The end of school bell rang loud and clear.
"Alright, alright. Evening everyone! Have a good weekend!" Peter's math teacher said as the class packed up with haste. Peter just needed to finish the last few questions, and then he wouldn't have any math homework to complete over the weekend. He scribbled some near unreadable answers onto the page, and looked up to find that everyone had gone, teacher included…
But, just as Peter's hopes rose, they were crushed with the appearance of Flash and his 'friends' (minions more like). Peter looked down at his math workbooks, hoping to just be left alone for once. The old things were ruffled with dog-ears and peeling covers. He quickly placed them on top of his folder that carried the rest of his homework; Art History, English, Biology, and Chemistry. Old comic book strips were jaggedly cut and glued onto the folders front. How he used to love those comics. He would spend hours reading them, steadily letting the world go dark and turn off around him. He couldn't believe how different it all was now. Peter clasped the books to his chest as he slung his bag over his shoulder. He used the palm of his hand to push his stupid granddad glasses up his nose. He sniffed quickly and wiped the back of his hand across his nostrils. These were the 'geeky' things that got him shoved in the hallway, his lunch taken, and occasionally pushed into his own locker. He pulled his sleeves down over his wrists, holding onto the end of them with tight fists. The leather bracelets dug deep, cutting the circulation. Hiding something far worse.
"Check out Puny-Parker!" Flash yelled as Peter approached the group. This was a nickname given to Peter by Flash, when the two boys had been far younger. Peter had almost always been the shorter kid. He'd had skinny long limbs and weird curly brown hair. Thankfully he'd grown up. Now standing at 6'4", his hair had straightened out with age and his limbs were slightly bulkier than before. But the name that Flash had given him seemed to have stuck. Peter pursed his lips in annoyance, instinctively slightly tugging on his bottom lip.
"Right" he said silently, trying to pass the group of boys in front of him. A few desks blocked his only other path to the classroom door.
Shit.
"Yeah, Puny-Parker! What the fuck are those?" Tommy said. The group, consisting of Flash, Tommy, Sam, James and Thompson, jeered each other, puffing up their egos. Tommy tried to grab for his glasses, but he was just able to dodge Tommy's forceful grip. Unfortunately, this caused Peter to fall closer to Sam, who grabbed them from his face. The world turned a shade blurrier, like a clear fog was clouding his vision.
"Check out grandpa, I'm sure his faggot parents bought them for him" Sam said, holding the glasses away from Peter.
"C'mon guys. Give them back," Peter said, trying to raise his voice. It didn't work. At least his 'your are so immature, I am tired of this behavior' voice came through. Though, that didn't really help Peter. Flash looked at his face with piercing eyes. Pure rage lay behind them.
"No. Jerk!" Flash said, pushing Peter into one of the desks. His friends cheered him on.
Fuck.
Suddenly all five boys started pushing him around, from one guy to another. Sure, Peter was taller than he had ever been, but the others were tall and strong. He was pushed from side to side until he heard a crack of glass.
Oh for fucks sake!
"Hahaha! Puny-Peter can't see no more!" Thompson said.
"Yeah, he's probably deformed because his dad's are gay"
"Ponsy prick"
"Puny-Parker the Ponsy Prick!" Thompson said. They all laughed at that.
"Boys!"
Everyone turned around to see Mr. Freeman in the classroom doorway,
"Leave, now!"
"Yeah, whatever" Flash said, pulling Sam along with him as they passed Mr. Freeman.
"We don't want to mess with any faggots offspring anyhow, I heard its contagious" Peter heard Flash say. This resulted in an array of laughter as the boys walked off.
"Are you ok?" Mr. Freeman asked. His thick southern accent meant that Peter was never able to take him seriously.
"Yeah, fine. Just my glasses" Peter said, picking them up off the ground. A large crack ran from the top of the wiry frame to the bottom, jarring out to the sides like a spiders web. He'd already missed his bus, meaning he'd have to walk all the way back to his parents house.
