a lesson in survivor's guilt.
---
Peter doesn't think he'll ever get over how quiet it is here. It's a different world from Queens. No loud sounds, no sirens or screams. Silence. Which isn't good for Peter. He can't handle silence as much as anymore.
Back home, there was always something to do. Some battle to fight, a few thugs to stop. It seems as if there isn't any crime in Peter's new home. It drives him mad. What else is he supposed to do?
The absence of crime doesn't stop him though. He still pulls on his suit every night, and sits atop the roof with clasped hands and has KAREN play music to block out the quiet. And he waits. Without fail, he's always there, every single night.
There was a time when he wasn't there, and it had lead to the worst moment in his life. Next time, he'll be there. He had promised himself that the same day he'd decided to move so far away for school. He'll be there.
So Peter crawls in through the window of his dorm as the run is rising, quick to ditch his suit in favor of sweatpants and a tee, and falls asleep the same time Ned gets up to start his day. It's not a good routine, but that doesn't stop him.
And that bad routine is exactly why Peter shows up to your study session late. He supposes he'd been too caught up in not having an early class that day that he'd forgotten. God, it leaves him with an unpleasant feeling. The last thing he wants is for you to think he didn't want to show.
Because he did. He'd stayed up late to prepare color coded flash cards, and had even packed extra of his special pens in case you wanted to use some, too. He wanted to come, he really did.
"Hey, Peter? Are you okay...you're just, kinda late, which is fine! Take your time, just wondering if...I don't know, if you're still coming? If you don't want to, just let me", the line crackles, "let me know...bye."
Peter feels as if he's messed up. He feels the urge to fiddle with the loose threads on his sleeves. Something he's stopped doing, because Tony had gotten him to stop, and after Tony, it was her. And after her...after her.
It's sunny outside, but Peter is cold. He doesn't want you to be disappointed in him. And he knows he barely knows you, but that's one of the worst feelings, isn't it? Failing someone before you even get the chance to impress them? Really, truly, deep down inside of him, Peter knows he probably can't take letting one more person down.
His fingers are dialing your number faster than he can think - he did not commit your number to memory on purpose, it was just too many nights of staring at your contact trying to make himself text you. You answer on the first ring. "Oh, thank god, um, hey! I'm so sorry, I overslept and I'm on my way right now so just, just wait for me, yeah?"
Silence.
And just before he's about to hang up out of sheer embarrassment -
"Yeah. I'll wait for you, Parker."
Peter is warm.
—
The coffee shop you'd chosen was one Peter knew well.
He can feel himself slipping in and out of his head each time there's a pause in conversation. Every clink from a cup being set down, or everytime the bells by the door ring, he jumps.
Many nights were spent here when he'd first moved. He'd sit at the same table - the one near the back right by the window - and wait there until Ned noticed that he wasn't in the room, or the cup in his hands was no longer warm enough to distract him.
Warm. Blood. Guns.
"Peter?" You lay a hand overtop his, eyebrows drawn together with worry. "You okay?"
He sucks in a breath. "Yeah? Yeah, I'm fine. Did I miss something?" Again, something in him urges to pick at the loose threads on his sleeves. When he lifts his hand to do so, you gasp, and Peter freezes. "Are you okay?"
You're sputtering over your words now, blinking rapidly. "Your-your hand! It's all-Peter, did you get in a fight?!"
Another thing. Peter hadn't planned on going out last night. It had been a last minute decision. He'd gotten into a fight with Ned about how bad his sleep schedule was and how "everyone is worried about you, man" and how he needed to "take better care" of himself. And Ned had brought her up and how "she would want you to take better care of yourself" and Peter needed out.
So he went out. Sat on the roof like every other night, but this time he was so sad, so angry. He crawled through the window a few hours later with a scraped up, bruised hand.
No one would miss a tiny little chunk of brick, right?
Pulling his hand towards you, a worried sigh flutters past your lips. "Is this why you were late? You, Peter, oh my go-"
He snatches his arm back so suddenly he surprises himself, and knocks the coffee cup to your left over as well. You let out a muffled grunt. Oh my God. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" He can smell the coffee spilled all over your lap, all over the new shirt you'd told Peter you'd gotten because it reminded you of him. The geeky science pun is stained with brown.
Frantic, he strips the sweater he'd slipped on before leaving the house off, and extends his hand. The fabric hangs limp from his two fingers. Please take it, please take it, please -
Your fingers trace the soft material before pulling it gently from him. "Thank you, Peter." Standing and sighing at the mess, you nod your head towards the bathroom. "I'm gonna, uh, go get out of this shirt. Um, don't like, leave or anything."
Before you step away, you brush your hand against his. "Wait for me, Parker."
