enjoy i guess or maybe not

your daily reminder that i use a lot of sentence fragments

crossposted on ao3 under the same name

Important:::: the rest of this fic is like? really different from the first chapterso ? heads upidk it gets worse tbh and there are more metaphors

(Peter stared down at his hands and thought they looked dirty. The sharp blade that had stabbed him was sitting on the concrete with a critical delicacy. He glanced over his shoulder but the alleyway was empty.)

Seven days have passed. He doesn't sleep well anymore.

4444

Peter had stayed up until two in the morning slinging around the city looking for the sort of neighborhood criminal activities Spider-Man could stop. It had been a fairly calm night, until about one, when some goons tried to rob a bank. Peter had stayed to wait for the cops after webbing them up because hey, they were pretty clever. He kind of wanted to talk about it, maybe. (But then a feeling a dread took over his chest, and Peter kept trekking on through the night in silence.)

Until he was too tired to function and he went home to sleep. Not that he could have slept if he'd wanted to. Adrenaline was actually maybe Peter's worst enemy, and when that wore off he was too preoccupied with anxieties from... really just about anything. Like Toomes, and Ben, and that essay for English, and—Peter sucked in a breath and glanced around the room nervously (seven days ago, seven days ago, seven—).

Speaking of school: Peter was currently about ten minutes behind schedule which, admittedly, was his own fault. He'd manage. Just had to... skip a few steps in his morning routine. He ran out the door without a goodbye to his aunt. Or breakfast. Or that essay he was supposed to write. Or... well, he didn't do a lot of the things he was supposed to but dammit he was tired! And late!

4444

It was five seconds after the bell rang that Peter was sliding into his desk at school, and he was counting it as a win.

"Dude, you okay?" Ned was a good friend. Caring, dorky, and yeah maybe a little too excited about Peter's arachnid related extracurriculars but honestly, Peter would be too if the roles were reversed. Ned was such a good friend, but Peter was really not doing this today. ('Today' seemed like sort of an underestimate.)

Instead, he grunted and sunk down into the chair until his head smacked the desk. Peter's thoughts were more a spiral than his exhaustion was. Even just being at school, he was feeling persecuted, watched, investigated. There was an anxiety to breathing Peter didn't feel right naming.

Somewhere to Peter's left, Ned sucked in a breath of air, and breathed out an indelicately put "ouch," because Ned was really the best friend anyone could ask for, or something like that. "...Did you get any sleep last night? You look exhausted."

Peter couldn't find the energy to reply elaborately and dissuade his friend's concern. He rolled his head on the desk to face Ned. "Not really." And suddenly felt uncomfortable under Ned's gaze, so he turned away.

Ned looked like he wanted to say something, but their teacher was calling for the class to quiet down, then hurdled into a lesson Peter couldn't even hope to follow. Something about... probably math? His eyes were half-lidded and his head was jerking upright every few seconds, so Peter figured that he was actually maybe just going to sleep. But he didn't want to dream.

When he finally mustered up enough energy to actually care about his education, the bell was ringing and class was over. He didn't argue when Ned grabbed his elbow and pulled him out the door. Didn't have much of a right to fight it.

4444

He had made it to lunch. Peter was almost one hundred percent convinced that some sort of holy intervention had kept him awake during his classes because by the end of things he was pretty sure he wasn't actually conscious despite apparently taking notes. Not that he could read any of that chicken scratch. Go figure.

Any other day and he might have cared that Ned kept sending him concerned glances and even MJ had looked up from her book to ask if he was okay. He honestly didn't even care that Flash had been throwing bits of eraser at his head throughout the day.

If anything, Flash was keeping him out of detention by shocking him awake every five minutes with eraser to his head. He was almost grateful to Flash, but then remembered that oh wait, Flash is terrible and then he wasn't grateful anymore. A pit formed in Peter's stomach, but he didn't vocalize it.

Anyway, it was lunch and Peter was almost in tears about even surviving the first half of the school day. His mind was a broken record that could only repeat 'sleep' in varying degrees of urgency and desperation. (Seven days, Peter thought, grip tightening on his backpack straps, Seven days since...)

