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plush-rabbit · 10 months

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Sorrows and Partings

TW: A bit of suicide ideation, like a tad bit but is not expressed further than one statement

Word Count: 3.6K

A/N: this is part of the cut up chapter posted previously!!

Twisting the doorknob, the soft glow of your lamp fills the room, and you sit in bed, curled up against the bed frame. He hadn’t noticed it before, but your room is a mess, clothes strewn about, knickknacks and figures collecting dust, and books layered above each other in a tower of spines.

“You stayed,” you say in a soft voice that if not for the night, he would have never heard your words.

“Of course, I did.”

You smile sadly as the confession. Scooting over on the bed, you pat the space beside you.

Even with the mess, your bedroom is as he still remembers it. It’s cluttered with your things, pictures are placed on the wall- pictures for your friends and family, posters of your favorite films, candles stacked and strewn on flat surfaces. And on your nightstand, is a picture of him and you, pressed close together as his arm is stretched out, and he remembers the day. He remembers the warmth of the sun, the soft press of your lips against him, the way that you had sugar on your tongue and the way that he became addicted to it in a matter of seconds.

He steps on the soft rug on the floor, and taking your invitation, he sits on the bed. It’s soft, and the blanket that touches his thigh, still tickles the way it used to. Your hands flutter over his, and they grasp onto his wrist. You tell him to make himself comfortable, and as if it were like the first time that he was in your room, you stay still, trying not to think about how you tug on him, how your hands are much softer now, how he can recall what it was like to lay on your bed.

He turns and twists, and he lays on your bed, and you’ve let go of his wrist. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to just grab you. But you just sitting there seemed like an uncomfortable way to have a conversation.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” He’ll take a chance, just to have you touch him again, to feel your touch, to know that you’re real and he’s in your room and not shivering in his bed, thinking of what ifs. “You can touch me if you’d like.”

As if he were made of porcelain, you grab his hand in both of yours, lifting the mass and watching as his fingers tremble from being touched. Holding his hand in yours, you turn it around, examining it as if it were anything more than a hand. You circle your thumb and index over his wrist, trying to pinch your fingers close together but giving up quickly. You turn his hand over, palm face upwards and you trace over nothing, your index curving around a spot. There is nothing to trace, and yet, you continue to ghost your finger over his hand in a touch so soft that if he weren’t paying attention, he wouldn’t have noticed it.

“Your skin feels different,” you mumble.

“What does it feel like?” You press your thumb over the swell of his palm, right under the ends of his fingers.

Humming, you massage and pinch at his skin. “Rubber, I think? Wait, no.” Your mouth pulls into a thin line. Your eyes drag down, heavy with sleep, but you stay determined to stay awake. “Latex?” Turning to him, you give an apologetic smile. “I’m bad at recalling textures.”

“What are you doing?” He asks.

“I miss your freckles.” You ignore his question.

If he could frown, he would. Actually, he’s sure that the spot on his face emotes; maybe it could emote frustration. “I still have my freckles. Technically.” With his free hand, he points to a small cluster of spots that float near his collarbone, right under where the bone would protrude. “Some of the spots move, but there are some that usually remain stationary.”

Nodding, you keep your focus on his hand. “You said it's- your white- that it’s all skin?” He makes a noise of confirmation. “So you’re like naked, right now?” His spots pulse in a moment of surprise, and you drop his hand. “Oh! Sorry.” You look at him sheepishly, and he hopes that you grab his hand again. “I just- You’re like gallivanting all over New York- naked.” There’s a smile teasing its way, and he straightens him, trying to keep what little resolve he has left.

“I wear clothes!” He says defensively.

“Like what?” You lean back against the bed frame, and give him a teasing smile.

“Like jackets and- and hats.” You roll your eyes, and pull the blanket closer to you. Your hands have found their new home in a blanket. “I don’t have a lot of options now- things stretched out.”

He’s gained your attention again. “No pants?”

“Well- it’s not like I have to,” he says in an almost squeaking voice. You crane your head, and he’s covering his crotch with both hands. Your name is yelped, and there’s a phantom of what the two of you used to be laced into your name.

