Chapter Text
When Peter was little – after one too many terror-striking nightmares – he used to believe that the end of the world was something catastrophic. Like a bunch of shapeshifting aliens swarming out of a wormhole in the middle of New York, or a purple fruit-looking titan, decimating half of the universe into extinction.
Adults had put down his tribulations as soon as he mustered the courage to bring it up, brushing them off like it was nothing more than a childish phase.
"I swear to god, Martha…that Parker kid. Those superhero movies and comics must be seriously getting into his head. Why not go outside and play? Like actual children. Some cock-and-bull story for five minutes of attention, I’d tell you."
It had hurt to hear his elementary school counselor talk behind his back like that. But Ben; steady as a rock, had offered him a different theory.
“...Multiverse theory, was it? Yeah, that's it. I didn't have the brains to understand it, sometimes it made me wonder if one of us was adopted, but... Your dad was really into quantum physics when we were in high school, and that theory had him like a moth to a flame.”
Ben had told him, and Peter held onto those crumbs of secondhand memories like a lifeline. Because the newfound knowledge allowed him to put a personality on his otherwise hazy idea of what his parents might have been, and it made him feel a little less like he’d lost his marbles. The dreams weren't always unpleasant—him and his parents, having a blast at an unknown theme park, getting ice cream... being a family— there were good ones. The notion that there was a version of his parents out there that wasn't buried six feet under the Atlantic, served as a beam of comfort when the absence of his parents got too much.
“I-I don’t wanna go, May, please…”
The end of the world, at least in his world, as it turns out, is so much more mundane. There were no extraterrestrial beings threatening to destroy the face of Earth. Just a classification letter, a ruined bed, and a weary-faced May, telling him to start packing because he’s being shipped to a transitional home.
“I can’t do this anymore, Peter…” May signs, “I mean, look at you! Look at—” She looks around his room with thinly veiled disgust, but quickly adverts her gaze as soon as she catches a glimpse of his bed. With the bedsheets stripped off and thrown haphazardly to the side, there's nothing to conceal the yellow stains that littered the lower half of the mattress, irreparably there and taunting.
This..this isn't real. This can’t be real. Peter almost expects her to burst out laughing, admitting that it’s all an elaborate joke.
None of this was supposed to happen; May wasn't supposed to be back until the next morning. But by some stroke of cruel luck, there had been a conflict in shift schedules, and May was sent home for the day.
How the hell was he supposed to know that?
With the daily morning laundry routine and dousing his bed with copious amounts of baking soda and Febreze, Peter was sure that he’d got this whole hide-his-bedwetting-issues-from-May to a T.
Plus, May has been extra meticulous to work her schedule around, inexplicably conflicting with Peter’s every time. They rarely saw each other as of lately, so maybe he’d become complacent or reliant on her absence. He hasn't been under the same roof as his aunt in weeks, not since...
Peter dissociates the best way he can, opting to stare at the framed photo on the wall—a once happy family, with May and Ben positively beaming over an 11-year-old Peter, all toothy grinned with a first place trophy clutched tightly in his hands. He remembers that one; it was taken when he got first place in a junior science competition. That was also the day they discovered Prachya Thai, when Ben announced that they'd be eating out as a celebration.
“I larb you, Peter. You've made us so proud!” May had told him as she dumped a heaping spoon of larb onto his plate.
At that moment, Peter concluded that he wasn't a huge fan of Larb, but he loved May. One day, he'll get a really good job as a grown-up, and earn lots and lots of money to spontaneously bring them out for dinners like this.
“I-I larb you, would you please look at me, May?” Peter says, his arms outstretched in a universal sign for a hug. His desperate gesture of conciliation falls short, only prompting May to inch away from him, aghast as if she’s seen a ghost.
“Don’t - don’t try that with me, I can’t —.” May pinches the bridge of her nose, no longer looking at him. "Peter, you’re almost 14. This is so beyond hugging out!”
But now, Peter realizes with a pang in his heart that those were just childish pipe dreams. He had a lot of those these days… a laundry list of dreams that are never going to come true, the latest one on the list being Midtown High, or any high school, really.
Leading up to classification day, his homeroom teacher had introduced the very idea of a classification system and the three respective groups every individual would fall into. The lesson itself was brief, barely scratching the surface of what was probably a mound of complicated laws and life-altering changes one would face post-classification.
Peter had zoned out during most of her ramblings, but picked out the parts that mattered the most:
Caregivers were great—taller and stronger than the average person. As far as he knew, they were the closest thing you could get to an enhanced human being. Everyone wanted to be one, but the odds weren't exactly that high at 10%.
Neutrals were... okay, nothing special, just regular people with a regular physique. A double-edged sword, depending on how you saw it—lame, on one end, because neutrals were the majority group. Normal, on the other end, because they were the least affected by the classification system.
Unlike the third group.
Littles… oh god.
