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“Dude.”
Peter looks up, his mouth full of a half-chewed sandwich. He is pretty sure there is mayonnaise on his chin so he covers his mouth with his hand while he chews enough to swallow. “What?”
Ned’s eyebrows are raised. Annoyingly, he gestures to his own chin, and Peter takes the hint and wipes the mayo away. “Did you skip breakfast today or something?”
“Or something.” Peter hunches his shoulders and takes another bite before admitting, “I had a shot yesterday. Makes me hungry.”
“Shot?” It takes Ned approximately five more seconds to get it. “Oh.”
Peter chews, feeling self-conscious and wishing that Ned would continue his rant about the latest patch to The Old Republic instead of looking at Peter like he is unsure where to go from here.
Ned knows about Peter’s conditions, of course; he knows about all of them. He may not have known who Peter was before freshman year, but several of their classmates did, and even one as uninvolved in the high school rumor mill as Ned—courtesy of being one of the least popular kids in school—no one can miss the barbs Peter continuously receives from Flash Thompson, with whom Peter had gone to middle school.
Courtesy of his hormone blockers, Peter had been the shortest and skinniest kid in their freshman year. Ned, on the other hand, had been the largest. They had both navigated the new high school corridors with a healthy dose of discomfort and a pinch of fear, then bonded when they had started to recognize one another from the library.
Despite Flash’s lack of subtlety, it had taken Ned weeks to figure out why Peter slips away to the bathroom to change his clothes before their P.E. class.
Swallowing another mouthful, Peter shrugs one shoulder. There is a part of Peter, something under his skin that has started to tickle with a strange desire to put on his Spider-Man suit whenever life as Peter Parker becomes even remotely uncomfortable. It is a great way to escape that he has been blessed with, but unfortunately not one he can indulge in very often, especially not in them middle of the lunch room at school. “Well. Anyway.”
Ned looks at him, brows knitted together, then pushes his plate with potato wedges closer to Peter.
Peter feels something in his chest lighten; he smiles as he reaches out to help himself.
Peter is eight years old the last time he wears a dress. It is picture day at school and Aunt May is well-meaning but overbearing; she asks if Peter will not feel left out when all the other girls will dress nicely. She talks about it until it turns into one of those moments when Peter doesn’t know what to feel anymore. None of his options are pleasant so he stops protesting.
He becomes a sullen presence in the far corner of his class picture, short messy hair and white tights under a blue denim dress. It is a bad day for him. He feels like more of an outsider than usual and he doesn’t feel like playing with anyone at recess so he wanders off to one of the corners of the yard and tries to shake off the humiliating feeling that he is the only one in his class that is wearing a costume.
“—barely ate anything.” Aunt May’s hushed voice reaches him from the kitchen that night. Peter is too old to admit he doesn’t like the dark so he opens his bedroom door himself every night before going to bed to give him a streak of light from the kitchen. It also helps him eavesdrop on his aunt and uncle, helps him know what is going on in their lives that they consider him too young to know about. “Ben, this is more than just a phase.”
His uncle is silent; Peter can hear someone shifting on the couch. He can imagine the scene, how Aunt May has curled her legs up on the couch and is leaning against her husband.
“We’ll figure it out,” Uncle Ben says finally, simply, his voice soothing, and Peter feels himself relax somewhat after that, enough to fall asleep.
He is eight years old when he starts seeing a child psychologist, and his aunt and uncle finally start calling him ‘Peter’.
Peter wonders if it would have been easier for him to talk to girls if he had actually been one and not just a failed shell. Some of the girls in his year used to give him a bit more credit than the other guys, as though sharing the same body parts would somehow magically grace him with social competence. They had realized their mistake soon enough, especially when they realized that Peter liked girls, as though his blushed rambling somehow made him less interesting in their eyes. Or possibly, the idea of being known as the girl that dated a guy without a dick put a damper on anyone’s interest in him.
Which had been why Liz saying yes to his awkward question if she would like to be his date to the homecoming dance had been such a miracle. But Liz had been like that, so impossibly nice and secure.
