Peter leaned against the window of May's car, his head swimming. He had no clue why he felt like this, why he could feel his intestines churning like a broken mixer. Sweat smeared against the window he pressed himself against. He could feel May looking over at him curiously, hands carefully on the wheel.

"Are you sure you're okay, buddy?" she asked kindly, coming to a stop in front of a red light.

Sluggishly, he turned his head to look over at May. She glanced over at him worriedly, though still keeping her eyes on the road in an attempt to seem nonchalant. Her hair was pulled back and glasses were perched on her nose. In fact, his own glasses were giving Peter a headache. Slowly, he removed them and put them on the dash before rubbing at his face.

"Yeah," he responded with a heavy smile, "Just tired, I guess."

A little smile creeped up on her face as the light turned green. "Well, how about we stop for a slushie?"

"I don't know," Peter grumbled, sinking deeper into the seat and wrapping his arms around his middle, "I'm not feeling good."

"Does my little genius have an upset tummy?" May simpered, giving Peter a big fake smile.

"Very funny, May," he chuckled tiredly.

"One cherry slushie," she compromised, waving her hand towards a gas station nearby, "We'll split it."

A little smile formed on his own face. Peter never could say no to his aunt. "Sounds good, May."

The older woman gave a little cheer before turning into the lot beside them. The old convenience store looked dirty and barely managed, but that pretty much guaranteed good, syrupy slushies. Peter leaned back even further, pressing his hands to his face to try and block out the harsh light outside. Apparently, May didn't get the memo to let him lay down because she was tapping on his shoulder.

"You know," she pointed out gently, "If you're still feeling this bad, you can stay home tomorrow."

"I don't think that'll be a problem, May," he countered, only to be met with her serious look. The one she shot him when he stayed up until four in the morning doing homework. His shoulders sagged under that look. "Fine. If I still feel bad, I'll stay home."

A proud smile split over May's face. She turned towards the windshield, hands reaching for her seatbelt when she seemed to notice something.

"Look who I spotted."

Running his hands down his face, Peter followed where his aunt's finger was pointing and saw an old, beat up car that looked incredibly familiar. However, on closer inspection, he realized he knew the occupants. Through a cracked window he could see Frankie and her older brother Charlie yelling at each other. Or Charlie was yelling at Frankie. She just looked pissed. May was peering in too, lips pressed together.

"I'm not a fan of her attitude lately," she said decisively, unbuckling her seatbelt.

"If by lately you mean the last seven years?" Peter pointed out, rubbing at the back of his head where another ache was forming.

"You could say that," May shrugged, turning her head towards her nephew with a frown, "But don't tell your uncle. He's still got a soft spot for her."

The teen met her gaze with a little smile. "What's your take?"

"What?" she asked haughtily, a hint of a terrible british accent in her voice, "Because you know I'm always right?"

"Exactly."

May chuckled, pushing a chunk of stray hair out of her face before shrugging her shoulders and continuing to watch the siblings argue. Charlie had stomped his way out of the car and into the convenience store, leaving Frankie alone in the car with a pissed off expression.

"I don't like the way she treats you," May continued, "I don't understand it. Her father's a real sweetheart when I see him at Ben's office."

If Peter had any clues as to what had changed in his old friend, he would have said something. But there wasn't much of an explanation. He just kept watching as Charlie came back, a milkshake in his hands as he made his way back to the car. Seeing Frankie scratching pretty hard at her neck, he hit his fist against her window and said something pretty angrily. in his Although, her brother seems like a real ass too."

"Yeah, he's a dick," Peter confirmed casually, "Teachers love him, though."

"It was understandable for a while. After what happened to their mom…"

The teen looked down, not really sure how to answer that. "Guess it just hit them hard."

Peter remained still, watching the siblings snap at each other. But he noticed that it wasn't the same as when she fought with him. Her eyes were down, her fingers tapped against her neck almost in a nervous tick. She didn't look like herself, tucked into the passenger seat as Charlie pulled out of the parking lot.

For a brief moment, Peter thought she saw him through her window. He wasn't sure. But her face went soft for a millisecond.

Unwilling to think about it more, if for nothing else than to give his throbbing head a break. He looked over at May and said, "So, slushies?"

