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rancidpancakebatter · 10 months

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Your Initials and Mine | Prt 2 - [P.P.]

Pairings: TASM!Bisexual!Peter Parker x GN!Reader

Prompt: "peter parker writes your initials next to his on the back of his skateboard, when he daydreams about you" Original Post | Personal Headcannon

Summary: Eyes are the window to the soul, but so is art. Peter's is bare before you if only you could translate it.

Word Count: 6.3k words

Content: Ben's Death, Swearing, Mentions of bruises (Peter needs to get better at dodging),

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A/N: Some fluffy, fluffy fluff for ya’ll.

Peter’s house felt very much like a home. It was a space that was well cared for but also lived in. If you looked closely, you could see scuff marks under the dining room table where the chairs slid in and out. You could see loose threads on the quilted throw over the couch. There were knicks and dents on the pots hanging in the kitchen. And notches in the wood door frame down the hall. Love oozes from each and every “imperfection.” The subtle smell of cinnamon was in the air, and heat radiated from the oven.

You followed Peter up the stairs to his room and saw many photos adorning the walls. You had spent hours staring at them before. Laughing at memories and tales May would share. She had once pulled out a few photo albums. There was a smile in each picture. A history filled with such joy, but also great tragedy.

That was a Sunday evening about two weeks ago. May was looking a little brighter during your visits. There was a rosiness to her cheeks now, and her hair was shinier. She was looking better. She brought out cookies while you talked and apologised for Peter’s absence, like she did every week. While catching up, she caught you staring at a picture on the coffee table. She reached for the frame, tracing over her husband’s silhouette with a small smile on her face.

“This was our first trip to Coney Island.” She spoke softly as if lost in the memory now- transported back to those many years ago.

“Ben used to take me on dates there all the time. He liked trying to win me prizes, and I liked the excuse to be so close on the rides.” She chuckles, a small tear escaping her eye. “We hadn’t been in years. Our bodies got older and our days got busier. But then Peter entered our lives.”

She pushes the photo towards you and points to the little boy on Ben’s shoulders. He looked small but full of joy. His hands wrapped around his uncle’s chin as if trying to hug him from high above. His hair is falling on his cotton candy-covered face- tufts of pink sticking to his cheek and dried sugar around his lips. His head tilted to rest on the older man’s head, but his mouth hung open, exclaiming in delight. The Ben in the photo looked the same, only with fewer wrinkles and salt-and-pepper hair.

“We decided to take him that summer; he had been living with us for a few months by then…This was his first smile with us.” Her eyes turn down as she pauses for a moment.

“Ben and I…we were so afraid that…we wouldn’t be enough— that we didn’t know what we were doing. We didn’t have as much money as his parents, we weren’t as smart, and we just…weren’t them. And we were so scared that we wouldn’t be able to give him all he needed.”

You reach for May’s hand, soft with age and always slightly cold. “You and Ben did a phenomenal job. Peter is a good boy; he’s brilliant. And he loves you so much.”

She gives you a polite squeeze before wiping at her face. You hand her a Kleenex and she offers you a teary-eyed smile. “He’s so young. He’s already lost his parents, and now Ben…I’m all he has.”

You felt rude, but you couldn’t help from asking, “Peter’s mentioned before that his- his parents kinda left him here. What happened? Why would they do that?”

May sighed. It was a tired sigh, one of true exhaustion.

"Technically,” She began, “they didn’t leave him here. They had an emergency business trip and dropped him off to stay here for a few days...but then their plane crashed."

You suddenly understood just what she meant before. Peter knew true tragedy. Your heart broke for him, but then you looked at his smile. Peter had lost much, but he has gained so many things that are just as beautiful. You felt your soul fill with an iron determination.

You squeezed May’s hand, “He has me too.”

She squeezes back, smiling- a look of gratitude etched into her eyes. After a moment, she admits that it’s been a long time since she’s gone through the photo albums, and she was scared to do it alone. You went through two with her that night, listening to stories and asking questions about faces you didn’t recognise. It was nice.

But upstairs was mostly uncharted territory. The pictures hung here were foreign. You were nervous, finally entering Peter’s space.

