A/N: Hello there all you lovely people! I've been absolutely adoring to the response to this story. I love reading your reviews. But I've noticed a bit of a pattern to them-many of you are asking what's going on with Steve and Tony, and expressing that you can't wait to find out what's up with them. This is understandable, and because I knew that this very thing would be aggravating to you readers, this story is also written from Steve and Tony's perspectives. It's called "What Peter Doesn't Know (Can Hurt Him)" and it can be found on my profile under the list of stories I've written. I strongly suggest that you also read WPDK along with LID-and I'd also like to mention that reviews are appreciated on both stories *wink wink*. Anyway, here's chapter seven!

It was Peter's first day of going to Hawthorn Academy. It was Peter Stark's first day of really being alive. Peter wasn't sure who, exactly, Peter Stark was just yet, but he was different from Peter Parker, and he was different, Peter was certain, from Peter Stark-Rogers, though he had never met him either.

It was all a bit overwhelming—a new school, and a new identity all in the same day—and Peter was just doing his best to keep up. Hawthorn was an old brick building, with the stereotypical ivy crawling up the side, and a great old Hawthorn tree straight in front of the building, covered in red berries. The halls of the school were winding and Peter didn't see much sense in the floor plan. Having not received any type of map, Peter was so disoriented that he had no clue where he was by the time the first bell rang.

He was late to class. On the first day. A security guard (dressed only in a suit and tie and indicated only as a guard by the radio device in his ear) watched him, but said nothing.

"Excuse me," Peter said, "but do you know where room 104 is? I'm assuming it's somewhere here on the first floor…" The guard continued to watch him, but again he said nothing. "Um, so, you don't know where it is?" Silence was the only answer he received. Peter felt his cheeks burn red in a combination of embarrassment and anger. He was used to having other kids ignore him—he was not used to adults pulling the same kind of crap.

"I wouldn't bother, it's like talking to a wall," spoke a boy only just now wandering through the entrance to the building. Wait, how had he ended up back at the entrance? Peter groaned internally—this school was impossible. "They're not supposed to converse with the students. Trying to get one to respond is like taunting a Buckingham Palace Guard."

"Well, that's helpful," Peter said sarcastically. "I don't suppose you know where in the hell room 104 is."

"Actually I do. I'm headed up there now—it's on the fourth floor," replied the boy. He wore the Hawthorn uniform, but he wore it sloppily. Before he had left, Pops must have had Peter's uniform pressed and dry-cleaned, because it was impeccable. Peter wore it exactly as intended, but the tails of this boy's shirt were hanging out, his tie was loose and his slacks were wrinkled. He carried his jacket over one shoulder instead of bothering to put it on, and he wore sunglasses over his eyes. In any other circumstance Peter would have instantly labeled him a douchebag and stayed far away, but he wasn't about to be picky about potential allies. Peter couldn't think of anyone at Hawthorn as a potential friend just yet. That was too much. He'd never really had proper friends, except Gwen, now, he supposed.

"Why, for the love of God, is room one-oh-four on the fourth floor?" Peter asked.

"Here's a tip—if it ends in 4, it's on the fourth floor. If it ends in 3, the third, and so on," the boy explained. He started heading up the stairs, so Peter followed him.

"That's possibly one of the most counter-intuitive designs I've ever heard of," Peter replied.

"I think it's to keep potential threats guessing," the boy said, running a hand through his thick brown hair. "Hence the lack of maps. Who are you, anyway? It's not often we get transfers once the year has started."

"I'm Peter P—Stark. Peter Stark," Peter said. The other boy raised his eyebrows.

"Like, Stark as in Stark Industries, or no relation?" he asked, removing his sunglasses. Peter understood why he was wearing them—he had dark bags under his eyes, which were red and irritated. It was either drugs or alcohol, Peter knew, and he probably had a massive hangover.

"Tony Stark is my Dad," Peter clarified.

"No shit? Didn't know he had a kid. Or kids," the boy replied.

"Kid," Peter said.

"Huh," the boy said as they climbed the last step. "Well I'm Harry. Harry Osborn. Guess that makes us…competitors? Rivals? Or something." But Harry stuck out his hand anyway, and Peter shook it with a grin.