House probably wasn't the best word for it. 'Stark Industries' was a massive building, hundreds of stories high, with their own penthouse at the very top. Tony would go on and on and on about getting a car to pick him up, or buying him his own car, while Steve would incessantly be getting JARVIS to call him, asking if he needed a ride. But peter could never really get into the idea of his dad's spoiling him. He just wanted to be normal. He didn't want his dads to be superheroes, or his godparents and Uncle to be ex-hired killers. Having annual Avenger get-togethers was hard enough. When your Godfather is a God from Asgard, and your Uncle is the Incredible Hulk, things can get kind of complicated.
The walk home for Peter was long and boring. Devendra Banhart played boisterously out of Peter's massive black earphones. Hundreds of yellow cabs zipped passed him like fleeting sunshine within the crazy bright city. He hooked the hood of his jacket over his head and plowed through the mass of people who absorbed the town. Steadily, the grand Stark Tower peeked over the horizon. Sunlight split over its roof, splintering like shards of pure gold over the towers glass frame. It was a harsh contrast to the grey tarmac Peter walked across now.
He soon reached the bright white foyer of the Stark Industries' tower. The clear glass doors opened up for him with smiling faces, waiting to greet their employer's son.
"Hello Mr. Parker" Paul, the front-door security guard, said.
"Hey Paul"
"Evening Mr. Parker" -Jamie the receptionist-
"Hi Jamie"
"Good Evening Mr. Parker" Toby, their private elevator clerk, said, as Peter reached the gold rimmed metal doors.
"Hey Toby"
"Going up?" he asked.
"As always"
Toby then tabbed his nose, saying, "May want to take those off, Tony wouldn't be too happy"
Peter quickly pulled his broken glasses off and shoved them into his bag. The elevator doors opened softly, and shut softly, locking him inside. He felt the slight jolt of the elevator take off, and he was on his way up to meet his parents. He knew that there would be no way of avoiding the conversation that would ensue his return home. He was late, his glasses were broken, and somehow Tony always knew when something was wrong with Peter. Steve liked to think he was 'all-that' as a dad, that he was the cool one. And he was. Having Captain America for your dad is pretty freaking sweet. But it was Tony who understood Peter's reactions and his moods. He was an emotional guy, no matter how cocky and egotistical he pretended to be. He was a good dad. Both of them were.
The elevator suddenly came to a stop, a final 'ping' drawing Peters mind to the reality that was about to unfold. He slid his hand through his messy brown hair as he got off the lift. Their penthouse was a massive, open plan loft. To the left, giant windows opened up to a balcony that Tony used to suit up occasionally. The kitchen and bar was at the very far left corner, and the main lounge was a few steps away from the lift, having to walk down four or so steps. To the very right you are lead down a hallway to bathrooms, spare bedrooms, Peter's parents room, a gym, a pool, and a private lounge. To get to Peters room he has to walk past the main longue to a spiral staircase encompassed with books, as the wall surrounding it is a library, up to his small section of the loft. It's open, with a massive triangle window that makes up the far wall of the room, with a wooden, slanting roof. He has his own bathroom, but he can hear everything that goes on in the main part of the penthouse, and his parents can hear most of what goes on up in his room. All that Peter wanted to do was walk casually up the stairs, close and lock his door, put on his music, and have a long awaited smoke sitting on the roof of 'Stark Industries'. What he did not want to happen is Tony to see how fucked off he truly was, make him sit down and talk, which would just end up with Peter getting angry, and lining his wrists again. It was that or his torso. Probably torso, that way no one would call him out on it.
No such luck, apparently.
"Hey Peter, where were you?" Tony asked, trying to be casual. He was standing by the bar, pouring himself a glass of high-end scotch. Steve preferred beer, but on the off occasion- when it have been a great or really, really bad day- he'd help himself to a glass or two of Brandy. Tony had spent the entire afternoon trying to concentrate on the screens in front of him, trying to get in contact with Thor about everything that was happening over at Asgard, but he found his eyes constantly darting up to the massive round clock above the kitchen bench. 4pm. 4:30pm. 5 pm. 5:15 pm. A whole hour late. That means he was probably beat up at school again. Missed his bus. What if he has detention? Where is he? Where is he? Where is HE!
