Chapter Text
Waking up is a task, and anyone that tries to say otherwise is lying.
It is a very difficult and tiresome task, one that might as well ruin your whole day or week or month or year or even the rest of your life.
Waking up is a chore, an effort, a burden, a labour, a duty, a test — all the Twelve Herculean Tasks stacked precariously on top of each other and glued with spite and spit.
Peter wakes up without a fuss or fanfare.
One minute, he was asleep.
The next, he is not.
Simple, boring, uneventful, and normal.
Just like Peter.
Blinking feebly, he stares at his plain grey ceiling. Peter used to have glow-in-the-dark stars in his room, but it was so long ago.
Peter does not move, does not stretch, and doesn’t even change his breathing.
He merely stares at the ceiling.
Half asleep, half not.
Half there, half not.
Half alive, half not.
‘It is going to be a good day,’ he lies to himself, like he does every day. Even though he could feel in his bones that it would not, in fact, be a good day.
Peter has had that dream again, the one he cannot remember once he wakes up no matter how much he tries.
The dream that is sometimes good, but not always; the one that leaves him with a nostalgic emptiness, as if half of his soul had been left behind on the other side. The dream that never fails to make him yearn for something but never explains what he is yearning for. That makes him laugh and scream in a good way and makes him feel wanted and desired and invincible and loved.
So incredibly loved.
The same dream that is absurdly sad and leaves him with an uncontrollable urge to break something… anything… everything — break himself.
The dream that leaves him crying and begging the gods for another chance to be better — to do better.
The very one where he is never fast enough or good enough.
The one where, no matter what, Peter fails.
Always fails.
Peter dreamed a dream that was so good, so awful, so pitiful, so incredible, so kind, and so torturous.
The boy can't remember when it started. As far as he can go back, Peter has had that dream almost religiously. Be it a good day or a bad day, a leisure day or a stressful one, be it a late afternoon nap or a full night of sleep, his subconscious would shove the dream at him as it seemed pleased without caring about the consequences.
It got to the point where Peter can’t even say if said dream is in fact a dream or some memory long forgotten. For all he knows, it could even be an amalgam of dreams poorly sewn together like a bad quilt with the edges overlapping each other.
It could also be just a nightmare that he was never bothered to categorise as such, since Peter would not entertain the idea that his dreams aren’t as harmless as he likes to pretend.
Taking a deep breath, he counts the seconds until his alarm goes out of his mind. Peter always wakes up before the alarm. Maybe it was the dreams, or perhaps it was the anxiety and fear of not waking up in time; it might even just be because he hates the damn thing, and being woken up by it always made his mood worse.
Who knows?
Who cares?
Peter don’t.
The seconds pass and stretch into minutes, then, finally, Peter’s cellphone goes off at the same time as his old radio alarm comes to life on the table in the far corner of the room. The phone chimes twice before Peter kills it, but the radio, tuned to an oldies station with a preference for ‘80s summer hits regardless of the genre, keeps on playing.
Peter closes his eyes while Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go fills the room.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, there is a joke to be made, but he is not awake enough to know it yet.
It is just a song, not even his favourite, but it is still a nice song that he doesn’t hate; besides, it could be worse (it could be Elvis), so Peter will take it.
For three minutes and fifty-two seconds, Peter basked in the nothingness of his existence. Just him, his bed, and the low music humming through the room, filling it with brightness and warmth.
Then the song ended, and the automatic blinds rose up like they always do in the morning, and the sound of footsteps and conversations and yelling could be heard outside the room.
Peter doesn’t stir, doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t sigh or grumble or acknowledge anything.
Peter only reopens his eyes and goes back to stare at the ceiling and pray that maybe — just maybe — if he stays really still, he can pretend he isn’t.
“Good morning,” J.A.R.V.I.S.'s mechanical voice echoes through the speakers hidden around the room. “Mister Hogan has asked me to inform you that he’s leaving in twenty minutes and that if you aren’t ready until then, he will leave without you since you seemed all too keen on taking the train by yourself without any problem.”
“Hmm.” It's the only sound Peter makes in response.
Peter doesn’t want to get up.
He knows he should, but he really doesn’t want too.
He could always catch the train and get to school by the time the second class began, but Happy doesn’t like it when he does that. The man almost had a syncope the last time Peter rode the train by himself, which is stupid. Peter is not an invalid that can do shit by himself. He might not always be there mentally, but he knows he needs to pay attention when walking to places by himself. Just because he doesn't really care about keeping track of shit when he is with Happy doesn't mean he does the same when he is alone — Peter doesn't pay attention when he is with Happy because he doesn't need to, as he knows Happy would never let anything happen if he can prevent it.
