Untitled

You were beginning to regret promising your tutoring services to Professor Sorensen. 

The early morning sky was pink outside the library’s picture windows, and you stared wistfully as you spread your things out across one of the empty tables, wishing that you were still in bed. But Sorensen was maybe your favorite professor ever, and when she stopped you after class last week and asked you to tutor for the general education English classes in exchange for a meager pay and some extra points on your final essay, you didn’t have the heart to tell her no. 

You couldn’t imagine, though, what kind of linguistically-inept STEM major would be desperate enough for tutoring to schedule an appointment with you at eight o’clock on a Wednesday morning. You kind of wanted to beat them over the head with your laptop. Instead, you took a searing gulp of your coffee and opened your current required reading for Sorensen’s class. If you were going to be up this early, you might as well make some use of the time beyond tutoring. 

“Excuse me,” a voice calling your name cut through the otherwise silent main reading room of the library a few minutes later, and you looked up to find a tall boy with messy brown hair standing at the other side of your table. He had a frayed backpack slung over one shoulder, and a look of exhaustion in his brown eyes that was very familiar to you. “Am I in the right place for Professor Sorensen’s English tutoring?”

“Uh, yeah,” you nodded, shutting your book and briefly glancing down at the email from Sorensen open on your laptop to catch his name. “Peter Parker?” 

“That’s me,” he nodded, offering a small smile as he slid into the chair to the right of you. 

“So, you’re taking Beginnings of American Lit with Professor Liu, right?” you asked, checking the email once more. 

“Yeah. She’s kind of a tough grader, and if I don’t score an A on my next essay it’ll fuck with my GPA,” Peter explained, glancing over at you sheepishly as he dug through his bag, eventually producing a thin stack of rumpled papers. “I was hoping we could edit this one together? Maybe you’ll be able to explain what she’s looking for, ‘cause I really don’t know.” 

“Yeah, Liu is… particular, but not impossible,” you told him, reaching forward to slide the essay toward you. “Luckily, I’ve taken her twice, so I think I’ll be able to help.”

“Oh, thank god. I was starting to feel hopeless,” Peter said, and you couldn’t help but snort at the complete earnestness in his voice.  

“So, I take it you’re not a humanities major,” you observe, and Peter laughs, shaking his head. 

“Definitely not. I’m a chemistry major, actually. Science has always come easily to me, but writing not so much. S’why I put off taking my literature requirement until Senior year.”

“That’s what I did with my lab science requirement,” you said. “And now I’m struggling through a biology lab that might actually kill my GPA. Okay, so, your intro paragraph looks pretty good. Thesis is solid. I think your trouble is probably in the body– Liu is a real stickler for thorough analysis of quotes and citations. And by thorough, I mean extensive to the point of near-redundancy.” 

“Alright, I already know I’m gonna have to beef up the middle, in that case,” Peter sighed, taking the first page of his essay to look over the few line edits you had penned in with red ink. “Hey, about your biology lab. I can help, if you want. As a thank you for helping me with Liu’s class.” 

“Yeah? That’d be a lifesaver, honestly,” you said, raising your brow at him. “I don’t really know anyone in the department to help me find a reliable tutor. Not that I know you’re a reliable tutor. You could be a really shitty chemist, for all I know.” 

Peter let out a theatrical gasp, bringing a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “I’ll have you know that I’m a very good chemist. And, lucky for you, a perfectly average biologist. Good enough to get you to pass that lab with an A, I bet.” 

“Well, then, I’m gonna hold you to that, Mr. Parker.” 

“Just Peter’s fine. Mr. Parker makes me sound geriatric.” 

“Okay, Peter,” you hum. “Look, this quote you have at the top of this paragraph? It’ll be really easy to beef up your analysis if you introduce how it speaks on gender roles in American culture at the time. In fact, you could probably get a whole extra paragraph out of it, if you provide enough context.” 

“Would you mind writing that in the margin? I’ll forget otherwise,” Peter asked and you complied, writing the potential edit in small, neat letters next to the paragraph. “If you’re free Friday afternoon, we could go through some of your biology work.” 

“I actually am free then,” you said, eyes roaming over the last paragraph of his essay. You scribbled a few notes and line edits in, before stacking the pages neatly and sliding them back towards Peter. “Tell you what, you make the edits we talked about today, and we can go over the next version of your essay then, too, yeah? Make sure it’s up to Professor Liu’s standard?” 

“You’re an angel,” Peter said, glancing up from where he was absorbing your edits to shoot you a grin. “Hey, sorry to be so abrupt, but I gotta run. How does same spot, two o’clock on Friday sound?” 

“Works for me. Thanks for volunteering to help, Parker.” 

“ ‘Course. We should exchange numbers, in case anything comes up. I never check my email,” Peter said, pulling his phone out of his back pocket. He passed it along to you, the contacts page opened, and you entered your information, sending a text to yourself so you had his information in return. 

“See you Friday,” you smiled, handing the phone back to him. 

“Friday,” Peter confirmed, taking a few backward steps away from the table before turning around. He glanced over his shoulder once more, waving, before he disappeared into the hall. 

***

“God, this shift couldn’t be any fuckin’ slower,” Mickey groaned, dropping her head against the bodega’s countertop. Her red curls fanned all around her head, dripping over the edge of the counter. 

“Closing shift is always slow, Mick,” you reminded her, leaning against the wall with your arms folded over your chest. The thick of the after work rush had been over for about an hour, leaving the bodega deserted, aside from the two of you and Gary, the ancient orange bodega cat. 

“Dontcha ever just wish somethin’ interesting would happen around here?” she asked, picking her head up in order to blow a big pink bubble from her lips. 

“Interesting things happen in this city every day,” you countered. “Spider-Man fights some new fuckin’ loser every week, man, and that’s just him. Daredevil broke Mrs. Llewellyn’s kitchen window, like, four days ago.” 

“That shit’s not interesting anymore; you said it yourself, it happens every day,” Mickey said, stepping around the counter to pretend to organize the shelves. “Tell you what’d be interesting: if we found out who Daredevil or Spider-Man or any of the others are beneath the mask. And if not that, I’d settle for Daredevil crashing through my bedroom window tonight. That man is fine.” 

“How would you know? Nobody’s ever seen his face.” 

“He’s built, baby. That’s how I know,” Mickey scoffed. 

You shrugged. “I’d rather the cape types stay away from my bedroom window. Or my general vicinity. I’ve got enough going on between class and this job and tutoring without getting involved in one of their situations.” 

“Oh come on, you’re telling me the thought of some sexy superhero literally crashing into your life isn’t appealing at all?” 

“No, dude. I don’t want the drama. Or, I’m sorry, the adventure,” you doubled down. “You can have it.” 

“Amen,” Mickey nodded. “I hope Daredevil heard you say that somehow.” 

Before you could respond, the mostly quiet night was cut through with the sound of police sirens, loud and close and then fading slightly as they passed down the street. 

“Wonder what’s going on,” you murmured, craning your neck to follow the red and blue lights down the block. 

“Whatever it is, I hope a man in tights responds to it.”

“God, Mickey, you are incorrigible,” you groaned, turning away from the window and grasping the handle of the broom, looking for something to do. 

“Don’t use your fancy English major words on me, woman.” 

“Incorrigible is not a fancy–” you started, but were cut off by your phone ringing in your pocket, the specific song you assigned to Mr. Browne, your boss. 

“Hey, bossman, what’s up?” you asked, answering. Concern laced your voice; it wasn’t like Mr. Browne to call during closing shift. He trusted you and Mickey not to burn the place down, and his watching reruns of Jeopardy! time was basically sacred. 

“Honey, listen,” his gruff voice filtered through the speaker. “I want you and Mickey to close up and go on home now.” 

“What? Why? There’s still an hour until closing,” you asked, furrowing your brow. 

“I just saw on the news that there’s a robbery going down in the neighborhood, and I don’t need you girls getting caught up in any danger, okay?”

“Oh, guess that explains the police cars,” you said, more to yourself than to him. 

“You see? Lock up and get out of there,” he said, his voice firmer. “And no dilly-dallying, you hear? I got a bad feeling.” 

“Okay, Mr. Browne, you got it. We’ll close up now and go straight home,” you promised. 

“Good. Just feed Gary before you go.” 

“Will do. G’night, bossman,” you said, before hanging up the phone. 

“What’s that all about?” Mickey asked, brushing a piece of her wild hair away from her face. 

“Apparently those police cars that went by are responding to a robbery in the neighborhood,” you informed her. “Mr. Browne wants us to lock up and go home now before we get caught up in any of the trouble.”

“Must be my lucky day,” Mickey grinned. “You get the keys, I’ll feed Gar.” You did as she said, retrieving the keys, your jacket, and your bag from behind the counter. Already, you were lost in thoughts of going home and crashing immediately in bed. You had been out and about for over twelve hours that day already, and you were practically asleep on your feet. You had half a mind to walk down the block and thank the robbers for cutting your shift short. 

A minute later, the two of you were standing out on the sidewalk. You could hear shouts and the sirens as more police responded to the scene, even the drone of a news copter overhead. The robbery must be closer than you expected, and maybe a bigger problem than you were assuming, too. There was a bank two blocks down and one over; you wondered if it was all going down over there. 

“Alright, text me the minute you get home,” Mickey said sternly. 

“You, too,” you responded. The two of you lived in opposite directions, so you wouldn’t have the comfort of each other’s company on the walk home. 

“We’ll be fine,” Mickey responded with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I bet the neighborhood is safer than usual– bet nobody else will try shit with the place crawling with so many cops. But still text me when you get home, got it?” 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She pulled you into a quick, tight hug before waving and heading down the block towards home. You turned in the opposite direction, back towards your apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. The night was cool for the beginning of October, and you pulled your flimsy zip-up tighter around your middle, hiding your hands deep in the pockets. Your head swam with all the things you needed to do for the week, wondering if you should get a jump on some of it with your newfound hour of free time, or actually give yourself a rest for once. You were leaning toward the former; if you hurried, you could probably finish the reading you started at the library before Peter showed up, and the corresponding question set. 

With that thought in mind, you cut through a nearby alley, shaving off a block from your walk. You wouldn’t normally, but you had a feeling that Mickey was right, the high concentration of cops in the area would deter any other criminals. Probably you’d be fine. You stuffed your earbuds in your ears and pressed play on whatever had last been going, lost in thought as you tried to plan the rest of your week around class and work shifts and your new tutoring session with Peter. 

As you cut through a second alley, bringing you just half a block from home, chin tucked in and head down against the wind, you didn’t hear the squeal of tires as they turned around a corner and sped down the street you were just on. You didn’t hear as they abruptly turned into the alley, doors scraping against a dumpster. The hair-raising screech of metal on metal finally cut through your music, and you turned around just in time to find a large, black SUV barrelling straight towards you. 

There was nowhere to go. The alley was hardly wider than the car itself, and fear or shock or some horrible mix of both at the sight of it coming toward you had rooted you to one spot on the wet asphalt. 

Fuck. I am about to die, you thought as you stared down the headlights, so bright you couldn’t see whoever was driving the thing. 

The next ten seconds– because, really, it couldn’t have been any longer than that– occurred in a blur. The impact, your body on the wet ground. Front right tire crushing over your torso, the back tire following half a second later. Vaguely, with the small part of your brain where synapses still seemed to be firing, you knew there must be immeasurable pain, but all you felt was cold and static. There were too many things happening at once, too many pains and thoughts all garbled together that you couldn’t feel or register any of it. 

You laid there, staring up at the dark, gusty sky, expecting death to collect you at any moment. When, after several minutes of slow blinking and shallow breathing, you were still alive, you figured you might have experienced a miracle. Maybe the tires had passed over you in just the right way to preserve your life? Not that you thought such a thing was possible. Getting crushed by a speeding SUV felt like a very final kind of thing. 

Slowly, your senses started coming back to you. Hearing first, as you registered sirens rushing past at the mouth of the alley. You grimaced, tensing as you waited for them to also cut down the alley and actually kill you this time, but they passed by without incident. The pain started next: a horrible, dull ache across your ribs and a sharper, prickling kind of hurt along your shoulder blades, but nothing like you thought you should have been experiencing. You were worried that it was still all a trick of the mind, that you’d muster up the courage to lift your head and look down to take stock of the damage and find your torso resembling roadkill more than anything human. But you couldn’t lay there forever, you reasoned, and so went to work testing appendages to see if they were in order. 

You wiggled your fingers and toes first, surprised, frankly, that you were able to do so. If you could wiggle your toes, everything below your ribs must still be connected to everything above your ribs. Good sign. You bent your arms at the elbow next, which reignited the flame of pain in your shoulder blades, but they moved fine otherwise. Bent your knees, turned your head from side to side. You were… okay, you concluded. Physically not dying in a dirty alley, at least. 

A jolt of effort, and you sat up all the way, despite the protest of pain across your ribs and shoulder blades. Looking down, you took stock of the dark tire track running across the front of your sweater, but more importantly, the very uncrushed nature of your ribs and internal organs. 

“How the fuck,” you muttered to yourself, brushing your hands tentatively down your front. The contact of your palms against your middle was like irritating a nasty bruise, but that was it. That was… impossible, you were pretty sure. Maybe you could gaslight yourself into believing it was if it had been some tiny, dinghy little car that had run you over, but it was a fucking monstrous SUV. 

Blinking, you reached back toward the wall behind you and used it to hoist yourself up onto your feet. A terrible panic was creeping up on you now, and you preferred to deal with that in the privacy of your bedroom, not on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. As you turned to stumble your way out of the alley, you noticed something else: the pavement beneath where you had fallen was crushed in a peculiar shape, almost like wings and six feet across. 

“What the fuck,” you said, louder this time. Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck. This situation was getting stranger by the second, and you were pretty sure you were about to experience a mental break, if you weren’t already. 

Maybe I actually am dead, and none of this is happening right now, you mused as the alley spat you back out on the street. Your feet headed in the direction of your apartment on their own accord, your mind caught up in bright headlights and wing shapes stamped into asphalt. A horrible headache was building behind your eyes, and all you wanted was to get to the safety of your own home, dead or not. 

The walk seemed to take an eternity in your dazed state, but eventually the familiar redbrick corner building that had been your home for the last two years loomed in front of you. You fumbled in your jacket pocket for your key, gripping it in your shaky fist as you punched in the key code to the front door. Up four flights of stairs, a fight with the apartment door as the lock rejected your key like always. You went through the motions in a dream state, so many thoughts tumbling through your head, but none of them sticking. Before opening the door, you shucked off your sweater and balled it up in your arms, in case either of your roommates were up and about. You really had no idea how you’d be able to explain the tire tracks across the front. 

Inside, the lights were dim and a Bob’s Burgers rerun was playing at low-volume on the little television. An electric blue pixie cut shot up over the back of the couch at the sound of the opening door. 

“You’re home early,” your cousin, Winona, called to you. “What’s the deal?” 

“Uh…robbery. Down the block. Mr. Browne wanted us to leave early to be, um, safe,” you stammered out, toeing your shoes off at the door. Each subtle movement sent more pain lancing through your ribs, and you struggled to keep a straight, unbothered face. 

Winona wasn’t convinced. After living together for two years and knowing you since birth, she was familiar with all of your little idiosyncrasies. She could tell when you were just a little irritated, so of course she could tell when you… well, when whatever the fuck just happened, happened to you. Her thick, dark brows drew in until they met at the center, brown eyes narrowing as she scrutinized you. 

“What’s going on with you?” Your cousin was not one to beat around the bush. 

“What do you mean?” you asked, skirting around the question.

“Somethin’s wrong with our girl?” a sleepy voice called from the other end of the couch. A second later, Odie’s head of wild brown waves popped up over the back of the couch. Winona’s best friend since grade school and your other roommate, she was extremely protective over you. Always had been, since she met you when you started freshman year at Midtown High and she and Winona were seniors. 

“There’s nothing wrong,” you huffed. Even that extra expansion of your lungs caused the pain to flare. “I’m just tired. It was a long day.”

Winona frowned at you, clearly disbelieving. “I made lasagna earlier. You hungry?” 

“Ate a bunch of junk at work with Mick. But I’ll bring some with me for lunch tomorrow,” you promised, and wrenched open your bedroom door and disappeared behind it before either of them could question you further. You pressed yourself against the door once it was closed, then jumped away quickly as the action sent an explosion of pain through your shoulder blades. You’d forgotten about it that fast. 

“Fuck,” you whispered, closing your eyes against the burning of tears suddenly threatening to come. “Oh, god. What the fuck. What the fuck.” 

What was even the next move? You couldn’t very well go out there and tell Winona you’d been crushed by an SUV earlier in the night. Nothing about your current state would corroborate the claim, why would she, or anyone else, believe you? And honestly, that was the least of your worries. More pressing issues: why weren’t you crushed by the SUV? Why weren’t you fucking dead? What was up with the weird, wing-shaped damage in the street below you? What had actually happened in that alley?

Something was deeply, deeply not right. You could feel the wrongness of it all buzzing through every inch of your body. You knew that the feeling would overwhelm you if you let it, and you were dangerously close to just sinking to the floor and letting it take you. 

Your phone buzzed in your back pocket. Opening your eyes, you fished it out and brought the too-bright screen to your eyes. 

Make it home okay? The text from Mickey read. 

No, you wanted to say. Got hit by a fucking car but somehow I think that might be the least of my problems. I think something’s really wrong. 

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard, but of course you didn’t type it. You shot off a text confirming that you did– because really, you supposed, you did get home okay in some sense of the word– and asked if she did, too. 

After Mickey texted back that she did get home safe, you set about the task of peeling off your uniform. Every movement hurt like a bitch, and you reminded yourself every five seconds that you should be grateful for the pain. You didn’t even have a single broken bone. You weren’t dead. You could handle some aches and bruising. 

You worked your jeans off first, then your shirt and bra, heaping them in the corner of your room and plucking a random t-shirt and pajama shorts out of your drawer. Before pulling on the t-shirt, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror tucked in the corner. As you suspected, a thick line of bruises was already purpling along your ribs, the width of a car tire. You sighed, turning to see how far they stretched on either side and paused when your back came into view. 

Two thick lines of what looked like red, irritated scar tissue traced along the lines of your shoulder blades. It looked as though someone had surgically cut them open, and recently. You brought a hand to your mouth, suppressing the gasp threatening to worm its way out. You felt like all the crap you ate at work was about to make a reappearance. 

Those certainly hadn’t been there this morning. You would know: you stood naked in front of this very mirror after your shower, sleepily trying to pick out your outfit. The skin of your back had been smooth, unscarred. Obviously. You would have remembered if you had gone through something that would have resulted in scars like this. 

