New York at four in the morning feels like an alternate universe.
There's less cars, that's for sure. And yes, it is the city that never sleeps, but it feels as if tonight is the night where all is eerily calm, where criminals take a break from their illegal activities and stragglers from nearby bars haven't quite left their seats yet for their shameful walk back home. It feels as if everyone has hit the hay for the weekend, which is weird for a Saturday night (well, now Sunday morning) for the streets to be wiped clean of any people, really.
It just makes his case a lot better.
He ends up coming back to his room around four thirty, too tired to keep patrolling on a night where nothing is exactly happening. Knowing May is taking the night shift at the hospital, Peter doesn't really try and make his entrance subtle or quiet. Stumbling from his window, he lethargically takes his mask off with a wide yawn, shutting the door with his foot as he presses the Spider emblem on his chest, not even bothering putting on a shirt as he collapses into his bed with just his boxers on.
Although, despite how tired and sore he is, sleep doesn't come easily. His conversation with Gina replays in his head for what feels like the hundredth time that night, and thank God it was a slow night because Peter wouldn't have been able to fight with his full focus.
He tosses and turns and eventually lands on his back, eyes cast up at the ceiling. Peter can't help but let the end of his mouth curve into a smile when he sees the glow in the dark stick on stars stuck to the ceiling. Ryder put them up there when he told her about his insomnia and fear of pitch darkness. What was an endearing action at the time, now it just makes him sad. Who knows if they'll ever have an intimate moment like that again -- domestic and sweet.
Now it's just accidental eye contact from across the room, and then looking away as soon as possible. That's where they've been at this entire week.
It kills him. He doesn't realize how much he depends on her until she's really gone. Peter doesn't think he appreciated her back rubs or gentle voice singing him to sleep when he's had a hard day on patrol enough. He doesn't realize how much he needs her in his arms, because with her, he's gotten the best sleep of his life. He wishes he could've been better for her. He wishes he could just rewind the last week and hold her one last time.
If he knew what was gonna happen, he would've held her a little tighter, a little longer. Maybe he would've kissed her slower, perhaps more diligently. Maybe he would've begged her not to go, to stay with him for one last night before everything changed.
Peter lays still, one hand tucked behind his head while one leg is bent underneath the other, the thin sheet tangled between his legs from his constant rolling. But now he lays still, staring up at those damn glow in the dark stars because he can't look at anything else except darkness, and he hates the void. He wishes she could lay with him here, staring at their stars together, naming the constellations dumb names and laughing over which one is which.
Peter shakes the thought. Dreams are for people who can't see reality.
He doesn't realize tears are brimming his eyes until one falls down to his left temple, the boy not bothering to wipe it away as the smile he once sported slowly fades to a thin line. He then laughs at himself, and it's anything but humorous. He then chuckles again because he feels so pathetic - crying in his room at nearly 5 am just because he's looking at glow and the dark stars stuck to his ceiling. How worse can this get?
Sure, Gina said it'll get better, it will get better, but when is better? Is it now? Is it next week? Is it never? The uncertainty of better is really dialing his senses to 11 and because he can't focus on anything in school, he's officially the dumbest person in the room.
It's as if everywhere he goes, he's reminded of Ryder. Delmar's: the store the two of them hang out at after school to do homework. Sally's Cafe: the coffee shop where they study and buy each other pastries and hot drinks and don't actually get any work done. Times Square: where Ryder actually dragged him into H&M to buy him something for sending him that unsolicited nude all that time ago. And now his fucking room: the stupid stars and her sweatshirt hanging off the back of his desk chair, shamefully worn more times than he'd like to admit.
And now here he is: turning his head slightly to make out the silhouette of the sweatshirt through the makeshift darkness, and with shame in his chest, he snatches her sweatshirt and tugs it over his head. Despite how many times he's worn it, there's still a faint smell of her on it, and he can't help but hug his arms to his chest and curl up on his side, inhaling the scent and cocooning in the warmth it provides with his eyes squeezed shut in content.
Peter lets out a small sigh, because as long as he's comfortable now without anyone around him to shame him, there's nothing stopping him from holding on to the last piece of her. God, if MJ was here right now, she'd probably slap him over the head and drag him out of bed by his foot. Or his ear. Either one sound accurate.
