Archive of Our Own

iii.

Peter knows it’s not really his fault for how he feels; his brain is composed of neurons and chemicals that often go unchecked and become imbalanced, unhinged in a way that is out of his control and sometimes that scale tilts one way or the other, never enough or too much to bear, blocks and cement on his shoulders and dust crawling down his throat to choke his lungs. It’s getting easier to ignore, to pretend he can tip the scales and that it doesn’t bother him because it’s simpler to pretend and convince himself than to face it all head on.

He tells himself that his brain and his heart are two different organs that just so happen to be incompatible and basic biology dictates that one cannot control the other, and that maybe the vast research into how the human brain is wired is still unknown to so many people because no matter how much he wants to pretend that how he feels isn’t real, it just is because sometimes it fills up so much it tips over and it feels like his heart is going to explode.

But biology had never been Peter’s favourite subject at school even despite the fact he excels in all areas of academia, so maybe he doesn’t know what he’s really learning.

He doesn’t understand how he feels and can’t seem to fathom it into comprehensible words and no matter how hard anyone tries, they just don’t understand that Peter can’t get it out, can’t force his thoughts into his voice for people to hear because even as he thinks about it, it seems ridiculous. By all circumstances, he shouldn’t feel the way he does – he has a home, he has food on his table, a bed to fall into, he’s Spider-Man and he can do unimaginable things and he has Aunt May and Ned and MJ and Happy (the jury was still out on that one) and Mr. Stark.

Maybe Mr. Stark understands better than most because he’s the only one who doesn’t get that frightened look on his face whenever Peter lets something slip that should have been tucked away in the depths of his minds for time to wear away at and scavenge. Peter knows Aunt May would freak, would break down and wonder why she never saw the signs and Ned and MJ… they would be hurt, angry that he didn’t tell them and see Peter as unfinished, a friend who wasn’t entirely there and couldn’t – couldn’t tell them because they wouldn’t want to be friends with him then.

For them, he would ignore the chemical imbalance in his brain that was toxic, poisoning him more and more each day until it would eat him alive. He wanted them to see a better Peter, a happy Peter who laughed at their jokes without gasping for air because some part of him was still trapped under that building, a smiling Peter who did well in school because the fear of failing again was as crushing as the cinder blocks and he can feel the sludge down his throat, strangling him.

But Mr. Stark doesn’t look at him strangely, doesn’t see him as an unfinished human being with the cracks tearing further and further each day; he wants to talk to Peter, likes talking to Peter – just Peter, not Spider-Man because unlike his heart and his brain, they were one and the same who shared the same skin regardless of what Peter wore.

He doesn’t need to tell it all to Mr. Stark, he doesn’t sit down with him every Saturday to complain and whine and whinge like he was afraid he would, but he spends those days with blissful distractions, of telling Mr. Stark about how he stopped a robbery and saved a cat from a tree and prevented a mugging that only resulted in a light stabbing to the gut that was already a scar in the morning. Peter doesn’t pick at his cuts anymore, not like how he used to, he lets them heal, lets them sew themselves back together before he can tear it apart and he feels like the infection inside does the same, too; he is Spider-Man, after all – Spider-Man can heal twice as fast, and there’s on evidence of the bruises and the cuts in the morning and he feels whole.

Yet, there are times when Mr. Stark acts odd; sometimes he looks at Peter when he thinks Peter doesn’t notice, a tight crease forming in his brow, a frown on his mouth and the sharp intake of breath when Peter tells him about how he fell from a five story building but it’s alright, I’ve had worse and he fiddles with his phone a lot, as if he’s ready to call someone, to call Aunt May and tell her everything. And he probably should.

He never does.

He listens as Peter talks, listens to him talk about school, about Spider-Man and inside stuff, unboxing it bit by bit, brushing away the dust like those ones that Aunt May keeps hidden under her bed from when Peter first came to stay with her and Uncle Ben. He finds that the scales are evened whenever Peter lets go of these worries and thoughts, that something in him feels lighter whenever he tells Mr. Stark that it was hard to get out of bed that day and Mr. Stark nods because he understands, he understands. Even though Peter still worries that one day it’ll be too much for the older man to handle and he’ll chuck Peter out, that day never comes and the thought quietens, silences.

Peter feels like the broken parts of him are being glued back together, that perhaps he isn’t as unfinished as he thought he was, and the chemical imbalance of his brain that seeped into his heart was being boarded up and that he could just be normal.

So, when he gets the assignment in English for Father’s Day, he feels like a fool for ever hoping.

It comes as a surprise to him, sitting in class and Ned is two rows ahead of him because of a seating plan while MJ is across on another table, and then Mrs. Tate walks in, handing back the assignments from last week and Peter feels a flurry of happiness to see he had got an A+ while Ned bowed his head and groaned at the B- he got. MJ doesn’t give a hint as to her grade but he sees the way the corner of her lip tilts up, folding it and putting it into her bag and he gives her a smile that she returns, a quickening in his chest.

Peter doesn’t bother listening in class, it’s easy to pass English and make things up as he goes and he can’t wait to show Aunt May when he got home, is already texting under the table to Mr. Stark about his grade when Mrs. Tate clears her throat and speaks up.

“Now, I was very pleased with the results in the class that I got this week, I thought I would let you guys off with something a bit easier, a bit more from the heart,” she spoke, fixing her glasses on the bridge of her hooked nose and Peter can hear the collective groan from the class, super-hearing or no super-hearing. “Oh, don’t be like that. I promise you won’t have to write anything else about MacBeth. Instead, I would rather each you all write me a short piece about your fathers since Father’s Day is coming up.”

Peter’s thumbs on the screen still, a drop in his chest and his breathing stops, catching in the bottom of his throat and he can feel his guts knotting, gripping as he looks up to see Mrs. Tate in her long skirt and cardigan clasping her hands in front of her, grinning at the class but Peter’s eyesight is hazy, blurred at the edges.

Beside him, Kitty Joyce puts up a hand. “Mrs. Tate, I have two mothers, how can I write a piece about fathers if I don’t have one?”

Mrs. Tate’s smile falters for a moment, as if she had not given that much thought. “Oh, no worries, Kitty, you can write about anyone instead – a cousin, an uncle, a family friend, a grandfather, anyone you’d prefer.”

Kitty Joyce is placated, nodding in affirmation and goes back to scribbling in her notebook, the nib of her pen scratching, wringing Peter’s ears and shattering his eardrums because he can’t speak up, doesn’t want to because Flash is already sneering back at him, mouthing words Peter can’t hear because he’s trying not to break his phone into a million pieces.

That chemical imbalance seems to sizzle and burn, scorching its way through Peter, clogging up his veins as a bitter taste explodes in his mouth; he feels sick, his palms clammy because he’s reminded once more, reminded of the fact all parts in his life are lacking and he’s pathetic Peter Parker and he can’t even speak up to tell Mrs. Tate that he has no one, he doesn’t have cousins or uncles or grandfathers, not anymore. Maybe he did at one point, but never more. Now they’re all just ghosts and skeletons that haunt his memories.

No, Peter has no one of the sorts to fit that bill and he feels if he tries to open his mouth, tries to explain to Mrs. Tate that they’re dead, they’re all dead and it’s all because of him, that he would spill the contents of his stomach onto the table, that the words would just keep on coming in a flood that would leave him empty and heaving.

In the end, he never does text Mr. Stark about the grade.

Peter lingers in the classroom, carefully putting his stuff away and ignoring how Ned and MJ are looking at him, deliberately taking his time as Mrs. Tate wipes down the whiteboard and his hands are shaking, unable to close his bag as his heart hammers behind the bones of its confines, ignoring how his breath is unsteady.

Mrs. Tate turns around, wiping her hands and spots Peter, grinning at him. “Oh, Peter! Is there something I can help with?”

He shoulders the strap, gripping it tightly and tries to use that as a tether, to keep him grounded. “Um, yeah, Mrs. Tate, I was wondering if I could talk about the assignment?”

