Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Crimson beads up like little rubies on Pavitr’s skin, stinging and pretty and draining all the fire out with it.

Red, and red, and red.

It’s kind of cliché, isn’t it?

The thought has barely crossed his mind before he’s slashing another line across his thigh, deeper than the last. A laugh bubbles out of his throat, and it’s not his usual happy sound, instead high and a little concerning.

It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it should.

It’s easier than burning himself. That hurts more and heals less easily and it can be passed off as an accident, but it doesn’t sting the same. It’s easier than punching something, that doesn’t sting right either, and it would just result in property damage. And he’s not going to go around picking fights, it’ll just cause damage to the people around him.

Pavitr’s the only one who can sustain his own damage, so he does.

It’s kind of pathetic, he will admit. It’s weak and disappointing and it just goes to show how worthless and ghatiya and bekaar he is and –

– and he makes the thought bleed out through another cut, his brain going fuzzy and maliciously satisfied and it hurts fuck –

His eyes are sharp and clear and they almost burn dryly while he does it.

Pavitr’s methodical with it. Every line drawn perfectly over carefully chosen space, sliced precisely, quickly, through the delicious drag of the blade. He’s no artist, not like Gayatri or Miles, but he likes making little doodles appear on his skin, little rough flowers and hearts and smiling suns (sunshine, ray of sunshine, bright as the sun, the words ring mockingly in his ears, make him want to scream until his lungs collapse, he wishes it were true, he wants so badly for it to be true) embroidered in red on his skin. A red patchwork of crisscrossing lines and little drawings and words he’d never say out loud, etched across his thighs and stomach and too-soft chest.

It’s kind of therapeutic, really.

Ironic, he knows.

He’ll cry later, when he cleans up the razor and packs it away under the foam bottom of a watch box, and rinses off the wounds and presses down on them until they stop bleeding, and sits staring at the wall with his hands shaking and the blood seeping in tiny droplets through his baniyan until they stop. Then the tears will come, hot and heavy and raw and drowning and not stopping, and they won’t stop until the world goes dark and he wakes up with a damp pillow and salty cheeks in the morning.

And then he’ll get up and smile, because he’s Pavitr Prabhakar and everything’s great.

Let’s start from the beginning, one last time.

More specifically, the beginning of summer.

Summer in Mumbattan is hot and humid and crowded, the kind that clings to your skin in a film of sweat and heated blood and street chatter. It’s the kind of weather that makes people short-tempered on the worst days and lazily indulgent on the best, the kind that makes Maya Aunty send him up to put jars of aam ka aachaar on the roof, and makes stray animals finish the water bowls Pav keeps out for them in record time.

Pavitr, personally, loves Mumbattan summers.

What’s not to love? There are mangoes, which he firmly believes are the peak pleasure of human experience, and there are ice-cream vendors around every corner. His curls remain blissfully unaffected by the humidity, which makes Miles and Hobie sputter indignantly the first time they experience the summer here, and he gains a glorious tan. And practically every weekend, Gayatri drags him to Golchakkar Fort to hang out because it’s pleasantly cold in the old ruins, and he goes insane over the history and architecture (and his girlfriend when she’s not looking) while she sketches the motifs and scenery (and her boyfriend too, when he’s not looking).

The only thing he doesn’t love is the absence of school.

Yes, it’s weird, but he can explain!

Literally everyone’s favourite part of summer is summer vacation. The collective student experience is a burning hatred of the school system that’s directly proportional to your age, and summer vacation is the longest, most-awaited reprieve they get.

To be perfectly clear, Pavitr’s no great lover of school or the education system in itself either. If Hobie was around, they could probably articulate it better to explain how it’s an individuality-repressing propaganda-spreading dystopia measuring conformity, neurotypicality and memory over any actual learning, but he’s not here right now so oh well. Maya Aunty’s suffered through hours-long lectures of Pavitr ranting about the screwed-upness of the system on multiple occasions, too.

But, in school’s favour, it does keep Pavitr busy.

As Spider-Man, it’s not exactly like Pav’s aching for something to keep him busy, of course. There’s always bad guys to fight and people to save and Spider-Society stuff to handle, but all of that is… unreliable.

School is a good routine to have, what with his school friends, and the boring classes, and the occasionally interesting classes, and the teachers he actually really likes and admires, and the homework and assignments and projects…

It’s honestly fucking exhausting. But it’s a good routine.

It’s steady, and unchanging, and no matter what villains he’s had to fight or whatever leftover stress or energy he has or how tired he is, Pavitr can always wind down by mindlessly doing homework or studying for a test. After half the shit he sees as Spider-Man on the daily, schoolwork is honestly relaxing. He can turn off the hyperactive, million-miles-per-minute, thousand-different-anxieties part of his brain and focus on the books in front of him.

But in summer vacation, that’s not there anymore.

Pavitr finishes all his holiday homework in a week. He hangs out with Gayatri, and a couple of school friends, but then Gayatri’s family decides to take a trip to Shimla, and his school friends honestly live too far to see on the regular – and he’s not that close to them anyway – so that dies down quickly. And there’s only so much he can hit the local bazaars with Maya Aunty before it gets old for both of them.

Hobie, Gwen and Miles are really the only friends he has who he hangs out with on the regular, but even they’re busy, they have their own lives. They can’t be there all the time, no matter how many times he sleeps over at Hobie’s and wakes up cuddled close and warm, no matter how many movie nights they all have, no matter how many missions and post-mission relaxing they do together.

 So, it begins in summer.

The first few days that Pavitr spirals, caught between restlessness and frustration and an itching anxiety burning in the pit of his stomach, he goes out for a swing around Mumbattan. The feeling coalesces into disarrayed thoughts, emotions he’d bottled up a long time ago, insecurities and old pains wedging into the tiny cracks they were given and weighing down his movements.

It's ridiculous, and he doesn’t understand why it’s happening now, now when everything is perfect and stable and he should be happier than ever.

It causes him to make a rookie mistake.

Doc Ock gets away scot-free, and Pavitr’s left with hands stinging with defeat and the lash of his snapped webs, with a crumbling bridge that he just barely manages to get all the people off of. Even that, he hadn’t been able to do by himself; he’d sent a distress signal on his watch, quick, between one leap and the next, and just like that Hobie was there swinging and leaping next to him with a “Long time no see, sunshine!”, and they webbed civilians off the bridge together.

Pavitr digs his nails into his palms until they come away damp, and he’s humiliated and furious enough with himself that he turns down Hobie’s offer of swinging by HQ and clowning on Miguel as cheerfully as he can. Hobie looks a bit disappointed, and it only adds to the knives of dammit akal ke andhe how could you do that already burrowing under Pav’s skin.

He gets home, and Maya Aunty is out with some friends, and the silence should be peaceful but it isn’t, it’s like the world is designed to echo Pavitr’s own thoughts back to him, a loop of idiot idiot failure stupid how could you –

And it roars in his ears until he groans, curled up on his bed, burying his face in his hands, and his hands come away wet and his vision is hot and blurry when he looks back up.

He almost got all these people killed today. If not for Hobie, they’d all be dead. He let Doc Ock get away, when stopping him is literally the easiest weekly-basis job he has.

He’s a failure in so many ways, but this one feels like the voice for all the unspoken words swirling around in his head.

It’s a familiar feeling, the one bubbling up in his chest, filling it like salty ocean water until he can’t breathe without it burning. He doesn’t have the words to describe it, to think through it, it’s just there, weighing on him, crushing him, and isn’t it pathetic that Spider-Man can lift a bus but can’t handle some intrusive thoughts?

Pav used to have some… not great ways of dealing with it, before. For quite a long time, following Bhim Uncle’s death, actually. It’s just about been nineteen months since the last time.

But he’s grown, in those nineteen months. He’s developed better coping mechanisms, he’s become so much better and healthier and different, and he likes the person he’s become. He can totally handle a bad moment like this, it’s not like it’s the first time this has happened!

But he’s got no schoolwork, nothing monotonous and simple to switch off his train of thought with. He could try reading or cooking or something, but Pav’s pretty sure he’d just rip up the book or ruin the food with the mood he’s in right now. Gayatri’s out of station, and he doesn’t want to bother her by calling her in the middle of her family time like this. Maya Aunty’s out too, he’s not troubling her with this.  

Pavitr briefly considers taking up Hobie’s offer to hang out, but just as quickly shuts it down. He can’t look his best friend in the eye after how he just messed up today. And it just seems even more pathetic than he already is, to ask Gwen or Miles if they’re free.

He tries breathing deeply and relaxing, and that fails him so quickly it’s laughable.

… Pav never had thrown all the razors out, had he? He’d just stopped using them, stopped needing them entirely. Heck, he’d forgotten about them.

It’s just one time, right? Just one time.

A tiny blip. It doesn’t even really count.

It’s just a small indulgence, not really any progress lost or anything. An anomaly, if you will!

The blades are shiny as ever, glinting cold silver when he pulls them out. They turn red briefly, but the colour washes off them easy.

The second time is just another anomaly. It’s almost funny, really – Pav’s bored, the beginnings of upset creeping up on him, and he half-watches a Buzzfed TuTube video while doing it.

He messes up on a line, slipping and making it jagged and slanted. He cross-hatches six even lines over it in retaliation.

The red feels good, blooming on his skin like that.

The third time is nineteen months of progress bleeding red down the drain.

It doesn’t feel as bad as it should, accepting it. Pavitr is nothing if not hopeful and diligent. He can deal with it. He’ll rebuild.

… Just not right now.

It’s only four times that summer, before vacation is over and they’re back to the old routine. Pavitr hugs Gayatri with more force than necessary when he sees her, picking her up off the ground and twirling her around happily, and they spend a whole day doing absolutely nothing together. He’s bursting with energy and happiness at school, too, and his friends squint at him in bemusement, still groggy from being unused to waking up early again.

Things at Spider HQ are the same as ever, it’s not exactly like he’s been avoiding them or something, but even Miles comments that they haven’t seen him this happy in a month. Pavitr pauses mid-fight with Hobie – allowing her to catch him in a headlock before he knees them and slips away – to cheerily respond that “Einstein said happiness is relative to the sadness of the observer! Quite pining after Gwen and do someth – oof!”

“Pretty sure Einstein didn’ say diddly-squat like that!”

“Bas, ab fact check karega ya fight karega?”

For a few weeks, it’s all good.

It’s easy to forget it even happened, that Pav ever slipped, especially when Spider-Man healing means there’s never evidence left of it afterwards. The cuts knit back up in a couple of hours, and the light scarring left vanishes in a day or two.

It’s easy to pretend the fifth time, after a particularly stressful mission, never happened. Miguel had narrowed his eyes at them when they’d returned, like he was about to yell, but then Peter had talked at Miguel until he sighed and waved them off irritably, muttering to himself in Spanish.

“It was a good job, dunno why bruv’s got his knickers in a twist.” Hobie shrugged, and Gwen agreed vehemently. Miles had cracked a joke, and Pavitr had laughed and joined it, in had been funny, really.

