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tomhollandish · 7 years

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I’ll See You Tomorrow

(A/N: i played myself and I’ve also been listening to this for two days straight and honestly isn’t this just the mood for today)

Summary: Peter Parker has fallen for you so very hopelessly, emphasis on hopeless.

Word Count: 3,158

Warnings: Minor cursing

Freshman Year

Both elevators open with a soft ding, the timing a little off. Peter Parker jumps at the echo, already halfway down the hall with the strap of his messenger bag tightly in his grip, eyebrows shot up as he looks behind him cautiously.

He sees someone rather familiar, with hunched shoulders and one foot out of the elevator doors. They’re frozen still, with wide eyes staring back at him, like he’s the one thing they’re most terrified of. Backpack hanging off one shoulder and mouth open, they look like they’re about to say something, but only a faint noise comes from their throat.

Then Peter notices the brand new copy of To Kill a Mockingbird in their hand, bright blue nails digging into the spine with dread as the two of them stay at a standstill. Peter’s mind whirs with things to say, and finally, one sentence makes it out.

“Are you in Mrs. Edwards class too?” It’s such a lame sentence, but it gets rid of the tense air surrounding both of you. They nod, even if minutely, and Peter takes this as a sign to continue talking.

“I’m Peter. Peter Parker.” He hasn’t moved from his spot, but they’re quickly coming up to meet him, eyes never leaving the floor. He decides to keep walking in order to make them feel more comfortable, the sounds of their footsteps filling the in-betweens of their awkward dialogue.

“Y/N L/N,” you say, and immediately the recognition lights up across Peter’s face.

“Did your family just move into the building?” he asks, glad that he’d struck another topic before running out of things to say. You weren’t making it very easy to converse with, but then again, he wasn’t the best talking partner in the world.

Your eyes picked up for a second, and Peter was able to catch a flash of your vivid irises before they landed back to your feet. He felt like he’d seen something personal, and he adjusted his glasses as his face heated up in slight embarrassment.

“Yeah,” you spoke up, drumming your nails against the books held tightly to your chest. “I’m new to like, everything here.” You admitted this with a small laugh, one that only tipped the corners of your mouth, but Peter couldn’t believe how much it transformed your face. Everything shifted, and resting beneath your shaking exterior was someone Peter wanted to see smile again.

He was so wrapped up in those thoughts that he didn’t realize it was his turn to speak. “Oh!” he said, articulating his surprise aloud. You turned your head to him in confusion, and he finally got a good look at all your features.

Perfectly combed hair framed your face, eyes attentive and sharp. Your eyebrows furrowed, making a small crease appear in the middle of your forehead. Your lips were slightly open, almost formed in a pout as your eyes narrowed further. Despite looking at him like he was an idiot, you were surprisingly cute, a thought that fried Peter’s brain in the .2 seconds it took him to think it.

“Uhh,” he stammered, having lost his train of thought once again. He hoped dearly that this wouldn’t develop any further—starting high school was already the biggest inconvenience of his life; having a crush that lived in his building was going to be the death of him.

And yet, when Peter dared a look at your face and saw the small smile, he couldn’t help but feel it wouldn’t be a total loss.

“I could, uh, help you out, if you want? I mean, I assume you’re new to Midtown and Queens, and well, I’ve lived here my whole life, so if you ever need to know…anything, I could help you out.” He was completely aware that the sentence he just spat out was a train wreck, but you didn’t seem to care. You ducked your head back down and mumbled something unintelligible, which made Peter feel more at ease about his blunder.

You stopped a moment before he reached his door, your apartment right next to his. If his face wasn’t on fire before, it certainly was now.

Your hand reached for the knob as he fumbled for his key, but you paused, waiting in silence as he finally turned the lock. The soft click alerted you, and finally your shoulders relaxed, staying that way even as Peter bit his lip and looked up.

Before he could put the icing on this truly mortifying cake, you quickly told him, “See you tomorrow,” opening your door and hurriedly escaping from view.

There was not a slam, the door shutting itself as Peter stood, fingers clutching the handle with strength he didn’t know he possessed. He bit his tongue to keep the stupid smile from spreading wide across his cheeks, but it only half worked.

You were cute, you were his neighbor, and he would see you tomorrow.

Sophomore Year

Everything was loud in his ears: the whirring of his old, old desktop; the rattling of the wind against his rickety window pane; the soft, ever present ticking of the clock that hung against his wall. They all blended together in a cacophony of sounds that could drive a man insane. Instead, it drove Peter to anchor all his thoughts into one thing, one constant sound or presence that could drown out all preexisting noise.

Luckily for him, you were in the room.

Sitting contemplatively at a desk, you chewed on the edge of a mechanical pencil, eyes skimming over a thick notebook. Your hair was pushed out of your face with a thick dark red headband he remembered very vividly from freshman year gym class. Everything about you in this moment is a little less prim and proper than you are at school, which not only does he not mind, but Peter has found he prefers.

