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Flash Thompson is a bully, guilty as charged.
He finds the vulnerable and adds insult to injury, he finds the outcasts and pins down a catchy nickname he has the whole school using within a week, he watches people stammer and sob when he’s done.
Just because he does it doesn’t mean he likes it.
Believe it or not, the bully can also be the bullied; former friends coined Fag Thompson, a homophobic jab at his hair, his clothes, his ukulele; he ignores it even though every time he hears it the back of his neck burns with humiliation.
He doesn’t care. He doesn’t cry.
Flash learned from a young age what was “acceptable” and what was “unacceptable”; it was “acceptable” to get good grades, talk to girls, and win first place at science fair.
It was “unacceptable” for boys to like boys.
It was easy enough for Flash to say he liked a girl, take her out, hold her hand; but he couldn’t ignore that empty feeling in his chest. If you like someone even a little bit, aren’t you supposed to feel something?
It was easy enough for Flash to forget about girls and focus on school; his parents didn’t complain.
He started high school at Midtown, his first time at a public school. He figured he’d do just fine until he was sitting in freshmen English class next to a Star Wars nerd named Peter Parker; he citied first day nerves as the reason for his stomach doing backflips because there was no other probable cause, obviously.
Admittedly, it took him a while to realize the cause of his weird nervousness was Peter. When Liz told him one day that when the protagonist of a romance novel feels that way it means they’ve just met their soul mate, he came to the conclusion that he had to make Peter hate him. He devoted the time he used to use to look at Peter’s eyes to figure out just what color they were, look at his hair and wish he could touch it because it looked so soft, and wonder what it would be like to hold his hand to figure out ways to insult him.
Every time he said Penis Parker he heard a little whisper of Fag Thompson in the back of his head.
Flash Thompson is gay, guilty as charged.
He knows what pride parades look like, blockbuster movies like Love, Simon: all those bright colors and blue skies. It’s not real life, though; Flash knows that.
It’s foolish for him to believe he can be happy like that.
At the dinner table, his dad says he’s relieved none of his kids are faggots; Flash hides the fact that he feels like he’s just been stabbed. He excuses himself from the table and locks himself in the powder room, leaning against the door. He feels a single hot tear creep out of his eye before wiping his face and splashing it with cold water.
He takes a deep breath; he won’t cry.
He goes to sleep, eyes puffy and red.
He feels dirty; he knows it’s just his dad talking, but the thought just won’t leave him alone; Bright red, flashing lights; Guilty, guilty, guilty. He starts to bully Peter more now; in some sick and twisted way, it makes him feel better, more detached from his emotions.
It’s a few months later- Flash has a boyfriend now, idea courtesy of Liz. She’d suggested that he join a dating app. He had no luck in the beginning, but within a month he found someone willing to go out with him. Calvin isn’t too shabby: a bit too clingy, a little controlling, but he can deal with that. A 25-year-old dating an almost 18-year-old spells trouble for most people, including Flash.
But he’s lonely and desperate, so he shoves it in the back of his mind.
Calvin lives in a dingy apartment he doesn’t clean, a small one-bedroom studio that could easily be mistaken for a room at a Motel 6 with its stain-ridden carpet and damp moldy smell. Flash’s spotless Sperrys are a sharp contrast to the piles of dirty clothes and empty bottles he steps around, shedding his clothes as he makes his way to Calvin’s usual recliner, his legs spread, smug expression reflecting a future he already predicted, gazing at him through his lashes as Flash lowers himself to his knees, slowly as possible. It’s too slow, apparently, because Calvin grabs a fistful of his hair, forcing him into position. It’s a common occurrence nowadays.
Flash knows this isn’t how relationships are supposed to work: healthy ones, at least.
But he’s got someone, and that alone is enough for him to ignore it.
Calvin falls asleep quickly afterwards, the TV turning to white noise as Flash sits in the bathroom, clearing the counter of his boyfriend’s drug clutter, shirt off, scrubbing at his face and his hair over and over, wincing when his cracked lip begins to bleed again, an old wound that keeps reopening, never healing. It makes him feel dirty; he feels like he’s cheating on Peter: not really him, but his own feelings for him, maybe.
He starts to notice the bruises on his knees, and begins to decline Calvin’s calls. He considers breaking up with him, but he always goes back eventually; Calvin lashes out when he’s angry, and Flash is too scared to say no.
Part of him wants to say it, to deny it, to set his boundaries; but he knows he’s not brave enough to face the consequences if he does.
A while later, Spiderman saves the city; Flash is obsessed.
