Of course.
Of-fucking-course.
It didn't matter how many times it happened, did it?
How many times Peter trusted the world, and was yet again, shot down anyways.
It didn't fucking matter.
He knew they were right. Who would want a monster living under their roof? Right?
Yeah, no, who cared if all he'd ever done was try his best? Who cared if he'd actually believed that maybe, just maybe, he was worth something?
Maybe he was being irrational, but he'd heard what he'd heard. Leave it to the mind of a 15 year old, tired, emotional, and blatantly reckless kid to be the one informed flat out that everyone truly was out to get him.
He didn't bother grabbing any of the spare clothes as he swung open the window, the winds catching him by surprise.
He leaped down, forgetting how free he'd felt like this.
When he swung his first web, it reminded him the mortality he'd possessed, and how painful torn stitches were.
Who cared though, right? Things were back where they used to be, but better.
He could deal with it by himself. He would be able to think things through clearly, by himself.
Clearly, that's how the universe wanted it to be for him anyways. Since everywhere he went was just another kick to the face.
This was probably him snapping. One of those 'outbursts' that traumatized kids had. But seriously, who cared??
Once he was a couple building away, reaching the destination he'd opted for, he found the backpack fallen from the place it'd been when he'd webbed it up as an emergency so many months before.
Inside was enough non-perishable food to last about two weeks, two spare changes of clothes, a spare, cheaper Spiderman suit, and a burner phone Ned had gotten him.
His eyes burned as he looked down at it. He truly did wanted to be friends with Tony. He thought he was.
Clearly not, it seemed.
He thought about the day he'd had. The great day he'd had.
His bitter admiration went up at the thought of them being able to orchestrate something so genuine, that not even for a second he doubted it. They were better actors than he thought.
He curled up against the concrete wall, wiping his eyes.
Was it hatred? Betrayal? Just sheer sadness? He didn't know.
He didn't deserve this.
Peter did not deserve this.
The one time he came to the right realization, it was at the wrong time it seemed.
He grabbed his bag and put the hoodie on, pulling it over his head as he made it out to the streets.
Not like anyone would miss him anyways
—
Huzzah, a short chapter just after a long one.
This was an entirely impulsive decision and I've written too much to go back now.
Either way, that was fun ig, Peter snapping and all that. I enjoyed writing him like that, although I feel too inexperienced to be working with my psychology textbooks yet, so I worry how much of this would be understandable.
Since almost half of this chapter is already the ending, I'm gonna seal it off here and hope that future me, as close or far as they may be, will receive the inspiration to make a good connection to fix this lmao.
I'm gonna try to read some fics for a bit to try and get inspiration on how to move on, Bc I feel as though I've royally messed this up, and I haven't had enough Peter content lately to match his personality so well.
Anywhoosies, have a nice day, otherwise I'm gonna start writing this in another language 😌🤟
Love you all and I'm sorry💛💛💛
Sincerely, a mistake maker