Archive of Our Own ^beta

Puffy white snow flurries dropped from the sky and flitted past black eye-lenses. By morning, the city would be blanketed in a dense pelt of snow. Spider-Man disconnected the web-line from his wrist and stuck to the outside wall of his apartment building, shivering against the frigid breeze. This winter’s cold had a certain bite to it that felt icier than any he’d experienced before. 

He made his way to his floor, careful to avoid the prying eyes of his neighbors, and slipped inside his room through the window. His AC unit was absolute shit, so the apartment offered little relief from the cold. But at least he was out of the wind. 

Spider-Man shut the window and peeled the mask off his head, puffing out his cheeks. His hands were numb; his toes felt like miniature popsicle sticks. He cupped his palms around his mouth and breathed hot air between his fingers, trying to bring some feeling back. Now that he was using his own homemade Spider-Man suit instead of Mr. Stark’s (whose A.I. no longer remembered him, just like the rest of the world, and had therefore locked him out of the network and all of the costume’s functions, rendering it useless to him), Peter seriously needed to start saving for some thermals. He’d never realized how good he’d had it—wearing a suit with a built-in heater. That is, until now, when he was freezing his ass off every time he went out on patrol. 

He checked the time on his phone. 1:58 AM. Could be worse. After everything that had happened, everything he’d lost, he’d unconsciously began spending way more time as Spider-Man, and as little time as possible as Peter Parker. Even after breaking and unbreaking the multiverse, Spider-Man still had a lot going for him as NYC’s friendly neighborhood (and now, once again, anonymous) superhero. He had power, presence, and a name people recognized, albeit some more fondly than others. And there was always someone somewhere who could use the web-head’s help. 

But Peter Parker, on the other hand? He had…nothing. No one. All that was left from the life he once led was an old coffee cup, some Star Wars Legos, and a lonely headstone he stopped by once a week to leave fresh flowers beside.

He didn’t like to think about it. It was all too painful to dwell on. So when he wasn’t job hunting, errand running, or studying for the GED, he was out in the city, fighting crime as Spider-Man. It was a welcome and effective distraction from the weight of his grief, which clung to the inside of his throat and throbbed with every beat of his heart and threatened to drag him someplace dark and deep that he might never escape. He had to stay busy and keep himself occupied in order to combat that despair, to keep moving forward, to pay the bills, save the citizens, keep May’s legacy alive, keep everyone safe.

Peter stripped out of his suit and bundled into his old Midtown High pullover, some sweats, and a pair of fuzzy socks. He had laundry to do, a budgeting plan he still needed to finish, and another chapter left in his study guide to get through, but all that would have to wait. Right now, the only thing Peter had the energy left to do was crawl into his creaky twin bed, bury himself beneath mildew-smelling covers, and pray for a dreamless sleep. 

He was in the middle of counting his one hundred and twenty-eighth sheep when a bright orange light suddenly flooded the room. His eyes flew open, and he was on his feet in seconds, fists raised, heart hammering in his chest. 

“Ah! H-hey! The hell is—?”

Peter gasped. A glowing, circular opening yawned before him. It hovered in the center of his tiny bedroom, bathing the space in orange light, spitting sparks in every direction. It looked similar to the magical portals Dr. Strange opened, but less sorcerer-y, more fiery. Flaming tongues stretched from the opening and lapped at the walls and floors of his apartment. Arches of fire that reminded him of solar flares pulsed off the circle’s circumference. The harsh heat washed over his face and made him squint. 

“It worked! It worked!” he heard an excited voice call. “You’re a genius, Doc!”

“No way!” a second voice exclaimed. Both sounded oddly familiar. “Does that mean we can go inside?”

“Machine’s stable now. Dimensional rift is holding steady and secure. Just beep me on the transponder when you’re ready to return, and I’ll pull you right back out.”

Peter shielded his eyes with his hands, inching closer to the portal. “Um…hello?” he called skittishly. “Who’s there? W-what’s happening?”

And then, two figures suddenly jumped through the opening and landed in front of him, startling Peter so much he stumbled backwards and fell onto his bed. 

“Wha! Holy—!” His eyes darted rapidly between the pair of faces, which he immediately recognized. The realization dawned on him like a slap across the mouth. His muscles relaxed and his eyes went wide. “You…what? Oh…oh my god.”

“Peter!” Peter 2 greeted him. He wore casual clothes, though he could see the hem of his red suit poking out from under his collar. The man smiled wide and held out his arms. “I can’t believe it. It’s really you! We’re really here! Again!”

“Sorry for scaring you!” Peter 3 chimed in, gesturing between the two of them. “It’s us! The other Peter Parkers slash Spider-Men! You remember?”

Peter slid off the bed and dropped to his feet, huffing out an incredulous laugh. An overwhelming flood of emotions immediately rushed through him. He swallowed, pressing a hand to his chest. 

“You—you remember me?” he barely managed to choke out. “I wasn’t sure—after Strange’s spell—of course I remember you guys, b-but—you actually remember me?”

“Yeah, we remember you,” Peter 2 chuckled, clearly confused. “You seriously expected us to forget about you that quickly? I know I’m older than the two of you, but I’m not that old. Give me a little credit.” 

“It’s so good to see you again!” Peter 3 said enthusiastically. “We really missed ya, bud! How’ve you been?”

Peter’s jaw hung open while his brain grappled to process all of this. The knot of feelings in his throat branched through his chest down into his gut, overpowering all attempts to shut it out. His eyes stung as a smile touched his lips. 

