to the floor, to the ground
it’s a click in motion, for you.
suddenly, you’re sure that you’re looking at his eyes. suddenly, you’re sure that this is what you want.
that this unbearable feeling is more than just accumulating pain.
something in your head, in your body, clicks into place and you are no longer hesitant about reaching out to touch him.
your hand goes to his neck, a slow movement you’re not able to speed up, even with the adrenaline fresh in your veins.
your hand is slipping away his mask–the only face that he’s worn around you in the months of your friendship, the only familiar thing that you have to look forward to when it’s dark at night.
you don’t care, you’re so sure that the only right thing to do is throw it away.
you’re slipping it up his soft skin, somehow exactly as you imagined it, and finally, you see your first glance of spider-man.
he’s got a sharp jawline, full lips gently parted. he’s got a heartbeat, you can feel now, with your hands on his neck.
and he’s got a feeling, you can feel it, so similar to yours.
when he leans in, you don’t even hesitate to do the same.
something has clicked, something is right about this, and why should you be wasting time when you could be kissing him?
his lips are soft, forceful, pleading against yours.
you’re thinking that this is warmth, that this is silence, that this is walking home in the dark just to see him.
you kiss him harder, trying to pull him as close as he’ll allow.
you can barely feel his hands, gripping onto you, can’t feel the contraption around your wrist, slipping away and falling on the floor.
he must be swallowing you whole because you can barely breathe, can barely count the moments that pass by with the two of you closer than you’d ever been before.
you hadn’t even contemplated this–not with him, not like this.
but it’s such a perfect emotion being fueled into you that you no longer wish to breathe.
no longer wish to move away from him.
but you have to–you have to because you can feel him, digging deeper, screaming for more without the words. neither of you can speak.
you pull away from him, but you’re still so close that when you open your eyes you seem to know exactly where his are. even through the mask, the one sight you’ve become used to seeing.
your eyes roll down, seeking the bottom half of his face again, as if you need a reminder of what he really looks like.
his lips are swollen now, this breath is short and fast-paced. matching, you’re sure, you.
a gentle flow of air passes between the two of you, a moment slowing down, a heart rate speeding up. he hasn’t said anything yet, and you’re not sure you want to.
you’re not even sure that you wanted to stop kissing him yet, with how much you enjoyed it.
you can almost feel a smile slipping from your lips, so genuine that it shocks you.
you look down again, away from hidden eyes, to see if he’s smiling the same. to read him for the first time. to look at him again, because god, you have to take what you can get.
it’s a click in your brain now.
something feels wrong even before you get the thought out. even before your mind leads you down that familiar curious route. something feels strange, unfamiliar against all the familiarity.
you feel something crash in your stomach, feel your brain click into place before you can even breathe again.
you feel your throat clench, your body freezing before you can process the face in front of you.
the lips, the nose, the jaw, the breath. familiar, breathtakingly similar.
he is not smiling.
you are not smiling.
“peter?” you choke out before you’ve even caught your breath.
something behind your eye stings as the man sitting in front of you, holding onto you so close, pauses.
his breathing slows, his mouth trying to form words.
you seem to recognize this lack of explanation, from time before, from childhood lies to strange answers.
as soon as your hands begin to move again, seemingly moved by a mind of their own, the man is trying to speak again.
“what?” he asks, he pleads, he bursts out with any breath at all. “no-” he shakes his head. “peter? i don’t-"
but it’s too late now, your hands have moved too far up his face, throwing curiosity away without a moment’s hesitation.
they didn’t listen when you told them to stop.
peter stops when the mask is off, when all you can see is a flash of terrified brown brown brown before you’re looking away, blinded by the realization of the person sitting there with you.
of the person you just kissed.
a gag forms in your throat, a sudden sickness, a sudden exclamation coming from your mouth. you think you gasp, but you just feel numb.
you’ve moved off of him, standing up with all the strength you had, purposefully keeping your eyes off of the man in front of you.
peter.
"y/n,” his voice is soft, still breathless, you’re sure his mouth is still swollen. you’re sure his hands are still on you, lying to you, even from six feet away. “you’re hyperventilating, just, here-”
you see a hand reach out towards you, a red hot hand that you can’t believe you can recognize now. a hand that will burn you again if you go anywhere near it.
you move back before you can take a breath, stepping as far away from him as possible. trying to force him away, from your mind, from your lips.
