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Silly silly, muses the man, fingernails tapping delicately at his desk. So silly.
He watches the teen press a small kiss to the Filipino boy's lips and send a wave to the girl, walking off.
Not knowing that the things he desires are the things that will hurt him.
Silly.
Peter was told at some point in his life that he was not good looking.
Maybe it was too many Buzzfeed articles read (WHY DO GUYS NOT LIKE YOU? IT’S PROBABLY BECAUSE OF THE WAY YOU LOOK), maybe it was too many insults from Flash and various bullies, maybe he just heard it on the street and attributed it to his memory.
But Peter Parker is not good looking.
He has thin lips, he freckles when he goes outside, dark eyes that just…aren't pretty. His knuckles look weird, all knobbly and disjointed, and his curls are almost always frizzy.
But Peter’s okay with that.
He doesn't really care about being good looking (it hurts though, god it hurts so much ), because he's other things. He's smart.
He hasn't ever really gotten past that point of his worth, but maybe it's enough.
(If he's smart enough, if he gets good enough grades, maybe May won't be so tired and Ben will stop looking so sad.)
He's smart in a smart school so that has to count for something. He can claim that. He can say that he's smart (without being too overconfident, without being egotistical) and that's enough.
Ned sure seems to think so.
He tells Peter everyday just how genius he really is, which always makes Peter turn brilliantly scarlet, but he chooses to ignore that, the deep seated hatred in the flame blush of his face.
Ned tells him he's gorgeous. Ned tells him god, Parker, you’re so fucking pretty. MJ says it's disgusting, and he can't help but think she's talking about him, about the fact that anyone could ever call him that.
He always smiles, hands shaking against the joints of his elbows, and lets Ned drag him to their next class, his stuffed in knees tripping him up.
But he loves Ned so, so much. He loves his big arms that hold him tight, loves the way he can fall into his eyes, and swim in the pitch of them. He loves how excited he gets about everything, how emotional he is when he watches a sad movie. It's the little things. It's the flurried movements of his hands as he rambles about the new Star Wars movie, critiquing the plot. It's the way he blows the hair out of his face when he's too concentrated to use his hands.
It's the way he's been totally swallowed by this love, the way he will never be able to crawl out of it.
(This is where he wants to drown)
When he's not completely encompassed by the feelings that are everything Ned, the doubt in the back of his mind slinks forwards, pressing against the sides of his skull.
It curls its tongue in his poisoned cerebrospinal fluid, laps up the decayed fragments it finds there. It carves little ridges in the back of his brain, places where it can spew its hatred, its disgust.
Too ugly, too short, too gangly
It feeds on his thoughts, makes them something different, something uglier. Eats them and spits them back out, damaged.
Why would he want you? You?
This distress is hidden in the folds of his pale lips, the catch of his aching fingers against the hems of his sweaters. Hidden in soft kisses placed on Ned’s face, his knuckles, his knees, trying to worship every part of him, every bit of this god, because he is a pheasant, a nobody in the face of the other teen.
Ned tells him he is good. He tells him he is sweet and thoughtful and kind, that he is funny and strong and–
He and Ned almost certainly see different people.
He has an idea which one is right, which one is more worthy of dating the perfection that is Ned, he has an idea of how little the other one means.
Peter Parker is not good looking.
He is not cute or hot or pretty.
Peter Parker is none of these things.
(It hurts just a little more than it should)
It starts with a note in his locker.
Peter is chaotic, frenzied anxiety, he is spikes of pulse and tugging at strands of hair and trying to force his stupid ankles to work with his stupid legs and walk–
High school has done him in.
There are puffed ink swells under his eyes, bruises along the hard set of his jaw. His face is pale (something May had frowned at, had asked where his Italian heritage had gone), his spine curled against the backs of his ribs.
He takes a deep breath and rubs his thumbs over the straps of his backpack, taking care not to slam into anyone's side. The sound of the bell buzzes at the base of his skull, a war cry to rally the defenses. He takes a deep breath and lets it out, trying to focus on the heatwaves in his lungs.