“I…” he began, voice tight. Then he shook his head and raced forward, crashing into their arms, which embraced him eagerly. “You’re here! And you remember me! This is—insane! I thought I’d never see you again!”

The other Peters laughed as they hugged him, squeezing him tight and patting his back. Peter didn’t even try to stop the tears from flowing; he hadn’t been hugged by anyone since the day he lost everything. 

“Aw, buddy,” Peter 3 said, rubbing circles into his shoulders. “Come on, now. If you start crying, then I’m gonna start crying, then all of us are gonna turn into one big blubbery mess.”

“You okay?” Peter 2 asked earnestly. Peter pulled away and ran his hands under his eyes, struggling to compose himself. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he insisted, sniffling. “Sorry, I just—I really missed you guys.”

“We missed you too,” Peter 2 said with a smile. The portal behind them fizzled out of existence, leaving the three Spider-Men standing in the dark. Peter dried his tears on his sweatshirt and ran to flip the lights on, which took a few seconds to flicker lethargically to life. 

“How are you even here? How is this even possible?”

“Doctor Octavius and I have been working together to reconfigure his old fusion reactor design into a ‘dimension-hopping’ machine,” Peter 2 explained, putting air quotes around dimension-hopping. “Knowing that other universes existed and were able to be transversed gave us a solid jumping off point. Once we got the math and the power necessities calculated, we just had to find the connective string that linked our universes to yours.”

“Which was us!” Peter 3 stated proudly. “Us as in, Spider-Men. Peter Parkers. Universes where Peter Parker exists and is also Spider-Man. Ya get it?”

Peter blinked, mouth hanging agape. “You mean you and Doc actually managed to build a universe-jumping device?”

Peter 2 shrugged nonchalantly. “Sometimes magic is just science we haven’t figured out yet. I couldn’t have done it without Doc's help, which I wouldn’t have had if you hadn’t fixed his inhibitor chip. So you’re really the one to thank for all this being possible.” He nodded towards Peter 3. “After the machine worked for his universe, we figured we outta pop by and visit you in yours.”

“And now here we are!” Peter 3 cheered. “Is this not the coolest thing to happen, like, ever?”

Peter nodded, beaming. “It’s all—just—wow. Incredible.” A chuckle escaped him. “And hey, thanks for thinking of me amidst all these groundbreaking, multiverse-perusing technological discoveries. Warms my heart.”

Peter 2 swept his gaze across Peter’s apartment and hunched his shoulders. “So, uh, how have you been holding up? I see you’ve found a new place to crash.” 

“Oh yeah,” Peter 3 said, eyeing the cracked ceiling and the eclectic culture of mold growing around the air vent. “It’s, um…it’s nice. You know, cozy, homey, not too pretentious—”

“It’s a shithole,” Peter giggled with a shrug. “But it’s my shithole. I’m just happy to have a roof over my head—even if there’s a fifty percent chance of it caving in from water damage at any given moment. Apparently it’s very hard to find a place that’ll accept your application if you don’t already have a job. Or, you know, ‘aren’t legally an adult’ just yet.”

Both older Peters smiled hesitantly. “Right.”

“I also didn’t realize just how expensive the things you have to pay for on top of an already very expensive rent are. Like, you know—water . And electricity. And a fee for an exterminator who is definitely not doing their job. And renter’s insurance! What the hell even is that? Has that always been a thing?” He sighed, scratching at his hair. “It’s all just—you know—very new. Eye-opening.”

Peter 3 pointed at the pots and pans crusted with a variety of burnt cuisines piled in the sink. “Have you been, uh, trying out some new recipes?”

Blush dusted across Peter’s cheeks. “Oh, er, yeah,” he stammered sheepishly, jogging past him to scrub at the blackened spaghetti sauce caked to the bottom of the pan. “Heh, another fun thing I’ve discovered over this past month: my complete lack of cooking skills. I can’t afford to eat out every day, so I’ve been trying to teach myself how to make a few of the dishes May always cooked for me. So far the only things I’ve managed not to burn to the point of being inedible have been grilled cheese and mac and cheese. So…thank god I’m not lactose intolerant.” He stared wordlessly at the dirty cookware for a few moments, his eyes going wide as the epiphany struck him. “Dish soap!” he cried, throwing the sponge down in frustration. “That’s what I forgot to get at the store today! Ugh—I knew I was forgetting something. I’ll have to swing by again tomorrow.”

Peter 2 and 3 exchanged an uneasy glance before turning back to Peter 1. “Still adjusting to the new living arrangements, huh?”

Peter huffed wearily before pasting on a tired grin. “Yeah. Haven’t figured out my routine just yet.” He yawned and rubbed his eyes. “But I’ll get there. You know, eventually.”

“I’m sorry you’ve had to struggle with all these things by yourself,” Peter 2 said, crossing the room to lay a hand on his back. “I know how hard it can be.”

“Have you asked MJ or your friend Ned for any cooking advice?” Peter 3 offered. “I’m sure between the three of you and that sweet Nana of his, you guys could whip up some cheap, meal-preppy type stuff to get you through the week. I suggest simple, healthy recipes with loads of carbs and protein. You know, to give you enough energy for late night web-swinging.”

Peter gazed into his stack of failed cooking attempts with a blurry haze over his eyes. After a few seconds of silence had passed, the hand on his back gave his arm a small squeeze.

“Peter? What’s wrong?”

Peter 3 cupped his palms over his mouth in horror. “Oh my god. Don’t tell me—did you guys break up? I swear, if you broke up, love is officially dead.”

