He’s completely, utterly, thoroughly, alone.
Blindly trust that observation, please. It's not like he's never been alone before, because he has. When Tony died, when he had felt a hundred ton boulder crashing into his chest, tugging, pulling so hard he felt his lungs collapse on themselves, because he couldn't breathe in that moment where Tony was dead and Peter was not. When Uncle Ben died, Peter’s head bowed so low his chin touched his sternum, tears trickling down his cheeks, akin to a waterfall.
That’s how he feels now.
And it was his fault.
Of course—Peter put it upon himself ever since he decided to take up the Spider-Man mantle in the first place; he put May in danger, Ned, Happy- even MJ, who only knew for so long.
It's a fresh start, which is what his aunt would want for him, to reset all over again, even if in the process he needs his heart to clench painfully every time he sees Ned in school—without him by his side. Every time he sees MJ without Peter hanging off her shoulder, their hands intertwined. Staying away from them feels like he’d been forced to withdraw from a life-saving medication.
He's felt safe before when it came to being understood. (He’s felt safe in general, which is with someone that's never coming back.) It was a short time period, but it had to be back when the other Peters had come into his own universe. (Because they knew, despite being multiple years older with a knowledge Peter could never obtain, and it was hard to describe the feeling he felt when he had tumbled into their arms right after Peter Two had protected the green guy— The Green Goblin, the Peter had whispered with a sigh, he's kinda. Well. Green. You get it— and his eyes were wide, the same ones he himself has, staring back at him as he held Peter back from stabbing the Goblin.)
He's not surprised; he can't help but feel ashamed he tried to do it in the first place, but that's not what Spider-Man’s supposed to do. He helps. He never kills. (That's what Tony loved most.)
He's never gonna see Tony again, and he's dealing with that, as best as he can without Happy. (Because he meant a lot to him, too, and Happy is gone; the chances of them recollecting are slim despite the conversation they had at May’s grave.) Or the Peters, because that'd be catastrophic to their universe and will, likely, cause space and time itself to flip on its side. And, as strange as it was, those two were almost like older brothers in some sort of way. Long lost older brothers. Years older, both of them at his side, almost protectively, after seeing Peter sob into his friends’ arms at the loss of May.
Not even the Avengers remember him. It doesn't exactly matter, because he won't see them either, he wasn't really friends with them, he didn't know them personally, but they mattered to Tony (whether or not if he'd admit it), and that matters to Peter. But– he only truly met some of them, and he doesn't really know if they were Avengers in the first place- but he met Star Lord, and he met the blue girl, and, well. Not even they know him anymore.
There was another one- a blonde girl he met when fighting Thanos. And, he guesses, that also counts for every other woman who stepped up in front of him during the fight; that was so badass— and the lady on the pegasus, too. (They don't know him.)
Dr. Strange certainly doesn't. (And, for some odd reason- that hurts. Because Strange had somehow wiggled into a spot Tony used to have, and Happy fought for it too—but he and Tony were so similar that the sorcerer just worked. He doesn't remember him- and a part of him aches; Why can't he just use his freaky circle magic to get the memories back? Why can't he— and the see you, kid, and I’m so sorry kid- rings in his ears, and the tears that flood his eyes are expected.)
Strange always told him that since they saved the world together, he should just use his first name; but he doesn't deserve that right whatsoever. He could've fixed this so early on if he hadn't changed the spell so many damn times. It was his fault, and Strange voiced that thought before his voice softened and he apologized that Peter has to go through everything- and he doesn't know when he’ll finally get to rest.
Because he was framed for mass murder, no one cared that his aunt died—besides his closest friends, everyone’s forgotten him, and he had no one left. (It's so par for the course. And that makes Peter angry. Because Tony, if he was still here, wouldn't have ever let any of this happen.)
There’s a knock on the door, and Peter sits up from where he lays on his bed. It’s dark out, no light filtering in, and the empty space of his apartment gives off the same vibe as how his heart feels. (Lost.)
It's strange someone’s knocking in the first place, because it's dark outside and the apartment building is run-down, unpopulated—and, again, no one knows him anymore. It doesn't make any sense, even as he debates pulling himself off the mattress.
“Hello?” Outside the door, a familiar voice filters in—but it's been weeks since he's even really did anything, because he's not even in the school system anymore since they don't know him. He just sits around, preparing to show the world Spider-Man once more, “Uh. Peter?”
