five
When they get to the tower, Peter is a ball of nerves. He was definitely anxious in the car, but it's like stepping into the building intensifies it by about a hundred. He thinks maybe it's FRIDAY, who's always there, always watching and ready to report to Tony if something seems wrong.
Or maybe it's the man himself, his scrutinizing, worried gaze when Peter takes too long to respond and doesn't act how he normally does. Being around someone that he knows cares enough to dig deeper if he sees a reason is terrifying.
Though, as they make their way to the elevator, the teen can't help but think about how Mr. Stark hadn't dug deeper. As long as he continues to pretend, the billionaire won't notice a difference. Nobody will.
Mr. Stark is saying something, he's sure of it, but he's not paying attention to anything anymore, staring at the elevator doors. When did they get in?
Nobody notices. Nobody ever notices.
He's not able to get out of eating this time, Tony having ordered pizza again after they'd been in the lab for a few hours. As Peter is forcing his second piece down his throat, his mentor leans back in his seat, still chewing on his.
"So, May mentioned you patrolled again the other night," he converses casually, with that voice of his that has an undertone of 'I know something you don't.' Peter stiffens slightly, just enough that it's noticeable. "See, I thought that was funny, because according to Karen, you never even went near your suit. Funny, right?"
It's almost scary how fast a lie flies to his head. "I'm so sorry for lying, Mr. Stark. Please don't tell May, I don't want her to worry. I have a lot of homework because the end of the quarter is coming up, and she was thinking of talking to the school. That would be so embarrassing," he tells him, not lying about how embarrassing it would be. He'd also be so anxious and scared because then May would know he's failing and he doesn't actually have all the homework she thinks, and he's not even doing what he does have.
Something he says smooths out the crease between his mentor's brows, and a small smile forms on his face. "I totally get that, kiddo. Lord knows the amount of homework I had as a kid. You can always come to me if you need help, alright?"
"Duh," Peter fakes a smile. "It's nothing I can't handle."
Tony drops it, and they make small talk as they eat, but Peter's not fully there. Instead, he's think about the biggest lie he's ever told. It's nothing I can't handle.
The billionaire looks away for a moment, his eyes caught on a paper on the table that he squints to read from five feet away, and Peter watches the side of his face.
I lied, Mr. Stark. I can't handle this. Help me, please. Please. I can't handle this, I can't handle this, I can't handle-
"We should probably get going if you want to be at your friend's place by eight," Tony says, interrupting his thoughts.
The boy's cheeks flame, and he quickly finishes the pice of pizza in his hands, wiping them on his jeans. "Right. Uh, do you need her address?"
"Nope."
Peter pauses at that, slowly grabbing his backpack as he stands and nearly having a heart attack when the strap catches on his sleeve, but he fixes it before it can ride up enough to reveal his arm. "I've never told you it before," he replies suspiciously, tilting his head.
"Kid, Pete," the man starts, grinning widely, "I'm Tony Stark."
That he is. Tony Freaking Stark, someone he doesn't deserve at all. "That's creepy," is all he says, faking a grin.
Despite the fact that he's the one pretending to be okay, it hurts that Mr. Stark doesn't notice.
When they get there, Tony puts a hand on his leg to stop him from getting out of the car right away. "You know you can talk to me, right? About anything?"
Peter furrows his brows like he's confused, smiles a little. "Of course, Mr. Stark," he says, not meeting his mentor's eyes. "MJ's waiting, so can I. . ?"
"Yeah, yeah, go ahead, kid. See you, Pete." The billionaire waves him off, seeming content with the boy's reply.
Peter gets out, fakes a smile, and watches as Mr. Stark drives off. Then he walks up to the door nervously and raises his hand to knock. It swings open before his knuckles hit it, making him blink in shock and drop it to his side.
"MJ. Hi," the brunet greets, trying to keep up his smile.
She takes one look at him and says, "You look like you're in pain. Chill," then leads him inside. Squeaking in surprise, he scrambles to follow after her, closing the door behind him.
He's never been alone with MJ, not really, and his hands are already beginning to sweat. "You always have Iron Man drive you around?"
Peter's eyes widen.
"Wha- Uh- No- I just-"
"Peter, chill," MJ says again, and then she pushes on his shoulders, making him sit in a chair he wasn't aware was behind him.
The vigilante blinks owlishly up at his friend, who immediately turns her back on him with a him and begins rifling through a plastic bag on the counter. "Uh, how much of my hair are you gonna dye?"
She turns her dark eyes back to him, squinting. "Only a little. Purple," she tells him.
There's never a point to arguing with Michelle Freaking Jones, so he just nods, fidgeting with his fingers and beginning to bounce his legs.
While she does whatever it is she needs to do to get her stuff ready, Peter spaces out. Not completely, not when his fidgeting turns into reaching under his sleeve and scratching at his scabs. He listens for any slight movement of one of his only two friends, and picks at his wrist.
Wincing slightly when one of them dots with blood because of his aggravating fingers, Peter bites his lip and presses his thumb down on it to stop it from bleeding.
The boy wonders when it got so easy to do this, to look at his skin with dozens of self-inflicted wounds, and not feel anything. His feelings do vary at some times, though. Right now, it's nothing. Right now, it's just slight anxiety buzzing in his veins because he's alone with MJ.
Other times, though, it's agony. Other times, it's pain that makes him writhe and sob and wish he wasn't the way he is. When it's nothing, he longs for the pain, and when it's pain, he longs for the nothing. It's ironic, really. Peter thinks back on a poem he saw at some point, something about the seasons. You want cold when you're warm and you want warmth when you're cold.
"Okay, there's-"
Peter jolts, looking up at MJ with wide eyes as she drops the boxes of dye in her hands. Her eyes are wide, mirroring his, and she's looking at Peter's arm. Peter's bare arm.
As he panics, he wants the nothing.