[SEADLA] Chapter 1/2?: Empty bottle

[terresdebrume]

✗ TECHNICAL DETAILS

FANDOM: Marvel’s MCU
RATING: Mature
WORDCOUNT: 1 203
PAIRING(S): -
CHARACTER(S): Tony Stark
GENRE: Angst
TRIGGER WARNING(S): Suicide (Check the AO3 listing for a glimpse of what’s to come)

DEDICATION(S): To everyone who read the first version for their support and enthusiasm, to the Fantastic Five ( @zeronoa, @dreamychaos, @herrvarg, @litfiva and @hoopsadoozle) for their support which meant so very much to me back then and still does, and to 2012!me, who needed to write this fic a lot.

NOTE(S): This one’s going to be long, feel free to skip ;)

So back in march 2012, I saw this fanart by @ladynorthstar, and wrote the first version of this chapter on impulse, to exorcize some of my own issues. Then, because I couldn’t bear to leave things there, I started writing what followed, and SEADLA was born.

A little over a year later, after twenty chapters and overwhelming responses, I let go of the fic out of a combination of anxiety, fatigue and simply not knowing how to deal with Tony’s emotional development. I never really liked leaving things as they were, and the fact that even three years later I still occasionally get positive comments on this unfinished story kept nagging at me–I kept wanting to pick the story up and finish it, but the difference in quality grated too much for me to just get back into the original trail.

So now here I am, with SEADLA 2.0, and the firm intention to finish the story as it was started. As far as I’m concerned, I intend this to be an update in writing style more than a reworking of the story: I know there are problematic aspects with how it plays out, but I’m not here to correct them.
Still, maybe it’ll interest some of you, in which case you can look for updates on the first monday or the following 24 (ish) months. The AO3 version of this fic will also be updated as I publish chapters on Tumblr, btw.

Here’s to making things better and keeping deadlines ;)

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Loki

Writing to you of all people is probably not my brightest idea but then again, it’s also probably not the worst, so there’s that. ‘Sides, you could probably argue that the whole suicide business is stupid but it’s not like it matters at this point

I’m kind of too tired to pretend right now, but then I’ve been doing it for so long I just don’t think I can let go of it even now but you—well, you don’t like me in the first place, so it’s okay.

Truth is, I’ve got the others well fooled. Even your brother thinks I’m a good guy, which is laughable really. I tried though, to be one. To be…I don’t know, a hero, I guess. A decent person, a decent friend, but I’m not. I just kind of pretend and it works, somehow.

Fact is, though, that I’m an uncaring asshole who basically just hurts people I’m supposed to help and I’ll never, ever be the guy I should be—which of course the others don’t see because if they did they wouldn’t bother with me anymore.

It’s tiring though. Being 95% bullshit. You can’t open up to people about it—the mess they see is enough to drive most of them away, what would they do about the mess under the lid? They’d leave, that’s what.

And anyway, how do I even compete there? It’s a losing battle. I mean I’m friends with Thor for Christ’s sake! I’m friends with Steve Fucking Rogers how do you even begin to be worthy of that? I know I never was. I’ll never be.

I’ve tried, it’s true. I’ve lied and bullshitted my way into the company of good people somehow, and so far the only thing preventing them from seeing through it is a fancy, multi-million dollars toy that looks good in pictures and makes me feels vaguely better about myself for the fives minutes it takes to fly to your latest theater of operations, before I start playing the annoying fly part while others do the real work—and that’s when I don’t make things worse!

I’m tired. I keep screwing up even the simplest task and letting people down because I have the emotional intelligence of a doombot. It doesn’t matter how much I try, I still fail, I still never manage to—I don’t know. Make good. Be good. Whichever, really.

I mean, look at me, I’m a billionaire, I have friends who can literally move mountains and are arguably the coolest persons on the planets and what do I do? Decide to kick the bucket and write my last words to the guy I’m supposed to beat down every other day of the week. Not that I succeed much at that either though.

I guess I’m just tired of having to work on…I don’t know. Everything, really. I look around me and people just seem to have it together—being happy’s natural to them. They just smile and have it and I—I’ve got everything and all I can do is whine and cry and generally just feeling miserable and I hate it. I hate that I can’t do this, that I can’t feel…normal. Good. Even just 'alright’ would do but I can’t and I feel like a whiny piece of shit and instead of getting off my ass and doing something to change it—instead of making myself feel better—I just spend time whining more and crying more and honestly, how do you not hate someone like that?

It shouldn’t be that hard. To…I don’t know, have friends and be sincere and smile and have a life—Steve does it all the time. Thor does it all the time. Rhodey, Pepper, hell, even Bruce and Nat manage it, but I don’t and I can’t and I just hate that I can’t make myself do that. More and more, every day.

The truth is I have no idea how to make it better. It’s not even like there aren’t goo moments—sometimes I feel good. Great, even.

But then there’s going to be a party or whatever and I’ll be stuck between making an ass out of myself or watching people make small talk and smile and make friends and I’ll end up getting drunk off my ass feeling like I don’t belong, like I’m ruining the party just for being there…and at the end of the night people just give me that fucking look, the one where they wonder what they’re gonna do about me, why the hell they still invite me (it’s the money) why the hell I even bother coming.

I…probably shouldn’t care, but I can’t. I should just be…okay, I guess. Just have fun and not give a crap what others think about me but no matter how much I fake it I never seem to make it and hell, wouldn’t it be nice for once, to have something and not destroy it in the most spectacular way possible?

It occurs to me you’re probably doing the exact same face they’d do. I doubt you know how all of that feels, what with the magic powers and divineness and all. I doubt a guy like you ever stood next to a friend—or a colleague, or a fellow crazy dictator, whichever—and felt like you’d be kicked out the very second they looked past the pretense and saw you for who you really were. Of felt jealous of the people you liked for going on with their life and for it to look so simple to them, so fucking easy when even the simplest tasks feel so enormous to you and, and then hate yourself a little more every day for being jealous when they didn’t deserve it.

I highly doubt you ever felt so bad it hurt, but so terrified of talking to anyone that you end up sitting alone in a room and just cry for hours.

So bad, you almost wish you we diagnosed with some kind of depression or sickness or something so you know it’s not your fucking fault you’re a screw up.

But that’s how I feel most of the time.

When I’m alone, or I’ve screwed something up again, or when I see people smiling in the streets or we come home from keeping you in check and the best thing I’ve done is play bait—and honestly how pathetic is that?

I’m just tired.

Tired of feeling like happiness is some kind of duty I can’t fulfill, of people not getting it, telling me to be more open when I’m already trying and can’ do it. I’m tired of telling myself to quit whining and then keeping on doing exactly that and never daring to do or say anything about it. Of fucking up every relationship I ever had because I know they’re doomed anyway.

It’s no life.

At least, no life I want to live.

I’d ask you to tell the others I’m sorry, but the truth is you’re probably not the one who’s going to read this anyway.

Well, it’s not like it’s going to matter much now. And anyway, I’m just too tired to care.