(I'm just gonna start calling this chapter summary poem now, lol): He's gonna say what a sober man couldn't say - what a heart couldn't feel.

Give a candid display, this emotional spiel, it withers - decays.

He's gonna fall, tell you a story - prays you understand that this is the root of him.

You could rip him apart with a twitch of your fingers - with a breath from your lungs.

He's a bare and broken thing, kneeling on the raw skin of his kneecaps as he waits for judgment.

And the scythe swings like a feather on the Clyde.

Is there a point where time stills?

Where silence replaces the chatter of souls?

Or are we destined for an eternity without reprieve

Defined by our constant and unending tolls

The ride there was silent. It made him fidget distractedly as he avoided eye contact by looking determinedly out the window. Avoidance was easy, but it was much easier when the other party didn't know you were avoiding them.

His shoulders felt like ear muffs with how high he held them in anxiety. Perhaps it would go unnoticed. Perhaps he could fly under the radar - a spectacle misjudged by the world for his suffering. But, he'd already practically admitted it, hadn't he?

(They had to know what was going on. They had to know, didn't they know?)

He tried to fiddle with his hands, hissing when he realized he'd forgotten about the small injury in the sensitive skin between his fingers. It had clotted and didn't seem to need stitches, but the blood had stained his palm in sticky trails and found its way on his clothes from when he'd been too numb to remember his injury.

Mr. Stark looked at it with wide eyes even as Peter waved him away absentmindedly. It was nice to have a point to focus on the pain - grounding, in a way.

Well, it was probably a good thing he'd chosen to go to the tower, then. The tower would have plenty of medical supplies to wrap his hand with.

Even though he'd just eaten a large brownie, his stomach felt hollow and he curled protectively around it as if that would somehow soothe its' ache. He angled his body away from Tony and curled as close as he could into the door. Ignoring Mr. Stark's searching gaze as he leaned his head against the window, he watched the raindrops slide down the glass pane and distantly felt he was mimicking someone in a dramatic movie.

His life was interesting enough to be a movie, he supposed, though he'd rather it wasn't. Dramatic movie plots should stay within the big screen and stop interjecting themselves into his life. He felt that he might be turned off from watching superhero movies in the future now that he was one. How sad was it that he'd turned into everything he'd ever dreamed of and yet felt worse than he'd ever had?

He sighed, placing his uninjured hand onto the glass and relishing in the coolness. If only he could caress the clouds, gather their softness in his palms. Even with superpowers, he felt small - delusions of grandeur flitting in his imagination as he wondered what it would be like to fly even though he swung through the sky nightly.

Really, would anything ever be enough for him? He was getting mentored by Tony Stark, he'd fought both against and alongside the Avengers, he was an online sensation, and he had a wonderful aunt.

(And he had dead parents, a dead uncle, and a buttload of trauma, so maybe he was a little justified in his wallowing.)

Happy kept glancing at Peter with narrowed eyes and Peter wasn't sure if he was worried or suspicious. Why Happy would be suspicious, Peter didn't know, but he couldn't say he was in the best frame of mind at the moment. Though, that could probably be forgiven.

The world felt like it was closing in on him, judgment pouring out of every corner. He could swear that each person walking down the street could see all of his mistakes from just a glance at the darkened car windows. It felt rather like he was being observed by a horde of demons, whether they were his own or the people around him didn't matter. Either way, he felt suffocated by existence itself.

He was hyper-aware of Mr. Stark calling Aunt May to ask her to come to the tower, but even though the words were sharp in his ears, he felt as though he couldn't quite register them.

The world was soft.

Hard.

Cold in a way that numbed his fingers and hot in a way that sent flames tingling up his arms.

It was heavy - weighing on his shoulders.

Light, so that every breath felt like choking.

Bright in a way that made his eyes burn.

Dark like someone had shoved their fingers into his eyes and blinded him.

The world was too much.

Too little.

Too real.

Too fake.

The world was.

The world wasn't

(The world was a laughing mob of spectators watching him fumble forward on broken feet. The world was a pit of concrete he was drowning slowly in, relief and fear warring in his veins at the thought of his inevitable end.

His mistakes laid bare in the bloodstains on his fingers, like a mocking glimpse of all that he'd lost and gained - a power that could clot his blood in minutes, but a pain that throbbed a constant ache in his chest.)

He shut his eyes until they stung with starbursts lighting up the back of his eyelids. God, how was he going to do this when even now he felt as though a thousand needles were piercing his skin? He was barely keeping back bile, and the world felt like too much to handle.

