a constant stare of bursting atoms
there’s a slight shake of your head, small, subtle. as if you think that whatever you’re seeing is fake.
peter doesn’t have the time to react properly before you’re walking forward again, hands clenching by your sides, and he’s forced to run forward to catch up with you.
“you know my name,” he says, obviously, stupidly. mostly because he’s not willing to let you walk away without knowing what you’re doing out so late.
you turn to look at him again, eyes wider than before.
“i thought i was dreaming."
peter takes note of the circles hidden within the hollows of your cheeks, raining down on your face in a steady drip of exhaustion. he recognizes your bag–the one you always carry your books in–so he’s assuming you haven’t been home yet.
he wonders, apprehensively, why you aren’t there, in bed.
peter looks down at himself for your benefit. "no,” he says, head moving slowly. “no, i’m real,” he angles his body opposite of yours, slowing starting to walk backward while facing you. “i think."
it doesn’t get the smile he was chasing, but gradually, you follow his command, beginning to walk forward. he moves a little bit faster as soon as you do.
he can’t help but think that you’re very lucky he knows where you’re going.
"what’re you doing?” you ask him, not unpolite, but more demanding than you’d intended–peter can tell, just from the way your face contorted after you said it. he almost grins to himself.
“oh, you know,” peter starts. “earlier i stopped a guy from robbing the bank on 50th. huge guy–he had the biggest gun i’ve ever seen,” he makes a tiny gesture between his two hands, “not the brightest."
you nod along, listening.
"and now, i’m just…” he watches your eyes, takes a moment to look around for anyone else strolling along the streets. “taking a midnight stroll. and talking to strangers.” he clicks his tongue. “speaking of, you doing alright?"
your brow furrows. "what do you mean?"
peter turns his body around, slowing his gate and putting a hand under his chin. "i don’t know if you’re aware of this- i mean you aren’t wearing a watch,” he makes a show of looking towards your wrists. “but it’s very late. and dark.” his hand follows his words, fists folding and unfolding.
peter’s thoughts flash, for a very brief moment, to the scolding he’d be giving you if it was weeks ago. if he wasn’t a coward. if you knew it was him.
he winces behind the mask. see, he’s been trying not to remind himself of “if."
your tilt your head up to the sky, looking up at it as if it’s the first time you’ve seen it all day.
peter wonders if it is.
"you didn’t know?” he asks after your silence fills the night air for a moment too long.
you shake your head, waking up your eyes again, and looking back at him. you look a bit bewildered. “no, i knew it was late.” you say, turning your head so that you can walk side-to-side with him and still keep your eyes attentive. sheepishly, you continue: “i meant to get home earlier but i fell asleep on the subway. it was a longer walk home than i expected."
peter blinks–then realizes you can’t see that.
"how do you fall asleep on the subway?” he inquires, even though he’s done the same thing himself.
it’s just a sentence to fill the words he really wants to say.
“insomnia?” you answer, questionably. the color in your face is drained, a blank canvas, because of the cold.
peter knows you’re only wearing the one jacket.
he nods. he’s only now just noticed how many blocks far you are from home. a chill goes up his spine, giving him an answer to the thought that had just formed.
“can i help you get home?” peter tilts the end of his words, trying to make the sentence seem less creepy.
your body is still tense as if you’re worried someone is going to jump out from somewhere and yell “boo!” your eyes stay focused on peter, but he can see that it’s more to observe him, not because you want to.
you’ve never really liked strangers, he knows.
and you prove that as soon as you start shaking your head. “it’s not far,” you say, adamantly. you smile though, just to be a graceful rejector.
“it’s cold."
you shrug, burrowing yourself further into the jacket you’re wearing. "not much."
peter almost smiles, then catches himself, playing his laugh off as a cough. he can feel your goosebumps from a foot away.
he knows why he’s holding onto this–and it’s not just because he’s worried about you being out too late.
he won’t deny that he’s missed your overly polite manner, the curiosity you hold for complete strangers. even ones wearing a costume.
"okay,” he sighs, stepping back in front of you, rubbing his gloves together to create friction. he rubs a gloved hand on the back of his neck.
you’re staring, not unkindly. maybe you’re waiting for him to leave.
“are you sure?” he checks, tilting his head.
he’s relieved when he sees you smile. when he knows that you know he’s joking. you’ve caught on quickly.