The entire class erupted in laughter as soon as she flipped to the next slide. She had hastily explained that littles were people with a childlike mental state and appearance, with very specific needs—a perpetual child, to put it simply. Everyone knew what those “needs” meant, and it didn’t take long for cruel jokes to fly across the classroom. The entire segment lasted much shorter than the other two classifications, Peter didn’t blame her. No one had the maturity to handle such an information, introducing the idea of Littles to a bunch of middle schoolers with the emotional intelligence equivalent to a chimpanzee, was not meant to end well.
A whirlpool of paranoia festered in the pit of his stomach, even as she had moved on to the next part of the lesson. Peter did manage to shake off that feeling by the time homeroom had ended, convinced that there was no way he’d fall into the small, 5% bracket. But one particular thing that she had said, stuck with him.
Littles weren't allowed in high schools, let alone allowed to work. Apparently, there was a whole different system waiting for them post-middle school, but he’d been hard-pressed to find out exactly what they were.
Until now, at least.
“You leave on Monday. I mean it, start packing.”
A brochure is pressed into his hands, which Peter accepts dumbly. May is gone in an instant, leaving him with nothing but his thoughts. She couldn't have possibly conjured the brochure out of thin air…So her decision to make him leave, while it might’ve been the final straw, hadn't been entirely because of the bed.
How long has she been planning to kick him out?
Peter ambles towards his bed and falls to the ground. Now that she’s gone, he lets the tears fall freely, back shaking against the bed frame as he weeps in distress. His head starts to pound, sending zaps of pain with each crazed sob. The harsh afternoon sunlight that pours through the tiny window, only serves to exacerbate his agony as it worms its way behind his eyes, thrumming against his skull until it feels like it's about to split. No matter how much he tries to close his eyes shut, the light somehow filters through. He lets out a noise of distress when the intensity kicks up a notch, making the simple job of existing impossibly unbearable.
Peter makes the mistake of brushing his feet across the carpet. The usually smooth texture of polyester suddenly feels closer to 80 grit sandpaper, prompting him to spring up from where he’s sitting. Everything's too bright, too painful, too rough, too much, and he needs everything to stop, stop, stop.
Unbeknownst to him — just as he’s about to explode from the torment— his right thumb begins to inch closer and closer to his face, prodding at his lips.
Relief washes over instantly, like a warm blanket. The raging headache dwindles into nothing, and before he can stop himself, a strange, fuzzy sensation overtakes him as the world around him dissolves into a hazy mist.
It takes a full second for Peter to register the salty taste, the almost comforting weight on his tongue…and the thumb that is currently lodged firmly in his mouth.
Was he…what the fuck?
Dread fills his veins as he yanks out his thumb at breakneck speed, eyes boring into the spit-covered thumb. The salty aftertaste lingers as a reminder of his shameful deed.
No, no fucking way.
He hadn't done this in years, a very worried Ben and May had made sure of it! It took a whole lot of chastising on their part, even resorting to bitter nail polish when Peter absolutely refused to kick the habit, but he eventually grew out of it when he was six. Among the myriad of childish habits that they struggled to wean him off, thumb-sucking was one of the last to go. But clearly, it has decided to make an unbidden comeback.
That, and the bedwetting. Although he has to admit, begrudgingly, that the latter is still a work in progress.
Peter rubs at his eyes until they feel raw, trying to quell the tears and the mortification. Desperate for distraction, to keep himself from getting too worked up, he picks up the trifold brochure and takes a quick look at the cover page, slapped on with smiling photos of littles in uniform. He grimaces, and flips away to the next page, hoping to find something less depressing.
The fuzzy feeling dissipates like fog in daylight as he trains his teary eyes on the first segment.
Lenwood Transitional Home (LTH) offers a contemporary and enriching curriculum for littles, while providing a nurturing home environment where we guarantee they will quickly grow to love. Our teachers and caretakers are all qualified caregivers with experience in various age ranges, who focus on ensuring that littles begin their transitional years on the right foot with ease, and guidance if needed.
One of the pros of transitional homes as opposed to transitional schools is the ability to provide round-the-clock care in a stable environment. We believe that our home can offer you a peace of mind, should you find assisted caregiving as a neutral parent or guardian a challenge or would simply like your child or ward to receive the best care possible at their disposal.
At the end of their time in LTH, littles are able to settle seamlessly into their headspace. You will be safe in the knowledge that your child or ward will be matched with a suitable caregiver for adoption…but most of all, flourish into happy and well-rounded littles.
He stews over the new information for a moment, but the excerpt leaves Peter with more questions than answers. Jargons that he has never heard before float in his mind aimlessly, it's obvious that he knows frighteningly little about his own classification.
The realization leaves him all but perturbed and in retrospect, he kind of wishes that he hadn’t read it at all. But there's one thing that's clear as day: he’s going to be dumped into a glorified orphanage. Because he’s a challenge to May.
