According to science, humans need at least eight hugs a day. Or four, or twelve, or six. Different websites say different things. But it’s always more than one, and there are studies about physical touch, and how important it is for humans to receive.
You’ve never thought about it before. Truthfully, you’re a touchy person. You hug your coworkers as a casual greeting, and you’ve never been one to shy away from a platonic cuddle with friends, so in all honesty you’ve never really stopped to think about how a lack of touch might affect some people.
Enter Peter Parker, your kind yet aloof roommate. He’s always out at weird times of the night, his room looks like an occupational hazard, and he’s almost always late on his rent. But he picks up groceries and does his own laundry, and he makes the most amazing brownies you’ve ever tasted.
So you keep him around.
What flummoxes you is the fact that you’ve never seen Peter hang out with other people. Whatever odd job he has, he must do it alone, because he’s never brought anyone over. Not a friend, or a girlfriend, or a boyfriend. He keeps to himself, despite his seemingly friendly persona.
Your meddling heart wonders if Peter gets enough love. Sure, it’s not your problem, but the idea of Peter going even a day without a hug seems like too much for his warm soul.
Peter, who makes you soup when you're sick and tapes your shows when he knows you'll be out late. Peter, who always gives you the last slice of pizza or the last bowl of milk for your cereal. Peter who never uses up the hot water and always knows obscure science facts. He deserves affection more than anyone you know, so you decide to give it to him.
He’s clever, though, and excellent at catching onto your tricks, so you perform your heart out when the two of you are watching a horror movie. You ask him to hold your hand, act like you really need it, and when he obliges, soft teasing on the edge of his tongue, you trap him.
You keep his hand in yours the entire movie, soft squeezes and strokes with the pad of your thumb. Is this helping? You want to ask him. You want to ask if he needs this. All those days of coming home looking dead on his feet… Does he have anyone who will just hold him?
He lets you pull his hand into your lap by the opening credits of the next movie. His entire arm is tense, sure, but he lets you. You pretend you don’t notice the curious glances he keeps sending your way. You also pretend you don’t notice the way he relaxes by the middle of the movie, his hand molding to yours.
-
The next time you offer him a form of touch is a bit more unorthodox.
Usually, you’re not up in the middle of the night, when Peter gets home from his more-than-likely shady job. And if you are, you’re usually in your room, too comfortable in your bed to go and welcome him home.
However, this particular night, you had been struggling to sleep, and stumbled into the kitchen to get a glass of water.
Peter walked through the front door at that moment, and through the open doorway of the kitchen you could see it clear as day: a giant bruise forming under his eye.
“Peter, are you alright?” You ask, because, well, you’ve never been in this sort of situation before, and you don’t know the protocol.
You’re pretty sure it’s not this: Peter shrugging nonchalantly like he wasn’t just beaten across his face. His brown eyes waver under your scrutiny. He tries to wave away your concern, but obviously his shoulders have taken a hit too, because he winces when his arm lifts too high. “I’m fine,” he mumbles.
“What happened?”
“Uh, mugging,” he says. Then he looks at you with a cheeky sort of grin. “You should see the other guys.”
You look at Peter in his grandpa sweater and askew glasses because of course he isn’t wearing his contacts the one day he gets punched in the face. And then you think with all his sneaking out and the comfortable air of confidence he’s exuding, maybe he’s been in more fights than you realize.
Something pulls at your chest. “Let me take care of you,” you say, and Peter’s gaze softens almost immediately.
“I’m okay, ___,” he insists again. “I’m a big boy,” he tries to joke, but all you can imagine are the nights he must’ve come home without anyone to look after him. What was he up to? Was he in danger? Is anyone making sure he’s safe?
“Please?” And your voice must come out more pitiful than you mean it to, because Peter lets you lead him into the bathroom and sit him on the edge of the tub. He lets you unearth the first aid kit your mother shoved under the sink when you first moved in. He lets you stand between his legs and dab rubbing alcohol on the small cuts that litter his face.
“I’m not going to ask what you were doing,” you say, because Peter’s picking at his nails, and his knee is shaking up and down like you’re going to interrogate him. His actions slow at your words, brown eyes focused on your lips as you work. As you speak. “Just… You don’t have to go through this alone. Whatever you need: someone to patch you up, or talk it out, or hold you together until it feels okay again… We’re friends aren’t we, Peter?”
“Yeah,” he whispers, voice raspy. He’s still looking at your lips. "Friends."
-
It’s weeks later, when you think Peter has long forgotten your words. You do your best to initiate physical contact, content to press a comforting hand to his shoulder in the morning, or give him a brief hug when he comes home from the grocery store.
It’s not much, but it feels good to be so close to him. To smell the vanilla and amber notes of his cologne. To hear laughter vibrate in his chest as he hugs you back in surprise.
So things are going well.
Until your door opens in the middle of the night, and Peter stands in the doorway looking every bit like a helpless child. “___?”
You wake up immediately, startled at Peter’s clear show of vulnerability. He never comes into your room. You never go into his. This is a clear step over some invisible line as roommates, and you’re not sure why he’s crossed it. You try to be casual about it, despite your insides turning. “What’s up?”
“Can you…” He huffs, quietly, perhaps at himself, and then shuffles on his feet, like he’s steeling himself for a rejection. “The other night, like awhile ago, when I came home and you cleaned me up I– Well, you said if I ever need someone to hold me together, I could come to you.”
He breathes out the words like they’ve been resting on his tongue for a long time. You wonder momentarily if this isn’t the first time he’s thought about coming to your door. Maybe this is just the first time he’s been brave enough to open it.
You open your arms and without hesitation, Peter climbs under the covers with you and wraps his arms around your middle. He sets his head on your collarbone, ear to your heart, and your fingers find a purchase in the waves at the nape of his neck. You do your best to soothe whatever is ailing him: scratch circular motions into his scalp, whisper words of encouragement, push down the curiosity that’s eating at every part of you.
You can’t imagine anyone having it out for him, but it’s clear to you that he’s part of something clearly bigger than himself. Something he can’t get out of. Something that drains his energy and has him desperate for any comfort.
You tighten your arms around him, kiss his temple and his head and his brow. “You’re okay,” you say, and he curls into you even more. “You’re safe with me.”