It’s a funny thing, losing everyone.
He’d shouted those words before, I’ve lost everyone, but he’d been shouting those words at someone, hadn’t he? It hadn’t been true, not really. Because even though he lost people, he had someone to help him through it, hold him while he cried. Someone to shout at, who would forgive him after, because they knew he was grieving. Someone who was still there. He had lost a person, but he hadn’t lost his people.
His parent were the first, obviously, but he had been so young then. He had found a new family with Aunt May. Had started, sometimes, in his head, calling her his mother. They were his world at the time, but they weren’t everyone. He still had more people, his world expanded, and he found someone else. He had hurt, and then he had healed.
And then Tony. Tony, who was like his father. Tony, who had understood him. Tony, who tried to be a good father. Tony, whose heartbeat he had heard stop. Tony, who he fought for. Who he knew would fight for him.
He sometimes wished he hadn’t fought. Wished that Tony had left him in that nice empty space while he had snapped, because as much as it had scared him, it was so much nicer than this.
He had lost Tony, and that felt like everything. He had told May as much, after waking her one night with a nightmare of the war. Told her about it when she came in to check on him. To make sure he was ok. Told her through the tears while she held him tight.
I’ve lost everyone.
Not everyone. You still have me.
And then he didn’t.
Then he didn’t.
Just you and me.
Just me.
Just me, just me, just me.
But even then, he had had MJ, and Ned, and both the other Peters, as well as a mission.
But none of that was the definition of everything. Sure, it was a lot. Sure, it hurt. He missed them, so, so much. He wanted them back. He wanted to have a parent again. But it still wasn’t everything.
He wasn’t worth it. He wanted to scream that at Tony’s grave, at May’s. He wished he had known to tell them to run, before he hurt them. Because he hurt everyone he touched.
Hurt them and lost them.
Because it wasn’t done. The universe would never be done with hurting Peter. Every time he thought he had someone, it was a lie or it didn’t last.
Because next, he lost everyone.
And this time, it was.
They weren’t dead, at least. But they would look at him like a stranger. His best friend, who he had known for most of his life, and his girlfriend, who he had know for less but had loved nonetheless.
And everyone else.
He hadn’t realised how strange it would be for someone he knew to put his name to his face for the first time. He wished he could hear his name said easily, like the person wasn’t learning it for the first time.
He had run into Flash in the street. Fully run into him, sending them crashing to the ground. But instead of teasing him, Flash had apologised, and kept walking. No double take. No recognition. Nothing. Peter didn’t think he would miss Flash, but he did. He just wanted someone.
But he also couldn’t. He couldn’t get to know anyone else, because he would lose them, or it would all be a lie, an illusion. Or he would mess it up. Or he would just be forever comparing it to before, to Ned and MJ. Any adult, he would compare to Tony or May. It would just make him miss them more.
And he couldn’t go back to them, because he had so many memories, and they had none. Couldn’t do it, because he had hurt them. Because he could kill them. He could lose MJ like the other Peter. They were happy without him. Safe without him. Maybe he promised MJ he would find her again, but he couldn’t. It would would hurt them.
It would only hurt him.
And he was so sick of hurting.
He would wake up some mornings and think he was home. Think that if he opened his eyes he would see his room, see some homework assignment, or lego from Ned. If he looked in the closet, he would see a Spiderman suit. His real one, not the one he wore now.
He couldn’t wear his old one. Couldn’t wear something Tony had made and May had looked after.
He would lie there for a few seconds, listening for May’s footsteps, for her comforting heartbeat. Sometimes he thought about where to take MJ on a date, or if Ned would wanna come hang out after school. Sometimes he wondered why May hadn’t woken him yet, or if Tony would come and visit that day, because it had been a while since he’d seen him.Or he would smile, happy and clueless for a few seconds before reality crashed in. He always hated those days. Hated how he sank, drowning in memories as it all flooded back. Hated the second he had of clueless happiness. Hated how he liked it, because it was the only time he smiled. Hated that he still dreamed of before. Hated that he still remembered it, when no one else did.
Why couldn’t he forget?
Why can’t it be over?
He had won, hadn’t he? They had defeated Thanos. He was a hero. That was meant to be good. He had fought with the Avengers! Ned thought it was so cool. Peter had thought it was so cool. Until he almost died. Until he saw other people die. Until he learnt that war, being a hero, was not what he saw in movies.
Being a hero meant you sacrificed things, and lost things, over and over until you had nothing left. It was having nothing, because you had given it up for the greater good. It was hurting and bleeding and fighting even when you almost couldn’t.
It had seemed so great at the start. Now, he just wished he had walked away. Wished that he hadn’t wanted to be brave. Wished that Tony had never come. Wished he had never been bitten by that fucking spider.
But surely, as the end, he could have something. Anything. Surely, even as a hero, he didn’t have to lose it all. Surely, even though he had made mistakes, he had done something good. Surely he had been good enough to get a happy ending.
It had been his choice. His sacrifice. His fault. He just wished he didn’t have to keep paying.
Oh, but he did. He did, because it was a heroes job to sacrifice to save everyone. That was what Tony had done. That was what Peter had done, too.
But Tony got his moment. He got to be brave for a moment. He got to sacrifice his life for everyone. And then he got to die. But Peter was still here, still bleeding from long closed wounds.
He wanted it to be over. So, so badly. He wanted to wake up from this nightmare. He couldn’t fathom forever. It was too long. Too much. This couldn’t be his life, surely. Surely he would wake up, and it would be over. Surely he could wake up into one of his dreams, where everyone was still alive. He couldn’t be stuck here, stuck in this reality. Surely he could just go back to before.
Dr Strange probably wouldn’t do that for him. He had only helped him last time because he knew him, and he didn’t anymore. Besides, the last time Peter went to Dr Strange to solve his problems, he had ended up here.
It couldn’t get any worse, really.
Couldn’t get worse than the blank, empty numbness of now, than the hurt and nightmare. Than fighting just to try to feel, to try to stop his thoughts from spiralling. Couldn’t be worse than taking punches because that pain hurt less.
But no. There was no point going back in time only to re-live everyone dying. Even if he would give anything for another second with one of them. Just one moment. Just one experience that wasn’t a memory.
But memories were all he had. He was a hero, and he had lost it all. He didn’t know he he was, and neither did anyone else. He was just floating, existing without anything to guide him. Every broken memory a shard of glass that cut him open, until he was bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, with no one to help him heal.
It was a funny thing, to lose it all.