“i’m sorry,” he whispers, but you’re not looking at him so you don’t know what he’s sorry about.
you can’t even-
“how?” your voice breaks. “wh-why? peter- how can you-” you shake your head, words failing, mind failing to collect all the information that’s just been laid out in front of you. “you’re…” your voice goes slack.
you hold a hand to your heart, willing yourself to feel something.
“i can explain,” peter promises, voice getting louder.
you look up, eyes deranged. “explain?” you practically scoff, practically pushing him away from you with your voice. you’re practically shoving him. “you’re-you’re spider-man."
peter stares at you, warm eyes chilled.
"what else is there to explain, peter?” you say his name like a curse, spitting out the word with a fit of sudden anger that’s incomprehensible to you.
you’re not even sure if you know this person in front of you. this person you thought you knew so well.
you’re not even sure if you’re alive, if you’re not just some figment of an insane mind.
“yes,” he says. “yes, i am, and i’m so sorry that i never told you, or…” his eyes are searching yours, looking for something, anything.
you look down, to the suit, to the red and blue that had become a lullaby in your mind. you look at all the vibrant colors, a comfort in the middle of the night.
you look up, back to his face.
you notice the cut now, the same one that you saw on peter, the same one you were curious about hours ago when you couldn’t think clearly.
your mouth goes hard, your voice follows. “why are you doing this? why are you here?"
"y/n, i-"
"you left, peter!” your body is frozen, the weight increases in your stomach with every moment that you’re looking at him. “you said you needed space, that you needed time–and clearly” you gesture to his spandex-clad body. “there was a reason why- i can clearly see why, but then, you’re here?"
peter shakes his head, hand going to run through his hair. his eyes are avoiding yours, his movements are static.
his body is familiar, his face is a wonder to you, his voice and his lips and.
"you’re here,” you point to yourself, gesturing more, asking more, wanting more. “why are you here? you told me-” you pause, face falling.
peter stares, waiting for your next words, his eyes are worried, concerned, so brown.
his lips are swollen. you can feel the heat on his hands on your body, still.
“you kissed me."
"i did,” peter nods. “y/n, i didn’t want to get you involved in,” his hand shakes as he gestures to himself, around. “any of this. i didn’t want you to be in the middle of any of it."
"and then you-"
"i just wanted to keep you safe. first, there was ben and then-” he runs a reckless hand over his face. “i was so afraid to tell you, every time i saw you for that first week i couldn’t say anything because i knew if i did…"
peter goes silent, and you follow, eyes observing him, angry, confused. you feel the fire in your chest, growing with his explanation.
it hurts to look at him, hurts to breath, hurts to move.
"you were my only constant. i just-” he sighs, neck lulling as he stares at the ground. “i just wanted to keep it that way.” his eyes are quiet, his face is broken.
a part of you recognizes the pain flashing in his eyes. a part of you remembers his friendship, so devoted, so loving. a part of you feels his guilt, his remorse, so potent in the air that you could scream.
but then, your stomach is being pulled down, your heart has shattered into a million glass pieces, and your eyes are hard as you stare at him.
you feel almost nothing.
“so you lied to me, peter? you pretended to be someone else every night and just left me behind the rest of the time?"
peter looks up to you, mouth opening, eyes pleading. "i wasn’t pretending anything, y/n, everything i said-"
"you let me talk about you, to your face. you knew how much your space” you tease the word, throw it at him as violently as you can, throw it until it hits him square in the chest. “was killing me and you didn’t do anything?"
"i was going to hurt you!” his voice is desperate, begging for understanding even as he continues to lie to you, to throw out excuses as fast as you throw them back. “i was going to hurt you, and there wasn’t going to be anything i could do to save you."
"you were hurting me anyway, peter! every time you looked at me, every time you pretended like i didn’t mean anything-"
"you did, that’s why, y/n, you have to understand-"
"what?” you demand, staring at him, telling him to back down. “i have to understand that you lied to me for three months, that you pretended you weren’t my friend, and then pretended that you were, just to protect me?"
the both of you stop, unwilling thoughts.
a scoff makes its way out of your mouth, anger so fresh you can taste it. "that’s not protection, peter. that’s just hurting me for your own sake."
