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If Peter's good at anything, it's running.
Specifically from his problems. The actual physical activity- Well, he was never one for sports. Being a mutant vigilante was one of the only things keeping him active. Metaphorically, on the other hand, he has to have won multiple awards in the sport.
He doesn't remember the last time he's properly dealt with his emotions. He's played guitar until his pick breaks, he's written lyrics until his head starts to hurt and all the words are gone, he's cut his forearms up until he's pressing toilet paper down to stop the bleeding, he's taken shots until he's throwing up on his mattress. And at the end of the day, it's always there. It's always back.
But death is scary. People don't naturally want to die. We have flight or fight for a reason. Peter knows this from the times he's gotten so close to ending things just to go back on his word. No one knows what comes after, so they avoid it at all costs.
That doesn't stop him from pretending, though.
Maybe it's control; he hears a lot, from people, that it's control. People cut, burn, scratch, etc., themselves to have some control over what they feel. They starve themselves, and then binge eat, and forcibly throw it all up again, just to have control over something in their life. They sit at the edges of bridges and roof tops and count the pills in a bottle just to have control over whether they live or die.
We as humans have so little control.
It's a sick thing really, how delirious it makes him feel. He can jump right then; let himself fall without the safety of his web shooters. Plummet into the water and drown. It isn't pleasant, hell it'll probably hurt like a bitch. Knowing how his healing will catch up with the broken bones and the fall definitely won't kill him; it'll be up to the water and that isn't exactly a way he wants to go. But it means he's gone, right? It's all he has.
He stays there for awhile. Pacing back and forth on the sidewalk so the drivers and bikers don't know what he's actually there for. He leans over the fence, breathes in the polluted air, and finally makes a decision.
May is still at her shift. So it's easy to get back into his apartment and grab all the spare cash he has. He feels guilty, going over whether or not to take a little extra money from May's drawer. In the end, he takes $50. Just enough to buy himself some food when he gets off the bus.
Then, his guitar. He barely plays the thing anymore, but he still remembers enough songs that maybe he can play on the streets. Two pairs of clothes and the last bottle of Vodka make their way into his backpack, and he sets off towards the bus station.
He's leaving Queens, leaving Spider-Man, leaving May and Tony and Ned and MJ and everything. Because all he can do is run. There's no sense of control. We just run around waiting for the next big materialistic thing and hope it fixes what we need. We drink ourselves to a blackout, take pills until we're dead, break open our wrists until we've stained our bedsheets, just to feel something else.
It never works.
This won't either, but Peter can't help but run.
Tickets from Queens, New York to Boston, Massachusetts, are expensive, he finds. It takes nearly two thirds of his money, but he doesn't back out. $100 is enough to keep him alive for the next week, right? Shit, he should've packed water, and maybe a spare sandwich. But he's taken enough from May, and maybe he should've left a note. All of this is fucking stupid and what he should've done is jumped off the bridge while he still had the chance-
"A guitar, really? What, are you gonna run off to join the cult you met at Electric Forest? I hate to break it to you, kid, but this ain't the seventies and you aren't John Lennon."
The sarcasm there only to mask the worry and anger, the raw and scratchiness of it, is unmistakable. Peter tenses, stays still in hopes that if he closes his eyes none of this will be real and he'll wake up in his bed back at the apartment and the hole in his chest has some magical fucking filling.
But this is real. And he's thoroughly fucked.
He stands, turns, and gives a weak smile. "Well, actually, I can play Blackbird pretty well."
His joke falls flat, which he personally thinks is stupid because it was great. Tony, on the other hand, doesn't crack a single smirk. He sets his hand on Peter's shoulder. It's rough and won't be moved, and he looks to the ticket seller.
"Really? You guys just give out tickets to everyone you see? He's clearly a kid, for fucks sake."
"Well, you don't need an ID, sir-"
Tony scoffs, but doesn't press it when Peter nudges him. Before he's pulled away by the older man, he gives the ticket seller an apologetic smile.
Tony is fuming, but he doesn't say anything until they're in the car and he starts driving. The radio is off and it makes everything more tense.
"So, you gonna tell me what this is about, huh? A rebellious phase? I mean, come on, I seriously thought you were smarter than genuinely running away. You got any idea how worried May and- May has been?"
