Life is beautiful in all its manifestations.
Part 1. Rise and fall.
Chapter 1. Strange homeless man.
Life is beautiful in all its manifestations, life is beautiful in all its manifestations and..., life is beautiful..., pulsated in the brain, an unfinished thought in a few words. This happens when words, or rather a few words, of some simple song can unexpectedly come to mind and become attached to you for the whole day. More often than not, you just hear a melody and start whistling it. Sometimes the words of that song come out on their own, and you sing; more often
falsetto; and still eat. It doesn’t oblige you to anything, but it doesn’t interfere either, and things even get done more fun... And here comes the definition of not something insignificant, but the significance of life... It dug in like a spider, though so gently, with paws as soft as velvet and melted, melted the brains. -In all its manifestations it is beautiful, or at least in its manifestations. From this intrusive and annoying thought, like a rat, he woke up. Without opening his eyes, he tried to stretch out on his bed and, turning on his right side, buried his whole body in something soft.
“Are you awake?” this soft whispered gently. He opened, no, rather, with difficulty opened the slits of his eyes, feeling pain. Bent over him was the face of a girl, half sitting, half lying on the edge of a narrow and uncomfortable couch. The dim light of the smoking wick of a kerosene lamp under the ceiling, extending into the darkness of the heating main, illuminated a small area of the room. Only the right side of her face, her bare shoulder and the contours of her small breasts under the slip were clearly visible. This means that, despite the cold in the tunnel, she also undressed yesterday. He himself was shirtless, but the heat of the pipes that warmed the bed from below did not create the necessary thermal comfort. It was just cold and he stood up and pulled his sheepskin coat higher, covering her and himself with it. With a joyful exclamation, she lay down next to him, helping him push the edges of the casing under his side. Then she clung to him and trustingly laid her head on his broad chest. With a cool palm she gently stroked his face and neck. Her hand on her shoulder went limp and the girl fell asleep.
“Life is beautiful in all its manifestations and vicissitudes of fate,” he joyfully thought, and then - a crazy thought that an evening incident could become fateful in their lives?
Has he long ago gotten used to the idea that he attracts the attention of others only with his pitiful appearance? For ordinary people, homeless people, beggars and people who have sunk to a similar state have always been and will be outcasts of society? In no civilized state there are more or less acceptable programs for the return to society of at least young and healthy people from such an environment. Shelters, rehabilitation and adaptation centers for persons without a fixed place of residence, the same rehabilitation centers for persons released from prison. Well, yes - home for elderly people There are orphanages and boarding schools. Naturally, there is also something where you can just spend the night and eat for free.
In big cities, volunteers deliver stew and feed it to hungry and sick people right on the street. Although the state allocates millions of funds, homeless people and street children have filled the country. If earlier a person was sent to prison for parasitism, and there he brought at least some benefit to the State, now... However, as he realized later, the prison cannot solve either this or any other task assigned to it. The poor and dispossessed rummage through garbage containers. They spend the night, no, they live for years in heating mains and in garbage dumps. Here they manage to give birth to children, but they also die in the tens of thousands, both summer and winter, especially in winter. Of course, they are buried at the expense of the state. How many unmarked graves of such people are scattered across the earth. Yes, what about homeless people? - a normal person is forced to climb through garbage dumps to feed his family and himself. For the sixth year now, these and similar thoughts haunted the man who was falling asleep on a makeshift bed next to a young and beautiful girl.
This improvised bed was a platform of two crossbars and four unplaned boards nailed to them. The mattress from the king-size bed, placed on boards, with several springs sticking out of the holes, was, however, covered with a fresh sheet. The bed was located on two heating pipes of the city’s central heating main. It rested on bricks stacked a meter high. Several pillows and cotton blankets, also in clean pillowcases and duvet covers, lay on two bedside tables placed close to the pipes. At the foot of the bed hung a black suit on hangers, several shirts also on hangers, suspended by hooks in the ceiling of the heating main; and everything is covered in cellophane. A floor-length gray canopy, made of rugs and scraps of multi-colored thick fabric, more like heavy curtains, separated part of the tunnel immediately at the head of the bed. Three, maybe a little more than a meter from this canopy, a second one was built from a felt mat and two inexpensive carpets. The floor was covered with the same rug, with small rugs on top of it. Near the bedside tables there was a washbasin hanging over a bucket, and a flask of water stood on the pipes.
On two stools lay the girl’s outer and lower clothes, and near the stools on the floor her clothes were broken winter boots. The owner's trousers, shirt and sweater, which he had thrown onto some semblance of a bookshelf, now hung over the bed, ready to fall on the people sleeping on the chimneys. A torn sheepskin coat, thrown on top of the blanket, also gradually rolled off them along with the blanket, revealing their naked bodies. On a high and narrow table there was a kerosene stove, several glasses in cup holders, a saucepan with leftover food, several apples, and an open box of chocolates lying on a laptop. An almost empty bottle of expensive vodka and a full bottle of equally expensive Cahors did not contrast in any way with the entire dungeon decor, much less with the trampled tarpaulin boots lying near the ladder placed next to the bed. And certainly not with a fat rat scurrying around near them.
What and how brought these people here? - you ask, tired of contemplating this unsightly picture. Well, the story will be long...
Suddenly, or finally, things that fell almost simultaneously from the shelf and a blanket with a sheepskin coat onto the floor woke up the man. He carefully disentangled himself from the girl’s embrace, sat down and, fiddling with the wick of the lamp, turned on the fire. The lamp smoked mercilessly, but the twilight receded, freeing up a small circle of light. Then the man reached for the stack of blankets lying at the foot of the bed and carefully straightened them, looking sideways at the girl. She looked no more than 20-24 years old. She was not much shorter than him, but he was taller than average. He even played for the honor of the border school as a member of the basketball team. He was added to the team, most likely because of his height. He didn't like team sports. All-around was his strong point. How long ago it was... Without haste to cover the girl with a blanket, he admired her half-naked body. The fool even took off her panties, he thought with tenderness and without condemnation, peering into the dark bush of his womb, but resolutely pulling back the pulled up combination.
