spiderman angst/sickfic oneshots

the fifth day of sickmas: seasonal depression

In which Peter gets found out for self harm and sobs into his may as well be dad's arms after they get into a fight about it + suicide notes + how could you kill yourself it's fucking Christmas !?!?! Tony can't communicate Peter wants to fucking die it'll be great !!!!

TW: self harm, suicidal ideation, mention but not huge focus on disordered eating
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Peter was struggling.

Like really really struggling. His room was a disaster, clothes were strewn everywhere. There was water bottles spilling out from underneath his bed. Dirty laundry piled up over his bed covers and his closet couldn't be accessed because clothes his aunt may had washed and folded for him from the Laundromat blocked it, piling up and up until Peter just stopped opening his closet all together.

It took so much energy to even get out of bed. He hadn't gone out as spiderman in a month or so, and news articles were beginning to pop up about the dissapearence of their beloved hero.

Peter though, no one cared when Peter wasn't at school. No one cared where Peter was. (Probably because he had told the only two people that cared, Ned and MJ, that he was sick. They didn't pester him. He felt selfish for wishing they would.)

He had been skipping school. Aunt May kept yelling at him for his absences, she didn't understand how shit he felt. He didn't know why it was so hard to get out of bed or brush his teeth or do his homework. It used to be so easy.

Aunt May didn't know that while she was gone and he was skipping, the only thing he had the energy to do was cut up his arms. He asked himself why he did it and found a million reasons, but never one that felt solid enough to explain the feeling like someone had crumpled up his entire soul like a torn up piece of wrapping paper.

Christmas was approaching, but he didn't feel like celebrating at all. The snow started to flurry down, getting heavier day by day, and Aunt May began taking evening and night shifts instead of early morning shifts to start walking Peter to school, making sure he got there safe before heading to work or back to the apartment.

Because of her, he finished his exams, but went into break feeling just as shit as before -if not more.
One night, Aunt May came home from her shift early and found Peter sobbing in his room, curled up on the floor next to his bed, hitting his head with his hands.

He had wanted to clean his room, but it was too overwhelming. He couldn't stop thinking about how much of a slob he was and how no one loved him because of how terrible he was. His room was pitch black when she walked in and found him, wailing and dully hurting himself. She didn't know about the box cutter in his pocket or the blood on his wrists.

She sat down across from him, moving away a pile of clothes without saying a word about it, and grabbed his hands off his face.

"Peter, what's wrong baby?" She asked, her eyes sad and worried as she gently brought his hands away from hitting his forehead. The red, slightly raised marks left worried her. He had been hitting himself hard enough and long enough to make a bruise.

Peter just shook his head, trying to wriggle his sleeved wrists out of his Aunt's. She let go and instead of hitting himself again, he tucked his arms close to his chest, pulling his knees further to himself. He turned his head to the side, refusing to look at her.

"Peter, please tell me what's wrong. I want to help." She said softly, taking a hand and softly turning his head towards her.

His eyes were scared. He couldn't tell his aunt what he'd been feeling. It would break her heart. He already hated to see her sad.

"I'm so tired of everything." He sobbed honestly, refusing to let anything else on.

"When was the last time you talked to Ned?" She asked as he looked away from her again, tears still flowing freely out of his eyes.