Chapter Text
For a class that you don’t have Peter with, a lot of thoughts about him crop up when you’re in it.
Ever since Peter got that internship with Stark, he's been a little odd. Lacking sleep for one, which you suppose makes sense given he's working for the Tony Stark, and strangely aloof for two. He's always had his moments, but lately… Well, lately something was wrong.
You have tried to get answers. Peter doesn't keep everything close to his chest, at least not in your memory. He has skeletons in his closet, fine, but the Peter you knew would share a bone or two with you.
Now he's like a secret agent, or something! Gets all stiff when you ask him if something is wrong, does that weird shifty-eye thing when you even insinuate that he's acting strange. The worst part of this is that every time you drop it, he seems to think he played it off perfectly. Pretends you didn't even ask.
He has been acting bizarre. Should the government ever sweep the city for aliens, he’d be the first target.
Not just Peter, but Ned too! They both know something you don't, you're sure of it, and your chest aches because they don't want to tell you. Was it something you did? If so, there’s nothing in recent memory that would warrant this response. Perhaps you should apologize, just in case. No doubt they would forgive you.
The teacher is still going on about her lesson, and you know you should be paying attention, but you can't. Above everything else, you are worried. Peter has lost three backpacks in the past few months. That's not normal for him! And even if it wasn't him, that still wouldn't be normal!
You haven't noticed the anxious bouncing of your leg while lost in your thoughts, nor the creepy-crawler making its way onto your arm. Just as you’re about to make up your mind and finally blow up at them, a sharp sting slaps you out of your thoughts, a chill rushing through your body at the abrupt feeling.
“Ow,” you murmur, looking down to see a spider on your right wrist. It’s tiny, with green speckles, a hint of blue shining through. Instantly, you flinch, somehow managing to hold back a yelp and flinging it off with fervor, the arachnid soaring off into the distant classroom somewhere.
The teacher instantly hinders her lesson. Some heads turn towards you in silence.
This sort of thing never happens to Flash, you think bitterly.
A couple of seats behind you, Flash gives you a look– a little thing you barely catch in the reflection of the window. It makes your cheeks flush with warmth, your body hot and your clothes feel too much like fabric. Subconsciously, you shrink into a ball, your left hand subconsciously beginning to itch your right.
When you look down, two little spider-sized tooth holes look back, like dirt-cheap red gems you’d find in a craft store.
Eventually, the teacher returns to her material. Before long, the class forgets that anything ever happened, the warmth in your cheeks slowly disappearing. The only evidence of your little outburst presented itself through itchy impulses, your other hand nearly rubbing it raw.
It was only when the teacher assigned the lab groups and you got stuck with Flash, that all your thoughts about Peter truly dispersed. You hadn’t expected to get much properly done with him to begin with, but you also hadn’t expected him to be such a prick– spilled the chemical solution directly on the bite when you weren’t looking. Of course, the teacher barely gave him anything for it.
Does anything unfortunate ever happen to Flash?
Needless to say, it took agonizingly long for the bell to ring. When it did, you ran straight for the lockers, eager to break away from it all.
“Peter!” You exclaim, hand grabbing at his sweater to ensure he doesn't get lost in the crowd. He seems to be doing the same to Ned, grabbing at his backpack while Ned fumbles around in his locker.
“Hey. Survived the morning?” He smiles, tugging you closer. “You had that lab, right? Any fun?”
“Eh, it was whatever,” you shrug, eyes squinting in confusion as Ned continues to fumble. Then, as if someone flicked a light switch, you brightened up. “Got bit by a spider beforehand, though, so my wrist was itchy the entire time.”
Peter visibly stutters, eyebrows furrowing. Too wrapped up in your story, it goes undetected.
“It was an odd color– blue with green speckles. And Flash made a big deal out of it the entire period! So I freaked out a bit and flinched, who cares? Ugh, he's the worst– even spilled some of the solution right on the bite,” you huff. “Made it sting a whole lot."
“What about strings?” Ned pipes up, head now out of his locker. With a fond roll of your eyes, you repeat yourself:
“No– sting. My spider bite stung a lot. Flash poured something on it. Ned, what’re you looking for in there?”
