#(three shot)

As always, that last class sees the most questions as nerves get the best of many students. You patiently answer their questions and replace a few lost review sheets among the group. 

When the room empties, you peer up at Marianne; not quite relieved that she isn’t Peter. You’d been awaiting his eventual appearance since your last catastrophic encounter.

“Marianne,” you greet her as you walk up the aisle, “so nice to see you.”

“Mm, I wish I could share the sentiment,” she returns in her posh London accent. You always wondered how she ended up in New York, but everyone has their own tale before they settle in the city. Some ridiculous twists and turns. “Will you close the door, we have a significant matter to discuss.”

You go to the door and shut it. You take a chair and turn it around, sitting as you watch her magenta lips. They are the exact same shade as the blazer she always wears. You cross your legs and hold yourself still as dread curdles in your stomach.

“I wasn’t aware of a performance review,” you say nervously.

“As ever, you are a most adequate instructor,” she resigns begrudgingly, as if that fact is painful to her, “however, this is not about performance, rather an issue of decorum.”

You rub your neck and squirm. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I received a report which will remain anonymous due to confidentiality policies, however, it did not reflect very well on you,” she begins, “thus is cannot reflect well on the institute should it come to a broader light.”

“It’s hardly relevant to my work,” you scoff.

“So you know of what I speak?” she challenges. You look away guiltily. “You signed a contract which included a clause regarding conduct. It is well within the institute’s purview to release you should there be concerns of how your behaviour may affect our academic reputation–”

“Whatever you’ve heard isn’t accurate,” you insist, “and the person, I can assume, did not provide a full picture–”

“Full picture or not, I did not come to argue,” Marianne declares, “rather to formally issue your dismissal.” She takes her pink purse from the edge of the desk and pulls out a folded page, “the board has signed off and our legal team has assured us that grounds are adequate for your release.”

“You’re firing me?” you quaver.

“With severance, which given the circumstance could be waived,” she warns, “I recommend you take this without conflict, or you will walk away with a lot less.”

You stare at her and the paper as she holds it out. Well, there wasn’t much left to lose. You stand and take the dismissal.

“I always thought it was strange you never married,” she rises as sweeps up her purse, “perhaps you should consider a change in lifestyle, yes?”

“Thank you, Marianne,” you say curtly, “I will take my things and go now.”

“It is only good advice, a woman your age–”

“You’ve issued the termination,” you rebuff, “we’re done here.”

She huffs and flings her hand up before spinning on her heel. She’s one to talk. You can’t remember which divorce she’s on; was it four or five? You scowl as you hear the door behind you. Fuck this place, fuck May for taking it from you, and fuck New York.

❌

You’re too old to be starting over. Not that you have much of a choice.

There’s no other way forward, no other way out. You need to go before Peter shows up again and before May takes her smear campaign any further. You understand her anger and don’t blame her for it. If it was you, you’d be livid. You know you look entirely guilty to her and why wouldn’t you; you’re older than Peter and he plays the young innocent to a T.

Your apartment is hectic with activity. A lady with grey finger curls asks how much you want for the lamp. You counter, how much do you want to pay? She gives you thirty and you put it in your pocket with the rest of your take. Everything must go, you posted online, and the turn out is more than you expected.

Wherever you go, you’ll figure it out. You don’t need the zig zag vase or the picture of Venetian canals. You don’t need any of it. It would all just remind you of everything that happened there. Of the boy, the man, who ruined you.

The dining table goes for eighty. You agree to hold it until six for pick up. The bedframe gets a good price but the mattress garners less. As you go back to the living room, you’re startled by a figure just outside the bedroom door.

“Oh, May,” you gulp, “hi.”

“I thought Peter would be here,” she says staunchly, “but I see he’s not.”

You shake your head and glance over at the man with an armful of your books. Those are harder to part with but just things. You’ve lost a lot more than paper and ink.

“You haven’t seen him?” she asks and you look at her. Her hatred bores into you, makes you wilt.

“Not since…” you inhale, “no, I haven’t seen him.”

“Well, good luck,” her nostrils flare, “wherever you’re going, I just hope it’s far away.”

You feel like you’ve been punched. You wish she would just hit you.

“I hope you find him,” you say softly.

She curls her lip and rolls her eyes. She turns without another word and marches out of your apartment. The only thing that worries you about Peter’s elusivity is that he might be on his way to you.

You approach the man with the stack of books and tell him you’ll give those he’s carrying to him for twenty. He agrees as you find him a box to take them in. You accept the wrinkly bills and glance around as the thrifters pull down your livelihood all around you. You don’t know if you can build it back up, even somewhere else.

❌

The train takes you to the sleepy Connecticut town and you step off feeling slightly lost. There’s an apartment waiting for you, small, empty, dark. You flip on the lights and feel like that girl over twenty years ago who moved to New York dreaming of all the possibilities there.

