Chapter Text
~~*Lovely – Billie Eilish, Khalid~~*
A boy with lightly curled brown hair walked toward his most hated place in the world: Midtown High School. He despised studying here. Why?
Because this was where Flash Thompson went—a stocky sixteen-year-old with dark hair, dark eyes, and tanned skin. Flash and his cronies frequently beat Peter up. Flash hated Parker; whenever Flash tried to show off his knowledge in class, Peter would unknowingly steal his thunder simply by knowing the right answer. In Flash's eyes, Parker deserved payback. If Peter made him look like a fool in front of the class, Flash was going to humiliate him in front of the entire school.
Even though the fifteen-year-old was Spider-Man, he couldn't fight back. He was terrified of Thompson, who was physically much larger than him.
The brunette stepped through the school's massive front doors and immediately felt a heavy hand clap down on his shoulder. A second later came a sudden jerk, followed by a sharp pain. Flash and his sidekicks, Ted and Max, threw him hard against the metal lockers.
"Welcome, Penis!" Flash sneered, digging a kick straight into Peter’s stomach.The younger boy let out a quiet gasp and slid down to the floor. "I hope you’ve got money this time, Penis. You don't wanna end up like last week, do you?" Flash added with a cruel laugh. On his way out, he delivered one last kick to the boy's abdomen before strolling off toward his first class.
Peter lay curled on the cold floor. With immense effort, he forced himself up, desperate to slip into the bathroom. He wanted to hide from the world, away from the people who tormented him and turned a blind eye to his suffering.
On his way, he bumped into a rather tall teenage girl. She had dark, curly hair, pale skin, and striking blue eyes. The girl looked down at Peter, who had stumbled to the ground again. She squatted down, offering a hand with a faint, gentle smile.
"I-I'm sorry," he whispered, staring up into her blue eyes.
The girl simply kept her smile and held her hand out further. Expecting the worst, Peter flinched and curled inward, bracing for a blow. When he realized it wasn't coming, he hesitantly took her hand and pulled himself up. "Hey, kid, do you know where I can find room 1B?" she asked out of nowhere. He blinked, thrown off. Was she a new student?
"Second floor, room 45," he answered, pausing before asking hesitantly, "If you don't mind me asking... are you new here?"
The girl smiled softly.
"Nah. Just dropping off a lunchbox for my brother—he forgot it at home," she said calmly. "I'm Eris, by the way. We probably won't cross paths again, but it felt weird not giving you a name."
The teenager looked at her, a tiny smile breaking through his bruised face. As she started walking away, he found a sudden surge of courage.
"Peter!" he called out after her.
She turned back and offered a wide, bright smile.
Parker stood there, stunned. He couldn't wrap his head around why Eris had been so kind, or why she hadn't pried into his flinching reaction when she offered her hand. She was older than him—maybe twenty-one at most—and stood around 180 centimetres of height. She was undeniably pretty, though not quite Pete's type. Friendly, yet strangely enigmatic.
Shaking off the encounter, he hurried to math class and pushed Eris out of his mind, convinced he’d never see her again.
When he slipped into the classroom, he took his seat—directly behind Flash's table. Fortunately, he wasn't sitting right in the bully's line of sight, allowing him to quietly focus on the teacher.
The period flew by, but inside Peter's head, his thoughts were racing about his upcoming patrol. He weighed whether he should suit up right after school or wait until later. He ultimately decided it was best to get it over with right after classes so he could spend the rest of the evening at the old apartment with his beloved aunt.
He loved his aunt dearly. She was so caring. After his parents died, his aunt and uncle had taken him in without hesitation, treating him like their own son. They didn't have much money—they were a working-class family, barely scraping by to pay rent and afford basic necessities like decent winter boots, a warm jacket, or a proper beanie. Yet despite the hardship, they always chose joy. Aunt May used to teach her nephew that even in the darkest situations, there is always a silver lining—to look toward tomorrow with hope and never worry too much, because everything would work out in the end.
It didn't.
When Parker turned fourteen, his uncle was murdered. He was gunned down, and Peter could do nothing to stop it; he was just a powerless boy. May shattered under the weight of the grief. She cried every single day. For the first week of mourning, she didn't leave the house at all. She sat frozen on the worn-out couch, staring blankly at the wall clock. The happy May who used to greet Peter and Ben when they came home was completely gone. She missed two weeks of work. They could barely afford breakfast or dinner, let alone a proper meal.
Peter still had to go to school every day, enduring Flash’s cruel taunts and insults. Thompson didn't care that Parker had just lost another person he loved. At school, there was no one to shield Peter from his abuser; all he received from students and teachers were looks of pity.
