something
“what’re you doing here?"
a blue and red suit blinds your eyes, streetlights reflecting on to you.
when you turn around to see him–him, the one person you’ve been waiting to see for days–you’re almost shocked by the wide white eyes.
as if the brown that had replaced them for such a little amount of time had stolen every other memory from your mind. as if you’d forgotten what it was like to stand here with him like this.
quietly.
peter stands with his hands out, his movements slow.
a part of you doesn’t understand why you’re here. doesn’t understand what you’re doing.
but something about his voice, something about the mask, something about your heart.
it makes you smile, just enough to hopefully put him at ease.
"you didn’t answer your phone,” you say, carefully enough, taking a step closer to him. you try not to think about the person that’s waiting there for you, and instead, push yourself forward by the force pulling you back.
you’re not really afraid of him.
“it’s late,” peter tells you, stepping away from you, slowly, slightly. you can’t see his eyes, but you can hear his voice now, soft, pleading.
there is tension in the air. a gentle force of attraction between the two of you. unreleased anger, floating through the air.
unspoken words dance between the two of you as bright as light. only slightly distracting.
you draw a tight-lipped smile, sighing softly. “my sleep schedule is messed up.” you don’t bother to mention why. you’re sure that he knows.
you step forward again, unwilling to let this go, now.
you feel that pull right in your stomach, telling you to turn around.
but you don’t want him to leave again.
you miss his smile, his words, his voice.
you miss the courage he seems to draw out of you, you miss your resilience once so strong.
you refuse to stop fighting back now when you’ve almost won this inner battle.
you haven’t seen his eyes in a week. haven’t heard his voice.
“i broke my phone,” he tells you.
“broke it?"
he shakes his head and sighs. you see the weight on his shoulders. you can feel him trying to move away, trying deliberately not to understand.
he’s uncomfortable. maybe cold.
"peter,” you whisper, taking another step forward, trying to find some way to make this any less awkward.
it’s strange to say his name this way.
you wonder if he can hear your voice yelling at him. wonder if he feels the guilt as vehemently as you do. you wonder if he’s mad, if he’s upset, if he’s just happy to see you.
his hands are tense as he looks around, staring at the stagnant streets, the silent lamposts. he’s listening to the silence, trying to make sense out of all of it.
his hands are rigid, unfamiliar as he reaches up and pulls his mask off, revealing his eyes to you for the first time in a week.
it’s a gesture, some part of you recognizes.
you’re almost shocked, shaking your head to acclimate yourself to his brown eyes, so much closer to yours than you’d imagined.
you try to smile, try to breathe around him.
you’re not sure if it works.
you speak again, anyway. “you broke your phone?” you repeat, asking for clarification, asking him to ease into this, asking him for more.
you’re talking to him, now.
let me know, he said, and this, this is your answer.
“i was mad,” he tells you, in a whisper. “i don’t really think you want to know."
"mad?” you wonder. “at me?"
peter tries to smile, you can see the effort plain on his face. "at me."
your eyes soften. your heart stills.
the guilt pounds against your ribcage, a gentle voice, calling you back. telling you not to go any further.
you don’t feel like listening.
you smile at him, trying to offer something. but ultimately, you draw a blank, only letting the silence fill the lack of words.
you don’t know how to say all you want to say.
so peter steps back, offering a hand to you. "can i take you home?” he asks, voice void of any joking, any emotion you’re familiar with. “you look cold."
you recognize this. this situation, this person. you remember before when you were hesitant around him. when something about a masked stranger was scarier than freezing in the middle of the night.
you laugh at your naivety and nod at peter, you’ve done this before.
you’re about to take his hand but he draws it back first, careful eyes as he watches you. like he’s sure that this is a trick, like this is some cruel joke he’s playing on you.
you shake your head, asking him the question without the words.
he lifts his mask. "do you mind if i put it back on?” his breath is cold in the air. he tries to smile again. “anonymous superhero thing."
you think it’s a joke, but you can’t quite tell. something about his face.
"of course,” you answer, wondering why you could say no to that in the first place.
he nods and slips it’s over his eyes, ruining your read on him.
and then he grabs your waist, sharing his warmth with you effortlessly, perfectly, ruining the silence between the two of you with the shrill sound of his heartbeat.
you’re unused to this. the feeling around him. the apprehension in his eyes.
you realize now that you had gotten so familiar with being angry at peter–and yourself–that it wasn’t hard a weak ago.
but you never got the chance to forgive him, before.
it only takes a minute to get to your window. it’s only a minute of wind in your ear, tension in your eyes. peter holds you close, tight.
it’s different now that you know that it’s him.
you’d observed the web-slingers on both wrists. thinking of the one in the corner of your room, broken.
peter lets out a breath of air as soon as you both get into the room. his heartbeat right against yours disappears as he lets you go, sets you down, releases you into the gentle warmth of your own room.