Peter tried to laugh, but it came out more like a sob. “No, we didn’t—didn’t break up,” he said, swallowing thickly. His chin dropped towards the floor. “They, um…they just don’t remember me.” 

Peter 2 searched the boy’s hollow expression, trying to understand. “What do you mean?”

“In order to stop the spell I botched from breaking the universe, Dr. Strange had to cast a new spell that made everyone in the world forget who I am,” Peter explained stiffly. “Including them. Ned and…and MJ.” He stared at his feet. “He did it after you guys were sent home.”

Peter 2 released Peter 1’s shoulder, his heart sinking in his chest. “Oh, bud,” he said mournfully.

“Wait, so…this whole time since we’ve been gone, you haven’t had anyone? You’ve been alone this entire time? Through the holidays and New Years and…all of it?”

“Have you talked to them? I mean, did you try to—I don’t really understand how magic spells in this universe work, but—maybe there’s a way you could get them to remember. Snap them out of it, jog their memory, you know?”

The longer they spoke, the more desolate the kid’s expression became. He shook his head, voice breaking.

“I tried. But, um…they don’t—don’t remember. They can’t.” He shrugged, sniffling. “But…maybe it’s for the best, you know? Without me, they’re so much safer and more successful. They actually have futures now. They’re both going to MIT next fall. And they’re, like, really excited about it. I don’t want to mess that up for them again.” He blinked the tears from his eyes and sucked in a shaky breath. “So…yes. I’ve been alone. But I’m—I’m okay with that.”

“Are you?” Peter 3 countered. Peter 1 turned to meet his gaze. The look on the poor kid’s face was absolutely heartbreaking. “I know I wouldn’t be,” he continued. “And I for one am not okay watching you try to do what we do without any kind of support system backing you. Trust me: it’s not sustainable.”

“Spider-Man was never meant to be a solo act,” Peter 2 agreed. “I wouldn’t be the hero I am today without the support and guidance I’ve had from my loved ones. We need to surround ourselves with people who care about us, who understand what we’re fighting for, and who can pull our heads out of our asses whenever we’ve lost our way.”

Peter wiped his cheeks and shook his head, voice laced with grief. “I can’t put them in danger again,” he whimpered. “Not Ned or MJ or anyone else. And even if I wanted to, there’s no one left who even knows I exist. I don’t have anybody.”

“You have us,” Peter 3 corrected him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and giving him an affectionate shake. “We’ll be your support system until you find some locals from your own universe to help you out—whoever they may be.”

“Which we will be constantly hounding you about until you do,” Peter 2 added, ruffling his hair. “We can’t allow one of our own to hole himself up in his shitty little Midtown apartment like some sad spider-hermit. It’s not healthy, and gives a bad name to Spider-Men everywhere.”

Peter laughed in spite of himself, tears spilling from his eyes faster than he could mop them away. He nodded defeatedly. “Fair enough,” he said, gripping his arms at the elbows as he looked between the two Spider-Men. “Thank you. Honestly. You have no idea how nice it is to see you both again.”

Peter 3 lifted his hand off of his shoulder and frowned at his palm. “Um. You do know you’re bleeding, right?”

The youngest of the three Peters looked down at his arm in surprise. “Shit,” he hissed. “Forgot about that. I meant to patch it up as soon as I got home.” He poked at the fresh stain on his sleeve with a groan. “And now I’ve got this to deal with.”

“Four tablespoons of baking soda mixed with a fourth cup of water—gets any bloodstain out in no time,” Peter 2 recited. “Trust me: it’s a lifesaver for people who get injured as often as we do. Really wish I’d known that trick back when I was just starting out.” 

“No one warns you about the perils of endless laundering that await you once you enter the superheroing world,” Peter 3 said woefully. He tugged at the bottom of Peter’s sweatshirt. “Come on—let’s get you cleaned up.”

Peter hesitated, then carefully slipped out of his pullover. Once they got a look at what lied underneath, the other Peters realized why. The kid’s arms, back, and chest were covered in wounds—most well on their way to healing, but others still alarmingly fresh. But the worst part of all of it were the gashes on his elbow and beneath his collarbone, which were being held together by messy, jagged stitchwork the boy had clearly sewn himself. 

“I’ve been out Spider-Manning a lot more since May died,” he tried to explain, shrinking beneath their wide-eyed stares. “It helps keep my mind off things, but…sometimes I wind up over exerting myself. Taking on too many bad guys at once too many nights in a row.” 

Peter 3 clicked his tongue. “Right. Okay. No biggie. It’s tough. We get it.” 

Peter 2 leaned in close, his fingers hovering over the stitches in the kid’s arm. “Is this…fishing line?” he spluttered. 

Peter hunched his shoulders timidly. “It’s cheaper than the stuff in those fancy suture kits…” he murmured. “Plus, one spool lasts way longer and works better than everything else I’ve tried.”

“I’m horrified to think of what else you’ve tried that’s somehow worse than fishing line,” Peter 3 said with a shudder. 

Peter 2 kneaded at his temple. “Geez. Was I ever this insane and reckless? I once threw myself off a building after my powers started to fail and nearly broke my back, but I very quickly learned my lesson.” He snatched the spool of fishing line and the bloodied sewing needle from his side table and held them up pointedly, making Peter 1 wince. “You, on the other hand, obviously haven’t. You have to take care of your body, bud. No cutting corners, no cheap alternatives. Out of all of your priorities, your health always has to come first.”

Peter prodded at his sore stitches and scowled. “I can’t afford to go to the doctor all the time. And I can’t risk exposing my identity again.”

