definitive feelings
your eyebrows raise as peter walks back over to you, hands innocently behind his back.
you’re really trying your best not to laugh.
as soon as he’s within a foot’s distance from you, he hangs his head, eyes peeking up to look at you.
“what’d i say?” you ask him, smiling smugly.
“don’t rub it in."
you tilt your head up. "i said ‘peter, unless you’re looking for flash to give you a broken nose, you should stay over here.” you giggle, adoring his sheepish expression. “and look at you now."
his head lifts up, giving you a better look at his swollen cheek.
this, much to peter’s dismay, only makes you smile wider.
"my nose isn’t broken,” his hand moves to cradle his cheek, wincing at the growing ache in his face.
you keep smiling, waiting for him to pay attention again.
he puffs out a long sigh, rolling his eyes at you.
“out of common courtesy,” you take a step forward, bending your knees to look at his face from a different angle. “i’m only going to say it once-"
"there’s no stopping you is there?"
"peter parker, i told you so,” you nod your head with the words, gesturing with your hands. “and luckily enough for you–because i’m a good friend,” teasing the words out of your mouth, you move to grab something out of your backpack.
“the absolute best,” peter says, sarcastically, following after you, and trying to hide his returning smile.
“here’s some ibuprofen,” you say, handing him a bottle. you turn back to look at him, mouth smirking, but eyes suddenly serious. “you alright?"
peter takes the bottle thankfully, muttering praises of you as he screws off the cap. "i’ll live,” he promises, setting his bag, his skateboard, and his dignity onto the ground.
“yeah? still remember your name?"
his eyes flick to yours, warm amused brown–your favorite color on him. "no,” he deadpans, mouth serious.
you smile back at him. “oh good, that makes ending this friendship so much easier."
peters mouth quirks, he hands you back the bottle. "what would i ever do without you?” his hand clutches at his heart, mocking you with all his sincerity.
“you joke but that’s a genuine concern of mine."
you watch as peter swallows the pills, quickly observing the careful lines of his face. you check for any other abnormalities–besides the obvious bruise forming directly on his cheek–and smile, satisfied, when you see none.
"good?” you ask when his expression matches yours again.
peter nods, pushing his glasses up and looking behind you–probably checking to make sure flash was actually gone.
you bend down and pick up his bag and his skateboard, leaving the dignity behind.
“c'mon, my adoring knight in shining armor,” you say, handing his things to him. “let’s go get you some ice."
*
“hey, it’s peter i’m-” you pressed a button and his voice was gone.
breathing out, you felt the irritation crawl up your skin at a consistent pace. this was the third time you’d gotten voicemail immediately, the fifth time you’d tried calling him, and the first day he’d missed class without telling you.
you called for the sixth time, rolling your eyes at his voicemail.
“peter parker, if you don’t answer i’m going to tell may how to get into your room when you’re not home. it will be fatal. call me.”
he didn’t always answer, you knew, but he always called back.
which, you also knew, didn’t necessarily excuse your feet pounding against familiar pavement. nor the anxiety making its way up to your throat.
you didn’t know what was making you this anxious, why this situation, in particular, was driving you forward, why your patience had reached the highest bar before impatience came in swinging, knocking rationality out with a steady blow.
peter was fine. you knew that.
he was oblivious and reckless, but he was always fine.
still, you were walking towards his house with a cautious gaze. something about this was wrong, no matter how normal it all seemed.
you pressed call again, no longer hesitant. usually, you didn’t let it ring long enough to get his voicemail.
but now, it didn’t ring at all.
“hey it’s pe-” you hung up, sighed, contemplated turning around and revoking his title of “best friend.”
you kept walking.