"i didn’t want to hurt you,” he says slowly, apprehensively. “that’s why i’m here. when i saw you that first night-” he breaths in, a struggling breath. you feel the cold from his words. “i couldn’t just leave you alone, y/n."
you stare at him, the memories of him, of someone else, of a friend that was never really yours, flashing in your mind.
you feel stupid, you feel forgotten, you feel used.
you feel absolutely nothing.
"but i told you-” you gasp out, shaking your head. “i told you how much it hurt.” your face goes blank and you look away from him, down to the floor, down to the broken pieces. “i told you things i wouldn’t have told anyone else."
peter doesn’t seem to have an excuse for that.
you laugh again, bitterly, not allowing the tears to form in your eyes. "i felt so familiar around you…” you look up to him, shocked by his face again. “all the time, and i could never understand why-” you laugh again.
neither of you breathes for a moment. there is nothing but silence, nothing but the sound of guilt, ringing through the two of you.
“you could have just told me the truth, peter,” you say, voice small again. you feel small, now. like you have been around him for weeks. “i would’ve…"
but you don’t have anything to fill that sentence with. because you’re not sure what you would’ve done, not sure what reaction you could’ve possibly had.
all you’re sure of is now. when you didn’t have a choice.
peter seems to know though because he laughs a little bit. "you would’ve told me not to do it."
your brow furrows, watching peter’s body fall into itself a little bit more.
he almost smiles. "you would’ve been worried all the time. i knew that.” he shakes his head. “you wouldn’t have let me."
a breath of air comes from you, as you frown at him. "well at least i would’ve had that choice. at least i could’ve known."
but peter shakes his head.
"i’m sorry.” is all he says, body falling silent. the fight going out of his body.
you don’t bother to look at his eyes, not wanting to know what you’re going to see there.
“i don’t know what the truth is, y/n, but i should’ve told you. i know that."
your chest falls. "why didn’t you, peter?” it’s a plead, almost desperate for an answer different than you’ve heard. something else, anything, to just make you forgive him.
but he shakes his head.
he’s not smiling.
you’re not smiling.
something is coming up your throat, some unfamiliar feeling, some familiar face, following you.
you shake your head, trying to push it down.
“you need to go, peter,” you say, breath faltering again. “please, just…"
and before you can look up, he’s gone.
and it’s only then, in the dark and the silence, in the absence of someone you suppose you’ve always known–it’s then that you fall.
to the floor, to the ground. hard concrete cracking against your body.
and there is no spider-man to save you, it turns out, because spider-man never existed. not really.
there is no peter to protect you, because he doesn’t know how.
there is no one but yourself.
and when your hand reaches out, towards the web-slinger on the ground, the very memory of peter, of spider-man, of a kiss that felt like nothing else.
you cradle it in your palm for a moment, sure that you can feel his hands again.
and then, you throw it across the room.
just like you’ve thrown everything else away.
*
peter put the mask back on.
too soon, he thinks, too quickly.
he slid it over his eyes before he could blink. he wonders if it’s because it’s cold, or because he doesn’t want to see the person behind it.
the monster behind the mask, who he’s been trying to avoid for weeks.
his smile is morse, his bones are full of glue, blood leaking out of him with every intake of breath.
he can barely feel anything, as he makes it home.
he’s being too loud, too quiet, too guilty, too passive.
he knows that aunt may won’t say anything though, so he doesn’t let himself think about it.
instead, he stares at the wall in front of him. remembering a time when he did this with you, when you smiled at him, teasing him for staring at then looking away.
he didn’t get a last glance back to you.
and he’s sure that it’s a missed opportunity–he’s almost sure that he’s not going to see you again. not with the right eyes, not with the right smile.
he thinks that you’re gone, or that maybe he made you up.
or maybe he’s gone, he can’t really tell.
he can’t tell anything, he’s not sure of anything, but he can stare at the wall in front of him.
the wall with the one remaining picture.
he took the other ones of you down weeks ago–when he was beginning to feel crowded by your smile. when the guilt was starting to feel suffocating. when he was so sure that he would be taking more–in his head if nothing else–and that he would need more room for more.
but he didn’t take the last one down.
it’s a simple picture. a snapshot of you sitting at the picnic table, glaring at peter with a gentle glow of your eyes.
it’s peter’s favorite. maybe because of your smile, maybe because it was the first one on the wall.
it doesn’t matter now.