“I get that. Which is why we’re going to teach you how to treat your own injuries. Properly.” He tilted his chin toward the cut on his chest. “Where did you learn how to suture your own wounds?”

Peter licked his lips and averted his gaze. “Um…YouTube?”

A beat passed before Peter 2 inhaled deeply, then sighed. “I’m seriously considering barging into whatever superhero sanctum your teammates live in and giving them a piece of my mind. They haven’t exactly had your back through all of this. What did you call them again? The Apprehenders?”

Peter snorted. “The Avengers,” he corrected him. “And please don’t. We only get together for world-ending-type disasters, not for mending little scratches.” He sat on the edge of his bed, hands fidgeting in his lap. “Besides. None of them remember who I am, either.”

Peter 3 plopped down next to him, producing some medical sutures and gauze from a pocket in his costume. “How about I help stitch you up, and Peter 2 cleans your shirt and suit for ya?” 

The young hero scoffed shyly. “You guys—you really don’t have to—”

“But we’re going to,” Peter 2 interrupted him, plucking his costume off the floor. “Gotta look out for our own, right?”

Peter stared between the two Spider-Men with an exhausted but grateful shine in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said, voice small. He'd gone so long without receiving any outside help, it felt weird accepting it now. 

“Is this a new suit?” Peter 2 asked, holding it up to get a better look. “Did you make this yourself?”

Peter chuckled. “That bad, huh?”

“No. It’s just—different. I like it. The colors really pop.” He smiled warmly. “I think it suits you better. Makes Spider-Man look…I don’t know. More fun and friendly.” 

Peter smiled back, then immediately grimaced as Peter 3 began stitching up the gash in his shoulder. Even with the proper supplies, the process still hurt like a bitch. 

“The key to successful suturing is precise movements and keeping everything sterile. The last thing you want is for your wounds to get infected.”

“Ouch,” he groused, trying to stay still. Fortunately, Peter 3 worked quickly.

“Us Spider-People are lucky enough to heal faster than most folks, but that doesn’t mean we’re invincible. Big cuts like this one need to be sutured and treated in order to mend properly.” A minute later, he finished off the last knot, then threw his arms in the air. “Ta-da! See? Not too bad, right? Sorry I don’t have any lollipops for ya.” 

Peter looked down at the tidily dressed wound. Compared to his patchy handiwork—well, there was no comparison. “How long do I need to leave them in?” he asked. 

“Minimum of three days. And be sure to take it easy—otherwise, you’ll wind up ripping them open and having to start all over again.”

“Suit and shirt are all cleaned up and hanging out to dry,” Peter 2 announced, returning from the kitchen and jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. “I patched the tear in the sleeve as well. Looks good as new.”

Peter huffed out a laugh as he wriggled into a Mets T-shirt. “Whenever I imagined what it’d be like if I ever saw you guys again, this is not at all what I pictured. I thought we’d be thwipping around the city together, having web-swinging races or teaming up for another battle. Not, you know, standing around my shitty apartment, doing laundry and getting lectured on self care. May would be so proud.”

The other Peters chuckled. Peter 2 joined them on the bed and patted the teen’s back. “Peter Parkers are multifaceted beings with multifaceted needs. We can do some fun stuff together soon, once you’re all healed up and have worked out a more stable living routine.”

“My vote is for the web-swinging race,” Peter 3 said eagerly. “That needs to happen, like, ASAP. I have to know which would win: our artificial webbing, or that stuff you make in your body.”

Peter feigned a small smile, but it didn’t last. He chewed his lip and swung his feet, trying to find the right words to articulate his thoughts.

“Can I ask you guys something?”

Peter 2 and 3 shared a quick look before nodding. “Yeah. Of course.”

The boy hugged his arms to his chest and wrinkled his brow. “Did you ever…I mean. After you lost the people you cared so much about, were you ever able to, like…feel like yourself again?”

Both Peters sensed he wasn’t done yet, so they waited for him to continue.

“I don’t think I know who I am without them. I don’t feel like me anymore now that they’re gone. Being happy used to come so naturally to me. I used to be able to find a reason to smile no matter how bleak the circumstances.” He choked out a laugh. “May used to call me her ‘sunshine boy’ because all my life, I’ve been the one who smiles in the face of adversity and goes around cheering everyone else up. But now, it all feels so fake and forced. I don't even have anyone to cheer up anymore. I’m just going through the motions of the happy, carefree person I used to be. Hoping that one day I’ll wake up, and it will somehow feel normal again. Not something I’m forcing myself to do just to cope, you know?”

Peter 2 considered his response carefully. “I think part of what you’re experiencing is a very normal progression of the grieving process that myself and Peter 3 understand well. It’s been almost twenty years since I lost Uncle Ben, and I still don’t feel like the same person I was when he was alive. And…I’m not sure I ever will. He was a part of me, and you’re never going to feel completely whole when part of you is permanently taken away. You have to learn to just…live with it. To carry that grief, that emptiness, and be okay with it.” 

Peter 2 heaved a lofty sigh. “Another part of it might just be that you’re growing up and realizing the world isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. Life is tough and painful, especially for people who do what we do, and it’s okay to not be happy all the time. After everything you’ve been through, you’re allowed to be sad and angry. You’ll feel authentic happiness again soon—I promise. But don’t try to force it. Let yourself process those negative feelings you need to feel right now. ‘Cause if you don’t, they could come back to haunt you as something a lot scarier in the future.”

