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He had always been the sentimental type.
Aunt May, eyes crinkled with love and shoulders weary with the weight of the world, her world, Peter, yet face still filled with endless amounts of admiration for her nephew, her boy, had always reminded him so.
Watching the trees pass and admiring the greens, appreciating the soft wind against small dried patches of weeds, listening to the sound of life through chirps, crickets, and the distant sounds of a dog barking-
(Cosmo was her name; she was a gentle soul who still tore up her vocal cords and larynx in an attempt to relive her younger years as a guard dog, barking at any passersby to dare even think of approaching her territory.
He had befriended the retriever overnight, between a split hotdog and way too much face-licking that he’d ever be comfortable admitting, but that’s beside the point.)
Observing the minute interactions between passing groups of teenagers. Regulars ordering their coffee. Children with their single mothers.
(Lord knows how hard Barbara worked to keep her job at the library, especially since her husband passed, to keep food on the table for her kids, her twins, Anthony and James.
It was nice to see her out and about with the pair. A rare reprieve she could barely afford but more than definitely deserved.)
Janitors rushing to work, backpacks half open, which Peter would never fail to web shut for them. He knew he’d want someone to return the favor to him.
And the sky was blue, so so blue. Beautiful, bright, illuminating.
Inspirational, even.
So yeah, maybe he was a little sentimental.
And maybe that’s why Peter was quick to shower him with attention when his project partner had opened up to him about how lonely he was.
Peter was 18 and in his first year in college (he graduated early) when he stepped into a lecture hall for the very first time. A web design course, or something like that, he couldn’t remember the name of the class exactly.
Eager to learn but too shy (nervous, awkward, clumsy, lame-) to talk to others, he sat at the very front because he always did. Nearly 30 minutes early, because he always was, and boy was he glad his professor was one of the ones who opened the room early rather than make the students wait outside for him to unlock the door for them, or better yet, appear after the scheduled time for class to start, with jingling keys as they open the door for the first time that day.
The professor raised an eyebrow at him but didn’t say much else, smiling and nodding in an amicable manner, excusing himself from the room with a quiet ‘just a moment, please.’
The next student to appear came in 15 minutes after Peter did; a quick glance at the teenager, who’d taken to pretending to read his textbook out of shame for being so early in an embarrassingly empty room (something about being here so early without the professor made him just a tad bit self-conscious). The rest of the students filed into the class slowly over time, along with the professor at one point, most students piling themselves near the back of the hall, with but a few stragglers sitting near the front, though none as close up as Peter.
And class started.
Time droned on, and then, class ended.
Peter had been quickly (but carefully, he was always careful… well, almost always) putting his things back into his knapsack when the professor cleared his throat.
“Ahem, right, nearly forgot,” the older man turns on the projector again, cursor clicking through a couple of tabs on the screen before a list pulls up, a list of names, names in pairs of two, “You’ll all be assigned a partner to work on the project with for the rest of this semester-”
The one that the professor explained earlier and assured them was 35% of their grade. Yeah, that one.
“-Find your name on there, find your partner, and exchange contact info. I’ll keep this up for another 15 minutes.”
It took one blink before Peter had found his name.
Peter Parker.
And adjacent to it.
Steven Wescott.
Okay, alright, so now he had to find this ‘Steven,’ how was he supposed to find this guy in a room full of bustling, loud-
“-arker? Yo, Peter, where you at?”
And thank Thor for enhanced senses.
Peter shoved the last few things into his bag, punctuated with an ‘Over here!’ and quickly made his way over a few benches and desks to an impossibly blonde-haired man who stood between another half dozen students.
The man, and sure, he looked to be Peter’s age, but Peter does go by Spider-Man, not Spider-Teen-Barely-An-Adult, had grinned over at Peter, wide smiling with perfectly straight white teeth.
“Peter, right? Peter Parker?”
And Peter smiled, through his own awkwardness and partially in the joy of finding his partner so quickly, “Yeah! Yeah, you’re Steven?”
“The one and only,” said the other, grinning again, a devilishly handsome smile at that, flattered by a wink.
And yeah, Peter was bi.
(Y’know, bisexual. He hasn’t told anyone, really, except his best friends Harry, Ned, MJ, and Miles. And Aunt May. Okay, so maybe it's everyone he knows and loves, but details, details.)
So if he turned a little bit pink in the cheeks, well, who could blame him? The man looked like a ray of sunshine, if not the embodiment of it.
Steven pointed to the pen hooked onto Peter’s shirt pocket, a singular eyebrow raised.
“You mind?”
Peter shook his head, “No, of course not, here-”
Plucking the pen off, nearly dropping it in a fluster (and, of course, he decides to switch to butter fingers instead of sticky fingers in front of his cute new partner), catching it quickly with a stuttered ‘Sorry!’ and passing it over to the patiently waiting Steven, who laughs jovially at the small blunder, fingers lightly brushing over Peter’s as he flips the pen into his own hand, bending down over a nearby desk to scribble something onto a piece of paper (where did that come from?)
Steven finishes with one last swirl of the pen, turning and grinning at Peter, one hand with fingers grasped around the pen, the other carefully holding a folded piece of paper, and wow, Steven has big hands-
Peter mentally berates himself: Not now, Parker.
“So, uh-” Peter clamors, his mind instantly blanking at the small chuckle Steven gives.
“Here,” is all Steven says before stepping way too close into Peter’s space, (or maybe that’s a normal distance? What’s a normal distance between two male students??) and pulls open the little pocket on Peter’s shirt with a singular hooked finger, clipping the pen back onto it and slipping in the folded piece of paper (and wow, this feels really intimate. It’s probably not, but oh boy does it.) and pats the pocket against Peter’s breast twice, flattening it.
Peter just knows his face is glowing right now.
“That’s my number, call me whenever,” and, with one final smirk, he waves goodbye and steps away to jog after his friend group, leaving Peter with his jaw on the floor.
Wow.
That might be the most charismatic charisma to ever charisma. Did he get lucky with his project partner, or what?
And if Peter goes home that day with rosy cheeks and a skip in his step, well, who would know?
Peter stays up all evening talking to his best friends-
(“You’re all my besties,” Peter says.
Harry laughs, Ned fist pumps with a ‘WOOO!’ Miles chuckles, shaking his head, and MJ completes the circle with a “That’s gay, Peter.”
“Well, thank goodness I am gay then, hm?”
And Harry laughs even harder, Miles laughs at Harry laughing, Ned being absolutely no help, and MJ shakes her head fondly at the group.)
Over their shared group chat, updating them on his attractive new partner-
(guy in the chair: wow
guy in the chair: he rlly rizzed u up huh???
diversity hire: bro,, what? 💀
BOSS LADY: Ned, please tell me you did NOT just say that.
Hairy O’s: im surprised u even knew what that meant tbh
Hairy O’s: side note, can we PLEASE change my nickname, it sounds so inappropriate 😭
guy in the chair: no
diversity hire: no
BOSS LADY: No.
peter-man: what’s wrong with it?
Hairy O’s: …
BOSS LADY: Yeah, what’s wrong with it, Harry?
guy in the chair: LOL
peter-man: i thought?? you were named after a cereal brand??
diversity hire: LMAOOO)
-before he started getting ready for his nightly patrol, but not after they all wished him well and told him to be careful.
It was a clear night, though nights were always clear in New York, with the amount of light pollution there was, but it was no less beautiful.
And the sounds of late-night club music, the distant honking of cars, the muted chatter of the people far, far below.
God, he loved New York City.
His city.
His home.
But maybe that was the sentiment in him speaking.
He leaps off the roof he had been perched on with a flip, and he’s free. He’s floating, flying, twisting, and springs throughout the night, whooping and wishing hello to cheerful spectators below, calling up to him with greetings (and the occasional threats and complaints, but who cares?)
He’s comfortable in his own skin, gliding freely. Stopping muggings with an extra pep in his step, webbing up robbers with just a bit more finesse, walking home younger teens with just a bit more chatter, but he was always a chatterbox anyways, so has anything really changed there?
It’s almost 4 A.M. now.
Almost done with patrol for the night.
(He tries to randomly start and end patrol so criminals can never predict when they’ll be safe. So they wouldn’t get used to a routine.
It’s been working for the most part.
Tonight, he was planning on stopping at 4 A.M.)
It’s soft crying that pulls his attention.
Reeling him in, guiding him. Muffled in a way that sounds like gasping. The type of crying that’s supposed to be loud and in pain, suppressed by what could only be hands. Human hands.
There is no spidey sense ringing when he approaches the shaking figure. No danger.
It’s a woman, no older than 25, Spider-Man guesses. She’s standing precariously close to the edge of a building, crying.
Never a good combo.
Spider-Man lands next to her, making sure to be a bit louder than he usually would, tempering his gait so she could hear him approaching, and by the rise of her shoulders and her quieting down, he would say he was successful in his goal.