“What?” You say through a laugh. “I’ve seen you before, remember? Plus, you're literally like you know-” you skirt around saying the word, and he can’t stop looking at you- “on my bed. And-” your hands pat on the blanket and they flat- “you walk around without pants!”

“It’s different! That’s different!”

“I’d argue that it isn’t.” Your legs shirt under the blanket. You take another glance. “Not even boxers?”

“It’s not necessary,” he mumbles, and he can’t stop looking at you. He won’t stop. “Most people think I’m wearing something anyways,” he confesses in a quiet voice. “Most of my clothes don’t fit now. The sleeves bunch up-” he stretches an arm and his hand circles around his forearm where the jackets usually begin to bunch- “and really, if I just hide my face, most people think I’m some eccentrically dressed man.”

“You always did wear bright clothing.” You lay on your side, your arms bent to cushion your head more than the pillow ever could.

“I did not,” he pouts.

“Yeah, you did.” You try to sink yourself deeper into the bed. “You had that one button-up. It was um, it was bright blue with like white shapes all over it. Or- Or your orange one! With the design on it.” Your grin is growing, and he can’t help but be captivated by you. You laugh, and it’s the sweetest sound that he’s ever heard in his life, sweeter than honey, sweeter than anything he’s ever had. “I’m sure the pants are something close to what you owned,” you say in a whisper. “Somehow, you always did make those clothes work.” You look to where his eyes should be and as if you could, he feels himself being peeled away, layers taken apart until you stare at him- just at him.

A part of him wished he left your apartment when he had the chance.

“Why did you want me to stay?” He asks, voice tight and full of want.

“I already told you.” You look ashamed. “I miss you.”

He should have left. He should have closed this chapter in his life. “I miss you too.” He can’t stand it. He hates how you look at him. Look away. Look away from him. He wants you to look away from him.

As if hearing his prayer, your gaze shifts elsewhere and he needs it back. “I’m sorry Johnathan,” you say his name with tenderness that he hasn’t heard in a long time. Your words kiss his skin and leave him aflame. “What I did to you, you didn't deserve that. I wish I could tell you that I was young and dumb, but we both know that would be a lie.” You don’t look at him again. “I asked you to stay for my own selfish desire. I thought that if I could give you a meal and let you lie on my bed, that it would somehow make up for all the bad that I’ve done to you.” You look at him, and he can’t look at you when you’ve said something so true. “A cold sandwich and a cold bed would never repair what I’ve done to you.”

He should tell you something mean- something sharp and unforgiving, something that would make you feel the way that he had that night and all the nights and days that followed. When he looks at you, and sees the bags under your eyes and the way that you look so small lying down- he can’t say anything of the sort. His words don’t form, and they aren’t tangible thoughts that he could at least grasp and stutter out, they’re simply gone. Malice and greed is absent, and he wants to cling to you. He wants to hide himself in your arms and in the soft spot where your neck and shoulder meet.

“You really miss me?” He asks in a scared voice, one that cracks and exposes all of his hopes and fears.

“Every day,” you reply earnestly, finally looking at him again. “I know I shouldn’t. But I do.”

Unbeknownst to him, he’s found his hand in yours. “How can you stand to look at me?”

“Exposure therapy. I thought that if I could stand spots and holes-” you pull a grimace as if even the word is too much and if the word is too much, then he must be plentiful and he must be cast away and you must be thinking of someone else. “Small clusters kinda fuck me over, but bigger ones don’t as much anymore.”

“I shouldn’t have dropped by that night.” He wishes he hadn’t, that way, maybe in death you could still care for him and mourn him. “I knew about your phobia and I still came by.”

“You wanted comfort.” Your voice cracks and the tips of your cheeks flush. “You needed me. That isn’t something you have to apologize for Johnathan.” Tears water at your eyes and you cling to his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“I meant what I said.” You knit your brows. “I meant it when I said that if you took me back, we could forget about all that was said. We could start fresh.”

By the look in your eyes, he knows he said the wrong thing. “That wouldn’t be fair to you Johnathan.” Your words are muffled by the skin on your arm, and he can hear it clearly, every word is drenched in pity.

He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t care. Not when I’d have you.”

“You could do so much better.”

“No,” he corrects. “No, I couldn’t.”