He was getting a book out of his locker when Ned sidled up next to him looking almost stern. Peter shut his locker with a weary sigh, preparing for the worst (HE KNOWS something told him WHAT HAPPENED SEVEN DAYS AGO. WATCH OUT). Peter felt a chill run down his spine. His ears started ringing Peter's damnation.

"I'm taking you to the nurse." Ned was soft corners and muted distrust. His voice broke the hum of terror coursing through Peter. "You look terrible.

And, wow, Ned was the best. He was a great friend, being all concerned for Peter's well-being, but he really didn't need a nurse. Didn't deserve— "I'm just tired, Ned," Peter shrugged, starting off towards the cafeteria. It wasn't like he was sick. Or hurt.

"Come on, man. You fell asleep in Spanish and were stumbling around in the halls during passing period." There was honest concern in Ned's eyes, probably, but when Peter tried to meet his friend's gaze he realized how heavy his eyelids were and just closed them instead. "This isn't healthy."

Peter silently mused that it wasn't supposed to be healthy. He was just doing what people like him should do. Peter wouldn't sleep even if he wanted to rest. "I'll do a short patrol tonight," Peter said instead, already thinking about how quickly he could get the day to end if he cut out doing homework and patrolling until the crack of dawn, "get to bed early."

(Peter looked down at his hands and shivered.)

Ned huffed. "You should take a break from—" whispering suddenly, "—Spider-Manning tonight, Peter. How late were you out last night, anyway?"

"I don't know, maybe two? Three?"

There was a sharp intake of breath. "Again? I thought May gave you a curfew after the last time you came in past midnight!"

And, yeah, maybe he usually didn't get home before his admittedly generous eleven o'clock curfew most nights, but if Aunt May didn't find out then he technically hadn't broken his curfew. That was his story and he was sticking to it. It wasn't like Aunt May could argue when she was usually asleep on the couch after watching her shows when he got back, anyway. "Crime doesn't sleep. At least, not at a reasonable hour." Peter shrugged, feeling the straps of his backpack were suddenly too heavy on his shoulders. "I can make it through one day without visiting the nurse."

And then Peter tripped on thin air, wobbled around uncertainly, and careened into some lockers with a crash.

"Pete—"

"I'm fine, Ned. Just tripped, is all."

Ned didn't insist any further, apparently about as tired of arguing with Peter as Peter was with just about everything, and looped his arm with Peter's and headed them into the lunchroom. He was silently glad for Ned's support after the third time he lost his balance on the way in (but he didn't miss the mumbled, "not really proving your point," each time he tripped).

Sitting down, Peter stumbled on his feet and landed with a grunt at the table. The bench shifted when Ned settled in beside him.

Peter's head was already resting on the table when he heard MJ. "He looks like trash."

Unable or unwilling to defend himself, he just let his eyes shut and hummed in what probably sounded like tacit agreement. It was.

"Yup."

Wow, thanks Ned, he almost says, but instead just yawns and nods slightly, like Ned's confirmation was something he'd wanted.

His plan this morning had been something along the lines of finishing his essay during lunch with some half-baked excuse as to its poor quality, but now that it was actually time to work, Peter didn't think he could pick up a pencil, let alone write an entire essay (finishing it now seemed almost... insignificant). He almost started to reach for his backpack to see what a previous, more awake version of him had started when Ned put a hand on his shoulder.

"Did you not bring a lunch?"

Because oh yeah he totally didn't bring a lunch and that probably wasn't really helping matters. Through some vaguely distorted haze, Peter sat up to look over at MJ (who was reading again, probably didn't care about him at all), then Ned (who was definitely concerned with him, but mostly just looked annoyed at this point).

At his blank stare, Ned sighed, sliding a sandwich bag to Peter. "You can have my sandwich." Said in a voice that clearly meant I'm disappointed in you or maybe just you're worrying me. Peter wasn't sure, but settle on the former with a hurt sort of certainty and a muted validation.

Ten hours of sleep in the last week was not enough sleep for Peter to start analyzing expressions. It was a wonder Ned was only just now seeing how dead on his feet Peter was. He used to sleep more. Seven days.

Instead, Peter just grumbled out a muted, "Thanks," because fighting Ned wasn't really worth it, and with his enhanced spider metabolism, skipping out on meals was probably near suicidal. Whatever.