But the anxiety and sorry I’m so sorry please phir nahi karunga had needed to drip out of his thigh for it, staining his bedsheet red before it healed, and he’d had to pass it off as his period.

The sixth time does happen when he’s actually on his period. And honestly, after that, there’s no use counting them.

It’s a bad day to begin with, when he wakes up with an excruciatingly aching gut and self-loathing thrumming in his veins. Pav can’t bear to look at himself in the mirror, his dysphoria hitting him like a truck and not letting up. It’s one of those days where he’s hyper-conscious of every move he makes, every word he speaks, every breath, and every gaze seems to linger on him like they’ll suddenly figure it out and shout out the news across the school playground.

He nicks some shallow cuts into the top of his chest that night, and wonders absently what it would be like to slice the breasts off. There are surgeries for that, but none he can afford, and he’s only sixteen, two years short of the minimum age.

Pav considers, slightly hysterically, just jugaading that too.

The cuts hurt like hell when he binds the next day, but they’re gone by evening.

Pavitr finds satisfaction in the drops of red dried on the dupatta he used.

Everyone seems to think Pavitr’s yellow. Yellow like gold, yellow like flowers and old childhood storybooks and the ungodly amounts of glitter he uses in his school projects, yellow like the sun.

Pavitr begs to differ.

Maybe he was yellow once. Gods know he tries to be. It’s slipping through his fingers, though, the way golden sunlight slips through the grasping trees and the cracks of packed buildings, bleeding into sunset vermilions and inky skies.

Pavitr feels red.

Red, and red, and red…

It spirals a bit, after that, the red weaving its bleeding fingers into every little crevice of Pavitr’s life.

It’s so, so easy to fall back on it. Days when smiling is harder, when Sunshine Pavitr feels more like a mask than the Spider-Man one, when tiny little instances – a clumsily rescued civilian, a villain’s taunts, a huffed critique from Inspector Singh about vigilantes – grate on his nerves. The red is a punishment, then, for failing at being himself, the Pav he should be, the Pavitr he needs to be, it’s retribution for all the ways he’s not cutting it (Ha!).

There are days when Pavitr wakes up drowning in thoughts and feelings he’d long bottled up sticking like shattered glass in his lungs. He forces himself to breathe through a tangle of anxiety and sadness and self-loathing, like a struggling spider caught in its own web, and he hides it behind quips and bright smiles. He does the things he needs to do and he takes the red like a reward at the end of the day.

He puts up a valiant effort to keep it under wraps though, be as normal as possible to everyone else.

If Pavitr has to be a failure and a freak, the least he can do is keep it to himself.

If anything, he tries to make himself less noticeable. He makes an effort to talk less, catch himself before he can veer off into tangents, keep his hand down instead of jumping up at every question in class. He and eats a little lesser at home, so there’s more food for Maya Aunty, who really shouldn’t have to deal with him being a burden more than she absolutely has to, and when he’s with Gayatri or his Spider-Friends, he nibbles on snacks as sparingly as possible so they get to eat more without getting suspicious. He tries to shrink into himself in crowds, avoiding touching and bumping into people as much as possible, wincing and apologizing whenever anyone has to go out of their way to help him. He really needs to stop needing help.

He thinks he’s doing pretty good at it, really, until Hobie frowns one day when Pav apologizes for tripping and bumping into him as they walk into their apartment.

“Why d’you keep saying sorry for shit, Pav?”

“I, uh – I do not know what you mean.”

“You think I’m daft or sum’n? You’ve been sayin’ sorry for every-fuckin’-thing, mate, to me ‘n Miles ‘n Gwen and really the whole lot of us.”

“I’m just being polite.”

“You said sorry for sittin’ and got up from the chair for Margo. She told ya to sit back down and you looked like you were murderin’ a puppy when you sat.”

“Just because she’s an avatar –”

“Pavitr, seriously. ‘S everything okay with you?” Hobie looks at him with their piercing gaze, frowning like she could figure out what was wrong just by scanning him.

“Sab theek hai, bro, you worry too much.” Pav elbows Hobie, and the taller immediately rises to the challenge, smacking him upside the head before sauntering into the kitchen.

“’Aight, sit your lazy ass down or help me, I don’t care, I’m cookin’ dinner.”

“Hobie I would legitimately rather die than eat your cooking, please let me make something.”

“Just ‘cause you’re a food elitist –”

“Suno, suno! Let’s all hear it for the world-famous dish! Mashed potatoes, with the secret ingredient – wait for it – salt!” Pav flourishes, hopping onto the counter and watching his best friend rummage around.

He knows full well he doesn’t need to eat. His stomach, growling hungrily, is a traitor. Pav’s not really done anything to earn it today.

But he forces himself to swallow down the chicken anyway, just so Hobie can’t point anything else out. It tastes bland as ash even though Hobie put more spices in it just for him, his mind racing and twisting with the full awareness that he’s eating precious food that Hobie needs for themself in a world where she’s already struggling.

When Peter brings them all Mayday’s birthday cake, Pav makes himself eat that too, the tiniest piece he can, because it’s rude to turn that down.

He’s not eaten in a day, though, and it’s ridiculously good, so he ends up eating two more big pieces and then apologizing profusely while Peter waves it off with a laugh and Miles unveils a second box, declaring, “That’s why you gotta have two cakes!”

It was a red velvet cake, and it comes up looking more red than anything when Pav vomits it out later, guilt clawing heavily at his insides and making it impossible to digest anyway.

He carves tiny stars into his abdomen and vows never to do that again, because of the stunning combination of disrespect and how unhealthy it is.

He’ll just be more careful to eat smaller portions, scattered sparingly.

It’s a memorable occasion when he realizes he has a crush on his best friend.

They’d been messing around after a mission, all four of them, and Hobie had started playing a song on their guitar that he said was dedicated to Pavitr, and it was a cover of Tum Se Hi but punk with all the Hindi butchered to high heaven and he’d been torn between horror and laughter, and Hobie had looked at his face and interrupted herself, cackling.

And in that moment Pav had stared at them with their sparkling eyes and their wide grin for a second too long, heat rushing to his cheeks, and wondered what it would be like if Hobie had actually meant that song seriously for him. If his heart wasn’t the only one that skipped a beat sometimes when they were together, if he wasn’t the only one who loved cuddling together for a little too long, if he could just casually shut him up from his annoying-ass laughter by leaning forward and –

And then he’d bonked Hobie on the head with Miles’s sketchbook like that would make his own thoughts quiet down, and to be fair it did work because they spent the next half hour collectively perusing all the sketches of Gwen and shamelessly bullying Miles about it while he groaned and facepalmed.

He returns home to texts from Gayatri, and he can’t bring himself to respond, the guilt eating him alive.

Pavitr’s a horrible, horrible boyfriend.

He loves Gayatri so, so much, he’d never do anything to hurt her, and yet here he is, developing feelings, romantic-love-like feelings for someone else when she’s here. He’s cheating on her, and he doesn’t even have the decency to stop when he realizes it – it only hurts his heart more that he can’t have Hobie and he doesn’t deserve Gayatri.

He can’t for the life of him remember where he kept the watch box, so he uses the cutter Gayatri had left behind from an art project, and it just feels like another betrayal of his tarnishing her. Pav’s methodical in scraping tiny hearts and suns this time, the red colouring them so pretty, and he cries like an idiot when he runs out of space on his thighs.

He should stop, he knows, none of this is healthy, and he’s gotten out of it before for gods’ sake, how stupid can he be to give into the urge again?

But he’s gotten out of it before. He’s proven he can do it. He’ll just deal with it when he absolutely needs to stop. It won’t get out of hand.

There are never any scars to show for it, not for more than a day.

Time has blurred together in his mind, but the calendar says it’s been three months since he started doing this regularly. He’s lost count of how many times he’s done it, but he knows it’s enough to be ashamed of.

All this time, and his skin is clear and smooth as ever. Not a single scar, no marks, no reminders of anything he’s done lasting.

He should be happy.

Instead, it only makes Pavitr more furious.

It feels like a betrayal from his body, that he can’t keep them. The red painstakingly splashed across his skin, the reminders pulling and itching days after, hiding them like a secret treasure only you know the location of.

Distantly, he knows it’s a fucked-up thing to want.

But then, as established, he’s a fucked-up piece of work.

He drags the blade deeper every time, and it works to leave reminders for a week or so more. But after a while, he realizes it doesn’t hurt enough, doesn’t sting properly, and he works with all the care and precision of a master craftsman in figuring out the perfect stroke, where it stings deliciously and still shows up to four days later.

It makes him happier for a while, until Pavitr starts hoping.

He hopes people will notice. He hopes his friends will notice something is off, he hopes he’ll slip in his delicate game of hiding it, and they’ll see. He hopes he’ll be careless and his shirt will ride up when he’s with Gayatri, and she’ll see. He hopes Maya Aunty will see and… and then what?

It’s a choking dream gift-wrapped in shame that he keeps buried deep in his heart, gritting his teeth whenever it plays through his head again like a broken record.

Because honestly, how attention-seeking can he possibly get? How low can he sink, to want to worry people he cares about, to hurt them, just for a little special treatment? Not only is he a failure and a freak, he’s also pathetic and greedy.

No, Pavitr’s not going to hurt anyone but himself. They don’t deserve to have to worry about him.

He keeps his mouth shut and his guard up, and breaks out more of the red in fury.

Pavitr knows he’s gotten more reckless in fights. He doesn’t need his friends’ worried glances or Hobie trying to tell him to chill or even Miguel’s taken-aback expression, to figure it out.

He’s honestly just stopped caring as much what happens to him. As long as the job’s done, what does it matter? There are thousands of Spider-People, he’s easily replaceable. Maybe even by someone who isn’t as annoying and weak as him.

Slowly, inch by inch, he’s let go of any self-preservation instinct, jumping into crossfire without a second thought, risking manoeuvres and not pausing to recover when he really should, a scrape away from getting seriously injured or –

Well.

He’s still alive and well though, by virtue of his luck if nothing else. But Gwen seems to get more high-strung and waspish every time he goes in with zero regard for his own safety, which he really doesn’t get, but it worries her so he starts going in with a little more than zero regard for his own safety.

Still, sooner or later something was bound to crack, and it does finally one day when they’re all on a mission in Miles’ dimension together. Pavitr slips in to deliver a fatal blow to some lizard-villain, and he doesn’t get away fast enough before –

Chapter Text

“Wow, that was super fucking helpful.” Gwen scowls, glaring daggers at Doc Spider’s retreating back.

“Give ‘er a break, Gwendy, she’s just doin’ her job.” Hobie’s voice is completely bland, as he slouches against the wall right opposite the door. The stupid, evil, deceptively-innocent white door standing between them and their friend.

“She looked really worried. Do you think he’s okay?” Miles is swinging anxiously from the ceiling. Or he’s stuck there in his anxiety. Gwen honestly can’t remember which.

