but falling
peter sits on the other side of the room.
he’s cautious with his breathing, a gentle in and out, so that he doesn’t disturb you. nor the peace that’s been decorated on the two of you in a gentle fall of snow.
so that you don’t look up.
it’s warm in your room, a bit too warm in his suit.
he pretends not to mind though because your face is upturned in relaxation, your hands are still, lost in whatever homework you’re attempting to do now.
peter wasn’t really paying that much attention when you told him to be quiet.
“are you staring at me?” your eyes don’t move away from the book you have laid out across your lap, though peter can still the subtle tilt of your neck.
“i’m staring at the wall."
peter does look up to the wall, then, but he can practically feel you look towards him, can sense your confused mouth from ten feet away.
*
peter doesn’t let himself look away from you when he’s around.
he knows that you can’t see his eyes, that you can’t see his face contort into the shape of desperation, nor the silly smile that he gets whenever you say something while looking back at him.
but, that also means that you don’t notice his staring–all the time. it means that you can’t see the pages of pain beneath his smile, the meaning behind his jokes, and the guilt that seems to flow out of his mouth with every word he speaks.
he shouldn’t be doing this.
it’s not a question, it doesn’t require an answer, but still, peter is desperately searching for one.
he’s climbing through every conversation with you, trying to reassure himself that this is helping.
that you need him, even if he’s not really there.
he watches your face constantly, trying to solve the puzzle that’s broken in his mind. he used to know the answers– only when it came to you and all your smiles–but now he feels that you’re a mystery. like you’d changed when he did. like you were purposefully trying to keep him on his toes.
he has to remind himself that you don’t know him like this. that your guarded eyes are only a side effect of his stupidity.
still, he watches, maybe waiting for you to realize, maybe waiting for that distance look in your eyes to fade away, maybe trying to curve the beating of his heart.
he watches too much, constantly, with an obtrusive glint in his eyes. but luckily enough for him, you don’t always know that he’s doing it.
spider-man is an anomaly to you, still. a strange friend. a bug creeping around in the dark. his eyes are a mystery, his being is formed out of confusion.
he’s just a distraction. just an idle being to keep your mind from drifting. a carefully placed coping mechanism.
he doesn’t mind that, he’s sure. he’s sure that he’s more.
and he has to remind himself that he’s only doing this to keep you safe. that peter handed over your friendship just so that you wouldn’t be hurt. so that spider-man couldn’t hurt you like he was hurting peter.
he has to remind himself that he’s breaking these unspoken rules by being with you, in any form.
but then the cruelest part of him–the part who feels dizzy when you smile back at him, who laughs at the mere thought of letting you go–argues that he’s trying to help.
you needed something to replace the absence that peter parker left, you told him, with shattered glass eyes and a dark laugh.
when peter parker suddenly escaped you needed something to escape to, you cried, with non-verbal cues and secret messages.
he thinks that maybe you both need this. even if it’s dangerous.
even if it’s selfish, he doesn’t think.
he’s a cruel superhero, a bad friend.
but maybe that’s okay. maybe watching you is fine as long as he’s there, as long as he’s keeping you away from the dark, saving you from monsters completely unknown to you.
keeping you safe.
he only watches you as spider-man, he knows.
he keeps peter locked away so that maybe he can’t hurt you anymore.
*
you peer up at the wall, staring for a moment then looking back at peter.
he’s smiling innocently, but you can’t see that.
"there’s nothing there,” you say, questioning but not asking a question.
“it’s a very interesting wall."
this is idle conversation, peter knows. really, he only wants you to talk some more. to confuse him with your laugh until his mind breaks.
he wouldn’t mind.
you smile at him, fake adoration, and lean a bit closer. "are you going to tell me why you’re staring at me?"
"i’m not staring at you,” peter promises, equal adoration filling his face.
this is a game you like to play, peter’s learned.
he sits there, waiting for you to break. you swore to him that you were just going to do homework tonight. that he was just going to have to deal with it.
unfortunately, peter misses your attention.
“were you napping, then?"
peter waves a gloved hand. "dozing,” he shrugs.
you smirk, looking away again, back that the book you’re just pretending to read. “got bored?” peter might’ve answered, but you continue. “because you could just go back to your web. i’m sure spiders need all the sleep they can get."
peter scoffs, familiar. "okay, one-"
"besides, typically spiders only live around seven years-"
”-i’m not actually a spider, y/n, do i look like a-“
”-how old are you, again?“
peter stops. he knows you can’t see his smile, but he’s sure that you’re familiar enough with his banter to tell. still, he lets out a small chuckle just in case.
another game, where you try to figure out any amount of detail he’ll let slip.
you haven’t gotten much.