-Natasha, Natasha: - with these words from the song he woke her up, or maybe when he covered her with a blanket. She opened her eyes wide, pulled the blanket to her throat, as if protecting herself from him...
“What are you doing, Natalya Sergeevna?” the man said in bewilderment, even trying to move away.
She looked at him with a bewildered, haunted and suddenly extinguished gaze, and tears rolled down from her eyes, so mischievous just yesterday.
He reached out to her to dry those eyes with a kiss, but suddenly stopped, realizing that he couldn’t even touch her with his hand, at least not now. “My dear, my happiness,” whispered, no, his soul sobbed in unison with her silent cry, but he was silent. “Lie down Natasha, calm down, I’ll boil the tea now,” he said restrainedly and, getting up, began to slide to the foot of the bed.
-No, don’t, don’t leave, don’t leave, forgive me Valery Dmitrievich, Valera, Valera, my savior: - and she, grabbing his hand, sharply pulled him towards her with such force that he fell on her without having time to spring back your fall with your free hand.
His body pressed into hers like a meteorite piercing the ground, but did not cause her any tangible harm. He felt both hardness and softness on his face. female body, lips flattened against her chest and caught a nipple. Hands finally lifted him above her. He ran over her body right hand from shoulders to hips, gently stroking and squeezing lumps of breasts, elastic abdominal muscles, external and internal sides hips He leaned over her, kissing her softly on the lips. The girl was seized with a slight trembling, she did not resist and submissively, spreading her legs, pulled him towards her by the shoulders. Having crushed the girl under him, he carefully entered her. She screamed.
- Maybe it’s not necessary, dear? :- Valery whispered, realizing the responsibility of the moment and also understanding that she would no longer stop him, and he himself, like tonight, would not restrain himself. And he can’t, to be honest. A male awakened in him, having achieved the female’s favor, or simply subjugating her to himself. Natalya opened her eyes, looking at him questioningly. Her hands, leaving his shoulders, hastily crawled to his buttocks and demandingly pulled them towards her. His movements strong body They did cause damage to her, such a frail and small body in comparison with him. And she
arching in a moan, she bit her forearm, he stopped for a moment, giving her the opportunity to rest and entered her with new passion. At first she moaned only from pain, but the more and more tenderly he kissed her on the lips, breasts, neck, earlobes and again on the lips, the more frequent and intermittent the girl’s breathing became, the more passionate and longer the moans became, but already moans of pleasure and voluptuousness .
-I want to cum, I want to cum, I’m cumming, I, I... Her body tensed, she arched, like a bowstring before releasing an arrow, but he already shot, however, pitying her, no protecting her and, pulling out a destructive weapon from her womb, but pressing it to the growths in the lower abdomen, he splashed out the contents of a month’s abstinence on Natasha’s stomach. For several minutes she could not come to her senses and he, carefully playing with the lips and clitoris of the wet and still excited vagina, brought her to a second, longer orgasm.
- Oh, what a woman, what a woman. I would like this: - the words of the song flashed through my head. Yes, what kind of a day is this - a song one? - Valery thought peacefully.
“You lie down for now, and I’ll boil some tea,” he said and carefully, rolling over the girl, he jumped down. The rat reluctantly ran over the edge of the makeshift screen and immediately looked out from there, moving the bristles of its whiskers. An ordinary person would probably not have seen anything in this twilight of the fenced-off tunnel area. Valery had long been accustomed to such lighting in his home and could see perfectly. The girl turned in his direction and carefully watched as he, picking up his clothes from the floor and shaking them slightly, quickly got dressed. Then he cut off the beard and mustache hair with scissors. He lathered almost his entire face and, bending in front of the mirror, deftly shaved. I rinsed with water up to my waist. He poured cologne onto his palms and smacked his cheeks. The pleasant smell of good cologne spread throughout the room in an instant. Under the admiring glances of the girl, Valery took water from a flask, lit a kerosene stove and, putting the kettle on the fire, began to cut sausage and bread. Approaching the bed, he took the girl in his arms and, sitting her on a stool with her things, offered her to wash.
-In the meantime, I’ll go upstairs, not for long: -kissing and hugging her, -the water in the basin is still hot...
Moving the hatch to the side, he quickly climbed up and ran to the gray building in the distance, calling someone on his cell phone as he went. Near the pumping station, he quickly looked around, picking up something like a crowbar or rubbing the fittings with the edge of his jacket. Then he wrapped it in a handkerchief, grabbing the already wrapped area with his other hand, and bent over the corpses of two middle-aged people. Squeezing their palms in turn on the armature, he left it in the hands of the short, strong man. Looking into the room and making sure of something, he chuckled with satisfaction. I carefully wiped the door bolt with the same handkerchief. He took the ringing phone out of his pocket and listened carefully. Then he gave several orders:
-Do not let the doctor out until I arrive.
-Where is the guy? Still there? Strange, they weren't here...
-Don’t approach the corpses here, just cover your tracks well.
-Don’t call me anymore, speed up the documents and everything you said...
Having replaced the SIM card in his cell phone, Valery quickly
walked back, sprinkling shag on the trail. About 70 meters later he ran again, without looking back.
“Well, how are you here, aren’t you bored?” he brought the already dressed girl out of her thoughtful state.
“Did you go there?” she asked, looking at him for a long time. Holding this gaze, he evasively offered a snack with a smile. Having thoroughly washed his hands with soap, feeling her gaze on his back, he agonized over how to behave further. There was an urgent need to leave here, perhaps forever.
She herself suggested this to him, and they quickly, having eaten a sandwich each and not drinking enough of the cooled tea, began to hastily pack their things.
