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SIXTEEN; 𝒊'𝒎 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒂𝒎𝒆, 𝒃𝒐𝒚𝒔!
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SOMETHING WAS HAPPENING to this city.
Everyone could feel it; the fog that had descended over New York. The streets were oddly quiet. The FEAST shelter that usually went strong during this season was catching flies. No one was definite about anything anymore, and the ideal seemed uncanny. And one thing Peter was sure about is that a little faith could go a great distance.
Spider-Man was running patrol every night (as is the custom) to wad off the self-destructive torture, almost to the point of humorous now, that settled a Kafkaesque showdown between his mind and heart. Even with the heroic distractions, there was a tension—past all the Spidey senses—that he couldn't explain.
When the city was momentously on the verge of a cold war, the tipping point loomed. Do you know the feeling that wasn't simply high-functioning anxiety? And just like that, the precarious rose to meet it.
It meant that Spider-Man couldn't catch a fucking break.
To excuse all the dramatics, Peter could only blame it on heartbreak. It was what the books said: a fat bitch in the metaphorical ditch. The feeling wasn't just dramatic anymore, it seemed to give him gyp thick and fast. He didn't stop it either, he simply brought it upon himself. He sucked up to it and shrugged his shoulders like the man he was when it passed.
And then he rolled up under his covers and waited for the roof to collapse on him. Then that way he would never have to face himself ever again. The cycle went on for weeks, and he kept at it anyway. His theory was to ignore it until it goes away.
But reality sinks in leading up to the waking moment and he'd have to snap his alarm and head out to tackle another gruelling day at school. Aunt May had even given up on asking about what was wrong since the day she returned from Boston. She chalked it up to teenage angst.
"Whose earring is this?"
Peter stopped his knife in midair from peeling potatoes. Because the entire context of that sentence was dangerous. He turned to face his aunt who was kneeling by the couch, holding out her newly secured evidence in hand: a gold feather earring missing its pair.
"Um," he managed through the tightness in his abdomen—he knew just whose that was. "Yours? I dunno, May. I don't keep track of that stuff."
May stood up and placed her hands on her hips, in peak interrogation mode. "Did you have a girl over?"
He laughed, trying to keep it mellow. "Wha... that's crazy. A girl? Me?"
