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The next two chapters [The elephant in the room – Part 2 and The elephant in the room – Part 3] are already available, and in a few hours [A Monster Inside – Part 1] will be available as well.
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***
"Seriously? That's the third time just this week?" Peter asked, tilting his head back until it rested against the rough wall of the building.
"Yeah, kid." The man sitting on the ground beside him sighed, a tired, deep sound that seemed to come from a very old place inside him. "Age is catching up with me."
Peter turned his face toward the man, observing him for a second. He wore a worn gray suit, the kind that had been elegant a decade ago, with the sleeves frayed at the elbows and a small tear in the collar, poorly stitched with black thread that contrasted with the gray. Between his legs, he held an old black briefcase, stained at the corners, the leather wrinkled and the metal handle loose, swaying with every movement.
His hair was so thin that Peter could see his scalp shining under the sunlight, and his face had deep dark circles, giving away at least three days without sleep.
"No way, you look way too young to me," Peter said, shrugging in a casual gesture. "What are you, twenty-eight? Thirty?"
The man let out a low laugh, almost without strength, shaking his head. "Forty. Forty-seven, to be exact."
Peter widened his eyes. "No, no, no, you're lying to me. I refuse to believe it. If that's forty-seven, I seriously need those skincare tips, because I'm seeing mid-twenties at most. You must have some premium genetics there, my friend."
The man smiled — a small, shaky smile. "Ah, cut it out," he said, waving his hand. "I know you're just trying to cheer me up. And I appreciate it, I really do. But you don't have to." He placed his hands on the ground and tried to get up. "I already feel fine. Better get going, or I won't make it in time for the interview—" His legs gave out before he could finish the sentence, making him fall forward.
Peter's hands found the man's shoulders before he could hit the asphalt face-first, holding him firmly. "I don't think so," Peter helped the man sit back down on the ground, resting his back against the building wall. "You're staying here a little longer. No arguments. Doctor's orders… improvised."
The man closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "Sorry... I'm giving you too much trouble."
"You don't need to apologize. This is nothing." Peter assured him, patting his shoulder. "Do you know why you're having these spells? I mean… you almost kissed the ground hard earlier, now again, and from what you told me, it's becoming frequent."
The man hesitated, sighing before speaking. "It must be because I haven't been eating properly these past few days—" He stopped mid-sentence, grimacing. "Uh, sorry. I'm not going to dump my problems on you. You've already done a lot for me."
"You can talk," Peter said immediately. "I've been told I'm a good listener."
"No, no, no." The man shook his head quickly, almost nervously. "I'll just end up giving you a headache first thing in the morning. You don't need to listen to an old man's complaints."
Peter gave a sympathetic smile, looking into the man's eyes. "You know, I've got plenty of problems too. And I always kept them buried deep down, where no one could see. But then I met someone who listened to me. I talked, and talked, and when I was done... I felt a lot lighter. It didn't solve the problems, of course. But it took a weight off my shoulders." He paused for a moment to catch his breath. "So go ahead. Let some of that pain out. I promise it'll help."
The man stayed silent, keeping his eyes on Peter's for a few more seconds before lowering them to the ground, his fingers gripping the briefcase tightly. He bit his lower lip and the wrinkles on his face seemed to deepen even more.
"It's just... my wife..." he began, his voice failing in the very first words, his hands clenching and unclenching over the briefcase. "She has cancer. We found out three months ago. She already had two surgeries, but it didn't help. The cancer spread. And now the doctor said we need chemotherapy, but the health insurance doesn't cover everything, and I..." His voice completely failed, and he had to clear his throat to continue. "I lost my job last week. I got laid off. They let me go along with fifteen others. Said it was budget cuts."
"I just don't know how I'm going to pay for the hospital." The man continued, the words coming out faster now, as if he couldn't stop talking anymore. "I don't know how I'm going to pay for the medication, the appointments, the treatment. I already sold the car, took out a loan, asked relatives for help." He paused, his eyes fixed on some distant point. "I haven't been eating these past few days to leave the food for my daughter. She's only eight. She needs it more than the... piece of shit father she has."