“You go out,” said Valery, handing her a lantern: “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Taking clean linen, a mink hat, a sheepskin coat and two small packages from the bedside tables, he folded everything on the bed. I quickly changed my clothes. He put the packages in his briefcase and put his laptop on top. He pulled out new fur-lined boots from the nightstand and, cursing at the inconvenience, changed his shoes without sitting down. After dousing the blanket and pillow with kerosene, he bent down again and squeaked to call the rat. She approached trustingly. “We’re moving, my dear,” Valery said sadly for some reason, placing the rat in his briefcase. Then he lit a short candle, which he stuck between two pillows and went to the hatch.
He quickly got out and looked around, looking for the girl. Footprints in the snow pointed in the direction of a small embankment near a dozen trees.
-Are you scared? No, the traces of a man walking at a leisurely pace, as if on a walk: he thought, following her trail. Having almost reached a hill, lightly sprinkled with snow, he saw her rise, straightening the skirts of her coat.
Smiling embarrassedly, she said: “I almost wet myself...
Taking her hand and quickly leading her in another direction, he asked: “Can you not ask me about anything, much less tell me about what happened yesterday for at least a couple of days?” The girl even stopped in surprise. He carefully, so as not to scare her, pulled her further. A deserted highway with a lonely car appeared, and Valery quickly walked towards it, tightly holding the girl’s hand. The car did not turn off. “Apparently the owner went out of need,” the girl thought. Opening the back door of the car, he wanted to put Natasha in the seat, but she shook her head negatively and, opening the front door, resolutely climbed into the cabin. He quickly got behind the wheel and drove off sharply. We drove in silence, and after 20 minutes the first city buildings appeared. It was getting light. Lights lit up in the windows of the houses. There were already people standing at the stops waiting for the first buses. Traffic lights flashed warning orange at intersections. But they always got a green light, and Valera couldn’t really look at the girl’s face, let alone have a normal conversation. Finally, he simply turned to the right and stopped the car. He turned to the girl and asked: “What will we do next?” What do you think about all this?
“I don’t know, I don’t want to think, but you didn’t kill them?” she said quickly, looking at him with the same searching gaze as at night.
- Not sure.
-But they weren’t there? Did you go there? It wasn't?
“It wasn’t,” he lied, playing along with her.
-Tell me, who are the three you came with? Yours: - he couldn’t find the correct definition: - friends?
She, twisting her face in a disgusted grimace, said quietly: “The guys are from the third year of university.” Tanya and I were given a ride home from the dance. When they offered to drink and ride, she persuaded me to go with them. She said that she liked Andrey and did not want to miss such an opportunity. She asked me to play along with her. The guys are quiet, they say. She fell silent, apparently the horror of everything that had happened began to dawn on her.
- When two people started pestering her too openly at once, I began to persuade them, trying to convince them that it would be better in the room and on the bed. We had just arrived at this hut, and Nikolai slowed down, mentioning that he had already been here. They dragged us out of the car and into a booth. I broke free and ran. And then she fell and hit something. I heard both the guys and Tanya screaming, then I heard the sound of a car driving away. The noise stopped. I was very cold and went back. How stupid, how stupid...and scary. She fell silent. Valery set off and drove off. He made a decision, realizing the recklessness of his action. Just in case, he wiped everything his and Natasha’s hands touched with a flannel rag, put on gloves and closed the door with the key, dropping it on the floor and pushing it under the body of the car with his foot. At the nearest parking lot, he started up an old Moskvich-412 and, driving out of the parking gate, taxied up to Natasha, who was waiting for him at the nearest bend in the road. Gallantly opening the door, although without getting out of the car, Valera extended his hand to the girl. She closed the door herself on the fourth times. His short instruction about who and what she should be afraid of, how to behave in the coming hours and even days did not frighten her. She intuitively understood that Valera was not insuring herself, but was afraid for her. She was flattered by this. When he dropped her off near the institute's dormitory, she felt like Zoya Kosmodemyanskaya, ready for a feat, but not understanding why.
As soon as Valery and Natasha drove away from their last habitat outside the city, two people rose from the ground and quickly ran in two directions. One picked up the trunk of a small tree from the ground and ran to the hatch, from which a strip of black and acrid smoke appeared.
The snow above the hatch has melted. After about 10 minutes the hatch cooled down and arrived
I began to level and cover the tracks leading from the hatch to the road, while sprinkling something on the snow. Throwing the trunk away from the road and admiring the fruits of his labor, he rushed along the road to the booth. When the pumping building turned out to be perpendicular to the road, he broke out several branches, and then, covering his tracks with an improvised broom and scattering shag, he entered the booth.
Having caught their breath, they spoke in a low voice: “Those two blind man’s buffs, judging by the newspaper reports, are runaways, and they’ve been broadcasting signs on the radio for two days now.” I wish I could tell you,” the first one said dreamily: “the reward has been promised.”
-Calm down. They won’t let us, and they’ll also pin the murders on us all.
-We have to leave, Mole. They put on their shoes rubber boots, they put their shoes in a large bag and walked through the sewer tunnel, ankle-deep in water. The smell was disgusting. But they walked, as if along an alley in the forest, talking and habitually inhaling the stale air, “Cease contact with everyone.” Don’t let it slip, look neither about the girl found, nor about... these freaks... -Got it? - the second one suddenly said.
Got it, got it Mole. Here's another burden on our necks...
-Tell me, where and from whom did you learn about the whereabouts of the fugitives?-
asked the first.
-Why the homeless man needed this is none of our business...
Current page: 1 (book has 4 pages in total)
Stucky ==========
Steve Rogers always did the right thing. That’s what the country thought, that’s what his friends thought, and that’s what he himself once thought. That's what he thought before everything around him began to fall apart. That's what he thought before the last drops of confidence in his actions dried up. And they dried up yesterday. Yesterday, when once again Steve's world began to collapse at a terrible speed. Once again, Steve couldn't handle it again.
Peter ran around the apartment with a backpack in his hands, collecting his things. Peter screamed that he hated Steve Rogers, and oh god, he hated Bucky Barnes. He shouted that there was nothing worse than staying here. There's nothing worse than trying to please Rogers. He shouted this, choking on tears, throwing another stretched T-shirt into his backpack. And Steve squinted his eyes every time Peter slammed the door too hard.