He was cold, but he didn't know if it was from the air-conditioning in the car or from the helpless unease lining the goose-prickled flesh of his arms.

Water slid down his face in icy rivulets that only added to the chill he felt as he clutched his hands to his damp clothes. Tony was wet too and Peter felt another sting of guilt at the fact that his own uncaring state meant Mr. Stark had spent minutes outside in the rain with him.

He had hardly noticed it was raining. He was so far stuck in his head that it hadn't even pricked his mind that it would be inconvenient for anyone to get drenched to the bone and then sit in what basically equated to a shallow puddle.

He scratched harshly at his wrist in frustration, wishing that some sort of pain would stay - that some sensation in the physical world would last for more than just a fleeting moment. Even with the gash in his hand glaring at him, he could hardly feel any pain that wasn't solely emotional. It was as though his senses were solely restricted to the keen tack of anxiety that pushed through his sternum and rested snug and sharp against his heart.

Mr. Stark sent him a glance filled with concern and he winced, hiding his eyes as if that could prevent the impending conversation. His gut ached with dread at the sight of the tower and he pulled his lips into a thin line as he grimaced in pain. His emotions were so strong they physically hurt him and he held onto that pain as if it were any appropriate connection to reality.

The car rumbled into a parking garage. Turning into a seemingly dead-end, Happy didn't slow as a wall approached the front of the vehicle. About fifteen meters before they would collide, the wall split and opened to what appeared to be an obnoxiously large and high tech elevator. He parked the car as the elevator rose a few floors before the doors slid open to reveal one of Tony's personal garages. It was filled with fancy cars that Peter knew he'd faint if he ever saw the price tag for.

Somehow, that wasn't important to him at the moment; Aunt May was standing in the doorway to the personal floor of the tower.

Peter had tasted death and found it lacking. Had lapped up the bitter tears of the sky as if they could revive his chapped lips and thirsty soul.

Peter had survived off of the fumes of a life half-lived and yet he was only 16. He was mature enough to know that he needed help, but his way of asking for help left much to be desired.

After all, he'd mostly just hoped that if he was in enough pain - if he showed he was in enough pain, if he lashed out and grieved and wailed - then someone would notice. He'd even considered harming himself to draw other's concern. Though he'd already harmed himself in other, less direct ways than the direct sting of a knife to skin.

His ways to get attention were painful, harsh - cruel. Perhaps he hated himself more than he thought - to let himself live the way he had been. It had almost gotten to the point where he wasn't living at all. He had morphed into a frighteningly blank slate. Was he really living at all when most of who he was were pieced together parts of a human?

He was a rather good actor, and that more than anything scared him. Not necessarily because he felt dishonest, but because fabricating most of his existence to those around him made him question who he was in the first place.

Was he the witty vigilante who walked with a straight back and firm feet? Was he the socially awkward nerdy teen who didn't know how to talk to girls? Was he the moody teen trying to find a will to live?

Who was he, really, when most of who he was was formed by carefully constructed interactions set up to please the world around him?

It was strange, though, that he could tell others emotions so easily. That he could pick up on minuscule microexpressions and adjust himself accordingly.

See, he might not know what he was feeling, but he was rather good at mimicking emotions. People fidgeted and stuttered and averted their eyes when they were nervous. They blushed and stammered and apologized when they were flustered. They glowered and yelled and glared when they were angry. They raised an eyebrow and shifted their bodies when they were curious. They smiled softly when they were being kind and brightly when they were happy. A slight furrow of the brows or a pursing of the lips meant they were concentrated.

And he knew how to do this - he was rather good at smiling and laughing and stuttering and raising his eyebrow. He didn't know why he did it - play pretend. Maybe it was to fit in. Maybe it was to try to understand what he was feeling. Maybe it was to pretend that he had feelings at all.

What was frustrating was that he wasn't even that likable when he was playing pretend - well, people-pleasing would probably be a more apt description. So, really, who was he at all?

Aunt May's worried face met his gaze and he took a shaky breath, unsure of how to behave in front of her for the first time in a while.

(He'd never known what to do in front of Skip, though it often felt like he'd never had a choice for how he reacted. Skip's voice was smooth like resin, sweet until it hardened into an amber shell, trapping him forever as nothing more than an ornament to be admired. His autonomy had always been stripped by Skip before he could even react.)

Mr. Stark graciously didn't say anything as he got out of the car. He followed stiffly, his arms more like wooden trucks than limbs. Wincing as she hugged him tightly, he raised his arms to give her a cautious hug.