“Thought I lost a Lego piece in… Wait, spider bite?”
“Lost a Lego piece? What, like a character?”
“Wh– sorry, a spider bit you?” Peter asks, hand raised. “Where?”
Raising your hand to eye level, you turn your wrist to show Peter. Ned, now giving up on searching in his locker, squints to try to see. The two holes are less red than before, the blood drying and clotting to something more brown. The skin around the tiny wound is hot and inflamed from all the itching.
Peter's got that look again, you note. His eyes widened slightly, eyebrows furrowing even further, a hint of color sucked from his face. It doesn’t crop up every other day, but enough for you to recognize it. Just as quickly as it comes, it disappears, as if he’s trying to force it down.
“It’s all good,” you try to reassure him. “Not like my arm’s lopped off. It’ll heal. C’mon, we’re gonna be late for gym.”
Before he can say anything, you’ve already headed towards the gym. Now left alone, Ned awkwardly turns to Peter.
“Dude. Are there gonna be two Spider-people?”
“No, Ned,” Peter sighs, hoping that saying the words out loud will somehow make him feel less anxious about it. “The spider’s dead, remember?”
“Well, yeah, but Flash flashed all over the bite!” Ned exclaims, shutting his locker with a metallic bang. “What if it– like– mutates or something?”
“Ew, don’t phrase it like that,” Peter grimaces, gripping his backpack straps and walking towards the gym as well. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. What type of mixture would they be cooking up in a high school science lab that would end in mutation?”
“Maybe they borrowed something from the cafeteria,” Ned murmurs.
“Uh-huh.”
˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Gym class started alright. Then Flash hit you square in the face with a dodgeball, and you can’t tell if the heat you feel is directed towards him or if it’s something else. Does the woozy feeling stay long after a ball-punch?
“Hey, coach?” You pipe up, awkwardly shuffling towards him. He side-eyes you mid whistle. “Flash hit me with a dodgeball, and I’m seeing double. Can I sit on the bleachers for a moment?”
“Course. Go sit,” he nods, much to your surprise, before whistling sharply and calling for Flash.
Maybe some things do happen to him. Albeit this was relatively minor compared to the science lab incident, but whatever. You hobble over to the bleachers and sit down, trying to ignore the Flash-feeling-gaze being burned onto the side of your head.
Luckily, Peter and Ned seem to be occupied with their own thing on the yoga mats. If Peter saw you burning up like this, he would get all worried– it’s just what he does. That would likely add onto whatever he has going on, and as much as it concerns you, there’s little you wouldn’t do to make his life easier. He’s had it pretty rough.
With a sigh, you run your hand across your face. Have the lights in the gym always been so bright? No matter how many times you blink, the sight fatigue never seems to go away, and there’s this odd churning in your stomach that keeps forcing you to swallow.
The thought that you might need to throw up crosses your mind, then, and a sharp wave of dread rushes through you when it does. Of course, the thought of it doesn’t help whatever is going on in your body, and it results in even more lumps in your throat, which get swallowed down in rapid succession.
Nope, the heat isn’t because of Flash, you conclude, anxiously going to grab your gym shirt. Did the lab solution not wash off your hands? You had double-scrubbed and everything, getting in between your fingers because the teacher made it seem like your organs would liquify if you didn’t. Was she right? Is this the first step in the process?
The thought makes a sudden wave of nausea hit. Never mind sitting on the bleachers, you need to get near a toilet before everyone in here has a terrible reason to remember you. The coach is still lecturing Flash, but you don’t care, scrambling past them to get into the change room.
Ned, holding Peter’s feet down while he does his sit-ups, manages to catch sight of you just as the door closes.
“Are you sure the spider is dead?” He blurts. Peter, face screwed in concentration, pauses.
“What?”
“Just, y’know, you’re one hundred percent sure you killed it?”
“Yeah,” he answers skeptically, his sit-ups slowing before he places his hands palm-down on either side of him. With a twitch of his head and a squint of his eyes, he speaks again. “Why?”
