Peter looked round his room, now coloured by the blue twilight sky. Dark shadows coved the crevices of objects, casting the clothed scattered around his floor in stark relief. They oozed nothing. Content to stay within the borders the light created.
A half torn down poster lined the wall, several others lay rolled up in a pile next to the bin. The only hint, at where they used to be, was a slight discolouration on the wall, the paint was brighter there.
The doorknob didn’t match the one on the other side, or the rest of the apartment. Silver instead of gold. Five cracks in the shape of a crescent moon sat on the opposite wall. He always used to hope May and Ben wouldn’t notice. He didn’t think he would mind now. He remembers how they where made;
ooO0Ooo
Peter woke up to sound of an alarm clock, and car horns, and the neighbours two floors down having an argument… It was loud, too loud.
He reached out to shut off the small box. Crunch. Peter sat up to find the clock completely shattered into pieces.
“What?” He murmured. He was way too tired to deal with this right now. I was sick last night and…
Wait, why was he sick? Was it something from the lab?
…or the spider that bit him.
The spider from a lab.
An experimental spider from a radiation testing la-
Ok. No. He has definitely been reading too many comics.
Peter swung his legs round to sit on his bed, and then tried to get up. Emphasis on tried. Because when Peter went to perform the act of standing, he found himself stuck to the bedsheets, and no amount of pulling would free his limbs. He fell to the floor with a thud.
“Peter are you all right?” May’s voice came from the kitchen. Ben must already be at work.
“Uh, yeah. Just fell.”
“Ok, just be careful. Oh, and hurry up, you’re going to be late.”
“Yup, on my way.”
Peter doesn’t know why he lied, just that having a conversation with May about the ‘maybe-Spider-related-super-powers’ he seems to have gained might be really awkward. Except it wouldn’t be, because there are no superpowers and Peter is totally making this up in his head, right?
He realises that the bed sheets had fallen to his feet during the conversation. Must have been keeping them up by struggling.
Taking a breath, Peter made his way towards the door so he could get to the bathroom. The doorknob crinkled like tin foil beneath his grasp. His hand attempted to let go in shock, but it was stuck. Again.
So the doorknob simply came with him as he backed away from the door, waving his hand frantically, trying to free himself.
“Peter!”
“Coming!”
With one finally yank of his arm through the air the doorknob flew free, hitting the table, then the chair and then Peter’s face.
“Ow.”
He stubbled backwards and into the wall behind him, hands first. He was stuck. Again.
Peter didn’t even bother trying to pull his hand off, managing to sink to the floor without moving them. Which definitely shouldn’t be possible, but might as well add freaky flexibility to the list.
Sunlight streamed through his window, and he could see each individual speck of dust resting upon the sun beam. It coated his room in yellow.
Bad things always seemed to happen on sunny days. Peter couldn't remember the day his parents died, but he could remember the battle of New York. He always used to think that their death must have been like that, burning with sunlight and chaos. Looking back, now, he doubts it was. He remembers hiding under the tables waiting to die, waiting to be saved.
This wasn’t supposed to happen, not to him. Not when he was always the one hiding. But alarm clocks don’t just break, and door handles don’t crush beneath normal people’s grip. His body felt different too, the muscles on his arms where more defined, bigger. He was too scared to look anywhere else. People don’t just change like that. Peter wasn’t the boy he was yesterday.
The gold from the window scattered across the posters on his wall, Iron Man stared back at him. Tony Stark, the man with no powers, no motive, who suddenly decided his brain was enough to save the world. How could Peter sit here when Tony Stark was a superhero.
Peter had to help people. He didn’t have a choice. He never had a choice. Things always happened to him, like his parents, like moving in the Ben and May, like his scholarship. His brain had never felt like an accomplishment, more a result of him existing. Maybe he could actually do something good with this, rather than selfish. Everything else had been for himself. He could do something with this. He had to.
And with that, one of Peter’s hands let go of the wall.
“Peter! We have to go. I have work!”
“You go on without me. I don’t think I’ll be ready in time. Sorry.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, sorry. It won’t happen again. I’ll be on time tomorrow.”
A deep breath, and Peter pulled his other hand from the wall. Chunks came with him.
“Shit.”
“What was that?”
“Uh, nothing! Just dropped something.”
“Ok then.”
The jingle of keys.
“Bye Peter!”
“Bye!”
Peter waited for the sound of the door closing and looked to the ceiling. One hand after another as he climbed. Just like walking, or it felt like walking.
And he just hung there, as if gravity didn’t exist.
“Whoa, cool.”
oooO0Oooo
Now, when Peter couldn't leave his room, it wasn't his powers that kept him there.
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. He couldn't.
It was the weight in his chest that kept him chained to his bed. Greif embedded in him like shackles.
No powers. No Ben.
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't save him.
It was his fault.
Ben was gone and it was all his fault.