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Knowing a feeling isn’t the same as feeling it. Peter knows he loves the feeling of the Sun on his skin; it never fails to make him smile. Now? He steps outside and it’s like he never left the darkness of his room, the Sun could be bursting in the sky above him and he wouldn’t feel a difference. He’s not happy, but he’s not sad, but he’s not content. He… he doesn’t know what he is. He almost misses the all consuming depression that slithered around his ribcage and throat, trapping him to his bed and keeping the curtains shut. At least when he was sad, he felt something. These meds—these stupid, mind-numbing, thought-erasing, feeling-destroying pills—have pulled out everything that makes Peter, Peter, like some sick magician’s handkerchief trick.
“The meds are good for you, Peter!” So he’s heard.
“You just gotta give them a chance.” He has, and he is. How many chances is too many before he’s no longer Peter?
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The floor feels nice under Peter's back; it’s cool and firm so he doesn’t physically sink into it, even though he wishes he could. He wonders if, given enough time, he’d just dissolve into it—fade into the cracks, become part of the foundation, something solid and unmoving. Maybe then, he wouldn’t have to keep searching for himself in a mind that no longer feels like his own.
It’s not like he doesn’t care, because he wants to. He knows he should. He knows if May were to walk in right now, worry carved into her face, he should feel guilty for stressing her out. He knows if Ned texted him some stupid meme he found on Pinterest, he should feel the urge to smile, even if it’s just out of habit. He knows if Tony showed up to save the day like Peter dreamed of as a child, he should feel relieved because thank god someone would be here to pull him out of this void because he can’t fucking breathe-
But none of it sticks. He’s sitting behind a pane of thick glass while everyone walks and talks and lives like they know how to. He tries reaching for the emotions he knows he’s felt before, but they slip right through his fingers and he’s left with nothing like usual.
So, he gets up. And he walks to the bathroom. And he looks in the mirror. And he walks out. And he picks up his phone. And he puts it back down. And he wonders for the hundredth time what the hell he’s doing.
Running a hand down his face elicits a feeling, but not a mental one. He can feel the skin to skin contact, the dragging of his cheeks under his hand and his lips wetting his finger.
He walks back to his room and stops in the doorway, his eyes wandering around the room dully. His eyes refocus when his phone lights up on his desk. He sits on the edge of his bed with his phone in hand, reading the notification before opening it.
Tin Man
Hey, kid. You up for a
lab day today?
Peter stares at the text from Tony for a moment. He could say yes, but that would entail texting back and getting dressed and getting in the car with Happy and spending a few hours with Mr. Stark pretending as if everything is peachy when it’s not and it hasn’t been for a while.
Or he could say no, but that would raise questions and then he’d spend the night reminding himself he should feel guilty when he just doesn’t feel anything, not even remorse.
Underoos
Yeah thatd be awesome!
is happs picking me up or
should i start walking?
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Every morning at 7am, Peter would go to the kitchen and take his medication. One larger red pill, one slightly smaller yellow pill. Combined, they made up his daily dose of Zoloft and Peter’s days full of nothing. He’d pop them into his mouth, knock back a cup of water, and continue with his morning. And every morning at 7am, he’d stare at the coloured pills in his hand and wonder if they were truly worth it. Sure, they technically kept him alive, but was this really living?
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He’s sitting at his desk in his bedroom with one knee up, his chin resting on it when May knocks on the door.
“Yeah?”
She opens it with a small, gentle smile. Her concerned eyes, full of light and brighter than the Sun that lands on Peter's skin, meet his dull, lifeless eyes. They stare at each other for a few moments, a million words falling flat against the brick wall that seems to be dividing them lately.
“Hey, honey. Whatcha working on?” Her tone is full of a feeling Peter can’t quite place, so he doesn’t try.
“Just some calculus.There’s an assignment due next week.” He doesn’t know if what he’s saying is actually true, but he can assume it is. He knows he has to stay on top of his work or else he’ll lose his scholarship. He knows it’s important and he knows he should care, but…
“Yeah? You feeling hungry at all?” He feels nothing, can’t she see that? Can’t she see that his insides have been replaced by a Stellar black hole? He learned about those a few years ago. They’re the coldest black holes, an absolute zero temperature and relentless in their soul sucking. He had focused on the weight of his stomach inside his abdomen during that lesson. He had wondered if he would be able to tell if one was inside him. Now he can.
“No, thanks though.” He let his eyes drift back to the papers skewed across his desk, all likely for different classes for all he knew. He hopes she’ll get the message that he had to focus and would leave him alone. When did that happen? He wished for things to be how they used to. Before his medication.