Oh. Oh. That’s where it came from. He gets up so quickly he might as well get whiplash, and speed walks to the door—he's a mess, definitely, his hair disheveled from tugging at it, clothes rumpled, eyes possibly red-rimmed and bloodshot. Considering he doesn't sleep well anymore; May is gone. His hand hesitates when approaching the doorknob, but the voice—and oh, he missed that voice, the way it prodded at the villains and how it bantered with him and Peter Two so easily, “Peter? I know you're- well. I don't really know if you are, but I would just guess you are considering-”
He flings open the door; standing in front of him is Peter Three, a good two inches above his head, staring down at him. Gray crewneck, stubble, wavy hazel hair. He was the middle child of the three of them. Brows slightly furrowed in confusion- because Peter feels the exact same- how did I get here? Why am I still- “Hi. I kinda just-”
Peter grabs his hand and tugs him inside, and Peter Three rubs his nape nervously, grinning slightly. “Well. I just kinda, uh, y’know. Spawned here. I swear, Peter, I don't know why, but uh. I’m here now, so.”
His bottom lip threatens to wobble. Because here the other Peter is, and here is Peter. He's slightly awkward- but his eyes dim to something more sympathetic. “Oh, Peter One, uh. I think I know what happened, back then. Everyone-”
“Forgot me,” Peter fills in, dull. His voice is monotone, scraping across frostbitten glass shards, like nails on a chalkboard. “I had to, though.”
The silence isn't tense, per sé. Slightly uncomfortable? Sure, but that's not the blunt explanation for how he feels at the moment. There's a sense of comradery, because they fought together and relied on each other to watch their backs, which he appreciated. They helped him, and he tried his best to show them so, and even a hug couldn't get across the idea he needed them. But, he's pretty sure they knew anyway, with Peter Three’s exasperated, yet knowing smile and Peter Two’s glazed and tired—considered he was just impaled—but affectionate and giving eyes.
He looks down, and he's gravitating. Towards Peter Three, who looks calculating, his eyes softening. “Just because you had to doesn't mean you deserve it.”
I do. I do deserve it. Because I screwed it up when it mattered most. “I did it to myself,” the shorter stresses, hands itching. (And he deserved it.) “I- well. It- y’know- it. Y’know.”
Peter Three looks the most blank and expressionless as he's ever seen him, ever. Which is saying a lot, because he was the one that grinned and joked at the villains when they were fighting them all. “No. I don’t.”
He steps closer, and Peter wants to back away, but he can't. His hands drift up from where they laid by his hips and cup his cheeks, thumbs pressing into his jawbone. It forces him to look straight at him—and his eyes narrow. “Peter, it sounds like you're trying to pin the blame on yourself. And- last I checked, Peter Two doesn't like self-deprecation one bit.”
No. He doesn't. He got onto this Peter for calling himself lame in comparison to the other two. He’d get onto Peter’s ass for what he's saying now. but he's not here to do so. Yet, at least. “I’m-”
“You are,” Peter Three nods. His eyes open back up, and it's like staring into a glass pane. A house of mirrors, running to reach him at every turn, but he's never there. The same warm, deep brown eyes he sees when he looks at himself every morning look straight back at him, a thousand answers to a thousand questions. “Look at me, Peter.”
“I am looking at you.” Literally. He's holding his face so he can't look away, how is he not? But that's not what Peter Two’s saying. He's making a point, one that Peter will try to ignore until he's dragged kicking and screaming, tooth and nail.
“Haha, very funny. But, no," a hum, a click of his tongue. He exhales. “You’re not, you're not. Look at me. Look. Really, actually, look. What do you see?” His hands tighten for emphasis, and Peter can't help himself; his eyes water. They won't fall, not yet, because he won't let himself do so.
A mirror. An older version of himself, someone he wishes he was, over what he is now. (Someone who deserves what he got, in the end.)
“A mirror,” he mumbles, and Peter Three makes a face, because that might've or might not have been what he was asking for. He changes the positions of his palms, and presses their foreheads together.
“Close,” he chuckles, and he sobers up. Peter can't get himself to look away from the gaze that pins him in place, locking him down with seastone chains. “Peter, you see yourself.”
A better one. One that, despite his hardships, continued on. Who lost his girlfriend and continued what he was doing, but he always said he was in the wrong because he got angry because of it. He lost control, became violent—and that's almost what Peter did.
“The other Peter called me amazing. We're all Peter. If I’m amazing, you are too.” He smiles, like it's that easy, and maybe it is.
“He's right.”
Both of them spin around on the balls of their heels, facing the door, which was left slightly ajar. Leaning against the frame is Peter Two. Who, while, looks slightly aghast and concerned and surprised all at once, is confident; he probably heard what Peter Three was saying, anyways. He doesn't seem to be particularly upset to be back here, and if anything, happy he could see the other two Peters again, even if it might be for such a short time. “He is.”