Peter pinches his forearms, trying to halt the train of thought. He doesn’t like where this is leading.
The printed text on his old duffel bag is cracked and peeling, Peter discovers, as he pulls it out of the closet. He swipes a couple of stray tears away and decides to start with clothes, then toys.
When he gets to the sock drawer, he finds a crumpled ball of paper squished into the far left corner. He grabs the object in question, but when he tries spreading it out to study it, the ball crumbles, and shreds of paper fall out of his hands like ashes.
Recognition sparks.
Oh this , this is...
Peter collects the torn-up remains of the paper, counting them up to 25 pieces before he settles down on the brown swivel chair, leaning against his cluttered desk as he rummages through the mess for a roll of tape. He starts by arranging them from the corners, then the frames, before moving on to work on the pieces plastered with texts.
He spots several with bolded text and gathers all of them to smooth out the wrinkles with a ruler, figuring that those would be the easiest to start with.
As soon as the bolded words are put together, a cascade of memories that he honestly, would rather not revisit hits him like a freight train.
But just like many things in his life, Peter doesn’t have a choice.
And so, he drifts.
.
.
.
.
.
Classification: Little
Headspace range: 0–2 years old (Group 1)
A week ago, Peter received his classification letter, much like every 8th grader on their last day of middle school. Slumped against the creaky chair in the office, Peter sobbed. The clerk, Jameson, on the other hand, just shifted awkwardly in his equally creaky chair, obviously having no idea how to console a newly classified little. Peter blinked and blinked through his wet lashes, daring to hope that those bold words would miraculously change into a neutral or a caregiver, but each time he opened his eyes, the word “little” stared back at him all the same.
Peter stormed out of the office, barely acknowledging Jameson when he called out for him. He wasn't about to stick around for something that would plague the rest of his miserable life like a broken record. Something along the lines of: You can’t leave the office unaccompanied, kid! Where are your parents?
As if he suddenly couldn't be trusted to make it home on his own.
Because that single letter seemed to change how the adults viewed him right then and there: a fucking baby
But that was what he was now, wasn’t he?
If there was solace to be found in any of this, is that Peter wasn't the only one upset about his classification.
”Hey, it’s okay, iho... I know this isn’t what you wanted, but you’ll be alright." A couple had walked out of a different office room, a sniffling boy in tow. Peter thinks he might have seen a Lego Palpatine in the clear pocket of his backpack if he squinted, but he wasn’t sure, because the boy’s parents had wrapped a comforting pair of arms around his shoulders right after that, effectively blocking his view.
Peter halted his angered strides, eyes burning from pure, unadulterated, longing.
He hated how Jameson spoke, like Peter had a choice, like he had wanted to receive the news alone. He had no Ben or May to comfort him or tell him that they'd figure things out…that they would love him the same despite his classification.
Stupidly, Peter felt like the Lego Palpatine had been there to deliver a second dagger in his heart, like the villain he was.
He felt an agonizing stab deep in his chest.
His heart bled because Ben had gifted him that exact one, for Peter’s 13th birthday, accompanied by a Death Star 3D puzzle, unable to fork out close to a grand for the actual set. The bleeding kept coming like a filled bucket with a hole, because Ben was apologetic and sheepish, telling him that he wished he could do more, wished he could give Peter the life he deserved.
And finally, his heart was left spent and withered…because Ben had promised to get him a real one next year.
Peter tried to shake off that memory, but they kept coming, and —
“Get any closer, and I’ll blow this kid’s brains!”
Ben was long gone, a bullet shot straight into his heart after he threw himself in front of a hostage situation at a corner store. Ben shouldn't have thrown away his life like that, not over a guy who tried to steal a measly $50 from the cash register, and definitely not over Peter, who had decided to run away from home and had gotten a gun pointed at his temple at the very same corner store.
May wasn't around when Peter returned home, sometime past 6 o'clock. He snapped a picture of the letter and typed out a May, I’m so sorry. The send button might as well have been a landmine that was ready to blow up in his face, as his trembling thumb hovered over it. He eventually decided against it when the walls of ignored texts screamed that it wasn't worth it.
Grabbing an empty mug from the counter, he set the letter on his aunt’s side of the dining table and the mug on top of it.
The letter was missing from its spot the next day. Instead, he found it all over the floor, turned into blue confetti; the mug shattered into pieces.
.
.
.
.
Several drops of tears fall, forming dark blue spots on the already ruined letter. But it's the approaching thuds of a footstep that bring his focus to the present.
After walking on eggshells for months, a ludicrous part of Peter is convinced that he’s developed some sort of enhanced hearing. It's getting louder—nearer, Peter can tell. He tenses up, shoulders almost drawing up to his ears as his heart thumps painfully against his chest with each step.
He silently curses himself for leaving the door open, because May is suddenly right behind him, leaving him with no leeway to resume his packing. Her gaze feels as if it’s burning a hole through his back, and the excuses explanations are already on the tip of his tongue.