Ned slid a plastic baggie to where Peter's books were haphazardly dropped onto the table then rummaged around in his own lunch for something to eat himself. After a brief stare-down with the bagged sandwich, Peter unzipped it and took it into his hands. He took a small bite.

And wow he was actually crazy hungry. Apparently in his exhausted haze, Peter had drowned out the aching emptiness in his stomach. He inhaled the remaining pb and j with renewed vigor and was finished within the minute.

"Guess you were hungry," MJ was looking up from her book again, expression flat despite the hint of amusement or something in her eyes. Peter flushed and turned away. He still felt her eyes on him and it gave Peter a heavy, dark feeling.

For the rest of lunch, Ned pestered him about getting more sleep and eating enough food while MJ passed some snide remarks every few moments between turning pages. And—really, Peter wasn't trying to be inconsiderate, but with Ned's mothering and MJ's... MJ-ing he was feeling a little babied. Which was entirely idiotic, mostly because he was Spider-Man, for goodness' sake, but also because he, admittedly, was kind of terrible at taking care of himself. It was making Peter feel sort of sick to his stomach for reasons he knew those two wouldn't understand.

He and Ned were eating out of the same bag of chips while Ned fretted good-naturedly. Peter yawned and glanced at the clock.

"Will you need help walking to your next class?"

Turning back to Ned, Peter huffed. "I'll be fine. The food really helped. Thanks, Ned." It had helped, actually. Maybe enough to go an hour into classes before falling asleep again. Longer, even, given his slowed metabolism from lack of nutrients.

"Your welcome!" He beamed for a second, but then looked uncertain, "Are you sure, though? You were stumbling around petty bad earlier..."

The bell rang, and Peter hurried out of the room to his next class, skin an unhealthy pallor and steps discordant. If Ned was calling out to him, Peter didn't hear it. Didn't want to hear it.

(a more clear-minded him might have taken concern over his enhanced senses not picking up on Ned's panicked, "Peter!" but it didn't bother him now. He was running on half of Ned's lunch and maybe two hours of sleep; everything was moving slowly anyway)

And then someone else was yelling. That, Peter could hear because it was literally directly in front of his face. Peter turned his face up from where his eyes had drifted to the patterns in the tile. It was Flash.

"Hey, Penis Parker! You look like shit!" Peter was distantly reminded that Flash was terrible. He was so revoking his previous gratefulness from when Flash had kept him awake by throwing things at him. "Stay up late working with Stark at your internship?"

Peter almost didn't have the energy to combat Flash's sarcastic taunts, but he found it in him somehow. "Shut up, Flash." He had bigger concerns these days than petty bullying. Bigger secrets. WATCH OUT.

There was a pull on Peter's shirt and a bang; Peter was faintly aware that the bully had grabbed his shirt and slammed him up against the lockers. A sharp pain shot up Peter's spine from where he felt the handle of a locker dig into his back. It would probably bruise. "Watch your mouth!" Flash was yelling again.

Peter shivered, and suddenly there was blackness at the corner of Peter's vision and a sharpness, a ringing, at the base of his skull. His mouth felt dry. Was Flash still yelling? It looked like his mouth was moving, but Peter couldn't really hear anything. He just wanted to lay down. He felt himself going heavy.

Then Flash was letting him go, almost a panicked look in his eyes. The second Flash wasn't supporting his weight, Peter crumpled to the ground. He was already passed out before Flash even let go.

4444

(This kid would be the death of him—)

"He what?!"

"Mr. Parker fainted just after lunch. Someone will have to come pick him up, but his aunt isn't answering her phone."

This kid was actually going to be the death of him, and that in no way was an exaggeration. Tony huffed, pulling back from whatever mechanical wonders he had been tinkering with— "I'll be right there." —and he hung up.

Making the kid put his number down for an emergency contact had mostly been an emotional hassle, but every time Peter got hurt on patrol, Tony was thankful he took the precaution. He wasn't an emotional man—if anyone asked he'd somehow turn the conversation around—but Peter had wormed his way into Tony's heart and he'd be damned if he let anything happen to that kid. So, yes, telling Peter he would be there in an emergency forced him to admit that he maybe just slightly cared about the kid, but it was worth it (what with how often Peter refused to tell Tony when he was injured).

Again: this kid—the death of him.

"Fri, tell Happy to get the car ready."