“Yeah, Miles, he’s perfectly okay. That’s why he’s in the goddamn Med Bay!” She snaps sarcastically, and immediately feels guilty for the way he shrinks away. Gwen swallows, bites her tongue. She can’t let the panic thrumming in her chest get the best of her again. “Sorry. I – he’s – I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I get it.” Miles glances appraisingly at the door. The fucking white door. “There’s no way we could just… pick the lock or smash it, or go through a window? Break and enter, I guess?”

“Nope. Doc’s had reinforcements and alarms put in on all the entries. We wouldn’t be the first Spiders to try it.” Gwen sighs, raking a hand through her hair. She glares at the white door like she can set fire to it through her will alone. Then, “Wait, Miles, you’re a genius!”

“I am?”

“Breaking and entering! We could break the wall –”

“– and enter through it! Gwen, that’s fool-proof! All we gotta do is –”

“Right, ‘cause a wall crashing on him is exactly what he needs right now. No way that could go wrong, innit?” Hobie cuts in, “Gwen, Miles, chill off. Can’t be goin’ crazy right now. They’re doin’ the best they can.”

“Chill off?” Gwen rounds on Hobie, this time, their nonchalance grating on her frayed nerves like salt in a wound. “Chill off?! What happened to fuck authority, take things into our own hands? Pavitr’s been in there for three hours, we have no update except keep your noses out, Doc’s more worried than I’ve ever seen her! How can you be so okay with this, Hobie, do you just not care that he could have –”

“Don’t –” Hobie pushes off the wall then, stands straight and taut, her hands clenched and chest heaving, and Gwen faces them down, raw vindication slicing through her as someone finally rises to her temper, “Don’t you dare. I don’t care? They’ve got my – Pav – out there, almost dead, and you have the audacity to say I don’t fuckin’ care? I fuckin’ felt his ribs crush, Gwen, I carried him when he was barely breathin’ and he told me it’s okay, fikar mat kar. I don’t care – what the hell, Gwen?”

“Then why won’t you act like it?!” Gwen has a dim awareness that if Pav had been here, he would’ve been offended at Hobie’s atrocious Hindi pronunciation, would’ve probably talked them down from their argument. He hated – no, hates, shit Gwen, he’s not gone – hates it, when they fight. But that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it? He’s not here.

“’Cause I’d burn this bloody place to the ground if I did, you wanker.” Hobie growls, “And in case it’s escaped you, Pavitr’s in it. He’s in there, and he needs to be looked after by people who know what they’re doin’, and if Doc’s his only hope then by fucking God I’mma listen to her and do exactly what she says.”

She and Hobie stare each other down, until Gwen feels the first pinpricks of tears at her eyes, and looks away. Hobie’s face softens, and they hold out their arms – and Gwen immediately bolts into the hug, clinging to him desperately. Hobie takes a deep, shuddering breath, and Gwen repeats the action almost unconsciously, and it doesn’t really help to loosen the knot of anxiety in her lungs, but it’s something.

“Miles, c’mere.” Hobie says, and then a familiar, warm shape is pressed along her back, wrapping around her, and oh that’s better. She sniffs and wiggles a bit, grabbing for Miles’ hand, and like he can read her mind, he finds her first and interlaces their fingers, squeezing her hand tight.

“He has to be fine.” She mutters.

“He will be. He always bounces back.”

I’m not so sure this time.

Gwen keeps the words to herself, but fuck, it had been a terrifying moment; watching, a scream lodged in her throat, as Pavitr leapt directly into the blaster’s path, chest-first, to pull some unthinkable move to shut the Lizard down that they could have achieved in five more minutes anyway. The dull boom, between one blink and the next, opening her eyes to a halo of smoke and a splash of red and gold lying boneless in the wreckage, desperately pulling the rubble off him and not being able to tell if he was breathing or coughing up more red into his mask, Miles checking the pulse and swearing and Jess grimly portalling them straight to the Med Bay the second she took in the sight.

And worst of all, in the back of her mind, through the panic and fear and not him, please not him too, not again gripping her, it rings like a finality, like the echoing, hollow cheer at the finish line of a race she never wanted to run in the first place. Like a culmination of the past three months. Three months of watching one of her best – her only – friends force smiles and fake laughs with a flickering shadow of their usual warmth, and wordlessly refuse to eat like he thought he was being subtle, and snap his mouth shut in the middle of his own sentences, and fold into himself like he’s ashamed to take up space, and –

And dance on the line between life and death like it was a fucking game, like it didn’t matter which way he swayed, swerving madly either way on a pin’s balance and not caring that he only escaped by an inch or a step or a heartbeat away from a bullet in his brain.

I’m not so sure he wants to.

It had gotten so much worse lately, but instead of doing anything, intervening like they should have, she and Miles and Hobie had just sat and watched and done nothing because they didn’t know what to do and Pav kept insisting he was fine, sab theek hai, why would you think anything’s wrong, and they hadn’t known how to push without getting shut out completely, and now Pavitr’s in the Med Bay and they have no idea how he is.

“Hey, how’s – uh. Am I interrupting something? I’m interrupting something. I’ll give you a minute.”

“Hi Margo.” Miles says, not budging from his hug around Gwen.

“You know it’s discrimination to do group hugs in front of people who physically can’t join in?” Margo flickers in front of them, a hand on her hip.

“We’re just bigots like that.” Hobie agrees easily. Margo huffs a chuckle, but sobers quickly. Gwen finally detaches herself from the hug, and Miles and Hobie do too.

“How’s my boy Pavitr? Did they say what’s wrong?”

“Doc didn’t tell us shit.” Gwen says, some of the bitterness bleeding into her voice, “She just said he’s asleep, but we can’t see him until she talks to him first and says it’s okay – what does that even mean?! Isn’t he supposed to be out of danger?”

“She looked so worried, too.” Miles supplies, “It’s really freaking us out.”

“Okay,” Margo frowns, biting her lip anxiously, then nods to herself and pulls up a holo-screen, “Let’s just check the logs, she must have updated them by now. We just gotta find…”

“Wait, you have access to those?”

“I have access to all the data around here. Just have to… Here we go!” she exclaims, and they all huddle close as she pulls up Pavitr’s record, “Okay, he was in pretty bad shape when you guys brought him in… fractured ribs, third degree burns, internal bleeding, a couple sprains and concussion… but that’s still fairly regular, says here Doc used the tissue regenerator on the burns and nanobots and supplements for the bleeding and fractures. Condition: stable.”

Margo blips off the screen and smiles, relief softening her features, and Gwen feels the relief pooling into her stomach and easing the tension out of her too.

“He’ll be feeling the effects of some really shit blunt-force trauma and a bit of inflammation when he gets up, but he’ll recover in a week if he takes it easy. It’s official, Pavitr’s outta the danger zone!”

“Oh, thank fuck.” Hobie says eloquently for the three of them, and Miles all but giggles in relief.

“That’s good. That’s great! Pav’s gonna be fine.” He cheers. Gwen smiles fondly at him, suddenly feeling very tired and noodle-y as her body comes down from the strung-up high. There’s a worry still nagging at her head though, but she pushes it away.

“There’s no reason we can’t see him then!” she says instead, “Stupid door, keeping us away from him. Stupid alarm and stupid lock and stupid wall and…”

Margo hums thoughtfully for a second, and then makes direct, triumphant eye contact with them.

“No walls can keep me out.”

She says, and vanishes.

The world is black, pitch black, for a startling eternity of time. The kind of black that’s all-consuming and empty and heavy at the same time.

For a split second, Pav wonders if he’s dead, and then his aching body makes itself aggressively known, and he groans as he comes to terms with his aliveness.

He blinks his eyes open, and then the black’s chased away as the white hits him, all sharp and harsh and blank. It’s way too bright, but he doesn’t want to complain and bother anyone, so he makes himself stare at a point on the ceiling until his vision adjusts.

His other senses slowly come back online, too, and he registers them one by one.

Smell: rubbing alcohol, sterility, antiseptic.

Sound: rhythmic beeping, utter silence.

Touch: crisp sheets, a thin, scratchy material wrapped around him.

Taste: oh gods his mouth tastes awful. How long has he been asleep?

The last thought sends a powerful bolt of panic through him, and he sits up with a gasp. He’s been slacking off, aalsi kahin ka, he needs to get back up there must be a million things to do and he doesn’t need to be resting this much, hasn’t earned it one bit, and the cold dread is trickling into his chest and clenching its fist around his heart and it’s going to explode.

He kicks off the white sheet on top of him and glances frantically around the empty white room. There’s no one there at all, nothing to break the unreal whiteness and the beeping that’s picking up in the silence and that only makes him panic more –

“Pav, Pavitr, it’s okay! It’s okay, I’m here.”

A familiar voice sounds beside his ear, and Pav’s gaze lands on the blue see-through hand hovering over his shoulder.

“M – Margo?” he coughs, his voice a little rough.

“Well, at least we can rule out amnesia.” Margo chuckles, “Hey there. You gave us all a scare, dude.”

Pavitr blinks, searching his mind for any clue what she was talking about and coming up blank. He slowly tracks his gaze around the room, the heart monitor’s beeping slowing back to normal next to him, the small, sterile hospital – no, Med Bay – room with the window overlooking Nueva York.

“What happened?”

“You tell me. Miles, Gwen and Hobie came back freaked as all hell carrying you, and you’ve racked up a whole list of injuries that you’re so lucky we can treat, and… they said you jumped directly in front of a cannon blaster?”

“To stop the impact, yeah.” Pavitr nods, his memory coming back to him in bits and pieces and then suddenly all at once, and he sits up straighter, pulling up his legs criss-crossed, “Did it work?”

“Depends on your definition. No cities were harmed in the process, but you –” Margo tsks, her expression strained, “Are you demented? Why would you do that?”

“It worked.” Pavitr shrugs, giving her a cheery grin, which at least works to put her at ease, “Wait, people are worried?”

“No shit, Mycroft. Miguel’s not talking to anyone right now, Peter’s gone disaster dad mode and Mayday’s making a card, and you can expect like, a care package from Jess, and you’re really too popular around HQ for your own good, you know?”

“What.” Pav frowns, not really processing any of this. People are… worried? Why?

“Miles and the others have basically gone crazy, by the way. They’re outside, they’ve been waiting for the past three hours for you to wake up. It was mostly blunt force and burns and you’re really resilient, so it should be fine, but Doc wouldn’t let any of us in until she speaks to you, so I just…”

She disappears and reappears from one end of the room to the other, and then back beside him to prove her point.

“Well, I’m up, and I’m good.” Pav laughs, “Bata do sabko, I’m sorry you were worried.”

“So was Doc,” Margo squints at him curiously, “Way more worried than she should be for a relatively easy fix. That’s what was sending them up the walls in anxiety. What did you…” she finally stills in front of him, and her gaze travels down his body in assessment, and then freezes abruptly.