But of course, things were destined to end badly for the two of them, and Peter has since then resigned himself to being dateless for the duration of high school. And possible college as well.
Maybe his entire life.
“Well, what about Mich—MJ?” Ned asks while he looks over the blueprint of their latest Lego project. “She doesn’t care about what other people think.”
Peter lifts his upper lip in a half-hearted attempt at making a face. Ned is not looking at him, anyway. “She doesn’t care about me, either.”
Ned shrugs and doesn’t seem to notice that Peter hadn’t said ‘I don’t like MJ like that’. Which he doesn’t. While he doesn’t dislike MJ, he feels nothing of the warm butterflies in his stomach that always graced him with their presence when he had looked at Liz.
“Besides,” Peter continues, “I should probably focus on other stuff right now. Like being a superhero.”
“And Lego,” Ned says, which is probably a joke, but Peter shrugs and nods anyway.
Being bit by a spider had, to be honest, been one of the grossest things that had ever happened to Peter. Not to mention that it is unfair. His body adopts spider-like qualities overnight, but adopting masculine qualities via testosterone shots will take years?
That is bull, if Peter may say so.
Being bit by a spider had also, to be fair, one of the best things that ever happened to him.
When he had first made his suit, Peter had focused on flexibility (spandex), attempt at masculinity (layers), and coolness (color theme). Mr. Stark, once he forced his way into the picture, had amped all those factors up to the max with the upgrade. The new suit had been slimmer than anything Peter had ever dared to wear before and he had eyed himself critically in the full-length mirror by the door before thinking, wow.
Spider-Man, after all, is nothing like Peter Parker, skinny trans teen.
Spider-Man is cool.
“--Peter Benjamin Parker.”
Peter winces, then forces a smile onto his face as he drops his backpack onto the floor. “Hi, May.”
“You missed dinner.”
“Did you leave anything for me?” he asks, hoping to what, lighten the mood? When May doesn’t reply, he finally forces himself to meet her eyes.
Her lips are pressed together and Peter hates that she looks worried rather than angry. She doesn’t say anything, so Peter feels an anxious need to fill the silence.
“So, uh, the internship. I got to be in the lab today and I forgot the time. I’m sorry. I really am.”
He had spent most of the evening looking for a dog that had jumped from a first-floor balcony. It had been a chihuahua, and more difficult to spot in the dark than one might think. Once he had caught it, it had very nearly snagged the mask from his face, and if it hadn’t been for Mr. Stark’s reinforced fabric there would probably be holes in his suit by now. Crazy sharp teeth.
At least the owner had been happy.
May looks at him silently, then sighs and leans back against the dishwasher. “You know I worry about you.”
Uncle Ben’s death had taken its toll on both of them. May, understandably, doesn’t want him hanging out alone at night. Especially not after Peter had caught her reading an article about violence against trans individuals. Peter fiddles with the zipper of his hoodie and tries to ignore the stab of guilt in his chest. Spider-Man is his shot at freedom, one of few moments when he feels absolutely right, and he is not willing to give it up. “I’m fine.”
She sighs, turns back to the sink to rinse off her plate. “Feeling any side-effects today?”
After his very first testosterone injection, Peter had been plagued with mood-swings so bad that May and Ben had allowed him to stay home from school. The unfamiliar rage that had warped his mind had been as terrifying as the drops that followed, pulling him down until he hadn’t had the energy to leave his bed and he had wondered why he even bothered with the whole thing at all. Puberty hitting him like a sledgehammer. He had dreamed about testosterone injections for years, but it had turned out to be a bit more to handle than he had thought. Side-effects hadn’t been as intimidating when reading about them on the internet, especially not when they had been preceded with the word “possible”.
Thankfully, it had gotten better, and Peter wishes that May could find it in herself to worry a bit less by now. Not to mention that he wishes that he could explain to her exactly why he could hold his own against any possible transphobes on the streets; not that he has ever been forced to exercise his power for that reason.