The aged-cream paint added a warmth to the space, though you couldn’t see much of it. There were pockets of the wall poking out between all the posters and pictures on the wall. You had seen some of Peter’s doodles, but if you had to guess, he preferred to display his art instead of trapping it between the pages of a bound journal. Peter is very humble, and you’re sure if you called what he had hung up “art,” he would scoff and tell you it wasn’t that good, but to you, it was art.

He could tell he liked to play around with mediums. You could see charcoal fingerprints staining pages of portraits and city landscapes. As well as coloured pencils and graphite. There was inkwork scattered about, adding pops of colour in the mix of blacks and greys. And you realised he wasn’t exaggerating before in his embarrassed defence, he truly did have a lot of drawings on his wall.

There was a mix of chaos and order to their hanging. For the most part, they were evenly spaced and displayed around the walls over his bed and dresser. But then there was his desk.

Peter was definitely a messy artist, turning chaos into beauty. There were notebooks sprawled across the wooden surface. Only a layer of polish protected the lumber below from splotches of paint- evidence of opting out from the pallet and just using the surface.

Impressions from the pencils haphazardly strew about were woven into the grain, forever a part of its story. There were scrapes and notches that you wanted to befriend. And it was all basking in a soft yellow glow from a single bulbed lamp, bent at the elbow in an awkward way that could only be to benefit a very specific angle he needed.

Your eyes drifted to the wall above the desk. There were layers and layers of drawings overlapping and tacked to the wall, almost as if he had never taken one down. Your eyes darted around wildly, unable to pinpoint just one to look at. You traced the lines as they blurred together like a less mind-melding optical illusion– still mindblowing to behold. It reminded you of an overgrown garden, the leaves and petals intermingling together to create one living, breathing thing. You wanted to carefully examine each one, to take them into your hands and care for each one.

Your eyes scanned from top to bottom trying to digest each one. You recognised some– the courtyard at school, the empire state building, May and Ben, his camera on his desk– but then you saw something you hadn’t really expected. Sure, you had both made jokes, and so had others, but you didn’t truly expect to be on his wall. And yet, here you were, locked in a game of blink with eyes that looked like yours.

They looked alight, as did the smile on your face. You looked excited. You vaguely remember Peter snapping a picture like that after he pointed out a bug he saw on the ground. You wondered if he used that as a reference.

You saw another, this time from your side profile. Your hand was in your hair and you were mid-laugh. This one seemed to move and breathe. You doubted he had a picture of that. You could count on one hand the number of times Peter had taken a picture of you, mostly because you always covered your face in embarrassment anytime his lens was directed towards you. And if you didn’t catch it beforehand, you would hear the shutter and scold him, slapping him in the arm. Peter often sketches when he talks to you, you just never imagined he would be drawing you.

These pictures were like looking into a mirror.

No, not quite.

This was different. In the mirror, you see your flaws and every hair out of place, but here, they were made beautiful. You were seeing through Peter’s eyes, peering at yourself through soft lines of graphite and charcoal. You felt delicate. You felt seen. But even when staring at yourself; you feel like you see Peter more.

This was his heart fully bared before you. Before you was all the pain and triumph, and all the things he felt were important enough to capture. You were almost overwhelmed by the thought.

Peter watched with bated breath as you spun around his room with a fist over his mouth. You were wearing an expression he had seen in the classroom when you were thinking hard. He’d always found it adorable, the way your face would scrunch as you would study your books, but now he found it terrifying. Most of the time, when people look at his work, they give him vague compliments, not really having the knowledge to truly comment on it. But you were different.

He didn’t know if you knew much about art, but he wouldn’t be surprised if you did. But more so, he just valued your opinion the most. Something about you was completely captivating. You were so sweet and kind- but also fierce and powerful. He didn’t think he was as cool as you, but he wanted you to think so.

He watched as you examined each piece, a small smile that rivalled the Mona Lisa etched into your face– like you held all the answers to the universe but refused to share them with him.

He felt his heart leap when your head lifted from the desk, and you now gaze upon “the wall.”

It started out very small. He would put his pictures up as a kid. Then he would sit at his desk and redraw the image, hanging that one up to do it all again until finally- he had a passable one. As his skills improved, he didn’t need to redraw as much, but it’s not like he had anywhere else to put them. They continued to grow and multiply, and he let it happen. Now it has become a scrapbook of sorts. Each piece is a snapshot of the stages of his life.