Peter’s mouth falls open, and Peter Two walks in, shutting the door behind him. His lips perk, eyes softening at the sight of Peter’s ruffled state, and makes his way forward, approaching him. It's jarring, the similarities, because they're both the same height and look a little identical, if it weren't for the obvious difference in age. (Peter Two, who's all grown up. And Peter, who's still just a child. A flag flickering hesitantly in the wind, a baby bird let go from its nest.)
“You don't deserve what's happening to you,” Hands clamp onto his shoulders, and he bites on the inside of his cheek. “I know that without a doubt. The other Peter here thinks that too.”
“ But I—”
Peter Three’s large hand comes up, clasping the back of his head, and gently pulls him over so his forehead presses against his chest, and Peter tries his hardest not to outright burst into tears. (Because he's trying. All three of them are; especially when Peter is grieving and his wounds are fresh and running with blood of an open scar.)
He rubs his hair, soft, and Peter holds in a sob. “You'll be alright.” A little quieter, under his breath, “I’ve got you.”
God. They are like brothers, aren't they? The three of them? They've known each other for like, only a few hours, tops. And yet—maybe it's the fact they share lives, in different universes, but either way- they click. He's acting so older brother-esque right now it's just comforting at this point; since his arms are safe for him and there's no one else still breathing that recognizes his existence except for them. And they know that and there is no Tony this time around, and there is no Dr. Strange.
Peter Two’s own hand goes flat against his back, like a shield. “You're not going anywhere,” it's not phrased as in I won't let you move, but more as in I won't let you go. I’ll keep you safe. Considering the fact both Peter’s are quite a bit older than himself, it's nice, nice knowing that he has two big brothers watching his back when he could probably do it himself—but who is he kidding? He needs them there; just to keep him safe from all the shit out there, the stuff he can't exactly keep himself from alone.
He’s always wanted brothers.
It's scary. Peter is scared. (He's also a child; Tony always knew that. It's why he tried his hardest to keep Peter safe, but not even Iron Man was enough to protect him from the world. The other Peters recognize his age, and they get it. They were teenagers when becoming a vigilante, too.)
But now they're older, and they're also the only people Peter has. The only ones he can rely on, because he's alone, and there's no MJ and there's no Ned to hold him anymore. Not for a while.
“I’m sorry,” he hiccups, and Peter Three’s hold becomes tighter in the process, protectively curling around him, the taller brunet’s chest caving in in a way that seems as though his own eyes are full of tears. He has no one left—a clock that won't stop ticking, a bomb that's past its timer but refuses to explode, and he's scared. His time is up, but no one's taken out his batteries. “I didn't want- I don't-”
“You don't have to apologize,” Peter Three scolds gently, his breath warm against brunet locks, “In fact—please don’t, because none of this is your fault, kid.”
Last person who called him kid was Strange.
Hands grip his wrists, tugging them upwards, and Peter whines. “I just wanted my friends and I to live . And look where that got me—”
He thrashes, slightly, in their gentle and open hands, not at all restraining, and they let him wrangle in their arms, because it's not like he could escape, anyways. It's slowly, kinda- lulling him to sleep, and for a moment both older Peters consider webbing the youngest, but that'd be cruel, because he slows down a moment later.
He breathes, harshly, gasping in air, and their grips on his hands and torso tighten on purpose; to comfort. Because that's the goal, to stop him from believing it's his fault.
“You didn't deserve any of that,” he thinks it's Peter Two, but his ears are clogged and he can't even differentiate between left and right and who is who because the tears in his eyes have overtaken any thoughts left. The only thing he can hold onto is Peter Three’s heartbeat, which pounds in a relaxing motion, keeping him sane. “You don't. Listen to me—” in his peripheral, Peter Two kneels, and pulls Peter slightly to the side so he can look at him more clearly. “It wasn't your fault. You don't deserve any of this crap, Peter. You don't.”
“Yeah,” Peter Three snickers a bit, grinning lopsidedly. “I mean- I love you. You guys are so cool—which, well, mainly because you're just other me’s, heh— but I love you. And I know you don't have many other people to say that to you, with all the stuff that's going on, but I do. I’m here.”
He's going to cry. Literally—he's gotten so attached to alternate versions of himself so quickly it's kinda insane in the first place—but hearing that really just. It hits. I love you. I know you don't have many other people to say that- something about that just digs into his cortex and squeezes in the best way possible, draining out everything inside him.
Not for long, though. And it's strange; the only way they got here last time was through Strange’s portal, and that's probably how they got here now. But—Strange doesn't remember him. That's impossible. Except they're standing right in front of him, and it's all he's got .
