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The wind blows into my poignant soul –
Blows into an empty scene.
The rooftops of New York always brought him a type of calm that not much else could rival. Peter swung his legs by its edges, gloved hands absently tracing the lines where solid tiles met.
And yeah, perhaps it was the wind. The air of warmth or cold against his masked face tended to stimulate memories of a life he’d both loved and kept secret in equal parts. Although with time, Peter would idly consider to rethink much about the ‘secret’ aspect.
Many knew of his vigilante identity and tendencies now. And it had felt so utterly unbelievable that it made him laugh, the sound echoing, bouncing against the incompletely breaking buildings and already broken windows.
Not much had changed during the years where half of Earth’s inhabitants. Physically that was, for despite the numerous years that were arguably missed, there simply hadn’t been enough people to repair everything.
The world was post-apocalyptic; the name of the film at the tip of his tongue.
He watched as the found and unfound folk start to trickle in, the star arising from the horizon that shifted from the colour of sundried apricots and more. The experience was strange no matter how many times he’d seen it; rush hour wasn’t so rushed anymore. Populace ran for a few hours before they stuck to home.
On my way back after a haircut,
Finally, the welling tears break loose.
Nobody had noticed his shorter locks when Peter strolled the streets, free of his mask (Obviously, they didn’t even know him). Not to say that the length of his hair grew when he visited space, but it was more for the sentiment - if he had to put the thought to words.
Words he genuinely liked being left unsaid now. for a somebody was gone to listen to his ramblings. And Aunt May wouldn’t understand, she was like a mom in that sense. One that he ought to re-evaluate and consider an improved relationship with.
Hero complex exposed and boxed to one side, Peter got the memo. He wanted to spend more time together with her. There were just so many things that could happen in this day and age. He needed to treasure the time they had together more.
But about his hair, it was about new beginnings, as the online articles liked to say. Although he’d find more references in songs on heartbreak. It kind of reflected what Peter felt as he walked to school.
He ran a finger across the shaven back of his head, breathing out some warmth for winter.
Sleepless nights were getting more common as time crawled over. He wanted to roll over and die with it, to be honest.
The wet dryness behind his eyes had become a permanent fixture wherever he went, whenever. Once, it had been his rich chestnut hair that got into sleep-deprived eyes. Now, the tears were not so easy to explain.
The sky wells up and the dark streets feel cold raindrops;
The rain that follows in torrents feel quite distant from me –
It feels like it has already stopped.
It rained more often right before and after winter. Peter could recite the science behind it with ease, count the seconds before the thunder rumbled as lightning struck. Somebody told him it could be fun to count the distance between the two.
It wasn’t Tony. He was more of a make-the-toaster-sentient kind of guy.
But the skies weren’t rumbling now, even though Peter hummed a rain-summoning song apparent he found on the weird side of Y-utube. Digging his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat, the teen muted himself from the world.
His school bag barely weighed anything on his shoulders. Why were they still so heavy?
Every loss was still too fresh to the world. There hadn’t been any crime for months since that faithful day. It was okay- this was okay. Spiderman could relax for just a few minutes to school. Just let your legs take you there, Pete. You’re alright.
He couldn’t hear a thing.
The world is just like yesterday’s and time flows,
But it’s only me that’s different like this.
The school was desolate; classes were scheduled to resume today but barely a handful came back. They needed more time, the homeroom teacher sympathised, dicing excuses for herself.
Peter shouldn’t be feeling this bitter. Excuses wasn’t the right word for it, because the absent high-schoolers and homeroom teacher had a point. Things will go back to normal next week, the woman said.
It was still too early to get up from bed and act as if nothing had happened.
Someone like him, for example, needed more of that mentioned time. MJ caught him before the bell had rung. He expected a hug, or something. She told him he looked like shit instead.
(He missed Ned, who was at home sick with a cold. For sure when the guy got better, Peter would give him a hug.)
The observation hadn’t stung. She was right. He did look it. Somehow, trying to regain some sort of semblance of control by attending school wasn’t helping his case at all. The brain just worked weird that way.
It wanted to remember. Wanted to re-visit. Wanted to regret. Wanted to run through the what-ifs and what-could’ve-been.
His conscious desire was to move on, to let time do its part on the final stages of mourning. Mrs. Potts suggested it, Mr. Happy implied it, Mr. Rhodes discussed about it, and Peter had read all about it. Acceptance, he needed to accept this passing.
