A/N: Sorry for the weird "o0o" line breaks. I'm new to posting on this platform, and I haven't figured out how to do normal line breaks on the app, which is where I post from. I previously posted from the website itself, but that was super complicated and time consuming, so I switched. Anyway, enough of logistics. Thank you for the reviews! I can hesitantly say that there should be updates at least once a week up until Chapter Eight, as I have all of those already written. (I say "hesitantly" because I'm a Junior in high school, and sometimes I don't even have time to sleep, lol). After that, I'm not sure. I always update on ao3 first since that is my perferrred platform, so if you get really desperate, feel free to check over there. Once again, this story is cross-posted on ao3 under the same title and username, but nowhere else. If you see it anywhere else, please let me know, as I have not authorized it to be there. Thank you for reading, and enjoy Chapter 2!
Trigger Warnings: (Note: this list pertains only to this chapter.) Swearing, Self-Depreciation, Bullying, Threats of Violence, EDNOS Thoughts and Behaviors, References to Past Suicidal Thoughts/Actions, Homophobia (H-slur, F-slur, D-slur)
o0o
That morning, after waking up on the kitchen floor, Peter has just enough time to stand up and pour himself a glass of water before Sam comes wandering in.
"Hey, Peter," the man says quietly, obviously trying to avoid making too much noise. "How did you sleep last night?"
Peter smiles at his teammate, grabbing the carton of orange juice from the fridge and handing it over. He hasn't had the chance to complete his morning ritual yet, and it's making him antsy.
"I slept okay," he answers softly, trying to ignore the pain in his body that disagrees. Clearing his throat and walking his now-empty glass over to the sink, Peter pretends to bite back a smile, knowing his lie will be more believable if it's followed up with a joke. "I was knocked out during most of Casablanca, anyway."
Sam chuckles, downing the last of his orange juice. Peter puts the carton away and moves the dirty cup into the sink without hesitation. He doesn't want Sam to think he's lazy like Mr. Stark does.
"Yeah, I'm with you on that," the older man says, bending over to tie his shoelaces. "I fell asleep after the first scene myself."
Peter smiles widely when Sam straightens back up, trying to appear amused. It's not that he doesn't like talking to Sam—in fact, Sam is probably his favorite teammate to talk to nowadays, except for maybe Bruce.
No, the reason Peter has to fake a smile for his friend is simple.
Nothing makes him happy anymore.
It all started when Ben died. Peter had been so wrapped up in feelings of grief, anger, and guilt, that he just didn't have any room left over for anything else.
Of course, being Spider-Man had helped with that. It'd let him channel those feelings into something productive—something that made him feel useful and important.
But then The Incident happened a few months later, and the bullying became nearly unbearable.
At one point, Peter had suffered a locker-room beating so bad that he had to stop doing patrol for almost a month.
(Peter changes in the janitor's closet now.)
With the absence of Spider-Man, there was nothing left to give Peter any sort of relief. So, naturally, the hurt from the hateful words his classmates spat at him crept in, filling the empty space so rapidly that Peter was almost lost in it.
(It was around then that Peter learned his healing factor was annoyingly good at keeping him alive.)
And then, like a god-sent intervention, Tony fucking Stark showed up in his living room the day he planned to learn the taste of lead.
Peter had taken it as sign, and shamefully realized that it was selfish of him to deprive the world of a protector, no matter how small or useless he was. When he was out as Spider-Man, he helped people, and sometimes even saved people's lives. Putting a bullet in his own head meant that any unfortunate soul in Queen's might get one in theirs—and that was something that Peter simply could not allow.
Peter is pulled out of his musings by the feeling of someone ruffling his hair, and he stiffens automatically, tense and ready to fight before belatedly realizing that it's just Sam.
"Bye, kid!" Sam says enthusiastically, apparently not realizing how close he'd been to being judo flipped six feet under by the teen.
"Bye," Peter calls back meekly, knowing Sam probably won't hear him anyway.
For a moment after the other man's departure, Peter stands still as a statue in the middle of the kitchen, debating whether or not to make himself breakfast.
He glances towards the counter, staring blankly at the spot where Mr. Stark and Steve had sat the night before.
Peter decides he isn't hungry.
Instead, he shuffles listlessly back to his room, locking the door behind him before moving to the mirror.