“Okay, no,” you muttered, throwing the t-shirt over your head as quickly as possible in your bruised, hurting state. This was all too much to deal with in one night, you decided suddenly. You were tired and hurting and you had a busy fucking day tomorrow, damn it. 

it was a rainy morning, dark clouds had covered the sky, and the atmosphere was melancholic. you had just stepped out of the book cafe you usually went to study or read in, it was a hidden gem in the ever-crowded streets of new york city, usually quiet and peaceful. this time, you’d just paid a visit to buy a drink with some pastries.

today’s gloomy weather felt right to you, somehow, it spoke to your soul and fit your mood. you’d stuffed the pastries you’d bought into your bag, and you were going to walk around a little bit, holding your drink in one hand, your umbrella in the other. you thought you might sit somewhere, maybe go to a park after walking for twenty or so minutes, you enjoyed the smell of rain mixing with earth to bring life to the world.

and that’s when you saw him.

he was standing at the other side of the road, wearing a simple hoodie, getting wet from the rain. an expression on his face as gloomy as the weather. he’d grown, his face had taken a sharper shape, his hair had curled on the tips from meeting with water.

peter parker, the boy from your ap chemistry class, from days long forgotten, and much less destructive.

you froze, your gaze set on his face, which had been painted in subtle and few scars, and bent downward from either the rain getting into his eyes, or life. the regular noise of the city was reduced to background buzzing in your ears, all the pedestrians walking past you, and the people waiting to cross roads around peter had turned blurry and faceless, the cars passing by had become trails of colors. the boy, or perhaps now man, you had just noticed, was someone you’d never thought you’d see again.

peter parker had been the smartest student in the class you took together, you used to keep notes and read ahead before every lesson, and he’d come sleep-deprived, busy himself with unrelated trinkets, and answer every unexpected question coming his way correctly. later, when you learned that he was spiderman, you realised he must’ve been so tired and out-of-it every day for saving lives and fighting crime.

you had learned of his superhero activities, like everyone else in the world. you didn’t use to see him outside of your shared lecture hours, not because you were actively avoiding him, fate just hadn’t coincided a conversation between you two. after you’d passed the course and stopped seeing peter entirely, you hadn’t busied your mind with thoughts of him, until that incident with mysterio. learning that he’d been trying to help people every step of the way, back when you used to see him, had changed your view of him.

and then, suddenly, no one remembered anymore. you saw it all happen. you saw the sky shatter and shadows watch the earth through its cracks. you saw what you could only describe as hundreds of aliens preying on your planet. you knew spiderman fought to save the world from their clutches. yet when it was all over, no one remembered the hell-torn skies. or peter parker.

no one remembered he was spiderman. no one remembered he was peter parker. no one remembered peter parker was. no one from your old high school, not even his best friend, not even his girlfriend. they all looked at you as if you spoke of a ghost, he was a painted over memory, he’d escaped from the weak grasps of the growing brains of the youth and the ever-tired minds of the grown.

he’d even escaped from records and photos, like how short-lived cherry blossoms disappeared in a week, as if trees had never been pink. like how spring never lasted. you’d questioned whether you’d made him up, if something was wrong with you. but how could you make up a whole person, that you simply never had a relationship with? he wasn’t an imaginary friend, he had never been a friend.

trying to catch a glimpse of his existence had been like trying to catch smoke with bare hands. and yet, now, he was standing right in front of you, waiting to cross roads. waiting to come towards you.

the lights turned green for pedestrians, and peter snapped out of his stillness, he gained motion, he slowly came closer. people around you made noises indicating they were annoyed at your inaction, but you could barely hear any of them. you were focused completely on one person only.

he crossed the road, and started walking the opposite way from where you had been nailed to the ground, unable to take your eyes off him.

no, don’t go. i must know. i must talk.

you ran after him, forcefully making yourself a way amongst bodies covered in layers of clothing. you closed your umbrella, so it wouldn’t get tangled in others’. you caught up to peter, and grabbed his arm.

he turned instantly, gripping your arm in return, a shocked expression on his face, ready to take you down, had you posed a threat. he looked into your eyes; questioning, confused, hesitant… sorrowful? how had he grown so solemn? how had he lived forgotten?

“peter?” you asked, “peter parker? is that you?”

his eyes widened, grip loosened, lips parted. he looked completely dumbfounded, drops of water dripping down strands of his hair, and the tip of his nose. he searched for something in your eyes, just silently thinking. trying to process, you assumed.

he opened his mouth to talk, and his breath hitched.

“you…” he started, seemingly talking feeling like labor to him, “you know who i am?”

you couldn’t help giving him a sincere smile, he really was peter parker. the boy from your class who was remembered by no one. he was real.

“i was in the same ap chemistry class as you in high school,” you explained, he might not have remembered you, as you’d never interacted outside of topics regarding course materials, “if you don’t remember.”

“no, no,” said peter, his voice still laced with shock, and a tune that dropped a tiny piece of despair into your chest, “i remember. you were the smartest student in class.”

“that’s… debatable,” you said, your surprise clearly read from your face.

“it wasn’t,” he said, defensive, “everyone borrowed your notes, and you always had the correct answers.”

“so did you,” you said softly, the bitter taste of nostalgia repainted with a blue hue catching up to you, tightening your chest, placing a lump in your throat. “what happened, peter?” you asked, “why have you disappeared?”

peter closed his mouth, and his grip slightly hardened, he hadn’t let your arm go. you hadn’t let his go, either.

he lowered his head, and fixed his gaze on the grey stone ground. you couldn’t quite name the emotions you saw in his eyes, but they made you tear up. what must it have been like to suddenly cease existing? what must he have been through? what must he have thought, watching his chosen family from afar, like a vampire looking at a mirror, erased from his own reflection?

the cloudy weather truly felt fit for the day, maybe peter had been feeling it too, today. raindrops fell on earth like shattered glass pieces, you thought you might’ve been bleeding with your umbrella down, but peter wasn’t, was his skin thicker?

“would you like to sit down somewhere, peter?” the tale must have been long, how else could a person, and a rift in the atmosphere, be erased from the minds of billions? “like a bench at the park, or maybe my place?”

he looked deep into your eyes, thinking.

“okay,” he said at last, determination adorning his words now, “we can. we can,” he said while nodding.

“okay,” you repeated after him, and finally let his arm go.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

peter had been on his way to his small apartment, by himself, as always, after another long, sleepless night, that rainy morning. clouds had covered the sky, obscuring the sun, as if to match the weather inside his ribcage. the sun hadn’t shone on him since it had seen space ripped apart because of him, for his mistakes.

it was a day the same as any other; he was walking in the crowd, unseen without a mask, faceless. then, someone he hadn't sensed had touched him, must have been because no harm was intended, yet he'd felt alarmed.

a girl, he'd realized, a familiar face. that wasn't strange, he was used to seeing people he used to know, what was strange was... the look you had in your eyes, almost like you recognized him. a kind of tiny beam of light in your irises, aimed at him.

and then you called out his name.

the world tilted. he felt as if hit by a shockwave, rolling backwards, losing the tightness of his grip on reality, on you. he’d been completely dumbfounded, he could barely process what was happening. someone remembered him. you remembered him. you knew.

he looked you over again, he remembered, too. he remembered how you sat at the front seat, carefully trailing the teacher with your eyes, focus unbreakable. you didn’t use to look his way unless he was asking or answering a question related to the course, he wouldn’t think you would recognize him under normal circumstances, without happenings made foggy through magic, let alone when the whole world has left him behind. the whole multiverse.

he couldn’t get out of the shock he’d been thrown into, not even enough to wonder the why, the how, or think of the implications of the possibility that someone(s) might not have forgotten. he had been erased even from stone and paper, ink had evaporated, computers had lost their binary numbers. human memories couldn’t even be held, they must’ve been so easily broken apart and mended without wholeness again, didn’t people always forget things, anyway?

that had been hard to accept, of course. the fact that the feelings people reserved for him were fragile and unresistant, that they could be so fully erased, that they could be erased at all. but you remembered, was your mind stronger, or was it the impression he’d left on you? was it you, or him?

he hadn’t even been able to ponder if this was a good thing at all, if he should be worried, if he should accept this, how he should react. the past year had been so soul-crushing, so lonely, that after slightly getting over the initial shock that had hit him, holding back his tears had been all he could manage to do. you were wet from the rain, a drink forgotten and an umbrella folded in one of your hands, the other one holding him, looking at him expectantly, worried. you had come after him. you were holding onto him. he tightened his grip again.

you’d even wanted to talk more, to learn of his story, to listen. so he’d agreed, he suspected he would chase you on that road if you’d walked away. his chest had been closing in on his veins and heart, increasing the pressure and twisting his organs, breathing had become harder every day for the past year, he was suffocating. you’d held his arm like a tree branch offered to a drowning kid, an olive branch offered to a warring people, a willow… willows were hunched and weary, weren’t they? he was like a willow, layers of leaves covering his face, unseen.

he didn’t have anywhere to go, or anyone waiting for him. he hadn’t wanted to let you go, now that someone had finally, truly seen the shape of his face. so he had just followed you, let you draw a destination for two.

you had brought him to a small apartment, similar to his own, in an austere street lined with buildings that were short compared to the signature buildings of new york city. you’d told him you were staying there for the time being. your place, as you’d put it. the inside was much nicer than his living space, expectedly, and it contrasted with the grey view of the street from your windows and the pipe-filled outer layer of your apartment building. the floor was covered in soft carpets, the living room was filled with books, its walls covered in bookshelves, academic books left open and stationary scattered about on a table, notebooks filled with your handwriting, it was lived in.

you had taken him to the kitchen, said you’d just bought pastries and had some leftovers to reheat for him, he’d insisted it wasn’t necessary, but you’d shut him down. “how could i send my guest off on an empty stomach?” you’d asked, made him sit down at the kitchen table, and gotten to work on the countertop. the living room had smelled of a flowery incense he couldn’t name, the kitchen was now smelling of baked dough and vegetable soup, making him feel his hunger. he hadn’t eaten anything for breakfast, or during the night.

“i apologize for the mess,” you said, while putting two bowls of steamy soup on the table, “i wasn’t expecting a guest.”

“oh, no, no,” he quickly scrambled to apologize himself, “i don’t mind at all, i’m sorry for… for…” he gestured around himself, trying to find the right words. being a burden? interrupting?

“for accepting my invite? i’d say that was the polite response,” you said, finally sitting opposite to him, having brought the pastries you’d sliced and placed on plates nicely, and the fruit salad you’d quickly put together. “thank you for that, by the way.”

he didn’t know what to say, he looked down flustered, “i- of course- i mean, thank you for inviting me,” he said, gesturing towards you with his hand, a slight smile on his face. how long had it been since he last smiled? it sure didn’t feel like an every day occurrence.

you gave him back a smile that made him… feel warm. he was still on the verge of tears, he was barely holding it together, focusing on the moment, trying not to let all the overwhelming feelings leave his body.

“please, enjoy,” you said, as you slid the plates closer to him, and he nodded in gratitude. he was hungry, and looking at the warm vegetable bisque… he hadn’t eaten a homemade meal in a very, very long time, especially one that was delicious, one that was warm.

and it was delicious. it tasted like a hug, a hearthfire, a blanket. it tasted like something you would eat at your home, like something your mother would cook for you. “this is,” he started, in between spoonfuls, “this is great. you’re a good cook.”

“thank you,” you said, and then started explaining. “i roasted tomatoes, carrots, zucchini, potatoes, bell peppers, and an onion, and blended them with vegetable broth and cream, so probably the easiest way to make something like…” you trailed off as you realised peter was… crying. he was looking down on the bowl of soup in front of him, and tears were silently rolling down his cheeks, as he kept taking spoonfuls.

peter was mortified at his reaction, he quickly scrambled to wipe his face with the tissues you’d placed on the table, and apologize. you told him it was fine, and he could take however much time he needed or wanted. you let him eat and think in silence for as long as he needed, you gave him time and space as he filled his stomach with warm food and sweet fruits. he didn’t know why tears had won against his willpower this time around, considering how good he’d gotten at holding them in. he didn’t know why just eating in your kitchen, with you, had made him feel emotions overwhelming enough to rush out of him. he was embarassed, despite your reassurances. it was the first time he was meeting with you in years, the only person who still remembered him, and he had started crying over a soup. he wasn’t a teenage high schooler anymore, why was this happening?

after a silence long enough to make someone less patient uncomfortable, he finally felt he could talk, and decided to tell you everything that had happened. all of it. you were the only person who knew him now, was it wrong to want to be known fully? to be understood?

so he told you everything, from the start… from a time too early, one might’ve thought; from before he even became an avenger. there had been people in his life who knew of his journey, how he became a hero, how he became an avenger, who he fought against, who he fought with, what really happened with mysterio, and then… then aunt may’s death… then everyone else’s little deaths.

peter used to be talkative, he used to converse with even the people he was actively battling, yet telling you all he wanted made him realise it had been a long time since he’d spoken so much. so transparently, willingly. had life crushed him under a fallen bridge without him noticing? he had been feeling it, but couldn’t guess how dire his cuts and walls had been drawn.

you listened all of it, without looking away once, without looking at the time. and then, once he concluded his speech and drifted off to silence, you let it fester. it seemed as if you had a hard time proccessing everything peter had dumped on you, or maybe couldn’t find the right words to continue with. this time, peter left you in your own silence, his hands slightly shaking in nervousness. what was your reaction going to be? what were you thinking?

“i’m truly sorry,” you said at last, a rueful expression adorning your face, making you look older than you had when telling him of the soup recipe. you had grown older, peter had noticed, more beautiful. “i’m sorry about your aunt, too. i had no idea. i thought… i guess i assumed at least your family would remember you.”

“yeah,” said peter in defeat, “there is no one.”

you looked deep into his eyes, pain visible on your face, “i remember,” you said. “and now i know.”

peter sighed and put his face in between his hands, closing his eyes in despair. “there is nowhere i belong, now. i fight for this city, and… and no one cares.”

this was horrible. truly horrible. a weight had been lifted off his shoulders when you’d recognized him, listened to him, welcomed him into your home. but he also felt bothered by it, too. had being known always been so scary? he hadn’t meant to say the last bit, he hadn’t even thought that to himself before. he’d been on the verge of it, but hadn’t actually thought it. why did he say it out loud now? why did he tell you?

you took a deep breath, “a lot of people care, especially the ones you save. you’ve been making a huge difference, peter. yours can be a thankless job sometimes, but many are grateful.” you paused for a moment, “i’ve always been grateful. when i learned how you’d been fighting for people this whole time, my respect for you skyrocketed. i thought i would help you in any way i could if it ever came to that.”

peter pressed his hands harder on his eyes, he didn’t want to start crying again. he didn’t know if you realised how your words had fallen into the deepest part of his soul. it was strange, how only a few words could help people keep going, how humans could be built merely by caring, and how humans could be so worn-out that they could stop tasting without even realising.

his phone vibrated silently in his pocket, taking him out of spiraling. he sighed again, what was it now?

strong fire in a building, spreading speedily, authorities unable to protect the citizens despite doing their best. he stood up abruptly, “i should go,” he said.

“what is it? what happened?”

“fire in a tall building, i need to save those people,” he said while walking towards the door, you trailing behind him.

“okay- be careful, peter. and come back here after you’re done there, okay? even if it’s late, because i’ll wait for you, and if you don’t come back, i’ll wait until morning,” you said quickly as he was wearing his shoes, the door to your house open.

“okay,” he said, stuttering slightly, “thank you.” truly. you’ve made breathing possible for me again. thank you.

and he left you behind like that, because he never had a break. he didn’t know if he deserved a break. none of that mattered though, there were people suffering, and he couldn’t leave them behind, no matter what.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you were leaning on the metal handrails of your small balcony, looking at the few people and cars that passed by the road in front of your apartment. it was desolate, compared to most of new york, but it was steadily never-ending, there never was a time when people stopped in this city. your view was made up of other grey apartments like yours, sharp corners and square shapes, nothing tasteful added to their designs. could this be good for the soul?

you looked up at the sky, to watch the stars, but as always, not many were visible. you counted four stars that could be clearly seen from your balcony. the same as yesterday. you sometimes wondered: if you could reach greater heights, would more of them shine on you? the city had offended the stars in an effort to be independent from them, brighten night time, they didn't show their faces anymore. even if they wanted to, they couldn't be seen.

peter had been shining since he was a kid; clever, kind, righteous, fair-faced in a way the cleanness of his heart had reflected on his features. how big of a loss was it for the world to be forsaken from his face? it was lucky that peter was good-hearted, for he kept showing up under a mask anyway, offering those who looked a glimpse into his light.

it was past midnight already, and peter was still nowhere to be seen. he'd left you a little past noon, the fire had been extinguished by now, and spiderman had left the premises after saving dozens of lives (that the firefighters would've been too late for, despite their best efforts), and yet, peter was nowhere to be seen. it worried you, you wished you had asked for his phone number; you'd considered asking, but decided against it, thinking he might be bothered by the request.

after you'd talked to michelle, his girlfriend, some time back, and she hadn't remembered the boy she’d been in love with, you'd been thinking of peter regularly. even if you had made him up in your mind, it had just flooded your chest with such profound sadness, that you had decided at least you would remember him, whether it would matter to him or not.

and, he was real, he was spiderman. and he’d been so lonely. graveyards had become his only sanctuary, teenage diaries and late night messages had been buried next to the corpses of anyone who'd ever taken care of him, and he did not know their hiding spots. he just wandered around graves, knowing they were somewhere under his feet, to stay there forever. if he tried to dig them out, he would be swallowed up by lava, dooming the rest of the world to a volcanic apocalypse.

it seemed like volcanos had already been erupting behind his eyes, in his lungs. the peter you remembered used to be a jolly kid.

your head perked up as you heard your doorbell ring, and quickly rushed to open the door. a smiling peter greeted you, clothing changed. he looked more put-together than he had in the morning; a clean shirt under a black jacket and denim pants, not the baggy sweats he had on before.

you welcomed him inside, and brought him to sit on your couch, in the living room.

“are you all right?” you asked, “does anywhere hurt? do you need anything?”

he hesitated for a moment, a little surprised. “no, no- it’s fine. i didn’t fight anyone, so didn’t really get injured… much. it’s fine. i took care of it.”

you looked at him in silence for a few seconds, thinking. “liar,” you said.

“what?” he said in low voice, sounding worried. did he think he’d messed up somehow?

“you gave me your word that you would come straight to me, instead you took your sweet time tending to your injuries and changing your outift? you showered too, didn’t you?”

“i… i-” he quickly started talking, and then stopped to think. that was fine, he didn’t need to rush a response, never with you. he would learn that you’d always wait for him patiently. with time, he’d become more comfortable. you assumed this must be… somewhat of an uncomfortable experience for him, after being alone for so long. “i thought-”

he didn’t know what to say, you supposed.

“did i sound mad? i’m sorry. i was just worried. i.. uh, i’d wanted to help you with your injuries and stuff, too,” you weren’t exactly used to these kinds of conversations either. “since you’re not alone anymore… and all.”

“oh…” was all he could say.

“i mean, i’m glad you’re okay, and you look great, and i don’t mind that you had some alone time before coming and all, but you could, uh, if you want to, just come straight to me as well. after a fight or whatever. and you can take care of… your stuff here,” you forced the words out, you had to take these kinds of initiatives, if you wanted to have a closer relationship with him. because he wouldn’t impose anything on you. “if you want to, of course,” you added.

“i… thank you, i would, uh, yeah,” he said. you supposed that was a positive answer.

“so, what happened?”

he recounted the fire and the struggles in detail, how he saved the people trapped, how he had to deal with the authorities after him, how he got injured (only a little, he emphasized), and then how he went home to wear something better to come back to you. he’d wanted to rid the smell of ash and soot off his skin.

“i got tired just listening to you,” you said.

he chuckled slightly, “ah, yeah, things like this happen sometimes.”

“would you like anything to eat or drink?”

“no, no. not necessary, thank you,” he said quickly, raising his hands.

“okay, just tell me if you need anything.”

“all right, thanks… again,” he had a beautiful smile, but it looked like guilt had mixed into his skin, stopping him from smiling fully, with his eyes, or eyebrows. you wanted to tell him that none of this was his fault, he wasn’t responsible for the cruelty of others, he wasn’t at fault for being a victim. his aunt hadn’t died because he’d shown mercy, he was just being humane, the fault lied solely with the… whichever supernatural freak had done that, it was getting harder to keep track of them now. and the spell hadn’t gone wrong because of him, couldn’t doctor strange tell that he obviously wouldn’t want his own family to forget him? why wouldn’t he automatically add that to the spell? and the second time? surely he could’ve just kept two people out of his spell. none of it was his fault.

but you couldn’t bring yourself to, you didn’t want to push too hard, or overstep your bounds. peter didn’t know you, not really. you assumed he must be happy that someone remembered him, but you wouldn’t be too surprised if he had forgotten you.

why had you remembered? you weren't magical, as far as you knew, so what had gone wrong? wasn't this... somewhat bad news? if you remembered, could it be possible that someone evil might, too? you didn't know, you supposed maybe you should try to ask doctor strange, somehow.

after a while of silence, you decided telling him how you feel, being straightforward, should be better than leaving thoughts to go back and forth in your head, bothering you. “peter,” you started, “i know what kind of a person you are for the most part. i know that you have a good heart, and you’re loyal, and honest. i… don’t doubt that you’ll be a good friend, that’s why i can be… this comfortable with you. i know, because i’ve been able observe you quite well until now.”

he was listening to you, eyes getting wider and smile dropping slowly, as you went on.

