Chapter Text
Peter Parker is twelve years old and angry at the world.
Peter Parker is twelve years old and angry at the bruises on his face and shoulders that smell like acid (fighting back never seemed like an option).
Peter Parker is twelve years old and angry at the parents who promised they’d be back in a couple of days (promises always seem to get broken).
Peter Parker is twelve years old and angry at the assholes across the street that make May afraid to leave the apartment without Ben (he hears the cries of the girls who don't have a Ben from his window at night).
Peter Parker is twelve years old and angry at the creases between Ben’s eyebrows when he has to come home from being a cop and go back to being a father (he never asked to be).
Peter Parker is twelve years old and angry at the peeling paint on the walls and the bills piling up at the door (they were never supposed to raise a kid).
Peter Parker is twelve years old and angry.
But Peter doesn't have the time to be angry. Everybody wants something from him.
May wants him to be safe.
He can only be so safe in this neighborhood. He can only be so safe when no one is around to protect him. He can only be so safe when every part of his body is bruised except his knuckles. He can only be so safe when Flash Thompson lives to hate him. But it’s May, so he tries.
Ben wants him to be kind.
He can only be so kind when Queens works so hard to make him mean. He can only be so kind when he is so angry all of the time. He can only be so kind when he was born in Hell Kitchen and abandoned by a family he never got the chance to know. But it’s Ben, so he tries.
Ned wants him to be happy.
He can only be so happy when the world tastes like metal and hurt. He can only be so happy when he listens to his neighbor hit his wife on the fire escape. He can only be so happy when a devil roams the streets, but outside of the Kitchen everyone is on their own. But it’s Ned, so he tries.
His lungs seize and shudder through another asthma attack after he runs from the teenagers searching for someone to hit after school (he tries to be safe).
His blood simmers and boils with untouched rage after he helps Ned up off the floor when they find a new favorite target (he tries to be kind).
His snarl twists into a half-smile when May comes home from work with a bag full of groceries and a fresh bruise above her eyebrow (he tries to be happy).
He tries and tries until he can’t take it anymore.
Peter Parker is twelve years old and angry at the world, but this time he’s going to do something about it.
----
April
Hell's Kitchen is dark all of the time. Even during the day.
The winding buildings and crumbling concrete block out the sun and cast shadows that scream danger .
Peter is used to this kind of danger. The kind that creeps into your bones if you aren't paying attention. This is the kind of danger that May does her best to keep him from. That Ben gruffly tells him to stay away from.
But May and Ben are working.
They're always working.
It isn't their fault that they can't keep him safe. They're too busy trying to keep him alive. Keep food on the table and an eviction notice off the door.
Peter grew up in this kind of danger. First, in Hell's Kitchen with two parents who could never keep enough secrets. Then, in the back alleys of Queens with a patchwork family that never got to see the danger in his walk.
He hates it, this kind of danger. It makes his skin prickle with very real paranoia. It makes his fists clench when he remembers that he’s a twelve-year-old kid just under 4’9” and 75 pounds with asthma who can’t do anything to help the gal crying for someone to help.
Crying for the Devil.
But he won't come. Not while the sun is still up.
It makes Peter’s teeth sour.
Hell’s Kitchen is always dark, but the devil only cares after sundown.
Hell’s Kitchen during the day is a certain kind of danger, so all that rage blistering just beneath his skin makes Peter walk faster.
----
Fogwell’s Gym smells like stale sweat and old wood.
There aren't many people there. Just the regulars.
An old, skinny, white guy without much hair leans against the wall near the door to the back room while he watches the ring.
Inside the ropes are two boxers– both tall muscular guys. They seem to fight casually. Almost lazily.
Steady punches and dodges. Very few hit their mark.
Another boxer sits on a folding chair off to the side while he tapes his hands. He and the skinny one call out critiques and jabs towards the ring.
It stirs something warm in Peter’s chest. Like he’s interrupting something that he doesn't belong near.
Fogwell’s is a home for these people. A dangerous home, with blood on the mats and danger built into the walls, sure. But a home nonetheless.
Before Peter can work up the courage to step through the doorway –or leave, he hasn't quite decided which– the skinny one catches his eye.
They stare at each other unblinkingly for just a moment too long. Chair-guy notices old-guy’s silence and follows his gaze to Peter.
“Hey! Kid!”
