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Loving can hurt, loving can hurt sometimes
But it’s the only thing that I know.
When it gets hard - I know it gets hard sometimes,
It is the only thing that makes us feel alive.
Peter left.
.
.
.
.
He never planned on coming back.
The world without them was agony, living - was agony.
Ned was gone. He wasn’t ever going to come back.
I killed my best friend.
The grief, the guilt, it ate at Peter. Kept him up at night.
No matter how much he missed May, missed Tony, missed MJ… Peter could at least rest - could have the briefest hint of something almost like peace - in the knowledge that they were okay.
They were safe.
They were alive.
Ned wasn’t.
Peter would never recover from that.
The days are agonizing for Peter.
Wisconsin. Kansas. Washington. Nevada.
Peter is everywhere. Goes everywhere and nowhere.
He never lets himself stay in one place for long, never allows himself to get close to someone.
Part of it is the knowledge that Tony would never give up searching for him, would keep tabs on missing person reports until his dying day.
Another part of it is the fear that keeps Peter up at night, the guilt that eats at him every day.
Peter can’t allow himself to get close to anyone, refuses to kill another person ever again.
Peter left.
And he would never allow himself to go back home again.
We keep this love in a photograph,
We make these memories for ourselves.
Where are our eyes are never closing,
Hearts are never broken,
And time’s forever frozen still.
“Happy birthday, Ned.” Peter lifts the can up to the sky, stars twinkling in the distance.
It’s quiet, always quiet. Peter looks up to the night sky and takes it all in.
Ned would’ve been twenty-two, barely graduated from college.
He’d never get the chance. And because of it - because of Ned - Peter never did. He takes out the worn picture out of his shirt pocket, runs a finger over the long frayed edge.
It’s a selfie of him, MJ and Ned - just a few months before the end of everything Peter had never known. Ned had already been sick, Peter and MJ going to visit him as often as they could.
It was MJ’s idea to grab the instant camera, Ned’s idea for Peter to keep it.
Now - years and years later - Peter was thankful for it.
It’d been the only thing he took with him, the only remembrance he allowed himself to take of the life he’d left behind.
Some part of Peter wished he had taken something of May’s, of Tony’s - but he hadn’t been thinking clearly. Hadn’t really given much thought to what he was doing at all.
Peter left.
There hadn’t been time to second guess it.
Peter puts the picture back where he got it from, handling it as delicately as the treasure it was.
He closes his eyes, listens to the buzzing of insects - hears the faint sounds of a truck passing by. He takes another sip of his drink, coughing as he does so.
Peter still hates the taste of alcohol, the smell of it making his stomach churn.
He’d have to drink twenty cans before he even felt a buzz, half the store before he could really be drunk.
Peter knew that. He’d tried.
The pain of it, the agony of Ned being gone - of being truly and completely alone - still ached within Peter.
A part of him knew he’d never get rid of that ache.
Peter swallows down the drink anyway, ignoring the burn of the liquid down his throat, the foul smell in the air. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, feeling his stomach gurgling.
Before he can stop it, Peter is vomiting the drink - and all the food he’s eaten the past day - right back up.
It burns his nostrils, his throat - the stench of alcohol and gas station food making the cool Montana air feel less peaceful than what it should be.
After a few minutes, when Peter is only dry heaving, a sinking feeling starts to build back in the pit of his stomach.
Peter waits, thinking he needs to vomit again before he recognizes it - the same ringing of his senses that he’d ignored all those years ago.
A brief panic flows through him, the knowledge of what this could be.
He’d left.
May. Tony. Michelle.
They were okay. They were safe. They were alive .
This was the fourth time Peter had thrown up this week, the fifth time Peter’s senses had started ringing - yelling at him to face something he’d spent years running from.
The radiation of the spider-bite had killed Ned.
And now, five years later - on a cold and quiet night in the middle of Montana - Peter wondered if the radiation was finally catching up to him.
If the radiation would kill him too.
Loving can heal, loving can mend your soul.
And it’s the only thing that I know.
I swear, it will get easier. Remember that with every piece of you.
It’s the only thing we take with us when we die.
It’s another month before Peter accepts the truth.
His senses never give any peace, the ringing in his ears and the brightness of the sun white and blinding.
Peter’s almost glad that he’s alone all the time, he can’t even think of what it would mean for him to be in New York - the sensory overload that he inevitably would experience.
The heat of the New Mexico sun beats down on him, weighs on him as he stumbles inside a dusty and deserted gas station.
Peter gives a slight wave to the clerk, walks to an aisle.
He stands there, swaying - blinking a few times.
What was he doing here? He had a reason. He had… to get something. To do something.
There’s a voice in the background, it warbles together - the static in the background growing louder and louder in his ears.
He blinks for a few seconds and then suddenly, Peter is on the ground, glancing up - looking into the eyes of an annoyed gas station clerk.
“You drunk, boy?”
Peter shakes his head, immediately regretting the action. He winces, a hand to his forehead.
“Well then get your ass up. Out of my store. I don’t serve hippies here.”
