To Bruise, To Break, or To Bend
When Peter wakes up for school the next morning, the bruises on his wrists aren’t healed yet. Peter pushes through his moment of panic as he gets ready, refusing to question the sharp decrease in his speed-healing. He knows it’s been a bit slow lately, but this is unheard of. He throws on a T-shirt, a flannel, and his zip-up hoodie. In a moment of sheer idiocy, he grabs Tony’s sweatshirt, too. He ties it around his waist.
Peter is grateful for the perpetual chill that runs through New York, making him only mildly uncomfortable as he makes his way to school. His stomach stopped growling last night as he ran from the cops and, though he knows it’s probably a bad sign, Peter can’t find it in himself to feel anything more than grateful.
Flash acts about the same as he has been for the past few days, treating Peter with only mild disdain when others are watching and otherwise acting civil. He surprises Peter in chemistry, though, when he finally lets his guard down. Peter feels like he’s constantly being surprised by the other boy. After handing Peter his now-routine bag of chips, Flash looks at the other boy rather than focusing down on his notes.
“Hey, Parker. You good?” Flash asks just above a whisper, leaning in a bit at their desk to ensure that nobody hears him being nice to Peter.
Peter blushes a little at the closeness, fiddling with the plastic corner of the chip bag as he looks everywhere but at Flash. “Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks, again, for last night,” Peter replies even more quietly.
Flash gives him a quick nod and a little shoulder bump that Peter assumes was meant to be friendly. Instead of shoving Flash back, though, the teen flinches. His whole body stiffens at the contact, shoulders raising immediately almost to ear-level as his hands raise up without his permission to protect his head. Peter stops breathing for a second, panicking even as his Spidey-sense remains silent. What causes Peter to panic even more, though, is that his sleeves slipped down when his arms flew up.
Flash’s eyes zero in on the purple bruises encircling his skinny wrists, the bones looking like they’re about to burst through his mottled skin. Peter rushes to pull the sleeves back down and returns his hands to his lap, watching them shake terribly as he continuously tugs at his sleeves.
“Peter,” Flash whispers. He’s gone pale, his eyes wide and scared. Freak. You probably scared the shit out of him, no normal person walks around with bruises like that. He probably thinks you’re in a gang or some shit, get it together. You’re the dangerous one, not him. Fucking mutant.
“I-It’s nothing, I swear. Just, uh, just knocked my arm on something the other day. Promise,” Peter stutters out, breathless in his panic. Don’t let him find out.
Flash nods quickly, looking down at his chemistry and refusing to look up until the bell rings. Peter can’t stop tugging on his sleeves for the rest of the day.
---
Flash is normal again on Tuesday and Peter’s life starts to look the same way. He falls back into his routine, managing to hit the Whole Foods dumpsters on Tuesday night and the bagel shop on Friday. He keeps up his journal, texts Flash every night for chemistry, and even manages to FaceTime with the other boy on Wednesday night.
Peter pretends that everything is normal, that everything is okay. But his wrists have barely healed. His arm is still decorated with a partially-open wound. His hands haven’t stopped shaking since Sunday.
Sunday. Somehow it’s Sunday again. Peter doesn’t think he remembers one entire day from this week. Thankfully, he has his list. Thankfully, he has proof that he still exists.
Monday: cafeteria fries, granola bar from Flash, 1 mint from floor of Spanish room (don’t tell)
Tuesday: 6 chicken nuggets from cafeteria, chips from Flash, half sandwich Whole Foods, 1 mildly squishy apple (stop being greedy)
Wednesday: mac and cheese from cafeteria, chips from Flash
Thursday: granola bar, hot dog from cafeteria, ½ bag of chips from Flash
Friday: ½ bagel, 1 burger from cafeteria, last granola bar
Saturday: ½ bagel, 1 piece of chocolate (from the nice lady at the Subway stop)
Sunday: 1 bagel, other ½ bag of chips from Flash
---
Flash keeps checking his wrists. At first, Peter thinks it’s because of the bruises. Maybe that’s how it started, but the bruises healed halfway through last week and Flash hasn’t stopped.
Peter knows he doesn’t exactly look great. He’s skinnier now than he ever has been, even when he was fourteen and pushing himself pointy-elbow after knobbly-knee through the tail end of a growth spurt. His eyes are constantly surrounded by dark circles, glassy yet dim at the same time as he tries to focus on the monotonous humdrum around him in class. His hair is flat and greasy, the curls wilting upon his head as he runs his fingers through them constantly. And, God, his hands. His nails are bitten-down and have a healthy layer of blood underneath them, his cuticles torn and painful to the touch. His hands themselves are shaky and cold, making his handwriting stiff and illegible. Point being, Peter knows he’s ugly. He’s accepted it.
Flash, on the other hand, is gorgeous. His warm brown eyes bore into Peter’s as they talked over FaceTime, the other boy not seeming to mind when Peter can’t bring himself to hold up the other end of a conversation. His hands are steady and controlled, not even shaking a little as he offers Peter a spare pencil or a half-crushed granola bar or his calculator in class. His hair is shiny and smooth, falling a little into his eyes when he ducks his head to see his notes. Flash is so alive, so bursting with life. His cheeks blush a subtle pink under his darker skin, making him look flushed and young even as they discuss upcoming college applications and the final round of ACTs. Most importantly, though, are his lips. They sit a deep pink on his face, plump and smooth as they curl around his words and stretch beautifully into a smile. His tongue pokes out the corner of his mouth when he laughs, sometimes, and Peter wishes he could take its place as it caresses his lips. He wonders if his own bitten lips would scratch Flash’s perfect ones, if his imperfections could rub off on someone as stunning as Flash. He doesn’t think he likes the answer.
“Hey, earth to dork,” Flash’s lips say. Or, rather, Flash says.
Peter tears his eyes away from Flash’s lips and drags them up his face, past the stubble coating his upper lip and his gorgeous hooked nose.
“What’s with the MIT sweater, Parker?” Flash teases with a hint of his usual nosey curiosity peeking through. Peter glances down at the hoodie draped over his stick-thin frame, the sleeves dangling halfway down his palms just like he imagines they used to on Tony. It makes his heart happy, to look even a fraction like Tony did.
“Nah, it’s Mr. Stark’s,” Peter says without thinking. Fuck.
“Shut up, Parker, no it isn’t. I thought you were over the whole Stark Internship thing?” Flash questions in shock. Oddly enough, he doesn’t look frustrated; instead, he looks kind of thrown.
“I don’t have it anymore, Flash, that doesn’t mean it never existed,” Peter says morosely. He doesn’t need the reminder that he isn’t seeing Tony anymore.
“Yeah, whatever. Fits you like a glove, shortstack,” Flash says with a smile. Peter wants to melt through the floor. Instead, he fiddles with the sleeves some more.