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It's his first Christmas alone.
There are no lights strung across the mantle, or dawning the rails on the fire escape. He hardly has enough money to feed himself, let alone buy a tree, so the corner by the television stand is void of anything. Collecting cobwebs and mold, the corner lays untouched, and likewise, untainted. There is no pot on the stove, simmering with "homemade" hot chocolate, which in reality, is concocted of the powder and doesn't contain any real chocolate at all.
The lights don't even work well, anymore. He hasn't been here that long, two months, around, and the lights have already flickered into darkness, plunging him into a void that he cannot pry himself out of. An endless ocean surrounds him, grasping onto his ankles and wrists so that even if he wanted it, he couldn't escape. Though, he was sure if he had the chance too, he would be too exhausted to even try.
There are no echoes of carolers, or any Christmas parades on the television, not that he could check anyways. He doesn't even have a television. Not a single present, or sliver of wrapping paper dawns the space, and he isn't even sure he owns an ugly sweater anymore. So, he sits on the dusty sofa, lets his body sink into the cushions and envelop him in some sick and twisted embrace. His fingers tingle with the cold- he pays for heating but it does little to fend off the cool rush of air that breaks through his windows. No, it does nothing to protect him at night, when he has attempted to bury himself under a thin sheet of blanket because that was all he had left.
He's always cold, nowadays. His feets have turned a permanent pasty blue, they're so pale, and his hands haven't stopped trembling since the first day of snowfall. He knows his lips are chapped and split because some days, he wakes up to the feeling of blood seeping out from the wounds and slipping down his chin, staining his bed sheets. No amount of cream can stitch the open gashes on his lips, but he hasn't even tried to heal them. There's no reason, really. He doesn't go outside anymore, unless it's to survey the area for crime.
Again, it's pointless.
No one even knows who he is. What good would it do if he tried to go back to school, or- godforbid- university? They would shove him out, claiming they have no record of him even existing and deny him through and through. What good would it do? He doesn't need college, he decided. As long as he has Spider-Man, he will be okay. He knows that he's relied on that notion far too many times, and each time was met with disappointment, but he can't help but fall back on it. There is safety in that phrase. Safety in the idea that, even though he has lost everything, there is still one thing he can cling onto. Something that cannot be taken away from him because everyone who had that power over him is gone. Stark. May. His friends.
A free man, supposedly. Free to do anything he pleased, and he spent his life hauled up in his apartment, only slipping out at night to patrol before sneaking back in through his window to sleep the day away. No one ever questions him because, well, who would? MJ and Ned would, could they still remember him. Another useless thought. Another hopeless dream.
Somedays, he dreams about their smiling faces from back at the cafe. The look of content in Ned's eyes as he talked about college- how they both got in. Together. They would finally be together, just like they all planned. And, in an odd turn of events, Peter found that he was okay with not being included. So much pain had already been inflicted on them because of him, so the idea of finally being away- finally, not being the problem- was enough for him to find happiness. Or, some cruel variation of happiness.
Because he knows whatever he's feeling now- whatever damn thing that has settled deep in his chest and threatens to rip him apart- is not happiness. It couldn't be.
Happiness was decorating a Christmas tree with Aunt May by his side, allowing him to place the ornaments wherever he saw fit knowing that the second he left she would rearrange them, thinking he wouldn't notice. It was baking gingerbread cookies and poorly decorating them- giving them genitals and wiping them away before his aunt got too close to give a reprimanding. It was something akin to walking around Central Park with a piping hot cup of hot chocolate in his gloved hands while his friends started snowball fights behind him. Happiness was feeling the warmth of someone by his side, holding his hand and petting his head and just being present. Being physical. Sitting in such close proximity that if he really wanted to, he could reach out and touch them.
Peter cannot remember the last time he touched someone intentionally.
