First Contact
Peter skips school Friday. It’s not like he means to, it just happens.
He spent all of Thursday afternoon and evening on patrol. He stopped a couple of muggings, got nicked in the arm once or twice with a pocket knife but nothing too serious. His stomach wound stayed shut, miraculously, but Peter couldn’t help but feel a bit of disappointment. The spark of pain that jolted through him when the knife sliced the skin of his left tricep was refreshing, his mind going as sharp as the knife while he took down the mugger. Peter halfheartedly prodded at the wound for the rest of the night, blood soaking through the fingers of his suit and filling the air around him with its intoxicating, metallic scent.
Peter ended his night with a gunshot wound to the thigh. It went straight through, thankfully, and Peter didn’t even have to dig around to remove the bullet before the wound started to close. He falls asleep with his suit still tangled around his legs, tucked shirtless under his covers as he bleeds steadily into his sheets.
Peter wakes up in a panic. His school alarm blares in his ears as he jolts awake and out of bed, squeaking out a yelp of pain as he trips over his suit and falls to the floor. May worked the night shift the previous night, so Peter groggily processes that she won’t be awake for hours. He quickly tugs off his suit and shoves it under his bed as he rips the bloody sheets from atop it.
Peter has gotten quite good at removing blood stains from his sheets. He drags them to his bathroom, laying the sheets as flat as possible with the bloody sections in the basin. Starting the tap with cold water, Peter tiptoes into the kitchen in search of lemon juice, salt, and baking soda. Then, he stops at the medicine cabinet and snatches the hydrogen peroxide from the shelf.
He gets back to the bathroom as the tub is halfway filled, shutting off the faucet and pouring some detergent into the tub as he sets the rest of his supplies on the ground. He sets a 30-minute timer on his phone before dragging himself back to his room, the adrenaline of being scared awake wearing off to leave him in a hazy state of exhaustion.
The throbbing pain in his leg starts to make an appearance as the adrenaline subsides, drawing Peter’s attention back to the reason for the bloodstains on his sheets. Peter stares down at his thigh in disdain, frowning at it as he sees that the flesh hasn’t knit itself back together yet. The hole through his thigh has closed up a bit, leaving only a half-inch of gore at the entrance and exit sites.
Absently, Peter picks at the fraying skin as he meanders around in search of the roll of gauze he left somewhere. Picking it up, he sits down on the lid of the toilet seat and hisses at the contrast of the cold porcelain in contrast with his feverish skin. Peter bandages his leg slowly, dousing it with the hydrogen peroxide to clean it and basking in the sting. His grimy fingernails hold dirt and blood beneath them, his cuticles shredded to pieces from pent-up anxiety.
The timer goes off on Peter’s phone, the boy shocked at how quickly time has managed to crawl by as he was staring at the bullet wound. He hadn’t even had the chance to clean the knife wound on his tricep yet.
Peter shrugs on the robe hanging from his bathroom door, deciding that standing around in a chilly apartment in just his boxers wasn’t the move. Rolling up the sleeves, he tugs the sheets out of his bathtub before unplugging the drain and clearing out the murky water. He rinses out the sheets slowly, becoming enraptured with watching the light pink water swirl down the drain. After what feels like hours, Peter grabs the still-open bottle of hydrogen peroxide from beside the toilet and pours it over the stains. The annoying voice in the back of his mind reminds him not to use too much, he can’t afford to buy another bottle.
Once the hydrogen peroxide gets the majority of the red out of his sheets, Peter feels like giving up. He knows that there’s only one step left, barely any work at all since the supplies are right beside him, but even lifting his arms out of the tub to sink down to the floor feels like too much effort. The peroxide is making his fingers throb, soaking into his shredded cuticles and fizzling beneath his tarnished nail beds. The cold water has soaked through the tips of the sleeves of his robe, causing him to shiver even as he bundles it tighter around himself.
Come on, Peter. Get it the fuck together.
Taking a deep breath--and ignoring the tight sting of the scar on his stomach--Peter reaches for the lemon juice and baking soda. He leaves the salt alone for now, deciding that it isn’t worth another step.
Bony knees digging into the tile floor, Peter leans over the tub and completes the final step to his routine. The lemon juice stings even worse than the peroxide, the baking soda clumping in a way that makes his skin tighten with discomfort and overstimulation.