"going deep, tonight?” he answers, a variation of the non-answers he always gives you, letting his head roll forward.
you look up again, smiling. “you sound old."
these are the conversations that follow you both in the middle of the night. low and careful voices, keeping secrets in the dark.
there’s nothing important, nothing as significant as the secrets you shared with him weeks ago, but peter finds that he’s okay with that.
he prefers it. to stay in the dark, in the very place where the most secrets are kept. to pretend that this is helping.
"when i die, everyone’s going to wonder what finally got to me-” you roll your eyes, already knowing where this is going. “but really it’s just going to be you. killing my ego."
you flip a page. "don’t worry, i am fairly certain that will never happen."
peter moves, undeterred by your insults, going to sit on the bed with you.
your body doesn’t move, your face doesn’t change–but peter notices the way you lean closer, the subconscious movements closer to him.
it’s one of those things he knows about you. one of those things that isn’t different.
he wonders, secretly in bed at night when it’s dark, if some part of you knows that it’s him. if that’s why you’re so comfortable, if that’s why you smile at him the way you do.
he sits for a moment, watching the rise and fall of your chest, listening to the inhale and exhale of breath.
but he misses your eyes, your mouth, your smile, your voice.
so he moves a bit closer, watching your head tilt towards him, and then he steals the book from your hands.
your eyes widen in irritation, watching him lay back down on the bed, holding it up to see.
you huff. "really? there are rules, spider, that forbid stealing-"
"what is this?” he asks, disbelieving even though he knows exactly which textbook it is–he read it yesterday.
“a book, i’m sure you’re unfamiliar with the idea."
peter lulls his head over to you, appreciating the eyes you have on him. nothing else to distract you.
"explain it to me,” he says, his most engaged voice bouncing off against the walls.
you sigh, tilting your head back, clearly annoyed. “i’m not going to explain-” you look back at him, shaking your head, eyes glaring. “did you even go to preschool? or have any sort of education at all?"
peter laughs, noting the gentle quip of your lips.
”-because really, “explain it” to you? what does that even-“
when he laughs again you stop, a suspicious hand coming to point at him.
"you’re distracting me,” you say, realization and accusation hitting your voice at the same time. peter watches as you look down to the book he’s holding, then back to the wall he was staring at.
and then finally back to him, eyes shining in a wave of gentle anger. your smile, unbothered by relaxation.
he knows you’re going to kick him out, soon. he knows that you’re going to tell him that he’s “bugging” you and then force him to look away with your steel-sharp smile. he knows that you’re a far too powerful distraction, a relief away from everything else.
and yet, spider-man doesn’t really mind, so long as you’re looking at him.
*
peter walks alongside you with awake eyes.
he’s not quite sure what time it is–you were walking out the door before he got a chance to look at your clock.
but he’s sure that it’s late enough for your eyes to start to doze.
“you’re cold,” he accuses.
you, with shaking hands, pull your jacket on tighter and look at him. “i’m not,” you deny, with a smile. “are you cold?"
peter looks down at your shaking hands, shaking his head. "we should leave."
"what, spider-man, are you afraid of the dark?"
"no? but i am afraid of frostbite. and snowglobes."
your laughter rings in the air, a quiet shaking of emotion.
he’ll keep an eye on you, he thinks. make sure to keep you warm.
*
he sits on your ceiling when you walk through the room.
he watches as you throw your bag onto the floor, slip your shoes off absentmindedly, and fall onto your bed–the image of a long day.
peter didn’t see you at school earlier, or, he just missed you.
which, he thinks, is not why he’s here right now.
he crawls a bit closer to you, keeping his movements silent. he watches you for just a moment, knowing he has time to spare, and that you look different in the daylight than you do with all the lights on.
but all the same, he smiles.
and then, with carefully placed feet, he moves to drop down on the ceiling, falling onto the floor right next to your bed.
he doesn’t get anything out before you shriek, jumping three feet away from him and staring up at him with terrified eyes.
"hey,” he says, waving while he waits for you to stop hyperventilating.
“how long were you up there?!"
peter looks up, nothing left on the ceiling except for his shadow now. he was careful.