In a cool, awesome superhero sort of way, not a gay way, obviously: Because Flash isn’t gay, obviously. He starts a Spiderman fan account on Twitter because why not; it’s not like anyone’s ever going to find out it’s him; @spideythirst becomes his new identity. He feels like he can be a bit less guarded now; lots of people talk about superheroes; just because they like them doesn’t mean they’re gay. He talks about Spiderman with Liz at decathlon one afternoon; he can’t help but notice Peter’s been staring. The second he looks him in the eyes, Peter whips his head in the other direction.
Huh.
At homecoming, Spiderman borrows destroys his car. If that wasn’t weird enough, he calls Flash by his name; he tries not to look too star-struck. He feels like a kid on Christmas for the rest of the night, the giddy anticipation and the realization repeated over and over like a mantra in his head; Spiderman knows my name! Spiderman. Knows. My. Name. This can’t be real. Holy Fucking Shit.
Spiderman follows them to Venice, and now Flash is thoroughly convinced this isn’t a coincidence. Despite the superhero-sized mishaps, the trip is going pretty well.
They’re in London, checked into the hotel for the night when his dad calls him, screaming so loud he flinches. Flash had been careful, but not careful enough. Somebody ratted on his twitter, and now his dad knows. Flash thinks he can get through the phone call easily enough until he hears his dad spit the word faggot into the phone. Flash hangs up right before he starts sobbing into his hands. He feels his throat closing up, and all of a sudden he has an overwhelming urge to get outside before he completely loses it. He’s running down the hall as fast as his shaking legs will carry him, but not fast enough to avoid Peter, bless his soul, who takes just enough time to ask him if he’s ok.
By the time Flash registers what Peter said, the elevator door has already closed.
He’s sitting on a bench in Hyde Park crying his eyes out when he sees someone sit down next to him.
Just his luck; it’s fucking Spiderman.
“Hey man; you’re not lookin’ too good,” he says, shrugging his shoulders; his expression is unreadable through the mask.
“What gave you that impression?” Flash says flatly, “The dried tears or the look of utter defeat?”
The silence between them is deafening.
“You can talk to me, if you want. I don’t mind; I got nowhere to be,” he says.
Flash didn’t think life could get any weirder that this; but alas, Spiderman is sitting next to him on a bench in London at 10:00 at night asking if he can be his fucking therapist.
God, life is strange.
Flash lets out a wet laugh; talk? To Spiderman? What is he supposed to say? That he’s a gay kid in a homophobic household that tried to get rid of a crush he had on a kid in his freshmen English class by bullying him relentlessly? Now his dad knows and he’s afraid to go home ‘cause he doesn’t know what’s coming? That the only person he feels remotely close too is his predatory 25-year-old boyfriend who forces him into giving blowjobs and cooks meth in his bathroom? That he’s completely and utterly terrified?
So that’s exactly what he does; he tells Spiderman the whole story from beginning to end.
He says nothing, but nods along and listens the whole way through.
“Do you still like him?”
“Huh?”
“The kid, from your English class.”
Flash looks away; why does he care? But then again, what’s a stranger in spandex gonna do with the identity of some random kid’s high school crush?
“Yeah; he’s-he’s amazing. But I can’t tell him that, ‘cause, ya’know.”
“What’s he like?”
Flash figures there’s no harm in it, what’s he got to lose? So he tells Spiderman everything; he nods along, just like before.
“His name’s Peter, and for some reason, he still doesn’t hate me; I feel like it would hurt less if he did, but I don’t want him to either, even though I know I deserve it.”
In that single moment, something changes; he can’t see much because of the mask, but he can feel it nonetheless.
“Oh shit, man, I’m sorry; I don’t mean to be rude, but-official Spiderman business. Gotta run; But I’m really sorry, about-all that.” Spiderman webs himself to the nearest building, turning back to wave good-bye, and Flash is alone again.
Flash tries his best to enjoy the rest of his vacation, after he deletes his twitter of course. He laughs with Liz and co. over breakfast before heading to the London Eye with the rest of their class.
Peter doesn’t come down for breakfast, which is odd, considering he usually inhales like, ten waffles; not that Flash noticed or anything.
They spend the entire day out and about; Peter’s nowhere to be seen. Curiosity gets the best of him, so Flash asks Mr. Harrison what happened to Peter: he’s sick, apparently; Ned’s taking care of him at the hotel.
That night, he comes back with more useless souvenirs and soft smiles behind tired eyes. At around one, he hears something slam into his hotel window. That was way too big to be a bird, he thinks, blinking sleep from his eyes and making his way over to the window, when he’s filled with shock and terror all at once.
Spiderman is lying on the fire escape, the urban glow just enough to show off the giant splotch of blood soaking the whole left side of the suit.
