Pink in the Night (22k words)
In which you end up booking the same study space as Peter Parker and have to deal with the aftermath. Graduate Student! TASM Peter Parker x Reader.
There was a man in your usual study spot. He was slouched over your library carrel in a sweatshirt and baggy jeans. For a moment you thought about hightailing out of there and letting him claim the desk for the rest of the semester. You could study at your department center or find a cafe to hunker down in. Then you decided that you needed to grow some balls at some point. You were particular about your study spaces and had a hard time working in your apartment. Something about work life separation. Plus, you liked this spot. You’d specifically chosen this carrel because the window gave you a of the view of the city and it had extra shelves built in. There was no time better than the present, right?
“You’re in my carrel.” You finally stated. Your voice echoed through the space, earning you a couple nasty looks from other students. The stranger didn’t budge, apparently too asleep to notice you.
You cleared your throat and tried again. “I said you’re in my carrel.”
He jolted up from his dozing, bumping his right shin against the underside of the desk and kicking his book bag that he had stashed underneath. He glanced at you in confusion. He seemed so frazzled and exhausted that you almost felt bad for distributing his studies. Almost.
“Dude, you’re in my carrel.” You said. You didn’t even bother trying to hide the annoyance in your tone this time.
“Shit-sorry I didn’t know. My bad.” He squinted and placed his reading glasses on. You waited as he fumbled for his phone from his jacket pocket, taking out crinkly protein bar wrappers and crumpled up notes. His home screen lit up with a picture of him and a kind older woman on the Brooklyn Bridge framed by the warm horizon.
“I could have sworn I booked…” His voice trailed off as he scrolled through his emails, parsing through unread messages and spam mail. You spotted a 10% Ebay coupon in the midst and remembered that you really needed to browse Facebook Marketplace for a new lamp. You silently judged how disorganized his inbox was.
“It’s fine.” You tucked your books back into your bag, adjusting the leather strap on your shoulder to alleviate the ache. “I think University policy allows two people to book the same carrel. Could you book a new one?”
He frowned, a bit put off by your direct ask. He pulled up the library’s online system and typed his student login information anyway. You watched him scroll through red box after red box.
“Whatever, don’t worry about it.” You muttered. “Do you come here often?”
“Uh, usually after my lab.” You vaguely recalled the ugly modernist building with plexiglass windows and square concrete pillars. It was like the architect intentionally wanted to make the most inhospitable, cold building ever and lock all the STEM students in there. He frowned and cracked his knuckles with a satisfying pop. “which is like on a daily basis this semester. Those molecular protein structures aren’t going to digitize themselves.”
“We should figure out a study schedule then.”
He didn’t seem to catch on. He stared at you. “Why?”
“So we can both use the space to study. Be out of each other’s hair.”
“Oh, I don’t mind sharing. I’m pretty quiet when I’m working.”
You didn’t know how he expected the both of you to squeeze into a two foot space. You pointedly looked at the mess of textbooks and papers sprawled over the desk, The ink from his pen had bled through the thin cardboard notebook and left blue smears over the wooden surface. Your gaze settled on the single creaky chair that he was currently rocking back and forth on.
“Right.” He groaned, rubbing his eyes. “Sorry, I’m usually not like this all over the place. This week has been rough.” He rubbed his temples sheepishly.
“It’s okay, I get it. Feels like the deadlines are always coming. It’s always this or that. I’m always cosplaying as Sisyphus and his boulder.” You whispered. You mimicked pushing an invisible heavy weight with your hands.
“Sisyphus clearly hasn’t heard of a crane. He could have been done with the job within a month.”
“I’ve never heard of that retelling before.”
“It’s an unpublished version.”
“You should dig up Homer and let him know. Make him revise those papyrus fragments.” You smiled. He seemed to brighten up at your reaction.
“I’m Peter, by the way. Peter Parker. Grad student in the Biochemistry department.”
You replied with your name.
“I usually do most of my grading after morning lecture, so I’ll need the space during the afternoon.” You could almost see the Canvas grade markers and the flurry of emails from undergraduates begging for extra credit.
“Sounds good. I’m more of a night owl anyway. I almost never come here earlier than 8 pm.”
“Wow, that seems healthy. I can’t even imagine your sleep schedule.”
“Oh, it’s nonexistent.” He pointed to the heavy bags underneath his eyes and the empty energy drinks strewn around the desk.
“Yeah, you might want to fix that.”
“Never thought of such an idea before. Thanks for the advice.”
“No problem, anytime.” You rolled your eyes. You were starting to get nasty looks again and took it as a sign to end the conversation.
“I’ll see you around.” He gave you a small smile.
The next morning, you found a package addressed to a ‘Peter Parker’ in your mailbox. It was soft yet flexible, perhaps some sort of clothing or fabric, but very clearly not the expensive imported Japanese shampoo you had bought with the last of your tax returns. You’re surprised to notice that the address matches up to a unit two floors below yours.
Curiosity led you to walk down the stairs and locate the intended address. You knocked on the door once. There was no response. You knocked again. There was still silence. You resisted the urge to knock a third time because you feared that would be rude. You were just about to leave the package on the ground when you heard faint shuffling and the sound of a chair moving.
The same Peter as yesterday opened the door, sunlight filtering from his room into the dusty hallway.
He seemed to have just rolled out of bed. He was wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a giant black Pink Floyd t-shirt that hung down to his knees. His brown hair stuck out in different tufts, framed by his sideburns. There was a nasty bruise on the left side of his face, blossoming from his neck. You spotted the corners of a peeling Hitchcock movie poster behind him. There was also a lot of strange wires and various scrap metal scattered across the floor, a disaster in the making.
It turned out all those cliches were true. It was a small world after all.
“It’s you.” He said, clearly surprised. “Girl from the carrel.”
“Did you forget my name already?”
“No. Course not.” He said defensively and averted his gaze. His hesitation spoke louder. You sighed and repeated your name.
“Right, I was just about to say that. It was on the tip of my tongue.” He nodded vigorously. It was almost comedic.
“We live in the same complex.” You cut him off to save any further humiliation. You didn’t want him to think you were stalking him or something. “I live two floors above you. I think our mail got mixed up.” In hindsight you probably shouldn’t have given out your exact address. Student or not, he still was a stranger, but it was too late to take it back. You handed him the package.
“What happened to your face?” You pointed towards the purplish-red mark on his cheek. It looked painful and swollen.
Peter looked surprised at your concern, touching his face as if just realizing the wound was there. Perhaps it was the fact that you two were still strangers. You liked to think of yourself as a kind person, not too cloying but not cold either.
He scratched his head. “It’s embarrassing, but I slipped on a patch of ice on the stairs. Landed on my face Looney Toons style.” He winced, as if the mere memory made him sore.
“Well, be careful. They tend to forget to salt the entrance. Cheapskates!" You didn’t mention that the ground probably would have scraped his cheek in his story and you highly doubted someone could injure themselves that way and wind up with a bruise in such a pointed, concentrated spot. It wasn’t your business what secrets he was keeping. Maybe he got into a bar fight and lost. Maybe he was an escort. He was handsome enough.
“Damn, can’t remember the last time I heard someone use the word ‘Cheapskates.’ How old are you again?”
“First, I’m verbose, not dated, let’s get that straight.” You scoffed, crossing your arms across your chest. Peter tilted his head.
“Second, I’m old enough to recognize the underlying ageism in that question. Third, do you want to borrow my ice roller for that?” You pointed at his bruise again. He shied away from your gaze, tilting his head away.
“It’s like a cold face massager. You know what a Gua Sha is?”
He shook his head. Average white person.
“Whatever that doesn’t matter. I use it when I get Eczema flareups. Good for swelling.”
“Ouch.” He smiled. “It’s okay. It’s not that serious. My frozen vegetable medley bag is carrying me. Might as well get some use out of it before I saute it for dinner.”
“Whatever you say.” You rolled your eyes. Men and their adherence to the heathen ways of living. “Offer still stands if the broccoli just doesn’t cut it.”
“I’ll be sure to keep you updated.”
You don’t really think much else about the interaction, the memory fading amidst the blur of office hours sessions and the heaping tabs of secondary source literature piling up on your desk. It didn’t help that the rest of the week got progressively worse. Your friend hosted an apartment warming party with your graduate cohort at which you spilled red wine over your favorite dress. Your cat swallowed a piece of plastic that he had bitten off your phone charger, so you had to rush him to the vet to get his stomach pumped, denting your bank account by a cool thousand. By the time you finished answering the hundred emails in your inbox and enduring the depressing weekly meeting with your advisor, it was the weekend.
The cherry on top of a relatively horrible week was that the single dryer in the complex was broken. It made a weird thudding sound, and there was a light smell of smoke in the basement. The fact that the fire alarm did not go off made you feel more worried than relieved.
“Fuck my life.” You groaned.
You opened the machine, inspecting the large pile of boxers, baggy pants, and tops. Some poor man was also going to have a rough night. You picked up a Pink Floyd t-shirt. There were brown scorch marks on the collar, and the heat had melted the image right off into a toxic greyish smear. You vaguely recalled Peter’s pajamas from your brief interaction earlier this week. Another coincidence. It seemed that there were higher forces urging you to interact with this man.
You dragged the pile of clothing up the complex’s stairs, which wasn’t an easy feat. The bag weighed 40 pounds and kept smacking the ground with each step, forcing you to consistently readjust your grip. You had no idea how Peter managed to do this on a weekly basis. He either must be relatively built, or you were just exceptionally weak. You felt like a haggard Santa Claus by the time you reached Peter’s floor with a sheer line of sweat dripping down your forehead.
You knocked on the door again, feeling a strange sense of deja vu by once again clutching a bag of Peter’s things. This time, nobody responded, even after you knocked a third time. You left a sticky note on the door explaining the situation and tacked on your number in Sharpie, just in case somebody decided to steal a bag of lightly toasted men’s clothing. Then you walked back down the basement to drag your own clothes to the nearest laundromat. As soon as you returned to your apartment you flopped face first in bed, not even bothering to brush your teeth.
Later, at 4:05 AM you received a long chunk of text from an unknown number profusely thanking you for your efforts. You rolled over in bed onto your side, dragging your comforter up to your chin, and stretched your toes, soaking up the warmth. You blinked through your exhaustion as you stared at the number and made a new contact titled ‘Peter’ and his apartment number. You thought about typing out a response before deciding to simply heart his message and go back to sleep.
A couple days later you bump into him as you’re heading down the stairs. The bruise on his face has healed remarkably well, his skin now blemish-free and clear. He definitely needed to recommend you whatever topical treatment he was using.
“Oh, hi.” You gave a small wave. “Do you remember my name?”
“Yes.” His face reddened. He recited it perfectly, saying it twice for good measure.
“Glad it stuck. You must have written it on your wrist or something.”
“That’s harsh and kinda unfair.”
“I called in a work order for the laundry machine, by the way.” You hummed. “Apparently somebody’s coming tomorrow to fix it.”
You’re about to leave when he stopped you.
“Do you want to grab coffee?” He hesitated. “I feel bad for making you walk down all those steps with my stuff. I know a place that does cold brew right. It’s not far.”
“Like right now?” You checked the time on your phone. 8:10 AM. You’re not sure why you hesitate. It wasn’t like you had any urgent places to be. You were just going to pick up an egg and cheese sandwich from the local bodega.
“Yes. Well, I guess not like right right now. I need to make sure I look presentable and stuff, like I haven’t been running on five hours of sleep for the past couple days.” He ran a hand through his hair. It looked unwashed. You were jealous of how good it looked despite being unkempt.
“It’s fine if you’re busy.” He added. He looked embarrassed for asking, and you felt a bit bad for always being so curt. “I’m just trying to meet more graduate students, interact with more people on a regular basis. Take a break from pushing that boulder, you know?”
You smiled. “Okay, guy from carrel. I’ll meet you downstairs in 15 minutes?”
Peter was funny and kind. He paid for your cold brew and cheese danish, despite your protests, claiming that the Biochemistry department paid their graduate students higher stipends and thus he needed to pay reparations. The both of you squeezed into a small nook in the corner of the cafe, away from the chatter of the regulars and the elderly women gossiping over hot chai lattes. You sipped your coffee slowly, enjoying the sweet, mellow flavor while he took big, heaving gulps.
You learned that he had grown up in Queens with his Aunt and Uncle, who passed away several years ago. He enjoyed skateboarding, but didn’t have as much time as usual with the general responsibilities of life and the never-ending task of writing his dissertation. When you asked what his research was on, he stated a set of scientific terms and connotations that meant nothing to you. He tried to explain it to you in layman’s terms, but even that didn’t elicit any reaction. He had wanted to try again, but you had stopped him.
Peter was also very much a dork, but in all honesty, most graduate students, including yourself, were. He liked old thrillers like Rear Window and Vertigo. He enjoyed science fiction like 1984 and anything written by Ursula K. Leguine. You recommended some of Ted Chiang’s short stories, which he promised he would check out. He was awkward at times, fumbling over his words, but there was a certain genuineness to him that made it sweet.