He can stay right here forever, snuggled up and warm with the aura of Ryder, Ryder, Ryder. Just the thought of her intoxicates him, and he truly thinks he's been struck with some sort of intense love bug, because it's killing him slowly. With the way the cloth loosely hugs his bare chest and with the way the sleeves slightly slide off his hands, he tries to not picture Ryder here with him, clad in his sweatshirt that's way too big for her but looks better on her than it did him, snuggled up against his side and leaving gentle kisses on his neck, looking up at him with eyes full of stars and wonder and lust.
Peter thinks he's still imagining things when he hears faint knocking.
Assuming it's the drunk neighbors getting in from the bar again, he shakes it off, reminiscing back to Ryder next to him and the way her body feels against his, but more knocking makes the memories and dreams wash away in the back of his mind, his business not finished there yet.
The heartbroken boy sits up halfway, digging an elbow into the mattress to prop himself up as if he doesn't hear the knocking correctly. Who'd be knocking on his door at nearly five in the morning? He hopes it isn't Jerry downstairs trying to sell him crack again, because the last time that happened, Peter had to change the locks the apartment without May knowing about his little...interaction. She still doesn't know.
Peter gets up slowly, forgetting wholeheartedly that he's clad in his girlfriend's sweatshirt and boxers and tip toes out of his room, pausing in the doorway to see if the person knocks again. When they do, he, with his Spidey-Sense, crawls onto the wall, and then the ceiling so the person doesn't hear any footprints. Once he gets in front of his door, he quietly shoots a web above him and lowers himself down -- upside down -- just low enough where he can see through the peephole of the door.
He falls onto the floor with an embarrassingly loud thud! when he sees Ryder behind the door.
Peter lies there for a moment, wondering if she hears that, then nearly smacks himself on the forehead when he realizes that everyone in the building probably heard that.
His mind clouds with overwhelming thoughts: What is she doing here? Does she not realize it's five am and he could've totally been sleeping? (Who is he kidding, he never sleeps anymore). Did she come here alone? And why didn't she let him know that she was coming? God, he can go on for miles, but he realizes that while he's sitting on the floor contemplating death, she's still standing on the other side, most likely knowing of his presence nearly two feet away from him.
Peter stands quickly -- too quickly -- and his head starts spinning.
There's only a door separating him and the best thing in his life. Well, she's not a thing, he'd never call her an object, but she's certainly the best person to come into his life in a really long time, and he doesn't know how he's truly gonna act when he opens this door. Peter can leave it here -- he can walk away and increase that distance between them -- but what can that do for them? He wants to fix this after all, so why isn't he swinging the door open with pure glee and excitement?
He's pretty sure his nerves get in the way, clouding his judgement and logic too intensely to the point where he doesn't even know if he can confront her without breaking down, because he really doesn't want to hear the I don't love you part in person.
"C'mon, Pete, I know you're there."
Fuck, he curses internally. So she does hear him falling from the ceiling.
Peter takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as he inhales and exhales slowly as if to slow down his racing heartbeat. He doesn't know if it's his super-hearing dialing up, but he's sure he can hear her racing heart from behind the door. He doesn't know how that makes him feel: relieved? Excited? Anxious? Ready to vomit? Probably all of them combined into one.
Nonetheless, he opens the door.
And there she is, wearing his sweatshirt un-ironically, holding a mess of a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a paper bag full of contents he really can't see. However, the one thing that immediately catches his attention is that her hair is drenched, the sweatshirt slightly wet as well, and the smell finally kicks in -- she smells, no, reeks, of wine. His heart drops with the thought of her drinking, but it doesn't look like any of the alcoholic contents got into her mouth, more like everywhere but.
The second thing he notices is her puffy eyes and runny nose, though, he doesn't presume it's from tears, because there's a bouquet of wild flowers right in front of her face; he remembers they walked past a botanical shop once and she had uncontrollable sneezes from her allergies. His confusion right now is astounding.
Before he can utter a word of befuddlement (she sees confusion plastered on his face), Ryder thrusts the bouquet of random flowers towards his chest, all tied together with one of her favorite scrunchies.
"These are for you."
Mouth agape, he takes the flowers slowly from her damp hands, looking from the flowers back to her disheveled look. "I thought you were allergic?"