It wasn’t working. It should be. He was trying, desperately. MJ looked fine, so he must too.
My futile wishes that the wind has scattered
Sorrowfully disappear.
Peter left school early. He apologised to Happy over text, promising ice-cream to Morgan like an afterthought. It wasn’t, not really. The Stark-phone vibrated after a couple of minutes, the teen set it to airplane mode after seeing the first bubble of ‘Got it, kid.’
He ignored what came after. He was set to wander the seemingly ending streets of his city. Walking north, or what could’ve passed as such based off feeling alone. Anything could be a north if you headed straight enough. Sue him, geography wasn’t his strong point.
Shadow flickering, Peter kept his head down. He dodged some crumbling rubble here and there, skipped past and even twirled around some of the larger ones imbedded into the ground.
The feather of a visiting bird fell, landing on the uneven surface of a red car roof crushed by a street light. Electricity buzzed.
The streets were mostly empty. A winter draft passes by as Peter felt the start of prickling pile behind his throat. Breathing from two nostrils was a seriously underappreciated feature. He couldn’t understand what caused the tears this time.
The sadness was near unbearable. Acceptance, acceptance, acceptance. The last step, Peter Parker. You’re ready for this. Big boys don’t cry. You won.
The wind blows,
Conjuring up the past’s chilling air.
You were standing at the end of summer,
Your back’s stance had looked so cold.
He recalled, nose red and runny. The back of his hands were cold without any gloves to protect them.
It seemed –
Now I think I know.
“Hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter breathed into the recording camera. He was home, and this was the third attempt already. Honestly? there wouldn’t even be anyone to care, but he wanted for this to be perfect because it was important.
Like his first school assignment, the first science assignment. Peter set aside the ice pack once the recording paused. He’d froze again, helplessness eating up his insides like a ruthless uroboros.
Screaming into the pillow have proved effective for some. Peter couldn’t resist the temptation. After muffling his frustrations, he lifted his head to find a reflection of him in the blank laptop screen.
His swollen eyes were in no state to be under any kind or form of camera. Perhaps another day? Yeah, I thought so too. The answer was no.
The trick was getting old. Peter couldn’t afford to keep the random break downs when things weren’t going his way. Lifting the light blue package, Peter pressed the cold to his eyes once more.
Here. We. Go. Take four! “Hey, Mr. Stark, Tony,” he started, “I just want to let you know-”
The same sleepless nights of my precious days,
Will be no different for you from the present.
Love’s a tragedy as you aren’t me;
Our memories are written differently.
Spiderman couldn’t- Spiderman didn’t sleep. He had a job to do, albeit a rather unhealthy one. As Peter’s time stopped 5 years ago and he was still considered a child in society’s eyes, it shouldn’t matter, he told himself weakly.
The temptation was more seductive than one would think.
Responsibility awaited, even if there was almost no crime awaiting. He wouldn’t want to chance someone’s safety just because of some mere lowered statistic.
Despite having solved the main cause of Earth’s population issue, plenty had died anyway. It left the world lacking and the factors were countless: the invasion, natural causes, or just plain old luck by the negatives. Spiderman was unneeded.
‘Go to sleep, Pete,’ came the winning thought, the wisest one. ‘Go back home. You’re done.’
He is done, so Peter paused in his tracks and went to find a solid rooftop to lie in, to retire quietly for the moment. Palms supporting the base of his head, mask rolled up till the nose, he did what children of a Stark specialised in – he thought.
Our parting was without even a single goodbye.
The memory followed him everywhere. There was a difference between that and every waking moment, though, because the moments of recall picked their hours. Flashes of scenes here and there, they weren’t even all that vivid.
Human memory wasn’t very reliable. A gist was all he had, a gist was enough.
Peter had crouched down to carry an injured dog to the vet a few days back. With Karen’s feminine voice in his ear, he’d ended up under the worried care of the dog’s warm tongue in exchange.
The whimpers didn’t feel like a thanks. Pity, more like. Ridiculously, the teen hoped that sadness wasn’t contagious among animals. And that his tears wouldn’t infect its wounds. The salt had to hurt, at least.
“Sorry, bud,” he’d told her. The pooch didn’t bother with a reply.
Peter missed the being able to walk old ladies across the street, missed being able to binge watch orchestra videos, and he missed being able to buy hot dogs. All without busting a lung.