At the very least... a breath of relief escapes his parted lips when he catches a whiff of the surrounding air. His nostrils tickle with the familiar warm vanilla scent of her shampoo, so he knows she hasn't been drinking.
He hates it when she does, the sickening smell of alcohol makes his eyes burn, but the words that are thrown in his direction by an intoxicated May are always infinitely worse.
“You killed him, Peter! It should've been you!” May's voice was dripping with venom, her breath reeking with the unmistakable scent of beer.
He flinches, nearly jumping out of the seat, when the door is slammed. The walls rattle from the sheer force, and Peter nearly deflates when he takes a cautious turn to find that May has already left. Silence fills the room, but Peter can hear her unsaid threats loud and clear: pack up or else.
He tacks on the last piece of tape, finally putting the letter together into one piece. It isn’t perfect, there are gaps between some of the pieces, and the wrinkles are still prominent, but he supposes it's good enough if the letter has to be submitted to the home.
Peter climbs to the top bunk of his bed to retrieve the plastic box where his toys and other knick knacks are stored. A coin vortex piggy bank sits on top of his action figures. He picks it up and gives it a shake, popping off the base to take a dollar out.
The coin is set on the ramp, and he lets go, expecting to watch it go down the funnel. But it doesn't. The dollar just drops straight into the hole with an unsatisfying plonk. He quirks his brows, fishing out a quarter to try again.
Playing around is the last thing he should be doing, Peter thinks. He's on thin ice as it is, but he's been so distracted lately; giving into impulses with little to no self-control. One time, he forgot to complete his part of the chores in favor of fixing a broken toaster, salvaged in one of his many dumpster diving escapades. The resulting consequence, courtesy of a fuming May, was being sent to bed without dinner.
Understandably so.
But things weren't always like that.
May didn’t exactly change with a flip of a switch. Her love and patience for Peter had slowly drained, like how blood drained from Ben's lifeless body—gone before he could even pinpoint the exact moment.
The quarter makes its descent down the ramp. It doesn’t tumble over this time, picking up its speed with each orbit around the funnel, almost in tandem with his racing mind.
The thing is, he had the luxury to grieve with her for the first few months. They spent her bereavement period huddled together on the couch, pretending like the world didn’t exist around them. Takeouts and frozen dinners were their only source of sustenance, for a long time.
But she was a Parker, not by blood but in every other way, so she had trudged on. Her terrible walnut date loaf and watery tomato pasta made a reappearance on Peter’s first day back to school, and with that, the cheerfulness and the jokes came back in full force.
Despite that, they struggled; Ben’s insurance could only get them so far. Money became tight quickly, and some days, Peter felt like they were trapped on a fishing boat with a Ben-sized gaping hole, desperately trying to keep it afloat by throwing out the water that rushed in, only for it to be replaced by more.
Maybe Peter was too focused on scooping out the water on his side because May had eventually left the boat; six months after Ben’s funeral, leaving Peter to sink into the frigid sea.
At some point, her grief had morphed into anger…the yelling, distancing, and constant arguing followed suit.
Peter should’ve known that his aunt was inwardly falling apart, how did he not notice?
He should've known that the death of Ben meant the death of their relationship.
He could’ve avoided this mess if he had just stayed home that day.
Would've May despised him this much if he weren't a little?
It should've been him.
His eyes dart around to chase the quarter that continues to spiral down the walls at eye-blurring speed until it gets to the narrowest part of the funnel.
George Washington falls into the bottom compartment with a satisfying clink.
It's been well over a year since Ben passed, and yet, Peter feels like he's stuck in a perpetual spiral of could’ve, would’ve, and should’ve. And with the absence of his phone, that's all his mind is reduced to these days: an endless, unbreakable loop of bargaining.
He just needs something… someone to catch him.
It's hard to put a halt to his racing thoughts when he’s lost his biggest form of distraction. Jameson did mention a two-week grace period before he had to surrender his phone, but Peter hadn't bothered. He had walked to the nearest collection point the day after receiving his classification letter and tossed his battered phone into the bag without so much as a second thought.
It’s not like he needed one. Peter had lost all of his friends by the time he hit 6th grade. And even if he had made any, he couldn't keep them to save his life.
He puts the piggy bank away, deciding that it’ll take up too much space. The action figures are taken out one by one and carefully nestled between his rolled-up clothes to prevent any breakage. The toys look like they’ve seen better days with years of handling. The paint job is even starting to chip off, but they're still precious to him.
In a world where kids like him were eager to make their way into adulthood, Peter was an anomaly, a freak. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't let go of his action figures or Legos. He still craved hugs and constant reassurance, like a little kid. But ever since May started avoiding him like the plague, a certain billionaire was at the unfortunate receiving end of his childish tendencies as of late.
