Something is wrong. Something is wrong with him.
It's like the fever stripped away an outer layer of skin he didn't know he had, leaving every part of him sensitive in a way he didn't know was possible… and yet, it's not painful. Compared to the fever of last nighthell, compared to the last ten months —Peter actually feels… strong. Almost powerful.
"Peter."
Peter looks up as Skip fills the bathroom doorway, but doesn ' t startle. He knew he was there. He could hear him. He could feel him. And as much as he hates being cornered — the bathroom being a particularly small space for Skip to trap him in — for once, he is too preoccupied to feel particularly scared.
Skip, on the other hand, looks terrible. He is still in his pajamas, still smells like last night's alcohol, so strongly Peter has to suppress a gag. Skip's eyes are red-rimmed, like he hasn't slept, and there is a layer of hair on his usually clean-shaven chin. He stares down at Peter from the doorway, shoulders back, and Peter tenses, but the next second Skip sags.
"Oh, my God," he says. "Oh, thank God. You're alright."
He holds his arms out, like he means to embrace Peter, but, somehow, Peter is already out of his reach. He sidesteps the hug, slides around Skip, and steps into his bedroom, all in one fluid movement, so quickly Skip staggers when he realizes the air in front of him is empty.
When he turns around, he looks as confused as Peter feels. Skip blinks, but recovers quickly.
"Are you… feeling okay?" he asks.
"I feel fine," says Peter.
"You seemed… you were really sick last night. Your fever was…" He rubs a nervous hand across his mouth, and even from a distance Peter can see that it's shaking. "I put you in the bath. I got your temperature down eventually, but I thought … God, Peter, I'm just so glad you're okay." He starts forward again, but once more Peter steps out of reach before he can get close.
"Why didn't you take me to the hospital?" he says.
(Because he doesn't care if you live or die.)
Skip freezes. The relief and concern painted across his face are invaded by a twitch, so small Peter can't believe he caught it, but which he nevertheless immediately recognizes as anger.
Then it's gone.
"You know why I couldn't."
Peter's hand automatically leaps to his wrist, which has played host to a ring of dull bruises almost constantly for the last few months. But when he grabs it there is no tenderness. When he glances down at it, there are no bruises. Even stranger—the scar from Felipe's knife is gone.
Peter's entire body starts to tingle.
"I have to go to school," he says.
"What? No, you're staying home today. Do you have any idea what I went through last night? You're—"
"I want to go," Peter says, yanking the sleeve of his pajama shirt down over his hand as he looks up. "It was probably just a—a twenty-four hour flu. I should go to school. I need to keep my grades up."
Skip is staring at Peter like he's some sort of hallucination. Peter knows why: he's never defied Skip before.
Peter wavers, but instead of acquiescing, like instinct instructs, he doubles down. " School, "
he says. " I should definitely go to school. It's fine, and besides, Principal Morita is going to be suspicious if I miss any more. I'm okay, really. I should just go."
Peter thinks its the bit about Principal Morita that does it. Skip still looks doubtful, and a little suspicious, but after a moment he nods.
"Bea took the girls already. I'll drive you." Skip watches Peter out of the corner of his eye as he walks out of the room.
As soon as he is gone, Peter leaps for his closet. He grabs the first clothes he can find, and runs to the bathroom to change, moving so fast as he discards his pajamas and yanks on his jeans he almost doesn't catch sight of his own reflection — and wouldn ' t, if it weren't for the fact that his shirt becomes tangled as he pulls it over his head, forcing him to look up to try to find the sleeves in the mirrors. Peter's stomach drops. If he doubted any of the other signs that something majorly strange is happening, there's no denying this one: somehow, overnight, Peter has grown a thick layer of muscle all over his torso and arms. He even has abs.
Abs. He has abs.
Peter could easily spend the next lifetime marvelling at whatever the hell happened to give him a six pack overnight, but in the other room he can hear Skip putting his pants on, fumbling around for his shoes. Peter shakes himself. He finishes dressing, sneaks into the hall, and pauses just long enough on the threshold to grab his backpack before slipping out the front door.
He makes it six blocks before he realizes he left without putting on his glasses. He was too distracted by the sounds of the city, which stretch on for miles and miles, out past the harbor and the Hudson, each one as clear and as comprehensible as if they were being piped directly into his ears. Once he notices the missing spectacles, he also notices that he no longer needs them. He can see the dirt under strangers ' nails from a block away. He can see the crystals in his breath as it turns to ice on the frigid air.
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