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Peter has been alone for almost four years now.
He's watched his friends grow up from the sidelines. Stalked them through a screen, kept to the shadows, never interacted with them— For their own safety. He tells himself it's for their safety.
Really, it's just because he knows they'll never have the same bond they did before. MJ has been dating different people, having completely forgotten about Peter. The spell had made sure of it.
Ned, his closest friend since he was a teenager, had entirely forgotten him as well. He doesn't remember building Legos in Peter's room, or watching Star Wars with him, or even seeing each other in classes. He doesn't remember any of it.
It's better that way, the voice in Peter's head tells him one night. No one knows you, so there's no one to miss you.
He's sitting on top of a building. He had been out all night, patrolling Queens as he usually would. Lately, Spider-Man's reputation has been less than savory. Peter can thank J. Jonah Jameson for that one.
It's fine. At least he isn't having bricks thrown through his windows anymore. He still sees people siding with Mysterio, but hey, at least they don't know who he is under the mask. He can only grasp onto that little bit of relief for so long, though.
Really, he did cause Quentin's death. He could've prevented it if he had been smarter, if he hadn't given up EDITH, if he had done his job as a hero.
Could he even call himself a hero anymore?
He's not an Avenger. He's a vigilante at best, and a guy in a costume at worst. He barely even deserves that title.
He breathes out a long sigh, glancing down over the edge of the building he's on. It's not even a particularly tall building, it's just… A building.
He would survive the fall off of the top of it, he knows. He's tested how far he could fall before he became too injured. His results came up inconclusive (he wasn't brave enough to take the highest jump. He's not sure he'll ever be brave enough).
His phone chimes, snapping him out of his training of thought. He fishes it out of his pocket to see the notification, hoping to himself that maybe it'll be a post from MJ or Ned on one of their social media platforms. He takes comfort in seeing their lives, even if it feels like he's being split open whenever he sees their faces.
Instead of a post from one of his (ex) friends, it's a reminder from his calendar; His twenty-second birthday is tomorrow.
He decides, right then and there, that it'll be his last birthday.
During the next week, Peter is out as Spider-Man almost all of the time. If he's going to die, he'll at least try to fix as much as he can.
He's much more reckless during this week, however. DeWolff is worried about him, and she tells him this. He tells her it's just a part of the job, and she lets it go, knowing Peter's just trying to help. When she tells him to be careful, he laughs and swings away, reassuring her with a call of "Careful is my middle name!"
"Peter?"
Peter's head snaps up at his name. He moves, going to grab his coffee from the barista.
"Have a nice day!" She calls, watching him exit the door. The café is slow, so it's not like there's a line waiting for her assistance. Peter smiles back at her.
"I will," He says, and for once, he actually means it. "You too. Thank you for the coffee."
He leaves the café, after that. He sips on his coffee as he walks through the streets of Queens, savoring the taste of the decaffeinated drink. He keeps walking until he finds a hardware store.
He buys a rope, a bucket of paint, and a box of nails. Just to make it believable.
"What are you painting?" His cashier asks, trying to make friendly conversation.
"Building a tree house for my niece. I forgot to grab the paint and nails, and the rope is so I can make a swing with the extra wood," Peter lies. The cashier nods, giving him a smile.
Honestly, the excuse isn't half-bad. It could be better, sure, but he just chose something on the spot. He pays for the nails, paint, and rope, and leaves the hardware store.
It's his birthday. It'll also be his death-day. He finds that a little funny, in some sick sort of way. In the back of his mind, he's almost happy that he lived for an even twenty-two years.
When he gets back to his apartment, he doesn't set up the noose right away. Instead, he sits himself on his couch and orders some takeout.
You're stalling, that voice in the back of his head points out. He shrugs, grabbing his remote. "Better have some fun before I die, right?"
No one answers. He quietly turns on Mean Girls while he waits for his food to arrive.
It feels all too soon when Peter finally makes his way around to tying the noose, setting up the chair. But he had a full stomach, and he had watched a movie, and he had done good for New York up until this point. Up until his death.
People will miss Spider-Man. No one will miss Peter Parker.
He exhales, his breath shaking as he steps up onto the chair. His heart is racing inside of his chest, almost like it's trying to jump out. He's trembling, he realizes with a quiet laugh.
It's the last time he'll ever laugh. He decides not to dwell on that.
With his unsteady hands, he grabs the rope. He brings the loop around his neck, and- His spider-sense is going off, but he ignores it. He counts down in his head, mentally preparing himself for what he's about to do.
One…
Two…
Three.
"Happy birthday to you, Peter Parker," Peter breathes out, kicking the chair out from underneath himself no sooner than the words have left his mouth.