he’s shivering as he puts down and pulls his mask off with a heavy movement of his chest, deep, scorning.
as if he was holding his breath that entire time.
you watch him, trying to relax your eyes as much as they’ll allow, waiting for him to look back at you.
and as soon as he does you feel that familiar apprehension crawling up your throat.
you’ve only done this once before. you’ve only thought this through a million times. and it doesn’t feel like enough.
you don’t feel ready, even though you were. that you are.
you let the feeling fill your mouth, smiling at peter.
he doesn’t smile back. his haunted eyes wait, subtle, for you to speak. he doesn’t make any motion to move. he doesn’t allow you a moment to figure out what he’s thinking.
you clear your throat. “did you have three?” you gesture down to his wrist. “or did you make another?”
peter follows your gaze, looking shocked to see it on his wrists.
he looks back up. “uh, i made it. i assumed you wouldn’t want me coming back to get the other one…” his voice, rough, draws off, eyes finally observing the room again.
you wonder if it feels strange for him to be here. if he’s angry at you. if he doesn’t want to talk to you, despite what he said, and that’s why he’s acting so strange.
you wonder if you can tell him, if the words will even come out of your throat. maybe you should’ve practiced that earlier, before you went running off to look for him.
peter, who seems so still.
you have no idea what to say next.
“i broke it,” you get out, voice guilty, following peter’s gaze to the pieces on the floor.
he raises an eyebrow, looking back at you.
“i was angry,” you nod your head at him, repeating his words and letting your lips quirk up in a gentle tease.
peter smiles but it’s not a kind one. “at me?” he asks, already seeming to know the answer. he takes a step away from you, head shaking slightly.
you pause, avoiding his eyes for a moment. and then you look at him, surprised to see the familiar soft brown. maybe surprised that he’s there again. “at you,” you confirm, watching for his reaction.
he winces, but it’s a small movement on his plane of uncertainty. then he allows his eyes to go blank while looking at you.
you stare at each other for a moment.
“you were waiting for me?” he asks, quietly. he’s got fists clenched down at his sides. he’s got a multitude of illusions. he’s got your fear in his hands, unknowingly.
you wait for it to drop.
he stares at you as if he’s sure that whatever he’s thinking is wrong. as if you’re going to kick him out right this second.
you nod. “i tried texting you, but…” you smile up at him, knowingly. you smile, but you’re sure that it looks more like a scream. “i wanted to ask you something."
i wanted to tell you something, you don’t correct.
peter shakes his head, eyes clear. "okay,” he says, waiting.
the wheels begin to turn, a subtle clicking as you look at him.
you know you’re ready, to tell him.
“how many people have you told, besides me and gwen?"
peter’s eyes widen, he moves forward. "i didn’t-"
"she was asking me about you the other day. where you’d been. those sort of things.” you keep your face clear, same as his eyes, trying not to scare him away. “she knows, i know."
you’ve got this feeling, deep in your chest, begging to be let out.
peter scoffs a little bit, shaking his head. "no one else,” he says, voice a bit confused.
you nod.
you look away from him. you could just say it. you could just tell him.
but that feels like a step too far, it feels like a voice calling you back. it feels like looking at a stranger, now, looking at peter with strange eyes.
you keep your gaze to the floor. “she said something else,” you say, only slightly softer.
you don’t see peter look up, or nod. you don’t see his shaking eyes, his patient mouth. you don’t hear his silent pleading because you’re not looking at him.
and while you’re not looking at him, he can throw composure away.
you might’ve recognized it. his formality, distance, politeness.
your mouth curls. your voice feels feeble, your mind feels stagnant. “she said that you love me."
it’s not a confession, it does not require an answer.
peter’s head tilts, he stares at you.
"you don’t need to confirm that, or anything,” you smile at him, finally looking up because you’re sure he won’t react to that. “but, peter, i want to talk about last week. i want to try to understand,” you breathe in.
“what?” peter asks, softly. his eyes are confused, his mind seems to be spiraling.
“i’m not ready,” you keep your eyes on his, keep them stern. “i’m not ready to forgive you yet. i can’t-” you shake your head.. “not yet."
peter’s hands seem to reach out, they seem to ask for more. "you shouldn’t, y/n, i don’t expect, i don’t-” he shakes his head, his face a copy of your. “i don’t want to you to. i’m so sorry, i was-"
you’re watching him and you seem to have misunderstood, or he has. you’re watching his eyes, surprised at the feeling building in your chest.
peter seems to sense something, he seems to know. he pauses his words and looks at you.
"what?” he asks. “what?” his voice, desperate, his eyes trying to understand yours.
“i love you,” you say, and his once rapid eyes, his once thundering heart, his once bright laugh–go completely still.
a voice begs you to turn back.
he pauses, shaking his head. his movements go mechanical, robotic, a perfect image in front of you.