"couple minutes,” he shrugs, shaking his head to look at you.
you, who is very clearly shocked at this development.
“it’s four in the afternoon,” you tell him, pointing to a clock, giving him eyes that ask him again if he can read.
he rolls his eyes.
“what’re you doing here at four in the afternoon?” it’s a demand slipping from your mouth, but your eyes are suddenly observing his face, moving from object to object. a line forms between your brow. “you’ve got a cut,” you say, pointing to the side of his cheek.
peter’s hand follows your gaze, a twinge blooming in his cheek. he laughs a little bit, nodding.
you move closer, crawling towards him on the bed and reaching your hand out to grab him. but then you pause, seemingly surprised by something, and you pull your hand back, looking up with guarded eyes.
peter’s head tilts, distracted by the composed frown on your face.
“can i?” you ask, gesturing towards his cut, eyes cautious.
peter’s brow furrows, shaking his head but saying “yes,” as he watches you lean down to accommodate the height difference.
your hand goes to his chin, moving his head so you can see the cut more clearly.
you don’t say anything, so peter is distracted by the short breaths you’re taking. distracted because you noticed that cut before he had.
he’s distracted because he can’t feel your body heat through the suit. he can’t feel your hand moving along his jawline, nor the other hand coming to reach to move some of the fabric away.
he can’t feel you, right next to him.
and he’s so easily distracted.
“this looks bad,” you whisper, so close to his face now that it sounds loud. peter can see through his peripheral vision that you’re scowling. “how did you do this?"
peter lets out a breath of air, smiling a little bit at the memory. he doesn’t want to answer your question, so instead, he asks: "worse than the stab wound?"
your hand moves him to look toward you, glowering eyes. "at least then you weren’t scaring me to death."
he looks back at you, mimicking your expression even though you can’t see it. "are you dying?” he asks, unserious.
you scoff and pull back, moving his head once again and pulling the fabric of his mask down so that you can see his cut again. “no, but you are."
"it’s a cut!” he protests.
“it looks infected,” you tell him, low voice in his ear. “i’m going to get you neosporin."
peter laughs and moves his head away from you. "did you actually get some?"
you smile at him. "no."
he laughs.
"by neosporin, i meant warm water."
peter shakes his head, appreciating your carefully guarded concern, your jokes even when your eyes are worried. the gentle lull of your throat as you smile.
he shakes his head, forcing those thoughts out of his head.
he looks towards you, bringing a hand to his neck. "i actually came to borrow something."
he looks over to the clock, the minutes gone by. there’s still time. there’s still time to talk to you.
”borrow something?“ you repeat, watching him move to your desk.
"i just need a pen…” he opens a drawer, rifling through your collection, before grabbing one. he turns back to you, holding the pen out. “you’re not going to miss this, right?"
"what are you doing?” you ask, instead of answering.
he tilts his head. “hard to explain."
what he really means, he doesn’t say, is that he doesn’t want to tell you. he doesn’t want you to worry.
still, your eyes shift, going from confusion to understanding to irritation. "does this have to do with your cut?"
immediately, peter shakes his head, an adamant denial–even though you’re right.
"you can’t go back and fight-” your eyes widen as you shake your head. “whatever it is that you’re fighting. you’re missing a leg, spider."
peter moves a bit closer to you, tucking the pen beneath his palm. your face is strained, but you don’t look upset.
worried maybe, but not too much. peter is satisfied with only a little.
he leans down, only slightly, so you can hear him more clearly. "i’ve got seven more."
you just scowl at him, crossing your arms. "you need to let me clean it before you go."
your voice leaves no room for argument, but the clock is ticking down.
peter came here–no real purpose in mind he knows. he knows–just to grab something from you. just to make sure that you were alive. just to see you once more before the day ended.
your eyes are an appreciative sight. your eyes are a tether, holding him down.
"i can’t,” he tells you, a change flowing through his body.
there’s a difference between your spider-man and new york’s spider-man.
he grabs your face in between his hands, a sudden gesture of his boldness, and leans close down to you. “i’ll be fine,” he promises, hoping his smile comes across in his voice. his hands move to your shoulder, a consolation.
you shake your head, confusion drifting over your skin. “what-"
"i’ve got to go,” peter interrupts, letting you go. “thank you for the pen."
*
"well, i know you have longish hair."
peter raises an eyebrow that you can’t see, leaning towards you to observe your eyes.
