Chapter Text
The end of whatever movie Ned had put on plays quietly in the background, volume turned down an hour prior. The rain outside patters gently against the windows, a steady rhythm. MJ’s bedroom was quiet, aside from subtle breaths surrounding Peter, to his relief and dismay. He’s curled on his side, eyes stuck on the credits of the movie on the wall-mounted tv.
The text is blurred, his eyes unfocused, though he can’t find it in him to refocus them, almost relishing in the decreased awareness. His mind has been wandering for the last forty minutes since Ned and MJ drifted off, making it hard for him to focus on the present moment. His mind feels heavy, his skin feels wrong.
He should really get up, go to the couch and sleep through the rest of the night, but he can’t find it in him to move. With how he’s feeling right now, he’s resisting the instinct to curl up in the top corner of MJ’s bedroom surrounded by webs to try and sleep it off, because that would be embarrassing.
And incredibly hard to explain.
He can’t process that today even happened, that they both remember him, and have invited him back into their lives. That’s not to say it hasn’t been a little awkward over the last few hours, especially with MJ, but overall…
It was what he needed, and he couldn’t be more grateful to the two of them welcoming him back in with open arms.
But he can’t help but think that maybe he doesn’t deserve it, their kindness and care towards him today shaking him to his core, for a reason he’s not entirely sure of. It’s uncomfortable, making his chest feel tight, which is such a big contrast to earlier.
He was riding the high of being reunited with his friends, but now reality is setting in, and this just…doesn’t feel right.
Now, he’s supposed to be trying to combat these thoughts, he’d gotten an earful from Frank on his bullshit mindset already, the older man unimpressed by his self-deprecating rambles.
He can’t help it, this doesn’t feel good right now, this feels like he’s putting them right in harm's way again, becoming a liability in their lives that they don’t deserve. They shouldn’t have to worry about their safety, especially after before, what is he doing?
That thought gives him enough energy to finally sit up, slowly dragging his body upwards, looking his two sleeping friends over with a frown tugging at his lips, and he quickly stands up.
He needs a drink of water or something, maybe it’ll help his mind clear. Not being focused has always made it easier for his mind to drift into negative mind spirals.
They probably wouldn’t take it well if he just up and left, he should stay the night at least. Maybe he’ll just leave early in the morning…then again, he did give them his phone number and address a few hours ago, so chances are they wouldn’t let him off for long.
He’s so careless, this is just selfish.
Being Spider-Man for so long has made it easy for him to be light on his feet, and he creeps out of the bedroom silently, closing the door with the tiniest click. It sounded louder to him, but it probably wasn’t audible to them in the slightest.
He drags himself to the kitchen counter, feeling like he’s practically dragging rocks attached to his ankles. God, Peter, get a grip.
He grabs a glass from their cabinet with a shaking hand, fingers trembling against the glass, and closes it as quietly as he can, just barely flinching back at the sharp hit of wood against wood.
He moves to the fridge, feet silent against the tile, realizing that the kitchen is far enough from MJ’s bedroom where this shouldn’t wake them up, and he places the glass up to the ice maker, pressing the button to release it.
He comes to regret that very quickly, the ice cubes hitting against the glass feeling like ice picks pounding against his head, and he steps back immediately with a wince, releasing the button. His hands flinch up towards his head in response to the stimuli with a pained wince.
Shit, shit, really? Now? And suddenly it’s all worse, like the realization of it made it kick up all the way, the rain pattering outside feels like it’s hitting against his skull, the late night cars driving through the city sounding like they’re inside the apartment.
He’s almost convinced he’ll be hit by an oncoming vehicle.
He groans, back hitting against the counter, the small overhead light of the kitchen feeling almost like a beacon. He squeezes his eyes shut instinctually, hands pressed against his ears, though it’s not doing much to help the feeling.
He can feel his heart racing, panic wedging itself into his chest and he curls in on himself, desperate for an escape. His spider-sense is screaming at him to move, to find somewhere safe.
His eyes are burning, and he squints them open, head turning quickly in an attempt to find somewhere safe. Distantly, he realizes his head hurts too, a pounding against the front of his skull, and he stumbles away from the kitchen, desperate to find a darker area of the dim apartment.
Instinct drives him forward, an instinct he’s slowly becoming more accustomed too, and he stumbles into what he thinks is Ned’s room. His mind is a bit too preoccupied to say for sure, but it smells like him.
Okay, Peter, weird.
He fits himself into a corner, surrounded by various books and knick-knacks, vision blurred and distorted, head pounding. He groans into his knees, hands clasped over his ears as a motorcycle speeds past the apartment, the sound of rubber coated wheels against asphalt making him just barely whine in his throat.
Fuck, fuck. He needs to leave, but he can’t get his body to move. He’s stuck, he’s completely stuck. Instinct is keeping him locked in place, limbs pulled close to his chest, protected.
The panic grips his chest again regardless, limbs tingling with pins-and-needles, teeth gritted in pain. Figures he’d have a sensory overload episode from stress, again. Because why not?
He’s sure he’s a sight to behold, mind foggy and panicked, curled up as tight as possible in a corner like an intimidated insect. He’s sure his eyes are probably unsettling right now too, pitch black and glossy.