"Oh yeah. Huge rivals. The teachers will dread to have us in class together," Peter said.

"New rules will be instated just to keep us from killing each other," Harry agreed. "For years after our graduation, students will wonder why there is an oddly specific rule about bringing biologically engineered goats to school."

"Ok, later, you have to tell me about that plan," Peter said, grin broadening.

"It'd be my pleasure, Stark," Harry said before swinging open the door to a classroom that Peter assumed must be room 104.

"Mr. Osborn," said the teacher tiredly. "And—oh, this must be the new student. Peter Stark, correct."

"Yes, sir," Peter said. "Harry was just showing me around." It wasn't entirely true, but it wasn't entirely a lie, either. The teacher looked at them both a bit suspiciously, but said nothing on the matter.

"All right then. Next time, you will be expected to show up to class on time, Mr. Stark, but I think just this once you can be excused. And…never thought I'd say this, but, Mr. Osborn I have to commend your initiative in making our new student feel welcome. Just this once, you are also excused for your tardiness," the teacher (who later introduced himself as Mr. Martinez) bid them to take seats, which they did, near the back of the classroom and right next to one another.

The class was advanced calculus, and there were only eleven other students in the class. Peter grew to understand that this was the norm for Hawthorn Academy, and in fact the entire senior class was only twenty-five students strong—well, twenty-six now, he supposed. Harry told him everything about everyone at the school.

"That's Jason Keller—I have no idea how he managed to get into Advanced Calculus, he's as dumb as a rock," Harry whispered to him as Mr. Martinez lectured, pointing out a large blonde kid near the front of the class. "Next to him is Jennifer Goldwin—hot, rich, but a seriously frigid prude." The girl he spoke about was blonde and had a sweet, heart-shaped face. She wore a headband that reminded him of Gwen—and Peter rather thought she looked like a nice person, but he didn't say as much to Harry.

Harry went through each of his classmates in the same way, and when his U.S. History class rolled around, he did the same with the remaining students. Given that there were so few students, Peter was not surprised to discover that he and Harry had the same schedule.

"Amy Dawson is the redhead—she's great to party with. Kate Bishop is the one with the black hair, but say the wrong thing around her and you might end up with a couple of teeth knocked out," Harry said as their history professor droned on about something that might have been important, but Peter really didn't care. Because someone was talking to him, willingly and without prompting, and for once in his life, maybe Peter wouldn't be a social outcast. Peter Parker might have been a lame science geek with no friends, but Peter Stark…well, that could be a different matter entirely.

"Mr. Stark, why don't you answer the question?" spoke the history teacher whose name Peter could not recall. Peter shifted uncomfortably. Ok, maybe now Peter cared a little bit.

"Um," Peter said.

"I would think that you, of all people, would know the answer to this question," the teacher said, crossing his arms.

"Um," Peter repeated, "I'm—I'm sorry sir, what was the question again?"

"Next time, pay attention. I've been informed that you are an excellent student—perhaps you should choose your company more carefully," the teacher spoke.

"Hey," Harry said indignantly, but the teacher ignored him.

"The question was, Mr. Stark, what were the names of the two most influential scientists in the creation of World War II hero Captain America?" the teacher asked.

"Howard Stark and Doctor Abraham Erskine," Peter answered almost automatically.

"Correct. And do you know why no further super-soldiers were made?"

"Because Doctor Erskine was the only one who knew the final formula, and he was shot by Hydra agents shortly after the experiment was deemed a success," Peter said.

"Correct again, Mr. Stark," the teacher said. "And have you any idea why your grandfather was spared assassination?" Peter blinked.

"He…he didn't know the formula. And Hydra didn't have a personal grudge against him, like he did Erskine," Peter said uncertainly.

"He didn't know the formula—the one thing that made a soldier a super soldier, and he didn't know it. Is it safe to say then, that Howard Stark's contributions to Project Rebirth are exaggerated?"

"I—"

"Is it safe to say that Howard Stark's contributions to Project Rebirth were exaggerated in order to draw focus away from Howard Stark's work on the Manhattan Project, which, of course, ended with the loss of hundreds of thousands of lives?"

"And ended the war," Peter argued.

"So you agree."

