It feels good to mess it up
Sunshine burned the back of eyelids like tiny stars brightly dancing across his sight or the visual representation of birds chirping in the morning. The light was there to remind him to get up, a natural alarm clock and little push to get out of bed. Peter didn’t want to get out of bed, he wanted to stay in the warm cocoon of blankets forever. Sadly, that wasn’t truly an option and he eventually forced himself to roll onto his side, burying his face into the pillow. He wanted to sleep for hours more or perhaps force his Aunt to come wake him up and drag him to school (like she had done on several unfortunate occasions before). But something about the pillow felt wrong, and somehow Peter knew Aunt May wasn’t going to come wake him up.
Lemon. It smelled like lemon. Peter cracked open a single eye, greeted with the blurry form of a bright yellow pillow case. “Fuck,” he vocalized quietly in disbelief. His pillow case was dark blue and smelled like laundry detergent and coconut shampoo, definitely not lemon. How could he have convinced himself he was at home?? How could he mistake this lavish apartment, and the smell of lemon, and the bright sunlight and all the yellow for his cosy Queens Apartment?? How??
His hands closed into fists, but he froze as his fingers came into the contact with his palm. It burned like he was touching the surface of the sun and a scream bubbled to the surface of his lips. The boy quickly stopped the scream, unsure if Alex was still around, by biting down hard on his lip. Blood dripped down his chin, as the boy softly unfurled his fists. He hissed at the sight in front of him, squinting his eyes and forcing himself to take a deep breath in (rather than crying out in fear). His normally pale flesh was charred and black; angry red blisters marred his skin and little pockets of pus surrounded the blisters. A drop of blood from his lip landed with a soft thud on his broken flesh and for a single second, Peter was caught on to how truly broken he was and the irony of this situation. Of the new injuries and the old mixing. Of the reality of one being a twisted gift from Alex, the other being one from himself. The stark contrast of the old, festering blisters and the small pools of new blood glistening like small river in the sunlight. It was strangely beautiful, yet disgusting. It made his skin crawl and his heart race to see how marred his skin was.
A single drop of glistening, red blood dripped from his palm onto the bright yellow pillow case. It appeared to happen in slow motion, the arch of the liquid curving and arching until it finally landed with a soft thud. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The boy frantically jumped out of the bed, trying to distance himself from the stark contrast of the blood mixing with the bright yellow fabric. However, the boy almost instantly regretted it when his joints cracked and bones protested under the pressure of his weight hitting the ground.
On any other day he probably would’ve stopped, reprimanded himself and given himself a gentle reminder to take better care of his body. But Peter didn’t have time for that today. No, today he barely stopped to contemplate the pain of his aching body and rather, he scanned his eyes frantically over the room. It was deceptively as light and perfect in Alex’s bedroom as in the rest of the apartment. But little things felt out of place, felt wrong, and they were like tiny cracks spiraling out of control on the facade of perfection.
There was an angry, red pool of blood staining the bright pillow case. Yellow and white sheets were empty and rumpled on the bed, the comforter laid forgotten on the floor. His clothing was sat in a little heap in the corner; if you looked closely there were faint blood stains on the periodic table underwear and the sweatshirt looked well worn, if not tatty. They looked as if they were thrown into a the corner without a second thought. As if they were in a hurry to discard them and retreat to the rumpled sheets on the bed. Peter’s entire body shivers at that thought and goosebumps break across his naked skin (how did he not realize he was naked until this moment). It was a hurry for Alex, who wanted to push the man into the bed and take advantage of the small boy. But he had not been in a hurry. In fact, he would have loved to stay curled up in his big, worn out, comfy sweater and watch movies for the rest of the night. Maybe casually make out or just cuddle. But not fuck. No Peter had not wanted to fuck. He hated it in fact, because fucking was too aggressive; and when Peter finally wanted to give his everything to a man he loved, he wanted it to be slow and gentle. He wanted lingering kisses and fingers gently dancing across the strip of skin where his shirt hitched up. He didn’t want to simply fuck, because his body deserved more- his mind deserved more.