The boy understands that Happy's whole thing is more about his job as Head of Security than believing Peter to be perceived as a useless airhead, but still, he can take the train to school just fine. Taking the train is even the better option, really. That way he doesn’t need to be dragged all the way to Brooklyn to drop Keener at his school before finally getting to Queens.
Taking the train also means no sitting in the traffic for hours, and not needing to sit in the traffic for hours means not leaving the house two hours early to still lose the first period.
Peter liked the idea of not leaving the house two hours early, and it had been a while since he arrived in time for his first class of the day.
One minute passes, then five. The tick of the broken analog clock on the bedside is dramatically loud, taunting him and pressuring him to make a decision.
Get up now and run to catch Happy, or let it be and take the train at the risk of making Happy very unhappy.
Leaving with Happy meant no breakfast again and no time for showering because he was already late, which he hated.
Peter can only feel human after a nice lukewarm shower; unfortunately, showering was as much of a task as waking up.
‘When was the last time I showered? Way too long if I need to ask.’
Leaving with Happy also meant thirty to forty minutes inside a metal box with Keener talking his ears off.
Peter doesn't hate Keener, truly. He has some issues with the other boy, sure, but that doesn't mean he hates him. It is just that Keener was too earnest, too wholesome, too perfect, and it made something ugly and gooey inside Peter burn.
Keener is a good guy, and Peter doesn't know how to deal it with.
But more important than anything else, getting a lift with Happy meant putting on a smile and making small talk and pretending. Because Peter was always pretending. Pretending was half of his existence, and he was fine with that. Honestly, he doesn't mind it one bit, but sometimes he likes to not need to. That's why Peter liked taking the train, because no one in the New York public transport system gave a damn about who he was or who he pretended to be.
As long as he didn’t try to stab anyone, no one would look in his direction twice (and, even if he did try to stab someone, most people would still not give a damn).
Somewhere down the corridor, a door opened, and the rushing steps of someone stumbling came just after.
‘Keener,’ Peter guesses. The boy's room is just next door, so Peter can always hear when Keener stumbles around his room trying to get everything he needs for school before being too late — because he is always late.
Someone fiddles with the handle of his door, not bothering to knock.
‘Stark,’ he sighs. Seven years, and he has still to learn to knock before forcing his way in.
“Yo, kid,” Stark all but screams. “Happy is leaving in five. Are you ready?”
‘Do I look like I am ready?’ Peter wants to say, but instead he says, “Yeah.”
‘No breakfast,’ Peter mourns, dragging himself out of the bed towards the bathroom. ‘No shower,’ he sighs. He should have taken a shower before bed, but he was so tired he could barely move his legs. ‘No peace and quiet surrounded by weirdos in the subway.’
Doing his best to ignore his reflection, Peter brushes his teeth because the least he can do is not force people to deal with his bad breath. It is already bad that he smells like a wasteland and his hair is a rat's nest; he can't afford to have bad breath too. Not that Peter talks with too many people, anyway. But still, Ned and MJ deserve the consideration.
At least he didn’t wet himself again because he was too drawn to bother with going to the bathroom this time.
Pushing away all his thoughts about how much he hates himself, Peter closes the cabinet door and locks eyes with his reflection.
What he sees is not a good sight.
What he sees is not a good nothing.
His hair is too long, too tangled, too heavy, too much.
His eyes are red and swollen, glassy and unfocused.
His skin is too pink, too beige, too white, too sick.
His lips are dry and raw and hurt and bloody.
The detachment he feels is too familiar, too wrong, too right, and too inevitable.
Peter looks at his reflection in the mirror, and he can’t see him — he can't even see a person looking back at him.
All he sees is a waking corpse.
The boy looks away when images of his shadow beating himself to death start to cross his mind.
That is why he tries really hard to not look at the mirror.
He doesn’t need the graphic illustrative images to remember he loathes himself.
In for four.
Hold for seven.
Exhale for eight.
In.
Hold.
Exhale.
Four.
Seven.
Eight.
“Come on, kid!” Stark calls out.
Spraying on him the least aggravating perfumed deodorant he has, Peter goes back to the room to grab his backpack that is on the same place he threw it every day before rushing through the door.
Happy is already calling the elevator, and Keener is by his side talking with Stark. Peter doesn’t catch what they talking about, but he can hear the end of something related to a Science Fair.
“Finally!” Stark says as he sees Peter. His expression twisted in something akin to disgust for a second before he gives Peter the same fake smile he always uses with him. “Jesus, kid, when was the last time you got a haircut?”
‘Way too long’, Peter thinks. The last time Peter got a haircut was when the hairstylist ignore his request and did what they though as the best and he had ended up with a weird haft haircut that made him look like that ‘It’s French’ woman from the memes.