"I didn't—I don't!" Peter said adamantly. The teacher looked at him with an amused expression.

"History is made by those in power," the teacher said to the class. "It can be easily shaped by a company as powerful as Stark Industries, of which your new classmate is heir. Truth is harder to find. Does truth even exist? Or are there many truths? As historians—which you all are, when you sit in my classroom—we must do our best to see all sides of a situation. We must attempt to be neutral. For most of you students, neutrality will be difficult. You come from influential families, many with long histories, like Mr. Stark's here. But in order to succeed in my class, you must put your personal feelings aside." The teacher looked again at Peter. "I was harsh on purpose. I've seen the documentation—Howard Stark's Vita-Ray machine was crucial to Project Rebirth, and without it, it's doubtful that the serum would have ever succeeded. But by the same token, it was used as a PR campaign. And you didn't want to hear it. We all have a responsibility in this class to the truth. We cannot let our personal feelings or attachments cloud our judgment."

Peter felt his cheeks flame with embarrassment and fury. He'd never been called out in class so personally before. His hands balled into fists in his lap. The bell rang, and everyone grabbed their bags and left, with the teacher shouting after them,

"Read pages 202-228 in your textbook for Thursday!" he said. Peter picked up his own bag and walked with Harry out the door.

"God, Mr. Donovan is such an ass," Harry said as soon as they were out of the teacher's earshot. Peter didn't say anything in response—he was too mad. "Don't take it personally, Pete, he does it to everybody at some point."

"Did he have to do it on my first day?" Peter grumbled. Harry just grinned.

"Means he likes you, Pete," Harry said.

"Great," Peter said, rolling his eyes.

"Come on, I'll show you the cafeteria and we can get some lunch," Harry offered. "After that we've got physics with Doctor Octavius. He's all right." Harry steered Peter towards the cafeteria, which was smaller than Peter was used to, but the food was a thousand times better. Peter eagerly chowed down on his roast beef sandwich as Harry introduced him to the other kids that sat at their table—Kate Bishop, Jake Lilly, Jordan Dempsey, Meredith Chrysler, Amy Dawson, and Jennifer Goldwin.

"What's it like, having Iron Man as a dad?" Jake asked.

"Oh, uh, cool, I guess?" Peter said. Oddly, it was a question that he'd never had to answer before.

"Do you know all the Avengers?" Jordan wanted to know.

"Yeah, they're kind of an extended family," Peter started, but the questions started coming faster.

"Don't you just love Black Widow? She's my favorite—"

"Are you crazy? What about Thor? He's so awesome. Is he really that big in real life?"

"And why haven't we heard of you before? Who was your mother?" Amy Dawson asked.

"Uh—" Peter began uncomfortably, feeling a little bit trapped. What was he supposed to tell them? That he had been in hiding his entire life? That he'd never even met his mother?

"Guys, Jesus, give Stark a break," Harry said. "It's not like he's going anywhere. I'm sure we'll hear all about his adventures with the Avengers later…like at the party at my house this weekend." The announcement was meant with cheers, and Meredith and Jennifer both pulled out their phones, likely spreading the word. But Peter just wanted to disappear into his seat.

He'd never had friends, let alone been considered interesting, and he didn't have any 'adventures with the Avengers' to share. He'd never been allowed to go on missions. Hell, he'd only been to the Triskelion a handful of times and the Helicarrier a grand total of once (during which time he'd been kidnapped, he might add). He didn't exactly have any heroic stories—and the couple of interesting, heroic stories he did have now, well, he wasn't about to share those. But Harry clapped him on the back and grinned, and Peter grinned weakly back. He'd just have to think of something.

Luckily, the rest of Peter's school day was not half so eventful as the morning had been. Doctor Octavius was amusing and Peter enjoyed his take on the physics lesson of the day, even if it was basic enough that Peter could have taught it. When he finished his assignment early, he got into a lively discussion with 'Doc Ock', as his students affectionately called him, about more advanced concepts of the subject. His last class was English, and it also seemed to be stuck on a Shakespeare unit. Needless to say, Peter sketched and daydreamed and—to his delight—passed notes with Harry. By the time the last bell rang, he felt like he'd known the other boy for years. Arrogant, lackadaisical, party-boy Harry Osborn had weirdly become fast friends with Peter Stark.