(Overheated, overheated, overheated)
He’s pushed into his locker by a tenth grader, almost relieved by the air bubble that is popped in his lungs, gasping it in as his side slams into the cold metal. He winces, rubbing his hand over the offended area, pokes at the tenderness of it. Definitely going to bruise.
Peter swipes his hand across his face, catching his ring finger in the dip of his lips.
Ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly
There's a feeling curling up the flesh in his arms, a sense of wrongness, of something bad. It’s fine, he tells himself, probably just the mystery meat in the cafeteria. That always knocks him off his game.
It starts with a note, fallen on top of one of his textbooks, a yellow post-it folded up tight. He blinks at it for a moment, its arrival strangely jarring against the otherwise bleak atmosphere of his locker.
A soft smile starts on his lips, smooths out the worried creases in his face, makes him feel as though a bomb is starting to tick in his chest. That's how Ned folds his papers–In half, then in thirds. He carefully picks up the note with two of his fingers, unfolds it delicately, though the grin slips off his face suddenly.
Don’t think I haven’t noticed you, looking so unbelievably sweet.
–Your secret admirer, S
He looks up suddenly, peering down the otherwise deserted hall. A senior with dreads gives him a funny look, though he turns away to walk into a classroom. His mouth twists as though he's eaten something sour–
(Maybe he's finally swallowed his bones, his organs, maybe every piece of him is spoiled)
–And grabs his gym clothes from the second metal shelf.
Feeling vaguely disgruntled and wound up, he crumples the note and tosses it in the bin as he walks into P.E.
Peter figures that that's the only note he's going to get. He figures that it was just a dare (I mean, for someone else to actually like him? Come on), a cruel joke on him, but no one seems to be laughing at him more than usual, elbowing each other to point and stumble over their elbows and run their wrists into each other's mouths.
He expects the notes to end, he expects that this is a one off thing, or a note meant for the locker next to him.
It isn't.
The notes keep coming.
The man slips easily amongst the swell of the student body, a piece of paper tucked into his back pocket. He smiles at a girl named Amanda, and wishes happy birthday to a junkie. Appearances, appearances.
His fingers are clasped firmly behind him, pointer finger circling the veins on his right wrist. He nods to the principle, blows the hair out of his face.
He had seen Peter's confusion at his note the other day, his dismissal of it, which had made him irrationally angry. WIth himself, perhaps, for not writing it better. But also perhaps with Peter, for not seeing the devotion he had for him, how much better he would be with him, rather than the filipino boy. A sneer makes its way onto his face without his consent, and he quickly has to squash it.
He waves at Principal Morita, adjusts the sleeves of his jacket. He walks around the corner, sees Peter and Ned talking to each other casually, pinkies hooked as they come his way.
A revulsion, a hatred curls forcefully in his gut, and he has to quell the scream rising in his throat.
Peter will see eventually.
He has to.
As he slides past the pair, he can't help marvel at how sweet, how innocent Peter looks, dressed in a soft sweater and sweatpants, his shoes worn and lived in. How perfect.
It helps to ease the feelings of resentment rising in his chest, and he strides towards Peter’s locker, slips the note carefully through the metal slats after he's extracted it from his pocket, then walks back down the hallway and eases through the open door of a classroom.
I’ve noticed you in class, how pretty your throat is when you lean back
–Your secret admirer, S
You are truly a god on earth
—S
I could give you so much
–S
You drive me crazy
–S
Peter throws each note away. There's a residue of guilt it leaves against his fingers in the form of blue ink, but he tosses them in the bin.
He doesn't tell Ned.
(He doesn't know why.)
There's a part of him that feels bad, that demands he be brought forwards to pay for these sins, but the notes are harmless. They make him uncomfortable, sure, but he doesn't know who it even is, so he can't make any accusations.
(I would like to accuse the random kid in the hallway with the blue pen.)
