hunger

6:30 AM. Wake up, stare at the ceiling for seven minutes. 6:35  AM. Shower. Then do homework. Go to school. Go to work. Be Spider-Man, the hero of New York. More homework. Asleep by 1 AM.

Shower. Homework. School. Work. Spider-Man. Homework. Sleep.

Shower, homework, school, work, Spider-Man, homework, sleep. 

Shower, work, work, work, work (ft. criminal activity), work, sleep.

The lines blur, but he’s staying afloat. Admittedly, he doesn’t rest much. But he’s still going. Taking it one week at a time. 

One day at a time.

One hour.

So yeah, he’s still going, but he really feels like he’s just trying to outrun everything on a twisted ankle, and eventually, it’ll catch up to him. And, oh boy, does it catch up to him. 

–

Normally, it starts slow. Peter is no stranger to the lows of depression. Normally, it starts with a missing assignment. Then a skipped class. If he’s really trying to ignore the pit in his stomach, he might even call out sick from work, but this time, he’s worn himself too thin. Everything was fine at first, really! He was exhausted, but he was managing things alright. And then suddenly he has three new assignments from one class alone, and he just… doesn’t do them. The shame hits him hard and fast, and by the next day, he’s decided to toss his perfect attendance record to the trash. He tries to ignore the fact that he hasn’t missed a class since high school as he sits in his studio apartment, glaring down at his incomplete work. 

There’s no point. 

Peter sighs, letting his shoulders sag for a moment before slamming his textbook closed. You know what, it’s been too long since I’ve done a midday patrol, he thinks to himself as he walks over to his chest of drawers. He slides the lowest one open, hands hovering over his suit, when the edge of a yellow journal catches his eye. 

He’s not sure how it slid out of place. Maybe it was the small earthquake last week. Maybe he slammed the drawer too hard the last time he closed it. Either way, the edge of the yellow cover glares up at him, freed from its usual hiding spot between the two pairs of jeans that he’d outgrown years ago. 

His hands move before his brain does, taking the corner of the journal and pulling it out from the drawer. Peter starts to flip through the pages, several dozen having been completely filled out with weekly weigh-ins, calorie counts, body measurements… The sinking feeling in his chest grew deeper with each page as he watched the dates fly by, until he hit the middle of the journal, where he’d abruptly stopped recording everything during his first semester of college and chaotic move-in to this apartment. Apparently it was nearly two years ago. 

A lot has changed in those two years. 

His mind is already picking apart the numbers in everything he’s eaten this week, and Peter is starting to think that he is not one of those things. 

–

Peter really did mean to go on a midday patrol, but his suit still lay in its drawer, folded up and forgotten in favor of reminiscing over his old yellow journal. He calls out sick to work, and it’s hardly a lie with his churning stomach and beginnings of a headache. He turns in early, making the executive decision to try to catch up on sleep in the hopes of forgetting all about this the next morning. 

He does not forget all about this the next morning. 

–

The day starts normally with his shower and homework. He skips school again, and manages to drag himself to work, but when he collapses into his sofa at the end of his shift, he finds himself leaving his suit tucked away for the second day in a row. Guilt and hunger start to claw at his chest. He does his best to ignore them.

Peter spends the evening planning. He draws out the same little charts he always has, figures out his goal weight, his goal measurements, how long it would take to get there, trying to account for his enhanced metabolism. Before he knows it, it’s 11:30 and Tony Stark’s face is lighting up his phone. 

Peter sighs, letting the thing buzz on for a while longer while deciding whether or not he should let Mr. Stark tear apart New York under the assumption of Peter’s kidnapping or demise. He decides to humor him and picks up the phone. 

“Hello–”

“Why aren’t you patrolling?” Tony demands immediately. Peter feels shame welling up in his chest. “How badly are you injured, and how did you bypass Karen’s Wounded Spider protocall?”

“Woah, there, Mr. Stark. I’m fine.” Peter laughs, trying to play things off. “I’m not hurt, I’m just out sick for the day.” He forces out a dry cough to try to drive the point home. 

“Bullshit.” Tony says. “You haven’t had so much as a pollen-induced sneeze since you became enhanced, and all of a sudden you’ve gone radio silent for two days. Try again.”

“I called out sick for a reason, Tony.” Peter snaps. “I haven’t had a day off since I started college. I just needed a break.” His voice softens at the last sentence. “I’ll start up again tomorrow, I swear.”