He knew exactly when you saw it. You were bent forward slightly over his desk, as close to the drawings as you could be without touching them. You were treating his room like a museum, your arms tucked behind your back as if you let them free- you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from reaching forward and tracing the pencil strokes. But then you froze. Your shoulders tensed ever so slightly under the razor-back tank top you were wearing. Then you slowly leaned away, standing straight, before tilting your head to the side.

You said nothing as you gazed at your portraits, and Peter wasn’t sure if he would be comforted by anything you had to say. He was terrified that- instead of feeling flattered- you would feel weirded out. Especially if you had seen the ones now buried under portraits of his Uncle Ben. He had been drawing him a lot, terrified that he was already forgetting his face.

He heard you sniffle and was shocked out of his spiralling thoughts. He took a tentative step forward to stand beside you, looking over your form as you hugged yourself.

“Are you okay?”

You wiped at your face, feeling your cheeks warm in embarrassment.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” You gave Peter a smile, a genuine and full one, despite your wet eyes. “They’re beautiful.”

Peter scratched at the nape of his neck, ducking his head as if trying to dodge the compliment.

“Thanks,” he said barely above the wind.

“Really,” you insisted, “You should submit some of this. I’m sure you could win some ribbons or whatever they give you.”

He chuckled and you joined in.

A few more quiet moments passed as you took in everything you could, but then, Peter reminded you that you were here to study.

You both settle onto the bed, cross-legged, backs against the wall, and knees touching. Peter goes over some of the questions you have and tries to explain them in a way that makes sense to you. You can’t dedicate your full attention to his words though, because every way in which he moves feels like a dance, and you’re enamoured by the choreography. His pen twirled around his fingers with a speed and precision you’d never seen before. You can’t help but think he would make a great drummer. As he talks, you catch general concepts of what he’s saying, but the details are lost in the blur of his ballpoint pen.

His leg is also bouncing around. It is just as quick. Short little bounces creating little shock waves from his knee. The bed around you shook so quickly that it was almost like nothing was moving at all. The only evidence was your books slowly moving away, drifting further into the dip between your legs.

You feel almost like you’re being hypnotized. His gentle voice lulls you into a calm as he explains the difference between each of Henry’s wives, as his fingers drew you in. You honestly didn’t know how long you were entranced, but the spell was broken when he stood suddenly.

You looked at him confused and he let out an embarrassed chuckle before dropping his head.

“Sorry, I- uh. I’m sorry, I’m not very good at explaining this stuff. And I’m like, shaking you, or whatever.”

As he stood, his hand was scratching the back of his neck, and his pen continued to twirl at his side. Your heart gave a painful thump. It yearned for him. His smile. His joy. Before you knew what you were doing you were on your feet. Your hands reached for his, his pen awkwardly pressing against your palms. Words spilt from your mouth with a lack of any sophistication or grace.

“No, no, It’s not your fault. I just…spaced out a bit. I’m sorry. From what I did catch, you were doing an amazing job. I- would it help if you drew it out? Or we can do something else. Or I can-”

A small chuckle falls from his lips, and yours stop moving, too focused on his. His other hand has untangled from his hair and now sways at his side. He finally meets your eyes, and you think you may have stopped breathing entirely. His gaze was curious- as if he was trying to read your mind. You wondered what thoughts he was pulling forward.

“Okay.” You look at him confused, and his heart seizes because you're looking at him like that with your cute little frown and scrunched brows, and you’re still holding his hand from when you rushed to accommodate his buzzing nerves. After a failed attempt to calm his racing pulse, he expands on his one-word reply. “I think if we draw out a timeline that would be helpful- a good reference point for you.”

You nod your head in agreeance and feel your cheeks flush when he slowly withdraws his hand from yours. His hands were warm, but not soft like May’s. His hands were rough— cracked around the ridges— and they were firm, strong. You felt like they could hold up the world, but hoped he would never have to suffer the same penance of Atlas.

Peter sat back down and pulled a notebook that had been laying around into his lap. He tried explaining again, drawing little characters for each historical figure next to the line marking their significance. He would periodically quiz you on the person, seeing how much you knew, and you were both surprised by how much you had retained.

