The waiting game
May planned a dinner with Pepper. She’d been taking more initiative when it came to keeping contact with that side of his life, and Peter couldn’t help but feel like he was failing at keeping up. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to feel like he was part of the decision making, or if it was more of an adult, ‘I planned it so we’re going’ kind of activity.
May probably liked to think it was a group effort, but Peter felt more like the latter, though he didn’t say that to her face. She was very strongly keeping the whole ‘working together’ mentality intact, and it was kind of sweet if not conflicting. It was just the two of them, and he knew that, but sometimes he liked to imagine that they weren’t so alone. It was harder to keep up the illusion now that Tony was gone.
He liked Pepper. He also liked not going over to her house and invading the space where his dead pseudo father-figure mentor had occupied. That was something he needed to work on, he guessed, and May told him that he could always say no, but it would probably be good for him to socialize.
He talked about it to Michelle in Econ the next day, swiveling in his seat and recounting his tragic tale. It would’ve been better if he told Ned first, but he wouldn’t see him until lunch, and he really felt like complaining before then.
“If you don’t want to go, I can always stage an accident,” MJ told him, completely stoic and loyal. This was her devotion to him, he knew, her willingness to get him out of things even if it meant permanently damaging his body.
He scrunched his face at her. “You’re just going to push me down the stairs,”
“You could take it,” She said, and he deliberately turned back around to face forward in his seat.
At lunch, he sat next to Ned and opened up his backpack to grab a sandwich. As he bit into it, he told his friend about his dilemma, but most of his woeful recounting had apparently already been given by their mutual friend last period.
“Michelle is ready to push you down the stairs,” Ned offered, and when Peter sent him his most unimpressed look, he grinned. “Or! And this is a totally new and exciting idea that I’m sure you’re going to hate: you could just say no,” He set aside his fork, reaching for the little carton of milk on his tray. Peter looked down at his own lunch, frowning at his unpeeled banana. There was a bruise along the top and he knew it would be a pain to open, that spot being particularly squishy and soft. I am that banana, he mused to himself, I am mushy and soft and feel bad saying no.
“I think I’m physically incapable of declining. I think I have the kind of face that even if I did say no, people would think I’m being coy and would take it as a yes, anyway,”
“That’s a very conflicting view on consent,” Ned ventured, when he had exhaled for about ten seconds, loudly.
He slouched further in his seat. “I am merely a pawn to the world's most devastating people pleasing requests.”
Ned continued to open his little milk carton, pushing the tap inwards and then pulling it out. “You should sign up for theater next semester,” He commented, and Peter knew that was as close as he would ever get to calling him a drama queen.
“Maybe I should,” He replied, which was his way of saying ‘ouch ow ouchie my feelings’ .
At the end of the day, as he collected his bag from his locker, he drafted a text to his aunt, trying to come up with any and every excuse as to why he couldn’t attend. He was feeling sick? He technically hadn’t gotten any common colds or illnesses since the spider bite, enhanced healing and all. He was behind on school work? He had promised May he would stay on top of all of his courses, so if he pulled that argument it would most likely get him a one way ticket to no Spider-Maning. He was emotionally compromised and even the thought of sitting across the table from Pepper and acting like everything was fine and someone wasn't missing made him feel like he was going to throw up? Okay, that would probably get him out of going, but it would also mean addressing the actual issue, and that wasn’t something Peter was prepared for.
He tried to find it in him to say, simply, ‘I don’t want to', like everyone was telling him, but his fingers always seemed to still before he could finish the line. There was this feeling, a tightness that followed him and crept into his chest whenever he let himself think for too long. It slept below his collarbone and sat between his lungs, carving out little bits and poking holes that made it hard to breathe, filling his lungs with stale, sour air. It made everything tilt. It made everything different, even when they pretended like it was the same.
He typed, deleted, and chewed his lip as he walked to the front doors. Eventually, he sighed, and let the pang in his chest guide his hands.
I’m in, Peter texted, his eyes feeling hot, should I change when I get home?
He sat down heavy on the subway, clinging to the phone in his hand, and he tried to mentally categorize how badly he didn’t want to go. It was somewhere between a seven and an eight out of ten. He mapped out scenarios of small talk and where he’d sit at the table and how much he would eat so no one would be worried that his stomach was too uneasy to keep any of it down. He pictured the silverware, the napkin he would bunch up in his lap, the way his smile would stretch too wide to be seen as genuine. Dread seeped into his bones and skittered along his temple, making his head foggy and his shoulders tense. He sort of wished he’d taken MJ up on her offer of the stairs. He sort of wished he was brave enough to tell people no.