“Oh, you did perfect on it!” She smiles and he tries to ignore the waft of her perfume that nearly makes him gag, the strong scent of coffee that is overpowering. “I was very impressed with what you did, if I could mark it higher I would.”

He’s just being difficult, he’s just being annoying, he needs to leave and just get it over and done with and just hope he scores higher than a C because Mrs. Tate has always been understanding and he doesn’t want to ask for special treatment but he can’t. “Actually, I was wondering if I could talk about this new assignment?”

Her smile wavers and Peter kicks himself, hates himself because he was just being difficult, a cry-baby because it was just a stupid essay, he didn’t need to make a fuss about it like he was now. “Oh, is there something wrong?”

He needs to get the words out, to let her understand that he doesn’t have anyone in his life, his father is dead, his uncle is dead and he has no one and everyone around him seems to leave, his own family too and that it was unfair, it was all so unfair because he was sixteen and couldn’t remember his father and sometimes he felt like Uncle Ben’s blood was still dripping from his hands.

But she doesn’t deserve that, doesn’t deserve the burden that Peter carries because she’s always been nice and the other students tried taking advantage of that and this was Peter’s alone to bear, she didn’t need his whole life story as an excuse to not do one stupid piece of homework. He swallows, looking down at the ground and he can see her confusion as the silence lingers on. That scale inside of him tips uneven and Peter cannot stop it, could never hope to.

He grips the strap of his backpack again, nearly tearing it altogether before he shakes his head, curls in his eyes. “No, I just wanted to ask when is it due.”

Peter never does end up telling her, couldn’t do it when she waved him out the door for lunch and his stomach is a bottomless pit, feeding on his nerves and he doesn’t want Ned or MJ to see him like this, doesn’t want them to see him unravelled and incomplete. He feels like pathetic Peter Parker again, all upset over a stupid fucking assignment because he doesn’t have the imagination to even make something up – but how can he make it up when he never experienced it?

Aunt May is smiling when he shows her the grade and sticks it up on the fridge, a Venice Beach magnet being all that stops it from falling and she kisses the top of his head, and ruffling his hair because he makes her so proud, but if she ever knew the truth those words would never reach her tongue again because Peter isn’t someone to be proud of; he can feel those niggling thoughts again, weeding their way into the forefront of his mind and he’s picking at the skin around his hands again, tearing the broken surface around his nails and he can’t tell Aunt May the real reason he doesn’t want dinner.

It’s Friday and tomorrow would mean he would have to see Mr. Stark but he doesn’t want Mr. Stark to see him like this; he would laugh, surely he would, at how worked up Peter was getting over this because it was stupid, ridiculous and Peter hated it, hated how he couldn’t just put pen to paper and think.

It’s easier when he’s Spider-Man because Spider-Man doesn’t have to think about school or essays or grades or any of that; the second the mask is on, it’s as if Peter Parker doesn’t exist and it’s for the better this way, he’s stronger and not as weak willed or weak minded as Peter Parker is. He swings from the rooftops, flying through the air and feeling as if he has wings until the pavement comes up and he has to catch himself before he splatters onto the ground but it’s so freeing, so thrilling that the only thing he has to worry about as Spider-Man is to not fall.

The assignment is due by the end of the month; I don’t want to overload you with work, Mrs. Tate said with a smile, you kids already have enough to be worrying about and Peter wonders if she ever really knew about it, about him.

What could he say to her? How could he explain that his father exists in fragmented memories that he can barely piece together, or that Uncle Ben didn’t like it when Peter called him ‘Dad’, that he made sure Peter never would give him that moniker to bear because he had said he never earned it because he never had kids but wasn’t Peter a child? Wasn’t Peter his child?

All those memories of middle school would come flooding back, of how he would sit in the back of class doing homework while the rest of his classmates drew pictures on paper to proclaim their love for the father. Peter never got that because Uncle Ben was not his father but how Peter wished just once he pretended that he was.

And then Uncle Ben died, lungs coughing up blood as the bullet pierced through his stomach and there had been so much of it, oozing and spilling from him as Peter cried, hands on the puncture and trying to put his uncle back together but he was never good at biology, didn’t understand why his uncle kept bleeding and the blood under his fingernails never really washed away. Even as Uncle Ben was dying Peter kept calling him Uncle Ben, Uncle Ben, please don’t leave me, please don’t die, there’s too much blood, I’m sorry, I can’t –

He ignores a text from Mr. Stark and does not go to him on Saturday.

The piece of paper with the assignment title goes untouched and Peter takes those sleeping pills again to get him back to sleep, the nightlight he secretly bought casting a galaxy on the ceiling because he hates the dark.

He doesn’t know what to write because he never got those firsts with his father or Uncle Ben; they never taught him to ride a bike (who bikes in New York when you can take a bus? Uncle Ben had laughed when Peter had asked him and put his helmet into a box to never be used again), they never taught him to shave (he didn’t even have facial hair), they never taught him to drive (Mr. Stark had tried once and held onto his seatbelt in fear Peter was going to throw him through the windshield), they never took him to a football game (Mr. Stark had to take Peter out of the stadium because the cheering was too loud), they never played ball with him (he may have slightly broken an Iron Man suit once from throwing a ball too hard and Mr. Stark had laughed saying he forgot how strong Peter way, easing his worries).

It’s not Aunt May’s fault she works so much, it’s not her fault that she’s up at dawn and home for dusk and falls into bed because she’s so exhausted and he would never let her know because how could he throw it back in her face? After all she had done for him, after caring for him when every one else left?

It made Peter feel sick to his stomach because he was ungrateful for all that she gave and was craving for more than she could give because she worked so much to give them a home and a life and she never cared when he would call her ‘Mom’ growing up until Uncle Ben told him she wasn’t his mom; he remembered the fight, how Aunt May hissed at Uncle Ben to not say things like that to Peter and he said that Peter has a right to know, don’t make him believe things that aren’t true, it’s cruel.

He was ungrateful, selfish and it ate away at him, how he was leaving before she was home and spent his time swinging around the city, each time more daring and closer to clipping the ground because suddenly falling wasn’t enough.

Mr. Stark had tried calling him but Peter couldn’t answer because Mr. Stark would know, he always did and Peter knew it was nothing, he just needed to man up and stop being so upset about it.

So, he ignores Mr. Stark and the first week passes since the assignment was given and he has not written a single word.

It seems to taunt him, the paper on his desk and he can’t sleep at night anymore, the pills in his bedside table empty after he had taken too much and missed the first hour of school and Aunt May was exasperated, calling him and telling him he needed to stay on top of things or else he wouldn’t be able to be Spider-Man anymore and she couldn’t – she couldn’t take that away from him. He stops sleeping in fear he would miss his alarm and continues to ignore the texts from Mr. Stark and his calls too and his nails are bitten to a nub, bleeding at the edges as his teeth tear his skin.

He doesn’t care that he’s exhausted, that he’s retreated into himself because it’s now two weeks until the deadline and he tells Ned and MJ that he can’t hang out after school because he has to work on the assignment and he feels sick for the lie, guts twisting in disgust at himself but he would much rather this than being around them as he is now; they would get annoyed at him for being so down and unravelled and he needed to pull himself together.

But he’s not sleeping anymore and he keeps seeing Uncle Ben’s dying face whenever he blinks and suddenly, he’s falling because he missed the corner of a building and his body hits the roof, bones smashing underneath.

“Peter?” Karen calls out, her voice full of alarm but that can’t be right because she’s not real. “Peter, are you alright?”

He wheezes and commands for air to fill his lungs but it is not enough, dust and dirt kicked up and filling each gulp. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“Peter, I detect multiple injuries including a sprained ankle,” the AI states but there’s something wrong in her tone; can AI’s even have a different tone of voice?

“I’m fine,” Peter stresses but he knows he’s not; his ankle flares in pain but he knows it’ll be fine in an hour anyways. No one cared if Peter was hurt because he was always okay within an hour so what did it matter how hurt he was? He stays hunched over on his hands and knees, trying to calm his breathing but it’s not working, there’s no air and this mask, this mask that usually kept him at ease, was getting too hard to breathe in.