You hadn’t even realized that two hours had passed before you received a notification from your phone warning you that lecture was in 15 minutes.
“Damn, I have to head to campus.” You felt bad for cutting the conversation short.
“Office hours with the kiddos?” Peter raised an eyebrow.
“No, that’s at noon. I’m a teaching assistant for Professor Garcia’s lecture. Have to set up some slides before class.”
“I’ll go with you.” He sat up, picking up both your empty cups and tossing them in the trash. ”I need to stop by the lab anyway. Do my time.”
“Sheesh, how many years did they give you?”
“3 years plus however long it takes for me to finish my dissertation.”
On the subway ride over he added commentary for every stop. There was always a particular Italian restaurant that served a mean chicken parm or a thrift store that had remained obscure enough from the alternative teenagers for the prices not to be inflated. You jotted down some of the places he had mentioned in your notes app. You’ve never met anyone who knew the city as well as he did.
It was raining when you stepped out of the station. Peter didn’t bring an umbrella, so you let him duck under yours. Unfortunately, his height made the process of walking together awkward, forcing him to simultaneously hold the umbrella high above and crouch next to you to ensure the raindrops didn’t fall on you. You were almost clipped in the shoulder by a yellow taxi, but Peter jerked you out of the way in time.
“Watch where you’re going, asshole! We’re walking here!” He yelled at the car, glaring at the driver from the rear view window. You appreciated his over the top reaction and his cliche New Yorker response.
You stopped at an intersection, glancing over at the large marbled building where your lecture was and the ugly minimal tech building in the opposite distance. “My building is this way.” You meant to say it like a statement, but it came out like a question. “What are you staring at?”
“I just can’t imagine how they squeeze all those students in there.” He pointed to the building where your lecture was held in.
“You seriously cannot be talking right now, not with that cheese grater of a laboratory.”
“That building cost 30 million dollars to build.”
“You say that like it’s a flex. I could pay off my student loans, take a year-long trip to Europe, and build a prettier building with 30 million dollars.”
He nodded. “Fair point. I guess I’ll see you on the other side?” He gave a stupid salute that simultaneously made you want to cringe and laugh. “We should keep in touch in case any new packages get lost.”
“Or any laundry machines break,” You said solemnly. He grinned, and for a moment, you thought he was going to say something before he lowered his hand and turned away. You watched as he disappeared into the distance, swallowed by the crowd.
Later that night, you left a copy of Ted Chiang’s Exhalation by his apartment door. You told yourself that you had finished reading it anyway. It was just sitting on your shelf gathering dust. He would get more use out of it. He sent you a text message thanking you. You stared at the green bubble longer than you should have, imagining his long fingers typing out the message.
A couple nights later, you woke up to the sound of sirens blaring and the shine of red and blue lights seeping through the cracks of your blinds. It didn’t seem to be coming from your building, but it was close enough for the discordant alarms to keep you up. After tossing and turning and even throwing the pillow over your head to try and dull the noise, you gave up. Out of curiosity, you got out of bed, raised your curtain blinds, and peered out the window.
Your apartment faced a gloomy alleyway. On the worst days it was downright depressing, and on best days, it served as good motivation to apply to more jobs and internships. You squinted through the blackness, trying to discern what had happened.
There was a shadowed figure in the alley, leaning against the brick wall. You couldn’t quite make out his features in the darkness, only brief shades of shiny red and glossy black. It was probably a drug dealer or a drunk frat guy, the standard culprits. Suddenly, the figure jumped up onto the fire escape of the first floor. One second, he was on the ground; the next, he had scaled over fifteen feet of air. You blinked, sure that you weren’t seeing clearly.
The figure continued scaling the wall of your apartment as if unaffected by gravity, leaping from balcony to balcony, sometimes racing at a 90 degree angle up the unit. He was so fast, all you saw was a dark blur.
“What the-” You slapped your hand around your mouth, stifling your panic. You stepped back from the window and shut the blinds, trying to calm your beating heart. His movements did not seem human.
You double checked that the door was locked, jiggling the handle for good measure. Then you threw your comforter over your head like you had done when you were a child, scared of the dark, and tried to fall back asleep. In your dreams, shadowy limbs kept crawling at you and pulling you under the earth despite your screams.
In the morning, you peered through the window, half-expecting a jumpscare, but only saw the same dirty alleyway. The only movement was a stray rat chewing on a pizza crust near the trash bins. Two taxi drivers were in a heated argument over who had bumped the other, and their shouts leaked into your room.
You were researching the early-stage symptoms of schizophrenia and trying to get the strange incident last night out of your head when your phone buzzed.
Peter (506): Exhalation is really good.
Peter (506): Thanks for the recommendation
You: Np. Tbh I don’t really like his style.
Peter (506): Really? Why did you suggest it?
You: I figured that you were nerdy enough to enjoy it.
Peter (506): You’re so thoughtful
Should you ask him about the figure? You hesitated. You weren’t even sure how you word such a question: “Hey, did you see this weird creature figure defying the laws of physics last night? Super crazy, right?” After thirty seconds of weighing the pros and cons, you decided to just go for it. Peter was a nice guy. He wouldn’t judge you.
You: Off-topic question, but did you see anything strange last night?
You: I woke up in the middle of the night and saw this man crawling up the fire escape.
You: It was really creepy
Peter didn’t type anything back. You couldn’t tell if he looked at your message because he had his read receipts off. After fifteen minutes, your phone buzzed again.
Peter (506): That’s weird. I didn’t see anything.
Peter (506): What did he look like?
You decided to leave it at that. You must have sounded crazy.
You: Nvm. I probably imagined it
Peter seemed to complement your life in ways that you weren’t even aware of, appearing time and time again as a friendly but fleeting figure. He brought back your textbooks after you accidentally left them at the library carrel. He sent you student coupons for subscription services and free side salads. He even offered to return your overdue rental textbooks after you complained to him once about always missing the deadline.
You spotted a familiar face while you were studying in the library. Peter was loitering near your carrel with his bulky backpack and pale lab coat tied around his waist. He grinned, leaning next to your desk and gave you a small wave, mouthing out a hello.
“Oh, you’re here early.” You whispered. You took off your headphones, lofi jazz beats fading into a distant hum. It was only 3:00 pm. Too early for your planned schedule.
“I have this pretty big project, so unfortunately won’t be done for a couple hours. Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay. I wanted to ask if you’d like to study together. Java Junction is doing a buy one get one free event. They got nice chairs.”
“You should check it out. It’s a good ambience, and the undergraduates don’t know about it.” He winked. “You could use a break.”
The promise of free coffee did pique your interest. It was going to be a late night anyway. Might as well get a free drink before hunkering down with your paper. You loved a good mocha, and you always worked better with others holding you accountable.
Peter tried to get a glimpse at your laptop, but you positioned it away, cupping the screen to your chest protectively. You glared at him, more performative than genuinely distressed.
“Hey, I can’t focus when people are looking at me.”
“Sorry. My bad.” He backed away, shoving his hands in his pockets sheepishly. He made a big show of averting his eyes from you. “How many readings do you have to do?”
“Too many,” You groaned, lightly bumping your head against the surface of your desk. “I want to sleep.” You shut your computer screen, imagining your cozy bed and fleece pajamas. What you would give for a full night’s sleep.
“What if you took a 15 minute power nap and did work later?”
“Like right now? Take a nap here?”
“Yeah. Uh. The trick is to put your legs up in the chair and use your arms as a pillow.”
“That is a dangerous suggestion, Parker.”
He laughed. “Come on, let me buy you a latte. It’s the least I can do to support women in higher education.”
“Is this just a elaborate ploy to steal my study spot?” You gave him a suspicious look. “Ply me with free food and feminism?”
“What, no wayyy” Peter drew out the last word. “Where did you get such an idea? Also, how would I do that if we’re working together?”
“I don’t know, maybe you’d slip away when I’m distracted.”
“I promise you this dusty desk isn’t that great. You’re being paranoid.” He bit his cheek, really trying to sell the act.
Studying with Peter was a good idea in theory, but terrible in practice. You would start to get into a good flow, and then he would ask you a question about your research, launching you into a lengthy rant and a detailed timeline of your expected deliverables. You were equally guilty, asking him how his aunt was, if the heater in his room also made random clanging sounds, and which places were worth visiting in Queens. Eventually, the cafe was fifteen minutes from closing and the both of you started packing your things to avoid being a nuisance to the underpaid seventeen year old barista.
The city seemed to become a different place at night. It was a bright new landscape that beeped and glowed. Cars hurtled by you in streams of yellow and white. Loud advertisements for new TV shows and clothing lines buzzed and flashed. Pedestrians picked up a newfound rigor, hurrying down crosswalks to catch up for dinner reservations or joining their friends for a drink at a bar.
“I’ll walk you home.” Peter yawned. He positioned himself on the outer edge of the sidewalk facing the street.
“What a gentleman.” You nudged his shoulder.
“Do you walk all your neighbors home?”
“That’s the first time someone has described me as that.”
“That’s hard to believe. You’re fun to be around.”
You blushed, face filling up with warmth. How wonderful it was to be told that your presence was wanted. You ducked your chin into your scarf so he wouldn’t notice the pink in your cheeks.
“Uh. Feel free to call me whenever you’re on campus late. I don’t mind walking you home.” He added.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“It can be pretty dangerous at night. Remember that big rhino that attacked Times Square? What if he decides to reappear tonight?”
You vaguely remember reading an article covering the incident. A vigilante had ended up taking him out. With the amount of mutant and alien attacks New York City faced on a semi-regular basis, you were surprised that there wasn’t a perpetual national guard manning the streets. Not that you wanted more officers patrolling and contributing to the carceral state.
“But we’re nowhere near Times Square. If we were, we’d probably be mugged by a guy wearing an oversized Elmo costume by now.”
“Still, you get my point. Also, maybe um the guys in the oversized Elmo suits decide to migrate”
“I think I could take them.” You raised your fists, boxing the air and pretending to square up to Peter. “At the very least, I could outrun you.”
“Bet I can. I was on my high school’s varsity track team.” A blatant lie, but you couldn’t resist the chance to toy with him. “I’ll race you any time. Knock your socks off.”
“You and your adherence to outdated lingo.” Peter pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head.
“You’re just intimidated.”
“Me, intimidated? Never. But it sounds like you really want to race me or something.”
“Sure.” You shrugged. You let Peter count down from three to one, watching him run down the sidewalk, backpack shaking and lap coat fluttering through the air, arms swinging wildly in exaggerated movements. It was an amusing sight. He startled an elderly suit-clad pedestrian who cursed him out. Peter got down one block before turning around and realizing that you had barely moved from your position.
“Man, you suck.” He jogged back over to you. His face was red, but he was hardly out of breath, more embarrassed than anything. It was his turn to be flustered.
It was strange that a month ago, you didn’t even know about Peter’s existence, much less aware of his sheer proximity to you. Now he was a cross between a friend and an overly warm neighbor, a unexpected conversation that you always looked forward to. The two of you developed a rhythm, studying together on Wednesdays, cafe-hopping on Friday afternoons, and grocery shopping at Costco every other Sunday to maximize your membership. Sometimes you were productive, banging out paragraph after paragraph while Peter jotted down endless equations and notations on the white board. You would proof-read his email drafts and he would organize your laptop, clearing up storage and developing a detailed Excel spreadsheet to make grading easier. Most of the time the both of you weren’t productive at all.
Peter (506): I bought too much mac and cheese
Peter (506): Can you help me out?
You were currently applying for research fellowships in your apartment, staring blankly at your flickering cursor. The library closed early on weekends. You blinked at the text message.
Peter (506): overestimated my ability to eat a Costco portion
Peter (506): need assitance
You: be down in a second finishing up a email
You hit send and stretched your poor, aching arms. You examined yourself in the mirror, picking off the stray pieces of lint on your sweater and smoothing out the wrinkles in your wool skirt. He was just a friend. It shouldn’t matter. You applied a thin layer of strawberry chapstick to your lips, breathing in the sweet scent. After another moment of contemplation, you dug through your cupboard and brought out a mini bottle of Rose spritzer that your friend had gifted to you for your birthday. Was it overdoing it for a casual, impromptu dinner? Maybe, but you didn’t care.
You knocked on the door. Nobody responded. Outside, you could hear police sirens blaring and the sounds of drunk businessmen talking profusely on the phone, the general everyday sounds of one of the most populated cities in the world. You waited for a couple minutes, thinking he could have been in the bathroom or calling Aunt May. Finally, you sent him a text.
After five minutes of no response, you sent him another text.
You knocked on his door again. This time, the door creaked open. It had been left unlocked, as if he had been expecting you. You could feel the fall draft from an open window and the chill of the night. You couldn’t imagine why Peter would open the window in this chilly weather. The room was quiet and still, as if the inhabitant had vanished into thin air.
You felt weird for entering Peter’s private space without permission, so you left it ajar. After awkwardly standing outside a clearly empty room and checking your phone thirty times in the span of another fifteen minutes, you decided to head back upstairs before someone accused you of trespassing.