“Okay. Well, if that changes let me know.” May takes a step back, still lingering in the doorway. Peter nods once and their eyes stay connected. There is a long pause, an endless moment of hesitation that screams please Peter, just let me in! cry, scream, stomp, anything! They both notice its presence.
May nods back once and slowly shuts the door behind her with a soft click.
Peter looks back at his desk and rests his chin on his knee once more.
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Making web fluid is second nature to Peter at this point. He knows the steps inside and out, he doesn't have to measure a single ingredient in it anymore. This, this, combine, mix, this, mix, pour, add this, mix, fill cartridge, let sit.
The steps are comforting in their routine, they always have been. So why has he knocked over three test tubes, accidentally used cyanoacrylate instead of toluene, and spilt chemicals on his hand, all in one attempt? He can’t feel that usual rhythm in his limbs, the memorable unconscious movement between here and there. Every action is as if he has to pre-plan it and think it through.
Tony’s eyes are on his back from where he’s sat across the lab, elbow deep in Mark XLV’s chest, watching the clumsy movements that are usually a practiced dance.
“Kid, you doing okay over there?” Peter can hear the attempt at a positive lilt in his voice, but the forcefulness of it is palpable.
“Yeah.”
Peter takes a deep breath and a pause, pulling out the tangle wires between the receptors in his brain and straightening them out, organizing them by colour and size and length. He slows down his movements, not letting a single mistake slip as he knows Tony’s eyes are on him.
As he mixes the crosslinkers in, he hears Tony set down his tools. He hears the slow footsteps across the hard concrete. He sees the shadow on the table near him.
“Looking good. You almost done here?” Peter can sense something behind the words that he was supposed to be able to understand. He has noticed that a lot lately in the people in his life and he knows on some level the feelings they were trying to communicate.
“Yeah.” He stares down at the cartridge he was now filling. They remain in silence as Peter fills the last cartridge, setting it down gently next to the others in a neat row in the middle of his workbench. Peter grips the edges of the stool he was sitting on, Tony’s eyes seeming to follow his movements.
“How do you feel about a movie night tonight? I could order in some food and could melt into the couch. It’s been a while.” Peter recognizes the offer for what it is—an olive branch, extended carefully, like Tony is toeing the water before stepping in. He also recognizes it’s a test for Tony to assess how Peter is feeling.
“I should probably be heading home soon. I got this big chemistry test tomorrow and…” Peter trails off with a shrug, his eyes glancing up across the table at Tony’s briefly. The pursed lips and furrowed brow say what his mouth doesn’t. Peter looks back down at the cartridges.
“Okay. Do you need any help studying? Chemistry isn’t really my thing, but I’m still me.” Tony flashes him a toothy grin but the left side doesn’t quirk up like it does when he truly smiles and his crows feet aren’t deep enough. Peter doesn’t like it.
“No, it’s okay Mr. Stark. Thanks though.” Peter sends an equally as uncomfortable smile as he stands up. Tony takes a step around the table so he's closer. He watches Peter tuck the stool under the table and pick his backpack up from the floor. Peter slings the bag over his shoulder and turns around.
“Pete, you know this lab is uh- a safe space, right? You could say whatever and it’d stay here. Yknow, man to man.” Tony stuffs his hands into his pockets, sniffing his nose once as he looks to the side then back at Peter. Peter stares back.
“If there was ever something… big on your mind, you’d tell me?” Peter can see the pleading behind the words.
“Yeah, yeah of course. I trust you.” The words should feel like an explosion from his mouth with how much they should mean to him. But they feel just like any other sentence. The weather’s been strange lately. I should buy some new shoes. I’m prepared to lay out my soul into your hands like a mosaic. Have you seen my wallet?
He hears Tony’s quiet, stuttering breath. He watches the man purse his lips once more and nod a few times.
“Good, that- that's good, Pete. I’ll see you in a few days?” Tony asks hopefully, looking between the lab door and Peter’s backpack.
“Yeah, see you.” Peter turns and heads across the lab, knowing Tony’s eyes are on him even as he exits through the door.
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Peter was lying awake in his bed one night when he overheard the phone call. May must’ve thought him to be asleep by now judging by the normal volume she spoke at. Conversations centered around him were usually texts sent or quiet whispers that his enhanced ears couldn’t fully make out.
“I’m worried about him, Tony.” May’s voice carried through the apartment's thin walls and directly to him. He stared at the door as if it were May.
“I know, I just didn’t think they would cause this quick of a change in his mood.” His meds? Bruce had warned them of this after he synthesized the medication specially for Peter’s metabolism. He wasn’t surprised, why were they?
“You see him, what, once a week? It’s worse than you think it is.” He wasn’t hurting himself anymore, he was getting out of bed every day, he was talking to everyone regularly. He didn’t understand how this was worse.