Slower than he intended, slower than what the clerk probably wanted, Peter lifts himself off the floor and stumbles right out of the gas station.
He looks around, eyes searching for… something.
My car. Where’s my car? Do I have a car?
Peter’s senses are whirring, his head fuzzy and unclear.
He had gone to the gas station for… something. Gas? Food. Peter doesn’t know.
He stands out there for what feels like hours, but Peter suspects could only have been a few minutes. He can hear the tires in the background, the music playing on the radio from a distance.
A bird cries out a few miles away, the sound of some animal dying ringing in the back of his ear.
It’s too much. All of it had become too much.
Peter is almost twenty-three years old, had been on the run for five years.
He had come to the gas station for a reason. He can’t remember why though. There had been a reason. He had to do something. Wanted to get something.
He didn’t usually risk being out in the open for too long during the day, didn’t want to risk getting his picture taken - for Peter’s presence to alert Tony.
Tony.
A flicker of recognition passes through Peter’s head as we sways, hearing the clerk walk out and start to yell at him again.
He was going to find him. Call him. Did he have his number? Did Tony change it?
The car arrives he thinks, Peter recognizing the decals on the side of it.
The crunch of the gravel underneath the sheriff’s boots feel like glass crunching in his ears, Peter wincing as he walks up to him.
“You trespassing?”
Peter opens his eyes, looks into the gruff and glaring eyes of the man in front of him.
He wanted to say something. Peter came out here for a reason.
Tony.
Instead he vomits all over the sheriff's boots.
Collapses.
Peter’s passed out before he hits the ground.
So you can keep me,
Inside the pocket of your ripped jeans,
Holding me closer till our eyes meet
You won’t ever be alone.
Peter drifts, in and out of sleep.
Lights. Sounds. It’s all too much.
He’s vaguely aware of a hospital room, feels the scratchy fabric of cheap nylon and old sterilized bed sheets.
At one point, Peter hears whispers. Then talking. Then yells.
There’s a voice that sounds familiar. Maybe. Something from another lifetime. Peter wants to see what it is. Who it is, but he can’t.
It hurts to move, Peter doesn’t think he can open his eyes. His head is pounding, the static relentless.
On some level, Peter recognizes that he’s dying.
The world is moving.
No, that’s not right.
Peter is moving.
He feels the shift, the jostling of creaky hospital bed. A moan escaped his lips and then suddenly, a cool but rough hand is on his forehead.
The voices swirling around him have been muffled, distant as Peter faded in and out consciousness.
He hears one voice, more distinct than the rest.
“I got you, kid. We got you.”
Peter thinks the voice sounds almost sad, he wishes he knew what was wrong.
There’s a blaring sound, ringing. Peter feels lighter than he ever has, even as the hand on his forehead moves to his face.
“No, no, no… don’t do this, kid. Come on, I got you. I got you. You can make it home, you have to hold on okay Pete?”
The voice is breaking, a muffled sob. Peter wonders why.
Peter feels himself fading away. The jostling, the ringing, it all starts to fade into the background.
“God, kid don’t do this. I found you, I found you, God please… don’t leave me again.”
Peter doesn’t think he can speak, still can’t open his eyes.
He was dying. Peter did know that.
The hand was rough against Peter’s face, a soft and broken plea to stay.
I won’t have to die alone.
That’s all he had wanted, Peter remembering why he had gone out into the sun - the station, with people.
Peter hasn’t wanted to die alone. The hand is firm against his face.
I’m safe.
Peter lets himself fade into the darkness.
And if you hurt me, that’s okay baby
Only words bleed inside these pages.
You just hold me and I will never let you go.
Peter hears… something.
A soft beeping, nothing like the ringing and blaring from before. The sheets underneath him are smooth, Peter can smell the faint hint of vanilla perfume.
He can hear the whirring of a machine down the hall, the soft footsteps of someone waking, the ding of an elevator.
Peter blinks opens his eyes, focused on the white of the tile above him.
The room is quiet. He’s alone.
The headache is gone, Peter moves his head slightly to take in his surroundings.
He’s in a hospital. A nice one, Peter would guess from the feel of the fabric around him - the sleek and clean lines of the decor.
He blinks a few times, tries to remember how he got here.
Vague and blurry memories come to him - the hot sun, a cool hand, a whispered plea.
He didn’t feel the same pain, wasn’t even sure if this was real.
In his travels, his research, Peter knew that sometimes the body gave you what you wanted - that the mind created fantasies to help you greet the end.
Was this it?
Was he dead?
Before Peter can decide, a figure walks into the room.
His breath catches, the man in front of him frozen - staring straight into Peter’s eyes.
Tony.
“Peter. ” Tony whispers but Peter hears it as clearly as he hears the chattering down the hall. He rushes forward, Peter flinching.
Tony stops. Waits.
“Am I dead?”
Peter’s surprised by how terrible his voice sounds, but if this was it - if he’d reached his end - he shouldn’t be surprised.
It’s better than what he deserves.