Peter blinked up at him, sucking his lips to his teeth. “Wow. You’re, like, really good at this. You should host a podcast about the physical and psychological tribulations that come with being a superhero and how you’ve overcome them. I bet it’d be really popular with other up-and-coming heroes like me.”

Peter 2 chuckled bashfully. “Well, thank you. Happy to be of service. I’ll…keep that in mind.”

“Let me just say that I am totally on board with everything old Peter is saying,” Peter 3 interjected, moving his hands emphatically as he spoke.

Peter 2 frowned. “I don’t think I like that title.”

“Sorry. But anyway, yes, feeling your feelings is super important. The main reason I got so bitter and vengeful after Gwen’s death was because instead of dealing internally with my grief, I took it out on others. You have to give yourself space to feel all that pain before you can start to truly heal from it.”

“Did this just turn into Spider-Man group therapy?” Peter joked, even though that was absolutely what it felt like. 

“Hold on, not done yet,” Peter 3 said, holding up his index finger. “What I’m saying is, yes, to feel more like yourself again, you’ve gotta follow old Peter—I mean, sorry—Peter 2’s advice.” A grin spread across Peter 3’s face. “However, there are little things you can do to make mundane life more enjoyable and make yourself happier in the present moment, even if they’re more of a short-term fix.”

Peter narrowed his eyes curiously. “Like what?” he asked.

“Try changing your perspective on things.” He sprung off the bed, an excited sparkle in his eye. “Like—like cooking, for example.” He gestured to the sink brimming with dirty dishes. “When you think about cooking, you probably see it as a chore, something you’re not particularly good at or looking forward to doing.”

Peter scratched the back of his neck. “Can’t argue with you on that one…”

“But instead of thinking of cooking as cooking, why not think of cooking as science?” Peter 3 shot a line of webbing from his wrist and whipped a cookbook off the countertop into his hands. “After all, at its core, that’s all cooking really is. Following a procedure, mixing solutions together, observing chemical reactions. It’s like you're cross-testing an experiment to try to get the same results other scientists have achieved—which just so happens to be a delicious meal!”

Peter tilted his head to the side. “Huh. I never thought about it that way.”

“We know science is a major passion of yours. Because—well, we’re you. So why not reframe some of these annoying adult-life things you have to do as fun, scientific escapades? Cooking, laundry, even cleaning—when you get down to it, they’re all just mini science experiments you’re trying to make work in your favor.” 

Peter’s gaze shifted between the mound of dirty dishes, the overflowing hamper of smelly clothes, and the muddy footprints on the walls and floor adjacent to his window. “It’s not a bad idea,” he conceded. 

“Just because you have to do more boring adult things now doesn’t mean you have to do them in a boring adult way. You’re still a kid, ya know? You’re allowed to act your age and put a fun spin on otherwise tedious chores to make them easier to get through. I know I do.” 

“I might just steal that idea for myself,” Peter 2 thought aloud. “Even at my age, I still dread doing some of those things. Reframing them through a scientific lens is smart.”

Peter 3 pointed at him enthusiastically. “That’s the spirit! See? Everything is more enjoyable when you rewire your brain to recognize the science-y side of it.”

“That’s the problem, though,” Peter said, criss-crossing his legs on top of the bed. “Even science doesn’t inspire me the way it used to. No matter what I’m doing, I just feel...numb. Lifeless.” He deflated miserably. “It’s like…like I’ve forgotten how to be happy.”

Peter 2 laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. The kid obviously needed more time to process everything. His loss was still so fresh and new and painful. 

“Maybe there’s a way we can remind you how to be happy,” Peter 3 suggested. “Ya know, with science. I mean, happiness as we know it is just chemicals in our brains and synapses firing off in the correct order, right?” 

“That’s debatable,” Peter 2 remarked. 

Peter 3 shrugged. “Still. Could be worth a shot.”

“What did you have in mind?” Peter ventured to ask, hunching his shoulders. “Shrooms? The devil’s lettuce?”

“No!” Peter 3 exclaimed, appalled. “You’re a baby! Babies don’t get to take drugs!” He wagged his finger in his face. “And even if you could, that is not a healthy way to deal with our emotions!”

“I was joking,” the teen insisted, the corners of his mouth lifting into a halfhearted smile.

“Well, stop joking. No more deflecting from our problems with humor. We’re the ones who should be trying to make you laugh, not the other way around.” A look of delight suddenly flashed across his face. Peter 3 snapped his fingers in the air and quirked one eyebrow. “Speaking of, that actually gives me an idea.” 

“Maybe it’s best if we head out for the night, let Peter get some rest,” Peter 2 offered, checking his watch. “It’s…whoa. A lot later here than it is in my universe. Sorry we’ve kept you up this long.”

Peter shrugged passively. It wasn’t like he slept much these days, anyway. Peter 3 held up his hand. 

“Just lemme try this one last thing,” he pried. “Trust me: it’s a safe, easy, science-backed hack for cheering people up who feel like they can’t be cheered up.” He smiled softly at the littlest of the Peters. “It’s, uh…it’s actually a trick my Aunt May used to use on me when I got low. Still does, sometimes.”

Surprise and curiosity overcame Peter’s expression. He glanced at Peter 2, then slowly slid off the bed to stand in front of Peter 3. “Show me,” he said.

Peter 3 grinned, crossing his arms against his chest. “All right. Okay. Cool.” He scratched his chin in thought and squinted up at the ceiling. “Let me remember—how did she do it? Um…okay. First, close your eyes.”

Peter searched the older Spider-Man’s face for a couple more seconds before doing as he was told. He inhaled and exhaled deeply. “Okay. Now what?”