“Thank you,” he murmurs, and his arms move upwards to curl around both Peter’s, because it's warmsafeholdmeplease and it's everything to him. His voice cracks, and the tears start pouring down his cheeks- and it's just like the movies. Without the thunderstorms cracking wildly over his sobs. “ Thank you.”
His hands are trembling, gripping into the fabric of both Peters’ street clothes, and he won't be surprised if they rip- but neither Peter seems to care. “I just- I really don't know how you're here. But- thank you.”
They pull away out of the hug, probably to explain, but Peter’s skin is tingling from the leftover warmth and he can't help but grab onto their hands like a lost child. They both glance at him, once, but it looks slightly fond. Affectionate. His mouth feels tart, sweet and covered in berries, in melon. “How- uh. How did you get here, anyways? Because Dr. Strange doesn't know me anymore-” his voice cracks, and both Peter's look pained. Just as pained as how Peter feels inside. “and you need his portals to get here- but you also need the universes to collide- so I don't-”
“I came through a portal,” Peter Three shrugs, lazily. “I mean. It was that simple. Those orange weird looking things.”
That pretty accurately describes Strange’s portals. Peter always thought they looked kinda strange, just like the guy himself.
“Same,” the oldest in the room chimes in, sucking in a breath, “portal just appeared and I went ‘oh, I know what those are,’ and now I’m here.”
Could that really mean that Strange remembers him, though? It doesn't make sense, not really, because even Strange seemed apologetic when casting the last spell which completely means that he forgot as well; and if he knew all this time, he would've sought him out immediately. But, he doesn't know if he means that much to Strange where the sorcerer would make everyone forget but himself, since they've only known each other for so long.
“That makes no sense.” Peter’s voice is laced in some sort of worry, of desperation, “The spell wouldn't have worked, not completely, if he only used it on everyone else except him. That doesn't- that makes no- it doesn't—”
He's grasping at straws, because he wants Strange to remember. Except, logic makes no damn sense in that context, but he wants, and both Peter’s hands grip his just a little bit harder. As if to show they've got him, for only so long.
“Here,” Peter Two consoles, voice just above a whisper. “We’ll—we’ll go to wherever the witch guy lives, and you can go talk to him.”
—
Apparently it isn't that much of a hassle, because the second they step out of Peter’s apartment, two portals open up, both to relatively similar looking living rooms.
“Oh,” Peter Three acknowledges. “I’m guessing it's time for us to go.”
Peter frowns. He doesn't want them to go, because he has no idea when he’ll see them again- he misses them. He missed them, and now they're already leaving again.
Both Peter’s turn to him, regretful, repentant. It's like an Oh. I’m sorry, Peter. I’m so sorry. He doesn't want them to go, because on the off chance that Strange doesn’t recognize him, the other Peter’s will be gone and he’ll be alone again, just like before. Without May, without Tony, without Happy or MJ or Ned. He won't have anyone. He won't have anyone to hug, someone to hold him the same way Peter Three did, and poking at the corners of his eyes are tears that represent something he won't be able to say out loud.
He doesn't like being alone. He wasn't alone even after he blipped, because Strange was there, but Strange isn't here. He wasn't alone during the battle, because in the back of his mind he had Tony—until he didn't. He had MJ and Ned all the way up ‘till the end, and it’s a rush of déjà vu, to be so lonely like he is now.
He bows his head. “I don't want you guys to go.”
“I know,” Peter Two’s hands are shaking, which is strange, because he was the one who had his shit together the most. The Mom Friend, who got irked whenever they self-deprecated and overcompensated. It's jarring to see him the way he is now; a little upset at having to leave so early, showing he’s distraught at Peter’s own distress. “I know you don't. I don't want to go either-”
“Hey!” Peter Three interjects, grabbing both of their shoulders, akin to the way they huddled up in the middle of their fight. “I've got an idea. Go ask freaky magic doctor about if he can like, I dunno, monthly- weekly, give us portals to each other so we can speak regularly. Like. You guys mean a lot to me,” He says that a lot. That Peter and Peter Two mean a lot to him, and it might be just because of his girlfriend. Of his MJ. Because he doesn't want to lose them before he can voice how much they mean to him. “and I want to stay in contact, and the only way we can is if we have the doctor guy helping us.”
Peter raises an eyebrow, his lips peeking upwards. “I can do that.”