You spent the rest of the night furiously meal-prepping, chopping up carrots and celery stalks for chicken soup with a little too much rigor. Then you turned on your favorite reality TV show to drown your irritation through screaming couples with too much botox and planted drama. You weren’t sure why the incident bothered you so much. It wasn’t like being flaked on was a particularly unique situation. It was pretty much a cultural phenomenon for any individual at or part of university.
You didn’t hear from Peter until noon the next day, and by then, much of the anger had already dissipated. You were taking a paid corporate survey about your opinion on the material of different car tires and swirling your homemade lavender latte with a metal straw when your phone buzzed.
Peter (506): So sorry! Aunt May had an emergency, so I had to head back to Queens right away.
Your previous reaction now felt overblown. You felt guilty for being so irritated before. You quickly typed back a response.
You: It’s okay. Is everything alright?
Peter (506): She slipped on some stairs, but she’s fine
You: Omg that sounds serious. Is there anything I can do to help?
You: Is she able to cook and clean? I can bring her some food and check in on her if you’re busy. I used to take care of my grandpa a lot when he was sick.
Three dots appeared and then disappeared, before reappearing again. For some, reason he was thinking about his words cautiously. That or he was just socially awkward. Part of you also worried that you had gone too far, that your concern hinged on intrusiveness. Were you coming off as creepy?
Peter (506): Don’t worry about it. I promise she’s okay.
Peter (506): How are you doing? Sorry again for disappearing yesterday. Can I make you dinner tonight to make up for it?
You: Sure! When should I head over?
You didn’t need to knock this time. Peter seemed to sense your presence, opening the door as soon as you stepped into the hallway. You ignored the new thin red cut on the back of his neck. It looked like some sort of angry creature had clawed him. You swallowed your concern. You wanted to respect his boundaries.
His room was homey, the general layout following your own, tiny stove, twin-sized mattress, two-foot bathroom with a chipped sink. It looked like someone had made an attempt to tidy up, but got distracted halfway. Clothes were half-hazardly tossed in the laundry bin, and you spotted a bunch of thick textbooks sticking out of the shelf in chunky levels. Various sized tripods lined the windowsill. There was a sewing machine in the corner with a spool of red string threaded in, and also a plastic bin crammed with a variety of machinery that you couldn’t possibly classify. You had no idea that biochemistry also involved such extensive engineering projects.
“Is this a shoeless household?”
“Oh, I don't care. These floors have seen much worse. Much worse.” He emphasized. You grimaced. Gross. “Make yourself at home.”
You slid your sneakers off anyway and set them by the door. You could smell garlic and hear the faint sounds of meat sizzling.
“What are you making?” You peered over the stove. He was stirring some sort of creamy brown mixture in a saucepan while simultaneously searing a steak in a skillet.
“Uh. Family recipe. Something my uncle used to cook up.”
“Fancy.” You remarked. “You’re living the high life.”
“Nah. It’s usually just like grilled chicken and rice, maybe instant noodles if I’m in a hurry. But, um, I wanted to make you something nice.”
“Oh.” You were taken aback. He flipped the meat around and added a few sprigs of thyme and rosemary along with cloves of smashed garlic. The sauce started to thicken and bubble. “Do you need any help?”
His desk was the most organized portion of the room, segmented into little sections of notes and folders. He kept a collage of photos above his desk. There were images of him, Aunt May, and an older man who you assumed to be Uncle Ben exploring the five boroughs, images of Central Park’s trees during various seasons, and photos of a starry skyline that you didn’t even realize could be seen from the city. You spotted a candid picture of a blonde girl with bright blue eyes. Her mouth was open, and she was in the middle of laughing, the photo slightly blurred.
“These are amazing. Did you take these pictures?” There was one of the sunset from the top of the Empire State Building, the gleaming spire splitting open the belly of the puffy sky. You decided you liked that one the most. “Sorry, I don’t mean to distract you.”
“You’re good. I’m pretty great at multitasking. Uh, yeah, I dabble a bit with photography.” He was basting the steak now, heaping spoonfuls of melted butter. He had stuck the tip of his tongue out his mouth, a quirk that signified he was deep in concentration. “Take some pictures here and there.”
“Okay, fine, I love photography. I’ve been doing it since high school. Was part of the yearbook club and everything. It’s my artistic outlet.”
“I would love a print of this one.” You gestured to the skyline. “How much?”
“Come on, don’t mess with me. You’d actually pay for one?”
“Of course. I’m your number one fan. I’ll pay extra for an autograph. My own authentic ‘Peter Parker.’” You smiled, raising your hand and squinting your eyes as if you were taking a picture of him. He played along, giving you a lopsided thumbs up as he set the meat aside to rest. “I’ll frame it and everything.”
“Well, in that case, you can have that one.” Peter walked over and unpinned the photo from the wall. He handed it to you. His fingers briefly grazed yours. “Anything for my superfans.”
“I have lots of photos of the Empire. She’s my favorite view.” Peter shrugged. He talked like he was a daily visitor. You carefully secured the photo in your wallet, trying not to leave any fingerprints on the vibrant image.
“How frequently do you go? Got a seasonal pass or something?”
“Something like that. I’ll take you sometime.”
“Nah, it’s okay, I’ve been there before. It’ll be the same sight. Plus they’ll be a ton of tourists.”
“Maybe,” Peter murmured. You weren’t quite sure what he was implying.
Dinner was steak and mushroom orzo with freshly grated parmesan. Peter ended up burning some of the orzo, but he picked out the blackened grains and gave you the more aesthetic looking portion. He claimed he wasn’t the best cook and had an habit of overseasoning everything and that the steak was more of a well-done than a medium rare. He was most certainly trying and failing to feign modesty.
There was no table or extra chair, so Peter insisted that you take his desk. You had felt bad, so the both of you ended up sitting on the wooden floor, balancing the plates on your knees. You ate everything and thanked him for it. You even scraped your bowl clean and licked your fork to cement your enthusiasm. He had teased you, claiming that you were overdoing it.
It was the day of your first major deadline. Judgement time. Peter and you had this pact that neither of you could leave the 24-hour library until your assignments were finished. Three energy drinks, one granola bar, six water bottle refills, two overripe cuties, and a tupperware of Aunt May’s meatloaf (which Peter refused to touch) later the both of you were approaching the 12th hour.
“Did you hear what happened last week?” Two undergraduate girls were conversing on a nearby couch. You were jealous of their 750 word essays and single paragraph discussion post assignments. You unplugged one of your ear plugs, listening in.
“There was a shooting at a nightclub. Spider-man was there.”
From your eavesdropping you discerned that Spider-man had saved everyone from a shooting at a nightclub last week. Apparently, he had taken the shooter out in five minutes with nothing but his webs and a makeshift club, giving the first responders enough time to evacuate the critically injured victims. They were theorizing his identity, gushing over his physique, and the mysterious man behind the mask.
“Hey. Have you ever seen Spider-man?” You asked, shutting your book with a firm thump. You flicked Peter’s hand. Annotating the same text no longer excited you.
Peter looked up from his laptop, pupils glazed over. He blinked. “Huh?”
“I asked if you have ever seen Spider-man.”
He had a strange look on his face, and for a moment he didn’t say anything all. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“No, but he stopped Aunt May from being mugged once. He seems like a pretty cool guy, though.” He paused to finish the rest of the sentence that he had started typing and lowered his laptop screen. He leaned forwards, resting his chin on his arms and drooping his head forwards. You gave his head a light pat and he hummed. It was very cute.
You shook your head. “Hope I won’t ever be in a situation where I have to.” Wherever trouble was, Spider-man was there, and you already had enough stress and pressure in your life. Still, the concept of a real superhero fascinated you. As childish as it was, it did help you sleep easier at night knowing that there was someone looking out for you.
“That’s fair. What are your opinions on him?”
“I have a hunch that he’s a retired guy in his 50s who’s trying to repair all the damage he’s done from a lifetime of working at Wall Street.” You spoke so fast that you almost stumbled over the last words.
“Wow. Uh. Seems like you have a vendetta against him. What did the poor guy do to earn your wrath?” Peter grimaced. He looked almost offended at your statement.
“No, I just think it’s funny that everyone headcanons him to be this young, hot stud. Feels like we’re forgetting that it could be anybody. Maybe he’s a she.”
‘Listen, I’m not trying to be an anti-feminist douche, but he calls himself ‘Spider-man’ not ‘Spider-woman.’”
“Maybe it’s because she knows how badly society treats women. Kinda like how the Brontë Sisters used male pseudonyms.”
Peter cocked his head. He chuckled. “You think you’re so funny.”
“I am.” You bragged, puffing your chest out. God, the both of you were insufferable. You felt a twinge of pity for any students forced to bear your banter, but also couldn’t resist fighting for the last word.
“Thanks for recognizing that.”
“I think you could have had really made it far in standup. It might not be too late for a career switch.”
“Can you imagine me hosting a late night show?”
“Uh, I can. It’s a terrifying thought.”
“Terrifying good or terrifying bad?”
“I’ll leave that up to interpretation.”
You ignored his retort. “So, back to my compelling theory. I’m thinking of starting a blog. Maybe I could get The Daily Bugle to hire me as a features writer. Can you hit me up with your connections?” Peter had mentioned before that he had sold a couple photographs to the newspaper for quick cash.
“Hmm, I still don’t know about this theory. It seems more like a conspiracy. Spider-man seems pretty agile for a 50 year old.”
You pretended to be hard in thought. “Maybe his powers de-age him. Can’t count out that.”
He threw his hands in the air, as if you just said something brilliantly astute. “You’re right.”
Afterwards, to celebrate finishing both your assignments, you and Peter took the subway to Flushing and got dumplings, too hungry to even bother dropping off your textbooks and bags at the complex. Peter carried all your things, simply plucking your bag from you, while you tried to stop him. The restaurant was a small rundown hole in the wall where the only customers were locals, a place your family had discovered one winter day when they were visiting you and your stove decided to stop working. Peter accidentally placed too much chili oil on his dumplings and his eyes teared up uncontrollably so you gave him two of yours out of pity. He told you that when he was a kid he had drank an entire bottle of sriracha after his best friend dared him to and ended up puking the entire night.
“No way. What were you thinking?” You cackled.
“Hey, I was eight years old and it was a triple dog dare. Be nice.”
“What if it was a double dog dare? Would you have gone through with it then?”
“I’m just trying to standardize the measurements or something. Understand the weight of each ‘dog dare.’ Isn’t that what all you science people do?”
“You’re lucky that I like you enough not be offended by your constant jabs.”
“Woah, hold up.” You gasped, covering your mouth. “You like me?”
“I actually detest you. That’s why I hang out with you so much.” He paused, weighing and recalculating his words. “Sorry, that was mean. I was joking. I like spending time with you.”
You shook your head. It would take more than that to offend you, but you always appreciated how careful he was with the things he said. “Don’t worry, I know. Do you still keep in touch with that friend?”
Peter went quiet. He dipped his chopsticks into the porcelain dish of soy sauce and gave it a hesitant lick. Another one of his weird quirks.
“Growing up was pretty rough for me” He finally said. He placed the utensils back down. “My adolescent years were not the greatest.” The tone in his voice made him sound much older than he was.
“I’m sorry.” To be honest, you didn’t really think much about high school or even the first couple semesters of college. It felt so long ago that all you really remembered was the smell of body odor and the squeak of sneakers. You did recall an annoying roommate who kept kicking you out of the dorm to have sex with their partner.
“Do you mind if I ask you why?”
Peter grew silent again. He was tapping his foot on the floor, shaking his left leg relentlessly, a habit of his whenever he was anxious. He shifted in his seat, biting his lower lip.
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” You plucked another dumpling from your plate to his. A peace offering.
“Well, I kinda was a dork throughout high school, got picked on a lot.” He paused. He ran a hand through his hair.
“In general, the years during and following graduation were a uh tough time. I lost my Uncle Ben and and my best friend, Harry. That was his name, by the way, Harry.” His voice was starting to shake.
You reached out and took his hand, stroking his thumb. You always found the act calming. His palms were coarse and hardened, surprising for a man who claimed to spend most of his time in the lab and buried in books.
“I also lost my um, girlfriend, the best part about me. Her name was Gwen. It was my fault. I was selfish, wanted too much. I’m never going to forgive myself for that.”
Although he was looking at you, his gaze seemed to be far away, drifting in a different time and place. You could picture a skinny, teenage Peter shrieking and tearing his hair in grief. You gave his hand a sharp squeeze.
“I’m really sorry, Peter. I can’t even imagine what it’s like to go through that.”
“Don’t say it’s not my fault,” He jerked his head away. He swallowed, adams apple bobbing. “because it was. She didn’t have to die like that. I failed her.”
You didn’t understand what he was referencing, but maybe you didn’t have to. Grief was a mouth that never could taste fullness, an echo without a voice, but maybe you could listen.