That optimism is gone. You’ve lost a husband, a friend, a life, and yourself. You don’t know who you are. You’re not as strong as you thought. Peter proved that. How easy he pulled you down, how easily you let him.

You put your bag in the corner and stretch. Sitting on the train for almost four hours left you cramped and creaky. You untangle your purse from the suitcase and check your wallet. You lock the door and head out to grab enough food for the night.

You return with a container of leek soup, some croissants, a basket of fruit, and a filtered water jug. You eat the soup cold and chew through the flaky croissant before settling on the floor and yawning into your phone. You just want to sleep though you know you’ll regret doing so on the hardwood. You just don’t have the energy to do anything else.

❌

One thing at a time. An inflatable mattress until the real one arrives, a folding table, a microwave, some dishes, and bedding. Nothing big, just enough to survive. 

You stretch your severance into your new piecemeal life until you’re hired down at the local library. Your job is to run the noontime activities for children on the weekends between leading the digital literacy classes for the seniors and assisting in general inquiries for patrons. It’s hourly, short of full time but enough. 

Life isn’t as expensive in the middle of nowhere as it is in New York. Not as loud either.

You do your first full grocery shop two weeks after your arrival. It’s like a reawakening. You feel normal as you go down your list and dream of filling your small pantry with your haul. You consider the shelf of coffee, some local gourmet beans and a can of brand name grounds. 

You read over your list and your eyes are drawn above it. You peer down the empty aisle and blind. It must’ve just been someone passing by. You look down again and roll on to look at granola.

You turn into the next aisle and see a hoodie disappear around the corner. The store isn’t very busy, it’s afternoon and all the seniors are at home. You pick out a small jar of marmalade and glance back the way you came, another blur passing you by. You leave your cart and tiptoe into the next aisle, looking down it but finding no one.

You go back to your cart and place the jar in the basket. You pause. Your purse is open, but you can’t say you didn’t leave it that way, yet your wallet’s sticking halfway out. You pull it out and check it. All the cards are there, all the bills. Hm.

You push the cart further along and lose track of your list. You can’t remember what you did and didn’t grab. You feel disoriented as your peripherals itch with obscure shapes that quickly flit away as soon as you try to focus on them.

You’re tired. You’re paranoid and for what. You haven’t heard from either of them. Not a peep from May or Peter. No echoes of your old life but for the dreams that wake you up just after midnight.

You go to check out and place your things on the belt. You chat with the cashier. The people here are friendlier than the city folk. You pay and unfold your own cart to put the paper bags inside, rolling the other into the corral on your way out.

You walk home and pass the cafe on the street next to yours; serving after 6. You peek through the windows, the smell of fragrant coffee and pastries wafts out as the door opens. You press on to your building and ponder a treat for yourself. Just a little one.

You got a place, a job, and a foot on the ground. It’s better than nothing. Besides, you desperately need a drink.

❌

You finally succumb to the thought just after eight. You go down the street and into the cafe, by evening a bar, and order a glass of chardonnay. You drink it alone, the place isn’t very lively, it’s Tuesday. You don’t mind.

Outside of your job, the prospect of talking to people doesn’t appeal to you. It makes you nervous. It makes you think of how your trust entangled you in such a mess and destroyed everything. 

You finish your wine and have another. You like the weight it sets in your eyelids, you might sleep for more than a few hours. You pay and leave a tip. 

You head home, swaying just slightly as you hiccup. You’re more drunk than you thought. More than tipsy. 

You get to your building and fumble for your keys. You hear something above and look up. A dark figure swings above and you shake your head. It’s gone. God, you’re imagining things. You get inside and stomp up the stairs carelessly.

You toss your keys on the edge of the counter as you lock your apartment door. The light in the kitchen is already on. You don’t remember leaving it on.

You step out of your shoes and hum out of tune as you follow the hallway to the bedroom. You pull off your loose tee and fall onto the mattress as you wriggle free of your flowy pants. You roll over and bury your head in the pillows. You hardly notice that the bed is slightly deflated.

You close your eyes and sink into the drunken darkness. 

❌

You make a habit of the nightly visits. Ritualistic in your imbibition of chardonnay, bringing a book to enjoy with the dry flavour. Sometimes one glass, sometimes two. You sleep heavier but not soundly. The dreams linger, coming vividly, violently.

The servers know your name and you know there’s. A month, maybe longer. The nights the bar is busier, you tend to order more to appear busy, to deter others from bothering you as you gulp over the pages of a novella.

You think for a moment that it might be more than a habit, that maybe it’s becoming a need. That thought slips away on the edge of a glass. You don’t want to think, that makes your eyes burn and you haven’t cried. You won’t cry. Not for May and certainly not for Peter.