“Good,” Peter Three breathes, and pulls both of them into a hug for the last time—Peter Two’s hands come up to grasp at the other Peter’s heads, protectively, because he's the oldest of the three. Makes sense he'd be the most protective. The tallest Peter is grinning, widely—and Peter can't help but reciprocate the action because he doesn't want to end their- possibly last interaction with more tears. He wants to take the image of both their smiles and print it out. Tattoo it onto his eyelids. “I’m gonna miss you guys.”
“Me too,” Peter murmurs, and Peter Two parrots the sentiment into his shoulder.
Both pull away, and with one last sad, longing look at each other, they step into the portals, backing up. Peter’s head drops, and feels a part of himself crack when he hears the portals close shut.
He didn't even know them that long, but they're all he has. He's lucky enough they're willing to try and work it out, to help Peter mourn what he's lost. His wounds are ripped back open with a kitchen knife, unwillingly, and there's no one else to help him pick up the pieces besides his doppelgängers.
Unless there's someone out there, waiting.
-
The Sanctum Sanctorum is a building Peter has visited only a few times in the past few years. It's not like he visits there whenever, because the only times he's gone there is when he is in imminent danger, or my identity has been revealed and I need some help.
His relationship with Dr. Strange has always been a bit aloof, but that was mainly because the older man didn't want any weaknesses going into a battle with some big space guy. He didn't want to give up the Time Stone in favor of he or Tony’s lives, but he ended up doing so anyway—but that was because he, well, saw the future.
It feels disheartening, either way, to walk into a building when the last time he came there Dr. Strange actually had a dose of sympathy for him. Stark contrast to the fact he doesn't even know him anymore.
(Doesn't matter, despite that. Strange never wanted to see him again after he screwed up the spell.)
The large doors at the front creak as he pushes them open, and it's a strange sense of déjà vu, considering he did the same action maybe a few weeks ago. It's bittersweet , because this time, the two people that were at his sides are no longer here. Not in his life, anyways.
The floor sweepers are nowhere to be found, and the snow from Siberia is gone. Strange, though is—from what he can barely see, is at the top. His red cape floats down to him, and he's gotten used to that thing, and one of the edges of the cloak nudges him. (Can the cloak remember him? If anything—that's kinda depressing, the only thing that can even remember him is outerwear.)
“Hello,” Strange greets, floating down as usual, and cocks his head, “Peter.”
He straightens. He knows. Oh my god. He knows. Peter figured he did, since he sent the portals and the other two Peters insisted he'd know, but oh my god. “Mr. Strange,” he stumbles over his words, and his eyes must be as wide as plates. “You-”
“Remember,” a smile glosses over the man’s face, and he sighs. “Kid, you don't think I’d really just leave you like that, would you?”
Blinking, “Well. Uh. I figured—”
“You figured wrong,” Strange amends, inclining his head. He walks closer, arm’s reach. “I casted the spell, I can leave exceptions.”
His fingers are itching, and his brows are furrowed so low he's pretty sure they're gonna be stuck, lips parted in shock. Maybe in the fact that he's realizing someone knows. Someone from his world.
“I sent the other Spider-Man’s because I figured they could help,” the brunet’s eyes dim. “I didn't think I’d be able to do it myself.”
“You-” Peter swallows, and it feels like fire. “you changed the final spell for me?”
Strange’s shoulders roll in a shrug. “I don't think I’d be able to live with myself if I left a sixteen-year-old kid to fend for himself when Stark made it clear he wanted you safe.”
Tony. Figures. His eyes go misty. “So you-”
“I gave myself a message to cast a rune spell where I could remember you.” Strange looks weirdly apologetic; his face is usually stuck as a blank slate. His lips purse, before a hand skids upwards, and ruffles his hair.
The touch feels like harsh ice and hellflame, colliding into one. Or maybe he's just derived from physical touch. Either way, he needed this. Needed Strange, as some sort of paternal unit to watch his back. Could he have gone along without him? Probably. But it does well for his sanity; or just, the need to cling. To grasp onto someone’s hem of the shirt and never let go, like a guiding star.
(If Strange wouldn't admit it, he is kinda like his parental guardian. Even before the final spell. He's still sorry for leaving him in the freaky mirror place though.)
“Do you think you could send the other Peter's over every so often?” Peter wonders, biting on his lip. “I mean, I-”
“Every so while,” Strange soothes. “But that's it. I don't wanna mess with the runes that often.”
His head ducks, and the only thing the man can bring himself to do is look down at him. Would it really hurt you to just help the kid a little bit more, Strange thinks, to himself, to no one. Would it, really?
His gloved, right hand moves up and cups his nape, thumbing the side of his skin comfortingly. His cape floats upwards, and covers the span of Peter’s back. No, not really.