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There were only three times Peter had been sick since he got his powers. The first was entirely his fault. His days of dumpster diving were thankfully behind him, but he’d never forget the taste of sour bread on his tongue. Maybe if I just remove the moldy part? He’d speculated on the accuracy of this and had been wrong. Peter was glued to his toilet for what felt like weeks.
He’d struggled finding food most days before he’d found his job at the Crimson Cabaret. When he thought about his past, there was always a before that place, and an after.
Peter suspected the second time was caused by the stress of working there. Though his days of dancing had long since passed, Peter shuddered when memories resurfaced. He’d taken terrible care of himself back then: allowing clients to fuck him for extra pay, skipping meals to focus on patrols, and ignoring his own needs. Which brought on the second time he’d fallen ill. It was a week spent resting in his bed with sticky sheets and a vomit bowl nearby.
Which brings him to now, the third, and hopefully last.
Peter’s alarm clock blared like a drill in his ears. He nearly launched it at the wall, but restrained the urge. Soon enough, he’d be moving, and he really wanted that deposit back. Instead, he rolled over and detached himself from the tangle of blankets. In mid-November, it was chilly most mornings, but the cold was especially bad as it nipped at his skin beneath his T-shirt and boxers.
He picked up his phone and sluggishly checked the screen. His whole body jolted. It read 10:35 am. Peter blinked the sleep from his eyes. He had to be dreaming. Usually, his alarm went off at 6:30 in the morning, which he typically snoozed once or twice. This was beyond late. How long had this alarm been going off before he heard it?
In a dazed frenzy, Peter shot up from the futon and raced to the bathroom to get ready. Or he would have, had he not projectile vomited the moment he stood up. The bile rose up his chest faster than he could register, and out even quicker. Peter stood stunned for a moment, vomit coating his clothes and the floor.
“What the fuck,” he muttered to himself, wiping the bile from his lips. Peter Parker, infamous for pushing through just about anything, was really sick. His first concern was Wade catching it. Then he remembered that if the man's powers cured his cancer, it could cure a cold, and that eased his worries.
After going through his last roll of paper towels, cleaning up his mess, Peter resolved to text his team secretary the bad news. Betty was nice enough that she’d try to cover for him. His boss, Jameson, was probably furious and had already opened up a job listing for his new role as lead photographer.
It was then, and only then, that he realized what day it was. Peter would have smacked himself in the forehead, had he the energy to expend.
It was Friday, which he usually worked, except it was a national holiday and his office was closed. His close work friend Gwen had even reminded him a few days ago not to come in, but he’d completely forgotten. With all the chaos of packing up his shoebox apartment lately, he’d been a bit distracted.
Peter nearly tripped over a box of miscellaneous items on his way to the bathroom. He haphazardly washed his hands, flinging soap and water onto his shirt. The pounding in his head hadn’t gone away yet, and he slurped at the tap water in hopes that it would help.
His phone rang in the next room. Peter splashed his face, grimaced at the pallor of his skin, and ran to answer it. This time, he did trip over that box of miscellaneous things. Peter crashed to the ground in a heap. His senses were all jacked up. He couldn’t hear right, smell the usual things, or even see clearly.
It was worse than he’d thought.
When he finally did answer the phone on the last ring, he was out of breath and sprawled out on the futon.
“Rise and shine, my little bed bug. You slept harder than I do when I’m next to you. Wanna go grab a bite? Heard a new pop-up is in Central Park, somethin’ about a banana puddin’ matcha? Sounds like a sure-fire way to shit up my back, but I’ll take it.” Wade’s gravely voice breezed through his speaker, cheery as usual.
“Hey, Wade,” Peter rasped, throat still raw from earlier.
“Oh boy,” he sighed, “you sound like you got hit by a bus. Did you?”
“Not quite. Woke up sick, I think. Might have to pass on the pop-up. You go ahead, though.”
“Petey-Pie, you know that’s not gonna happen. I’ll be over in a pinch.” The phone disconnected, and Peter closed his eyes in resignation. A year into their relationship, and he still struggled to let Wade help him.
Not long after Wade hung up, a quiet knock came at his door. He didn’t bother getting off the futon to answer it because Wade unlocked it with his spare key. Peter remained where he lay in the living room, looking like death.