That night, a third glass appears before you. You tilt your head at the server, Paula. She informs you that another patron sent it but when she tries to point them out, she’s confused, says they’ve gone already. You accept the free drink as she searches and shrugs.

You finish your chapter with the wine and go through the usual, handing over your card as you wait at the bar. You take it back and head out into the evening, a moonless night with a balmy breeze. Your head swims the further you go, your legs weak beneath you. Your cheeks are fiery from the alcohol.

You hear footsteps and stop. You turn back. Nothing. You have to remember this isn’t New York. You continue to your building and murmur to yourself; stop being crazy. Your mind is playing tricks on you, no doubt inspired by the wine.

❌

Peter

Peter watches her as he sits above. The cool air tickles his cheeks and rustles his hair as he clutches his mask. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t shown himself yet. Why for weeks he’s been sneaking out to this quiet hamlet and only watching, only following.

No one else knows he’s there. He disabled the tracker in his suit. Tony thinks he’s smart but hey, Peter’s learning from the best, isn’t he? And May. She’s still moping since he moved out. He could afford his own place with his internship money and he could do whatever he wanted without her spoiling it.

It’s his own fault. He heard his aunt, counted on it, the idea got him off. Being caught, being watched. Fuck, it makes him hard just remembering it. He thought it would be funny. 

He didn’t think it would turn out like this. That May would be so dramatic or that the widow would go running out of town. 

But what did he say? That stupid little slip. He loves her? Really? Well… does he?

These little visits are to convince him he doesn’t so why does he keep coming back? Why does he hide behind the library shelves and watch her at the low table with the grade schoolers or walking between the rows of computers to help the elderly figure out Windows 97? Why did he buy her that extra glass of wine?

He hasn’t even told Grady or Stony. They both think he’s living with the old lady. Both thought he moved out to fuck her right. Her place went cheap without renovation and Tony helped him with the deposit. Yet, it feels empty without her there.

He sighs and stands. He hits his web slinger as he aims at the brick and swings across the street. He repels slowly down the wall to her window. She’s sprawled across the mattress, her new bed without a frame. She didn’t even take off her dress before she passed out, her skirt rumpled around her thighs.

He eases open the window. She snorts into the pillows but doesn’t wake. He slips inside and lands lightly on his feet. He puts his mask on the sill and cracks his neck as he drops his bag against the wall. 

He paces around the bed as he watches her. He missed her, missed feeling himself inside her.

The little flowers on her panties make his chest lurch. Fuck, he’s done waiting. He doesn’t even know what he’s been waiting for. He reaches back and hits the small trigger that loosens the suit. He lets it fall down his shoulders and tugs it past his chest. He keeps his eyes on her as he pulls free his feet.

The suit heaps in his stead as he nears bed. He leans a knee on the edge and reaches to touch her skirt. She looks good, even with her mouth open and snoring. He carefully moves the hem up as he admires the curve of her legs. The way the skin dimples and the little wiggly lines along her thighs.

He breathes and draws his hand away. He pushes down his boxers and brushes his fingers up the vee of his pelvis. His dick twitches as he thinks of himself fucking her, his hard body against her soft one. He traces the lines of his stomach and chuckles to himself. How she must’ve loved it when he fucked her. A man her age would be lucky to get it up.

He climbs onto the bed and crawls around her. He gropes her ass through her cotton pants and curls his fingers under the elastic. He tugs them, jerking her harder than he meant to. She grumbles and bends her arm over her head.

He rolls the panties down to her ankles and balls them in his hand. He inhales the scent of her before he tosses them away. He parts her legs and kneels between them. He bends over her, holding himself up as he nuzzles her hair, she smells exactly like he remembers.

He reaches down and slides his fingers down to her cunt. He rubs her and spreads her folds wide. She mutters sleepily and turns her head. She’s still asleep. That has him throbbing.

He brings his tip to her entrance and leans into her slowly. He gasps at how tight she is as he urges in further. Her walls clench as he gets deeper and when he bottoms out, he hears her grunt. He shudders and thrusts, staying buried in her as his muscles tense. He should’ve done this weeks ago.

“Ow,” she murmurs and her head lolls over, “wh…” she bats her lashes and her eyes find his from the corner of the sleepy slits, “P-p–” she stutters, “get–”

“Shhh,” he hushes her and covers her mouth, bowing to kiss her temple as he rocks against. Her legs push against his as she tries to close them. “ Miss me?”

She whimpers as she grips the pillow and tries to shake her head. He squeezes her jaw as he smothers her with his palm and moves his knee over hers, then the other, pushing her legs together, all while still inside. It makes her cunt even snugger and he growls as it sends a thrill through him.

“Holy fuck, slut,” he hisses, “I missed you.”