Quickly, the boy shrugged the dark blue sweatshirt over his shoulders. He ditched the boxers, throwing the offending object in the small trash basket across the room, and he was careful to keep the blood away from his faded jeans. Smoothing his hair down with his non bloody hand, Peter sighed to himself. He would do anything to keep up the facade of being ok. Throw out his favorite nerdy underwear, keep his worn out clothing blood free, wipe the tears away and smooth down his hair, pretend and pretend and pretend that everything was fine- he would do anything.
His abused skin chafed against the rough denim. The raw flesh stuck to the inside fabric of his jeans, blood was a cryptic adhesive, and it tore every few seconds when one leg would step in front of the other.
The boy grabbed his bag from where it had fallen the previous day. Rifling through the smaller pocket, objects and crumpled paper flying everywhere as he quickly tried to locate his phone. The silence of the apartment was stifling and he wanted to drown it out with music. However, before he can chase the silence away, he is startled by the number of notifications present on the screen. The bright 10:47 AM shines up at him, along with 14 text messages and 3 calls from Mr. Stark and 4 text messages and 5 missed calls from Aunt May.
Mr. Stark (Yesterday, 3:48 PM): Hey kid, are you still coming over?
Mr. Stark (Yesterday, 4:17 PM): Pete, I’m trying not to be an “overprotective dad” (or whatever you would call my worrying), but I am worried so call me.
Yesterday 5:59 PM- Missed Call: Mr. Stark
Mr. Stark (Yesterday, 6:09 PM): Call. Me. Now.
Mr. Stark (Yesterday, 7:59 PM): May says you’re not home, where are you ??
Aunt May (Yesterday, 8:02 PM): Hey sweetie Tony just called me worried, just checking in to make sure you’re ok :)
Yesterday 8:09 PM- Missed Call: Aunt May
Mr. Stark (Yesterday, 9:25 PM): I swear if you went patrolling and didn't tell me your ass is dead.
Yesterday 10:01 PM- Missed Call: Mr. Stark
Mr. Stark (Yesterday, 10:04 PM): Kid?????
Aunt May (Yesterday, 10:17 PM): Hey sweetie, I just got off the phone with Mr. Stark and we’re both worried. Call me please.
Aunt May (Yesterday, 10:30 PM): I’m trying not to freak out, but I am really worried Peter. Call me ASAP.
Mr. Stark (Yesterday, 10:56 PM): I’m assuming your phone died and that you didn’t die.
Mr. Stark (Yesterday, 11:20 PM): If you died, you’re grounded forever Parker.
Mr. Stark (Yesterday, 11:40 PM): Ok, I’m leaving now. Text me when your phone is back on.
Mr. Stark (Today, 2:43 AM): trying not to be worried.
Mr. Stark (Today, 4:56 AM): please be ok.
Aunt May (Today, 8:40 AM): Just got a call from the school that you missed first period attendance. I’m super worried sweetie.
Today 8:41 AM- Missed Call: Aunt May
Today 8:42 AM- Missed Call: Aunt May
Mr. Stark (Today. 8:45 AM): May just told me you’re not in school. Where are you?
Today 9:02 AM- Missed Call: Aunt May
Mr. Stark (Today, 9:30 AM): Please respond.
Mr. Stark (Today, 10:47 AM): Please kid, please.
The last message still lit up the screen in a soft glow when he first looked down at his phone. The boy had completely forgotten about his Aunt and his mentor. He didn’t quite process that they would be worried; However, It was probably relieving that they were worried. That they cared enough to wonder where he disappeared to, why he didn’t come home last night and why he wasn’t responding to their frightened messages. He wanted to think that he could just disappear. Start walking one day and never look back. Never have any regrets or people waiting for him at home. It was nice that they cared so much, because he cared about them so much. But, he was a fiery comet shooting to the earth and he couldn’t afford to care about people. He was the meteor that wiped the dinosaurs out and he simple refused to bring those he loved to the brink of extinction.