(Sorry, you’re out.)
He doesn't want to worry when it's not even really bad, just flirting from an unknown source.
So he stays quiet.
He thinks about saying something, hand clenched around a highlighter bright paper, tongue clamped tight between his molars. He always releases a shaky breath, rubs his knuckles against his palm and swallows anything he would say.
It doesn't bother him until the notes get weird.
I would love to fuck you over a table, you know that?
–S
You must look so good when you moan. Wanna test it out? All pretty for me?
–S
Peter feels a sort of deep seated shame that clings to the worm food of his muscles, the acid lining of his stomach. He tells himself to push it down, that soon he will decompose and this will be over and there won't be ringing in his ears anymore–
He swears he sees shadows outside his window at night, half lidded eyes that watch him as he undresses.
He's been sleeping in the living room, cold tendrils of fear wrapping up the bundles of muscles in his shoulder blades. May asks him what's wrong and he wants to say that he's scared, he's terrified. He wants to crawl into her bed and have her hug him tight and cry into pillows. He wants to bury his face in her hair and smell her citrusy shampoo, get his sweat soaked curls untangled from each other.
He doesn't.
He swallows hard and smiles shakily, pressing his fingertips into his thighs until he cant feel eyes on him anymore.
He's being irrational.
God, you freckles are positively divine. How gorgeous would they be with your pleasure?
–S
Ned holds his hands at lunch, thumb brushing over the anxious bumps on his knuckles. Peter tries not to vomit at the sensation, instead gazing surreptitiously behind him every few seconds, occasionally catching the eyes of admin. He adjusts himself in his seat too often, asking to switch with Ned. The other teen frowns, MJ looking up carefully from her book, but he acquiesces.
Peter can now survey the entire lunchroom from where he is, no eyes against the small of his back, how his hair sticks to his hoodie.
“You okay, babe?” Ned asks softly, eyes trained at a spot between his eyes. Peter clears his throat, aches to look around him. He instead stares at his knees, releasing a puff of breath that ghosts across his chest.
“Mhm, just tired. Are you okay?” MJ makes a surprised noise, and the hurt look on Ned’s face makes him want to curl up and die, to rock himself into his withered bones, to bury himself face down in the mud and stick twigs through his eyelids–
Ned tells him his freckles are especially cute today, and Peter has to excuse himself to go to the bathroom.
He spends five minutes and thirty eight seconds expelling the contents of his stomach until all he can taste is bile and the bitter taste that seizes his throat.
MJ and Ned are worried about him. May and Tony are worried about him. Hell, even Happy is worried about him.
When he picks him up, two weeks after the notes start, his eyes widen behind his sunglasses exponentially.
“Jesus kid, did you get run over by a bus?” Peter frowns and drops his backpack into the seat, shaking his head softly.
“No, just a freshman.” He responds sassily, though Happy doesn't seem to appreciate his sarcasm. The man grumbles under his breath about self entitled teenagers, but all the way to the Tower he sends conspicuous glances back at the vigilante.
Peter shuts his eyes, non existent fingernails picking at the skin on his hands, tearing off sections in strips. Maybe he can break himself down into nothing at all, layer by layer.
His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he expects it to be MJ, alerting him that he's missed Flash’s dramatics, or Ned sending him a Dank Meme ™ , but an unknown number pops up on his screen. A pool of dread starts in the pit of his stomach and scratches up the sides of him, but he swipes open the message. Maybe the Pharmacy has his antidepressants in.
I watched you leave today. Do you miss me yet? I miss you.
Sent 3:34
Peter’s hands shake against his screen protector, mouth opening and closing.
What?
What the fuck?
He deletes the sender from his contacts, powers off his phone and shoves it deep into his backpack, fingers hopping all over the place. His breath comes in quiet, panicked gasps, and he smothers them against a long drink from his water bottle. He’s shaking so badly he can barely hold it straight (he can't do anything straight though, haha), and he ends up spilling it all down his front. The lukewarm water soaks into his shirt, and for a second he is standing in the school bathroom.