He slowly moves to stand next to her, overlooking the city, whose lights sparkle and glimmer like a perfect picture.
(He kinda wishes he had his camera right now.)
He doesn’t say anything to her, the woman, and she doesn’t say anything back, though her eyes do widen a bit in surprise at seeing the vigilante beside her.
She sniffles a few more times, punctuated with a couple of hiccups, wiping snot with the back of her sleeves, which, ew- but also, he’s done that too, so who cares.
The woman moves to sit, and Spider-Man mimics her movements a few moments later, careful not to catch her by surprise. From the corner of his eye, he catches that her eyes are red, hears her breaths are shaky.
He hears her heartbeat stutter; it could be due to nerves, maybe because of fear, he isn’t sure.
“Stephanie,” she provides.
“Spider-Man,” he returns, to which she gives a light, shaky chuckle. Spider-Man counts it as a win.
“Everyone knows who you are, Spidey,” she smiles, airy. And he grins back, though she can’t see his smile. He’s sure she sees the emotion through the mask, if not by the upward tilt of his facial muscles through the fabric, then by the expression of his eye lens, which he so carefully programmed to make him appear more expressive and less ‘creepy’ by Jameson’s terms.
“I loved him,” she continues, cutting off the sentence he hadn’t finished forming in his head yet, “I trusted him.”
So maybe this was about a break-up? But something about the way she speaks isn’t right, if her nails digging into her own arms weren’t enough of an indicator already.
But he doesn’t interrupt, scooting just a bit closer, close enough to be comforting but far enough for her to move away if she so wanted.
She smiles again at him, softly, appreciative.
“He would gift me amazing things, take me out on amazing dates. He made me so many promises. He seemed perfect. Kind,” her breath hitches, fresh tears trailing down her cheeks.
She tries to wipe it with her sleeves, but they’re already soaked, and it just wets her face even more. Spider-Man leans carefully.
“Can I touch you?”
And she breaks out into a sob, hesitating before nodding with a quiet ‘yes.’ He reaches forward, wiping her face and tears with his own suit.
“If only he were a gentleman like you,” she hiccups, leaning into Spider-Man’s hand, and he wants to hug her, but with how things are clicking into place, he’s not so sure it’s a good idea, “If only he asked too.”
And there it is.
He feels his heart almost freeze, speeding up nervously.
Now, he’s stopped a lot of crimes, not to pat his own back or anything, but he strives to prevent things before they happen.
Over the course of three years, he’s definitely been late to a few crimes, but never, never a sex crime. So maybe that’s why he’s surprised. Was it one he missed?
How had he failed Stephanie?
Were there others he’d also failed?
“We were at his place,” she continues, almost as if she had known his thoughts, “and I trusted him. It wasn’t in some public place. It was where we lived-”
Her breath hitches again for the nth time, pausing momentarily. Stephanie lets out a heavy sigh, shoulders dropping with the action, “Well, where I used to live.”
She looks back at Spider-Man, and for a second, he’s bare, like she’s looking at him through the mask, nothing to protect him.
“Just-” she smiles through teary eyes, carefully reaching up to his mask, cradling it, and he sits still, frozen like any movement would whisk her away, “Just don’t let it happen to any others out there, y’know?”
And he does know. Because he can’t help the ones inside their homes, he can’t always hear them from far away, and he can’t exactly break in (though he would in a heartbeat).
“Because in the streets, they have you. Need you.”
She leans away from his hand, sighing again.
“And I needed this. Thanks, Spidey.”
Spider-Man nods at her as Stephanie pulls away from him, carefully standing up. The vigilante follows calmly.
She asks for a hug, and he obliges. He also offers to walk her home (but is it really walking her home if he’s just walking her into the apartment complex?) She shakes her head no, giving one more wet hug, thanking him for listening to her and wishing him a safe night.
He can’t find words to respond until just before she closes the rooftop door, where he hands her a slim card he always carries on his body. It has his burner’s number.
“If you need me,” he nods at her, and she takes it, smiling gratefully one more time.
The door clicks shut behind her.
Truthfully, he doesn’t remember the rest of the night too clearly. He remembers swinging back to his apartment, head lost in thought.
(He’d never considered that sexual abuse could happen in a relationship. Was there anything he could do for people like that?
He wasn’t sure.
Deep down, part of him wonders if it’s really considered sexual abuse if the pair were in a relationship where they were actively sleeping with one another, but not in the way of victim blaming, more so out of curiosity.
Because, once you’re together, aren’t you consenting by nature? Or do you need to consent for each individual instance you choose to copulate?
He didn’t fully understand, but after seeing Stephanie’s reaction, maybe it’s something he should put more thought into.)
He sleeps that night, dreaming of tears and Stephanie.
Steven is an amazing person, Peter decides, but a not-so-spectacular partner.
He’s not the brightest; how he got into the class, Peter has no clue, but he’s very encouraging and eager to help, even if he’s kinda bad at it. But he supposes it’s the thought that counts.
Their first meeting, is at the campus library. Steven arrives almost 20 minutes after the prearranged time, but Peter finds he can’t quite hold a grudge when the man brings him food. And a drink. And flowers.
(Do people normally bring flowers to meetups over projects?)
They work for a few hours, and honestly, it’s a lot more fun than studying lines of code probably should be.
Steven cracks jokes, and Peter stifles giggles that are a lot louder than they should be as the librarian eyes them from across the hall, raised eyebrows and all, with disappointed, half-lidded eyes that peer over rectangular frames.
And they continue to meet up.
Over days.
Weeks, even.
For the project, of course. It’s not a date, never a date. At all. Why would you even think that?
And at one point, while Peter is explaining the next part of their project to Steven, comparing the feedback loop that they’ve created so far to the one they’re supposed to follow and how they need to customize theirs to use a different amount of memory, and honestly they could probably be more efficient in their CPU usage in comparison to-
Peter pauses, “What?”
Steven chuckles, and Peter feels oddly exposed.
Like Steven is a part of some inside joke that Peter is unaware of.
“What? What’s wrong, Steven?”
He asks again, and Steven shakes his head, “Don’t worry about me, Einstein, just fascinated by your genius.”
Peter flushes at the compliment, stuttering, “Einstein?”
Steven’s smile widens, “Well, I never heard of nobody smarter than him. What, you don’t like it, Einstein?”
“No- no, it’s… Well, that’s hardly fair if you get to call me a nickname, but I don’t get to call you one.”
And Steven, honest to god, guffaws (the librarian giving a lengthy ‘SHHH’) before quieting down to a whisper, “Skip.”
“Skip?”
“It’s what all my closest friends call me,” he winks, and no, Peter does not turn even more red, thank you very much.
“Alright then, ‘Skip,’” Peter says, tasting the name against his lips, heart singing in joy at being granted such an exclusive (he said only his closest friends! Closest!) nickname, “Why don’t we stop here for today and pick up again, hmm… next Friday?”
Steven, no, Skip gives that stupidly bright grin (seriously, how are his teeth so perfect and white?) before pulling back, face going almost contemplative.
“Well…” He starts, and Peter pauses in packing his things, looking over at his partner questioningly.
“Next Friday, my, uh…” Skip starts, looking oddly nervous as opposed to his usual, confident self, “My folks are leaving for a bit, a couple months or so, for, y’know, work, business, the usual thing.”
Peter feels his heart begin to quicken.
Is this going where he thought it was?
“If you want to, y’know, work there next time?” Skip rubs the back of his neck, looking away a bit, almost appearing flustered, “So we don’t keep getting told to shut up by the librarian, of course.”
And Peter can’t help the small, shy laugh that escapes him, “Yeah, yeah, the librarian…”
Skip nods eagerly, “See? I knew you’d understand, Einstein. The librarian.”
Peter stifles another laugh.
“Yeah, I’m down.”
And Skip smiles, shrugging his own bag onto his shoulder.
“Okay! Okay, sounds good. See you next Friday, then?”
“Mhm.”
“Awesome, I’ll shoot you my address.”
“So are you two going to, y’know…?” Miles asks, one eyebrow raised. Harry laughs, shaking his head as Peter flushes. MJ rolls her eyes, and Ned ‘Oooohs’ somewhere around the laughter.
“It’s not like that! Y’know, he doesn’t like me like that, I’m-”
“Gay, we get it,” MJ cuts off, “Okay, 20 bucks on Skip asking out Peter.”
“15 on it taking at least a week,” Adds Miles.
Peter squawks in protest. He swears steam is coming out of his ears at this point. Man, he hates these guys sometimes.
“I don’t think we should be betting on Peter’s love life…”
“Thank you, Ned!”
“100, and lunch is on me for the rest of the month if it takes more than a week or doesn’t work out,” says Harry, leaning back in his chair. MJ whistles, and Ned stares with wide eyes, blinking before continuing his previous statement.
