Chapter Text
The sky was fracturing—that was the best way to put it, because there certainly wasn't any other way. Or so Peter thought.
He knew what was happening was his fault—because it clearly was. Ever since he had entrusted Mr. Stark’s glasses to Mysterio, his life had gone to hell; losing E.D.I.T.H. had been the worst thing that could have happened to him, and losing May was the confirmation of that.
He could see his variants: he could see Peter 3 looking after Peter 2; he could see Octavius gazing at the sky, analyzing whatever was unfolding; he could even see MJ and Ned looking around with utter wariness; he could even see the Goblin, sizing up the situation.
"This is my fault," he murmured under his breath, his brown eyes fixed on the sky. "I caused this."
Worried about what was happening, Peter swung through the air until he reached a spot near Strange.
"What’s happening?!" he exclaimed.
"They’re coming; I can’t stop them," the man said, struggling to contain the cracks that were opening ominously across the sky. "They’re coming here because of you!"
His shout was harsh, but Peter couldn't blame him. He knew it was his fault—he knew it all too well. He had tried to please everyone, tried to let others decide his path, and in doing so, he had forgotten that, above all, he was Spider-Man—an Avenger, appointed by Stark himself—and now, he was failing.
"Make them forget me!" he exclaimed, catching the sorcerer's attention. "They’re here because of me, right? Because I’m Spider-Man? Then make everyone forget who Peter Parker is."
"No!"
"Why not? It’s for the best!" Peter shouted.
"Because it means that everyone who cares about you—everyone who loves you—will forget you," Doctor Strange said.
"What other solution is there?" he finally asked. And it was true. What other solution was there? It had all been his fault. From the moment he had wanted to change the spell. From the time he had wanted things to remain as he wished. From the moment he had tried to cling to a life he could no longer reclaim.
Now he realized that nothing would ever be the same; his eyes turned toward the older Peter. The man was looking at him uncertainly, as if he knew he was about to make the biggest mistake of his life—as if he wanted to deny it, to prevent it, as if he perfectly understood what Peter was on the verge of losing.
Peter turned his gaze toward MJ, then toward Ned. His best friend, his girlfriend—the family he had left.
"Do it," he said, his voice trembling. "I'll be okay."
But even he wasn't sure of that—not when he knew that everyone would have forgotten him.
MJ stepped closer.
"Peter..."
He shook his head quickly. No—if they kept talking, he wouldn't be able to go through with it; if someone gave him a reason to stay, he might try to change things all over again.
And he had already done enough.
Peter looked at Strange.
"Please," he pleaded.
For a moment, no one said a word; the world seemed to hold its breath.
Then Strange raised his hands. Magic began to swirl around them.
Peter looked one last time at MJ, at Ned—at the people who had known his name, who had known his face, who knew who he was when he wasn't wearing a mask. And Peter smiled—a small, sad smile.
"I'll find you," he said.
"What?" MJ asked, frowning.
"I'll find you." The magic began to spread, and Peter felt a strange emptiness in his chest. "And I'll make you remember me."
Then, everything vanished.
The world went on. That was the strangest part—New York went on. People kept walking the streets. Cars kept moving. Lights kept turning on when night fell. And Peter Parker ceased to exist.
Peter woke with a start; for a few seconds, he didn't know where he was. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar—at least for the moment—until his mind reminded him that he would soon have to find a place to sleep. After all, without May, where else was there to go?
The room was silent—too silent. He sat up slowly and looked around. His things were there: his books, his backpack, the small box where he kept the few belongings he couldn't afford to lose.
All of that proved he existed, but outside that room... who could confirm it?
Peter picked up his phone and stared at the screen for several seconds. Then, he opened his contacts.
MJ.
Ned.
Happy.
None of them knew who he was; none of them remembered him. And he didn't want them to. He had gone to the café where MJ worked, seen the Band-Aids, and felt utterly helpless. His finger moved—perhaps automatically—across the screen, searching for one specific contact.
Evan Buckley.
A lump formed in Peter’s throat. He didn't know why he had opened that contact. Maybe because Evan had always answered—even when he was busy, even when he was working, even after weeks of silence. Peter remembered his messages.
He remembered the photos, the Christmas gifts, and the way May used to talk about him.
"Your Uncle Evan always worries too much," she had once told him.
Peter almost smiled, but then he remembered that Uncle Evan didn't know who he was either. The spell had been clear: *everyone*.
Peter set the phone down on the table. He couldn't call him—what would he say? His uncle likely didn't remember him. He couldn't re-enter his life or explain who he was; if someone remembered, they could get hurt, and Peter wasn't willing to lose anyone else.