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This summer was quite cool. Peter jumped from one building to another, and repeated it again with other buildings. I should think about insulation, he thought about the suit, traveling further and further along the roofs. Currently, the sun was setting, the majestic city, dotted with skyscrapers and high-rise buildings, was painted in bright orange colors, which always made Peter feel a certain longing, but at the same time calmed him down.
It was a time when children were brought home from a walk, tired adults returned from a long work to their families, pets or just empty apartments, teenagers just gathered in companies to find alcohol and go to a party and being there until late at night. Meanwhile the heroes were on patrol. Specifically, Spider-Man. The web cut through the air, keeping him in flight, block by block, he looked around, trying to spot a case that would require Peter's involvement.
But this day was unexpectedly calm, so the boy had to just jump around different blocks, looking for at least some kind of work. Eventually he stopped at one of the buildings and sat down on the edge. Well, these hours was his favorite, especially on such quiet, carefree days. He stretched, untimely remembering the still unhealed wound on his side and began to look around. Peter was too focused on trying to help that he didn't follow where his spidery limbs were taking him. The sudden realization made Spider let out a loud gasp of air.
It was his home.
It stood right next to an old five-story building with peeling binding and unpainted windows in some parts. His home with May... The years of school life he dreamed about every night. A kitchen that was always short of food due to the boy's fast metabolism, a room where, if you tried, you could find the most unexpected things - from a set of May's rubber bands to the latest technical projects of Stark Industries. Peter swallowed hard. The days with May in this house had taken a toll on him. Burnt toast for breakfast (cooking was clearly not his aunt's strong thing), an evening with a movie marathon, where every month he would definitely require May to watch Star Wars again. Peter frowned at the pressure on his chest, as if a stone had fallen on his chest, slowing his breathing.
In the middle of a quiet, deserted street, he heard the soft sliding of paper on the asphalt. His vision caught a wrapper from a candy bar, right next to one place. A perfectly ordinary place for anyone but Peter. The place where Happy always waited for him in the car, the place where Tony's car was always parked. And which, obviously, was now empty. He remembered as a child he was joyfully running with a silly smile to the door of the Audio, immediately falling into the back seat and reporting his entire day to the unhappy Happy. In fact, he was definitely happy. And Peter knew this only because one day he still had to see a truly joyless Hogan.
He remembers how May literally dragged the poor billionaire to their home for another peak of culinary art. Peter could still see Tony's brilliantly drawn face of joy as he tasted the carrot cake and then asked for another piece. Maybe if he hadn't done that, the aunt would have realized that her dishes didn't taste good to the man, but the fact is that Stark had never intended that. And he tasted, though not with pleasure, but with respect, not forgetting to throw his exceptional jokes at the boy.
Peter could just get up now, turn around and fly off straight into the sunset. He made the first point immediately. But he thought back to the kitchen where the three of them sat on weekend evenings, to the empty room left with the useless records from his internship at Stark Industries. And instead of turning his back on his past, he went forward.
Is it right to dive into the maelstrom of your past? To be dependent on what has already been done. Was Peter's life so happy that he did not look back to the figures of the past? He worked in a cafe, barely paying rent for a small room he rented far from Queens. On Sundays, he went to May's grave and always placed a bouquet of her favorite tulips next to another that had not yet faded. Apparently, Happy came to her a day earlier. But, in truth, Peter had no desire to check it – to face the past is to be completely consumed by it. Therefore, at some point, he simply stopped walking down the same street that led to the small cafeteria where MJ worked part-time. He did not set foot on this road even when all the students had already settled in universities in the summer and when the studies officially began. He just didn't think it was necessary. After all, he knew very well that places can stir thoughts no less than people themselves. Memories always hit harder than weapons, make you go crazy. Painful memories are always a torment at night. Especially at night. When the ghosts of the past grab you in their grip, forcing you to remember people you will never see again, places that will never be the same again.
And yet, for some reasons, this fact did not prevent Peter from bypassing the empty road and approaching the muddy window that led to his room. He repeated the actions honed over the years: he jumped up, releasing the web to the frame and, in a couple of moves along the brick wall, found himself on a small retreat in front of the window sash. Peter tugged on the rusty little handle of the window. But this time it turned out to be closed.
And what did he expect? This apartment was no longer his property, Peter lived a different life and now it was no more than the same ghost of the past, which forever remained in memory as a bright fragment of completed childhood years, reminding of itself only in rare nightmares; they burdened him on particularly difficult days and made the night extra unbearable, forcing him to spend extra money on sedatives.
Peter decided to act more simply. He jumped off the retreat, letting go of the web, and made his way to the closed door of the building.