"how?"
you smile, gesturing for him to move back. "you always run your hands over your head-” you copy the motion yourself, hand running through your hair. “-even though you’re literally wearing a skin-tight suit and there’s nothing there.” your eyes are teasing him, bright as you speak.
peter scoffs. then pauses, silent for a moment. and then: “it’s a habit."
you laugh, moving away from him. "don’t worry, spider,” you say, voice sweet. “i’m sure it won’t give anything away."
"hmm,” peter agrees.
you raise a finger. “but if you want to tell me your social security number i’m all ears."
peter laughs.
*
peter is distracted when he sees you next.
his eyes are down towards the floor, an irritated breath leaving him at the pain in his leg.
he figured it would be better by today, but clearly, he figured wrong.
he’s limping through the halls, unaware of anything around him when he trips on one of the many feet around him, falling against another person.
as his body lurks forward, leg struggling beneath him, his head jerks to hit another head, just as solid as his. the pain is fresh in the air. he moves back quickly, ears ringing.
and his eyes drift up to find you, hand pressing against the sore developing on your head. your eyes are squinted as if adjusting to your surroundings again.
peter immediately feels his heart drop.
"oh god, i-” he swallows, watching you look up at him. “i’m so sorry-” he pauses, distracted by how close you are. “i didn’t- i didn’t mean to do that."
his hand lifts up, absently, stupidly, to make sure your face is okay.
he only notices it when you flinch away, eyes widening as if you’d suddenly realized who he was. what he was doing.
your head starts to shake, shock, confusion, morphing into something different.
"it’s fine,” you say, voice small, eyes moving away from his.
peter watches your body crumble in front of him. he watches your face, no longer distracted. he watches your feet, beginning to turn away from him.
and, within a moment, his hand is reaching out towards you, mistakenly, to keep you there. “y/n-"
you look up at him, a warning in your eyes.
he lets go of your arm, raising his hand up innocently. he tries to laugh but it comes out all wrong.
"are you-” his smile is painful. “are you okay?"
your eyes are different–something is in them that peter can’t quite read.
"i’m fine, peter,” your voice is firm, promising, leaving no room in the air between the two of you. your voice is shaking. your voice is too quiet for a middle of the hallway.
it’s the first time you’ve said his name since that night. it hits him right in his stomach, with the rest of the feelings, collecting in a gentle swarm.
your eyes drift over him, incomprehensible, and you stop on the side of his face. “did i give you that cut, too?"
peter freezes, barely able to watch as your brow furrows.
there is a siren going off in his head.
a warning sign appearing right in front of your face.
he lifts his hand to the wound–still not healed, but not as bad as you’d described it to him yesterday.
his face contorts into something innocent. he struggles to speak. "no, no,” he adds the movement of his head. “i just fell."
your concern falls, the other feeling appearing again in your face. you give him a tight-lipped smile, only slightly disbelieving. "okay,” you say.
and because peter no longer has a hold on you, in any type of way, you disappear right in front of his eyes.
he can see the back of your head walking down the hall.
but he’s distracted by the contempt in your voice. he’s distracted by the one feeling he refused to believe you had, the one feeling he’d never experienced from you firsthand.
you were angry, he realizes.
your eyes were irritated, annoyed.
your voice was a struggle to keep calm.
and peter almost wants to laugh. he almost wants to get on the floor and start rolling around in amusement.
he almost wants to scream at himself until his voice gives out.
he forgot–for just one moment.
forgot that peter wasn’t the person you laughed with anymore.
forgot that he wasn’t really him at all.
*
“…you managed to get a bruise right there?"
peter’s hand points to his side, right under his ribs. your eyes follow his hand and then move back up to his face.
"how?” you ask, unimpressed.
“i fell."
you roll your eyes. "you fell and got a bruise right below your ribs?"
”…onto a car.“
"you fell onto a car?” you’re even less impressed now. peter can tell, just by the way your lips twitch.
“it was late."
"so?"
"so, i fell. aid me. i’m dying.” he makes a dramatic show of falling back against your bed, hand cradling the spot he’s bruised.
you stare down at him.
“i don’t think you’re very good at your job."
peter opens his eyes–looking to find you right above him. he raises a finger to your face. "and whose fault is that?"