Feeling the sudden urge for comfort, he squeezed her tightly and felt a sharp pang of grief that he couldn't hold her without being cautious of crushing her ribs. He nuzzled his head into her shoulder, muffling a choked sob. His eyes prickled as bitter agony pierced his throat and ripped his heart like a wolf tearing apart its prey.

(He was dangerous, could kill with a flex of his fingers.)

"Oh, Peter," May said, kissing the top of his head and running her fingers through his curls, "let's get inside."

He nodded, taking a shuddering breath to prepare himself before stepping back to wipe his eyes on his still damp sleeve.

Avoiding meeting anyone's gaze, he followed behind Mr. Stark and Aunt May as they walked into the private floor. Walking past the kitchen, he noticed Mr. Stark separated from the group to head to the counter as May continued to the living room.

"Does anyone want hot chocolate?" he called, obviously looking for something to distract him and Peter smiled through his discomfort at the notion.

"Sure," he said, as May said no.

He continued walking, ignoring the itchy feeling of eyes on him. He tried to tell himself to stop being paranoid, but the fact that there were cameras in every corner of the room he was in wasn't easing his nerves.

He joined May on the couch, curling up into a ball against the armrest and studiously ignoring anything but the thread of the upholstering. He clenched the fabric of his jeans in his palms as he tucked his head in between his knees and chest. Flexing his fingers against his shin bone, he turned his head into the armrest and rubbed his forehead against it to stave off the headache throbbing behind his eyes.

He needed to pee, he noticed, uncomfortably. He jolted out of his seat to rush to the bathroom, feeling ashamed and anxious at his retreat for some strange reason.

Looking at the mirror as he washed his hands, he realized he felt different in a way he couldn't explain. Like his whole perspective had shifted and his body was rewired just a few codes short. He could vaguely see the similarities between his past self and his present, but his face still seemed slightly off - as though he was only the broken twin of himself.

His cheekbones seemed higher as if his face gaining some regality would make his life just as glamorous. But, his skin seemed duller - clear from acne but obviously uncared for all the same.

(Uncaring - apathetic, did he have anything to motivate his continued existence? What was he but a silent bell, his purpose unnecessary because of a few broken parts? What was he but the broken, tattered edges of a frayed being with nothing more than his body left to offer?

He wasn't anything but scattered bits of synapses firing in practiced patterns to keep him alive - no matter how little he was living.)

And yet, through it all, he also remained invariant - lips thin and chapped, eyes wide and dark, hair brown and wavy. Through it all, he seemed unchanged, normal - a boy on the cusp of manhood.

A young teen waiting for his first kiss.

(There's a voice that whispers darkly in his mind that he'd be really good at kissing now. That he'd be able to pick people apart by the way their body shifts left or right. That he could be in the lead for once, teach people all that he'd learned from things he'd never wanted to experience.

It's just, he doesn't know if he can kiss anyone without the smell of Skip's musk clogging his nose and choking him in bad memories. He doesn't know if his lips would lick up poison from his partner's mouth.

He doesn't know if there's a soul who could kiss a soul like his.)

He sat back down on the couch, noting the presence of a first aid kit in front of May. She beckoned him over, face expressionless in a way that made his stomach churn. She seemed angry, even though he knew she wasn't. But, knowing wasn't the same as accepting.

He sat in front of her, silent as she picked up his hand to clean it. It had already healed a little, wound smaller than it should've been considering the state it started in.

She stoically maneuvered his hands, ignoring the fact that he couldn't meet her eyes. He didn't know if he wanted her to say something or for her to remain silent. He rubbed the fingers of his right hand together, clenching his hand into a fist to distract himself from the hands on his fingers.

She finally tied off a piece of gauze, pulling back as he escaped to the corner of the couch once more.

"What happened?" she asked, concern lacing her voice. He shrugged, looking to the wall in a childish attempt to end the conversation.

She sighed, evidently figuring she shouldn't push.

He was grateful.

Mr. Stark came back with two steaming mugs of hot cocoa, though Peter suspected he had put a healthy serving of espresso in hs.

"Soo," Tony said, pursing his lips, "Where do we start?"

A twinge of annoyance flared in Peter's chest because he didn't know where to start. It was strange that he wanted so badly for someone else to take control when he was so used to feeling out of control - when his whole life had been dictated by things outside of his control. But he was scared - scared of the unknown. Scared of saying something wrong.

Being something wrong.

(Being the problem in the first place.)

He looked to Tony, a pleading expression on his face even though he knew Mr. Stark would have no way to know what Peter was pleading for.