It wasn't until that faithful 'ping' of the elevator at 5:15pm rang out that Tony's heart stopped fluttering. If only for a second.
Peter, being the adopted kid of two gay rich parents wasn't going to gain him many friends, and Tony had always known this. He somehow felt it was his fault Peter was the introverted, unsociable kid that he was. And now he was starting to get in trouble with kids at his school, and the school itself. He never believed he'd be good at this dad thing. Turns out he'd been right about that part.
-"I missed my bus" Peter replied. He continued on towards the stairs, head down, trying to avoid any human contact.
"How was school?" Tony asked, bringing the abnormally large glass of scotch up to his lips. Peter could hear Steve in the gym, beating up some poor boxing bag.
–I wonder if Steve knows I'm late home
"Fine" Peter replied, realizing he'd have to stop and talk. His heart sunk when he saw his dads face. He had bags under his eyes, his lips were pursed tight together and a small vein on the left of his forehead was throbbing. The pure, prime emotion of anger, worry and fear was shining in his eyes. Peter watched as his dads hand jittered slightly as he brought the glass up to his lips. He took a large, large 'sip'.
"Ok… what's wrong?" Tony asked, wincing slightly over the burn that vibrated down his throat.
"What? Nothing." Peter shrugged his shoulders and tried to pull of his best 'whatever' look. Hands in pockets. Shoulders relaxed. Small smile on his face.
"Hmm, where are your glasses?" Tony said, taking a quick look over his son.
"In my bag,"
"Right. Do I have to buy you another pair because that dick Flash broke them?" Tony couldn't help but let his anger get to him. If he could, Flash would wake up in Australia tomorrow morning. But that's kidnapping or something. A shame.
"It was Sam this time,"
"Oh Peter," Tony said, hanging his head. He only ever felt sorry for his Peter, having to deal with the crap high school entails. Unfortunately, Peter saw Tony's exclamation differently.
"Yeah, sorry. I'm so sorry I'm not the perfect kid you wanted me to be. I'm sorry I'm a fuck up!" Peter yelled, his walk turning into a run for his room. He sprinted up the stairs just as steve walked into the main lounge.
"What's all the yelling for?" He heard Steve ask. He'd unknowingly ventured from the gym, with only a pair of gym shorts on, dripping with sweat, into a family argument. One that seemed to be occurring more and more often.
"Peter was pushed about at school again. We really have to get ahold of the principal. This is the fourth pair of glasses I'm buying him" Tony replied. Peter caught their conversation as he stormed up the spiral stairs to his room.
"He just needs to get into the gym, toughen up a bit. Hey, Tony. It'll be fine. I was just joking. He only has a year and a bit left of school." It was then that Peter slammed his door shut.
God, he was pathetic. His own parents thought so. He couldn't control some stupid bullies even though he was in his second to last year of school. He still had to go rely on 'adults'.
Everything overwhelmed him. Memories of mistake after mistake and fuck up after fuck up came down on Peter like a tidal wave.
You unloved, worthless, pathetic, disgusting idiot!
Suddenly, as if hearing the metallic ring of his razors, Peter stared at his bathroom. By the toilet, hidden behind a loose tile, lay his stash of cigarettes, Vodka and his razors.
You don't deserve anything
You're a freak!
"No!" he told himself. He sunk onto the bed, holding his head in his hands.
"Peter, don't do it," he said.
"C'mon, you don't need to. You can deal with this!"
pathetic
"No"
"It's just Flash and his stupid friends"
worthless
"No!"
Your own parents didn't want you!
"NO!"