“i also know that you don’t really know me as well, so i’ll have to prove my character to you, in the way that you’ve already proven yours,” you quickly added, which was the point you’d wanted to make. “so, uh, i just wanted to say that… is the reason why i would like to be… good friends with you, even though we didn’t interact much back then. telling you just in case… you were wondering.”

he gave you a shy smile. "thank you," he said, occasionally glancing away.

then a small chuckle escaped his lip. “all i’ve been doing the whole day has been thanking you."

you giggled in return, "i thank you as well."

"for what? i haven't done anything."

"for saving this city and the world over and over again."

his expression turned serious, thoughtful. "i just do what i should. it’s my responsibility."

you leaned back on the couch, observing him. was it? did he really have to do what he did? he didn't have to, no one had to do anything. but it was right that he did. you supposed, being able to help people did mean you should, would it be wrong if he didn't interfere?

"what are you thinking?" he asked.

you hummed. "i think you are right, but then it's our responsibility to be grateful, and to help you in any way we can, even if that's just emotional support." you looked into his eyes carefully, "you've been doing your duty, but most others in the city haven't."

"that's all right," he said. "i don't expect anything. i don't do this to get anything in return."

"well," you started, "you can expect things from me, and feel free to let me know."

the shy smile returned to his face, "thank you again," he said. "you as well," he hastily added, raising his eyebrows while gesturing at you.

you were glad he seemed to be in a better mood now, compared to this morning. he was more put together, and somewhat more confident. you assumed having more time to process your situation must've helped.

the two of you talked for around another hour, peter got more talkative as you went on, and by the end, he was the only one talking. he'd started to tell you all about the various villains he'd been fighting, and you were very interested; you enjoyed listening to him.

but the time was getting closer to two in the morning, and you were having to fight your own eyelids to keep yourself from dropping to the floor right at that moment.

peter stopped abruptly mid-sentence, looking at you concerned. "oh," he started "i'm sorry, it's really late, i talked too much."

"no, no," you said, shaking your hand, "i really want to know about all of these things. let's continue tomorrow?"

"okay, sure," he said, smiling. "i'll get going now, and uh, see you tomorrow."

"get going? i could arrange my living room for you, if you'd like to stay the night? should you be alone when you're injured?"

"i don't want to bother you," he said as he stood up. “it’s fine, this isn't really all that bad, I've had much worse."

"okay, but call me if anything happens. i'll be more upset if you don't," you said as you followed him to the door.

"i will. you call me too," he said, having gotten out, wearing his shoes.

"deal."

“good night."

"good night."

and he was gone.

and you were so sleepy that you could fall asleep standing there. as you made your way to your bed, you decided to go over today's events tomorrow, when your braincells wouldn’t be forming a union to counter your abuse.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

peter opened his curtains to look outside, as soon as he managed to get out of his bed.

the sun was shining down on him, bathing his room and face in its light. he opened the window, and took a deep breath in. the air had the beautiful smell of rain, still lingering, left from yesterday.

he leaned on his window, and for the first time in forever, a smile graced his lips for the sun, for the day ahead of him.

he wanted to put on his spiderman suit and swing around in the city, not out of obligation or because he didn’t have anything else to do; he had an unfamiliar motivation in him to do something with his day.

so he did. he quickly got ready for the day, and all the steps felt less intimidating today. even brushing his teeth had become a tiring chore. he'd supposed it must've been because he was so tired all the time, but today, it had been easier, all of it. even breathing.

and it wasn't like he'd gotten more sleep than usual, either. sleeping was something out of routine for peter. sometimes he could only get a few hours at night, having to be spiderman. sometimes he would stare at the ceiling, unable to drift off to sleep. sometimes he would end up sleeping for more than ten hours, not wanting to get out of his bed, forcefully scraping his body off of it with a mental spatula, skin tearing apart from muscle, using every bit of his willpower. but, no matter which scenario happened to play out, peter would never feel rested.

he got mad at himself sometimes. for sleeping. or not sleeping. surely none of this was supposed to be this hard, everyone always did them just fine. so why was he like this? what was wrong with him?

he shook his head, getting out of his window as spiderman, and started wandering new york from the tops of buildings. not today, though. today he felt rested. and like something good could happen, strangely. and his chest could host the air he breathed in, unlike any day he could remember in months. he hadn't realised how air had been refusing to get into his lungs, until it finally did today.

he watched people walking towards their destinations without looking anywhere else. the streets of new york were always overfilled with motion and a million faces, and no one stopped to look at one another.

how had you seen him, yesterday? were you looking? were you always looking at people? were you searching for someone, something?

clouds had poured more rain on the city at night, and towards the morning. it was almost as if they had only stopped momentarily for the fire in the building to spread.

peter had gone to his apartment as soon as he was done rescuing civillians from the fire. he'd wanted to wear something nice, look cleaner for you. he was sort of embarrassed that your first meeting had been when he looked... less than ideal, let's say.

while showering, he'd spaced out, and ended up thinking for almost an hour. mostly about you.

he'd tried to remember everything about you, any kind of clue about your exceptional situation, but there was nothing. you used to mostly keep to yourself, peter hadn't even interacted with you all that much.

despite that, you'd been so accepting of him so quickly yesterday. he had wondered why, before you explained that you… knew him.

not only remembered, you knew him. not completely, but enough to trust. his heart fluttered in his chest, making a gentle movement for the first time since the last time he'd been called peter by anyone at all. thinking about your words excited him, energized him, made him move faster,

you wanted to get closer. you offered to patch up his wounds. you weren't afraid or displeased. you wanted to be close. his friend.

he would call you around noon, he'd decided. he'd kept you up quite late and didn't know when you would wake up. then maybe you could meet up this evening. outside, perhaps? he could take you to... he would come up with some ideas, by then.

he stopped and perched on top of a building, examining the back alleys. he knew the way to your house from where he was, he was really looking forward to seeing you again. was that why waking up had been easier today?

he shook his head and took a deep breath, preparing himself for the day, and the task in front of him. he needed to focus, do his job. he would get to see you when the time came for it. you would respect him more for his service, anyway... or at least he hoped so.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

the the sun had just started setting, the orange hue of dusk hadn't settled in the sky yet. you were sitting on the stairs at the entrance of your apartment building. the ground was still wet, but the upper part of the stairs had been protected from yesterday's rain thanks to the architecture of the building. you would just need to dust off its filth once you stood up.

peter was supposed to come any minute now, he'd called you around noon and asked if you'd like to meet up this evening, and he could take you to see some places. you had started preparing some hours ago. you hadn't known what to wear, or what he had in mind, and had been too nervous to feel completely good about an outfit. you didn’t want to mess this up. at last, you'd just decided to get out of your house and wait. sitting on cold stairs. you were beginning to regret your choices slowly.

“hi,” appeared a head suddenly in front of your nose, making you yelp in surprise and slide backwards on the stairs. you put your hand on your mouth, wide-eyed, and finally processed what the dangling head in red was: peter. he was hanging from your building, held by his web, upside down, in his spiderman suit. he wouldn’t be as instantly recognizable from afar, as he was wearing a jacket, pants, and sneakers on his suit. it looked good.

“sorry,” he said, landing next to you, but not moving towards you. “sorry,” he repeated quickly. “i didn’t mean to scare you.”

“my goodness, peter,” you said, exhaling a deep breath. “no, sorry, spiderman.”

he chuckled lightly. “did i make you wait too much? sorry about that, too.”

“no, no, you are…” you looked at your watch, “right on time, actually.”

“uh,” he started, then hesitated for a moment before taking out a piece of cloth… no, a mask from the pocket of his jacket. “this should be really comfortable, i brought it in case you wanted to, you know, keep your identity hidden.”

“oh, you will stay in your spiderman costume?” you asked, taking the mask, and putting your hand in it so see what it looked like.

“yeah,” he said, “i can’t do what i want to do with you without my suit.”

you looked at him questioningly, “what is it that you want to do with me, peter?” you asked with mock seriousness.

he made a low-volume laughing sound. “i was planning on carrying you in the sky with me. if that’s okay.” he raised his hands in hurry, “it’s okay if you don’t want to, of course. just… i just thought you might like it, is all.”

you looked at the mask, and swiftly wore it. fixing it on your face, you looked at peter. “how do i look?” you asked.

“wait, let me help,” he said as he came closer to you, and fixed the back of the mask.

“thank you.”

so peter took you to the skies.

you held onto him like your life depended on it (it did), arms wrapped around his shoulders. his movements in the air were fast and sharp, the wind felt like a slap to the face at points. yet, you didn’t feel an ounce of fear, if anything, excitement and joy would be descriptive of your feelings. peter had a strong grip on you, somehow, you trusted that without doubt, he would never drop you.

──────

he had taken and placed you on top of a skyscraper, with a view of busy streets and the decorated balconies of shorter buildings. having ascended on the city as rain yesterday, clouds in the sky had thinned, and the atmosphere was clear. the sun was half gone by now, and all your gaze rested upon was dusk-touched; bathed in the burning scarlett of the sun’s farewell.

you smiled, looking over at the city. the wind was caressing your face gently, and breathing had become easier since seeing peter. being where you stood now, it felt freeing.

“this is amazing.” you glanced at peter briefly, and saw he’d been looking at you.

“i’m glad you like it,” he said, then joined you in gazing towards the horizon.

──────

you’d been sitting where peter had caried you to, on top of the skyscraper, for a while now. topics chased each other with ease, built onto each other, and you ended up talking about things you’d never told anyone before. but peter listened, contributed, he seemed truly interested, and then he outclassed your yapping, so words ended up spilling out of your mouth naturally.

“my favorite tree is willow, actually. i love willows, they are so pretty, they have leaves like drapes. they look magical," you said, adding onto the conversation that you’d ended up talking about because… the city layout, then parks, then trees, then if many people have favorite kinds of trees, then his being olive trees…

he looked into your eyes carefully, like you'd said something that struck a cord, something he'd considered before.

"really?" he asked, then turned his gaze towards the city again, eyebrows laying heavier, eyes looking below. "willows look hunched," he said, "they look weary."

was he hunched? had he grown tired? was he trying to tell you that was how he saw the world now? hunched, instead of magical?

"hmm, " you thought for a moment, "do you know why willows are hunched?"

he looked at you questioningly. "no?"

"i've been told a story from someone who'd been told a story; there once was a willow next to a lake. you know how willows like wetlands. and there once was a child sweet as a sugar beet, yet did not know how to swim. choose one day from the countless days the old willow had seen, the sweet child fell into the lake right next to its roots, he couldn't stay on the surface, so he asked the willow for help. the willow bowed its leaves as fast as it could, to offer a branch to hold onto, but it was too slow, and the leaves touched the water too late. after that day, the willow's leaves never rose again. word spread to every willow with time, and they lowered their branches one by one, so if a child were ever drowning, they would never be too late."

he was still looking down, but his expression had changed lightly. his brows were slightly tented, his eyes seemed watery. you studied him, it looked like the story had touched him; he was quietly in thought.

was he a willow? had he failed to save a drowning child? had he been hunched?

had he realized being hunched didn't have to be ugly?

"stories are great," you said, not to fill the silence, but because you now felt comfortable enough to share your thoughts with him. "they can verbalize things you keep in your head, and make you realize; oh, someone else thought the same thing back when who knows how many years ago, and i’m not the only one."

he nodded after another moment of silence. "that was a beautiful story," he said, looking at you, "do you know many like it?"

"short tales like these? not many. i generally read novels."

"maybe i should start too."

you perked up. "you could!" you said, voice coming out too excited for your liking, "i'll lend you some."

"okay," he said, smiling in his usual, reserved way, "thank you."

poor, innocent peter. he had no idea what he'd just signed up for, basically accepting to be subjected to a reader's propaganda of their favorite books.

"i should be thanking you," you responded, "for bringing me here."

the sun had fully gone down, no traces of orange left in the sky, although it hadn't gotten fully dark yet. the moon could be seen, finally getting out of the sun's shadow. or more so, light. too bright for anything else to stay visible near it, yet nothing on earth would be visible without its light, including the moon.

you looked down at the ant-sized citizens of new york, ever-moving, flowing like a river. the wind was caressing your face, chilly, up here was colder than down below, yet it didn't feel as hostile.

"i used to really like it," he said while nodding, a half-smile left on his face from your previous conversation, and perhaps memories of years gone.

"sitting atop buildings?"

"yeah. sitting or swinging or... just height."

"it is kind of freeing."

"and just... you know, a different kind of perspective."

"yeah, i get it," you said, looking at your ant subjects, "why don't you like it anymore?"

he seemed to search for words for a moment, looking around. and then shrugged. "i guess i just... don't really like things anymore."

you sighed, nodding. "well, it's a miracle that you liked my below-average vegetable soup, then."

"it was very much above average!"

"as i said, a miracle."

"why am i having to defend my tastes in the middle of a date right now?"

he stopped abruptly, his smile fading, eyes widening. "i mean!" he quickly scrambled to fix his mistake, "not like- not a date like a date date, you know, i was just saying... just-"

was this a time for you to interrupt? he didn't seem like he wanted to finish that sentence.

"i know," you said, chuckling, "don't worry. i'm also really glad we're doing this. take me soaring the skies more often."

"i wouldn't necessarily call it soaring."

"well, whatever it was."

and then, once again, hours chased one another, carrying your long-winded conversation back and forth, and the deep black of night had fallen on the two of you like a blanket.

peter was sweet, it was like honey dripped from his lips; you hadn't found a conversation so enjoyable in years. you were glad he'd opened up more, back in high school, you had no idea he was so talkative.

you had brought a homemade meal with yourself, considering how much he'd appreciated that yesterday. and you’d shared it over the hours you’d spent together.

peter seemed to relax more and more around you, smile actually coming naturally to his face now, dangling his feet with comfortable, quiet joy.

“ah,” he said at some point, “this is… somewhat hard.”

“what is?”

he thought on it for a moment. “no, nothing. forget i said anything.”

“nooo,” you grabbed his arm and slightly shook him, “i’m curious now!”

he chuckled, “no, it’s embarrassing.”

“peter, listen to me,” you started with mock seriousness, “whatever it is, it cannot be as embarrassing as my cringeworthy memories, so i won’t even register it as embarrassing.”

“okay,” he said after a short silence, “i guess… i guess i got used to being alone too much, now i find it kind of hard to… be known, i guess. it leaves me with a kind of anxiety.”

“it wasn’t like that before?”

“no,” he turned his gaze to the city, “i don’t remember it being like this.”

you hummed, nodding your head. you were going to tell him that you understood, that you felt similarly occasionally, that it was normal, but he kept going before you could.

“at least, the bad parts.”

“what bad parts?”

“you know, my mistakes and flaws and other such things,” he took a deep breath before continuing. “i told you everything but… i wish you didn’t know some of it, now.”

you studied his face; he definitely looked more youthful, like the weight of the world wasn’t crushing him anymore. like he could put his burden down for a moment, take a break. peter didn’t seem like a person who would have a hard time being vulnarable, or being known, but pain did change people. was it just being alone, or being alone with what he thought were his mistakes, scenes repeating over and over in his head as he stared at empty walls, with no one to talk to?

“i like you as you are,” you said, “with your mistakes and flaws; that’s being human, and you’re not lesser for any of it. not objectively, and not in my eyes.”

he was looking into your eyes now, he’d become more comfortable resting his gaze upon yours; you found it comforting, you tried to make him feel the same.

“isn’t that the part of being known that matters?” you asked. “knowing the imperfect parts, the harder to accept parts, and accepting anyway, and loving anyway. doesn’t it make you feel better that i know you fully and like you even more for it?”

peter seemed truly lost for words, for the second time since you’d met. you’d wanted to make him feel welcome into your life, so you’d done your best to tell him things you’d wish to hear yourself, and they were the truth, but you really hoped it would come across right. he wasn’t the only one to overthink conversations.

he opened his mouth to give an answer, and then, suddenly, chaos erupted.

the thunder of a bomb going off shook the ground and the buildings around you. screams mixed into a deafening whistle of the wind that carried them as people ran away from the sound collectively, pushing each other.

peter stood up instinctively, looking towards the explosion. it had happened close enough that you’d felt the shockwave.

“what was that?” you yelled, trying to be heard over the sound, clumsily standing up next to peter, as you were quite high up. he held your arm to steady you.

“i’m not sure, but i think i know who’s responsible for it,” he said with a serious expression on his face, brows furrowed, thoughtful, voice lower than yours, but you could still hear him.

“are you going to go?”

“i have to, this is… these people are dangerous, you should go home.”

he grabbed you by your waist and brought you down to the ground in a hurry, gently placing you. “i’m sorry,” he said, “i’ll come back, uh, to your house, if that’s okay?”

“of course,” you responded, “i’ll be waiting. and don’t be sorry.”

and he dissapeared into the sky, swinging.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

peter hated villains, truly. criminals who committed heinous acts of terrorism, knew nothing but cruelty, unashamedly hurt people, kidnapped, wounded… there were so many of them, too. he kept defeating those hurting new york, and new ones kept popping up.

well, he thought he hated them, but he didn’t know how exactly he felt. he remembered a time when feelings so negative and irritating hadn’t ever been inside him, it was like they added onto each other. one would think it would get easier with time, that he would get used to repeated things. like losing… but not only had losing aunt may been harder than losing uncle ben, he was now more bitter, and more mournful over the past deaths he’d thought he’d gotten over, as well. or, how instead of growing numb to seeing horrible crimes unfold, every act of abuse and cruelty made him angrier, every time he hated… he hated more, although he wasn’t sure exactly what he was hating.

when he tried to track the target his hatred was pointing at, he saw blurry pictures. villains were a part of it, surely, but he didn’t feel a burning rage while fighting them, it was more so weariness, or disgust, mostly, he just wanted all of it to be over. he didn’t want to… ponder more on it, after that point. he had tried once, and then felt an untangible pain. he couldn’t admit it to himself, but he was afraid of what else he could find in that blur. himself? tony? aunt may? mj? new york? the world?

so the picture stayed anonymous, and he couldn’t fully direct his fury at anything, and he disliked all the villains, but could hardly muster up the energy to truly hate them. and perhaps it wasn’t in his nature, either. anger and hatred, he’d never been very good at those. was that why his heart was withering? because he couldn’t feel well? because those were all there was to feel in his life now, and he failed at it?

he felt so done with everything, currently. was he not going to be able to spend time with you uninterrupted? the conversation was going well, too. or at least he thought it was. he hoped you would agree.

back in high school, he knew you were smart, and funny, and would be a good friend if anyone could approach you, but you’d prefered to stay away from him, and he hadn’t had the courage to initiate a relationship with you, he’d found you intimidating. now getting to know you better, he wished he’d just done it, back then. but maybe not. maybe then he would lose you too.

would he lose you now, as well? he’d lost everyone, hadn’t he?

or he’d break your heart, maybe. he’d left liz, he’d left mj, he’d left ned. thrice taken, something was wrong with him.

he arrived at the site of the explosion, looking from above. the thick, suffocating hotness, the pain-filled wails of the survivors, the rubbles of the building crumbled down, his eyes searched for certain signs in between the horrors. he would first save those who couldn’t save themselves, then he would stop whoever was responsible.

as he started carrying survivors out of flames and rubble, he also started scanning everything around him carefully. a sign, a clue, a mistake on the culprit’s part… he knew who it was, he was almost sure the organization he’d been tailing down for the past few months was responsible for this. they were onto him, too, they knew.

he’d found out the position of their base was last week, a site with several factories and buildings in it, towards the border of the city, in a mostly desolate area, as it used to just be an industrialized site, but had now turned into an unpreferred place for bussiness. he’d wondered if they had something to do with that as well, but he supposed that didn’t matter much, in the grand scheme of things.

he would go there, and… and confront them. fight them. end them. something. somehow. the police were rendered useless for the most part, when it came to these underground syndicates, some were bought puppets, some were too powerless, peter knew better than to give away his knowledge now. he’d been burned enough. he would have to do it himself, and do it quick, before any other disasters struck his city.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you hadn’t gone back home, you were waiting next to a shop near the place peter had left you, looking at the exploded building from afar. you were growing more worried by the second; peter had seemed serious, and talked about a criminal organization who would bomb a whole building like it was a normal thing. was he engaged in a fight, currently? how often did things of this magnitude happen to him?

your phone buzzed, you immediately looked at the screen, it could be important in these circumstances. peter. peter was calling. he’d gone to fight, said he’d come back to you, and now was calling-

“peter?” you answered before you made any assumptions.

quick gasps cut short responded to you, and peter’s voice had taken the shape of slow, low wailing, or wheezing, or… regardless, it was obvious he was in pain.