He hated that pity.
Why do people say *"I'm so sorry for your loss"* when it changes nothing? It doesn't bring back the dead, nor does it heal the sick. It doesn't magically sweep away your torment or silence your fears. So why the hell say it? Those words only cut deeper because they force you to realize how utterly hopeless your situation is. They remind you that others have it better—that they don't have to fight the demons of the past, present, or future that haunt you. That single, hollow phrase only highlights how weak and helpless you are for failing to protect, heal, or save the people you love.
Whenever Peter came home, he would find his aunt weeping, blaming herself for her husband's death. But she didn't know the truth. She didn't know that *Pete* was the killer. If he hadn't snuck out without telling anyone, none of it would have happened. If he had just said where he was going, Uncle Ben wouldn't have gone looking for him, and he’d still be alive today. Peter had killed his uncle, and he couldn't comprehend why his aunt still held him in her heart. Why did she tolerate having her husband’s murderer sitting at her table, eating her food, and living under her roof? Why did she still offer him love and respect?
By the third week of grieving, May started drinking. A lot. Too much. Yet she never raised her hand to her nephew, nor did she ever raise her voice. After getting drunk, she would usually pass out cold on the couch, snoring softly, exhausted from endless crying. Peter would cover her with a blanket, pour a glass of water, and leave it on the coffee table alongside a painkiller. He never held it against her. He knew how much she was suffering over the loss of her soulmate, and how hard it was to carry that weight. But it broke his heart to watch her spiral deeper into the bottle. It started with two beers an evening; soon, it became a bottle of cheap vodka and strong, dry red wine. It was all bottom-shelf stuff, costing no more than twelve dollars, but money was already tight. With her addiction worsening, their savings vanished completely. Peter frequently went to bed hungry, without lunch for school or money to buy anything from the bodega.
A month into the grief, May slowly began to pull herself together. She started going out again, stopped drinking, and finally smiled. Peter’s life slowly—agonizingly slowly—began returning to normal. Yet in the back of his mind, a relentless voice kept whispering that something bad was coming, constantly reminding him of his guilt in Ben's death. Ever since that tragedy, Peter had been wrestling with suicidal thoughts, completely indifferent to his own well-being. He cared far more for his aunt, who had done more for him than his own mother ever had.
Three months later, a radioactive spider bit him, giving him powers and turning him into Spider-Man. To Parker, it felt like a second chance—a way to atone for his uncle's death. But it didn't fix anything. The agonizing voice inside his head never stopped.
*"It's your fault."*
*"Ben would be alive if it weren't for you."*
*"May could be happy, but she isn't because you're still breathing."*
*"Kill yourself before you hurt anyone else."*
The only thing keeping him grounded was his aunt. She still loved him, and he knew she wouldn't survive his death. He couldn't let her suffer any more because of him.
Six months after getting his powers, Tony Stark walked into his life. *The* Tony Stark—the man Peter had idolized since he was a little kid. He still remembered the day Iron Man saved him from a giant robot and spoke those iconic four words: *"Good job, kid."* From that moment on, Peter worshipped him even more, dreaming of becoming a genius superhero just like Tony. Young Peter saw Stark as his hero and mentor, someone he strove to copy in every way. He remembered begging May to paint Tony’s signature goatee on his face; once she did, he refused to wash it off, spending hours in front of the mirror practicing hero poses in a makeshift suit made from old fabric bought at a thrift store.
Tony took him to Berlin, where Peter found himself fighting Captain America—another hero he deeply admired. He was ecstatic when Mr. Stark let him keep the suit, holding onto the desperate hope that his help would be needed again. He genuinely believed Tony liked him and wouldn't abandon him.
He was wrong again.
Tony didn't care about him—at least, that’s how it felt to Peter. He ignored him, mistrusted him, and above all, doubted his abilities. Peter craved nothing more than for the genius to see him as a real hero, not just a clumsy kid playing dress-up. But Peter wasn't like other kids. He didn't care for parties or crowds; even around people he knew, he preferred isolation because everywhere he went, he was mocked. He was made fun of for his worn-out shoes, his faded clothes, and his tattered backpack. Nobody saw any value in him; to them, he was just a poor, pathetic nerd. But Peter wasn't a nerd—he just loved to learn. He picked up concepts effortlessly, finding schoolwork ridiculously easy, which was why he maintained top grades in every subject.
The truth was, Tony did like the kid; he just had no idea how to express it. To Tony, Peter was a bright, optimistic teenager who was always smiling, cracking terrible puns, and getting flustered around new people. Tony respected the boy's intelligence—after all, Peter had invented his own web-shooters using scrap materials in a high school lab. Parker was a genius, plain and simple.