Sure scared the shit outta him when he first saw it.
He resigns to closing his eyes tightly, attempting to breathe through the panic, ears attuned to every little noise around the neighborhood, clothes scratchy and uncomfortable against his skin, and it just makes him nauseous.
He feels his own nails scratch at his skin, desperate for some sort of grounding feeling to bring him back to the present, another whine leaving his throat at a car honking outside. Why did it all have to be so loud?
He’s really regretting living in the city that never sleeps right now.
He’s really not sure how long he’s been curled up here for, minutes...hours? These episodes made it hard to tell sometimes, but he does know when he hears a door open, loud and creaking. He flinches at the sound on instinct, groaning into his knees, nails pressing into his skin.
It feels like there’s a weight against his skull, like if he shifts, his head will explode, he’s sure. His breathing comes out in short bursts from his lips, shivering shoulders hitting against the wall.
There’s footsteps, he thinks. It’s hard to focus with everything else slamming into his ears, but it’s there. It’s careful, clearly attempting to be quiet, and he tenses, eyes opening as someone walks into his space.
His spider-sense is screaming, and he feels his lips pull back, a sharp noise leaving him, and he shoots a web out at the predator automatically, chest heaving.
Distantly, he realizes he’s gotten up into a crouching position, still pressed against the wall, vision foggy, yet clearly trying to focus.
“Peter?” a voice cuts through his head, and he flinches back, eyes squeezing shut, hands hovering over his ears. He hears what sounds like a muffled curse, then it’s creeping closer again.
It’s slower, methodical, and his eyes hone in on the feet in front of him, sock clad and blue in color. Then, the figure slowly settles into a sitting position, right in front of him.
There seems to be lingering strands of his webbing on their chest—he’s ignoring the flare of satisfaction in his chest at the sight—and his eyes flick up to the worried eyes of Ned, and all of the air is knocked out of his lungs. Shit.
“Peter..? Hey man,” he mutters, hands hovering anxiously, “I woke up and saw you weren’t in bed, so I came to check…what’s going on?” he asks quietly, clearly picking up on the need for low voices.
Peter can’t help groaning softly in response, mind feeling like it’s full of cotton, and he mutters, “Sensory…”
Clearly that’s all Ned needs, the slightest ‘oh’ leaving him, then he’s leaning up on his knees, reaching over to his desk. The slight shifting of items makes Peter wince in pain, Ned mumbling apologies under his breath as he searches for something, moving quickly and messy.
Peter hears him shift closer again, pressing something against his head, and he flinches back in response, an embarrassing hiss, of all things leaving him.
“Sorry—I think this’ll help, just—“ whatever it is shifts the rest of the way down his head, settling over his ears, and he blinks in surprise, fingers coming up to touch at the headphones sat on his head.
While he can definitely still hear through them, it’s at a manageable level again, and he shivers out a warbling sigh, eyes flicking up to Ned’s again. He looks a bit unsettled, and very worried, and Peter bites his lip.
“I—I’m sorry—“ he bites out, eyes feeling wet, Ned’s brow furrowing in response. He shakes his head, settling back into a sitting position in front of him.
“You don’t gotta apologize, man. I guess you weren’t kidding when you said these got worse, huh?” he chuckles softly, the sound muffled and comfortable against Peter’s shoulders, much like a weighted blanket, which…god, he wishes he had his right now.
Ned looks him over, and like he can read his mind, goes, “You okay with a hug? For the like—grounding stuff?” he offers out, arms slowly opening in a silent offer.
Peter doesn’t even realize he moved, wrapping himself around Ned tightly, who exhales sharply in surprise. Still, he hugs him back, holding him against his chest, his warmth spreading through Peter’s body.
Peter exhales shakily, chest stuttering in residual anxiety, Ned mumbling soft comforting nothings, his mind too fuzzy to make out the specifics. He tightens his hold, hands fisting into the sweatshirt Ned is wearing, the clothing soft and comforting to his senses as his spider-sense finally calms.
This level of comfort was incredibly unfamiliar, years without the touch of his closest friends making the feeling so abnormal, yet it tingles across his skin all the same.
He can’t believe he went so long without this.
Ned seems comfortable, hands sliding across his back, the gentlest taps of his fingers registering through his thin jacket. The rhythmic presses are comforting to his brain, giving him something to focus on as his senses begin to calm, eyes clearing.
He looks at the grooves in the floor, eyes flicking over the wooden flooring absently, finding himself a bit embarrassed, but he can’t find it in him to pull away.
Ned doesn’t complain, but he does shift after a few more minutes of silence, “Hey, we don’t have to move if you don’t want to, but do you want to move to the couch or something? Might be more comfortable than the floor.” he asks, voice muffled but clear enough that Peter can register it.
Peter hums, eyes flicking up to the open door in contemplation. It probably would be more comfortable than sitting on the hardwood floor, for both him and Ned.
He’s ignoring how much the spider-side of his brain itches for a corner.