“Maybe we should bring him to Bruce soon, he said to tell him about this kind of shit.” Bruce wouldn’t be able to fix things. He would just change out the coloured pills and they’d be back in the same place.
“Yeah, you’re right.” Peter had a feeling they were both silent for the long pause he heard.
“I should go, we’ll talk more tomorrow. Okay, goodnight Tony. Bye.” She hung up and Peter looked away from the door. He rolled over to face the wall so May couldn’t see his blank stare when she opened the door to check on him. The light from the hallway painted shadows on his wall and her breathing was background noise for far longer than usual.
She sighed once then left, closing the door with a soft click behind her. Peter continued to stare.
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“Something isn’t right kid, I can tell.” Tony stands across the kitchen island from him, a coffee mug sitting on a coaster between his hands that are planted firmly on the counter. Peter stares into his cereal, swirling his spoon around the bowl in lazy figure eight’s. His eyes glance up, only reaching as far as the wrinkles on the front of Tony’s old Iron Maiden shirt.
“What?” Peter asks simply, his eyes back on the soggy food in front of him. He continues to make swirls.
“You seem… far away. You’re right there but you’re not.” Peter swallows roughly and chews on his cheek. He makes a noise of acknowledgement and Tony straightens across from him.
“That’s it? If you’re gonna try to pull an ‘everything is a-ok’, you’re doing an awful set up.” Peter isn’t sure if it’s an attempt at a joke, but it falls flat either way. There’s a silence and Tony drags a hand down his face.
“You gotta give me something to work with here. I don’t care if you scream at me or throw that bowl against the wall. Anything.” Tony’s tired, Peter recognizes that feeling pretty quickly.
There’s another silence and pretty soon Peter thinks there’ll be more silence than conversation in the whole world.
“Whatever this is, you’re not going to get through it alone. I know it and so do you.” Peter knows he’s right but he doesn’t feel like there’s anything to get through. This is the new normal and he needs to adapt. He needs to mold himself to fit into the box that takes up the least space and that looks the prettiest on the outside.
“I dunno, school’s just been…” Peter shrugs as he trails off, his voice void of the feeling he’s trying to dress up as.
“That’s all it is?” Tony asks, pushing just a little more. The nudging is starting to bruise him and Tony won’t stop.
“Yeah, that’s all.” Peter adjusts his seat on the kitchen stool, pushing his bowl lightly against the granite counter, away from him then closer. Away then closer.
“You could tell me if there was something.” A little more of a nudge. Away then closer, the bowl scrapes. Away then closer.
“I can’t say I totally understood, I always acted out when something was wrong. But I can try.” Away then closer. Away, closer.
“You’re going to have to let someone in sooner than later. Take the branch, kid.” Away, closer. Away, closer.
“Stop it with the damn bowl.” Tony reaches out and pulls the bowl toward himself and milk sloshes up the sides. Peter jumps and leans away from the action like the next logical motion would be for Tony to form a fist.
There’s a long sigh from the man as he pinches the bridge of his nose. Peter stares at him, his eyes the same blankness but his chest moving faster than before, just barely.
“I’m sorry, kid. I just- I want us to talk. I want to help and I want you out of whatever hole this is.”
A cold black hole is what it is. Peter sits up straighter in the stool, his gut twisting in ways it hasn’t in a bit. There’s a hotness there that does not fall under the criteria for ‘gaping, bottomless black hole’. He looks to the side, out the large bay window, and bites his cheek.
“Peter-” His palms meet the counter with a large slap as he shoots up from the stool, his chest heaving up and down and up and down and up. Tony watches Peter as if he were a caged animal holding the key to the exhibit.
“I’m fine, damn it! School sucks and exams suck and everything sucks, but I’m handling it fine!” Tony’s eyes widening as he leans into his left hip a little.
“Everything sucks? What do you mean by that?” Tony’s tone is almost challenging and the heat under Peter’s skin starts to itch.
“I don’t know.” Peter shrugs, looking away as he breathes tightly through his teeth.
“No, you made a general statement that groups together many things in your life. At least back up your misanthropic claims.” The words are a clear challenge, but the clear observation in Tony’s eyes says otherwise. That fact is lost on Peter as he simply scoffs and looks back at Tony.
“You say that like it’s some teenage angst.” The fire Peter spits back seems to please Tony who simply raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah? What is it then?” Tony takes a step closer, moving to the side of the island.
“Nothing! It’s all nothing!” Peter throws his hands up as he turns around.
“I thought everything sucked, now nothing does? Get your feelings straight, kid. You’re confusing the crowd.” The heat inside Peter suddenly heats up to a boiling point and he spins around.
