so here i am again ... just caught up with the last two episodes of season 7b ... and i feel like banging my head on a wall :)) what's new :))

over the phone — p.p.

summary : the things peter’s said to you over the phone. [ part one in a series based on these prompts ] 

word count : 2.5k

author’s note :  slow burn mutual pining romances are my fuckin favorite thing to write!!! feedback is much appreciated please and thank you!!! sorry this is all in lowercase i forgot to not write in lowercase lol.... hmu if you wanna be tagged in this or in anything i write in general :) love you guys 4ever n ever

there’s this strange silence that fills your bedroom, and it’s like water sloshing over the rim of a bathtub when you leave the faucet on for a beat too long. you feel it before he says it, on the phone with a voice crack that effectively shatters the innocence and naivety of your fourteen year old universe. you’re fourteen and pressing your finger against his contact name in your phone at eleven pm on a tuesday night. you have an algebra test in the morning and freshman year is kicking your ass, but that’s nothing compared to peter. peter is the one doing the ass kicking, he’s so smart and the world will hear his resounding brilliance one day, but he feels tonight like a thousand needles pricking his soft, sunflower heart as if the world has forgotten that it’s supposed to be nice to kids as inherently kind as peter parker.

you call him first because you know he won’t make the move to reach out. he’s not the sort of person who desires to draw attention in this light, he doesn’t want to keep you up late, either, because he’s peter and peter is the embodiment of nice. too nice for his own good, maybe. too nice to call his best friend first on the night his uncle dies right in front of him, too nice to clamber down the hall to the elevator and take it up to your floor so you can slip out the door, clutch him against your chest the way he wants you to. you call him and at first he stares blankly at the phone vibrating harshly on the wooden desk he sits in front of. he’s on his swivel chair and his face his flushed an awful shade of red. his throat burns, head hurts. he wants to submerge his head underwater until he’s gasping for air the way he has been all night, but he wants his uncle to be the one to yank him from everything weighing down on his chest. he can’t get what he wants, though. so he picks up the phone, holds it to his ear, and listens simultaneously to the quiet sigh you exhale once he picks up and may’s quiet crying in the other room. he wants to comfort her, but he’s shaking from what he’s seen and felt in the last six hours and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to tell his aunt that everything will be okay when he’s not even sure of that. a few minutes of pure nothingness pass by between you, but then peter says it, small voiced and miserable. “i- i was out and- and uncle ben, he, he tried and i was so stupid because i shouldn’t have gone over there but i did and- and uncle ben is dead.” there’s a sniffle, you can hear peter shudder, and the phone call goes dead because he refuses to let you hear him sob his eyes out like he’s about to.

so, you go to him instead. and you walk into the house that’s been your other home for awhile now, the house abound with joy and light and love now sickeningly silent save for the cries of your- well, your peter, that he tries to muffle into a pillow. you walk in without knocking, but he sees you and forgets that his eyes are puffy and his face is wet. he doesn’t forget everything, but he forgets enough. he hugs you, he bunches your sweater in his fists and he holds you to him as tight as he can without hurting you. he’s never needed someone so badly. if he can’t have both you and ben, he’ll take just you with a sad smile and he’ll bear it. for you, for may, for himself. peter shuts his eyes. he thinks about the spider bite. this won’t happen again.

you skip your algebra test.

phone calls are a staple in your relationship with peter. no one else can seem to process the way you love talking to him with the phone held between your shoulder and your cheek as opposed to texting or using snapchat. you say that you and peter can do all of that and talk on the phone. why one or the other? why not both? why not all? there’s nothing better than the sound of his voice when you can’t physically be with him, and it’s been this way for so long that you can’t imagine it differently. he calls you every night, has ever since you were fourteen and you failed algebra and he lost his (other) favorite person and you both felt the hurt that this world really slams you with. but most of the time, everything is okay.

everything’s okay until he calls you one morning- though, the term morning can be used loosely, considering it’s really three am and you’re sleeping in preparation for your chemistry final that’s been looming over your head for the past month and a half. he’s well aware that the test is tomorrow, he’s been helping you prepare with a fervor only someone as passionate about science as peter could bring forth, but he needs to tell you this and he needs to tell you know rather than later. if he neglects to tell you now, he reasons as he taps your name on his recent calls list, he’ll forget to tell you the following day at school, and by the time he remembers he won’t want to say it anymore-