“Peter, your heartrate is increasing and your breathing is uneven,” Karen says and her voice is too loud when it’s not supposed to be because Mr. Stark had tweaked it so that she wouldn’t cause him to go into overdrive, all senses too stimulated. The memory of it makes Peter’s breathing shallow and he’s clawing at his chest because he had never said it to Mr. Stark, but Mr. Stark just knew; like Aunt May, Mr. Stark always seemed to know when it came to Peter. “Peter, I believe you are having a panic attack.”

Peter shakes his head as if the AI can see him because it wasn’t true, he wasn’t having a panic attack – he was fine, he was okay, he was just a little out of sorts and he was so tired only because he wasn’t sleeping and he can still see that blank piece of paper in his mind, taunting him. “No, I’m okay, I’m – ”

He can’t finish because suddenly there’s no air in his lungs and it’s cutting his sentences in half, making them torn attempts at speaking and his throat is a mangled mess as he tries to ease his erratic breathing, fingers digging into his chest but the suit won’t give way under his attempts to tear it off at him, the gravel under his knees digging into his tender skin and he can feel the bruises from where he fell burning at his shoulder and his back and ribs.

“Peter, you need to breathe – ”

“I’m trying!” he shouts, voice shrill and choked and he knows it’s a lie because he’s gulping but nothing’s working and he’s going to die, he’s going to drown because he can’t breathe and the AI gives what seems to be a shout of worry before Peter pulls the mask off, floundering as the pain in his body snakes its way through him, harsh and unkind. His forehead is against the dirt, mask forgotten and his fingers in his hair, pulling at them to give him something focus on as spittle flies from his mouth, eyes squeezed shut because his heart is too much for his chest to bear that it feels like it might explode at any second.

Spider-Man was supposed to be strong, to not be weak and pathetic but Peter Parker keeps getting in the way.

Mr. Stark’s calls increase each and every day and when he returns from school Aunt May is sitting at the table, worried and he knew she was because he could hear her finger tapping on the wood when he entered the building.

“Peter?” she called as he entered, looking to him and there were smears of exhaustion under her eyes and Peter felt that bubble of guilt burst within him again, looking away as he dropped his bag at the entrance. “Peter, honey, can I talk to you?”

Peter tries to be calm, to be collected and like the Peter she deserves so he plucks up that mantle again and it seems so easy to pretend. “Sure, Aunt May, what’s up?”

She hesitates and he sits down in front of her, ignoring how sweaty his hands are. “Peter, have you not been going to the Compound for the past three weeks?”

Three weeks – that means he has one week until he has to write that damned essay and it’s like lead in his stomach, weighing him down and he pretends to pull a face of confusion. “Why?”

“Is something going on? Is that kid Flash bothering you?” Aunt May quizzes and there’s a fire in her eyes at the thought of Flash; she had kicked up a fuss when Peter finally told her about what was happening while Mr. Stark sat there, calmly explaining what happened, how he had to collect Peter and sign him out of school because of what Flash did and Peter had thought she would have gone down to the school to personally kick Flash’s ass before Peter calmed her down.

She had been so angry but not at Peter, never at Peter, and the principal had seemed somewhat scared as Aunt May had shouted that no child of hers would be going to Midtown High if they weren’t going to protect him.

For a while, Flash stayed clear of Peter but no more than that. He was already back to picking on Peter but there was always this hesitation, as if he knew that if he went too far then it would be game over.

“No, no Aunt May, it’s nothing like that,” Peter denies, shaking his head and he feels bad for lying like this because Aunt May doesn’t deserve it but he doesn’t want to kick up a fuss over nothing. “No, I just haven’t had time.”

Aunt May purses her lips and the tapping of her finger stops. “I just… I thought you liked going and that you liked being around Tony.”

Mr. Stark is Tony to Aunt May and it makes Peter bristle because Aunt May didn’t used to like Mr. Stark all that much and then Peter found out she made him an emergency contact at school so what had changed? Peter gave a shrug, hands in his pockets to hide how they shook. “I do, it’s just I’ve been working on assignments and you know how it is, Aunt May. I don’t want to fail at school.”

How did she find out? Did she know he was coming straight from school to be Spider-Man? That he was swinging around and helping people and pretending he wasn’t Peter? His stomach churned, watching the way Aunt May seemed to be caught off guard, unsure of how to approach it all and she ran a hand through her hair, so tired but trying with Peter and she didn’t need this extra weight that was Peter’s burden to bear.

Then she sighed, looking at him over the rim of her glasses. “Alright, I just… he’s very worried. He thinks you’re avoiding him.”

That bitter taste exploded in the back of Peter’s throat and any second now he was going to vomit up what little he had eaten that day because he couldn’t bear to hold down any food throughout the day. “What? No! Aunt May, of course I’m not. I just want to work on some stuff and you know how being Spider-Man is.”

She did, of course she knew because they had spent hours setting down rules for him to abide by that he had been breaking ever so slowly these past few weeks and Aunt May chewed her bottom lip, unsure of how to proceed and Peter knew he had won this battle for once.

She stood and took him into a hug, the smell of coffee and the diner that clung to her uniform filling his lungs. “I know. I just know how much he means to you, and how much you mean to him. I want you to be able to have someone like him to look up to.”

When she left to go back to work, Peter ran to the toilet and vomited bile into the water, trying to not let her words stick to him, like scum on the surface of water that ran through him and left that residue of disgust that he could never seem to wash away. How could Peter ever explain to them, to Mr. Stark, that he could never finish an essay because somewhere, deep down inside of him, that void that he thought once could be filled by Uncle Ben was now being filled in by someone else?

It was shame, red hot and scarring that coursed through him due to the fact he never got those firsts with his father or with Uncle Ben because he had never tried since Peter wasn’t actually his son and Mr. Stark had ruffled his hair once saying he would have to teach him how to shave since he was getting older now.

And now whenever he tried to start his essay, all he could think about was Mr. Stark putting an arm around him and saying good job, Pete and he starts to claw at his chest to get that feeling out of him.

It’s embarrassing, it’s humiliating because Mr. Stark certainly doesn’t want Peter to be thinking these things about him, that suddenly when he can’t picture his father or Uncle Ben, he sees Mr. Stark instead, that he thinks of Saturdays and spending time with Mr. Stark and how he was the one to pick him up from school when he thought his entire world was falling apart and he doesn’t care when Peter breaks down or that he needs hugs or that he was a cry-baby.

One look at him and Mr. Stark would instantly know and Peter wanted all those thoughts buried deep inside of him, would dig the grave with his bare hands if he had to.

The panic attacks are worse once the week of the deadline hits and Peter begins to let more bad guys land punches on him, give them the sense that they could win as their fists hit every part of his body as they’re able to before he slings them up ready to be hauled off to jail and Karen becomes worried, as worried as an AI can be. But she doesn’t understand that it helps him focus, that it gives him something else to think about and he’s not really doing anything bad, he’s not really hurting himself because it’s other people that are hurting him and no one cares or notices because all the bruises and scrapes are healed by the time the sun rose again.

Mr. Stark stops calling and Peter feels himself deflate, a poison formed from that chemical imbalance that was killing him from the inside out as he goes to school on Wednesday, the bruise on his shoulder already easing away.

Ned and MJ keep their distance because he keeps pushing them away, lying that he had work to do and things to read and the cafeteria is the best place to be because it’s so loud that he doesn’t even hear himself think. Flash drops his plate of mac and cheese on Peter’s leg and he doesn’t even feel the burn, staring at it as Flash laughs and walks off and Peter is glad that his existence is of use to at least somebody.

It’s better this way; he would just have to tell Mrs. Tate he didn’t do the essay and he would take whatever hits he needed to on his report card and that he was sorry but he can’t finish it because he doesn’t have a father or an uncle and Mr. Stark had got sick of him already so he can’t write about anyone for the assignment.

