Waking up the next morning was hard. Sleep was like temporary amnesia, and when you awoke alone in bed, your hand automatically reached out for the note that Spider-Man always left before he disappeared every night. Instead of feeling the usual smooth sheet of paper, however, you felt empty sheets that seemed colder than ever before. It was then that the events of the previous night tumbled into your head, from your request to know Spider-Man's identity, to him saying I love you for the first time, to you giving him up.
You groaned and rubbed your hand across your face, fatigue taking over. More than anything, you wanted to fake an illness, stay in bed all day, and wallow in your thoughts, but you knew you had to get up. Although the breakup hurt you (did it count as a breakup if you were never really together in the first place?), you knew you made the right choice. There was no way a relationship with a superhero would work out if the significant other didn't know who they were; if you were to fall in love, you would need to be able to fall completely.
With a sigh, you dragged yourself out of bed and got ready for the day, going through the motions of your morning routine. By the time you had reached Midtown and had taken a seat in your first class, which was American history, you were regretting your decision to not wallow. Wallowing was good for the soul. At least, it was better for the soul than listening to your teacher try to rap along to Hamilton.
Still, you went about your day with your best foot forward, and tried to act as normal as possible. You answered questions in each class, aced an English quiz, made conversation with your friends at lunch, and, by the time you reached chemistry, had sufficiently put Spider-Man to the back of your mind.
Alex was turned around in her seat just like any other day, back to the front of the room as she made conversation. You smiled at a joke she made as you unloaded your books, flipping open to the readings you were assigned yesterday.
"And the thing is, I know for a fact that-are you okay, Peter?"
At Alex's mention of your friend, you looked up from your textbook to see Peter slumping into his seat. He looked tired, with bags under his eyes, and his sweater was rumpled like he had thrown it on haphazardly. His hair was a mess, too, as if he had spent a great deal of time running his hands through it anxiously.
"Yeah, I-I'm fine," Peter mumbled, barely looking up at Alex to answer her. "Just tired."
"I missed you at lunch today," You turned toward your friend, concern apparent in your voice. "Where were you? We were going to study for the academic decathlon meeting next week, remember?"
"Yeah, I, uh," Peter fiddled with a page in his notebook. "I was busy. Sorry."
"Oh." You bit your lip. "It's okay. What were you busy with?"
"Just..." Peter fiddled more. "Stuff. For the Stark internship, you know?"
"Right." You were confused as to why Peter was refusing to make eye contact with you. Had you done something wrong?
Even after the teacher walked in and called the class to order, you continued wracking your brain to figure out what you did to warrant this change in behaviour. Yesterday, Peter had been holding your hand and making you feel things that you weren't quite sure you were supposed to feel. Things that, after you thought about them, helped push you to the decision that you had to end your affair with Spider-Man. It wasn't as if you were going to rebound right away and make a move on your chemistry partner-you weren't even sure if that was something you wanted. But you did want to spend time with your friend, which was kind of hard to do if he wouldn't even look at you.
About twenty minutes before the end of the class, the voice of one of your school secretaries came through the PA system, interrupting your pondering.
"Peter Parker, please report to the principal's office," the voice crackled through the ancient speaker. "Peter Parker, to the principal's office."
The class made the typical teenage taunting noise as Peter began packing up his books and stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He quickly glanced at you and, without saying a proper goodbye, walked out of the room.
Alex twisted around in her seat as the teacher tried to continue on with the lesson.
"Do you know what's up with him?" Alex mouthed, trying to escape the notice of the teacher.
You shook your head as you stared with worry at the empty door frame.
Peter never returned. When the bell rang, you practically jumped out of your seat and darted through the halls, hoping Peter would be waiting for you at your locker like he usually was between classes.
To your disappointment, Peter was nowhere in sight. With a sigh, you opened your locker and retrieved the books you needed for your next class, all the while wondering what the principal could possibly have needed to talk to Peter about. As far as you knew, he hadn't done anything wrong. Was everything okay? The more you thought, the more you worried, and you knew that you had to talk to Peter right away. Instead of turning down the next hallway for your class, you ducked into the nearest bathroom and pulled out your phone. No messages from him.