“Pav,” she says, all the humour sucked out of her voice, tight and high, “Oh my – Pav.”

“What?” he frowns, following her line of sight down to his legs where the Med Bay gown’s ridden up from his kicking, bunched around his thighs as he sits aalti paalti and – “Oh.”

For a moment, he just stares at them unseeingly. They’re so familiar to him, just a day old, thin maroon ridges winding artfully across his skin, a pretty pink splotched around them like the bleed of watercolour strokes. So close, but not quite red.

They’re so familiar, and yet they feel foreign, unreal, like he’s dreaming it, blink and it’s gone, under the unforgiving fluorescent light, the contrast of the pristine sheets. He stares at them like he’s not quite sure how they got there, and they feel so silly and meaningless in the white light, like the little temporary tattoos he used to put on when they came free with bubblegum.

Margo makes a small, choked noise, and Pavitr’s head snaps up to her. She’s staring at them, horror painted across her face, nothing like the mesmerized fascination Pav sees in the mirror.

“Margo? Are you – okay?”

Her eyes snap to his face, and Pav fights not to flinch at her expression, not quite sure what to make of it but achingly sure it’s nothing good.

“I should be asking you that, I think,” she says, her voice unsteady.

“I’m fine.” Pavitr laughs stiffly, “This is – a cat. My girlfriend’s cat scratched me. I lost a fight to a cat. Nothing’s hurt except my ego.”

It’s a feeble lie even without the heart monitor giving him away. He puts on a valiant smile like that will convince her. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work.

“Pavitr, why?” Margo asks, hovering close to him, her face so earnest it hurts, “Why would you do this?”

That question slams him out of nowhere, his brain screeching to a halt as it hits the breaks and tumbles over itself.

For some reason, in all of the self-indulgent daydreams of how this conversation is supposed to go, the question why has never worked its way in there.

How does it feel to be getting your wish, you fucking gadha?

“I –” he tries, but nothing comes out. I don’t know isn’t the right answer. But he couldn’t explain it if he tried, either. It’s different, in the light of day, in the sterile white of this room, with other eyes to lay their sight on it and his small voice bouncing off the walls and the listening ears, trying to explain it and finding himself wanting.

So he settles for shrugging instead.

“Pav…” his friend seems as at a loss for words as he is, and it feels comforting and terrifying at the same time.

“Don’t tell the others.” He says softly. Margo fidgets, bites her lip.

“They can help you more than I can,” she says, “You guys are closer, you hang out together so much, I’m not around nearly enough. And I’m sure they’d want to help.”

“There’s nothing to help with,” Pavitr snaps, more heat behind his words than he’d meant to be, “I’m fine. This is a one-off thing. Sab theek hai.”

“This isn’t good, Pavitr,” Margo insists, making an aborted gesture like she was about to hold his hand, and wringing hers instead, “This isn’t a good way of – Pav, you deserve better, at the very least, you shouldn’t be hurting, you should be hurt like this – shit, there’s so many –”

He probably wasn’t meant to hear the last part, whispered to herself, sounding like she’s about to cry, but he does anyway and it only stokes the irritation rising behind his eyes.

“I know ye achha nahi hai, I’m not stupid.” He says shortly, “It’s fine, Margo.”

“Pavitr, this kind of thing, it becomes an addiction. You’re hurting, I can’t even imagine –”

“I can stop it when I want to.” It comes out defensive.

“Then stop.”

“I don’t want to.” Pav’s fully aware how it sounds, he doesn’t need her stricken face to tell him, but he’s right. He knows he is.

He is in control.

“There has to be something we can do. Some better mechanism, some support system, something, we’ll all figure it out –”

“Margo.” He sighs, just tired now, “Let it go. Tumhara problem nahi hai. I’m fine, alright? I’ll figure it out.”

Her face flickers, her whole avatar body glitching anxiously, and her eyes are searching and sad. For a moment, Pavitr’s worried she’s going to ask him to promise he won’t do it again, stop now, never even think of it again, promises he can’t keep.

“Call me?” she says instead, settling in by his side, he made his friend look that sad and worried, he’s horrible, “Text, voice note, something – reach out, when you feel like you want to – to hurt yourself? Please? I want to be here for you. As much as I can.”

“I will.” Pav assures her with a little smile, “I promise I’ll try to stop, okay?”

Apne pair pe khud kulhadi maari. Spectacular job, Pavitr.

“Okay.” Margo says carefully.

Liar, he thinks, thoughts already laced a familiar red.

“Let’s talk about something else,” he grins brightly, “Till Doc gets here at least, come on, I’m going to be so bored.”

“Pavitr. It’s good to see you awake.”

“Hey, Doc Spider!” Pavitr waves cheerily, sitting up in bed, “Kya haal hai? How’s things at home with Ock-Man, and – oh, wait, more importantly, anything new in your love life? How is Charlotte, by the way, did you finally accept her date or –”

“I’m fine, thank you. Nothing new to report.” Her calm monotone doesn’t waver, but she smiles softly at him, taking his vitals.

“Sad. Expected, but sad.” He pouts, “You’ve been in this homoerotic loop forever, Doc, please put us all out of our misery.”

“I’ll consider it.” She leans against the wall, and Pav immediately recognizes it as her awkward attempt at being casual, and resigns himself to his fate, “How are you, Pavitr?”

There are layers to this question. He’s fully aware of this.

He’s laid down and stared at the ceiling for what felt like ages after Margo left, coming to terms with the fact that Doc Spider has seen him naked, and has not only seen his body, but also his scars. He’d hoped, naively, that there wouldn’t be a conversation about it, that she’ll just let it go because surely there’s more important stuff to deal with.

Apparently, his luck’s run out.

“I’m fine,” he stretches, popping his joints satisfyingly, “Getting better every minute. A little beaten up, you know, but you did a good job, thanks for that!”

“Mhmm. And how have you been in general? Eating properly?”

“It’s impossible to live under Maya Aunty’s house and not eat well. You should come visit sometime!”

“I see. I suppose that’s why your blood sugar is dangerously low, and you’ve lost weight, right?”

“I’ve lost weight?” his heart skips a beat, the idea that he’s becoming smaller, smaller less bothersome easier to fit, makes him perk up more than it should.

“Pavitr, you’re not in a good state of mind right now.” Doc finally cuts to the bone, and he’s relieved, even as his stomach turns over, “Self-harming tendencies can often spiral out of control into very extreme consequences, as I’m sure you know.”

“I wasn’t trying to die,” Pav interjects, “It wasn’t – suicidal, or whatever you think.”

“So you didn’t knowingly jump in front of an active blaster?”

“To stop it from destroying the city! Which it did!”

“Regardless, that’s not healthy behaviour, Pavitr,” Doc says firmly, “I do not feel comfortable discharging you, especially when we don’t know the triggers, and life as Spider-Man is particularly riddled with stressors. You are currently a risk to yourself.”

Hearing it laid out all clinically, dry and unemotional and bled white, infuriates him, for some reason. He forces himself to stay calm.

“Is that why I haven’t been able to see my friends yet? Because I might get triggered?” Okay, so the stay calm strategy didn’t work then. He finds he doesn’t care.

“Short answer, yes. I’m sorry for separating you, but I needed to discuss this with you first.”

“Bhaad me jao.” He mutters to himself, then sighs, “Look, we’re all making a big deal out of nothing here. Sab theek hai. I’ll stop, okay? Let me go home.”

She watches him for a minute with her dissecting stare, and finally nods.

“Okay.”

Wait. What?

“Wait, what?”

“Ideally, you should be kept under observation for a while, and be referred to Thera P. Parker.” Doc straightens up, entering something into a screen, “But I don’t believe that’s in your best interests. You’re clearly very distressed at the prospect, and besides, 24/7 in the Spider-Society medical facility isn’t something I’d wish on anyone.”

“You stay 24/7 here.”

“Exactly.” She swipes a card, and the heart monitor wires detach and snake out of the gown, “Instead, I’m filing for you to be removed from active duty.”

“Thanks.” Pavitr nods, jumping up, then realizes what she said, “I’m sorry, what?”

“No more missions for you,” Doc says, “You’re not going to get any emergency alerts either, unless it’s code red. You’ll still be able to reach out in case you have an emergency, but you will not be contacted for any Spider-Society related work.”

“That’s insane!” Pav gapes, blood already roaring in his ears, his palms burning hot as the full force of it catches up with him, “You can’t just do that.”

“I can’t let you go into the field and do a repeat of this.” She replies evenly.

“Doc, Amira, please –”

“I’m sorry, Pav. It’s for your own good.”

The white of that room has burned itself into his brain, even hours later, as he sits in his dark room. He can see it in flashes, a stage for his most magnificent failure yet, and he tries furiously to paint it red.

It’s for your own good.

Who decides what’s good for him, exactly?

He’s failed. He’s fucked up so badly that even Spider-Society doesn’t want him anymore. What good is he as Spider-Man if he can’t even do that? If he can’t handle the bare minimum that everyone seems to deal with so easily?

Pavitr hadn’t even seen his friends after leaving Med Bay, just frantically avoided them and left. Kya mu dikhata? They’re not going to want him around anymore either, not after all the trouble he caused and then went and became an embarrassment.

Fuck, everything just hurts.

A sob catches in Pav’s throat, and it’s such an effort to breathe around it so he just doesn’t, grips his razor between bleeding fingertips and lets it choke him until it spills down his cheeks on its own. His watch beeps uselessly next to his phone with notifications. He just about makes out Miles’ name on the top one.

Guilt and shame and rage swirl inside him, poison in his bloodstream, and his stomach pangs emptily as grits his teeth and lets it drip out of him, messy and raw and careless.

Red, and red, and red.

Chapter Text

The days drag on, merciless and weirdly weighted and monotonous, and Pavitr drags himself up along with them.

He’s stopped feeling quite so much.

Not stopped feeling, exactly, but stopped feeling so deeply. Everything’s still there, clouding at the edges of his periphery, pattering against his skin and staining it with flecks of fresh scarlet, but it’s not bone-deep and gnawing anymore. Now, it feels more like a numb limb burning agonizingly on pins and needles every time he tries to move it, every time he breathes too deeply, every time his mind’s empty enough to hear his heart beat and he wishes it didn’t beat quite so hard, because what even is the point anymore?

He hisses through the bands squeezing in around his ribs, tightens his chest bindings like that will take some of the pressure off, and keeps going.

He has to keep going.

So what if Pav’s had a setback? He’ll live with it. He can deal with the consequences of his own stupidity.

Stupid, so stupid, to behave like that. To not hide it better, his deterioration, his weakness.

It’s been six days since Pav was kicked out of Spider-Society.

He’d woken up the morning after, blank and aching dully and coughing through the pressure on his lungs, and sluggishly checked his watch, because surely it was all just a dream, right?

