In a Haze
Dust mites float through the window with Peter as he crawls into his grimy bedroom. It’s 5 am and the glow of the streetlights has begun to blend with the rising sun, teasing at exposing Peter’s identity as he attempts to gracelessly slip back into his crappy apartment, blessedly unnoticed.
Peter strips out of his suit as quickly and painlessly as he can, the fabric getting stuck to the tacky, half-dried blood coating his lower abdomen. His suit’s nanobots stitched the fabric together in seconds, his skin regrettably unable to do the same. This is one of the worst places to be injured, Peter notices. Unlike the gunshot wound straight through his bicep last Thursday, it took far more maneuvering to peel the blood-soaked suit away from the deep stab wound decorating his stomach. He quietly chuckles at the thought, basking in the hilarity of how far his priorities have shifted from “don’t get hurt” to “don’t get hurt in inconvenient places.” Fuzz and dust explode out of the carpet as he drops his suit onto the floor, forcing a painful cough out of the teen’s tired lungs.
Peter finally makes it under the thin sheet covering his grimy mattress, only to remember that he hasn’t showered. He can smell the stale stench of the past few nights wafting from his bed, and if he had the energy, he’d almost definitely be disgusted. But he doesn’t, so he just goes to sleep.
---
Peter knew it was getting bad when he forgot his own birthday. He realized he didn’t care when May was the only one to remember it for him. Ned was busy with Betty, forgetting what month it is, much less which day. MJ sent him a text that seemed mildly nicer than usual, but that was probably just a coincidence. May got him a small slice of cake from Delmar’s, looking at Peter with big, apologetic brown eyes until he ate the whole thing. It’s not like Peter would let any of it go to waste, anyway, not with how much May has been struggling lately. It was the only thing Peter ate all day--not necessarily from lack of wanting to, but because he physically couldn’t bring himself to waste the money.
May still doesn’t know that he’s Spiderman. Because of this, she also doesn’t know about his increased metabolism, hunger, strength, sensitivity, everything. He didn’t really notice, for the first few weeks, until he hears May on the phone with one of her work friends discussing how she didn’t realize how much teenage boys eat. Peter immediately stopped eating. Well, immediately is a stretch.
It takes more strength to stop eating than it does to hold a cruise ship together. Peter’s determined, but he’s still very much (at least kind of) human. The hunger pains still hit him hard, and his stomach growls unwaveringly for the first few days. The smell of cafeteria food makes his mouth water, until it makes him nauseous. Ned tries to make him eat, and the determination it takes him to refuse every day hurts worse than the not eating. At first, Peter made endless excuses, citing stomachaches and headaches and exhaustion. Ned doesn’t buy it, and Peter knows he can’t keep it up forever. So, Peter starts to sleep in the library during lunch. Ned is worried, but for the wrong reasons. He nags Peter for the first few days; “Are you okay?” “Is it a… Spidey thing?” “Have you been sleeping?” The answer to every question is just a shrug. He doesn’t know if he’s okay. It could be a Spidey thing, because his heightened senses and metabolism sure aren’t making this easier. He’s been sleeping, just not enough. It takes way more strength to hold yourself together after you’ve stopped eating.
Now, it’s basically second nature to avoid food. Peter takes advantage of his Spidey powers, swinging from building to building to pick through the dumpsters in search of something to hold him over. It’s not like Peter didn’t want to eat--he desperately does. He just doesn’t deserve May wasting all of her money on him, simple as that.
So, he adapts. He learns that the fancy Whole Foods throws out far more food than the gas stations near his neighborhood, so he uses his free time on Friday nights to journey a few miles away to find rations for the next week. They never last that long. He learns that the bagel place near the subway stop in Midtown throws out moldy and stale bagels every other night. He learns how long he can go without eating before he blacks out on the roof of a building and wakes up hours later to the sun rising, covered with pigeon shit and sweat. He’s moderately proud that it only took him three times to figure this one out. He learns-- he learns that his alarm just went off. Fuck.
---
Half an hour of sleep is not nearly enough, but it’s what he gets. Peter tries not to stay out this late, but there was a dog who needed shelter and a woman getting mugged and a little boy screaming for help and-and-and-it’s time to wake up. Peter heaves himself off of his bed, heading to the bathroom to “bandage” his wound shut. The “bandage” involves rubbing alcohol, cheap gauze that he takes from the science labs, and duct tape. Very professional. The wound has already turned an angry pink, oozing clear goo that makes the flakes of dried blood look shiny. Peter takes an old, crusty shirt and washes the wound, not wanting to tip May off by bloodying a towel. He quickly tapes the wound shut, pulling on a long sleeve, a comic t-shirt over it, and a zip-up sweater. Before running out of the apartment, he grabs a hoodie last-minute. Ever since he’s started eating less, he’s been freezing all the time.
May tries to stop him in the doorway, offering him a banana for breakfast. Peter waves her off, saying that he’s running late and doesn’t have time. It’s only 7 am. He leaves.
The morning flies past him in a haze of gray, soft fog covering every surface as Peter makes the journey to school. A chill spikes through him and he slips the hoodie on, tucking his thin fingers into the pocket and shrugging up his shoulders to protect his neck. Before he can think about pulling the hood over his head, he’s standing at the doors of the school. Peter blinks, surprised. Time has been different lately.
“Hey, Peter!” The teen jumps, wincing slightly as Ned’s hand comes down on his shoulder and sends shock waves down his fragile skeleton.
“Ned, hey,” Peter breathes.