“...without him knowing, and seeing as he’s with us and knows, 5 dollars on Harry’s side.”
The disappointed look Peter throws Ned has the rest of the table laughing.
“Keep us updated, will you?” Miles shouts after Peter’s retreating form, and as the spiderling walks past their window seat, he opens and closes his mouth a few times with a mocking face, his hand miming that of a crab’s pincer as he pretends to be upset with him.
They all give their own variations of goodbyes, a stuck-out tongue, a salute, and a middle finger, to which he responds with a grin, wave, and stuck-out tongue.
He’ll probably end up texting them when he gets home that night anyway.
Spider-Man swings, hands clammy with nerves as he releases his web and shoots out another line, landing on a small apartment complex. He finished patrol early for this.
He checks his cracked phone webbed to the inside of his wrist, double-checking both the address and navi to make sure he’s at the right place before carefully pulling off the phone and wiping it free from the webbing.
Spider-Man slides his duffle bag off his shoulder and onto the ground, crouching behind the roof entrance as he shuffles out of his suit, haphazardly yanking his gloves off and shoving them inside the hidden zipper pocket in his bag. He repeats the process with his mask and boots, pulling out his regular torn old Converse and slipping them on, finally covering his bare chest with a sweater and rolling down his suit the rest of the way to pull on sweats.
(He has to say, changing so constantly? His least favorite part of the job.
That had to be record time, though Peter doesn’t think he’s changed that fast, like, ever. Was it because he was going to see his crush? Um? Of course not.
He’s just, y’know, faster at it now.
Yeah.
Faster.)
Once Peter, yes, Peter (no longer Spider-Man, just plain old Peter) finishes putting everything away and properly hiding it, he slings the duffle bag over his shoulder again and walks (no, he does not rush; he walks, like a regular, mature adult) over to the rooftop entrance, pulling it open, and heading inside.
That’s when it starts ringing, albeit mutely.
His spidey sense that is.
It’s a dimly lit hall with carpet flooring. The really dark grey kind, speckled with random colors that they usually use in classrooms that both look, and feel, like it’s made of recycled fabric.
Dirty old doors line each wall in pairs, and most are white, but there is the occasional tenant who seems to like expressing themselves with poorly painted doors, stickers, or faded colors.
Nothing adorns the walls but the few flattened bugs and the carpet floor lifting along the edges in a poor imitation of creeping vines.
There’s a singular lightbulb in the center of it all, flickering in and out of existence like the slightest gush of wind would cause it to shatter.
Peter looks down at his phone again, checking the address as well as his current location.
Yup, this is the place.
He’s not trying to judge the place, but seeing as how it’s setting off his spidey sense, he can’t help but be a little bit nervous.
Peter shoots Skip a quick text, and he hears the responding phone go off from behind one of the painted doors, the orange one, to be specific.
He looks at the number plate hanging on the door, 984, looking down at the address Skip sent him.
984.
Okay, this is the right one.
He walks over, quietly, shyly knocking on the door.
It swings open to a casually dressed Skip, no different from how he dresses on campus but otherwise looking as he usually does, nothing strange, nor off, so why does his sense buzz just a bit louder?
He has no clue.
“Peter!” Skip greets with his usual enthusiasm, “Come on in, dude, come on in.”
The taller male steps to the side as Peter nods, flush beginning to slowly make its way onto his cheeks, the way it always seems to do around Skip.
“Hey Skip,” Peter mumbles, stepping in awkwardly and taking in the room and…
It’s just a room.
Nothing really notable.
(So why was his spidey sense still humming?)
“...Sorry to intrude,” Peter says, pausing just a minute too long before, “So, um, so how are you?”
Skip laughs, and that seems to ease the weird tension in the room (what it was, Peter has no idea) as he strides over and gives Peter a half hug.
“After finally seeing you again? Pretty good, Einstein.”
The ‘Einstein’ in question is full-on blushing now, nodding his head,” ThAT’s- ahem- That’s good, that’s good.”
The blonde chuckles again as he guides Peter to the couch, a solid grasp around his shoulders.
Skip’s touch burned against his shoulder pleasantly, maybe lingering a tad too long (not that he was complaining) before the other had left, momentarily settling him with a ‘Get set up, yeah? I’ll be right back, Einstein’ and Peter takes it as his cue to start pulling out their project materials.
He placed his laptop on the small coffee table and decided to ignore his spidey sense. It had never been wrong before, but it was buzzing just to buzz at this point.
Skip returns with some snacks and a couple of glasses of water for them, plopping himself down next to the other, leaning closer.
“Thank you, Skip. For the snacks, I mean. And water.”
“‘Course, Einstein. Alright, we ready to get started?”
“Yes! So actually, I was thinking about where we left off last time and-”
The rest of the evening goes by uneventfully.
(Besides some moments where it felt like Skip was flirting, but Peter could never be too sure; he was just waiting for his Parker Luck to mess up this relationship, too.
And a couple of moments where Skip had gotten pretty close to Peter.
Skip leaned on Peter! And they had napped together! Almost cuddling!! Peter swears his heart has never beaten so fast in his life.)
Peter goes home with a promise of next time.
(Their meet-ups are almost exclusively at Skip’s place after that.)
Turns out the whole spidey sense? Spider-sense? Peter tingle? Whatever people chose to call it at this point (though Peter preferred spidey sense- Also, why do they call it the Peter tingle? That is such a god-awful, horrible name.) Continued to ring around Skip, and only Skip, for whatever reason.
When mentioned to his best friends:
guy in the chair: maybe its like,,, hes secretly an undercover villain…
guy in the chair: peter, u just found an evil mastermind
BOSS LADY: It’s probably not something that serious, dude.
peter-man: yeah idk he’s been really nice and kind so far which is why im so confused 😵💫💦
Hairy O’s: he doesnt know ur spiderman right?
guy in the chair: Spider-Man**
Peter: Spider-Man*
diversity hire: don’t forget the hyphen!
Hairy O’s: i hate you simps
Hairy O’s: anyways
BOSS LADY: Anyways, you know how spiders have mates?
diversity hire: omg
Hairy O’s: no way
guy in the chair: yeah??
peter-man: pls dont tell me this is going where i think its going
BOSS LADY: Hear me out…
Hairy O’s: not sure if i want to anymore tbh
diversity hire: fr lmao 💀
peter-man: guys im tryna get SERIOUS answers for this, its so weird
BOSS LADY: WELL LET ME FINISH!
guy in the chair: i havent said anything
diversity hire: you just did dude
Hairy O’s: guys shut up for two sex
Hairy O’s: secs*
Hairy O’s: 🤦🏻♂️
guy in the chair: SEX?! IN THIS CHRISTIAN HOUSEHOLD??
diversity hire: LMAO
peter-man: LOL STOP 😭
BOSS LADY: I guess you don’t want my input then-
peter-man: NO PLEASE UR MY SAVIOR RN PLS
BOSS LADY: I know.
BOSS LADY: Anyways, as I was saying-
BOSS LADY: What if the Peter Tingle is only notifying you when he’s near because it sees him as a potential mate?
peter-man: not the capitilized peter tingle 😭
Hairy O’s: ooooh why didnt i think of that
diversity hire: too busy thinking about sex probably 🤷🏾♂️
guy in the chair: BAHAHAHAH
← Hairy O’s removed diversity hire from the group. Today at 6:39 PM
guy in the chair: AHAHGFBHJSGJGSJSDBGJH
peter-man: LOL???
BOSS LADY: Why do I even bother with these idiots?
So yeah, they hadn’t made much progress as to figure out what was going on, but MJ’s guess was the best they had right now, and the others weren’t helping, so Peter supposed he’d take what he could get.
MJ was usually right, anyway, so Peter trusted her guesstimate and rolled with it, and rolling with it meant he’d begun to associate his spidey sense with Skip, straight up ignoring it at times.
In fact, over the course of a few weeks, nearly a month and a half, he’d been so used to it that his heart rate would pick up just feeling the ringing start-up, excited to know that his possible romantic interest was somewhere nearby.
He’d start to look forward to the buzzing.
And this is how it usually goes:
Monday morning, he’s at school. He meets up with Skip in the evening.
Tuesday morning, school again. Patrol at night.
Wednesday morning at school. Wednesday afternoon with Skip. Patrol if Peter has the energy.
Thursday, school. Then Patrol.
Friday, Peter’s favorite day, mind you, school in the morning, afternoon with Skip, and if he got lucky, sleeping over at Skip’s place.
It just depended on their schedule, really.
And that’s just how it was for the next few weeks.
“Y’know,” Skip starts one Friday while the two fit snugly together on the couch. They had stopped working on the project nearly an hour ago and had been just chilling on the couch together, watching a movie. ‘A breather,’ Skip had called it.