“Now, uh…lay on the floor.”

The kid frowned. “With my eyes closed?”

“Sure. If you can. I mean, you can open them to lay down. So you don’t, ya know, trip or anything. But close them again once you’re on the ground.”

The kid looked skeptical, but went ahead and sank down to the floor, sprawling flat on his back. “Like this?”

“Yep. Perfect.”

“You said this was a science-based hack?”

“One hundred percent.”

Peter pursed his lips, then rested his head against the ground. “All righty.”

Peter 2 scowled at Peter 3 and mouthed ‘What are you doing?’ Peter 3 held a finger to his lips and mouthed back ‘You’ll see,’ a mischievous glint in his eye. 

“So, what’s next? Do I just lay here with my eyes closed? Is this some type of meditation or hypnosis thing?”

“Not quite,” Peter 3 replied. He sat down on the floor next to him and pushed his elbow upwards. “Lift your arms above your head and interlace your fingers together.”

Peter raised his hands and gripped them together obediently. “This floor smells like cat piss,” he observed, wrinkling his nose.

“Hush,” Peter 3 snapped. “This is a very delicate process that must be executed with the utmost precision to work. Are your eyes closed?”

“They’ve been closed this entire time!”

Peter 3 grinned. “Spectacular,” he said, then placed his palm on top of Peter’s interlaced hands, pinning his arms above his head. “Time to science your way to happiness.”

The tiniest of Peter tingles itched at the back of his neck, making the young hero open one eye. “Wait—what’re you—?”

Five fingers suddenly clamped around his side and began squeezing his midsection, drawing a surprised shriek from Peter’s lips. Bright, bubbly laughter immediately followed, paired with a wild frenzy of squirming. 

“AHAhehey! Whahat’re—whahat is—s-stahap!” He tried to pull his arms down to guard himself, but was stunned to discover that he couldn’t; the third Spider-Man was just as strong as him, if not stronger, and had also purposely positioned him so that gravity was on his side, leaving Peter defenseless against the unexpected tickle attack. 

“See? Told ya it would work,” Peter 3 said smugly, scurrying his fingers across the teen’s belly. “Anything is possible through the power of science!”

“Thihis isn’t scihihience!” Peter giggled shrilly, his face flushing red. He bucked his hips and kicked his legs, but couldn’t find a way to dislodge himself from Peter 3’s hold.

“Sure it is!” Peter 3 protested. “Science is just making a hypothesis on something then observing the outcome, right? Watch this: I hypothesize that in the next three seconds, you’re going to scream like a little girl.”

“Thahat’s not—AAAHAhaha!” Peter 3’s wiggly fingers shot up to his rib cage, making Peter squeal and thrash. “StAHAp it!”

“But look how happy you are! If this doesn’t remind you how to laugh and feel joy, I don’t know what will.” He giggled in unison with the squirmy teen, endeared by his childlike laughter and the adorable radiance of his smile. In the short time they’d known each other, Peter 3 had watched the youngest Peter go through an exhausting rollercoaster of emotions: guilt, regret, heartbreak, grief, loneliness, rage, vengeance. The only times he remembered seeing him truly, authentically happy before now (which had only lasted a few seconds) were the times the three of them had hugged each other. He understood his struggles all too well, and recognized the kid still had a lot of healing to do. 

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t cheer him up with a much-needed older brother tickle attack whenever he really needed it. Peter 1 had been forced to grow up and act like an adult way too much lately; it was about time they brought out the kid in him again. 

And damn, did he sure laugh like one.

“I think I get the ‘sunshine boy’ nickname now,” Peter 3 said, mirroring the teen’s wide grin. “You’ve got the brightest smile and the cutest laugh in the whole world!” 

“Shuhut uhup!” he giggled, burning from head to toe, fiercely regretting telling them about that. “Lehet me GOHOhaha!” He fought to break Peter 3’s hold on his hands with all his might, flailing and tugging between bouts of belly laughs. 

“Not until the science experiment is complete!” Peter 3 retorted, wrestling with his arms. Keeping the kid pinned was growing more and more challenging. “Holy shit, you’re strong. Hey—Peter 2. Mind lending me a hand?”

The oldest of the Peters pondered the situation carefully, then chuckled. A playful smirk spread across his face. “What else are brothers for?” he asked, standing from the bed and joining the other Spider-Men on the floor. He grabbed Peter 1’s wrists and pinned them firmly above his head, making the boy gasp. 

“Hehey! W-wahait!”

“Much better!” Peter 3 let go of Peter 1’s hands and wiggled all ten fingers at him menacingly. “Now we can really get you laughing.” 

Peter shook his head, bursting with anxious giggles, his brain buzzing to warn him of the incoming attack. “Noho! Dohon’t! Gehet awahayHAYHAHA!” Two hands began scribbling against his sides, and the kid’s laughter immediately shot up in octave and volume. He writhed and yelped, trying to comprehend how the hell he’d gotten himself into this mess and grappling for a way out. Of all the ways to help him feel happiness again, why did they have to pick this? How could they have possibly known about that weakness?

Oh. Right. They were him.  

Was this what having older brothers was like? Being blessed with people who looked out for you at your lowest points, had your back when you needed them most, who knew and understood you from the inside out, who then turned around and used that knowledge to embarrass the shit out of you and make you feel eight years old again?

Perhaps being an only child wasn’t so bad after all. 

“T-TRAIHAItors!” he cackled, throwing his head back with his eyes squeezed shut, smiling the biggest smile in the universe. “Thihis is—SOHO unfAIRHAIRHAHAheehee!” 