he’s been suffocated, his heart is crowded by guilt.
it doesn’t matter.
it shouldn’t matter now because peter has screwed up so frequently, so hesitantly, so mistakenly that there aren’t going to be any more pictures.
no more smiles.
peter is sure that he’ll never get the chance again.
if he knows anything, he knows that.
he lets his head go back, trying to force the stinging of his eyes away.
he shouldn’t be allowed to be hurt over something that he did to himself.
he should never be allowed to take this mask off, no matter how suffocating it gets.
he looks back to the picture, the memory of your lips on his.
he winces, feeling the rattling in his chest.
and then he stands up, keeping the mask on. he moves over to the wall, giving the picture one last pained smile.
and then he takes it down.
so that maybe he can’t hurt you anymore.
*
you sit, the light of your phone reflecting off of your face.
you don’t sleep much, anymore.
not that you did before–but now it’s not because of distractions, and rather, their absence.
it’s so quiet late at night. so silent in the dark.
you haven’t seen peter in a week. you haven’t looked for him.
still, he’s not there.
but now, you’re staring at your phone, looking at a notification so unfamiliar to you that it feels wrong. strange. out of place.
let me know when you’re ready to talk again.
it’s a plagiarized message. a message that you sent months ago–when you still thought that he might answer your messages. it’s a copy of a copy.
it’s an olive branch, a notion towards you, a willingness to admit that he was wrong.
it’s another broken boundary, another line peter insists he must cross.
you’re not sure why he’s sent it. you didn’t ask for space, you told him to leave.
still, you can’t take your eyes off of it. not now, so late at night.
not when you miss him quite so much, when you miss his masked face, too. his jokes, his laughter, his determination to keep you up.
it’s unfair, this message.
but you don’t delete it. you can’t take your eyes away.
*
it’s the first-day peter has gone back to school.
it might’ve been the look may gave him this morning when he came, a sort of disappointed worry, a stern comforting gaze.
it might’ve been your voice, in the deepest part of his brain, telling him not to be stupid. that there was more to life than getting beat up.
whatever it was, it was enough to convince him. enough to get him to now, where he’s deliberately avoiding your eyes.
he’s not going to look at you, he’s decided. not going to scare you with his eyes. with his voice.
he took the mask off.
it’s still not enough.
he’s suffocating.
*
you’re almost surprised when you hear a throat clearing right next to you. almost shocked when you hear the voice from behind your locker door, clearly trying to get your attention.
you’re definitely surprised to see a flash of blonde when you close it, blinding you temporarily.
"i-” you blink and look up towards her. “gwen?"
she pulls you a little bit closer to her, eyes stuck on yours. "he told you?” she asks with no introduction.
you blink again. “excuse me?"
"peter,” her voice is almost impatient. she looks around to make sure no one is listening, even though there’s no one else around. “he told you?"
your brows furrow. "told me what?"
gwen rolls her eyes, shifting her weight. "you-” she sighs. “about a certain arachnid superhero…” she clues, voice drawing while she waits for your realization.
you take a step back from her, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “you know?"
"peter is ridiculously awful at keeping secrets."
your mind flashes to the months he’d been able to lie to you, but you nod your head in agreement anyway.
"okay…” your head shakes, waiting for gwen to get to the point of whatever it is she wants.
“he’s been gone for a week,” she says, eyes shifting into something softer. “i’ve called, but he hasn’t picked up."
"from school?” your brow furrows again. “i didn’t know that.”
gwen nods. “i’m assuming you’re not on speaking terms."
it isn’t a question, but you nod anyway.
"okay, well,” gwen sighs and looks up, face a bit conflicted. “i don’t know why i’m going to tell you this, because peter is an idiot, but…"
her voice draws and you let out a laugh.
"he loves you, you know?” she says, voice strong. “did he tell you that?"
your eyes are wide, whatever amusement you had from before, gone.
you feel your composure shake at the words.
gwen shakes her head, taking your face as an answer. "you don’t need me to tell you, but peter could barely ever take his eyes off of you when you were in the same room."
"he doesn’t-"
"you should be mad at him, but you have a right to know more than just about spider-man. the whole truth. he should’ve told you."
at that you go silent again, only nodding.
he should’ve told you.
you feel something shift, something some feeling forming itself in your chest. you look down, eyes trying to force themselves awake. force themselves into some different reality.