Two guys walk out of the stalls behind him, chatting idly about a stupid offsides the ref had called at their soccer match. One has dark hair, the other coppery, both with crooked smiles and eyes that seem to stare straight into him and–
He focuses on his breath, lets out a small sigh when school water sprays down the front of him from the only pressurized faucet on this floor. He scrubs soap between his fingers, lathers it under his nails while the jocks lean against the wall, fixing their hair in the mirror.
Another stall opens behind him, and a faceless form grabs the sides of the tile, head tilted slightly. The only thing where its face should be is a pair of startlingly blue eyes, and a concave of a mouth.
Do you not want my love? It hisses, and Peter dries his hands with a scratchy paper towel and chucks it in the trash bin like he did with all the notes, blood pounding in his ears.
He takes a deep breath and he is back in the car, Happy swearing loudly as a sports car cuts him off, slamming the brakes. Peter gasps, tries to pretend that the reason is because of the road, not what he imagines. Pretends he cant feel his phone burn against the side of his ankle.
He crosses his legs and presses his forehead to the seat in front of him, taking deep, shuddering breaths. If Happy hears him, he doesn't say anything, the divider rolled up. His mouth is dry, and he swallows harshly, gasoline and something more metallic than that sliding down his throat. Mabe blood.
He rattles his mouth filled with bone and cracked jaws and prays he isn't falling apart.
A bracelet is in his locker the next day.
It's simple–just brown, blue and white string braided together, one silver heart dangling from the middle. Peter looks at it as though it is a live thing, then slowly shuts his locker, deciding he doesn't need his folders today. He feels vaguely ill and presses the back of his hand to his lips, tries to stop the nausea wiggling around his stomach, eating into the flesh near his ribs.
Ned didn't make it, because Ned can’t braid.
Ned didn't make it because when Ned makes him something or buys him something he buzzes with an excitable energy, hopping from one foot to the other, eyes bright. Ned waits until he has the gift before he leaves, wanting to gauge Peter’s reaction.
Ned didn't make it for him.
Peter shivers as he spins his code in again, opens the locker robotically and pulls out the bracelet, peers at it carefully.
Carved into the silver heart is the letter S.
Peter lets out a distressed noise, something between whining and choking, and makes his feet carry him to the nurse’s office. He says he’s sick, he's got a migraine. His hands flutter at his sides, occasionally fisting in his pants, then releasing them. His teeth tear ragged holes in his lips, and he sucks the iron from them, preferring to taste that bitterness than the disgust making its way up his throat.
The nurse takes his temperature, makes a vague comment about how he seems feverish, then tells him to lie down for a bit and see if by then he is good to go back to class.
He nods his head, though inside his anxiety and fear have a fistfightt along the shattered remains of his bones. He texts Ned, then MJ, takes a drink of water and tries to settle his nerves.
It's nothing. Nothing.
It's a joke, a silly little thing, the person is just ambitious. That's it.
But he can't help thinking of the text the day before, of the bracelet that followed, of the idle hints and the sharp smiles he imagines are behind the post its.
He doesn't end up going back to class, just lays on the cot, hands held over his stomach, head pressed into his shoulder. The Nurse gives him an advil. He swallows it, shocked at his ability to keep it down.
If he is a storm, his chest cavity is the tornado, his intestines the hurricane. Brewed over hot, spewing liquid, built up into something frenetic, something more dangerous, something that carries him away and away.
He feels dead nerves whipped along by the wind, dully relishes in the lashings of them as they tear him to pieces, as he bleeds all over the cot, melts into a puddle of organs and blood.
And even with that, there is still the fear, the disgust.
Maybe that is all he is now, maybe it will never truly be gone.
Peter stays home the next day after his stomach knots decide to expel themselves for three hours.
May takes his temperature, says it isn't too abnormal, but tells him to rest and take it easy.
He does not.