It was five years ago.
That said, yeah, Peter needed a haircut. Badly. Not only needed, but want one too. However, Peter decided that he would only get a haircut once he was allowed to do what he wanted, not what people though was best for him. And since Peter didn’t believing in asking for thinks for himself since no one ever bothers to listen to him and it was not worth the frustration, he would just endure until the day he finally had a mental breakdown and shave his head a three in the morning in a gas station restroom in New Jersey.
No, it is not foreshadow.
No, he is not planing for it.
No, he would not mind if it somehow come to happen.
“I like my hair as it is.”
Liar! Liar! Pants on fire!
“Yeah, sure.” If Stark believes him or not, Peter doesn’t know, but he does drop the topic. “Anyway, I would like to remember you guys that today is Pepper’s birthday dinner party, so I need you to come directly home.”
“Pepper’s birthday is in February,” Peter says.
“Yeah.”
“It still January.”
“No, it is not.”
“It’s February 5,” Keener says.
‘What?’ That can’t be right. Peter knew he had a hard time keeping track of time, most of the time he didn’t even knew what the date was or which day of the week they’re at, but he could still keep track of the months even if he would forget the year from time to time.
And last time he had check, it was still January 29.
Peter took his phone off his pocket and almost screamed.
February 5.
He lost a week?
How he lost a week? When one has time blindness and all their day look that same as the one before and they have nothing to look forwards for, it easy to lost track of time. Mondays and Fridays doesn’t mean anything if you do the same amount of nothing after nothing day in, day out. But Peter had never lose more than a couple hours at time.
“Are you alright?” Keener asks.
“I am fine,” the answer is automatic. “I think my brain isn’t full awake yet, just that,” Peter gives Keener his best fake smile.
Keener looks at Peter the same way he always does: as if Peter is something that he doesn’t know if it bothers his or worries him.
“Great, now that the kid finally in the same timeline was the rest of us, I can continue.”
Peter didn’t paid attention to anything else.
Stark’s parties are all the same.
Dinner, booze, people, loud music.
Peter hate it.
But it was Pepper’s birthday, so Peter would try to at least show up for half a hour, pretend he didn’t want to skin himself alive, and then retrieve once it really started to feel he was going forward with skinning himself alive.
“You look like shit”, was the first thing to came out of MJ’s mouth as she saw him.
“Morning for you, too,” Peter replies.
It's the third period, and the first class they have together. Unfortunately, Ned isn’t in this class with them, so Peter has to deal with MJ all by himself. Don’t get him wrong, Peter adores MJ, but she is an acquired taste, and sometimes Peter doubts if he has acquired it yet or not.
“When was the last time you showered?”
“When was the last time we had lab time?”
“Last Monday.”
“Then last Monday.”
“Gods, I have no idea how you’re still alive.”
“I am cursed to keep on living and wander the world without prose or propose.”
“It’s too early for this nihilistic bullshit.”
“You’re the one that sat beside me.”
“Because despite your lack of hygiene, I still tolerate you more than the idiots in your class.”
“Wow, that was the closest you ever got to telling me you love me.”
“I would never love, Pete. You’re unlovable, remember?”
“Oh, silly me.”
The face each with a closed expression for a second before starting to laugh.
“You suck, you know that,” Peter smiles. His first real one of the day.
“And you stink.”
“Yeah, yeah, make fun of the mentally ill, autistic, demiboy, spider-gender, disabled, comic book nerd, otaku, Whovian.”
“You’re just inventing words.”
“All the words are invented at some point.”
“Fair,” MJ nods her head. “What the hell is a spider-gender?”
Before Peter could come up with an answer, their teacher came in, and MJ had to go back to her place.
The class is boring, like everything else, and Peter doesn’t bother to take notes, which pisses his teacher off like always, and she pauses her explanation for five minutes just to complain about unhelpful students that should not bother to go to class if they wouldn't do anything. Peter doesn’t give a damn about it because he knows that if he tries, he can get an easy A. He just doesn’t want to.
Peter used to get straight A’s before he realised he didn’t need to try too hard. Sure, good grades can help you get in a better university, but being a trust fund baby helps you even more, so if he doesn’t need to make an effort, he won't waste his time.
He still gets good enough grades, mostly B’s with some C’s and the regular F’s in P. E. (he refuses to participate), but that is not because he is trying; it is just because the academic part of the school is easy, so easy it is boring. The system doesn't want you to learn anything; they just need you to memorise what they're pretending to teach you, and Peter has a very good memory for someone who cannot remember what day it is seven out of ten times.