“i…” he started, clearly having a hard time speaking, “i’m stuck. it was a trap.” he was breathless, his voice kept cracking.

“you- where?” you asked, choosing your words carefully. he was stuck. trapped. time. time was important. ask only for the information that matters right now.

“the building- that- there were people, i wanted to save them,” he was crying, it was obvious. “but i couldn’t, they are stuck too, and unconscious, some are dead. i couldn’t-” he cut his sentence short, taking quick breaths, most likely trying to keep himself awake, or too pained to continue. you understood it anyway.

“where are you, peter?”

“the building crumbled down, and it’s all rubble- but, it’s a huge- a huge, i don’t know. i’m under a heavy part, big, i can’t move it. not safely. i can’t try anything too dangerous, or the- the others might get crushed,” he managed to say in between his gasps and pained groans.

your heart sank, an awful dread dropped into the pit of your stomach. what to do now?

“i’m sorry,” he said, “i just- i didn’t know what to do, and i’d told you i’d come back, i don’t know. there is no one else i could call, i’m not- i’m sorry.”

no one else.

“don’t apologize,” you said, voice firmer, having gotten slightly angry. you weren’t angry at peter, you were angry at… at the reason why peter was hurt. it had only been two days since you’d truly gotten to know him, and you wanted to scream into a void at the top of your lungs already.

you started walking towards the road, looking for a taxi, or you would call one. the initial chaos had subsided, but now people wanting to immediately go back home around you had taken its place, taxis were working, you just didn’t know how fast you could go to wherever peter was.

“send me your location or describe where you are,” you said.

you could only hear his gasps for a moment. “no,” he said, “no, no, i don’t want you to come, that’s not why i-” his breath hitched, he started coughing.

your eyes had gotten teary, you blinked harshly a few times to get rid of the blurriness. would a bicycle be faster? a… motorcycle, perhaps? you started looking around to see any unclaimed ones, you could maybe pay someone-

“i’ll come either way, i’ll help you,” you said, as you started walking towards the site of the explosion, you thought finding an abandoned vehicle might be easier there… maybe even one that no longer had an owner. maybe even a gun. “send your location or i will go into the flames and try to find a clue.”

another pause.

“okay,” he said, exhaling in pain, “but be careful, run away the moment you see anyone dangerous. okay?”

“all right.”

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

it had been a long while since peter had been in such peril, had he underestimated his opponents? had he been too rash, reckless? it was highly unlikely that his street-level work would be as dangerous as the avengers-level threats, and he’d survived those, hadn’t he? so why was he crying now?

when he’d arrived at the site, and looked around a little, he’d found people, kidnapping victims, being sent to somewhere. he’d thought he’d needed to act fast to save them, but he’d fallen into a trap. not a trap specifically set for him; it more so looked like a last resort to cover up their traces while killing anyone at their tail, just destroying the building with evidence and their enemies in it. peter was just one person though, was that enough for them, or had they not bothered to check?

he didn’t know where exactly he was wounded under the rubble, everything was hurting. somewhere on his abdomen, he assumed, and legs, they were stinging like a thousand needles were sinking into his flesh at the same time.

he sighed, putting his forehead on the fallen stone in front of him.

he hated himself. that was it, yeah. that was the true target of his hatred. more than anything else. he realised so when he admitted it to himself; hating had suddenly gotten much easier, much deeper.

he’d just killed the last person on earth who knew him. why had he called you, anyway? he should’ve just… done as he always did before meeting you, deal with it himself. or die. the world wouldn’t lose much if he did, there was no one to mourn him. well, maybe you could get a little sad, but it wasn’t like you were particularly close to him, you’d never really been friends before. and you had a life, other people around you, you had no reason to hold onto him like he did you. so why were you even coming? why would you do this to him?

he killed everyone around himself. he would kill you. he would kill you. he would lose you.

no, no, stop. you could survive this, right? sinking into despair had never been helpful. he would need to stay sharp for you. he would… you could survive this much, right? and then he would never see you again. he would block your number, and… good thing he hadn’t brought you to his apartment.

he’d been so selfish, thinking only of himself, the happiness he felt at being remembered. what was he thinking? he should’ve never talked to you. he should’ve told you to raise your umbrella and go home without getting wet. he’d been erased from existence for a reason, hadn’t he? had he forgotten why he hadn’t gone back to mj and ned? how could he do this? how could he keep doing this? why did he never learn from his mistakes?

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you were breathless, having ridden a bicycle (that you really had managed to find abandoned next to the explosion) until a point where traffic wasn’t jammed, then taken a taxi to the point where the driver would be willing to drive to, then ran until you could see the eerie factory site peter had told you about. you’d stopped to catch your breath briefly, your throat was hurting, sweat was coming down on your face like rain had been on the morning you’d grabbed peter’s arm. you put your hand on the right of your abdomen, you had a bad case of side stitch pain. you were holding a metal pipe in your other hand, you hadn’t been lucky enough to stumble upon a gun lying around, unfortunately. you had wanted to find a shield of some sort, but the blown off car bits were mostly too heavy, and couldn’t be carried on a bicycle.

there it was, the area of a dangerous mafia organization. how many cameras were there? you wore the mask peter had given to you, even though you really didn’t want to when you needed so much air.

you could see the remnants of a big dust storm behind a few buildings, you would need to get closer to truly figure it out, but you assumed you could go towards that direction to find peter. your heart was drumming against your chest, your fingertips had suddenly gone cold. a tiny portion of it was because of your previous marathon, mostly your nervousness and… fear were the cause.

but you had to do this. there was simply no other choice. someone needed to save peter, and the authorities wouldn’t do it, and the heroes wouldn’t do it, and you were there already. so you got a move on.

you mostly walked behind walls and next to corners, nervous about being seen and shot dead on the spot before you could even get into the mafia’s base. you reached… a chain-link fence, surrounding the complex.

“NO TRESSPASSING” the sign on the fence read, “PRIVATE PROPERTY”.

well, you’d already stolen a bicycle.

you took a shaky breath, and put your foot into one of the chains. you’d never climbed over a chain-link fence before, but everything had a first time, right? so you gripped the chains for dear life, and although you probably looked ridiculous and unnatural doing it, managed to climb to the other side. you did scratch a few places on your legs and hands, but it was mostly a success.

now you needed to sneak deeper into the complex, somehow.

you walked half-crouched down, mostly next to walls, looking around yourself nervously, yet as fast as you could. as you got closer to the collapsed building, you started hearing screams, and gunshots. there was a commotion going on somewhere close to you, was it the kidnapped people? the ones peter had been able to save, the ones who’d gotten out? you stopped where you were and pressed your back to the building next to you, where did you go from here? where were the gun noises coming from? what did you need to do to avoid that, yet still reach peter?

your hands had started shaking, would it be possible to find an abandoned gun as you walked closer? it would be so easy for them to kill you.

you'd only managed to make a few turns from that point before you were caught. by a man with a gun in his hand.

"look at that," he said, as he pointed the gun at you. “it seems a little mouse sneaked in, in this chaos."

you stopped, completely frozen. your heart was beating in your throat, your hands were trembling, you'd forgotten how to breathe. you'd never been so fear-stricken in your life.

what could you do? one shot and you would be dead, what could you do with the metal pipe in your hand? you couldn't look away from the man to see what else you could use.

he started walking towards you slowly, saying things that would only distract you and make you more nervous if you focused on them, so you blocked them out.

he was clearly enjoying cornering you like a prey animal, that must have been why he was walking closer to you; to scare you. you fought against your urge to back away, to protect a distance between you two; you had a metal pipe. a gun was a long-range weapon, being closer might make it harder to run away, but would make it easier to fight back, and running away in this situation would do you no good. if he missed the first time, he would get you in the second. so you forcefully nailed your feet to the ground, ignored the alarms setting off in your mind, and tried to prepare yourself for a confrontation. your legs were trembling; you hoped the man would just think you'd frozen in fear.

he came close enough to put the gun to your head, just an arm's length of a distance between you. “you can't run even when the gun is in your face?” he asked mockingly.

would begging work? would it keep you alive long enough to catch an opening?

you would die. you would die.

you hadn't opened your mouth to form a single sentence since this man had found you, and you didn't think you could now. one wrong word and it would be over. you needed to act.

was there anyone else around? why was he alone? had you lucked out, somehow? they weren't going to take you into custody, you were a transgresser, they were going to kill you. you assumed this man had stumbled into you coincidentally in the ruckus, and hadn't felt the need to call for reinforcements. even if there were others in places you couldn't see, you had no choice but to act now.

the gun's tip was touching your forehead. seconds. i must act in seconds. by bending your knees, you ducked your head faster than he could process what happened and pull the trigger, and while ducking, swung the pipe in your hand as fast as you could, with as much force behind it as you could muster, and hit him in the groin.

you immediately made a move to get behind him while he buckled over; there was no running away from someone with a gun.

should you hold his hand with the gun, or hit it with your pipe? he was turning his face towards you, and would shoot you the moment he got a good view.

no, you’d taken too much time to think, and he’d already directed the gun at you, pulling the trigger. you immediately hit his hand with your pipe. the shot wasn't completely wasted, however, and grazed your leg.

you screamed in pain.

he reached for you with his other hand, grabbing your hair.

no time.

you gripped your pipe with all your strength, and hit his hand again while he was yanking your hair. and then kept hitting his hand, lest he direct the gun at you again. one, two, three, four, five— he kicked your leg. you buckled over in pain as he put your head to the ground, your hair still entangled in his hand. he was saying something, eyes bulging, looking very mad, but you weren’t proccessing any of it. your ears were still ringing because of the gunshot, and the pain in your leg was so powerful that you couldn't focus on anything. it was as if endless knives were constantly stabbing you. it was unbearable.

his hands were occupied with your head and the gun, you were nowhere near strong enough to set free from his grip, but he'd forgotten you were still holding onto the pipe. or maybe he'd just thought you'd be in too much pain to use it now. or maybe he just hadn't had the time to do something about that yet, everything was happering in seconds.

you swung it again in one last, reckless effort to fight back, and hit his head. the momentum tossed him to the side while taking you with him as he hadn't let go of your hair. before he could turn to face you back, you hit his head again, with all your might. he let go of your hair while balancing himself with his other hand, and hit you across the face before you could land your third hit, but you planted yourself to the ground, and landed another hit anyway. his head was bleeding, and he was clearly distraught.

what now? a few seconds. this had given you a few seconds of decision time. what now? should you keep hitting him? take the gun, somehow? how could you get rid of him?

you tried to move reflexively, to get away. but your leg was done for, you couldn’t get up. no. no. you couldn't move.

your heart was going to burst out of your chest, your nerves were completely wrecked; you couldn’t get up.

what, then? did you have to… kill? you were going to throw up. your hands started trembling even more violently. you couldn't. you just couldn't.

you wished you could yell for help. but you were supposed to be the help. it was as it had always been before, pick yourself up and dust yourself off.

no time to think.

you hit his head again, and when he flailed, this time you put his head to the ground, climbing on top of him, twisting his gun-holding arm under his body. now… now you could... how could you stop him? if you managed to take the gun, and told him to stay put until you could run away... you couldn't move, though. you couldn't even properly restrain him because you were having to drag one leg. the concussion he had was doing most of the heavy lifting.

an idea did come up in your mind. you supposed you had no other choice.

──────

you were lying on the floor, your back towards the sky. you’d left your unconscious attacker where he was lying, and managed to drag yourself for a few centimeters before you’d stopped, and leaned your forehead against the ground. you needed to get away, you knew. at least near a wall, somewhere you wouldn’t be seen so clearly, but your leg was hurting too much to use.

you couldn’t raise your head, and just started sobbing openly. you’d already been crying, but trying to hold back, keep quiet. you needed to sit up, and look at how bad the wound was, and how much blood you’d lost. the pain was all you could think about, your head was hurting from stress and forcing yourself to think through the pain, your eyes and throat were hurting from crying (and maybe also sleep-deprivation, as time was diving deeper into the night), your face was hurting from the hit you’d taken, and yet, nothing could be compared to the pain you felt in your leg. you wanted to take off your mask, it was suffocating enough even without it, but any cameras catching your face would be more of a disaster long term.

you took a deep breath, and put your hands on the ground. you pushed yourself up while shaking, and turned around. you looked at your leg, and immediately regretted it. it was bleeding a lot, and your flesh had been ripped apart. you didn’t know what to do, there was no one you could call.

you took out your phone from your pocket, and found peter’s number. you really didn’t want to, but you had no other choice.

peter answered by calling out your name questioningly, his voice came across better than last time; it still did sound like he was in pain, but he was calmer.

“peter,” you said, failing to sound like you weren’t crying. “a guy shot me. my leg is hurt.”

“a- what? where are you?”

“i’m near the collapsed building you should be in.”

“i- i-”

you took a second to breathe. “no, no, i… i just don’t know what to do,” you said, sniffling and gasping, “i can’t get up. i, uh, should i wrap something around my leg?”

“yeah,” he said, “a piece of cloth until you can get out, how close are you to the exit? you should call an ambulance or a taxi or—” he also had to stop to take a breath in pain, “i don’t know— i’m sorry. i’m really sorry.”

“what are you sorry for? it’s the fault of this piece of— well, garbage. at least i have a gun now.”

“who was it? is he still there?”

“i don’t know, some random guy. he’s unconscious.”

“… how?”

“well, i… kind of strangled him? he was,” you huffed, “he fainted because he couldn’t breathe, he’s alive though. i did hit his head a few times, i don’t know how that bodes for him.”

“probably not well,” he said, now with a hint of surprise and amusement in his voice, “you, uh, you did well. very well.”

“huh, thank you.”

good, this was good, hearing peter’s voice had been good for you. you pushed yourself up somehow, and sat up straight.

“what happened?” he asked, “why is the pain worsening?” probably because of your increasing groans.

“i was trying to sit up. i need to find a piece of cloth.”

you looked around, and decided to take anything you could from the man who attacked you. you went through his pockets, and sure enough, found a knife. you cut a piece off of his shirt, and used it as bandage.

“how tight should it be?”

“you should be able to slide a finger under it.”

next, you needed to drag yourself away from the middle of the road, to somewhere you could hide—

no.

no, that wasn’t why you were here.

“how are you doing, peter?” you asked, but couldn’t add that you would be there soon.

“i’m…” he started, but drifted off. and then you heard silent sobbing. “i’m sorry,” he said.

“you have nothing to apologize for.”

“no, it’s all my fault. i never should’ve dragged you into this mess.”

“you didn’t drag me into anything, i stole a bike and ran a marathon to get to you,” you’d sounded firmer now, although still couldn’t stop your crying; the pain just wasn’t getting any better.

“i let you down along with everyone else,” he wasn’t listening to you, “and i don’t know what to do, i can’t come to you, i don’t know how to get you out,” his voice had gotten frantic again.

you sighed, trying to get your sobbing under control, and think of a reply. was it his fault? no, you were certain it wasn’t. had he let you down? no, the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. should he stay away from you? were you afraid of pain or death? would you rather live a more stress-free life than stay with peter?

you closed your eyes to let the tears roll down your cheeks as the realisation that you couldn’t immediately say “no” set in, you felt betrayed by yourself. you’d thought about this, yesterday… or two days ago, you supposed, as it was past midnight. he’d told you everything, so you knew the risks, and you’d thought about it. you’d decided it would be fine; worrying for his safety or being at risk yourself. and if you got injured, then you could handle some pain. and if you died, well… there was no getting ahead of death. if you died, that would mean your time had come.

so where had your conviction gone to? had the pain been too much, after all? it was the pain, the stabbing sensation was making your brain foggy, demanding all the attention be on it. you hated it, you hated everything. you were mad at yourself; why couldn’t you just be better?

“peter,” you cut him off, “i know i can’t understand you fully, but i get it,” you’d decided to just ramble. you couldn’t come up with the perfect answer to make his worries disappear, so you would just… tell him whatever was going through your mind.

“i lay awake some nights, randomly afraid of the dark. then i curl up under my blanket, and try to comfort myself. because there is no one to lie next to me. i look out from my window and see grey walls. i look up at night and see no stars. i walk outside and hundreds of people just walk past me without even looking at my face, and i don’t remember any of theirs the next hour. all i hear all day are the honks of cars, and depressing news. abuse. crime. kid died. alone person went missing. don’t go out at night. don’t talk to anyone. there is no one anyway, who would i talk to?” you paused to sniffle again, and catch your breath.

“i come home and say ‘hello’ to emptiness and darkness, i turn on the lights myself, then think about what i’ll eat. and i don’t properly eat most days, because i just don’t want to prepare something only for myself. yesterday, i was so happy you liked the food i made, i wanted to cook something for the first time in months while waiting for you,” words were just coming out of your mouth without restraint now, was it the sleep deprivation?

“in high school, i used to watch you and your friends, and wish i could find someone who would be in sync with me too. i used to wish i had a reason or an excuse to join in when i saw you three laugh or talk. i go to university now, and i attend lectures, and i make small talk with a few people, and then i drown in my own thoughts the whole day. i tell myself that i’m fine by myself, but i feel like my soul is getting thinner by the day, looking at walls. is it just me, or is everyone just disconnected now, i don’t know.”

you finally stopped, and let silence stretch after your words. your crying had gotten worse as the suffocation of your life had built up enough to rush out of you; you didn’t cry much, not really. sure, you sometimes shed silent tears, sitting by yourself on your couch, but normally, you just kept going without thinking much about it. you had your exams, and job, and volunteer work, and projects to worry about, so pitying yourself was at the bottom of your to-do list. but now? you were crying waterfalls. was it because you’d finally found someone to tell what you were really thinking? no, it was probably because of the pain you were already in.

peter didn’t answer, for a long while, it was just silence.

“you were right,” you said, “being known with your negative sides sucks.”

“no,” he said, “you were right. i’m glad to know you as you are.”

he didn’t sound good. he didn’t sound good at all. you sighed in resignation, closing your eyes tightly shut to clear your view of tears. “i’m closing now, peter, wait for me,” you said, and closed the call before he could reply.

you looked at the ground, and furrowed your brows in concentration. you would get up. you had to. you had no choice. peter had called you for help. he had no one. no one else to call. no one else to save him from making a choice between death and killing innocent victims under rubble. no one else to save him from death.

you gritted your teeth, your leg hurt as the deep cut touched the bad guy’s shirt, and in some parts, the cold air of the night. the wound kept bleeding, and hurting more by the second. but you gritted your teeth anyway, through your tears and gasps for air that you had an abundance of, but your lungs refused to take in. you put your hands on the ground, and pushed yourself up, using all the strength you had.

you whimpered and groaned in many attempts to stifle your screams before they could come out, and alert whoever was close enough to hear, and managed to set your back straight. it was unbearable, the pain was holding you from the collar, trying to drag you down, making your vision red, exploding in your brain.

it’s just pain, you kept repeating to yourself, it was just a feeling, you could move through it. so you would walk now. towards peter. as quickly as possible. you needed to reach him, that was why you’d come this far, how could you let pain make you forget? it was simply unacceptable, the thought of peter dying under that rubble.

so you put one foot in front of the other, and made your way to peter through every force working against you.