Once the timeline was complete you thanked Peter for his help. He of course brushed it off as nothing, but you knew it wasn’t. You insisted that you would help him with something, but he continued to insist that he didn’t need any. After your relentless persistence, you settled on working through some calculus practice problems in the textbook. The agreement was you would both solve the same five, then check them against the other, and then consult the answer key. Truthfully you weren’t very excited to do math on a Saturday afternoon, but you wanted to help Peter. You wanted to be there for him like you told May you would.

You were both scribbling away, occasionally nudging the other and making jokes about “keeping your eyes on your own paper.” It was nice. You weren’t sure how much time had passed before you threw your arms up and declared that you were finished.

“Great! What did you get for the first one?”

The confused pout returns to your features.

“You’re done?” You ask, almost sounding a little disappointed.

Peter nods and turns his paper to show you. The college rule is not well utilized. Peter had the notebook balancing on his knee at an angle but still elected to write top down, making the equations crooked when you looked at it. In the spaces between, he had doodled vines of pothos wrapping around the jumble of letters and numbers.

You were embarrassed that he could do all that before you even finished, but at least you got the same answers. You didn't remain bitter for long, melting when he flashed you that timid, tight-lipped smile.

“That’s really pretty,” you said, tracing your finger across the vines. “It would make a great tattoo.”

Peter’s brain short-circuited for a moment at the thought of his drawings of you becoming a part of your body.

“Really?” he asked with high brows.

“Yeah, it would make a really cool band.” Your fingers mapped a path along your forearm where you thought the ivy should bloom. “See?”

Peter couldn’t help but agree. He turned to his bag, riffling through it before finding the treasure he sought. He dramatically pulled out a Sharpie looking to you for permission. You placed your arm in his lap, and he gave you an award-winning grin as he uncapped it.

His hands were once again holding you, his touch gentle as he gingerly tilts your arm so he can begin drawing.

“If you hate it, we can wash it off.” he jokes before you feel the felt touch down on your arm.

It tickled a bit, and the ink was cold, but quite frankly you didn’t care. Not when Peter was bathed in the golden light of his lamp, the curve of his nose and the cut of his jaw glowing and eyes sparkling in the low light. This felt intimate, and your heart was racing the longer you looked at him. So you elected to look away, unsure your body could handle the feelings coursing through you.

You continued studying the wall in front of you, going over every sketch and memorising every line. After about five minutes, you noticed something sort of out of place. It looked more like blueprints than a drawing. You couldn’t really tell what it was from this far, unable to read the scrawl around the page, but it looked complex. Beside it, you saw what looked like rough drafts for an odd costume, and a bright yellow post-it note that read “SPANDEX!!!”

Before you could examine it much further you were distracted by a tickling feeling by your elbow.

“Try, not to move,” Peter said in a hushed whisper as he cradled your arm closer to his chest, almost as if he were hugging it. “I’m almost done.”

You apologised, laying your head against the wall, looking for shapes in the popcorn ceiling. Peter grew a smirk, feeling your pulse quickening under his touch. If he was honest, he was just as nervous, holding you this close. His mind raced at the thought that you wanted him to draw on you, that you were willing to let his fingers roam over your smooth skin.

He decided to change the design slightly, wanting to give you something unique and different– something he thought captured you better, how he felt about you better. He first traced where the vine would be, then added the leaves. When he was done, he tapped your arm to get your attention.

You turned your head and gasped when you finally saw it. The vine wrapped around your wrist like a wreath before branching off and spreading up your forearm. They bent and wove around each other, creating a bouquet of leaves. There were the Pothos leaves that he had drawn many times, and also some that looked reminiscent of Creeping Jenny’s.

But the leaves that caught your eye were the heart-shaped ones. You doubted Peter knew much about Dioscorea Bulbiferas or that Philodendron Hederaceums were one of your favourite plants. He drew hearts because he wanted to, and you melted at the thought.

Around the leaves, he drew clusters of stars– little hollow circles, crosses with spires connected like webbed flippers in the middle, and faux freckles– sprinkled across the expanse of your arm, filling the empty space.

“Do you like it?” Peter asked timidly.