“hey-” his voice was not a relief to you, only a warning sign, pushing you across the pavement.
three blocks until you got there, you counted down the street signs, ignored the people passing you, tried to ignore everything. there was a poison tainting your skin, a sinking feeling bringing the rest of you down.
you pocketed your phone, walking only a little bit faster. peter would probably laugh when you explained what you were doing. when you yelled at him for turning his phone off.
he would probably turn up at school tomorrow with his sardonic comments, laughing again when you attempted to ignore him.
he was fine, you thought, unconscious of the skin you were chewing off your lip.
though, as soon as you turned the last corner to his street, you noticed the cars. dozens of them, parked close to the parker’s house, looking similar to a parking lot.
you slowed your pace, willed yourself for whatever was to come. there might have been a party going on, you thought. there were plenty of explanations.
you walked forward, turning your gaze to his house, which looked the same. looked just as familiar as it did the other day.
you waited a moment in front of the house next to it, for something, for your phone to buzz.
and when it didn’t, and you waited just a moment too long, you walked forward.
immediately, you saw the problem.
glass, on the ground. the door was void, bare of its usual glass plane, instead, surrounded by shards, surrounded by broken anger, unknown to you.
your breath slowed, along with the rest of your body.
you kept walking, up the steps, count them, past the porch, breathe in and out. ignore the door, you thought, just knock.
and so you did, only having to wait a moment before you saw the blue clothes, the yellow badge, the flashing lights from a night ago.
may came to the door, face softening as soon as she saw you.
and you knew.
“may,” you whispered, stepping forward once more when she opened the door. the glass shards were sharp, even when you weren’t touching them. you looked to her, feeling frightened again. “wheres peter?”
suddenly, you saw your feelings, reflected on her face. you saw a pain, unknown to you, hidden beneath her eyes.
you both swallowed down the worry at the same time, shut the door on anxiety as soon as moved her eyes towards you again.
“honey,” she whispered.
and then she pulled you in. your phone was silent.
*
a building migraine kept your eyes faced towards the tile floor.
you wanted to look up, begged for that familiar sound of squeaking wheels, wished to return to a past that was only three days ago.
you weren’t expecting peter to show up at school. he hadn’t yesterday, he wouldn’t today.
still, the worry piled up in a stack of questions that would remain unanswered. questions that only increased with each passing hour you didn’t see peter. with each moment you didn’t get to apologize for the pain, for the unimaginable grief you knew he was going through.
you just didn’t want him to be alone. you wanted his recklessness to cease until you could get a chance to be there for him.
but your eyes stay toward the floor, and all the voices pass right through you.
your pain must be different.
it’s not until you feel a familiar breath of air pass your cheek, a sneaker-clad foot nudging yours, that your eyes even dare to move.
your neck snaps up, your eyes meeting desperation in an instant.
“peter,” you breathe, shocked and relieved. you feel a sharp prick of pain as you note the blue on his cheek, the void in his eyes.
you take a step away from him, trying to breathe in the air between the two of you. his eyes are focused, looking for something on your face that clearly isnt there.
you swallow your thoughts, try to put anything but concern on your face. “ben,” you blurt out, then wince. “i’m so sorry, peter, i-” your eyes drift down.
you don’t need to look at him. his face is an unwelcome distraction while you try to collect your thoughts. a migraine is building and grief is a five-step process.
“are you okay?” you whisper, looking up again to his tilted head, his quiet mouth.
his eyes flicker up, a break in the composure you’ve only just noticed now. he stays silent, his mouth bolted shut with nails he carefully placed.
“peter?” you ask, leaning down only slightly so you can catch his eyes again, look for a conclusion.
it only takes a moment before he reaches out towards you, hands gripping your shoulders, and then your sides, looking for something and hoping to find it in your arms.
he pulls you into a hug so tight your lungs have almost collapsed, his hands are digging into your skin, breaking the tiniest layer with his nails.
you can’t move.
you feel his warmth, smell his familiarity. you can taste the desperation coming off of him in the air, the need for comfort. you can tell, just from how tightly he’s holding you.
he mumbles something into your shoulder, voice tight with exasperation.
and then he lets go. moving away from you, hands shaking at his sides.
you see something different in his face, you watch his eyes flash as he looks at you.
he steps three steps back, looks down at the ground.
"not today."
and then he walks away.
you’ve got a headache.