“no,” he says, breaking his pause, breaking the reaction. “you don’t have to say that just because gwen told you-"
you sigh and look away from him. "i was angry at you. so angry,” a bitter laugh comes from your mouth, a memory of the anger in your chest. “i was hurt that you lied. i was angry because you were trying to make it up to me–something you did–by lying. and because you seemed so sure about it."
peter is shaking his head. his eyes are telling you to stop, his voice is begging you to turn around, he’s trying to stop you from continuing, but you don’t.
the fear has dissipated, the wonder, the amusement, the resilience that you craved before, it returns in a steady flow of emotions.
"and before that, i wanted nothing more than for you to come back, peter. i just wanted your attention, your friendship, again. it was terrifying when i realized you were there the whole time, and i just couldn’t see it.
"i felt stupid, ridiculous for being angry with you, but mostly…” you pause, looking up at him. feeling remorse for his sad eyes, feeling remorse from the time away from him, from the memories running through your mind. you feel a strong guilt, for everything you’ve lost together. “i just missed you. i missed you and i hated that you were gone just because you were trying to protect me."
peter is frozen, buckling under the weight of your words, under the guilt in his chest. he’s falling, he feels like he’s falling, and there’s nothing there to catch him.
but your smile.
"i don’t understand it, what you did.” you sigh, finally looking back up at him, finally seeming to take in his pleading. “but i don’t want to feel that way–ridiculous or hurt, anymore."
but peter’s eyes are shut, his balance is off.
"i don’t know what you want, y/n, i can’t-” he’s desperate, his voice getting louder. “i don’t know how to fix this. i don’t think i can.” shaking his head, he’s pulling away from you.
he’s unconvinced. he’s a liar. he’s wrong.
and so, with conviction you can barely feel, you move forward, you try and reach for his hand, for his warmth.
you feel lost, drowning in the darkness, in his guilt, in yours.
you feel frozen, drifting, melting.
“peter,” you whisper to him, voice so quiet, so different. filled with an emotion you almost didn’t realize you had.
it’s just enough to get him to look up.
“i don’t want you to fix this,” you shake your head, unable to smile, unable to mend the things that are broken. “i just don’t want you to leave again."
peter leans in more, trying to hear you more clearly, trying to understand. he seems to be picking up the pieces.
he can see you, but you’re not there.
he can feel you, but this all feels fake.
"i love you,” you whisper again, words feeling more right now, more real. “peter,” you say.
and it’s enough for him, it’s enough, it’s enough.
it’s enough forgiveness, it’s enough guilt, it’s enough with monsters and with hollow feelings in the pits of your chest.
it’s enough love, enough courage, enough restlessness.
he pulls you into his arms. he grabs you within an instant and wraps himself around you.
he releases the guilt, the anger, he drops the mask on the floor, no longer needing it, and he cradles your head in his hands.
he can feel you, he can see you.
he thinks of everything, everything he’s done, all the mistakes, all the lies. he thinks of all the broken things on the floor, he thinks of falling, he thinks of drowning.
he has no idea how he got here, why you’re still in his arms.
he can’t let go.
you’re clutching onto him, holding him again, just like that first day back at school. just like that first act of desperation.
it feels different now, it feels stronger. a realization shooting both of you in the heart.
its a plesurable type of pain.
peter pulls back just enough to look at your face, still cradling your head, still holding you as hard as he can.
“i’m so sorry,” he says one last time, his face just enough to show you how much he means it. “however long it takes,” he says, he promises, he swears he will. “i’ll make it up to you."
you nod, and smile at him, bringing your hand up to grab the wrist of the hand holding your head.
it’s the right type of smile, the genuine kind that peter thought he might never see again.
his hand moves, holding your cheek instead, pulling you closer to him, feeling you beneath his fingertips.
"i love you,” he says.
and it hurts more, coming from his lips. it’s stronger now when you can see his eyes, when you can feel his skin, on top of yours, his skin so violently hot, so fresh against your face.
it hurts to hear, it feels so wrong.
and so perfect. such sweet words. such beautiful realities.
you almost laugh, you almost try to wake yourself up.
but you don’t, instead, you stare at him, observing his eyes for the first time this close.
you never got the chance to do this, before.
and that’s the only reason you draw him in closer, the only reason you lean in, moving your hand so that it’s pulling his face down.
just so he can meet you halfway.
and this time, kissing peter, the friend you’ve always known.
the person so familiar, so unmasked, so wrong.
this time, nothing clicks into place.
nothing changes, nothing has ever felt quite so much like throwing everything away.
you can hear a voice in your head, telling you to turn around, telling you that you’re making the wrong choice.
and still, you pull him in. deepening the kiss.
something about your heart doesn’t care.