three
Peter has gotten used the burning pain on his thigh when he showers. The first time he'd cut, he'd panicked over the blood dripping down his arm, and he'd jumped in the shower and tried to clean it up.
He still remembers the way the water burned so intensely, the way he had dug his nails into the skin around the cuts and clenched his eyes shut tightly, barely able to breathe through the pain. He was twelve then, he'd barely felt pain.
The worst he reacts now is a little hiss of breath through his teeth. It doesn't even make him tear up anymore, not unless he accidentally cuts a little too deep, a little too quick. Steaming water causes his skin to turn red from the heat, and Peter rubs his thumb over some of the particularly thick scars on his leg. They had needed stitches, he knew it. But honestly, he'd rather bleed out then let someone see the array of lines on his body.
Leaning his head back, the teen lets the water soak into his curls and sighs. He never has the energy to make himself get in the shower, but when he finally does, he never wants to leave it. When the water starts to become cold, though, he has to. Peter turns the shower off, stepping out and grabbing his towel.
He really hates that the first thing his eyes land on are May's razors. The teen remembers breaking them apart with his fingers, little nicks forming on his skin, and eventually throwing away all but one blade to leave marks on his thighs. That was always after he'd thrown away his previous ones, claiming he wanted to get better.
Tonight though, as he stares at the package of razors, he tells himself he won't do it, and he goes to his room without fresh cuts.
That night, his resolve breaks. He falls asleep with silent tears running down his cheeks and his leg pulsing in pain.
Ned texts him Sunday morning, asking if he wants to have a movie night at his house. He says MJ will be there too, and it wouldn't be complete without him.
But as Peter looks at his phone from his spot curled up on his bed, he's just so tired. He doesn't want to pretend. He doesn't want to be strong and act like he doesn't want to die everyday.
He texts back: sorry dude. internship. And he rolls back over to try to fall asleep again. When his eyes land on his homework, Peter struggles through a large, steadying breath, and closes his eyes.
Out of sight, out of mind, right?
Sometime in the afternoon, May knocks lightly at his door and cracks it open. "You up?" She asks, and he makes a noise in the back of his throat.
His aunt laughs. "Up late last night, huh? More homework? I should file a complaint that they've got my baby working all day everyday."
Peeking his eyes open, he hopes that his panic doesn't show in his eyes, and realizes he's been using homework as an excuse too often. "Actually, I was patrolling. The work load is starting to ease up," he lies, smiling up at her.
The grin on her face is almost worth the guilt making his chest feel tight. "Yeah? I was starting to get a bit worried."
And if that doesn't make him want to both laugh and cry, he doesn't know what will. She'd been close to looking deeper, past his fake smiles and empty lies. He's scared. Scared she might still look. And he's so fucking devastated that she hadn't looked, because he knows he needs help.
He wants help more than anything in the world, but he's more scared of it than anything he's ever faced.
"I'm fine, May. Is that Lasagna I smell?" Peter asks, just to change the subject.
She brightens. "Yep! I even managed no to burn it this time! Though, it is a little dark in the corners, but it's still good, I promise!"
As she leads him from his room, a hand on his back, he doesn't have the heart to tell her that food hasn't been good to him for weeks. To not worry her, though, he forces it down, and when she puts another helping on his plate, saying she knows how his metabolism is, he eats that too.
Peter retreats to his room and locks the door afterward, and the second he sits down he's tugging at his jeans to look at the nearly healed scabs on his thigh.
Tears prick at his eyes at the sight of his blemished skin, remembering a time when it was smooth and pale.
Before, when he'd first started cutting with a pair of scissors and barely there scratches, he'd used his wrists. He was always scared, though, wearing long sleeves and doodling on his arms until the faint scars faded. Wanting to cut deeper, though, he'd moved to his right thigh.
His veins, a deep blue that contrast to the paleness of his skin, call for him. He itches to reopen the only visible scar there, so old it was basically invisible. He itches to open even more, leaving crimson red dripping down his arm.
Before he can even register it, he's opening his drawer and grabbing the blade he'd used just the night before. It was thinner than the blade from his sharpener, and it broke the skin easier.
Biting his lip, Peter brings the metal to his wrist, an inch under his palm. Should he do this? He's been doing so well at leaving his arms unmarred, and he knows he'll spend so long hiding it from people, but it just feels so right.
He makes the first cut. It's barely a scratch, an extremely thin line with barely any blood. It should heal within an hour or two. Under it, he makes one slightly deeper. Immediately, blood wells in it, and a perfectly round drop rolls down his skin, staining it red. He loses track after that, and when he finally stops, his whole arm burns and the hand with the blade is shaking, blood smeared on the blade and on his fingers.
Peter drops it back into his drawer, tears blurring his vision, and he panics. "Oh God," he whispers, breaths coming out in wheezes, his eyes locked on his arm. "What did I do?"
Knowing he can't leave his room or Aunt May will see, Peter grabs his limited roll of bandages and quickly wraps his arm, wiping the blood off his fingers once again. Fixing his clothes, the teen hides the evidence and lies back down, pulling his thick blanket over his shoulders and squeezing his eyes shut.
He only opens them again when his phone goes off with the notification tone of Mr. Stark's messages.
Mr. Stark: Hey, kid. I spoke to your aunt and she suggested a lab day since you went home early this weekend. I'll pick you up after school Monday.
Peter: Sounds good!
He falls back asleep with panic clenching at his heart and his pillow muffling his sobs.