You tap your pencil against the glossy pages of a thick textbook, groaning as you do so. The sounds you make suppress every other noise, and Peter can finally hone in, rolling over on his back as he stares at you. “Something wrong?” he asks, glad that he can finally focus on something.

You lay your cheek against his desk, eyes closed as you frown. “I’m going to fail this test, Peter. I’m going to fail it so bad.”

He had an inkling of what you were talking about. While he had chosen chemistry for his second-year science, you decided to pick astronomy, which to your horror was more physics based than you’d initially thought.

He chuckled at your antics, watching as you rolled your eyes into your head. “I’m a mess, Peter Parker. I’m having a quarter life crisis.”

“Did you plan on only living until you’re sixty?” he questioned, and you laughed, your entire body slumped and shaking.

“I’m not going to live much longer if I don’t pass this test!” you yelled hysterically, laughing in between groans. “My parents will kill me! It was really nice being friends with you.”

His laughter dies down a little, the pang of your statement finally reaching his chest. In his head, he knows what you said wasn’t awful at all, but his heart still sinks to the floor, goosebumps erupting on his skin. Something like tears prick in his eyes, not because of your words, but because of his own anger and disappointment and something else that makes him want to empty his entire stomach into a trash can.

He plasters on a smile as the world of ticking clocks and rattling windows and his increased heart rate consume him once again. “You’re going to pass this test Y/N. You’re like, the smartest person I know.”

The sentiment is fake; Peter can feel how plasticy and generic it is the moment it tumbles out of his mouth. Even you snap your head up, looking at the brunette like he’s grown another head. “Smarter than Ned, or Amadeus, or Michelle? That sounds fake,” you ranted, leaning against the back of his swivel chair. Your feet barely hit the ground, stretching your toes as you rocked side to side. “Try again.”

He really didn’t want to spill every single kind word he had about you, for fear something he didn’t want to speak aloud would also slip out. Your eyes were narrowed on his form, as though you were trying to glare him into submission. He held his palms up in a peaceful gesture, taking a small breath before starting.

“What I meant was,” he hesitates, forming the next sentences as carefully as he can to avoid humiliation. “You’re probably one of the most naturally smart people I’ve ever met. You never do bad on anything. You’ll pass this out of your own brilliance, and I hate you for it.” He chucked in that last bit to keep his heart from taking over his entire chest, the words aching him to say.

A bashful grin took over your features, you and Peter simply looking at one another with smiles on your faces. Peter couldn’t bear looking at you so directly for so long—he felt like he was looking straight into the sun.

However, you were worth the burned corneas and any other trouble. Or so he was trying to tell himself.

“Coming from you, that means a lot,” you told him, and he wished you hadn’t. But he was glad you did. The mix of emotions stormed inside him, further adding to his feeling of nausea. Your eyes flitted to the clock on his wall, a gasp escaping you.

“Hell!” you said kind of loudly, pulling together your things in a rush. Peter laughed through his nose as you tried to slip on your shoes, with less grace and ease than anyone he’d ever seen. “I didn’t know it was that late!”

It wasn’t, not really, but your parents were somewhat strict about when you were to be home. Peter could have ushered you out, holding the door as you tried to cradle all your books and papers in the crux of your arm, but he was too busy being thoroughly distracted by thoughts of you and him, and other things that were impossible and implausible.

He saw you open the door, but he couldn’t quite remember the smile you threw at him, an unrestrained thing that winded him and killed him. “See you tomorrow!” you hurriedly told him, disappearing from view like a ghost.

Junior Year

Being on the same bed as you is nerve wracking to Peter, no matter how many times he does it. At this point, he’s not sure what gets him the most: if it’s you, sitting cross legged and doing absolutely nothing of interest, or if it’s the distorting ideas that arise every time he so much as acknowledges what he’s doing.

It’s pretty obviously the latter, but this doesn’t stop Peter from beating himself up about it.

Your room is over aesthetically pleasing, from windows draping the room in fading orange sunlight from one wall, to the bookshelves overflowing with fiction and stole children’s novels and strange memoirs. Your shoes are lined up against the side of your unframed queen mattress, which holds the two of you comfortably. Which to Peter means “he can feel your body heat next to his arm.”

You truly are doing nothing of real interest, writing something for one of your literature classes he is not in. AP English was never on his radar, but it seems to be on yours. Some book with the word “grass” in the title is just under your fingertips, while Peter pretends to be interested in whatever you’ve got blasting from your computer.

Sighing, Peter falls onto his back, crashing his head against your pillow. He wanted to take a deep breath and smell the scent of your shampoo on your pillow, but his lungs ached too much to even gasp for air. You seemed to notice his flustered state, leaning yourself back so that the two of you were sprawled out on your backs.

“This isn’t familiar at all,” you observed, and Peter nodded slightly. You two had been here many times before, spewing nonsense until your lids got heavy and his heart hurt from not having you. The pain was dull now, an ache he just had to get over, like hurdles in a hundred-meter dash.

He was still trying to jump the first one.