They had them pretty often recently, and Peter was not one to complain. They’d take naps together, wrapped in each other’s arms (and yeah, it was a little fruity, and Skip never clarified if he was straight or not, but neither of them commented on it, so it’s fine, right?) and then wake up, have dinner together, work some more, then Peter would head out for the night.
It’d become a habit.
(A habit takes approximately 28 days to form. A routine needs closer to 6 months.
They were reaching that 6 months.
As well as the due date for the project, but who cares about that at this point?)
“My ma’s never really been there for me. Or my pa, if I’m being honest.”
Peter looks up from Skip’s arm looped around his shoulders, the latter’s hand slowly inching its way to the hem of Peter’s shirt, tracing the smaller man’s collarbone.
“Oh… I’m sorry, Skip.” Peter says earnestly, looking the other in the eyes.
“I don’t see why you’re apologizin’,” he says, “Unless you forced them to leave… Did you?”
And Peter laughs with a soft shake of his head, “No, Skip. Of course not.”
“That’s what I thought, Einstein.”
And Skip smiles that smile of his, leaning closer, leaning in.
STOP.
Peter jumps at his spidey sense, swiftly but carefully putting the tips of his fingers across Skip’s lips. They’re kinda chapped, but that doesn’t bother Peter. Skip makes an affronted grunt, eyebrows raised in disinterested surprise.
He almost looks… upset.
“S-sorry,” Peter stutters, eyes wide, face still rosy-cheeked. His heart is thumping. Loudly. Fear. Fear of disappointment. He doesn’t want to disappoint Skip.
“...No, I understand, Peter,” and he flinches at his own name; he hadn’t heard it from Skip in a while, “I just… I thought we were closer than that.”
“We are! It’s just,” Peter bites his lip, fumbling with his fingers nervously. He feels a cold sweat begin to form against his forehead.
“I-I dunno, I’m just not ready y-yet?”
“Hm,” is all Skip elects to respond with.
Peter swings home that night with teary eyes.
It feels like all the time they’ve spent getting closer over the past few months was completely ruined now. All because of Peter.
It’s all Peter’s fault.
He slips into bed, hugging his pillow to his chest, and cries himself to sleep.
He spends the rest of the weekend crying, too. He also doesn’t tell his friends because he doesn’t need them to know how badly he screwed up.
Stupid spidey sense freaking him out and causing him to overreact.
On Monday, Peter’s phone buzzes against his lap, and after a minute, two, he lifts his head from his desk, curiosity getting the better of him.
It’s Skip.
Skip: r we still on for 2nite?
He looks up and across the hall at where the blonde is usually seated. Skip gives a discreet wave, smiling sheepishly, looking guilty, almost.
(Guilty.
Guilty is a strange word.
It’s an adjective usually used to describe a subject that is culpable or responsible for wrongdoing, but what had Skip done that’d garner such an expression?
Had it not been Peter who failed the other?
Turning the man down when he’d been nothing but kind to Peter?
Honestly, the guilty one in this scenario was probably him. Skip had given so much, opened himself up so much, and Peter had the gall to reject him despite that, all because of a stupid little buzzing.
If Skip was guilty, then Peter was the culprit. The fiend who committed the crime and then framed the other to his own displeasure.)
Peter smiles a little and waves back, looking down at the text.
Skip: it’s cool if not! like no pressure or anything dude
Skip: idk i just feel like i kinda rushed things with u, and im sorry man
Skip: i didnt mean to pressure u like that, it wont happen again
Skip: promise.
Peter looks back up at the expectant blonde, offering another smile.
Einstein: sure :)
And it’s like nothing happened. Things are back to normal.
(Why did he spend those nights crying?
Feeling horribly stupid and miserable that he ruined everything between him and Skip?
Why did his spidey sense freak out like that?
Would it happen again?
He had so many questions.
He tried not to dwell on it.
It was a one-time thing anyway.)
It was not, in fact, a one-time thing.
They were back to their habit, now become routine.
Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. However, things were slightly different now. Peter couldn’t quite tell how.
Something about everything felt off. Like the world was slightly to the left. Like the skies weren’t really blue. Like the wind was dangerous.
It happened a few more times.
That is, Skip would try to make an advance, Peter’s spidey sense would freak out, and Skip would get mad at Peter turning him down.
(Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Peter remembers Stephanie.
He wonders how she’s doing.)
It was almost a habit by now.
(A habit takes approximately 28 days to form, Peter’s mind supplied as an unhelpful reminder.)
Peter was getting nervous. Anxious, even.
It didn’t help that Skip had met his friends-
(Peter took another sip of his coffee, calm. It was warm and comforting, and honestly, he loved this cafe more than any other. This place was a reprieve from his college life, where he could spend his time with his friends, his best friends, in comfort.
He’d been looking forward to visiting Skip less and less, not that he’d admit it to the group, and when asked, he’d assure them everything was fine with some cleverly played-up theatrics.
Miles slipped into the seat beside him, continuing his tangent about the cute girl in his class, Hailey or something, Peter couldn’t remember too clearly.
Harry had been listening along, flicking little droplets of water at Ned, who had been cowering behind MJ.
Danger!
And that’s when Peter saw him, staring through the window glass. He looked oddly… serious.
Face quickly melting into a smile and a small wave.
The cafe bells rang as the door was pushed open, jingling again as it shut behind Skip.
“Hey, Einstein!”
Peter’s shoulders hiked up to his ears. He didn’t want to see Skip right now. Not in front of his friends. Still, he put on an award-winning smile, turning to face the taller man.
“Hi, Skip,” he greets. The rest of the table had stopped talking, looking up at the tall blonde behind Peter.
“Who are these fine folks of yours?” Skip asks, eyes look strangely dark, sharp. For a second.
Ned elbows him with a whispered, ‘Introduce us!’
“R-right! So, um…” Peter looks across the table of his awestruck friends.
“These are my uhh, friends,” Harry twitches at that; Peter usually introduces them as his best friends, “This is Miles,”
A fist bump is offered, which Skip happily obliges.
“-Harry,” a handshake, “-MJ,” and she’s too far to reach him, so she politely waves. Skip waves back.
“-and Ned.”
Ned shakes Skip’s hand with two hands, beyond excited to meet the fabled boy that had their Peter enraptured for the past few months.
“Sweet! Nice to meet you guys. I’m Steven,” Skip says, grinning at the rest before his eyes turn downward to Peter, “And why haven’t I heard of them before?”
The spidey sense blares louder, a chill creeping down Peter’s spine.
“Oh, I… thought I did? Mention them?” Peter offers, and Skip eyes him warily, a quick glance that goes unnoticed by the rest, before clapping a hand on his shoulder and turning to the table once again.
“Do you guys mind if I join you?”
And a synchronies of ‘no,’ ‘of course not,’ and ‘feel free’ are fed in response.
Skip pulls a chair over, sliding it incredibly close to Peter’s and settling down in it. He swings an arm over the back of Peter’s chair, and the rest of their cafe meeting is under Skip’s watchful eye, subtle touches, and showy flirts.
It was as if the blonde were trying to lay claim to Peter in front of his friends.
His coffee tasted bitter, so bitter.
When his friends invite him out to the cafe again later that week, he turns them down.)
It felt like he was walking on eggs around the man, but despite all the strange feelings he got from Skip, he couldn’t leave.
Skip needed him.
(“I’d have killed myself by now,” Skip says, hazel eyes staring down Peter, “If I hadn’t met you, that is.”
Peter swallows around nothing, and the scratchy feeling of his tongue on the roof of his mouth hurts, but he doesn’t open it. He doesn’t know how to respond.
“Thanks for being there for me, Einstein,” Skip’s hand lands on his thigh, squeezing tight around the meat of the leg, but Peter doesn’t move, no, not when the other is baring his soul to him like this, “I need you… So, thanks. Really.”
Peter nods, having not blinked once. There are a million things he wants to say. He can hear his own heartbeat in his ears. It’s so much faster than Skip’s.
“Yeah,” Peter says, “Of course.”)
Skip trusted him.
(“You didn’t tell me you had other friends, Peter.”
Peter’s breath hitches in his throat. What does he say?
What can he say to not make Skip mad? To alleviate his anger, keep him from getting upset-
“But you’ll tell me next time you make a new one, right?”
Peter nods mutely, hair bouncing up and down, along with his shaking head.
“Yeah, good boy, I know you will, Einstein,” and Peter sighs a breath of relief at the nickname, his hammering heart slowing down, “I trust you, I really do, I just…”
“I get a little bit jealous sometimes, you know?” And Peter smiles up at Skip.
How could he not when the other man was being so honest with him? So open? He doesn’t understand why the other man needs to know about his friendships when they aren’t even dating, but Skip is so soft right now. So gentle. He didn’t want to change that.
“It’s okay, I get it. I’m sorry, Skip.”)
And yeah, maybe Skip didn’t always keep his promises, but he always apologized afterward, so that had to mean something, right?