“are you this eager to help every innocent person you pass or are you just shaken up from the huge robber?"
peter feels a steady feeling emerge from his chest, warming his suit from the inside out.
he looks away from you, then back again, to see if you’re smiling the same as he is, but when he looks over, your eyes have faded, your face shifting into something confused.
you don’t notice when he tilts his head, curious.
you look at him, eyes still tentative. different from before. your face is blatant, shifting with every new thought you have.
peter forgot just how intimidating that could be. he forgot that he was speaking to you as someone else.
forgot that he just wanted to make sure you were okay.
"yes,” he deadpans, speaking too quickly all of the sudden. he nods his head, moving his numb fingers to make sure that his webs are still there.
he nods again, looking up at the building closest to the two of you, and then back.
he knows you can’t see it, but he hopes you’re intuitive enough to know that he’s smiling.
“just shout if you need help,” he says.
and then he’s gone. leaving again.
*
peter listens to the passing conversations as he walks the halls.
the days have begun to blend together, an array of colors combining to make nothing but the dullest shade of brown. there is nothing to make them stand out; no interesting classes, no curious eyes peeking over his shoulder. he does not listen to the gentle melody of your laugh, he does not make fun of you for tripping down the stairs.
he curses at himself every time he lets you cross his mind.
if there was a wall he could make a mark on, he would. a cross-hatch full of guilty thoughts.
and even when he tells himself not to, he can’t bring himself to keep his head down through the halls. his eyes are attracted, attached, to the thought of you.
so his head stays up, eyes drifting over every other person in the school, listening to conversation with the tiniest hope that he’ll hear you say something.
he’s always surprised when he does.
every time he hears your quiet voice echoing through the hallway, or he catches a glimpse of you–no matter how small, because, really, how can you quantify a burst of relief?–he’s taken back. suddenly perishable at the memories he has of your face.
and today, it’s only a little bit worse.
it’s only the smallest bit harder to avert his eyes. he needed to make sure your face was clear of any clouds, of those dark drops, of the confusion and frustration that stuck to your eyes last night.
he just wanted to ensure you were alright. it’s a guilty pleasure, a bittersweet feeling striking his heart as soon as his eyes pass over you.
it only takes a moment to fully observe your face–he could feel when you were coming.
but as soon as he does, his emotions swirl into a dull grey, clouded by the way you keep your head down.
you used to keep your eyes alert, checking to see if he was there yet.
he checks a mark off of his wall, bangs his metaphorical head against the concrete.
he’s doing fine.
he keeps his eyes on you, to the backside of your head, tilted down, avoiding any strangers. he watches you until you turn a corner, disappearing again.
he doesn’t need to look at you for the rest of the day. he uses that thought to force the familiar disappointment out of his head.
peter is about to turn away, probably not to go to his next class, when he feels a hand drift a bit too close to his arm, too distracted to notice sooner.
his eyes dart towards the hand, a smile forming as he looks at gwen accusingly.
she just smiles back.
peter swings his bag to the other arm, following gwen as she begins to walk through the halls. their pace is familiar, and so is the direction gwen leads him down.
“what’s with your face?” she asks, giving him the side-eye.
“is it bruised?” peter brings an absent hand up to his eye, looking for any sore point he must have missed.
gwen sighs. “no, that’s fine,” peter drops his hand. “i meant the puppy-dog eyes.” she turns towards him, staring.
peter blinks, holding her eyes a moment too long and then looking up.
he didn’t think she’d caught that.
“i don’t have puppy dog eyes,” peter protests, angling his body away from her and keeping their path towards the bleachers.
gwen snorts, climbing up the steps and putting her bag down. peter continues walking, pacing back and forth across the stairs.
“you do for one person,” gwen mutters as peter climbs along, pretending not to hear her.
they’ve fallen into a routine, the two of them. a relationship born out of secrets and kept out of desperation.
gwen sits with him most days, listening to whatever words manage to bubble out of his mouth without purpose. he knows that she enjoys his company–slightly, he thinks they could’ve been friends a lifetime ago–but mostly, he knows that she just feels pity for him.
not that she would say that. her kindness is unrelenting.
“so,” she drawls, running a hand through her hair while she toys through her bag. her eyes meet peters, an expected inquiring there. “are you feeling extra masochistic today or did you just have something in your eye?"
"i didn’t say anything-” peter starts.
