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peter won.
he knows he did. it’s not like he lies awake at night terrified of mysterio returning. quentin beck was dead, and his drones had been destroyed (or was he, where they?)
it’s not like he sees beck at every corner of every street, watching, waiting for him to stumble so that he can swoop in and finish the job he’d started. he doesn’t see his smug smile in his dreams, taunting him from somewhere peter won’t ever reach.
when he makes a statement for himself by fainting in homeroom just because the news made prominent the one month anniversary of quentin beck’s death, he plays it off as having not eaten. or slept. or...anything else. ( he doesn’t seem to be very good at existing these days.)
he can barely stomach going to school anymore. school used to be his place, the only place besides the sky he felt comfortable in. but, it seems, trauma does things to him. things he can’t talk about to anyone but mr. stark in the hazy illusion of his dreams. it doesn’t matter; nobody would have believed him if he’d tried, anymore.
he’d have thought, perhaps, that nobody would have believed beck when he’d told the whole world that peter was spider-man. he’d have thought people would have believed him when he’d screamed in their faces that quentin beck was the bad guy. (he’s the one that did this, believe me believe me, oh god, believe me.)
even peter’s favourite spot, right at the top of the bridge covering the subway, giving him a front seat view of the trains passing by, was compromised by the untimely illusions quentin had tortured him with.
he used to jump on the trains, ride them while he did his homework. it gave his body a rest, and saved his webs for when he needed them. now, he feels ill at the thought, and he walks instead of taking the subway.
(in reality, he can’t even look at a train without doubling over into a violent panic attack.)
the paparazzi had been following him for a month straight, and peter had taken more days off than ever before just to avoid the panic attack he endured every time he left the tower. what would have been only a couple days holiday is now quickly stretching in months at a time. he’s afraid to go home, afraid that they’d stalk him till he reached the door and pounce on him until he couldn’t breathe. (l ike his twins had done in that dreaded illusion; he’s still not sure which side of the mirror is real anymore. )
“it’s okay. he can’t reach you here.”
tony soothes him, but peter can’t seem to understand him through the psychotic gibberish in his mind. perhaps he’s going crazy, and perhaps that was quentin’s goal, but it’s hard to believe anything’s even real anymore. it’s hard to believe he even won anymore, and that mindset is destroying him.
when he slides down the wall with sobs ripping through his throat and quentin’s face behind his eyelids, he stops pretending that he won and willingly waves the white flag: the illusions don’t stop, and beck’s face continues to torture him.
“i can’t do it.” he sobs, even as tony’s arms cradle him like he’s regressed into the mind, and body, of a scared child. he jolts when he realises that, perhaps, he is a scared child, and tony’s the only solid thing he has left in this lonely, dark circle of trauma.
“pete, it’s okay. you’re okay.” his lips move softly against peter’s hair, peppering feathery kisses in an attempt to calm the teenagers’ panic attack.
he calms, eventually, but it’s into a state of dissociation that’s somehow entirely worse and a life saver at the same time. he can’t feel, or move, and it’s ultimately both terrifying and relieving.
he floats, gently, in a state of disorientated confusion. he’s somewhat safe here, for tony holds him until he come see out of it, whether it takes minutes or hours. the guilt the man holds, and the protectiveness his arms give, envelop peter into a calmness he hasn’t felt since he left for europe. tony’s there for him, and he always has been.
it doesn’t stop the nightmares. whether he’s awake or asleep, his brain plagues him with overwhelming hallucinations that make him a danger to himself, and to everyone around him.
he can’t seem to pull himself out of the illusions anymore. quentin’s dead, but he still haunts peter’s mind, burying his memory in parts of his brain he had no idea even existed. he’s breaking him from the inside out, and peter supposes that was always his plan.
beck’s face holds an untimely image behind peter’s eyelids, and when he closes his eyes at night, he can see the smirk the man had worn, the pitying smile he’d given him as peter read off the names of his kill list like a trained puppy.
when he shushes the image and turns onto his side, half conscious and drooling, beck’s voice breaks through the sleepy haze in his mind.
“wake up!” the distorted voice yells, and peter jolts immediately, screaming until it drowns out the continuous repetition of the words. beck had been so angry, and the reminder of what a vulnerable situation he’d been in makes his heart skip and jump, even in the safe confinement of his bed.
tony comes running in, arms immediately cradling peter’s body, lips already whispering sweet nothings, but peter continues to scream.
“you’re not good enough.” the voice screams in his ear, and peter jumps, hands covering his ears.
when he blinks, beck’s face is hovering inches above his, all smirk and no smile. the coldness that resides in his eyes makes peter jolt, flinching back into tony’s arms. beck follows him, teeth bared, and peter crawls into tony’s lap, sobbing into his neck.
the older man soothes him, his hand slowly stroking through peter’s hair. the touch is warm, and familiar, but when the illusion in front of him moves its hand towards peter’s face, he finds himself throwing his body out of tony’s arms, writhing and trembling on the bed in front of the taller man.
the illusion follows him, arms outstretched and bloody.
“you did this to me.” quentin whispers, and he’s suddenly bleeding all over the quilts, the hole in his stomach gaping and weeping. peter has to cover his mouth to muffle the scream, and swallow down the bile that rises in his throat.
tony’s still talking, but he can’t hear him over the sound of screaming. whether it’s his own, or beck’s, he can’t be sure.
“it’s all. your. fault.”
beck pushes further into his space, so hurriedly that peter stumbles off the bed and lands on the floor with a hard thud.
he looks up, frantic and crying, but all he’s met with is tony’s concerned frown.
“oh, pete.” he whispers, clambering off the bed to join peter on the floor. he hesitates, before wrapping his arms tightly around peter’s thin, slumped shoulders. the small boy collapses into his embrace, sobbing loudly, his voice strained and broken.
“he w-won’t leave.” he moans, hiccuping on the cries that leave his mouth. tony doesn’t reply, only pulls him closer with gentle kiss to the top of his head and a soft sigh.
beck’s dead, but he still haunts peter’s subconscious like a dirty plague he’ll never rid himself of.
in the end, peter won, but so did beck. (in so many ways.)