His shout is firm and sharp, but it lacks any threat, so Peter slides his eyes over.
“Yo, what are you doing here? This place ain't for kids. Go do your homework.”
Peter clenches his jaw and squares his shoulders. He tilts his head just a bit, searching for the right thing to say to make these guys understand that he needs to be here.
Whatever he does, something must work because the old guy pushes away from the wall where he was leaning and holds up a hand towards chair-guy.
“You. Shortstack. Come here.”
His voice is firm and demanding. Nothing like the well-humored jabs of before.
The boxers in the ring stop their movements and swivel to look Peter up and down.
“Rudy, what are you-”
He gets cut off by the old guy– Rudy– waving him off.
Peter shifts his hands down to his sides and levels his shoulders, trying to make his body feel dangerous the same way he’s seen Jessica Jones do on YouTube.
He walks further into the space and past the ring to where Rudy is watching him intently. The silence feels heavy and meaningful, but Peter can't seem to make himself regret coming here.
Rudy looks him up and down appraisingly. He breaks the silence with a gruff voice, still firm but devoid of the depth it held before.
“What do you want here, kid? You don’t exactly look like a boxer.”
Peter lifts his chin and shifts his shoulders in a weak attempt to make himself look bigger. He hears a soft huff of amusement behind him somewhere, probably from chair-guy.
“I need to learn how to fight.”
Peter can't help but be proud that his voice never wavers. He sounds every one of his twelve years old, but at least he doesn't sound scared.
Indignance bubbles up in his gut when three voices mutter their disbelief and dismissals from behind him, but Rudy continues to stare him down, as if searching for something.
“Kid like you? Covered in bruises and cuts with clothes too big and torn? There are plenty of ways for you to learn to fight. Plenty of easier ways to stay alive than this godforsaken sport. Why boxing?”
Peter settles his chest and smooths his face, glad that someone is hearing him out before kicking him to the curb. Boxer guys one and two are less easily convinced.
“Rudy, I mean you can’t be serious…”
“Man, he looks about ten-”
Rudy doesn't take his eyes off of Peter’s face, still evaluating and searching.
“‘Sides, you're from Queens. I can hear it in your voice. I know ten boxing joints closer to you. Why’d you come all the way to the Kitchen?”
He seems to be searching for a connection. Something specific in his eyes.
And Peter-
Peter doesn't have an answer to that one.
Doesn't know how to tell this guy that his dead parents lived in an apartment just across the street.
Doesn't know how to explain that if the Devil had come a little sooner, maybe they wouldn't have had to go.
Doesn't know how to say that his mom fought here before Shield, and promised to get him lessons on his tenth birthday.
Doesn't know how to explain that she didn't make it that long.
So he says nothing.
And Rudy doesn't push.
Whatever he had been looking for, he can’t seem to find it. Shaking his head, he snaps back to reality. “Sorry kid, no luck here. You’re too young and too damn small.”
Peter can't help but bristle at that, and Rudy seems to notice.
“If you wanna fight, you go on ahead. But do it far away from here. Find a place closer to you. We don't got no teachers here. This gym is for fights, not for learning how.”
Peter wants to argue, but Rudy’s eyes are steely and determined. Peter knows how to pick his battles. He will come back. He will try again. But not right now.
“Fine then. I'll see you ‘round, I guess.”
Peter turns on his heel and walks back towards the doors.
“I sure fuckin’ hope not,” he hears one of the boxers say as the door swings shut.
And he’s left alone on the pavement. Back in the shadows and the danger. So he sets his fists low and his hips level ( danger ), stalking into the streets to find some old tech bits and make something new.
---
If Hell’s Kitchen is danger in the daylight shadows and the gray air and the twisted concrete, Queens is danger in the flickering street lamps and the unanswered screams for help and the clanging fire escapes above alleys.
For everything that Hell’s Kitchen is in sin and fire and hatred, Queens is in cruelty and ice and steel.
The Kitchen is rage, burning like the pits of hell.
Queens is impassive, cold and uncaring in the face of suffering.
The Kitchen screams dangerous and run and hide. The Kitchen is dark and shadows until you scream for the Devil and he is there.
Queens is the illusion of safety. Queens is culture and community and kind until you need help, and everyone keeps walking.
So Peter sits on his fire escape and listens to the cries and the gunshots and the running feet that weren't quite fast enough. To the sirens of cops arresting all the wrong people and ambulances that never get there on time and people who turn up the music in their headphones and walk faster.