"Hey, you're not a piece of shit father." Peter interrupted him, sitting down beside him. "A piece of shit father would've given up and walked away at the first sign of trouble. You're here, doing the impossible, fighting for your wife and daughter. There's nothing more noble than that. You're a good father, don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
"D-do you really think so?" he asked, his voice full of hope.
"Of course I do." Peter confirmed without hesitation. "And look, I know you might feel hopeless right now, like you're at rock bottom and that you'll never be able to get out. But there's always a light at the end of the tunnel. I'm speaking from experience."
The two stayed in silence, watching the flow of people and cars until the man spoke again. "I... really needed that. You were right, it feels really good to let it all out."
"Told you. I'm an expert at these things."
The man let out a small huff, amused. "You're a good kid. Thank you, really."
"No need to thank me," Peter said before widening his eyes as he got an idea. He slipped his backpack off his shoulders and opened the zipper, "I just remembered something..." His hand went into the backpack, fingers feeling around between books and notebooks, pushing aside a spare shirt, until he found a glass jar, which he quickly pulled out. "Here, take it. There are some pancakes inside. You can eat them." Peter explained, holding the jar out toward the man.
The man looked at the jar with wide eyes, then at Peter, then back at the jar. "This... seriously?"
"Yeah, my aunt made them. She's one of the best cooks in the country," Peter replied, his smile softening as he talked about his aunt.
"T-thank you very much," the man reached for the jar, but stopped halfway, "But I can't eat now. I need to run to make it to the job interview—"
"Here." Peter interrupted, his hand already in his backpack pocket as he pulled out more than enough money for a taxi ride—maybe even two. He placed the bills on top of the jar's lid, his fingers pressing the paper so it wouldn't fly away. "For the taxi. You can keep the change."
The man's eyes widened even more, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. "A-are you some kind of angel or something?" he asked in a whisper, full of admiration and gratitude.
"Nah, I'm just someone who cares about others. Now take it," Peter said, placing the jar in his hands. "Just don't eat it all at once, or you'll get sick."
The man took the jar with trembling hands — so trembling that the glass lightly rattled against the lid — and opened it. The smell of the pancakes spread through the air, warm and sweet, cinnamon and butter and something homemade that had no name. Peter watched the man's eyes fill with tears as he began to eat.
"Thank you... thank you... thank you so much," he started saying with every bite, without stopping.
"No need to thank me."
"T-this is really good."
"Told you she was the best," Peter murmured, falling silent as the man ate the pancakes one by one. After a few minutes, the man finished eating all of them and handed the empty jar back to Peter, who stored it back in the backpack, the glass clinking against the books. "Did it fill you up?"
"Yes. It was the best meal I've ever had in my life." The man said, his voice still weak, but steadier than before. "What's your name, kid?"
"Peter."
The man held out his hand. "I'm Bob."
Peter shook his hand promptly. "Nice to meet you, Bob."
"The pleasure is mine, Peter." Bob said, and for the first time since they sat down, his eyes seemed to be seeing something beyond despair.
***
"You missed history class." MJ's voice cut through the hallway buzz as soon as she found him between class changes, appearing at his side as if she had come out of the shadows.
"Yeah, I had a small setback on the way," Peter said, shrugging, his hands shoved into his jeans pockets. It wasn't like that class even mattered. History was just memorizing dates and names.
"I grabbed your homework," she said, holding out a sheet full of questions toward him.
Peter took the sheet, his eyes quickly scanning the questions, "You're the best, MJ. You know that?"
"Of course I do."
***
When class finally ended, Peter quickly left the room, walking briskly toward the exit. However, luck was not on his side that day.
"Hey, Peter. Want to go to ESU together?" Gwen asked without much confidence, standing outside the gates.
***
Disclaimer: This story and its characters belong to Sony Pictures and Marvel Comics (Disney). This is merely a fanfiction written by a fan, with no intention of infringement.