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i. memento mori chapter one.
1991.
THERE WAS SOMETHING DEADLY HIDDEN BEHIND THE CLOAK OF HIS DULL EYES. A sadness that could make even the strongest of humans spiral down from their cloud nine upon the cold concrete that was reality and unravel into self-destruction. Thunderstorms raged from the agony rattling around behind the cage of his ribs, tidal waves of despair crashing against his crippling heart. Death was a cruel thing. What crueler than to leave those to grief in the abyss of one's absence? What crueler than to leave a son without the comfort of his parents, and with the responsibility of his brother as a heavy weight upon his caving chest?
Yes, Death was cruel. But so was life.
The sixth — nineth? — glass of whatever strong liquor he was downing seemed more than welcome in his intoxicated mind. It burned down his throat like a wildfire, the engulfing taste of alcohol like thick smoke, a haunting reminder of his flawed actions. His acts of drunkenness resembled those of Howard Stark, though Tony Stark was alive in the most biological terms of being alive. The same could not be said for Howard. Chugging another glass of scotch back as the reminiscent of the disapproval etched onto his father's features forced itself up, coughs erupted from his failing lungs as if he was choking on the grief that clawed at his insides and the unspoken words that quivered on the tip of his tongue.
"You should know better than to drown your sorrows in scotch, Mr. Stark." She slid into the barstool beside him, brushing out the crinkles in her figure-hugging dress before motioning for a drink with a mere flick of her willowy wrist. A soft smile graced her features, a stark contrast to the defined bones of her rosy cheeks and sharp jawline. "It's nice to see you again, Tony, though I wished it was under better circumstances." He almost groaned in exasperation as the silky smooth tone of her voice laced effortlessly with her carefully chosen words reached his ears, the alcohol not nearly strong enough for him to deal with her. "I was very sorry to hear about your parents' death."
( He loathed even the mere concept of her. He always had. She was the epitome of all his parents ever wanted in a kid. The whole fucking package all in one, genius, girl who spent her time helping the world rather than drinking herself into another world every other night like he did. He loathed her because she was all he ever wanted to be, and now he could never do so. His parents were dead, who else was there to impress? )
Tony finally scoffed, placing his empty glass on the finely polished wooden bar before he turned his gaze to her, eyes as red as a thousand sunsets meeting her genuine sympathetic ones. The burnished grief faded and morphed into something unfamiliar, a feeling he could not quite decipher — looking at her untangled the knot in his chest and eased the tension. She took a second to awe at the sight of him before his voice, as salient as a knife, cut through the silence lingering between them. "Like you give a fuck."
"Speaking from someone with shared life experience, I'd say you might be surprised," she replied hollowly. The urge to reach for him and reassure him of everything gnawed away at her golden heart. Instead, she remained seated beside him and raised the glass of clear liquor placed in front of her, To Howard and Maria Stark, before bringing it to her red stained lips and throwing it back. Face scrunching up in disgust, she swallowed the bitter taste away with a gulp of water, ignoring the holes he burned through the side of her skull by simply looking at her.
"Another drink?" His question was a muddled slur of sarcasm into the air as he raised his empty glass for his tenth — he was pretty sure it was ten — refill. Though the buzz kill of a bartender glanced at Novaleigh for confirmation, and he wasn't surprised by her answer.
"Make that a water for him, please, Rick. Thank you."
"Hey! What— You can't do that." Tony pointed out accusingly, an underlying tone of annoyance behind his mess of words. The only thing he seemingly knew for certain was that he was running on alcohol, the copper liquor flowing through his veins. Still not enough to numb the pain of death, though, so he was not nearly done. "We're—We're not—"
"No, we're not friends. But you could certainly use some considering if you continue to this extent, you won't even be alive to have friends."
"I do have," Novaleigh raised a brow in amusement as he paused mid-sentence. He made a face before spluttering out the word, "— friends."
A chuckle left her lips, and he felt his eyes drawn to the soft color of red spread across them like paint upon a canvas, "I'm sure Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes is quite busy at the moment and doesn't have time for your drunken shenanigans."
"Leave me alone," He muttered hostilely under his breath. The words she spoke did not register in his muddled mind, the sound of her heels clicking against the marble floor over flooding the jazz music that had faded into the background. The world seemed unsteady as he arose upon his wobbly legs, his vision swirling before his bloodshot eyes. He stumbled forward, hand grasping at some sort of object to steady himself. The surface was smooth underneath his calloused fingertips, and for a second, he swore he could hear her orchestra of a voice again,
( Sinclair, could you bring the car around, please? )
Everything became a blur of faded images and flashes. The essence of time seemed to melt together. Minutes, hours, even days could've gone by and still Tony would have remained the same — oblivious to all that was around him, in a constant state between wasted and drained. The last thing he could devour before darkness engulfed him in its arms was the gentle touch against his cheek, urging him to stay awake. He didn't.
Not until the familiar ache throbbing against his skull awoke him from his sleepless daze of black, his eyes blinking groggily to adjust the faculty of his sight and granting him with bright sunlight that had slipped past the cracks between his curtains, hitting his fatigued features gently. Had he been surprised by waking up with a hangover that could possibly kill? Absolutely not, after all — it had become a regular occurrence. He let out a content groan as he saw the glass of water and Advil on his nightstand, not even glancing at the note beside his temporary cure before he brought the brim of the glass to his mouth.
A sigh intertwined with the lingering smell of alcohol filled the air as he caught sight of the words scribbled down on the paper in a lovely handwriting. He shook his head, though could not cease his chapped lips from curling up in a ghost of a smile.
┌ call me when you're sober and in need of a friend — novaleigh moon. ┘
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