The correction hits Peter in the gut. He wants to tell himself Tony is just angry, at himself or someone else Peter can't tell, but everything else screams that he should've just died.
"You've got a responsibility, alright?" Tony continues. "I thought you understood this, but you're Spider-Man. You're a child, you can't just buy train tickets and run off to a different state because you think you can wing it with a fucking guitar and ten dollars in your pocket."
"I'm sorry," Peter mutters, but it's laced with clear annoyance. He is genuinely sorry, but he also wants to yell everything he's been forcing down at Tony, just to make the older man guilty.
"Yeah, Peter, you should be," Tony spits.
Peter inhales through his nose, bites his lip and forces back everything he wants to say. Tears brim his eyes and as they pass over the bridge, his heart starts to beat faster as if Tony will just know.
He wants a drink.
They sit in silence the rest of the ride, until they're in front of the apartment building and Peter's throat constricts. He grabs his bag, intent on not letting Tony see its contents, and his guitar before sliding out of the car. His legs falter though, and he rests his hand on the side of the car while Tony comes over. The older man raises his eyebrow, but when Peter shrugs him off, he continues.
Once he's sure his legs won't give up on him, Peter follows Tony into the building and up the stairs. He wants, more than anything, not to see May's disappointed gaze when he walks in and has to explain he bought a bus ticket to Boston. But, that's exactly what happens when they walk in.
"Oh, Peter," May whispers, and pulls her nephew into a breath constricting hug. "Peter, baby, what's going on? Why would you run away?" She runs her hands through his hair and she speaks softly, trying to coax an answer out of Peter. It's obvious he's been different lately, and she knows he's had a past of.. unhealthy coping mechanisms, but she really has no idea how bad it is. Peter plans to keep it that way.
"Nothing, I'm sorry May. Just got impulsive I guess." It's so obviously fake, but he doesn't bother to pretend any further. He pulls the $50 he stole out of his pocket, along with the remaining money he had left and hands it to her. She lets out another quiet sob.
"I don't want money, Pete, I just want you to tell us what's wrong."
"Nothing's wrong, May," Peter insists; but it's so obvious something is. His voice is so dead, and Tony is almost scared at the way his eyes are the same.
"Kid," Tony speaks up softly, reaching his hand out slowly. He's rejected, though.
"I'll go to bed. Just um, what's the.. punishment, or whatever?"
"Well, you're sure as hell grounded," Tony lets out gruffly, the soft concern he had gone (it isn't really; it never is, but if you hadn't noticed he tends to mask that with anger).
"Oh," Peter lets out. So fucking dead. "I'll grab the suit-"
"Hey, no, I'm not taking it again, kid." Tony grabs Peter's shoulder before he can leave. "Not after last time, I'm not." The Vulture is fresh in their minds; specifically Peter's, it never won't be. But Tony doesn't know the details and he never needs to. "But you sure as hell can't go out as Spider-Man for a week, everything else is up to May."
"Hey, Pete, how about you get some sleep. I want to talk to Tony."
Peter nods and sets off to his room, quietly setting his bag and guitar down. The two adults in the other room speak in hushed voices, but he can still hear them clearly.
"I want him to see someone," May speaks first.
"What, like, a shrink?"
"Yes, Tony, a shrink," May's exasperated. "I've been trying to save up money, but rent keeps going up."
"May, I'm a billionaire. I can pay for it. But I want to find someone that can help with the.. you know, Spidey stuff? Give me a few days to look into it, won't take long."
"I don't know how he's going to react, though," May adds. "He saw one when Ben was still around, but then when he died money got tighter.. and he never really wanted to see the guy, Ben and I were just really worried."
"Why? What was going on?"
Peter digs his nails into his palms. It's none of Tony's damned business.
"He just.. wasn't coping well, I guess. He should tell you, not me."
"Okay, yeah, fair. I'll call you when I've found someone, we can set something up then."
"Great, yeah. Thanks a lot, Tony. He really cares about you, you know."
"Yeah," Tony whispers. "I care about him too."
May lets out a soft chuckle. "I can tell."