He wastes away his day by hiding under his covers, shivering and crying into his comforter, trying to sweat out this wretched feeling in him, this unjustified guilt, the bees crawling right under his skin.
He breathes far too fast for far too long, anxiety and desperation clawing up the sides of his veins, until black spots creep along the edges of his vision.
They create forms, looking in through his window, the sliver behind his door, and he has to slam down his blinds with shaking fingers, close his door harshly and rest his head against his hands until he can breathe.
He’s being stupid.
Hes being so fucking stupid. They’re just a few notes, one text message, and a bracelet. It's stuid stupid stupid stupid stupid–
That doest stop Peter from carving out a hole in his closet, turning on his fairy lights and grinding Pokemon Emerald so that he can catch Rayquaza before taking on the Elite Four. He shudders and lets out keening noises the entire time, but they eventually slow, until all that is left is his depleting husk.
Peter’s nights are haunted by blue eyes and ragged fingernails clutching burning pieces of colorful paper. He wakes up sweating and berating himself for his idiocy, wakes up and does push ups until his arms are shaking more than the rest of him.
Stupid stupid stupid–
He gets another text message, asking him where he's been, why he wasn't at school.
Another, asking if he's alright.
Another and another until the screen is blurred, until he can't even read ‘unknown sender’ anymore.
He hurls his phone at the wall and breaks down as it does.
How was your Aunt’s meatloaf last night?
–S
Peter can't breathe.
Peter can't breathe because now there is a new sort of terror lodged in his throat, now there is honeycomb and cactus needles and his throat is shredding itself and dripping down into his lungs and they are waterlogged with sticky mess–
Peter drops the note, runs his hands aggressively down his pants and focuses on breathing, breathing, breathing. He knows how to do that.
It takes him a few minutes, but once he's no longer choking, he picks the note back up, reads it again. Last night. May's meatloaf. They had meatloaf. This person knows they had meatloaf. That means they saw Peter, Peter last night and his Aunt and they knows where he lives and–
Maybe they saw Aunt May at the store, buying the ingredients. Peter releases a shaky breath, the icicles in his head melting, making him numb. Yes, that must be it. Plenty of his classmates go to the store everyday, and plenty of them have told him that they see his Aunt, once she's off her shift. Of course. That's it.
It only barely shakes the apprehension snarling against the corners of his breaking joints.
When Peter was six years old, a man at a deli told him he was a pretty little thing, and had tried to touch his side.
Peter was only six, with scraped up knees and a baby flesh face, wide brown eyes and missing teeth.
Ben had snatched him away and called in a report, ordering a surveillance on the shop. Peter had never seen Ben quite so livid, quite so disgusted, and he had begun to cry, holding his useless child hands to his chest. Ben had run a rough hand down his face, held Peter close and whispered that it was okay, whispered that he would be fine.
“I’ll protect you forever, Peter. Always.” Ben had said into the shell of his ear, Peter’s face buried in his sweater, snotty and gross.
Peter had been scared then and he was scared now, as he got another notification from his phone. Unknown Sender.
He changed his number, Peter thinks hysterically. How the fuck did they get it again, he changed his number he changed his number–
He blocks the sender again.
Ben isnt here to protect him anymore because Ben is dead, so the only thing he can think to do is block the number.
And then he starts getting emails.
Do you not love me?
Why would you do that?
I care about you.
I can see you panicking right now. You don't need to panic.
Peter’s heart freezes in his chest, the rest of his organs quickly following suit.
He leaps up, shoving away his sheets as they tug at his ankles, telling him to come back. To stay, to be safe, to drown in the comfort of them. He can't be comforted right now.
He smashes his face against the glass of his window, peers out of it. Okay. There's no one there, and the buildings across from him are abandoned. There's barely anyone on the streets.
He lets out a relieved breath (though his heart still thunders dangerously in his chest, threatening to give him a heart attack) and he slides against his wall, swiping the block/report button in his email.
He's just being stupid.