*
three days later you’ve become a master at patience. or rather, the opposite.
you haven’t tried calling him since the day you showed up at his house. haven’t gone back there, haven’t even contemplated how to reach out to him.
you called may once, just to see how she was doing. just to see if peter was okay.
though, you never did end up asking her. you’re sure she knew anyway.
he wasn’t at school yesterday, or the day before.
and now you’re standing by your locker, watching him.
so, yes, patience and you are familiar. and yes, it’s a painful relationship.
you want to go over to him, want to pretend everything is normal. but you know–you know–that it isnt, that you’re not a child anymore and you can’t just deny reality.
and you’re just thinking about possible ways to introduce conversation back into your lives before you notice peter begin to lean away from his locker, collecting a bunch of things he definitely didn’t grab.
quite simply, barely a moment passes before you’re rushing to catch him.
"peter!” you whisper-yell, trying not to trip and push yourself into human bodies, trying to move as fast as you possibly can.
you can’t lose him again.
“peter parker!” you say again, only slightly louder, ignoring the strange eyes that look your way.
he must not hear you because he doesn’t turn around.
luckily, you’ve always been good at avoiding crowds. only another second passes by before you’re close enough to reach out and touch his shoulder.
you’re expecting curious eyes, a morbid gaze, bored expression–mostly anything from him. what you’re not expecting is the way he flinches back from your hand, as if you’ve burned his skin raw.
your brow furrows as you move back, trying to give him space, trying not to burn him again.
the crowd of students has granted the two of you enough grace to allow you both to stop. two still people among all the motion.
you try to smile.
“hey,” you say, moving so that the two of you are shoulder to shoulder, but never letting your eyes leave his face.
“hi,” he swallows, beginning to walk, knowing that you’ll move with him.
the tension in the air is palpable. you don’t know how to remove it, how to erase the overbearing weight that seems to rest on the foundation of your friendship. how to breathe when peter looks so different from before.
just a week earlier. you can’t quite point out what’s changed, but it’s clear enough–it’s painfully obvious–that something has.
“wheres your skateboard?” you ask, letting your confusion rest on something else.
peter looks down at his hands as if he’s just noticed it missing.
and then he looks back up to you, eyes wide for only a moment.
“oh, uh,” he pauses, averts his gaze. “it broke."
"broke?"
peter nods his head purposefully, slowly. "uh-huh."
"how?” you ask. you don’t notice that peter is leading you out of the school until you’re near the front doors.
he pauses in front of the entryway. the halls are finally starting to clear out, a final countdown from the bell approaching.
peter smiles at you, a small one, and tilts his head, looking to the side comically.
he’s not going to answer then.
you move on. “are you staying all day?"
"what do you mean?"
questions pound in your head but you smile, hoping to put him–put yourself–at ease. "you haven’t been here,” peter looks up towards the ceiling. “i’m assuming you’re not going to some classes?"
your eyes flick down to peters hands, his fingertips rubbing his wrists unconsciously. you look back at his face, reminding yourself of the bruises from a couple of days ago.
gone.
you patiently wait for him to look back at you, letting your words draw out for as long as he needs.
"no,” he finally answers, filling your questions and the silence. “i’m here all day."
you nod, leaning back.
peter looks away again.
"did you want to get lunch, then?” you ask, the words familiar, unfamiliar. “we both have an off block now."
his brow furrows for only a moment, his eyes caught on your face. there’s an invisible wince in his expression, words you can see but can’t hear.
"sorry, y/n,” he starts, voice drowning. “i can’t."
he smiles at you again, a different one this time, apologetic. and then, before you can blink, he’s gone.
you wonder for a moment if you imagined him.
*
a week and a half later, you can count the days in between your sightings of peter.
he’s been half-ass responding to your texts all week, avoiding your calls, and disappearing whenever you seem to catch a glimpse of him in the halls.
it’s an unfamiliar type of avoidance, one with multitudes of explanations, thousands of reasonable excuses.
you’re trying to rationalize your best friend’s strange disappearance. you’re trying to remind yourself of what he’s going through, how rapidly a steady constant in his life had been stolen away, how terrifying it is to walk through the world with no control.
you’re making excuses for him, but it’s all you can do not to wonder if it actually has something to do with you.
or rather, something that you’ve done.
you’re sitting alone at lunch, now, peering into the lifeless souls of your classmates wondering what possible other explanations you could give him.
peters last text was two days ago. you haven’t seen him since before then.