 “pete? it’s three in the morning! is everything okay are you hurt is may hurt what’s going on-” you pause for a breath, already fumbling with your covers. he hears the thump of your body hitting the floor through the one, but only because of the enhanced hearing he harbors. he pictures, clear as day in his mind because he’s seen it for himself a ridiculous amount of times, your body twisting around in your covers until you fall completely off your bed. he smiles- widely, happily, unapologetically adoring-  at the image when your voice floats back up through the speakers. “i feel like you’re laughing, and i’m not in the mood, parker, i’m telling you right now. i have chem in the morning! this better be majorly important, or else your ass is grass.”

 “shut up for a second, steve harrington,” he teases, playing with the signature red mask that he holds tightly in his grip. the nickname will make you grin like a maniac. at the sound of steve’s name, the bubblegum pink cartoon hearts swirl dreamily around the top of your head. your best friend has seen that reaction firsthand. “i have something to tell you. i wanna get it off my chest, before i chicken out and refuse to tell you again for the next…” he estimates how long he’s been spider-man in his head, chalks it up to about ten months, “ten months.”

 “that’s specific,” you say, perched on the edge of your bed with one foot lodged halfway into your sneaker and the other tucked underneath you. you leave your shoe on. you have a feeling you’re going to need to make a hasty departure. “well, you can tell me anything, peter. you know that by now.”

 “well, here’s something you don’t know.” he squeezes the mask in his fist, then spreads it out on his lap. stares down at it as he says, “i’m spider-man. I’ve been spider-man since the day after ben died. and i’m out right now, on a spider-man patrol, because i try to stop the bad guys before they can get to anyone else. so there. now you know.”

you don’t say anything just yet. you let the information simmer as you hang off your bed with one shoe on and one shoe off, your mouth slightly open. when you can finally gather enough coherency in your thoughts to form a sentence, you simply state, “you’re fucking shitting me, peter benjamin parker. this is a joke.”

he gulps, you can’t hear it, and he runs a hand through his sweat matted, curling hair. he puffs out his cheeks, exhales, then says to you, “i’m on top of our building. come up. please. ‘cause i really, really need you to believe me.” he needs someone to know, and if it’s going to be anyone, it’s going to be you. you’re already in the elevator by the time he’s ending his sentence.

when you get up there, he’s got his knees pulled up to his chest and his mask down over his head. you’d say you weren’t sure if the figure sitting there was peter, but you’d be lying. the body language, withdrawn, nervous, hiding in himself, was entirely him. he’s looking out at the city, gaze stretching past queens all the way into manhattan. peter feels your shoulder bump against his as you sit down, mimicking his stance, but staring at him instead of the view. that had to be symbolic, right? he brushes away the thought. that was a worry for a different day. this was today’s worry. he yanks the mask from over his head, hair flopping back down over his head in messy ways that make your heart skip, a pebble flicked into a pond. big brown eyes belonging to the softest boy you know search your face for any semblance of a reaction akin to anger, confusion, sadness, worry. instead, he finds that same old safe smile and two arms reaching out to hug him. not what he had anticipated, but he’d be damned if he pushed you away.

you hadn’t wanted to display your true worry on your face for the world to see- you knew the world wasn’t watching, but it certainly felt that way- so you said it quietly, kindly, in his ear. “god, peter, imagine if you had died or something. what would i have done? i would’ve brought you back to life and then killed you again, that’s what i would’ve done. me and may. we would’ve obliterated you, and then brought you back to life to ground you because you’re so headstrong and stupid sometimes. you dumb hero. i hate you.” but you say all of this with your head on his shoulder and your arms around his waist, no intention of letting go in the near future.

