Public Illness
Peter Parker was not a school skipper. Even on the days where it seemed like nothing he did was right, he at least made it through the school day. He'd had days where he'd accidentally let a robber get away, zoned out through multiple classes, or forgotten decathlon practice, but he'd never (successfully) skipped class. He was beginning to rethink that policy now.
He woke up feeling a little off, but nothing he couldn't handle. He'd dealt with plenty of aches and pains from battle wounds and was fairly used to it; it wasn't an everyday occurrence, but it happened often enough. He nibbled on enough dry toast to safely pop a few painkillers for the tension building in his head and called it good. He'd had worse, and he never missed school, so he didn't even pause to consider staying home over a headache and a slightly upset stomach. It wasn't worth getting behind in his classes anyway, even if May was still here to call the school with an excuse.
He made it to school and through his first class without issue, though his notes weren't the most comprehensible. By the middle of second period, the spider metabolism had completely burned through the medicine so the headache was back with a vengeance. He'd been too preoccupied with dealing with the pain this morning that he'd forgotten to pocket another dose for later. He regretted it now. Everything grated on him after that: the teacher who seemed just a small step below yelling, the amplified scratch of twenty pencils on notebook paper, the reflection of the mid-morning sun on the surface of his desk, the smell of someone sneaking into their lunch box two hours early, it was all metaphorically driving him up the wall. At least he was still feeling well enough to have to stifle a giggle by pretending to cough at the idea of being literally driven to climb up a wall in the middle of class. Everyone would freak.
He stopped thinking of his stomach as "slightly upset" when it started doing flips and cartwheels. He couldn't tell if he was feeling more than hearing his stomach gurgle, but it was uncomfortable to say the least. He hadn't had a fever when he'd checked before leaving the apartment, but now he felt too cold and too warm at the same time. He'd thought he could make it through the period, but he had no warning before a thick belch brought up a wave of vomit on his desk.
He didn't wait for permission. Heads turned and voices erupted as he shoved himself up from his desk and sprinted for the door, scrambling for the doorknob. He shoved the door harder than he meant to, and it echoed down the hallway when it slammed into the wall. He didn't care, though. He made it maybe five more feet before he doubled over when a soft hiccup turned into a full-blown heave and before he could move anywhere more convenient, more vomit splattered onto the tiled floor and across his shoes.
He didn't look back when he heard a few people react in disgust. He just shuddered a little at the ruined shoes and struggled to pull himself into a full stand before resuming his dash for the bathroom. He turned a corner and got a weird "what the hell" look from an upperclassman in the hallway, but he didn't slow down until he reached his destination and pushed against another door—a little more gently this time—and headed for a sink.
He didn't feel in imminent danger of puking again, though his stomach still churned uneasily as if daring him to test his luck. He wet a small handful of paper towels and wiped around his lower face before anyone had a chance to walk in and see how gross he looked. He was made fun of enough without giving people like Flash extra ammo. He was paler than usual and covered in sweat, and now that he looked in the mirror, he realized he was shaking. He tried to bring the shivers under control with no real success. He remembered the shoe mess and grabbed a few more paper towels to take care of that problem, but his stomach lurching once more overrode that plan.
He held back a retch until he knocked a stall door out of the way and dropped to his knees, too rushed to spare a hand to rub at his temple when the jolt worsened his headache. He let a small mouthful of saliva that had gathered dribble out of his mouth before a harsher heave sent more vomit to violently join it. A large part of him struggled not to shudder at the sight of the chunky remains of his small breakfast. He screwed his eyes closed to avoid looking any longer. Eyes still tightly shut, he let another heave take over and send more barely digested food hurtling up his throat.
He felt a sharper cramp before he gagged and lurched forward as he felt more bile at the back of his throat, but all he could seem to do was make strangled guttural sounds as he tried to will his stomach into finishing what it started. A hard retch was his saving grace. He heard the irritating screech of the door being pushed open, but then he couldn't hear anything else over the rush of sick splashing against the water. God, he hoped they just left. He'd had enough embarrassment for one day, which was saying a lot when he hadn't even made it to lunch period.
After several dry heaves interspersed with some unproductive gagging, he was pretty sure he had nothing left to throw up, but the nausea still stabbed at his stomach and burned along his throat, weighing him down and leaving him weakly panting on the filthy bathroom floor.
He heard footsteps behind him and snapped his eyes open, twisting around fast enough to make his stomach protest with a painful leap. His nerves settled a little when he saw it was only Ned. He was saying something, but Peter couldn't gather enough focus to bridge the gap between hearing the words and understanding them. He let Ned put a hand on his back and return him to his original position while blood rushed through his ears and he struggled to maintain his balance on his knees.
He heard Ned back away and start talking again, which made no sense when he thought about it. The headache seemed to throb harder against his skull when he thought about much of anything. He let it go and leaned his forehead against the side of the stall, enjoying the cool plastic against his hot, almost sticky skin. Touching almost anything in a public bathroom grossed him out, but he was already a gross mess today anyway. How much worse could a bathroom stall be?
Ned's voice cut off. The silence was close to peaceful, only interrupted by Peter's slowly calming breathing. He came back over to stand behind Peter, so he moved his face from the now warm wall of the stall to Ned's leg. It was quiet for a while. The next time Ned spoke, he could finally focus on the words.
"You done now?"
Peter just groaned and hoped it would translate as an affirmative answer. It seemed to be good enough for Ned, who hauled him to his feet and held onto him when his vision blurred and his head swam from the sudden movement. When he could sort of keep his balance, they walked out only to find Aunt May waiting in the hallway.
It made sense now. Ned had been calling his aunt earlier. He didn't feel up to handling the mixture of gratitude and annoyance while he still felt a hair away from throwing up, so he settled on being thankful he didn't have to walk home. He made a mental note to be annoyed later, though. He knew she couldn't afford to take time off work for nothing. He knew Ned knew too. For now, he let his aunt guide him to the car waiting in the parking lot.
He drifted off once they were in motion, ready to forget today as soon as possible.