With his arms pinned to the floor, Peter 3’s hands were free to torment his entire torso. He squeezed his hips, kneaded his belly, and tweaked his rib cage, driving the ticklish teenager up the wall. He was no match against the combined strength of the two older, more experienced Spider-Men. He’d been poked and tasered by his loved ones in the past—those who knew him well enough to be privy to his ticklishness and how quickly it disarmed him and brought a smile to his face. But never to this degree: rendered completely helpless by his fellow superheroes who knew exactly what buttons to push to make him lose it. This whole situation was beyond humiliating. 

“Unfair but necessary,” Peter 3 said wryly, pinching his sides. “Cheering you up when you’re down is our job as your older spider brothers!”

“And to remind you you’re still just a kid,” Peter 2 added. “A smart, tough, resilient kid—but a kid nonetheless. Who also happens to laugh like a hyena when you tickle his ribs.”

Hiccups began punching out of his chest between bouts of sunny laughter, making the blush in his cheeks bleed into his ears. How come no matter what group of heroes he was working with, he always wound up being the youngest? Even out of the multidimensional Spider-Man trio, he was still the littlest brother. It was a pattern he was growing sick and tired of very rapidly. 

Ohokay!” he squeaked, twisting and flinching as Peter 3 poked at his belly. “Ihit—it worhorked! You dihid it! Ihi’m h-happy nahow! Youhou can stahahap!”

Peter 3’s fingers scurried up his sides before digging into his underarms, making Peter 1 arch his spine and screech like a pterodactyl. The older Peters laughed at him, causing his entire body to flush pink. 

“Not so fast!” Peter 3 countered, squeezing and scribbling the kid’s ticklish armpits. “We’ve gotta make sure we get every last bit of those happy chemicals flowing through your brain before you’re off the hook.”

Peter kicked his legs and squirmed helplessly against Peter 2’s grip, howling with laughter. “AHAHAhack! Sh-SHIHITHAHAha!” 

“That spot seems to release a pretty good deal of them,” Peter 2 observed with a chuckle.

With no other means to fight against his tormentors, Peter swung his knee into Peter 3’s back. Peter 3 recoiled with a scoff. 

“Ow! Okay, that’s it.” He aimed his wrist at the kid’s ankles and fired a glob of webbing over them, trapping his feet against the floor. “Bad kicky spider legs get put in time out.”

Peter wriggled and writhed, but his feet were stuck in place. Now he was even more restrained, leaving his entire body open for Peter 3’s sinister fingers to tickle. This absurd predicament was getting worse by the second. “Noho! Noho mohore!” he implored, his face aching from smiling so long. 

“Relax, buddy! We’re almost done.” He spidered his fingers above his tummy threateningly. “Just a couple more hypotheses I wanna test.”

To Peter’s horror, Peter 3 slipped his hands under his T-shirt and started scuttling his nails against his bare sides. Peter jolted, giggling hysterically, goosebumps prickling across his skin. 

“EEEheeHEEK! Oho my GAHAHAD!”

“It boggles my mind that so many people could still hate you even after seeing your face,” Peter 3 said, grinning down at the cackling teenager. “Just look at that smile! What kind of heartless, evil person sees that and doesn’t immediately fall in love?”

Peter felt like he was going to erupt—once from laughing so ridiculously hard, and again because of the relentless teasing. Why did they have to be so goddamn patronizing? He was so getting them back for this.

Peter 3’s hands moved higher, tickling his defenseless midriff and ribs, furthering Peter’s desire to implode. His brain couldn’t focus on anything besides the ten merciless fingers needling his torso. His laughter was becoming frantic. He couldn’t stand it another second. He had to make them stop.

“M-MERHERCY!” he hiccuped, tears collecting in the corners of his eyes. “Thihis—ihis—TORHORTURE!”

“This is a bit mean,” Peter 2 conceded, watching the poor kid flush redder and redder as the tickle attack continued. By now, he was laughing so hard, the only actual sounds he was capable of producing were quick snorts and violent hiccups. 

Peter 3 tickled his underarms a few seconds longer before lifting his hands off the winded teen. “All right, all right,” he said, allowing the boy to catch his breath. “Don’t go blacking out on us. The good news is, I think the science experiment worked: we’ve activated almost all of your body’s happy chemicals.”

Peter sagged against the ground, panting and giggling weakly. It was nice to see him look so smiley and carefree for a change—even if in reality, he was understandably pissed at them. His goofy, childish laughter really drove home how young this universe’s Spider-Man still was—a fact that was as endearing as it was heartbreaking. 

“Almost all of them?” Peter 2 asked, raising an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure we got ‘em all.”

Peter 3 shrugged. “Oh, sure, yeah, probably.” He lifted the kid’s shirt with an evil grin. “But, ya know, just to be safe—”

Peter stiffened. “Hehey—w-what’re you—EHAHAHAAAGH!”

Peter 3 leaned down and blew a big, fat raspberry right into his tummy. Peter screamed and flailed, the sensation sending shocks across his entire body. Peter 3 snickered at his frenzied reaction and did it again and again, sending the kid into a silent, hiccuping spiral in seconds. 

Fortunately, Peter 2 was kind enough to release his arms while this was happening, granting the youngest Peter a fighting chance. As soon as he realized he was free, Peter pushed frantically at Peter 3’s head, which was caught underneath his shirt, desperate to make the raspberries end without accidentally hurting him.