He closed his eyes, taking a deep breathe in and smoothing his rumpled blue hoodie with his unhurt hand. He was chasing a sense of wholeness, like children chase butterflies or bubbles
(never truly being able to catch them or rather realizing that catching them did more harm than good). He wanted to feel every muscle in his body, every point his weight made contact with the earth. He wanted to feel a reminder that he was alive. Recently, the only reminders he got were through pain. Achy muscles, busted lips, bruises on his wrists and thighs. He was someone's messed up version of an art project. Spilled inky black paint, paper torn and crumpled at the edges. He tried to escape this constant feeling of pain, ground himself in some other, some better way. But pain was addictive, especially when you think you deserve it.
Peter clutched his phone loosely in his injured hand. The blisters and blood bubbled angrily and oozed slightly when it connected with the sleek surface. He glanced down at the myriad of missed messages and calls, but quickly swiped off of them. He wasn’t ready to deal with them. He was definitely not in the mood to talk and certainly not to explain himself.
Instead he flicked open the music app, popped in his earbuds and tapped open ‘Sad Bitch Hours.’ His head moved slightly on the beat of a sad indie song, and his fingers tapped the rhythm on the outside skin of his thigh. He stuffed his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and slung his bag over his right shoulder. Pushing open the door, he glanced back and started at the apartment. Light flooded through the large windows, illuminating China plates, stacks of books and perfect yellow throw pillows. However, there felt like there was a shroud of darkness over the entire apartment. Yellow tinted with murky black hues and little balls of darkness. It felt like there was a demon sitting in the corner or a monster hiding under the perfect yellow throw pillows. How could a place so seemingly perfect, so beautiful, be so dark- so corrupted.
The boy toed his foot against the bright cherry (he still thought it looked like blood) doormat sitting on the floor outside of the apartment. All these bright colors, the yellows and the reds, they were colors of deception. They created a fake illusion of happiness, of comfort. But, they weren’t actually comforting. No, they were cold and impersonal. They reminded him of blood and lying and pain.
The heavy wooden door of the apartment slammed shut, resounding in a loud sound echoing throughout the hallway. Suddenly, he was surrounded by a sense of cool indifference. The greys of the walls, in contrast to the fake bright colors, were strangely comforting.
His phone buzzed once again in his pocket. It was only a short interruption to his music, jarring him out of his comatose of thought, but it was a well needed reminder that he wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be in school right now, not nursing injuries on the way out of his boyfriend’s perfect apartment on the late morning of a school day. His life wasn’t supposed to be this messed up. He wanted to be normal, but he wasn’t normal. In fact, he never was normal. No, he started as the pathetic kid with aspergers, and then the pathetic gay kid with aspergers, and then the pathetic gay kid with aspergers and superpowers, and finally the pathetic gay kid with aspergers, superpowers AND an abusive boyfriend. In a strange way the boyfriend made him the most normal. The aspergers made him a freak, the homosexuality made him freakier and the superpowers made him a full blown freaky as all heck social outcast on a whole different level. But teenagers often had boyfriends, even if they were usually girls, and at least one thing he was experiencing was a normal thing for a teen.
Peter ducked his head as he entered the elevator car. He avoided eye contact with the elderly man standing slightly behind him, keeping his eyes trained on his ratty sneakers. The door slid open on the 4th floor and the man moved to exit. His arm momentary brushed against Peter’s and suddenly his entire body felt like it was on fire. He felt like the live end of a frayed wire. He wanted to scream and scream and scream and scream, cry until his throat was red and bloody.