Peter’s stomach clenches at the mix of scents, his head connecting with the bowl of the toilet as he throws the lid open and wretches inside. Nothing comes out, obviously.
Peter spends the next handful of minutes with his cheek pressed to the toilet rim, breathing deeply as he gets his gagging under control.
Scraping himself off of the floor, he rinses out his sheets and drains the tub. He shoves the supplies under his bathroom sink, knowing that May would wake up soon and deciding that it wasn’t worth it to get caught bringing blood-removing substances out of his room. Peter leaves the blankets in his tub as he stumbles into his room to get dressed. He tugs on a pair of sweatpants from his floor and the same old, worn hoodie that he keeps next to his bed. It is over 30 years old, a garment left over from Ben’s passing that Peter couldn’t stomach throwing away.
Just as he flops onto his bed, covered only by the black comforter that he decided wasn’t worth cleaning, he hears May knock softly on his door. Fuck.
“Peter? Honey, you still home?” May questions softly.
“Yeah” Peter grunts out from under the comforter, dragging it with some effort to make sure it covered the fact that it was the only thing on his bed. His suit is tucked safely under his bed, the bathroom door closed tightly shut.
The door opens slowly as May peeks her head in, her sleepy face dropping into one of concern as she sees Peter curled up in his bed.
“Hon, you have school today. Do you feel sick?” she questions, placing her hand on his forehead. Peter knows he can’t get sick, he knows that, but he honestly feels like he is. “You’re burning up, baby. I’m gonna call the school, tell them you won’t be coming in today.” Peter’s eyebrows raise in shock. How could he have a fever? Isn’t he immune to, like, everything now? He doesn’t question it, though. The ache in his bones is too strong to deny, the clenching of his empty stomach throbbing in time with the headache forming from knocking his head against the toilet. “Do you need anything? Crackers, tea?”
Peter nods slowly, feeling guilty already for accepting any food at all. He can’t deny the sharp pains in his gut, though, and he knows that’s weak. He’s supposed to be a hero, yet here he is curled up in fetal position stealing food from his very human, very innocent aunt. Selfish, his mind whispers hauntingly. His stomach clenches.
---
Peter gets a text at 3:46 pm.
Flash: What the fuck, man?
Peter’s stomach drops. AcaDec. He fucking missed again.
Peter: oh my god tell mj im so sorry im sick i didnt come to school im so sorry
He frantically taps out his response, not even proof-reading it before he sends it. His hands start to shake again, frantically quivering as his chest rises and falls at record speed.
Peter is so worked up that he almost misses the sound of his phone buzzing beside him, vision turning black around the edges as he struggles for oxygen.
Flash: Whatever. MJ’s gonna have my balls for this. She says to tell you you’re out.
A wrecked sob escapes from Peter’s lips, his heart shattering in his chest. AcaDec has been a huge part of his life since he joined in his freshman year, it was the only thing that Peter felt he could succeed in without a struggle. It challenged him, kept him motivated, kept him feeling alive at school when nothing else would. And he ruined it. Just like he ruined his grades, and his friendship with Ned and MJ, and his aunt's life, and, and... His phone buzzes again.
Flash: I vouched for you, dickhead. Not even Ned thought you’d show your sorry ass.
Just when Peter thought he couldn’t feel anymore heartbroken, that statement hurt worse than a shot in the leg. He would know. How could he be a good person when not even his best friend believed in him? He’s the worst.
Peter spends the next hour sobbing on and off, May looking scared out of her mind when she walks in to see him curled up with his head between his knees and tears streaming down his face. She perches on the edge of his bed, wrapping her arms around him and shushing him as he stutters out what happened through broken sobs.
May stiffens at the news, her hands halting in their path across his back. “They kicked you out?” she asks softly, her tone shaky and confused. Peter nods into her shoulder. “I’m not gonna lie, Peter, I’m disappointed in you. What’s been going on with you? First your grades drop, now you’re out of Academic Decathlon?” she takes a harsh tone with him, words sharp and angry. Peter just cries more. “That’s it. No more Stark Internship.”
Peter’s heart stops. While he hadn’t seen Tony in a while, he knew that the Tower would be a safe place for him should he ever need somewhere to go. If May doesn’t let him go to the “internship,” he loses his safe space.
