Chapter Text
Listen. Flash knows he’s an asshole, okay?
He’s well aware of that fact, knows it like he knows he’s left-handed instead of right. Like it’s part of who he is. And sometimes it does feel like that, feels like he couldn’t possibly train himself not to be an asshole any more than he could train himself to write with his non-dominant hand. Maybe it’s possible, yeah, but it would feel weird. Uncomfortable.
But here’s the thing.
Flash almost died. He can say that now. He nearly didn’t make it, and okay, maybe he was the first one out of that elevator. Maybe he hadn’t been the one helplessly hurtling down the elevator shaft trapped in a cement cube, maybe he hadn’t been desperately grasping for empty air like Liz, but he was there.
That’s more than Parker can say, anyway.
***
So maybe Flash is a little bit scared of elevators now. Maybe he hates the feeling of the doors closing in front of his eyes, maybe it feels like a death sentence. But it’s irrational. It is.
Flash’s father brings him to his office to show him where real men work, come on son, don’t disappoint me. The room is on the thirty-fourth floor of the building. There’s an elevator in the corner of the lobby, standing tall and imposing, silver doors chronicling the void of his reflection. Flash walks into it like it’s a tomb.
His father notices. Asks why Flash is standing so stiff. Tells him to fix his posture.
Flash stammers out an explanation, but it must not be good enough, must not accurately depict the feeling of shark teeth worrying at his organs, because his father merely rolls his eyes.
“Oh please,” he says. “You would’ve been fine, and I would’ve sued them if you hadn’t been. Honestly, Flash, stop being so dramatic. There’s no use in being scared after the fact. Lightning doesn’t strike twice.”
That’s not exactly right. Lightning can strike the same spot twice. Flash knows; he researched it for a physics project. The step leader in a lightning strike is most gravitated to the tallest object around—the Empire State gets hit over twenty times a year.
But it’s pointless to argue. Flash swallows the growing pit of anxiety gnawing at his stomach as the steel trap moves up, up, up.
“Okay,” he replies.
God, they’re going to have to go back down in this thing later.
***
Flash can’t exactly say when Peter Parker became his worst enemy. They actually used to be friends, back when they were both itty-bitty, though Flash will deny it ‘till his dying breath. But somewhere during the passage of time between kindergarten and high school, their limbs grew from spindly little things into full-fledged arms and legs, and their voices went from soprano to alto, and Flash decided he hated Peter.
Why?
Well. That’s a tough question.
It’s just—look, here’s this kid who’s an actual orphan and yet he is still more loved than Flash is. It’s wrong, Flash knows, to hurt him like this. He knew it even in middle school. It’s wrong to hurt him, to continuously belittle him. But how is he supposed to respond, except with violence?
Like father, like son.
***
Peter gets placed on probation for a bit after the DC trip, and Flash wants to revel in it, but after the period has passed he’s placed right back on the team (right back in Flash’s place) like nothing ever happened.
Flash’s car gets stolen by Spider-Man, and Liz moves away, and Peter-Fucking-Parker ends up unscathed as always.
Flash hates him.
Spider-Man’s still pretty cool, though.
***
It’s the goddamn fucking elevator all over again.
MJ had told them yesterday that they needed more prep before they were ready for their next competition, so they were meeting at her place for decathlon practice. She had said, in no uncertain terms, that everyone had better be there, on time, while looking directly at Peter. The message was received by all.
So here Flash stands, waiting for an elevator that’s going to take him up to the fourteenth floor of the building with Peter, who is actually early for possibly the first (and last) time in his life. Flash is so tempted to take the stairs.
The steel trap arrives with a cheerful ding, and the doors slide open. They enter.
Peter opens his mouth as if he wants to make small talk or some shit, but Flash glares at him and he shuts it. Instead, he just presses the button for the tenth floor.
The elevator starts to ascend.
Flash had once read, in his extensive research on Spider-Man, that the superhero has a sixth sense. Something that alerts him to danger, some precognitive warning.
Flash isn’t Spider-Man, but he swears he feels the back of his neck prickle in warning just before the elevator shudders to a halt.
Flash looks up at the red number that declares they’re on the eighth floor. “That’s not the right floor,” he says, voice too high, too fast, not again, not again. “Why did we stop?”
Peter’s eyebrows are furrowed. “I don’t know.” He steps forward, presumably to press another button, and then everything goes to shit.
The elevator drops and Flash’s heart goes with it, goes into his throat until he’s choking on it, and then he’s just choking. He has the sudden urge to inform the world that this can’t be right, can’t be happening—lightning doesn’t strike twice, you see.
Just as quickly as they plummeted, though, they stop.