“I don’t deserve that type of grace, Johnny.” Your arms tense, and he wonders if you really do miss him. “If we went back to how it was before, I’d still know. I’d still hate myself, and I wouldn’t see you, I’d see me.” Your eyes shine with tears.

“I could never hate you,” he tells you with sincerity dripped onto his words. “I tried-” you blink and a tear tracks down- “but I couldn’t. I had so many things that I wanted to tell you- that I hoped I could tell you, but I could never even form the sentence.”

“Can you try?”

“What?”

“Can you try to tell me what you would have wanted to tell me?” You lift yourself up by your forearms, and push yourself close to him, He can smell the cream on you- something sweet and soft. “You can think of it like payback,” you mutter, your hand reaching to grab his.

“I can’t.” he shakes his head, and closes his hand around yours. “I could never tell you what I felt or what I thought. It wasn’t anything bad- it was just-” he sighs and keeps his gaze on your hands- “disappointment? Shock?”

“Why did you stay Johnathan?” He doesn’t answer you, nor does he even make a noise to show that he heard you. “Johnathan?” He squeezes your hand in response. “You asked why I had asked you to stay. Why did you?” Your head tilts and you lower yourself to come into his view, and he can’t look away- not this time. “How can you still hold my hand after what I’ve done to you?”

“Because I wanted to,” he tells you with his words wavering as if they’re about to crash. “I knew that you were the one that I wanted. That hasn’t changed at all.” Tears curve down the side of your face, and drip down your chin. “I’ll always want you.” He lifts his head upwards, and you sit with him, your hand gripping onto him as if the slightest tremble would make him vanish. “Do you need a hug?”

Nodding your head, all he has to do is lift his arms and you’re clinging to him, body above his with your face hidden into the crook of his neck. With tightly wrapped arms, you cling to him like a child that clings to a stuffed animal after a bad dream, and he wonders just how much of this is a bad dream. Hearing you cry is certainly something that makes him want to hold onto you even tighter, to press you against his body despite the spots and holes that litter him. However, in the same shaky breaths that you take, you call his name, hushed and full of grief, the same grief that holds warmth and familiarity.

He hopes that you don’t slip into one of his spots. “I would think about you at work,” he starts. “A lot. I’d have your picture set as my lock screen.” He wraps his arms, and you get comfortable above him, shifting and nuzzling onto his shoulder. “Sometimes, I couldn’t focus on work because I’d be too busy thinking about you. And I’d wonder if you missed me as much as I missed you.” Your hands lay flat against his back, and he wonders if by chance, you missed his spots. He runs his hand up and down your spine, making sure that he remembers how warm you are, and how your heart beats against his chest. “My coworkers always wanted to meet you, but I couldn’t let them. I couldn’t let you get near them. I was scared that maybe, you’d realize that I wasn’t all that you made me out to be, and that you’d leave me.”

Tears wet his skin, and the way that the droplet runs over the rim of a spot, has him unable to breathe. He dips his head, wanting to press a kiss against your crown. He’s forgotten that he no longer has lips, that any gentleness that he could have given you has been torn away.

“I wanted you. I thought- I would think about how when the project was over, I’d leave. I’d give Fisk and Dr. Octavius my research and notes and I’d leave. And in a good life, in a happy ending, I would be able to. We’d move elsewhere, get a cat or maybe a snake. I’d get to sleep beside you every night and and I’d get to wake up to you every morning.”

“Your co-workers called me- one of them. They asked if I had seen anything strange.” You sniffle, and you pull away, and your hands only move to clasp onto his biceps.

“What did you tell them?”

“That I wasn’t sure what they meant.” A heavy hand of white contrasts against your skin, and he wipes away the tear that has fallen. “I asked what happened to you- played dumb and they bought it.”

“What did they say?”

You lean into his touch. “They hung up on me and they haven’t called again.”

“Has my family contacted you?” You shake your head. “Good. I never wanted you to meet them.” At your frown, he continues. “You deserve to be surrounded by good people. Not them.” Your nails dig into his back, and the same hands that traced over his veins and cradled him, are the same that drag down and make him bleed. “I knew about your phobia, and I still came to you. I thought to myself that out of everyone, you wouldn’t turn me away. It was silly, I know.”

