Archive of Our Own ^beta

Cold, cold was what he registered first, the stark contrast of temperature of the cold tiles hugging his flushed skin.
That and the throbbing headache that sat behind his heavy eyes.
A string of curses left his chapped lips before he brought a weak hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.
“Shit.”

He reached for the handle of the shower that still streamed steamy hot water onto his frozen body, and as he turned the knob a deep sigh left his mouth as he slowly pulled himself from the cold porcelain floor trying desperately to recollect his memory.

What he was doing before the dark spots had crept into his vision, and he suddenly felt like he was floating?

Shaky hands gripped the towel railing in the bathroom as he exited the shower, the extra leverage appreciated as he staggered out, situating himself over the sink; he let his head hang low as he struggled to get his bearings, his hair still dripping wet from the interrupted shower.

He was tired from the patrol yes, but this had been happening too frequently to just push aside now. It was affecting, patrols, work, everything.
“I can’t deal with this right now” He mumbled under his breath, more so to himself than anyone else.

Peter lived alone, had for some time now.
His apartment was small but comfortable.

It was nestled away in a fairly quiet part of Brooklyn, despite the heavy traffic and constant buzzing of the city, he had somehow managed to find himself a quiet nook hidden away. Not too far away from others but just far enough that he could go days without seeing another soul, unless he willingly left his apartment complex.

It was shitty, yes. But it did the job, plus he was hardly there in between the patrols, college, his part-time job, and the plethora of other events he would find himself getting dragged into.
His furniture and clothes still sat in boxes littered around the messy space; he had barely anytime to himself, let alone moving into a new place virtually on his own.

And that’s where the eating problem really began.

Well, honestly speaking it had begun long before that.

One night when the raised voices of his parents got too loud to block out with his shitty headphones, his room no longer felt safe despite the lock on his broken door, and his head had a constant buzzing days after he was no longer in those suffocating walls.
That’s when it really began, the not eating that is.

At first peter had found it as a way of controlling something, anything in his messy teenage years.
The warm hug of comfort he strangely found himself addicted to.
Finally being able to control the outcome of something in his life.

The numbers, the scale, the reflection in the mirror, the comments from friends, family.

A physical manifestion of his suffering.
Proof, that although he seemed outwardly fine, his mind was sick.
So sick.

But as it bled into adulthood, he found himself so deep in the security it provided that the thought of ever stopping seemed fruitless.
The years of trauma and constant chaos subjected by others around him left him lost confused, waiting for the next problem, the next situation to deal with. The uncertainty of life becoming the bane of it itself.

But this, this control he held so tightly in his grasp always welcomed him home with outstretched arms, hushed his worries and wiped away the tears that streamed down his face, told him that everything wouldn’t matter if he just did this one thing.
That despite the dumpster fire his life was, at least he had this.
It would always be there for him, waiting.
Told him that he finally had authority over something in his life.

Count the calories, follow the workouts, stay silent and watch his body change beneath his own hand.
His choice, his command.
His control.

But it was causing serious problems now.
He knew he had a problem.

But it never seemed like one to him until the passing out started, the black spots that permeated his vision when he stood up too fast, the frequent feeling of nausea when he would eat, didn’t eat, or when he would fall into a blind frenzy filling himself to the brim that he swore he could feel the food in his lungs.

The nights spent sitting on the bathroom floor staring at murky toilet water as his stomach turned in on itself, the familiar sound of the shower running to filter out his strangled sounds so the thin walls wouldn’t carry his chokes and sobs, his tongue tracing over his teeth trying to erase the bitter taste of bile that coated his mouth.

It was bad before yes, but he never let it bleed into his identity.
Promised that despite his flaws, being Spiderman was his top priority.

But sometimes things are easier said than done.
Most times.

But as of recent days, being alone was turning out to be more of an enabling factor to his bad habits than the promised freedom he told his younger self he would have.
After a few deep breaths he opened his eyes, the buzzing in his head had subsided but the constant feeling of weakness only seemed to grow stronger the more he tried to stay upright.

Bed, right. He needed to lay down, he was tired.
So, very tired. His legs ached, and his head felt like it was filled with fairy floss.

Did I leave my phone in here?
Did I turn the shower off?
Did I take my meds this morning?

He shook his head, trying to wipe his brain from the sudden bombardment of questions, he quite frankly didn’t know the answers to.
As he practically dragged himself from the bathroom, clumsily grasping blindly for his discarded clothes and belonging’s, he caught a glimpse of himself in the foggy mirror.
He paused taking in his form.
Dragging a hand over his torso he slowly mapped the scars that covered his frame some self-inflected, others collected in battle.

He was a young adult now, his body a stark contrast to his teenage one, but he never got used to seeing his body staring back at him.
Sometimes in his reflection, even if for a brief moment, he would find himself admiring his body, sometimes even praising himself for his physique, seeing a flicker of what he imagined others saw when they looked at him.
But that window of clarity wouldn’t last long before the waves of criticism would come flooding in, and the abnormalities would rear their ugly heads.

Its almost like his body would twist and contort, morphing and changing in front of his very eyes, revealing the distorted, mangled version of his body that he was so familiar with.
As he exhaled, and his fingers slowly ran along his side, his muscles rippled under taunt skin, despite his emaciated form, and for that he was thankful for.

Maybe the hours of patrol and extra exercise in his free time had paid off, but despite the ribs that meekly poked from underneath his skin he couldn’t help but feel a wave of disappointment.

Dissatisfaction.

He still felt huge, still felt a scowl tugging at his lips when he turned to the side, calculating his frame at different angles, different lighting, different positions.

Different, he just wanted to be different.
If only he could be anyone but himself.

But he wasn’t, that was one thing he was able to rationalise with himself; that no amount of starving, no amount of binging and purging, no amount of steps collected or calories counted, no amount of delusion could change the fact that he was himself, trapped in this husk of a body.
But he could try his best, try his best to change that reflection staring back at him, change the feeling of skin peeling disgust, the feeling of guilt.
The feeling of shame.
He could change that, that was in his control.

Just a few more kilos. Just a few more workouts, a few extra patrols, a few more skipped meals, a few more months.

And then maybe he wouldn’t feel that stomach lurching feeling when his suit stuck to his skin in all the wrong ways, the feeling of fabric rubbing against his thighs, the feeling of bile rising in his throat as he faced his reflection and forced a tight smile to adorn his glassy eyes.

Maybe, if he just tried a little harder, lost a little more weight, he would be happy.

Maybe, he was just going about this all wrong.

Maybe, he wasn’t the problem, the world was.