“you didn’t have to,” her smile is unkind, all-knowing. peter rolls his eyes with her. “did you talk to y/n?"
peter stops his pacing, his back turned towards her.
he purses his lips, feeling his fingers dig into his wrist. spider-man didn’t ask for a name, and now, just hearing it, he knows that it was a good decision.
his strength is relentless, bruises form on his wrists, filling the piece that’s missing.
he shakes his head, small movement. "no- i told you.” his fingers let go, a breath escapes him. “i told you why i cant-"
"you told me you were being an idiot,” peter turns around, faking hurt eyes at her. “and i told you-"
"gwen-"
"that you’re just putting yourself through pain for no reason."
peter winces. he runs his eyes over every spare object he can see. breathes in the air just enough to smell nothing at all. he scans the area in every possible way, with every sense he knows how to use.
and still, it’s not enough distraction to keep that feeling away.
the one he’s been avoiding, the one he removed from his dictionary.
he marks the wall again, feeling the guilt invade his body in a steady pulse of dull colors.
"it’s not for no reason.” he’s firm on that. already decided. he leaves no room for argument.
gwen doesn’t seem to care. “is it making you feel better?” she asks, voice filled with disbelief. “is it making her feel better?"
peter goes and sits down next to her, shaking his head while he slides the book in her lap into his own. he plays with the pages, not breaking eye contact with gwen.
she smirks at his restless hands but refuses to break the staring contest.
"it will,” peter whispers, hesitant.
he’s sure, he promises.
and he knows the rest of gwen’s argument. he’s seen the antithesis written on the walls. he’s heard the screams from miles away. he’s checked his texts for more and more understanding, feeling disappointed when he finds none.
he knows–really–that this is hurting you. he knows you well enough to know that.
“in a couple of weeks,” he starts but gwen scoffs so peter corrects himself. “months, it will be different. i never thought it would be easy-"
"why don’t you just tell her?” the question repeats itself in his head, an erasable pen with red ink. it’s plastered into his brain, a constant repetition of the same words.
why don’t you tell her? he’s thought. but only selfishly, only for himself.
he barely lets himself think the words now.
he shakes his head, fast, quickly, insistent. “i cant."
and that’s all. he pretends not to hear gwen sigh, pretends not to listen to the irritation in both of their voices. he’s not exactly sure why he allowed this conversation to happen in the first place.
gwen takes her book back, giving peter the chance to stand up again, to resume his energy, his pacing back and forth.
a constant state of bursting atoms.
it’s a moment before gwen begins speaking again, ignoring the obvious tension. "you’re not going to tell me why you were staring?"
peters mind returns to the present, to the original point.
he winces, already knowing that this is about to get worse.
"uh,” he turns to face gwen again, expression full of nothing but shame. “a certain-” he clears his throat. “-spider-like hero had an interaction with a certain civilian last night-"
"you didn’t."
"and, as an attentive person i just wanted to make sure that everything was in order-” peters words begin to slow, hands following his movements. he doesn’t need to look at gwen to see her scolding eyes. “this morning.” he finishes.
he turns back around, whistling as he fakes his nonchalance.
he really is an idiot.
“you did not put on a costume and go talk to y/n when you won’t even-"
"it was really late,” peter says, in his own defense.
gwen just sighs, throwing her head back and groaning.
peter’s wince feels inadmissible.
“peter, you know that’s not fair.” her voice is soft, convincing, as she tells him. peter would honestly prefer a chiding.
“i know, i know.” he mutters, turning back around to go sit next to her.
“you can’t do that. not if you’re not going to tell her the truth."
and peter doesn’t even need to answer.
he knows.
and yet.
*
he doesn’t mean to scare you again.
and, he promises to himself as soon as he’s seen enough to recognize you, it wasn’t his intention to talk with you–like this, blurry eyes and all–ever again.
and yet, how can he blame himself when you’re walking the streets alone, eyes facing the ground in an attempt to yield yourself from the streetlights, bag rattling against your leg?
his body is exhausted, aching from overexertion, and still, his eyes managed to find their way to you.
he doesn’t let himself wonder why you’re still up, why you’re still outside in the stiff, cold air. that seems unfair.
he wouldn’t be asking those questions if you were anyone else.
and so, he tries not to note the way you flinch when his feet hit the ground.