“I was going to say that you are so much more than the people you’ve lost. Life is shitty and fucked up and unfair, but we find reasons to keep living.” You smiled, holding his hand tighter.
You continued. “I don’t know your truth, but I know you’re really kind and wonderful to be around, and that has to mean something. There has to be a life in this.”
Your voice seemed to pull him out of his daze. He looked at you as if it was his first time seeing you. His eyes softened.
“You’re really good at this. Like scary good. Sorry for putting all this feely baggage on you.” He muttered.
You shook your head. “I’m your friend. That’s what friends do.”
You tried not to let the uncertainty of your voice show. If Peter noticed anything, he didn’t bring it up.
Peter’s attractiveness was not lost on you. Although he loved to lament and joke about how lame he was, it didn’t take a genius to see the beauty he radiated. He had thick eyebrows and a sharp jawline, but his eyes were soft and sweet. He was handsome in a young, boyish manner, yet had an intimate, sensitive side that he was not afraid to reveal. He cried when you showed him Everything Everywhere All At Once on your grainy Amazon projector. He made you a playlist featuring Ramones, David Bowie, and Charlie Parker compositions. You knit him a brown scarf, and he started wearing it almost every day. Even your cat took a liking to him, rubbing his head against his legs and yowling for attention every time he stopped by. Peter made you realize how tender the simpler moments in life could be.
You couldn’t deny that you thought about him frequently. When taking the stairs, you found yourself lingering at his floor a bit longer, peering through the hallway to see if he would pop out. You couldn’t even study at your favorite carrel without hoping that he would drop by and tell you how his day was.
His mysterious physical activities did scare you. He would show up with fresh greening bruises, a split lip, and a black eye that prevented him from fully seeing his computer screen. Sometimes you would say something, ask him what happened. He always had some ridiculous excuse. He was scrolling through his phone and ran into a lamp post. He was trying to see if he could ride the railing all the way to the bottom and lost his balance. He was attacked by a mini chihuahua in Midtown.
“I’m worried about you. I’ve never met someone as clumsy as you.” You massaged an ice pack into his aching shoulder, which he claimed he had sprained while attempting an ollie for the first time in months. He was rubbing your ice roller furiously over the two new bruises on his face, sighing into the surface. You had just started playing Hitchcock’s Vertigo on your laptop.
“Just got bad luck I guess.” He winced when you pressed too hard. You stopped, setting the pack aside.
“You’re turning my apartment into an infirmary.”
You shook your head, biting your lip. “No, I’m just confused why this continues to happen.” You pointed to his beaten up face. “You’re not being honest with me.”
“It’s complicated. Very complicated.” He muttered. Your concern didn’t seem to move him, instead, you sensed a new tension in the air, a ripple of frustration that you had never seen in Peter before. You paused the movie.
“You wouldn’t understand. It’s not worth explaining. I’m no good at this. Trust me, it’s not worth it.” He hunched in on himself.
“You haven’t even talked to me. I don’t judge unless it involves hurting women or scamming the elderly.” You tried to keep your tone light and upbeat. You didn’t want him to squirm away with a lame response again.
“Please. Please. Please don’t make me do this. I really can’t.”
It confused you, how he could be so open yet simultaneously so closed off. It was like there was another side to him that you didn’t understand, that he refused to let you understand. You decided to stop pressing him, but the hurt still showed on your expression. He patted your shoulder in a weak attempt to console you.
“It’s late, maybe we can get a slice.” He checked his phone screen and frowned. Peter’s expression hardened, and he started to shove his things into his backpack, his movements hurried and anxious.
“Sorry, um-it’s an emergency. We’ll study another time. Stay here.”
“Dude, this is my apartment, where else would I go?”
“Right, right. Just stay here.”
“Peter!” You stopped him just as he was about to dash off and handed him his backpack. “You forgot.”
“Yes. Sorry” He spun around so quickly, squeezing his backpack against your wall and knocking some of the art prints that you had hung up. Some of his notes slipped out and you knelt down and picked them up. He started to help clean up the other posters but you brushed him aside.
“Thank you. Thank you.” He jammed the papers into his pockets.
“You know you can tell me anything.” You started to rearrange the prints, tucking them back into their wooden frames. “I’m here for-”
You looked up. The doorway was empty, creaking with a sad whine. He was already gone.
It was 2:00 AM, and you were ridiculously drunk. The department had hosted a celebration for the off-cycle graduating students, and there had been an open bar with slivers of fancy cheese and cured meats you couldn’t pronounce. Ever since Peter had blown you off two days ago, you had avoided him. Granted, he did send you an apology over text, which you had read, but you were procrastinating writing a response. Yes, it was petty. Yes, it was childish, but you just wanted some time to yourself. You told yourself you just needed to think. You were contemplating, not wallowing. You had ranted to your friends about the whole affair, and they had encouraged you to attend the event with them. One glass led to another, and now you couldn’t even remember how many glasses of white wine you had downed. You just wanted to find Peter.
You could still feel the sweet, dry taste of alcohol in your mouth by the time you staggered towards the first flight of stairs in your complex. You swore that if the landlord ever decided to install an elevator, you would never take it for granted, you would thank any higher being every day for the gift. If Peter hadn't called out your name, you wouldn’t have noticed him at all.
“Hey.” He waved and pulled out one of his earplugs. He was carrying an overstuffed laundry bag. You could spot bright red and blue spandex peaking out of the pile.
“T-This is for a themed costume party, by the way. It’s super embarrassing. It’s an end of the year celebration. I don’t have anything interesting to wear. God it’s so stupid…” He rambled on about a party his research lab was hosting, his voice drifting in and out.
“Peter!” You cut him off. He seemed surprised at your enthusiasm. “You’re just the guy I wanted to see.”
You stumbled towards him with your arms outstretched, your head spinning from the fluorescent lightning. Your legs felt like two blocks of lead. He caught you in the nick of time, gently steadying your stance. His arms were firm and muscular.
“Woah take it easy.” He paused, taking in your smiling expression and your swaying posture. You felt like you were melting into the floor, dissolving into the earth. “Are you drunk?”
“I-I’m fine.” You tried to wave him off, but he didn’t back down. Instead, he wrapped an arm around your waist and slung your arm around his neck, carrying your weight. You were vaguely aware of being led up the stairs.
“Listen, I also wanted to apologize for how I acted on Saturday. I know you were worried-”
“Shhh” You laughed. You balanced yourself on the railing, swaying. You rested your head against his shoulder. Leaning against him felt like the most natural thing in the world. “Don’t talk about that.”
“Okay. Um I can’t believe this is my first time witnessing you drunk. Feel like I’ve unlocked a new stage or something.”
“Wow, you’re so strong.” You giggled, an unnatural airy laugh slipping from your mouth. You grasped his forearm.
“Yeah uh running back and forth from campus does that.” He laughed, stopping at his floor and fumbling around for his keys in his jacket pocket with his free hand, still propping you up with the other. “Let’s get you some water.”
He kicked open the door and set you down on his bed, shrugging off his quarter zip and pressing a pillow against your back. You clutched his blanket to your chest. It smelled like him. You could hear him rustling around in the closet, talking to himself as he searched for the spare blanket.
“I can’t believe you got bullied in high school.” You murmured. You stared at Peter’s poster of Dogtown and Z-Boys, the printed teen boy gliding on his skateboard as if streaking through air. You hiccupped.
“Where is this coming from?” Peter drew a glass of tap water and handed it to you. You downed it in one gulp.
“I mean, you’re smart and kind and attractive.” All your emotions were seeping out of you, stumbling out in a blur of gushing, slurring words. The world shifted and swayed in too bright shades. There were so many things you wanted to say. Peter fluffed up the blanket with a sharp jerk and handed it to you. Your heart swelled.
“Plus, you’re tall. And strong. And funny. Who wouldn’t like you?”
“That’s flattering. Anything else about how amazing I am that you want to get out of your system?” He grinned, but his expression softened at your sudden somberness.
“You make me so happy.” You whispered. Here was this beautiful person staring at you like you were the most precious piece this sad little world had to offer. It was all lovely. It was all so much.
“It’s a mutual feeling.” Peter shied away from your stare, but you could spot how his face pinkened. He cleared his throat.
“I think you should stay at my place tonight. I’m worried that you might throw up in the middle of the night. You can have my bed.”
“No, I’m fine. I’m okay. P-please don’t take the floor.” You started to get up to protest, but Peter pushed you back down gently. He gripped your hand in an effort to steady you, his other hand curled around your waist. His touch was hesitant but firm. You can’t remember the last time somebody had held you like this.
“It’s not up for discussion.” He was so close you could count every freckle and mole on his face. His lips were creased in a gentle grin. Did he know that when he smiled his eyes crinkled? That you thought about his light, breathy voice and his pretty cupid’s bow on a daily basis? You wanted to tell him that. You wanted him to know how much he meant to you.
You squeezed his hand and leaned in. For a moment, you thought he would kiss you, finally break this strange, intimate limbo you felt stuck in. In the last second he turned away, your lips grazing his temple instead. He let go of your hand and scratched the back of his neck, shoulders tensing up. The realization and weight of rejection settled in.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry.” You blurted out, burying your face between your palms. Your head pounded. You have never felt so mortified before. What were you thinking?
“That was stupid. I’m so stupid.”
“No, it’s okay.” He hesitated. You couldn’t quite make out the expression on his face. “It’s not like that.”
“I’m sorry.” You repeated. You wanted to cry.
“Hey, listen.” Peter moved closer to you and took your hand again. You could feel the heat of his thigh against yours. His lips were parted. You couldn’t bear to meet his gaze. “Can you look at me?”
You didn’t say anything, not trusting your cognitive ability to say anything intelligible, but slowly raised your head.
“No need to apologize,” He continued. He tucked a strand of hair out of your face and over your ear. “I like you too, but you’re drunk. I think you should get some rest first.”
“Y-yeah, sorry.” You pulled away, embarrassed at how desperate and pathetic you came off as. You wanted to lock yourself in your room and curl up into a ball.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t overthink it. It’s fine. You’ll feel better in the morning. Get some rest, pretty girl.”
Peter tucked a blanket over your body, lightly rubbing your shoulder. It felt nice. You drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
You woke up to the ding of a toaster and the sizzling of a pan. Peter was standing by the stove, dressed in a chunky knit sweater and checkered boxers that were just a bit too tight. Sunlight trickled in from the window. You squinted.
He waved. His bedhead was atrocious, hair puffed up and sticking out in little spikes. He still looked gorgeous. You catch yourself staring at his toned thighs a bit too intensely, taking in the impressive curvature of his bottom.
“Good morning. How are you feeling?”
“Fine. Ugh. What time is it?” You groaned, rubbing the crust from the corner of your eyes. Hopefully he didn’t catch you ogling at him.
“11:20 AM. Uh I put a packet of liquid iv inside by the way. Orange flavor.” He handed you a glass of water and gave it a small stir with a striped paper straw.
“Thanks. Appreciate it.” You took slow sips, slowly blinking to full consciousness. The taste of artificial citrus flooded your mouth. Thank goodness you didn’t really get bad hangovers.
“How do you like your eggs?”
Last night's events started coming back to you in hazy flashes: Peter helping you up the apartment steps, his hands on your hands, you leaning in for a kiss that never transpired. You almost choked on your water.
“W-wait, about those things I said last night” You swallowed and set the glass on the dresser.
You forced yourself to remain still, painfully aware of every muscle in your body. It was so humiliating to admit, but holding it in was worse. Might as well address the elephant in the room right? You felt like a middle school girl confessing a silly crush.
“I-I didn’t want it to come out like that. I really like our relationship and I’m sorry if I made things weird between us.”
“Wait wait it’s okay.” Peter rushed over, taking a seat next to you on the bed. He clasped your hands. His fingers were intertwined with yours.
“It’s going to be alright. I like you too. Please don’t be sorry.”
He had a stupid, crooked smirk on his face. He cocked his head, giving you a sideways look.
“What?” You demanded. You didn’t know if you could take his teasing right now.
“It’s just that you’re super intelligent, fun to be around, and absolutely gorgeous. Who wouldn’t like you?”
His words sounded familiar. You realized that Peter was using your own framework against you, stealing and rephrasing your drunken compliments from last night. You don’t even know how to respond.
One moment he’s smiling and the next he’s kissing you. His mouth was warm and wet and deliciously soft. Your mind went blank. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you to the bed. You followed his lead. His touch was intoxicating. He held you so gently and sweetly even though you weren’t sure if you wanted him to.
You ran your fingers through his hair, tightening your hold and tugging him forwards as you moaned into his mouth. You shuddered, tracing your tongue over his lower lip and biting down. Peter let out a sound somewhere between a whimper and sigh. He tasted like peppermint and smelled like sandalwood. You rubbed your thighs together, heat dampening your underwear. You felt molded to him.
Peter kissed his way down your throat. He adjusted your top and bruised your skin with hot kisses, sucking and biting your nape with fervor. There would be marks later. His tongue grazed over the sensitive shell of your ear and his teeth scraped the lobe. You were glad he was being more rough. It was hot.