He sits and he listens and his hands sting where his nails bite into his palms from clenching his fists too hard. He sits and he listens and he tells himself that he tried. That he did his best .
But it's not enough.
Because he tries to be safe. But he will never be safe in a city like this.
He tries to be kind. But the girl cornered in an alley a few streets over doesn't need someone kind, she needs someone angry.
He tries to be happy. But one day it’s going to be May or Ben or Ned on the other side of the gun that just went off, and he will never be happy then.
He tries so damn hard to be what they need him to be. But other people need him more.
Ben is at the precinct until 7am. May has a 24-hour shift at Metro General.
And Peter grabs his red hoodie and turns towards Hell’s Kitchen.
Because Queens needs someone to fight for them. Needs someone to care.
And Peter will be damned if it isn't him.
---
July
The asshole looming over him is at least 6’0” and 250lbs. Peter barely reaches his shoulder. Of course, he hasn't been able to check seeing as he has been firmly on the alley floor for the majority of their interaction.
He has been going out at night for nearly three months, and he is lucky to be alive. That being said, his standards for what alive means are exceedingly low.
His excuse of having fallen down the stairs is wearing thin. It still covers the leg that seems never to be intact because his bones have always healed slowly, but the bruises, cuts, ribs and concussions only seem to be piling up.
Luckily, school is out and rent went up again, so he spends almost all of his time at home alone. Babysitters have never gone well, and even if they didn’t send Peter into an immediate panic, the Parkers’ wouldn’t be able to afford them.
In the short time that May and Ben spend at home, Peter gets away with making excuses about going to Ned’s house. He overhears them one night as he’s climbing back in from the fire escape. Ben is making a joke about how much of a teenager he is becoming. Peter can’t help the pang in his chest at their ignorance. Although that could have been the crowbar.
Unfortunately, school is starting up again soon, and he won’t be able to get away with a fresh set of handprint-shaped bruises every day when there are counselors and teachers roaming the halls.
Even if that weren’t a problem, Peter is running out of rope when it comes to major injuries. He has never healed fast, and it’s getting harder and harder for him to stand, not to mention punch muggers.
All of which, bring him back to the mugger looming over him. Peter usually tries to avoid the ones who look experienced if he can help it. He prefers to go after the scared kids who will rough him up pretty good but let their mark go. But when he heard the terrified voice of some kid not much older than himself, he couldn't bear to walk away.
He hasn't quite decided if that was the right call or not. On one hand, the kid got away without a bullet hole or a knife wound, but one the other, Peter will not be moving any time soon. Plus, the gun is still loaded and pointed squarely at him.
As he stares down the barrel, Peter wonders what May and Ben will do when they hear. He knows they’ll be devastated, he really does. He knows they love him. But would it really be so bad to have one less mouth to feed? Maybe May would actually sleep for once. Ned would be heartbroken though. Poor Ned, who wouldn’t know grief if it stood six inches in front of him.
Bang.
A lot of things happen, all at the same time.
The gun goes off.
A dark figure barrels into the mugger and tackles him to the ground.
There’s a lot of shouting near the mouth of the alley.
Peter isn’t dead.
Huh.
Wild.
He takes the chance to lever himself up off the ground and drag himself a few feet back to lean against the brick wall of some office building.
Damn his ribs hurt. Definitely a few broken. His thick framed glasses are shattered on the ground nearby, but he can still make out the flashing red and blue of a cop car.
Cops do not bode well for Peter. Well, they don't bode well for anyone, really, but especially not a kid vigilante.
Peter reaches up to tug the hood of his too-big red sweatshirt over his face and ow, do not raise arms.
A figure crouches down just in front of him and Peter can tell that it’s the cop because he sounds suspiciously familiar.
“Hey there, bud. My name is Officer Davis. Are you alright? Didn’t get hit, did ya?”
Ah. Yes. Of course. Officer Davis. Ben’s partner. It would be.
Peter shakes his head ( ow ) and clambors to his feet with the help of a nearby dumpster.
Officer Davis makes to help him, but Peter jerks back. Even as dark as it is and as beat up as his face is, Officer Davis has known Peter for years, so his face being seen is a major no. Especially if Ben is anywhere near.