Peter distantly wonders when their relationship became so… personal.
Finally, the weekend came, and their project was due.
Well, technically, it was due on Monday, but still, they chose to meet up on Friday (as they always do) and go over any last-minute touches together. Not that Skip believed they needed any; he trusted his Einstein’s hard work and effort, and Peter preened at the praise.
Skip was in the kitchen, grabbing a couple of glasses of water for himself and Peter as he returned to the latter.
“So, are we all good?” Skip asks, to which Peter smiles widely.
(Partially at finally being done after weeks of work, partially at the idea of not having to meet up with Skip again once they finish…
Since when had meeting up with Skip become such a negative thing?)
“Yes, sir, we are!”
Peter takes the chance to take the water Skip had been holding out for him, sipping it carefully.
And Skip grins that perfect tooth smile of his.
“I know we’re basically done now, but…”
Skip rubs the back of his neck, the way he always does before asking Peter something.
His spidey sense flares in warning.
“Stay over one last night? Just to enjoy each other’s company, y’know?”
Oh? That’s it?
(Honestly, Peter wanted to say no. He wanted to go on patrol, swinging through the city with loud whoops, then go home, shower, and sleep.
He just wanted to be done.
But Skip looked so hopeful.
And it’s not like they were really going to have to hang out after this project; whatever romantic thing they had kinda fizzled out on Peter’s side a while ago.
And it’s only one more night.)
“Sure, Skip,” Peter smiles softly. The other man seems to light up, and Peter can’t help but feel that he made the correct choice.
But maybe that was the sentiment in him speaking.
“Great! I’ll go cook us a meal if you wanna take a shower first?”
Peter nods, submitting then exiting out of their project for the final time, closing his laptop.
He slides it into his worn duffel bag, digging around for his spare clothes and…
It isn’t there.
His senses buzz louder.
(Peter ignores it.)
His heart rate picks up, and he quickly finds the zip for the hidden pocket and pulls it open.
Okay, phew.
The suit and gear are still there.
His clothes aren’t, though.
He zips it back closed, covering up the flap and moving the laptop so it’s positioned over it.
“Skip?” He calls over to the blonde, who looks up from where he is chopping something on the counter, probably a carrot or some other vegetable, by the sound of it.
“Yeah?”
“I think I uh- I think I forgot to bring my change of clothes somehow. I always remember, and I just- I don’t know how I forgot today. I swear I packed it in the morning, maybe I, I don’t know-”
“Ah ah ah,” Skip interrupts, a complacent, almost pleased expression on his face, “Don’t worry about it, Einstein, you can borrow something from mine.”
Peter’s nerves settle (though he isn’t sure when they picked up to begin with).
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t even worry about it, man… You know where the closet is?”
His mind drifts back to the large sliding closet door in Skip’s room.
“Yes, thank you, Skip.”
“‘Course, Einstein. Go wash up.”
And that he does.
He pulls out a large t-shirt and some basketball shorts from Skip’s closet and makes his way over to the bathroom.
One step into the bathroom and his senses scream in alarm, so he paused for a second, looking around.
Nothing was there?
He takes another step.
Being watched.
Where?
He looks around, doing a full spin in the bathroom.
There’s no holes anywhere or windows. No cubbies where someone could hide or pockets where someone could peek through.
It’s a perfectly normal bathroom.
So he did what he usually does (or at least what he had usually done lately when around Skip) and ignored it, shutting the bathroom door.
And he continued to ignore it, even as he stripped bare and folded his clothes on top of the sink, Skip’s clean pair sitting on the toilet cover.
He continued to ignore it even as he stepped into the warm shower. (Continuing to ignore it as it felt like spiders crawled over his skin.) Even when he finally stepped out, scrubbing himself dry and putting on the shirt and pants-
(He wouldn’t borrow boxers; that’s gross, and god forbid he wears his own underwear again after being out and about, sweating all day.
He’ll just have to go commando, he decides.)
-and wiping down his hair with the towel, his spidey sense doesn’t calm. In fact, he might even argue it’s getting louder.
Worse.
But again, it always does around Skip, so what’s new, right?
Peter comes out of the bathroom, steam following him. He walks over to his duffle, bending over to place his folded clothes inside.
When he stands upright, he finds Skip seated at the dinner table, quietly staring at him. Peter offers an awkward smile, bare feet pattering against the wooden floor as he makes his way over.
(Peter feels so acutely aware of everything right now. What’s going on?)
He sits at the creaky, old, wooden dinner table with Skip, and the chair groans under his weight.
In front of him is a plate of rice, pork, and beans.
Skip continues to watch Peter, and for a second, Peter can’t hear anything but his heartbeat and Skip’s breathing.
It’s slow, calm, patient, waiting.
For what?
Peter had no clue.
A pit was beginning to form in his stomach.
A bundle of anxiety and nerves.
Peter’s eyes break away from Skip’s, flickering down to the plate in front of him.
He wasn’t so hungry anymore.
“Eat.”
His eyes flit back up to Skip.
He felt like he wanted to cry.
Why?
Nothing has happened.
There’s nothing to cry over.
“Eat, Peter.”
Peter nods slowly. Carefully.
“Thank you for the food, Skip.”
And like nothing just happened, Skip smiles widely-
(Why does he always smile that wide?)
-nodding in approval.
“Of course, Einstein, dig in. I made it just the way you like it.”
Peter nods again, another slow, tentative movement.
His fingers reach down, wrapping around the spoon almost mechanically. His movements are stiff as he spoon-feeds himself bite after bite, constantly reminding himself.
Chew, chew, chew, swallow. Pick up another bite, chew, chew, chew, swallow.
Peter doesn’t stop until his plate is clear. Skip nods at him, proud, and Peter feels himself bristle at the unspoken praise.
Should he be proud?
What is going on right now?
Peter tries to not dwell on it as he cleans up after himself then returns to the bathroom again so he can go through his usual hygiene routine. Once he’s out, Skip goes in to take his shower and go through his own routine.
As they always do.
Peter heads into Skip’s room (Peter was warned early on that he was never allowed to go into Skip’s parents rooms) and slides into his side of the sheets, the side facing away from the doorway.
As he always does.
He listens as the showerhead turns on, stays on for an undefined amount of time, then turns off.
Peter’s senses spike drastically like they never have before. He wants to leave. It’s one night, he reminds himself.
He trusts you, his sentiment murmurs.
He needs you, his sentiment says.
One night, his sentiment whispers.
And he nods to himself.
One night.
It’s not like he’s never slept over before… so what’s there to be afraid of now?
Then the bathroom door creaks open, and a sense of foreboding creeps over Peter.
But it’s okay, right?
Skip would never hurt Peter, right?
He listens as the other slowly, deliberately, oh so deliberately paces into the room, closing the door behind him with a loud creak.
The bed shifts, and he feels Skip slide into his side of the sheets.
As he always does.
He feels Skip turn, and he expects the other man to continue to toss and turn for a bit, as he always does.
Except.
He doesn’t.
Skip’s fingers reach out, brushing against Peter’s spine, and a disgusted shiver rolls down his body (for what it’s worth, he tries to hide it.)
“Goodnight, Einstein," whispers Skip.
Peter doesn’t respond, relief washing over him as Skip retracts his hand, and he feels the bed shift as the other turns over to sleep.
He sighs.
See?
Not so bad.
And with that final thought, he slowly drifts off, ignoring the droning of his spidey sense.
He wouldn’t talk to him again after Monday anyway.
Heat.
Searing heat.
It’s hot.
Why is it so hot?
Was it this hot before?
I’m boiling alive.
I’m being shaken so much.
I just…
I just want to sleep.
Stop, please.
I’m tired.
I’m…
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Pain strikes swiftly and suddenly. It burns and aches and throbs, and I open my eyes. Something isn’t right. It’s still dark out.
What???
Where am I?
A grunt behind me.
A bruising hand grips my waist, and pulls, and the foreign object is filling, and it hurts, and it’s dark, and it’s hot, and I’m scared, and what is going on??????
A groan.
I hear heavy breathing by my ear, my skin is wet with sweat, and hands, large hands, hold me in place.
Where has all my strength gone?
Can’t I just push him away?
He reels back once again, breath strained with effort, filled with pleasure, licking against my neck as if my sweat were his own personal aphrodisiac.
He shoves all the way back in and pain strikes through me, I see white.
A pathetic, horrible sound is pushed out of me.
“Yeah, you like that, don’t you?”
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
No.
No. no. no. no. no.
no
I dont like this one bit
get away from me
get AWAY from me
and i push and shove and it’s like im fighting a stone wall
a great pyramid
an endless mountain
it doesnt budge
it moves back when it wants to
and pushes in again when it wants to
and i am stuck here
being held in place
THUMP
THUMP
THUMP
(Whether that’s the sound of his movement against my body or my own heartbeat, I can no longer tell.
Perhaps both.)