Ryder tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear shyly, an act that is so innocent that it makes his heart race. "Oh, I am. I just know you like flowers. Also, there aren't any botanical stores open so I had to improvise. Ms. Gracie from upstairs caught me clipping her flowers from her balcony garden and she poured her wine on me. Her loss, though, because it was expensive wine."
Before he can open his mouth to reply, she sticks the paper bag toward him as well.
"I rummaged through Lisa's things and found a couple scrapbook templates and stickers you could use. I..I know it's not much, but I know you were running out of supplies and it was honestly just a last minute thing."
After everything, after all the tears he cried over her, after all the sadness he had built up in his chest, he still manages to smile at her.
"You didn't have to do this."
Peter looks at her with the same admiration in his eyes as he always has, and it pains her that she put him through so much pain. She now sees the violet rings under his eyes and the puffiness of them, as if he just cried, and she also sees the faded bruises on his knuckles and the greenish/yellow tint on his jaw from a bruise that's slowly healing. He's hurting, she can obviously tell, and she needs him to know that yes, yes, she does love him, with every fibre of her body.
Though despite her internal battle, she looks up at him with a sad smile, a guilty smile, crossing her arms shyly as his doe eyes bore into her dull crystal ones.
"Of course I did."
And then there's silence.
Peter gazes down at her while Ryder looks up at him, the words she's dying to say disappear in her throat because she's so nervous, so fucking nervous that he's gonna turn her down or send her away claiming she's doing this out of pity. She's not, she's not doing this out of pity, she's doing it out of love, because she doesn't realize how painfully in love with him she is. The way his eyes crease when he smiles, or the way he bites his lip to refrain from laughing, or when he pulls her back to him when she tries to run away, attacking her in kisses and everything sweet. Everything is so eyeopening now and clear, that she doesn't realize how she doesn't recognize it earlier.
All her fear embedded in her heart of love is gone with the wind, because she knows Peter is different, even from the start. He treats her like a woman, like a fucking normal human being, and his love for her is something she may never have again in her life. She knows Peter won't hurt her, she knows Peter will love and cherish her for as long as he possibly can. Ryder fucking knows Peter Parker loves her with all his heart, and would do anything to keep her happy and safe.
But now they're here, staring at each other because they're both waiting for her to start the conversation because it is, after all, her abrupt visit that shocks the both of them.
He sees her struggling to form words, and a small smile falls onto his lips because she's trying, she's trying for him, and he isn't gonna interrupt and send her away, because he wants her to stay, he wants to hear what she needs to say, because after a whole week of being estranged and utterly alone, he yearns for her arms again, whether she loves him back or not. Ryder's here because she cares, and he doesn't know how many words in the English language can accurately portray how proud of her he is right now.
"Peter..." she finally stumbles. "I..."
"It's alright," Peter smiles, even though it's sad and tired, all because he bites back unwanted tears. "You don't have to say it, hun. Don't force it."
Ryder then groans in frustration, tears brimming her eyes, "But I want to say it, Peter. I need to say it. I-I know me distancing myself from you was not the wisest decision. And all this time away from you sucked...it really fucking sucked, and I know I put you through shit and, knowing that, it-it makes me feel awful."
"Ryder, it's—"
"No," she murmurs, "it's not fine. I know you just say that to make me feel better. But I know it's not fine. The way I treated you...I should've just talked to you." Then she pauses, twiddling her thumbs together and avoiding his gaze. "I was just so scared. You mean so much to me and I...I was terrified that if I loved you, you'd be taken away from me. It's happened all the other times before and...and I don't know. I'm just...I'm so sorry, Pete," whispers Ryder, almost sounding horrified with herself.
Peter is about to forget it all and hold her back in his arms — fuck the repercussions, fuck the consequences, fuck everything because he loves her. It's alright if she isn't ready. This is his first love — his first real love — and going into this he knew there would be sacrifices. He knew that her loving him was a long shot just because of who he is, who he's seen as. And the fact that she's here, that she's trying to make things right, is so astounding and admirable. It doesn't matter. He loves her, goddamnit.
"It's alright, hun," says Peter slowly, calculating his words carefully. "I forgave you the second I saw you."
But she still doesn't back down. Though, it takes her a moment.