Steve no longer remembers why it all started yesterday. His head seems like cast iron to him, and he has difficulty lifting it from the pillow. Sometimes Steve Rogers is afraid to open his eyes, but, fortunately, no one knows about this. For a couple of months now he has been constantly getting up alone. And not because there is no one nearby. It’s just that whoever is there suddenly lost all interest in him. Sometimes Steve feels like the whole world has decided to turn against him. Against fucking Captain America.
He goes into the kitchen almost by touch. He, of course, opened his eyes, but a picture from the past still flashes before them, which he dreamed of at the wrong time tonight. Steve presses the button on the coffee maker and sits down at the table, trying to bring himself to his senses. Peter didn't come yesterday, and Steve wouldn't be sure that Barnes even came, but his dirty mug was already in the sink as usual. Steve sighed. He had never been so lonely before. Not when he woke up in a fucking new world where no one he knew was there anymore. Not when he watched Bucky Barnes rush off the cliff. Never had he felt so alone and never had he felt so lousy.
The picture from the past was surprisingly clear. A peaceful face in Steve's lap, fingers in his dark brown hair. Blue eyes looking with a grin. Bucky looked so at home that even now the memories made his heart ache and breathing became much more difficult. Bucky looked different, not like he does now. Now he looks aloof and cold. And it seems to be Steve's fault. He blames himself for everything, perhaps this is a hero complex. You always want to be good, but you don’t always succeed, especially in family life. But Steve tries again and again, each time screwing up even more.
This time he didn't know where to start. With Peter, whose whereabouts he knows as clearly as his schedule, or with Bucky, about whom he knows almost nothing anymore. It seems to him that this is his miscalculation. It seems to him that he simply did not notice when his Bucky became different. And god, he's still afraid to admit to himself that Bucky's been gone for a long time. From the very moment he fell into the abyss. Steve is even more afraid of this than of opening his eyes. Afraid to realize own stupidity and my own miscalculation. He’s afraid to admit to himself that it’s all his fault, that James is better off anywhere than next to him. He is afraid that with his eternal attempts to regain Bucky, he will cling to a piece of the past - he will destroy his present. Steve understands that he definitely can’t cope with this today, so he gets dressed and heads straight to Stark.
The first thing Steve sees is the backpack. It's lying open next to the sofa, and Steve winces. The second thing he sees is Peter sleeping on the couch. He wants to approach, he almost approaches, but someone’s hand catches his wrist.
“Let him sleep, we’ll talk in the kitchen,” Stark drags Steve along with him, and Rogers doesn’t resist much.
- When he came? – Steve, to be honest, doesn’t want to talk at all. His head is already a complete mess, and Tony Stark is famous for being able to make it even worse.
“He came at night...listen,” Tony puts two cups of coffee on the table and motions for Steve to sit down. He sits down, if only because he simply needed a second mug of coffee. Because his head is still spinning. “I understand you, Steve, but if you take him away now, it will only get worse,” Rogers sighs.
“Listen, Tony, I don’t want to offend you in any way, but you will be the last person I ask how I should raise my son,” he looks at Stark, but he doesn’t seem angry at these words at all.
“I understand,” he nods, taking a sip from his glass of coffee. “You look like crap, Rogers, is it your wife that’s bothering you so much?” – Tony grins, but somehow bitterly.
“I’ll go wake up Peter,” Steve understands that he can’t stand talking with Stark for more than five minutes, so he empties his mug and gets up from the table.
- He'll come back anyway. If not today, then tomorrow. Lock him in the closet, Rogers, so that the boy has no personal life at all,” Stark’s voice sounds somehow broken and at the same time impudent. But Stark has long since lost any insolence, only banal fatigue and the desire to send the whole world to hell. Especially Steve Rogers.
“He may have a personal life, but only with his classmates, not with you,” Rogers returns to the hall, where his son is still snoring sweetly on the sofa.
“If I listen to you, then nothing will work out with me at all,” he doesn’t shout, doesn’t get angry, he says it as if he were voicing some fact. But Steve gets uncomfortable. The fact that his son is in love with a man with whom he himself tried to build something is completely frightening. The fact that Tony is always trying to screw him is even more frightening. “You know, your paranoia, Rogers, sometimes goes beyond all bounds,” Peter begins to wince.
- Dad? – he opens his eyes, trying to figure out where he is, but consciousness does not come immediately after sleep.
“Get up, let’s go home,” Steve steps aside. He doesn't want to look at Peter, and he certainly doesn't want to look at Stark.
“I lied to you so you would go to bed,” Tony shakes his head. Peter looks like he's been slapped. “Listen, little one, your dad is right,” Stark reaches out to Peter’s hair, burying his fingers in it, but Peter immediately flies to the side.
- Dad!? Dad is right!? What are you right about, dad!? – Steve doesn’t have time to understand when Peter is nearby. He screams and stomps his feet, but doesn't look scary at all. – Why can’t you just leave me alone, tell me!? – Steve sighs. He wants to say a lot to Peter, but the words get stuck in his throat.
“Peter, I’m an old man, can’t you see it?” – but Tony speaks for him.
– What the hell difference does it make!? And you’re not an old man at all! Rogers wants to cover his ears. “Or...or is it just that you still love him?” -Peter looks like he's just been pummeled cold water knocked over. “God...I didn’t even think about that,” he grabs his backpack and falls onto the sofa.
- Damn, Peter, can you at least listen to someone sometimes?! – Steve still breaks down. – You are simply unbearable! Stop thinking only about yourself! There are people around you too, Peter, for example, me! Although, yes, you are already quite an adult and you don’t care about your father! You know, I’ve had enough, why am I the only one who’s always responsible for you!? Rogers is freaking out. It seems like this is happening for the first time, because even Tony is left sitting with his mouth open. Steve has no more strength left. It seems these were the last straws.