I cant move
I cant speak
I cant fight
so i cry
and with every thrust of his body up against mine, more tears are pushed out from me
and every sound from his is mirrored by one of my own
of pain
I cry a river but he doesnt stop
He speaks down to me like im a toy
an object
any objection i make is met with another thrust, groan, or laugh
laughter
and laughter
and laughter
what part of this is so funny to you?
THUMP
THUMP
THUMP
stop
STOP
but he doesnt
he gets only louder
grunting and panting and humping
his grimy hands roam my body, leaving filth where they trail, reaching, spread, like an infection, a corruption
my voice is not mine anymore; its but a feeble thing that croaks out when im squeezed, almost punctuating every movement he makes
like an accessory
like HIS accessory
THUMP
THUMP
THUMP
and its hot. so hot, as his blood boils against my skin and who am i?
did i live my whole life for this?
is this all i amount to?
an object to be used
it hurts
it hurts
it hurts so much
so so much
i want it to stop
it doesnt
it doesnt end
THUMP
THUMP
THUMP
he grunts and groans and mewls up against my ear, chasing his own release desperately
panting like a dog, he does
like an animal
and its so much
so much
so much pain
so much heat
so much movement
but he doesnt stop
he keeps going
THUMP
THUMP
THUMP
again
and again
and again, once more
faster
and even faster
and i just know im bruising from how hard he holds me in place
and the friction burns against me, leaving rashes that nearly bleed
THUMP
THUMP
THUMP
and when he finishes, his wretched infection bleeding into my insides, it’s too late
ive been killed
and as he pulls out and chuckles to himself, stepping away to shower,
not without branding my forehead with his dry, chapped lips
i wither
i rot
im no longer a person, no
i am a shell
a husk
how will i face anything
anyone
with what i have become
i am but an object
with his retreating heat, hed taken my soul
and with his boiling blood, hed burnt a hole through me
from the inside out
hed ruined me
stained
forever
and i want to get up and run away
but
I find myself frozen.
Frozen in fear.
The tears against my face are cooling, the pillow soaked through with my sweat and tears.
Please.
Please move.
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
His heart is thundering in his ears, and his chest is heaving with heavy, exhausted breaths; his body is on fire, and he’s burning.
He’s burning alive.
Please.
His body begs again, weak, tired, betrayed.
Please move.
Leave.
Get out.
Get up, Spider-Man.
Get up.
But right now, he isn’t Spider-Man, no.
Right now, Spider-Man is out patrolling the streets.
Right now, Spider-Man is stopping bad guys.
Right now, he’s Einstein.
And right now, Einstein is Stephanie.
Around an hour later (maybe more, maybe less, Peter had no clue), when the sun breaks through the dusty, cracked blinds, Peter finally stirs (not that he’d slept at all, he’d been lying there, motionless, like a corpse).
His body is sore and aching (if he can even call it his anymore).
Skip is asleep across the mattress from him.
He doesn’t spend a moment longer, tearing himself away from the sheets, pulling on the closest anything he can find, and makes for the door. His duffle bag is hastily grabbed and thrown over his shoulder as he rushes out, clothes on backward, and hair scruffy and clumped with sweat.
(Peter doesn’t wait to see if his frantic departure has alerted the other man.)
His face is puffy from crying, and he just knows he looks insane with the stares people are giving him as he shoves his way by, stumbling with two left feet as he forgets to apologize.
But he can’t open his mouth right now.
No, especially not now.
Not when all he feels is vomit surfacing.
It takes an eternity for Peter to finally crash into his door, panting and heavy against it, leaning on it in an empty hallway.
One that reverberates his every breath.
Every creak of his bones, every cry of his lungs.
He sits, heaving against his doorway for a moment, catching his breath because despite how heavily he’s gasping right now, he can’t breathe.
He needs to get inside his apartment.
Where it’s safe.
Where he can’t hear the slap of skin on skin, where it’s nice and cool, and he can shower and erase the marks on his body.
The stains on his soul.
He hastily zips open his duffle, hands scrounging around for his apartment keys, the sharp metal cutting against his fingertips, but he ignores the abrupt sting to wrap his fingers around the key firmly.
With a swift yank, he drives it into the lock, fumbling a few times, fingers now slick with blood, cut tearing open once more before it’s able to heal, before he’s able to twist the knob open, except it doesn’t open.
He doesn’t have the patience for this right now he needs to get in, NOW.
He bashes his shoulder against the door once, twice, forcefully shoving his way inside and scattering his bag across the floor as the door swings open with vicious aggression, splintering as it bounces against the back wall.
(In the back of his head, he’s aware he’s going to regret it later, wishing he opened the door like a normal person, but he’s not a normal person right now; no, he’s an abomination with a tar black soul corrupted by the devil himself.)
The door wobbles back and forth from the force of the blow behind Peter as he runs to his bathroom, slipping again over his two left feet and hands sliding off the doorknob a couple more times before finally, finally, he wraps his useless digits around the stupid bulbous thing and yanks the door open, shouldering himself inside before the door fully opens and pulling it back shut.
It takes the click of the lock before relief washes over him.
He tears the clothes, Skip’s clothes, off his sweaty (filthy, wretched, tainted, horrible, disgusting-) body, reaching for the shower hose and turning it on, stepping under the icy spray with not a moment's delay.
He shivers and wants to back up and get out and away from the cold but he doesn’t.
Peter needs to clean this filth off him.
Peter needs to be pure again.
He has to be.
He scrubs, and scrubs, his skin turning red and rashes beginning to form, but it’s not enough, no, he can still feel the searing heat, hear the deep grunts, the panting against his ear, the feel of tongue on his neck.
He turns up the temperature of the water.
It’s near boiling now, burning, but it’s not enough.
It’s nowhere near as hot as Skip’s touch on his skin.
Skip’s hard iron grip around his waist.
And he wants to tear off his skin and escape his body, he wants to run away and hide at the same time.
He slips and falls down, and there’s so much movement, sound, he can’t breathe. Why can’t he breathe? He takes in a deep breath and gags around nothing; a cactus is in his throat and blooming, its spines depriving, hoarding, stealing the air itself from Peter, and his vision blurs, and he collapses hard against the marble floor.
There is a gaping hole in his chest.
A gaping hole between his legs.
He can’t breathe.
He can’t.
Can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
It’s like someone wound tape over and over and over my chest, over and over and over again.
And with each inhale I take, they pull it tighter.
And I can’t breathe, and I’m scared.
And I want to cry, but there’s no more tears left to cry.
And the water is hot, but it’s still not as hot as his hands.
It doesn’t burn me the way he does, but it also doesn’t burn away the filth.
It’s not enough.
will it ever be enough?
im so tired
im scared
what do i do?
do i tell somebody?
why cant i breathe?
why does it hurt?
why does everything hurt?
when will it stop hurting
im scared
im so scared
im so scared and
alone
im alone
i dont want to be alone right now
i dont want to be alone right now
i dont want to be alone right now
i’m burning
it’s itchy
get me out of my skin
GET ME OUT OF MY SKIN
get OUT
GET OUT
GET OUT
GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT-
Peter’s arms thrash outward, slamming against the glass door of his shower and the marble concrete of his wall.
(The door shatters, and a sizeable fist-sized crater now adorns the marble walls.)
His heart is pounding, hammering, screaming, crying, hurting-
Where has his heart gone?
There is a hole in his chest.
There is a hole between his legs.
His fingers fumble around blindly, feeling, reaching, needing, wanting. And when they feel cold, humid glass, they wrap tightly around the object; the feeling grounds him as it cuts into his palm.
He holds it up to inspect it, blood seeping from it as the shower overhead cleans his sins.
Yes, Peter thinks, this will cleanse him.
He looks down at the aching pit between his legs; some crusts of dry blood, fading bruises, and a yellowing slime make their way down to the shower drain.
But it’s not enough, no.
He still feels it in him.
Moving, thrusting, enveloping.
And with one wide swing, his arm arches over head and stabs into his thigh, right beside his gaping writhing mass.
He carves out his skin around the bruise, and yes, with this he will be pure.
Clean.
But they’re healing.
Quicker now that it’s been an hour or so (though to him, it was no shorter than an eternity on top of another eternity on top of another).
They fade when they heal.
Where do they go?
Back into his skin?
No…
No, no, no, no.
He couldn’t let that happen.
He needed to get these marks out.
Now.
And he continues to carve away at the inside of his legs, continues even after the hot water runs out, and he’s sitting in the freezing cold.
He continues even when his body grumbles for food, his joints ache for rest, and his healing factor slows out of strain.
But it’s not enough.
It’s never enough.
It will never be enough.
He spends the rest of the night crying into the shower, tears taken by the spray.
The grout in his tile is stained.
Reddish brown, an ugly mixture, kind of faded like a salmon, but still keeping that rust color.
The deepened tones of blood.