Before he can think about it, Flash is wrenching open the window and pulling him inside, trying his best to avoid the large injury on his side.
“Holy shit; what the hell happened to you?”
All he seems to manage is a half-hearted, pained groan.
The initial shock has worn off just enough for Flash to go on autopilot; he roots around in the bathroom and locates the small first aid kit underneath the sink, taking it into the room and kneeling down next to Spiderman.
“Ok, you really should go to the hospital, but considering the whole secret identity thing, I get it. In the mean time, I’ll try to patch you up the best I can. You’re probably gonna hate this, but you have to take off the suit,” Flash says; to his relief, Spiderman is still responsive, wincing as he disengages the suit and cautiously slides it off. Flash takes a quick gauge of his injuries: some bruising on the ribs, a couple smaller cuts on his chest, and the giant seven-inch gash on his side just below his ribs, currently gushing blood all over his sheets.
Flash takes a deep breath; alright, ok; he can do this. He moves into nurse mode, wiping every cut and bruise in isopropyl alcohol and Neosporin, pulling out bandages and gauze and slowly but surely patching him up, bit by bit. He shakily threads the needle, telling Spiderman to hold on but stay still ‘cause this is gonna hurt like a bitch. He hisses when Flash sticks the needle in, whispering empty comforts to help take Spiderman’s mind off of the sharp needle currently weaving in and out of his skin. Flash helps him sit up, silently handing him the TV remote to fill the silence. Flash fiddles with the tube of Neosporin, turning it over and over in his hands as the news anchor drones on about the weather. They sit in companionable silence for a bit, until Spiderman jerks up, muttering something incoherent as he staggers towards the bathroom, clutching his side. Flash hears him retching over the sound of the TV, staring at the threshold, his fidgeting hands stilling for a moment. When the vomiting ceases, Flash grabs a water bottle off the table and walks over to the bathroom. He feels something stab at his heart as he looks on; Spiderman is hunched over the toilet, one hand gripping the porcelain edge while the other cradles his stitched-up side, mask crumpled up in his fist. His hair is mussed from pulling off the mask, soft caramel curls plastered to his forehead. Flash’s brain short-circuits and everything stops.
This can’t be real; Flash feels like he’s going to vomit now.
“You can use my secrets against me; I deserve it,” Flash mumbles, setting the bottle down next to Spiderman Peter. Peter coughs, reaching for the water bottle slowly, chugging half of it and shakily replacing the cap.
“I wouldn’t; I won’t,” he says, looking at the floor, “ ‘sa shitty thing to do.” The silence is agonizing; Flash shifts from foot to foot, trying his best not to spontaneously combust.
“Do you really like me?”
Flash shuts his eyes, “Do you really want the answer to that? Nothing good ever happened to people who opened Pandora’s box.”
“I’d like the truth, for my own knowledge; I’m not a rumor kind of person,” Peter says, using the sink as leverage to hoist himself off the floor.
“Yeah; I did, I still do. You know the rest.”
They sit at the edge of Flash’s bed, a comfortable distance between them as Keeping Up With the Kardashians plays on the TV. It’s around midnight when Peter goes back to his hotel room, leaving Flash alone for the night. He checks his phone; 5 missed calls from Calvin. He turns it over in his hands a bit before deciding not to call him back.
He lies in bed, but doesn’t sleep.
The next day, he barely keeps his eyes open, dark circles framing his face. He’s basically brain-dead, his mind still mulling over everything that happened last night as he stares blankly into a cold cup of standard-issue hotel coffee. He hears the screech of someone pulling out a chair, looking up to see Peter sitting across from him, shoveling Froot Loops in his mouth. He catches Flash’s gaze, giving him and awkward smile before going back to his cereal.
“You don’t have to be nice to me ‘cause you feel bad. I know you’d rather sit with Ned and MJ. Trust me, I’m not the greatest company when I’m running on zero sleep, jet lag, and shitty British food; these people invaded the entire world for spices and don’t use any of them? The most tragic thing about white people is that they think their food really is something. Oh, and they think black pepper is spicy. Yikes.” Peter laughs, but not before spitting his water all over the table; Flash smiles; Peter’s laugh is a nice sound; frankly, he wouldn’t mind hearing more of it.
They continue their banter throughout breakfast, and Flash is even more surprised when Peter sits behind him on the tour bus, poking fun at the tour guide’s supposed “fun facts”. They keep it up through the entire trip; Flash is happy, content with this.
It’s only once they get through airport security that he feels himself begin to grow cold.