Flash is just barely aware of the cool metal of the railing under his palm. Had he grabbed it? He doesn’t remember, but he doesn’t really want to release the death grip he has on it. He thinks he asks, “What was that?” but he’s not really sure if Peter responds because his chest is all tight, all of a sudden, and the first thing he thinks is asthma attack, even though he never even fucking had asthma, that was Peter wheezing in the hallways all those years ago, but he feels like his lungs are on fire, like his airways are closing, and his heart is beating so fast, and his vision is spotty, and what the fuck is happening?
He registers, distantly, while trying helplessly to suck air into his mouth, that Peter is talking to him. Saying things like Flash, and you’re okay, and just listen to my voice, and try to match my breathing.
Flash wants to tell him to fuck off. He probably would, too, if he didn’t think speaking was out of the question right now.
Breathe in, Peter is saying, taking a deep fucking gulp of air himself as if Flash needs a demonstration or some shit. Breathe out.
He doesn’t know how long it is before he listens—time feels nonexistent in this confined space—but eventually, somewhat unknowingly, his breathing starts to match up with Peter’s.
There are tears on his cheeks—Flash can feel the wetness of them, can feel his nose running and his sinuses clogging, but it’s weird, because he doesn’t remember crying. Peter does him the decency of looking away as Flash swipes at his face with his sleeve.
“You okay?” Peter asks.
Ha. Funny choice of words. Flash definitely isn’t okay, but he understands the sentiment and nods, exhausted.
“Have you ever had one of those before?”
Flash opens his mouth to speak, but shuts it, not exactly trusting his voice not to be shaky and pathetic and weak. He nods again.
Peter nods too.
“Are we—“ Flash cuts himself off, clears his throat, tries again. “What happened with the elevator?”
“We’re stuck, I think,” Peter says, slowly, watching Flash carefully. Flash hates it, hates that look; he’s not fucking fragile. Peter stands up. “I’m gonna push the call button.”
“Okay,” says Flash. He’s so utterly spent, he doesn’t think he can get up without help, so he just stays sitting in the corner he doesn’t remember sinking down into. He feels like he’s just emerged from the depths of a lake or something, and now he can hear and see and shit, but there’s still water clogging his ears.
He fades in and out of reality as Peter talks to the operator, as he tries the door-open button repeatedly and says, slightly angrily, “It’s not working, man. I don’t know what you want me to do. Can’t you send someone down here to get us out?”
Flash leans his head back into the wall and closes his eyes. He doesn’t stir until he feels Peter sit down next to him with a heavy sigh. “What’s the verdict?”
“They said an hour,” Peter replies. “We just gotta wait it out.”
Flash blinks, heavy, and says, “Okay.”
“The elevator’s safe, though,” Peter adds. “We won’t fall.”
“I know,” Flash snaps; it’s harsher than necessary and they both know it.
“How’re you feeling?”
Now that’s a stupid question. “Amazing,” Flash deadpans.
A pause.
“I’m sorry,” Peter says.
“For what?”
“I dunno,” Peter shrugs. “For DC, I guess.”
Flash scoffs. “What, did you make the elevator fall?”
Peter mutters something under his breath.
“What was that?” Flash asks.
“Nothing,” says Peter. “Look, I’m just—sorry you went through that is all. It sucks.”
It does suck.
“God, I hate elevators,” Flash says.
“Yeah,” says Peter. “Right with you there.”
They’re silent for a moment.
Then, “Where’d you go?” Flash asks.
“What?”
“In DC,” Flash elaborates. “Where’d you go?” He watches Peter swallow, and adds, “C’mon man. What were you doing that was so important you missed the competition?”
“I can’t tell you,” Peter says quietly.
“Just tell me this: were you ever planning on making it to the competition?”
“Yes,” Peter says immediately. “I just got—held up a bit.”
“Was it dangerous?” Flash asks. It’s not—he doesn’t care, really. He doesn’t even know why he’s asking. Only reason he wants to know is if Parker is involved in some shady shit, he doesn’t want any trouble on his doorstep.
“No,” Peter replies, and it’s so obviously a lie that Flash just rolls his eyes.
“Whatever it was, is it the same reason you always disappear in school?”
Peter laughs, too loud and too fake. “Jesus, what is this, twenty questions?”
Flash sighs. “Fine, don’t tell me. I don’t even wanna know whatever gang you’ve joined.”
“It’s not—“ Peter cuts himself off with a huff. “I’m sorry, alright? I just can’t tell you.”
What, is it classified? Flash wants to mock. Something for your mysterious Stark internship?
He wants to say, God, Parker, when are you going to give up that charade?
But they’re trapped in an elevator right now, and if Flash has another panic attack, he doesn’t really want to risk Peter ignoring him out of revenge. So instead, he says, “Okay.”
They sit in silence. Flash’s heart is still beating irregularly, too slow and then too fast. Time feels undefinable, even though they both have clocks on their phones.
“Do you think MJ’s gonna be mad we didn’t show for decathlon practice?” Peter asks.
Flash snorts. “I think she’ll give us a pass, just this once. Did you text her?”