He gritted his teeth, sunk his nails into his blistered hands, scrunched his eyes and tilted his head backwards. He needed to stay quiet- now was not the time for a meltdown. He desperately needed to meltdown, sooner rather than later ideally. Find a dark room, lay under a weighted blanket, put on noise canceling headphones and sleep until his body could reset itself. But he didn’t have the ability to do that currently and he was stuck with the shitty, second best option of trying to wait his symptoms out. However, that posed a huge problem. There was no way Peter was going to school today; his body hurt too much, his brain was frazzled and the teachers would ask too many questions. However, he had no other place to go. Home was certainly not an option, he wasn’t ready to face May yet and he was terrified of spending too much time alone and thinking of too many depressing things. If school had not have been in session, he might’ve considered going to Ned’s house. But, that wasn’t even a good option for after school let out later in the day either. Ned would take one look at his stiff posture and demand to know what was wrong, he would probably discover Peter’s hands in .01 seconds flat and demand to know what had happened. If Peter didn’t tell he would definitely assume the worst and being the only one that knew about his relationship, he would connect the dots far too quickly. (On a side not, Peter was 99.9% sure MJ also knew- but that’s a story for another time.)
In the end, the only viable option seemed to be going to the tower. However, that still seemed like a horrible option. It would probably be a disaster after the whole ‘crazy, overprotective dad’ act Mr. Stark had displayed yesterday. If Peter showed up at the tower, Tony would have him in the medical ward within the first moment he laid eyes on Peter. He seemed to have laser eyes and no amount of hiding his hands in his gigantic, blue hoodie would stop Mr. Stark from seeing the blisters on his hands. And then there would be the questions, so many freaking questions. And Peter wasn’t ready for the all the questions. He wasn’t ready to tell Mr. Stark about Alex, because he wasn't even ready to tell Mr. Stark about being gay. He already felt like such a failure in his mentor’s eyes, he didn’t need to add being gay to the list. Mr. Stark would probably hate him so much for being a faggot. He probably wouldn’t want anything to do with Peter anymore. Or worse, he might even agree with how Alex treated him- or even treat Peter like that himself. He wouldn’t know what to do if Mr. Stark started hurting him, but a part of him knows that he would probably deserve it. After all, fags deserve to be punished.
People always tried to convince him that being gay wasn’t anything out of the normal in the 21st century. Straight people seemed to have this belief that people didn’t care about other people’s sexual orientation anymore. But Peter thought that was complete and utter bullshit. The world seemed to hate people like him and Peter had had more negative experiences as a gay man in this world than positive ones. Heck, his high school nickname wasn’t ‘Penis Parker’ for any positive kind of reason.
The boy’s curls bounced in the late morning air with every step he took. He ducked his head backwards, letting it wash over him and feeling enveloped in it’s warmth. He wasn’t sure where he was going. A strange part of him wanted to turn around, return to the apartment and wait for Alex to return home from school. He knew that Alex wasn’t always kind to him, but it was the only feeling he truly knew and the only place that currently felt familiar to him. He was like a lost boy and the only thing he could see on the horizon was Alex. And maybe that was ok. Alex loved him after all, and that’s all he wanted. Love, he needed to be loved by anyone and if Alex was giving him the love, he would have to deal with some blisters and sore bodies. It was worth it to feel the wholeness of being loved by another.
The boy vehemently shook his head, trying in a sense to physically chase the thoughts away. He simply tried to focus on the warm air around him, the way it ruffled his hair and enveloped his face. He craved the feeling of being grounded, and focusing on the air rather than his thoughts made him feel that way. Like his thoughts were clouds passing in the sky and his problems were birds sailing high up, away from his body.
