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The thing about anxiety is that you can tell. From the moment Peter wakes up, his alarm kick starting his heart into a rapid thumping pace, he knows it’s not going to be a good day. It’s going to be that kind of day. He drags himself out of bed and begins roving around his room to pack his bag.
Another note about anxiety: it’s very, very hard to prevent. Especially on days where there are immediate and inescapable stressors, like school. May’s never barred him from staying home when he doesn’t feel well, but anxiety being a sickness feels like a lie, and Peter’s never quite mastered the art of lying to her. So, school it is.
Peter dodges May’s questions about being asked if anything is wrong as he grabs breakfast—toaster waffles, cooked to a perfect golden-brown. He scrambles back to his room and lets out a sigh of relief as he closes the door behind him. He continues getting ready, taking bites of waffle in between actions.
By the time he needs to leave, he hasn’t sat down long enough to become calm. His heart pounds something awful as he climbs onto the school bus. A few times throughout the bumpy ride he contemplates asking the driver for the trashcan just in case he throws up. He doesn’t, though, because this is anxiety and that’s not the same as being sick.
He staves off the feeling enough that Ned and MJ don’t notice anything wrong. Peter’s hands shake as he pulls his belongings from his locker, but he passes it off as tiredness from Spider-Manning the night before. It’s a passable lie, really it is, but MJ still looks him over like she doesn’t quite believe him. She only purses her lips and changes the subject in the end.
Most of his classes are decent enough, though some render him unable to focus, the words on their papers blurring in front of his eyes. But it’s fine. He’s fine. Everything is fine and good and he’s perfectly okay.
Mrs. Ball, his English teacher, believes none of this. She does at least believe he isn’t sick, but has him take a “hallway break,” where he sits outside class until he feels okay to rejoin them. Spoiler: he doesn’t. He stays outside, hood pulled over his head, until the bell rings and he shuffles back into the room to collect his things and scamper off before the teacher can say anything.
The rest of his classes prove no better: he barely staves off a panic attack in Spanish and nearly cries from frustration by the end of it. He manages to laugh and enjoy one of his classes alongside Ned. The next period he has with Flash—alone. No friends in this class to act as a cushion between the two of them.
“You’re dead, penis,” Flash hisses at him. The teacher has just used the two of them—Peter, who got a 100 on the latest test and Flash, who failed—as an example of do/don’t do, though not in so many words. She doesn’t even mention names and somehow Peter is still being targeted.
Flash’s glare doesn’t go away. He keeps his eyes on Peter for at least twenty minutes until Peter breaks and throws himself out of the classroom. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t grab a pass, just runs. For his last two classes, he hides himself away in the library until he can make the walk of shame back to get his things.
When the last bell rings, Peter doesn’t bother with the bus or even heading home to his and May’s apartment. He goes straight to the Tower instead. Up to the top floor, Tony and Pepper’s home. His home. On occasion, at least—he has a room there and everything.
“Welcome home, Peter,” FRIDAY’s says, her voice ringing out in the living room. “How was school?”
“Find every synonym of ‘bad’ in your database and add them together,” Peter responds. He drops his backpack and collapses across the couch with a groan. “That’ll get you the type of day I had.”
“Would you like me to alert Boss?”
“Yes, please,” Peter breathes out. He squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on counting. Slowly—nothing too fast. Everything just needs to slow down.
Ten minutes later, Peter hears the ding of the elevator as Tony arrives on the floor. “You alright, kid? FRIDAY told me you had a crappy day.”
“‘Crappy’ is an understatement,” Peter responds. He drags himself up with a groan until he can see Tony. “My day was downright shit.”
“Wanna drown your problems in ice cream and junk food?” Tony suggests, fiddling with his shirtsleeves as he removes his cufflinks. “I know you teenagers are big on wallowing and sugar.”
Peter laughs weakly, already feeling leagues better. “Yeah, that sounds good, Mr. Stark. I like cookie dough ice cream.”
Mr. Stark orders food directly to the Tower—a heaping pile of fries, burgers and ice cream. He has FRIDAY turn down the lights, the whole room going pleasantly dim. The heat comes on, too, slowly warming the room. (Now set to 70 degrees Fahrenheit, instead of the usual 65.)
Peter curls up in the turning corner of the sectional couch, warm and cozy after having changed into a looser, more comfortable outfit of sweatpants a size too big and one of Tony’s old shirts. He pulls a blanket tight around his shoulders and squirms around to get comfortable.
“Hey, FRIDAY?” Peter calls out softly when Tony heads to grab their food from an intern who’s brought it up.
“Yes, Peter?” she responds, diligent as ever.
“Is there a diffuser anywhere? Like, the essential oil ones?”
“There is an aromatherapy diffuser located in the hall closet next to your bedroom. Would you like me to notify Boss to retrieve this item?”
“Yes, please,” Peter responds. His heart has started back up on its journey to become a marathoner, going what feels like a million beats a minute. “And some of the oils—lavender and chamomile.”
There’s nothing to be afraid of, you’re safe, Tony’s here, everything is okay. Peter repeats the mantra in his head over and over. It doesn’t make him feel any better, but when Tony comes back with a large food bag and the diffuser, he’s at least put to rest the irrational thought that his murder is being plotted.
“I got you two double cheeseburgers, a—okay, that’s a lot of fries. Have size larges always been this big? I don’t think so. And, of course, your milkshake. Cookie or something.”
“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” Peter forces out, trying to make his words sound warm and thankful. It’s hard to think of anything but the bubbling nausea in his stomach. He’s also a little worried about snapping—fear tends to make him angry.
“Okay, what movie? More Star Wars? I know you watch those ones a lot when you’re upset.”
Peter is a little embarrassed to be so easily read. He didn't know Mr. Stark had noticed that. It’s true—Star Wars has always been a source of familiarity and comfort, borne from him and May always watching them when he was little and not feeling well.
“Yeah. I always start with A New Hope.”
“The prequels weren’t that bad,” Tony mutters as he turns the movie on. Peter laughs at that. Tony isn’t a sci-fi connoisseur, much as he loves it all. Peter’s always liked the story of Padmé and Anakin—before he turned evil and started murdering kids, obviously.
“I liked Anakin and Padmé,” Peter admits. “And Jar-Jar. But otherwise they didn’t have much going for them. The acting was kind of like cardboard for a lot of it. I feel like they could have done a lot more exploring with Anakin, though.”
Peter gradually relaxes as the movie plays and he eats. The entire room is just softer—dim lights, warmth, blessed quiet. By the time the movie ends, Peter is asleep, snuffling away softly in his blanket burrito.