Tony
Lab day
Lab day on Saturday
Tomorrow
Shit
The revelation feels like a slap in the face. Too caught up in his unfortunate classification results, all thoughts of contacting Tony had gone out of the window that day. Peter had promised to show up. He couldn't flake on Tony like that. Not after everything he has done for him.
Meeting Tony was, and still is, the greatest thing that has ever happened in his short life. While the initial prospect of boosting his portfolio by getting to work with the Tony Stark had been exciting, it’s the steadily budding, maybe-almost-familial relationship that Peter has begun to treasure the most.
He once toyed with the idea of Tony being his caregiver, on a particularly lonely night where May had once again yelled at him that same morning.
How could he not?
Snarky and self-confident in the best way, Tony is everything he's not. They’re like chalk and cheese, but Peter knows that there’s so much more to the self-loving genius behind those flashing cameras. Tony respects him for a start, treating him like an equal despite his age. And he never makes fun of his childish interests, which is more than Peter can ever ask for.
In that moment, however, Peter had stuffed that idea into the black burner of his mind as quickly as it came, face drawing with horror.
He's not insane, he's not
It’s not exactly a secret that Tony Stark doesn’t have a little, even if his bottomless fortune meant that he can house a dozen littles with ease. Considering the fact that Tony is about to hit his 40s, Peter is sure that he wouldn’t be getting any prizes for guessing that the man is adamant on keeping his life; little free.
“Pete, you know you can lay it on me, right?”
Against his will, Peter's eyes wells up in tears. He can only pray that Tony is willing to spend one last day with him. Up until his classification date, Peter had practically hung on to his every word without a hint of doubt, like an imprinted duckling. Now, though, he’s not so sure anymore. Being childlike and being a little is like comparing an apple to an orange.
A single brief encounter with a little at a Lego store quickly solidified his idea that they were a pain in the ass. Screaming, crying—the girl was the whole package as her caregiver dragged her out of the entrance like a sack of potatoes.
Getting tears and snot smeared on his three piece suit? Dealing with tantrums? Fat chance, Tony’s too good to get his hands dirty like that.
The thought of his mentor’s possible rejection is unbearable. How will he react when the inevitable truth comes out?
But Tony has been nothing but nice to him… Peter falls into a wistful muse. Despite knowing him for less than a year, every interaction with Tony proved that he was a complete mother hen, always looking out for the people around him. The custom Air Jordans that Tony gifted him after showing up to the penthouse for the third time in tattered shoes was a testament to that.
Yeah...Tony’s great like that. He’s just so casual about everything, the shoes included. He never tries to pry into his home life, or make a big fuss when Peter makes a fleeting comment about how hungry he is. Tony just feeds him without a word, and he’s allowed to go about their day in the lab, no questions asked.
Tony has given him so much. So sue him if Peter’s grateful; he doesn't think he ever won't be. He couldn’t lose Tony, the closest thing he has left of a family and a friend.
The last of his action figures get stuffed in between his clothes, his modestly sized duffel bag now filled to the brim. Peter rifles through his toy box, trying to see if there’s anything tiny enough to still fit in the gaps.
He spots Emperor Palpatine at the bottom.
Palpatine’s menacing eyes are nothing close to comforting. Still, the teen wraps the figurine with his clammy hands, bringing it close to his chest, because Peter needs to gather whatever courage he has in him for the next thing he’s about to do.
For a fleeting but sanguine moment, he feels like Ben is right beside him.
Pushing the duffel bag to the side, Peter trudges towards May’s room, where she’s likely cooped up, knowing that the woman would want to be in the furthest possible room from him. His legs feel like lead, Peter hasn’t initiated a conversation with her in months, and he really, really doesn’t want to do this.
He just hopes it's worth it.
“M-May?” For once, her door isn’t locked, so Peter doesn’t have a moment to steel himself as he’s immediately met with a sight of May, typing away in front of the desktop. May’s room looks emptier than when he last saw it, which was admittedly a while ago. Peter frowns, there’s an obvious empty space where her cooking books should be shelved, and her pink nurse pack is missing from the nightstand.
May stays still for a second, then turns. “ What ?”
“Is it okay if I-um.” Peter cringes at her hostility, losing his momentum. Her voice was laced with so much distaste, you’d think he’d blown up a building or something. “I promised Mr. Stark I’ll show up for our weekend lab sessions, and like, today is Friday, w-which is like the day before tomorrow and I should really…” shit, he’s rambling. May hates that.
“I want to go to Tony’s for the last time, May. Please, I need this. " It takes everything in him to not let his voice waver. "Can I borrow your phone, just a minute, to let him know that I’m still on for tomorrow so that he can come pick me up?” Peter forces out in a quick string of words, a little too fast for his liking.
And probably May too. Her face twists and contorts into the signature look of I’m so fucking done with you.
“Good to know that you’ve been doing so well."
Oh no.
“W-what? I don't—”
”I’m just saying...” May sits further into her chair, “That you seem to have moved on just fine. You’ve found your brand-new replacement for a father figure, huh?”
