It's Saturday morning, but it might as well be a Monday, Peter thinks, because halfway through a bowl of oatmeal at the kitchen island, Tony and May walk in together. May's giving a sheepish smile, but Tony has his arms crossed against his chest.

As if things could get any worse than they were last weekend at States.

"What?" Peter asks, playing dumb even though he knows exactly what's up.

Support group.

The one he's supposed to be leaving for in less than an hour. Only he hasn't showered yet, spent the last hour watching cartoons with Morgan with the hope that Tony would forget.

But now May is here, and he's feeling a little stupid for assuming it would be any different.

He takes another spoonful because he needs to cover the insulin he's just taken with carbs and mentally prepares himself for another lecture.

It's always another lecture.

Change your lancet. Use an alcohol swab. Pre-bolus. Make sure you have everything before you leave the house. Charge your phone. Listen to your body. Plan ahead for that test before lunch so that you don't go low. Make sure you're at least 160 before exercise. And, most recently, we need to get your A1C down.

Blah blah blah.

Even with his lows, his A1C, which measures the average of his blood sugar levels over the past three months, is 9.5. That means he's spending too much time in the mid-200s. It tends to get high at night, after dinner, and stay there.

"Ideally, it should be seven or lower," Bruce had explained in Peter's appointment this week. "I know we're only a couple of months in, but if we don't get this under control, especially with your Spidey metabolism–"

"I know, I know. Blindness, loss of limbs. You don't have to keep reminding me," Peter had mumbled.

It's not so much that Peter doesn't want to face reality; it's that he doesn't know how. Not when this is still brand new and these complications won't happen for years to come even if things continue to stay the same.

Some days, this doesn't feel real. He wakes up and has that split second of bliss before he remembers.

Right now, though, it's a little too real.

Peter cuts the tension in the room with some sarcasm and a small laugh. "This feels a lot like an intervention."

Tony's jaw is set, but instead of angry, he looks sincerely concerned. "Deflecting with humor doesn't magically make this all disappear, kiddo. We need to start dealing with this."

Peter huffs, incredulous. "Worse? How could this possibly get any worse?! I'm superhuman, yet my immune system went haywire and attacked my own body! I was in a coma for two days only to wake up and find that I'm stuck with an incurable disease forever! I prick my fingers and inject myself with insulin and rely on devices to keep me alive 24/7! My life is a numbers game now! The carbs in a banana, what Dexcom says my blood sugar is, the micro units I bolus, my A1C! Over and over and over with no breaks! And then," he yells, tears pricking his eyes, "everyone is on me about how I'm...how I'm handling this, or not handling this, and so I finally admit that this is hard, and your answer is that I have to go talk to strangers about everything! How could this possibly get any worse, Tony?!"

He wants so much for May to open her arms up and wrap them around him, shield him from the pain that he can't even begin to describe. The pain that he pushes down every time it comes screaming to the surface when he loses another thing because of this stupid disease. But she doesn't, and Peter is afraid that if he lifts his eyes to meet hers, he might never stop crying.

"We just felt like the support group could be a positive thing for you," May coos. "You've been shutting everyone around you out to protect us, but we know, Peter. We know you're not okay, and it's alright to admit that."

"I think I'm doing pretty damn well considering, but okay," Peter whispers, taking a big spoonful of oatmeal.

"Stop with the snarky comments," Tony replies. "And could you stop eating for a second and focus on the conversation at hand?"

"No, I can't, because I just bolused and I don't want to go low!" Peter throws back, shoving another spoonful into his mouth. "I'm not even hungry anymore," he complains mid-chew, "but I don't really have a choice. It's like this all of the time! I never have a choice anymore! Not that either of you know what that's like!"

He knows there's no truth in his words, that it's just a cheap ploy to hurt them. He scrapes the oatmeal stuck to the sides of the bowl off while he thinks.

"I just wish you could feel what I feel sometimes, because then maybe you'd understand!" He shakes his head and sighs, drops his spoon into the bowl with a clatter. "I should have never said anything in the first place!"

"No, baby," May soothes as she rounds the island.

Peter's first instinct is to back away, but then his lip trembles and his breaths are coming in short spurts. He leans right into her embrace and cries quietly. "It's important that you communicate with us. We're both really glad that you opened up."

"Really? Because I'm not!" he cries. "I admitted that this is hard because I had to get it out, and then you teamed up to force me into this!" There's anger in his words, in the way he's talking with his hands as the tears run down his face.

He wants to both run and be comforted, is so damn tired of everyone and everything all of a sudden.

"Peter, that's not what this is and you know it," Tony says softly, but the words still bite.

"I don't know anything anymore, honestly. I thought I did, but now..."

Tony sighs, lowers his voice. "If you want to attend Nationals–"

"What Nationals?!" Peter asks angrily. "Because of me, there is no Nationals for my team!"

Tony closes his eyes and exhales slowly.

May kisses him on the forehead. "Peter, baby, this is important. We both feel you really need this."

"I know, okay? I'm not stupid! I know I need help with the emotional stuff! I just don't think this is it!"

"Never said you were stupid, Pete. Maybe too smart for your own good," Tony says with a small chuckle, "but never stupid."

"We want to help you live the life you want with this baby, that's all," May offers.

"B-but I am living my life with this! I've been doing just fine! M-my grades are great, a-and I made the decathlon team, a-and things are good with the Avengers! I've proved all of that, so I don't know why I have to go and do this when I've done everything you asked! I'm doing the best that I can!"

"Of course you are, Peter," Tony affirms. "You've done an amazing job so far and we'd never let anyone tell you otherwise, but this is about more than that. You have to learn to balance the physical and mental components of this disease. If you don't, you'll burn out."

May chimes in with, "And even with the balancing act, you'll still have times when you burn out, but that's okay. It happens. This group is meant to give you some tools to work through those moments. You might even make some friends who do understand."

Peter lets out an aggravated groan, drops his arms at his sides and feels himself physically deflate. "I just...I don't want to have to live Plan B," he whispers. "I hate this so much!"

"Plan B?" May asked, confused.

Tony fills her in on the being a pilot with type one diabetes situation, or rather, the not being a pilot with type one, while Peter stares at the floor.

"Peter, why didn't you tell me?" May asks, sadness in her voice.

"I t-thought you knew and didn't want me to know!" he says, sniffling. "I thought you were keeping it from me because you didn't want me to think there are things I can't do now, but there are things I can't do a-and everyone keeps telling me they don't exist but they do, a-and–"

"I promise that I had no idea," May says. "Oh, baby, I wish you had come to me. I know how much you wanted that."

"I didn't want you to think that I was depressed!" he yells out. "I'm okay! I promise! I don't need to go to a therapist or a support group to prove that to you guys!"

"Do you trust us?" Tony asks.

"Trust you? After you corner me in the kitchen and force me to go and tell strangers how I feel about all of this? Are you serious?!"

Tony's eyes meet Peter's. "Do you trust us to do what's best for you?"

Peter huffs. "You think that sending me to a support group is the best thing you could possibly do for me right now?"

"You'll understand after the first meeting," May explains. "I know you, Peter. Better than I know myself. Please trust me on this? Trust Tony on this? We might not get it, not yet at least, but the people there will."

Peter's not sure why, but even though Nationals is no longer on the table, and even though there's technically no more ultimatum, he places his bowl in the dishwasher and trudges off to take a quick shower.

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