Peter stops listening from thereon, every part of him telling himself they're simply lying and know he's listening and there's no way in hell the older man cares. After all, he's just a walking piece of self destruction, one that was meant to die in flames the moment he was born. Why should Tony bother?
~_~_~_~
While he may be grounded from Spider-Man until Wednesday, May lets up on his other grounding once the weekend hits. A huge mistake, but she doesn't realize that.
He's going to Ned's, he tells her, and Ned knows that he's made the lie and is willing to cover for him. Nevertheless, his friend is worried and tries to pry, not that he gets far. He's also gotten a few glances from MJ, which would be normal if she hadn't tried to talk to him about where he was the day after his whole.. running away, ordeal. She knows something's up (when does she not?) and Peter's growing tired of pretending there isn't.
So that's why he's circled the date on his calendar, for the first of May.
Two weeks from then, and every day makes him more anxious, but at the same time it makes him almost.. exhilarated. Just two weeks left of putting up with all of this.
When you know you're going to die, you start thinking about everything that'll be marked as your last. The last time you speak to your aunt, the last time you listen to your favorite band, the last time you text your best friend. It's almost scary, but it doesn't deter Peter.
Four days since the "Incident" and there's been no words on Peter seeing a shrink. Not that he's complaining, because he doesn't want to, but he kind of is. Only because that small, logical part of him, knows Tony cares. Or at least did, but now the man has been silent on all of it and Peter wonders if it was just an empty promise. He won't even try to put in the effort to help the kid.
Whatever. He's got two weeks left, he oughta stop complaining.
He sits on the top of a roof, which is really risky, considering he isn't in his suit. No one saw him climb up, but he totally looks like he's going to jump (maybe he should) and getting down will be a hassle. But it doesn't matter. He's got a shot glass in one hand and a bottle of Skyy Vodka in the other.
He hasn't had Skyy in awhile. As in, he's only had it once and the first time he did he threw up his dinner on his bed. May had been confused as to why he'd thrown up despite not running any fevers. He thought she'd be able to piece it together, but she didn't. Convenient, he supposes, albeit it stung just a bit.
A chaser would've been a good idea, but instead all Peter has is a water bottle and it is not doing the trick, nevertheless he makes it to his third shot and sets the bottle down with a groan. It's already started to kick in and he looks at the sky, laughing as the colors blend like a painting. He wonders, is he in a painting? That'd be nice, wouldn't it. Just to be colors on a paintbrush, melted into a person that doesn't actually exist. An art piece held up in a gallery and sold for some amount of money. He hopes, if he is an art piece, that he's a nice one. Maybe not a beautiful one, but the point is still there.
Maybe there'd be a lot of greys, and dark purples, maybe maroons. The world clouds around him like the colors mixed together, like a blanket that isn't comforting, more suffocating.
He zones out, not counting the time that's passed. Was the sun setting when he first laid down? Damn, he can't remember, but those shots hit hard; Skyy manages to do that, apparently. It also manages to lead a specific hero to his area.
"Howdyyy Misser Stark," Peter greets, his grin being lopsided and his hand waving in the air. His legs dangle off the edge and he wonders if they're even attached to his body. Maybe he should lean over and check, see if he ends up falling off-
He's roughly grabbed by the back of his collar and pulled from the side of the ledge. He hadn't even noticed that he'd been leaning over until Tony had pulled him away.
"Careful there, kid, you could've fell."
"Oh, wouldn't that be nice?" Peter mutters, too drunk to really think of what he's saying. Tony scoffs, assuming that it's simply the alcohol. Oh, if only.
"Yeah, if only, huh? First, you start responding less, and I think it's just some teenage thing. Then it's the subtle grade drops, and the running away, and now you're drinking? God damn it Pete, what's going on?" Despite the man's clear frustration, his voice gets soft at the end and he kneels in front of Peter, staring into his intoxicated eyes and begging for some kind of answer.
"I'm just tired, Misser Stark," he answers with a slow and sluggish blink. He's so fucking tired, but Tony doesn't get it; he never has. The man purses his lips, nods, and stands.
"Well, let's get you home then right? You must need a damn good sleep." Tony hoists the teenager into his arms and takes off in the suit. Peter zones out during the ride, until they're back in the apartment. May isn't home, and Peter is grateful even if he knows she'll figure out what happened either way.