Peter gets home as quick as he can, trying to fight off the need to sleep because he’s so exhausted but can’t seem to put his mind to rest in fear that Aunt May would stay true to her word and make him stop being Spider-Man, not even letting his eyes rest on the bus home and rubbing his eyes, pinching his skin to help him stay awake.

Everything will be better once he’s in the suit again, once he’s helping people and swinging through the air and doesn’t have to think about homework or the gnawing feelings in his chest.

He can hear Aunt May’s tapping finger upstairs again and he sighs, trying to gather himself together again to play the part of Peter Parker that she deserved and trudged up the stairs, dragging his feet and taking as much time as possible as his mind ran away, trying to line up excuses and lies to ease her worries with because he needs to be out there, needs to be helping people and be that friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man everyone loved.

When he opens the door he pretends to be preoccupied with his jacket and bag, trying to pretend that he’s not trying to plough through this confrontation so he can be out there, ignoring the stilting of his heart. “Hey Aunt May, didn’t realise you were going to be home so early. I’m going to go out for a bit before dinner, you want me to pick anything up for you?”

He’s fumbling with his bag, ignoring how his hands are clammy when a voice speaks up. “Sure kid, we’ll need some organic eggs and a box of caviar if you have the time.”

Peter stills, the thrumming in his chest stopping completely and he can’t turn around because if he turns around then –

Mr. Stark is sitting at the table in Aunt May’s seat, tapping his finger and his face neutral and Peter can feel that spike of worry, a dryness in his throat as he stares, nearly dropping his bag completely because he’s caught off guard, unable to fathom that Mr. Stark was in his apartment and staring at him, dry humour as empty as his face.

Peter had not seen Mr. Stark in weeks, had not been around him since he started avoiding him and he begins to fiddle with the cuff of his sleeve, breathing shallow and barely pushing away the burn in his lungs as he stares because Mr. Stark is here.

“Mr. Stark!” Peter all but gasps, ignoring the way his stomach churns and he feels as if he might vomit up his small lunch. “What… what are you doing here?”

Peter’s voice is threadbare, wispy and frayed at the edges as Mr. Stark, stays where he sits, dressed up in his finest suits and not a hair out of place and Peter feels inadequate by merely being in the same room as him, wearing his lame shirt that says never trust an atom, they make up everything and how his hair is wild and unkept, a nest of curls that are trying to escape and, God, he’s even wearing those stupid Iron Man socks that Ned had got him a few years back.

Mr. Stark continues to stare at Peter, an eyebrow quirked and Peter wonders how he even got into the apartment; if Aunt May made him an emergency contact for the school, did she also give him a spare key? Unable to keep up the gaze, Peter drops his eyes and begins to fumble, stammer for something to say, anything because it would be much better than the silence that was stretching on between them and that guilt began to tear its teeth into Peter once more.

“Fancy seeing you too, Pete,” Mr. Stark replies and it’s Pete, his voice doesn’t hold onto any bitterness Peter expected to come from Mr. Stark because why wasn’t he annoyed at Peter? Wasn’t he angry that Peter had effectively ditched him these past coming weeks? “You know, since it’s been so long since you’ve decided to grace me with your presence.”

Peter winces, staring at his shoes and he can’t even come up with a better excuse because Mr. Stark had caught him red-handed and seemed to know Peter better than he knew himself for reasons unknown to the teen. “Oh, sorry. I’ve been busy with school and everything that – ”

“Don’t bullshit me, Peter,” Mr. Stark sighs and Peter feels a piece of twine wrap around his heart and clench because it was Peter now, like when Uncle Ben used to get mad or annoyed at him because he didn’t like to play football or baseball or any of the sports boys his age should be playing. Mr. Stark isn’t joking anymore, he’s serious in a way Peter had never seen him and it unnerves him. “What’s going on with you?”

He can’t tell him, he can’t tell him because he felt like it would unravel the thread that held Peter together and he was going to fall apart and he needs to get a grip, to man up and be strong like how Uncle Ben always told him to be. Peter makes his way through the apartment, tossing his keys on the dresser and avoiding eye contact because if he looked then Mr. Stark would see it clear as day on his face. “Nothing’s going on, I’m just busy is all.”

Mr Stark doesn’t fall for it. “You can lie all you want, Peter, but we both know that’s not the truth.”

Peter is frustrated, can feel it building up in him and he doesn’t want it to get the better of him. “It is the truth. I’m in high school, I have homework to be doing.”

“Peter,” Mr. Stark starts and it’s in a sharp tone that Aunt May only ever reserved if she was trying to be serious with him and Peter flinches, eyes creeping up until they met Mr. Stark’s but he’s not angry, he’s not annoyed with Peter. In fact, he looks… tired. “Peter, we promised that we wouldn’t be doing this.”

Peter shuffles on the spot, standing outside the door of his bedroom and he can feel the taunting presence of the blank sheet of paper behind him, calling to him, mocking him but Mr. Stark had no idea, he never could. Peter tries to brush his words off, giving a shrug. “Doing what? I’m not doing anything.”

Why did Mr. Stark care, anyways? People didn’t care when teenagers were moody and unlikeable or when they were shut down and closed off, people always chalked it up to hormones and the chemicals in their brains not being right so why did Mr. Stark care so much? Why did he care if Peter couldn’t sleep and he had panic attacks and that he picked at the cuts on his skin? What was Peter to him if not a nuisance because Peter felt all he ever did was whine and complain to Mr. Stark about everything.

Mr. Stark ran a hand over his face, shaking his head and he still had yet to move from where he was sitting down. “Exactly, you’re doing nothing – you’re not talking to me or your aunt about anything and you promised that if you couldn’t talk to your aunt, you would talk to me but you’re not doing that. She’s worried and I’m trying my best to help you, but you need to talk to us, talk to me.”

And that age old wine that tasted like shame burnt Peter’s tongue as a stinging began to hurt his eyes because he was just making things difficult for everyone; of course Aunt May noticed something was wrong but he just kept brushing it off, brushing her off and Mr. Stark was only doing this to be nice, because he can’t have some random kid he knows end up beaten somewhere in an alley because Peter is letting the bad guys beat down on him longer than necessary.

So, he can’t say anything because he’s afraid it’ll all spill out and Mr. Stark is back to staring at him, waiting for him to speak but he can’t say anything at all and then Mr. Stark is pointing to the chair across from him, Peter forgetting entirely that this is his apartment and he doesn’t have to do what Mr. Stark says but does anyways, pulling the chair out and filling it.

“Kid, please talk to me,” Mr. Stark all but pleads but Peter is unable to look at him anymore, staring at the table and the burn marks, the scorches in half moon shapes that were etched in from when Peter was younger and chips in the edges from where he had knocked his forehead into when he was still young and small and didn’t know what the world was like. “I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

Peter was doing just fine, he didn’t need help because Spider-Man is strong enough to withstand anything and sometimes Peter forgot that they were one and the same person and he bristles, trying to keep it under wraps because it’s so, so, so hard not to tell Mr. Stark but he doesn’t want to keep being a whiney teenager who can’t handle homework. “I don’t need help, I’m fine,”

Mr. Stark’s patience is wearing thin and Peter can tell because he’s fiddling with his cufflinks, a tight sigh leaving him and Peter wrings his hands under the cusp of the table, wishing this would all go away and that Mr. Stark would just let it go. “I know you’re not fine, Karen has been telling me that you’ve been having panic attacks and you’ve been getting hurt more.”

Peter freezes, ice forming and cracking in his chest, clinging to each breath that seems never enough and he couldn’t believe it – the AI had ratted on him, backstabbed him when he thought he could trust her because she was always reliable, a series of numbers and noughts that would remain the same and he thought she wouldn’t tell on him.

Peter is bitter at the reveal, pulling his sleeves down further so Mr. Stark can’t see the way he’s picking at his tender skin. “She shouldn’t have, it’s not her place.”