Panic hits him like a bucket of cold water; his throat closes up so suddenly that he practically collapses onto the nearest bench; gripping the seat so tightly his knuckles turn white. He’s frozen in place, eyes locked onto the floor beneath him. The white noise of the airport rises to a deafening crescendo; his breathing is labored; he shuts his eyes to keep the tears in.
He doesn’t notice Peter sat down next to him until puts his hand on his back, rubbing his shoulders lightly.
“You wanna talk about it?” It takes a minute for Flash to register his words; he opens his mouth to respond when he notices his classmates staring at him, wide-eyed and pale-faced.
“Not here; too many people,” he whispers, just loud enough for Peter to hear. Peter, the fucking angel, grabs his hand, leading him over to a secluded corner by an empty terminal.
“Is it about your Dad? Your weird creepy boyfriend?” Flash just nods, too empty to try and sort through anything he’s feeling right now.
“I’m not the greatest at helping people with stuff like this, but uh, you can call me or whatever, stay with me if you don’t have anywhere to go; Aunt May wouldn’t mind. It’s hard, feeling like you’re alone.”
Flash can’t help himself; he hugs Peter, crying into his shoulder. He joins Peter and co. for dinner; he’s silent the entire time, pushing his food around in its plastic container, too nervous to eat and too weirded out by Ned and MJ’s stares to do anything else. Peter sits next to him on the plane home, checking up on him between Star Wars movies. Flash has a consideration; he mulls over it for the entire five hours of the flight. He doesn’t want to overstep, but it’s not like he has any other options currently; he can go home and face and uncertain (but probably torturous) fate at the hands of his parents, or go to his boyfriend’s shitty apartment and keep getting his face fucked until his lips bleed.
The pilot makes the landing announcement when he finally works up the nerve to ask. Peter doesn’t mind; he just stands outside the bathroom while he lets his Aunt know they’ll be expecting a guest. Needless to say, he’s absolutely floored when he sees Tony Stark standing in front of baggage claim, his face shrouded by a pair of Chanel sunglasses and a black hoodie. He smiles when he sees Peter, giving him a side hug while he asks him about the trip. As for Flash, he makes no comment, just turning back to make sure he’s following. There’s a car waiting for them, driven by a man only referred to by Tony as Happy. Somewhere along the way, Peter falls asleep next to him in the backseat, and Flash finds himself hypnotized by the top 20 hits playing softly on the radio and Mr. Stark talking a mile a minute to someone on the other side of his phone call. He stares out the window, watching the lights from the highway go by in a Technicolor blur; before they reach the gridlock of Manhattan, Flash’s eye slip shut: he’s woken up by Happy, who ushers him and Peter into an elevator with Mr. Stark. Trying his best to avoid awkward eye contact with the superhero billionaire currently standing less than a foot away, he taps away on his phone aimlessly.
They reach the penthouse at the top of Stark tower, and Peter heads directly to bed after mumbling a quiet good night to Mr. Stark. Flash is exhausted, but he finds himself curled up on Mr. Stark’s couch, staring at the skyline of Manhattan outside the window, unable to close his eyes; he doesn’t notice when Tony takes a seat next to him.
“Peter gave me run-down of your whole situation over the phone,” he says coolly, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world; Flash tenses, trying his best to disappear into the couch cushions.
“I get if you don’t want to talk about it; I just want you to know that I understand.” The last part is quiet; Flash can barely make out the words. His attention is drawn to his phone, vibrating on the cushion next to him and displaying his dad’s contact.
Before he knows it, he’s crying: he lurches forward with muffled, full-bodied sobs feeling hot, wet tears slide down his cheeks and drip onto his rumpled shirt. He freezes when he feels two arms wrap around him in an awkward hug, one warm calloused hand rubbing up and down his back, his face leaning into Tony’s shoulder. They sit that way until Flash’s sobs die down; Tony abandons the couch and returns with a box of tissues and some water, setting the glass on the sleek glass coffee table before sitting down and facing Flash and offering him the box. He takes it, gingerly blowing his nose before turning to face Tony.
“I don’t normally go around telling teenagers my secrets, but you’re in rough shape so I’ll make an exception,” he begins, “Just don’t put this on social media or sell it to a tabloid; capeesh?” Flash nods quietly, studying the glass in his hand and frowning before returning it to its watermarked spot on the table; it probably costs more than he’s worth. Tony huffs, slumping his shoulders before beginning to speak.
“I’m bi; known since I was 14 and had a really embarrassing wet dream about Captain America,” his face flushes, and he carefully removes his sunglasses,
“My dad wasn’t a very progressive man, which is just a polite way of saying that he was incredibly homophobic. I was shit at keeping secrets, and some asshat at a college party leaked pictures of me making out with the boy I was dating at the time and sold them to a tabloid. A copy made it to my dad’s desk, where a giant cover photo of me and an unnamed philosophy major sucking face was immortalized in glossy magazine-print,” he swallows hard at that; his eyes go glossy for a moment, but Tony blinks and the potential tears are gone as quickly as they appeared.