She sniffles and he feels a warmth on his hand. He lifts his head and looks at her. She’s crying, her body racking with each tilt of his hips. He’s already at the precipice, ready to burst at the very sight of her weeping. He stops and holds his breath, fighting his own climax. Not yet.

The power he has over her is intoxicating. She’s crying for him, shaking for him, weak for him. He slides back and slams back in. Her yelp dies in his hand and he does it again. Her feet kick up as she reaches back blindly and claws his neck. He doesn’t mind the pain, it feels good.

He sits back and brings his other hand across the back of her skull, clamping her head tightly as he pulls it up. Her spine arches as he keeps her thighs pinned under his and ruts into her. He groans as she sobs against his hand, tears trickling over his knuckles hotly. Her fingertips tickle as she presses against his hip, begging for mercy.

He’s too far gone. He’s swept up in the building eruption. The bed shakes with his frantic fucking and he lets go of her head, grasping her shoulders and holding her down as he crashes into her over and over. Her ass jiggles against him as he chases his orgasm and lets it flood into with a lengthy roar.

He quivers, oversensitive as he slows and rides out the afterglow. He exhales and lowers himself over her. He nips her ear and she squeaks, the smell of alcohol rising from her as her eyes remain closed and her tears stain the pillow.

“I meant it,” he traces along her cheek and kisses the wet skin, “I love you, babe.” He scoffs, “can you believe that? I love a slut like you.”

❌

Reader

You sober up as Peter lays next to you. The glow of drunkenness slakes away as you realise you’re not going to wake up from this nightmare. It’s real. He’s found you. Followed you. Ruined it all again.

You don’t understand why he can’t just leave you alone. Why he can’t find another girl. One his age. What you ever did to make him think you want him.

You sit up against the headboard. You ignored the signs. The lingering shadows, the fleeting figures. It’s your own fault.

Your head aches from crying and your heart from humiliation. You never wanted him to see that. To see your tears flowing so freely and fearfully. It’s the final straw, the assurance that you’re utterly terrified of him.

After a while, you dare to get up. You’re still in your dress and the skirt falls around your legs. You shiver at the hollowness in your core.

The sky is slowly getting lighter as you brew coffee in the French press. You pour yourself a mug and hold your head in your hands. What are you going to do?

“Babe,” Peter scares you. You hadn’t even heard him enter. You look up blankly. “Mm, coffee.”

He takes your cup and drinks from it. You don’t say anything.

“Bit early,” he comments as he sets the mug down, “aw, babe, what’s going on?”

You look down at the counter and hug yourself, “what do you want from me, Peter?”

“Nothing,” he says blithely, “I only want you, babe.”

“You need to go home,” you utter, “go back to May, go to school, grow up and get past all this.”

“Pfft, May,” he snarls, “I moved out the day after she caught us. She was being stupid. She wouldn’t listen to me. Told me I was confused, that you were using me, that you’re too old–”

“I am,” you look at him, “I’m too old for you, Peter. Look at me.”

He does. He stares at you and grins, “I can’t stop.”

Your chest forms a pit and you take a drink of the coffee without thinking. You stand as you put it back and twiddle your fingers.

“Peter, I… you’re young, you need to go,” you say, “you can restart, you can change–”

“No,” he sneers, “I can’t. You can’t– I won’t let anyone else leave me. Not ever.”

You consider his dark eyes. You see the hurt there. That girl, the one who went off to MIT, MJ.

“It’s not me, Peter, you should go and talk to her,” you say, “be nice to her. Don’t do this.”

“I don’t want her,” he steps closer.

“Look, it’s early, maybe we should just get some more sleep and talk in the morning,” you yawn and turn away from him, “alright?”

He follows you as you scurry away. You enter the bedroom, the lamp glowing by the bed as you look around. The window’s open and something red rests on the sill. You cross to it as Peter enters behind you.

“Wait–” he says as you lift the mask.

You run your thumb over the webbed pattern and turn back, looking at the red and blue fabric on the floor. You drop the mask and push yourself against the window.

“Peter?” you gasp, “you’re–”

He seems caught off guard, just for a moment before he smirks. He chuckles as he nears you.

“You think anyone will believe you? Just like they did before, huh?” he taunts as he corners you against the sill, “doesn’t matter,” he grabs your jaw, a crushing grip, “if you say anything, what do you think I’ll do? What I could do.”

You swallow. He’s Spider-man. A hero to many but a villain to you. He’s more than just a pest, he’s dangerous.

“Who would I tell?” you ask quietly.

“Hm,” he smiles, “good girl.” He lets you go and backs away, “I think you’re right, we should sleep. It’s a long way back to New York.”