"hey, i-"
*
when he’s at your window, the same night of the same day, he watches you type at your desk for a minute.
he can see you, see the steady rise of your shoulders, the steady composure in your body.
he watches, maybe afraid to finally go inside, maybe scared of the truth he wants to get out because, well, he hated the way you looked at him.
he hates that he suddenly feels like a mystery to himself–someone unknown, someone cruel hidden behind sarcastic jokes. he hates that there’s only one person who really knows him, but that person is off limits, forbidden from his wonder.
he hates that he almost doesn’t feel guilty. that he almost wants to tell you the truth.
but he wants to keep you safe.
he wants to protect you from that anger. he wants you to feel at peace, even when he’s off somewhere alone, he wants you not to care.
and he wants your friendship, he knows that, but he doesn’t want it if it’s just going to hurt you. he doesn’t want it if he has to look at your hurt eyes and reassure you. he doesn’t want it like that.
he wants to see your eyes again. he wants to make you smile.
he wants a picture of every moment he’s had with you, upon the wall, to be seen.
he knocks on the window, his knuckles freezing under the suit.
you don’t turn around from your computer, but your hand waves up in the air, a gesture for him to come in.
peter doesn’t question it, sliding the window up and jumping in without a moment of thought.
you don’t turn around when his feet hit the floor, a subtle sound as he limps on his leg.
peter shakes the cold from the outside off, whistling as he moves around your room, observing the things you’ve thrown on the floor with a non-judgemental gaze.
he feels that he understands this almost immediately–the disarray.
you speak before he gets the chance.
"how’s your face?” you say, voice void of emotion. you don’t turn around, don’t look and see if he’d fixed his suit yet.
peter’s head tilts.
“not infected,” he tells you, coming to sit on the side of your desk, feet crossing at the ankles. “only slightly painful."
your eyes flick up but your body doesn’t move. you’re typing nonsense on the keyboard. "painful?"
peter tries to lean down to catch your eyes in a questioning glance. he tries to understand your vague tone of voice.
he can’t–you won’t let him.
he laughs anyway. "it’s not healed yet, so,” he lets his voice draw out, tapping his fingers against the desk.
you finally look up. “i thought you had superhuman regeneration or something?” you’re scowling, mad at something.
peter wonders what you’re doing on the computer, what assignment could be irritating you quite so much.
“i do,” peter nods, vehemently.
“and it’s still there?"
he continues nodding. "the leg isn’t healing either."
your face goes blank as you watch him, then look down to his leg. "you hurt your leg?"
peter realizes his mistake. "uh, yeah.” he waits for your eyes to move back up to his face, and then, he promptly continues talking. “what’re you working on? seems very-"
you ignore him, looking angry again. "how did you hurt your leg?”
peter winces behind the mask. “i didn’t,” he blurts out, leg twitching with the lie.
your face goes blank again. you blink.
and then you scoff and turn away, unamused with his alluding.
it’s silent for a moment, peter trying to carefully piece together your reactions. trying to piece together his own. your breathing has increased, along with the pace of your heart–peter can hear it this close–but your body remains still.
he doesn’t want to ask, to ruin your concentration.
but when your typing has intruded on the peace and your scowl doesn’t fade as a minute goes by, he decides to ask anyway.
“you’re…angry?” he wonders, leaning down again to catch your eyes.
you look up at him, annoyed. “maybe your cut isn’t healing because you didn’t let me clean it."
peter laughs, a bit shocked at your harsh tone of voice.
with your eyes focused on his, he suddenly notices the lines on your face. the tension in your shoulders. he recognizes this look, he realizes. he recognizes the dark cloud of a storm hanging under your eyes. the drip of rain going down your cheeks.
you look tired, exhausted, more than irritated.
"i didn’t know you’d be worried,” peter confesses, softly, moving to crouch on his knees beside you. his voice is concerned, careful. “i’m sorry."
your head falls, your kneck the only support holding it up. your shoulders seem to relax as you breathe out. "i had to look up a news report to make sure you were okay,” you tell him, voice small, ashamed.
peter lets a hand fall against your shoulder, trying to console you even though he’s not sure how. he nods.
“it was so strange to see you in the middle of the day-” you pause, shaking your head. “and then you just left even though you were hurt."
the silence drags after your words. a gentle lull of relaxation flooding the both of you. peter can see the anger releasing itself, fading from your eyes as you blink.
you turn to look at him with pursed lips, worried eyes. "you hurt your leg?” you ask again gently, looking down.
peter chuckles. “it’s not too bad,” he promises, looking down with you.
and still, you shake his hand off of you, moving to stand up and drag him across the room. your hand goes under his arm, around his waist as you push him to sit on the bed.
peter is impressed with your determination.
