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〖 chapter four ⋆the golden boy 〗
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He liked to think that it didn't matter. That nothing mattered and nothing was wrong. The secrets he kept, everything that happened between him and Peter, it didn't matter. He could keep it locked away in a closet, a room locked away in the back of his mind, and it would never haunt his dreams. He liked to think that this looming figure always present in his mind to remind him of what he was doing and how wrong he was didn't matter.
It wasn't wrong. He knew that sometimes, he knew that there were protestors and signs and those who cheered that love was love and it was wonderful. He knew that there were people who were happy with themselves, free, and spread that joy around with others. He knew that he should be proud of himself, happy that he could at least admit to someone who he truly was when the lights turned off, but he wasn't.
Because the truth was that he was never so openly free and he could never be. It wasn't that he liked the grave he dug out for himself so long ago when he was growing up and realizing what maybe he wasn't like everyone around him, it was just that he had and others had helped. Unintentionally, of course. But he was the golden son of his family, their pride and joy, the one who would continue on with their name, and he couldn't let them down. He didn't like letting anyone down, so he wouldn't.
He would live the two lives he had created for himself. There was the image he projected onto others, the prized golden child and then there was Icarus, burning too bright and trying to reach what he truly wanted until he would be burnt. But not yet, he was still pushing forward, still flying towards the sun and it had not yet gotten him. In time, it would, but that time was not now.
And it didn't matter, it wasn't a huge deal that he created two people for himself to live through. It got tiring, yes, but he could unwind as Icarus to brave the day as the golden son. It would get easier, in time, when he wouldn't have to switch back and forth so frequently. Icarus could come out to play for longer periods of time and he could let himself pretend to be okay with who he was.
He wasn't.
And that was okay, he liked to think. He didn't have to be proud of himself, he didn't have to preach as others did or hold up signs of protest, signs to show that he was a human being alike many others. He could be so terribly disgusted with himself and still indulge his desires and that had to be okay. He convinced himself in vain that it was okay.
No one needed to know that there were two different people. No one needed to know he had Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde or Hulk and Bruce Banner, they could just know him as the golden son or Icarus and never meet the other. That would be fine enough for him, he could live with that, he thought.
