Chapter Text
The apartment was always quiet when Aunt May was home.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet - more like the heavy, waiting kind. The kind of silence that made Peter feel like if he breathed too loud, the walls would shatter. So he learned not to breathe too loud. He learned how to walk on the edges of his feet to keep the floors from creaking. He learned where the fourth step on the stairs squeaked and avoided it like it was a landmine, because to Peter, it was.
His room - if you could call it that - was a small space at the end of the hall. It had a slanted ceiling and a window that didn't open. The door could only be locked from the outside, and the paint was chipped around the handle from where May had slammed it open too many times. Peter had a mattress, a single drawer for clothes, and a small collection of May approved books, and a shoebox under the camp bed. That was all. He didn’t need much, he told himself.
Peter had gotten very good at being invisible.
In the mornings, he waited for May’s alarm to go off before moving. If he got up too early, she’d yell at him for making noise. If he got up too late, she’d call him lazy. So he timed it just right. Most mornings, she didn't speak to him beyond barking orders. “Wipe the counter. Clean the bathroom. Don’t be weird today.”
Breakfast was usually half a slice of toast - cold by the time Peter got to it. May always said he didn’t need more. “Look at you,” she’d sneer. “Skinny as a rake. Probably trying to get attention.”
He didn’t argue. He never did. That was another thing he’d learned: Don’t talk back. Don’t cry. Don’t complain. It only made things worse.
Peter moved like someone who didn’t want to be noticed. He walked with a slight limp when he thought no one was looking, something that had started months ago and never really went away. His joints - especially in the mornings - ached, stiff and reluctant. But he’d gotten good at hiding it. Just like he hid the fact that the buzzing in his chest never really stopped. Anxiety, the school nurse had once said. May said it was “drama” and that he needed to grow up.
He didn’t sleep much. Not deeply. And when he did, he often woke up with his jaw clenched, stomach aching with hunger he had long since learned to ignore.
The worst were the migraines. Sharp, stabbing things that came with lights and nausea and made the world feel too loud and too fast. He’d sit on the floor of the bathroom until it passed, curled in on himself, silent.
But still - he made sure the dishes were clean. That his room was quiet. That he didn’t exist more than absolutely necessary.
So when May came home from work one Friday afternoon, slamming the door and tossing her purse onto the counter, Peter flinched instinctively from the sound.
He stayed sat on his bed, reading the same paragraph in his book for the fifth time. His hands were aching too much to turn the page. He listened as she stopped in the kitchen, opened the fridge, and let it hang open longer than necessary. Bottles clinked. The silence swelled again.
Then came her voice - sharp, bored. “There’s nothing to drink in this house.”
Peter didn’t answer. He kept his eyes on the book, still on the same page.
She called out louder, as if he’d deliberately ignored her. “Peter! Jesus. You deaf or just dumb?”
He stood quickly, joints crackling in protest as he opened his door, “Sorry, pardon?”
May rolled her eyes and gestured vaguely at the fridge. “I said there’s nothing to drink. I’m not dying of thirst just because you forgot again. Go to the shop and get me something.”
He glanced at the window. It was getting dark. “Which one?” he asked quietly.
She waved a hand like it was obvious. “The good one. With the glass-bottled stuff. The one past the old laundromat.”
Peter blinked. That was almost an hour away on foot - longer with the limp he tried to pretend didn’t matter. “That’s really far,” he said, before he could stop himself. “I don’t… I don’t think I can walk that far today. My knees - ”
“Oh, Jesus,” May groaned, flinging a cabinet door open harder than necessary. “Not this arthritis crap again.” He flinched. “You’re eleven, not eighty. You don’t have arthritis, Peter. You have ‘look at me’ syndrome.” She mimicked a pout, voice high and mocking. “Ooh, my bones hurt, look at me. Grow up.”
“I really do - my joints - my hands...”
“You’re being a dramatic little attention-seeking whore ,” she snapped, rounding on him now. “That’s what you are. That’s what you always are. Just like when that dumbass social worker took you to that doctor and filled your head with all that crap.” Peter’s mouth opened, then closed. The buzzing in his chest was louder now. May snorted, grabbing her keys from the counter and tossing them at him. “I should’ve told her where to shove it. That lady acted like you were some kind of broken doll . Got you all excited about being ‘listened to.’ Like that was gonna make a damn difference.” Peter stared down at the keys now on the floor. “I said walk to the store. You can rest your poor little knees on the way. Take breaks. Sit on a bench. Just don’t come back empty-handed, or I swear to God - ”
She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to.
Peter pulled on his shoes in silence. They were too small now, his toes curling to fit. He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t ask for money. She’d probably already tucked a crumpled five into the side pocket of his hoodie when she’d decided he was going, long before she told him. The door closed behind him with a soft click . The world outside was still warm, but the sky was darkening fast.
He started walking.
The limp was worse today. But he knew the route. He knew where to sit without being noticed. He’d take his time. He always did. Sixty minutes there and sixty back - Two hours of silence. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.
The next morning May shuffled through the mail, sighing in that way that meant she was already annoyed. A few envelopes hit the table, and then she paused.
“Hmph,” she muttered, holding up a colourful pamphlet. “Camp Avenbrook. Summer break program.” She snorted. “Outdoor activities, leadership, team-building. God, sounds like torture.”
Peter looked up, only a little. Camp?
Then came the silence. The kind of silence that meant she was thinking. And not the good kind of thinking.
“Huh,” she paused for a moment as her eyes glanced at the prices, drawn to the the FREE next to underprivileged kids. “Actually… this might not be the worst idea.”
Peter’s stomach twisted.
She glanced over at him, eyes narrow, calculating.
“You’ve got nothing going on this summer, and I’ve had it up to here with your moping. Maybe some time in the woods will knock the weird out of you.” She smirked at her own joke. “Hell, maybe you’ll make a friend. God knows you need one.”
Peter didn’t respond. He didn’t know how. His mouth had gone dry. His chest buzzed.
“You’re going,” she said, already walking down the hall to her room. “I’ll fill out the paperwork tomorrow. Don’t bother me.”
And just like that, she disappeared behind her door and slammed it shut. The walls vibrated.
Peter sat still in the kitchen, hands clenched in his lap. He didn’t know whether to be scared or relieved. Maybe both.