He nods once, chin hitting against Ned’s shoulder softly. Ned shifts at the approval, pulling himself and Peter up, holding onto Peter’s arms while he takes a moment to find his footing, limbs shaky like a newborn.
“Sorry.” Peter mumbles, eyes focused on Ned’s shoulder rather than his face, and he watches as his friend’s shoulder raises and falls with a sigh.
“Peter, it’s okay, come on.” he tugs gently on Peter’s wrist, and he follows as Ned leads him into the living room, sitting him down on the soft cushions. He grabs the throw blanket settled over the top and throws it over his shoulders, plopping down next to him.
He feels Ned’s hand reach over his shoulders and pull him to his side, just firm enough to relax his mind, and he sinks into his side with a shaky exhale, eyes closing.
It’s quiet, aside from their breathing, the sounds of the city outside beginning to calm to their normal levels even through the headphones, relaxing the residual panic left in his chest. He feels his heart-rate balance out into normal levels, mind settling as he absorbs the warmth of his friend.
He finds that he feels drained, an exhaustion left behind as the overload wanes, and he groans softly, hand coming up to rub at his aching temples. Ned clicks his tongue, head shifting to look at him.
“You okay? Is it any better?” he asks gently, fingers tapping against his arm in a rhythm that feels like the Star Wars theme, to his mild amusement.
“Mostly…” Peter mumbles, shifting closer, burrowing more into the warm blanket, “my head hurts, tired…”
Ned hums in understanding, “Do painkillers still barely work for you?” he asks, and Peter nods solemnly in response.
“Yeah, but it’s alright, it’s not too bad.” he assures, pointedly keeping his eyes shut, even as he hears the bedroom door open again, footsteps stepping into the space. He can’t help tensing a little at the realization though, and Ned rubs his hand over his shoulder in response.
“Wha’ happened?” MJ mumbles, voice still thick with sleep, and Peter feels her presence settle behind the couch, her hair tickling his face as she leans over, “you alive, Pete?” she pokes at his face, and he groans instinctually, shifting away.
“Sensory overload,” Ned says to her, and she shifts, her hair leaving his face as she seems to pull back.
“Oh shit, sorry Peter.” she says softly, and Peter shakes his head, waving it off silently. She huffs out a laugh at his response, foot tapping gently against the wooden floor, “is it okay if I sit?” she asks, and Peter nods, honestly desperate for her warmth alongside Ned’s own.
She obliges silently, walking around the couch and settling next to him, her thigh against his as she shifts to get comfortable.
Peter manages to peel his eyes open enough to look over at her, the dim light leaking in from the kitchen thankfully not hurting his vision. She smiles lightly at him, hair messy and eyes heavy as she stretches, clearly attempting to wake herself up.
Peter feels a pang of guilt at the realization. They both are awake right now, sitting with him after a rather embarrassing episode, instead of getting sleep he’s sure they needed.
He reaches up to pull the headphones down to sit on his neck, leaning back into the cushions, “Shit, I’m sorry guys, I’m sure you needed your sle—“
“Dude, shut up,” MJ cuts him off quietly, a stern glare set in his direction, “me and Ned wake up all the time at night, MIT changed us.”
“Yeah, man. It changed us badly, it’s normal for us to wake up, no big deal. Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve come and sat out here for a little while in the middle of the night.” Ned pipes up from his side, tone soft.
“Yeah, I’ll make tea sometimes.” MJ adds with a shrug, face softening at whatever look is settled on Peter’s face.
Peter hums, brow furrowed as he looks down at his hands, fiddling absently in his lap. Guess he can’t argue that. Plus, they might both strangle him if he keeps trying to apologize, so he relents for the time being.
“Besides,” Ned continues, “it’s no big deal, it’s you, man. We’ll be fine.” he assures, hand just barely tightening on his arm, a sign of comfort and truth.
Peter can’t help his eyes misting over, and he nods, keeping his mouth shut lest he embarrass himself more, blinking a few times to clear his vision.
The other two don’t seem to mind, settling into the silence, MJ pulling her phone out and putting it at the lowest brightness it has, scrolling on some sort of social media, from what Peter can see.
She hums, tapping onto something before turning her dim screen to the two boys on the couch, “You guys wanna make fun of Flash’s new look?” she asks, a smile twitching at the corner of her lips.
Peter looks over the selfie, the extremely short, choppy, clearly impulsive self-done haircut not doing Flash any favors, and a smile climbs across his face, “Oh, wow. That’s—“
“That is ridiculous, he could’ve done so much better than that.” Ned gapes, a hand to his chest like the haircut offends his very being. Peter huffs out a short laugh, leaning against Ned more comfortably as MJ continues to scroll through Flash’s new photos.
“Is that a tattoo?”
“Oh, that is definitely a choice for a tattoo, that’s just…sad.”
As the two go back and forth over the photos, entertained for the time being, Peter allows himself to close his eyes, the warmth of his two friends helping calm his mind enough to drift.
He still feels guilty, a worry gnawing at his bones for his friend’s safety that feels daunting. He’s sure it won’t go away anytime soon, even with their reassurances. At the same time though…he feels comforted, a balm settled over his mind that eases him to sleep.
They’ll be okay, all three of them will be okay.