“No, I-“
“Just look at yourself, Peter,” she scoffs, “Always licking Stark’s boots. What about Ben, what about me? It’s like you don’t even care about us anymore!”
Peter looks down and shrinks further and further into himself, his heart hammering away against his chest like it wants to escape from him, and May’s verbal blows altogether.
“I do! I do care!” Peter can feel the first crack appear on the surface of his heart.
Past experiences warn him that they're entering argument territory, but for some reason, he refuses to back down today. “A-and why do you care? You don't talk to me anymore, you don't even want me!”
“Don’t you dare make this about me." She rises to her feet, kicking the swivel chair to the side with vigor. Peter flinches and takes a few steps away, wrapping his hands around in a self-hug. “ Do you know how much I’ve been struggling since Ben—how hard it is to pay rent and put food on the table?”
He knows…of course he does. The evidence is strewn across their apartment—the spot where the box of Crispix used to sit is now replaced with Crispy Hexagons , the piling layer of dust on the AC remote, despite the sweltering July heat, rent payment becoming a constant looming threat — he noticed all of them. There’s not much he can do, at least not directly, besides what he already is: being as scarce as possible around her, trying not to stretch a bigger hole in her pocket.
And even if that meant joining the queue away from the cafeteria line (the sad lunch kids, as they liked to call it) because his lunch account had run dry like an old well since the first semester, even if the free lunch consisted of a freezer burnt turkey sandwich and nothing else, making him tear up each time he caught someone wolfing down the greasy squared pizza, even if the paltry meal had been the last of his two meals for the day—
“I...I know, May.”
He’d gladly accept anything if it meant that the overbearing load on May became a touch lighter.
Even if…
“Do you, though?”
Even if she doesn't see it.
“What about those shoes? You think I haven’t noticed? Those would’ve covered almost two weeks of groceries! I’ve been nothing but generous, Peter; unlike you, you’re selfish.”
Self-recrimination stabs him in the heart, twisting and turning. She’s right, there’s no room for vindication—he decided to keep them, caving into the other side of the ultimatum when he made the choice to slip his feet into those shiny, snug, red, and gold Air Jordans over those ratty shoes with peeling soles. His gut swirls with guilt and shame…but a different emotion bubbles up to the surface.
He notices, like a bolt out of the blue, that it's anger.
”I know I am!” The crack steadily spreads like an ugly disease. He swallows at his nerves, but forges on, “And I'm so, so sorry, but I’ve been so f-fucking lonely, can’t I have this one thing!? Everyone makes fun of me, and those shoes made me feel like I matter, like I wasn't Peter Parker .”
“Don’t — don't you dare—you know how he feels about swearing!” She snarls, “So you’re letting his ego rub off on you, just like that? Have you decided that being a Parker is not good enough?” Her eyes widen in realization, like she’s cracked the Navier-Stokes problem. “ Oh , you ruined your bed on purpose, didn’t you? So Stark would buy you a new one?”
The first sprig of tears threatens to spill out of his red-rimmed eyes, and Peter refuses to cry - especially not in front of her. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don't cry. He chants like a mantra, biting his lips to stifle his sobs until he swears he tastes blood. It doesn’t work, and the telltale signs of a breakdown begin to rear its ugly head as Peter’s breath hitches.
“May, I…”
“Cut the bullshit,” May continues her angered tirade. “That’s what it all boils down to, doesn’t it? So that you can prove to him how bad of a parent I am. Were you going to make him come down tomorrow, just to show the filth that I apparently make you live in!?”
“Please, N-No more.. May, please…” Peter chokes from the tears and all the words that May is putting into his mouth.
“Well?! Is that what you are going for? Why did you deliberately roll around in your own filth for weeks? Why didn’t you do something about it … prevent it?”
“I TRIED!”
Peter cowers, shocked. Apparently, May didn’t expect him to raise his voice either, because if looks could kill, he'd be dead on the floor.
“I tried! I've been trying so hard... dealing with everything on my own.” Salty tears roll down his cheeks as his mind flickers to the time he hastily stepped into the furthest possible pharmacy from his school district by foot, a ten-dollar note tucked deeply in his pocket. His trembling hands had flipped through the display samples of pull-ups at the geriatric care aisle, only to pull them back when he realized that even the cheapest ones had him short by two dollars and that seemingly none came in his size. “I couldn't ...couldn't afford any protection , so —.’
May cuts him off, unimpressed. “And somehow you never thought about selling those—.”
”Would you please stop talking about the shoes!” Peter cries, biting back down the part where he dejectedly left the pharmacy with a small spray can of febreze, a 30-count pack of garbage bags, and a box of baking soda. He wouldn’t put it past May to care. He fucked up; he wasn't good enough, and that's all that mattered. “I don’t know, o-okay?! I tried to fix things…but I screwed up, I didn’t want to be a burden on you, May. I swear I—”
“You are a little! That’s enough of a —”
Static
Heavy dread fills the room.