He goes to the bed and flops onto the mattress. You bite your cheek and push away from the window, a cool breeze rushing up your back. He switches the lamp off as you near the bed and climb into it carefully. He latches onto you and pulls you close.

You lay stiff in his embrace. Your old enough to know that anything to good to be true can’t be.

❌

The last place you ever wanted to see again; your apartment. The one in New York. The one with tainted memories. Tainted by the man who enters ahead of you, proudly waving his arm at the place.

“Wasn’t too pricey since they didn’t have time to do reno,” he announces, “got quite a deal and I couldn’t let it go to anyone.”

You look at the walls, bare, and the mismatched furniture. It’s his now, every inch of it.

“And when your stuff gets here from Connecticut it won’t look so plain,” he says, “babe?”

You look at him. You leave your suitcase by the doormat and cautiously cross the room.

“Well? Aren’t you happy?” the edge in his voice tells you what he expects.

“Yes,” you lie, “still, it’s not a cheap place… and I don’t have a job.”

“I told you,” he puts a hand on his hip, “I do. And I have several grants that pay more than my tuition. Plus, Mr. Stark isn’t too hard to play.”

You scrunch your lips. You go to the window and take in the city. You didn’t miss it. It’s smoggy and noisy and smelly.

“I’ll start looking for something,” you say.

“Now, babe, you only need one job,” he comes up behind you, “that’s me.”

You stop yourself from replying. Whatever twisted fantasy in his head has to come crumbling down eventually. You stiffen as he presses himself to your back. He runs his hand down your side as he leans into you.

“You belong here, with me,” he purrs as his hand creeps down your ass, “right, babe?”

“Mhmm,” you grasp the window frame as he pulls your skirt up, yanking your panties roughly so you stumble.

“Stay,” he warns as he lets your panties twist around your thighs, “just like that.”

His hands reluctantly pull away and you peek over your shoulder as he retreats across the space. He snaps his fingers and points at you.

“Don’t look, babe,” he says, “you don’t want to spoil my surprise, do you?”

You stay quiet and look back out at the city street. The taxi’s fume by and pedestrians walk shoulder to shoulder, sewers steaming and horns honking. You sense him and he spanks you sharply as he stands like a shadow behind you. He kneads the flesh and hums.

“I did all this for you, babe,” he snarls, “so why are you pouting? Spoiled–” he slaps your ass again, “brat.”

You hold in your voice as he caresses your stinging skin you hear a subtle click. Cool liquid flows down your ass and between the crack. You tense and he reaches beneath your arm to set the lube on the window ledge and draws back to rub the oil down to your hole.

“Peter,” you plead.

“Sir,” he corrects, “I know you didn’t forget yourself.”

You quiver and repeat the word. Nothing else. Your words, your wants, your feelings mean nothing to him. As deluded as he is, to think that he loves you, you don’t believe he has the capacity to consider anyone but himself.

He pushes against your tight hole, poking a finger into you slowly. You groan at the burning stretch as he slides in and out. You dig your nails into the wooden frame and lean your head on the cold glass. The city passes by, oblivious below, as you watch those distant souls you can’t help but envy.

He dips another finger into you, a louder noise rises from you unwittingly. He snickers in satisfaction and bows his head to nip at the bare part of your neck. Your eyes gloss over as the figures below turn to blurry shapes, pulsing in your vision.

His fingers delve in deeper and faster as you bite down. The pain is sparkling and searing, your legs shaking from the fire licking up your spine. He pulls his fingers out and rubs your ring as he nuzzles the back of your head.

His other hand fumbles with his jeans and the denim scratches you as he shifts closer. He pushes your cheeks apart and lets his dick rest against your ass. He tilts until his tip is at your hole.

“Sir,” you gulp, “please…”

“Shut up,” he growls as he grips himself and prods.

You grunt through your teeth as the pain radiates through you. He struggles to fit through as your muscles constrict at his invasion and just his tip as you panting. You clench your jaw as he braces your hip, his other hand on the small of your back as his thumb rubs just above his dick. He inches in a little more and you cry out.

“Jesus, stop!” you throw a hand back and he shoves you, trapping you against the sill as he knocks over the bottle.

“You don’t make the rules, slut,” he barks and bucks his hip. He pushes halfway in and your voice spikes in a startled scream. “Louder, bitch.”

“Please,” you croak, “please, you’re hurting me–”

“Stubborn little slut,” he snakes his hand up to your neck and jerks his pelvis, sinking to his limit as your knees buckle, “I did all this for you and you still whine like a baby. Shit!” He trembles as he wiggles his hips, “that’s good.”

You sniff as flick away tears, one hand still on the wall as you try not to collapse entirely. He eases back and you sigh, only to squeak as he slams back in. You hit the wood with your fist and exclaim.