He’s unsure if red is his favorite color anymore.
Spider-Man does not go on patrol that night.
Or the night after.
Spider-Man is busy.
Busy being Peter.
And Peter…
Peter is busy being caught in a loop.
A loop of waking up, showering, eating, showering, and then sleeping.
(And he scrubs harder each time.)
And then he wakes up again.
Showers.
Eat.
Showers.
Sleeps.
And it continues.
On the good days, Peter spends them holed up in his room, crying and watching movies, attaching himself to fictional characters and imagining what it’d be like to be them.
(To be a mutant turtle, living in the sewers, not having to worry about interacting with the topside world because he could just stay in the sewers, where people didn’t exist.)
On the good days, Peter would text his friends, treating them like everything was normal, pretending to be too busy to hang out.
(peter-man: sorry guys, i just
peter-man: i have a lot of work, y’know?
diversity hire: dw dude we get it, just call when you’re free, yeah?)
On the good days, Peter would spend hours reading books to escape reality, crying through the sad and the happy parts alike. Anything to distract.
But.
And there’s always a ‘but.’
On the bad days, Peter spends hours in the shower, cutting and picking and prodding at his skin, scrubbing and scrubbing away. At mold that has grown under his skin, embedding itself into his veins.
On the bad days, Peter wonders how he could let himself get used like that. How he hadn’t spoken up sooner or reported it to anyone. How he let himself run home like the coward he was. How he didn’t stop Skip. What was the point of his stupid goddamn super strength if he couldn’t push away one guy?
On the bad days, Peter fantasizes about running into traffic. About not catching himself on the next swing. About going for a swim off the deep side of a bridge. Dreaming of how nice it would be to no longer exist.
On the bad days, Peter sits on his rooftop, staring out into a colorless sky. He sees dirty weeds in the cracked pavement and is disgusted by them. He heard crying children with their single mothers and wished they would shut up.
And when the clouds cry, dimming the world evermore, the sky bleeds, oranges and reds melting down into each other.
And Peter turns away from the sunset because the orange skies make him think of orange doors and orange doors keep him at night.
(He hates the color orange.)
All-encompassing greys that control his everything.
He wonders when the world has become so dull.
When had it lost its color?
On the third week of not going out as Spider-Man, he gets a text.
Peter doesn’t get the text, no, no.
Spider-Man does.
(xxx)-xxxx-5592: come to this address
The address isn’t one he recognizes, so Peter doesn’t respond, but clicking on the text makes the little ‘Read’ notification appear, so the anon already knows he’s seen it.
A rumble of disappointment seeps through his being. It was obvious that would happen, yet he’d been so out of his mind lately he could barely tell what was going on anymore.
In his delirium, Peter hears Spider-Man’s phone buzz again.
(xxx)-xxxx-5592: please, Spidey
He sighs.
Peter sets down Spider-Man’s phone, turns it, and stares at the duffle bag near the center of his room.
He hadn’t touched it.
Not since…
Not since Skip.
Peter bites his lip.
It’s just a bag, it won’t hurt him.
His spidey sense isn’t ringing either.
But his heart… his heart, it’s racing. Pounding in his ears. Loud.
Peter steps closer and, for the first time in almost three weeks, touches the duffle bag and…
That’s it.
It’s a bag.
He isn’t hurt, and nothing happens (he’s not sure what he expected to happen), but he sighs a breath of relief.
Peter is still careful as he searches around the inside of his bag, pulling out his laptop and lifting that small, hidden flap. He pulls the zipper open, and there it is. In all its crumpled glory.
Spider-Man.
He pulls out the rest of the suit, not even needing to sniff it before deciding to give it a quick spin in the cycle.
About an hour passes before he’s suited up ready to go.
(But the suit is so tight against his skin, so revealing. Had it always been this revealing? He needs to cover it up, somehow. He needs to hide where he’s been stained. The people can’t know Spider-Man is filthy.
And so he tugs on a large, loose sweater over his suit.
As well as an unzipped jacket over that one.
And then a pair of sweats just for good measure.)
Peter takes a deep breath, calming his fraying nerves.
It’s gonna be okay. He’s gonna be alright. Just swing by, see what’s up, deal with it, then leave. This was a great way to get back into Spider-Manning! Just… just start slow.
And he does.
He slowly makes his way over to the window, running his fingers over the familiar fabric in his hands. Peter takes one more deep breath, slowly sliding the mask over his head and pulling it into place.
His stomach is swirling with anxiety, but what’s there to be anxious about?
Nothing is happening.
Calm down.
But it writhes and squirms, and it feels like just before going up on a large stage or right before a really important test worth half your grade. But it shouldn’t feel like that; no, he’s just doing what he always does.
The way he always did.
(Though maybe it was the fear that things wouldn’t be as they always would that held him back.
Maybe it was the fear that he’d been changed so much, a foreigner in his own skin, that he’d never be able to return to what he once was.
What he should be.)
Peter takes a step.
Then he takes a step as Spider-Man.
And another.
(See? It’s not so bad.
You can do it Spider-Man.
You can do it.)
And with one more deep breath, Spider-Man takes a few paces backwards, up against the wall perpendicular to his window, winding himself up mentally.
(You can do it.)
No. I can’t do it.
I’m not ready to go out.
(You can do it.
C’mon Spider-Man.
You can do it.)
And he feels the edges of his vision blurring, but he blinks through the tears regardless.
(Was leaving his room always this difficult?)
His heart is thumping.
He’s scared to go out.
Scared to be outside.
Away from the safety of his secluded room where he can lock the door and no one can barge in and where he doesn’t have to feel the touch of people or feel their stares on him or feel like he’s plummeting from a skyscraper into a void with no return, and-
(You can do it.
Spider-Man always gets up.)
And he’s crying; he knows he is.
But he can do it.
He can do it.
It’s going to be hard.
It’s going to hurt.
But he can do it.
Because he’s Spider-Man.
And Spider-Man always gets up.
Spider-Man always gets up.
So he does.
He moves quickly enough that he doesn’t let himself think about it as he leaps out the window, and for one dreadful, stagnant second, it feels like all his nightmares have come true; this was a horrible, horrible decision, and now he's out in the open again, exposed, and despite all the layers he’s wearing, he feels naked, so, so naked and…
And he sees the city lights.
And he forgot how pretty it was up here in the night.
The floor is rapidly approaching. A deep, dark part of him wants to see what’ll happen if he just lets it continue, maybe test his luck and see if this height would be enough to silence his senses, but no.
No, he can do this.
Spider-Man can do this.
His arm stretches up, and with a quick ‘thwip,’ a line of web pulls taught, and he’s swinging.
Soaring.
He had forgotten how nice it was to be up here.
And when he lets go of his web and floats up, he’s again tempted to let himself fall, but he catches himself just so he can experience the swing one more time.
Then he flies upward, lets go, and he’s falling, falling.
Thwip.
Back up, he goes.
It’s nice up here.
Safe.
Away from boiling hands and lurid eyes that undress him with lust.
Thwip.
Away from bruises on his hips and panting in his ear.
Thwip.
The only panting he can hear is his own through the strain of each swing.
Thwip.
He’s a few weeks out of practice, but he finds that it’s okay. He’s doing fine. He’s doing okay, up here, head in the clouds, body out of reach from the withering infection below.
Up here, in the dark of night, where no one can see him, he’s safe.
It’s around 15 minutes later when he lands on the rooftop of the address he’d been summoned to. Yes, Spider-Man has been on a lot of rooftops, but he remembered this one in particular.
He could never forget this one.
(The one he couldn’t save.)
He walks to the edge slowly and sits down, looking out across the cityscape of the night. He remembers this exact view from this exact angle.
His spidey sense gives off a gentle buzz, a small notification that lets him know a person is coming, a woman, by the sound of her footsteps and her familiar scent, and despite being aware of it, her approaching, that is, he tries not to flinch.
Spider-Man is not very successful.
The woman notices but doesn’t say anything, thankfully.
He realizes then that she had not been in any danger, no, not at all; she did not need him. He needed her, and she had reached out because of that.
(If he had to bet on it, his lack of patrols the past month might be what caught her attention.)
He had no idea how she had known to reach out to him and how she had known he was in his time of need.
(The gaping hole in his chest feels like it shrinks, though, and becomes just a little bit more manageable.)
He had almost forgotten he’d given her his number, truthfully.
(When he had given it to her at the time, he’d expected her to call him in her time of need.
He almost finds it humorous that she reached out for him.)
“Spidey,” Stephanie greets.
“Stephanie,” he returns. She’s surprised he remembers her name even after all these months. He is, too.
She doesn’t say anything. She’s waiting. Waiting for him. And he appreciates it. His voice cracks when he begins.
“Everyone knows who I am, Stephanie.”