“May no, please-” Peter starts, pulling away and staring at May in shock.
“No, Peter, I’m not gonna hear it. We aren’t having this discussion now, you can talk to me when you pull your grades up.” May’s words are final. No room for argument.
“Please, I-I don’t… I can’t,” Peter stammers.
“You are a smart boy, Peter. You’ll figure it out.” While her words aren’t especially painful, her tone was. She was done with him, he was just a burden at this point.
Peter can only hear ringing in his ears from that point on, his eyes burning and chest heaving as May leaves him to sob into his pillow. Absently, his overgrown nails dig into his upper arms as he cradles his legs to his chest. The sharp heat of the knife wound beneath his fingertips grounds him, directing his attention away from his speeding mind and back to the physical realm.
Before he can even process what he’s doing, Peter digs his fingers into the slash until the wet, oozing flesh reaches his first knuckle. He heaves into his right elbow, his injured left arm shooting down by his side as he grips the tricep forcefully. His left hand grips the comforter below him so forcefully that he hears a slight tear, the fabric giving way so his nails dig almost directly into his palm. Peter’s vision goes white at the edges, nausea creeping up his throat as he feels a stark contrast between his body’s cold sweat and the hot, throbbing pain in his left arm.
Even as Peter finds his body screaming for a release, for him to just let go, his mind coaxes him to hold tighter.
---
The weekend passes before Peter’s eyes in a blur. His sheets are back on the bed, cold and half-wet still beneath his body. He spends the days in bed anyway, getting up only to use the bathroom and fetch different books and supplies for his homework. Peter hyper-focuses on school, catching up on old and overdue assignments even though he knows the majority of his teachers won’t count them. He gets ahead in every class, eyes burning and bloodshot as he forces himself to stay awake.
He belatedly remembers walking in on Tony in the workshop after one of his binges, marveling at his mentor’s crazed expression and twitchy features from a lack of sleep. Peter giggles, realizing that at the very least he’s emulating his hero in one way. Better than nothing… right?
Peter passes out around 3 am on Sunday, setting an alarm for 7 the next morning and pressing his face into the musty pillowcase that he hasn’t changed in weeks. At least he isn’t prone to acne.
---
Peter sleeps through chemistry. Again. He was doing so well today, too. He made it through history and Spanish, not exactly paying attention but at least faking it decently well. It caught up to him in chemistry, though.
The thing is, Peter learned this shit months ago. Tony gave him some reading after they started working together and Peter flew through it all in no time, the grayness of everything not having hit him yet as the teen was full of energy and excitement for the world and all of its useless, meaningless possibilities. So, Peter’s brain shuts off. He falls asleep. He gets yelled at by Harrison. He wants to fucking scream. Or maybe burst into tears.
Ned looks away, disappointed, as Peter frantically searches for his gaze. The other boy has been silent around him today, awkwardly trailing next to Peter with his attention focused solely on his phone.
The only source of normalcy, the only fucking redeeming factor of his day, is somehow Flash.
Peter hates being yelled at from across the halls, he hates Flash’s incessant use of graphic nicknames, and he fucking hates Flash. It’s kind of nice to feel something, once in a while. Even if it’s hatred.
“Penis, heard you fainted in chemistry today. Sniff a bit too much glue?” Flash’s insults barely make sense at this point.
“Shut up, Flash,” Peter mumbles, keeping his eyes on the floor. He hears Flash bark out a laugh, watches his weird-ass expensive sneakers waltz closer to him.
“What did you say to me, Penis?” Flash gets up in Peter’s face, his chest just inches away from Peter’s own. The other boy flinches back at the proximity, knocking the back of his head against the lockers behind him. Peter feels his heart racing in his chest and wonders if Flash can feel it too.
“I said shut up, Flash,” Peter repeats, his voice shaking as he forces out the words with minimal confidence.
“You’d better watch your fucking mouth, Parker, or you’ll be seeing those poor, dead parents of yours again soon,” Flash grits out, bringing one firm finger up to shove into Peter’s chest before turning and swaggering away. He high fives one of his brain dead friends, laughing about how he just bested the pathetic orphan boy.
Peter’s head swims as his hand absently raises to flatten itself against his chest, right where Flash touched him. He feels his heart racing, wonders if Flash could feel it too.
This is a panic attack.