He hooks his thick arm around your neck and pulls you away from the window as his other hand crawls down your stomach. He slips his fingers down your cunt and rubs your clit as he rolls his hips. You gasp and reach to squeeze his thigh as you arch your back, trying to fight the pressure building in your ass.

“Fuck, that feel good?” he asks as he teases your clit, “hmm, not so bad, huh?”

You babble as your grasp at his arm and puff above his tight hold. You lean against him, off balance as he thrusts into you, and you moan with each breath. His flesh slaps into yours as your eyes roll back as warmth spreads down your legs and up your stomach.

He turns you unsteadily, guiding you clumsily as he stays deep in you, and your stomach hits a cushion form. You open your eyes as he drops his arm from your neck and pushes you to bend over the couch. He stretches his hand across the small of your back as he fucks you.

“Just like good old times,” he says as he slaps your ass and you squeal, “isn’t it?”

❌

Peter

May doesn’t know. She thinks her old friend is gone. She thinks Peter’s being responsible, that he’s grown up, moved on. She believes it all and she’s proud.

He meets her at the restaurant. They haven’t seen each other in a while. She doesn’t know where he’s living and if she did, she’s smart enough to figure it out. So he lies and says Tony’s letting him crash at the tower. She eats it up as they order sandwiches and coffee.

Peter rubs his chin and hides a smirk. He can smell her on his fingers. That morning, he didn’t wait and before she could wake up, he was knuckles deep. He could hear the sound then, even as voices buzz around them. It makes his heart flutter. It’s like he’s dancing while sitting still.

He can tell May wants to say something. She’s bad at hiding her emotions.

“How are you?” she asks, almost shy.

“Good, working hard, getting ready for the new school year,” he answers, “you?”

“Oh, I’m… good,” she answers as her slender fingers toy with her necklace. He knows that one, it was a gift. From her. He almost smiles. “No, I’m not,” she confesses, “I’m lonely, I miss you, Peter.”

“Well, I’m an adult now,” he shrugs, “and after what happened…”

“I know, I know, but did you have to leave like that? So suddenly?” she frowns.

He waits as the server sets down their lattes. He smiles at the young woman. She’s plain, innocent, boring. He pokes his cheek with his tongue and thinks. He could make his girl dress as a waitress… they could make another video.

He focuses on May. Stop, Peter, you’re going to blow it. 

It was shitty. It’s exactly why he did it that way. Packed his shit and left while his aunt was at Happy’s. He still laughed when he thought about how she must have reacted to his empty room.

“I was mad, you were mad, we both did things we regret,” he says.

“I know,” she takes a sip of the foam, “I… I was looking out for you.”

“Were you?” he challenges.

“Peter, she’s so much older than you, it’s wrong,” she argues, “you might not realise it but she knows better. She was taking advantage of you–”

“I don’t want to talk about her,” he lies. He does. She’s all he can think about and he wants to talk about all the fucked up shit he’s been doing with her. Save it for the boys.

“I’m sorry,” she relents, “I didn’t bring you here to upset you.”

“I’m not coming back,” he insists and crosses his arms on the table, “I’m a junior now and Mr. Stark has me working full time in the lab.”

“Oh? That’s great, honey,” she preens, “you know, I ran into MJ. She’s been working at the cafe for the summer. Maybe you should go see her–”

“No,” Peter says bluntly, “I’m over her.”

“Break-ups are always hard, especially the first one,” she grieves, “I remember the first boy I dated…”

“And what would you do if someone told you you couldn’t see him?” he blurts out then sits back as he shakes his head, “sorry, it’s been… a long year.”

“Is this about MJ or her?” May asks.

“Well, they both used me, didn’t they?” he rolls his eyes.

She watches him. He can see she’s trying to figure him out. He won’t let her. She’s not his mother as much as she’s always acted like it. He’s a man with needs and all she ever did was try to oppress those needs.

“I heard what you did,” he says, “told on her, like a child.”

Her lips form a tight line as she looks away.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about her,” May reproaches.

He pushes his shoulders back and takes a drink. The espresso is bitter and strong. He should grab her something to go when he leaves. He could make her earn it from him. He smiles and May mirrors him, thinking it’s for her.

“Let’s talk about you,” he changes the subject, “how’s Happy?”

"Focus on me, Even," he said. "What happened? Where is Ienzo?"

"We failed him, Master," Even replied around the lump which had grown in his throat. " We never noticed... we never saw...!"

"You never saw Ienzo's struggle to adjust to being back," Ansem stated as fact, just as Dilan and Aeleus entered the room. "So caught up in your own regrets you never realised that Ienzo's struggle is different from your own."

The three Apprentices stared at their Master with varying degrees of dismay. Ansem sighed and stood, pulling Even to his feet as well. He took one look at his Apprentices and gestured to the door, leading the shaken Even out of the room, while Dilan and Aeleus followed behind. He took them to the kitchens, devoid of staff, and sat Even on a chair.