“I’ve never seen you in such a sad state, it makes me wanna take a picture to commemorate this.” Wade teased, snapping a quick picture. Peter groaned and shut his eyes.
Wade dropped a plastic bag onto the nearby coffee table and perched on the edge of the futon.
“You’re the worst,” Peter weakly replied, body growing more tired by the minute.
“The worst, eh? Guess I’ll have to take these back then.” Wade grabbed a roll of crackers and a container of leftover chicken soup from the bag. Peter’s eyes snapped open, and he observed them curiously.
“Mmm, soup. You’re the best.” He amended.
“There we go, much better. Who doesn’t like soup when they're sick? I’ll heat some up for you.” Wade padded over to the microwave and slid the soup inside. “Also brought your favorite movie. I still stand by David Bowie being unnecessarily attractive in it. The songs are great too.”
“May thought so too,” Peter mumbled, “was her favorite musical, I think.” Memories from that far back were hazy, but he remembered her love for old musicals. Peter thought of her most days.
“Well, she had impeccable taste, real looker, he was. May he rest in peace.” Wade did a cross-over his chest, but completely backwards. Soon enough, the microwave was beeping, and the steaming container was resting on his table.
Peter wanted to kiss him, hug him, maybe cry.
He couldn’t smell it, but the sight alone was mouthwatering. Wade had grabbed a spoon from his drawers and handed it over. Peter accepted it gratefully and fought against gravity to sit up. The TV was turned on with a flicker, and the movie began its lengthy intro sequence.
“Thanks for this,” Peter yawned between a spoonful.
“You know by now I love it when you let me take care of you. Which is far too infrequently, by the way.” Wade scolded playfully, scooting in closer on the couch. He tossed an extra blanket over Peter’s body, tucking his abdomen in.
“I usually don’t need it, is all.” He argued, lying to both of them with crackers in his mouth. Peter needed help with things often, and simply did everything he could to avoid asking for it. Trekking up the stairs with an armful of groceries, picking up furniture on the marketplace, cooking a meal, etc. Peter was the definition of, nah, I got it.
“Baby, this is what I’m here for. Just this once, sit back and let me be there for you without worrying about it, okay?” Wade wrapped an arm around Peter’s shoulders, and he slumped into the warm embrace.
“Mkay,” he muttered, “just this once.” The soup was quickly dispatched alongside the crackers.
It wasn’t long into the movie before Peter’s eyes grew heavy. The nausea and headache from earlier had subsided, and in their place was an overwhelming exhaustion. He tried to focus on the song that was playing, but it only further lulled him to sleep.
When he woke, it was with a jolt. Peter had been in the middle of a terrible dream where he was being chased around his apartment by the Goblin King and his lackeys. He shook off the dream, only slightly disturbed by the contents. The living room was dark now, the TV long since turned off.
Wade was still at his side, head hanging. Peter’s head felt fuzzier than ever, almost like he was still dreaming. He ran a finger down the bridge of Wade’s nose gently, not trying to wake him. It amazed him every now and then that they’d managed to stay together for so long.
A year of arguments and long conversations. An entire year of movies and kisses and storytelling in the dark. For Peter, it felt like a decade had gone by since they met. It passed quickly for Wade, or so he’d told him, like a VHS tape on fast forward.
Sometimes, if Peter got too in his head and thought about the future, he made himself jittery with anxiety. He could fight crime all day and night, answer to a crazed Jameson 24/7, but the thought of where he’d be in fifty years left him paralyzed.
In those many years, Peter would be old and wrinkled, and Wade would still be himself. It kept him up at night now and then, thinking about the inevitable future. Peter would die, and Wade would be forced to live until the world ended permanently. If that was even possible.
But for now, they would just enjoy the time they had. They’d already secured a two-bedroom flat in the Midtown East and were moving in together in just a few weeks. Things were going well. Peter did his best not to let his worries ruin that. Ruin them.
Wade mumbled something intelligible in his sleep, and Peter stifled a cough. He settled back into Wade’s chest without waking him.
Wade never got sick; that was a fact. Peter was certain, though, that if the day ever came that he was bedridden, he would take care of him.
It didn’t matter how old he got. Even in sickness, Peter would never stop loving the man who cared so deeply for him, even from the very start.