Dad isn't going to like this, Peter thought with a wince as Happy drove him back to the penthouse. Perhaps he'd just…omit Harry from the day when his dad asked. He could get around it. He could say he'd made friends with a few kids but not be specific. Yes, that would have to work.

Peter rode the elevator up to the penthouse. He wasn't surprised to find that his dad wasn't around, but the apartment felt…oddly large and empty. But then Peter remembered he wasn't exactly alone.

"Hey JARVIS, where's Dad at?" Peter asked.

"Master Stark is working in the lab. Would you like me to inform him that you are home?" JARVIS asked.

"Sure, but tell him he doesn't need to stop working," Peter replied. He set down his bag, loosened his tie, and grabbed a pudding cup out of the fridge. He was glad that someone—Pepper, probably—had restocked it. Peter didn't see Pepper all that often—since his dad had Pops to handle the domestic side of things, she'd never been needed at their home in Brooklyn, and Peter was rarely at Stark Tower. But he knew that Pepper handled most his dad's business, and she was always around for every important holiday or event. And it wasn't that he didn't like Pepper, but he had a bad feeling that he'd be seeing a lot more of her. Peter took a seat at the table to enjoy his snack.

"Hey champ, how was your first day of school?" Tony called out. He had oil in his hair and a smudge of black grease on his forehead. He was still wiping his hands with an old washcloth as he walked in.

"Not as horrible as I thought it would be," Peter admitted. Tony strode over to the sink, turning on the water to wash his hands of the stubborn grease and oil from the workshop. "I think you just need a shower, Dad—what were you even working on?"

"The cars. All of them. Just doing little tune-ups is all," Dad said. Peter nodded, but he couldn't shake the sense that something was wrong. His Dad always worked, although he worked more incessantly the more upset he was. Peter watched the running water as his Dad splashed it on his face—and that was when Peter saw it. Or rather, when Peter didn't see it. Immediately Peter tensed with anxiety.

"Hey Dad?" Peter asked.

"Yeah, Pete?"

"What happened to your ring?"

"My what?" Tony asked, confused. He wiped his face with the washcloth, but it only smeared on more grease. Tony growled in frustration, splashed on more water and grabbed a kitchen towel.

"Your ring, Dad," Peter said, keeping the panic out of his voice as best he could. "What happened to your wedding ring?" His father's hands were completely bare, but Dad never took off that ring. Pops often took his off—he took it off when he went to the gym, so he wouldn't hurt his hands. He took it off when he became Captain America, for the same reason. But Dad didn't ever take his off. Grease and oil spilled on it. It had scratches from where it had caught on metal that he was working with for this project or that project. It had taken a beating over the years, but Peter had never seen it off his Dad's finger. Tony looked at his hands.

"Oh, right. I took it off to clean it," he said. He didn't elaborate, and Peter didn't ask why he hadn't put it on. He didn't want to know the answer. Especially not when it was so obvious that his Dad was lying in the first place. Peter got up from the table, throwing his half-eaten pudding cup in the trash. "Pete?"

"I've got homework to do," Peter said by way of explanation, but he realized once he was in his room that he'd forgotten his bag. His head was spinning. His Dad had taken off his wedding ring. Were his parents getting divorced? Had the papers already been served? Peter threw himself down on his bed, not caring that he was messing up his uniform in the least. He toyed with the idea of calling Pops, but what could he say? 'Heya Pops, how are you today? Were you aware that your husband has cast off his wedding ring?' Somehow, Peter didn't see that conversation going too well.

He hated that he couldn't fix this. He hated that he couldn't do anything to help fix his broken family. He hated that he was so weak and vulnerable that he had to switch schools. He hated that his life was falling apart around his ears and that he was helpless. He was helpless little Peter Parker. He was useless. And it just made him so angry, he just wanted to punch something, and—Peter shot up from his bed and stripped off his clothes. He grabbed his Spider-Man suit and put it on, then quickly threw sweat pants and a sweatshirt over it.

"JARVIS is Dad still outside?"

"Master Stark has resumed work in his lab," JARVIS said.