“As your guy in the chair–”
“Aw, here we go…”
“What? I just wanna throw in my two cents. MC looks a little out of it, man. She just rushed into the change room.”
“Are you serious?” Peter instantly turns towards the change rooms, a sense of dread spiking in his chest and trickling down to his toes. “Out of it, how?”
“Out of it as in, like… She’s on the verge of blowing chunks.”
“Blowing what?”
“Chunks! Like, she’s gonna hurl!”
“Ah, crap,” Peter murmurs, getting up before his brain even comprehends he’s doing it.
“Dude, you can’t go in there,” Ned calls, earning a face of stupefaction from Peter as he turns around.
“I– No, I’m not going in the change room, Ned,” he replies hastily. “M’just checking.”
As he makes his way over, something in his chest burns. There’s no way that you got bitten by a radioactive spider, too– the very thought fills him with a sense of dread that he has never felt before. It eats away at him, makes him picture you in the situations he has been in, only you’re feeling everything he feels way worse than he ever has.
All at once, he sees you fighting criminals, leading a double life, carrying a burden you have no intention of offloading onto another person. On the back of his eyelids, he pictures you underneath rubble, where he was when the building collapsed on him, calling for help and being unable to wiggle yourself free. His hands are sweaty, face hot, heart pumping out more blood as he makes his way to the grey change room door.
This can’t be happening to you.
Awkwardly, Peter’s hand switches between hovering near the door and dropping to his sides, stuck in a limbo of wondering if he should knock. Ultimately, he decides to lean against the wall and wait.
Inside the change room, you’re sitting on the bench with your head in your hands. One of your legs bounces anxiously as you wait out what you hope is a panic attack and not rising bile. The nauseous feeling has subsided for the most part, though now you’re left with a heavy head, like there’s extra fluid floating around in there somewhere.
Maybe I really did ingest some of that chemical solution, you think, looking down at your wrists and seeing the little spider bite once again. It’s still itchy, and scratching it now would only open up the wound, so you decide to rub circles into it instead. The sensation doesn’t provide much relief.
As the minutes tick by, the sense of dread that seemed so intense earlier shrinks away, and all that remains is uncomfortable body heat and a stuffy nose. No longer on the verge of keeling over, an odd sense of embarrassment begins to wash over you. Running into the change room because of… Nothing. Nice. If anyone saw your little freak-out, it must have looked awfully foolish. Maybe if you get out there and find a yoga mat for yourself, there’s a possibility you can redeem this.
Hobbling off the bench, you adjust yourself in the mirror until you are presentable. Then, with a heavy sigh, you push on the change room door and barely stop your second yelp of the day from slipping out when you are instantly met with Peter. Curiously, your eyes dart over to their yoga mat and see Ned sitting there, looking at you both expectantly.
Confused, you raise a brow.
“Hey, um… Ned told me you looked out of it,” he explains, that nervous look in his eyes returning.
Ah.
“Everything alright?” He asks, leaning off the wall in an attempt to be casual, but you know Peter. He’s anything but, and his eyes start drifting towards your bitten wrist.
“Yeah. I think I just got overwhelmed, or something,” you reassure him, shuffling your wrist out of his vision. “Got a little dizzy and I’m a bit warm. Maybe I ingested some of the stuff from the lab.”
“You– You got dizzy?”
“Uh… Yes?”
“How dizzy?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Okay, like– on a scale of one to ten, with one being not at all and ten being a lot, how dizzy?”
Confused, you give him a lopsided smile. “What, are you diagnosing me? Tony Stark teaching you how to be a doctor alongside an insomniac?”
Peter’s mouth goes to form what looks like a no, but he stalls for a moment, the gears visibly turning in his head. Then, with a shrug:
“Something like that, yeah.”
Deciding to ignore whatever antics he’s up to this time, you answer him. “I dunno, like three or four. It’s alright, Pete, really. Let’s go do athletic stuff before coach yells at us,” you say, beginning to walk towards the mats.
“Right. Right, yeah, just…”
As Peter trails off, you turn to look at him with a raised brow, finally catching sight of the look of alarm on his face. Why was he acting so weird?
