#oshtoran

The setting wasn’t ideal by any means. Classical Music played throughout the foyer, heels clacking against the glossy floor as laughter echoed throughout the halls. This wasn’t her setting. Her setting was in the bathtub in her apartment, a glass of wine in hand, watching the news and snickering while doing it. A hard day of work paid off  —  this is her being repaid for her hard work in the format of torture. But if it paid the bills, who was she to complain? If Oscorp wanted her to dress in a gown and receive her $250,000 bonus for the year, she would do it. 

She couldn’t get the most conversation she had with Norman out of her head either. His son, Harry, was sick. She tuned him out after awhile. She can trace over the minimal details in her head  —  sickness unknown, we hired you to figure it out, you’ll be paid adequately. She would embalm herself into this life  —  this lie of a life. 

She knows who’s looking for; she was the one in charge of saving his life after all. A glass of champagne had been her hand for god knows how long, when she finally spots Harry across the room. It’s the beeline she makes towards him that breezes her perfume through the air, her movement fast as she steers herself through the mob of people. The scent of flowers and life, antithesis to her normal nature.  (Behold, the snake in disguise.)

❝ Looks like you could use this more than I could. ❞    An eyebrow raises once she’s finally standing directly in front of him, her glass of champagne being lifted to her lips. The liquor dances down the back of her throat, carmine lipstick leaving a stain around the rim  —  a moment of peace in the constant war of politics and science. There is no difference between the two anymore; it’s perfect for a snake who slithers throughout the garden, synonymous to her standing in this crowd of people wearing their Hollywood starlet gowns and pressed tuxedos.  (He’s no different from a simple glance; he is Norman Osborn’s son after all. She can see in his eyes, though. That glimmer that dances in her irises as well. They’re two sides of the same coin, she can see it first hand. Can you?)

She extends the glass of champagne towards him, the stain facing him. 

WHAT IS LOVE IS NOT THE CONSTANT TERROR OF LOSS?     his childhood was lived in a mirror.   mimicking back actions and patterns,  singing them back so that he fits in correctly  (  a puzzle piece,  misshapen  &  jammed  )  all in hope to be loved.   the worst part:   you love him.   it’s been a long time.   this is not a surprise.   but he’s shoved it down for twenty something years now and he’ll keep doing it.   swallow it down,  thick  &  bitter.   it leaves a rotten aftertaste but it’s nothing special.   keep it down for as long as he can manage until it bubbles and spills over in the night,  only seen in a cracked mirror that can never allow him his perfect his imitations.

the man you love is marrying someone else.   and you can’t even bring yourself to be mad.   (  you love mary-jane.  maybe you love her because he loves her  )   it’s impossible to be angry.   to curse her name or even think of hating her for a moment.   you’ve seen this story before.   you just hope it doesn’t even with another funeral.

or  maybe  some  sick  part  of  you  does.     (  no matter how much it’s pushed down,   you are half norman osborn and you’ll do anything to come out on top  )     after gwen,  you spent time on his couch—  in his bed.   part of him,  your hands twisted  &  twined together;   your cheek pressed against his tear-stained one.   sometimes,  you struggled to understand where you began  &  he ended on the mornings you woke up with tangled legs.   you’re sharing a bed with someone who lost the love of his life  &  thinking about how much you want to kiss him.   aren’t  you  just  a  fucking  terrible  person!

“    yeah?   when should i expect to see a wedding invite then?   you better put a ring on her before someone else does,  dude.     ”

 (   the other worst part:   you’d rather fucking kill yourself then go   )

EVERYTHING WAS PERFECT IN HIS LIFE.    He was out of the final stage of grieving and had moved on, just like he assumed Gwen would have liked. He’s engaged to the love of his life, Mary Jane, the woman who could light up a room (but more importantly: his heart).    But if everything was truly perfect, why does he feel this way?    Why does he feel a knot inside his heart, tightening and threatening to tear him apart if he goes through with this decision?    Regret lingers over his head like a raincloud, forbidding him to do otherwise unless he wants the rain to pour. It’s not a hard decision, though; this is his fate.    What happened to Gwen was a tragedy, one he paid for as both Peter and Spider-Man.    Peter grieved, crying every night as Harry lended a shoulder.     He’d lost count of how many sweaters of Harry’s he’d ruined by his tears soaking through the material. Spider-Man had a bigger price to pay.

MASKED MENACE ON THE LOOSE   :   SUSPECT IN GWEN STACY’S DEATH.      SPIDER-MAN   :   MASKED MURDERER.

Even if the newspaper wasn’t in front of him, he could still read the headlines inside his head. Every time he swung through the city, he could hear the mumbling under people’s breath   —   he wasn’t their friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, he was their friendly neighborhood murderer. 

He clears his mind from the thoughts ranging from Spider-Man and returns to the reality of Peter.    ❝  Real funny. I’ll get a ring when I can afford it!  ❞    He laughs and yet, still feels his heart dropping by the second. He looks at Harry and feels something different. Something he’s never felt with either MJ or Gwen; it terrifies him. When he’s with Harry, he’s visceral and raw; he’s the person he wishes he could always be. There’s always a hidden door with MJ, or even Gwen when she alive; what makes Harry different from them?