peter being put in dance when he was 3 because he was a very energetic child and mary and richard wanted him to have a healthy place to release that energy
peter growing to find refuge in ballet and eventually extending that to other styles like tap and contemporary
peter learning the art of expression at the ripe age of 7 and his teachers seeing the natural talent in this kid. in the way he moves with such strength and precision. the way he commands the stage, even young, and understands how to make his body and mind quiet down and work as one (really, the only place he can easily do that. school is hard when you canβt sit still)
peter being absolutely broken when his parents die and aunt may and uncle ben keeping him in classes so he can maintain some sense of routine and normalcy even in the face of something so unfathomable as a child.
peter using dance as a refugeβ a place to express his grief safely. to feel his pain in a physical, controlled way. to push his body in ways his brain is trying to force him. to challenge the pain into something beautiful and raw and visible
peter growing up going to dance competitions and wearing a full range of costumes from sparkly pants and a shirt with tassels on it as he and his comp team shimmy it out to applause by lady gaga to a full chicken suit when he was four to the fucking chicken dance (itβs his, nedβs, and MJβs group chat photo for a good while)
peter getting bit by a radioactive spider and using the trust in his body he gained from a lifetime of dance to adapt to his new enhancements
peter losing this outlet as the world becomes harder, he becomes weathered. he loses himself, his mentor, aunt may. loses his sense of self and any semblance of community he once had known. thereβs no physicality to the grief anymore. itβs all consuming and doesnβt pause for niceties, just like the world doesnβt stop after tragedy and destruction and the need for a hero never stops, so peter doesnβt slow down enough to take time for things as menial as self expression
and then one late night after some tiff with some idiots robbing a bank, he finds himself in front of a studio, closed for the night. itβs dark except for a few dim safety lights in the halls. and itβs easy enough to sneak in and god, the smell in these places never really change. he closes his eyes. breathes in. finds himself at the barre, guiding himself through a warmup thatβs more muscle memory than the pain heβs felt for the last, god, eight years? longer? and it feels good. familiar, like a hug from aunt may or the way nedβs hand feels on his shoulder. like home.
and thereβs something gentle about the way he moves too. gentle in a way he didnβt think he could ever be again. but gentle has never meant weak. he learned that from the moment he stepped into the studio, three years old and untouched by the world. and heβs learned since then that the world has ways of getting its hands on you anyway, but he can trust his body, if nothing else. that much, heβs always known.