“She’s programmed by me and I was worried about you, Pete,” Mr. Stark relays with a tiredness about him and Peter finally looks up, trying to get rid of that dripping feeling from that imbalance in his brain as it sludges through him, dogging at his heels and he sees that Mr. Stark looks exhausted, as if he hadn’t been sleeping either. Mr. Stark’s hand is on the table, splayed out and trying to reach  across to Peter but the boy refuses to close that gap, keeping his distance. “What’s going on?”

His voice is tugging at Peter, like how Aunt May’s would whenever she tried to figure out what was going on before she knew about Spider-Man, trying so hard to get Peter to talk but he couldn’t because it would just be better for everyone if he kept his stupid mouth shut and stopped complaining about everything all the time. “Nothing, nothing is going on.”

Mr. Stark drops his head, careful not to murmur under his breath because Peter would be able to hear it before he drops back into his chair, defeated.

“If you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine,” Mr. Stark says and he seems frustrated and Peter knows it’s his fault but he can’t talk, can’t tell because it’s stupid and Mr. Stark would laugh at him if he knew. Mr. Stark runs a hand through his hair, messing up the previous perfectness and his fist clenches on the table. “But I can’t let you keep doing this. Your aunt is worried and she – ”

Fear and fright bursts within Peter as he jumps in his chair, spine straight and eyebrows furrowed, wide eyed and full of terror because Aunt May can’t know, she can’t because she would be angry and hurt that Peter kept this from her and it would be more added to her plate than her stomach could hold. Mr. Stark promised, he promised that he wouldn’t tell Aunt May and he trusted Mr. Stark because he wasn’t like those school counsellors who would go behind your back and tell everything to anyone and then more people would be mad at you.

“No! No, Mr. Stark, please, she can’t know. She already deals with enough and I can’t keep asking for more.”

“You’re not asking for anything, kid. You know she would gladly give you anything you want.”

Peter shakes his head because he knows Mr. Stark is telling the truth because Aunt May loves Peter, she loves him so much that it sometimes feels like that pathetic side of Peter doesn’t exist, that when she holds him and says she’s proud it makes all the bad things go away. But Peter wants more, wants what she can’t give because of basic biology and he’s not like Kitty Joyce who gets to have two moms and all that love. He doesn’t even remember his own mother.

He’s pulling at lose threads in his sleeves, watching them come undone and his voice is a mutter. “Not this.”

Mr. Stark must have heard him because he shuffles his chair in closer, trying to capture his gaze but Peter keeps dodging, looking at the carpet with the Kool-Aid stain that never went away after Peter spilled some when he was ten and Uncle Ben was frustrated because you should know better than to fill your cup all the way to the top. “What? What’s been bothering you, Pete?”

Peter’s mouth remains clamped shut, wired closed because the words are there, right at the tip of tongue and he could just blurt it out but the more he thinks on it, the more embarrassed and humiliated he feels because it’s just one stupid essay, two pages that he can write and fill with nonsense and have it over and done with but how can he write about something he never had?

At least, it was something thought he didn’t have.

His cheeks turn redder in frustration, in shame as he continues to avoid looking at Mr. Stark, wanting to wrap up all those thoughts and to drive them away but they were out of the bag now and Mr. Stark had no idea, would probably leave the room and never talk to Peter ever again if he found out just how much Peter craved for it all, the attention and the love and the Saturdays he spent with Mr. Stark.

He felt gluttonous, selfish because Mr. Stark didn’t want to give what Peter wanted, he never asked for it, for Peter to be sitting at his desk and not being about to write about his father or his uncle because all he could think about was Mr. Stark and the time he helped him with his physics homework.

So, Peter does not speak, cannot for fear of revealing it all and more and the rod of shame is ablaze within him, choking Peter to the point he thinks he’s going to die of strangulation. It would have been easier if Mr. Stark didn’t care, if he didn’t ask about school and his grades and his tests and if he’s ever going to ask out MJ because Peter was gushing about how cool and amazing she was; it would all be easier if he didn’t fret over Peter taking a punch to the jaw or when he saw Peter on the ceilings pacing back and forth and had this worry that Peter’s feet would suddenly unstick and he would break his neck.

The silence carries, thick and unnerving, and Mr. Stark is prone to sighing as he does so again, resting his forehead on his hand with his elbow propped up, the lines on his face longer and carved deeper and Peter knows the older man is at his wits end with him, that he’s getting tired that Peter just can’t tell him.

And he should, Peter knows he should but it’s hard to explain because he can barely comprehend it himself.

“If you don’t want to say, fine,” Mr. Stark chokes out, hand over his eyes as if he can’t bear to look at Peter anymore and that flow of guilt is easing its way into his stomach. “But I can’t let you suffer alone. It’s – it’s my duty as an adult to – ”

“I have an essay due on Friday.” Peter’s voice is breathy, a rush and he barely manages to catch it in time but it’s too late because Mr. Stark is looking at him again and he can feel that warm flush run up the collar of his shirt, burning him.

He waits for Mr. Stark to laugh, to make fun of him but Mr. Stark never laughed at Peter, never was cruel in the way he would tease him so he didn’t know why he thought he would, why he ever thought Mr. Stark would be malicious enough to do so.

“An essay?” Mr. Stark repeats as if the notion is unknown to him, the idea that someone stressing out over an assignment is peculiar. “Is this what’s been bothering you?” Peter nods, voice lodged in his throat and that confusion on Mr. Stark’s face is more clear. “Why?”

“It’s…” Peter begins but doesn’t know how to fill in the blanks and looks to the edge of the table again; he can hear the shuffling and murmurs of the other neighbours and the world outside of the apartment. But most of all, he can feel that blank piece of paper taunting him from where it lay on his table, sneering at him for his inadequacies and all that he lacked. “I don’t know what to write.”

“And you’ve been stressing about it?” Mr. Stark asks, toeing the line and he still hasn’t laughed at Peter for being worked up over nothing, concerned over the fact that the reason Peter had been avoiding him all over a stupid essay. But that’s not the truth, not the reason, and if Mr. Stark ever knew, would he be uncomfortable? Would he be like Uncle Ben telling him that he’s not his dad because his dad was dead and Peter had no parents to call for when the monsters in his closest were going to snatch him away? “What’s it about?”

Peter dodges the question because he’s afraid he might throw up if he tried to explain. “It’s for English. I tried asking to write about anything else but… I couldn’t.”

Mr. Stark doesn’t call him out for avoiding the question, instead the concern on his face deepens. “Why?”

Peter shrugs, back to staring at his hands as he feels his heart quickening at a pace he can’t keep up with and suddenly all those feelings he been compartmentalising are too much to bear because he had forgotten how easy it was to just tell Mr. Stark, to have it stop festering in his mind and let it out and it frightens Peter. It frightens him to much because Mr. Stark isn’t making fun of him, telling him to man up and get it done because he was well capable of writing something but instead he’s sitting across from Peter, trying to understand, to peer into his mind to see whatever it was that was making him this way. “I got scared. I didn’t want to cause trouble and be annoying.”

Peter risks a glance through his lashes to see Mr. Stark’s face fall, softening and he’s waiting for it, the inevitable blow, rug out from under his feet because he was making a big deal out of nothing and he just needed to get a grip of himself and that pen and write something but Mr. Stark is looking at him in a way Peter can’t discern, as if he’s sad about something. “You’re not annoying, kid. You never would be.”

It pulls at something in Peter, lodged in his throat and he can feel his eyes tingling again but he doesn’t want to cry, doesn’t want to be a cry baby who is reduced to tears in an instant all the time but it was just so hard keeping it all in and that dam inside his was breaking against the boards he had used to stop it from bursting out.

It was getting harder to breathe through his nose and his throat was right, voice choked as he forced it out of him because how could he not be annoying? How was Mr. Stark not annoyed by Peter and the fact he cried so much because boys weren’t supposed to cry yet he always seemed to but Aunt May never admonished him for it, and neither did Mr. Stark.

He runs a sleeve under his nose, trying to keep himself together under the pressure of it all and a shaking breath leaves him, gulping as he continues to speak. “The teacher, she’s so nice and I didn’t want to explain everything to her.”