Frankie wondered if she's ever had a headache this bad.

"Come on, Blondie," Charlie grumbled, begrudgingly helping her through the apartment towards her room, "Dad'll be home soon. And don't you dare vomit on my shoes."

"Fuck off…" she mumbled, the words slurring at the edges, "And let me go."

"Fine."

Without another thought, Charlie dropped his arms from around her torso. With the support suddenly gone, Frankie nearly fell to her knees. She quickly caught herself, head swirling as she did. She picked up her eyes and shot a glare at her brother.

"Assole," she spat, picking up her fist to try and punch at his chest. But her muscles felt too tight to move correctly. Like a marionette with too short strings. Her head throbbed harshly, so harshly she wondered if her veins were popping out. That definitely wasn't a good sign.

Charlie's eyes squinted over at her, his body going a little stiff. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," Frankie insisted again, turning towards her bedroom door, "Just- just tired."

"Have you eaten today?"

"Jesus!" she spat back over her shoulder, holding herself up as best she could on the doorframe, "I had a fucking breakfast sandwich this morning. Cheese, eggs, the whole nine yards."

"Just this morning?" he accused, taking a step back from her and moving his gaze towards the wall beside him, "The doctor said-"

"Spare me the lecture," Frankie cut him off, pushing her door open, "I'm going to bed."

Slamming the door behind her, Frankie wasted no time in throwing herself onto her bed. Her right leg lay limp off the edge of it, jaw popping as soon as her head hit the mattress. A pained grunt pushed its way out of her lips, unable to shift around to a more comfortable position. Her back felt so stiff that if she moved an inch it would snap in half. She could feel sweat sticking to her face and neck as she vaguely looked around for anything to distract her.

She could hear the patter of Cordelia's paws before the fat little thing jumped up onto her stomach. Frankie gave a little grunt, feeling the ache in her gut as the old cat paw at her abdomen before plopping down.

"Not now, baby," she groaned, rubbing absentmindedly at the cat's ears, "Mama's not feeling so hot."

As usual, the cat didn't understand. Though Frankie would place bets on the idea that she just didn't care. Cordelia just nuzzled deeper into her stomach silently. Breathing deeply to try and stave off the headache, Frankie reached back and ran her fingers over the bite on her neck. It felt swollen, hot to touch.

Distantly, she could hear the front door open, a few mumbled greetings and the dropping of her father's backpack on the kitchen counter. Familiar, boring. She didn't have to pay attention. At least, not until the pattern broke.

She turned her head in surprise at the sound of her own door opening. Her father stood in the doorway with that tired smile he always had plastered on his face as he looked down at her on the bed.

"Hey, kiddo," he greeted quietly, stepping a few paces closer, "Charlie said you weren't feeling great."

It wasn't a question. Slowly, Frankie nodded. She quickly pushed herself up to a sitting position, holding in a groan as she did from the ache in her neck. "Yeah- uh, it's nothing."

Her father's brows lifted almost hopefully. "You sure?"

"Yeah," Frankie reiterated, her attempt at a reassuring smile coming out tight, "Just a headache. It's- I'm fine."

Her father shrugged, his eyes running over his daughters room almost curiously. Frankie wondered if he'd actually come in at any point in the last few months. Years. "That's great, Frankie. Yeah, because we really couldn't have you miss school tomorrow."

The pink-haired girl pushed her lips even further back in a strange contortion that she realistically didn't look anything like a smile. But her father wasn't really looking. He just smiled serenely and nodded at her. "Well, you get some rest. You'll feel better in the morning."

Frankie nodded again, giving the older man a thumbs up. "Will do."

He gave her one last grin before turning on his heel and walking out of the room. Immediately, the girl's face dropped and she curled back onto the bed. Her head felt worse, somehow. She put her hands up against her ears as she heard her brother and father shuffling around in the living room just outside her own. Their footsteps felt like they were just beside her, stomping and banging against the edges of her skull.

"Dad," she heard Charlie mutter, the words somehow sounding sticky and unsure, "Maybe we should call the doctor again."