But, letting Aunt May know about a double life that has Peter facing criminals and vicious chihuahuas on a nightly basis feels like a monumentally bad idea, so, well.
“Nah,” he says. “Just hungry.”
May gestures towards the fridge with her elbow. She is still scrubbing her plate, which feels a bit unnecessary since it’ll go in the dishwasher soon. “There’s pad-thai for you, top shelf.”
He is way too old to hug her, he thinks, so he settles for grinning apologetically and hip-bumping her when he takes the paper carton from the fridge.
Peter remembers being young enough to be confused by the concept of gender. It is one of his earliest memories, from whatever age one can actually have memories. Girls have long hair and boys have short hair, he had concluded and moved on.
A year later he had known better, but that had still not stopped him from cutting off his own hair with Aunt May’s and Uncle Ben’s kitchen scissors one morning when he had woken up early.
Years later, Aunt May will tell him that at the time, they had thought that it was a way for Peter to deal with the trauma of losing his parents; but Peter honestly doesn’t remember.
He never let his hair grow out again after that.
“Whoa,” Ned says, and Peter likes to think that he is better at keeping the reverent tone out of this voice when talking with Mr. Stark (he totally isn’t, but, whatever). “This is awesome.”
Mr. Stark makes the face he does when he is pleased with something but doesn’t want to show it. It is making him look grouchy, but Peter is starting to know him well enough to know better. He had agreed to let Ned accompany Peter to the facilities pretty easily, after all.
“The fabric is reinforced with a new polymer,” Mr. Stark says, as though explaining the details of a superhero suit to a couple of teenagers is something he does every day. “Stronger than Kevlar, and more flexible. Should make it even easier for you to do the parkour stuff. Not that I endorse it. Kids these days.”
Peter fiddles with his hands in excitement. “Did you see the new video I posted? Triple backflip before I saved that baby.”
“I did. I saw the ads too. Are you making money from that? And remind me to set you up with something more secure than a VPN.”
“Sure,” Peter says neutrally and doesn’t mention how the videos are giving him some much-needed pocket-money. “Anyway, about the suit--”
Mr. Stark raises his eyebrows at the change of subject but doesn’t seem to care. “Go ahead, try it on.”
“Uh.” Peter glances around. “Is there a changing room nearby?”
It takes Mr. Stark a couple of seconds before he seems to understand why Peter may not feel comfortable undressing in front of them, then points his thumb over his shoulder towards the exit. “Restrooms, around the corner.”
“Right.” Peter takes the suit and heads out to change.
In the restroom, Peter stares at himself in the mirror for a moment. The fluorescent light is sharper than in the bathroom at home and maybe that is why he seems to look different somehow. When he leans closer to the mirror he notices short dark hairs above his lips, just barely visible. Whoa. He looks even closer, but that is really all. Nothing else has changed. Probably.
He undresses with the same haste as always and slips into the suit, then stares some more at his face in the mirror before he puts the mask on.
Peter dreams in masculinity.
Which is to say, he dreams that he is a man. Or boy. Either of the two. He always has, even before he had realized that it was the truth. Maybe that is where it had started.
He had cried a lot when he was a kid. Cried because he hadn’t understood. Cried because he had felt wrong. Cried over his parents. Cried from his mood swings. Cried over the loss of Uncle Ben.
He had been fifteen when someone had first called him a man. A newspaper headline, the very first one that gave him his nickname. Not the most imaginative, but it had still been the best day in Peter’s life.
“I told you to head out and test the suit, not have a snack,” comes Mr. Stark’s voice over the intercom.
“How do you know I’m eating?” Peter asks around a mouthful of hamburger, dangling his legs over the edge of the building he is perched on.
“I know everything.”
“Did you know I’m getting a moustache?” He says it as a joke, or possibly to put Mr. Stark on the spot, but can’t quite keep the giddiness out of his voice.
A pause. “That is actually on my top-three list of things I never needed to know.” Then he continues. “Shave along the grain.”
Peter kicks his heels against the side of the building and grins around the hamburger.