Sick Days
For the rest of the week, Peter gets no text messages from Flash. He stays awake for every class they have together, staring at the back of Flash’s head and debating whether, if he focuses hard enough, he could read the other boy’s mind.
The bullying has started to decrease in heat, slowly transforming from dead mom jokes into subtle jabs at Peter’s appearance and personal qualities. He doesn’t know if he’s more grateful or insulted.
Between mind-numbing days at school and stealing from local garbage bins, Peter finds the time to go out as Spidey on Thursday evening. He stops a couple routine New York muggings, feeling useless and dreary as he climbs into his bedroom window well before midnight with only a couple of bruises to show for himself. He nostalgically thinks back to the days when coming home with bruises felt like a failure in itself, when he didn’t know any better than to prioritize his own well-being in a fight. He feels a little glimmer of pride in himself, realizing that as selfish as he still is, he’s managed to trample that narcissistic habit.
---
It’s Tuesday and Peter hates himself. How the fuck does a mutant manage to break their fucking leg fighting a human? Life is so fucking unfair.
Peter dragged himself into his window and nearly screamed as pain shot up through his right leg, cursing himself for forgetting and swinging through the window to land on his dominant side. He doesn’t have the energy or pain tolerance to do anything more than change out of his suit and into his most comfortable, ratty T-shirt before struggling onto his bed. Thankfully, only a small bit of bone is poking through the skin of his shin. Peter rolls up a towel from his floor and fits it snugly between his teeth before taking a deep breath, setting his hands crossed one-over-the-other on top of the bone, and pushing. He shoves the bone back into place as a guttural scream escapes his throat and tangles itself within the fabric of the towel.
Peter wipes his hands against his shirt as he watches the skin try and fail to knit itself back together. His stomach growls. He goes to sleep.
He doesn’t wake up until halfway through Wednesday. May is too worried to be pissed.
Peter squints at May as she shakes his shoulder, wincing as it jostles his injured leg and her manicured nails scrape against a barely-clothed stab wound. He feels his stomach clench around nothing and wonders when the last time he even ate was.
“Pete, are you ok?” May asks, her voice sounding shrill and panicked.
Peter tries to nod and feels his head go swampy-foggy-weird.
“Peter, this is the second time in the past couple of weeks that you’ve been sick. Do I need to bring you to the doctor, baby?” Peter’s heart rate skyrockets.
“No! No, no doctor, I swear I’m ok,” Peter urges, shoving himself into a sitting position with his arms shaking noticeably under his bodyweight.
May looks unconvinced but, under Peter’s scared gaze, she caves. She always knew that Peter had a shaky relationship with health professionals, but this level of panic hadn’t shown on his face since he was in elementary school. She prays he isn’t about to have an episode. “Ok, honey,” she whispers. She pushes his hair out of his face as he settles back against his pillow, heart clenching at the look on each of their faces. “I’ll call the school.”
---
Peter spends the next 4 days in bed. The skin of his leg doesn’t heal for two full days, the bone not mending itself for another two. It probably should have been longer before Peter stood up, but May was starting to get worried. It didn’t help that the last time Peter stayed in bed this long was… well… not his best point in life. Both he and May were eclipsed by memories of that time, her mind filled with endless questions of why and his filled with self-deprecation.
On the bright (ish?) side, Peter has at least been eating relatively regularly. The Italian in May has been driving her to cook more than usual with her boy in such a state, meaning that Peter has been showered in nearly enough food to keep his metabolism half-satisfied. His stomach is so used to clenching around nothing that the warm broth and flaky homemade bread is a godsend. While Peter isn’t actually sick, the comfort food feels like a warm blanket against his raging mind.
He wakes up sometime on Saturday afternoon to the sound of his phone buzzing against his bedside table. Without even moving from his fetal position, Peter’s arm shoots out to grab his phone before retreating back under his blankets. He shoots up in bed when he sees what the notification is.
Flash?
Flash: Finally drop out, Penis?
Peter flinches at the nickname but otherwise doesn’t feel the same sting he usually gets at Flash’s attitude. Maybe it’s because it’s just a text.
Peter: very funny flash. just sick.
Flash: Again? Seems a little suspicious, Parker. Don’t tell me, you’re on a “Stark Internship Retreat.”
Even when Flash is trying to be sarcastic, he still uses perfect capitalization. Annoying, pretentious bastard.
Peter: nope, no more stark internship
He immediately regrets sending the text. Flash isn’t one of his (fast-fading) friends, one of his buddies that he can just share shit like this with. He doesn’t fucking care. If anything, he’ll use it as an excuse to bully Peter about something even closer to home.
Flash: Not going to pretend to be Stark’s little bitch anymore? At least now I know you aren’t genuinely delusional.
That’s… not as bad as he expected, honestly. Was the second part a backhanded compliment?
Peter: it’s whatever. why’d you text
Peter stares at his phone for what feels like hours, watching the three little dots at the bottom of his screen appear and disappear over and over. Did he say something wrong? That seemed like a reasonable question in his opinion.