“what did you do to it?” you ask, standing in front of him with calculating eyes.
peter knows you’re going to demand an answer until he gives you one. but still…
“i’ll tell you,” he says, tilting his head when you scowl again, catching onto the words. “i promise, y/n, but first just let me…"
he waits a moment until you’re done searching the mask for his eyes. until he’s sure that you’re looking at him, clearly, with firey but calm eyes.
peter smiles, knowing that you can’t see it.
"bad day?” he asks, knowing now that he can ask the question. that you might give him an actual answer this time.
your eyes shift. looking away from him, then back. “how did you-"
peter tilts his head again, leaning a bit closer to you. you don’t move back, don’t flinch at his movements. "your eyes, mostly.” he tells you, waiting for those eyes to change.
he’s sure that he’ll be able to read them now.
but then you scoff. repeating his words under your breath like you’re cursing them. you scoff again and look away, rocking on your feet.
“just tell me if you’re okay,” peter whispers, nudging his foot against yours. he’s hoping you can hear the promise in his voice. the concern he’s trying to convey.
you look at him again, eyes strained, smile pained. “i’m fine, spider."
he leans back, tilting his head at you suspiciously. "you sure?” unserious, he asks the question.
you laugh this time, moving away to crawl up on the other side of the bed, giving peter a chance to swing his legs up.
he sees your avoidance. he remembers weeks ago when you told him that he was a pleasant distraction.
he can still be that now, even with the questions eating away at him.
“so, what’d you do?” you interrupt his train of thought, causing his head to jerk up.
“huh?"
there’s a smile on your face. "to your leg,” you nod down.
peter’s eyes widen behind the mask. vaguely relieved. then he winces again, dreading telling you.
“you’re not going to laugh?” he asks, looking away and rolling his neck.
when he looks back you’ve crossed your heart, wide eyes.
“i fell."
your lips twitch. "you fell?” when he nods your eyebrow raises. “how?"
"my…” he roughly points down to his web-slinger, an irritated note making its way to his voice. “it doesn’t break at the most convenient of moments."
your eyes widen again as your breath hitches. "it broke?"
he nods.
"while you were in the air?"
"mid-swing."
you move towards him, seeming to observe the rest of his body, looking for any more signs of wounds. peter lets you, happily taking the moment to observe you back.
to look at the way your eyes move back and forth, the curve of your face, the gentle whisper coming from your lips–something he can’t hear. he watches your hands, lifting up toward him.
and then you lean back, seemingly satisfied with your observations. "but how did you hurt your leg?"
peter sighs, a puff of air escaping the suit. "spiders don’t always land on their feet."
you blink at him. and then, with the kindness only a friend can convey, you burst out laughing.
your head falls back and your hand moves to cover your mouth. peter watches, both annoyed and amused.
"okay, rub it in,” he says.
you lean forward again, looking at him while laughing. “you hurt your leg because you fell wrong?” you ask, voice equally dubious and entertained.
“that’s not-” but peter is interrupted by another fit of laughter, watching you throw your head back again.
he’s satisfied with this. making you laugh. watching you fall backward on the bed. watching you at all. being here with you, in the first place.
he thinks of the contrast between this and earlier today at school. guilt versus satisfaction. who will win?
he almost rolls his eyes at his own redundant questions.
then you sit up again, face more serious, though still holding a hint of amusement. “did you fix it?” you point down to his wrist.
he looks with you. “yeah, mostly. it should work."
"no more falling out of the sky?"
he smirks at you, letting out a bit of a laugh. "not probable."
you nod at him, smiling back. you look away from him for a moment, observing the room around you.
but peter watches as a light comes to your eyes. you look back to him, tilting your head in an act of innocence.
"can i try?” you ask, eager smile.
peter tilts his head. “can you try?"
"yeah, can i use one of them? they’re detachable, right?"
peter leans back, reading your face. "why?”
you laugh, shaking your head at him. “you don’t need supernatural abilities to use them, do you?” your voice is sarcastic but peter shakes his head anyway. “well then, spider-man, maybe you should be asking why not?” your voice lowers into a whisper as you say it, teasing him with your smile.
peter is taken back by your sudden interest, by your spike in energy, by a strange sort of smile on your face that he doesn’t recognize. he’s not sure he’s ever seen it, in all the years of knowing you.
he stares for a moment.
