Boys like Boys|| Peter Parker

.23.

He's dead. Its destroyed. 

He's dead. Its destroyed. 

He's dead. Its destroyed. 

No matter how many times he read it over, the text never changed. He rubbed his thumb over the writing. It wasn't very late at night, the city was still bustling with life, but when was New York ever quiet?

He believed her, he really did. If Natasha said the red room was no more, then it really wasn't. 

But a small, sick part of him was appalled. If not for the red room, what was he? He wasn't a widow anymore, he wasn't running from the widows. What was he? Who was he? Without the red room, he had no purpose. 

Life wasn't monotonous exactly, it was peaceful, it was calm, it was... boring. 

He was alone, again. No red room, no Bucky. Alone, with nothing to do. It was killing him. He hated this, hated the feeling of boredom. It was like an itch under his skin, the desire to do something, to fight. 

It didn't feel right, none of it felt right. 

Oliver wasn't meant for a normal life, he was meant for bloody knuckles, the ache in his muscles, the adrenaline rushing through him in a fight. He was meant to be a fighter. This was unnatural. Relaxing was unnatural. 

He made a split second decision. Technically, he never really liked thinking things over. He hated the indecision. Much better if he planned it spontaneously. And besides, he had complete faith in himself and his abilities. He made good decisions- most of the time. 

That's how he found himself on the fire escape, slinging a backpack over his shoulders, he set out. 

Summer was fading into fall, that perfect time when it isn't too hot or too cold. Oliver loved it, loved the sound of air rushing past his ears, the sounds of a city not yet asleep, the darkness that settled all over the city. It was new, bizarre and thrilling. 

Oliver had always found joy in doing things "wrong". Burnt pancakes, half done nail polish, inside out t-shirts, unfair fighting, running over the roofs of buildings in Queens- 

He wasn't sure how long he had been running for, or how far he had come. He could always go back to the house, his memory hadn't failed him before. For now, he was content sitting on the edge of the roof.

The sounds of the city were like music to his ears. In the distance, he could hear someone yell, a car alarm went off, a dog could be heard barking. It was chaos- it was peace for Oliver. 

Silence never seemed right. 

He hated that he found himself wandering to the box he kept tightly locked in the corner of his mind. Slowly, the box opened and it felt like a punch to the gut. It was overwhelming, thinking about that damn place. 

Once it started, he couldn't stop it. 

An eight year old with big blue eyes and a shy smile. He didn't remember what he had thought the red room was exactly- maybe a secret spy school? It didn't matter. He was shook out of his fantasy by the jarring reality. 

A nine year old who saw his first death. He wasn't meant to see it of course, just happened to glance in one of the classrooms of older widows. Snap- went her neck. He'd blinked in surprise, sure that it had been staged or that it was practice. But she didn't get up, her killer though, stood up with a face empty of any emotion. 

And then, she had looked at him. Their eyes had locked. Oliver couldn't breathe, couldn't look away. 

Eventually, he managed to leave.