Flash: I was going through idiot withdrawal, Leeds is far too easy a target. It’s boring.
Peter somehow feels flattered. Unknown giddiness bubbles up within his chest, his eyebrows quirking as his lips twitch slightly upward.
Peter: just look in a mirror, flash, youll find your idiot
Flash: Screw you, Parker, my IQ is almost as big as my dick.
Peter barks out a sharp laugh, caught off guard by Flash’s vulgarity. Typing on instinct, Peter knows he’s in trouble.
Peter: my condolences
Flash: Shut up. Aren’t you like a straight B student now, slacker?
Peter’s heart lurches a bit at the reminder. He really has to pull his grades up.
Peter: low blow dude
Flash: Maybe if you actually came to school you’d know what was going on.
Peter: why would i do that when i have you to tell me what i missed. sounds like youre the slacker
Flash: Ok Mister “I’m going to miss 3 biology worksheets, a Spanish test, and a chemistry lab.”
Peter smiles softly. Flash just told him what he missed, in his own asshole way.
Peter: see that wasnt so hard
Peter: thanks
Flash: Just show up on Monday, Parker. I’m done playing messenger pigeon.
The teen giggles a bit at the strange reference. Sometimes, he forgets that Flash is just as much of a nerd as he is. As much of an asshole as Flash is, he’s never been a jock or a meathead.
Peter spends the rest of his weekend resting and catching up on homework, knowing the monotony of his life will come rushing right back on Monday. For now, though, he basks in May’s gentle touches and the glow of his phone as he reads and rereads Flash’s texts.
---
Flash doesn’t speak to him at all on Monday. He catches the other boy glaring at him throughout class, one time his body was fully turned around in his chair so he could see Peter from the front of the room. Peter avoids eye contact every time, confused about why Flash is acting like such an asshole after being so… tolerable… Saturday.
Peter has never been confrontational. So, when the day comes and goes without a single comment from Flash, Peter simply does nothing. He goes about his day like normal, getting through his classes with minimum attention and trying to keep his mind quiet. His stomach, as well, is uncharacteristically loud today.
Peter spent the weekend better-fed than he had been in weeks, even managing to feel full for one blissful minute on Sunday after May brought him a Happy Meal when he told her he was feeling better. Now, though, Peter has gone nearly 17 hours without food and his stomach is protesting violently. Peter keeps one arm clenched around it at all times, trying to squeeze the hunger out of it. He feels a mix of satisfaction and fear as his fingers dig into the still-sore scar on his abdomen to feel something other than the hunger pangs that have been wracking his frame since that morning.
The school-provided chicken nuggets and runny mac and cheese sit in his groaning stomach like a brick. They give him no relief, the grease making him feel queasy and gross. He can’t stop eating them, though, and scrapes his place clean in record time. He’s used to Ned’s concerned looks by now, but feels a bit of despair as Ned seems to have grown used to the situation as well. The other teen doesn’t bat an eye.
Peter escapes to his bathroom during the second half of his lunch period, locking the door firmly and gripping the sink with shaky hands. He takes deep, quick breaths as he tries to calm his churning stomach. Don’t puke, don’t puke, don’t waste it. Stop being ungrateful. Don’t puke.
Peter feels his head grow light and murky, using a quivering hand to slowly turn the tap and splash cool water against his face. Peter finally looks up as his vision clears, staring into his own dead eyes in the mirror. He looks terrible. His eyes are cradled by dark circles that look nearly purple, the whites of his eyes looking nearly gray. His hands haven’t stopped shaking in days, at this point Peter thinks they never will. Despite the water he just splashed on his face, Peter’s lips are dry and cracked.
To make matters worse, Peter doesn’t think his arm wound will ever truly close. Since his realization in the bathroom days prior, he has been gripping that spot every time panic infiltrates his mind. Which is quite often. The once thin cut has been mangled into a shallow cavern, nearly half an inch wide and jagged at the edges. Peter pulls out his bag and re-bandages it, gritting his teeth as he watches his fingers fumble with the tape. Useless.
Peter busts up the bandaging not even two hours later in chemistry. He couldn’t answer Harrison’s question, too focussed on trying to read Flash’s mind to even hear what it was. The thing that really causes him to cave, though, is when Flash doesn’t even make fun of him for it. The sound of his own breathing becomes unbearable, so he grips at his arm and holds his breath. Flash looks annoyed.
After a whole day of being ignored, one can imagine how confused Peter feels when he gets a text from Flash not even an hour after school ends.
Flash: Harrison is assigning a group lab project, not that you would know. We’re partners.
Is that what Harrison asked him?
Peter: ok when do we start
Flash: Tomorrow. Show up.
Peter flinches a bit. Yeah, he’s gotten a bit flaky; but, in his defense, he literally couldn’t walk for three days last week.
Peter: promise
Flash Thompson fucking “loves” his message. Not the little thumbs up, no, the fucking heart .