“Pleehease STAHAP!” he cried, his belly fluttering with panicky laughter. “I prahamise I’m cured!”

Peter 3 laughed, wrestling to escape his shirt. “Sorry—got stuck for a minute!” He popped out a second later with a playful grin. “There we go. How ya feeling now? Happier, I hope?”

Peter 1 responded by shoving him to the floor, making Peter 3 giggle. “Nohot cool!” he exclaimed, residual laughter still thrumming through his system. He hugged himself around the middle, panting and dizzy and flustered to his core. “Oho my god. Th-that was…so uncalled for.”

“But it helped, didn’t it? No way you can laugh that hard and not feel at least slightly cheered up.”

“My sihides feel like they’re about to split,” Peter wheezed, his cheeks burning bright red. He rubbed his eyes, struggling to wipe the goofy grin off his face. “Oh man. I’m gohonna p-pass out…”

“I think it’s about time we all passed out for the night,” Peter 2 said, tearing the webbing off the kid's legs and offering him a hand. A few seconds went by before Peter 1 reluctantly accepted, rising unsteadily to his feet. “Sorry for teaming up on you like that, but it seemed like you needed a hard reset.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Peter chuckled shyly, kneading at his sore ribs. “I get the sentiment, but ugh—dohon’t ever do that again.”

“Quit acting like it didn’t work,” Peter 3 said smugly, giving his side a few quick pinches. “Look at yourself; you can’t stop smiling.”

Peter 1 leapt away from his touch with a squeal. “Hehey! Ehenough already!”

The two older Peters laughed brightly, making the youngest Peter bristle with embarrassment. Despite his protests, they wrapped him into a big, squishy hug, sandwiching their little brother between them. 

“Why does it feel like you pioneered dimension-hopping technology just for the purpose of coming here to bully me?” Peter 1 grumbled through a half-smushed smile.

“Because that’s exactly what we did,” Peter 2 chuckled. He released Peter 1 from his hold and gripped his shoulders. “And to tell you you’re doing really great, that you’re a really strong person, we’re really proud of you, and we’re here for you.”

Peter smiled sheepishly, his face still rosy and warm. “Thanks. I appreciate it. Everything you guys have said and done for me. Minus the last five minutes.”

“Don’t mention it,” Peter 3 insisted, hooking an arm around his neck and giving him a playful noogie. Peter 1 scrunched up his nose and squirmed out of his grip.

“Lay off,” he giggled. “You’re making me miss the times I only knew one Spider-Man—me.”

“I don’t miss those times at all,” Peter 3 said, his face falling a little. “It was lonely, thinking I was the only one going through what I was going through.”

Peter 2 smiled somberly. “Me neither. It’s nice to know there are others out there who get it. Even if they’re entire universes away.”

Peter 1 glanced between the other Peters, wondering what it must feel like to come from a world that not only had just one Spider-Man, but no Avengers. Maybe no other superheroes at all. How isolating that would be. He imagined it was similar to what he was going through now, but also entirely different. At least he had other heroes to look up to here, to befriend, to depend on when things took a turn towards the apocalyptic. But these guys were in this fight completely alone.

Peter punched them both in the arm and grinned. “I'm glad I'm not alone, too. Feel free to stop by my universe anytime. I'd love to visit your home worlds. Maybe I could introduce you to some of the other heroes I’ve worked with.”

Peter 2 chuckled. “Thanks, but this whole multidimensional Spider-Man situation might be hard to explain.” 

“Oh. True.”

“Besides, you two are probably way more fun to hang out with anyway. How often does a guy get to be around a couple of alternate versions of himself?”

“Hopefully a lot more in the near future,” Peter 3 said exuberantly. 

Peter 2 turned to Peter 1 with a hesitant smile. “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to feel like yourself again. I know it may not seem like it right now, but I promise you. You’ll get there.”

Peter nodded, scratching behind his ear, trying his best to swallow his emotions again. “I know.”

“We’ll stop by again soon. I’ll bring some more medical supplies next time. And a pack of dryer sheets. And maybe a couple more things of baking soda.”

“Okay,” the young hero giggled. “Thanks.”

“Don’t forget to talk to other people, Peter,” Peter 3 reminded him, pointing sternly. “You need to form some in-universe friendships. We’ll always be here, but still. That goes for Spider-Man and Peter Parker. Got it?”

Peter offered him a sardonic salute. “Aye aye, Cap’n.”

The older Spider-Men smiled at him and took a few steps back. “See ya around,” Peter 2 said, clicking a button on the high-tech remote in his hand. “Ease up on the patrols until those wounds are healed.”

A circle of fire appeared behind them, swirling like a volcanic whirlpool, growing as tall as the ceiling and as bright as the sun in a matter of seconds. Peter shaded his eyes with one hand while waving goodbye with the other.

“Remember to smile, sunshine boy!” Peter 3 hollered as he jumped through the portal, throwing up double peace signs. “And if you can’t, I’ll be sure to remind you again! I love you!” 

Peter rolled his eyes bashfully. Peter 2 chuckled and followed after Peter 3, disappearing into the ring of flickering flames. The opening sizzled and shifted, then spiraled in the opposite direction, spewing sparks across the floor as it shrunk smaller and smaller. It vanished in a puff of smoke, and Peter suddenly found himself standing in his shitty apartment again, alone. Alone, but not feeling it as viscerally as he had before. 

When he finally went to bed that night, sleep came easier to him than it had in a long time. Maybe, eventually, the same would go for everything else in his life that currently felt so impossible. Maybe that old Parker joy would find him once again. And perhaps a new kind, too.