──────

"peter?" you asked, trying to walk through the rubble, and then heard your name back.

"i'm here!"

you tried to reach him at least enough to see his face, as fast as you could, but it was still taking too long with your injured leg. too long for your impatience currently, anyway.

"i'll remove the victims so you can get out of there," you said as you stretched your head enough to see his face, not being able to get closer. he was... he'd taken off his mask, and he looked horrible; his eyes had become red from tears and most likely his injuries, his face was covered in dust and some drops of blood. looking at him stung your chest. "tell me where they are."

──────

peter was strong. he truly was. not only mentally; you were currently watching him lift what was essentially an entire ceiling with other pieces of rubble on it off himself, with most likely many crushing injuries. insane. he was insane. no wonder he couldn’t move with all with those unconscious people around.

you had somehow managed to move them out of his way, seven people in total, much more than you’d anticipated. how could you get them out of here now? you were injured, peter was probably in worse condition… although he did seem to be able to carry significant weight. maybe you could carry them until the exit and call an ambulance, for yourselves, too.

──────

peter walked towards you until he was a breath away, his face was covered in sweat on top of everything else, and he was gasping for air, as were you. he looked at your leg.

“i’ll carry you,” was all he said. he seemed so tired.

“we need to carry these people first.”

“no, i’ll carry you first. until you’re out of this complex.”

──────

you were sitting on the sidewalk, waiting for the ambulance you had called. well, ambulances, as they’d be carrying nine people. you had, also, finally taken off the mask you’d come to despise at this point, associating it with very negative feelings.

you saw peter swing down with the last one of the survivors. he landed, placed the unconscious man on the sidewalk, and sat right next to you.

you sat together in silence for a while, until you took a deep breath, and chuckled lightly. it was over. you’d done it. everyone was alive.

peter looked at you questioningly, although it was hard to read his face; he’d turned mostly expressionless. because of how much effort it must have been taking to even stay awake for him, you assumed.

“it’s over,” you said, “we did it.”

he looked away again, to the desolate road in front of you. “you did it,” he said, “i messed up.”

“how so?”

“i acted rashly. i should’ve been more careful. now they’ll find a new base, and i have to start from nothing to track them down again. and they know i’m after them. and i couldn’t change anything in the end, i just made things worse. all of this was for nothing, it could have been completely avoided. it started with the collapse of one building and then it ended with the collapse of another for no reason.”

you were watching him carefully. lines of exhaustion had formed on his face, the sorrow and… and whatever it was that dropped a boulder of burning despair into the pit of your stomach from when you first met had come back; you’d thought the youth had somehow returned to his face this evening.

“so,” you started, taking another deep breath, “you came here after they exploded a building to stop them, like, end them in general, or at least weaken them, do something. that makes sense to me. then you acted rashly here? why?”

“i saw… the kidnapped victims, and they were suffering, so i wanted to save them.”

“then you didn’t mess up, right? you saved them.”

“not all of them, and i wouldn’t have without you.”

“well, a big majority of them, you did save. all of them would die without you. and what else could you have done but to directly interfere? you did the only thing you could.”

he just stayed silent, was he not convinced?

“i don’t think this was a failure, peter. i think you did well and saved many people, and i think it was worth it.”

his eyes were teary, but he didn’t look at you again, he turned his gaze to the ground, and just stayed silent.

──────

you had decided on what to tell the authorities before the paramedics had arrived, and then you’d been separated, put into different ambulances.

then… well, the rest was as you imagined it would go. still a lot of pain, and a lot of hasty doctors as they asked questions and barked orders. it was horrible, really, with the way your head had been aching, but at least they were numbing your leg. and you would most likely be allowed to drift off to sleep at some point, right?

──────

you lied on the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling. it was almost noon, and you’d waken up not so long ago. you just kept playing what happened again and again in your head, trying to make sense of every detail.

it was a miracle you were alive. you’d faced off a gun. an actual gun.

it was good that all you could do by yourself in this hospital bed was think; you’d been asking yourself the same questions for a while now. did you still want to be involved with peter? you’d known him only for two days, and you’d ended up in a hospital already.

you’d considered every outcome and every reason, every choice you could make. in the end, it boiled down to a few core options. would you rather live a less risky life by yourself, or risk getting hurt like this to be with someone? someone who can meet you as deeply as you crave?

not just that, human bonds were too important to be disregarded because of what external threats might arise. the reality now was that you loved peter, he was a good person, he didn’t deserve to be abandoned because of what evil people did. your choice didn’t come out of loneliness; even if you had a dozen bonds like this, you would still choose to stay with peter, because you’d formed a relationship with him now. and that was that.

out of every outcome you considered, the worst one was definitely living your life without peter, and then getting news that spiderman just died somewhere, by himself. even the thought of it was nausiating. then again, the thought of just him getting hurt like this, and having no one to go to was just as horrible. so you needed to choose the opposite of what would cause that outcome to happen.

it hadn’t been that hard a decision to make; staying involved with peter. you’d already been tangled, it wasn’t much of a possibility to untangle yourself now, a part of you would be left behind.

besides, you somehow remembered him, didn’t you? that had to mean something. there had to be a reason for it.

──────

after finally being discharged, the first thing you did was look for peter, but he’d somehow gotten out before you. not because his wounds were less severe, quite the opposite, the nurses had said he’d been restless to get out, and they couldn’t keep someone against their will.

the orange of dusk had faded away, although it wasn’t fully dark yet. you were on your way to your apartment while you kept ringing peter’s phone, he was stubbornly refusing to answer.

you huffed as another attempt turned out to be in vain. you looked at the taxi driver, who did not acknowledge your existence, and then turned back to your phone.

“peter, are you okay? is everything all right?”

you messaged him. then waited for him to see. aaand waited. still waiting.

you huffed again, three minutes of staring at your screen impatiently and he wasn’t responding.

although you’d asked him if he were okay, you knew the truth. it wasn’t that he couldn’t answer, it was that he’d decided to go through with his stupid “i’ll never see you again because i’m ruining your life” nonsense. in your heart of hearts, you knew. so you sent another message.

“if you’re thinking about cutting ties with me, then do it properly. come and talk to me about it.”

and then looked out the taxi’s window for the rest of your journey.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you were right, peter knew. after everything that happened, opening up to you and accepting you into his life, if he wanted to step away now, he needed to respect you, and tell you about it properly. so he was standing in front of your door now, trying to gather up the courage to ring your bell, and tell you he’d never see you again. this door had seemed so inviting one night ago, and it had tricked peter. he was not supposed to be invited into any house, didn’t your house know that?

he took a deep breath, and rang the bell. when you opened the door, you looked tired. not your expression, but the lines on your face and the look in your eyes gave it away. that was his fault, wasn’t it?

you stepped aside to welcome him, and he followed you into the living room, the couch he’d sat on the night he’d told you everything.

bidding you farewell was going to be hard, he didn’t know if he could be brave enough, or selfless enough. he’d been so when he had been wiped from the memories of every living being, and that was much harder a task, wasn’t it? so couldn’t he do it a second time?

but he hated waking up every day, and hated… well, he couldn’t even properly hate. getting up, putting one foot in front of the other was becoming harder every day, he didn’t want to do anything, anymore. so circumstances had changed since then, but he still kept fighting every day, and he still kept doing what he thought was right. so he could do this too.

or you would die. he’d lost enough people. to love was to lose. to love was the possibility of loss eventually.

he shouldn’t even have sat on this couch, actually, why had he done so? he should’ve just told you he was leaving, and then leave. he made a move to get up again, you grabbed his arm to stop him.

“you should stay seated,” you said, “i’ll bring something to eat for dinner.”

“please don’t, i’ll be on my way shortly anyway.”

“no,” you said as a statement, firmly, and left him alone in the living room.

peter never should’ve come. you deserved to have one last conversation, but how could peter move on from you? he supposed it would’ve been impossible even if he hadn’t come to your place today, even if he’d told you to turn back without getting wet the day you first recognized him. he would just have to live missing you forever, and that wasn’t unrealistic. it’s what he was doing now, missing everybody he’d ever known. and he was living, wasn’t he? well, he was alive.

you brought pasta with chicken, obviously freshly made, and put down two plates on the couch.

“we could eat in the kitchen,” he said.

“couch is comfier.”

he sighed, looking at his plate. he really didn’t want to eat anything made by you again, he didn’t need more things to miss. you’d said you didn’t feel like preparing a meal just for yourself, that he made you want to cook something… he remembered everything you said, of course. that you’d apparently wanted to get closer to him in high school too, why had he been so nervous? afraid?

it was for the best, though. otherwise, you might’ve died years ago. no matter what you felt, he couldn’t be selfish enough to assume he could be there for you, or good for you.

“so,” you started, “you decided to go forward with your plan of ignoring my existence for the rest of your life?”

“it’s not ignoring,” he had a defensive tone, “i was wrong to even confirm i’m peter at the start, i’ll fix my mistake.”

“it wasn’t a mistake, how can you say that? would you prefer i believed i’d lost my mind?”

you had a hard time walking now, limping although you tried to hide it, and several wounds were visible on your face. you’d beat up a man with a metal pipe, what kind of damage did that leave on your psyche? peter didn’t know, he’d been warring since he was fifteen.

“you wouldn’t be in pain, at least.”

“you’re unbelievable,” you sounded exasparated, and seemed offended, but peter didn’t know what else to say. it was the truth. “i’d rather know the bitter truth, or suffer from its consequences than believe a lie any time. besides, you couldn’t have known this would happen, it’s not on you.”

“you can’t tell me you would still get a gunshot wound yesterday if we hadn’t met two days ago.”

“maybe not, but i don’t blame you for it and i don’t care.”

“you don’t care?!” peter was getting angry, was it because you were getting angry? he was angry at himself, was it dripping out of his chest into his tongue as poison?

“no,” you backtracked, “i mean, i’m fine with it. i can live with it. and i don’t hold it against you, i don’t have any resentment for you. i don’t know how else to explain this.”

he took a deep breath to hold back his tears. he couldn’t let your words get to him, make him feel better about what had occurred. he needed to protect you, he kept reminding himself.

“i can’t put you in harm’s way,” he said.

you paused for a moment.

“do you take care of your wounds by yourself? you did so after the fire the other day, and you basically ran away from the hospital this time around.”

peter was taken aback. “uh, yeah?” he answered.

you grabbed a bag that was positioned right next to the couch on the floor, and took a… first aid kit out of it. and then a salve, and bandages, and… what was going on?

“i bought these today after being discharged, figured you might need some.”

“i’m… fine?”

your expression was very unimpressed when you looked at him.

“so you think i don’t see your arm, or the way you have a hard time eating or breathing, or even just your hands?”

ah, right. his hands were bruised, not enough to warrant bandaging though, this happened regularly. and his arm did hurt, but the pain would go away in a few days or so. his abdomen… that was taken care of, too, the dressing they did at the hospital would be enough.

“it’s all taken care of,” he said.

“we need to put salve on your hands, and then wrap-”

“we don’t, this happens all the time.”

you looked at him in surprise for a moment. “this happens all the time and we don’t need to treat it?” you repeated with your eyes wide, tone something between offended and shocked.

he didn’t know what to say, so you just started doing whatever you’d set your mind to even before he came to your house. you gently held his hand, and started applying the salve. he sighed, and closed his eyes, leaning his head to rest on the couch. he shouldn’t have, but you didn’t give him much choice.

“i’ll learn how to suture,” you said, “and anything else that’s necessary.”

peter spoke your name, “i’m sorry,” he said, “i am so, so sorry. i don’t want to leave you either, but you saw what happened. mj and ned have forgotten me, and they are happier for it. this is what i need to do.”

“peter,” you said, as you started wrapping the bandage around his hand, “i haven’t forgotten you, and if you leave now, i still won’t forget. i don’t know how mj and ned are doing, having forgotten, but you can’t compare me to them. and even if i had forgotten, i still would want to know. how else can i put this?” you searched for the words, “i care about you more than i care about happiness. i’d choose you over happiness, i’d rather be in pain with you than be painless by myself.”

peter had straightened his back, his gaze fixated on your eyes, as you spoke. a lump in his throat, tears threatening to roll down his cheeks in his eyes, his hand in your hands… a warmth in his chest, how he hadn’t felt in so long. your words did soften his edges, but he couldn’t accept it. he still held back his tears, and still wanted to escape. run away. was that why he wanted to leave you? was his true reason to protect you, or his fear? he wanted to run, he wanted to run as fast as he could and hide, from anyone who could see him.

it was too much, but he couldn’t exactly tell what was too much. he was afraid of hurting you, but that wasn’t all he was afraid of, yet he couldn’t recognize what else scared him so.

“but,” you continued, “being with you will make me happy anyway, do you understand? i’ll be happier with you than alone, even if my life is at risk, and even if guns chase my back.”

you had teared up too, peter realised, but were wiping your tears away, to keep your vision clear while working on his now other hand, he assumed.

and that was it, the last drop of water to make his glass overflow. silent tears started finding their way to his chin, his gaze lowered in embarrassment. he’d already cried a dozen times in front of you, and he wished he hadn’t, he wished he could be stronger, firmer, he wished he could aspire confidence instead of silently crying. he hadn’t been able to cry for a while, before meeting you. even when it hurt deep inside his bones, his tears had dried up. were they all spilling out now?

he wanted you to stay, too, he was tired of being alone. he was tired of imagining “what if”s. he was tired of walking directionless with his hoodie covering his face, face a blur in crowds, never known by anyone. if you could bandage his hands every time after a fight, or have your textbooks scattered around in his room, then-

he didn’t want to imagine it. he just couldn’t accept it.

you were done with his hands, even though peter didn’t want you to let go. “how about this,” you started, “why don’t we give it some more time? i mean, how many times did mj or ned get wounded while knowing you?”

“… never, really.”

“yeah, so, either i’m also cursed, or this was a rare occurrence. either way, me staying with you won’t change anything. so, instead of making a rash decision like this, why don’t we try to be friends first? and if it doesn’t work out, then you can put some distance?”

that was… peter thought on it. and then his silent tears turned into straight-up sobbing. because that could work. he could accept that, it made sense to him.

he leaned down and buried his face in his hands. you started caressing his hair, which made it impossible for his tears to stop.

when everyone had forgotten, you'd remembered him. when faced with a gun, you'd survived. when injured, you'd walked. maybe he really was cursed, considering what had happened to you after you just met, but you seemed determined to break it.

and it might not be perfect, but it would be.

it must’ve been hard for you to make such a decision, you must’ve thought about it; staying with peter. you’d chosen him anyway. he could do the same, too. despite his fears, his horrible instinct to shrink and escape, he could stand his ground, and choose to stay, as you had. and maybe with time, it could get easier.

he stopped his sobbing, calmed down enough to face you, and raised his head.

“i don’t know what tomorrow will bring,” he said with a hint of nervousness in his voice.

“right,” you smiled, “exciting, isn’t it?”

ghost towns (youtube music) by radical face... as we part ways for now.

“You are the one who almost tripped during the Sorting Hat thing”

That you had done, and after months you had almost started to stop mortifying yourself over it. You laid back down, propping the book back in front of your face so he couldn't see how badly your face was burning.

"I'll pass, I get cold easily"

"Don't you want to invest in the future of the team?"

"You are not even on the team, you are a first year"

"I'll be one in the future"

“There’ll be no future for you if you go outside now. You’ll freeze to death”

All you heard after that was an indignant sigh, the sound of footsteps over the carpet, and the familiar drag of stone over stone of the Common Room door opening and closing. You let your book drop open over your chest once again, eyes on the ceiling and taking in the silence that had settled back on the room after the brief encounter. Far from going back to the comfort you had been submerged in, you felt yourself become restless. You never really understood why, or maybe you did and didn't want to think much about it, but eventually you walked up to your room, left the book over your bed, and grabbed your things.

When you got to the pitch you had believed it to be empty at first. Thinking back on it you could still recall the scent of grass and pure cold, sharp and almost painful as you breathed it in. A dense fog had settled in the early morning and hadn't dissipated yet, and it made your skin feel unpleasantly damp as you walked through it. It wasn’t until you had looked up that you had seen him flying in circles around the arena, his body cutting through the mist and leaving a faint trail behind him. He stopped when he saw you and dived directly in front of you. Despite miscalculating a bit and almost tripping over his own feet, you couldn't deny you were impressed by his flying. You thought he seemed kind of cool.

“Took you long enough” that comment changed your mind, almost making you turn around “We can do drills now, come on”

“Are we allowed to do this?”

“Don’t worry about it”

He got on his broom and lifted himself from the ground with more ease than you’d have thought, given his rough landing. You got on your own, the cold biting at your fingertips that were already numb as they wrapped around the front of your broomstick. Your mind became busy trying to remember the flying lessons you had taken that past semester, these lessons the very few you had gotten a really good grade on so far.

“I don’t know how to play, though” you said as you managed to fly by his side.

“No worries” he handed you the quaffle, which felt lighter than you had expected in your hands “Just throw this to the rings, past me” He flew a few feet ahead of you and stood in front of one of the big hoops that you had never expected to be that big up-close. Holding the quaffle with only one hand threw you a bit off balance, which you were able to recover from after a brief second of panic “You okay?”

“I’m fine” you lied, wondering if he had heard the pathetic cry you had let out a moment ago. If he had he didn’t comment on it, but judging by how he was flying backwards to where had been hovering a moment ago, you could guess he had.

You threw the quaffle forward, the ball barely making it halfway to Oliver before falling down without much speed nor force. You both watched it plunge onto the ground in complete silence.

“You’re really bad at this” he stated matter-of-factly.

You gripped the shaft of the broom tightly, embarrassed.

“I told you! And shut up, I saw you trip over when you landed!”

“That’s--!” Oliver's nostrils flared with a sharp inhale before exhaling deeply and diving down. He brought the quaffle back to you, his fingertips gracing yours for a split second. The wrinkles drawing the scowl on his face softened for a moment, then he cleared his voice “Let’s just go down”

He started going down and you followed suit, thinking that he had given up all together, but he just set his broom on the ground and waited for you.

“Are we done?” you asked, suddenly self-conscious.

Oliver shook his head “First I need you to be able to throw a proper quaffle, otherwise you are useless”

“That’s what I said!” and it still annoyed you when he said it.

“So you understand” Oliver measured his steps to stand at a good distance away from you “Try to make it get past me”

You gripped the quaffle with both hands before throwing it again, it barely made it to him, his hands once again catching it with ease.

“Can you throw a little harder?” He passed it to you. You had to admit you refused to throw properly as a form of quiet protest at first, but after being unable to make a good throw even when trying, it started to bother you. It seemed to be getting on his nerves too “Are you taking the piss?” he complained as he gave you back the ball “Come on!”

And at that, with as much strength and frustration as you had, you threw the Quaffle towards him. That one time he caught it with his face. The scowl on your face disappeared the moment you saw him fall backwards with a pained groan. You had run to him, knees digging in the dirt as you knelt by his side as he held his face.

“I’m so sorry!” you cried, hands hovering above his body “Are you alright?”

Oliver let out another prolonged groan, followed for what you thought was a chuckle as he rolled to his side.

“That was a good one” the sight of blood dripping from his nose to his smile made you wince “Throw like that again”

It should have made you feel relieved, just how amused he had sounded at the time, but instead it had scared you greatly. You were sure he had gone insane, and as you dragged him to the Hospital Wing you convinced yourself that it was your fault. Your quaffle had definitely somehow hurt his brain. Eventually you’d come to find out you hadn’t in fact hurt his brain; that’s just how Oliver Wood was, and sadly for you he had just found out that you had a good arm for a chaser.

The next morning you had almost expected him to be waiting for you in the Common Room again, but he wasn’t there. He was however sitting at the table when you entered the Great Hall for breakfast, lazily waving at you, his nose in perfect condition. There was no reason to not sit with him, you thought, given the fact you were the only two people there at the table. It would have been way too rude to not sit with him, and so you took the seat opposite of him.