Tony tells him that he looks sick. Peter shrugs and says he was, which seems to ease the hard lines of concern in the man's face.
(Peter feels worms along the length of his spine, wants them to eat into his flesh, his eyes, and degrade him down to nothing.)
Tony tells him he feels clammy when he hugs him, and Peter says he's fine, just recovering. Tony says okay, and that's that. He doesn't look further at how pale Peter is, how thin, how deep the shadows under his eyes have gotten.
Peter wants to cry, and he almost does, all over Tony’s expensive rug and his couch. Maybe the stress is getting to him, maybe he’s being silly but–he almost tells Tony. He opens his mouth as the man hunches over a circuit board, sleeves rolled up. Peter opens his mouth but nothing comes out, just a desperate wheeze that sounds like sawdust. Tony doesn't give any inclination that he’s heard, so Peter turns back to his work and tries to shove down the bubbling mess of repugnance in his gut.
His hands won't stop shaking.
Peter’s lost weight again.
Ned notices.
The other teen reaches for Peter’s waist, hand clamping down, face morphing into a look of confusion. It's a look of “something isn't right”, of “I know this isn't how it's supposed to be '' as his hands grab at nothing, his knuckles knocking into Peter’s ribcage. They both laugh, but Ned is subdued, disquiet taking over his features as he presses a kiss to Peter’s jaw, the shadows of bruises and nail marks there.
He turns away, a sick feeling pressing against his eyes.
There haven't been any notes for a week and a half, and Peter’s finally allowed himself to relax. Maybe it's over. Maybe it was just an outlandish prank, or something taken a bit too far but–
It's over.
He breathes a little easier now, and only the vestiges of curling calamity are left over the bruises of his eyelids.
He kisses Ned hard as they depart, leaving the other teen slightly starstruck, eyes wide. He grins sheepishly and waves goodbye, climbing into Happy’s car.
“You might want to save the PDA for later, kid.” Happy grunts, the man already pressing the accelerator. Peter just grins dopely and shrugs, sliding his phone out of his pocket. No new messages, except a heart from Ned. Something inside him crumbles, his ribs rocking back and forth with the motion of the car, and he has to press his forehead to his knees so he can release all the air from his lungs, rather than choke on it.
This feels nice, the dissolving of his muscles, the tension in his skin, the rolling out of rocks from under his tongue. It feels nice.
He smiles against his bruised kneecaps, breathes in the denim on them and thinks that, for once, everything might be okay.
May hands him his phone with a cheeky look, and he finds that, to his horror, his text messages are still open.
“Do I need to keep you from Ned’s house?” She wiggles her eyebrows while Peter groans, covering his burning face with his hands. May laughs at his discomfort and pushes him towards his room, telling him to “clean up that pig stye”.
“I’m going to the store, I’ll be back soon!” She calls out a few minutes later, locking the apartement door behind her.
Peter flicks on his light and throws his phone onto his dresser (he throws it carefully ), before stepping over his hamper to make his bed.
Sitting on top of his neatly made bed–that he did not make that morning–is a box and a letter. Peter almost calls after May to ask what she got him and why, then figures she would tell him if she didn't want him to open it.
He picks the box up carefully, turns it over to get a good look at it. It's by no means expensive, but it certainly doesn't look cheap, all polished wood and an engraved rose on the side, its vines reaching up and over the top of the box. A brass knob is embedded just above the seam that pulls it apart, a catch on the side that will force it open if he presses the button. A red ribbon is tied delicately over the lid, a bow resting perfectly in the center, and Peter smiles. May doesn't know how to tie bows, but maybe she learned just for this. The thought warms his chest and melts away his frigid heart, spilling out to rest instead on his cheeks.
He works away at the knot with his nail until the ribbon slides off, dropping to his sheets, looking like blood against the dullness of them. He presses the metal knob, the box cracking open, and he slowly raises the lid, met with the sight of deep blue velvet that shimmers in the light of his room.
