Spiderson Oneshots

All Wrong--Peter and Steve

Warnings: Negative self-talk and pessimism, burnout, repression, accidental that turns to purposeful self-destructiveness, language, discussion of mortality, and an excessive amount of page breaks.

As far as Peter can see, he's doing life all wrong. He doesn't particularly enjoy this revelation, but it comes of its own accord, and once he's realized it, it won't go away. Instead, it plagues him every moment of every day and then deep into the night. It follows him everywhere he goes, a general sense of gnawing rawness that nips at his heels. No matter how fast he runs, it always keeps pace.

Peter's given up running. He doesn't have anywhere to go. There's not an escape to be seen, and he's traveled far and wide looking for one. Now, he just stays put and lets it throb inside him, pricking his soul and heart and every piece of him.

He's doing it all wrong, but there isn't a way to do it right, either.

Peter's stuck in goo that is unrelenting. For every stretchy strand he wrenches free from, two more snag elsewhere. It's pulling him down, suffocating him before anyone can even hear his screams, even though no one's listening in the first place. Heroes listen to help the helpless, but the helpless never listen to help the helpers.

Even if no one will listen, he doesn't scream anyway. He can't risk being a bother to any of them. He can't risk admitting to himself that he can't hold it together. If he's ever been anything, it's put together.

Peter is stuck in the in-between. That dreaded crease between pages, falling between the lines in a story he isn't able to tell. From all directions, he's being pulled, and he'll crumble in the next moment if he gives an inch.

In the in-between, there's nothing but him. There's no place to hide, and no labels to place on anything other than the pressing darkness that is both up and down. Peter fits in no boxes, and he never thought he'd wish that he could. He's too driven to fit into the side of those falling apart, but he's not accomplished enough to fit on the other side with the successful ones.

The middle is a dreaded place. It's where things fall flat and emotionless. It's a vast expanse of nothingness, and Peter's lost. It's all the same. Pressing. Endless. And so, so lonely.

—~—~—

Peter wants a thousand things. Some of them are large, expanding into every expanse of his life. He wants his uncle back. He wants his parents back. But some of what he wants is small and, for all intents and purposes, meaningless. He wants warm sun on his back as he does what he wants. He wants to grow things, cultivating life with the very hands that itch to scratch away every one of his mistakes. He wants to dance in an empty room, surrounded by a life he's created with only the good things.

Peter wants and wants and wants. The small things pile up and up and up, leaving behind a massive mountain that's impossible to traverse. He's left trapped surrounded by the life that he dared hope for, motionless.

Now, all he wants is to escape. There's no cure or saving device for being stuck in the middle, so he's stuck, dreaming of a place where the terrain isn't made up of things keeping him down.

—~—~—

All his life, Peter has been told to dream big and then reach for those dreams. The thing is, no one ever told him how to reach. It's just the same statement over and over again: "reach for your dreams." As if that tells him anything. Still, he did as he was told.