The big red ‘Access Denied’ blinking reproachfully at him when he tried to log into the active mission web crushed that blooming hope under its heel immediately. The text threads from Hobie, Gwen and Miles were too real, full of worry and confusion and questions and more worry he didn’t deserve, and he couldn’t bring himself to respond more than an “I’m fine, sorry.” He had to respond to Margo’s texts with a little more than that, an assurance that he was fine, he'd check in, an update on his situation to make her back off.

The gift basket left on his desk as he slept was considerate, he supposed; it was filled with flowers and ‘Get Well Soon’ notes from Spiders he was friendly with at HQ who he’s honestly surprised even remembered him, an oddly-shaped frog(?) plushy and unholy amounts of candy and socks from Peter, a bunch of medical supplies and a heating pack from Miguel, scented candles and a fluffy blanket from Jess, a towering stack of Oreos of flavours he'd never even heard of that he guessed his friends all chipped in for, and a really cute scribbled-over card from Mayday (or Maegay, as the sign says).  Way to let him down easy, at least.

The guilt and self-disgust had hit him like a freight train at the sight of it, leaving him gasping, and he wanted – needed – to shove it somewhere he wouldn’t see it.

Instead, he leaves it on his desk, a constant reminder of his shame and worthlessness. He keeps sorting through it, rearranging, fidgeting, when he has nothing else to do, and it’s almost penance, staring him in the face, getting filthier with his touch. He doesn’t deserve to touch it.

At least, he surmises from the tone of it, Doc hadn’t told him why Pavitr’s been kicked out. They seem to think he’s sick from the mission, not – not pathetic and bekaar and a failure.

The first three days, he’d tried to respond to Margo’s texts checking in on him, steadfastly ignoring every other message because he doesn’t need to see them slowly come to the realization that he’s not worth it and I think we shouldn’t talk anymore and sever that link too (and it hurts, a little more than it should, when the notifications stop piling in), but he’s bright with the awareness that he needs to pacify her, can’t seem to be breaking down any more than he already had, before it all got too much and he chucked the watch into a corner of his drawer, fuck it, nahi chahiye.

The first five days, he’d tried to be good, to take a deep breath and stop his hand from reaching for the familiar watch-box with its foam bottom and hidden razors, to force down morsels of food and carefully orchestrate every move, every motion, as he fought his regular Mumbattan villains. Like maybe they were watching, the eyes from across the universes, like he could convince them to let him in again, he was fine, see, he’d be good, disappoint nahi karunga, I can do it, please.

It's been six days, and Pavitr can’t do it.

He should have known it was only a matter of time, that Spider-Society couldn’t really want him around. How could they? They were always going to see through him eventually. Why would anyone like them, anyone like his friends, so brave and strong and smart and glorious and kind and perfect, want to be associated with him? Pavitr was just defiling them with his very presence, dragging them down to his level like a black hole sucking out all the light, everything that was good. He’d fooled them all into thinking he was bright and sweet and sunny, when it was really just a mask and he was weak and dirty and pathetic.

It's a miracle it took them almost a year to wise up and get rid of him.

It only takes him six days to crack, and he knows viciously in his soul that he deserves it as he drags the blade into his skin like he’s trying to slice open his arteries.

The red is such a comforting sight, pooling starkly on the soft golden-brown of his wrists.

Pavitr’s body is a canvas, and his paintbrush is sharp and wicked and dipped in crimson.

It feels like a kindness, a privilege, coming back to it every time, and breathing feels easier with every stroke, the ugly thing crawling under his flesh bleeding out through it instead. Pavitr guards it jealously, a precious secret clenched in desperate, bloodied palms, his gut coiled tight with the awareness of what happens once it’s found out and entirely unwilling to repeat it. It’s not worth stopping. Not for anything.

Not even if it means he has to wear shirts with long sleeves itching over his arms the few days after those impulsive slashes across them.

Not even if it means he’s hesitant, unsure, to kiss and hug and hold Gayatri, caught between his fear of her noticing anything off and his unwillingness to stain her with his touch.

Not even if it means guilt weighing down his shoulders every time he looks at Maya Aunty, the untouched food and the excuses and quiet frustration pinched in her brow.

Not even if it feels like all the colour’s draining out of him, all the life, fluttering urgently and suffocating softly, leaving a charred, shapeless outline where Pavitr had once been.

It all mixes red in his head and Pav can’t find it in him to be anything but thankful as he sketches it out, a little web all his own.

“… Please don’t say it.”

“Mere Pav bhaji ke liye pav bhaji!” Gayatri says cheerfully, and Pav makes an exaggerated, wounded sound in response.

“Why do you do this to me?”

“It’s good to keep you on your toes,” his girlfriend shrugs, leaning against him so casually he barely has the time to wonder why she’d willingly touch him, “And besides, you go tamatar ki tarah laal every time, and it’s really too cute, Pavi.”

“Legally naam badal dunga.” He threatens emptily, and she laughs against him, his heart warming at the sound and making him cave immediately, “But seriously, meri jaan, you didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to.” She nods decisively at the tiffin box in Pavitr’s hands, the thin steel heavy with the food that smells and looks so dangerously tempting. “I barely see you eat nowadays, sona, you’re practically starving yourself. Bas ho gaya. Dharti phat jaayegi before I let you skip lunch like this anymore.”

“I eat lunch at school!” Pavitr’s voice is plaintive, and Gayatri just raises one unimpressed eyebrow at him, in that you expect me to buy that bullshit? way of hers that never fails to get him in line.

“Pavi, you’re just insulting my intelligence now.” She huffs, “You won’t tell me what’s wrong even though I keep asking –”

“– because nothing’s wrong! –”

“– exactly like that, thank you for proving my point. Dekh, I didn’t want to pressure you, and I didn’t do anything pehle because you were going very upar-neeche and I just wanted to be there for you. But abhi, this has become like… constant. I don’t know what’s going on, what has you so stressed and sad, but you know you can tell me when you want and I’ll be here, okay, no pressure.”

Pavitr stares at his hands, the pav bhaji making his stomach twist longingly, his fingers frozen stiffly around it.

Gayatri can’t know. He can’t lose her too.

It’s selfish and awful and he’s so, so shitty, especially after his realization about Hobie, to hide so little and yet so much from her, but he can’t stand the idea of losing her, of her kind, loving face full of cold, steely disgust.

Even the first time he’d done this, back when he was fourteen, she hadn’t known. Pav had only told her, in a passing implication, a year after he’d already stopped, and he’s not sure if she even remembers that.

He can’t have her knowing this time, either. Such a waste of hard work, at the very least.

“Yeah.” He chokes out. “I – I will.”

“I love you very much.” Gayatri says softly into his shoulder. Pavitr smiles in spite of himself, turns and whispers it back, pressing a kiss against her cheek.

“How do you even know I’m not eating at school?” he asks. They don’t go to the same school, although they meet after at their bus stop and roam around, every day that they can manage it.

“I have my sources,” she shrugs, “Just dinner at home isn’t good for you, Pavi.” – he bites his tongue before it can make some traitorous joke about how he tries to avoid dinner too, she makes it sound like he has a vendetta against lunch personally – “Tujhe theek se khaana chahiye. I’m going to make lunch for you every day myself, if that’s what it takes.”

And he can’t turn down his girlfriend’s cooking. Not when Gayatri smiles at him like that, all affectionate and kind with concern glimmering behind the insistence in her eyes, not when he has to bat her hand away from trying to feed him herself and they end up giggling like idiots, not when she watches him with barely-disguised satisfaction while he eats bite after bite until it’s all finished, his greedy, treacherous stomach welcoming it like a starved animal.

It's fine, the first few days, but it seems Gayatri was serious when she said she’d make sure Pav’s fed every day, because it’s coming up on a week and she shows no signs of stopping the lunches. He tried protesting, once, it’s not fair to ask you to cook for me every day, jaaneman, and she’d shut him down with a matter-of-fact nod and a you didn’t ask me to, I’m doing it because I want to.

Pavitr can’t decline it. It would only worry her more, he can’t have her getting suspicious because of him. He’s being enough of a bother already.

But the food sits like a stone in his stomach every time, an unwanted, undeserved weight, and his gut churns around it, burning and acrid, like it knows just how wrong it is too. The heat climbs into his muscles, into his blood, and he just wants to burn it, to be reduced to ashes alongside it, to go back to the familiar emptiness because that’s just what’s fair.

And the memory lingers in his throat too, a burning I’ve lost weight? and he can’t stop thinking about it, about the idea of getting smaller and smaller and so much easier to manage, so much more convenient for everyone, smaller until maybe he can just vanish.

So he tries to cut off the excess from his body, drain it out in red, but it does nothing to soothe the burning in his veins, the guilt and self-loathing clawing and shredding up his insides, the knowledge and weight and unearned unnecessary food –

Pavitr’s heard of this before, vaguely, as an emergency medical measure when someone eats something toxic. Gayatri’s food is amazing, almost too delicious for his brain to process in his hunger, but the craving it leaves in its wake is the headiest poison he’s ever swallowed.

His body is humming with something he can’t quite identify as Pav leans over the toilet, and counts down his breath as he shoves two fingers into his mouth. He reaches far down his throat until tears spring up in his eyes, gagging, and presses down on the soft flesh, and, well.

It works.

He retches violently, and stops to breathe, everything in his skull on fire, his stomach revolting against him, and then he presses back down and retches again. His eyes squeeze shut, scorching tears bursting out of the corners, and all he can see is red, bright red, blazing across the back of his eyelids.

It becomes another secret part of his routine, another form of the red tinting his existence. Unlike the cuts, though, he hates this one.

He hates the way it works, disgusting and painful and hollowly necessary all the same, hates the way he’s slowly perfecting his technique in that too. He hates how it feels, like his digestive tract is trying to rip itself out of his mouth, like his whole body wants to turn itself inside out. He hates himself, the repulsive, ungrateful asshole that he is, wasting precious food that he never deserved in the first place, wasting the time and effort she must have put into making it.

Pavitr hates it all, but he can’t help but relish in the aftermath of it, the rush of blood in his skull and the hollowness coursing through his abdomen once he’s purged all the goodness he hasn’t earned out of it.

He compensates for it by drawing more red out of his skin, etching little smiley faces and rows of tic-tac-toe grids played with himself, and it helps balance it out a little. It’s punishment and comfort all at once, and Pav thinks, distantly, that he’s drifting a little too close to the edge.

Well. It might be fun to see how far he can balance there.

Pavitr swings in through his window tiredly, an itch already buzzing just under his skin. It’s been a long day, but an ultimately satisfying one, Doc Ock’s plans foiled and the man himself behind bars (although they both know they won’t keep him there long). By all rights, he should be ecstatic.

And he is! Pav smiles to himself, humming a tune under his breath, pulling off his mask and breathing freely in his room.

His empty room.

It’s still, and lonely, and Maya Aunty must be at her friend’s keertan today because the silence is almost haunting.

The coldness comes in waves, washing over him, and Pav shudders a bit, stripping off his suit and into infinitely more comfortable T-shirt and knee-length shorts.

