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The funeral had ended several hours ago.
Every single person came up to him wearing the same expression, the same look in their eyes, and Peter was honestly growing kinda tired of it all. Some were sad, some depressed, but every single eye was laden with pity. He felt no resentment for that, though. He was to be pitied.
They patted him on the back, the shoulder, the elbow. There were awkward handshakes, awkward hugs, and he wasn’t sure if some of these people expected him to cry right then and there, but he didn’t—wouldn’t. He was stronger than that.
Some said, “I’m sorry.” Some said, “I’m so sorry.” Some said, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” And some had even tried to start up a conversation with him there in the cemetery. He would admit, he had zoned out for most of those, nodding when he thought he needed to, but he hadn’t really been in the mood for conversation. Still wasn’t.
There’s a time and place to distract one from one’s grief, but standing in the cemetery with his aunt cold not three days was not it.
He wasn’t sure what to do, though. What were the etiquette rules of funerals? Was he supposed to be the last one to leave? Was he allowed to leave whenever he wanted? He didn’t want to come across as inconsiderate, cold-hearted, or even downright heartless in any way, and he—oh what was he doing? This wasn’t like him! He had never been this self-conscious before, and it wasn’t like these people would even judge him.
They all knew how much Aunt May meant to—had meant to him. Who would blame him for being broken up?
He should be the last one to leave, it was only right, and part of him didn’t even want to leave at all.
MJ must have noticed his gloomy disposition, his want to just stop talking to people already because she took over the conversation that Missus Periwinkle was trying her hardest to keep afloat.
Pete waited till he was no longer in the conversation before turning to leave.
…But he didn’t want to leave.
And he couldn’t just leave, there were still people here, MJ was still here, Miles was still—Peter glanced around for Miles—well, Miles was still here, but he was over by his dad’s grave. He and Miles were more connected now, both deaths still so fresh. Connected through grief.
Peter just wasn’t ready to leave. He wasn’t ready to keep time moving, to keep living his life, to move on and forget May. He wanted time to just freeze, give him more time, let him have the time he needed to just… be, to process.
He felt frozen himself, unable to move or think, but he knew time wasn’t going to just stop for him to catch up. He didn’t have the time to mourn, to be sad, to even cry. He had too much responsibility for that. The city couldn’t wait for him to pull himself together. Those in need of his help didn’t deserve to be placed on the back burner to a dead person, regardless of his attachment to said… dead… person…
Oh, man.
She was dead.
Aunt May was dead, deceased, passed away, gone.
It didn’t matter how he thought about it, it didn’t feel real.
He approached May’s headstone, knelt on the damp soil, and briefly glanced at Ben’s beside it. It was weather-worn, soil overgrown with grass, and the flowers were dead. It’d been about four weeks since he came with May to lay flowers. May’s flowers were full of life, but he couldn’t just take some of those to give Ben; that was just wrong.
That was his fault, though. May had asked him to join her a week ago, but he was busy chasing Li and doing Spider-Man stuff.
God, he shook his head. He should have taken the time to be with her. He should have bought that bouquet he saw from that street vendor, surprised May with them, and brought her here. Even though they always sat in silence, respecting and remembering Ben’s life, those moments with her were some of Peter’s favorites. It gave him the time to remember the life he shared with them both and to reflect on all the ways Ben’s death has changed his life for the better. He always did his best self-reflection here.
His eyes dampened, but he didn’t want to start crying. He wasn’t ready to cry and hadn’t since she passed. MJ was concerned about that but hadn’t pressed. Besides, there were still people here. He couldn’t let them see him mourning someone dead while in the cemetery immediately after the service. Come on. What was he? Normal?
He chuckled. Look at him. In the depths of despair and he still had quips!
Barely.
He swiped the moisture from his eyes before they could gather into larger droplets and leaned forward to rest his forehead against the stone.
Breathe in… breathe out…
It was so easy to get lost in his head and forget that she wasn’t here anymore.
She wasn’t here anymore.
She wasn’t here, and Ben wasn’t here, and his parents weren’t here. Nobody was here, and he had nobody left.
When his parents died, Uncle Ben and Aunt May stepped in to raise him and be his new parents. Even though they never said that, that’s how Peter grew to view them.
Orphaned twice. What were the odds of that?
His eyes were determined to water, and he swiped at them again.
God, he just couldn’t stop crying. Cried by her bedside when she died. Cried when he swung around the city as they took her body away. Cried when he tried to sleep, when he had to wake, when he tried to eat. Every single night.
This was just like when Ben died, but worse because he doesn’t have Aunt May to be there for him.
