, softly, and he felt the lump return in his throat. “We missed you a lot,”
He glanced, quickly, to where Harley had been standing, far enough away to give them privacy but close enough that the distance was awkward. He swallowed, hard, and then turned back to Betty, hoping his eyes weren’t as wet as they felt.
“I missed you, too,” He whispered, and he found himself opening his arms as she stood. They hugged tightly, and a small part of him wondered what graduation would have been like, if everything had happened so differently. He wondered what their class pictures would look like, if they would stand next to each other and pose. He pulled back. “Bye, Betty,” He said, and they both wiped their eyes.
“Bye Peter,” She replied, and tugged on his sleeve again. “I’ll see you around,”
He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he probably wasn’t a permanent visitor, that he would eventually return to his own dimension, where she wouldn’t recognize his face, or name, and where she certainly wouldn’t want to hug him. As soon as Dr. Strange figured out how to send him home, he would go, and she would have to stay in a world where he had died, a piece of the world that didn’t return after the Snap.
Instead, he smiled. “I’ll see you,”
The car was silent except for the constant hum of the radio, still on low volume, playing 80s greatest hits. Peter was staring at the exit signs, mulling over his conversation with Betty, wondering if he should’ve said anything to her at all.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Harley’s knuckles were white against the wheel, his tone harsh and breathy, but sincere. Peter looked to him, surprised for a moment. “Bet you regret sneaking out now, huh?”
It took him a moment to really process the words, looking at the pull at Harley’s lips, his eyes glued to the road, stiff.
“No,” Peter said, after a pause, knowing it was true, even when he couldn’t escape the pang of loneliness that began to consume him. The sliver of memory, of his old life and the overwhelming weight of the life he now had to bear. “It was good to see her. It was good to be back in the city. I don’t regret anything,”
Harley was staring at him, a look that he had to separate in between looking at the road ahead. Peter didn’t know him well enough to read it in its entirety, but he could recognize the admiration. He didn’t deserve it, but he’d seen his fair share of hero worship. It had always been in the mask, though, never just for Peter Parker. It made his face feel hot.
“We should do this again,” The boy said, eventually, just as they turned onto the road to get back. “I like talking to you,” That part was quieter, a small confession, one that seemed so honest but so embarrassing, at least in the way Harley looked after the words left his mouth.
“We should,” Peter agreed, quick to smooth the awkward ridge of his shoulders. He tried not to think about Dr. Strange, and his own universe, and the inevitability of leaving all over again. He took a breath, tapping his hand along the minuscule ledge of the car window. “It was really nice spending time away. Spending time with you. You’re really cool,”
Harley mumbled a few deflections, his cheeks red, and the Compound loomed only a few miles up the road. Peter knew that if he squinted, even a little, he would be able to see Tony Stark standing in wait at the entrance.
“Shit,” Harley whispered on an exhale, and Peter couldn’t help but agree. The car rolled pathetically through the gate, the wheels spinning slowly with Harley’s foot tapping the break. The exhilaration of freedom had finally worn off, and Peter was tired. He was emotionally exhausted, and his stomach had yet to untie the knots it had made hours ago. He knew that it would only get tighter, as soon as he spotted the thunderous gaze of Iron Man in front of glass doors.
“This was fun,” Peter said to Harley, faintly, as the car finally stopped. “I think we might be banned from future escapes, though,”
The boy in the driver's seat didn’t argue. They both knew just how fucked they really were. Peter unbuckled his seatbelt, inhaled through his nose, and stepped out of the car.