it’s strange to think yourself of the weeks before. when passing conversations with peter in the hall were a regular occasion, when teasing him at dinner with may and ben was a comforting tradition you could barely go a couple days without.
weeks before when your best friend actually answered your calls and seemed to do it willingly.
weeks before when you weren’t expecting to wake up with a bundle of anxiety in your throat, a carefully entangled necklace of feelings collecting in your esophagus.
you don’t dare to admit it out loud, your fears, your worries, but mostly–
you miss him.
you miss his subtle quips, his quiet laughter in class, his overbearing nature, and incomprehensible intelligence.
you miss him making you laugh, and you doing the same in return.
it’s strange to think that you hadn’t realized just how much you depended on that until it faded into non-existence.
you just want to talk to him, you think. you don’t know how much that’s asking for.
*
you don’t have a perfect description of irritation. no synonyms for a feeling quite so complex. it’s an overlying emotion, hiding all the other unsaid things.
but now, you think it goes a little something like this:
walking down the hallway, contemplating leaving school before it can begin. not bothering to lift your head because, well, you haven’t been getting much sleep lately and just the thought of paying attention makes your eyes strain.
but then you’re tripping over something you didn’t see, and a pair of arms are grabbing onto yours, softly, holding you up against the crowd.
you look up to find peter. and, before you can think, the irritation rolls up your spine.
"you okay?” he whispers, hands still on you, eyes still irritatingly brown, even after a week.
you nod, stepping away from him.
you hate this feeling–hot, sharp anger, burning all the other underlying thoughts. you hate that it’s directed at him, and you hate, oh god, you hate that just hearing his voice has finally settled your stomach into something like contentment.
“i didn’t mean to trip you,” he says, continuing despite your nonchalant expression, his voice is quiet, a buzz within all the noise.
“you sure?” it slips out of your mouth, a quip that would have been funny a while back.
but still, even despite the obvious tension, peter smiles.
your body cools down–for a brief, chilling moment–relief at the sight of his teeth, at his warm hands on you, at the knowledge that he’s here, so much stronger than you could’ve imagined.
but that feeling cracks as soon as you hear the warning bell, a ticking time bomb in the one moment you’ve gotten in days, and peter moves away from you, gesturing to a nearby door.
and you want to let him leave, you’ve really been trying to give him his space, to let go of these insolent feelings–but now, with that burning hot anger, you cant.
“can i talk to you, peter?” you ask, words rushing out of your mouth. “just for a second,” you hesitate. “i promise."
confusion flashes in his eyes, but still, peter nods, moving with you to the closes corridor, expectant eyes awaiting yours as soon as you stop.
the mellowing brown of his eyes makes you forget everything you wanted to say, all the questions you’ve been keeping note of.
peter waits patiently for you to speak.
"are you-are you okay?” you blurt out, letting your mouth do the talking, letting your brain try to catch up.
its a good starting place, you suppose.
and for some reason, those words amuse him, you can tell with a single glance.
“i’m fine,” he says, drawing out the sentence and leaning his weight on the soles of his feet. he shakes his head as if to ask if that was all, smiling at you adoringly.
“you’re fine?” you repeat, feeling impatient with his attitude, with his nonchalant gestures, and normal smiles.
he nods again, slowly, as if to mock you.
and this would’ve been fine. truly, you didn’t mind joking with him. you loved it; you enjoyed every single smile that came from his mouth.
but irritation was getting too familiar with you, and peter hadn’t talked to you in a week.
“so why’ve you been avoiding me?” the words are rushed, a hidden question you’d been avoiding asking yourself.
peter’s smile drops.
“you just-” you sigh, looking away from his face to something else. “you haven’t been answering my calls, and you’ve been ignoring me in the hallways-"
"i haven’t-” he starts but you’re already going.
“i understand if you need space, peter, that’s completely fine with me.” you note the lie that just came from your mouth. “i just want to make sure that you’re doing alright.” your eyes meet his in a gesture of sincerity. “and that you’re not spending days away from school, i don’t know…murdering people, or something?"
your voice is a hidden beam, shaking under the pressure of your questions. you’re desperate for answers, but not quite strong enough to hold yourself up.
peter’s brows furrow, trying to catch up with your words. "murdering people?"
you sigh and ignore that, choosing to keep going instead. "and if i’ve done something wrong you should tell me, so i know,” your hands fiddle at your sides, a restless monster inside of you begging for release. “i’ll even apologize, whatever it is.” you pause, trying to allow him word in.
when he stays silent your brain fires, anger building behind your skull.