He goes outside without even knowing where he is going to go. He just walks, trying to close his eyes so tightly that tears will not fall from them. But apparently that's not how it works. Steve Rogers is the fucking pride of America. Steve Rogers is the one millions of children want to be like. He is ideal, he seems unapproachable. Fucking rock. But today all his invincibility has cracked. Today Steve Rogers is tired of being made of stone. Today he has the right to cry.
Comment to Stucky
For correcting mistakes, happiness and goodness to everyone: 3 I don’t always notice mistakes and can make banal mistakes) I’m terribly inattentive, but with ideas in my head) In general, enjoy reading, I’ll be glad if you don’t close the fanfic after this chapter) More interesting things to come! Hope…
Starker ==========
Tony remains sitting on the couch even as the door slams behind Steve. He was already used to watching him leave. How many times has he seen this already? The back of his head and the slamming door. It almost became a habit.
“Damn,” Peter slumps to the floor, but Tony doesn’t even move to do anything. He's devastated. Today wasn't the best Good morning, and the Rogers family seems to have decided to finish him off.
For several months now, Stark has been tormented by one single problem - Rogers' son. With this fair-haired boy who damnably reminds him of Steve himself. Painfully correct, honest, sincere. Too sincere. And too open too. Everything about this boy is too much, especially his love. Stark sometimes wonders, is it even possible to be too much in love? If yes, then he knows exactly how it is. And he knows that Peter will outgrow it. He is not a Stark, he is only sixteen and his love is far from the pride of America, in which finding cons is as realistic as finding a needle in a haystack the size of America itself. Stark is sure that he was never so wrong when he first let Peter in.
“Peter, get up,” he asks him not so much because he wants to regret it. It’s just that the paternal instinct in his head tells him that the floor is cold and Peter is only in his underwear.
“Listen, Peter, nothing could ever happen between us anyway,” these words hit worse than a slap in the face.
- But why!? – Peter jumps up and literally throws himself at Stark’s feet, clinging to his knees with his long fingers. Now Peter reminds him of himself. Himself, who, like an abandoned toy, was lying at Steve’s feet in the same way. Steve, from whose language all his life he has heard only one word with the letter “B”, from which he is already sick. "James Buchanan Bucky Barnes" is too many B's for one person. Tony, of course, doesn't regret that he doesn't have at least one in his name, because, damn it, Steve definitely won't change his decision because of it.
“Your father will twist my head,” a weak smile. Steve, of course, is unlikely to do this, but this Mr. “B” may well do it, and Tony doesn’t want to check this.
- He won’t do anything to you! – Peter leans forward and Tony doesn’t have time to understand when his face is too close, and thin pink lips touch his dry ones. He feels like a complete insignificance.
- Damn, little one! – Tony jumps up, throwing off his little hands and quickly disappears into the kitchen. He definitely needs a drink. And drink a lot. As much as you can fit, plus a small pile. But first he needs to get rid of Peter. - Friday, do something already! - he freaks out, hitting the refrigerator, which for some reason does not want to open.
“Sorry, Mr. Stark, but there was a ban on that refrigerator so that Peter wouldn’t get into it.” You yourself ordered me to turn on this mode when he’s visiting,” Tony sighs.
“Sorry, Friday,” he usually doesn’t see the point in apologizing to her, because she’s just a program created by himself. But he apologizes because she is his only interlocutor.
“The refrigerator is open,” she seems to understand him, and sometimes Tony thinks he’s overdone it. She turned out to be too human.
“Thank you,” he takes a bottle of whiskey from the refrigerator, and when he returns to the living room, he no longer finds Peter there.
“Peter has left your territory,” Friday said, and Tony thought it became easier to breathe.
Tony didn't know what he was feeling at all. He was always sure of his feelings for Steve, but for his son they were completely ambiguous. Sometimes Tony thinks: what the fuck? Why the hell do these two take up so much space in his life? And why the hell did he begin to let the boy come to him, if before this brown-eyed miracle he did not let even his closest friend near him? Peter really became the closest to him. I ran to him after school, talking about another failure, or vice versa, to boast. They rummaged through the pieces of iron together. And Steve was definitely not against their communication, he smiled and made fun of Tony, calling him “third daddy.” Tony liked it. I liked being at least somehow involved in Steve's life. I liked to think, imagine, dream that this was their son. But everything turned upside down when Peter said those words for the first time.
"I love you, Mister Stark"
For some reason, they caused unbearable pain. Tony ran away, leaving the child alone in the laboratory with a bunch of deadly objects. He still scolds himself for this mistake. Tony was used to treating him like a child and did not notice how the boy had grown. I didn’t notice how I allowed myself to fall in love. I didn’t notice how much I fell in love with him. It was wrong, and Tony almost winced at it. Love the child! Loving the son of a man who once meant more to you than your own life. Than the life of this entire planet. And Tony again hid behind his “fatherly instinct,” laughing at himself, at the stupidity of this excuse.
- Damn, Friday, where did he go? Tony is already two glasses in when he panics.
– Whose location should I trace? – and Tony definitely knows the answer. He doesn't need Friday to know where Rogers is. Steve has only two favorite places to visit when his whole world is falling apart. Tony sometimes feels like he knows Steve even better than he knows himself. Steve is most likely at Peggy's, or rather at her grave. And, perhaps, in a cafe on the outskirts of the city, where he often drinks with Romanov. For some reason, these two are drawn to solitude, to simplicity. Or maybe he ran to Barnes.
“Track Peter,” Friday is silent for exactly nine minutes, Tony is counting. She names the roof of some high-rise building, and Tony jumps up from his seat.
- Is he in a suit? – Tony prays to all the gods that Peter will be in a suit. In the very suit that Tony designed himself. Because then he has no chance of dying.
“Yes,” Stark sighs with relief, but still calls his own and after a couple of minutes he finds himself in the air, heading towards that same high-rise building.