Tony is quiet the entire time; even when Peter pukes out the liquor and leans into Tony's chest, letting out a miserable whine at the burning in his nose. He's quiet while he helps wash it out of the teenagers hair, and gets him into bed. He's quiet until then; then he speaks.
"I know there's a chance you won't remember this, but God I hope you know we're here, kid, and drinking sure as hell isn't going to fix whatever is brewing up in your head. I know that from experience, it only makes things worse. I'll be here in the morning, and every other time you need me. Get some rest, bud." Tony leans forward, presses a kiss to the side of Peter's head (who is nearly asleep) and leaves the room.
~_~_~_~
It's April 30th.
Peter's heart has never beat this fast. With every step through the school, he knows it'll be his last. His last time opening his locker, his last time going to first hour, his last time answering a question in his US History class, his last time tossing Ned the apple slices he never eats, his last time telling MJ he's okay and just patrolled a bit longer than he was supposed to.
He sees Tony that afternoon. They've been hanging out at the tower more often lately, after the Vulture, whether it be to work on lab things regarding the suit, or just to fuck around. That night, they work separately in the lab, but Peter is distracted with his eventual (and fast approaching) demise and it's obvious.
"Alright, Underoos, what's plaguing that head of yours today?" Tony interrupts their silence halfway in. The night from two weeks ago, and the running away incident are (mostly) forgotten. Tony is still working on finding the teenager a shrink. Apparently he's been "preoccupied", but him and May both think Peter is still in the dark about the whole ordeal. He rolls with it just for the sake of it not being rushed.
Not that it matters anymore.
"It's um, it's complicated." Of all things to talk about, this is the last one Peter needs. His hands grow more stiff with the tools as he continues to work.
"Mhm," Tony hums suspiciously. "Girl trouble? Or boy trouble- Is that Flash douche still messing with you?"
"Not as much," Peter shrugs, and it's true. Flash was still a major pain, but he wasn't as obnoxious. He doesn't know what happened, and honestly it's a little suspicious, but Peter won't complain.
"Then what is it, kid?" Tony turns around and faces the teenager.
"I'm just tired, Mr. Stark, but I'll get some sleep later."
He's just tired, but he won't be for long.
~_~_~_~
He panics.
His hands are shaking, and he holds the object in his hand with hands that can't stay still. He wonders if he'll misfire and shoot himself before he's even ready. Would it be so bad? At least he gets it done. It's nearly midnight, and he wishes it was March again; if it just means he can think about this a little more, say better goodbyes, write better notes.
He calls Tony.
"Hey, kiddo, what're you doing up this late?"
"Can I tell you a story, Mr. Stark?" Peter asks. His voice is shaky too, and it's obvious. Something is so wrong and he knows Tony has caught on by the way he's cautious with his next sentence.
"Yeah, kid, what is it?"
"In ninth grade, you read Romeo and Juliet, right? And, yeah, they kill themselves. So, 'course, our teacher had to go off about how- how that isn't right, or whatever. How we shouldn't do that. He explained that suicidal people feel trapped- that's why they do what they do. Juliet was trapped in what her parents were forcing her to do, and others feel trapped in, in- I don't know, school, work, y'know?
"So, yeah, at the time I thought it was bullshit. He's just an English teacher and let's be honest, high school teachers don't know what they're on about half the time. But I thought about it, and, I guess he's right."
It's silent for too long of a moment.
"I feel trapped, Mr. Stark."
There's a sharp intake of breath on the other end. Peter knows what's coming, knows he's fucked. The tears finally come and he can't stop them, but a part of him feels so relieved.
"Where are you, bud?"
"A roof," he croaks out.
"Could you- could you get down from there?"
"No." No, he shouldn't have called. He should've just died. "I'm not by the edge, I just like the view."
"Okay, that's fine. Are you- Do you have anything on you?"
"A gun," Peter whispers. "I have a gun." He checks the time. 11:57 PM. "I think I.. I think I oughta go, Tony."
"Hey, no, absolutely not kid. I need you, alright? May needs you, MJ and Ned- None of us can lose you. You mean so much to all of us-" Tony's voice cracks, and Peter almost feels guilty. But he's sick of feeling guilty. Why can't he just do one thing for himself?