Peter tries to remember what Tony taught him months ago after Peter had his very first panic attack since elementary school, attempting to focus on his breathing and count slowly. One, two, three, four, out, two.. his breath hitches. Get it together. In, two, the air rushes out from his lungs. Peter can feel eyes on him as he struggles to breathe, his legs going shaky and his vision narrowing at the edges. He feels his hand scrape against the cold metal of the lockers behind him as he rushes to his bathroom.
The door slams shut behind him, causing a full-body flinch to shock through him. He sinks to the floor, knees to his chest with his elbows resting on top of them. Peter’s shaking hands rush to grasp at his ears, sweaty palms flat against them as his fingers weave through his hair. He hasn’t gotten a haircut in ages, so it’s long enough to tug. The dull scrape of his nails against his scalp allows Peter’s chest to inflate just enough to get a breath in.
In a moment of crazed clarity, Peter makes a connection. The pain helps him breathe.
Peter digs his fingers into his hair with renewed vigor, chest burning as he yanks at his overgrown locks. His jaw clenches roughly to avoid making noise, the bitter taste of blood flooding his mouth as his teeth knick his tongue.
Peter’s head stops swimming, his vision sharpening like it did when he was first bitten. The pain helps. Frantically, chasing the clear-headedness that he hasn’t felt in weeks, Peter does the only thing he can think to do--he digs his nails into the knife wounds on his left tricep. After a few agonizing seconds, Peter's fingers are blood-stained and his breathing is even. He huffs in discontent at the mangled wound on his arm, too drained to do anything more than dab at it with some scratchy paper towels and shrug his sleeve back up. Peter has just gotten to his feet when the door to the bathroom swings open, startling him. Apparently, he never locked it when he ran inside.
“Fuck, didn’t know someone was in here, sor-” Peter turns around at the familiar voice. Fuck. “Parker?” Flash fucking Thompson is staring open-mouthed at Peter. “Yo, what the fuck is up with your hand?” Flash exclaims.
Peter looks down at his hand, internally kicking himself as he sees bright red blood coating the fingertips of his right hand.
“Nothing, get out,” Peter attempts to shield his panic with annoyance.
“Not my fault you don’t know how to lock a fucking door, man,” Flash says. It lacks its usual bite, though, as Flash’s voice has gone soft and his eyes remain locked on Peter’s hand. He still doesn’t leave.
“Flash, get out,” Peter reiterates with new vigor. The other boy nods, seemingly attempting to physically shake himself out of his shock. He closes the door behind him and Peter scrambles to lock it, cursing under his breath as he gets streaks of blood on the door handle. He wipes it off with the same paper towel he used to mop up the blood on his arm before throwing it away and turning to vigorously wash his hands. Flakes of fast-drying blood scrape uncomfortably out from beneath his nails and swirl down the drain like leaves floating down a river of pink.
When Peter leaves the bathroom, Flash is still waiting outside. He’s staring at the ground between his feet, large hands twisting around one another as he nervously waits for the other boy to leave. Peter is taken aback by how worried Flash looks, but he also realizes that having literal blood on his hands might make him look crazy. He probably managed to scare Flash without even revealing anything about his powers.
The taller boy doesn’t even look up as Peter shoves past him timidly.
---
Peter gets a text at 6:37 that night.
Flash: You missed the test review in Spanish. It’s all multiple choice and one short answer on the subjunctive.
What the fuck?
Peter: what
Flash: Don’t make this weird.
WHAT? Don’t make what weird?
Peter feels like he’s entered an alternate universe. Just hours ago, Flash was taunting him for his dead parents, now he’s sending him updates on what he missed during his bullying-induced panic attack? How does that add up? Is this some kind of test? Is he, like, terrified of Peter or something now? What the literal fuck?
Peter: thanks
Flash: Whatever. Learn to stay awake.
Peter spends the rest of the night staring at the conversation, eyes unfocusing slowly and causing his phone to look like a brick of confusing and annoying light. Why the fuck is Flash acting like this? He is the only one who has texted Peter in days, nobody else has even cared that Peter was missing class and AcaDec and whatever the hell else Peter forgot about. It’s not like he and Flash have ever been friends, or even talked at all outside of school. Peter wouldn’t even know where Flash got his number if not for the AcaDec group chat that they created before going to D.C.