Lilac in the Leaves

And how you still love me (regardless of what I've done)

Excuse the peculiar analogies.

Chapter title from "Castle (You're so lilac)" by Ricky Jamaraz.

CWs:
Detailed depictions of grief and mourning
Loss/character death
Self-Hatred
Body Dysphoria
Mentions of knives

Tell me if I've missed anything else, please; enjoy!!

Word count: 5,405
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Gwen

Gwen Stacy, for all her grandeur and instinctual self-preservation and perseverance, is as fragile as the snapping glass of alizarin crimson bangles in stark sunlight. Tears aren't dripping down her cheeks but maybe she wishes they were. That physical grief would have been easier to handle than this. Maybe she could've wiped those tears away and been done with the whole thing. Imagine an ideal world where emotions could be processed so simply.

Instead, she's sitting here at her desk, the worn back of her chair cushioning her back as she stares at the rising sun from behind her window. It's not that she didn't sleep last night because she did. It's just her ritual at this point.

In the early days after Peter's passing, she would climb the steps to the roof of the apartment complex at the break of dawn ( a result of an endlessly restless night) and she'd watch the sun rise and cast glimmering light against the windows of the buildings. It would reflect back off, stark white against deep blues and hues of paints and bricks. Every time, every day, it rose without failure, even with clouds in the way to dim it, even with the downpour of rain as accompaniment. And, matching its resilience, its consistency, she'd drag herself out of bed, sick with grief, on all the bad days because there were no good days in sight, and Gwen would rise with it.

The sun reminds her of Peter. Maybe because she saw it rise for weeks after he had died, maybe because it was somehow always reflecting off his glasses when she looked directly at him, maybe because there was an absence of it the night he died and became absent. She doesn't have to justify her memories because, no matter the meanings, no matter the poetics burrowed into them, Peter's not coming back. No matter how many more times she watches the sunrise, waits and waits and waits, wishes for a few moments to have him back, tell him that she loves him and he means so much to her and that he didn't have to do what he did- Peter Parker, her Peter Parker, is dead. Six feet in the ground and never coming back.

The first tear drops but at least it's not over Miles. Miles. She can't even stand to think about him after what she did, the look of utter hate in his eyes the last time she looked into them. It felt like poison to even want him anymore. And perhaps, that's because it is. Gwen had been absolute in her decision. Miles couldn't save his father- there isn't a point in fighting their fate and trying to best it. So, she'd left him in the dust and she hated herself for it. She'd balmed her wounds with the reasoning that she was protecting them both, that this was for the best and he would thank her later, when they were still alive and numb towards each other.

Her eyes, teary and blurry-visioned, focus on her reflection in the window. She's changed but in ways so she doesn't recognise herself. There are no tells of exhaustion beneath her eyes, the paleness isn't as prominent and her sharp features are rounded. She looks more like what she is now- a young girl, torn between two negatives. She detests and loves it all at once.

Her dysphoria has been dormant for the past two months. She hasn't really had time to think about it much amidst all that has happened. Her body image hasn't mattered much in the grand scheme of things and so, therefore, it hadn't bothered her. She supposes it would be a healthy mentality to adopt outside of chaotic living conditions- she'll work on getting there. But, right now, as the sun starts to rise and Gwen is left with all her flaws and her breaking emotional stability, she sees every part of her that she hates- including the physical. When she stares, all she can see is the dejected boy from a lifetime ago, trapped in a place, in a body that was not his, trying desperately to convince himself that he was okay. She tries to tell herself that she was a girl then too (she was, she was) however, the thoughts just don't sit right.