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Peter almost double-takes at how pale he looks when he stumbles into his bathroom, the dingy mirror reflecting back his ashy complexion. He never meant for it to get this far.
Peter had been sick for the past few days, spending most of his time asleep in the X-Mansion’s infirmary. What little time he’d spent awake was used to shower, use the restroom, or eat—the last of which Peter had done a particularly bad job at. He hadn’t been able to eat anything solid without extreme nausea, and he’d been asleep so long that food hadn’t really been on his mind.
For a regular person, maybe it wouldn’t be a big deal. For Peter, with his hyper-fast metabolism, it means he’s in for a rough week.
His body feels so cold it’s like he’s frozen internally, so he ignores the aching in his stomach a little longer to fix that first. He turns on the shower to a lukewarm temperature, but against his freezing skin it feels like fire. Not having the energy to do much, he sits on the shower floor slumped against the wall until he feels warmth slowly spread to his fingertips.
He manages to get himself into a clean pair of sweatpants, a band tee, and an oversized Xavier’s School sweatshirt, shakily standing up once he’s done. After cautiously making his way downstairs, Peter opens the fridge and—unsurprisingly—sees nothing appealing.
Junk food is a good go-to, he’s learned; pre-made snacks usually help him perk up when his stupidly fast metabolism makes it hard to feel full. It’s given him—incorrectly, he would say—a reputation for loving all things caffeinated and sweet, when in reality it’s just a necessity for his mutated body. But even the Little Debbie’s tucked in the pantry sounds nauseating, and honestly, his overactive brain doesn’t have the space to explore very many options.
Peter, defeated, sits on the cold tile of the kitchen floor. He lets his eyes close, thinking he might be able to keep his growing headache at bay a little longer.
“Pietro? What are you doing on the floor?” Peter doesn’t know how much time has passed by the time he hears Erik, but it’s evidently enough time for his father to have come down the stairs to find him. “I thought you’d be resting.”
“Trying to eat first.” Peter keeps his sentences short, too light-headed to engage.
“There’s some pizza in the fridge.” Erik offers.
“Yeah. I saw.” Peter opens his eyes, turning his head towards his father. “I just don’t feel great. I’m not sure if I can eat.”
Erik’s brows knit. He looks to the side, considering. “Does nothing sound good?”
Peter half-heartedly shrugs. “I could maybe do liquids—like, a smoothie or something.”
“Hmm...” Erik scans the kitchen, then goes to the fridge to see the available ingredients. “I can make you something, if you'd like.”
Peter considers his options. He could do what he usually does and brush off Erik's concern…or he could swallow his pride and admit that he would like some help.
Besides, it’s a good reason to hang out with his dad—and they have decades of lost time to make up for.
“...Alright,” Peter moves to sit on a stool near the kitchen island, “but only if I get to show you Electric Light Orchestra ’s new record while we make something.”
“If you insist.” Erik says, pretending he isn't amused.