“What didn’t you want to explain, Peter?” Mr. Stark’s voice is gentle, delicate in drawing out a response from Peter and his eyes are wet as he tries to stay collected and calm and not think about how that piece of paper would always be empty because Mr. Stark never asked for this.

Mr. Stark doesn’t push for a response, doesn’t demand that Peter answer him straight away and he takes his time in formulating what to say. Those niggling thoughts in the back of his mind that spawned from his uncontrollable chemical imbalance of the brain seem to quieten, calmed down as he fights through them, wrestling back into the darkness and Peter feels more tranquil than he has in weeks as the silence of the apartment blankets them, so loud and drowning out all other noise that was always too much for Peter.

Mr. Stark would understand, he always did and Peter felt guilty for thinking he never would because he did – he always did for some unfathomable reason and he wouldn’t laugh, those were all lies his brain fed to him and just because he thought it didn’t mean it was true.

And Mr. Stark is expectant, on the precipice as he waits for Peter to explain, to finally stop keeping it all hidden and tucked away and he feels bad for not telling Mr. Stark in the beginning because he had promised him that he would talk, that he wouldn’t drown in silence in his attempts to pretend that everything was okay because it was. No matter how much he scrubbed his hands Uncle Ben’s blood was always there and no matter how much he willed it, he could never draw up a picture of what his father looked like before he left Peter.

But Mr. Stark was here – he was sitting across from him and willing and ready to listen to Peter.

So, Peter opens his mouth.

And he speaks.

“The assignment… we had to write a piece on our father’s,” he explains, voice croaked and cracked and he sees the brief flicker of surprise on Mr. Stark’s face and then, he gets it – Mr. Stark gets it and he knows because he finally understands. “And I didn’t want to tell her I don’t have one. And then she said we can write it about an uncle or a cousin or a grandfather but I don’t have those either.”

Mr. Stark chooses his words deliberately, chewing on them and he sounds like he’s trying his hardest to ease Peter’s nerves and thoughts. “Kid, I’m sure if you explained to her, she would understand. You shouldn’t be getting nervous or stressed about this, it isn’t worth it.”

Peter shakes his head, hands quivering and he’s almost there, he can feel it in the back of his throat, balled up and wanting to be free. “I don’t want to make things hard for her.”

Mr. Stark hesitates, as if he’s unsure of where to go or what to do, uncharted territory for him because he probably never expected any of this, of Peter sitting in front of him as he was, never expected a child to turn to him for any kind of comfort and Peter wonders what’s going through Mr. Stark’s head, if he wants nothing more to leave or if he’s trying his hardest to fully comprehend the situation of how he ended up here. “Couldn’t… couldn’t you write about your uncle? You could write about him, something to remember him by.”

Another shake of his head, his curls loose and untamed around him because he didn’t even have the effort of brushed through the strands anymore in the morning. “I… I can’t.”

There’s a pained look in Mr. Stark’s eyes as he takes in the teen before him. “Because it’s too hard to remember him?”

“No, because… because there’s nothing I can write about him,” Peter says and suddenly he’s losing the battle of fighting back the tears in his eyes, blinking them away and ignoring how they’re wetting his lashes and he takes in a gulp of air “Uncle Ben… he was fun and he looked after me but… we never did anything that was special. I don’t have anything to really remember him by and he never talked about my dad either, so I don’t have anyone to write about.”

There’s a moment where he sucks in air to stop himself from talking because he nearly says it, nearly finally let it slip from his lips the real reason for all of this and his words lull of into a silence as he holds his breath, awaiting for any kind of response; but Mr. Stark does not speak right away, it’s as if he’s letting Peter’s words sink in for a moment, the final puzzle piece clicking into place in his mind but Peter knows if he can get that final word out, let Mr. Stark know the real reason behind it all, then it would change everything.

Peter is wringing his hands again, ignoring how his palms are clammy and he’s warm in the face, a stone stuck in the bottom of his throat that’s weighing him down and he can feel his heart racing in the cage of his chest, mouth dry and Mr. Stark has that sad look on his face again.

It’s a side to him that Peter has rarely, if never, seen before because Mr. Stark is never so serious, he’s always trying to make Peter laugh and teases him without truly mocking him; it seems that Peter has only made things worse by keeping the truth from Mr. Stark because – because Mr. Stark cares about Peter, he cares about what happens to him and what’s going on and all Peter has done to repay that is by hiding things from him and giving him radio silence.

“I’m sorry, kid. If I had known that this was what had you worried I wouldn’t have decided to interrogate you like this. ”

He says it in a light-hearted way but his tone is strained, as if he’s forcing it to make Peter feel better and something tugs at the corner of Peter’s lips, to show that the effort is appreciated even if it doesn’t hit the mark. He’s never heard Mr. Stark say those words before, not outright like he just did and Peter can feel those thoughts float to the surface again, thoughts about Saturdays and how Mr. Stark cares for him and maybe he did know what to write after all.

And Peter wants to say it because Mr. Stark always said that it’s better to talk about these things instead of letting them stay inside because they would only weigh you down and Mr. Stark always cared about whatever it was Peter had to say, helped him to unbox all these inside stuff that might have otherwise been food for moths to pick at until they were nothing but bones.

“No, it’s fine, it’s just…” Peter begins and his voice is unsteady, slightly higher as he tries to look anywhere but at Mr. Stark because it’s easier to talk when he’s not looking, to pretend that he’s not in front of him and that he’s just talking aloud to himself. “Everyone has their dad teach them how to drive or to shave or take them to football games, but my dad or Uncle Ben never did that with me.”

And there’s a stretch where his words die off, where he should have laid them all to rest and not speak any further because what he had said would suffice, would be enough for Mr. Stark to understand but Peter finally looks to Mr. Stark, sees the worry and concern in his face and it’s for him – Mr. Stark had come here because he was worried about Peter, where he was, how he was doing and why he was avoiding him.

Peter had promised him he would talk and now Mr. Stark has that sad look on his face again but he knows what Peter is talking about, seems content with the answer for it and Peter can feel it pulling at his voice, the way it’s choking and strangling him because at the back of his mind, something is telling him that it’s okay to talk about it.

His fingers are knotted together as he wrings them, caught between his lap and his heart is pushed to the surface of his chest, ready to make flight at any moment and the smile lines on Mr. Stark seem all but gone now, his brown eyes that seem to similar to Peter’s burnt out with no humour dancing in them. Peter’s tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth, unburdened as it had been with all he wanted to say but he can’t stop the oncoming flood.

He doesn’t look away as he speaks because it’s too late to do so. “The only person who did that was you.”

Peter regrets it as soon as he says it, watching the way Mr. Stark’s eyes widen ever so slightly as they train on him, as if his brain is playing catch up to what had just been said and Peter wishes he could reel the words back in because why did he say that, why did I say that, why did I say that? The air he sucks in burns its way down to his stomach where he can feel his guts gripping, nails biting into the palm of his palm and Peter feels sick, feels like he might end up throwing up there and then because the humiliation is too much, hot in his cheeks and setting them alight.

There’s a stammer that rattles his bones that are encased in this sorry prison of his body, and Peter can’t undo it, he can’t erase it like he had on the page so many times, eraser worn at the edge as he wiped what he had written down away; why would he say that? Why would he say that? Mr. Stark didn’t ask for this, for him, he didn’t want any of this in the first place. But Peter couldn’t keep his stupid mouth shut and that initial heat in his face slips away on him, falling away to nothing as trepidation sneaks in to fill its place, a mask not unlike horror covering his features.

“I’m sorry,” Peter manages to get out, strained but Mr. Stark is still staring at him with that same expression, wide eyed and mouth slightly parted in shock and Peter knows he’s ruined it, he’s ruined it all and it’s all his fault. A tingling begins in his eyes once more and it won’t go away no matter he pushes at it, trying to put it in the back of his mind to forget but it refuses to go. “I shouldn’t have said that, I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, I shouldn’t – I shouldn’t have – ”

Peter’s body is already moving, standing to get away from it all because if he can turn away from it, then it might not even exist; he wants to be out there swinging from the buildings, not trapped in here with the echo of his own words still ringing in his ears and he’s only barely off the chair before a hand is on him and Mr. Stark is gripping him, features on his face wrought with something Peter can’t discern but he hopes it’s not disgust or annoyance.