"Good. I'm leaving. Let him know I went for a walk if he asks," Peter said, but he knew his Dad wouldn't ask. He probably wouldn't resurface from his lab until late—hell, Peter might not even see him for the next three days.

The thought just pissed him off more.

Peter took one of the back exits to the building and then just started walking. Eventually, he found a suitable alley in which to change. He put on the mask and removed his sweats, and suddenly he wasn't Peter Parker anymore, or even Peter Stark or Peter Stark-Rogers. He was Spider-Man, vigilante superhuman (not quite superhero just yet, Peter thought, but soon). He crawled up the side of the nearest skyscraper, going all the way to the top. He could move so fast now that his ears popped on his way up.

From atop the skyscraper, Peter felt like he was on top of the world, like nothing could stop him. And then he jumped, and he was soaring through the air, hanging by a thread and swinging like Tarzan. He felt…free.

And when he happened upon a robbery on the east side, he stopped it, using only his webbing and his fists—and even if he wasn't supposed to relish it, Peter couldn't help but feel his tension release when he punched a robber in the face, couldn't help but feel empowered when he yanked his gun away with webbing. He left the two of them tied up together, held by web. He might have a bruise or two where the second robber had clocked him, but Peter could hardly feel it as he returned to the air.

One robbery turned into two. Then there was an assault he had to stop. And then there was a mugging. And then there was a kidnapping he prevented. One by one, Peter stopped crime in its tracks. He found that he could sense where something bad was happening. It was an odd, creepy feeling, like the one he'd had the day of his kidnapping, but it was useful.

The Avengers might be good at saving the world from foreign or alien threats, but Spider-Man was good at saving the world from itself.

A little bruised and battered but not too beat up, Peter gathered up his clothes and returned home. It was late, but Peter didn't know how late. When he walked into the penthouse, his Dad still wasn't around.

"Is Dad still in the lab, JARVIS?" Peter asked.

"Yes, Master Peter," JARVIS responded.

"Did he ask about me?" Peter asked.

"No, Master Peter," JARVIS replied. Peter could have been imagining it, but it sounded like JARVIS was…disappointed? Resigned? Perhaps both. Or perhaps that was just how Peter was feeling.

Exhausted, Peter barely managed to strip his Spider-Man costume off and hide it in the depths of his closet before collapsing on his bed. It was one in the morning. None of his homework was done. But despite all the good work he'd done that night, Peter Parker, Peter Stark, Peter Stark-Rogers and Spider-Man all felt like shit.

On Wednesday, Peter Stark had his second day at Hawthorn Academy. He fell asleep in his first class (Chemistry), passed notes to Harry in his second class (Advanced Computer Science) about the crazy night Harry had had at some club he shouldn't have been allowed into, spent his third class (study hall) doing the exact same thing as it was a rather long story with surprising twists and turns and occasionally led into other stories about previous clubbing shenanigans, and only paid attention in his fourth and last class of the day, Photography.

Upon arriving home, he discovered that his dad was still in the lab. He talked with Gwen on the phone for two hours, ate two pudding cups but nothing for dinner, and pulled the whole Spider-Man act once more, arriving home at two in the morning to neither fanfare nor punishment.

On Thursday Peter realized he hadn't done any of his homework, and incurred detention on Saturday for this transgression. He recalled that he was supposed to have coffee with his mother, panicked, and thought he might call to reschedule for the very specific date of never. Upon arriving home, he said hello to his Dad, who had surfaced from the lab to grab some leftover pizza out of the fridge (pizza…pizza…when had they had pizza?). He received a distracted grunt in return before his Dad disappeared again.

There still was no ring on his finger.

Peter arranged another date with Gwen (they were finally going to see that Batman movie because no, she hadn't seen it by herself, and no, she didn't actually know if Batman died at the end, although they both agreed that such would be a fitting though depressing ending and Peter really didn't want to think about dying superheroes but he was all for coherent story arcs), did any homework that he had to physically hand in and none of the rest of it, toyed with the idea of calling Pops, and then snuck out again to be Spider-Man. He stopped three muggings, one potential rape, and nearly got knocked out and did get the wind knocked out of him by a particularly sly robber that Peter hadn't realized was in fact a mutant.