“Yeah,” Peter says. “I said, ‘stuck in elevator, might not make it.’” As if on cue, his phone dings with her response, and he looks down to check, making a face. “She just said, ‘figures.’ What is that supposed to mean?”
Flash smiles despite himself. “It means you have a tendency to leave a wake of disaster wherever you go, Parker.”
“Ugh,” Peter groans, leaning his head back against the wall. “You don’t even know the half of it.”
Flash doesn’t doubt that’s true.
***
Flash remembers learning about punctuated equilibrium in his freshman year biology class—it’s an evolutionary hypothesis theorizing that plants and animals experience rapid speciation in between long periods of stagnation.
In other words: change comes slowly, gradually, and then all at once.
He leaves Peter alone, mostly. Can’t really find it in him to shove the guy around anymore. They haven’t really talked since the elevator incident, but Flash has—he’s laid off a bit on the insults.
And then.
And then, Peter comes to school one day sporting an oversized hoodie and a black eye. He comes to school with a goddamn black eye and it’s fine for half the day even though everyone is shooting him concerned looks, and in physics, Flash turns around to make eye contact with Peter and tries to nonverbally ask, “You good?” and Peter only shrugs and nods, and then they’re at lunch and Flash is sitting with his friends.
It’s stupid what happens, really.
Flash is just sitting there, minding his own fucking business, when Mark slams his plate down next to him, sprawls out in his seat and turns toward the rest of the table. “You guys seen Penis Parker’s shiner yet? Who do you think beat him up?” And then he turns to Flash. “Was it you, man? Finally got the balls to bash his face in?”
And it’s just. Flash knows he’s the one who came up with that stupid, stupid nickname, alright? He knows. He’s not proud of it. But he’d thought—stupidly, foolishly—that if he stopped using it, everyone else would, too.
And to fucking imply that Flash was the one who gave someone a black eye. Really?
He sits there, momentarily silent, as the rest of the guys wait to hear his answer. They’d probably cheer, if he said yes. Probably pat him on the back.
He glances over his shoulder at where Peter is sitting next to Ned. Michelle’s sitting across from them, directly in his line of sight. She sees him and raises her eyebrows, but she doesn’t look judgmental, for once. She looks—concerned, maybe? Not for him, that’s for sure. But for Peter.
“Flash?” Mark prods, drawing his attention back. “Did you beat him up or not?”
Flash closes his eyes just briefly, already running through a list of reasons for why what he’s about to do is the stupidest—and maybe the smartest—decision he’s ever made. “No,” he says, and then he picks his lunch tray and his bag and walks away, making sure not to look back.
Peter’s eyes widen when Flash sets his tray down at their table and Jesus, now that Flash is closer, he can see that half his face is one giant bruise. Who the fuck did that?
“Hey,” Flash says. “Can I sit here?”
Peter tilts his head. “Yeah, ‘course.”
Ned nods his assent, and Michelle shrugs.
And that’s all there is to it.
***
“Who did that to you?” Flash asks the second Michelle and Ned get up to go to their shared next period, even though the bell hasn’t rung.
“Who did what?”
Flash gestures broadly to Peter’s face.
“Oh,” Peter says, “that.” He shrugs. “Walked into a door.”
Flash blinks. Blinks again.
A? Door?
A door doesn’t do that.
“Could you maybe try to come up with a more believable lie?” Flash asks.
“Uh,” Peter says. “I’m not lying.”
Oh, goodness.
“Right,” Flash says. He’s running through everything he knows about Peter’s home situation right now. “How’s May?”
Peter furrows his eyebrows. “What?”
“Your aunt. She’s still your guardian, right?”
“Yes,” Peter draws out, and then something about the way Flash is looking at him seems to give it away, because his face clears up. “ Oh. Oh, no, no, no. May didn’t do this to me.”
Flash squints. “Then who did?”
“I got—mugged, alright? I got mugged.”
Flash’s eyes widen. “You got mugged?”
“Yes,” Peter nods. “It’s not like it’s completely improbable. We do live in a city with a lot of crime, y’know?”
Flash considers this. “Less since Spider-Man showed up, though,” he says.
“Yeah, he saved me,” Peter says. “That’s why I got away with nothing more than a black eye.”
“You got saved from a mugger by Spider-Man?”
“Yes?”
“That’s so fucking cool,” Flash says. “Why didn’t you just say that? If I were you I would never have shut up about it.”
“I, um,” Peter stammers. “I just really didn’t want people to know.”
Weird, but okay. Some people just don’t like attention. Flash will never understand that.
“But I’m fine,” Peter continues. “Really. A-okay. You don’t have to worry.”
“I’m not,” Flash says, possibly a bit too quickly, “worrying. I’m not worrying.”
Peter just raises his eyebrows. “Okay. Hey, what’s your next class?”
“Spanish,” Flash replies.
“I have calc next door,” Peter says. “We can walk together.”
Flash shrugs. He wouldn’t mind that, he supposes.