“If it gets worse… If you need help or anything, you can come to me.”
“I know,” you smile.
The answer is genuine, though it doesn’t seem to make him feel better. He nods statically like a robot when he smiles back, his body as stiff as a board. The sight of it gets a twinge of frustration out of you. He’s doing it again. The whole ‘I know something you don’t’ shtick. Turning around to properly face him, you meet his gaze.
“Do you know that?” You ask, the question visibly snapping him out of his stupor.
“Wh… Well, yeah, of course,” Peter replies.
Before you can give him a look of skepticism or make a snarky, emotionally charged comment, the coach harshly blows into his whistle. The sharp ring causes all conversation to cease, and when he calls everyone over to the bleachers to watch that awful Captain America workout video, you miss the concerned unease creeping onto Peter’s face.
When gym class ends and the final bell of the day sounds, you exit the building faster than he can find you.
˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Well. It was safe to say that you felt awful.
Yesterday you hadn’t waited up for Peter and Ned on the way home, which earned you a concerned text from both of them. Obviously, you reassured them that everything was fine and that you just felt a little off. They were both content with that, and that was the truth.
Now, though, you’re sure whatever’s going on isn’t just being a “little off.” When you woke up this morning, every limb felt heavy. Heavy, and tingly. It was like someone put tungsten into your head. You were ready to call it quits and not come into school until you remembered that you had a test. So, despite feeling like a tire smear, you showed up.
Peter’s to your left. Your desks are in pairs, and you’re sitting next to the window with your arms folded in front of you and your head down. Everything is too loud, too bright, and way too warm. Perhaps you shouldn’t have showed up for the test at all. With the state you’re in, the grade awaiting you is likely unfortunate.
“You okay?” He asks, making your head slowly raise up. Wanting to adjust, you move your hands. You’re so warm that the sweat from your fingers has made the paper stick to them. When you raise them up, the papers come with.
“Sorry, what?” You ask. Whatever you’re coming down with has also blessed you with muffled hearing. When you catch sight of the paper stuck to your fingertips, your eyebrows crinkle as you flick your wrists. The paper doesn’t come off.
“Um,” Peter stops, a look of horror making its way onto his face. His lips fumble around for letters soundlessly before he speaks again. “What?”
You raise a brow. “Didn’t you say something?”
“Yeah, I uh… I asked if you were okay,” he says slowly, peeling the paper off of your hands. He doesn’t seem to hear your murmured thanks.
“I mean, not really. I feel disgusting right now,” you reply, wiping your hands on the fabric of your pants. Peter just looks from the paper to your hands before going to grab at them. When he does, you notice that they are much more calloused than you remember them being. Calloused, and hardened. Has he been doing hand exercises?
Suddenly, he flips your hands palm up. His eyes rake them over for something.
“Peter?” You pipe up. “Whatcha doing? I don’t think you wanna touch me. Trust me, you do not want what I’ve got.”
“Too late,” he mutters. That gets a frown from you.
“Well, obviously. You’re touching my very sick hands,” you try pulling your hands back, but Peter’s grip tightens as he continues to scan them. You give him an unimpressed look, hoping he’d get the hint and let go, but his eyes aren’t focused on you.
“Hey, man, I don’t wanna hear any complaints that I got you sick,” you say eventually, and that seems to snap him out of his trance. His hands retract back speedily before getting placed into his lap, an awkward smile being forced into his face.
“Yes, ma'am,” he chokes out.
Peter is a million miles away, and you know it. Again, he's doing the thing. He hadn't done this before the Stark Internship. Just what does Stark make him do over there, anyway? Oh, him and Ned, of course. He's been getting weirder too.
He's lucky I feel like this; otherwise, I'd lay into him, you think, plopping your chin in your hand. It's hard to see the front through swimming vision.
The teacher, having finally drawn her diagram on the board, has begun her lesson. You’re trying your best to focus, but it feels like everything has been amplified and dulled at the same time. Her voice is loud despite the muffling effect in your ears, it’s a considerably colder day yet you are boiling, and on top of that, it feels like your pores are about to leak everywhere.