Tony’s end is silent for a moment, save for the crackle of telephone static. A distant sigh is heard. “Okay. Okay.” Peter can practically see Tony rubbing his temples. “I was just… worried. I guess.” The words stutter out of him begrudgingly. “I’ll lay off for now, but Pete, you gotta tell me about this stuff before you give this old man a heart attack.”

“I will, but it was just two days.” Peter emphasizes. 

“From you? That’s more like two weeks.” Tony laughs. Peter smiles, huffing lightly to try to communicate some sense of amusement. Tony takes in a breath to start to say something, but Peter cuts him off.

“I’m gonna go to bed now.” He says. “I’ll send over my patrol report tomorrow.”

“Oh– yeah, yeah. Okay.” Tony sounds surprised. “It’s a bit early, but you have sleep to catch up on, I know.”

Peter hums. 

“Bye.” 

“Bye.” 

Peter’s stomach gurgles uncomfortably, attempting to remind him that he’s yet to eat today. Peter just rolls over and forces himself to sleep before the hunger really takes hold of him. 

–

He’s so hungry he almost gets breakfast the next morning, but brushes the thought off in favor of trying to finish his homework. He can’t give himself any free time– free time is when he notices his hunger, free time is when he’s actually willing to consider doing something about it. His day is packed like before, but now with purpose instead of necessity. Every minute is accounted for, with no space for extra calories to slip in.

The thing is, it’s not a bad idea in his eyes. He needs to save money, he could stand to lose a couple pounds (he can’t stand to lose his goal of 25, but that’s a problem for another day). So he carries on as usual. Shower, homework, school, work, Spider-Man, homework, sleep. Mealtimes are replaced with weigh-ins. Diet sodas appear in place of tupperware in his fridge. It’s all disturbingly easy, compared to how much work he used to have to put in to avoid detection of his unhealthy habits. Karen and Tony don’t keep tabs on him like they used to. Aunt May isn’t around to suggest takeout. Ned and MJ don’t even go to the same school anymore, so there’s no way in hell they’d know whether or not he’d eaten lunch. It would have continued to be disturbingly easy if it weren’t for fucking Deadpool. 

“Goddamnit,” Peter mutters when he spots the mercenary gracelessly clambering up the side of the building he’s currently perched on. 

“Hey now, that’s no way to greet a friend!” Deadpool’s voice rings out, getting steadily closer. “Whatever happened to your good ol’ friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man?”

Peter leans back from the ledge of the building, sitting back on his haunches as Deadpool vaults himself over the lip of concrete, landing flat on his back with a heavy thud that makes Peter wince.

“What did happen to him?” He asks himself, yet to move from his position on the floor of the roof. “Because I haven’t seen you around since two days ago, and I always see you around.”

“I took a couple of sick days.” Peter says. 

“Bullshit.” Someone sounds an awful lot like Tony. “You can’t get sick, you’re Spider-Man!”

God, when did everyone become an expert on his mutation all of a sudden? 

“I needed a break, asshat.” Deadpool pretends to be affronted at the insult, clutching imaginary pearls. 

“Clearly you need another, the Spider-Man I know and love does not use language like that.” 

Peter scoffs. “Seriously?” 

Deadpool nods enthusiastically, before saying exactly what Peter was hoping he wouldn’t say. 

“You know what, how about we go get some Mexican food? There’s nothing a good enchilada can’t fix. Dinner on me tonight!” The last part is spoken in a singsong way, and Peter can practically see the wide smile across Deadpool's face when he uses his thumbs to point to himself, shaking his shoulders.

Peter thinks he does a pretty good job of hiding his sudden slump and suppressing a sigh. “I can’t, I’ve got to make up for the past couple days. Maybe next time we see each other?” 

“You’re turning down free food?” Deadpool asks incredulously. “You, the definition of a broke and overworked college student, are turning down free food?”

There’s a pause before Peter simply says “Yeah,”, and stands up, adjusting his web shooters. “For real though, we can catch up next time we run into each other.”

The eyes of Deadpool’s mask narrow (seriously, how does he do that?), before he makes a reluctant but affirmative noise in the back of his throat. 

“Okay, but if you try to wiggle away again, I’ll knock you out and drag that sweet unconscious ass to the nearest taco place.”

“I was waiting for you to mention my ass.” Peter says, trying to keep his voice light. He aims his web shooter at a nearby building, and pulls himself clear of the rooftop where Deadpool stares after him. He spends the rest of the night with his mind consumed by thoughts of Mexican food. His usual order, no, more than his usual order– taquitos dorados, enchiladas, tamales, pozole... He falls into his bed with a black eye and a few more bruises than usual. Turns out it's easier to land a punch on Spider-Man when all he can think about is food.