“When did you get here?”

“An hour ago” he answered “I’m an early riser”

“We are on vacation, you know”

“You might be. I’m busy”

Your eyebrow rose sceptically, but he wasn’t really looking at you. His eyes were set on the open sports section of The Prophet that lay on the table, a wet circle forming where he had accidentally rested his pumpkin juice cup a few minutes ago.

“Good for you”

You looked for the plate of toast, finding it near Oliver. When he saw you reaching for it, he handed it in your direction.

“Will you throw at me today?”

“Why would I?”

Oliver moved the plate out of your reach, the scowl you directed his way matching his.

“Oi, be nice”

“You be nice. I already helped you yesterday”

“You broke my nose”

“It wasn’t broken...” you muttered, still ashamed of the whole situation.

“You owe me. And also, do you have anything better to do?” you didn’t, and it bothered you that he seemed to know that “Come on, we are the only ones here” he pleaded, finally handing you the plate, a few pieces of toast falling onto the table as he did.

“What does it matter if I suck at it? You are not going to get any good practice out of me”

“At least it’ll be some practice. Please, it’ll only be until the end of the break”

You had agreed if only so you could have a quiet breakfast and ease the guilt that had been settling within your chest since the day prior. You hadn’t had it, actually, as he had hurried you to finish so you both could go to the pit and start your first practice of the day.

That first Christmas there had been a few gifts left at the bottom of your bed from your parents, and one of them was given to you by Oliver himself. It was a piece of parchment with a big scribble in the middle of it.

“Thanks” you took a long look at it, rotating it in your hands a few times “What is it?”

Oliver’s pleased smile had faltered a bit.

“My autograph. For when I’m famous”

“A famous what? Idiot?”

“Quidditch player, you-- give it to me!” he demanded but didn’t really attempt to take it from you. Instead, you handed it to him, which seemed to irritate him even further “Don’t give it back!”

“You just told me to!”

“You are going to keep it!” he protested as he ran up the stairs towards his room, face flushed with indignation.

With only a scarce couple of days before classes started again and students came back to the castle, you had finally gone back to using brooms during practice. It had been going alright, with you even starting to enjoy yourself, even if you’d never let him know that, when Oliver had suddenly stilled. Barely a second later he had plunged against you and dragged you to the ground, underneath the bleachers. He put his hand over your mouth, predicting a complaint.

“Come on” he whispered.

He had grabbed your wrist and quietly got you out of the pit with careful steps. Once you had reached the exit, he had urged you to run towards the castle as quickly as you could. In the open field, however, you were easy to spot, and it soon became obvious what you were running away from: Filch.

“Why is he following us?” you asked, slightly panicked.

“Probably because we are not supposed to fly on our own” answered Oliver, a bit out of breath a few steps ahead of you.

“What?” you hurried just so you could hit his shoulder “You said it was allowed!”

“No, I said not to worry.”

A few insults left your mouth, but you were so out of breath he probably couldn’t make out any of them. As you turned a corner, you were both stopped in your tracks by the familiar sight of McGonagall’s feather hat, making you turn around, but not before she had seen you. You both ran and ran through multiple hallways before Oliver tugged you inside the boys' bathroom. You both entered one of the multiple stalls, and he hushed you again, raising his finger to his lips. You slapped it away.

“I know” you whispered angrily “Why did I do this?” you lamented, your head falling down in distress.

The idea of getting in trouble made your stomach twist and turn. You had made sure to be a good student, not a smart one or a talented one, just proper. There wasn’t much you could excel at, after all. Your heads perked up at the sound of the bathroom door opening, followed by the tip-tap of her shoes against marble floor echoing through the room. You closed your eyes and then heard the door of the stall open, but to your surprise it wasn’t by McGonagall’s hand. Oliver had opened the door and gone outside, closing it behind him and leaving you there. You heard a deep sigh and then the stern tone of reproach of your teacher.

“Mr. Wood. I should have known.” She didn’t sound surprised at all.

“I’m sorry, Professor; I just wanted to practise” he apologized “I don’t have anyone to play with, so I decided to fly on my own.”

McGonagall said nothing for a few seconds, and you unconsciously backed down inside the stall. You were sure she must have heard you. With your heart in your throat, you held your breath until you heard her speak again.

“I’ll be taking twenty points from Gryffindor and five supplementary days of detention once classes resume, Mr. Wood”

Your grip on the broomstick tightened, your eyes shutting tightly as you debated. Then you opened the stall door and they both turned to you. A surprised Oliver shook his head slightly at you, and McGonagall didn’t seem surprised to see you.

“It was also my fault, Professor” you said, your voice quiet and obviously scared. Still, you pushed through it “If I hadn’t played with him, he wouldn’t have been outside. We wouldn’t have been”

“That’s not true! I made her come with me”

“Enough” spoke McGonagall, and you both fell silent under her beady stare “That’ll be ten points then. Three days of detention. And no flying lessons for the first week of the semester”

“What?” protested Oliver, and you tugged at his sleeve to shut him up.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Wood? You already practised enough during the break to make up for it”

When classes resumed, you both had to sit quietly in one corner of the inner patio as everyone else practiced their flying. Madame Hooch didn’t look pleased when she found out she would have to sit her best flyer for the first week of the semester and kept stealing glances at you both when she’d give tips, as if saying it louder would make it easier for Oliver to understand. As if she could teach him something he hadn’t already taught himself. You, in the meantime, were quietly picking at the grass.

“I’m sorry you are missing class because of me” he said “Even if it is your fault” You turned to give him an annoyed look “What? I tried to save you.”

That was true, and every passing day made you feel worse that you had yet to thank him for it. You hoped that your stepping in had made it clear to him.

“It’s okay. I don’t even like this class that much.”

Oliver scoffed.

“You are mad. This is the best class.”

“The best class is no class”

Oliver’s eyebrows rose in agreement.

“Touché”

The rest of that school year you had still helped Oliver practice, even if you hadn’t been able to fly around. A few times he had tried to get you to sneak out in the middle of the night to go down to the pit, and of course you had shoved him away and told him to get lost.

“Do you want to get detention again?”

“Come on, it wasn’t that bad.”

“Maybe for you! Also, you said you’d only make me help you until classes started again.”

Oliver looked away, brows furrowed.

“Fine, whatever.”

The next day rumor went around that he had gotten caught and given two weeks' detention and cost Gryffindor fifty points. Some people were really mad at him, and others found it particularly amusing. You couldn’t help the smile that spread on your face when you said:

“Told you so”

Your second year had started with hopes of a better time. Peace had lasted about five hours, until Oliver had caught up to you in the Common Room. You had entered the room full of students. The plan was to walk up to your room and go to bed, that was until someone grabbed your hand. It was Oliver, who had reached out for you over the couch he was sitting at.

“Oi. What about a “hello”?

You stared at him, then at his two friends who were watching the scene. It made your cheeks turn red. You hadn’t been sure if he’d have wanted to talk to you after you had served your purpose, and you couldn’t decide whether or not you were happy he was. 

“Hello”

You wouldn’t tell him that despite your cold response you had looked forward to run into him at the train, which had not happened. You had spotted him at the table, your head turning away when you had seen him look in your direction.

“Try-outs are next week” he said excitedly, his hand squeezing your wrist for a brief second “You coming?”

“For what?”

He looked confused.

“For chaser, duh”

“I have no interest in playing Quidditch, I told you”

“I thought I had changed your mind”

His friends exchanged a confused glance and broke out into poorly concealed chuckles. An unpleasant tingling feeling started to creep up your neck.

“Not at all” you got out of Oliver’s grip “Good luck, though”

He watched you walk away, brows furrowed and lips slanted.

“Yeah, whatever”

Despite the lack of communication between the two of you on your day-to-day life, you had actually dragged yourself to the Gryffindor try-outs. You weren’t sure if you wanted to wish him luck or if you didn’t want him to see you at all. You didn’t have to decide, though, as he saw you on his way to the rings as he flew past the bleachers. He did a double take, and you gave him an awkward smile and a thumbs up, immediately regretting both actions. When the try-outs had finished, he had flown directly to you, ignoring the instructions to go back to the ground and leave the equipment.

“I thought you didn’t care about Quidditch”

You stood up from your seat.

“I don’t”

“Is that so? Then why are you here?” he teased, a knowing smile plastered on his sweaty face.

You gave him a once over “I just wanted to see how stupid you look in that ridiculous outfit”

Oliver’s cocky smile faded away.

“It’s protective gear! Don’t be rude just because you are worried you’ll suck!”

“Unlike you, I know I suck!”

“I didn’t suck!” He took a moment, then he sounded worried “Wait, did I suck? You don’t think I’ll make the team?” You didn’t say anything as you walked away, even when you heard him call out your name, with multiple people looking at the both of you now “Do I suck?!”

“Welcome back”

That was the first thing Oliver had heard when he woke up in the Hospital Wing, recognizing your voice before his vision had even adjusted. His mouth was dry, but he pushed through so he could ask:

“Did we win?”

“Oliver, you’ve been unconscious for a week.”

“So did we win?”

You wanted to stay serious given the circumstances, but you were relieved he seemed to be back to normal.

“You lost,” you said, as softly as you could.

Oliver’s hands moved to bury his face in them, shaking slightly as they hadn’t moved in days.

“It’s all my fault” he mumbled.

“Sort of... without a keeper, the defence was a bit... lacking” that was a very nice way to hide the two hundred points Ravenclaw had scored from them after he had fallen “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think you’d have helped much”

You were hoping he’d get mad and throw you one of his familiar sharp looks, but instead he let out a long groan.

“I should have kept a better eye on my blind spots. I’m weak on my left, I know that”

He really was getting worked up right after waking up from a coma. You couldn’t help but crack a smile with a light chuckle. Oliver peeked at you through his fingers, his brows furrowing upon seeing your amused expression.

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing, I’m just glad you are fine” You could see Oliver’s face slowly turning red, his eyes darting around the room as if embarrassed. His silence made you nervous, quickly changing your tone “I’m going to miss your silence, though”

“Whatever, what day is it?”

“Tuesday”

Oliver looked out of the window at his side, sunlight cast through the stone floor, reflecting a hundred dust particles that shone under it like distant stars.

“It must be around twelve in the morning”

“It’s four, Oliver” he looked at you out of the corner of his eye “How could I be here if it was twelve on a Tuesd--”

“I got it already!” he protested, and you held back a laugh “That means I got practice today”

He lifted the bedsheets off him, still weak, but with way more strength than you had thought he’d had.

“What are you doing?” You stood up from the chair you’d sat in for the last week, hands in the air as if you were about to tackle him.

”I’ve got practise”

“You need to rest!”

“I’ve already rested for a week, you said!”

“No, you’ve been unconscious for a week! Now you need to rest!”

Madame Pomfrey came to you when she heard the ruckus. She didn’t look very pleased with Oliver.

“He can go” she said with a gesture of the hand.

“What?”

“Thank you”

You stared at Oliver and back at her in shock.

“But-- He just woke up!”

“Oh, he’ll be fine, child” she said without even a look your way as she peeled the bedsheets off the bed Oliver had been resting at with a swift of her wand “I need all the beds after that incident in potions class too”

When you had turned around, you had noticed Oliver was already going through the door of the Hospital Wing. You hurried to follow and catch up to him and continued to follow him down the hallway and towards your Common Room.

“Are you going to keep following me?” he asked, attempting to go faster.

“Maybe I just want to see how you faint again”

He stopped in his tracks, making you trip over your own feet as you did too. He turned slightly towards you, looking at you out of the corner of his eye.

“Was it really, like... embarrassing?”

You caught your breath as you wondered what the best course of action was. It was the first time you had seen him make an expression like that.

“No” you lied “No one was looking at you, so no one noticed” Oliver rolled his eyes and started walking with haste again “I was joking! Everyone saw, okay?”

“That’s worse!” he protested, his voice calling the attention of various students that were passing by in the hallway.

“What do you want me to say?!”

“Nothing! Leave me alone!”

“Fine! I don’t have to look after you now that you are awake anyway!” You stopped, and with one last look at the back of his head, you started walking away in the opposite direction. “I liked you more when you were unconscious!”

Oliver turned around with some unsavoury words to say back, but then noticed you weren’t there.

You had sat on the grass for a while before you had started to become restless. Maybe you had been rude, but it is not like he had been very nice either. You had spent all week checking on him, and this is how he treated you after waking up? And yet your foot kept bouncing as you kept wondering where he was. Well, you knew where he was, but the question was what state he was in. What if he fell from a broom again? What if he got hit by a ball again? With a frustrated groan, you stood up from where you sat and started marching towards the pit where the Gryffindor team was practicing. As you scanned the air, you didn’t find him up there, instead you could see him pouting on the bleachers from all the way down on the ground. When you made your way to him, you noticed his broom lying on the bench, he was wearing full gear except for his headset that rested on his lap. He looked up at you with no sign of hostility before looking down again.

“I’ll take it they didn’t let you play” you said as you sat down next to him.

“They said it is for my own good” he answered in an almost mocking way.

“They are right”

He shook his head disapprovingly “Unbelievable”

You took in a deep breath “I fear the day they make you captain” you sighed.

Oliver’s head snapped towards you, and he blinked a few times as he stared at you.

“You think I’ll make captain?” he asked somewhat coyly.

The sudden shift in tone surprised you, and you looked away before he could notice you were happy he wasn’t mad at you anymore.

“I assumed you’d kill them all if they didn’t”

Oliver’s face broke into a smile, the first one you had seen since he had waved at you before his first Quidditch game.

“I’d let myself play”

“That’s what worries me”

A figure made its way to the both of you, heavy boots making the frail wooden floor shake as they stepped into it.

“Still sulking?” the boy had asked Oliver with an easygoing smile.

“No, sir”

“He is”

You were surprised by how well-mannered Oliver had turned almost immediately, but you couldn’t say you blamed him. For a while you had only seen Charlie Weasley from afar, all you had known about him was what Oliver had said to you after he had made the team. Even if you hadn’t heard about how cool he was a thousand times already, the older boy had a strong presence that was hard to ignore up close.

“You know I can’t let you practise today. Next time, okay?”

“But we don’t have practice until Friday!”

“Is that so?” he taunted. He reached behind his head and let his long red hair cascade down his shoulders before tying it again in a messy ponytail. He called you by your name, which made Oliver frown in confusion “Can you do me a favor? Keep an eye on him a bit longer”

“So you are grounding the both of us?”

Charlie roared with laughter and you chuckled timidly, proud that you had gotten it out of him.

“Just for today, okay?”

Charlie got back on his broom and after he had left, Oliver nudged you on the side, maybe  a bit too hard.

“How does he know your name?”

You shrugged, recoiling into yourself after a particular gust of wind kissed every bit of exposed skin “He asked for it”

“When?”

“When I was wait--” you bit your tongue “When I visited you while you were out like a light”

“Oh, okay” he looked forward, eyes following the shapes of is teammates as they crossed the sky in a blur “How often did you visit me?”

Out of the corner of his eye, his gaze discreetly fell to the way you were twisting your hands in search for warmth and maybe something else.

“Just a few”

He had remained strangely quiet until the time you had stood up and gone to study to the library. He refused when you asked him to come along and proceeded to be in a mood the rest of the day, barely touching his food and going to bed without saying much to you or anyone else. You had sat next to him during Transfiguration, hoping that maybe he’d be in a better mood that day, or at least more talkative. Even if he was annoying.

“Do you want to practise later?” you whispered, a bit scared McGonagall would hear.

Oliver didn’t react much, but you noticed the way his eyebrows rose slightly, barely hiding behind his overgrown bangs.

“Why?”

You bit the inside of your cheek. You weren’t sure either.

“Because you couldn’t practice yesterday”

Oliver cracked the faintest of smiles before he looked down at his table again, the smile disappearing.

“Charlie said I shouldn’t force myself until Friday”

“I won’t tell him if you don’t”

You saw the way his eyes turned into crescents, a poorly repressed smile lighting up his face with the same warmth as morning sun. It had been a while since you had gotten on a broom and helped Oliver, even if he sometimes bugged you to do so when no one else entertained him. To be fair, it had been a while since you had got on a broom at all. You were displeased to find out that you had actually missed it and that the activity actually had started to be fun. Charlie Weasley had showed up and called out to you both from the ground, Oliver so shocked he had dropped the Quaffle from up in the air. Charlie caught it effortlessly, his easygoing smile making the tip of your ears feel scalding hot.

“Do you both know how much trouble you could get in for this? ” he asked loud enough for you both to hear him. Despite Oliver disobeying him and Charlie being a prefect, he didn’t seem all that angry.

“Ten points from Gryffindor” you answered.

“And five days detention” added Oliver.

“Come down here” Charlie ordered with a light chuckle. When you both had landed on the ground, he gave you a once-over that made you dizzy and then asked “Do you play?”

“No” said both of you in unison, “she sucks, to be honest” added Oliver.

“We need a seeker on the team. We are at a severe disadvantage just by not having one” explained Charlie, arms crossed across his chest and eyes fixed on you.

“She’s more of a chaser” interjected Oliver “She’s good. Sort of”

“I’m just good at throwing quaffles at you”

Charlie ignored your banter “What about trying it? This Friday”

Oliver answered before you had time to panic at the idea “Yeah!”

“Hold on, I--” you stammered, the idea of having to fly in front of a bunch of people you didn’t know and watching you fail making your stomach turn.

“Just once, please” pleaded Charlie, and you felt heat creep up all the way from your chest up your cheeks at the gentleness of his stare “If you don’t like it, I won’t force you. Promise”

“Yeah, come on!” nudged Oliver “Your broom’s not too bad”

“We have the same broom”

“Yeah, but mine’s better”

Charlie eyed you both with a smile.

“The team chemistry already looks great. So what do you say? See you there?”

You forced yourself to face him again, not being able to hide yourself behind your banter with Oliver any longer. You nodded timidly.

“Yeah, okay”

“Great!” Charlie celebrated, and he gave you a handshake. His hands were warm and calloused, and the blush rose to the tips of your ears “See you guys there. Make sure to give her a hand with the equipment, okay?”

“Yessir!”

The days leading to practice, Oliver had been around you more than usual and even more enthusiastic, if that was even possible. He had cheerfully followed you to the library and pushed Quidditch books under your nose as you tried to finish your Charms paper. By the time Friday rolled around, you both had gotten called out during class at least five times daily, detention looming over your heads if you bickered in class one more time.

“This is going to be great” he had repeated for the twenty-fifth time that day.

“I’m going to suck” you kept repeating yourself, your forehead resting against the wooden table you sat at your Herbology lesson.

“Can you stop saying that?” Oliver groaned, displeased by how down you had been acting since you had agreed to join “I mean yes, you will, but you can train. I’ll train you!”

“That sounds like a threat”

“You might be really good, but you won’t know until you try”

You didn’t think it was possible for Oliver to understand what self-doubt was. He was so overconfident it was almost admirable, if it wasn’t because it was first and foremost incredibly annoying.

“What if I’m not?”

“Then keep trying”

“What if I don’t like it?”

“Impossible!”

Walking into the changing room felt like stepping into a minefield. Everybody was already inside, moving around and chatting with a familiarity that was foreign to you. You didn’t know where your gear was, where you were supposed to sit, or where you were supposed to place your broom. Charlie had come behind you and stopped all actions in the room to introduce you to the team, strange eyes settling on you and making your blood turn cold. All the way through it you were trying to make out if his hand resting on your shoulder was comforting or making your nervousness worse. He had given you a strong pat on the back and told you to get into the provisional uniform, which you thought was ugly and unflattering and smelled like dirty laundry. Charlie didn’t look bad in it, you thought as you stared at him as you put on your gloves. Oliver stood in front of you, blocking the view and taking one of the gloves from your hand.

“Give them to me”

You gave him a look “I know how to put on gloves”

Oliver looked up at you “Yeah? Because you are doing it wrong” Looking down, you noticed you were in fact trying to put your right glove on your left hand “Just relax, okay?” he said, halfway through annoyed and nervous himself.