As the lesson goes on, you catch Peter’s occasional glances your way. They’re quick things and you’re sure he’s just concerned, but all they do is irritate you. What would he know about being concerned? It seems he’d rather die than tell you whatever new development was going on in his life. Idly, you think back to a conversation you had with Aunt May a couple of weeks ago. You were over at Peter’s– Ned wanted to build the Lego Death Star he got at his place. It was around hour four when you left his room to get food.
“You three must be hard at work in there,” she said, popping freshly baked muffins out of the tin. “Want some?”
“Hardly working, I’d say. Peter won’t stop knocking the builds over. And yes, please,” you replied, eagerly swiping one before peeling the wrapping off. Aunt May continued to remove the muffins while you ate, a comfortable silence settling between you two. Perhaps it would have been an awkward silence at one point, but you’ve known Peter long enough that you were practically part of their family– both you and Ned.
A fond smile graced your lips as you thought about it. They were known as losers at school, but you couldn’t think of anyone else you would rather spend your time with. How do people like Flash get praised for being a piece of work?
“Mm. Speaking of Peter, how does he seem to you?” She asked, finally picking up a muffin of her own. The question made you raise your brows: had she been seeing it too? It was almost relieving to hear– Ned didn’t want to talk about it.
“He seems fine, but… I dunno. I can tell something is bugging him, but he clams up whenever I try to poke at him.” You sigh, taking a mournful bite of the muffin. Suddenly, its flavors have dulled. “I suppose I can’t force anything out of him, but I’m worried. I’ve practically known him all my life– what if it’s something bad?”
Aunt May smiled then, leaning against the counter next to you. You wondered, and not for the first time, how she always managed to have this comforting aura about her.
“Peter’s really lucky to have someone like you, you know,” she said eventually. “I’m happy that he’s found people who care.”
“Yeah, me too, I just…” You trail off, feeling oddly vulnerable. It’s nearly silent, save for the low hum of the fridge and muffled music coming from Peter’s room. “I just wish he could see that I do.”
“Oh, hun, I’m sure he knows it,” she says, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. It’s warm. “But you know how boys are. Always a little oblivious.”
What Aunt May said wasn’t funny, but you huffed a laugh through your nose anyway.
“Oblivious? He avoids every question I ask, there’s no way that’s not on purpose!”
“No, not oblivious to your questions,” she clarified. “To your feelings. I don’t think he realizes how much his silence hurts you. And I don’t think he would continue being silent if he knew. He’s told me the Stark Internship has been stressing him out, and lemme tell you, I've never been a huge fan of that Tony Stark.”
So it was the Stark Internship.
“I dunno, his suits are pretty cool,” you murmured, cheeks stuffed with muffin. That got a fond eye roll out of her.
“Maybe a little,” she conceded, going to wipe a crumb off your cheek.
“How’re you not worried about him?”
“Oh, I worry every second of every day. It's my full-time job. And I know you’re worried about him too, but maybe only let that worry be a part-time job, alright?” Aunt May picks up another muffin, handing it to you. “He’s got that new internship, and being a teenager is hard. He’s okay, and as long as I’m around, he’ll continue to be. So chin up.”
“Wh– did you know I was feeling this way? Is that why you asked?”
“Mmm… I took a wild guess,” she shrugged, finally leaning off the counter and reaching into the cabinet. She pulls out some packaged snacks before opening them and shakes them onto a plate. More muffins followed before she handed the plate to you.
“Those boys are probably hungry, too,” she smiled. You took the plate with grace, but you still must have had a look on your face because she leaned in a bit, voice hushed.
“Seriously. He’ll be okay.”
“Yeah… Thanks, Aunt May.”
“Of course. Peter's not the only one I worry over, you know.”
You had returned to Peter's room with the snack plate after that conversation, chest feeling significantly lighter– like the rain cloud perched over your head had been shooed away. The rest of the evening went by seamlessly, the hours passing by without notice until you three had to squint to read the instructions in the dark.