“I’m sorry,” you croak out. “I’m so sorry.” All that you can do is repeat your apologies, whispered and broken, repeated like a prayer, and in every word, in every syllable, there is grief and regret, and it tastes bitter. You cling to him, and you apologize, like a child crying to their mother, apologetic over a broken vase, begging their mother to still love them even after all the wrongs that have been committed, and at the end of the day, the love is still there, but the vase is broken. “I wish that you met someone better than me.”

He’s silent, and he looks at his hands, the same ones that run up and down your spine, and he wonders if you would hold his hand again.

“Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I think about how you looked at me that night. And sometimes I wish that I had died that night. That I wasn’t-” his voice wavers and in a hushed whisper he continues- “this.” His hands clench over your shirt, balling up the fabric. “Then maybe you’d have a nice last image of me. And then maybe you’d still want me. I wonder what would have happened to me. If they would give me a funeral, or if they’d rip my body apart and never lay me to rest.” You only cling tighter to him. “When I can’t sleep, I think about what I would tell you. I would tell you that you were mean, and I would never have done that to you. And that as awful as you were that night-” he lets out a shaky breath- “I never stopped thinking about you. I wanted to stay right by your side. I would have done whatever it is that you had wanted me to- I would have hidden myself and only came out when you asked me to.” He hopes that you’ll cling to him just a bit longer, that you won’t pull away. “When I came by that night and found you crying in the living room, I wanted to hold you again; make whatever bad happened, disappear. But it was me. I was the bad thing that happened,” he whispers.

“It wasn’t you. Not entirely. It was me” His spots jolt. “It- It was the way that I treated you. How I still missed you, but that I didn’t have to because it wasn’t like you were gone.”

“Just my good looks.” There’s a hint of sarcasm buried into his words.

You laugh, and the hands lay flat on his back, cradling over his shoulder blades. “You’re still tall- I’d count that as a win.” Your breath is warm against him, and when you pull away, looking at him, there are tears in your eyes. “I wish that I told you that night to stay. I really wanted to, but it felt selfish to ask that of you. I couldn’t do that.”

“I wish you did,” he says without hesitation.

“I wish I did too.”

“When I grabbed my clothes, I uh- I took a shirt of yours. It’s creepy-” he turns his head and even if he is unsure if blood still runs through him and makes him human, he feels warm- “but I wasn’t thinking. I just- I’m sorry.” He bows his head and your hands slip away from his back, to cradle at his head.

“Johnathan,” you say quietly, “I’m literally sleeping in one of your shirts.”

“That’s different. That’s cute. You’re cute. I’m- Look at me. I stole something of yours. I just- I had to be reminded of something of yours. I needed you to keep me warm at night.”

“Can you stay tonight?” He leans closer, your hand cradling his face, moves to hold the back of his head. “I don’t think I can handle watching you leave right now.” He’s silent, unsure if he heard you correctly. “Please, Johnathan.”

“Ask me that again.”

You comply. “Can you stay the night, Johnathan.”

If he could, he’d kiss you. He’d carve himself a mouth, give himself jaws and teeth and lips, pick apart at his flesh and fashion his bones into canines and molars, just to give you one last kiss- tender and parting, just to show you that he really did care for you. He’d bleed himself out, let himself get torn apart if only he could kiss you. Even now, without lips and a tongue, the sugar still rests heavy, and the blood that you’ve spilled is overpowering and makes him unable to speak without threatening to give you his all, to have you look at him, and to forever look at him.

Your eyes stare into a black hole that will never stop looking at you, that will continue to take in all the light and capture it for itself. He’s selfish in staying, and you are terrible for asking him to stay. And in this room where the lamp casts a golden glow, and he holds you in his body, limbs entangle, words that tore apart skin and hands that rubbed over the wounds, there is no safer place that he would rather be. He’d stare at you every day, swallow you whole and take the poison that runs through your body and is seeped into your blood.

He holds you in the orange glow, lets you hide yourself in his chest, and lets your body twist to not enter him. And he holds all of you, hoping that in the morning, he’ll remember the smell of your lotion, and the soft thumping of your heart under his thumb.

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