Stucky ==========
James kept repeating that name in his head. His name, which Steve called him so often. It stuck to his lips as if it had been glued to him with tape. Maybe even super glue, but James doesn’t really care. Bucky is the one Steve treasured so much. The one James stopped being a long time ago. This made me sick. She and Steve have been together for a hundred years, and this is no joke. He and Steve have known each other since childhood, but James Barnes no longer remembers his childhood at all. James remembers Hydra, torture, and how Steve Rogers is his main target. These memories are clear, unlike those that arose later. Feelings for Rogers are also clear, but they are not the same feelings as before. James doesn't remember those feelings because they were Bucky's feelings. But James is different, he thinks differently.
James and Steve have been living together for years and they fucking have a kid. A funny boy that they found at the age of five on one of the missions. Bucky is absolutely sure that he loves Peter. He loves him like his son. He remembers every detail about him, even the smallest. He remembers teaching him to ride a bike and his first broken knees. He remembers the first time Peter called him “Dad.” With Steve it happened faster. Because Steve is different. He talks a lot, he is smart and knows how to communicate with children. James can't. James doesn't like to talk at all. It's either Bucky's business. Bucky was talkative, and sometimes James feels embarrassed by his memories. James has never been like Bucky, but he knows Steve expects it.
James tried. He really tried to be like that. I tried to joke like Bucky, tried to use his phrases and words, but it was like pretending to be someone else. Sometimes he thinks it's unfair. What’s unfair is that Steve sees in him not James himself, but a shadow of his past. This also sucks. He always wanted to be James, not Bucky. He wanted to be loved not for these four letters in his name.
It's not Steve's fault, and James understands that. It is difficult for a person to understand how James even exists. Exists with fragments of memory with a new personality. Exists, fighting the urge to run away from everyone who utters a name from his past.
He remembers one thing, just one segment from that time. But he remembers it clearly enough to revel in it. He was Steve's James that day. He was beaten that day and Bucky didn't have time. I didn't have time, damn it! This had never happened, but that evening he just started talking to some girl and didn’t notice how Steve disappeared.
Steve lay next to the trash can, choking on his own blood. James thanked all the gods that he did not have an asthma attack. That day he carried him home in his arms, blaming himself for everything. But Steve didn't think he was guilty. He told him:
“You don’t owe me anything, James,” blood dripped from his lip. Then Bucky winced.
“I owe you more than I think,” Steve passed out, and Bucky dragged him in his arms all the way to the apartment, to the bed, just so as not to wake him up.
That was the only time Steve called him James. Maybe he just doesn't remember something, but damn it, it doesn't really matter. He remembers thin wrists, Blue eyes with black eyes and wild fear. He remembers Steve as he will never be again. Weak, in need of fucking Bucky, who didn’t have time. He remembers it being picked up by James, who eventually caught those freaks and knocked out of them any desire to climb again. James feels bad again. His vision is blurry, and he no longer sees his goal.
- Damn it, Barnes, what are you doing there? Did you fall asleep? – James shakes his head, trying to pull himself together and finally pulls the trigger. He looks down for a couple of minutes and then notices a familiar figure. Blonde hair, brown jacket. He couldn't help but recognize Steve. - Hey, James! Come on quickly! They'll notice you, but he doesn't have time to look at it.
James runs away, afraid of being noticed. For Steve, he is working in a bookstore today. In the very bookstore towards which he is heading. And Bucky runs there too. He runs across the rooftops, down fire escapes, taking off his suit as he goes. He throws it into his backpack, pulls on a gray T-shirt and pulls his hair into a ponytail. He breathes heavily, trying to catch his breath, and plops down behind the cash register.
“Hello,” the tight smile on his face speaks for itself. Steve stands at the entrance, afraid to take a single step forward.
-What's on your cheek? – he still comes closer, finding himself very close. They are separated only by the counter. James runs his fingers over his own cheek and there's blood on them.
“Damn, I still cut myself,” he groans, hiding his hands back under the counter. There are a couple more cuts on them.
“I broke a can in the warehouse, I don’t know where the can came from,” he scratches the back of his head, accidentally touching the elastic band, which immediately flies off, and his hair falls onto his shoulders in an unruly shock. “Wow...” he sighs.
“Don’t pick it up,” Steve reaches a hand through his hair, running his fingers through it, separating it into strands.
“I’ll come early today,” Jame whispers, not knowing why.
“Peter is at Tony’s again,” Steve sighs.
– Maybe I should kill Stark? – a smile spreads on James’s face.
“I haven’t seen you for a good couple of months anyway.” I don’t want to wait until I get out of prison,” Steve whispers now. He looks down at the floor, ashamed of his own weakness. James still smiles. Steve has arrived. I came to him. I came because I missed you.
“I’ll take the day off tomorrow,” he sees the corners of Steve’s lips twitch.
Starker ==========
Tony ends up on the roof earlier than he expected. He steps out of the suit right behind Parker, and he flinches.
- Tony? – his eyes are swollen from tears, and it seems that he is still sobbing.
“Tony...” Stark sighs, sitting down on the edge very close to Peter. Their thighs touch, but Tony chooses not to think about it. Peter moves even closer and his head rests on Tony's shoulder. He's crying his eyes out, and Stark doesn't know what to do in such situations.
“I don’t understand,” Peter trembles. - I do not understand why? Why do you love him? – Tony shudders.
-Your father is very good man“Peter, many people love him,” Stark, unnoticed even by himself, puts his hand on the guy’s shoulders. “Even a cold heart,” he grins, but this joke doesn’t amuse Peter even a little.
“My father is a complete idiot for missing you,” he sobs again, but this time his voice sounds a little calmer. It seems that the joke still had the desired effect.
“I agree,” Tony grins again. “But, you know, Frozen deserves him no less than I do, at least they played together in the sandbox,” Stark didn’t know at all whether they were playing, but decided that this could at least make Peter smile a little. The corners of his lips actually float upward. Tony leans down, reaching a hand up to his face to wipe the tears from his cheeks. Peter leans forward, imprinting his lips on his palm. Tony feels like the area of the kiss is starting to burn. - Oh, Peter...