Frankie felt her eyes squeeze shut, holding back a groan deep in her chest. That was always Charlie's go-to. Hospitals, doctors. She'd rather throw herself off the fire escape than go back to the hospital with those idiot doctors and creepily perky nurses who looked at her like she was a broken doll.

"She said she's fine," her father insisted, the sound of plates clinking against the counter covering his words, "And I believe her."

Charlie scoffed. She could picture the way his nostrils flared and how he always pushed back his hair when he was arguing with their father. "She said she was fine last time-"

"And she was."

"She was hospitalized."

"For a day," her dad cut him off, a bite in his voice. The sound of it made Frankie press her hands against her ears a little harder. But she couldn't seem to block out the sound. It was like static, playing in the back of her brain. It was actually starting to hurt, like a needle behind her eyes. "Look, I saw her eat last night. Vegetables, meat, all the dietary necessities."

"Dad, she's anorexic, not a houseplant."

There it was.

The bottle blonde pushed her head into her pillow, trying in vain to block out her brother's voice. Her stomach twisted and her fingers felt cold. Her whole body felt cold, actually, but that was new. She groaned into the fluffy purple fabric, letting the pillow suffocate the sound. Charlie brought this up everytime, like it was true. Like it meant anything.

"You're right," the low sound of her father sighing broke through her fingers and fabric, "You're absolutely right. How about you take her some food, watch her eat it. Make yourself feel better. If she gets worse, we'll talk about hospitalization."

"Okay," her brother sighed, his voice going quiet, "Okay, fine."

The sounds in the kitchen dimmed slightly, like neither one of the occupants were moving. Frankie couldn't understand why she could hear it so clearly, so painfully. She'd never had a headache like this. The sound of Cordelia licking her fur, the sound of her brother's heavy footsteps, her father shifting around silverware were all crushingly loud.

"I just don't understand why she does this to us."

She wanted to hit him. Or hit herself. Or lie here until her body ate itself and decomposed on her ratty polka dot comforter.

So she stayed like that. Her ugly blue blouse stretching against her muscled shoulders and sagging around her bony stomach. She felt disproportionate. Unbalanced. Like she couldn't quite fit in her bed. Carefully, she pushed herself up, back popping in a million different places and walked over to her closet. Her feet dragged underneath her, heavy in her ratty chucks. The floor creaked beneath her as she pulled open the closet doors. Sluggishly, she dragged her eyes over the piles of clothes carefully folded and sorted. She reached towards her tidy pile of night clothes and snatched up an old sweatshirt. It didn't take long to switch clothes, but of course she was interrupted the moment she managed to tug the giant shirt down.

Light spilled into her room as Frankie turned her head to see Charlie standing in the doorway, a pissy look on his face and a bowl in his hand. He looked her over, rolling his eyes so far she wondered if they would fall out.

"Would it kill you to put on some pants?" he groaned.

Frankie's eyes flicked down, noting that the sweatshirt she'd picked only went down to her hips. She moved her eyes back up to her brother with a bored expression. "Not my problem."

"Whatever," Charlie grumbled, bumping the door shut with his hip. He dragged his feet over to her bedside, where he dropped the bowl down. The younger girl followed him, too tired to argue with him more than she had to. She peered into the bowl, nose wrinkling at the sight of rice and green goo peeking back at her.

"What the fuck is that?" she gagged, pointing towards what she assumed had to be food.

"Dinner," the older boy shrugged, "Avocado and rice. High in calories, fills up the stomach."

"That looks like vomit," Frankie bitched, knowing how annoying she must sound. She didn't give a crap.

"Eat it," her brother bitched back.

The blonde's face twisted up, eyes cutting through her brother as she defiantly grabbed hold of the bowl of food. A deep ache pounded in her chest as she shakily took hold of the spoon stuck inside the gooey mess and shoved some in her mouth as quickly as she could. As soon as the paste hit her tongue, Frankie face screwed up. The goo coated her mouth uncomfortably and she couldn't stop herself from spitting it back into the bowl.

"Oh, come on!" Charlie groaned as Frankie kept spitting.

She looked up at him, dropping the bowl back onto the nightstand and picking a grain of rice out of her teeth with numb fingers. "Not my fault you can't cook for shit."

"None of us can cook for shit," he shot back, "Mom was the one who did all this...crap."

