He woke up to the sound of his name just in time for his body to lift itself up toward the toilet before it heaved, emptying bile from his stomach as a wave of pain swept through everything. He gagged again, his stomach roiling and a pitiful whimper escaped his throat. This sucked.

At least his toilet was clean enough he wasn't completely disgusted by resting against the cold porcelain. When he was young, maybe eight or ten, she'd forced him to clean the enteral bathroom that only he used. It had been a disgusting experience and he'd been diligent about cleaning his bathroom and aim since. But it had been a few days since the last clean... the mess was mostly blood and spit though. It could be worse, at least he didn't have to stare at a piss stain while he heaved.

"What in the bloody fuck?"

He flinched, his hand stuttering in its reach for the toilet paper to grab something to wipe his mouth with. He glanced over his shoulder as dread settled heavily in his stomach.

No, why was he here?

Wade's eyes were wide with confusion and ever-growing concern as they jumped around the bathroom. It was a crime scene in there. He hadn't had the chance to clean anything... given the pain of having a hole turned into his hip among other ailments he was dealing with. He was lucky he had the energy to be here.

Eventually, those blue eyes landed on him and took him in. He was sure he looked like shit. That was a given. But aside from feeling awful, he wasn't in a position to be seen. He had been burning with fever and the heat of his wound. He'd shed his pants almost instantly after putting them on and his shirt during the start of his fretful resting. He was buck ass naked sitting in a bathroom that looked like a murder scene while throwing his guts up. Amazing.

Wade was staring. Hard. His eyes did a quick rake over Peter's form before he was overtaken by nausea and turned away to dry heave. When he looked back, Wade was staring at the weeping wound on his hip.

"I need to bring you to a hospital," Wade said firmly, kneeling down, staring at the undressed wound. Peter was letting it dry out some, hoping that he'd get a break from the pain so he could wash himself up again and get rid of the tape residue, but no such luck. He'd been on that floor for five hours now.

"Please leave," he begged.

"What happened?" Wade demanded, ignoring his pleas. And in all fairness, he'd ignore them too if he were on the outside, but he wasn't.

"Nothing, I'm fine."

Wade froze to stare at him, eyes taking on an icy sharpness that he'd never seen before. It was like a switch had been flipped, patience had evaporated, and he was faced with cruel observation.  "Say that again. I dare you."

"That I'm fine?" He asked weakly, his voice quivering. He just wanted to pass
Out and for this to all be over with.

"Yeah. Look me in the eye and tell. Me you feel great. I should go home." Wade scowled at him, seemingly disgusted "Shut the hell up Peter. Explain what happened. That's the only thing I'm going to listen to because clearly, you're not in a state to reason." He pulled away and looked around Peter's bathroom, taking a look at his dwindling medical supplies. "Holy fucking shit Peter. What the hell?" He ran about hands over his head, the sound of stubble catching on his hands and grabbing Peter's attention.

Wade had hair growing in.

 He frowned slightly and looked down, eyes stopping when she noticed the greasy brown bag in Wade's hand. The man's words and Peter's own concerns melted away for a moment as he stared.

"Is that Five Guys?" He asked quietly. It smelled like Five Guys. Fuck, was he in too much pain to eat? There was always room for Five Guys, right? Yeah, he could eat. For sure, the body needed food to heal, right? The way his stomach rolled when he sat up slightly suggested that his body was perhaps not on board with his mind. But Five Guys.

When Wade didn't answer him he turned his gaze upward and wasn't sure what to make of the flip flop his stomach did when he was met with an untelling expression from the man above him. He was suddenly reminded he was naked and he looked down, curling in on himself a little, humiliation creeping back into focus along with the pain of his burn.

"Peter what the fuck happened?" Wade asked, waving his arms around as much as the bag of food would allow without jostling it too much. He needed an expressive outlet but there weren't many options that didn't require anger and Wade seemed quite keen on maintaining his composure thus far. Peter wasn't sure how far those wishes would carry though. 

"I got in the way at the wrong time. My healing factor is on it, you don't need to worry about it."

"No!" Wade snapped and Peter flinched, eerily aware of his exposed position. Still, he knew he wasn't in danger. He was just humiliated. The man looked away, took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds before releasing it slowly. "Peter, you are not me. You don't heal immediately, this is not okay. You are not okay." 

"Of course I'm okay." He argued, throat tightening against his will as he spoke. "I'll be fine." He didn't feel like he'd fine.  Actually, he felt very alone, very angry with himself, and upset with himself. With life. With Spider-Man. With Peter. 

Wade wiped tears away with his sleeve, disguising the motion by turning his head and tucking his eyes into the elbow of his sleeve. "You're not okay." He said, voice cracking. 

He stared at him, guilt crawling up his throat like a beast he couldn't contain. "Why are you upset?" Wade had no business being upset, he wasn't in pain, Peter would live, it would all be fine and dandy given a week or two. 

"I don't want to see you like this."

He sucked in a sharp breath. He could feel his heart breaking apart and he couldn't reason why.

"Then you shouldn't have come," he croaked. 

Wade shook his head and knelt down. "I'm glad I came. I just don't want to see you struggling."

Peter barked out a sour laugh. When was he not struggling? If he wasn't struggling physically with hero bull shit he was struggling financially, emotionally, mentally. "If you didn't want to deal with someone who's struggling, then you should have never spoken to me. That's all I am Wade. I'm a struggling mess." He found himself glaring, anger beginning to replace his shame.

"That isn't what I meant," the man said softly. "I just wish you knew that it's okay to hurt. You don't need to hold everything up on your own, you're allowed to not be okay. I want to help you because life is fucking impossible without someone else there."

"You seem to be doing fine, " he said sourly.

It was Wade's turn to laugh. "No, no I was bat shit crazy eight months before we met. I was schizophrenic, I was even when I met. There are cumulative years of my life that I don't really know if what I saw was real. I was alone and I didn't get help. I had voices that tormented me for years, and they've only just been silenced. I have killed myself more times than I can count because it was the only way I could get my brain to stop tormenting itself." He sight loudly and let his whole weight settle on the floor, resting the bag on a clean spot that wasn't blood stained. "My home just kind of looked like this all of the time. I was struggling." He waved around at Peter's bloody bathroom. "I needed help, and I was lucky enough to stumble upon it. I was scared of it at first, but look at where It got me. I'm having a conversation with a man I know if real. I know your pain is real, there aren't voices in my head whispering disgusting things, and I know that I can control my actions right here, right now. And I want to help you."

Peter stared up at him, taking in all of Wade's words, processing what the man was saying. He didn't know the man or his story but he could sense his intentions. And Wade had been expressing them since the day they'd met. He was trying to reach out to have someone in his life, a friend. And Peter was just . . . a burden.

Before he could say anything in response, his stomach growled. Loudly. Louder than he thought he'd ever heard and it didn't stop. It just kept going, maybe for a solid seven seconds. Long enough that he averted his gave and had the time to press his lips together in anguish. Why? Why now?

There was a beat of silence once his stomach was finished, and then Wade snorted. 

"Have you eaten anything?"

"Not in a day at least," he muttered.

"Should we resume this conversation after you have something to eat?"

"Maybe."

"Will you throw up?"

"I don't know."