“Like it?" You scoffed, "Peter, it’s amazing! Have you ever considered designing tattoos? Because you should. Seriously, this is fucking gorgeous.”

You continued to gush and Peter’s face continued to redden as your compliments continued to pour.

“I messed up here a little,” he says, humble as ever, as he twists your arm to show you where the line work got shaky by your elbow.

You didn’t realise how close you were sitting before, but now as your thighs are pressed against one another’s and his thumb is rubbing circles on the soft flesh on the inside of your arm, you can’t help but feel a little overwhelmed.

“Please,” you teased. “Even your small blemishes puts my art to shame.”

You thought the way he dodged eye contact was cute, especially with the soft blush spreading across his cheeks. But the way he looked at you, like you already had a home in his heart, made you feel bold.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, tucking your head into the crook of his neck, as you slid your fingers between his.

“Thank you,” you mumbled as your other hand traced the lines he had drawn.

You were delighted when you felt his head rest on yours, reciprocating the affection with a squeeze of your hand.

“Careful,” he warned. “You’re already my muse, you don’t want to be my favourite canvas too.”

You couldn’t imagine why that would be a problem and told him as such.

“Well, when I find a fun, new canvas," he explained, "I draw until I run out of room.”

You thought of his skateboards and his class notes and reallized he was right. But you also realised something else. You lifted your head, fixing your gaze on him, and felt yourself drowning in pools of hot cocoa.

“That works for me.”

You watched as his eyes darted around your face, this time with a look of disbelief but also reverence. Your faces were so close you could feel the shallow breaths leaving his nostrils. You could feel the heat radiating from his body. And you wanted more.

It seems you weren’t alone in that thought as Peter began to lean in. His nose nuzzled yours and your lips parted as your eyes fluttered shut. Peter had never seen anything as beautiful. You practically melted under his touch, and it was addicting. He wished then that he had the skill of Rembrandt or Caravaggio, so he could one day capture the vision before him.

He raised his hand (the one that wasn’t already preoccupied with holding yours) placing it on the side of your neck, and you shivered at the touch. That was enough “go ahead” for him.

He gently tugged you forward and pressed his lips to yours. You felt like you were flying. It was feather soft, almost non-existent. You worried if you opened your eyes, you would wake, only to find you were dreaming. It was a soft peck that didn’t last nearly long enough, and you felt your heart breaking as his face tilted, bringing his forehead closer but your lips unattached.

You were soon relieved when his lips crashed back into yours, now firm and determined. You let out a small moan, not expecting the fierceness of his kiss. It robbed you of coherent thought and stunted your ability to breathe properly. His lips worked against yours, and you realised something else: you only ever wanted to feel his touch.

You got lost in the moment, only coming back down to earth after he broke away again. He didn’t go far, resting his forehead on yours as you both worked to even your breathing. Your eyes remained closed, still afraid it was a dream.

You sit in the quiet for a moment, both of your brains running a million miles a minute. When you finally opened your eyes, Peter was gazing at you, irises swimming with something akin to love. Maybe adoration, or infatuation even. His thumb was rubbing circles on your jaw as he continued to hold your face.

“You’re beautiful,” He said through a smile.

You felt your blood rising at the compliment, and ducked your head back into his shoulder to hide. He laughed, his hand now resting on the back of your head, playing with your hair.

“You are!” he insisted, causing you to grumble something he couldn’t quite make out.

“What was that?” he teased.

You lifted your head just enough so your words weren’t muffled by the side of his neck.

“I said, ‘Shut up’.”

Peter laughed again because your words held no venom. He let you hide for a little longer, but his heart was beating so hard, and he couldn’t take it anymore. His hand moved from the base of your skull to the side of your face until you felt his fingers under your chin. He softly guided it upwards, and you let him, until you were drowning in his eyes again.

“Would it be too much,” he all but whispered, “If I asked you to be my beautiful girlfriend?”

A wide grin cracked across your face, and you nodded your head, unable to find the words to express how much you wanted that.

“Yeah?” he asked with a smile of his own.

You nodded your head again, but this time it was much more enthusiastic.

“Yes, Peter. I would love to be your girlfriend.”

His smile grew tenfold, and you felt like you could die. His face is so bright it could be the solution to solar energy.