It was three in the morning when he took a shower, realizing that he was peppered with bruises—some dark and purple and fresh, some turning a yellowish-green with age, but all sore. Even the hot water pounding on his back was too much. He toweled off quickly and went to sleep.

On Friday, Harry was practically bouncing out of his seat, even though Peter could barely keep his eyes open.

"It's Friday, Pete," Harry said.

"Uh-huh," Peter replied. What class was he even in? Oh, right, Chemistry. But he didn't have to worry about screwing up because he was sleeping. Harry was screwing up their project with marked enthusiasm without Peter's help. Peter wondered briefly why he'd picked Harry as a lab partner, but the thought was cut off by Harry's incessant chatter.

"Friday, Pete. Don't you remember? Party at my house?" Harry asked. Peter blinked slowly.

"Oh. Right. Where do you live, again?" Peter asked. Harry just laughed.

"Why don't you just come with Bernard and me after school today? Then I won't have to worry about you getting lost, Petey," Harry teased. Peter was too out of it to even care.

"Sure, sure," Peter said, and then he slumped his head forward on the desk and promptly fell asleep.

Good old Harry got Peter through the rest of the day, though Peter followed in a zombie-like haze of exhaustion, aches, and pains. He was once again chastised for not doing his homework, and his detention time was extended by thirty minutes. Peter had never been to detention before, so he wasn't really sure what it entailed but it sounded unpleasant. He wondered in his haze if they would force him to walk through the Forbidden Forest and look for injured unicorns, before he realized that idea was nonsense. It was much more likely he'd get stuck cleaning cauldrons.

After sleeping through basically the entire day, Peter felt a little bit better. He texted Happy to let him know that he'd be going to a friend's house and not to bother picking him up, and he went home with Harry and Bernard, who turned out to be Harry's butler.

"Hey have you seen this?" Harry asked, handing him his phone. It was a page from The Daily Bugle Online, and the thing that stuck out was a slightly out-of-focus, rather far away photo of Spider-Man flying through the air on a web, with the bold title, "SPIDER-MAN: HERO OR MENACE", which Peter rather though was extreme. Wasn't there an in-between?

"Masked vigilantes are kind of old news, aren't they?" Peter asked, handing it back.

"Yeah, but this guy is like, half-spider or something. It's crazy," Harry said. "People are saying he's got an exoskeleton and extra arms." Peter squinted at the picture.

"Looks like a dude to me," he said. "A mutant, maybe, but nothing out of the ordinary."

"Jeez, Parker, you always this much of a buzz kill?" Harry asked with a laugh. "Because that might be a bit of a problem tonight." He opened the door and got out of the limousine. Peter found with relief that they weren't at Oscorp (apparently, Norman Osborn was less married to his work than Tony Stark) but rather at a fancy apartment complex. They still went all the way up to the penthouse, though, so obviously he was just as ostentatious. Harry threw his stuff down on the floor as soon as he walked in. Peter reluctantly followed suit.

"So…what do you want to do until the party? We could see if there are any good movies on—" Peter started, but Harry was already getting beers out of the fridge. He tossed one to Peter. Peter looked at it for a moment. Pops didn't drink, but he knew his Dad did often.

"You know, Peter," Peter could remember his Pops saying, "I'm not going to tell you not to drink. But I do think it would be a wiser decision to steer clear of it. The Starks have a history of alcohol dependency, and that sort of thing can run in families. It's a tough thing to toss off. Moderation is key." But of course, Pops couldn't get drunk. Peter looked at the bottle.

Well, one beer was moderation, right?

"Where's your dad?" Peter asked before popping the top off. Harry shrugged.

"Fuck if I know. But he's not usually home on weekends, and Bernard says he said he'd be out of town," Harry replied. The Harry gave him an amused grin. "You gonna drink that or just stare at it?"

"Huh? Oh," Peter said. He took a gulp and nearly spat it back out. It was bitter and unpleasant. He choked it down, and it burned his throat. He took another swig anyway. Harry was just watching him, a knowing look in his eyes and a shit-eating grin on his face.

"Did I just pop your alcohol cherry?" Harry asked. Peter felt his cheeks burn.

"No," he lied.

"Liar," Harry said with a laugh, taking another drink. He clapped Peter on the back. "Welcome to the big kid club, Stark." Peter just rolled his eyes.