Suddenly he was on his feet, sprinting to the bathroom. He ripped away the tile and out tumbled the little blue box that carried everything. He pulled the lid off and grabbed for one of the seven razors he hid there. The slick metal was cold and sharp against his light skin. It bit down, a soft burn, a release. By the end, twenty perfectly lined slits ran down the side of his left wrist. He left the blood to seep through the broken skin and fade to a bright river of crimson that ran down his arm. He grabbed a cigarette and placed it into his mouth, then lit it with a flickering flame. He needed to re-soak his Zippos sponge. The burnt smoke dove down his throat and rested within his lungs, calming his crazed, echoing mind.
"Thank god" He said. He could feel his heart stop racing, his head stop screaming and tumbling and turning. He looked down at his wrist. Fuck, they're pretty deep.
He awkwardly spun some toilet paper off the roll beside him. He pressed it down on the open wounds.
Holy shit what if they don't stop
What if Tony or Steve notice
Fuck, they can't know. They just can't!
And back the voices came, screeching insults and agony. He quickly wrapped the cuts up with toilet paper, placed his leather bracelet over it, and pulled his sleeves down low. He placed a few cigarettes behind his ear and grabbed his flask. At his triangle window, to the top right, sat a ledge with iron fencing. Peter made for the only place he knew to be completely alone. He pushed one of the windows open, and maneuvered his way out of the glass frame, hooking his arm onto the iron bar. He pulled his way up onto the roof, where the entire city lay out before him. He sat up there, thinking, for hours. He would casually check on the oozing slits under his sleeves, taking swig after swig from his flask.
As if in the distance, Peter heard someone call his name. Suddenly the lights of his room flicked on beneath him.
"Peter? Do I smell smoke!" Tony yelled. Peter tried to ignore him.
"Peter, where are you? We need to talk," Suddenly Tony's big head was sticking outside the window, looking up at him.
"What have I told you about smoking. And drinking!"
"Fuck off," Peter said quietly. He didn't think he'd be able to deal with anyone right now. Let alone Tony, the one person who seemed to understand Peter's erratic moods.
"Come on, get down here. If you don't, I'm going to have to come up there."
Peter looked away at the other direction of his dad.
"Fine then." Peter heard the window shut, and his dads' footsteps walk away out of his room. Then the familiar click and mechanical clank of Tony getting into his Iron Man suit.
"Great, just great" Peter said to himself. And sure enough, Iron Man came spurting around the corner of the tower. Iron Man hovered slightly in front of Peter, hands pressed downwards, levitating thousands of feet in the air. The golden face piece slid up, revealing his dads concerned expression. Peter knew that face all too well.
"C'mon, Peter. You have to talk to me"
"What if I don't want to?"
The golden faceplate slid down swiftly, not a word to be said. For a split second, Peter thought he'd pissed his dad off enough for him to finally leave him alone. But, nope, he couldn't even do that.
Tony steadily flew over and took an awkward seat, still as iron man, right next to Peter. The faceplate lifted once more, Tony's eyes piercing into Peters side, as he wouldn't dare look at him incase he gave way. His jaw and lips were set with determination, his hair slightly ruffled.
"I know it's hard. I get that school is just, horrible, and that having two superheroes as parents makes it worse,"
"-Two gay, rich superheroes," Peter muttered.
"Yes, two gay rich superheroes as parents. But we ah, well, we love you… And you're nearly finished with school anyway."
"It's just hard, dad. Every day some idiot comments on it" Peter said quietly. He brought the cigarette up to his lips and inhaled deeply.
"Ah, and I don't want to see any more of this" Tony said, nodding at the cigarette in Peters hand. He then went on to grab it from him, and take a long drag from it himself. Peter shook his head, laughing.
Dam Tony. How does he know how to make me smile like that?
"At least, don't tell Steve. He'll kill you. And me" Tony said, blowing the smoke out of his nose. He took one last puff, blowing smoke circles into the air.
The sun was shining its last rays of orange light across the New York skyline. The sobering crystal purple and blue sky was growing a shade darker by the second, allowing little shadows of stars to appear above the two. Father and son, sitting upon their throne, gazing out into the abyss. So much lay before them. So much that was to happen. So much that was to change.
Chapter Two.