i loved you, i loved you, i loved you (i wanted to be you and do what you do)
Spider-Man sat on the edge of an apartment building’s roof, his head in his hands. The echoes of crying and Italian speech vibrated around his brain, pulling him back to, probably, the worst moment of his life.
Young Peter was pulled into a huge hug as he walked out of his school by his older brother, Ricardo, who was accompanied by their mother’s two new babies, Mario and Luigi (who Peter named, because wasn’t that awesome?!) who were twins.
He followed Ricardo to the bus stop that would take them back to their scabby house. Peter was excited to get home, his younger sisters, Caterina and Valentina would be there and he wanted the best for her and all of his siblings.
On the bus on the way back, Ricardo ruffled his hands through Peter’s hair as he asked about his day, smiling and nodding appropriately where it was needed. His sleeve faltered, revealing small marks on the bottom of his elbow that he was quick to cover up with his large black jumper that had been their uncle’s.
He entered the house and hugged Caterina and Valentina and then took Mario and Luigi to sit in front of the television to watch ‘In the Night Garden’, which they had both taken well to. Valentina danced around Peter’s feet, practically worshipping his every move and battling for his attention so she could tell him about her brilliant day at school.
Peter brought Valentina onto his lap and started bouncing his knees up and down as he listened to her story about how she had made a new friend who had helped her stack blocks in the correct order, giving them more time to play in the playground.
“That sounds brilliant, miele!” Peter exclaimed. Valentina grinned at him with a toothy smile while he lifted her off of his lap, setting her down on the sofa with Mario, Caterina and Luigi, who were both still invested in the song playing on the TV. “I’m just going to check on Ricardo, bene?”
Valentina nodded with all the seriousness a five year old could have before turning to the telly. Peter walked upstairs to Mary’s room, where Ricardo was staying since she had been a no-show, knocking on the door twice. He received no answer, and thinking it was alright to enter, walked in.
Ricardo’s body was on the floor, his arm against his head as vomit spilled from his mouth, his gags were muffled by the static in Peter’s ears. A needle was on the floor, empty, but there was a prick of Ricardo’s blood on his elbow, so he had obviously used it on himself. Peter gagged at the smell and sight - Ricardo had warned him about things like this, drugs, and how not to do them? He hated the fact he had recognised this straight away.
Peter was ten, for God’s sake! What was he supposed to tell the kids? Yeah, sorry, our brother just had a massive overdose and now we have no income or anything? Peter turned around and closed his bedroom door, his hands shaking and his eyes quickly fogging up with tears. He bolted downstairs and his hands fumbled with Ricardo’s phone, quickly opening up their cousin, Gabriela’s phone number and dialling it.
Caterina watched him curiously from the living room, where she still entertained the twins and Valentina, obviously noting that there had been some sort of disturbance upstairs. Peter felt sick to his stomach. He couldn’t hear the television, all he could hear was the ringing in his own ears, his own voice, barely Gabriela’s voice as he stuttered through an explanation, and why she needed to be there – now.
“Por favor, ven aqui, esta muerto– esta muerto, sobredosis, ni siquiera sabia que consumia drogas?! Gabriela, ven por favor! No se que hacer! (Please get here, he’s dead, he’s dead, overdose, I didn’t even know he did drugs?! Gabriela, please come! I don’t know what to do!)” he chanted into the phone, crying, but muffling his tears as he put his fist into his mouth. Peter couldn’t alert the children. He couldn’t. Gabriela would know what to do.
Half an hour later, Gabriela came rushing into the house, straight into the kitchen, where Peter was sat at the table with his head in his hands. “Primo!” she exclaimed. “Where is he?”
“In his room,” Peter said. His teeth were chattering, and Gabriela pulled him into a quick hug before taking off upstairs, her feet banging resonating through the whole house. Caterina walked into the room then, her eyebrow raised.
“Is everything okay?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
Peter climbed upstairs after Gabriela, the overwhelming sadness of seeing his brother - his own brother, his support, his rock, laid in his own sick and urine, overtaking him.
Gabriela had cleaned him and the floor up already, throwing another one of his old t-shirts into the bin as they couldn’t afford to lose another cloth to clean the sides down with. She smiled shakily at him.
“¿Qué vamos a hacer? (What are we going to do?)” Peter asked slowly, his hands wringed behind his back. Gabriela stood up, shaking her head as she lugged Ricardo’s body over her shoulder.
“No estoy seguro, Pietro. No estoy seguro. (I’m not sure, Pietro. I’m not sure.)” Gabriela replied, walking out of the room with Ricardo’s limp legs bumping into her chest.
Peter sat down on the bed and cried.
He was handed a shovel, he noted as Caterina exited the house out of the back door, coming to join him and Gabriela. Gabriela also had a shovel, Ricardo’s body face down in the dirt, his jumper sleeves rolled down, his jeans cuffed. She had tried to make him look his best, even in death.
It was what he would’ve wanted.
Peter couldn’t seem to scar the dirt, jumping on his shovel with all the strength a shaky ten-year-old could muster from his muscles in such a hard time. He wiped tears and sweat from his eyes, his hands already calloused and stained from the hard feel of the shovel as he continued to heave himself onto it, rocking back and forth to just ease some dirt from the earth.
“Las niñas? (The kids?)” Gabriela asked Caterina kindly, looking at her sympathetically and handing her a shovel. Peter had to stop himself to contain a whimper that was about to come from his throat.
She was eight! Eight! Not even double digits! She was being made to dig her brother’s grave because he died from an overdose. She had to live with this for the rest of her life.
“They’re fine.”
