Glazed Eyes, Empty Hearts ➳ Spideypool

15➳Happy Little Pill

My happy little pill
Take me away
Dry my eyes
Bring colour to my skies
My sweet little pill
Tame my hunger
Lie within
Numb my skin
Glazed eyes, empty hearts
Buying happy from shopping carts
Nothing but time to kill
Sipping life from bottles

*

Wade's POV

I show up outside Peter's house at just past 2:30, having been running a bit late when I had seen a mugging on my drive over. Peter would be proud. 

Speaking of, he's not here yet. For Peter, that's weird. Really weird. He doesn't like me to be in his apartment most days. He always waits outside for me when I go to pick him up and he never lets me walk him inside. 

So I'd say the worry is justified. 

I try his cell. I don't want to overreact and go bursting into his apartment only to find him getting changed or something. Maybe he's running late too.

The call gets sent to voicemail. 

"Hey. This is Peter Parker's phone. Leave a message or send me a text!" 

I hang up before the beep, not wanting to leave a pointless voicemail, but the worry is rising. He never leaves his phone anywhere. It's always on him. He always answers my calls. 

So it's totally justified for me to head up to his apartment. 

The first thing I notice when I knock on the door is the splintered wood near the handle. I know Peter's apartment is pretty old and it's really cheap, but it still strikes me as odd. 

Nobody answers so I continue knocking, the worry quickly forming to panic. Why wouldn't Peter be answering the door? He'd wake up if he were sleeping. The only logical explanation is that Jason did something. 

So it's totally justified for me to kick open the door. 

The first thing that hits me is the awful smell. A mix of alcohol, vomit and blood filling the air, making me take a few steps back and pull my hoodie collar over my nose. 

The apartment is a wreck. 

There's broken glass all over the floor in the living room, red solo cups are strewn on every surface and all over the floor. There's beer spilled on the floor, alcohol bottles everywhere, most of them empty. The coffee table is flipped over and the wood is splintered. 

And then there's the blood. There's a particularly bad puddle of blood in the middle of the living room, bloodstains on the couch and practically every surface of the room, though most of them look older. 

And then, of course, there's Peter. 

He's passed out in the small dining room beside a puddle of vomit. His clothes are bloodstained, along with most of his visible skin. His backpack and phone are both right beside him. His face is contorted in pain, even in his sleep, breaths uneven and wheezy.

So I do the only logical thing. Call Tony.

"This isn't a good time. Call back later-"

"It's Peter." My voice comes out strangled as I drop to my knees by Peter's legs, leaning forward to press my fingers against his neck, finding peace in the heartbeat. It's uneven and a little slow, but it's there.

"What happened?" Tony asks, suddenly very aware of the conversation. "Is he okay?"

"I got to his apartment and it's- it's a wreck, Tony. There's so much blood and he won't wake up," I exclaim, shaking Peter's shoulder again. The only upside is that Peter passed out on his stomach, this way he won't choke on his vomit.