“What? No, Pete, no, don’t say that,” Mr. Stark says, easing Peter back down into his seat but he looks lost, mouth parting as if he wants to say something but not sure of how to say it, his response each time eaten up by another that might replace it. Mr. Stark lets go of Peter, hand going through his hair again as the other pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut. “I’m… I’m just trying to make sure I understand.”

Mr. Stark’s eyes open again, imploring for an explanation that Peter cannot offer up as he’s back to staring at that stain in the carpet again. “Mr. Stark, I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you.”

“So you have been avoiding me? Good to know I wasn’t imagining it,” Mr. Stark jokes but it’s empty as the half smile Peter can see from the corner of his eye and Peter cannot even offer up a shallow laugh in response because it’s drowning underneath that sea of static once more. Mr. Stark notices this, the way Peter can’t bear to look at him and how his eyes seem shinier than usual, then the older man shifts in his chair, gripping the lip of his seat to shuffle it closer to Peter, bringing his hands together and letting them dangle at the space between his legs. “Peter, is this what’s been bothering you?”

Peter can’t even deny it even more, can’t tell Mr. Stark that it’s false because he was the one who had said it and there’s no use lying anymore, it’s all pointless now. His messy curls itch the back of his neck as Peter gives a nod to which he can hear the sharp intake of breath from Mr. Stark.

“I didn’t know what else to do. I can’t remember my dad and Uncle Ben was… he was just Uncle Ben. And Mr. Stark, you… you’re – ”

Peter doesn’t know how to explain it because whatever he’s about to say is caught, a stone caught in the back of his mouth and he can feel that wetness again and he manages to catch it before it spills onto his cheek but it stains his sleeve with darker droplets and, God, Peter is so tired; he’s so tired of feeling this way all the time, of trying to keep it all in because it’s so exhausting and it’s not really his fault how his brain is wired, how that imbalance seems to teeter to close to the edge too often, threatening to poison him the longer he let it go untreated.

And now it’s all accumulated to this moment, dripping out of his eyes as he keeps trying to catch onto the droplets but there’s too many for Peter catch and it’s getting harder to breathe now; Uncle Ben would be so disappointed in him if he saw Peter being so prone to tears, but Peter can’t help it, not since Aunt May and Mr. Stark always kept trying to tell him it was okay to cry, even if he was a boy.

Even now, Mr. Stark doesn’t admonish Peter for being such a cry baby, in fact the corner of his lips seem to tug down into an unhappy frown, as if saddened by the sight in front of him.

“Oh, kid,” is all Peter hear leaving Mr. Stark’s mouth before suddenly he’s pulled forward and Mr. Stark is hugging him, arms wrapped around him and hand cradled to the back of his head, caught in the nest of Peter’s curls and Peter can’t help the way his arms wrap around Mr. Stark, gripping at his expensive suit but Mr. Stark doesn’t seem to care as he holds Peter.

Uncle Ben didn’t use to hug Peter as often when he started to grow up and became all long limbs and lanky, but Mr. Stark didn’t seem to care, holding Peter like how Aunt May would, as if he was being cradled and the feeling of it all pushes down those upset tears in his eyes, makes it easier to breathe through all those knots and tangles that choke his veins. For the first time in a long time, Peter feels as if his mind is his own, clear and washed out of all those horrible thoughts that have been like scum clinging to the inside of his skull.

Mr. Stark’s hand is patting down the mess of Peter’s hair, not caring when he snags on a knot caught in the strands and Peter sniffs, eyes closed tight and pressed close into the shoulder of the older man. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark.”            

“You have nothing to be sorry about, Pete. Don’t apologise,” Mr. Stark shushes, voice soft in his ear and then his hands are on Peter’s arms, pulling back slightly and he’s smiling in the way he always would, not in the least bit disappointed or annoyed at Peter and it makes that feeling in Peter’s chest feel lighter, easier to bear. “Peter, you know I care about you, right? I never get tired of saying it because it’s true.”

And because Mr. Stark keeps saying, Peter wonders if all those thoughts in his head were the ones who were lying, because why would Mr. Stark feel the need to lie? If Peter was being annoying, Mr. Stark would say it but he doesn’t so maybe… maybe it was true after all. Why had he ever listened to those traitorous thoughts in the first place? “I know, Mr. Stark.”

“Do you? I hope you do, kid. I care a whole, damn lot about you,” Mr. Stark says, a small smile curving around his words and lingering at the edges of his mouth as he unconsciously pushes back a curtain of curls that are caught in Peter’s lashes. “And… and I’m glad you would ever think of me in any high regard.”

Peter’s eyes widen in surprise having not ever expected Mr. Stark to ever say that. Wasn’t he uncomfortable like when Uncle Ben would be when Peter would accidentally call him dad? But Mr. Stark is smiling now, looking far more at ease than he had been when Peter first entered the apartment. “Really?”

A laugh leaves Mr. Stark and he goes to ruffle Peter’s hair, messing it up but Peter doesn’t care one bit. “Of course, where would I be without my number one Iron Man fan?”

This time, a groan leaves Peter rolling his eyes. It seems Mr. Stark never got tired of making fun of the fact Peter had been (had been as if he still wasn’t) a fan when he was younger. “Mr. Stark.”

“Feeling any better?” Mr. Stark asks, scrutinising Peter with a hesitation lingering at the edges and Peter shifts on his chair because he had forgotten why Mr. Stark was here in the first place.

Does Peter feel better? He doesn’t magically feel everything is okay within him, that he’s completely normal and his brain is wired just the same as everyone else’s; no, he doesn’t feel okay but he does feel like that weight in his heart is lighter, that he can breathe easier and his mind is quiet now, soothed and not fraught with such frightening thoughts.

He's not okay, but he’s better than he was, and that had to be a step in the right direction, right? He takes a breath and it doesn’t hurt as much anymore and Peter nods. “Yeah, I think… I think I am.”

“Good. You know you can talk to me about anything, right?” Mr. Stark insists, the tension around him slacking and his body seemed more relaxed now, as if put to ease about knowing that Peter is in a better place than he was a few moments ago. “Doesn’t matter what or when. If it’s about saving another cat from a tree at three in the morning, then I’ll gladly listen.”

“It was one time!” Peter protests immediately, feeling the heat in his face at the memory of it because it hadn’t been just any tree – it had been the Rockefeller tree and he had to climb all the way to the top to grab the cat and he had nearly fallen so many times and was sure that there had been bugs stuck in his suit for a week after it. Mr. Stark had laughed while showing Peter the picture of Spider-Man in the newspaper the next day where the cat’s claws were digging into his thigh in fear of falling and Peter dangling with one hand, trying to grasp the neck of the animal with the other, the eyes of his suit blown out wide.

“You don’t think I’m dying to hear about everything?” Mr. Stark insists, before he jabs a thumb over his shoulder at the fridge. “You never told me about the fact you got an A on your last assignment.”

“I’ve gotten A’s plenty of times before,” Peter brushes off with a shrug, feeling a bit bashful because he didn’t think that Mr. Stark would care to notice, let alone care at all. But he always did.

“And I know you’ll get plenty more.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then who cares?” Mr. Stark declares with a shrug, reaching across to give Peter a pat on the shoulder. “It won’t determine your entire life.”

“You would not like my French teacher, she would definitely disagree with you on that,” Peter mutters, suppressing a shudder at the image of the old woman who was as sharp at the edges as she was with her tongue, always looking begrudgingly reluctant to give Peter any high grade even though he knew he would deserve it. She always seemed to take pride in having so many students fail her class and hated Peter for being one of the few who aced every test and quiz.