"i’m starting to think you’re a bit of a night owl,” he says, standing up in front of you, keeping his hands where you can see them.
it’s the unconscious acts that’ll kill him.
your eyes pass down him, blinking rapidly. “that would make you the same.” your voice is rough, groggy, hidden beneath the thick air. your shoulders are slouched, caving into yourself. you look more exhausted than he feels.
or maybe peter’s imagining things.
“don’t worry,” he laughs, moving, in turn, to walk with you. “i was just waiting for a stranger to show up."
your brow furrows for a moment, eyes drifting away from the ones you weren’t aware you were looking at.
"are you going to ask me if i’m cold again?” you say, just loud enough for him to hear, somewhat irritated, somewhat amused. “because i can assure you, i’m not. just tired."
"fall asleep on the subway, again?” his voice is more pleasant than yours, a perfect collection of syllables, a perfectly practiced question.
he wonders if you don’t recognize his voice, or if you’ve just forgotten how he sounds.
either way, he’s not supposed to care, he reminds himself. the exhaustion is getting to him.
the smile on his face feels cheap, a knock-off from the actual version.
“no, unfortunately.” your eyes turn back to him, dark circles looking brighter underneath the streetlights.
“then how come i’m here, making sure you don’t get murdered?” his voice, he hopes you don’t notice, is tainted with something serious. he’s unconsciously reached a hand out towards you, trying to lessen the distance between the two of you.
he pulls it back, feeling claustrophobic in his suit.
“do you save a lot of people getting murdered?” peter looks over to you, surprised to see that you’re genuinely curious, eyes a bit brighter with the emotion.
you run a hand over your face, scratching at your jaw while you stare at him, lips pursed in a gentle lull.
he almost lets himself get distracted by the movement.
instead, nods and tilts his head, letting his sarcasm be heard in his voice: “no, mostly i just help old ladies crossing the street."
your head tilts up, small grin playing at your lips. "that’s a joke, right?"
peter nods, actually, this time.
you nod with him, walking slowly. there’s something about your slow pace, the steady rate of your breathing–exact. as if you’re counting the seconds it takes–that makes peters eyes follow you, looking down to where your hand is tapping a steady beat against your leg.
you’re biding your time, trying not to walk too fast–he remembers, a conversation, just something you told him a long time ago. about how to waste time.
you’re more than tired, he knows.
"how far away is your house?” he asks, keeping the apprehension out of his voice.
your eyes snap up, roaming over his masked face. when it was just the two of you, before, you read him differently than anyone else ever had. you saw a brief twitch in his lips and knew everything he was thinking.
he’s almost thankful you can’t do that now.
“a couple more blocks from here,” you say, nodding. “not far."
peter swings his body, slowly, until he’s standing in front of you, hand on his chin in a joking manner.
he waits for you to stop, and once you do, trying to avoid knocking into his body, he begins to speak. "don’t you think a sleep-deprived superhero might be a cause for concern?"
your brows furrow, staring up at him–a masked stranger with a strange sense of humor. ”…i guess so.“
peter hums, turning around so begin walking again, exaggerating his movements so your eyes stay focused on him.
he hears you take a few hesitant steps forward.
"if this is you saying that you have to get home…” you leave the end of the sentence off, allowing him a moment to agree or disagree. when peter doesn’t, enjoying your curious and awake voice, you continue. “i’m sure i’ll be okay for another ten minutes alone."
peter turns around and bursts out laughing, clapping his hands together while you stare at him confused.
"what?” you ask, looking strongly concerned for his sanity.
“where do you live?” he asks, voice returning to normal in an instant.
or as normal as he’s allowed to make it around you.
immediately, you’re walking past him, smile just a bit moronic. “that’s a bit personal, don’t you think, spider-man?” you’re looking at him like he’s bizarre. like this is the weirdest conversation you’ve ever had.
he’s really trying not to notice how your eyes have peeked up, your body holding itself up, the tension in your back disappearing as if it had never been there. he’s trying not to observe you the way a friend would. it’s just…
“well, as the only other person out here at this current moment,” he pretends to look around and check. “no, i don’t."
you scoff, still staring at him.
"i’m tired,” he says, a bit more pleadingly than intended. “you’re tired.” he doesn’t allow you a moment to argue.
he moves a little bit closer to you.