This is fine, it’s an easy fix, a good chance, if anything. He knows exactly what he needs.

Pavitr saunters over to the shelves where he keeps the watch-box, tucked away behind a pile of books. It’s already open when he reaches it, and he sighs, the irritation pulsing in sudden and quick.

Right. He hadn’t been the most… collected, the last time he’d done this, the day before yesterday. He’d been kind of a mess, honestly, and really heavy with exhaustion, and he’d fallen asleep without putting the blade back. He doesn’t remember where it is, though.

That’s okay. He just has to look for it.

A sliver of agitation turns bitter on his tongue as Pavitr rummages through his shelves, looking for the stupid thing. It seems to have vanished entirely, and the heat rises higher, more cloyingly in his throat, because that had been the last one, the others in his stash all thrown away as they grew duller, and he needs to buy a new pack but he can’t right now, it has to be somewhere –

“Oi, Pav.”

It’s an achingly familiar voice, the deep, soft timbre, one he’s longed for so desperately, for so long, he’s half sure he’s imagining it.

Pavitr stops in his tracks, and turns around.

They’re standing there, in his room, silhouetted purple against the sky of his window with one leg perched on the sill, eyes locked onto him like she doesn’t want to blink and have him vanish either.

“Hobie.” He breathes out, and it takes every last bit of self-control he has not to just run and hug the punk clambering into his room.

Apparently, Hobie has no qualms about this, crossing the floor in three long strides and then he’s there, warm in Pavitr’s personal space, cupping his face in their calloused hands and tilting it up to see him.

Pavitr leans into the touch on instinct, every inhibition momentarily forgotten, and Hobie’s so soft and gentle, running her thumb over his hot cheek, looking at him intently like they’re trying to soak in the memory of him forever.

“You’re here.” He whispers, disbelieving.

“I am,” Hobie says just as softly. He lets go of his face, but it’s only to pull Pav into a hug, lanky arms wrapping strongly, safely, around him, holding him close, his ear pressed to their heartbeat, and it’s real, it’s real and warm and beating rapidly. Pav makes a choked noise, hugging him back tightly, and Hobie strokes his hair, muttering fiercely, “Fuck, it’s been too long, sunshine.”

“Bhosadike, where were you?” he demands, and his voice comes out wavering, the abject loneliness of the past weeks slamming into him suddenly, unable to block it. After a week had passed without a portal opening in his room, he’d just assumed his friends want nothing to do with him anymore, and it had stung, but he couldn’t blame them for it.

But Hobie’s here.

“We wanted to come see you so bad, love, but Miggy’s a fuckin’ hater, he blocked your dimension so we couldn’ ‘drag you into trouble while you recover’ or wha’ever.” Hobie says, kissing the top of his head and holding him tighter, “I’ve been tryna reach you for four weeks, Pav, had to build a new watch outta scrap again after what happened when they found the last one.”

“Oh.”

“Why didn’ you text any of us back, you tosser, we’ve been trying to talk to you since forever.”

“I –” Pav blinks, and nods at his closet, “I put the watch away. I didn’t know you were – texting me.”

“You bloody idiot.” Hobie huffs, “We thought you – we didn’t know what to think, the last we saw you, you were almost dead, Pav.”

“Sorry.” Pavitr says automatically. His friend makes a miffed sound.

“Stop apologizin’.”

“Sorry.” He says again, and then bites his tongue.

It’s too soon when they separate, and Pav misses the heat enveloping him, but he’s still there, a couple feet away, radiating warmth and light like a star, a little too distant to touch but enough to feel, and he smiles, his heart bursting with affection.

It feels almost like one of their normal visits, Hobie flicking through his open books and fidgeting with the stuff on his desk before putting it back (they’d paused for a second at the sight of the gift basket, opened but nothing in it used, but Pav didn’t meet their gaze so they shrugged and popped an Oreo in their mouth), as she updates Pav on the local gossip. Miles ‘n Gwen are gunna freak out when I tell ‘em, they’ve been dyin’ to see ya, Mayday learned to punch Nazis, well, Lt. Col. Teddy von Nazi but it’s the same thing, Margo asked me to tell you to call her, girl’s got faith in me don’t she, Lyla posted a cat filter pic of Miguel on the Web and now Spider-Nyan keeps flirtin’ with him, and…

Pavitr scours his shelves as surreptitiously as possible, searching for the blade with renewed vigour, not so much because he wants it right this second, but because he can’t risk Hobie seeing it.

Kahan gaya, where the fuck is it…

“Whatcha looking for, sunshine?”

“Kuchh nahi, just need a – uh, a pennnn…dulum! Yeah, a pendulum.”

“So you’re not wantin’ this then, right?”

Pav freezes, his heart dropping like a stone in his gut, and he somehow knows even before he turns around what Hobie’s talking about.

The razor glints silver at him, mocking, as Hobie holds it aloft between two fingers. There’s a hint of red staining its edge, and Pavitr’s gaze locks in on it, the only spot of colour in the cold darkness rapidly creeping into his vision, his hands and lungs and everything cold.

“Pav?” his voice is quiet and neutral, gentle, and he snaps out of it.

“It’s not for what you think it is.” He blurts out, and then curses himself.

“What is it for, then?” Hobie asks, and there’s something indecipherable and pained in their face and Pav looks away, stares at the floor instead.

Something bubbles up in his throat, urgent and hot, and it spills out before he can stop it.

“Okay, maybe it is for… that.” Pavitr stuffs his hands in his pockets, everything in him tense and buzzing, but it feels… not bad, to say it. Not good, exactly, but lighter.

The silence must have lasted a few seconds, but it seems to stretch for a million years, before Hobie breaks it, stepping closer.

“Where?”

It’s not the question he’d expected – to be fair, he hadn’t known what to expect – but it feels easier to answer, kickstarting his brain again. Pavitr gestures vaguely down at his torso and thighs, still not daring to look up at them.

Hobie hums, then reaches out and winds his fingers around Pav’s hand, and tugs gently.

“C’mere, love.”

Pavitr goes easily, letting himself be pulled onto the bed next to her, letting his hair curtain his face and waiting.

“Can I see?”

He startles, then, snapping his head up to stare wide-eyed at Hobie.

Hobie’s expression is soft and patient and a little sad, the corner of his mouth pinched in concern, and there’s no judgement in his eyes, no horror or pity or well-disguised amusement. Just… worry, and something pained.

It doesn’t feel like a command, an ‘I know what’s best’, it feels like a plea, and that’s what makes Pav mutter “Okay.”

Hobie pats their knees, and Pav hooks his legs over them, the action familiar from all the times he’s draped himself over Hobie’s lap so casually, and it rings bizarre and comforting at the same time, making his breath catch in his throat. Hobie slides an arm around his back, steady and supporting, and Pav doesn’t exactly curl into their chest like he wants but he presses closer still.

It feels like peeling back a layer of his skin when Hobie slowly rucks up the fabric of his shorts, leaving him raw and exposed and vulnerable, panic and bile rising up in his chest like a trapped creature with its fluttering underbelly revealed to a predator. Pavitr makes himself focus on the side profile of Hobie’s face instead, takes in the small, pained furrow of her brow and twitch of her lip as they examine his damage.

It's a moment of déjà vu, the anchorless dread, the unrealness.

Then Hobie’s dark eyes flick to meet his, and their hand hovers questioningly over his skin, at the edge of where the first lines start.

Pav doesn’t pull away, meets his gaze and wonders what he sees reflected there, gives his permission.

Hobie looks back down, and he follows their line of sight to see the patchwork engraved into his skin two days ago, the perfect slashes and little shapes all decorating it, no longer red and pretty, just there. A shadow of everything, almost fake. Pavitr’s breath hitches at the first careful, feather-light touch on the smiling sun on his thigh, and Hobie hesitates, immediately pulls back.

“Pav?”

“S – sorry. You can…”

“Won’t if you –”

“No, I – I want to. Please.”

He doesn’t know why he means it, but he does. Hobie doesn’t make him explain. They softly trace along a criss-crossed patch of skin, follow a long stroke to the uneven marks on the sides, feel the heart carved into his hip, mapping out all the places where Pavitr’s fury and failure and hurt had shown up red for no-one to see.

Hobie brushes his fingers over them all carefully, and it feels suddenly, sharply raw again, the dreamlike shallowness slowly melting as he presses their realness back into the quivering skin.

Pavitr only realizes he’s crying when he sobs, ugly and loud, and Hobie pulls him close and safe and whispers sweet comfort and breathe, Pav, darling, breathe into his hair, and so Pav breathes in the scent of leather and sweat and blinks in the blurry mess of black and blue and purple that gradually mutes the red.

Pavitr’s bed is decidedly too small for the both of them, especially with Hobie’s height, but they make do anyway. Hobie curls his gangly limbs around Pav, safe and solid, holding him close in a cocoon of warmth, and Pavitr nuzzles into his body, fingers tracing mindless shapes on her chest as it rises and falls.

It had taken a while, for Pav’s crying to slow down and stop, for Hobie to finish going over the cuts on his abdomen and a whispered confession of his hunger and more importantly the need to let it fester, and the second round of dry, agitated sobs. He’d been exhausted by the end of it, too tired and burnt out cold to rise to the allure of anything close to red. Hobie had wordlessly lain him down and draped themself around him like a cat, and Pav had melted into the touch, into the warmth and safety.

“I’m sorry.” He offers quietly. Hobie kisses his forehead.

“Don’t.” she says.

Pav ignores the light flutter in his heart, the heat rising pink into his cheeks.

“How long have you been doing it?” Hobie asks.

He shrugs with the shoulder not pressed into the mattress.

“Since after summer. So… four months?”

“Almost five.” He corrects. “’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“Not that kinda sorry. You know what I mean.”

“It’s fine. I deserve it.”

Hobie pauses, pulling back to look at him. Pav glances up at him, finds them frowning and offended.

“No you fuckin’ don’t. Absolutely not.” They say hotly, “Nothin’ you could possibly do would make you deserve to feel like this, Pavitr, to hurt like this. It’s not your fault, you haven’t failed or become less worthy of love or some shite. You don’t deserve to need to hurt yourself, to want the world to crush you until you’re gone. You’ve got to know that.”

Hot tears are prickling at the corners of Pavitr’s eyes, and he sniffs as they leak out and soak into the bed.

“Pata hai, logically, but it just… it feels like it, sometimes.” He mumbles, “A lot of the time.”

Hobie winds around him again, holding him close and tight.

“I know, love.” He sighs, “I know. I’m sorry. But please know it’s not true. None of it.”

“How do you know?” Pav asks, his voice too small for his own liking.

“I’ve been there too,” she says it so openly, bare and unflinching, and Pavitr shifts to stare at her face, “I used to do it, couple years ago. Took a long time to get better, too, still feels like I’m just workin’ on it sometimes.”

Hobie looks back at him, and their eyes are glittering and damp.