It was easy to take Aunt May’s words to heart and carry on with school, with life. She always had a way of soothing people. However, it's been harder and harder to “not worry” as of late– especially now. Ned and Peter can hide something from you and shut you out at any inquiry, blatantly disregard your concern when you wish to be heard, but you get a little sniffly, and suddenly they're asking if you're okay?
The thought makes you upset, birth a little tumbleweed rolling around in your chest. It's a childish frustration, and you know it, but it's impossible to push the feeling of ostracization down as you had before in that homey kitchen. You're hurt.
By the fifth side-eye check-in, you snap your head to him.
“Peter, stop doing that. It's stressing me out,” you snap, the sudden quip earning you a look of surprise. The words hadn't been a lie: his looks were only making you think more and more about what the Wonderduo could be hiding from you.
“Oh– sorry,” he murmured, eyebrows furrowing. “I didn’t mean–”
“I know. It's fine,” you whisper, trailing off on a yawn.
The lesson carried on despite your spat, concerned-look free. Before long, the assignments get handed out, and you instantly set to work on them to get your mind off of everything. Your hand fishes around in your backpack until it finds the pencil case, unzipping it diligently and taking out the saddest-looking pencil known to mankind. It was unfortunate, but you ran out of pencils earlier this week and were too lazy to buy any new ones. Luckily, you found this one on the floor of the change room yesterday.
It’s busted up with scratches, and the graphite is barely kept still by the shavings. It must’ve met with an accident, too, because it’s indented in the middle and has bent the pencil at a bizarre angle.
When you go to write, your hand trembles, and the writing on the paper responds in kind. With a hefty sigh, you sit up and attempt to get better control over it, applying more pressure to the base. The technique works, if only somewhat.
Just one more period and then I can go home, you remind yourself, hot and cold flashing through your body. You’re not sure if you’d rather bundle up or remove yourself from your clothes when you get home. How can you sweat and shiver at the same time?
In the midst of your thoughts, you accidentally misspell a word. Quickly, you flick the pencil around to the eraser end and rid the paper of your mistake. When you go to write again, a loss of control of the pencil results in another mistake. With an irritable sigh, you erase it again, only to turn the pencil around and add an extra letter that wasn’t in the word.
God forbid anything nice ever happens to me, you think with a deep sigh, going yet again to erase the mistake. When you go to write this time, however, your grip on the indent of the pencil is a little too tight, that pit of frustration boiling in your belly– with one harsh line on the paper, the pencil snaps cleanly in two, the quiet pop sound earning a slight startle out of you.
For a moment, you believe the sickness may be playing tricks on you. After giving your eyes a good rub, you find the pencil did, in fact, snap.
Well, great. How were you gonna write that test now? The thought of mooching off Peter after snapping at him ignites another blaze of warmth in you, but now that you’re here, you’d much rather just suck up the embarrassment and get a spare pencil for the damn test. Awkwardly, you turn to him, yet he’s already facing you.
He’s got his signature look of horror on his face again, eyes locked on the broken pencil halves. If Ned were here, he’d probably be sporting his own expression too. It’s not as obvious as Peter’s; it looks more like he’s at a friend’s house, and their parents have started yelling at them, so he awkwardly sits there and pretends it’s not happening.
“Pete, what?” You press, sitting up straighter now. “What the hell is it?”
“I’m, um… just surprised that you managed to snap that pencil in two,” he replies quickly, instantly turning to shuffle through his backpack. “Do you need a new one? I have extras!”
Well. At least you didn’t have to ask, but his lousy excuse wasn’t fooling you this time– not like it ever had.
“I mean, yeah, I’ll take an extra pencil, but what is going on with you?” You ask. It’s the same question you had raised with him last week and the week before that, and you know in your heart that whatever answer he gives you will be woven full of lies.
“What do you mean?” He replies, handing you a Spiderman-themed pencil. The look on your face must be something else, because he visibly stutters after observing it.
“I– seriously? Peter, you’ve got an awful poker face, y’know that?” You retort, going to speak again before he can open his mouth and dish up another awful excuse. “Why have you been acting so weird? I know something is bugging you, but for some reason, you don’t want to tell me! And neither does Ned!”