The other boy takes his hand back as if it isn’t some weapon of mass destruction before launching into some story about Betty and her hair. Peter simply smiles, face twitching with the effort as he tries to look invested. “So what do you think?”
Suddenly, everything seems to freeze. Ned is beaming at him, awaiting Peter’s answer to a question he barely knew was asked. A locker slams in the background and Peter jumps.
“Sorry, what?” he asks, fingers twitching in the pocket of his hoodie as he grasps at dead ends to figure out what he missed.
“Do you want to go to prom with me and Betty? I know you and MJ have a thing but like you haven’t asked her and it’s a while away, so you can always ask her and you two can come with us. So, yeah…” Ned trails off, uncertainty coloring his features as he mistakes Peter’s confusion for disapproval.
“Oh!” Peter exclaims. What if I don’t make it to prom? Would MJ even want to go with me, if I asked? Do I even want to ask? Peter shakes his head in an attempt to clear his mind. “Sure,” he says. He wants to give Ned more, some kind of encouragement or thanks, but he can’t seem to come up with the words.
“Awesome! So I was thinking-” Ned begins to ramble again, back to his bubbly self. Peter wants to listen, he really does, but it’s like his brain is made of cotton. The endless conversations of teenagers in the hallway buzz around his ears as the pair make their way down the hall to their first class, making Peter’s eardrums burn. Slamming lockers punctuate glares from classmates and Peter has to restrain himself from flinching with each one. He barely notices as they walk into the classroom, instead making a beeline to the desk in the back corner. Peter used to be a front-left-desk kind of guy, before…
The class goes by at a snail’s pace, Peter’s eyes tracking the minutes-hand on the clock as he glares at the kid in front of him who won’t stop shaking his leg. Not even the normal, “I have pent up energy” leg shake or the “anxiety? Me? Of course” leg shake. The, “I want to ruin Peter’s day by frantically kicking my leg back and forth with no discernible rhythm” leg shake. Peter picks at his cuticles until they bleed, just for something to do. He wouldn’t even know what class he was in right now if not for the droning sound of his history teacher’s boring voice.
The bell rings and Peter goes to shoot out of his seat, forgetting the massive gash in his torso in the process. A sharp sting of pain shoots through him, making everything around him come into focus like a camera zooming in too quickly. He nearly doubles over with the force of the pain but, before he has much of a chance to react, someone slams their books down on his desk. Flash.
“What’s up, Penis? Why so pissy today? You on your period or some shit?” Flash jeers, face contorting into what he probably thinks looks like a sneer but instead just looks like he has to sneeze.
“Shut up, Flash,” Peter mumbles, trying to shove his way out of the door.
“What was that, Penis? Couldn’t hear you over the sound of your misery.” Flash puffs out his chest, attempting to show off the new muscles that he built up over the summer doing who-knows-what.
“Nothing,” Peter says.
Flash’s eyes dart down to Peter’s stomach before he says, “Guess you really are on your period,” and leaves. Confusion entices Peter to look down and, when he does, he sees a bloom of red start to leak through the shirts under his open zip-up. Serves him right for taking off that hoodie.
---
Peter spends most of the next period in the bathroom, inspecting and prodding at the gaping wound. Usually, the duct tape is enough to hold in the blood if the gauze leaks, but it must have ripped today without him noticing. There’s a patch of pink, itchy skin underneath the bottom strip of duct tape, revealing to Peter that at least one piece of the tape ripped off this morning. The issue is, Peter didn’t even feel it happen. Curious, he pokes at the freshly exposed skin, watches it turn white under his fingertips and then flood red again when he removes his hand. Without thinking, Peter then rips off the rest of the tape to reveal the gash. That definitely stung.
The open hole in his stomach is healing, but not enough. Usually, it takes about two or three days for a really bad injury like this to close up. Right now, Peter estimates that it will take closer to a week. The outer edges of the laceration have only just started to pucker with scar tissue and blood flows impatiently from the center. Peter’s calloused fingers trace its edges, smearing bright blood across his abdomen. He pinches at the skin around it, marveling at how little give there is. It hurts, but Peter can’t stop. In a trance, Peter shoves his pointer finger deep into the middle of the wound. In hindsight, Peter will blame this on an impulsive curiosity to know how deep it goes. In the moment, Peter just really wants to know what it feels like.
A sharp gasp echoes through the single-stall bathroom as Peter yanks his finger out of the wound on instinct, followed by wet sobs as he finds it covered in glossy blood up to the second knuckle. Pain shoots through his whole body, eventually receding into a dull, aching throb. Peter begins to hyperventilate. Why did you do that? You’re such a mess, who in their right mind does something like that? His frail body shakes with his feeble sobs and he is grateful that it’s the middle of second period and there isn’t anyone in the halls to hear his self-centered bullshit. The last thing he wants is for some hero student or sympathetic teacher to walk in and find him covered with blood and poking at a massive stab wound. How the hell would he explain that away?
It takes another half an hour for Peter to retreat from the safety of the bathroom, driven out by the threat of the next bell and an influx of teenagers trying to take a piss before their next class. He washes the red off of his hands, shoves some toilet paper under the ruined duct tape, and does his best to stick it back on before pulling down his shirts and shimmying into the hoodie. Bursting out of the bathroom, eyes glued to the floor, Peter doesn’t even notice the boy standing by the door staring at him with wide eyes.
The rest of the day proceeds as usual, with one key difference. Ever since the clarity from Peter’s sharp movements on his wound, Peter begins to experiment more. When everything feels stuffy and cold and too-loud, Peter pushes not-so-gently on his stomach.