“You’re not the only one, Pav.”

“I’m sorry, I… I didn’t know.” He says.

“Didn’t want you to. You wouldn’t’ve told me either, would ya?”

“Nmmm.”

“And you don’t think I deserved it or it’s my fault, right?”

“Pagal hai kya,” Pav’s response is immediate, furious and insistent, “Of course not! You’re so amazing, Hobie, so smart and cool and awesome and –”

“And that applies to you too.”

Pavitr huffs, torn between arguing against that and knowing he’s not winning that argument.

“Don’t get all pouty on me, now,” Hobie teases, tickling the back of Pav’s neck, and Pavitr immediately elbows him in retaliation. “There we go, that’s more like it, sunshine.”

“Bawra.” He chuckles.

“Where?” He’ll ask Hobie later, when they’re still tangled up and warm together, and Hobie’s eyes will go a little distant, soft, as he brings Pavitr’s hand up. They’ll guide it to their wrists, their arms, their throat usually covered by the spiky choker, tracing all the smooth, warm skin where the red had bloomed once for them too.

“You won’t try to stop me?”

“I know I can’t. Not unless you want to.”

“Yeah.”

“… Do you want to?”

“Nahi.” A pause, a frown, “Not yet. I will, eventually. I know I will. Just… for a while more.”

“Okay.”

“I will, I promise.”

“Good. I’m gonna hold you to that.”

“D’you do proper first-aid, after?”

Pavitr had wrinkled his nose in distaste, answer enough.

“You’ve gotta, Pav. I’ll teach you. You’ve still got the medical stuff Miguel sent, right?”

“I know how to do it, I just don’t need to.”

“Bullshit. Bare minimum, antiseptic ‘n gauze, please, sunshine.”

“It would be a waste of important resources. I shouldn’t be needing it in the first place.”

Hobie had sighed heavily, regarding him with pained resignation. They knew none of the other logic was going to work, so they resorted to a language Pav would get.

It was an argument Pavitr had no way to win as Hobie listed out all the ‘practical reasons’ he should do it, you’ll wear your body down, stain and ruin your clothes in short term, long term you’re gonna get immunodeficient and prone to infection and then sick and then that’ll use even more resources and what good would that be?

Pavitr had hissed in irritation and accepted it, finally, agreed he’d dress his injuries properly. Small victories, Hobie supposed.

Hobie visits again the very next day, and brings Gwen and Miles with them.

“You guys!” Pavitr whoops joyfully, waving and alighting onto the rooftop next to them. Before he can even raise his hand for a high-five, though, there’s a death grip on his shoulders and he’s being shaken violently until his teeth clatter.

“Are you DUMB.” Gwen yells, rattling him like a jhunjhuna, “You fucking asshole. You don’t just leave from the goddamn Med Bay without even seeing us and then go completely unresponsive for a month while we all worry, we were trying so hard to reach you what is wrong with you, idiot?”

“Um.” Pavitr blinks at her as she finally stops, not really capable of coherent thought. His ears are burning, and he should probably say something back, but all he can process right now is the warmth bursting like fireworks in his heart, sparkling brightly in his chest and lighting up his whole body, as it hits him.

His friends cared about him.

They cared about him, they’d been worried, they’d wanted to see him, to talk to him! They hadn’t been avoiding him, shit, he’d got it all wrong, they didn’t hate him. They weren’t happy to be rid of him. They still wanted him around.

And maybe it should have been obvious, and maybe it makes guilt flare hotly in his gut, but right now all Pavitr can do is beam idiotically wide.

“Sorry.”

“Fuck, Pavitr.” And then Gwen’s hugging him abruptly, all coiled tight around him like she never wants to let him go, “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“It’s good to see you, man.” Miles agrees, and oh okay, lifts them both straight up off the ground in his hug. Pavitr laughs, happy and light, and hopes this moment never ends.

“Aww, the whole gang’s back together.” Hobie coos, and OKAY WOAH lifts all three of them in her hug, their legs the longest of all and giving them an unfair advantage from which to twirl them around, all of them screaming and cackling like kids on a merry-go-round.

They swing around Mumbattan after that, joining Pav on his patrol and beating a couple of bad guys, returning a lady’s purse, and generally fooling around and giving each other dumb dares. Pavitr’s giddy with it, the adrenaline and camaraderie and sweet, impossible love for his friends, the high that feels like it can never end.

They end up perched back on the same rooftop as before, drinking Fanta and eating vada pavs and immediately ganging up and dunking on Pav when they find out the name of the food, leaving him squawking indignantly.

The sun sets, and Mumbattan’s skyline is a painting of pearlescent pinks and blazing vermilion, stars emerging and twinkling in the purple twilight. Sitting there, watching it with his friends, breathing in the (slightly polluted) air, Pav thinks it can’t get any better.

It can’t get better, but oh boy can it get worse.

It’s like a sugar crash, the days after that, the whole week, all his energy and happiness spent in one evening and leaving him empty and heavy. Pavitr can’t even seem to fake a smile properly, and the red comes surging back up inside him at the slightest provocation, the tiniest failure or the faintest hint of upset, battering against him to be let out.

So he lets it out, bleeds out in a close-knit red grid spanning the entirety of his stomach, and sighs in frustration because it was done too quickly for his liking.

He follows through on his word to Hobie, though, wiping down the stinging mess with an antiseptic-daubed gauze that stings even more, and then purses his lips when it doesn’t stop bleeding quickly enough and uses more gauze and medical tape to properly patch it up.

The action takes more of his energy than he’d like, prolonging the action so much unnecessarily, but it’s… calming, in its own way. Soothing, like he’s recalibrating his brain after the jagged storm broke.

It’s tiring, though, and wasteful, and the next time he does it, Pav’s more careful to cut the red in just a little lighter, just a little lesser. If he’s going to get into the habit of this, he needs to figure out how to make it more sustainable.

Spider-Society hasn’t officially cleared Pavitr’s dimension yet, but practically everyone comes to visit him sooner or later through the new watch (except the boss-man himself, of course), Hobie opening portals for them like a train conductor.

Peter shows up a couple of times, slinging an arm around Pavitr’s shoulders and asking how he’s been and then proceeding to show him two thousand new pitcures of Mayday while the baby herself clambers all over Pav, her giggles contagious. Margo appears, chews him out for not talking to her even though he promised to, and when he insists he’s fine, getting better every day, she seems genuinely delighted and spends an evening showing him a new video-game she’s been coding. Spider-Noir, Spider-Ham and Peni drop in to say hello, and they all end up causing some minor evil-pigeon-related havoc around Mumbattan that’s very hard to explain away to the media, but it was very fun, even despite the cleanup (too much bird poop). Even Jess says hi, her holographic face thoroughly amused on the watch’s display, because of course she taps in to Hobie’s watch eventually; but she seems completely unbothered by the illegality of it, and Hobie wouldn’t give a shit even if she was, so it honestly works out just fine.

And Hobie, Gwen and Miles come by almost every day, of course. They usually swing around with Pav on Spider-Man duty, although they also occasionally just hang out in his room or roam around the city normally. They make an effort to see Pavitr, and it warms him from the inside out every time, even if it’s only for a few minutes before they have to go.

Hobie, especially, makes it a point to see him every day, and keeps reminding Pav he’s only a text or call away when they can’t. It hits Pav once again, looking at them, hearing her voice, just how much he adores Hobie.

He doesn’t want to be a bother, but they’re so insistent that he’s not a bother, if he was Hobie would say it, that eventually Pavitr just starts believing it, a little bit.

There’s nothing in particular, no certain moment, when Pavitr suddenly decides to try and get better. No big tragedy opening his eyes to how close he’s teetering on the edge, no anchor point reeling him back. He’ll have to do that himself, step by step.

It’s kind of anticlimactic, really.

It’s a half-assed attempt, anyway, not entirely serious, but he’s willing enough to give it a shot, because he does have to; Pav had known going in that this wasn’t good, and he’d told himself he could get out again and he’s going to prove himself right.

Newer habits are easier to break, right? So Pavitr starts with the food problem.

It takes a herculean amount of self-control to do nothing. To sit there, his stomach full and weighed down, and feel it burning through his veins, lodged in his gut like shrapnel, all this goodness richness energy he doesn’t deserve, hasn’t earned, and not try to vomit it back up.

It doesn’t always work, the urge just too strong sometimes, but after about two weeks of holding back, his body seems to do the rest, shying away on its own, his stomach twisting painfully every time his toothbrush so much as touches the back of his throat.

It’s harder to curb the thoughts, the acerbic, all-consuming waves of bad Pavitr, bad, you’re taking too much, you don’t need that much, get it out, never should have had it at all, but he makes up for it by chopping over his stomach more intensively, instead, until the thoughts fuzz back into silence, satisfied with their pound of blood.  

He does haltingly ask Gayatri if he can eat a little lesser, though, and she seems concerned and guilty, “Tune pehle kyu nahi bola zyaada hai, I’m used to seeing you eat more than this so I didn’t realize,” but it works out in a good system eventually. Pav feels less guilty, less gluttonous, when he eats a smaller meal, it helps even more when he decides to occasionally make namkeen and laddoos at home and get them for her in return.

Once it’s started, the hunger doesn’t seem to stop, and he gradually starts eating properly at home too. Maya Aunty smiles when he empties the whole plate and nervously asks if he can have more, one fine day.

Pavitr still doesn’t like eating in front of a bunch of people, though, where he can be seen. All he can think of then is how greedy and disgusting and high-maintenance he’s being, how greedy and disgusting and high-maintenance he must seem to his friends. There are so many times when they don’t seem particularly hungry, so he just grits his teeth and ignores his rumbling stomach, so many times when he nibbles on a snack just naam ko when one of them nudges food over. It feels so conflicting every time, like the failure of one ideal and the success of another, no matter which way he does it.

There’s still a stinging failure, acrid disappointment, lingering in his gut every time he eats, the words just there if you’re quiet enough to hear it.

Some days, he still prefers to go without eating, just to satisfy it, the renewing hunger spasming so harshly in his stomach it must be tearing it red too.

Most days, he tries to grit his teeth and forge through it.

Two months after he was benched, Spider-Society finally asks Pavitr to come back in the field.

He wakes up to find that Miguel’s unblocked his universe and is inviting (read: summoning) him back to HQ. Pav can’t hide his grin as he steps into the portal, his nervousness melting away as Hobie, Gwen and Miles instantly dogpile on him. Absolutely no one’s making any kind of effort to hide the fact that they’ve been seeing Pav anyway, Peter even yelling about how they forgot to take a selfie with Mayday last time, but Miguel just sends a longsuffering look towards the heavens and does what Pavitr assumes is the “congrats, you’re back, sign this form” procedure.

“Welcome back, kid.” He begins, “You know, I really thought you were going to be out of commission for longer.”

Pav waits, staring at Miguel, and he stares back, unblinking.

“Kind of felt like you were going to say something more there.” Pavitr says finally.