"i just wanted to make sure that someone did,” gwen says, smiling at you a little sadly. “and i wanted to make sure that you were okay."
you look back up, confused. "you don’t need to-"
"peter is my friend,” she tells you, smiling for real now. “and he’s not here to check on you, so."
you smile back at her, only slightly confused now.
"and, you look…” her voice draws off as she looks you up and down.
this time you laugh. “i know."
"you’re okay?"
your laugh turns into something else. you shake your head, at least sure about this. "no,” you tell her, head tilting. “just keep calling him, okay?"
gwen sees past you, it would seem, because her smile changes. she grins a little bit at you, nodding.
and then she walks away, leaving you with only her words to think about.
he loves you.
it wasn’t a question, not a confession.
it wasn’t something you could’ve expected, not something you’d ever wanted peter to say. not something you wanted to hear.
you feel that weight, deep in your stomach. a ridiculous ignorance, hidden behind your eyes at every memory. you feel the resentment of your foolishness, of the months you spent right next to your best friend, not knowing it. you feel anger at peter, for not telling you, for thinking that anything he did was okay.
but behind all of that. behind all of the pain, all of the cracks in your carefully built composure, and the broken glass feelings.
behind everything, there’s peter.
there’s peter with his gentle smile.
there’s peter with his stupid jokes, his laughter ringing in the air, his amusement with everything you did.
there’s peter, and the last time you saw his eyes.
the last time he looked at you and you couldn’t help but think that it was different. that his eyes were changed, that his smile was different, that there was a click.
that there was something different and it wasn’t just the mask on his face.
there’s peter and the kiss, that exactly right moment shared between the two of you before everything fell apart.
there’s peter.
who is not right, who was never right to lie to you. peter, who was unfair, who was hurting you for months.
peter who is not right at all.
but then there’s the other option.
there’s moving on. there’s forgetting everything, every moment, every touch, every laugh, and that one kiss.
there’s letting yourself grieve the loss of your best friend. there’s letting yourself love someone else for once, letting yourself forgive him without guilt.
and it’s so right. it’s the best option, the only sane one.
but then, your heart threatens to give out. your voice yells at you, your hands go numb.
it feels so wrong, that way.
like something clicking out of place.
*
you check your phone again, irritated with its silence.
you think about running to his house, about seeing aunt may for the first time in months, about barging into his room–just because you know how–and demanding answers.
demanding more.
you think about it, but then decide that it’s too far. that it’s too soon.
you check your phone again, turning it on and off so that maybe something will show up eventually.
peter hasn’t answered your last text, your answer to his.
he hasn’t even read it.
but you can’t sit around and wait. there is a restlessness to your emotions, unbreakable anxiety in your body, and it takes almost no time at all to grab your jacket off of the back of your door.
it takes almost no time at all to pocket your phone, to shove some shoes on your feet, and to leave this room.
your room, which only feels quiet now, an irritating contrast to the sound in your mind.
you remember the hollow feeling from weeks ago, and you’re almost mad that you can’t feel it now.
you think that it might be a welcome relief, to not be suffocated by feelings you’ve never let yourself think of.
you think it might be a relief to go back to when you were using spider-man as a distraction.
to when you needed to replace peter with something else.
but you know the truth now, you know.
and so you start walking, not bothering to remind yourself of any of the warnings that came before this.
you walk, and you barely feel anything as you hope for a shadow in the dark, as you hope for someone to scare you until there isn’t anything else to feel.
your phone doesn’t vibrate in your pocket.
your heart refuses to stop beating, to quiet itself so that you can listen for any moment in the dark.
your mind refuses to sleep. refuses to pick the right answer.
you think of the months before this, that first night, that overwhelming feeling.
you think of the anxiety now and you breathe out.
you don’t miss peter now. it is not a dependency.
it is not a need to see him.
not a worried heart, concerned with every minute of silence.
it is not a replacement, not a sane emotion.
it’s just being in love with your best friend.
two people, and then suddenly one.
when you hear the footsteps from behind you, hear the bad choices you’ve made.
you hear the mistakes in the sound, the warning signs there before you can think, you hear the voices warning you away.
you hear peter, telling you that he’s sorry.
you see peter, smiling so hesitantly at you.
you see yourself, kissing someone you barely knew.
you hear the footsteps and-
you don’t hesitate to turn around.