What Stark failed to see was the dark side of the coin. He didn't notice how desperately Pete tried to impress him. It wasn't until the Vulture incident that Tony finally recognized the boy's dedication, but even then, he missed the core issue. He had no idea Peter was drowning in guilt over his uncle's death. Tony had never bothered to look into his intern's full history. He was content with the bare minimum: raised by an aunt, no parents. He never dug into why the parents were gone or whether an uncle had been in the picture. All that mattered to Tony was the boy's mind and the mask he put on—the image of a cheerful, naive kid.
Tony was too blind and too self-absorbed to realize what his indifference was doing, missing the real pain hiding behind Peter's smile because he simply didn't want to look closer.
Peter was heading home from patrol. It had been a quiet afternoon: he helped an elderly woman find her way to the subway, guarded a family of ducks from an oncoming car, and played with a group of kids who spotted him on a rooftop. Everything had gone smoothly. What could possibly go wrong.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside, taking off his shoes and jacket before setting his backpack down in the hallway.
"Aunt May, I'm home!" he called out.Instead of her usual warm reply, he was met with a heavy, suffocating silence. "May?" Panic surged through him. He frantically searched the apartment—the kitchen, the living room, her bedroom, his own room, even the balcony. She wasn't there. His breath was unsteady full of terror, where was his auntie?Then it hit him. "The bathroom!"
He dashed to the door and shoved it open. The sight before him drained the color from his face.
His aunt lay on the cold tile floor, her eyes barely open. Blood was pooling beneath her left wrist. In her right hand, she loosely clutched an empty vodka bottle, and beside her lay a small, razor-sharp blade bathed in a pool of crimson.
Trembling uncontrollably, Peter scrambled for his phone and dialed 911. Between desperate, breathless sobs, he checked her pulse, praying this was just a nightmare—that she would wake up, wrap her arms around him, and tell him everything was going to be okay. She had to live. She always promised him she’d be there.
The paramedics arrived as fast as they could, but it was already too late. As Peter stood frozen beside her body, the doctor's words echoed hollowly through his mind: "Time of death: 6:56 PM."
Then came the flatline, accompanied by the muffled, meaningless comfort of the EMTs telling him "everything would be alright."
*Like hell it would.*
Peter had just lost the last person he had left in the world, and deep down, he knew every single one of them had died because of him. His parents died driving to his school. Ben died searching for him. And May died because he wasn't there in time. He could have postponed that damn patrol, but no—he had insisted on going right after school.
He told himself he deserved this pain. But even knowing that, he felt an overwhelming, crushing grief. More than that, he felt an all-consuming rage at God for letting May suffer like that—for allowing her to die. Peter stopped believing in good that day. His hope died right alongside his aunt. He grew to hate the God who had abandoned May in her darkest hour, cursing His name and wishing he could pray to the Devil himself to avenge her.
"Friday, turn on the news," Tony’s voice echoed through the empty living room. A second later, the massive screen flickered to life.
*"...A woman in her early forties has committed suicide,"* a young reporter announced on screen. *"Details remain scarce, but her name was May. She leaves behind a teenage nephew who is currently being placed into foster care..."*
Stark didn't recognize the name. He had always been terrible with names anyway. The only thing that crossed his mind was that the reporter was remarkably attractive.
"Poor kid," he muttered softly before turning around and heading to the kitchen for coffee.
If he had stayed just a moment longer, he would have seen the photograph of the "kid" appear on screen. But once again, Tony Stark proved to be a fool driven by his own ignorance.
And the worst part? Curled up in a ball in an empty apartment, Peter sat waiting, desperately hoping Mr. Stark would show up to save him, to hold him, to tell him he wasn't alone.
But luck was never on Peter Parker's side. No one came.
He lost his last shred of hope. In a way, he wasn't even surprised that Mr. Stark hadn't come. After all, who would ever want to comfort a murderer?
Tears streamed endlessly down his pale cheeks until an elderly social worker approached him, whispering softly, "Come on, son."
Peter obeyed quietly, shutting the door on the outside world. He stopped talking to everyone, retreating inward to face the demons whispering in his head: "Kill yourself. It'll be better for everyone."
But if I die, who will protect the city? Who will step up as the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man? Who will pay for my sins if not me?
He couldn't end it. He didn't deserve the peace that death brought. He didn't deserve an end to the pain—not when he was the one causing it, bringing death to everyone he touched.
So he made a promise to himself: he would never love anyone again. Everyone he loved died. Why risk taking another innocent life?
Those who do not love need never fear loss.
— Camilla Läckberg, *The German Boy*