Numbly, Peter's trembling hands clutch the hem of his shirt and slowly pull it off. He keeps his eyes closed, a sense of foreboding thick in the air around him, making it hard to breathe.
Peter's shirt doesn't make a sound as it lays itself haphazardly across his floor, brushing against his toes in a way that makes him shudder. He kicks it away, watching it's descent against the opposite wall.
Amidst the fluttering of black fabric, he spots the familiar red and gold of the Iron Man logo.
Quickly, Peter turns back to the mirror, forcing his critical gaze to travel up and down his body for the first time that morning.
As per usual, he counts every scar and bruise, recalling each event that gave him them. He relives the shame of his failures, festering in it until he's itching to rip himself out of his own skin.
Just as he's about to shift into the second step of his ritual, a chill slips in through his open window and reminds him of the shirt sitting discarded on the other side of his room. The Iron Man logo flashes in his mind's eye.
"Oh, I'm sure the kid's pasty skin and left-over baby fat was just so attractive."
Peter glances at the mirror again, noticing the bump of his stomach over the waistband of his pajama pants and the annoying fullness of his cheeks.
Frogface, Clint had once called him, poking fun at the youthful roundness of Peter's facial structure. At the time, Peter had begrudgingly thought it was funny. But now, the thought just makes him want to cry.
When did this happen? Peter wonders desperately, glaring balefully at his reflection.
He's never hated it as much as he does in that moment.
o0o
It's two days after overhearing Mr. Stark's and Steve's conversation and Peter is walking up the steps to his school, Ned and MJ at his side.
Ned is telling him about the new Death Star LEGO Set his parents got him for his birthday last week when someone bumps into Peter, sending his books to the ground. Immediately, he crouches, beginning to gather his things back together. He doesn't need to look up to see who it is—he already knows.
"Watch where you're going, Penis," Flash taunts, but Peter can feel his heartbeat speeding up and his hands getting clammy, so he just ignores the older boy.
Apparently, Flash doesn't like being ignored.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you, Parker," he snarls, shoving Peter's shoulder and sending him toppling over, flat on his butt.
(Peter could've easily stayed upright, but he decided a long time ago that keeping his identity a secret is more important than his pride.)
Flash laughs, unaware of MJ's glare. Peter gulps. That's MJ's "I'ma-fuck-your-shit-up" glare, and having been on the receiving end of it once or twice himself, he almost feels sorry for Flash.
That is, until he bends down and snatches Peter's sketchbook off the ground, beginning to flip though it idly.
Peter doesn't think, he just reacts. He's off the ground and literally lunging at Flash before he even realizes his body is moving.
Unfortunately, Peter stumbles slightly and the older boy is able to side-step his impressive gymnastics. Flash reads from the sketchbook, cruel amusement in his voice.
"Cerulean and sunshine
soft sand and rumbling waves
salt-kissed lips cracked and smiling..."
With mounting horror, Peter recognizes the poem as one he'd written years ago about his hero-worship crush on Captain America. Despite harboring no feelings for the man since he'd dropped a jet bridge on Peter in Germany, the reminder of Steve prods the open wound in his heart, still unhealed after the conversation he'd overheard Saturday night.
Peter is frozen as time slows down around him. He can't hear Flash's voice anymore, and everyone seems to be moving at a snail's pace, like they're wading through molasses.
Peter can recall Mr. Stark's voice clear as day as he makes fun of his 'baby fat,' and the revulsion Steve uses when he agrees with him.
The thought makes him regret eating breakfast this morning.
"...whisper across the vastness
separating lands like an icy aby—"
Peter is pulled out of his dizzying trance when a large, blurry shape zooms past his head, traveling faster than everything else and shattering the spell. Flash's voice cuts off abruptly as he drops Peter's sketchbook and clutches his head, moaning.
Peter is still shell-shocked, too terrified to even process the fact that people are laughing at him from the sidelines, and that he should just grab his stuff and get the fuck out of there.
Thankfully, MJ and Ned are still acting like functioning human beings, and Peter lets Ned lead him away while MJ retrieves her backpack and Peter's sketchbook from beside Flash, who's now swaying slightly on the steps, looking dazed and confused.