"Yeah, too bad she got her brains knocked out."

Frankie didn't know why she said that. Honestly, she didn't know why she said a lot of things. But her head was pounding and her body felt like it had been submerged in ice water. Charlie's jaw had snapped shut, eyes going hard in that way they always did when they talked about her mom. Her body shivered and her eyes wandered over the room, falling on an old photo of her mom crudely taped up above her desk. Her brother's eyes followed.

Dark hair. Sharp features. Thin lips. In the grand scheme of things, she didn't look like anything special. But her old EMT uniform made the blue of her eyes pop out of the picture, and her smile was bigger than anything anyone else in their family could produce.

Most of her pictures had been taken down a month after she'd died. Their dad thought that would help them cope, stop them from thinking about her crushed under debris. But both siblings knew he kept them all under his bed in a box. Frankie had stolen this one a few years back.

She could feel Charlie looking at her. Not with sympathy. She didn't know if he was capable of that with her.

She heard him sigh, rub his head. "At least let me get you some sweatpants. You look like you've stepped into a fridge at Costco."

He stomped his way over to her closet, pushing Frankie towards her bed while he did. She landed with a thump on the soft comforter, her head splitting open again. A flash of white danced behind her eyes as she rubbed hard at her temples. Her brother peered into her closet, scoffing at the piles along the ground.

"Jesus," he chuckled, kicking at her pile of band shirts, "Do you color code them, too?"

The younger girl tightened her fist in aggravation, feeling her knuckles crack under the pressure. "Don't mess up my system."

She watched her brother lean down and messily snatch up a pair of purple sweatpants from the top of her pants pile. "You could just use a dresser."

"I like my piles."

He looked a little deeper into the corner of her closet. Suddenly, he was laughing. Slowly, with a deep ache in her back, Frankie pushed herself up and glared at him.

"What?" she grumbled, her vision starting to blur slightly. Her room looked like a blob of blurred white walls and half-seen punk posters.

Instead of answering, Charlie heaved out a box with an almost sadistic smirk. Frankie felt her eyes widen when she saw which box he'd pulled. "Charlie, I swear to god-"

"Frankie's Memory Box!" he chuckled, reading the large, carefully scripted sharpie label. The black tub was barely held together with duct tape, having been busted open on one side years ago. "What've you got in here?"

"Nothing," Frankie spat, wanting nothing more than to punch him in the face if it didn't feel like her whole body was swelling, "Don't you dare open that."

He ignored her. Fucking asshole.

The first thing he pulled were her old tap shoes. They made Frankie want to hide under her covers. The old things were splitting apart and had crude pink drawings of flowers all over the back heel.

"Aw, how cute," Charlie drawled, dropping the shoes back in, "Little Twinkle Toes Francine. Didn't you want to be a dancer?"

The blonde pulled her covers over her head. "Chorus girl, dumbass."

"Yeah," he smirked, still riffling through, "Man, I forgot what a fucking dweeb you used to be. Chicago, Cabaret… what the fuck kind of show is called Kinky Boots?"

"Would you please drop it?" Frankie groaned, swiping a strand of candy pink hair out of her eyes.

Rolling his eyes and dropping the box on the ground crudely, Charlie kicked it back towards the closet. "Don't think I won't keep looking through that. But, no offence, you look like shit."

Instead of responding, Frankie stuck her hand out from under the covers and flipped him off.

She listened to him walk away, his footsteps like hammers to her skull. It all felt too loud, too heavy. She didn't know why she pulled the comforter back, or why she opened her mouth. But she did. Just as Charlie opened the door, she opened her mouth.

"I'm not anorexic, Charlie."

He stopped moving for a moment, eyes falling back on his sister. His face lost the smirk he'd been holding, going slack.

"Frankie, I'm the one who found you last time," he said coldly, his shoulders tightening, "I'm not doing that again. Eat."

Without another word, he shut the door behind him, sending another spike of pain through Frankie's head that lasted until she fell into what she would later consider the worst night of sleep she'd ever had.

A/N: Hey, sorry about that weird glitch earlier. My school's internet is spotty lately and I've been in classes all day so I didn't notice that it didn't post right.