“i’m not tired,” you tell him as if it isn’t midnight.
and he can see himself, a desire in front of his eyes, moving in front of you, tracing the darkness under your eyes, moving your face so he can observe, just close enough, for a moment. he sees himself, unafraid of you and the stronghold you have on him.
and then he shakes his head, banning any more images from showing up.
“it’ll take a minute,” peter promises, still a couple of feet away from you. “i’m just going to swing you home, and then i’ll leave. i can’t let you walk around at night, again."
"because of… moral obligation?” you ask him, confused eyes not letting go. your voice is shaking, freezing without the motion keeping your body awake. he notes the difference from the other night to now–the curiosity that’s spread itself across your face. rather than the frustration, he saw before.
“it physically hurt me, last time,” he tells you, voice monotone.
you sigh quietly, looking around.
peter can see the resistance in your face falter. hopefully, you’ve realized that he’s not going to give up.
“i’ll be-” you start, voice drawing off as you notice one of peter’s hands fiddling with his wrists. “swing?” you clarify, voice going higher with the word.
peter nods, tilting his head. “it’s not dangerous,” he smiles. “i have some experience."
you stare down at the floor, digging the heel of your shoe into the ground awkwardly. "do you require payment, or will you just put it on my tab?"
"no tab.” he rests his chin on his fist. “my only requirement is that you stop falling asleep on the subway.” his voice is amused, his body relaxed as he stares at you.
you ignore that, he can tell, and grab your bag to hold it closer to your side. “only a minute?” you ask him.
peter nods. he clears his throat, suddenly feeling the worry hit–your unrelenting trust in him is very motivating. “can i touch you?” he asks softly, holding his hands out in a gesture of innocence.
you shake your head, eyes wide as you stare at him. and then you look up, all the way, a bit terrified at the height.
“i’m only doing this because i’ve seen you on the news,” you say, voice a bit like you’re trying to threaten him. “and,” you look back down. “you seem pretty good at it.” you contort your face into something hard, trying to make yourself look less terrified.
he does not find it intimidating whatsoever, but he nods his head in agreement. his hands are still out, patiently waiting for your permission.
“okay,” you say.
and in a motion to grab you, peter pretends that there’s no weight in the words.
he pretends he doesn’t feel you relax into his arms.
*
peter shuts your window with a sudden rattle of wind coming over his body.
he waves gently, keeping his head up as he watches you slip off your shoes. you give him a smile as a final goodbye.
he feels insane.
he feels his body, moving, insistent against the night air. he feels his mind beg to go back inside, to tell you the truth, to stop pretending that this is okay.
the silence alone is enough to convince him.
peter begs for the guilt to leave. he begs for this not to feel so much like lying when all he’s trying to do is keep you safe.
he feels like a monster, now, with his mask on. running after you in the dark because he was worried that you might’ve been alone.
he swings away in an instant, going as far as his arm will allow him before releasing.
he wasn’t supposed to do that.
any of it.
he wasn’t supposed to find you again, he wasn’t supposed to care about the recklessness you had decided on, he wasn’t supposed to care that you looked so tired. and he wasn’t supposed to care that he just wanted a smile out of you.
he should scribble all over the wall now. he’s just broken every unspoken rule.
he’s let exhaustion cloud his judgment, a foolish mistake he thinks he’ll probably make again.
he thinks of how fast you were to trust him–spider-man–and he wonders if maybe that’s supposed to show that he’s doing the right thing. you have a good intuition, don’t you?
he thinks of your awake eyes, filled with a color that looked different to him lately. a color different from the night before.
he feels the guilt drip down his skin in a gentle flood. he feels it touching every point of his skin, something poisonous.
but still, he can feel the lines of a smile on his face.
if he concentrates enough, he can ignore the guilt–shove it aside–and he can focus on the steady melody of his heartbeat, sounding a bit like how he felt when he made you laugh.
it’s been weeks. weeks of dull colors, and ruined emotions.
and then there were two days, singular moments within smaller hours, where new colors appeared.
and he hates it, he hates that he can’t even do the one thing he promised himself he would do.
he hates that he’s hurt you so plainly just to go and seek you out like this.
but then, he feels exhaustion wear on him.
and as he goes home, heartbeat louder than the wind in his ears, he thinks that maybe he can offer you something else.
he thinks of the shift in your face tonight, the laughter he’s pleaded to himself for.
he thinks that he could do it, again.
even from a skintight suit.