When you finally pulled away he was still staring at you. His face was red, transfixed at your gaze. He looked almost sad that you had stopped. Your top was rumbled and untucked, but you made no move to fix it.
“S-Sorry I should have asked first. That was wrong of me.” He stuttered. His lips were glossy and swollen.
“Don’t be. I wanted to do that for so long.”
“How was that for you? Was that a good kiss?” His voice came out higher than usual.
In response you gripped the collar of his sweater, pulling him back into your mouth. You tangled your hands in his hair, gripping his jaw and guiding his tongue. You wanted to eat him alive. You wanted to bask in this feeling forever.
This time he was the one who pulled away. His face was flushed and his eyes were hazy. He bit his lip.
You tugged off your cardigan and unbuttoned your jeans, tossing them into a pile on his dresser. You were suddenly shy about your underwear not matching your bra, as if men cared about such trivial, aesthetic things.
Peter kissed you before you got too wound up in your thoughts. His brown stubble prickled your face but you didn’t care. He squeezed anything he could reach, kneading your flesh, tugging your love handles, his hands running all over you.
He slid off your underwear, pulling them off your ankles. You’re already wet. He rubbed his thumb over your folds and spread your slick over your twitching cunt. You squeezed your eyes shut. The texture of his hands was amazing. Your pussy throbbed underneath his touch.
“Beautiful” He whispered. His pupils were wide and dark. He kissed your cunt, lips fluttering over your sex.
He went gentle at first, hesitantly sucking and lapping up your slick with the flat of his tongue. Peter licked slow stripes starting from your opening to your clit, sending warm shivers down your spine. He paused to press soft kisses to the inside of your thigh, murmuring something you can’t quite make out, before dragging his tongue over your cunt.
You squirmed underneath his touch. It wasn’t enough. You wanted, needed more. You bucked up, yanking his soft hair. Something shifted in him.
Peter flipped your legs up, folding your knees and pinning you on the bed, his mouth still latched to your cunt. He was so strong. His forearms were thick and defined. He ate you out like a starved man, sloppy, enthusiastic, satiating his hunger. He propped himself with his elbows to get a better angle, spreading your lips with his fingers as his mouth searched to taste every bit of you.
“T-that feels so good.” You whined.
“You’re so pretty.” He murmured. He groaned into your cunt, twitching as if getting off by just eating you out. You could see how his cock strained against his boxers, but he made no move to touch himself.
Peter nipped and pulled back the hood of your clit. He flicked the tip of his tongue over the bundle of nerves, swirling and suckling with vigor. You gasped. He pressed your legs tighter around his head, gripping your legs and drowning in your thighs. He looked beautiful like this, brown eyes wide with lust, hair tousled from your touch, face glistening from your slick.
“I want you to come in my mouth.” He groaned. He switched between drawing delicious circles with his tongue and fucking the appendage in and out of you.
“I want to taste all of you.”
“Peter” You panted, keening from the sensation. You ground down on his tongue, his nose rubbing against you. You could feel the tight coil of pleasure in your belly. His mouth was soft and warm. “Can you finger-”
He slid a single finger inside, curling the digit upwards, mouth still sealed to your cunt. The words died in your mouth. He pumped his index in and out, stretching your walls. Your cunt filled his room with filthy wet noises.
He watched your reactions through his dark, long lashes, taking notice each time you whined, each time you arched your back underneath his ministrations. His expression was attentive yet filled with a raw desperation, his brow furrowed in concentration. He added a second finger, watching you clench around him with reverence and adoration. You whipped your head to the side, crying from pleasure.
Peter adjusted and twisted until he hit the special place that sent sparks down your back. You didn’t even need to say anything. Peter immediately set a deep rhythm that had you choking, hitting the same spot every time. You could feel your wetness leaving a stain on the bedsheets.
“My pretty girl.” He gasped, his breath hot on your cunt. You could see how his tongue glistened with a mixture of your arousal and saliva. You writhed under his touch, pressing and grinding into his hand.
“You’re so gorgeous. Fuck. Thank you. I wanted to do this for so long. Thank you.”
You were so full, your body thrumming with pleasure. You’re not even sure if you were fully present. Peter was drunk on your pussy. His eyes were half-lidded and glazed as he continued curling his fingers into you. He coaxed desperate noises that you didn’t even know you could make. He moaned into your sex, sending vibrations through your core.
“Peter-” You tensed up, every nerve on edge, your abdomen tightening as you spasmed around his fingers. It was too much. You didn’t know how much more you could take. You felt like you were going to burst. You tugged his scalp.
You came with a breathy moan, hips quivering and bucking up from the pleasure. You rode through your orgasm, waves of sparks cascading through you. Peter kept the rhythm until you pushed his head away. He slid his fingers out of you. Your cunt clenched from the overstimulation.
“Was that okay? I didn’t hurt you right?”
He wiped your wetness off his chin with the back of his hand, cleaning your slick off his fingers with greedy sucks and licking his lips. He gave you a small nervous smile and adjusted the band of his boxers.
“That was amazing.” You tried to catch your breath. Holy shit. Peter Parker was an eater. It felt very in character.
Peter wrapped an arm around your shoulder. His touch was light and hesitant. You curled up next to him, resting your head on his chest and savoring his warmth. It was so natural. Everything felt so right.
“I’m glad that was good for you. Can I get you water or anything? Do you need a clean towel?”
“No, I’m good. Can we just stay like this for a bit?”
The both of you laid in silence for a moment. Peter stroked your hair, pressing stray kisses to your forehead. The sunlight warmed your bare legs and you hooked them under Peter’s shins. He tried to look away from your nakedness even though you didn’t quite care. It was sweet.
You could feel how built he was even underneath the thick sweater. He was all smooth muscles and firm sinew. When he caressed your cheek you could see the beautiful stretch of his forearms and the ripple of his biceps. He seemed so shy and bashful, eons from the same person that ate your cunt like it was his last meal.
“So when are you going to take me on a date, Parker?” You kept your tone light.
Peter stiffened. There was a certain tension in the air you couldn’t quite place. Something was off. He
clenched his jaw. He didn’t respond.
“Are you okay? Is something on your mind?”
You sat up, a familiar knot gnawing at your stomach. Peter joined you, pulling his knees to his chest. You missed the warmth of his touch.
“Listen, uh, I’m not very good at this. I don’t know what to say. I really liked that, but it’s complicated.”
His tone worried you. You shrugged back on your clothes, feeling more bare than ever. You crossed your arms.
“What do you mean complicated? Do you just want something casual?” You blurted out.
A casual thing. Were you okay with that? Yes. Totally. Why wouldn’t you be? This was so casual. Making breakfast and buying groceries together were just casual things that friends did together. The insanity of it all made you want to tear your hair out.
“Yes or um no? I’m uh not sure. It has nothing to do with you. Really. You’re perfect and amazing and seeing you always makes my day. I’m just afraid…of things um being taken too far…” Peter’s voice trailed off.
Gwen. You understood where he was coming from, but it still hurt regardless, the ache spreading to your chest. There was something he still wasn’t telling you. Somehow this felt worse than straight rejection.
“Right.” You muttered. You had really thought that your feelings were reciprocated. Embarrassment flooded your face, heat warming your cheeks.
“Wish you could have told me that before.” You sighed into your palm.
“It’s not like that!” Peter spluttered. He moved his hands in small, frantic motions. “I wasn’t leading you on. I didn’t mean it that way. Honestly. I like you. This isn’t a good time.”
“Tell me. Maybe I can help.” You paused.
This started to feel like a rehash of an earlier conversation. You had enough of the back and forth, the will it or won’t it happen. The both of you were grown adults who could make grown decisions.
“Fuck this. I want to go on a date with you, Peter Parker. Do you want to go out with me?”
His hesitation was all you needed to see. He looked down. He swallowed harshly. Your chest sank.
“Cool. Glad that’s settled. See how easy it is?” Your words came out colder than you intended. Peter winced.
“It’s not easy. Please just let me explain.” He opened his mouth, but no words came out. You decided to end the conversation for the both of you.
“You don’t have to make up an excuse. It’s fine. I don’t want to date somebody who doesn’t know what they want.”
You cleared your throat, looking away from Peter so he wouldn’t see the tears forming in your eyes. You would not humiliate yourself even further. You started gathering your things, picking up your coat and bag.
“I should go. I have a lot of grading to do before lecture tomorrow.”
“Wait. Don’t go. Can we just talk about this?”
“We have. Many times.” You said shortly. There was nothing left to say. Despite just getting up you already felt exhausted. You slipped on your shoes.
You shut the apartment door behind you. Part of you hoped that Peter would rush out and follow you, apologize and say the perfect phrase that made everything alright. He didn’t.
You spent the rest of the day vacuuming your apartment, doing dishes, and responding to emails. You put on a comfort movie in the background and tried to keep yourself busy and compartmentalize your emotions. It sort of worked until you saw the damn photograph of the Empire State that Peter had gifted you, still framed above your bed. You immediately burst into tears afterwards.
The next morning you dragged yourself out the door. You cursed your life choices and wondered if it was too late to cancel your lease and move to a new apartment far away from any Biochemistry graduate students named Peter.
You raced down the stairs, taking them two at a time as you blasted a breakup playlist you had made years ago through your headphones. Despite being 5 minutes late for class you stopped at Peter’s floor. You couldn’t help yourself. You peered into the hallway, looking for a familiar face. You didn’t even know what you would say if you saw him.
There was an older woman in front of Peter’s unit. She was wearing a mohair turquoise sweater and her hair was up in a loose bun. She was balancing three tupperware containers of mushroom risotto in her left hand. She was rattling the door with her right.
“Aunt May.” You waved. You decided to be polite. It wasn’t her fault that Peter was being a dick.
She glanced up in surprise. Was using the family title weird? You were just so familiar with Peter always using it around you that it had slipped out.
You started to introduce yourself before she cut you off, taking your hand and shaking it warmly. She had a kind smile that reminded you of Peter’s. You were surprised at how firm her grip was.
“Peter has told me all about you, dear. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
“Really? Only good things I hope.” You laughed, suddenly aware of how disheveled you looked in your university-branded sweatpants, thrifted t-shirt, and thick winter puffer. You hadn’t been planning to see anyone special today, only your greasy undergraduates.
“Of course. He talks about you constantly, all the impressive research you’re doing, how thoughtful you are.”
You blushed. The thought that Peter was talking to his aunt about you flattered you immensely. You didn’t realize that he liked you that much. It also confused you.
“Are you visiting? Do you guys have any plans today?”
“Peter promised to help take the car to the repair shop. Apparently, there’s some issue with the engine. At least that’s what he was supposed to do.” She scowled. She checked her phone.
“I just can’t seem to get ahold of him. He’s not answering any of my calls or texts.” She sighed.
“That sounds pretty typical.” You snorted. It looked like Peter’s flaky nature also extended to his family members. You don’t know if that made you feel worse or better.
“You have no idea, honey. He almost missed his own high school graduation.” She laughed.
You could picture it in your head: a disheveled, younger Peter barely making it to the stage, cap on backwards and blue robes half tied around his waist.
“By the way how is your leg doing? Peter told me you had a bad fall.”
Aunt May’s smile fell. She stiffened. “Excuse me?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be uh rude.” You winced. Your heart tightened in your chest. This was not the reaction you wanted.
“Peter said you fell down the stairs a couple months ago.”
“Uh yes, unless I misinterpreted-” You raked through your mind, attempting to visualize the exact set of text messages in case you had missed something.
“I have no idea what that boy is talking about.” Aunt May scoffed. She pursed her lips and crossed her arms. She seemed offended.
“I’m fine, feel good enough to run a marathon.” She stomped her feet a couple times to demonstrate her agility.
He had lied. Your head throbbed. Your throat felt thick and heavy. Every time you thought it was safe to give him the benefit of the doubt he would prove you wrong. Aunt May seemed to recognize your confusion and her gaze softened. She patted your shoulder.
“Peter sometimes gets these delusions in his head. He’s a strange boy but he has good intentions. I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it. He really likes you.”
“Yeah um, right, sorry for the confusion.” You stammered. You muttered something about having to head to lecture and excused yourself. You stumbled down the stairs, scrolling through your text messages to Peter. You weren’t going crazy. He had definitely lied.
That night you decided that you hated Peter Parker. You hated his stupid face, the stupid way he adjusted his glasses, the stupid little hesitation in his voice before he started talking about a topic he was passionate about. What a nerd. You don’t know what you ever saw him.
Your friends, bless them for supporting you through your angry ranting, had suggested retail therapy and you were currently browsing through Anthropologie confetti dotted glasses and ruminating over your next blind box purchase. They were collectibles, not toys. You remembered how Peter had teased you about your figurines. That should have been your first red flag. Granted he had bought you a box from your favorite series to celebrate finishing midterms, but you were going to actively ignore that fact for now.
You rolled over to your side, continuing to stew in bed and scroll through strangers recording their unboxings and reviews. Today was a wash. Tomorrow you would get your shit together.