“We’ve gotten so old, Peter,” you said wistfully, and Peter squeezed his eyes shut, because if he didn’t he could almost imagine you being truly old: an elderly version of you with greying hair and slight wrinkles and only growing lovelier with age. Perhaps you were staring into an ornate mirror in their foyer, Peter’s hand resting on your shoulder as he kissed your temple.

The vision blurred away as he opened his eyes, and he thanks every deity out there for it. Peter rested his hands on his stomach and answered you back. “You say that every year, Y/N,” he rolled his eyes, trying very hard to steel the butterflies in his stomach.

“Cause we get older every year, doofus,” you nudge his side with your elbow, and instead of feeling a ticklish warmth, all he senses is a jabbing pain. He winces, wondering when your touch became less magical.

“You’re reminding me how age works, but you can’t even remember Piaget’s stages of child development,” he responds, and you immediately sit up. Peter’s brows raise as you lean onto your elbows, face indignant.

“Okay, that shit is hard and you know it!” you yell at him, a smile spreading on your lips. Peter also smiles, because he’s proud of you for finally cursing in good context, and also because you look really nice with your eyes alive in defense, almost hovering above him.

“I’m not judging, I’m just pointing it out,” he shrugged, and you scoff with folded arms. Peter laughed at your childish pout, wishing that this three-year crush mashing up his insides would finally cease. It wasn’t fun anymore; there was no rush or thrill, just a stubborn ember of hope that perpetually rekindled itself. It was tiring and predictable, leaving him frustrated with himself.

Peter wanted to be your friend, to be happy with you and for you, to just be content like this, and not wish for anything more. He wanted more than anything to rid himself of this dead feeling in his chest, but for some reason, it persisted.

He looked at you, with smudged mascara and orange nail polish and a faded red headband. Everything was the same, and yet not all at once. Peter groaned as he sat up, noting that outside, the day had turned black.

He didn’t announce his leave, but you turned to him, hair splayed around your face as you waved goodbye. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” you said absentmindedly, settling your laptop onto your stomach as a podcast he’d heard before played its jazzy theme song once again. Peter waved back, slipping out of your room without a look back, no matter how much he wanted to.

Senior Year

The hurt of it all crashed into Peter the moment he saw you, his eyes the size of the moon. He could hardly believe it when he looked at you long enough, catching details he’d never really noticed in the past…God, how long had it been?

Peter often thought of the irony of the first time you’d met: you were so afraid of him when he should have been much more terrified of you.

You were poised at your door, which stood less than five feet away from him. Your glossy brown nails flashed as you inserted your house key to the lock, your other hand holding fast to a copy of Shakespeare. Through flawless makeup Peter noticed your eyes crinkling in amusement, watching him with a small smile.

“What?” you asked, lightly laughing the longer Peter took to answer. The truth was, he couldn’t properly articulate why he was standing there like an idiot. Perhaps it had just dawned on him that this might be the last year the two of you take the elevator up together, saying with certainty that you’d see each other later. Perhaps it was the nostalgia of the first time you’d met, the images mirroring perfectly. Perhaps it was how quickly you’d grown, nearly becoming an entirely different person in the span of four years.

Or perhaps it was all of the above, rolled into one huge fist that sucker punched him in the gut, because his eyes were definitely watering. He scaled them back, his hands clenched around the doorknob so tight he could start to feel the metal denting.

He turned to you, seeing the amusement turn into concern as he failed to conceal the emotions that bubbled under his skin. He felt cold and hollow, not for the first time, and probably not for the last. He breathed steadily, trying to push out all the air that was taking up space in his already expanding chest.

“Peter, are you okay?” you asked, leaning against the doorframe with eyes trained on him. Your empty hand swung by your side, which you then occupied by holding your book tightly at the spine. To Kill a Mockingbird was replaced with Hamlet, younger you replaced older you, and yet Peter felt like the same old boy, being so hopelessly in love, and yet, staying hopeless. He was starting to believe he was more in love with the cold feeling that ran down his spine every time he saw you with someone else.

His weightlessness wore off after a moment, coming back down to earth where you were. You knit your brows together like a worried friend, and Peter smiled, looking down as his heart cracked in two.

“It’s nothing, senior year just hit me like a train, that’s all.” That was a very apt way of wording it. You fiddled with the pages of your book, crossing and uncrossing your legs as you inevitably thought the same.

“I know what you mean. We’ve gotten—“

“So old,” Peter finished, making you smile, although Peter could detect the sadness in it. “You’re right.”

You stumbled back to your door, finally turning the lock and pushing open the door. Peter did the same, looking up as you did, your eyes a little shiny with something. Your eyes met, neither of you looking away just yet.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” You said, for the first time as a question. It was different and jarring, the pitched cadence throwing him off for a second.

Peter composed himself before shooting you a smile, something as genuine as it could be, albeit small. The ache in his chest didn’t subside, but he knew he had to live with it. He had for a very long time.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

#i wrote this all in one sitting starting two hours ago #i hate myself and my life #peter parker #peter parker imagine #peter parker fic #peter parker fanfiction #marvel imagine #marvel fanfiction #marvel fanfic #missed writing for this boy #also like wow??#i played myself?#i always do though

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