He kisses you again, and this time it’s a bit awkward. Your lips don’t mould as well through your smiles, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. He breaks away for a moment and just looks at you. You feel vulnerable under his gaze. He was looking at you in the same way you were looking at his art. Then he smirked.

He was too quick to stop. He wrapped his arms around your waist and lifted you up, throwing you on your back. You landed on the soft sheets, bouncing a bit. Peter then leaned over you to pepper your face with kisses. You giggled as he continued showering you in affection, occasionally trying to catch his lips, all while he made comments about your new title: “I’m kissing my girlfriend,” “Oh my god, you’re my girlfriend,” “Wow, you’re so pretty, and you’re my girlfriend.”

A few minutes passed like that before he collapsed, tucking his face into your neck like you had done to him before. When you rested a free hand across his back, he snuggled into you, throwing his leg across yours and hugging your waist tighter. You chuckled lightly, but it was an expression of joy rather than anything malicious.

You lay like that for a while, until Peter gets a notification on his phone. It’s kind of jarring, the way the tone rang out, and how he jumped up to snatch the device from above your head. The harsh blue light of his screen illuminated his face, shadows settling into the new frown lines appearing. It was an alarm, you realised. He sighed, hovering above you with a sad look on his face.

“I have to go.”

Your face fell, and you tried to not let too much disappointment seep through. “You’re not staying for dinner?”

Peter looked at you confused. “Are you?”

“Yeah, I have dinner with May every Saturday.”

Peter was silent for a moment, his face showing an emotion you weren’t familiar with. “You’re still doing that?”

“Yeah,” you reply weakly, afraid you had upset him but wanting to lighten the mood. “Why? Are you worried we’re talkin’ shit?

Your plan seemed to work because Peter chuckled at that, “Maybe so.”

“Well…You wouldn’t have to if you just joined us.”

Peter had only joined you for maybe three dinners. May always appologized for his absence, but what upset you more was the worry on her face she tried to hide. She never knew where her nephew was. He would leave and then sneak back in at night. Sometimes he remembered the errands she sent him on, but usually not. May had noticed the scrapes and bruises, just as you had. You both worried about Peter and however he was choosing to process his grief.

Peter wasn’t stupid. He knew he was hurting his Aunt with his behaviour. He was trying, he really was, but having a double life isn’t easy. He felt great adoration and gratitude for you, to know you cared for one of the most important people in his life, but guilt singed at the edges of his spirit. It was almost six- he really should be patrolling right now- but he looked into your eyes and couldn’t say no.

“Okay, I can stay ‘til eight,”

Peter watches as a small smile overtakes your face, but it’s sad at the corners, not quite reaching your eyes. He’s confused by this, as to why you’re not more excited. You bring a hand up to push his hair out of his eyes.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

It would have to do for now.

When May comes home, you rush downstairs to help her in the kitchen. She greets you with her momma bear hug and begins asking about your day as you wash the produce she set out on the counter. You're telling her all about it when Peter awkwardly trails in behind you.

“Oh, Peter!” She says, trying to stifle her excitement. Like if she let it show too much, then she might frighten him off. Or maybe she was scared to get her hopes up. “You’re still here. Are you staying for dinner?”

Peter decides to hug her first before he says anything. It warms your heart to see. There’s a soft smile that he gives her, one that says, “You’re my mom, and I love you.” And his hug carries the same message. May looks so small in his arms, a little woman with so much love for her boy.

“Yeah May, I’m staying for dinner,” he says, cheek resting on the crown of her head. They break away and May looks so very happy. “(Y/n) here convinced me.”

You try to hide your warm cheeks from May but she sees right through you.

“Thank you, Dear,” She says to you with a pointed smile before turning back to Peter, “Now go help her. She’s done more than enough helping in the kitchen over the last few weeks.”

Peter gives her a shocked but impressed “Yes, ma’am” at her display of sass. He joins you at the sink, and you try to keep the small water fight that erupted contained to the basin.

Dinner is finished, and You and Peter set the table. May Serves herself last, then sits to say grace. When she opens her eyes again, she gives a nod of her head, “Let’s eat.”

The beef stroganoff is so delicious. It’s buttery and creamy; it’s fresh and light. You tell her as such, and the kind, older woman shushes you, warning that if you keep complimenting her cooking like that, her head’s gonna get too big to get her shirt over.