“and so, you know, i don’t look like an asshole sitting alone at lunch every day-"
"y/n."
you stop, stare, try to push any feelings you’re having away.
you recognize how unfair this is–how completely insane you’re acting–but it’s not enough to make you regret anything you’ve said.
well, mostly.
"i haven’t been avoiding you,” peter promises, looking almost like he’s telling the truth.
you know differently. “peter,” you scold, brows furrowing, expression matching his.
“i haven’t! i’ve- i’ve just been busy."
"doing what?"
he winces, hand going to scratch the back of his neck. "um, i’ve been-” he stops, seems to curse himself out, avoiding your eyes. “just busy."
he says it like it’s a finality. lifting the words at the end. as if to leave no room for argument.
you, though, stay silent, staring up at him with a glare.
neither of you moves for a moment, tension matching tension, irritation completely different for both of you.
yes, you’re missing class right now, but you couldn’t care much less.
your shoulders are stiff, strong under the weight of questions and emotions. excuses are not an acceptable answer.
you can’t say the words out loud, but you hope it’s clear enough. you think it’s clear enough.
i miss you. you beg him to understand.
you sigh again, taking a step back, dropping your head and letting your eyes finally relax. "peter,” you start, voice softer, quiet, echoing in the hallway. you shut your eyes. “you can tell me, whatever it is."
and then you open them, just in time.
his eyes relent, facial expression dropping as he stares at you. his iris’ are quiet, void, soft looking at your face.
and you think he might say something, might tell you something–but then he blinks.
"i know,” he says, nodding mostly to himself. “there’s nothing to tell, though.” his eyes are clear, he leaves no room for questions.
you feel the frown mold into your face before it happens.
it’s not hard to see a lie when it’s right in front of your face.
the two of you had never made a habit of keeping secrets; never struggled with illusions and reality. never gone weeks without talking, without a mere glance.
so, you think, there’s more than just one difference now.
“i trust you,” you nod back at him, knowing it’s the truth even if you don’t believe it right now. “and you know you can trust me."
and you think maybe then, maybe as he watches your face, looking for lies, you think that maybe he’s actually going to give you an answer.
but something, unfamiliar, abnormally grim, flashes in his eyes, molds his face into something different.
he’s looking at you still but unlike a person.
like he’s just realized something.
he begins to nod again, but it looks mechanic this time. as if he’s being controlled.
"i think you’re right,” he says, hands finally letting go, dropping to his sides, his expression has fallen and his words are blank. “maybe i do need some space."
he tells you, but the words are not his own.
he tells you, and you barely have time to comprehend before he’s walking away from you, again again, leaving you with your own blank expression.
leaving you to define irritation, even when you cannot.
*
your eyes flash no color as you look around.
you don’t see him, no matter how much you try.
its been two more weeks, one filled with all the excitement imaginable in new york, the other a motionless void. a couple of days crossed out on the calendar.
safe to assume that you haven’t been paying much attention lately, except to, of course, the sound of wheels against a tile floor.
you’ve seen peter, a couple of times, within the last fourteen days.
you’re not trying to look very hard, anyway.
you went to see may, once. just to check in on her, a supportive member in your life even when your best friend was trying to push you a distance away. you brought flowers, brought your best smile–at least, the one you found left in the pocket of your unwashed pants. you think they’re from over four weeks ago. just like the smile.
you talked with her for an hour, trying to catch up on her insistent life, trying not to ask the questions poking at your mouth. you think she knew, just from the way she hugged you before you left.
you can’t compare yourself to her, not even relatively, but she knew what it was like to have an unfillable void. you appreciated the unwarranted comfort, nonetheless.
you haven’t put those fears onto peter, lucky him. being the one who asked for space, you assume he’s appreciating it.
or, actually. you get the feeling that he is.
your eyes are blank, colorless, empty pits of exhaustion as you stare down the hall.