As soon as Peter has that thought, his uncle’s gruff “cop voice” is audible behind Davis. There’s a scuffle going on between him and mugger-guy who in the process of being handcuffed. Davis heads over to give him and hand, and Peter limps out of the alley as fast as he can.
As he heads for home, which luckily isn’t too far away, Peter starts to realize that the bullet didn't miss by much after all. There's a deep score along the edge of his upper left arm where he was grazed. The more he thinks about it, the more agonizing the searing pain becomes. He’s incredibly lucky that it didn’t kill him, but he has always been a crap sewer, so these stitches are going to be messy.
---
He can’t go out on the streets like this. Not again. At least not yet. He is angry as hell, but he is angry as hell with asthma, a bullet wound, and no idea how to throw a punch.
But he has access to an empty gym (and YouTube).
So when he hears a kid scream for help behind him and he keeps walking he thinks,
Soon.
Soon.
---
August
Matt doesn’t go to Fogwells often. He doesn't really need the training, and he works out plenty every night that he goes out.
Fowellls feels too much like dad and like Battlin’ Jack and like hey there Matty for him.
Fogwells is full of used to be ’s and not anymore ’s and if you were here ’s.
But sometimes he needs to.
Sometimes he needs to feel like an innocent ten year old kid again. Sometimes he needs Rudy to slap him on the shoulder and tell him he looks just like his old man.
Sometimes he needs his knuckles to bruise on bags and mats instead of ribs and teeth.
So, he goes back.
Right now, he needs to go back.
It’s been three days since Foggy found out about his… nightlife.
He hasn't texted.
Hasn't called.
Hasn’t even tried to talk.
Matt is going insane.
He’s walking on broken glass and pouring salt into wounds he thought he stitched up a long time ago.
He can’t even take it out on human traffickers or drug rings because he knows that Foggy is watching.
He can’t be too violent.
He can't let his control slip.
If he does, Foggy might really be gone.
So he goes to Fogwells.
He doesn’t come often when there are other boxers there. It’s a bit too hard to explain why a blind man can punch the way he does.
Some of the regulars get it. Frankie and Leroy knew his dad and used to hang around with him while Jack was training.
All of the new kids, though. Matt avoids them.
Rudy tells him to come by Sunday night. Says the place’ll be near empty.
When he steps onto the familiar concrete floor, his senses flood with the closest thing to home he’s got.
The air is dusty and the rafters have an old dry quality to them.
He can hear Rudy swearing under his breath from the corner where he can’t get a chair to fold up.
Leroy is here too. He’s been boxing.
The air around him is heavy and humid. He’s just barely out of breath as he peels the tape away from his knuckles.
Leroy spots him first.
“Well I’ll be damned. If it ain’t little Matty Murdock himself.”
Matt half-smiles in the direction of the voice. Leroy sounds warm and pleasantly surprised to see him.
Rudy glances up from his struggle and looks him up and down.
“Ya look like shit, Matty.”
Leroy laughs and Matt chuckles along. Rudy has never been one for subtlety.
“S’nice to see you too Rudy. Been a second.”
Rudy huffs at that but abandons his rusted chair to come clap Matt on the shoulder.
“You’re damn right it has. You never come and see me anymore. I’m old, Matty. Real old. It’s makin’ me soft, kid. I miss you.”
Leroy chortles a little at that, as if the idea of Rudy going soft is preposterous.
“Listen, before we clear out, I wanna talk to you about something real quick.”
Matt cocks his head curiously. Rudy sounds earnest with just a hint of hesitance, and Matt leans into the curiosity.
“There was a kid here last week. Looked about ten. And I’m pretty sure you ain't got kids Matty, but I swear he looked just like you when you came marchin’ through that door with your daddy. I swear I damn near had a heart attack.”
Leroy looks up from where he’s packing his bag and hums in agreement.
Matt is interested, but he doesn’t know any kids, and ten years ago he was a kid himself so it clearly isn't his.
“Hmm. Well I guess you just attract ‘em, Rudy. Sure as hell wasn't mine, though. ‘Sides, brown hair and brown eyes aren't exactly a rarity.”
Rudy frowns a bit like Matt isn’t getting it.
“No, that ain’t what I meant. I mean, yeah, he sorta looked like you with the brown curls and baby face, but that’s not what I’m saying...”
Leroy starts to look interested now, like he isn’t quite sure what Rudy is trying to get at, either.
Matt gestures for him to continue.