Reaching the corner of the the block, the boy quickly glanced both ways. Peering down past traffic lights and people rushing into sandwich shops and banks. The sidewalk had the regular buzz of the city, but it wasn’t mobbed by any stretch of the imagination. Peter wanted to run up the middle of the sidewalk, arms spread like wings- ready to fly. When he was a much smaller child, Peter used to run in parking lots and sidewalks just like that. Arms spread, feeling the rush of air running through his fingers and making his hair look like a rats nest. He had convinced himself that if he ran fast enough, he would eventually learn to fly. Sometimes, he still did it. When the urge to run and run and run and get away from this life overtook him, he would fall back into the familiar pattern of running up and down sidewalks like a wild child. Arms spread like a baby bird and heart pounding like a drum in his chest.
He tipped his head back, earbuds stretching tightly at the movement, and sucked in a large gulp of the city air. He spun on his heels, placing one leg in front of the other- baring his body in a running stance. He pushed his body forward, leaning his body’s weight onto his front leg. He was ready to sprint down the crowded sidewalk, with his arms spread and head back. Ready to get away. Ready to release his pent up energy. To run. run. run. run. Ru- the knee he was leaning on buckled painfully under his weight and he tumbled forward like a domino that had been tipped over. The palms of his blistered hands tore painfully against the concrete as he frantically tried to catch his fall. His limbs were splayed out at odd angles on the sidewalk, his joints popped and his entire body creaked like an old wooden house in a tornado- ready to collapse at a moment's notice.
He must truly be a pathetic sight. A boney teenager drowning in worn out clothing, with bruises and cuts like unwanted battle wounds, sprawled in the middle of the sidewalk on a busy street. Some people stopped and stared at him, their eyes burning into his skin, before they continued on their path. The others didn’t even stop to stare. They just continued on their path, never letting their eyes glance over the broken boy. Sadly, he was not out of place in an urban cityscape. New Yorkers were used to seeing the helpless occupying every space imaginable (sidewalks being one of those unfortunate spaces.)
A large man, wearing heavy leather boots, tripped over the boy on the sidewalk. The tray of three cups of iced coffee, precariously placed in one hand, went flying. Freezing ice cubes and liquid splashed Peter, dripping down his porcelain skin and onto his faded blue hoodie. The man cursed under his breath, no doubt for the loss of the coffee, but didn’t even stop to ask the boy if he was ok. In fact, it seemed as if the man hadn’t even noticed his presence. Mourning three cups of iced coffee, over the boy he had tripped over.
The man continued hastily down the sidewalk; Peter was left in the same unruly heap of limbs on the sidewalk. The boy sighed loudly, shaking his wrists gently in hopes to relieve some of the pain. Pushing himself off of the ground, he pulled his torn backpack closer to his body and bounced back and forth on the balls of his feet. He wanted to stand in the middle of the sidewalk all day, or fade into the nothingness of New York City Pedestrians. But he knew he couldn’t actually do that. No, he couldn’t disappear. Not now, not ever.
With an uncharacteristic spring in his step, putting an awful lot of strain on his wounded legs, the boy started walking up the block. His heart beat as fast as a million butterflies wings, his head spinning dangerously, his mind set with determination. When he reached the desired subway stop, he thundered down the stairs (refusing to listen to the pop of his joints and his aching body telling him to slow down).
Peter pulled his hood over his ruffled curls, hiding his face from passers by. He waited for a man carrying a bright yellow bicycle in hand to push through the emergency exit, and then swiftly ducked passed the door before it closed and locked once more. In the hurry to get his phone out back at Alex’s apartment, his school issued free metrocard had gone flying and the boy definitely did not have money for a new metrocard. He looked like a delinquent, so why not act like one anyways, jumping turnstiles and ducking past emergency exits was just a part of being poor in New York City. The farther he strayed from Spider-Man’s values the easier it would be to accept that one day he would stop being good enough to be Spider-Man. The badness and brokenness would consume so much of his entire being, that he would have no choice but to stop being a hero. Leave the hero work up to the real good guys and focus on just breathing. Or better yet- not breathing.