His hands grasp criminals. They rough them up a bit and web them to walls and the sidewalk. They comfort the victims before swinging away. His hands do that from behind his suit. But the hands beneath long for something more. Something warmer, with more life. His quivering hands ache for a sense of soul. The pulsating sensation of a heart beat. The huff of warm breath. Anything to reassure him that he isn't the last person alive, and that he isn't just hallucinating.
Sometimes, he'll watch Ned and MJ in the cafe, pretending to drink a coffee while they chat and MJ blows off her boss' comments. They smile, poking at each other and in true MJ fashion, complain about the student body. Peter wants to butt in and ask them how Flash is, or Betty, but he doesn't dare approach them in fear of scaring them off. They live their own lives now- lives that he isn't a part of. He can imagine the look on their faces if he actually explained it to them. The fear, the disbelief. It isn't worth it, not when they look the way they do without him. It makes him wonder.
Could they have been this happy all along, if he hadn't been there? Could he have spared them the heartache, the pain, and the trauma by having never existed at all? He supposes this answers his question. Maybe if he had died in that warehouse all those years ago- God, so long ago- life for them would have been okay. Not perfect, maybe, but better than what it used to be. The world wouldn't have had to forgotten him because he would have just been dead. A part of him still thinks he wouldn't have been okay with leaving May all alone. It's better that she died before him. Now, he doesn't have to worry about ever abandoning her after a patrol gone wrong or a mission gone south. It's better to be alone, he has learned, because no one gets hurt but himself.
It's days like this that he misses Tony Stark. Days when he needs someone stronger than himself. Someone to tell him if he's made a mistake and encourage him to fix it before he ruins everything even more. It's days like Christmas that makes him wonder if anyone else is spending it alone, in their dark and cold apartment, surrounded by the putrid smell of mold and utter silence. No joy, no warm reunions or gift giving. Is Pepper Potts feeling the same sense of utter emptiness that he is? Even with her daughter by her side, and Happy? What about the other Avengers? How alone do they feel?
Did they have enough energy to put up a Christmas tree this year?
It's hard.
Being alone, that is.
Drained, feeling as though the entire world has somehow become completely vacant and he's the last one left. The only survivor, living only to die. To die would be the world's greatest blessing to him. An unfortunate stab to an artery would be like an angel's song, welcoming him home and away from the Hell he's been living in. Thoughts like that make him wonder if Aunt May and Tony would be disappointed if they could see him now. Perhaps May had been wrong, he hadn't made the right decision and he never did. Despite being so damn smart, he was always so stupid and immature. Tony would be upset that he always had to think with his heart, not his head. Even when the world was screaming at him to save them. All he had to do was send those men back to their own universes.
He wouldn't have lost May, or MJ and Ned. Tony would still be gone but at least he would have had something. None of them would have gotten into college and he would still have been the one that always caused the problems, but he wouldn't have been alone. He wouldn't have to miss anyone to the degree that he did. Life wouldn't be so monotone. So nothing.
Everyday, he thinks, tomorrow will be better. Peter isn't sure why he is surprised when the next day, is not, in fact, any better than the last. No one has come back to life, or greeted him at his doorstep with a loud and obnoxious "I know you, Peter Parker!" MJ had once said that if you expect disappointment, you won't be disappointed, and he remembers objecting to that. Now, all he can think about is marching into that cafe and screaming in her face "you were right." All he can feel is disappointment. He wakes up disappointed that he hadn't somehow died in his sleep. And when he realizes that he hasn't woken up until three in the afternoon, he is disappointed in his lack of motivation, even though he does the same thing everyday. And everyday he opens up his refrigerator and every cabinet know to man, disappointed to find that he once again has no food, despite knowing that he hasn't gone shopping in days. He doesn't know why he goes to sleep thinking things will be different.