“He walked like you and your daddy, Matt. Just like you before you smartened up. It was like he had devils, but didn’t know how to use ‘em. Tried to walk all dangerous like your daddy used to, but didn't quite get it right.”
Matt tenses minutely at that.
Hands at your sides.
Ten-year-old kids aren't supposed to have devils.
Fists clenched.
They aren't supposed to know how to make themselves dangerous.
Hips heavy.
The last ten-year-old in this gym was Matt.
Shoulders level.
Matt, who was so full of anger and frustration and hurt.
Danger.
No kid should ever be Matt.
“I don’t know, maybe I’m goin’ insane. Figured I’d let you know, just in case. Thought maybe you knew him.”
Matt’s frown deepens a bit, and he hmm ’s, considering.
“I don’t know any kids, Rudy. Nostalgia is getting the better of you.”
Rudy huffs in irritation, returning to his gruff persona.
“We’ll get outta here then. I’m trustin’ you to lock up when you finish. Fogwell may be too damn old to get outta bed, but we both know he’d beat my ass if I let anything happen to this place.”
Matt forces himself to breathe out a chuckle and say his goodbyes to the boys as they pack up and head out for the night. Rudy shuts off the lights as he closes the door. He knows better than to waste the power.
He uncoils the snake in his chest.
The kid means nothing.
He’s just some kid.
Some idiot who wants to box for fun.
He doesn't have any devils.
Kids don't have devils.
Rudy just saw what he wanted to see.
He’s not like you. He doesn’t need help. He isn’t you.
Matt repeats it to himself over and over like a mantra in his head.
Leave it be.
But he can’t.
There never was a choice.
There’s a kid out there with devils.
A kid out there like eleven-year-old Matty.
And Matt…
Matt can’t let it go.
He can’t leave this kid to another Stick.
He can’t let this kid make his mistakes.
He can’t-
Clang.
There’s someone on the roof. A hummingbird heartbeat.
Young.
Matt can smell him.
He’s all brown sugar wool city air worn linen , though there is an undercurrent of iron and copper rancid bruises.
He is on the roof, headed towards the window.
But he’s also on the punching bag in the corner. And the mat folded up to the right.
He’s been coming here every night.
Now that Matt is looking for it, the brown sugar wool is all over. Three weeks worth of sweat and blood.
The kid is picking the padlock on the window.
Matt didn’t even know the windows had padlocks.
It takes him a moment. He must be new at this.
Matt stills in the dark and listens.
Not very new, apparently. The lock pops open with a click, and the kid is levering it open.
He clambors through the window. Gracelessly. His spindly body clatters to the concrete floor, luckily without much of a fall.
Rattling lungs and a grumbling stomach.
Hungry?
Asthma?
Out of breath?
Sick?
Matt is pretty sure that all of them are applicable.
He favors his right arm and his left leg. The sound of bones grinding in his ankle makes Matt’s teeth sting.
Nails clink against glass and his wrist pops as he pushes to his feet.
Glasses.
Thin bones.
Bruises and sprains and old breaks and new stitches.
This kid.
He still doesn’t seem to know that Matt is there. He shuffles towards the doorway to find the lights, careful not to trip.
Matt isn't sure how to alert the kid of his presence without seeming like a serial killer.
He gently clears his throat.
“Can I.. help you?”
The kid does not scream.
Not quite.
It’s more of a sharp intake and an eep noise.
His hummingbird heartbeat is closer to a jackhammer now.
“Um. No? I mean yes. I just… um. Who are you?”
The kid is nervous.
Scared too, in a sort of way.
He isn't scared like he should be.
His heart beats fast and his muscles are pulled taught, but there is no waver in his voice and his hands don’t shake.
Matt wanders over to where he knows the light box is wide open and heaves up the main lever.
A series of electrical clicks greet him, and the ceiling starts to hum.
The kid’s heartbeat is more even now.
“I’m Matt.”
The kid is a little less than halfway across the room now.
“Oh! You’re blind! That makes way more sense. The lights I mean. Here I just thought you were a creepy stranger sitting in the dark for no reason. I just- um. What are you doing here?”
The air all around the boy feels like carbonation and bright. Lemongrass and crabapple trees.
The corners of Matt’s mouth twitch upwards. He just witnessed the kid break into an empty gym and is now being interrogated.
“I could ask you the same thing, Mr…?”
