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Peter bleeds clear and cries deep red, spitting acid rain down onto the flooded wasteland in the porcelain bowl below him. Globs of slime and strings of saliva fall gracelessly from his lips, sending water rippling out to the edges and falling back in line once it hits the sides.
He’s going to die here. Tile floor, swallow me whole, Peter thinks. Let my brain leak out my nose and be flushed away with my dinner. His left hand is braced against the floor, the last bit of his strength left used to hold himself in place.
His right hand is stuffed into his mouth, two fingers jammed down his throat and pushing forcefully at its insides. The motion doesn’t burn anymore, not as bad as it used to, anyway. It’s routine now. Necessary.
As if a puppet on a string, his body works automatically. He’s mechanical in his methods, repetition his best friend. Yet, there’s a certain thrill in puking his guts up. He’s never felt so alive, not even as Spider-Man, as he does watching chewed up bits of food swirl away in the water as he flushes the toilet. It reminds him he’s human, that he’s still in control of his body’s functions.
Peter knows he shouldn’t be doing it. Not after Tony’s made it his mission to cure him, or whatever. Lick his wounds and nurse him back to health. But relapse is all open arms and soft promises, lingering whispers and a siren luring sailors to their own certain doom.
Tony is tough love and calloused hands, sharp edges and spontaneity that makes Peter instinctively pull away. He’s a mechanic, trying to put Peter’s parts back together in working order but failing to realize they’ve already wasted away. He loves Peter. Tries to love him. But he doesn’t get it, he’ll never get it.
He’s unfixable, destined to fall apart and be left to decompose on the bathroom floor—not to be saved, like some recycled project full of wires and hardware. His insides are fried, smoke coming off his skin like water dumped on a computer. There’s no use
The air is thick, but Peter’s long since gotten used to the smell of vomit, to the smell of rot. Sweat drips down his forehead, stinging his eyes and tasting salty on his lips.
A small part of him, something deep inside of his mind and taking its place among the countless nutrition facts and insecurities running wild, wonders how many calories are in sweat?
It’s low, a new low, even for Peter. He could probably tell you the nutrition facts on a tube of toothpaste forward and backwards, but there’s a certain terror that comes with consuming something produced by him—what’s the point in sweating it out if the sweat’ll just end up back in his system.
It’s stupid.
He tells himself he’ll look it up later.
By the time Peter’s done, and he's purged the invasive food from his system, his heart is pounding and his breaths are taken in pants, chest heaving as he rests on hands and knees on the bathroom floor. His knuckles burn and his stomach twists in knots, and he’s starting to think he might pass out right on the carpet.
Chunks of food linger on his lips like acid melting through the very surface, burnt skin screaming out you did this, you did this. Peter supposes his teeth might rot out next, if he keeps to the ground for any longer.
So, head spinning and lungs screaming, Peter forces himself to stand. His mirror might be melting. Peter can’t quite tell. He puts a hand to his reflection—it looks like it’s been split in two. In all honesty, Peter himself feels like he’s broken down into a million little pieces, like glass shards fallen at his feet.
He washes his face. Tries to put himself back together.
And when all is done, he’s not doing too good. His legs wobble and his knees threaten to buckle, but he makes it to his bed anyway.
He collapses into his bed in a heap of sweat and exhaustion. He’s overheated, his head is pounding, and his legs are tingling.
Fuck, he might die here.
The thought passes through Peter’s mind for a second, and he finds himself wondering what Tony would do if he came in and saw him the next morning, a cold, rotting body.
Maybe it’d do him some good. It’s not like Peter’s made his life much easier, anyway. All he is is the kid that forced his way into the life of a man that didn’t want any kids. If Peter takes himself out of the equation, what harm would that do?
Relapse is a door with a welcome mat, after all.
But the thoughts soon fade, lost to the familiar haze of his actions, and Peter finally drifts off to sleep.
Peter wakes up the next morning to the smell of bacon and eggs, and pancakes. A million lives ago, Peter would’ve been thrilled. He loves Tony’s cooking. Well, loved, he supposes.
Now, the smell just makes him sick, the idea of stuffing his face with all of that greasy, sugary, terrifying food. He doesn’t want to get out of bed. He’d die in this bed if he could, hungry and miserable but still empty and clean.
But Tony has Peter on a strict schedule, one that requires at least three meals a day, and he’s already been alerted that Peter’s up. Peter knows that’s true, at least. Tony told him about it a while ago—something about keeping track of him, or whatever. Peter hates it. He hates every bit of this stupid recovery plan.
The thought of all of it’s enough to sour Peter’s mood.
As if able to read Peter’s mind, FRIDAY tells him, “Peter, Boss has requested your presence in the kitchen.”
Peter groans. “Tell ‘im he can go fuck himself,” he replies, burying his face in his pillows. “I’m going back to sleep.”
“I’m afraid I can’t relay that message,” FRIDAY says, “but I must warn you, if you aren’t in the kitchen in the next ten minutes, Boss has threatened to dump cold water on your head.”
Peter groans again, louder this time, but he forces himself to move. “Fine, fine,” he mumbles. “I’m going.” Sluggish movements and lightheadedness be damned, Peter makes it to the kitchen. (He keeps a hand firmly stuck to the wall the whole trip there).
“Morning, Sunshine,” Tony says when he hears Peter approaching. “Sleep well?”
Peter pushes past him, beelining toward the fridge. “Fuck off,” he grumbles.
Tony leans against the island, watching Peter begin to rifle through the fridge. “I made breakfast, you know,” he says. “Nothing in there you need.”