“you can just say no,” you tell him, almost impatiently.
but eventually, peter nods. he doesn’t see the harm in it–besides a few broken objects that you’ll inevitably make him pick up. and, truthfully, he couldn’t bear to let that light in your eyes go, couldn’t bear to miss an opportunity to familiarize himself with this smile.
your mouth curls, excited, and you move closer to him, climbing over his leg. you sit beside him on the bed while he leans up to remove the contraption from his wrist.
as soon as he attempts to hand it over you’re grabbing onto it, turning it so that you can look at all of it.
“okay so, put your hand through here…” his hand guides yours, holding the web-slinger while you slide it past your wrist. peter looks up, checking your eyes.
but you’re not looking at him.
he shows you the buttons next, the different settings. he lets your hand adjust to the movement, lets you practice the feeling. he remembers doing this for the first time. he remembers the feeling.
he almost smiles at the realization.
as soon as you’re comfortable he maneuvers your body, turning both of you to face the other side of the room, objects galore.
he finds your smile enchanting, the energy of a child bouncing back onto him. he finds your face mesmerizing, a funny sort of feeling.
“what are you aiming at?” he asks you, leaning his head down so that it’s right next to yours. he can feel your body, only inches away.
you laugh, pointing forward. “the mug.”
“yeah…” peter draws, face turning towards you. “you’re definitely going to break that.”
it’s only then that you turn to look at him, your eyes a different variation of the ones he’s always known.
they flicker around his face, watching for any movement.
and peter’s hand is holding your wrist, so close to your hand. if he concentrated enough he would almost be able to feel your body heat.
your smile, he thinks, distracted, moved away from the task at him, is blinding. your ability to let go of the worry he felt coming from you earlier–the anger that he saw in your eyes–is a wonder to him.
he wonders how you shut down your feelings, how he can shut down his.
because now, as you look at him, having no clue who he is, having no clue what he’s done, with all your trust.
as you look at him with your peculiarly bright eyes and outstanding smile.
as he holds you, so close to him, so far away from him.
because now, he can’t feel anything but the yearning for you.
the wanting he’s shoved down, so far, until it seemed fake, even to him.
and now, when you look back at him, peter is almost certain that he can see his emotion reflecting back at him.
he’s sure that you are a mirror image of himself.
and it’s then, in the smallest moment between two unusual friends, that one of your hands moves away from him, a gentle pull of your wrist.
he can feel the other one–once holding yourself up on the bed–move with it. he can feel both of them coming closer.
and when they fall upon his neck, a gentle question in your eyes, he is almost sure that he can finally feel your body heat.
he is almost sure that he nods his head, but he’s so distracted by your eyes.
in an instant, you’re pulling at the base of his neck, you’re moving fabric up, so terribly slowly but so fast.
peter can barely breathe as he finally feels your fingertips against his cheek, not able to remember the last time he felt your hands near this close to him.
your movements pause as soon as his mask is beneath his nose. but your eyes never stop looking at every angle of his face.
peter barely thinks at all as he leans closer, able to breathe for maybe the first time, and nudges his nose against yours.
and there is nothing after that except skin against skin.
there is nothing except your lips molding against his, pushing and pulling as you both struggle to breathe under the weight of the situation.
there is nothing but you moving up onto your knees, hand going back to the base of his neck while you kiss him, playing with the hair that you’ve only just discovered.
there is nothing but peters hands going to fall on your waist, the only thing there to keep you from falling off of the bed.
there is nothing except a soft exchange of emotions, passing between the two of you in a steady flow of heartbeats.
there is nothing except you finally pulling back after a moment. you moving away from him, and peter’s hand trying to pull you back.
there is nothing but another peck, a breakaway while you try to your breath. while peter’s eyes stay shut, electric with shock, peter thinks, trapped in your trance.
there is nothing but your eyes finally fluttering open while you breathe.
nothing but the memory of your kiss in peter’s mind, the elation of a new feeling.
there is nothing but your eyes, suddenly moving across the newly found skin of peter’s face. nothing but sudden recognition hitting you, deep in your stomach, right in your face.
there is nothing but peter, trying to open his eyes, but unable to because he can barely believe that he just kissed you.
there is nothing but your frozen body.
there is nothing, except
"peter?"
his name falling from your lips.