—
No one has ever worn Peter's clothing except for Peter. Well, occasionally she would when the laundry would get mixed up, but other than that, his clothes were strictly worn by him and only him.
That being said, Peter is willing to let you borrow any clothing you want any time.
His eyes haven't left you since you'd walked out of the bathroom, coffee stained shirt in hand - "You look really pretty." and then "Are you flirting with me, Peter Parker?". You look better in his sweater than he did. It doesn't fit him right, it's four sizes too big, and normally something he wears when he needs comfort. You look adorable in it.
"You know, I'm starting to think you despise me!" You're giggling, walking a few paces ahead of him. The sunlight makes your skin glow. "First, you nearly get me kicked out of a library. Then, you're late to our study date and show up with very mysterious bruises on your hands. And then you spill coffee on me."
Study date. Peter shakes his head, pulling at threads. "No, not at all, I...", he shrugs, "I actually quite like you." He realises how he may be outing himself when he's not even sure what his feelings for you are. "You're one of my only friends here."
"Well, I'm honored to be your friend." Your pace slows, letting him catch up. You wait for him. "And again, thank you for the sweater. I'll wash it and make sure to give it back."
The words leave his mouth before he can form a more coherent thought. "Keep it." Dammit, Peter. "It's, uh, the least I can do. I ruined your nerdy shirt." He grins.
You scoff, nudging his arm. "Whatever." And then, quieter. "Thank you, dork."
"You're welcome, nerd."
—
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—
You start bringing Peter coffee in a cup with a screw on lid. It becomes a sort of inside joke. Although he'll probably never admit it, Peter's heart skips a beat whenever you wear his sweater. You look better in it than he ever did.
He does not have a crush.
The two of you get closer with every joke, every simple smile, every walk home with your hands brushing until you finally intertwine your fingers. Every time he watches you walk away, he's already ready to see you the next day.
He does not have a stupid crush.
Last year had been full of disappointments and losses. Ever since then, meeting new people and keeping them around hadn't been on Peter's agenda. It hadn't been with you, either, but he doesn't think he has a choice.
"Are you flirting with me, Peter Parker?"
"I'm honored to be your friend."
"Thank you, dork."
He doesn't think he could stay away even if he wanted to.
He doesn't. He so doesn't want to.
But he does not have a crush on you. Peter Parker does not have a crush on Y/N L/N.
—
Peter remembers learning that you always have dreams and nightmares, even if you don't remember them.
The ones you don't remember are lost, tossed away in some bin in the back of your mind, never to be recovered. The ones you remember, he's discovered, tend to replay like a loop.
Since last year, Peter has had the same nightmare. Not every night. Some nights, he dreams. His brain conjures up memories of happier times, of takeout nights and vacations to the old cabin upstate with her. Of game nights with her, Ned, MJ, and Tony.
Tony.
Peter has good dreams.
Just not tonight.
The cold night air feels good on his skin. It leaves goosebumps across the expanse of smooth, pale skin, slick with sweat. He's grateful for his suit right now. He clenches his jaw. God, he hates this.
It doesn't hurt, Pete. Hey, look at me. It doesn't hurt.
Shut up, shut up. His hands are clammy, and it's hard to breathe. Phone. Music. Distraction. He fumbles with the device, scrolling down and down and down. Pressing a button, he waits for the smooth hum of his music.
Instead, he hears a dial tone, and three long rings.
Shit. "Shit!" And before he can hang up -
"Hello?"
He could hang up. He could, and make up some excuse about accidentally dialing, or that Ned had taken his phone as a prank and called everyone in his contacts. He won't though. There's a pause on your end of the line.
"Peter, are you there? It's four in the morning, are you okay?"
He sucks in a shaky breath of cool air. "Hey, Y/N." Peter swallows the lump in his throat, wet eyelashes skimming his cheeks.
Rustling, and then silence. "Are you okay, dork?"
And he laughs. Fucking laughs, because he doesn't know how you do it. You just come in and make things better. "Yeah, yeah, nerd, I'm okay. Just can't sleep, I guess."
It's okay, it's okay. I'm okay, Peter. I promise I'm okay. Just go get help.
You know he's lying. Peter can tell you know he's lying. He's never been very skilled at it, and especially not now, not with ragged breaths puffing out and tear stained cheeks.
"Me neither." He knows you're lying, too. You'd answered the phone with a gravelly, rough tone. You'd been sleeping, and he'd woken you up over a panic attack. But you'd said it was fine. You lied for him. "Want to go get coffee?"
"Shouldn't we at least try and sleep?"
"Peter Parker, I am asking you if you want to get coffee with me at four in the morning! This is a once in a lifetime opportunity-", your voice fades, drowned out by shushing, "sorry! So, can you be here in ten minutes or not?"
He makes it in nine.