“I said welcome back, what else do you want me to say? You’re good to go, have fun, do hero stuff.” Miguel turns way, grumbling, “Kids these days…”

“Hell yeah! Welcome back, Pav.” Miles punches his shoulder, “We’ve got a cool mission today, and you’re finally coming with us again!”

“Perfect.” Pavitr grins.

It’s much, much harder to stop resorting to the razors, but Pavitr tries.

He does try, really hard, even if the first multiple times he just gives in to the need and ends up doing it anyway, promising himself next time, next time will be the one I’ll stop. If he finally manages to stop a first time, there’s never a second, the craving always coming back full force, stronger than ever, and Pavitr relishes in the iron tang in the air and the red trickling down in drops.

He finally does make it to a second time, glaring blankly at some textbook without really absorbing anything, his fingernails digging hard into his skin like nicotine patches for a recovering smoker.

The third time comes easier, distracting himself enough with some cat videos and comfort makhanas that he never even lets the thought fully form.

There isn’t a fourth time. It’s not even a week, and he already cracks, red staining his bathroom sink as the blood slowly stops seeping out of the lines. Pavitr feels the satisfaction fizzle to its cold death, and bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw coppery blood there too.

Starting over again. Okay.

He finally makes it to nine times, nine resistances. It’s taken longer than he’d like to admit.

There isn’t going to be a tenth, though, not with the rate at which his emotions are hurtling all over the place, his heart pumping out of sync with his short-circuiting brain, and Pavitr tries taking a deep breath, hold out against it.

That doesn’t work. Shocking, he knows.

Fuck, chal Pav, don’t do anything stupid. Sab theek ho jayega. Come on.

He tries to distract himself with work, then books, then exercise, but he’s already tired and abuzz from fighting some third-rate villain and he can’t seem to focus on anything.

With a clarity so sharp it hurts, Pavitr knows he can’t be alone right now.

Cn I come over

The text is sent to Hobie before he can even think it through. Pavitr waits anxiously, hoping, praying, but no response.

Of course. Hobie must be busy, Pav can’t just expect –

Ye, window’s open

“What’s up.” Hobie nods from their couch as Pav climbs into their apartment.

“Nothing.”

“’Kay. Vent or distraction?”

“Pata nahi.”

“Here.” Hobie shifts, patting on a spot next to him, and Pav sidles in, fitting himself into the space. “Look at this new crap Osborn’s been peddling, top tier propaganda it is, and so sad it’s kind of hilarious. The bloody title of the article, even…”

Pavitr listens, his attention span shit but the subject interesting and weird enough that he finds something funny to latch onto immediately, and he and Hobie expand on the topic and jump to another, and another, and another.

Somehow, Pav ends up venting by the end of the night anyway, but morning comes to find him tucked in on Hobie’s bed, fast asleep, while Hobie sprawls on the couch.

The depression hits Pavitr suddenly and completely, a gaping void squeezing him mercilessly from all sides and refusing to let up. He can barely breathe through it, each gasp a struggle, and moving his own legs feels like the weight of the world.

He has no idea what caused it, why everything suddenly feels so hollow and painful and heavy. It just is, and there’s nothing Pavitr can do about it. Just being alive hurts, pointless and searing, and he wants, needs the sting of the red to make it more bearable.

He does try to hold out, make it through the phase. It doesn’t go away in a week, though, and it takes a near-miss with a villain’s fist on another mission to seal the knowledge that the blade is the only thing that will help.

Maybe not help, exactly. But do something. Just to be proactive.

It does ebb away, eventually, leaving Pav a bit lightheaded but only grateful for it.

Everything seems fine once again, back to normal, the routine the same as ever. Pavitr, Hobie, Gwen and Miles get assigned to a mission together again, same as always.

Something’s off though, something in the way Gwen and Miles leap to make every hit Pav was about to land, something about how they’re unsubtly shielding him and keeping Green Goblin’s attention very deliberately off him.

Confused annoyance itches in Pav’s muscles, and it only takes a second of everyone seeming to discount him as a threat for him to smash the hoverboard with one bangle and wrap up the Goblin with the other.

“Nice job, Pav!” Gwen says, clipping him on the shoulder as they gather around.

“Not nice, great! Great job, Pav!” Miles gives him two thumbs-ups.

“Right, yeah, that’s what I meant, great job!”

Pavitr glances across at Hobie, who raises their hands apologetically, seems to want nothing to do with them.

“Why are you guys going easy mode on me?” Pav demands, turning back to Gwen and Miles.

“Easy mode? What’s that?”

“You? Who are you?”

“… Miles.”

“Not that dumb, I know, I know.”

“Let’s get this bloke in jail first, hey?” Hobie intervenes finally, and Pavitr nods shortly. He’s silent when they make it back to HQ, until they’re finally alone, and he rounds back on Miles and Gwen.

“So? What was that about?” he crosses his arms, not in the mood to be fucked with.

“… okay, Pav, we were just trying to help.” Miles begins, “We didn’t want you to get stressed out or anything, or risk anything happening, so we were just looking out for you.”

“I can handle my own stress.” Pav frowns, “Bachcha nahi hoon.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t want you to feel overwhelmed or pressured or anything, you know, especially with how bad it can get, we didn’t want you to get hurt.” Gwen says. Pavitr’s heart skips a beat at that, the way she says it.

He looks back at Hobie, who shrugs helplessly.

“What do you mean ‘how bad it can get’?” Pav asks slowly, and Gwen and Miles immediately turn wide-eyed and awkward.

“Did I say that? I didn’t –”

“Nah, we’re just –”

“It’s just –”

“Margo told you, didn’t she.” It’s less of a question and more of a furious statement. Gwen steps forward, and Pav takes a step back, too seen, too trapped, too weak.

“She meant well.” Gwen says, “You got sad again, last week, and when you almost got hit again, she freaked out that it was like a repeat of last time. She just wanted to help, none of us want to see you hurting yourself, Pav.”

“I told her not to tell you.” Pav takes a stuttering breath, “But sure, let’s just announce it to the whole of Spider-Society, why don’t we? Sab ko bata do, then maybe you all can hold a meeting to decide how to help and what’s good for me and let me know when you’re done!”

His voice gets louder by the end, and he just about catches it.

“If I wanted to tell you, I would have. I don’t need you to coddle me, I can handle myself.”

He claws off his watch impulsively, makes a portal home behind him and chucks it to the floor.

“Khush raho, sab. I’m going.”

The red is coursing through his blood more viciously than ever as he swings back into his room, and he collapses on his bed, groaning.

Great. So now all his friends know he’s weak and failing and stupid, and they’re already treating him differently for it. He doesn’t know how much they know, what they think they know, and he can’t bear the thought of them pitying him, looking down on him like they’re finally realizing he’s beneath them.

And the betrayal burns too, in long flashes through his soul. Apparently, his request had meant nothing to Margo, the fact that he’d rather die than have anyone know meant nothing. He was just as good as the entertainment he could give, is she just gossiping about this to everyone, now?

Pavitr’s aware, somewhat hysterically, that he’s not being very rational right now. Everything in his brain is misfiring like crazy, the guilt churning with the self-loathing churning with the scorching panic and pain making him want to scream.

He’s crying, and it’s exhausting and just makes him hate himself more.

Get it together.

He shouldn’t be a mess because of such a small thing.

Or such a big one? He can’t seem to decide.

Fuck, okay, calm down.

He knows what to do. It will hurt so good, so pretty, such a vivid red. And he’s already broken his streak, so there’s no reason to hold back either, what’s one more time anyway?

Pav can do it. He’s sagging with bone-deep exhaustion, a dull, searing stab of pain. He just needs a minute.

Just get up on the count of three.

Ek…

He closes his eyes for a minute, just a minute, it’s so cool and dark and comforting, his head’s not hurting quite as much.

Do…

Ready to get up. Just… curling into himself a little more, it’s so warm, the bed is so soft, he just needs a sec.

Teen…

Pavitr breathes out softly, the tensions bleeding out of him a little as he falls fast asleep.

He wakes up with a groggy recollection, and only feels the disappointment and anger at himself for a second before surging through with triumph instead. Then he falls back asleep.

The second time Pav wakes up, it’s with a clearer head, and he stares at his ceiling for a long while, thinking.

It takes courage to face Gwen and Miles again, apologize and hear out their apologies too. He tells them he’s going to be fine. They tell him to please reach out if he ever isn’t.

He’s not as mad at Margo as she probably expects, and she seems surprised, after her rushed out explanation and ‘I’m so, so sorry I invaded your privacy, Pav, but I’m not sorry I tried to make sure you were safe’, that he still wants to help her pick a hairstyle.

Hobie is… Hobie, through it. Offering to be there, playing an ear-splitting riff on their guitar when things get too awkward so they can all unite in their yelling at him, and threatening to shear off Pav’s glorious hair for a wig if he doesn’t hurry up and take his watch back.

It takes a month for the red to stop coming up as the first option in Pavitr’s head when he’s distressed or anxious or just plain bored.

It takes three months for it to stop being an option at all. He throws out the razors this time, just in case.

Gayatri hugs him happily when she no longer has to make him eat, when she can see him getting louder and brighter again before her eyes.

Hobie’s incredibly proud of him when Pavitr stops apologizing quite so much.

Pav finally introduces them to each other, apprehensive, and it ends up better than he could have ever expected, because as Gayatri says “You’ve got two hands, as long as I get to kiss you, I don’t mind if the British hottie wants to too.”

Hobie’s always been for screwing heteronormative relationship norms anyway. That’s not as much of a surprise as the fact that they very much do want to kiss Pavitr too.

It takes way too long for Pav to make it back to the place he’d been in, before it had all started. The place where he’s good, most of the time, he’s bright and happy and he can find the joy in almost anything. A place that’s another step in moving forward.

Or maybe it’s not the same place. No two experiences leave you quite the same.

Maybe he’s more broken, more vulnerable, weaker, than before. Maybe he’s wiser, more used to putting himself back together. Maybe he’s just a little less alone.

Or maybe he's just naively lying to himself.

Who’s to say, really?

Pavitr’s not sunshine yellow, bright and happy and resplendent like people seem to think he is, not by a long shot.

But he’s undeniably a creature of the sun, thriving in the daylight when everything seems much less scary, much less of a howling, lonely wilderness. The world glows golden in the light, all the beautiful things shining, the terrors of the dark seeming so silly in comparison.

Night always falls eventually, though, and Pavitr has to struggle and fight not to fall with it.

He manages it, somehow, and sometimes it’s easier to take slivers of the sunlight with him, buried warmly in his heart or clutched fleetingly in his hands, and sometimes there’s no light to be had at all, the yellow guttering and flickering out.

The red is there, waiting, haunting him, sometimes swelling and sometimes almost shrunken to nothingness. It’s never quite gone, though. Not yet.

Maybe the red will always be a part of him.

Red, and red, and red.

He can live through it.

Pavitr will make it out the other side.