"I'm not so sure you're in that club, Osborn," he said. Harry just smirked at him, then grabbed a basketball that was sitting on a chair. "Hey we've got a court in the back—how about we go a few rounds."

"You have a basketball court in your house?" Peter asked.

"Jesus, Stark, I thought you were rich, but you don't have a basketball court in your house?" Harry teased. Peter put down his beer and Harry tossed him the ball. "C'mon, take off your coat and let's go."

Peter had never played sports much before, but his spider abilities made him freakishly good. He had to let Harry get a couple of shots, which was just such a bizarre concept to Peter. By the end of the match Harry had poured more beer into Peter, claiming that maybe it would be a fair match when both of them were drunk, and Peter couldn't think of an excuse not to. And he wasn't even sure he wanted to think up an excuse not to. Their second game was hence much more sloppy. They were already good and buzzed by the time the party go-ers showed up.

Harry had an awesome sound system and pumped up the music as loud as it could go. Peter thought he could feel the whole building shake. Most of the school had shown up to the party, and it looked like plenty of them had brought friends from other schools. They were all dancing (could it be called dancing? It hardly looked like dancing to Peter) and wooping and playing table tennis (no, wait, that was beer pong) and accidentally breaking things with ping pong balls (how anyone managed to break things with ping pong balls Peter would never know).

Peter went over to his stuff and grabbed his phone—his Dad might have texted him to check up on him. Or Pops might have called. And he had detention in the morning, so he should really get home. Harry slung an arm around him and brandished an entire bottle of tequila at him.

"Heyyy, Petey—check it out we—we've got…the salt and the lemons…no…not lemons…green lemons…gremons…all set up c'mon we're gonna do shots," Harry said. Peter checked his phone.

0 messages

No Dad, no Pops, no Happy—no one concerned about his whereabouts. No one concerned about Peter. He shoved his phone back in his bag.

"Yeah, ok, Harry," Peter said, and he followed him an a crowd of cheering guys and girls towards the kitchen with the bottle of tequila.

Peter was dying. He was sure of that. Everything hurt. His whole body was sore, his head was pounding. He tried to open his eyes, but the light was like a knife in his brain, so he shut them hard. He groaned.

"You awake Pete?" at least Harry had the decency to whisper, but it still felt like his ears were being assaulted.

"I think I'm dead," Peter disagreed. Harry chuckled, and then Peter felt something cool in his hands. Peter peaked one eye open—it was a bottle of water. Harry put two white pills in his other hand.

"I'm pretty sure you'll live, but don't hold me to it," Harry said.

"How are you so…so…alive…" Peter said for lack of a better word. He downed the pills and chased it with the water. His stomach rebelled.

"Practice," Harry said. "You should be proud though, you took more than I thought you would and I didn't see you worshipping the porcelain throne at any point."

"Woo," Peter said, devoid of enthusiasm.

"So anyway, do you want to go out tonight? I know this place—"

Peter just groaned.

"I'll take that as a no," Harry said. "Anyway, the floor can't be that cozy."

"No, this floor…this floor is good…this floor is soft."

"Peter, you're lying on tile."

"Floor is good."

"You can have my bed, or at least the couch—" Peter groaned and heaved himself upright.

"No, no I should really get home—what time is it?"

"Uh, one pm. It's Saturday," Harry clarified. Peter nearly slumped right back over.

"Shit," Peter said. "I missed detention."

"Eh, what's the worst they can do?" Harry asked. He helped heave Peter to his feet. Peter looked at his phone.

O Messages

Well, at least that was one less thing he had to worry about.

"Come on, Pete, Bernard can take you home."

Peter expected this to be awkward. He was still wincing from the sunlight and from the daylight-lightbulbs once he was in the building. He snuck up to the Penthouse—but Dad was still nowhere in sight.

"JARVIS—half volume. Where's my Dad?" Peter asked in a whisper.

"He is out fighting crime, Master Peter," JARVIS answered.

"Has he asked about me?"

"No, Master Peter." Peter felt relief, but he wasn't sure what else he felt. Aching from his bruises and head still pounding from his hangover, Peter fell onto his bed, his wrinkled uniform still on.