And he doesn’t smile, so she doesn’t either. She can’t see his expression, but he’s sure she can see the wet tear stains on his mask, though the droopy expression of his countenance is likely reflected through his expressive eye lens if he were to be honest.
He thinks back to the times he spent with Skip.
Of the many, many times when he had to convince himself he loved the man.
(He had to look at a picture, the very first one they took together, smiling, Skip’s arm wrapped around Peter, and convince himself that he wanted to be in a relationship with this man.
Convince himself that he was looking forward to meeting up with him. Even on the days he was upset because of Skip, he would still swing there to meet with him and spend the day crying in Skip’s arms, because of Skip.
Convince himself that he could forgive any broken promise because he was the bigger person, and second chances are okay. And third, and fourth, and fifth…
Convince himself that despite all the bad there was, there was still good! It might have been hard to face the man, scared of what he might do every time Peter said no, but also he would spend hours listening to Peter ramble about things. He would respond no matter what time Peter texted.
Convince himself that even though Skip would make inappropriate jokes about the things he’d do to Peter in front of his friends, it was fine because Skip would always apologize over text. And talk about how he’d change… even if he never did.
Convince himself that having some jealousy issues was no big deal, even if Skip got mad when he would hang out with other friends and demand to know what they did together, and then would get jealous despite nothing with even a semblance of romance taking place.
Convince himself that it was romantic having Skip get jealous over classmates. His own best friends. His Aunt May- because he gave more attention to her than he ever did to Skip and because Skip was unloved by his parents, he needed Peter.
Needed Peter to give him what he never had.
Both emotionally and monetarily.
And Peter was by no means rich, far from it, but he’d still provide what he could for Skip, who lived in a run-down, dirty apartment that had his spidey sense ringing the moment he stepped into the hall.
But he went with it because it was for Skip.
Even if it meant Peter didn’t always get to hang out with his friends when they invited him. Or make his rent on time. Or get the textbook he needed for class.
There were a few days where he went without food because of stress, going as far as to upchuck anything he had eaten before, so he felt it wasn’t worth spending more money on food if he were just going to vomit it out anyway-
But it’s okay.
Because it was for Skip.
And Skip always thanked him. He was grateful and hugged him, and if Peter were lucky, it would even score him a peck on the cheek, so…
…So even though it was bad, it was also good?
But he was so scared, so, so scared of disappointing the other. He didn’t want Skip to be mad at him, so he’d do anything, everything in his power to keep him happy-
Is that… normal?
Was their relationship normal?
Peter didn’t know.
Neither did Spider-Man.)
Of the many times he let his sentimental side guide him into serving Skip. Yes, at first, he had a schoolboy-like crush; there was no denying that.
But had he truly loved the man?
And honestly, Spider-Man doesn’t know.
Neither does Peter.
Is that normal? He has no clue.
“I don’t know if I loved him,” he, nonetheless, admits to Stephanie, “But he trusted me and said he needed me; therefore, I trusted him.”
He knows that she knows that this is not about a break-up. From his peripherals, he sees her eyes widen as Stephanie realizes the pair might have just one more thing in common compared to the first time they met.
And when Stephanie looks at him, really looks at him, like she’s seeing him right through the mask, he breathes a sigh of relief. Because he’s being seen.
Truly being seen.
As a person.
As Peter.
Not an object to be held down and used.
To fulfill some twisted fantasy.
No, it’s just Peter.
His heart is pounding loudly in his ears, mask dampening again under fresh trails of tears. Stephanie shifts closer. Close enough to be comforting but far enough for him to move away if he so wanted.
She raises a hand, and he flinches just a bit before she slows her movement, pausing right before his mask.
And it’s like they’re reenacting their first meeting nearly 7 months ago.
“Can I touch you?” Stephanie asks. It takes Spider-Man all his strength to keep from sobbing loudly.
“Yeah- yes, you can, uh-” and he ducks his head for her. Her fingers sweep over the webbing of the mask, fingertips feeling around his neck (Spider-Man stiffens, but he trusts Stephanie, and Stephanie trusts him) before finding that hidden edge.
She looks up from her ventures, eyes in quiet questioning. He nods mutely, and her fingertips curl around the edges of the worn fabric as she slowly, so slowly, meticulously curls the mask up his neck… chin… nose… eyes… and it’s off.
The mask folds neatly into her lap.
And there is no alien or man-spider. There is no mutant with 500 eyes or a split in half head. No Spider-Man.
There is just… Peter.
Yeah.
It’s just Peter.
And Stephanie.
Peter and Stephanie.
And Peter, for the first time in a month, can breathe.
She wraps her arms around him, slow, careful, giving him plenty of time and space to move away.
But he doesn’t.
He leans into it, wrapping his own arms around her.
And she’s crying into his shoulder, and he’s crying into hers.
And he realizes he doesn’t hate being touched, no, not at all.
This is what he wanted, what he needed.
A hug.
A real, grounding, tight hug.
A touch that reminded him he was still human.
That despite the rot that held him prisoner, he could still be loved.
That despite the pain that kept reminding him, he could move on.
Stephanie’s skin is hot against his in the cold chill of the night breeze, but it's a comforting warmth.
That of a blanket.
Maybe it’s the sentiment in him, but with each second he holds onto Stephanie, he finds a little more Peter and loses a little more Einstein, and judging by the way she tightens her hold on him, maybe Stephanie is losing some of her Einstein, too.
(He wishes he did more the first time he met her.)
“In the streets, they need you. They need Spider-Man,” says Stephanie, and Peter remembers that. Remembers a sobbing Stephanie who told him to protect others out there. Tasked him to be the savior of the stained.
“...But Spider-Man needs you.”
And Peter leans back from the hug, blinking at her.
“You,” she reiterates, staring him dead in the eyes, snot and tears running down her face, but he’s sure he looks no different.
She stands, wiping her face on her sleeves, and he copies while Stephanie bends over to pick up the folded mask, placing it in his hands with a, “Don’t forget that, alright, Spidey?”
She turns and walks back over to the door to the roof, softly pulling it open.
Spider-Man doesn’t know how to respond, having not moved from where he stood up, quiet.
“Peter,” he provides.
The woman pauses, looking back at Spider-Man.
Looking at Peter.
A young man who looks years younger.
A young man who risks himself every night for New York City.
A young man who needed to be reminded of how to be loved.
Peter, who was but a reflection of Stephanie.
“Steph,” she returns.
Because she, too, is but a reflection of Peter.
And when she steps back inside the apartment complex, she still watches him from a small framed window as he slips on his mask for the millionth time, but definitely far from the last.
And Peter…
Peter walks back to the edge of the roof.
And this time, Peter is not Stephanie, no.
And this time, he’s not Einstein either.
Not at all.
Because Peter.
Peter is Spider-Man.
New York City sees Spider-Man again for the first time in a month.
And though Spider-Man can’t hear it over the sound of his own heartbeat, the wind whipping in his ears, the panting of his own exertion, the people below cheer at the sight of their hero.
(With no threats accompanying them too!)
And when he goes out on patrol, if he punches certain offenders just a bit harder than he should, who would know?
And on the days when he’s worried he’s too late and wants to hang up his suit, give up on everything, and wither away, he doesn’t.
Because New York City needs Spider-Man.
But also-
Because Spider-Man needs Peter.
Peter isn’t sure if he’ll ever be okay again.
There is a gaping maw between his legs, and he hates pork and the color orange, and if he’s left alone in the silence too long, he can hear things, left alone in the dark, and he can see things, there are scars on the inside of his thighs that never fully heal, that he hopes he can pass as stretch marks, and he’s still scared to tell Aunt May about what happened, he’s not sure if he ever plans to, but…
But he learns how to breathe again.
Teaches himself how to walk again.
And so what if he’s a little sentimental, because now…
Now he remembers what colors are, and he lets them sink into his soul because they are beautiful.
So beautiful.
Now he listens to birds and cars and single mothers with their children, and janitors late to work, and dogs barking in the distance and feels joy.
The joy of giving himself the chance to live again. To see the life of the world around him once more.
And it’s cheesy, sure, but he doesn’t care.
Because he talks to his best friends, and they love him and they understand. They accept him with his now permanent stains, and they treat him like nothing’s changed.
Despite his filth and rot and corrupted core, he is still one of them.
He always has been.
And there are bad days where he can’t find the energy to get out of bed, days where he spends it busying himself with work so he won’t remember the sensations, and days where he starts fantasizing about death once more.
But that’s okay.
He’s still learning.
He will continue to learn.
There is a gaping hole between his legs.
But he likes to think that the one in his chest gets smaller by the day.
And when the sky bleeds, he finds himself commiserating with the dead as the orange hue seeps into his being, overtaking his mind-
And when the clouds weep, he too fades, dissolving into tears, into the background, into irrelevance and pain, spending hours on blood-stained grout tile-
He reminds himself to get back up again.
Because Spider-Man always gets back up again.
And so does Peter.