You swallowed, your mouth dry “Worried that I’ll embarrass you?”

“I’m more embarrassed about the gloves” he joked, finally managing to help you put the gloves on “Seriously, I don’t understand why you have to be so pessimistic. It’s just practice. Just do it”

“Everything alright?” Charlie had approached you both “I’m going to release the snitch after we start practice and time how long it takes you to catch it. Okay? You have all the time in the world, just go after it when you see it”

He made it sound so easy, and you couldn’t help but smile “Yeah, cool”

Oliver’s arms rose in protest.

“That’s what I’ve been saying!”

Practice was a bit more chaotic than you’d have expected it to be. Everybody flew around, at times so close to you it made you lose a bit of balance. In the background you could hear Charlie yelling orders and the occasional whistle of a bludger passing by you at a speed you weren’t sure was even possible. When you had caught sight of the snitch and attempted to catch it, you had in fact got in the way of one, sending your broom and yourself towards the ground with an embarrassing cry. You didn’t have time to be embarrassed however, the world swallowed into a whirlwind of shapes and colors until your body hit the ground with a blunt pain that spread out through your chest and made it hard to breathe. The entire team had nosedived towards you, and you didn’t notice the pain until someone had asked you:

“Are you okay?”

You coughed a few times, the words scratching at your throat and the shock of the impact flooding your lungs.

“My leg” you spoke in a shallow breath.

Oliver had landed on the ground and discarded his broom unceremoniously before he pushed through his teammates to get to you.

“I’ll take her to Pomfrey” he said as he grabbed your hand and slithered his arm behind your back with the other, liftting you from the ground.

“She can’t walk” Charlie said after seeing how your body recoiled at any attempt of setting your right foot on the ground.

Charlie silently took your from oliver’s grip, his fingers reflexively holding onto the loose fabric of your uniform for a second longer before he let Charlie take you into his arms. Oliver trailed behind you two all the way to the Hospital Wing, guilt sewn on his face.

“You two again!” Madame Pomfrey’s small glassy eyes darted between you and Oliver, veiny time-nicked hands placed at her hips.

Charlie had placed you on the bed, your hands grabbing at the coarse cloth of his uniform with the very little ounces of dignity you had left. He walked away with Madame Pomfrey as she scolded him for bringing yet another injured second-year to her quarters, leaving you and Oliver by yourself.

“This seems familiar” you said with a casual smile that took way too much effort.

“It is not funny” said Oliver, surprisingly serious.

He was standing by you, restless fingers toying with the fabric of his cape and not looking at you. For a moment you thought he was mad at you for falling, that maybe he was embarrassed that you hadn’t lasted barely ten minutes on your broom.

“It wasn’t funny when you were here either” you muttered defensively, throat hot with shame. You missed the way his expression softened “At least I’m awake. I saw you drool, that was funny”

The sentence caught Oliver so off guard he actually laughed out loud. Maybe he wasn’t that mad at you.

“I assume you won’t be our seeker” he eventually said, words slipping through his lips in a downcast whisper.

“Do you want me to be? I just embarrassed myself out there. And everybody saw. I mean it’s fun when it’s the two of us” you muttered before looking away “Kind of. At least no one can see how much I suck then”

“I can see how much you suck”

“I am aware of that!”

Charlie clapped his hands as he approached, interrupting your quarrelling. He sported a small sloped smile, the guilt weighting at the corners of his eyes making your heart sink.

“Okay, so Madame Pomfrey is ready to fix your femur, but talking from experience... it is not going to be pleasant” Fear was apparent on your face, and you could see the guilt tugging at Charlie’s features and dragging them into a frown “Do you want to hold my hand?”

A blush crept up your tear-stained face, and no matter how much you liked the idea, you didn’t really want for Charlie to see you in the state you’d be once Pomfrey got her hands on you.

“I think I should hold Oliver’s, I don’t mind hurting his hand”

You forced a laugh, which Charlie reciprocated with a bit of relief. You expected to see Oliver scowling at you when you turned to stare at him, a witty comeback ready at his lips. Instead he had his palm resignedly hanging in the air, ready for you to hold onto it and eyes lost somewhere in the other corner of the room.

“Are you gonna take it or not?” he complained after you’d been gazing at him for a few seconds “I look stupid like this”

You had spent the rest of the day in the Hospital Wing, getting discharged right in time for dinner. Oliver had stayed by your side, and you had been sure Pomfrey had let you go earlier because she couldn’t deal with your bickering any longer. The next day Oliver had been considerate enough to not ask you to practice with him and had even suggested that you both could do something you wanted to do. After pondering for a second, you had told him you wanted to study, which he had a very understandable reaction to.

“It is not like I want to” you complained too “But my grades are not doing great and for some reason you are smart”

“Studying is not that hard, just read the chapters and that’s it”

“I hate people like you”

“What does that mean?”

You had spent that afternoon sitting in the Common Room studying, taking advantage of the fact that most students above your year were on their trip to Hogsmeade. To your surprise Oliver hadn’t complained much during the study session, and you’d come to find out he was pretty much okay with all subjects. Shortly after the clock had struck four, a group of older students had come through the Fat Lady, their animated chatter breaking the comforting silence and irking you almost immediately. Then you saw Charlie, who, after spotting you both, approached with quick step.

“Here” he handed you a colorful bag full of different candy and shiny wrapping paper “I’m sorry about yesterday. Are you feeling alright?”

“Yeah, it doesn’t hurt at all.”

You took the bag in your hands, and Oliver didn’t waste any time in taking one of them for himself.

“Oliver tells me you probably won’t be playing with us” He saw your eyes fall down to the ground and immediately tried to ease your guilt “That’s okay, really. You weren’t flying so badly, though, you have good eyes”

Oliver interjected as he unwrapped the candy in his hands. You had forgotten he was sitting right next to you “She got some good reflexes or something”

“I wouldn’t mind trying to play again”

Both Oliver and Charlie had been surprised by your statement, but if they had any opposition to it they hadn’t say. Oliver was ecstatic about the prospects of having a full team, and the idea of seeing Charlie twice a week was enough to make the year pass by in the blink of an eye. That Christmas you didn’t need to stay at Hogwarts, but Oliver said he would be staying over again in a few passing comments. Now that he had made the team, he was allowed to be on the pitch, and he wanted to take advantage of that as much as he could. He hadn’t asked you to stay, not directly at least. He would just repeat how he’d be playing by himself for the upcoming weeks in a loud voice to anyone who wouldn’t ask him if you happened to be around. Little did he know that you had already made up your mind to stay and make him company, even if you wouldn’t admit it to him or even to yourself. There was another reason whoever; the idea that you’d be playing your first official game once Christmas break was over haunted you.

It had been on a slow winter day that you had accompanied Oliver once again on his flying drills. You rested on the grass of the pitch, nightfall falling upon you in shades of violet early in the evening in a sight too beautiful for Oliver and you to not sit and take in. Your gaze fell down at the bleachers, slowly turning around and taking in the sheer enormity of the place.

“This is going to be full of people...”

You felt the familiar pressure on your chest, and you took in a deep, slow breath before your heart started racing all the way up to your throat.

“No one’s going to be looking at you” Oliver interjected, anticipating the mood you were about to get in. Then he fell quiet for a moment “Do you know how many stars there are in the sky?”

“I’m not taking astronomy next year”

“Do you know how many or not?”

Confused at his sudden outburst you turned to him, but he looked away. You shrugged “I don’t know”

“Exactly”

“Are you alright?”

“There are like, a thousand stars in the sky, but you don’t know that because you are never paying attention to them”

Your expression twisted in confusion before you briefly looked up at the sky, now darker and impossibly cold.

“I’m pretty sure there are more than a thousand--”

“What I’m trying to say is” he interrupted with a tad of frustration in his voice. You could tell this was taking a lot of effort from him “Just don’t pay attention to the people. Once you are in the game, you’ll block them out and--”

With a gasp Oliver cut himself out, looking at you for a short moment before looking away again, fingers digging slightly onto the grass.

“...and?”

Oliver bit his bottom teeth, eyes narrowing as if he was debating whether or not he should say whatever it was that was eating at him and making his face turn red.

“Just, look at me and I’ll give you a thumbs up or something if you get nervous. I don’t know”

A soft chilling breeze caressed both of your faces, dragging the smell of winter and freshly cut grass with it. It filled your chest with something familiar, something comforting. Neither of you said anything as you stared at each other for a moment, Oliver’s features so familiar by now you could distinguish them even engulfed in shadows. And after that moment had passed, he stood up with a small grunt and you cleared your throat, strangely overwhelmed.

“You should take astronomy next year” you joked, and you saw Oliver’s jaw ease as his lip stretched into a relieved smile.

Your first game was a loss, not entirely your fault. That was the last game of the season, and the rest of the year passed without much noise.

Things had changed a bit on your third year. The Quidditch team had grown a bit: Charlie had brought in Alicia Spinnet as a reserve as well as his twin younger brothers. The last two had been an addition that while welcome had been chaotic, their energy and the tension they brought were hard to match by anyone else. Luckily for all of you, Charlie had enough experience to keep them in check. You had been watching him scold George after practice as you took off your Quidditch boots. His hair had gotten a bit longer during the summer, and you were sure a few more freckles had blossomed over his sun-kissed skin as well.

The first game of the season had been Gryffindor vs Hufflepuff, and that had been the first win you had experienced. It had been a whirlwind of cheers and hands grabbing at your shoulders and arms being passed around them in celebration. Amidst all of it you had seen Oliver’s smile, wide and happier than you had ever seen it like a beacon through the blur of red and gold. Your eyes had met, and for a single moment it felt like time had stilled and the yellow sun become blinding as Oliver’s smile widened. As you walked back to the locker room, still carried by adrenaline and euphoria, Charlie had approached you and passed his arm around your shoulders, shaking you playfully.

“Well played kid”

He looked down at you with a smile as bright as his hair gleaming under the bright sunlight, and you thanked God that your face was already as flushed as it could be.

“I didn’t catch the snitch”

“Eh, who cares. The other guy caught it at the wrong time, so, it still counts”

Charlie gave you another shake and took off, walking faster to high-five Bailey who was pouring some water over his head. Fred and George Weasley passed by you, turning to you with grins that stretched across their freckled faces.

“You must be so happy” Fred teased, mockery stretching that “so” impossibly thin. They were obviously delighted by the sight of your flustered expression.

You had been looking for a witty comeback when Oliver had spawned next to you, steps heavy and his characteristic scowl drawn on his face.

“Leave her alone!” Oliver said, and you felt yourself wanting to crawl onto the ground.

“You are making it worse!” you hushed him, embarrassed.

His eyes fell to you, now the target of his piercing glare. When had he gotten so tall? “How am I making it worse?”

“I don’t know, it just feels worse” He stared at you for a moment, and then you realized that despite his eyes being set on your face, he wasn’t really looking at you. His lips were pressed in a thin line, gaze scanning your face as if looking for something beyond the surface. Getting nervous under the pressing attention and confused at his serious look, you elbowed him playfully “You do know we won, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Was just thinking about something”

It wasn’t until the animated chatter had died down in the changing room that you had gotten a glimpse of what had been causing Oliver so much turmoil even amidst the celebrations of his first win ever. He had approached Charlie with a stance that while not unusual, had made alarm bells go off in your head.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, shoot”

Charlie had taken off the top part of his uniform, sweater rilling up his torso. The sight distracted you for a few seconds before, to your dismay, Oliver had stood in front of him with a firm stance.

“Why is Alicia on reserve?”

Charlie’s eyebrows sank for a moment before they shoot up again with a casual smile.

“We already have three chasers in the starting roster” he answered plainly.

“But she’s better than Bailey. You should switch them”

While not really loud, it seemed like everybody had been able to tune in into the conversation. The loud chatter had died down slowly, everybody distracted by the conversation taking place at the front of the room. Charlie took a look around the room and breathed in calmly, big arms crossed over his chest.

“Alicia is still learning, and Bailey has been on the team with me since the beginning”

“Then that’s just embarrassing. Four years, and this is as good as he can get?” He protested, “You can’t let sentimentalism get in the way of the Quidditch Cup”

Charlie’s eyes fell on the chaser, whose knuckles cracked in the dead silence of the room. Emeric Bailey was a big guy, bigger than any boy in his year. Or any year for that matter. But Oliver wasn’t one to get scared by that sort of thing. You didn’t know if he was just that brave or if he simply didn’t have any survival instincts.

“You’ve got a problem, Wood?” Bailey stood up, walking menacingly until his tall figure loomed over Oliver who didn’t even flinch. You were by Oliver in only a few steps, not sure of what you were even going to do if the situation were to escalate.

“Yeah” he said to Bailey with a short glance before he turned back to Charlie, his dismissiveness aggravating him “And so should you”

“Emeric” Charlie raised a hand to Bialey, who had gotten dangerously close to Oliver “I understand your concerns, Oliver, but I am the captain” he said with subdued demand.

“Then act like one!”

“Oliver!” You reached for his hand, attempting to make him back up “We just won, can’t you--?”

“Am I wrong?” he turned to the team, his hand escaping your grasp. No one said anything, exchanging awkward glances or staring at the ground under the weight of Oliver’s gaze upon them. He turned to you then, eyes wide and brows furrowed “Am I?”

You took in a sharp breath. Oliver got a bit overwhelming when he got that intense. His eyes searched yours then just as they had done a few minutes before on your way to the changing room, still looking for something you were ignorant to. Oliver turned around with an exasperated groan, bumping Bailey’s shoulder with his on his way out of the room.

Later that night, during dinner, Oliver had sat all the way on the other side of the table, far away from anyone on the Quidditch team. Not like any of them were really looking for him, by then everybody aware of how dangerous it was to get in Oliver’s way when he got in one of his moods. Regardless, you sat next to him.

“I don’t want to talk” he had announced before you had had time sit down on your seat.

“I didn’t say anything yet”

“Yeah, you are good at that”

You sighed deeply, hands dragging across your face.

“What did you want me to say?”

“That I’m right” he said matter-of-factly “You know I am”

“Whether you are or not—”

“I am”

“--you can’t just say something like that in front of everyone! You should have spoken with Charlie in private” Oliver scoffed when you mentioned the name, earning an inquisitive glance from you “What?”

“Of course you are siding with him” he said, voice muffled by his cup of pumpkin juice.

“I’m not siding with him!” you protested, indignant and also confused. It wasn’t like Oliver to doubt Charlie.

“Well, you didn’t side with me either. You just didn’t want Charlie to be mad at you”

“What’s that even supposed to mean?”

“You know he’s too old for you, right? He’s in sixth grade”

Your mouth hung open a few seconds, completely at a loss for words. You nervously looked around, a few students nearby that had their eyes on you turning away immediately. Your first reaction was one of shock, followed by indignation. You made your best effort to feign ignorance and hoped he couldn’t see the scorching-like blush spreading through your cheeks.

“What are you talking about?” you muttered.

“Charlie” You swallowed, so drily it hurt. Oliver hadn’t noticed your feelings for an entire year, and now he was suddenly calling you out on them “Fred said you fancy him”

“Wh--” you stammered “What does that brain for rocks know?”

“Rocks for brains”

“That’s what I’m saying”

“He said you look at him with a dumb look on your face” Oliver explained drily, that ever-present sternness in his voice rumbling underneath it “I told him you are just dumb”

“I-- whatever. That has nothing to do with the Bailey thing” you tried to steer the conversation back to the original conversation, fighting the urge to simply run away.

“Is that why you joined the team? Because you fancy him?”

Your face snapped towards him, so fast that for a split second he worried it might have hurt you.

“Why are you being such a jerk?”

“Uhm, excuse me, guys.” You were both too absorbed in your argument to notice Alicia Spinnet right away, only turning to her when she had poked Oliver’s shoulder “Sorry to... interrupt? But I’ve been looking for you. I wanted to say thank you for saying I’m good before”

Oliver’s anger seemed to dissipate, if only a bit, enough to not bark at Alicia. You handn’t really taken a good look at her on the three times you had seen her during practice, Quidditch gear famously as unflattering as wearing a paper bag over your head. She still wore her light brown hair in a ponytail whose perfect shape you were sure had to be charmed, and you sort of wished you could ask her for it. She had a longish face with soft, refined features and a few freckles peppered through it, a lovely choice of earrings dangling from her ears with a pleasant chime you remember faintly hearing during practice.

“No bother, you are just really good” Alicia smiled “Is this your first year trying?”

“Yes, I had never tried for the team. Charlie recruited me after a mock game in the yard with some friends”

“He seems to do that a lot” Oliver looked your way “At least this time it worked out”

You had had enough. You stood up from your seat so quickly it made some of the cutlery clatter loudly as your body hit the table.

“You suck”

“No, you suck! That’s why we never win!”

“Piss off!”

The day after, Oliver was already sitting on your shared desk during Charms when you walked in. You gave him a short glance and sat next to him without a word, dragging the chair as far away from him as the desk allowed. He had tried to speak to you right when the professor had walked through the door with a cheerful greeting. Oliver’s impatience had allowed him to last for about ten minutes before he leaned towards you.

“You have no right to be mad at me. Because I’m mad at you”

Your hand stilled in the middle of a sentence.

“Why the hell are you mad at me? Are you dumb?”

“You are dumb!” he looked around warily “You lied to me”

“About what?”

“Charlie?”

“That? Thought you were mad about Bailey" Oliver's knee bounced under the table "Also, I never lied to you because you never asked”

He observed your quill drag across your parchment, a few spots of dry ink spotting your fingertips.

“Why are you even mad at me?”

“Why?” You finally turned to him, the hand holding your quill resting on the table with a moderately loud thud that made Oliver retract a bit. You looked around and then lowered your voice “You accused me of siding with Charlie just because-- Because I fancy him”

Oliver’s eyes darted nervously around your features, his jaw twitching in a sign of obvious annoyance. He could tell you were upset, maybe more than you ever had. He couldn’t remember if you had ever stared at him with such a expression, and for split second it worried and upset him. Still, he was too stubborn.

“You did”

“No, I didn’t!”

Professor Filtchwick interrupted the class to give you a stern warning and you apologized, way too upset to feel any sort of mortification. When your classmates’ heads had turned back towards the front of the class Oliver scooted closer, decided to continue the argument: to win it.

“You were supposed to side with me. I am your friend”

“So why don’t you act like it?” you spat, and you could see the words rippling through him “The point isn’t whether Bailey sucks or not. I don’t like how you just said all that in front of everyone. You need to start thinking about other people before you do stuff like that. How do you think Bailey felt?”

“Like a loser, I s’ppose” he tried to defend his stance, but it was obvious by the way his eyes were fixed on the desk and his hands intertwined that your words were getting to him.

“You are impossible” you simply said after a pause that felt particularly long “I guess I’ll just quit the team too”

Oliver’s head snapped up, eyes scanning your face quickly for any sign of truth. You had already brought your attention back to your book.

“What are you talking about?”

“Since I am also a loser who can’t play”

“I never said that”

“Isn’t that what you meant? When you said Charlie recruiting people didn’t work out” Oliver’s mouth opened and closed a few times.

“That’s-- that’s not what I--”

“Oh, so now you feel bad for me? Well, you can keep it” There was no way for Oliver to miss the anger in your mockery, but it didn’t bother him as much as when your voice became smaller and softer when you said “I already know what you think of me”

“Is there anything you two would like to share with the class?” Professor Filtchwick’s voice called from the front of the class, everybody else now silently staring at you.

When he had asked you to change seats you slammed your textbook close and picked up your things, too angry to feel any type of shame.

“With pleasure”

For the next few weeks you had been anything but cold to Oliver. He seemed relieved enough that you were still coming to practice, making multiple attempts to start small conversations with you as if testing the waters.

“You are going fast today”

It wasn’t just you, though. The whole team felt a bit on edge since that confrontation in the changing room, and Charlie’s easygoing charisma was stalling. Bailey became a bit more aggressive during practice, throwing directly at Oliver, who on more than one occasion had lost his temper.