“We broke up because of it; I spent like, three days in bed crying over him, and then my dad pulled me out of school for three months, trapped me in the house, and hired a psychologist to help figure out what was ‘wrong’ with me. I was so miserable that I tried to kill myself and ended up in the hospital to get my stomach pumped. After that decibel, I was sent back to school only coming back during the holidays to see my mom; my dad didn’t want to be in the same room with me.”
The soft sounds of their breathing fills the room as Tony pauses; Flash’s is cautiously even, but Tony’s is shaky and ragged around the edges: the watery shine in his eyes returns, but he doesn’t blink it away this time.
“Anyways, we all know what happened after that. Despite the untimely death of my parents, the next year wasn’t too shabby: I stopped doing drugs completely, I got my second master’s degree, and I had a new boyfriend that was a romantic sap who made the best waffles and made me laugh so hard water went up my nose. The point is, your family might suck, your boyfriend might be a douche, and everything might be miserable, but it gets better: just make sure you’re around to see it, kid.”
Everything’s a blur after that; Tony notices the time and sends him off to bed. He wakes up the next morning to see a bleary-eyed Peter seated at the kitchen island while Tony piles pancakes onto three separate plates. Peter heads off to his Aunt’s. Flash leaves a bit after Peter, but not until Tony offers up a spare bedroom any time his family life gets tough and forces him to take a pile of pancakes with him, insisting that he needs the calories. He talks to Flash about anything and everything he can come up with, and insists on letting Happy drive him home, but he politely declines the offer: the dull ache of guilt hits him on the subway when he realizes that for all the money Tony has, he’s lonely.
Takes one to know one, he muses.
He carries Tony’s words with him, though, when his entire family gives him the cold shoulder and he can feel their eyes on his back and hear the whispers in his ears at family reunions, when Calvin sends him angry texts that he promptly ignores, etcetera. It’s not all bad though; Peter gives him a small smile and a wave when they pass each other in the halls, he’s in the top of his class in AP Bio this year, and he’s in good standing to get into his dream school.
Three months later, he graduates with honors from Midtown; it’s the last time he sees Peter; mentally, he wishes him well.
He sees Peter again, though; six years later, and as much as everything’s changed, it’s stayed the same. The last he heard, Peter got into MIT for engineering. He assumes Peter’s in graduate school now; Flash finished his Biology degree at UCLA and came back to New York for Columbia Medical School. He’s running a coffee order for the office he’s interning at this summer, a med express clinic in the Upper West Side when he sees a familiar head of auburn curls at a standard-issue Starbucks table sitting across from a very recognizable man in an MIT hoodie and a pair of obscenely expensive sunglasses. Peter’s talking animatedly, his hands waving everywhere as he runs through equations and other science talk at the speed of light while his companion smiles and nods along like he’s getting every word. By the time he gets through the line, Peter is alone, tapping away on his laptop. Flash sways from side to side, mentally debating whether he should approach him or not.
Eventually, he does.
Peter gives him a familiar soft smile when he sits down across from him, closing his laptop and asking what he’d been up to. Flash tells him about med school, and Peter exchanges Stark “Internship” stories. All in all, they chat for about an hour before Flash figures that unless he wants to get fired from his internship, he should really deliver that coffee order. They exchange numbers, and Peter makes the passing comment that they should hang out again sometime.
When he returns to his apartment at the end of the afternoon, he collapses on the couch and shoves his feet onto his boyfriend’s lap.
“You’ll never guess who I saw today,” he says over the menial narration of a re-run of House Hunters.
“Is it the guy who sounds suspiciously like Spiderman every time you talk about him?” Harry asks. Flash sighs,
“He’s not Spiderman, ok? Why do you keep bringing that up?” Harry laughs, lightly tossing a pillow at Flash,
“Why are you denying it? You are many things, Flash Thompson; a good liar is not one of them.” Flash smiles, poking Harry in the side,
“Guilty as charged.”
He spends the rest of the night enduring his boyfriend’s horrible spider puns and prying about what Spiderman was like as a teenager, and trying his best to eat Harry’s half-burnt attempt at pizza before they give up and get take-out. They call it a night, and Flash stares up at the ceiling listening to the white noise of Manhattan while Harry is asleep, a comfortable, warm weight on his chest.
He smiles to himself as he feels his eyelids grow heavier, a single thought drifting through his head:
Tony was right.