Your cat, sensing your distress, jumped on your bed. His tail was curled into a cute question mark. He meowed, pressing and rubbing his little head to your hand. You could smell his stinky fish breath.
“You should have warned me about Parker.” You scowled. You put your phone to the side and scratched his fuzzy chin, whiskers tickling your palm. He purred.
“Aren’t cats supposed to be supernatural or something.”
Your phone buzzed. A part of you hoped that it was Peter. You turned on the screen. It was an emergency notification from the university: NYPD and the New York City Fire Department are reporting that the Empire State University Biochemistry and Structural Biology Lab has caught on fire. All individuals within the surrounding areas should immediately evacuate.
It took you a second to process the information. Fire. Lab. Peter.
You raced down the stairs, barreling through the apartment’s nearest exit. You’re still in your pajamas, hair wet and matted from the shower you forced yourself to take. It was cold and windy and your breath made little puffs of condensation. You didn’t care. You ran down block after block until your chest was sore and tight.
You could smell the smoke and ash before you could see the building. You turned around the corner, covering your nose with the thin sleeve of your shirt.
The entrance of the laboratory had collapsed, now a pile of melting scrap and wood. You could see men in what used to be white laboratory coats staggering around and talking to officers. Firefighters helped those who couldn’t stand take sips of water and you could spot some individuals with bad red burns that had eaten away their clothes along with layers of skin. There was no sign of Peter amidst the small group of individuals currently being attended to by medics.
You called his number and it went straight to voicemail, his voice politely asking you to leave a message. You called again. No response.
“Fuck you, Parker! Pick up the phone!”
You checked Peter’s location to see if he had left the area already. He had shared it with you once to coordinate a study session and forgot to turn it off. Your heart stilled seeing the blinking icon indicating he was still in the building.
“Excuse me, hey! Hey! Officer!” You ducked under the yellow police tape. You raced to the nearest officer, a middle-aged white man with a goatee.
“Have you seen Peter Parker. He’s my-”
“Sorry ma’am. I’ll be with you in a second.”
The officer rushed forwards to help a woman on the verge of fainting, talking rapidly on his radio. You heard a sticky swoosh behind you and felt the shadow of a person behind you.
“Hey hey. What are you doing here? You can’t be here. This isn’t safe for civilians. Are you okay?”
You turned around to face Spider-man. He was shorter than all the tabloids and media outlets made him out to be, around Peter’s height. His suit was ridiculously intricate and unnecessary, made out of this ribbed spandex material. You were more startled than starstruck.
Spider-man inspected your figure for nonexistent wounds, patting you down lightly. You couldn’t understand why he was so concerned with your wellbeing when you weren’t even near the burning building.
You whipped your head around to take in the chaos. You still didn’t see Peter in the crowd. You didn’t understand where he could have gone. The space was cornered and ticketed off. If he had been here you would have definitely spotted him by now. The building creaked dangerously from the flickering flames, glass popping and shattering in gleaming shards. The air smelled like plastic and burned in your lungs.
“I’m fine, Mr. Spider-man, but my friend Peter Parker is in the building.”
“Everything is under control. You have to leave ma’am.” The hero pointed in the opposite direction. He was trying to shoo you away.
“My friend Peter is in there!” You yelled. Your voice rose as you pointed at the still burning building. You didn’t give a fuck if he was a beloved hero. You didn’t know how this stranger in a ridiculous suit was so assured that everything would be alright. He could have easily missed someone.
“Peter Parker. He has brown hair and brown eyes and is wearing a green jacket.” You fumbled with your phone, trying to find a picture.
Spider-man raised his hands, trying to calm you down. He kept shaking his head. Why wasn’t he listening to you? You could understand the ineptitude of the NYPD, but you didn’t trust them anyway. However, this was Spider-man, the proclaimed heart of New York City, by the people and for the people.
“Don’t worry lady. He’s fine. I got everybody out.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t even know him!” You’re screaming now, shouting in front of the hero’s face. Your heart thumped in your chest, every nerve set ablaze. You hold up a picture of Peter.
“He’s not here and he’s not responding to my texts. His location says he’s here. Check again.”
The smoke was so thick you could barely make out the foundation of the building anymore. Emergency forces slowly started migrating people further away from the fire. No sign of Peter.
“He could have fallen asleep while studying.”
“I promise you that he’s fine-”
“Did you hear what I said? Do I need to go in there myself?” It was an empty threat, but there was a real weight to your voice.
Spider-man grabbed your wrist, tugging you several feet away from the building. You didn’t even have time to react, reeling from the sick whiplash caused by the jolt of his strength. Spider-man gripped you harder, his mesh eyes black and uncanny as he stared at you with no emotion.
You had the frightening realization that it really could be anyone underneath, that he was a complete stranger with the power and status to hurt you. You jerked out of his grip.
“Don’t touch me. What the hell is wrong with you?” You shrieked. You rubbed your wrist. You backed away from the hero. You regretted not bringing your pepper spray.
“You gotta get out of here okay? I’ll find Peter, but don’t follow me. Promise me you’ll stay away from that building. Far away.”
You nodded, still in shock. His voice sounded vaguely familiar, as if you heard him before in a dream. There’s a loud crash as several metal beams started crumbling and breaking onto the concrete.
“I need to hear you say it. You have to promise me that.” The amount of force in his voice scared you. There was a underlying threat of what he could do to you if you didn’t obey.
“I promise.” You stuttered.
Spider-man stared at you for a moment, as if still not believing your words. You turned around and started running away from the building, joining the individuals being evacuated from the area. You would never forget how the smoke had swallowed the sky, turning everything to ash.
You sat at a nearby bench for thirty minutes, outside of the fenced off location. You gnawed your fingernails to little stubs and watching for any sign or notification. A couple volunteers stopped to ask if you were alright and handed you a bottle of water. You thanked them before asking if they had seen a 5’10 man named Peter. They had not.
Finally you spotted familar puffy tips of brown hair. Peter was talking to an officer, still carrying his slightly singed backpack. He looked a bit frazzled, but otherwise he seemed alright.
“Peter!” You shouted and waved your arms. You raced over.
You pulled him into a hug, squeezing him tightly. He smelled like ash and dust. He returned your embrace.
“Drink some water.” You thrust your bottle into his hands.
“I’m fine, don’t worry. I’m okay.” Peter brushed you away. “What are you doing here?”
“I got the notification from the university. Have you talked to a paramedic? You haven’t right? Come on.” You started tugging him to the crowd of firefighters and EMTs.
“We have to go to the hospital and get you checked up.”
“No no no it’s fine. I swear I’m okay. Stop.”
“What? I’m going to get someone-”
“Hey hey look no burns. I wasn’t even near the fire. Didn’t see anything.” He rolled up his sleeves, raised his bare arms and did a little spin. He shoved his hands back into his jean pockets.
“See? Nothing. I’m okay. Let’s just go home. I don’t have the insurance to cover a visit anyway.”
His aunt was a working nurse, you highly doubted that he didn’t have at least some medical insurance. He was lying again, but you let him get away with it. You would deal with that later. You were too relieved to know he was alright.
The subway ride back was awkward. Peter didn’t say anything, simply slouched on his seat and stared straight ahead. Some annoying transplants talked too loudly in your carriage and your head hurt from all the stress you’ve endured the past week. Peter had given you his coat without saying a word and you had taken it gratefully, tightening the strings of the hoodie and shivering into the collar.
The silence continued until you reached Peter’s floor. He unlocked the door, leaving it ajar and sat down on his bed, tossing his backpack into a corner. He held his head in his hands, tapping his foot restlessly.
You took it as an invitation and stepped inside. You sat down next to him, the mattress creaking under your weight. His lips were pressed in a firm line.
“Why were you there? Why did you come find me?” He murmured.
“I already told you I got a notification-“
“Why couldn’t you stay where you belonged?” He exploded. You shrunk at the sound of his pained voice.
“You can’t do stupid things like running into burning buildings! Are you insane?” He shouted.
You had never heard this level of anger from him before. You’ve seen Peter frustrated and annoyed, but it was never truly directed towards you. Right now he was furious, borderline neurotic. There was an unhinged look in his pupils.
“I wasn’t going to. Don’t call me stupid. I’m not stupid. I just needed to convince them to take me seriously.” You paused, your fear slowly subsiding into a prickling irritation. You didn’t understand where his frustration was coming from, why it was suddenly being directed towards you.
“Did Spider-man tell you that? What a snitch.” You scoffed. If you ever saw the hero again you would curse him out for meddling in your relationships. Who did he think he was?
“Why didn’t you believe him? This can’t be happening again! You’re going to get yourself killed. This isn’t a joke! You’re going to die because of your own arrogance. You’re going to die because of me.”
Peter yanked his hair out of irritation. There was a terrified, rageful tone to his voice. He had tears in his eyes.
If the events of the past couple days hadn’t transpired maybe you would have felt bad, maybe you would have bit your tongue and tried to understand, but you were tired. There was only so much of this you could take.
“You cannot be serious right now.” You snapped.
“You don’t get to lecture me on what I can or cannot do. You don’t get to be the angry one here!” You stood up.
Rage bubbled in your chest. Screw being a bigger person. You had been patient with this useless man. You played his games and listened to his boundaries and now he was looking at you like you were some, crazed nagging woman. You had been on this planet just as long as him, accomplished just as much and worked just as hard as him.
“You’re a hypocrite and a selfish asshole! You can’t expect trust if you yourself are not willing to give it! I notice the strange bruises and the cuts on you every single time, but choose not to say anything.”
You were so furious your hands were shaking. You pointed an accusing finger at him.
“Oh and guess what? Aunt May said that she was fine, never had a sprain in her life and feels well enough to run a marathon. You lie to me again and again and I let that happen because I want to believe in you.”
You paused and crumbled onto the apartment floor, knees giving out. Hot tears streamed down your face in aching rivers. It was everything, the lies, the hurt of rejection, the knowledge that you had tried so hard to be warm and good and had only burned yourself in the process.
“Because I want you to believe in me.” You choked out.
Peter’s gaze softened. He knelt down beside you stroking your back in an attempt to console you. You slapped his hands away. You didn’t want his touch.
“It’s not unreasonable for me to worry about you. I’m not asking for much.” You stuttered and wiped the trickling tears from your eyes. Once again, you felt stupid and small, like a young girl throwing a tantrum. You hated yourself for feeling so weak, for feeling so needy.
“Even if I’m just a friend you want to fuck around with, any relationship goes both ways. I don’t know why you want me to care less.”
There was a slick swoosh and the sound of webbing sticking to something. Your heart stopped. You looked up. Peter was holding a box of Kleenex, a long glittering web trailing from the side of the package and connecting to a strange chunky device on his right wrist. He placed a soft tissue in the palm of your hand with a sad, sheepish grin.
Peter webbed the half open window shut. You yelped, jumping back. This was not your imagination. It all clicked together. The bruises. The strange sleep schedule. The shitty excuses.
“Jesus Christ. What the fuck.” You gawked at him, blinking dumbly.
“I’m sorry for everything. Please don’t be mad. I never wanted it to go like this. I didn’t want you to be involved in all this.” He begged.
“You’re Spider-man. You’re a superhero.” You almost laughed at how ridiculous the words sound coming out of your mouth. You don’t know whether to scream or to cry.
“I-I wanted to tell you for so long. I just didn’t know how to. I didn’t know if it was fair of me. I was scared of losing you.”
Peter gripped your hands and pressed them to his chest. His eyes were wild and filled with grief. You could hear how fast his heart was racing underneath your palm.
“It wasn’t supposed to go like this. I didn’t mean for this to go so far. I-it was so nice being around you. I got selfish. I’m really sorry.” He muttered.
He kissed every knuckle on your fingers. His chapped lips grazed over your skin.
His lower lip trembled. He leaned into your touch as if it was the only thing tethering him to this universe.
“It’s okay. I’m not upset at you. I’m still taking it all in, but I’m not mad.” You repeated.
“I get it.” You hesitated. “I mean I don’t get it because I’m not well a superhero, but I understand why you couldn’t tell me. It’s going to be alright.”
Peter shook his head, withering further into himself as he trembled and shook. He couldn’t seem to accept what you were saying. Peter seemed to regress to a shell of the smart-mouthed, kind man you had known.
“I wasn’t supposed to tell you. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You’re the first person I’ve told in a while.”
The fact did not flatter you, but rather worried you even more. You had no idea how he was balancing it all, if a balance was even possible. His perpetual eye bags and tired posture gave you a new, sobering perspective.
“I’m sorry that you’ve had to endure this alone. How long have you been doing this for?”
He paused, raking a weary hand through his hair. His pupils darted left and right, calculating imaginary numbers.
“Since high school. Got bit by a radioactive spider when I was fifteen and started being Spider-man a couple months later.”
You imagined Peter fighting in the darkness, hands blistered and skin bruised as he tackled and took down assailant after assailant. You imagined how he gathered all his aching limbs, sewed up the tears in his suit, and patched up his wounds to do it all over again. Night after night. Year after year.