The trio stood in solemn silence as they all finished the small hole that hopefully would fit Ricardo’s body inside of it before they hauled it in, leaving him face up with his hands crossed over his chest, like an actual funeral.
Gabriela walked inside and heaved Mario and Valentina up onto her hips, though they were heavy, her emotions overpowered the strain on her arms. Peter followed, his head bowed as he picked up Luigi.
They all stood around his grave, the children (bar Caterina) sat in front of them, while Peter was kneeled before them.
“Something happened today,” Peter started, glancing at Gabriela cautiously. She nodded. “Something that I hope never happens to any of you.”
He glanced behind him to his big brother’s pale face, his red cheeks and breathed shakily.
“Ricardo has gone to a better place,” Peter said simply. His eyes filled with tears, but he didn’t let himself cry. He had to hold himself together. Not for him, for the kids.
He choked. Gabriela stood in front of him, taking over. Peter cried. Guttural, wrenching cries that came from his abdomen, that hurt.
Peter cried. Peter cried with the realisation that these were not just his siblings anymore, but they were his kids.
Just like they were Ricardo’s.
Peter cried. His legs dangled off of the roof, he looked over the New York skyline. As much as he had to be that rock, that support, the weight for his siblings, sometimes he just had to let go.
Let go of the overwhelming sadness that seemed to overtake him, the bursts of anger or happiness or energy that seemed to pulsate through him, that threatened to overtake him all the time.
And sometimes, the best way was to just let it out.
He slid back into his bedroom, though he had been gone for fifteen minutes, his disappearance would have puzzled the family, upset his siblings.
He got dressed in a blue flannel with a white shirt underneath and a pair of jogging bottoms. Peter walked downstairs and outside to where his siblings were all sat around the makeshift grave spot.
From where he stood behind Caterina, he could see the laminated paper with a photo of Ricardo on to mark the spot where they had buried him only five years ago.
Valentina, Mario and Luigi cried.
“I miss him,” Valentina choked softly. Peter sat next to her, running his hands through her hair, even though he came into contact with knots more often than not.
“I do too, niña.” Peter whispered into her hair as he pressed a kiss to her head. He then grabbed Carlotta’s hand, guiding her to follow Valentina as their makeshift anniversary came to an end.
Caterina was still sat on the floor, her mascara trailing down her cheeks, making marks all the way down to her neck. Peter fumbled in his back pocket and pulled out a carton of cigarettes, lighting his own and giving one to Caterina.
There was nothing they needed to say to each other to convey what had to be said. They could understand each other, the deepest bond siblings could have.
The unspoken message in their eyes, the heavy message they knew had to be said somewhere, sometime. But not today.
Peter propped the paper up against the fence, using tape to secure it against the wire. He stubbed his cigarette out into his tracksuit bottoms and laid it on top of the grave. Caterina followed suit.
His phone went off. He ignored it.
Tony turned to Pepper, his frown lines becoming more pronounced with every sorrowed word of his intern, his protege, and his horde of siblings.
“He didn’t confide in me about the situation,” Tony bit his fingernail. “Does that mean he doesn’t trust me?”
Pepper sighed. “Maybe this is something he hasn’t spoken about with anyone before,” she explained cautiously. Any wrong word would push Tony over the edge, the edge that he probably would buy a whole city for the Parker clan to run around in.
“There’s so many of them,” Tony said. “I heard their names: I only met one. Catrina, or something, it sounded more foreign. Caterina? I don’t know.” he sighed loudly.
“Sleep on it, Tony.” Pepper said, massaging his shoulders. “You shouldn’t get worked up over this.”
The microwave dinged as Peter brought out a bowl of spaghetti hoops and put another one in. He dished it out on top of half a slice of bread, half for Mario, Luigi, then the other half for Valentina. She was growing.
Then, the next can would be split between Caterina and Peter then the leftovers would be split between Carlotta and Elisabetta.
The Parker-Lombardi’s all sat around the table. No-one giggled or shouted or threw food at one another. The atmosphere was tense, and as Peter finished his food and wiped the crumbs away from Elisabetta and Carlotta’s mouths, he nodded.
“Bedtime, everyone,” he whispered, barely breathing. “We don’t want you all to be tired for school tomorrow.”
Peter gave Carlotta’s cheeks a pinch, to which she squealed as she was lifted into his arms.
“Pietro!” she giggled. Peter sighed and took her upstairs.
After rejoining Caterina, who had a four pack of beers on the table and four freshly rolled joints, he sighed again. Today was not going well for him.
He grabbed two beers, threw one to Caterina and opened one himself. Peter raised it in a ‘cheers’ motion to his sister, who mimicked him before they both lifted it to their lips, grabbing a joint before lighting it, doing the same with that.
“Sometimes I wish it was different,” Peter said finally, smoke drifting out of his mouth, leaving a stench around the house and on his clothes. “Sometimes I wish that the twins had never been born at all, as much as I do love them.”
Caterina found her footing after a minute's silence. “You shouldn’t have to do this, Pietro. You’re a kid raising kids.”
“I need to do this.” Peter let his lips purse. The alcohol made his throat burn. “I need to do what Mary and Ricardo couldn’t.”
Caterina faltered. “But you shouldn’t have to do what they couldn’t. For fuck’s sake, Ricardo shouldn’t have had to do what Mary couldn’t because Mary should’ve done it!”
“I’m not asking for a white picket fence in the suburbs, Caterina.” Peter spoke with a heavy accent, undertones of Italian peeking through the authentic all-american one. “I’m not asking for the perfect family: it doesn’t exist. Every family has its flaws. I just wish I didn’t have to wonder about whether I’d have to give the kids half a sandwich because we don’t have the money to go out shopping, or the energy bill.”
Caterina and Peter both inhaled.