"This unfortunately was not something I could simply bring to your attention," Ansem explained with a quiet voice as he set about making tea. "I did try, but you always assured me that it was fine, despite the fact it clearly wasn't. It is not something I can teach Ienzo myself either. For ten years he learned from you, and the one you call Xemnas. Anything from me would stand in conflict to his learnings of a decade, he wouldn't accept the correction from me, it has to come from you."

As he set down the teapot, Ansem looked up at his three Apprentices.

"And so, Vexen, Xaldin, Lexeaus, I ask you; how do you plan on helping him?"

Even's mouth ran dry as he looked upon his teacher who looked back with sorrowful regret. There was nothing Even could say. Vexen... Even wanted so dearly to let Vexen fade into the past. But now his teacher was here evoking that name and it felt like a reprimand. But it wasn't. It was a simple reminder of who they were... to Ienzo.

-----

Even found he had a dilemma. It was true that as Vexen he had taught Zexion when he could, but in truth it was Xemnas whom the boy had followed around. It was Xemnas who had taught Zexion, had taught Ienzo, and as much as a Nobody could, Zexion had idolized Xemnas. It was the Superior of the In-Between who had taken Zexion aside for different projects. The Replica Program had been Vexen's project, but that was merely one project out of many which had been undertaken.

Xemnas had a charisma that Even, and Vexen, did not. Twelve individuals had chosen to follow the man, for he knew the words to speak to get them to do so. In the face of this knowledge, Even felt insignificant. Ten years, ten years of Ienzo's education, filled by words no one ever protested. How differently the Organisation may have ended had Xemnas taken on teaching Roxas and Xion instead of passing them onto Axel.

Even pushed that thought aside, not wanting to entertain the past or Vexen any further. Besides, Ienzo had not returned yet. That was the second great dilemma; no one in the castle could use the Corridors anymore. There was no way to chase after Ienzo, save talking to those who could, but even then, it wasn't known where Ienzo had run off to. And thus, as to not send the Guardians of Light on a vast search and find mission which was as broad as the worlds Zexion had traveled, no one on Radiant Garden sent word to the Keyblade Wielders. Holding his head in his hands, Even sat there trying and failing to find a solution to all these problems.

"We could call upon Terra's knowledge," Aeleus suggested, having walked in to see Even in despair. "Xemnas would know."

"I will not do that to Terra," Even replied, not looking up, causing his voice to be muffled. "I do not blame him for wanting to avoid us. Ienzo will return to us, we don't need to ask Terra to relive those memories."

"And what if Ienzo still doesn't come back?"

It was a question that Even refused to consider. He stood up, fury filling his gaze as he glared up at the taller man. It took him a few seconds to formulate his response, trying to at least remain articulate.

"Of course he will come back!" The scientist spat at the guard. "We are his family!!"

Even spun on his heel and stalked away. He could feel Aeleus staring at him as he walked away, silent and pitying.

"Are we though?"

The blonde scientist sneered and didn't respond. What kind of question was that? Of course they were his family.

"Grow up Ienzo."

"I GREW UP AS ZEXION!!"

-----

Aqua,

Even doesn't wish to ask, but we cannot sit around and do nothing. Ienzo has gone missing, off world missing. Things fell out of control and we made a mistake. Please don't mention this to Terra, we don't want to force him to remember Xemnas anymore than we wish to recall our own Nobody lives. We're sorry to cause you trouble.

- Dilan

-----

Dilan,

I have many questions, about Ienzo, and about Terra and Xemnas, but I shall refrain from asking over Gummiphone. I will be on Radiant Garden tomorrow and I will find you then. I'll be there with Riku. Terra is currently on a mission with Lea.

- Aqua

------

Aqua,

I'll wait for you in the square... where you fought Terra.

-----

There was a certain chill which followed Even after he woke up. Ienzo still had not returned he had been missing for a day and a half now. Where was he? Even did his best to stay calm but his mind kept turning to what he had said to Ienzo.

"Grow up, we don't do it that way anymore."

Grow up

GROW UP

Ienzo was eighteen. He was grown up. And he had grown up as Zexion. Ienzo, where did you go? How did we fail you so badly?

Even stumbled and dropped the books he was holding, catching himself on the wall. He brought his hand up to his face. He tried to summon up his own Dark Corridor, as he used to, tried to disappear into darkness as Ienzo had. But as always, nothing came of it. There was no answer of cold power, just taunting stillness.

"When Dilan told me what happened, I didn't quite believe it," a soft voice said gently, making Even look to see Aqua picking up his dropped books. "But being told and actually seeing are two different things. May I ask where you were headed?"