And that was his fault.
Peter reminded himself—actually, MJ had reminded him, but Pete’s used her advice every day since—that superheroes had super-responsibilities and thus had super-emotions, so he was allowed to be as emotional as he wanted to be. Nobody had any right to blame him, and if they tried, they should walk a mile in his suit first.
It was a semi-aggressive tactic MJ had used to overcome his self-applied guilt-trip, but Peter knew she just wanted what was best for him, even if there wasn’t an aggressive bone in his body these last few days.
Instead, he was filled with nothing but guilt. He could have stopped this. He could have saved her. He could have saved Ben. He could have saved everybody!
But he hadn’t. He’d failed. It wasn’t even an accident because it was all his fault.
Ben dies because Peter was being a stubborn, obstinate, depressed teenager, who couldn’t get over himself and do the right thing. Such a small, petty crime that he could have stopped but chose not to. He basically killed Uncle Ben himself. God knows not a day has gone by that he hasn’t blamed himself.
He could have saved May; the antidote was right there in his hand; all he had to do was give it to her.
But, Peter, he could hear May’s voice in his head, knew exactly what she would say to him, everyone else would have died. You sacrificed me for the greater good. You made the right decision.
Did he, though? There might have been another antidote! What if that wasn’t the only one, and the other was hidden elsewhere to preserve it? What if an antidote could be derived easily from the blood of the infected? Then everyone could have lived with May!
Peter, you know that was the only one. You know there was no other way.
No. No, he didn’t know that, no one knew that.
He didn’t try to look for another way, he didn’t try to save her. He basically killed her himself, just like he had with Ben. He practically wanted them dead!
Hadn’t he resented them, all these years, for trying to step into the role of his parents? They had no right to such a thing! They didn’t even have evidence that his parents were even dead! What if they were still alive, and Ben and May threatened them to never come home? What if Ben and May were so envious of his parents having a child that they decided to take matters into their own hands and steal him?
Hadn’t he been so furious with Ben that day that he excused himself and left the house? He had told Ben to not follow him! But he did. Ben got himself killed! What had he been thinking!?
And Aunt May! She’d done this to herself, too, she’d—no, she didn’t, and you know that.
None of this stuff is true, Peter. You’re just angry and hurt.
He sobbed, knowing the truth of those words, and all that anger just drained away, leaving only a void that quickly filled with despair.
It hurt so much. He was in so much pain that he didn’t know how to express it.
He wiped more tears away and sat back to gaze at the tombstone.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to her, “I didn’t mean it.”
He was actually angry with himself, angry that he lost her, that he lost them.
It was like, the harder he tried to hold on, the faster they leave him, slip out of his grasp forever.
That was it, wasn’t it?
They left him.
No.
He stopped himself before he fell into that hole again. May pulled him out last time, but she wasn’t here to pull him out this time, so he couldn’t fall in.
He lost them, and that was it. He was still alive, and they weren’t. And that was all there was to it.
Their absence only left a gaping hole in his chest that he didn’t know what to do with. Uncle Ben’s hole was filled with the responsibility of Spider-Man. What would he do with Aunt May’s?
They were gone.
The universe has taken them. The universe was out to get him. Why him?
Why did this happen to him?
Why does he have to be the one to sacrifice everything? Why does he have to be the one to suffer? Hasn’t he sacrificed enough? Hasn’t he suffered enough?
With all the good that he’s done for this city, this country, the world, hasn’t he sacrificed enough, suffered enough? Does he not deserve happiness? Does he not deserve parents?
Why did so much happen to him, so much wrong and unfairness?
Had he done something to deserve this? Had he done something to upset the balance of things?
That was it, wasn’t it? His powers. He was given such great power, but there had to be balance. Something given, something taken.
This really was all his fault.
He hadn’t asked for this!
He didn’t want this!
If this was the recompense for the imbalance, then just take it! Take his powers and leave him be!
He wouldn’t survive if he lost someone else. Surely—surely the universe was satisfied now. It took May away, and she was the embodiment of good and perfection.
The universe could now want for nothing because she was everything.
She was his everything, and he was alone now.
He sobbed again but didn’t swipe at the tears. They were determined to well, and he could do nothing about them.
Everyone must have gone home because MJ knelt down beside him, soiling her skirt with the dirt. She took his hand.
“I’m here for you.”
MJ couldn’t have picked a better moment for those words.
She was here, and he wasn’t alone.
He turned to look at her. No pity in her eyes, just sadness. She was also mourning.
He didn’t stop the pathetic sob or the overflowing tears. It was time.
She pulled him into her arms.