Observing the setting sun, the rumbling in his stomach reminded Peter that hunger was a thing to the human body. Shaking off any lingering drowsiness, Spiderman swung from building to building. One more round and he’ll go get dinner.
A mugger approached him, knife in hand. It was after rounds, which went splendidly with all the peace. It was a good thing. Yeah, the people were safe, not much else he could ask for in unconventionally trying times.
Times that was still in the stand still.
Zipping up his jeans, and the weapon was pressed near his neck. Peter yelped, confused all the same. His spidey sense was supposed to warn him about incidents like these!
Peter elbowed the attacker, the man hit hard enough in the face to tumble backwards. Unequipped with a mask, the teen apologised immediately. Strength seemed to leave them both as one stood, and the other stayed on his behind.
“Forget it,” the mugger mumbled gruffly, not soft enough for Peter to miss. The older man shuffled back on to his feet, turning his back as though he hadn’t almost threatened Peter’s life.
Eyes wide, Peter’s mind raced to wonder why when he got his answer. “I recognise that look,” sighed the stranger, looking back over his shoulders. “I lost someone close to me too. It ain’t worth it, kid. Get help.”
Karen’s voice full of artificial concern, Peter stumbled on his way out of the alley way. People were moving on with themselves. Changed, but in a good way. They were taking back their lives.
Yet here he was, stuck inside a never-ending wheel that continued to roll forward, leaving wisps of colour behind. Outside was a foreign concept. Grief had left him blind of the road forward.
The world is just like yesterday’s,
And time continues to run,
It’ll only be me that’s different.
Peter waited for time. He huddled himself in the warmth of his blankets, rubbing his face into the pillow. It was a poor attempt of human touch, the comfort of body heat that reminded him of safety and we’re going to be okay.
Aunt May was off the menu. He didn’t want her to see him like this. Eyes swollen and red, incapable of looking as bright as the stars. Peter might’ve sobbed when remembered they couldn’t not look that way.
With every reminder of how bad he looked, every car-ride, every field, every night sky, every trumpet of a passing ship, every wall sprayed with beautiful graffiti – Tony Stark was everywhere. The man he called Dad in his dreams.
These were the most important for me;
These contained all our memories.
He had plenty of questions after all the contemplating. One of which was whether he truly looked so bad that even a mugger wouldn’t mug him. Or was it because the man was initially so kind that his spidey senses hadn’t gone off in the first place?
Peter was regretful. And of what, he’d rather not know. Something told him that it was a thought Mr. Stark would be disappointed in, though.
Weak in the limbs, Peter still allowed his legs pilot the way from home. He found it, eventually, but he wasn’t staring at the front door of school or a Pizza place. Aunt’s May worried expression flashed over briefly, guilt forming a constant paperweight on top of everything else.
Peter knocked once, twice, having forgotten of the doorbell at the side. It was pretty stupid, but the owner didn’t seem to mind when he opened the door. Hair grey and ring gleaming on his wedding finger, Steve’s baby blue eyes showcased curious surprise.
“… Peter?” he inquired, and the teen crossed his arms nervously. “I haven’t see you since… never mind. You look different, kiddo. What brings you by this humble abode?”
“Yeah!” Peter blurted. I got my hair cut, he didn’t say. “C-captain America, s-sir. Um- hey. G-good afternoon? I- I just… n-needed you, sort of.”
Steve hid a flinch and nodded, gently encouraging. Peter continued, tensed shoulders dropping a bit. “I’ve been around, a-and fighting crime and stuff like that. Being New York’s friendly neighbourhood Spiderman, y’know. No biggie. A-ah, what I’m trying to say is that he’s gone, sir. But he’s also everywhere and I don’t know what to do.”
“Come on in, kid,” the blond man invited when Peter’s words started to crack. The teen thanked him, accepting an offered hug (‘Oh, this is nice.’). Steve chuckled, calling him Queens when he took back his warmth.
Peter’s eyes started to sting again.
They sat on a ratty looking couch, aged but obviously well-loved. Several picture frames were hung on the softly coloured walls. One depicted the Avengers of a time quite years ago. They were whole, once upon a time.
“What do you need? I’ll do what I can to help.” Captain America smiled into his cup of coffee, and Peter let the nervousness melt from his frozen posture.
Teach me how to heal. Teach me how to say goodbye because when
The wind blows,
Tears fall.