There are two cuts in the velvet for rings. One of them is missing while the other stands up proudly, made from twisting golden laurels. Peter grins widely before noticing the sticky note folded up tight under the piece of jewelry, extracting it as he sets the case down onto his bed.
I’m ready to pledge my love for you, wholeheartedly. Don’t worry, this isn't a wedding ring, just a sentiment. You Aunt can't know about this, or about me. She doesnt know I put this here, as she was cooking dinner for you. Please accept my love, as it is all for you.
–Steven Westcott
Peter’s ears are ringing. There is a creature in his lungs, ripping them to shreds, climbing up the shaft of his throat, breaking fragments off of his spine and collarbone in its efforts. There is a gale force wind in his ears, an ice storm just behind his eyes. A calamity in his shivering jaws and a sickness seeping out from his heart, from every little tendon and every little meaty cord of muscle.
Under everything, however, is the fear. The fear that consumes him, takes him hostage, forces his teeth apart so it can pour its hatred into every crevice it can find.
It is like being ripped apart in bursts of bomb shrapnel and earthquake shaking, a demo man in a natural disaster.
He’s been here. Mr. Westcott. His psychics teacher, the one that's been leaving him notes, the one that he sees every day and would have access to his phone number and his email. The one who watches him leave school every day because he has duty outside.
Oh go, oh god.
Peter feels sick–No, worse than that. He feels shredded up in a way he never has before, feels as though every carved fracture line in his skin has been filled with mercury. He feels like he's swallowed arsenic, he's drunk bleach and gasoline mixed with panic to wash it down. He feels sick and everything in front of him is swimming, the box on his bed with the little glinting ring the only thing he can see clearly, mocking him.
He slams his knees into the tiled ground of his bathroom, having made no remembered move to get there. Somehow through the haze, he has the sense to turn the sink on to full blast, in case May comes back. Heh. That's funny, isn't it?
His hands curl around the toilet seat as he heaves, over and over again, choking up chunks of his lunch and tinted water and his spoiled insides, the things that will never be clean or fresh again. He presses his eyelids against each other as tight as he can manage, closes them against the spinning gravitational pull of his psychosis. He sees stars.
Peter’s skull caves in first, its supports broken by the bombshell thoughts whizzing around his head. His skull collapses, its fragments piercing through his eyes, popping them out like pinballs–Two points. The fluid that acted as a barrier between his brain matter and his bone drips out of his nose and into the toilet, leaks from his ears and matt's his hair to what remains of his flesh.
His ribs follow next like dominos, falling and splintering against each other, caving in his lungs so that they pop, releasing all the air in them.
His knees, his ankles, his fingers and toes. All breaking, all shivering so hard they split apart, pieces of calcium fraying and peeling off.
The only thing left of him is his stomach and throat, somehow still held up by invisible forces, maybe the call of the impossible. Just flexing, salivating, and emptying. His stomach is next to nothing now, just a small sack that's starting to push itself upwards, levitating up through the boneless, spineless form he has become, all cracking keratin and nose bridge dust.
He sags against the toilet, a wet, shivering mess, crying all the water out of his body.
Stupid stupid stupid stupid.
He cracks open his eyes enough to flush the toilet, stand shakily and wipe his face, turns off the faucet. Then he slumps against the wall, closing his eyes to the image of post notes stuck to them, burned into his retina.
He should tell someone. He should call Tony. He should go find May, probably still walking down the street. He should get Happy or Ned or MJ or go to the principal even though he has no evidence except for one sticky note and a jewelry box, all the other notes gone into the dump, the emails and text messages trashed.
He cries.
Peter cries like he hasn't in a long time.
It's a crying that only happens when it is the only thing you can do, when your muscles are rebelling against you, when the burning that comes with it is the only thing assuring you that you’re alive. It is the crying that comes from the purest form of fear and desperation, of panic and disease.
Peter cries because if he didnt he would scream himself into nothing.
(He likes to think he's stronger than that)
(But Peter screams anyways)