Chapter Text
It's been two weeks. Two weeks since Peter had last seen May's face. Two weeks since he'd last been at school. Two weeks since he'd contacted Ned, MJ, or anyone for that fact. Two weeks since he'd received the phone call. It's been two weeks since he'd had a full night's sleep, since he'd last eaten properly. Two weeks since a drunk driver drove his vehicle right into the side of May's car. Two weeks since he'd been inside that hospital, nostrils burning. Two weeks since May was declared dead. It's been two whole weeks since Peter's entire world had crumbled in a matter of seconds.
He remembered sitting in the apartment, on the sofa, enjoying the soft, homeliness of it all. He had sat in a comfortable silence, waiting for May to come home. She'd be only a small while longer, just a few minutes until she'd be back and they'd have dinner. He had been sitting, his legs up on the table, looking at something on his phone. He'd heard sirens in the distance, but didn't move from his spot. It was Wednesday, after all. Wednesdays were aunt-nephew bonding time. He had nearly jumped onto the ceiling when his phone suddenly rang out, the sharp, piercing tones shattering the peaceful silence the moment it'd started. Jolting upright, he felt something wrong. His stomach churned, his fingers trembling over the "accept call" button. His senses screamed for him to turn it off, that he wouldn't like what happened next if he answered. The unease settled and sunk to the bottom of his gut, sitting there like a stone. He had noticed the time stamp, and that May was late. Part of him knew that what was about to happen would be devastating. All that had been left was to-
He clicked accept. Shakily, he had held the device up to his ear, dreading whatever was to come.
"H-hello? Is this Peter Parker?" a woman's voice, a sad, shrill tone, echoed out.
"Yes. Who... who is this?" Peter, hesitantly, replied, his voice quivering with fear.
"This is the Queens Memorial Hospital. You are listed as an emergency contact for a May Parker. She's in critical condition. I'm sorry, but it is highly unlikely that she will make it." The woman had a sickly sweet, sharp voice. It was mellifluous, and it flowed soft and sticky, like honey, but it also cut through the air like a knife. There was a false sympathy dripping from her words, pooling in Peter's ears like blood, thick and painful. The moment she had said it was the hospital, it had felt like Peter's heart had simply stopped in his chest. The woman on the other end clearly held no real sorrow for the boy, and hung up almost immediately.
His clothes had instantly felt too tight. The sounds around him were blaring, and he subconsciously noted that the pace of his breathing had quickened. What was once a silent, calm room was now a painfully loud, panic-filled prison. It had been too bright, the fluorescent lights burning in his eyes, which were already red-rimmed and stinging with tears. The air felt like lava, thick and hot and it wasn't entering his body fast enough. He couldn't get enough in. It was too dense, he was too constricted, and it felt like the building was caving in on him all over again.
In a moment of blank decision-making, he ran down the stairs of his apartment building and out the door into the harsh, cold November night air. The ice-like atmosphere was biting into him like a hungry pride of lions, tearing him apart. But, he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. He had just kept running, and running, not acknowledging the countless cars that nearly ran him over, not noticing the fact he was outside in six degree weather in nothing but a t-shirt and sweatpants. He had just kept running, and running, and running.
Arriving at the hospital, he hadn't stopped to spare the building more than a glance. He barrelled into the office, the clean, alcohol-filled air burning at the back of his throat and the glaring white of the walls and floor and ceiling searing his eyes, neither of which stopping him. Out of breath, he had gasped out a "Peter Parker for May Parker, please," with a twinge of desperation he'd never before voiced in his life. Seeing the distraught boy before her, the check-in nurse immediately led him down the hall to where May was.
"I'm so sorry, sir, but she was declared dead about five minutes ago. There was nothing more we could do. She suffered an extremely severe head injury on impact." This lady, unlike the one from earlier, had an earnest sorrow in her voice, reaching out to comfort the now-sobbing child in front of her. He had ran in, and upon seeing May's cold, dead expression, collapsed on the floor beside her, grasping her freezing hand firmly in his. Peter had thought he'd known grief before, but it was completely different to lose someone and suddenly realise that you're completely alone. Peter had no one left. May had been his last living family member, and now she too had been ripped from his life.
Peter had stayed sat there, next to May, for the next 6 hours, wondering how anyone could describe a dead person as looking like they were sleeping. He didn't understand how people never noticed the way that all warmth and happiness had been drained from their faces. They never, ever looked "relaxed"; they just looked dead.
Peter had left the hospital not soon after. He went back to his apartment on autopilot, and began packing a bag. He registered that he'd soon be kicked out of the apartment, given that there was no adult alive to pay the rent anymore, so he needed to be ready for when it finally happened. The thought of calling Tony crossed his mind, but he instantly dismissed the idea. Tony didn't have time to deal with broken, clingy teenagers. He was far too busy working on the things that actually mattered.
The next day, he'd gone to the bank and withdrew $998 from the bank account Tony had given him. The amount was just under $1,000, so he knew it shouldn't alert anyone. After, Peter had gone home and eaten as much as he could stomach with his miniscule appetite. Ignoring concerned texts from his friends and the phone calls from school, he repeated the process for the next week and a half. In his final days in the apartment, he got ready for what came next.
Peter had no idea what caused him to think of running away. Originally, he'd begun the process without thinking. But, as the deadline for apartment's dues crept closer and closer, and he refused to go to Tony or anyone else, he told himself it was all he could do.
The day came. He left the apartment, and bought a bus ticket. He'd hidden the Spider-Man suit where no one would ever find it, and left his phone behind. All he had left was his bag and its contents, his old webshooters, a couple bottles of web fluid, a bus ticket, and no final destination.
Peter looked out into the distance as the engines of the bus started up.
He was alone.