You reach forward for your glass and May’s eyes light up.

“That’s beautiful,” She says pointing to your wrist. You look down and fall in love with the drawing all over again. You look to your side to see Peter smiling too. You decide to kill two birds with one stone.

“Thanks, May, my boyfriend drew that for me.”

You were still looking at Peter and watched his adam’s apple bob as his cheeks turned crimson. Before he could make any jokes, May stood from the table, clapping and cheering. She ran around the table and enveloped you and Peter in an awkward group hug from behind.

“Oh my goodness, finally!”

At that, Peter stuttered out a staggered “May!”

His guardian paid him no mind, “Seriously, he’s been gushing about you for ages.”

Peter buried his face in his hands, shaking his head back and forth like he was trying to block out anything happening right now. You, however, were relishing in his harmless embarrassment.

“Really? For ages?” You teased.

May caught on and smiled widely, “Yes, since your first day of school. He came home to Ben and me and told us all about this new girl he had met and how lovely she was.”

Peter was now banging his head against his crossed arms on the table. You felt like you might cry. Peter had noticed you even then? He was kind to you, sure- and definitely your first friend- but to talk to his parents about you? To already pick up on enough things to talk about? You felt lucky to be here, in this moment.

You reach your hand out to rest on his shoulder. Peter peeked at you over his elbow, scared to see your face. But instead of the disgust or fear he thought he might find, he saw a warm smile and glassy eyes.

“Well, that might be the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Peter sat back up, trying to play off his embarrassment, “What can I say? I’m just a sweet guy.”

You shove him playfully, and he dramatically leans away, as if you had truly clocked him, but then rocks back like one of those blow-up punching bags that always came right back up and bumps your shoulder with his. Once back at equilibrium, he lays his palm out under the table for you to hold. You intertwine your fingers and can’t help the little skip in your heart when Peter rests his hand on your thigh.

You’ve made an assembly line in the kitchen. May is boxing things up while Peter washes and you dry and put away. May is ranting about this new girl who just started at her job and how entitled she was. It was nice to hear her talk about life again, not just the past. Peter washes the last dish, then tells you he’ll be right back.

It’s quiet in the kitchen, the water now silenced, and the conversation paused for Peter’s return. You can’t fight the smile that comes to your face every time your mind wanders to Peter, which is often. Every time you glance at your arm, there he is, pulled straight to the front of your mind. It takes all your willpower not to giggle every time. You’re sure you’ll be swinging your feet all night as you lay in bed trying to drift off to sleep.

“Thank you (Y/n),” May almost whispers from her spot against the stove, “for everything. We’re really lucky to know you.”

The sincerity of her statement floors you for a minute. “I feel the same about you guys. Thank you for having me.”

You share a look with May that makes you wanna hug her until her head pops off. You don’t think anything you do will be enough to tell this woman how much she means to you.

But the moment is ruined by Peter stomping down the stairs. Well some of them, you can tell he’s skipping a couple on his way down by the weird long pauses between his footfall. He’s got his layered jackets and shoes on, and his backpack is packed up. He picks up his skateboard against the wall and says, “I have to go.”

May turns away to wipe at the stove, you think it’s so Peter doesn’t have to see how sad she is when he leaves. Instead, she asks, “Can you get some eggs when you get back?”

“Yeah, sure thing.” He goes to rush out the door but stops. He slowly turns to you with a lopsided grin. His arms wrap around your waist and your cheeks warm knowing May is watching the whole display. She can see the puppy dog eyes and the way his fingers so expertly wrap around you. “See you later?”

“Not tonight, Mister.” May answers for you, “It’s late enough already.”

“Okay, Sheriff Parker,” he declares over your laughter. “So…I’ll text you?”

You pinch his cheek and give him a warning glare, “You better.”

He kisses you, and you lose your breath. His lips touched down on yours, and the rest of the world melted away, leaving only you and Peter. It wasn’t nearly long enough, but he broke away, sending a quiet “bye” through the doorway before closing it behind him. And just like that, he’s gone again. Wandering off into the night to collect more unexplainable wounds and stories you hoped, one day, he'd share with you.

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