You leaned against the wall. Where would Peter have gone? You wracked your brain for all the places he and you had gone together in the school. The quad? No, you had passed it on your way to your locker and Peter was nowhere in sight. Maybe the library? You considered, but crossed it off your list. Whatever was happening, you had a feeling that Peter wouldn't be somewhere that required silence; if anything, he would go somewhere that allowed him to make as much noise as he wanted or needed to.
The class bell rang from the hallway, and it was then that the answer flew into your mind. The shop in the basement of Midtown was secluded from other classrooms, far enough down that no one on higher floors could hear the noise of the machines, and Peter frequented it regularly for robotics club. While the shop wasn't much of a lead, and it was likely to be empty, it was the only location that was even remotely close to being where Peter was.
You exited the bathroom quickly and made your way to the basement stairs as inconspicuously as possible, not wanting to get caught without a hall pass. You pulled open the door to the stairs and, with one final glance to make sure the coast was clear, ducked inside, shutting the door firmly behind you.
Carefully, you made your way down the dark, sloped passage. The lack of light made you doubt that Peter was in the shop at all, but as you walked further down, you began to hear movement. At the bottom of the stairs was soft light, like there was only a work bench lamp on. You peered around the corner of the stairwell, trying not to be seen.
Standing at the back wall was Peter, sweater off and in a sweat-soaked undershirt. You could see his frame shaking from your place on the stairs, and you could hear his ragged breaths as he dragged in lungful after lungful of air, fast and tight. Repeatedly, his right hand snapped out, punching the wall over and over again in the same spot.
You wanted to stop him, to run over and pull his hands to his sides and restrain him, but you felt paralyzed. What had happened in the last half hour that had caused him to react like this? You had never seen Peter in such an emotional state; you had to admit, it frightened you. Peter was your friend that built LEGO death stars for fun. He was your friend that almost exclusively wore shirts with science puns. He was your friend that walked you home and helped you study for tests and didn't make fun of you for playing the same movie soundtrack over and over when you shared headphones on the subway. He wasn't angry. He wasn't destructive. He wasn't this person in front of you, who didn't notice the blood on their fingers as they ran their hands over their face and through their hair.
Peter punched the wall a few more times, before coming to a jerky stop. He looked at the wall, and reached out a gentle hand, just touching the cracks in the plaster. You watched as a finger traced a streak of blood.
The boy stepped back from the wall, cradling his hand to his chest. He finally seemed to register what he was doing, seemed to realize that the skin of his knuckles had split open. He gazed down at his hand, body halfway turned towards you so that could see his tear streaked, blood stained face. With his left hand, he cautiously touched one of the knuckles, hissing in pain.
"What am I doing?" Peter muttered to himself, shaking his head adamantly. "What the fuck am I doing, what is this all for, who is this going to help, who the fuck is this going to save-" Peter began gulping in air again, squeezing his injured hand to his chest. The tears bubbled up again and began to escape his eyes as he began sobbing again, the sound of it breaking out of his chest like he was a prisoner in his own body, breaking down against his will. Peter coughed after a few rough breaths until he finally let out a scream. You felt your heart break in your chest as you watched your friend's legs give out, and he collapsed onto the floor as his sobs shook him.
Seeing Peter on the floor caused something inside you to snap. You quickly wiped your face and rushed over to your friend, wrapping your arms around him and dropping to the floor.
Peter tensed for a moment, looking over at you but not completely seeing you. "Y-Y/N?"
"Peter," Your hands moved from his shoulders to his face, looking him in the eye. "Peter, what's wrong? What happened?"
"I-" Peter continued sucking in air faster and faster, tears still pouring down his cheeks. "There was-in-"
"Breathe, Peter," Your thumbed stroked his cheeks as you measured your breathing. "Come on, watch me. In and out."
Peter tried to match his breathing to yours, sobs still choking out of his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut again, lowering his head to the ground. Your hands moved from his cheeks to the back of his neck, gently rubbing in a way that you hoped was soothing.