When he was little, Peter used to idolize Iron Man. He loved everything about Tony Stark, worshiped every word he spoke and the land he walked on. He had even gone to the Stark Expo when he was smaller just to see the man he admired so truly. Meeting Mr. Stark, and later cultivating a personal relationship with him, were truly some of the best parts of his life. That’s why disappointing him scared him so much. Peter wanted to be perfect for Tony and if that meant not being the freak with aspergers, or the gay kid or the person who got himself into too many stupid situations- so be it. Peter would be perfect for Mr. Stark if it was the last thing he ever did. So for now, he would stick bandaids over the problems (literal bandaids on his hands) and pretend like everything was fine. He would put a bright, shiny smile on his face, say his phone had died, ignore the pain of his body and pretend like everything wasn’t crashing and burning around him. His world may feel like it’s on fire, but he would definitely smile like it wasn’t.
Lost in his thoughts, his frail body rocked and swayed with the jerky movement of the subway car. His feet were planted firmly on the ground, but every few seconds he would lose his footing and need to catch himself on the cool metal pool. The people grumbled every time it happened, shooting dirty looks at him and ushering their children away from him. It hurt that they didn’t want their children around him, because he himself was a child. But to them, child or not, he simply looked dirty. Or maybe deranged, or dangerous. When he was little, he used to remember his Aunt pulling him close to her body when they saw homeless or hurt people on the subway. He used to cower close to her warm skin, tug at her shirt if they came to close and dart his eyes to the ground if they tried to look at him. Like many children who grew up in New York City, he was socialized at a young age to ignore those who looked dangerous, less fortunate or homeless. It wasn’t something taught flat out, but rather something passed between generations- a rule of thumb that no one ever dared to ignore. It was with a cruel sense of irony that Peter had become the person to avoid. Like a wilting flower, he had grown through the time of youth and beauty, and he was now stuck as the wilting blossom no one wanted to touch.
The train rattled to a stop when he reached his station. People swarmed out of the doors like ants around dropped food when they slid open. Most men took up more space than was truly necessary; spreading their legs wide on the train, boxy shoulders and backpacks hitting and jostling an unlucky passersby as he exited. But Peter shrunk his body in on himself, holding his bag close to his back and his blistered hands close to his chest. He needed to feel small, to feel invisible.
When exiting the station, Peter ducked under the turnstile because he was unsure if his body could deal with the metal rod hitting him (even if it was softly). He gnawed at his lip slowly as his hands shook close to his chest with nerves. He dragged his feet up the steps like he was trying to run a marathon in a puddle of molasses. His feet crunched flyers and fast food wrappers, his body hurt every time it connected with the step; some stuck to the bottom of his sneakers and flew up in the soft breeze when he reached the street level.
Walking down the sidewalk he felt like a ghost. His eyes were trained on nothingness while his head felt fuzzy. The further he walked the more he doubted his plan. However, the boy was on a mission and he refused to let himself stop until he reached his destination.
In a strange way, and with a sense of heavy regret, he was trying to slow down the inevitable. He had willingly come here, but when it came down to it, he didn’t actually want to be here. He wanted to hide out or listen to sad music or maybe cry. But, he certainly had no desire or ability to confront his problems. However, here he was. Staring up at a taller than life building materializing in front of him with every step he took, all the while cursing himself for deciding that this was a good idea in the first place.
The boy pulled his blistered hand away from his chest. Carefully, in order to avoid aggravating the blisters against rough denim, he slid his phone out of his back pocket. He bopped his head to the playing music and took a deep breath in. He was probably going to regret what he was about to do, because this definitely was not going to end well. But he desperately needed to do this. He need help and this was the fastest way he knew how to get.
He forced his fingers to tap away at the keyboard. They seemed to have a mind of their own, but he needed to get this message out. He needed help so badly and he was going to get it if it was the last thing he did.
New Message to Mr. Stark
Peter Parker (Today, 12:03 PM): hey...i’m outside, can i maybe come in or something……. ??
Mr. Stark (Today, 12:03 PM): coming now. Don’t you DARE move.