Peter’s face shifts entirely as he goes to speak again, but you continue:
“We’ve been friends for years, but you get that internship with Stark, and I’m shoved out of the equation? What, am I not good enough to know what’s burdening you?
“No! I mean, yes, you are!” He exclaims, a different look of horror plastered on his face. “That’s not it at all–”
“Then what is it, Peter?” You snap, bordering on yelling. It’s a miracle everyone is too lost in their own conversations to hear you.
His mouth opens and closes while he fumbles for words, his hands not knowing what to do with themselves. The silence between you two is unfathomably heavy, like an invisible greenhouse placed atop your desks to suffocate you. Eventually, he manages to speak.
“It’s… Not that,” he murmurs, his face falling. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear he looked just like a kicked puppy.
Something inside begins to hurt, and not for the first time. It’s a type of ache that comes from feeling unwanted, excluded. It’s not a “the kids at recess are playing tag and won’t let me join” type of hurt; it’s heavier than that. It’s a slowed-down heartbeat and a weight in the stomach, a yearning to help, and the rejection of your worry. Before you can do anything to stop it, something begins to tingle behind your eyes.
Tears? No way, not here– not if you had anything to say about it. Looking away before Peter can see even a hint of red flush on your face, you fumble for the Spiderman pencil he gave you and grab it with ferocity.
Even after nearly blowing up at him, he still doesn’t want to tell you.
Fine– you can’t force him. That’s fine, you think, ignoring the prominent lump in your throat. He’s allowed to have privacy. It's not like you're entitled to his business.
Ned can be a part of that privacy, of course, and so can Aunt May. It would be rude, quite frankly, to tell him otherwise. It’s something to do with the Stark Internship, and it’s got him stressed out. That’s fine.
“Sure,” you manage to mutter. Shortly after the word escapes you, the bell sounds. Before Peter has the chance to say anything, you’ve already packed your stuff and have slung the backpack over your shoulders. In no time at all, you are out of the classroom, your chest on fire for a completely different reason than your sickness.
The test is this period. Lord, how were you going to focus on it? You’ve rarely blown up at Peter like that, and the more you walk through the crowded halls, the more you feel bad about it. It wasn’t right to just expect answers out of him, but then again, is it right of him not to even reassure you? Can he not see that you’re worried for him, even if that worry is somewhat selfish?
Maybe not worried enough, you think, a touch of bitterness worming its way into your heart. He told Ned whatever the problem was. You hadn’t meant the words when you said them– well, maybe the emotion behind them– but was that truly the problem? Were you genuinely not valued enough as Peter’s friend to know such things?
Oh, listen to yourself, you think, not even hearing the verbal jab Flash throws at you when you walk into class. With a heavy heart, you find a seat, the chair doing little to alleviate the strain in your back.
The test is handed out, and the class falls silent, everyone lost in their thoughts. The words you write on the paper are nowhere close to what you're turning over and over in your head.
“That's not it at all,” he said. Idly glancing at the Spiderman design on the pencil he gave you, you furrow your brows.
If only you hadn’t cut him off. Was he referring to your bitter remark about Stark, or the one about not being close friends? Likely both. You know they were hurtful things to say, and you know you'll have to apologize later. Even if what you said is truly how you're beginning to feel.
Aunt May seemed pretty confident that the Stark Internship was the root of his problems, but if it’s not that, then what else is there?
If your years of friendship were worth anything, they taught you that Peter is the textbook definition of a nerd. He lost the stereotypical glasses some time ago– switched them out for contacts, he said– but he was a smart guy. A bit goofy sometimes, but smart nonetheless. Effortlessly passing calculus, getting teased by Flash, indulging in “nerdy” hobbies, and absolutely not known for being cool. You’ve caught him one too many times with his tag outside his shirt.
Whatever, you think. It’s not like worrying about it anymore than you already are will make the answer manifest itself. With a heavy sigh, you toss any thoughts about Peter and Ned out of your mind. Come lunch, you’ll be sleeping off the sickness at home anyway.