Permanent

chapter one

Hey, y'all! Welcome to my new story :D

Quick note: this is like normal messages; Tony can't see what his name or Peter's name is on Peter's phone and vice versa. 

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Peter sighed, looking at the apartment he loved for so long, getting ready to leave. He'd been living here for only a couple of months but had grown to love it. It was one of the first signs of his new life.

As sad as it was for both him and Mr. Delmar, he had to fire Peter two weeks ago. Being Spider-Man had caused him to be late and miss work far too many times and they both knew it was coming.

Peter had been relying on those paychecks to help pay this month's rent. So when he couldn't get a new job or enough money on time, he was in the same position he had been months ago, moving out of his apartment.

He remembered that day like it was yesterday.

The walk home seemed to go quicker than normal, and soon, he was back at his and May's apartment. But as he rounded the corner to his street, his steps faltered.

There had been ambulances and police in front of his apartment. He looked at the ambulance on his way into the building but couldn't see anything. There was a pit in his stomach.

The elevator seemed to take longer than normal. He tapped his foot anxiously as he waited for the doors to open.

Police swarmed his apartment. His heart dropped.

He rushed over, ignoring the cops' protests, and pushed his way into his apartment.

"Aunt May?" he called out frantically, looking through the living room and kitchen. A cop came up behind him and grabbed his shoulders. He spun around to face her, and asked, "Where's May? Is she okay?"

He'd started crying as he continued to speak hysterically. He felt like he was underwater. His lungs wouldn't work properly; he couldn't suck in any air. Sounds were muffled and his vision was blurred with tears.

He didn't catch exactly what the cop said, only the worse part; May was dead. His aunt was dead.

That was one of the worst days of his life. His life continued to get worse from that point on. Shaking his head, he tried to continue getting his stuff together, but he couldn't tear his mind from the memory.

The cop told him to get his things together and gave him a backpack. He got a few outfits and some necessities together and shoved them in the bag carelessly.

He was on his way out when he saw it. A small white note sat on his desk. It had his name written in delicate writing. Handwriting that only belonged to one person: Aunt May. A suicide note.

Forcing the memory away from him to focus on leaving his apartment, he closed his eyes briefly and let out a shaky breath. He made sure he had all his stuff, although he didn't have much in the first place.

He'd sold the few pieces of furniture he had in hopes of being able to afford rent, but it still wasn't enough. Now, all he had was a few sets of clothes and some toiletries, some medical supplies, his computer and phone with their chargers, and $200.

He took one last look at his apartment, memories surfacing while his eyes wandered over it, before turning around to leave.

He walked through the door, only to see his landlord standing in front of him. He was a small man from another country, although Peter wasn't sure where. His English wasn't great and he had a heavy accent, but he was always nice.