“Oi, watch it!”

“My bad, mate. I’m just really bad at this”

“Guys, come on”

Charlie looked stressed out of his mind. You wished you could say something to him, but there was nothing you could say that would cheer him up. To your surprise, he had been the one to approach you a few days later during your first Hogsmeade trip. At first you had opted not to go, but the day before the trip, as McGonagall had reminded you of the time and place to meet, Oliver had looked over his shoulder at you. He had been doing that a lot since you had changed seats in every class, not like you hadn’t yourself. You had never noticed how you both had naturally come to sit together during every subject, and now that you weren’t the room seemed colder somehow.

“Can I talk to you?” Charlie had asked as he matched your pace down the pebbled road. He had jogged towards you amidst the sea of students, hands buried deeply in the pockets of his jacket and Gryffindor scarf tightly tied around his neck. Your heart almost leapt out of your chest when he had spawned next to you. He had taken your stunned silence as an affirmative, when in reality you were captivated by the way the snowflakes rested on his hair, catching the light and making them sparkle like diamonds “I was wondering if you could talk to Oliver”

The mention of his name immediately grounded you to reality, the change in your expression not going unnoticed by him.

“I’m not currently talking to him”

“I’m aware. Didn’t want to pry”

“It’s whatever” you shrugged, knowing you couldn’t speak to him about it anyway. Deep down the fact he cared enough to ask was enough for you “What do you want to talk about?”

“About the team. I need him to start focusing on teamwork. We both know he’s not the most... people-sensitive”

“I’m aware. The worst thing is that he doesn’t say these things with malice, he’s just dumb” Charlie had wanted to laugh at that, but he had judged that you were too upset for that to be appropriate “What do you want me to do about it?”

To this he simply shrugged “He listens to you. And you are good with people”

“I’m really not”

“Well, you are better than him. I need someone to keep him in check next year” You had thought about telling him you were planning on quitting, but maybe it wasn’t the best time. Also, you didn’t want to make him sad “Can’t have a captain that doesn’t get along with his team.”

Your heels dig into the ground, stopping you in place like someone had hexed you. A group of fifth years had to walk around you, and Charlie turned around with a knowing smile.

“You are making Oliver captain?”

“Yeah. Should I not?”

You remained silent for a few seconds, for the first time in your life able to hold eye contact with Charlie without feeling your whole body burn up.

“Why?” you finally asked.

“Who else?” He noticed the small smile that you were trying to fight, even if you hated yourself for it. He started walking again “Do me a favour, don’t tell him about it. Just keep an eye on him” he stopped, then turned to you “When he apologises for whatever it is he did to you, that is”

He had then gone inside The Three Broomsticks to meet with his friends, and you had waved him goodbye as you made your way to Honeydukes. The number of students you could see through the window was a tad overwhelming, but you still went inside, not wanting to miss the opportunity to get a few sweets for yourself. At least you knew you wouldn’t run into Oliver there, since he disliked them so vehemently. The door opened with a chime, and after barely taking three steps inside, the sound resonated through the store again.

“What were you talking about with Charlie out there?”

You turned around with a fright, Oliver’s voice so close it had almost felt like he had spoken inside of your mind. He was just way too close. His cheeks and nose were red and bitten by the cold, and he was wearing the trapper hat you had told him multiple times was too big on him. ‘It’ll grow’ he had said, refusing to use a charm to make it fit out of sheer stubbornness. He watched your eyes scan him with familiarity, and he knew you were biting down at least three insults to throw at him.

“Nothing”

You attempted to continue browsing through the store, but he followed behind you. Your silence made him nervous.

“Were you talking about me?”

“Maybe”

You squeezed yourself through a group of older students that didn’t make any effort to let you pass. Oliver pushed through them, earning a few groans.

“Am-- am I getting kicked out, or?”

It was then when the Weasley twins had run into you.

“Look at this” said Fred before he swallowed a candy that made fireworks come out of his ears “Cool, isn’t it?”

“You have to pay for that” you scolded him.

“Come on, loosen up!” he said, still smiling, pushing you playfully.

“Watch it, Weasley,” Oliver warned, standing by your side.

The twins walked away snickering after giving you both a quick glance.

Wait.

You pushed through the crowd, leaving a confused Oliver behind and unable to follow you. When you had reached the twins, they were about to disappear behind a more empty corner of the store. You grabbed onto one of their sleeves, making him turn towards you.

“What are you two doing here?”

“Oh, you noticed?”

They didn’t seem alarmed. If anything, they looked proud.

“You can’t be here! You’ll get in trouble”

“So...” they exchanged a confused look “Don’t tell on us?”

“I don’t need to! You are in the open”

“No one noticed” said Fred.

“Or they won’t tell” added George.

“How did you even get here?”

“That’s a secret we can’t tell”

“What about Oliver?” you asked.

“What about him?”

“He also saw you”

“Yeah... let’s just say we are not concerned about his deduction skills. So don’t tell him either!”

“Whatever, I don’t care”

“Come on, at least care a little! It’s boring otherwise” protested George “Don’t tell Charlie though”

Fred dramatically put his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“We mustn’t, remember?”

“Oh” exclaimed George, matching the level of ridiculousness Fred had set up “True, I’m sorry”

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing. We are not allowed to mention Charlie to you. Wood’s orders”

You bit your tongue, and not standing their mocking smiles any longer, you simply walked away. Oliver found you again among the sea of students and made his way to you, helped by the width his shoulders had acquired during the previous summer. His hand grabbed onto your arm immediately, as if worried you’d just disappear again.

“Where did you go?”

“Never mind”

He let go of your arm when you had yanked it maybe a bit harder than you had wanted. It hadn’t hurt him necessarily, at least not anywhere visible. You started to push through students again and towards the door with Oliver never losing sight of you until you pushed the wooden door that opened with the familiar chime. The contrast of the warmth indoors and the coldness of the outside made you shudder and you uselessly braced yourself against it.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on? I see you talking to Charlie and now the twins?”

You closed your eyes tightly. After all he had said and done, this was what worried him?

“You are not getting kicked out of the team, stupid” you said, and despite how annoyed he was by the insult, you could see relief wash over his face “He’s going to make you captain”

The ever-present scowl on his face vanished and gave place to a blank expression. His lashes fluttered a few times as he walked towards you in some sort of trance.

“What?”

“But he can’t do it unless you stop acting like a total dickhead”

The insult knocked some sense into him “Did he call me a dickhead?”

“No, I am calling you a dickhead. Everyone else thinks you are one too, though”

“Do they? Why?”

“Because you act like one! How can you not know?”

“Well-- Can’t I be honest?”

“You can, but you can also be nicer about it. If you continue to be like this next year, people are going to quit the team because of you!”

Oliver’s lips pursed into a thin line and his brow creased a bit.

“Like you?”

The way he had asked you had managed to disarm you a bit. It hadn’t been a tone of reproach but an honest question that seemed heavy on his lips. His eyes stole a glance at you before going back to the ground where snow piled at your feet. He knew your feet and hands were going to be frozen by the time the trip was over.

“I’m not quitting yet” you muttered.

A small flash of relief gleamed through Oliver’s eyes before his brows pressed on them again.

“Because of Charlie”

You gritted your teeth, sighing deeply.

“Actually? Yeah. Because he’s a good captain, and I don’t want to let him down”

“Because you fancy him” he said through his teeth, so low you weren’t sure you were meant to hear it. He didn’t even seem to want to say it, the words leaving his mouth like they were straining him.

“You know what? Why don’t you think about why I want to quit first? The only reason why I want to quit is because of you!” You walked forward and pushed his shoulder; he barely moved, yet he winced “You always have something mean to say about my flying even though you were the one who made me play!”

Oliver brought his hand where you had pushed him, even though it didn’t hurt him much. His eyes said otherwise.

“I didn’t know it bothered you that much” he said. Far from trying to defend himself, he seemed actually puzzled “What I said”

“Of course it does! And now you accuse me of-- of what? Playing because of Charlie?  Because I like him? Okay, I do! You are still the reason why I play so what does that even matter?”

Oliver stayed in stunned silence, his slightly wide eyes boring into yours as he saw you catch your breath. Your hair, shaken by the wind, rested unceremoniously over your flushed face. Your lips, dry and your scarf resting undone almost halfway to the snowed ground. The snow. Just how cold--

“I’m sorry”

Now that you weren’t expecting. Your breathing that had accelerated significantly started heaving on your chest, and your frostbitten fingers that had balled into fists had started to hurt. It wasn’t usual for Oliver to apologize; you were sure you had never heard him do it before. It was obvious to you he actually meant it too, the way his gaze searched into yours for any sign of forgiveness, making the anger quickly dissipate.

“People are staring. Let’s go”

You tugged at his sleeve and started pulling him down the street. For a while you just held onto him, hoping that it’d be enough to let him know it was okay now. Oliver and you were really good at fighting with each other, but you had never had to properly make amends. Eventually you let go, the both of you walking around the street without a destination, arms bumping into each other.

“How am I supposed to know what to say?” he finally asked “To people and stuff”

“I don’t know, Oliver...” You fell silent for a while “Remember when you taught me to throw during first year? You were nice. Sort of”

“Even though you sucked”

“Even though I sucked, yes, exactly” you tried not to smile, but he caught onto it, his shoulders lowering a bit “So what about next time you feel like being brutally honest you think you are talking to first-year-me?”

He took a quick glance at you.

“That might work”

Your last game of the year had been against Slytherin and took place during mid-May. To say that you had been floored would be putting it kindly. Charlie had to say his goodbyes to the team in the changing room and also announced that Oliver would be the captain next year. Oliver had walked up to the front of the room, and despite his imposing presence and perfect stance, you could tell he was nervous, if even just a bit.

“I’ll do my best. I hope some of you can help me be a better captain. I can’t wait to play with you next year. All of you”

Despite how hard you had tried to keep it together, you had found yourself quietly tearing up. You hadn’t wanted to attach yourself much to the team, and in a way you definitely didn’t care as much as other members did, but you had never slacked off. It still made you feel terrible, the loss, and the fact that those people would be having such a hard time now. Did not being as hurt make you a bad person? You certainly seemed to think so, and after one tear fell down, you couldn’t contain the rest. Oliver sat next to you, his weight making the old bench creak loudly.

“I’m sorry” you found yourself saying, voice cracked.

Oliver’s hands halted as he untied his boot, and out of the corner of your eye you saw him looking at you.

“It's not your fault”

You nodded, your throat closing so as to not let a loud cry come out. You inhaled deeply, feeling yourself suffocate.

“I tried hard” you whimpered, and brought your hand up to rub at the bottom of your nose.

Besides you, Oliver felt himself smile.

“I never thought you’d get to care so much about Quidditch” you hid your face behind your hands and finally let out a sob “It’s creepy how happy it makes me to see you cry”

Oliver scooted closer to you and passed his arm over your shoulders, shaking you playfully.

“It was fun” you said behind your hands, your breathing still uneven.

“Yeah, it was...” You felt Oliver’s thumb drawing small circles over your shoulder, and under the circumstances you found it surprisingly soothing “What about you stay a bit longer? Until we find someone”

Fourth year rolled around, and it started with a bang. Oliver had made it very clear that he wanted Alicia Spinnet to be part of the team right away, and alongside her had come Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell. Of course, the main star had been none other than Harry Potter, who you’d been more than okay with giving your position to. The team seemed to finally make a bit more sense, and you hated to admit that maybe Oliver’s scouting senses were better than Charlie’s had been. The air around Oliver had shifted somehow, even if he was still the same blunt, big-headed idiot.

He would still orbitate during meals, however there were at least three other people between you two at any given time. The free time you both had spent practicing and letting Oliver chew your ear off about quidditch was now exchanged for watching Gryffindor’s practice from the bleachers. Now as an outsider looking in, it was evident Oliver had changed, the same way a painting can only truly be appreciated when you take a few steps back to observe in its entirety. His stance was taller and if you hadn’t known him so well, ‘imposing’ would have been another way to describe the way he soared through the pitch. His boyish features had hardened, long locks of dark hair framing the sharp edges that now matched the harshness behind his eyes.

You had returned to the common room after a solo study session at the library, the contrast of the silence you’d grown accustomed to against the lively air within the Gryffindor quarters a bit jarring at first. You glanced around the room on your way to your dorm, catching sight of Oliver and Alicia sitting on the couch, a few open notebooks open in the small space between their bodies. You recognized them as Oliver’s game plans; it had been a while since he had asked you for your take on them. Granted, you never really had anything to say, your knowledge on quidditch years behind anything that would be useful to Oliver. You had slowed your walk to the stone staircase, wishing in the back of your mind that he’d catch a glimpse of you and lift his head to call out to you, but he didn’t.

On Wednesday after class Oliver had asked you if you wanted to go with him to Spinwitches during the Hogsmeade trip, and you had had to suppress the genuine surprise it had caused you. Once you were there, though, you realized the whole Quidditch team was coming with. You were walking a few steps behind, watching the way Alicia kept bumping into Oliver’s side as they talked animatedly about something you had no interest in. Your eyes fixated on the way your shoes dug into the soft snow, your skirt swayed by the wind that caressed your legs and chilled them to the bone. You had started to regret wearing it, but that didn’t have much to do with the cold. You heard Alicia laugh and watched her as she bumped her fist against Oliver’s shoulder, the hit surely softened by his padded jacket. The sight made anger seethe in your stomach, not really sure what about it annoyed you so much. Or maybe you did.

Maybe you had started to suspect it.

The store was the same as when you had visited last time. It had become a habit that every Hogsmeade visit Oliver would drag you inside by the scarf. You had complained and whined every single time, but now as he didn’t spare a single look your way to make sure you were coming with, you found yourself missing it.

“Why are you in such a mood?”

You snapped out of it when Oliver had asked you that. You had been browsing the store for ten minutes on your own, much like everyone else, before he had come at you with an attitude.

“What? I’m not”

You had in fact been in a sour mood, but you had done a good job of hiding it. Or so you had thought at the time.

“You’ve been quiet all day... just tagging along and stuff”

“When haven’t I been doing that?” you asked, a bit more defensive than you had wanted “It’s not like you need my opinion for the broom thing. You’ve already decided on it”

Your finger pointed at the broom in his hand, but your eyes betrayed you for a short second as they flickered past him to where Alicia and Angelina were snickering in a corner.

“I could still get your input”

You stared at the broom, then shrugged.

“Yeah, I like it”

“And you wonder why I don’t care about your input”

You felt your jaw tense, a strange feeling coming over you: it was guilt, embarrassment and remorse all mixed into a sour taste in your mouth.

“Maybe I’m in a mood, you are right” you admitted “I’ll cool off. See you later”

You had to stop yourself from wishing he had followed you when you had pushed the heavy wooden door and walked into the busy street. Why did you have to ruin a nice day with your sulking? Why did you have to find fault with your friend enjoying others’ company? Was this the kind of person you wanted to become, or were you just unable to keep your own selfish feelings in check?

For a while you walked around, finally settling on a stone bench on the side of a particularly busy road. The lullaby of animated chatter and the pleasant sound of footsteps burying in the snow comforting enough to calm your accelerated heartbeat, your eyes closing as you basked in the pale winter sun. You took in a deep breath and exhaled, the sharp scent of pure cold filling your lungs. You could stay there for a while, you though. By yourself but not completely alone, that seemed pleasant enough. Your head would turn from time to time, as if you were expecting to see someone. Someone that might have been looking for you. No one like that showed up, though, and you tried not to feel too bad about that. Things might have started to change, and you’d have to be okay with that. Oliver would be busy from then on. Despite his hard-to-deal-with temperament, the truth was he had always been easy to like; after all, you wouldn’t have stuck by his side had it been any other way. You had had your time, but it was time to let him go--

“What do you think you are doing?”

Your eyes fluttered open, your reverie interrupted. A confused Oliver was looming over you, brows furrowed and staring at you like you had lost your mind. He was still holding his broom in his hand, now wrapped in a protective case.

“...Thinking?”

“Hope it's about funeral arrangements because you are going to freeze your arse to death” after a short beat, you snorted out a laugh. His gaze lowered to your exposed legs and the way your skirt rilled up slightly as you sat on the bench, his cheeks burning up despite the crisp wind whistling past you “Don’t laugh! Get up!”

“What?”

“All this cooling off nonsense. Whatever” He grabbed your arm and made you stand up. He stared at you like you had spawned horns “You’ve been acting weird all day”

“Yeah, I guess”

“What’s wrong?”

It’s not like you could tell him you missed him. Even as he stood in front of you, cheeks and nosetip bitten by the cold, tousled hair and chapped lips. Even if you could reach your hand and brush your numb fingertips against his skin, pleading for warmth. Still, you missed him.

“I like being your friend”

The words escaped your lips, the sound of your own voice startling you as they rang through the both of you. Immediately after they had been spoken you had felt nausea and embarrassment clog at the back of your throat. You weren’t unfamiliar with this sort of feeling, the overwhelming brief instances of fondness and need to tell him such things something you were used to. However you had always been able to keep them buried down. Oliver’s expression didn’t change much, but for a small fraction of a second there was something there you hadn’t quite seen before.

“Me too” then it was gone again “What’s going on?”

You shrugged, his sympathetic stare making the regret easier to swallow.

“I’m not sure” you admitted, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips “I don’t want to mess up the outing, though. You should go back to the group, I’m going to go have a walk”

“If you want a walk, we can have a walk. I’m not leaving you alone here”

He wouldn’t tell you, and he probably wouldn’t know himself; but he would never leave you by yourself when it was so cold, and you were so alone and looking so pretty on your short skirt and your lumpy mascara.

You both had spent only an hour longer around Hogsmeade, Oliver growing tired of dragging his broom around, when you had both taken one of the first carriages back. By the time you were back, the mood in the Common Room was strangely subdued. There were a few first years doing their homework on the big table, a small group by the windowsill and some sparce students reading in the couch. Oliver and you had opted for sitting on the carpet near the fire. Well, he had insisted in you sitting by the fire while he would keep you company admiring his new broom. For a while you both sat in silence amidst the animated chatter of the room, exchanging a few looks from time to time. It felt strangely calming, warmth coming back to you by the time the Common Room opened followed by the ruckus of the third years and up coming back. Oliver and you exchanged a knowing look, as if you both had been thinking the same thing. It wasn't long until a few people joined you, whatever spell had fallen upon you two broken.

The morning students were appointed to leave the Castle for Christmas break, something had soured the taste of pumpkin pie in your mouth before you could even swallow it.

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

You didn’t even know how you had managed to pick on it. Her voice hadn’t been loud, if anything, she had been so quiet you were surprised even Oliver had heard her. He had been sitting a bit away from you on the other side of the table, and yet you somehow had hear her clear as day.

“Sure”

You had subtly looked up, enough to see Alicia nervously brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Could we go somewhere else?”

You felt your stomach drop, the pumpkin pie you had stopped chewing seemed almost suffocating to swallow. You made the mistake of locking eyes with Fred Weasley, who for some reason you wanted to pretend you couldn’t understand, was already staring at you. Oliver stood up from his seat and followed Alicia until they were out of the room. You saw Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell exchanging knowing smiles, and you let your fork hit the table. Fred Weasley sat next to you, his back against the table, taking way more space than he needed.

“Are you goign to stay here?” he asked quietly, the familiar irking hint of mockery still noticeable in his voice.

“Your sweater is touching my food”

“I’d go, personally” he awaited for an answer, but when you said nothing he added “Do you want me to go?” Your face twisted a bit, and Fred’s face lit up as if that was the answer he had been waiting “I’ll go then”

He stood up, and when you protested that just made him start running. Embarrassed but desperate enough, you ran after him, only being able to keep up with him as you caught glimpses of bright red hair before he turned the tall corners of the castle. You finally caught up to him, pressed against a wall as he caught his breath. He brought a finger to his lips as you approached him, and then you started getting nervous again. Fred peeked his head around the corner, and with a bit of fear you stood by his side.