“You must be so exhausted.”
“It’s been some time, but it’s fine. Spider-man’s a lifetime gig.” He laughed, but there was no joy in his voice.
“That doesn’t seem fair. You’re always going to a human being first.”
“Am I even human anymore?” Peter grimaced. He looked at his hands with a certain loathing that twisted your heart.
“You were human before. You still remember. That’s all that matters.”
He squeezed his hands into shuddering fists. “No. It’s not about fairness. It’s responsibility. You have to understand what I’ve done. My carelessness has killed people. I couldn’t even save the people who mattered the most. I failed at my one job.”
You thought about Gwen and the polaroid of the pretty blonde girl pinned up in his apartment. She had been so young. You wondered if Peter would ever be ready to talk about her to you.
“You may be Spider-man, but you’re also Peter Parker who, although is an incredible gem of an individual, is also a person who is constantly growing and changing like everybody else in the world.” You paused.
“You’re being too hard on yourself. Care is never one person’s burden. We all have a duty to each other.”
Peter seemed to register some of your words, nodding along listlessly. Nevertheless, his eyes were glassy and vacant and remained fixated on the ground.
“I’m sorry for hurting you. It’s not that I don’t want you in my life. You’re lovely, one of the best things that’s happened to me in a long time.” He whispered. He couldn’t bring himself to look at you.
“I’m scared of what my life would do to you, what you would lose. I know I don’t deserve you, but I’m also tired of waiting.”
He was getting wound up again, voice rising and shaking and trembling. He clawed and tore at his scalp, despite your efforts to discourage his forceful yanks. The pain seemed to ground him.
“I don’t want to hurt you anymore, but I also don’t want to let you go. Isn’t that selfish of me? You can just say it. Tell me to go.”
You had the sinking realization that Peter was waiting for you to deliver the blow. He had hunched in on himself and was clenching his jaw, prepping his body for the hurt.
“Peter can you look at me?” You cupped his face in our hands. When you saw how he wasn’t able to, you tilted his chin upwards. There were the same brown eyes that you had always adored. You pressed your forehead against his.
“I like this. I like ‘us.’ I think we’re worth a shot.” You smiled. Peter sniffled. You wiped a tear from his cheek.
“I don’t know how this will end, but I think we deserve the chance to begin. If you'd give me that chance, I will cherish all the versions of yourself that you are willing to give. Spider-Man, Peter Parker, and everything in between.”
You kissed his forehead and hugged him, noses briefly bumping together. His eyelashes fluttered. Peter sobbed into your shoulder, tears wetting the fabric of your shirt. He didn’t move from your arms for a long time.
Peter: Still down for today?
Peter: Wear something warm and easy to run in
You: Okay! See you soon :)
Peter had wanted to take you swinging in the city as soon as the weather was nicer. When you were a kid you had the common kid fantasy of being able to fly. You imagined zipping through the treetops and gliding over buildings. Today was warm enough to spot the first spring buds peeking out from the clay pots of neighboring windowsills. You were excited to see your silly dream come to fruition.
There was a loud bump and a groan on your balcony. You dashed to the window and opened it. Peter crawled in head first, rubbing his bottom ruefully and almost knocking over your succulent.
“Rough landing?” You gave him a sympathetic look. He always had a hard time time sticking the landing on your balcony.
“Not my best, but no broken bones. You look cute.”
He was in his Spider-man suit. No matter how many times you saw him in it, you still can’t get the image of a skinned red and blue basketball out of your mind. You heard of individuals who had a thing for superheroes. It had something to do with the power and fantasy of it. You were not one of those individuals. If Peter ever tried anything with you in that mask you would probably burst out laughing.
“Thank you, Spider-man.” You twirled around and gave a little bow.
“Uh that is not proper athletic footwear, bug.” He pointed towards your shoes.
“What’s wrong with my Mary Janes?” You clicked your heels together, admiring how the leather still shone after all the time you’ve been wearing them.
“They’re cute and vintage. Got them from the Long Island Goodwill bins. My signature look.”
“They look lovely and you look beautiful in them as you always do. I’m just worried they’ll fall off.”
“They won’t. I’ve been wearing these babies for years. When I was a kid my mom used to buy me a new pair every year. It was like part of my identity. I was thinking of changing my name to ‘MaryJane’ for a bit.”
Even after all this time it was too easy. You cackled. You didn’t feel too bad. If Peter didn’t want to be teased he should find a way to look less cute when confused.
“Absolutely not. I’m kidding. Why would I want to give myself the name of a white 1980s housewife whose signature dish is jello casserole?”
“I don’t know. I think you could have made a cute ‘MaryJane’” Peter shrugged.
“Ew. Also let’s not detract from the fact that you don’t even wear shoes, Spidey.” It was your turn to point at his feet.
“Uh that’s not true. I sewed insulated soles in my suit.” He lifted his left foot up, wriggling his toes. “Whatever. It shouldn’t matter too much anyway. Let’s go.”
He cracked the window all the way and craned his neck out, checking to see if anybody was actively peering into the alleyway. There were no signs of movement. He scooped you up as if you weighed nothing, cradling you to his chest.
“I’m ready.” You cracked a thumbs up.
As soon as Peter jumped out of your window you realized that you’ve made the wrong choice. The idea of swinging around New York with your partner was only nice in theory. You had imagined floating around a couple brownstones, maybe stopping for a cute picnic with champagne and cucumber cream cheese sandwiches on the Brooklyn Bridge. The reality was horrible, so horrible.
Loud images of the city blared past you. A gleaming fluorescent sign advertised a new soft drink. Double decker tourist buses snapped photos and gasped in awe at witnessing the webbed hero. Corporate buildings jammed full with men in Monday suits. You could barely register it all before it was blocks behind you. You never screamed so loud in your entire life.
“Oh my god. Oh my god. Slow down!” You yelled. You buried your face into Peter’s shoulder, hands clinging onto his back and your legs wrapped tightly around his waist. You regretted taking the time to pick out a nice matching outfit and do your hair and makeup. The wind undid your work within seconds.
“Sorry, can’t slow down.” Peter yelled. He jerked the both of you over the New York Public Library, disturbing a flock of pigeons that were roosting. He stuck his web to the next building.
“We’ll smack into a building if I do. Gotta keep the momentum.”
“Fuck. Holy shit. I trust you. I trust Peter Parker. I trust you. I trust you.” You repeated your mantra over and over again. It was mainly to calm yourself down. You squeezed your eyes shut and just waited for it to end.
“Okay this bit might be a lot, but we’re almost there. I won’t let you slip.”
You can’t even yell at him over the implication that there was a possibility he could drop you before you’re free falling. The awful tingly feeling of weightlessness started from your stomach and coursed through your limbs. Suddenly, you’re thrust into the air, tons of vertical pressure weighing on your back. If Peter said anything there was no way you could have heard it. You don’t even want to know how many G-forces you were enduring.
All the motion came to a stop. Peter shook you gently.
“Hey it’s okay. I got you. Open your eyes.”
You were on top of the Empire State building. The sun was setting, rays casting warm glows over the both of you. The city was a mixture of glittering lights that cascaded and blinked. You could see tiny cars moving below in red and yellow hues and spot the Statue of Liberty’s craning turquoise arm.
“Isn’t the view amazing? You can see the entire city from up here. I come here a lot when I need to get away from everything.”
The awe in Peter’s voice made it sound like this was his cozy, fortress of solitude. This would have been so romantic if the wind wasn’t blowing 60 miles an hour and your hair wasn’t consistently getting in your face, obstructing the 380 meter drop below your feet.
“When you said we would visit the Empire State building this was not what I had in mind.” You stuttered. You tightened your grip around him, your knuckles were white from fear.
“Uh we can head down if you want. I just thought we could take a photo together.”
He winked. “It’ll be another ‘Peter Parker’ for your collection.”
You shook your head. You’re already here and you were never going to let Peter swing you again so you might as well make the most out of this opportunity. You tried to keep your gaze on Peter and ignore the rest of your surroundings.
“N-no it’s okay. I’m okay. This is fine. This is great. Thank you for showing me this.” You shivered, dizzy from a mixture of terror and naseua.
“You sure you’re okay? You look like you’re about to throw up. Can you aim it away from me if you do? I washed this suit yesterday.”
“Just take the photo, Peter.”
He took off his mask, face flushed and sweaty, supporting your figure in his other arm. He held his mask in his mouth as he adjusted his camera lens while you tried not to have a heart attack over how casual his movements were.
He flipped the camera so the both of you were in frame. Peter beamed, pressing a kiss to your cheek. You just tried your best to not to hurl up the remnants of the lasagna soup you had for lunch over one of the city’s most iconic tourist attractions. The camera flashed.
“Yes! Aww you look so cute. I love you.” He kissed you again.
“Can’t wait to print this out. Maybe I’ll carry it in my wallet.” He scrunched his nose. He launched a succession of little kisses all over your face, smacking your forehead, chin, and cheeks. He rubbed his face against yours.
“What? Can’t I admire my beautiful, smart partner?” He pouted. You know he’s messing with you, but you’re too terrified to play along.
“We can put a pin on this. Can you just swing us down? Please try to go as slow as possible.”
“Yes ma’am. Anything for you.” He jumped from the building. Your screams echoed all the way down.
Back in your apartment it took you two hours to finally stop shaking. Peter hand-whisked you a matcha with lots of honey and played Bananagrams with you. Even in your distressed state you still beat him, spelling “expeditious,” "pernicious," and “trifecta” in pale letters.
“You win again. Shocker.” He blew air out of his mouth. “You feeling better, love?”
You nodded. You took a picture of your handiwork before Peter scrambled the letters. A new trophy to add to your ever growing photo stash of Bananagram victories.
“I should give you a 5 minute headstart to make it easier. It’s not even fun anymore.” You don’t even try to hide your smugness. You took immense delight in being able to beat Spider-man at Bananagrams. If the fate of New York City ever hinged on a representative winning a game of Bananagrams you would be the hero of the hour.
“Hey you’re being mean. Don’t make me break out Monopoly.” He glanced under your coffee table where you kept your board games.
“There’s no skill to that, it’s just luck and buying everything in sight. Also it takes too long to do anything.” You scoffed.
“It’s simulating our meritocratic system, bug. That’s how capitalism works.”
“I agree, but the way you phrased that.” You cringed, sticking your tongue out. “I usually love your quips, but that gave off Reddit moderator energy.”
“I’ve never been more insulted. That is cruel even for you. I just want to spend quality time with my girl and she keeps bullying me.” He made an exaggerated sound of distress. You rolled your eyes.
You flicked his forehead. “Cry me a river. You love it when I’m mean.”
Peter scootched over and massaged your shoulders. He was such a sucker for physical touch, finding excuses to give you little pecks on your cheek or scratch the spot on your back you couldn’t quite reach. When he stayed over he would always hold your hand throughout the entire night, even when you inevitably rolled on top of him at the height of REM sleep. You didn’t mind at all. Peter always seemed to understand when things became too overstimulating.
His hands lingered on the small of your back a bit longer than necessary. He blew air on the back of your neck, tickling your skin.
“It is pretty hot when you look like you want to kill me” He admitted. There was a suggestive lilt in his voice.
“Maybe we should continue where we left off.” You winked.
It was not always easy with Peter. He was anxious, prone to self-isolation and avoidance. You had the feeling that he had been doing this alone for so long, balancing two lives, that finally having a constant was a scary adjustment to make. You were not sure if he would ever be able to fully adjust to your presence. Sometimes you feared that you were living in Gwen’s shadow, haunted by the ghost of a girl you never knew. Yet every time the old anxiety crept back Peter was there to quell it.
You had your faults too and like every human relationship, there were moments of disagreement and needed reflection. There were also things that you needed to accept: Peter flaking on your date and swinging off to save the city from the Green Goblin, constant texts asking if you were alright, a weekly occurrence of a familiar red and blue superhero tailing behind you and trying but failing to hide from your peripheral vision.
Despite it all, Peter was kind. Peter was good. He tried so hard and he loved so much. He remembered your favorite flowers, the fine shiny pens that you took notes with, the exact texture you liked your brownies. Your passions became his passions. He had this talent of engaging with your interests while not overshadowing or competing with you. You would send him all the secondary sources, datasets, and archives that you were parsing through and he would respond to them all. He replied with reaction gifs, emojis, and sometimes an interesting viewpoint or article you had missed that added to your analysis.
He was also obsessed with you. You become his lockscreen, homescreen, and his laptop desktop wallpaper. He also downloaded a widget extension so he could turn all his apps into little icons of your face. You actually had to make him change the first photos he selected because it was such a bad angle. He had protested vehemently, but relented. He sewed you a custom sundress and an embroidered suit that became your go-to outfit for the academic conferences you attended. Your shelves were crammed with various vintage trinkets and figurines that Peter had bought for you. Your heater never clanged or spluttered again after Peter tackled it with a toolbox. When the professor of a class you were auditing was rude to you during office hours, Peter left them a slew of bad ratings on the online university portal. You had no idea how he had managed to do that having never taken said individual’s course.
