two
When they arrive at the tower, Peter's legs are both bouncing up and down at a speed so fast, they almost look like they're vibrating. When the black vehicle stops, Peter feels random pangs of anxiety stabbing at his chest for absolutely no reason.
He's been to the tower countless times, he's not even that anxious around Mr. Stark that much anymore, but right now, because of his stupid homework, he feels as though if he's even in the same room as the billionaire, he'll immediately know that Peter's struggling, and nobody can know.
Letting out a stressed sigh, the teen climbs out of the Audi and plasters a smile on his face, waving goodbye to Happy and hoping the man can't tell how nervous he is from the way he walks to the elevator.
"Welcome back, Mr. Parker," FRIDAY greets, taking him up without him having to give her directions.
"Hi, FRIDAY. Is Mr. Stark in the lab or. . ?" Why is is voice shaking? What's wrong with him?
"He is. He has asked me to bring you to him. Is that where you'd like to go?"
"Yeah! Yeah," he mumbles, taking a steadying breath. The elevator doors slide open the next moment, and he walks in with a small genuine smile.
With Mr. Stark, he didn't have to try as hard to smile. "Hi, Mr. Stark!"
The man spins around from his spot at his work bench, a wide smile taking over his face. "Hey, Underoos. Did you bring your suit today? I have an update I'd like to add."
Immediately, Peter's cheeks flush red and he mentally berates himself. "U-Uh, no. I'm sorry, I left it at home," he stammers, his hands in his pockets so they don't shake.
His mentor narrows his eyes for a split second, before his face returns to normal. "Weren't planning on patrolling today?"
"Um, no, I have homework I was gonna work on instead," Peter lies, then realizes he actually isn't lying, but now he has to do the homework he doesn't even want to look at.
"Busy few weeks?" Mr. Stark asks, gesturing for the kid to sit down, "I noticed you haven't been out in the suit for about two weeks."
Peter sits in his usual spot, shrugging. "Uh, yeah. Just a lot of Spanish and uh, English homework," the teen explains, internally cringing.
He's just digging himself into a deeper and deeper hole. "Oh? Need help?"
"No, no, I can do it myself. I'll just work on it when I get home."
The billionaire turns fully to look at the boy, squinting suspiciously at him. "You're usually all over finishing your homework the second you get it. C'mon, we could work on it now. I don't have anything important to do, so after we're done, we can just tinker, or go watch a movie or something."
Peter wants to cry. He wants to say that he hasn't been excited to do homework in so long, he wants to say that he waits until the very last minute, and even just doesn't do it sometimes. He wants to say that he's overwhelmed and stressed and he can't do this anymore, but he can't.
"Sure." His voice comes out in a whispered rasp, and he reaches into his bag to pull out the Spanish worksheet, ignoring how his mentor drags the paper toward him, and grabs a pencil from his bag as well.
"Oh, is this about that one walk or whatever? I recognize camina." For a moment, Mr. Stark looks like such a dad that it hurts. It just reminds him how the man will never think of him, how he will never even consider him.
"Yeah," Peter repsonds hesitantly, swallowing down his nervousness to scoot closer to the man.
Mr. Stark shoots a grin at him, taking the pencil from his hand and pointing at the first question. "Spanish has always been super easy for me. Did you know I'm half Italian? The languages are really similar so it was easy to learn. Although I did mix them up every once in a while,"
With every word, Peter only feels more and more stupid. Spanish used to be easy, everything used to be easy. He was the smart kid, the kid with straight A's who didn't even have to put in any effort. He used to be okay. He's not anymore, he doesn't remember how to be that person.
"Yeah."
His mentor glances over at him, his brows furrowed. "You okay? You're acting different today."
He shouldn't be, though. He shouldn't be acting different, because he always feels like this, he can't remember a time he hasn't. For a moment, he considers dropping his mask, he considers finally letting himself break and get help. He imagines the way Mr. Stark would hug him and tell him everything would be okay. And he wants it.
But then Peter thinks about the absolute terror he feels at just the thought of someone finding out, thinks about how weak they'll see him as, how they'll never quite look at him the same or trust him again, and he can't do it.
"I'm just a bit tired. I've been staying up a lot to study," he lies, mustering a half smile.
Mr. Stark takes on a contemplative look, before he drops the pencil. "They've sure been working you a lot lately. Wanna just take a break and watch a movie? I'm sure your Spanish will last one night without you," he suggests, and Peter hates how quick his shoulders slump in relief.
His lips tug upward in a forced smile and he nods shyly. "Um, yeah, that would be nice."
"Great! It's decided then. FRI, order some pizza, will you?" Tony throws his arm around Peter's shoulders as they stand and make their way to the elevator, and the teen subtly leans into the touch, desperately wanting the man to just wrap him in a tight hug. "Star Wars again?"
"You know me so well," Peter teases, yet another fake smile on his face. Why can't he just genuinely smile? Why can't he be happy?
"Of course I do! What kind of mentor would I be if I didn't know my Spider-Baby like the back of my hand?"
Peter's cheeks flame, and he stammers, mumbling a squeaked response which just sounds like some sort of mouse. The man only laughs, patting him on the back, and they finally make it up to the common room, wandering over to the sofa.