you get the familiar brown, the tall composure. you get his long limbs, his strong arms, his funny mouth. you watch him with silent eyes, a begging feeling filling your body.
you see peter, walking among the others, looking similar to how he always has.
but of course, now it’s easy to assume that he’s taking more pleasure, more relief, in this distance from you than you are from him.
because of the effortless smile, it’s not familiar. it’s not an expected sight, is not what you were looking for when your eyes instinctively sought him out.
and the blonde hair flashing next to him, the pretty laugh, the wonderful gaze–you weren’t looking for that either, weren’t expecting it.
you let your eyes drift down, wish for your mind to go blank.
on your phone, a text from a week ago saying: ”let me know when you’re ready to talk again.“ sits unread. in your heart, an unsent message of anger, of remorse, of pain begs for the mercy of a received notification.
you’ve got no clue why you’re taking this so hard. why you never realized how dependent you were before.
still, as you walk through the halls, blank eyes, stiff composure, you don’t look at the two of them as you pass.
peter probably didn’t see you anyway.
*
your eyebrows raise as you walk alone, a quiet expression resting on your face.
it’s too late for you to be outside, but for some reason, you don’t care.
or, rather, you lost track of time.
and fell asleep on the subway, leaving yourself alone to walk home in the dark. your eyes shut, for a moment you promised, and then you were waking up to the familiar buzzing of opening doors, stumbling around the station until your eyes cleared enough to see.
you don’t particularly mind. you enjoy the restless sounds of queens, the quiet whispers you don’t recognize, the rapid sounds of busy minds passing by. it’s nice at night, when you can’t see the things around.
you enjoy the distractions. the excuse not to sleep because, you know, you probably weren’t going to anyway.
you walk alone, counting your own gentle footsteps, straining your muscles as you speed up with every sound.
it’s not long until home, but you seem to be moving more slowly tonight, glued down by something incomprehensible.
you really shouldn’t have fallen asleep on that train.
you smile sardonically to yourself, scratching the back of your neck, and counting more.
a gentle metronome in the dark.
there was a time like this before–when you and peter had gotten lost on the subway, mostly on purpose, and decided to walk the rest of the way back home. peter refused to let you walk by yourself. he chided you along with a funny laugh.
it didn’t matter much, then, because you wanted him to stay in the first place.
his giggling was a gentle echo in your mind, a sweet serenade to sleep.
now, you just hear his voice. over and over, quiet, emotionless words, asking you to leave him alone. space, he’s asked for. you’re trying to gift it to him.
you sigh and squeeze your eyes shut, not wanting to see the images flashing before your eyes.
you’re trying to blink the memory away, to forget everything by counting.
you’re not sure if it’s working.
you’ve got five more minutes to go. five more minutes of different anxiety, an uncomfortable pit in your stomach, an unwanted memory ringing in your ears.
five more minutes till home, you think, but the thought is not a relief.
you’ve started to hate being alone.
so you keep walking, change your rhythm to the beats of your heart, keep walking and count at a steady pace.
forcing everything else away. it’s quite simple when you’re tired enough to fall asleep on the train, tired enough to worry about monster creeping out of the dark.
which is why you flinch when you hear a flash behind you, walking forward. a subtle noise that disturbs the silence in the air.
you look behind you and see nothing.
you’re about to shrug it off, excuse it as a side-effect of insanity, but when you look back in front of you, there’s someone else standing there, head tilted.
you stop, feet stumbling as you halt in place.
you stare.
you recognize this person, whom which you’ve started to notice–who’s just started appearing. you recognize this-
"walking late, tonight?” he asks, voices a rhythm in the silence. he’s amused, he’s joking, and he’s wearing spandex. “it’s a bit cold,” he comments, passively.
red and blue spandex.
he’s just started appearing on the news, a hero, stopping robberies, saving cats from trees, defying all sense of logic.
that kind of stuff.
you blink, unsure if this is real or a hallucination. you wouldn’t be surprised, either way.
the man stands up a bit straighter, and you cant see his eyes, but you’re sure he’s observing you.
“spider-man?” you ask, tentatively.
his returning laugh echos into the dark.