“Sorry, I know,” Peter moves a little to the side, but Stark catches his hand.
“Damn it, little one, everything is too complicated,” he pulls him towards him, scooping him up like a small child and hugs him as tightly as he can within the limits of his safety. Peter is sobbing again and Tony wants it to stop.
-Can I stay with you? Please, just for one night. Dad really deserved a break from this bad son“like me,” Tony shakes his head.
“If you don’t come, he’ll go crazy,” he sobbed again. “Damn, Peter, it’s not even lunch yet, and you’re already talking about the night,” Tony lets go of his embrace, but Peter still remains lying on his chest, clinging to Tony’s home T-shirt with his red-gloved fingers.
“Let the night come now,” Stark grins.
“If I could do this for you, I would,” he’s not lying. Anything. Anything for this boy. Since his childhood. Oh, how much Steve screamed, how much he asked him not to spoil him, but Tony could not do otherwise, because he was ready to throw the whole world at his feet. He allowed little hands to delve into parts that cost tens of millions, allowed him to break them, play with them and assemble them like a construction set. He gave him the most expensive phone for his birthday, which he immediately received from Rogers. He gave him a car when he was fifteen, but was forced to take it away for the same reason as the phone. Rogers never approved of this. “You know, I’m almost your godfather,” Tony grins.
- Almost? – Peter doesn’t understand this, and he doesn’t really want to understand.
“I remember you when I was five,” Stark shrugs. “And, you know, it’s hard to talk to you about feelings when just eleven years ago...” Stark hesitated. - Damn it, eleven years ago, Peter! Eleven years! – he didn’t even think about it. Peter had been in his life for eleven years, and Stark had not even noticed it.
- It means something? Why can't you talk to me about feelings? – Stark was silent. He himself did not know the answer to this question. Simply because there was some nonsense in my head. Something that Rogers definitely wouldn't appreciate. Something for which he would definitely twist Tony's head.
“Damn, Peter, you got me confused,” he pushed Peter’s head off his own chest and stood up.
- Where are you going? – Peter remained sitting on the edge.
“I’m home, and apparently you are too,” Tony saw tears begin to gather in the corners of his eyes again. Peter started bawling again. “Oh no, doll, you won’t get through me with tears,” he entered into his suit, but at the very last moment Peter grabbed his hand and pulled him towards himself.
“I don’t care,” Tony was not surprised by the boy’s strength. He is, after all, a super-man, Spider-Man, the son of two super-soldiers. Tony wasn't surprised by this, but he was angry that he couldn't resist him. Peter's arms wrapped around his neck and his lips pressed against Stark's. And he couldn't. I couldn't stop when I needed it most.
- Child, what are you doing? – Tony groaned. It seems like he has never felt so bad before.
“I’m not a child,” Peter objected again. Stark just shook his head.
“Of course it’s a child,” Tony felt bad. The bad thing was that he felt arousal in every cell of his body. Because Peter's lips seemed so sweet to him, because kissing them felt so good. Because after this he would never be able to look Steve in the eyes again.
“I love you, Mister Stark,” he sobs again and falls his head on his shoulder. “I love you, Tony,” but Tony is silent. He buries his fingers in his hair and presses him to himself with one hand. This boy is driving him crazy, and Stark is having a hard time thinking straight. He definitely doesn't want any problems. Damn it, he sure as hell doesn't want any problems.
“First, I’ll talk to your father,” he sighs, still taking a couple of steps away.
- No! No Please! He won't allow it anyway! – Peter almost screams.
- Oh, damn it, little one, that's enough! -Stark is angry. He is angry with himself because he is ready to give up on everything. To all moral standards, to all your principles. Ready to go against the law, against fucking Steve Rogers. And this is what scares me the most.
“I can’t,” Peter whispers, looking down. And he even got that from Rogers.
“That’s it, Peter, go home,” Tony returns to his suit, but this time he flies away almost immediately, watching as Peter immediately jumps down. Tony knows where the web is taking him. After a couple of blocks, Peter catches up with him, but Stark pretends not to notice.
Peter is standing outside the door, but Tony doesn't open it. Peter knocks on it, but Tony pretends he's not there. This is stupid, and he thinks about who is the bigger child? He tries to save himself from a mistake, to save Peter, but it seems to him that he is only making things worse. Tears on long eyelashes cause pain. And damn, where are his parents when he needs them? He almost breaks out to call Rogers, but something stops him. The same thing that makes you open the damn door.
Peter began to cry, with bruises under his eyes and a swollen face. Clutching a mask in his hands. Peter is unhappy, the way Stark is not used to seeing him. Peter is a stupid teenager in love, which brings him a lot of problems. Peter is broken and it's Tony Stark's fault. Peter is silent.
“I’m sorry,” is all Tony can say.
“How much longer could I stand behind this damn door?” – the voice trembles, breaks.
“I don’t know,” Tony takes a step back, letting him into the house. Peter comes very close.
– What do you know? – the last step and it turns out to be literally millimeters away.
“Nothing,” Tony finds it difficult to breathe, he’s afraid to move. Peter reaches his hand to his face, Tony covers his hand with his.
“I know something,” he leans forward, covering Stark’s lips with his again. Tony answers because he can't hold back anymore. Because this boy literally decided to drive him crazy, to finish him off with his touches, kisses and eyes. “I know you love me too, Mister Stark,” he exhales against Tony’s lips. “I know you love me,” he repeats, and Tony has no choice but to give in. He has nothing to object to.
“I love you,” he whispers, cupping his face with his hands. “But this is not normal, Peter, and I will never be with you, no matter how much you want it,” the hands disappear from Peter’s face, and he steps back again.
- Tony! – Peter rushes after him.
“No, little one, there are no Tonys,” he turns around. His eyes are filled with anger. “For you, I am Mr. Stark, damn it, almost your godfather,” he is again angry with himself, but Peter cannot explain this, and Stark is not going to. “And I will never share a bed with you, Peter, you’re a child, think with your own head,” he goes to the kitchen, trying to calm down the approaching anger.
