fries before guys (to hide that inescapable dread consuming you?)
Mental health was weird. Peter, of all people, was well versed in the topic. He struggled constantly, beating his own records of all time highs to lows within days, all without a trophy at the end.
He struggled a lot. And yet he also thrived a lot. See how this thing gets complicated? Over time, he had learned to accept that everything was a gamble. Every night he fell asleep knowing there was a chance he could wake up and fall into a viscous cycle, that for months on end he could feel completely devoid of all life, and that had to be okay because he couldn’t stop it no matter what.
So then, it was times like these, with all his sleepless night staring at the ceiling and the loss of his super-spider appetite that he tried to live, no matter how dead he truly felt. Which was why he was standing in a Mcdonald’s, way past his bedtime with only his skateboard, keys, and headphones to weigh him down.
« Welcome to Mcdonald’s, what can I get for you tonight? » The cashier had bright blue hair and eye bags that rivaled Peter’s. She looked fed up, a sentiment Peter could understand when working at a god awful food chain.
« Can I just get a 30 pice nugget and fries? Plus a fountain drink. Thanks. » She rang him up as handed over his receipt, never looking back up as he used his Apple Pay and went to sit down in a corner booth.
He sat there, staring out the window at the busy Queens streets and the fluorescent lighting killed his eyes. Finally, they called his food and he took it from the counter in a mere second. He filled up his cup with Dr. Pepper and couldn’t bother with the ice.
The food was bland. Of course, everything was bland to him when his brain shut down like this. He should’ve ordered a Happy meal and prayed it followed its title.
His ears ringing paired with the dryness of his eyes was an awful combo, and so he shoved his free headphones into his ear and scrolled on Spotify until he found something he liked.
Everything was sort of blurry. He couldn’t focus on the plastic chicken nuggets or his dirty skateboard propped against the booth, even the sting of the crisp Dr. Pepper didn’t register in his desolate brain. The fatigue of staying up for 5 days hadn’t set into his bones yet, but the brightly labeled 3:07 a.m shoes so brightly on his phone he was ashamed.
Nothing felt particularly real, which he supposed was better then the all consuming prescience of his advanced senses. His music was loud, and yet he couldn’t really care if the equally depressed looking man a few booths away gave a shit about his shitty headphones.
He didn’t register the song of the bel on the door, nor the man stepping into the buildings importance.
He was hyper focused on his too salty fries when the man sled into the booth across from him. « Y’know, if you wanted a late night snack you could’ve told - or asked someone. You scared the crap outta your Aunt there, kid. »
Black sunglasses stare at him, a des feet baseball cap adorning the man head along with his oil stained AC/DC shirt and sweats. God, Peter really needed to go to sleep.
« I left a note on the counter. You have my location. Plus, I’m perfectly fine walking the streets of Queens alone. You didn’t have to come out here, especially to some random Mcdonald’s I stumbled across. »
Tony remained eye contact with him. The. glanced down at his half eaten food and reached for a fry. Peter didn’t tell him they were cold and way too salty.
« That’s not the issue, Underoos. Your a brooding, angsty teen and I get that and all, but I’m worried about you. We’re worried about you. Maybe in your mind your some invisible kid, but we all see it. Your eating way less, and based of off those bags I’d say your taking after me a bit too much in the sleep department. I’m not - I’m not very good at this stuff, reaching out, but you need to know we’re here for you. Your not alone, bambino, so don’t force yourself to be. »
Tony’s gaze still hasn’t faltered, and Peter is pretty sure his eyes are glazed over in exhaustion. He doesn’t know how to respond to that. Doesn’t know where to even begin to make Mr. Stark understand.
If he was being honest with himself, he didn’t know how to reach out, even with a hand extended right towards him. How could he possibly explain the bullets panting around his brain? The pain that set so deeply in his bones he couldn’t get up in the morning? And even then, he was far too afraid to explain that feeling of losing himself - because then, in all these years he’s spent aimlessly praying to get better, he would be admitting this feeling is real and raw. He can’t.
« I… I don’t know what your talking about. I’ve been a little stressed with school, is all. Having a bit of trouble balancing all of my shit - y’know? Nothing I can’t handle though. Everything’s totally fine. »
« That emptiness in your eyes says otherwise. Pete, I know it’s hard. To admit your suffering, that everything you feel so real, but it’s the first step in getting better. Your a good kid, too good actually. Which is why it hurts - for all of us, to see you suffering so quietly and never say a word. »
Peter took out his headphones. For the first time, he looked up from his cold fries.
« I don’t want to put my issues on you guys, especially not Aunt May. She shouldn’t have to worry about her depressed vigilante niece - I can deal with this on my own. I always have. »
« And yet you don’t have to. »
It didn’t fix anything, because nothing was that simple. And yet, the words still rocked Peter to his core. He had been dealing with this his whole life, suffering in complete silence and never letting anyone worry. He had never even considered the fact that their worry was because they cared, because they wanted to help him.
And so, he let Tony help, because Tony cared. He let the man steal his fries and spoke freely about how shitty his brain treated him, and his eyes glistened with every squeeze Tony gave him. He let the man walk him home and hold his skateboard, he let him use his own keys and then pull off Peter’s ratty vans and tell him to go change.
At 4 a.m, Peter arrived home with Tony and changed out of the school clothes he kept on for 12 hours, ignored the grease in his unwashed hair, and let the man tuck him into bed and believe his promise to stay through the morning.
It wasn’t healing, nor did it get rid of that hollowness in his bones, yet it was comforting. Comforting to know he still had someone to take care of him. That much was perfect for him.