“Your cooking fucking sucks,” Peter replies. “Where’s my protein shake?”
“I threw it out.”
Peter whirls around to face him. “What?” he exclaims. “You can’t just dictate what I eat!” He takes an unsteady step toward Tony. “I—I’m eating, and you’re taking away the only thing I can eat!”
Tony’s face softens. “C’mon, kid, you know I’m not punishing you. A protein shake isn’t food. You can’t act like it’s a replacement for an actual meal,” he says. “What is up with you today? I—Did you…?”
“No, I didn’t fucking relapse,” Peter snaps. “Have some faith in me, maybe?”
But the look on Tony’s face tells Peter he knows he relapsed—did FRIDAY tell him or can he just tell?—and it hurts almost as much as the idea of eating the breakfast Tony made. It’s a mix of several emotions, but judgment and pity are first to come to mind. “You need to eat,” he says. “Come on, come sit.”
Body moving automatically, all the anger lifting from his bones, Peter sits. He’s resigned, slumped over in his chair with elbows resting on the table. Tony scoops some eggs onto his plate, then a couple pieces of bacon, and a few pancakes before he sits down at his own seat. It’s not enough to satiate Peter’s enhanced metabolism. They both know it.
It’s still too much for Peter.
“I’m not hungry,” Peter tells Tony, but he stares at his plate like a starved dog over a rabbit, being held back by a chain that’s just an inch too short. His fingers twitch unconsciously, aching to rip apart the food until it’s unrecognizable, to throw meat at the wall and shove the bones down his throat.
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” Tony says. He pushes Peter’s plate closer to him, utensils clattering against the plate as they’re moved aside in the process. “You have to eat.”
Peter’s hand clenches into a fist. “I eat,” he says.
“And then you make yourself throw it up,” Tony tells him. He doesn’t sound angry, or disappointed. Just tired. Peter’s stomach is in knots, and he can’t tell if it’s from the hunger, or the vomiting, or the guilt. “It’s not healthy, bud.”
“So you’d rather I just starve myself?” Peter retorts. “At least I’m eating the food.”
Tony sighs, his whole body deflating on the exhale. “I’d rather you get better, Pete,” he says softly. “I want you to eat, and I want you to keep the food in your body. I want you to be okay.”
Peter looks between his plate and Tony’s tired eyes. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he says. “You don’t understand.” The table stretches a mile wide between the two of them, almost too far for Peter to see the frustration on Tony’s face. But he can, and his eyes lock onto the deep worry lines on the man’s forehead, no doubt formed because of him.
He blinks, and the table is back to normal, and Tony is speaking to him. “—sit back and watch it happen,” is all Peter catches. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I’m listening,” Peter mumbles, but he chooses to stare at his plate instead of acknowledging Tony any further. The food stares back at him, mockingly. It taunts him, asking who’s in control now? “I know.”
“Then prove it,” Tony says. Peter can feel the eyes on him. “Eat.”
Peter swallows. “I can’t.” He pushes his fork to the side, then back against his knife. Then again, and again. He needs the rhythm, the control. “I can’t do it.”
Tony pushes his chair away from the table with a piercing screech, and moves to sit in the chair beside Peter. “I’m right here, okay?” he says. “You can do it.”
“You can’t fix me,” Peter says, glaring at his food. Another round of anger courses through him, something misplaced and deep in his chest. “You can’t fix this.”
Tony shakes his head. “I’m not trying to fix you,” he says. “You’re not some project, Pete, you’re a person.”
“Sure seems like it,” Peter huffs. “I’m not gonna act like you’ve done a great job of making me feel like one.”
“Look, I’m trying, okay?” Tony throws his hands up. “I don’t know what I’m doing! This—all of this—is fucking hard. But I’m doing my best to help you, and I need you to meet me halfway.”
Peter scoffs. “Meet you halfway,” he repeats.
“Yes, meet me halfway,” Tony says. “I can’t be the only one trying here—I can do as much as I can to help you, but nothing will happen if you refuse to work with me.” He runs a hand through his hair. “You have to want this, too.”
There’s a moment of silence where Peter has to use all of his energy to will himself not to cry. “I don’t know what I want,” he confesses quietly. “I—I don’t like being like this.”
“I get it, Pete, I really do,” Tony says. “But you can’t keep pushing me away. I need you to work with me.” He leans forward, forcing Peter to make eye contact. “You’re destroying yourself, and it’s killing me to see it happen.”
“I can’t promise you anything,” Peter whispers.
Tony nods, placing his hand over Peter’s. “I can’t either,” he says. “All I’m asking is that you try. That you let me help you.” He squeezes Peter’s hand. “How’s that sound?”
Peter looks at Tony, then his plate, then down the hallway. He could say no, he could turn away right now and hide within the walls of his room, maybe his bathroom.
Finally, he turns his gaze to Tony again, squeezing his hand back. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask,” Tony says. He pulls Peter into a hug, holding him tight as if he’ll waste away if he doesn’t. “I love you, kid. I just want you to be okay.”
Peter can only manage a nod against Tony’s shoulder. “Love you,” he chokes out. “Sorry.”
So Tony’s hands are rough and calloused, and he’s not made of soft promises or sweet melodies calling Peter to the rocks, but he’s an anchor. He’s safe. His hands keep Peter back from the ocean, from the siren song and acid spit up that he so desperately wants to return to.
Eating is a daunting task, as is recovery and the idea of losing control, but Tony's presence is a lifeline to him, and it makes Peter want to try.