Peter drops down onto it with a tired sigh and pulls his knees up to his chest as he settles in comfortably, dropping his head back and letting his eyes flutter closed. God, he's tired. He just wants to sleep for a million years. Thoughts like that used to startle him, used to have him sobbing into his pillow because he was so scared that he'd act on it, but now it's just another option that maybe one day he'll take.
"Hey, Kiddo." The genius dropped down beside him, making him jolt in shock and look over to him, relaxing. "So which movie? One of the prequels? Empire Strikes Back?"
"I'm touched that you actually know what Star Wars is because of me," Peter says truthfully, a real grin tugging at his lips as Mr. Stark doesn't hesitate to wrap his arm around him again, tugging him against his side.
"Maybe I just watch Star Wars, ever think about that?" The billionaire says in a faux offended tone, before telling FRIDAY to choose one randomly.
"Pizzas will be here in a bit, Pete. I know how hungry you get with your Spider metabolism."
The teenager doesn't say a word, it suddenly hitting him that he hasn't eaten a full meal in a long time. He can't remember the last time he did.
So if he just happens to fall asleep with his head on his mentor's shoulder before the food even arrives, and the man forgets to make him eat, it's really nobody's fault but his own.
He wakes up groggily, for a split second wanting to just go back to sleep, but then he realizes where he is, who he's leaning against, and sits up, shifting awkwardly and hiding a wince as his arm knocks against his almost healed thigh.
"Time's it?" Peter asks, blinking sluggishly and pulling away from the man whose suit jacket was wrinkled and so warm and comfortable.
"Uh, almost eleven. I should probably call your aunt and let her know you're staying the night," Tony murmured in response, sounding like he'd been either asleep or close to it as well.
"No!" Peter cries, eyes widening suddenly, and internally cringing at the way his voice cracks. He wrings his hands in his lap, biting at his bottom lip. "Um, I just wanna go home, if that's alright."
Mr. Stark frowns at him for a few seconds, before slowly making his way to his feet. "Okay," he hedges, "any particular reason?"
"I- I just- I wanna- I-"
"Hey, hey," he soothes, rubbing his arm with a small frown. "It's okay, you don't have to explain. I'll take you home. Go grab your stuff from the lab, alright?"
Nodding, Peter anxiously makes his way back down to his mentor's lab and squeezes his eyes shut in frustration in the elevator, letting out an aggravated sigh at how stupid he's acting. In that moment, he hates himself.
When he gathers his bag, stuffing the still unfinished paper in it, he snorts, shaking his head. There's no difference between this one and any other moment in his life.
There's no words spoken between the two, not during their walk to the car and during the ride there. Peter knows that the older man can tell something is going on, it seems like lately everybody has been noticing, little by little. But it's never much, never enough, and he's confident in his ability to pretend. It doesn't change that he's tired of it though.
"I'll see you, okay Pete?"
"Of course. Bye, Mr. Stark," the teen whispers, and he doesn't look back at the man as he walks inside.
The apartment is achingly empty, and he listens as Mr. Stark drives away. May is gone, most likely at work, and there's a Post-It note on the counter, saying how she'd see him tomorrow if he ended up coming home from the tower.
The same numb feeling he gets all the time comes crawling right back through him, squeezing around his lungs, settling over his mind and leaving his heart heavy. When he goes back into his room, he drops his bag to the ground, eyes flicking to the copy of the worksheet in his bag. It doesn't bug him like it should.
He sits on his bed, his movements sluggish and mechanical as he pulls open his bedside drawer, grabbing out the thin silver blade he'd taken from a razor months ago, and he tugs his jeans down just enough to access his right leg, pulling up the hem of his boxers to let his eyes travel over the now healed scars. He runs his fingers over them for a moment, before pressing the metal into his skin, and dragging a long line across it.
Peter usually winces, hisses a bit, but this time he only stares in concentration, picking up the blade and making yet another cut. He can't help the way his mind he keeps screaming more, more, more! And he obeys.
By the time he finally stops, the razor and his finger are covered in red, and the new cuts have dark crimson dotting them. It's almost hypnotizing when a drop of blood begins rolling down the pale skin of his thigh, and he realizes quickly that they're bleeding a lot, too much to hide if it got on his clothes, so Peter reaches into the same drawer he'd pulled the blade from and finds a roll of bandages that are half gone.
He makes quick work in wrapping them around his bleeding leg, and then puts the remaining supplies back in the drawer. He wipes the blood from the blade and his finger onto the bandages, streaking them red, and he drops the metal back in the drawer with a small clang, sliding it shut.
Peter rights his clothes, and lies down, curling up in a ball and wrapping his arms around his legs, much like he did at the tower. Tonight, tears don't come. They don't stain his pillow, they don't make his eyes red and puffy. They don't make him sniffle with every breath as his nose becomes stuffed, and they don't burn at his eyes.
He wants to cry, distantly, he wants to feel something, he wants to feel anything besides the sting on his skin. But he just. . . doesn't.
Peter doesn't want to do this anymore, he can't do this anymore. He can't keep pretending and just barely going on. He can't.
But he does anyway. Eventually, he falls asleep, and then he wakes up feeling just like he has for as long as he can remember, and he does it all over again.