- But why!? Peter runs after him and grabs his hand.
“God, I’m going to throw you out the door now,” Tony throws the boy’s hands off himself and pours himself a glass of whiskey again.
– I don’t care, I won’t leave! Kick out as many as you want! I’ll be sitting under your fucking door, and you, as a godfather, probably know how persistent I am,” and Tony knew. He knew that Peter would not give up until he got his way.
“I’ll call your father,” Peter just grins.
“This is not a trump card,” Stark did not hope that it would have any effect.
“Then I’ll find a more effective way to get you off the hook,” Peter just shrugs and jumps onto the table. He sits directly opposite Stark, crossing his legs, looking at Stark with his huge eyes.
- And which? – he bites his lip, throws his head back a little and Stark’s throat goes dry. Tony pours a second glass of whiskey and within a second it is empty.
“Peter, stop,” putting the glass in the sink, he tries to walk past Peter into the hall, but he catches him with his feet, dragging him towards him. Stark always got drunk quickly, and given that today he has been drinking since the morning, this is not surprising. He almost collapses on top of Peter, resting his hands on either side of Peter's hips. - Your mother! That is, the father! – Tony groans.
- So which way, Mr. Stark? – Peter is smart, he always differed from other children in this feature. Peter is very smart, and this does not suit Stark at all. He had figured out everything a long time ago, and even on the roof he realized that he had a trump card. He, not Stark, but Peter, damn it.
- What are you up to? - Tony gives up. -What are you trying to achieve, Peter? Do you want me to fuck you? – Tony looks into his eyes, and Peter is still lost. His self-confidence disappears along with the word "fucked", but Peter quickly pulls himself together.
“I want to,” a slight grin and Stark hits the table with his fist as hard as he can.
– Are you an idiot or what!? “This is not what Peter expected at all.” - Yes, I’m fit to be your father! he shouts, pulling Peter off the table. He throws him to the floor like a motherfucker rag doll and hangs from above. – Do you want extreme sports? Decided that I'm the best candidate for your games? – Stark’s knee ends up between Peter’s legs, and he finally gets scared. He puts his hands on his shoulders, trying to throw Stark off of him.
Remember the fairy tale about two frogs who fell into sour cream. One of them chose to fold her paws and sink to the bottom, while the second stubbornly tried to get out and, working with her paws, whipped the sour cream into butter.
If you ask yourself which of the frogs you would prefer to be in this situation, then the majority will answer that the second one, but in real life they would prefer to “fold their paws.”
To the logical question “why?” There is a simple answer: “because it’s easier.” It’s easier not to strain, to continue to serve day after day, without trying to benefit for myself from each specific day. And even if you are talented, smart and you have long wanted to change everything, most would prefer to leave everything as it is, because it’s easier. At the same time, the feeling of dislike for yourself and your own life will increase. Moreover, the degree of dissatisfaction with themselves among those who consider themselves smarter and more talented than the majority is always higher.
Can you guess why?
A gift (extraordinary abilities) without implementation turns into poison, poisoning your consciousness. It works very simply. By recognizing your above-average abilities, you aspire to above-average results in life. Each of us knows what we are capable of, but not everyone does and realizes their potential. Time is running, nothing changes in life, self-dislike and dissatisfaction with life grows.
There is another common excuse for one’s own inaction - victimhood. We sacrifice ourselves unloved job or family for reasons only clear to us. By sacrificing ourselves, we reduce our own value, including in our own eyes. This means we cultivate dislike for ourselves and our own lives.
How to turn the situation around?
There is only one way - to start consciously managing it. Until you manage your own resources (time, abilities), you will be controlled by circumstances and other people.
First you need to understand in what area of your life ( physical condition, self-realization, relationships, finances) lie the biggest problems. Ask yourself frankly where there is a discrepancy between your expectations and reality. It is better to experience this serious conversation with yourself than to avoid it. At the same time, you will receive an answer to the question, what does not suit you, what in your life do you not like?
The next step is to work with your “picture of the world” by changing your behavior model.
Example. I’m not happy with being fat and shapeless - we change our diet and lifestyle from sedentary to active. Over time it will form new model behavior and new abilities. IN in this case it's the ability to lead healthy image lives that will shape new reality- your new one physical fitness. The process is long and labor-intensive, but effective. Of course, it’s easier to lie on the couch, but then you shouldn’t expect your body to take on the shape of those who have chosen a different model of behavior.
If everything is clear with the body, but the problem is that the relationship is not working out, the solution is the same. We change our own behavior model.
Fundamentally different results are needed, which means a new model of behavior is needed.
The process of conscious change meets expectations when accompanied by three main conditions.
First - do, trying every day to benefit for myself from each specific day.
The second is to do it consciously, understanding what result you expect from each specific action.
Third, do not wait for the best time to come, start doing it right away, relying on the resources that are available at this particular moment.
And finally, main question: “How to learn to love life in all its manifestations?”
We love and appreciate what we invest our energy, time, and knowledge into. We take care of what we ourselves have created. If time yours life works to achieve your results, and does not consist of spontaneous scenarios that are not directly related to your goals; there is no place for melancholy, boredom, or regrets about missed opportunities.
Living with love, in a state of love, is life with the perception that the World is beautiful, life in the position of an Angel. Living with love, living in a state of love is quite real, it is completely acceptable in everyday life, good for health, socially welcomed and brings not only joy, but also more significant benefits of life.
I have formed the image of behavior of a person who loves, and I know how to behave like a loving person.
If you loved yourself, people, things, things - how would you feel? How would you behave, how would you look, react, treat? How and with the desire for what result would you work at the Distance? Why and for whom would you master the exercises?
I decided who I would love. I made meaningful commitments to those I chose to love.
Topics of conversation: What kind of woman do you need to be to get married successfully? How many times do men get married? Why are there not enough normal men? Childfree. Parenting. What is love? A fairy tale that could not have happened better. Payment for the opportunity to be near a beautiful woman.
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