"I'm really tired, Tony."
Tony lets out a sob. Wow, Peter really made Tony Stark cry? "I know, kid, and I'm so sorry I didn't before, but I do now. And we'll get you help, you don't have to be tired anymore."
"You don't get it," Peter whispers. "The.. the therapists- I'll just get more tired, it'll just get worse. This, this'll fix it."
"No it won't," Tony argues. "I'm telling you, it won't. Don't you want to go to college? Check out Boston with Ned? Come on, all that Spider-Manning for nothing? You know, I'm still waiting for you to take up my offer on the Avengers."
"I think I should go now, Mr. Stark," Peter whispers again, and lifts the gun to his head. He plays with it, until the barrel is in his mouth. Tony is talking through his phone, but he can't hear him anymore. It's 11:59, and he's counting the seconds. Five, four, three, two, one-
12:00. There's a bang, and a clash, and it's May 1st.
~_~_~_~
It's May 1st. Peter always liked the month because it was the same name as his aunt's, and on the fourth him and Ned would binge Star Wars, and on the twenty second him and MJ would listen to My Chemical Romance from morning to night, and on the thirty first they'd celebrate ending their last month of school.
It's May 1st and Peter is still alive. He's got a cut on his right cheek from where the bullet grazed it, but he's still alive, and Tony is outside talking with May, and he's shivering under the blankets of one of the towers beds.
"Hey Pete," Tony enters the room again. They're in med bay; a place Peter has only been two twice but he still doesn't like it. It's cold and sterile and now it's filled with the memories of Tony placing him on the bed holding back tears while Helen patched up the gash on the side of his face. Hey, at least it'd be a cool scar, right?
It's five in the morning, and Peter can hear May crying through the walls. Everything is numb and he wants a drink. He wants to scratch at his wrists and he wants to shoot himself in the head again at exactly twelve am like he was supposed to. But it's 5:31 on May 1st and he is still alive.
"What's going to happen?"
Tony clears his throat. "We're still figuring out details, but there's a psych ward fifteen minutes from your apartment-"
"No," Peter interrupts. "I'm- I'm not being locked up."
"You don't got a choice, bud," Tony dead pans. "I just had to shove a gun out of your mouth and it still managed to graze you up. I could've lost you, and even now I can't help you, not the way you need. I'll visit, and I'll be here through everything, but I can't fix this."
"Yeah, I know you can't. That's what the gun was for," Peter spits. "Why can't I just.. see a shrink, go on meds and get back to school?"
Tony sighs, running a hand through his hair. "We can't trust that kid. It's a two week program, then you will see a therapist, and go back to school. It's just while we get you on meds and therapy. You'll meet some other kids, too."
"Oh, great, I'll trauma bond with the other suicidals that got caught," Peter remarks.
"Just trust me, Pete." Tony sets his hand on Peter's shoulder, gives him a small smile, even if it's filled with so much guilt, "We'll figure this out."
~_~_~_~
The bell screeches and there's a rush of people in the hallway. It's always the most crowded corner, a pain in the ass when you're a good half foot shorter than most of the people in the school (these people had to be on steroids, seriously).
"Two more fuckin years left baby!" Ned shouts as they exit, likely the most obscene thing Peter has ever heard him say.
Although he's right; after two weeks of dealing with the side effects of a medication they'd end up changing, staying in a psych ward, another two weeks of cramming finals studying in, the year is over, and he just managed to pass. If anything, he's more glad to be alive than be moving onto junior year on schedule, which is something he never even thought he'd be grateful for.
And is it perfect? No, sometimes he wants to tear his therapists head off and other times she's giving him the best advice he's ever heard (the real task is him actually following it). Sometimes he's back to actually enjoying some of his classes, and others he's scratching the palm of his hand and pinching his finger until it burns just to get through the last twenty minutes.
"We did it," Peter replies simply, but the relief in his voice is evident, and Ned offers a soft smile in response, along with his arm being slung around the other teenagers shoulder.
So yeah, things aren't perfect; he goes home that night exhausted and lacking the energy to do things he would usually be able to in a heart beat. And sometimes he wishes he pulled the trigger to that gun sooner, other times he doesn't. He counts that as something.
He's just, a little less trapped.