You had fallen in love with Peter Parker, but slowly, gradually, you also grew to love Spider-man. You kept clippings of essays and stories about the hero and cut out photographs from the front pages of The Daily Bugle. You pasted some of them up in your apartment, which earned you some playful comments from Peter. He had called you his number one fangirl and you had tossed a slipper at him, which he had dodged easily. He would never know this, but you kept most of your Spider-man ephemera stashed in a manila folder in your desk. You wouldn’t describe it as pride. It had nothing to do with ego or achievement. Spider-man was a side of Peter that you wanted to honor, explore, and appreciate. He created this strange figure that took on a life of itself. He gave people a story worth telling, a wish worth betting on. It was corny and cliche, but it was also beautiful.
You had never really needed a relationship, happy to exist off the sporadic dating app meet-up and brief graduate cohort crush. Your family had always nagged you and warned you of your drying ovaries and fated lonely future. You had blown all their concerns off, content to tending to your little life with your cat and the lifelong girlfriends you met in college. Yet you could not deny that having Peter in your life made you happier, even when you weren’t around him. You felt a strange burst of life, a secure force that encouraged you to continue chasing your dreams while maintaining the softness in you. You talked to more people, took more risks, walked down the sidewalk with your head held higher. Even your advisor remarked on the noticeable shift in your energy which you did take some offense to. There wasn’t any part or piece of you that Peter had needed to fulfill or fix. Maybe this was what it meant to be in love. Maybe this was what it meant to truly know someone.
The both of you grew in parallel, carving a language and a life that you tended and nurtured together.
Peter came back to your reality screaming your name. He jolted up in your shared apartment, headbutting you in the center of your forehead.
“Hey!” You cried. You rubbed your forehead, wringing your hands from the stinging pain and jumping up and down in little hops. “What the fuck was that!”
He leapt up from the couch in a protective stance, scanning the room for potential threats. The posters of the Hitchcock and Studio Ghibli films he helped you stick up were on the walls. The two copies of yours and his completed dissertation were hanging on the back of the door. The vintage lamp that he heaved and webbed all the way from the evil depths of New Jersey was in the corner. Your hand painted ceramic salt & pepper shakers were side by side on the kitchen counter. All the memorabilia and fragments from the life the both of you shared were in the right place.
And there was you. It was really you. Alive and whole. You with your Spider-man-themed bedroom slippers, shiny engagement ring, and your half-applied green tea face mask dripping goop on the carpet the both of you pilfered from an estate sale. Even as you swore and cursed, you never looked more beautiful. He stared transfixed, before realizing what he had just done.
“Sorry! Fuck I’m so sorry. Oh my God I didn’t mean to…Are you okay?” Instinct took over. He cupped your face, despite your annoyed attempts to swat him off. He tilted your chin upwards, gently inspecting for injuries. You seemed fine, a little startled and pissed off, but nothing seemed to be broken, just an angry red spot growing on your forehead. He still felt horrible for hurting you.
“I’ll get you some ice. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah you better be. Fuck that hurt. You and your hard head.” You grouched. You paused, finally noticing the rips and tears in his suit. Your eyes widened, all noticeable anger dissipating.
“Peter, are you bleeding? Why are you in your suit?”
“It’s not my blood. I mean some of it is. Technically.” He rummaged around the freezer, pulling out frozen pizzas, Trader Joe’s dumplings, and two cartons of Ben & Jerry's ice cream. Chunky Monkey. Cherry Garcia. He handed you an ice pack and peeled off his suit to his boxers, chucking the article into the hamper. He paused, staring at the dried smears of red on his palm.
“Wait, I guess it is my blood or at least a version of it. Peter-two’s. Uh I don't know what’s the right term. I’m not going to think about it too hard.” He shrugged. He threw on his ratty Pink Floyd shirt that he had consistently refused to toss.
“What the hell are you saying? You better start explaining.”
He sat down and through scoops of ice cream rambled it all to you, the multiverse, string theory, the versions of himself (or was he a version of the others?). He couldn’t think too deeply about that right now. Yes, magic was real and wizards too and strange robotic men with arms that resembled octopus tentacles. He watched as you took it all in, your eyebrows narrowing as he continued rambling and listing off what he had witnessed in the past 48 hours. You paused him many times throughout and asked for clarification, such as, what were the Avengers? Why was the wizard so angry? How many other versions of him were there in total across the multiverse? He found that he couldn’t answer most of your questions either.
You were quiet when he finished describing how he had dissipated into gold sparks and returned with your name on the tip of his tongue. His carton of ice cream was empty and now he was eating yours. Whatever, he would buy more later. He rubbed the cool metal of his own matching engagement band. He was scared to look at you. He was scared that you would laugh at him, maybe call him crazy.
You stood up, heading over to the sink to wash off the layer of green on your face.
Peter’s hands hurt from all the jabs and punches he had thrown and taken. His body ached from the massive watts of electricity that had sizzled through his limbs. Your silence was somehow worse. He wanted you to say something, anything.
“That is a lot to go through. Are you okay?” You wiped your face clean and sat back down.
You believed him. He loved that about you, how much you trusted his word. He could kiss you. He could build you a giant house with strawberry bushes in the front and relish every splinter he received in the process. He could carve out the earth’s molten core and mold it into a bracelet for your lovely wrist if you asked him to.
“I-I’m fine. It was crazy to see and fight Dr. Connors and Max again, but I’m fine. More than fine. You’re here and everything is amazing.”
“Remind me who they are again?”
“Uh giant mutant lizard that used to be my academic mentor and an Oscorp employee named Max who fell into a pool of electric eels. He’s pretty nice by the way, Max, when he’s not made out of lightning and sparks.”
He hugged you, squeezing his eyes shut. There were moments where he had believed he would never see you again. You rubbed his back gently.
“I missed you so much, bug.” He sighed.
“I thought I lost you.” He murmured.
He didn’t tell you how he had attempted to track you down in the other universe. He parsed through directories and hundreds of pages on the internet and swung to every building you had frequented. There was nothing. You didn’t exist.
He didn’t tell you how he spent the first day in the alternative dimension screaming until his throat cracked and his chest ran out of breath. He knew it was just an alternate version, not his real reality, but that didn’t stop him from punching the earth until his skin split and knuckles broke. He had lost you. He thought it was safe and he was wrong. It hurt so badly that he wished his heart would stop altogether.
He didn’t tell you how he had felt his spider sense flare up, a strange new pull that he never felt before. The sensation was like a web that wrapped around his wrist but somehow tugged inwards rather than outwards. He had gathered himself up, red-eyed and sore from crying, determined to locate the source. Whatever it was, it would help him find his way back to you. He had stumbled down a dark alleyway where he found a gleaming portal opening and two teens and an elderly auntie gawking at him.
“You didn’t. I’m here. I’m here. ” You cooed. You rocked him gently.
He kept his face buried into your shoulder. You smelled like your favorite body mist. He’d come to associate the scent with home.
“We should get shakshuka and baklava pancakes from that Middle Eastern diner tomorrow. Universe hopping has made me emaciated.”
He patted your back. He could taste the thick, fluffy stacks of honey soaked pistachio pancakes and the salty heat of peppery tomato. You always ordered something sweet and he always ordered something savory. The both of you would split your portions in half so everyone could get the best of both worlds.
“I thought we were trying to save money.”
“No idea what you’re talking about. I don’t remember that conversation.” He grumbled in your shoulder.
“Oh yeah. You’re so right. I don’t either.” You replied in a sing-song voice.
He laughed and kissed you long and hard. He couldn’t wait to marry you. He kissed you a couple more times for good measure.
“You’re taking this multiverse thing remarkably well.” He finally broke away, lips stained with your chapstick.
“You swing around New York City in spandex, fight supervillians, and can stand on ceilings. I think I’m pretty accustomed to strange stories. Are you sure you’re okay?” You ruffled his hair.
“Trust me I’m good. Actually I feel better than before, like there was something that I wanted to do for a long time and was finally able to achieve.”
“Save the person I couldn’t save before.”
Gwen. She was a ghost that had always haunted him, imprinted in the very footsteps he left behind. He still had dreams that sent him yelling and shrieking up in the middle of night, hand outstretched to a moment he could never return to. You would always comfort him, hold him in your arms until he fell asleep. But it was different now. He wasn’t sure what exactly had changed within him, but things were different. He felt lighter.
He told you about M.J, Peter-one’s girlfriend who had been pushed off the Statue of Liberty’s scaffolding during the fight. It was eerily similar to the night he would never forget. A girl falling through the air, eyes wide with fear, her hand reaching for Peter’s. This time he had caught her. She was going to be alright.
“I’m happy you saved her. You did a wonderful thing. I’m always in awe of you.” You said softly. You pressed a kiss to his cheek. He leaned into your shoulder, savoring your warmth. He must have smelled terrible, like sweat and blood and smoke. He was pretty sure he had singed his sideburns. You didn’t say anything.
“What were the other versions of you like?” You asked. You cradled him to your chest, lightly stroking his hair. He could hear your heart beating steadily against his ear. It was so nice to be in love.
“Peter-one’s just a kid, can’t be older than twenty. He’s got a lot of energy and his best friend has wizard powers. He’s very earnest.”
He smiled, thinking of Peter-one’s contagious energy and chippy voice. He was so similar yet so different than him. The one thing he was sure of was that Peter-one would be alright. He wouldn’t have to carry the grief alone.
“Aww cute. It’s like a little Dungeons & Dragons troupe.”
“Woah you’ve played Dungeons & Dragons before? How did I not know this?”
“No, nerd. One of my undergrads invited me to a session. I declined, but I kinda got the gist of it from his ramblings.” You chuckled.
“Poor guy. He just wanted to hang out with the coolest chick in the world. I don’t blame him.”
“That would have broken basic professionalism and I’m pretty sure he was trying to suck up for a better grade on the final paper. What were you saying about Peter-one?”
“Kid’s a sweetheart but kinda a menace though. He has a nice suit with a ton of features and he’s even better at swinging than me.”
“I doubt that.” You hummed. “You always underestimate yourself. You’re a great Spider-man.”
“If you think so highly of my Spider-man skills how come you won’t let me swing you again?” He sighed.
“Two things can be true at once. You can be great at swinging and I can love literally standing on my own two feet. What is Peter-two like?”
“Peter-two’s older. He’s different from me, a lot more mature. Aged. Radiated a cool youth pastor vibe.”
He still remembered Peter-two’s kind voice reminding him that he was amazing in his own right. Would that be considered a moment of self-affirmation or a pep talk? He wondered if Peter-two was with his MJ right now.
“Damn. Wish I could have met him. Make him sing a sermon or something.”
“I don’t think I would exist if you were able to meet him. Can you do that thing with my hair?”
“I will as long as you don’t headbutt me again.”
“You got a deal, pretty lady.” He paused. “Pretty soon to be spouse.”
“I feel so old when you say it like that. Wait a bit, I don't want to hurt your head.” You put a pillow on your lap, smoothening it out. He collapsed in your embrace, sighing as you stroked and massaged his scalp. He shifted and curled his head so your hands could reach everywhere. He was always jealous whenever your cat slept on your thighs while you worked. It wasn’t fair. This was his spot.
“I guess you’re right. I’m glad Peter-two is oblivion in this universe. Sorry not sorry. You’re always going to be my favorite Peter. My one and only.”
You’re smiling. He leaned up and kissed you, his tongue searching for yours, his breath catching in his throat. He pulled you closer to him, one hand gripping your waist, the other deep entangled in your hair.
The truth was you were the only person who could flatten and fold the entirety of the speckled multiverse into a paper crane and he would still crawl back into your arms. In an infinite number of choices that carried an infinite number of futures he would choose you time and time again.
“Wait.” You pulled away and he whined, wanting more of your touch. His hand was dangerously close to your butt.
“You’re killing me out here.” He groaned.
“Aren’t you hurt? I can get the first aid kit. You sure you don’t want to sleep first?”
“Ehh it’ll be fine. It’s just a couple scratches.” He was already leaning in. He could clean the sheets later.
“What about you, do you have someone?” Peter-two gestured towards his engagement ring.
Peter thought about you. He thought about everything you had created together. He used to believe he could never love again after Gwen. He knew she would have wanted him to move on, but for so long he couldn’t seem to. He believed he had to make something off this pain, that there was a certain strength to gain from shouldering it.
And then everything fell in place with you and now he believed love had no beginning or end. It was an ocean that ebbed and churned and wept. How could he ever quantify the tenderness overflowing in his chest? How could he ever describe the light that spilled from your voice when you spoke?
“I do.” He told Peter-two your name and smiled. He tightened the clamp on the silver flask holder, watching the solution bubble.
“She’s probably the best part of my life. We’re getting married in two months.”
“Wow, man! Congratulations. How did you guys meet?”
For a smutty pegging continuation read this. If you liked this leave a like or comment or reblog! Love you guys <3