The scientist was barely able to answer with Ansem's study before the woman smiled and stood up, walking towards the aforementioned room, taking his books with him. Even called out after her, but she didn't pause, leaving the man with nothing else to do except follow her. He asked her questions as to why she was here but she did not answer. Aqua smiled and said she would explain once they had reached Ansem's study.

Riku was there, talking to Ansem and Dilan, and clarity struck Even.

"You called the Guardians of Light?" he asked, his voice slightly strangled.

"We can't do nothing, Even," Dilan replied.

"We'll be doing nothing anyway!" Even snapped. "We don't know where he is, and we can't leave Radiant Garden ourselves!"

"What if he went to the Castle That Never Was?"

Riku's question knocked the fight from Even. There was no way, no way at all, Ienzo wouldn't go there, that was a place of bad memories, a reminder of the worst years of their lives. But not for Ienzo, a tiny voice in the back of the scientist's head whispered. It was that voice that Riku echoed.

"For Ienzo, he is Zexion still," the silverette continued. "He remembers Radiant Garden, but the Castle That Never Was is most likely where he considers to be his home. From what Dilan told Aqua and I, here he was confused, he wants something normal. I... I understand that feeling."

The teen shook his head and Even was briefly reminded of the boy's time under the tutelage and control of Maleficent and Ansem, the Seeker of Darkness. Was there a part of Riku as well, that longed for a time gone? A hidden darkness to not tell anyone. Even let his head drop, blonde hair covering his face. Ienzo had run away, it was time to stop denying it. He had failed Ienzo badly and all he could do bow was accept the offered help. Aqua stepped forward and placed a hand on Even's shoulder.

"I know you don't want to," she hummed. "But we're going to ask Terra for his knowledge from his time as Xemnas. It's... not your choice to make, and I think you'll find Terra will want to help more than you realise."

"Come with us, Even," Riku invited, holding out a hand. "I think you have unfinished business with the Land of Departure."

Castle Oblivion.

-----

Messages from Aqua weren't strange. They contained updates, seeking of advice, general discussion. Messages asking for him and Lea to return early, however, those were rare, almost never happening. That's why he was now on the Gummiship with Lea, returning to the Land of Departure, discussing potential causes for this call back. For some reason, a deep pit had formed in his stomach, and he was almost certain whatever the reason was, it had to do with Xemnas.

When he shared his thought with Lea, the red haired man gave him a shakey smile and suggested that Ienzo had finally demanded his attention. Lea had been trying to lighten the mood a bit, but that didn't stop the wave of guilt that had crashed over Terra. He knew he should have approached Ansem the Wise and his apprentices earlier with his memories, but fear kept him away... he'd already hurt them enough...

The pair of Keyblade wielders made their way back to the Land of Departure as quickly as possible, informing Aqua when they were landing the Gummiship. Then they walked to the room where Eraqus used to address his three apprentices. Aqua was standing in the room with Riku and they were watching... Even pace the floor back and forth? That certainly was even less expected than the summons home. That pit in Terra's stomach sunk further. What had happened?

In between calming breaths, Even told his story, of how Ienzo had withdrawn into himself after the Keyblade War, and what the younger man had said before running into a portal of darkness. Terra knew where Ienzo had gone before Riku shared the theory that he had run to the Castle That Never Was. Of course he ran there, Xemnas whispered in his mind. Where else would Zexion go?

However as he shuddered the thought away, Lea spoke up.

"So basically, Terra should go after him," he said, as if the answer was obvious. "Or more accurately, Xemnas should go after him."

Terra's eyes widened, and he took a step back. What did Lea mean? He wasn't Xemnas anymore, he had the hair length, nor had he regained the decade lost to his possession, but he wasn't Xemnas. Terra's hair was brown, eyes blue--

"How much more are you going to let Xehanort steal from you, Terra?" Lea, no, Axel challenged. "He already stole your body from you once, are you really going to let him steal it again with your Nobody? Those memories are yours. What would Xehanort do, knowing Ienzo was missing, with Xemnas' memories?"

"I don't..." the brown haired wielder started before trailing off. He could see where Lea was going. And he already knew his answer to Lea's next question.

"And what are you going to do with his memories?"

A portal of Light was hard to summon, and corridors of Darkness wouldn't open on the Land of Departure. But Terra resolved himself to get to the Castle That Never Was. Lea nodded. Even stepped forward looking hesitant.

"Please... find Ienzo," he said, swallowing his pride. "And... help him understand what's changed from the Organization."

-----

Ienzo sat on his own throne in the Room Where Nothing Gathers, the old Round Room. He was shaking, gripping the edges of the throne, staring across at where Saïx and Demyx used to sit. There were even Dusks here still who answered his call, albeit only after he affirmed he was Zexion. He was Zexion, he knew this. He was no longer denying it!