May has the galls to look surprised. Her eyes grow impossibly wider as she raises her hands to cover her mouth; like she hadn’t meant to slip up like that.
“Get out! Just leave.” May says, hurriedly.
Burden burden burden
He’s been called much, much worse by a drunk May, but now that she’s sober, her unsaid words are like the final dagger that strikes the proverbial Achilles heel of his heart. Peter can practically feel it shatter into a million pieces. He clambers out of her room and finds refuge on the couch, drawing his knees up to curl into a ball—he can’t stand the sight of his bed and his half-empty room. Peter grieves for the only chance he’s had to see Tony for the last time and wonders if his mentor would be as disappointed in him as May was. He didn't get to thank him—the shoes, the takeouts, the few hours of solace from home, for anything — for everything
He didn’t get to say goodbye.
Peter’s self-loathing lasts for a total of ten minutes before May decides to back him further into the corner. May is standing before the couch, arms crossed, looking even madder than before. His mind races a mile a minute, wondering what he had done wrong this time.
Who knows, maybe he breathed the wrong way.
“I told you to pack, why haven’t you?” She seethes.
Peter curls into a tighter ball, dropping his head in between his knees, becoming impossibly tiny; he wants to disappear. Peter also wants to say that he’s halfway done, that he’s tired and he’ll continue once he's back from the penthouse, but falls short on his words. They come out as pathetic wheezes instead.
He’s shaking, the teen notices. But this is May, his aunt; his
family, why would he be?
He can’t speak.
Before Peter can cobble up some sort of response, May’s cold hands wrap around his wrists. It hardly takes any strength to pull him up into a standing position, away from his safe space. Peter flinches like a wounded animal. Her icy glare falters for a second, but they quickly make a comeback before Peter catches on.
“I just called Stark.” May starts, her subsequent words crushes his last bit of hope like a tin can. “You’re leaving today. You’re not coming back, you hear me? He’s coming to pick you up. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“May, I’m — I’m sorry! I’m—” His voice breaks, almost coming off as a plea. It’s stupid and pointless, what else did he expect to come out of this monumental war of words? Two days should hardly make a difference; he’s still getting kicked out, but the news still makes him feel like he’d been rammed by a truck over and over again.
May keeps her vice-like grip on his wrist, she practically drags him across the hallway, only letting it go when they reach his room. “Finish packing, you have until 6:30,” she says, leaning against the door frame as if daring him to do otherwise.
Peter glances at the clock, he barely has 15 minutes to pack up his entire life.
Through whacked sobs, Peter dumps the contents of his school bag. Textbooks, stationery, and crushed-up papers fall out with a thud. He doesn’t find anything worth keeping and pushes them to the side. His middle school memories were nothing but bitter, there's nothing worth holding on to.
With his heart torn apart and his breath coming in short puffs from how badly he's crying, Peter finds that he’s a lot less coherent as he shoves whatever that comes to sight into his school bag. All the compartments fill quickly, and Peter tries to look for a separate bag for his science pun t-shirts but finds none. He reaches for the pack of garbage bags as an alternative but is staggered by his stupidity, not for the first time when he realizes that all the seams have been cut off.
Right, he had used them for makeshift bed pads since the actual ones were like 35 bucks.
Well…look how that turned out.
“Time’s up, grab your bags.”
At the precise moment when he's about to climb on his bed to grab his Spider-Man wall clock, May speaks up. This time, there's no fury in her voice, she just sounds…tired, and emotionless.
“My clock, my shirts, my photos, I have–I haven't.”
“ So ?” May scoffs, “Can’t Daddy Stark get shiny new ones for you?”
Daddy
Such an innocent word, laced with so much hate.
Something ice cold courses through his veins, her insult striking a nerve like never before. It coils around his throat, like a tenacious serpent strangling, squeezing, and yanking the word out of his mouth. The sudden emptiness shouldn’t phase him in the least. It's not like he has anyone to slap the title on; it isn’t for him…at least not anymore.
“May, Please–” Peter begs, his voice is frantic and desperate, as opposed to his aunt, whose voice was teeming with sarcasm.
As the sun begins to dip below the horizon, illuminating their tiny apartment in a warm shade of orange, the rays settle on May’s crossed features. Peter frowns; she looks much older, he notices—the crows feet around the corner of her eyes are much more pronounced than he last remembered. Gray streaks peek out each time she rakes her hair in annoyance. His chest constricts at the sight of it.
Has Peter been wearing her out all these years?
God, he’s a blood-sucking leech.
May gives him a once over and signs. She turns to her heels and leaves, muttering out a curt “I’ll be in the car, you better be there in 5 minutes.”