“may and i,” he corrects affectionately, sliding his fingers through your hair. “ i’m sorry. i’m telling you now, because i-” he stops, he takes a deep breath, he starts again, “because i wanted you to know. you deserved to know.”

you skip your chem test. your best friend is spider-man, and he can swing between buildings with a thin web and he saves bicycles from thieves and old ladies give him free food sometimes. chem doesn’t matter (at least for right now).

he’s staring out his window with his phone up to his ear. you’re not on the other end, not yet. you will be in a few minutes, at your scheduled talking time that you’d set what feels like a million years ago. you’re still just fifteen. it’s two months later, though, and he’s been spider-man for a year now. sometimes, you think about how peter had to trudge through freshman year with a dead uncle and a new identity, but it’s been a year and you’re sophomores now and things are a little different even if they’re mostly the same. he’s giving himself another pep talk, assisted by may an hour ago, and he’s going to say it to you like he’s been saying it his entire life. y/n, i love you. he’s going to say it like a boyfriend, a soulmate, a true love for the person who has been by his side through everything for as long as he can remember. he’s going to say it, scream it, whisper it, whatever he has to do to get it done.

peter calls you, he puts the phone back in its original position, and he waits with his foot tapping loudly against the clanging black metal of the fire escape. “heyyy, peter parker,” you sing into the phone after you pick up, pushing yourself away from your desk and dropping your pen onto the filled up loose leaf paper. you twirl a strand of hair between your fingers in a daydream like fashion. you can’t help it. he’s a daydream and a half, a whole fantasy world of his own, and you’re in too deep to break the surface of the water. “out saving queens like my favorite superhero?”

“spidey’s taking a break for a few hours,” he says, kicking his shoes off and propping them up on his bed frame. he’s still staring out the window, the sky glowing pink in anticipation of the sunset.

“oh, i meant iron man, but you’re cool,” you grin when you hear his loud scoff. you spin around in your chair when he starts laughing a little.

“mr. stark is gonna love you when you meet him, you’re lodged so far up his ass,” he snarks back lovingly, knowing he’s equally as fascinated with the man behind the iron suit. maybe even more so. he’s on the verge of running of a fan club, and he knows it. he clears his throat. “anyways, i’ve gotta tell you something.”

“again?” you huff, rubbing your hand over your eyes. “my heart can’t take the stress, peter. you’ve dropped massive atomic freaking bombs on me every time you’ve said those words! what is it, this time? another trip to europe so you can go battle with the avengers without me? tell me before i die from the anticipation.” peter runs a thumb over his mouth. maybe you’d kiss him one day, if he said it now, if he stopped being so scared. he wanted you to kiss him. and it was a terrible, terrible want. he shuts his eyes. to him, it’s like shutting his eyes prevents him from being terrified anymore.

“i just wanted you to know that you’re my best friend, in the world.” in other words, i love you. he holds the phone away from his mouth so he can scream into the nearest pillow without you hearing. of course he’s too embarrassed, too scared to face rejection. he can fight captain america and go head to head with the winter soldier, he can deck the bad guys in the face on the street corners in queens with ease and grace, he can face flash the ass and his stupid insults every day of his life, but he can’t tell you he’s in love you and he hates himself just a little bit because of it. “so, yeah, that’s it. felt like you needed a reminder. so, i’m here, reminding you. my best friend.” he reiterates the term so much it starts to irritate you, and you grip the phone so hard your hand pales from the pressure.

“got it. you’re my best friend, too, peter. thanks for the reminder. i should go study… for uh, you know, spanish. i’m gonna let you go. see you tomorrow?” peter’s frown mirrors yours despite being in two seperate places, and you disconnect the call without waiting for a response. your heart feels a little heavier, and you hate the reason why. 

he leans his head back against the windowsill. he’d tell you differently, he decides, instead of over the phone like a seventh grader. he’d be better. he didn’t want this to just be another one of the things he says over the phone.

you skip school the next day.

tags : @hufflepuffholland @parkerroos @starparker @nedandpeter @gingerbreadparker @iusethistoreadfanfics @skymoonandstardust @prettylilparker @pbpz @warcriminalrogers @tiny-friggin-human @heartfrost @gentlethunderstorm @lunastarwatcher @brittyblogs @fairydustparker @emmaaolsen @xwinterromanxff @ravenclaws-say-caw @buckysmaingirl @idioticnerd24 @the-crime-fighting-spider @quacksontommy @handsomeholland @tomarvelicious @fluffyavengers @wavy-ley @radicalstars @itsssmichelleee @nedslaptop @stephie-senpai @fullwizardstrawberry @mossyfeet @sophia1644 @spideytattoo @peterplanet