“I’ll fight it out with her on parent-teacher meeting night,” Mr. Stark says and Peter can’t help but laugh at the idea – Mr. Stark? At a parent-teacher meeting? The thought alone would have sent Peter into a fit of laughter if the possibility that Mr. Stark would actually go to a meeting didn’t seem untrue; knowing Mr. Stark, he probably would simply just because he could and Aunt May alone was a fighter against any of the teachers who tried to talk bad about Peter, he couldn’t imagine the two of them teaming up.

Though, it would probably end up with Mr. Stark spending the night trying to stop Aunt May from jumping any of the teachers who seemed to have it out for Peter.

“You’d lose, I think she’s only alive out of pure spite,” Peter says and Mr. Stark lets out an aghast gasp, hand clamped over his heart and clicked his tongue, as if in disappointment of Peter’s lack of support.

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Mr. Stark sniffed, faux hurt on his face and shaking his head while Peter rolled his eyes at Mr. Stark’s ridiculousness, glad that things didn’t always have to be so serious and depressing whenever he was around him. Mr. Stark just had this way about him to cheer people up, pulling jokes and making quips that Peter couldn’t help smile at and he made it so easy for Peter to realise he was more than these old, worn bones that seemed too old for him sometimes.

Then, the moment passes and Mr. Stark has that flicker of seriousness flashing over his eyes again and he straightened up, the humour around them dissipating.

“Peter, I know I’m not good at…” Mr. Stark trails off and gestures between the two of them, a confusion settling onto the surface of Peter’s face. “At this. But I hope at least you can talk to me about these things because I’m here for you whenever.”

Peter gives a limp nod, trying to clutch onto the words and let them ring in his head so that they might push out all the other thoughts that existed to contradict what Mr. Stark is always trying to drill into his skull – that Peter is loved, Peter is cared for and he is wanted. If he keeps letting it echo in his mind, and if Mr. Stark keeps saying it, perhaps one day he’ll fully be able to believe it with no apprehension. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I want, kid,” Mr. Stark explains softly, as if Peter even just trying was better than anything at all. Then, Mr. Stark’s hand is on Peter’s shoulder again, grip reassuring and warm and Peter looks up at Mr. Stark to see an odd sincerity in his eyes. “You’re one of the most important people in my life, I want to make sure you’re always okay.”

Peter’s mouth all but falls open at the revelation and he can’t seem to wrap his mind around it, voice a wheeze as it leaves him. This couldn’t be real, Mr. Stark had to be joking but when Peter looks at him, there’s not a single trace of teasing the lines of his face; how could Peter be one of the most important people in Mr. Stark’s life? He was just some kid from Queens who got bit by a stupid spider, how did he ever end up here? To him, Mr. Stark was everything and more, he was just like Aunt May in that respect and it makes him choke up, trying to get in control again because he can’t believe it’s true, let alone that Mr. Stark has said it. “I am?”

Mr. Stark grins at him. “’Course you are. You know how cool it is that I know the Peter Parker?”

Peter can’t help but roll his eyes at Mr. Stark again. “Spider-Man is a lot cooler.”

“Spider-Man wasn’t the one who showed me up with his formulaic equations.”

Peter hums, nodding. “I was pretty smart with it.”

“Just a bit,” Mr. Stark says, pinching his fingers just to show how little he meant and Peter ducked his head to hide his smile that seemed all too proud to have his declaration vindicated. There’s a strange fondness in Mr. Stark’s face as he lets out a breath and his hand on Peter’s shoulder squeezes for a brief moment. “C’mere kid.”

He brings Peter into a hug again, arms wrapped tight around him and Peter all but falls into it, his own moving of their own accord to link around Mr. Stark and his eyes close; Mr. Stark’s hugs are like Aunt May’s – they’re so warm and comforting and makes Peter feel like the rest of the world doesn’t matter because he’s safe here, that it shakes off the coldness in the marrow of his bones and leaves him feeling no longer as old as he always felt.

“Peter, don’t ever be afraid to talk to me about these things in future,” Mr. Stark pleads, frayed and threadbare, soft in Peter’s ear as he continues to brush down the untidy curls atop of Peter’s head.

“I won’t,” Peter promises, nodded his head into Mr. Stark’s shoulder.

“Good,” Mr. Stark states and there’s a silence stretching before he speaks again, quieter and more delicately. “I love you, kid.”

Peter stills but he no longer feels the need to doubt anymore. “Me too.”

“And you know, Pete, sometimes I…” Mr. Stark trails off, pulling back slightly to look at Peter but not really seeing him, a faraway look in his eyes and Peter feels that confusion again, wondering what it was going on in Mr. Stark’s mind as his voice falls off into nothing, that whatever he wanted to say was caught somewhere in his chest and he couldn’t scrape it out. Mr. Stark’s hand is absentmindedly brushing down the messy nest of curls atop of Peter’s crown, watching the way some of the strands remain stubborn and refuse to sit, and then his mouth clamps shut, swallowing roughly before he lets out a sharp breath and that smile is on his face again, wrapping his knuckles against Peter’s skull as if expecting to hear an echo. “Sometimes I just wonder what’s going on in that big, ol’ brain of yours.”

He knocks on Peter’s head again and chuckles when Peter ducks out from underneath, reaching up to pat down his hair with a huff and just when he’s done, Mr. Stark goes and messes up Peter’s work again but Peter doesn’t bother to fix the mess, feeling a nervous smile begin to bloom on his lips because it’s felt like it’s been so, so long since he’s been able to joke and laugh like this.

And he’s missed it – he’s missed hanging out with Mr. Stark, missing talking and making jokes and not having to worry because Mr. Stark is there for him to listen and understand and he doesn’t know how he went so long without it all. And now he doesn’t want to let it go at all. “I was wondering… I was wondering if I could make up for missing out the last few weeks?”

“You want to hang out with little ol’ me?”

“If that’s alright?” Peter asks hesitantly, ignoring the jittery feeling that’s buzzing beneath his skin, gulping silently and wondering if maybe Mr. Stark would be too busy on a Wednesday afternoon to hang out with him but the grin on Mr. Stark’s face widens.

“Well, Mr. Parker, I would be honoured,” Mr. Stark says, smiling down at Peter and Peter cannot help but return it. “I could hardly say no, especially when you have your Iron Man socks on.”

Peter’s face is instantly red as he splutters looking down at his feet to be sure he was still wearing his shoes. Why, out of all days, did he decide to wear these stupid socks? “You saw?!”

Mr. Stark quirks an eyebrow, thoroughly too amused. “Was I not supposed to?”

Peter slumps back into his chair, burying his face into his hands and wishing that the earth would open up and swallow him whole. “I’m going to throw myself off the Empire State Building.”

Mr. Stark gives a none too reassuring pat on Peter’s shoulder. “I’ll see if they commission Iron Man child coffins.”

It takes a while for Peter to talk about it all, to tell Mr. Stark how hard it is some days but he does, eventually; he tells him bit by bit instead of all at once and Mr. Stark listens with care, never interjecting as Peter finally lets it all out, a tsunami whose waves are crashing against his lungs and making him feel like there’s no air left in this world but then it passes, it always does, the tide pulling back into to sea and leaving it calm once more.

Mr. Stark never judges Peter, instead he gives him a hug when Peter is so close to tears again and smiles at him to cheer him up and doesn’t mind when Peter is pacing the ceiling as he talks, neck craned up and watching him with care. They work as they talk but Peter feels it’s to keep his hands and mind moving while his mouth does the same and he’s fixing more than one thing at once as he does so and afterwards, when it’s getting late and he has to go home, Mr. Stark pulls Peter into one last hug and says he’s proud of him.

Hours later, when he is at back at the apartment and when Aunt May has come home and given Peter a hug that is promptly followed by a shower of kisses on his forehead and cheeks before she goes to bed, Peter pulls out the chair that has gathered dust from where it rested underneath his desk and sits. His pen is lying where it has for the past few weeks and the page doesn’t seem so scary anymore.

Peter picks up the pen because, for the first time, he knows exactly what to write.