Peter doesn’t need more prompting, he’ll be doing her a favor by leaving. He slips his arms through the straps of his backpack and hauls the duffel back over his left shoulder. They are as heavy as the pit in his stomach, and it almost feels like the entire weight of the world is on his back.
His tiny frame struggles to keep his balance as heaves out of his room. The numbers on his Spider-Man wall clock get increasingly illegible as he walks further and further away from his room. He chokes out a small apology, waves goodbye with his free hand to the web-slinging hero, and stops looking back when the numbers start to look more like a red blob.
When Ben died, Peter swore that he'd take over the mantle as the man of the house and that he'd be May’s hero whenever she was in trouble.
He only amounted to become a villain in May’s story.
The car is already running by the time Peter is out of the building. May doesn’t bother to open up the car boot for him, instead fumbling with the car Navi like she hasn’t owned that old piece of tech for the past 5 years. With agonizing resolve, Peter opens the door and climbs into the back seat, tossing the duffel bag to the side and hugging his backpack like a pathetic replacement for a hug.
Peter doesn’t bother to smother down the grief that hits him like a tidal wave as the car pulls over and enters the main road. Vision cloudy from tears, he hastily rubs his eyes to get a better look at their apartment for the last time as they drive away.
Without much thought, his hands tighten around the strap of his backpack, the padding straining under his vice-like grip. It’s not much of an anchor, but he needs something tangible to ground him at the agonizing thought of leaving his entire childhood behind. Awkward air settles as soon as the apartment is out of sight. With his tears somewhat tapered off, he takes in his appearance in the rearview mirror, just to see how much of a mess he is.
I mean, look at you!
May’s earlier words echo in his head, and Peter wonders how dense he could've been to let the signs go over his head all these years.
They were literally plastered on his face.
His cheeks are chubby and squishy, no thanks to the unshed baby fat, Peter notices for a start. He's got a pair of large doe-like eyes, a button nose, and small lips to boot, all adding up to complete the god-awful cherubic look that is alarmingly identical to the littles on the home’s brochure.
Measuring in at 4'5” (135cm), Peter was tiny compared to his peers, who all seemed to shoot up like bamboo one by one. Come to think of it, puberty hasn’t affected him at all. He's still got a high voice with no signs of breaking, coupled with the lack of body hair…especially in certain areas.
While everyone else was dealing with acne and body odor, Peter struggled with nighttime and daytime accidents. The only things he has in common are mood swings and uncontrollable emotions, but he’s got a sneaking feeling that those didn’t happen for the same reasons.
Deep down, Peter knows that he isn’t normal if the constant bullying and difficulty fitting in were any indication. Perhaps he’d become too comfortable, basking in his little bubble of denial, despite the numerous signs that were laid out right in front of his face. But now that he's got a letter to prove it, it hadn’t been more obvious before.
Everything that makes Peter, well… Peter points to a little.
Shame creeps up his face as Peter recounts the time he had yet again, hankered over midtown in one of his lab days. He had talked Tony’s head off, with mostly hypothetical questions like, Do you think they have better toilet paper? They have a marching band, robotics, and academic decathlon for their clubs. It’s insane! You’d think they'd let me join all of them? Is that even possible?
Tony had smiled the whole time; he thought he had said something funny. It turns out, Peter was the joke. The man was likely stifling his laughter at his delusion.
The car ride is still as silent as before, save for the constant hum of the engine.
Stuck between shame and apprehension, Peter rests his face against the window, relishing the cool surface of the glass on his flushed cheeks as he watches the terrains go by. It does little to cut through the muck that is his thoughts.
In different circumstances, Peter had always envisioned his first homecoming to go somewhat like this; awkward (but heart thumpingly so). Him sitting side by side with his homecoming date, with May as their chauffeur, in their battered 1989 Volvo.
He can just imagine it.
She’ll teach him how to dance, right in the living room. They’ll even learn how to do a Windsor knot together, and he’ll use a cologne for the first time, grimacing at the overpowering scent of musk, thinking— why do people even like this stuff?
Perhaps in another reality where he’s classified as a neutral or a caregiver, Peter even dares to think that May would’ve loved to do those things. She would’ve been the most supportive aunt. But just like every other time, his wishful thinking all came down to one thing: he had to be a normal high schooler.
But normal wasn't his reality, and Peter couldn't give her that life.
Being a little, Peter decides, is like being promised a luxury school trip to the Bahamas. Everyone is excited about the beach, the conch ceviche, and maybe even the swimming pigs. Everything has to be perfect, so you take weeks planning things out.
“Kid, we’re sending you to Svalbard.”
But on the day of the trip, they announce that the flight and hotel have been overbooked, and you’re the unfortunate one to get booted off for an alternative arrangement.
So you have to toss away everything you’ve packed because the sunscreen and swimming trunks are useless. And as you trudge through the dark, snowy streets in the midst of the polar night, sobbing, you think of the warm sun that the rest of the class is basking in and wonder: Why couldn't you be like everyone else?