Bruised But Not Broken - Irondad/spiderson

This is not good

No more messages came through.

By Sunday morning, the silence felt like its own kind of punishment.

I wake up at Ned's house in the pale grey light of early day, the kind that makes everything look washed out and too honest. Ned's room is a disaster, in the way only a best friend's room can be. Lego pieces underfoot like landmines. Posters slightly crooked. Half-built projects everywhere. My own mess is mixed into his, wires and tiny screws and the open belly of Little Guy spread across the desk like surgery.

Mrs Leeds appears at the doorway with a gentle knock and an even gentler smile.

"Peter, sweetheart, I'm making breakfast. Do you want some?"

The smell hits first. Toast. Eggs. Something warm and buttery that makes my stomach twist.

I tighten my grip around the straps of my bag as I start packing up Little Guy, folding him carefully in between spare parts and cotton padding like he's fragile glass. Like he's something that deserves care.

"No thank you, Mrs Leeds," I say quickly, forcing a polite tone. "I'll grab something on my way home."

She looks like she knows that's a lie. She doesn't call me out. She just nods, the kind of nod adults do when they're choosing not to push.

And I hate myself for it.

Because I have been eating too much lately.

Not too much by normal standards. Too much by mine. Too much by the rules I punish myself with. Too much by the quiet voice in my head that tells me I don't deserve to feel full.

If I'm not at the Tower, if Tony isn't hovering and May isn't watching, then I can go back to the only thing that feels like control.

I say my goodbyes to Ned, and he gives me that look. The one that says he wants to ask more, wants to help more, but doesn't want to scare me off.

At the door, I turn back.

"Ned," I say, sharper than I mean to. "I mean it. You can tell no one."

He raises both hands like I'm holding him at gunpoint. "Dude. I swear. Nobody."

I nod once, then step outside.

The streets are already warming. The city is awake and impatient.

People crowd the sidewalks shoulder to shoulder, heads down, thumbs moving, living inside their phones. Horns blare through intersections. A guy yells into a headset at nobody and everybody at once. A car alarm chirps somewhere far away, then dies.

I keep my head low and move with the flow.

Ned doesn't live far, so the walk isn't bad, and I've always liked walking. The city can be loud and destructive, sure, but it's also full of small calm things if you know where to look.

Kids playing hopscotch on cracked pavement. Parents sitting on stoops watching them like it's the best show on Earth. Window boxes overflowing with colour. Flowers blooming even in winter, stubborn and bright. The sun warm against your face even when the air still bites your ears.

Peace exists here.

You just have to catch it before it moves.

My apartment building is bland. Brick and grime and stairwell smell. But I know which window is ours because Aunt May makes it impossible to miss. Her flower box is the only one that looks alive. White and pink blooms, probably mint and thyme mixed in, because she can't help herself. Even when everything else is breaking, she still tries to grow something.