He expected to have to use his spider powers, but the old door with peeling paint opened surprisingly easily. Allegedly, he opened an old, sealed chapter of his life, which he swore never to touch again. A pungent and musty smell wafted from inside, making Peter cringe. He walked up the small steps to the retreat, where he saw his old apartment. Behind, the setting sun glimmered pleasantly on the gray, dusty and long-forgotten room, giving it new life. The dust danced slowly in the light, circling and descending. He still had to use his strength with the doors to the apartment.
He was greeted by an unusual emptiness. Boxes filled with a pile of things stood on top of each other along the darkened corridor. Peter took the first step on the old dusty parquet, and quietly, barely audible, closed the door. He took off his heroic mask and took a deep breath. The lungs were filled with the same musty and stale air as outside. The boards creaked softly as he made his way through the boxes, avoiding extra things that would surely hurt him more. But by chance he saw a red knitted cardigan hanging on the door handle. Peter frowned as he remembered aunt May always wearing that cardigan in the house. He smelled of the sweet perfume that had already ingrained into it and was so soft that, when he was younger, he loved snuggling into May's arms, wrapped in that warm, soft and fragrant cardigan.
Peter looked away sharply and quickly walked out to the archway that led to the living room. The sun's rays burst into the room, not looking at the cloudy, dirty windows, lying on the sofa, yellowed from old age and lack of care, the oak table covered with a large layer of dust. A glass vase on one of the shelves reflected light, illuminating the room with various colors. The sun was shining, the apartment was drowned in silence. And, if you try, you can imagine for a moment that there is no dust in the room at all, that the window has only recently been washed, and on the wooden table there is a plate with fresh nut breads, and then it seemed as if May was just late at work, and Peter as always fond of patrolling; it seemed that the apartment would be filled with noise. That he will come soon.
That day the sofa was occupied.
"It's about time we met" answered Tony Stark with a bruise on half his face. "You may get my emails right?" he took another bite from May's bread and quickly washed it down with tea from a porcelain cup, while the aunt was expressively trying to convey something to her nephew with just a look.
"You didn't even tell me about the grant" she finally answered, squeezing her hand too hard on the back of the sofa.
"I approved. So now we're in business"
That day Peter stood right here, in this place, with a broken earpiece in one ear, a backpack that he grabbed in Second Hand, and a surprised, almost frightened look. Peter turned to the other wall to look in the mirror. A person's eyes most reflect the person himself. Maybe that's why no one asked for his documents when he bought alcohol in stores, they always apologized if they accidentally caught him on the street. Because a look always told you a person's story, and Peter's story was clearly not small, as was the burden that he carried on his shoulders for so long, as well as the memories that he held back each time. Apparently, until today. The child's round face faded, the cheekbones protruded, the full cheeks disappeared because of small portions of food. But all this did not have such an effect on his general appearance, because again, the eyes.
Aunt had brown eyes. And Tony too.
"It's hard for me to believe that you are someone's aunt."
"Yes, we come in all shapes and sizes."
They were sitting right on that sofa and smiling at Peter. May waved her hand in welcome to Peter and Tony finished munching on a pastry ("This walnut date loaf is something exception"). Peter stood and saw, as if the same projection, but no, only memories that were so well embedded in his mind that they made him remember every little thing, every detail, every moment. He saw in front of him Tony's young face, which had not yet accumulated so many wrinkles, his charming dark hair, neatly combed, those few gray strands were not visible. He could see Aunt May, in the same cardigan now wilting in the dust, her bright, proud eyes. She always looked at him with pride, even when he wasn't doing anything special, and Peter could never understand why.
Finally he crossed the passage, but at that moment May and Tony suddenly disappeared. The window became opaque again, and the smell of fresh baked loaf was gone, though Peter could have sworn he could still smell it, faintly. As if the past was combined with the present. But Tony's jovial and gruff voice was gone, as was his aunt's ringing bright laugh. And Peter realized that at the moment he had nothing to do here. He walked forward, one last time touching the spot on the back of the couch that May was clutching so tightly.
"Goodbye" he said bitterly into the emptiness of the room. He did everything right.
Peter turned around again, ignoring the mirror, and quietly left the apartment, carefully closing the door behind him. That's all, as if he was not here. As it was not for everyone in this world.
The sun was almost below the horizon, and Spider-Man was once again traveling the high-rises, releasing his webs. For the first time in so long, he felt strength. Aunt's sweet laugh reminded him that he should continue to smile and enjoy life, and Tony's ironic voice reminded him that he should continue to walk victoriously through it. It must have been exactly what he needed. Yes, memories cause a lot of pain, Peter has lived with this thought long enough. But they can be turned into something else. And this is exactly what he planned to do.