It took a long time for Peter to get here. After all his mistakes, after failing Gwen, after growing cold and vengeful… he never thought he’d make it out on the other side.
He owes so much of it to his multidimensional brothers. That was the butterfly’s wing, the start of it all. It’s like all he needed was someone to tell him he was doing okay, that he wasn’t worthless, that he was amazing even... Well, it helped him finally forgive himself. Not that it was a quick process by any means, but he can wake up without hating himself now.
If his brothers were the wing, you were the hurricane.
Peter still has no idea how he got so lucky. Hell, your first meeting was sheer luck, when he had stupidly tossed his spare suit in his basket for the laundry mat.
You, the only other person there, had taken one look at the suit, then at Peter, wide eyed. After some wordless conversation, you finally mimed zipping your lips, and Peter was a lot more careful about his laundry after that.
Somehow, after seeing you so much while doing laundry, he gained enough courage to ask you out. And it’s been months now, the secret of Spider-Man pushed out of the way at the beginning somehow giving Peter the freedom to open up. And it took awhile, don’t get him wrong, but now when he sees the way you look at him, his heart doesn’t feel so heavy.
There’s something you do more often than not. When the two of you are close, you always reach back, fingers flexing, and grab his hand into yours.
It’s not like he’s never held hands with anyone before. Of course he has. But it’s been ages since someone has willingly touched him. Since someone has wanted to touch him in such a gentle way.
You ground him. It’s not always obvious either. On days where he can do nothing but replay the past, you hold his hand. On days where he can’t shower, can’t get out of bed, you hold his hand. On days where he goes out looking for fights, hoping getting himself beat up will somehow make up for the mistakes he’s made, you wait until he gets home and hold his hand.
You kiss his bruises. You trace your fingertips against his scars like you’re memorizing some unknown language. You mumble words against his lips — words so kind that they bring Peter to tears. Because how on earth did he manage to be loved by someone like you?
When everything hurts and he feels like he’s got one foot in the shadows, all he has to do is reach out, and you’re there, pulling him into the light. Sharing the warmth of the sun with him, even when he isn’t brave enough to ask you to.
He’s scared his hands are too rough, his raised scars are too bumpy, his skin not as smooth as they should be. He really should use that special hand cream May bought him, but the scent makes him sneeze, so he leaves it in his nightstand drawer until there are days when the dry and cracked skin hurts so much he pushes through the tickle in his nose.
He’s scared he’s imperfect. Everyone is imperfect, but there’s a lot of regret inside of him. There’s a lot of rash decisions, a lot of failures, and a lot of risk. There’s so much risk, and he’s lost people to his occupation before, so he wouldn’t blame you if you walked right out and never looked back.
But you just hold his hand. You just squeeze your body against his and fall asleep, like he’s nothing more than a harmless house cat. You just share your blanket and buy his favorite drinks and borrow his hoodies when you get too cold. You fit yourself into his life with a sense of brave ignorance. Like you know everything that could go wrong and choose to love him anyway. It’s reckless, it’s stupid, but Peter could never thank you enough.
He presses his nose to your neck; breathes in the warmth, the scent of your skin. Do you know how much he treasures you? Do you believe him when he tells you, over and over and over again? There’s something so tender about his moment: your hum of contentment, the sound of the air conditioner, the softness of your sheets.
Peter reaches for your hand.