Thus, Peter got this whole school thing in the bag. School is an obligation and a torture. He goes, he ignores his classes, he is tormented by his bullies, he takes his exams and gets marks above the average, and he shuts everyone's big mouth.
The only reason he hadn't just stopped going to school already was because it was the only place he could see Ned and MJ daily.
By the time lunch break came, MJ and Ned had decided that Peter required an intervention, and that meant he needed a shower.
Peter agreed with them. He was stinky and sticky, and he was almost sure he was using the same shirt he dropped sauce on four days ago. But recognising you need a shower, and even wanting to take a shower, was not the same as going ahead and taking a damn shower because taking a shower was as much of a task as waking up and going to the bathroom and eating and doing anything, really.
Just thinking about it made Peter growl.
It was too many steps.
He had to go to the gym, then make sure that there was no one else in there, then he had to take his clothes (seven pieces!), then wash all four members individually and his parts, and he had to wash his hair, and it would take a good fifteen minutes or so because it was so long, and once he was done, he would need to dry up and get ready.
He would also need to detangle his hair, put cream on it and mascara on it, and comb it. Then he would have to put his clothes back on (another seven layers!), and his binder was hell to put on, and all that so he would stay clean for a day, maybe not even it, before he needed to do it all again.
And that list was just from his executive dysfunction.
His sensory issues had another list of their own.
If the water pressure was too much, the shower would be too noisy; if it was too little, the shower would take too long. If the shampoo was wrong, his head would get itchy, but if he didn’t wash his hair, it would still end up itchy. If the soap was too smelly, he would get sick; if it didn't have any smell, he wouldn’t feel truly clean.
It is just too much.
Too freaking much!
Peter also hates to takes showers in the gym. The school knew about Peter being Peter in a social sense, but it didn’t mean he had permission to go to the boys’ locker room. Not that he wanted to, even though he didn’t feel comfortable in the girls’ shower, Peter didn’t feel safe in the boys’ one.
Just because some of his teachers called him Peter, that doesn't mean the rest of the school truly saw him as a boy.
More often than not, he heard people referring to him as ‘she’ or ‘girl Peter’.
The only reason they called him Peter at all was because he refused to answer to any other name besides his last name; what Peter really wanted was to change his name on the call roll, but he needed parental permission for that, and there is no way he would ask Stark for it.
So yeah, Peter agreed that he needed a shower, but there was no way in Hell he would be taking one before the school ended because he refused to use any of the school bathrooms unless it was a real, life-or-death emergency.
Fortunately, Ned and MJ are already used to it — which is a very sad statement.
MJ took her sweet time detangling Peter's hair.
School is over, and they are just chilling out at Ned’s, like they do most of the time, as Ned’s house is the only place where the three felt truly welcome.
Peter never invited his friends over to the Avengers Tower because he doesn’t want to deal with being deadnamed in front of them, and Stark has a rule against outsiders, and MJ’s dad isn’t bad, but he didn't like the idea of his fourteen-year-old daughter having two boys over all the time.
Ned’s Lola loves Peter and MJ, and Ned, of course, so she didn’t mind having them over. Ned’s parents also didn’t mind, but they’re usually at work until seven, and by then they already left.
Ned is sitting at his computer, trying to outbid someone at eBay.
Peter is sitting by the bed, his back against MJ’s legs, who is sitting on the bed.
Ned is cursing something in Tagalog, so he probably lost the bidding.
MJ is laughing.
Peter is just being.
He likes it, those pocket moments of peace. Just him and them and nothing else.
Just Peter and Ned and MJ.
No school, no bullies, no Stark, no Keener.
No Rhodes or Happy.
No Avengers.
No Pepper.
No her.
Just him and them.
Peter loves his friends so much.
He loves Ned and MJ.
He also loves Harry and Felicia, who are still on the other side of the pond, and Gwen, who had come back but goes to another school, so he still can't see her that much.
One day he will have all five of them in a room and force them to be friends, and once they are all bound, he will buy a very big house to live with them.
He will put all his friends together in one place and never let them go.
“Well, that is creepy,” MJ laughs.
“Hmm?”
“You’re talking out loud again, Pete,” Ned say.
“Hmm.”
“I don’t think he is on the same plane as us anymore.”
“Hm.”
“Oh yeah, he is practically asleep.”
“Do we wake him or let him be?”
“Let him be,” Ned says. “The guy just had a deep-clean shower and a five-step hair care routine. He deserves the rest.”
Peter loves his friends.
His day might have been shit like all the others, but it was right there, with MJ softly playing with his hair and Ned cursing Tagalog about a physical copy of the Star Wars Christmas Special; it was why he forced himself out of the bed despite everything else.
With that in mind, Peter let his eyelashes close, his breath even out, and his mind float away.