Ryder sighs quietly, shutting her eyes, as if she's composing herself for what she's about to do next — the calm before the storm. Peter sees this, sees that she's preparing herself, and he wonders if he should be preparing too — for what, he doesn't know. But he sees her struggling for words, as if they're stuck in her throat and unable to be spoken. He sees her trying to tell him something, and he wants to tell her that she doesn't have to say it, she doesn't have to, because having her with no reciprocated love is better than not having her at all.
"I...I," she says quietly, struggling for words.
He sees this. Peter can't help but smile because she's trying. For him.
"Ryder, don't force it. It's okay—"
"I love you, Peter!"
Silence.
Peter's mouth goes agape because, sure, he knows what she's trying to say, but hearing from her lips, hearing say this with the intensity of a thousand burning suns, he can't help but freeze. He can't help that his heart skips a beat, or that his eyes immediately gloss over with tears, because, maybe, for the first time in his life, someone besides his family loves him.
And as much as he wants to drop everything and hug her, kiss her, hold her, he sees her with more left to say, so he remains silent, not being able to help his rapidly beating heart and hot cheeks.
"God, I love you so much that it scares me," she continues, almost breaking down at the sight of him. "I was afraid that...I don't know...I didn't know what love meant and I didn't want to say it without meaning it, but I do, Pete. I really do love you, and I...I'm so sorry that I put you through all of this hurt, because you're the last person who deserved it."
She barely gets through the last sentence before she feels tears falling, and he gently puts down the flowers and paper bag and engulfs her in a long overdue hug. Peter sighs into her, silent tears rolling down his cheeks in relief as she collapses into his arms, the strong stench of wine not a bother for either party anymore as they cling desperately onto each other. His hand automatically tangles in her damp hair, pushing her into his shoulder as her arms wrap around his neck tightly, bound by love.
"I love you, I love you so much," he murmurs into her hair, reiterating the same sentence over and over to remind himself and her of the obvious. Plus, he can't help but say it, to immensely feel it, to know that this, this right now, is real - it isn't some daydream of her cuddled in his arms underneath his glow in the dark stars or of her holding his hand as they walk down fifth avenue - this is so real.
He hears her apologizing and he shushes her, pulling her face away just so gently that she breaks the distance, pressing her lips on his in a long overdue kiss, a kiss that feels euphoric in the sense that his body is on fire. It leads to nothing steamy, nothing that gets out of hand, but the feeling of her wine stained lips on his salty ones nearly makes him melt on the spot, the overwhelming rush of relief flooding his body as if a dam collapsed. He feels her, he isn't dreaming, she's here. She's here.
She's here.
Peter lays underneath the glow in the dark stars, alone.
But, he really isn't alone.
He patiently waits for his girlfriend to come out of the bathroom, the boy letting her wash up and get the smell of wine off her body. Of course, she takes another one of his sweatshirts seeing that he has to put the other one in the wash, and showers while he tidies up his room (and puts his new flowers in a vase in the kitchen). So now, waiting in her sweatshirt and the same boxers, he lays.
He gazes up at the stars, the despondency of being alone still faint in his memory, still burning with past pain and heartbreak. But now, now when he looks up, he sees the constellations they named and the shapes they form. He almost thinks they're glowing just a tad brighter, just for him, but he doesn't dwell on it when a lopsided grin etches on his face, because he hears Ryder hum softly to herself from across the hall, most likely done with her night (well, now morning) routine before going to bed.
The grin stretches wider when she slips into room in nothing but his sweatshirt and her underwear, sliding into his small twin bed with him, the pair pulling each other close enough to leave no gaps. Her (clean) wet hair chills him, but he doesn't pull away, but rather runs a hand up and down her back underneath his sweatshirt, a soothing action to which she hums at. Her arm, curled across his abdomen, rubs gentle circles with her thumb over his hip bone.
And here they lay. He doesn't imagine it -- they're actually here, laying together, under their makeshift stars in each other's clothes, quietly laughing about something irrelevant while the sun peaks through his window. But as the sun begins to fully rise and the birds begin to chirp with the increasing commotion of New York City, Ryder and Peter both fall asleep when the East Coast is supposed to be waking up.
Though, when May comes home from her shift just a little after seven, she checks on her nephew to see that he'll be sleeping fine, closing the door with a knowing smile.