“I don’t feel anything, that’s the problem! I’m muffled and my insides are cold and I don’t understand how to live like this!” He used to do this trick as a kid where he’d swallow half a spaghetti noodle then pull it up and out of his throat all over again. The words weren’t said by his own volition, but pulled from his vocal cords, ricocheting off every cell in his throat.
The satisfaction on Tony’s face tells Peter all he needs to know about the purpose of this, why the constant nudging and pushing and prodding. Depending on someone to fix him had never proved worthwhile to Peter. He’s only ever lost those he loves, why would he pour his thoughts and feelings and hopes onto someone that could only take them to the grave, not watch them flourish?
“How come? I thought we got this sorted. You talked to Bruce and you met with that therapist at school? You were doing better, what happened?” Peter watches Tony slide onto the far stool, resting his back against the counter. Peter thinks he’d vibrate till he explodes if he sat down.
“That’s how it always is. Things crash and then it's up and up until it's a sphere and I’m back at the decline.” Peter tries not to lose himself in the metaphors. They’re the only way he’s ever been able to articulate his thoughts and feelings. It scored him points in English class at least.
“So where are you right now?” Peter wants to thank Tony for somehow piecing together the meaning of his words–he wouldn’t be able to explain them if he tried. It’s an unorganized file folder, a thesaurus without alphabetical order.
“I… I don’t know.” He turns back to Tony, slowly heading to the stool closest to the window, leaving two stools between them.
“I think, if I may, you’re at a steady line right now.” Peter looks up from the floor to see Tony already looking at him. The mere idea of Peter’s like being called ‘stable’ right now is almost laughable.
“I don’t mean stable,” Tony seems to read his mind. The man always seemed to read him like a book, not always in a language they both spoke though.
“I mean… you’re not having the ups and downs everyone has. You’re not supposed to always feel the same thing. Or nothing at all.” Black and white thinking, that’s what the therapist had called it. Peter didn’t get it till now. He looks away from Tony again.
“How long has it been like this?” Peter wets his lips then looks back at Tony who moved a stool closer.
“About… a month? A month and a bit? I’m not sure. It wasn’t a sudden change, more like a… slow draining tub with a hairy drain.” Tony’s lip quirks up on one side slightly as he nods his head.
“You went up on your medication dosage about a month ago.” Tony doesn’t point it out, more so state the fact that sits between their minds. Peter nods slowly.
“Yeah, I did.” Tony moves a stool closer, Peter looks at him.
“What do you want to do then?” Peter doesn’t expect that response, he blinks back plainly before looking down at his lap.
“Feel again.” The silence between them is different this time, Peter knows that.
“So?” Tony asks, nudging Peter’s knee with his own. It’s a different nudge, more of a grounding presence than a seeking out.
“Change meds maybe? I don’t know.” His mumbles are quiet, the shrug he gives just as unnoticeable to the inattentive eye. Thankfully Tony is anything but that, or else Peter thinks he’d have disappeared by now.
“That’s okay. You don’t have to know everything, kid.” It’s such simple reassurement, something everyone’s likely heard in their life. Hell, Peter is a certified genius, he hears it once a week. The difference in context has him staring at Tony like he’s just written something to rival Bukowski.
“Yeah.” Peter nods, looking forward to the living room. His eyes move across the furniture, imagining how each fabric would feel against his skin. The physical feelings are all he has right now, he savours them like he’ll lose them soon too. He thinks of the brain trick where you look at something and you can know how it would feel against your tongue. He looks at the clouds out the window, they remind him of the cotton candy Ben used to buy him on Coney Island.
“Yeah.” Tony repeats, following Peter’s gaze. They sit like that, knees gently touching, Peter’s elbow hitting Tony’s each time the man moves in his seat. He lets each touch, each cell interaction, tether him to the ground more and more and maybe with enough pull, his emotions will return and he’ll know how to smile again.
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Every morning at 7am, Peter goes to the kitchen to take his medication. He shakes two white pills into his hand and takes them with a glass of orange juice. He feels them slide down his throat like a summer slip and slide and May chuckles at the way his nose scrunches up every time. He grins right back every time.
He lets himself feel the rain hitting his back when he forgets an umbrella and how he sticks his tongue out at Tony when the man teases him. He lets himself feel the warmth in his stomach that follows when Tony throws a towel directly into his face. Gone is the black hole that seemed to take everything Peter had before he even knew it was there. His body feels full again and sometimes it even feels like it's overflowing. Those are the days he lets himself be angry and he welcomes the fiery emotions that he didn’t know he’d ever miss until they were gone.
He lets himself feel because he didn’t know that there are worse things to feel than sadness; nothing.