Predictably, Tony looked to May for help, making May huff out an exasperated laugh.

"Boys," she said, smiling to lighten the mood as she squared her shoulders and faced Peter.

"We're worried about you, Peter," she said, as he flicked his eyes up to meet hers, "we don't know how to help you because we don't know what's going on."

He nodded absently, biting his lip and shifting the mug of cocoa on its coaster.

"I don't - I," he started, feeling his breath shorten as he tried to find the words.

"Give me a minute," he said, eventually, struggling to contain his panic.

May nodded. "Take as much time as you need," she said, "we have all day."

He nodded swiftly, the motion distracting as his chest tightened with trepidation.

(What would happen if he lied? If he pretended that there was nothing wrong besides teenage angst or superhero trauma?

Would the world keep on spinning as if everything was fine? Would he keep fading like the taillights of a car driving further and further away until it was just a speck of light on the horizon?

And what would happen if he somehow did say the words? What words would he even say to convey the things he'd felt? The scars he'd gained?

What could he do when anything he said would impact his world far more than he wanted it to?)

When he thought of Skip, his stomach lurched with fear. The words collected in his throat even as he felt his blood drain to his toes until his face tingled with withheld tears. He saw the ghost of Skip in the cramped corners of the room and shuddered from his perceived observation.

He'd never gotten the talk about bad touches and strange men. He was sort of bitter about it, now, trying his hardest to blame all his trauma on anything he could find. How was he supposed to navigate this when they'd never even told him that what happened to him was wrong?

(Was it wrong? Or was it him who was wrong - attracting danger and being unsatisfied with all that he'd been given?)

No one had told him what to do with this damage he'd been given. No one had told him what to do, how to be, how to navigate the darkest parts of humanity.

(Isn't it strange how much absent things affect you? How the things you have not touched or heard or seen can shape you? How blank spaces are the biggest parts of your structure?)

He looked to the table, unable to meet May or Tony's eyes. Holding back the words almost made his jaw hurt and it twinged with a sort of dissatisfaction that ran deep into his bones.

He picked at the grain of the table, ignoring the eyes on him even though he knew he was just prolonging the inevitable.

"Skip - " he said, pausing when Aunt May gasped because what did that mean? Did you know? Why do you already sound horrified?

His heart pinched in his chest - feelings of betrayal swirling behind his sternum. He felt rather like a tub of ice cream being scooped out from the inside - hollow and cold. He breathed in sharply as though the air could fill him - could calm him, could soothe the raw feeling in his throat.

"Skip touched me," he admitted and wasn't that an uncomfortable sentence? One that scratched at his lungs like pollen in the springtime. Mortification seized his ribcage and he tried to tamp down the shame coloring his cheeks. What did he have to be sorry for? Why did he feel so guilty?

(He was so scared - so ashamed - by just those simple words. Ones that felt taboo. They were words that he felt like he shouldn't share. As if they were socially unacceptable because they were.)

Right after he spat the words out, he saw it. The light in their eyes fading, the horror running up their spines.

He wanted to take it back. To comfort them.

To make them feel better because just that one look of grief sent guilt to his gut until he felt like he was drowning in regret.

He was solid now, like a statue of stone. The couch cushion tore in his fingers and he could only flinch as May covered her mouth with her hand as if to stifle a sob.

There was a ringing in his ears and he wanted someone to say something, anything, to comfort him. Perhaps tell him they were sorry or that they had a plan.

He needed someone to have a plan. To figure out the next move.

To tell him what to do.

"No, Peter," May whispered and he almost screamed because what did she mean?

Was she angry? Sad? Guilty? Horrified?

The sound of breaking ceramic echoed in the room and he glanced up. The hot chocolate filling Mr. Stark's mug was dripping down his wrist, soaking into his sleeves as he gripped what was left of the handle in his palm.

Tony was angry.

Peter wanted to cry.

Peter wanted someone to tell him what to do.

So he froze.

A solid statue of a boy, he did what he always did.

He froze.

As Tony growled that he would kill Skip and May gripped Peter tightly to her chest, Peter froze. As apologies were whispered like a prayer in his ears and Tony was held back by Happy - when did Happy get here? - Peter froze.

As Aunt May pulled back to grip his shoulders and stare with eyes blown wide with panic, asking "how bad?" like that was something that mattered.

Like that was something he could answer without a bald-faced lie.

Peter froze.

(When Peter was 16-years-old, he wished that someone could tell him what would happen next, could promise him that everything would be okay, but no one said the things he needed them to and something in him shattered.)