The kid’s heartbeat picks up again. His face heats up like he’s blushing, and he swivels to look at the window and then back again.
“I’m Peter. And I’m really sorry for breaking in! Honest, I am. I just needed a place to train?”
Peter’s voice takes a sheepish tone.
Matt can tell that he isn't really all that sorry.
Sorry for breaking and entering? Sure. But not sorry enough to regret it.
“Well, Peter. It’s nice to meet you. What does a kid like you need from a place like this?”
The kid fidgets a bit before stilling completely.
“Needed ta’ get better at fighting.”
Matt doesn't like that answer. That's a burnt, acid, hurt answer.
“You seem sweet. And small. You don’t need to be out fighting. You oughtta be lettin yourself heal while you stay in bed.”
Peter laughs. It’s not a nice laugh. Too gritty and forced and mean.
“I've been healing. Three torturously long weeks full’a healing. Healing’s goin great,” he jokes, though it seems guarded.
“You seemed to have missed the bed part,” Matt comments dryly. “You pickin’ fights or getting picked on?”
Peter hums noncommittal for a moment before answering.
“Neither, sir. Just finishing ‘em. Helping some folks out.”
Matt knows what that means. He knows that walk.
He isn’t kidding around anymore. This kid sounds half-dead.
“Who do you think you are? You aren’t the Devil. You sure as hell aren't an Avenger. You’ve got no backup, no training, no muscle, and no chance of survival,” he bites out harshly.
Instead of backing off, Peter lights up with anger and flame.
“I’ve got a hoodie and empathy for people who live below the poverty line and outside the kitchen. That’s more than they can say. That’s enough for the girl whose would-be-rapist is a little less brave. It’s enough for the kid whose bullet I took.”
Matt’s ribs ache and his head hurts.
“You shouldn’t be in this life, kid,” he says softly.
Peter is still now.
He hasn't been this still since he got to the roof.
All his crabapple fizz feels more like singed edges liquid smoke .
His voice goes a little rough and the space feels a bit emptier.
“I live in Queens, Matt.” He tests the name on his tongue like a new flavor.
“I live in the real bad part of Queens. I should prob’ly be dead six times over by now.”
The sentiment makes Matt’s jaw click tighter and his scarred knuckles itch. Kids aren't supposed to say shit like that. They aren't supposed to know shit like that.
Peter doesn't seem to notice.
He says it with a forced casualty. Like he knows it’s not okay, but he has to pretend it is because what else can he do.
“I’m small an’ I got issues an’ I got no clue how to fight someone three times my size, but I'm getting tired of taking beatings, Matt. You get that?”
Yeah.
Matt gets that.
Matt has gotten that since he was eleven and didn’t have a dad to protect him.
There's a bitter in his voice and an anger under his skin that speaks of growing demons and itching scars.
He must have been quiet for a moment too long because Peter cuts through the silence once again.
“I thought maybe one of the fighters would teach me, but Fogwell wasn’t here and the others said I was too young. They didn't get it.”
Matt knows.
They never get it.
They fight because it's in their bones and what they love.
They don't fight ‘cause they have to.
Matt has so many questions for this kid.
Why do his ribs sound like old bruising? How does he know who Fogwell is? Who gave him devils?
But Peter just pushes onwards, either uncaring of or oblivious to Matt’s floundering.
“I've been teaching myself. Using the internet and the equipment. But my tech is shot and I can only build so many StarkPhone frankensteins with trash. At this point I’m thinking learning from experience might be my best bet..”
The liquid smoke is dimmer and the lemongrass is coming back.
Peter laughs like it’s a funny joke, but Matt can tell that he means it. This kid is going to get himself killed just to learn.
Matt should walk away.
He doesn't owe this kid anything.
He should walk away.
Let it be.
He can’t drag Peter down into his crusade of blood and fire and devils.
He can’t become Stick.
But then, there never really was a choice, was there?
“I could teach you,” Matt hears himself say into the dusty air.
His voice is soft, but there’s no hesitation there.
He can hear a quick intake of breath as Peter snaps his head up to look at him.
There’s no disbelief.
No laughter at a blind man boxing.
The gym is quiet for a long time.
Matt can feel young eyes on his face, and small fingers twitching by his sides, and eyes folded at their corners with some horrible understanding.
But Peter never says any of that.
He just says,
“Okay.”