It's cold, everyday. The snow hasn't let up in two months. Maybe it's a sign for something. A storm is brewing. You're trapped, Spider-Man. Even Peter himself has started referring to himself as Spider-Man in his head. After all, Peter Parker no longer exists. Why should he pretend to be something he's not? It's cold, but he doesn't buy a space heater or extra blankets. No, he likes the cold and the biting edge it has against his skin. All he can ponder is the idea that perhaps Ben, May and Tony are cold, wherever they are. Why should he be warm if they could be freezing, alone and wandering aimlessly? So, he lets the cold attack him, biting at his chest and his toes and his nose. It's what he deserves.
Peter misses the days when his Uncle Ben was still alive. It was simpler then. The world didn't expect much out of him. Actually, no one expected anything out of him because he was just some regular kid. Aunt May expected him to get good grades and Uncle Ben expected him to stay out of trouble, but that was about it. No one called his name into the darkness of night to save them, back then. No one plastered his name on news bulletins next to the word "murderer" and "criminal." Sue him for missing when all he had to worry about was friday math quizzes and remembering to bring his lunch money to school.
He never would have guessed his life would have ended up like this. Peter feels like one of those widowed old ladies, whose children never visit with grandchildren and their husbands had long since passed. Hopelessly alone, in their homes, taking refuge in any possible connection or communication to the outside world. Peter watches life whiz by from the safety of his bedroom window. Mother's holding hands with little children. Businessman too busy on phone calls to notice their wives looking longingly into shops. Teenagers holding hands or shoving each other into the road while crying with laughter. It was all so meaningless, and yet so striking at the same time. Life had meant so much to him, so why did it suddenly mean so little now?
It couldn't have been the fact that he was alone. No, people were alone all the time. Aunt May had left him home alone thousands of times and he's never felt this bleak. Why was it so different this time? Because this time he knows no one will walk through that front door? Because he knows that even if he was given the time, there was no possible way to see anyone he ever loved ever again? It was the desperation. The sorrow of inevitability. He would die alone. There was no question of that. Life had dealt him a shitty hand, and now he had to deal with it.
He wakes up on Christmas day at 4:16 PM.
Sniffling, he glances at the empty corner, where a small bundle of presents should lay, under a canopy of light and glass figurines and evergreen needles. He swears he can hear the gust of wind that swells past him. His cheeks are flushed, and the world tips as he walks through his apartment. No food again- it's the third time he's checked. If all else failed, he would die of starvation soon, with his enhanced metabolism.
The streets are empty outside his window. The sidewalk has a crack in it. Long and jagged and stretching over the course of three or so blocks of cement. There used to be weed growing out of the crack, but they had long since died under the stress of winter. His stomach growled.
Silent as a mouse, he can hear the walls whispering secrets to one another about him. Comments about his greasy hair and his unbrushed teeth. Or the unnatural way his ribs jut out, and how his cheekbone has caused his cheeks to appear sunken, along with his eyes. He looks as though he hasn't slept in a week, they say. He ignores them.
He ignores them the same way he ignores the quick flashes of light strung around the phantom of his old home. He can still hear the laughter and the gentle banter. He can still see May's smiling face and feel her warm cheek against his own as she kisses him goodnight. He can smell her burnt turkey and Ned's cheap cologne. Peter can taste the buttered bread and frozen pizza they always end up making instead because May can never get the meal to come out right. He can feel the brush of her nimble fingers through the unruly locks of curls he calls hair, and the light brush of her lips against his forehead as he snuggles up next to her on the couch to watch a movie. His phone buzzes in his pocket. Hope you had a good Christmas, underoos! Stop by for your gift! You're gonna love it, I swear.
Slowly, gingerly, he lets his body creek into his bed. The thin, hard mattress attaches onto him like a parasyte, creeping around his body and holding him captive in it's embrace. A weight settles on his chest. A blanket. Peter lets his eyes slip shut, but he knows he won't be able to sleep. It's funny- he's too exhausted to sleep.
Tomorrow will be a better day, he thinks, as he gazes out into the movie of his past going on behind his eyelids.
And if not tomorrow, then the day after.