It takes Peter a moment to process everything, but when he does, he turns to Ned, an incredulous and slightly impressed look on his face.
"Did she just throw her entire backpack at him?" He asks, wincing at the thought of all the heavy books undoubtedly stashed in the bag.
"Yeah," Ned answers happily, a proud smile on his face.
Peter just nods. MJ is someone he doesn't think he'll ever fully understand, but after knowing the girl for years, he's accepted that as a fact of life.
A minute later, MJ catches up to them, her nose tucked back in a book and one hand extended, Peter's sketchbook resting securely in her grip.
Peter takes the book back gently, running his hands over the worn cover as he whispers his thanks to his friend. She just hums quietly, which Peter knows is MJ-speak for "no problem."
They walk the rest of the way to the library in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.
o0o
Peter's first four periods go by much too fast, and before he knows it, he's sitting by himself at a table in the corner of the cafeteria, his rumbling stomach protesting the empty tray in front of him.
MJ is meeting with her History teacher and Ned left early for a doctor's appointment, so Peter is alone.
(Minus the mating whale that has apparently taken up residence in his abdomen, of course.)
Logically, Peter knows that he needs to eat something if he doesn't to want to feel like a zombie for the rest of the day. His metabolism is much too fast to run on fumes.
He pinches the bit of squishy skin on his hip bones, frowning deeply.
"What's one more skipped meal?" He mumbles under his breath, pushing his empty tray away with more force than necessary. "I can go a few more hours without food, easy peasy."
Suddenly, Peter's spidey-senses tingle dully at the base of his skull, just enough to make him aware of the person striding towards him.
Peter already knows who it is—it's always him—but he looks up anyway, sighing tiredly at the angry look on Flash's face.
Upon arriving at Peter's table, Flash opens his mouth to speak, but the younger boy cuts him off, hoping to stem the flood of hateful words before they even begin.
"Hey, Flash, I'm so sorry about this morning. I don't know what MJ was thinking—is your head okay? She's got a crap ton of hardcovers in there, I wouldn't be surprised if it left a bruise…"
Peter is rambling and he knows it, desperately trying to delay the inevitable. At first Flash is shocked by Peter Parker apologizing to him, but as the teen continues to speak, his demeanor sours once again.
"Shut the fuck up, Parker," Flash finally barks, annoyance clear in his tone. "I don't care about what that freaky dyke bitch reads, I just caring about making her pay. And since you're a homo too, I might as well do that through you."
Peter's vision goes red.
His hands are fisted tightly under the table, nails slicing crescent moons into his palms. He's grinding his teeth so hard that the scraping of molars against molars is all he can hear. He stands up, body shaking with barely concealed rage as he levels Flash with the most menacing glare in his arsenal.
"Don't you ever talk about MJ like that again, do you hear me?" Peter whispers dangerously, low enough so that only the other boy can hear him. "Say whatever you want about me, but if I see you even so much as look at her wrong after today, I'll gouge your fucking eyes out."
With that, Peter steps away, the rush of anger-filled adrenaline melting away like snow on the first day of Spring. Peter's entire body hurts, and his exhaustion is bone deep—so much so that he's almost afraid to walk.
As the teen shakily makes his retreat, he notices the marginally terrified look on Flash's face morph back to one of anger. Thankfully, Peter manages to blend in with the shadows of the cafeteria well enough to escape the older boy's notice, and he slips out the backdoors.
He's knows he can't go back to school today, not with Flash still strutting around. In Peter's current state of mind, it would only take one rude comment from the boy and he would snap.
(Peter doesn't want to hurt anybody, but sometimes, he can't contain the anger that's always simmering under the surface of his skin, like trapped pockets of air. It's days like these, when he's too tired to fight the urges, that he can almost see the appeal of lethal combat.)
This isn't a battlefield, Peter! The teen reminds himself as he walks past the small parking lot and the football field, officially leaving school grounds. It's just a bit of name-calling, the same shit you've been dealing with for years.
Peter continues to berate himself for almost losing his cool with Flash for the rest of his walk, only stopping when he finally arrives at his usual street-corner in East Brooklyn.
The thought of what he's about to do makes his stomach lurch, so Peter focuses on his breathing, brown eyes scanning the horizon as the cold from the brick wall he's leaning against seeps into his bones.