“God, no. Kid, you’re alive. You’re alive.” Tony’s voice is shaking, Peter watching as Tony’s eyes begin to glisten.
They’re interrupted by May, walks in right behind him.
“Tony, I just got off the phone with—“ She stops, mouth open.
She’s silent for a moment but then rushes forward, ignoring Peter’s hesitation.
He stops, holding his breath as May’s arms envelop him - instinctively leaning in to the warm vanilla scent of her perfume.
May is okay. May is safe. May is alive.
May is here with me.
For the first time in years, Peter feels himself let go.
Peter wakes up again, the soft whirring of the machines steadily beeping on. He glances to his right side, sees May still slumped over - hand intertwined with his. Peter turns to the other side, seeing Tony, in a position that almost mirrored May.
May and Tony. They’re so much older than he remembered, Tony’s hair has gone gray.
He doesn’t move, feels a tear silently fall.
Peter had never planned to come home.
And yet now - with them, holding them - Peter wondered how he ever could’ve left them.
They’d argued about it, for a brief moment.
“You don’t understand--"
“What’s there to understand, Pete? There’s nothing, nothing , we couldn’t have figured out.” Tony’s hands shook, voice brimming with anger.
May sent him a look, pleading.
“Tony, now’s not the time to--”
“Like hell it isn’t.” He turned to Peter, eyes frantic. Peter recognized that it wasn’t just anger that circled Tony’s eyes.
It was fear.
“Why’d you leave, kid? Why… why’d you do it?”
“I had no choice.” Peter whispers.
“Peter--”
“You could’ve DIED.” They both stop, stare at Peter.
They’re silent for a moment. Then Tony speaks up.
“Kid… we did. The moment you left us… that was it.”
Peter’s panicked for a minute, then a moment of heartbreaking clarity.
Peter had left to save them.
But in leaving, he’d broken them.
“I’m sorry.” He whispers. It’s an ache and sob that builds and builds until Peter is crying - shaking as he breaks down.
May and Tony surround him, holding him as if no time had passed - as if he was still seventeen years old.
He breaks out of it after a few minutes, eyes reddened with tears.
“I’m dying.” Tony and May share another look before turning back to Peter.
“You’re not.”
Peter shakes his head. “No, no you don’t understand. I did this. I did this to Ned, I would’ve done this to you.” A sob escapes.
“It’s the radiation… from the bite. I looked it up, I knew what it was doing. I couldn’t--I couldn’t let it happen to you.” May puts a hand to his cheek, Peter leaning into it.
“I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. ”
“It doesn’t matter, baby. You’re here. You’re here with me.” May’s soft whispers barely soothe the ache in Peter’s soul. He continues.
“I didn’t want to die alone.”
“You won’t.” Peter turns to Tony, the tears flowing.
“You won’t ever be alone, Peter. You never were, kid. God, I wish…” Tony puts a hand to his face, Peter watching as he takes in a shaky breath.
“But you’re not dying. Not today.” Peter looks up.
“You’re not going to die, Peter. We’re here.” Tony places a hand on his shoulder, eyes full of love.
“We're not letting you go again, kid.”
Oh you can fit me, inside the necklace you got when you were sixteen,
Next to your heartbeat where I should be,
Keep it deep within your soul.
Peter heard her footsteps before she arrived.
May had told him that Michelle had never left New York, had gone to college in the city.
He hadn’t expected to ever see her again, didn’t dare and dream to ask about her.
He’d left Michelle. Peter didn’t think she would wait for him.
She burst through the doors, out of breath, hair just as wild and curly as he remembered it.
She was still just as beautiful. Just as radiant as ever.
He hadn’t expected to ever see her again. And yet here she was.
Okay. Safe. Alive.
“Peter. Peter.” It’s a whispered question, then a statement.
Michelle rushes up to him, Peter feeling a fire in him that he never thought he’d feel ever again.
She kisses him hard and he returns it - as if the years between them had only been a memory.
They break, Peter’s breath shaking.
“You left.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t say goodbye.”
“I know.”
“You left me. ”
“I’m sorry.”
Their foreheads touch, eyes closed. They’re silent for a minute before he leans back, Peter's eyes searching hers.
Peter glances down, noting that there isn’t a ring on her finger. His eyes glance back up, a question.
He wonders how many relationships she’s had - wonders how many people she’d spent her time with in the years he’d been gone.
Peter never expected for her to wait for him, never planned on coming back.
Michelle only smiles, answering the question he hadn’t had the courage to ask.
“I’m here.”
As his eyes looked into hers, heart soaring - he knew that Michelle had never let him go.
And now - hand in hand with her, Peter knew he would never let her go again either.
He would never get over the loss of Ned. Would never forgive himself for what he’d done.
But now, the knowledge that May and Tony weren’t far away - with Michelle’s hand warm and soft in his - Peter felt something almost like hope.
Peter had left.
.
.
.
.
Five years later,
Peter came back home.
When I’m away, I will remember how you kissed me,
Under the lamp post back on sixth street,
Hearing you whisper through the phone,
“Wait for me to come home.”