Peter's head came forward to rest on your shoulder. You knew that his tears and blood were staining your shirt, but you didn't care. You brought one of your hands up to his head, running your fingers through his hair. You held him as tightly as you could, hoping with all your heart that everything would be okay.
After a few moments, Peter's breathing regulated and his sobs quieted down. Still stroking his head and neck, you approached the question again.
"Peter," You whispered gently. "What happened?"
"There was-" You felt Peter suck in a gulp of air. "There was an accident, in the city. A bad guy, with some of-some of the Vulture's weapons still. He-he caused a huge car accident, with at least ten vehicles, and-"
"And what?" You steeled yourself for the answer about to come out of Peter's mouth. You had a sneaking suspicion of what it might be.
"And May was in the accident."
Peter broke down again, clinging tighter to you as fresh tears made their way down his face. You hugged him closer to you, as close as you possibly could.
"Is she-?" You knew Peter lost his parents when he was little, and you couldn't even possibly imagine what it would be like for him to lose another one.
"She's okay," Peter mumbled. "A little bruised, and without a working car, but-but she's okay. She called from the hospital; they're keeping her overnight to monitor her."
"Oh my...thank God," You held onto Peter tighter, relief coursing through your veins.
"But, Y/N," Peter began shaking again, and he pulled himself away from you. "People-people died. And more are injured, and-"
"Peter, none of that is your fault," You protested, hand still lingering on the back of the boy's neck. "There's nothing you can do about it."
"Yeah, okay," Peter raked his injured hand through his hair, wincing in pain as his gaze flickered to the cracked plaster. "Can't keep my family safe, can't protect the people I love, but at least I can fuck up a wall pretty good, right?"
"Hey." You grabbed Peter's hands in both of yours, squeezing as tight as you could without hurting him more. "It's not your responsibility to protect everyone!"
"Then whose is it?" Peter turned to you with eyes that seemed to go a shade darker as he spoke. "Spider-Man? He hasn't done much good, Y/N."
"Don't do this," You shook your head. "Spider-Man-"
"Spider-Man couldn't protect you from getting beat in the head with a gun this summer!" Peter's shaking returned as his voice got rougher. "Spider-Man couldn't protect those people on Queensboro Bridge! And he couldn't protect everyone today, and because of him, people died. And my aunt was almost one of them."
"But she wasn't-"
"But someone's aunt was." Peter's hands gripped yours tighter, tight enough to look like it hurt. "Someone's aunt is never going to come home because of what happened today."
"Peter, trust me," You looked down at his bloody hands. "Spider-Man is only human. He can't protect everyone, and we can't expect him to."
"Yes we can!" Peter tore his hands out of your grip. "If-if he can't protect everyone, then who can? Answer that, Y/N! If you have the power to help, and you don't, then the bad things that happen are on you. And it's your fault if the people you love get hurt."
Peter stood up and grabbed his things in a hurry, haphazardly throwing his bag over his shoulder.
"Peter, wait!" You tried calling after your friend, but he was already hurrying up the stairs, tears beginning to fall once more as he left your sight.
You sighed, rubbing your hand against your forehead. Your attention turned back to the wall, where Peter's blood was beginning to dry in and around the cracks in the plaster that had appeared due to his punching. Cautiously, you reached out a hand and lightly touched the wall. A few loose pieces of plaster crumbled away, coating your fingers in white dust.
"How did he...?" The words tumbled out of your mouth as you rubbed your fingers together. You knew that Peter wasn't a weakling, but you had no idea your friend was strong enough to punch holes in walls.
You couldn't stop seeing his bloody and teary face in your mind, and the image stayed with you for the rest of your day. From the walk to the subway to the train ride home to climbing into bed that night, you replayed the pain in his eyes, and those eyes were the last thing you saw until you closed your own and drifted off to sleep.
A sleep that didn't last long. You awoke at around two am to knocking on your window, which really, you should have expected. Did you really believe that Spider-Man wouldn't come back for you?
