You fumbled with the key in your pocket, shaking.
What could be wrong?
It had been about a week since it happened, since it happened, since Spider-Man came to your rescue. Since Peter came to your rescue. And Peter had been acting off. Odd. Strange and distant.
Peter.
The name screamed in your mind as you fit the key into the lock, as you had so many times before, so many times that led to so many nights, so many afternoons, so many sleepy mornings. The shaky voicemail he had left on your phone played over and over in your head, making you think the worst.
"I need to - I need to talk to you, Y/N, please."
And with a jolt, the door jumped open, carrying you with it. And then you were falling into the apartment, searching for Peter (Peter.), your heart relentlessly screaming, your mind crying.
What could be wrong?
You turned to meet a chest, strong, broad-shouldered, Peter. Then there were lips locked on yours, hands moving up your back, greedy, deprived, and broken. His warmth was cool today, chilled by something (What could be wrong?). Something, that something, was chilling, cold, harsh, because then there were salty tears spilling over your lips and shudders coming from the chest, strong, broad-shouldered, Peter.
His shaky breaths bubbled in your mouth, cracking with sobs and hasty movements. You gasped against him, regaining yourself, positioning your palms against his hips.
What
could
be
wrong?
Now his lips were trailing from yours, distracted by your cheek, your jaw, your neck, your collarbones, greedy, deprived, and broken.
Greedy, deprived, broken.
His lips relentlessly whispered the words in their movements, rash and filled with infatuation. Then they were back on yours again, slowing, filled with passion. Greedy, deprived, broken, and passionate. Slow with passion.
Peter.
It was all so familiar, the feeling of him against you, the balmy motion of his mouth caught in yours, but that chill was there. That warmth was chilled by something.
What could be wrong?
He shook against you, lips failing to work any longer as he sighed into you, rolling his hands over your shoulders and down your back, wrapping around you.
Peter.
And you were so fractured, cracked with emotion, cracked with passion, cracked with greed, deprivation, and breaking.
"Peter," you muttered, out loud this time, mouth tumbling against his as you uttered the words. His breath hitched at every inhale, sending pulses of sympathetic ache down your limbs.
"Peter," you echoed, trying to scrape up an explanation from the shuddering boy wrapped around you.
"Peter."
And he pulled back, staring into your eyes for the first time since you had arrived. His were bloodshot, sleepless, wet and glossy, and greedy, deprived, and broken. His hand, perched under your jaw, was strong and calloused, his thumb running soft circles over your cheek.
"I had to," that boy choked.
I had to.
What could be wrong?
Your head fumbled with attempts at an explanation as you heaved, your breaths choking in your throat, dreading each and everything that was going to come out of his mouth, dreading embracing his pain in your arms, dreading coming to face the fact that Peter (Peter.) was hurt. Peter deserves no hurting. Not Peter.
"I had to, one more time."
His jaw was clenched as his eyes combed through yours, searching, warming, searching. That warm brown was shattered, his irises glossy, his heart broken through his eyelashes. And those friendly freckles were now stains upon his skin, and those tousled curls were now misshapen. He was hurt.
"You had to - you what?"
You stammered distorted words, jaw quivering, heart quivering, mind quivering, body shaking, skin stinging.
"One -"
And he pressed his lips against yours, that warmth still chilled.
"More -"
And there they were again, nipping at you.
"Time."
And this time, the passion was back as he moved against you, greedy, deprived, and broken. And he moved and moved and the salty tears were still running through the chapped caverns of your lips, spilling into each other.
So, you pulled away, confused. Because you hated the taste of salty tears, you hated the taste of salty, salty, hurt tears. Peter's (Peter.) tears. And so you spat, you spat out words of questioned chaos.
"What's wrong, Peter?"
You stared into him, watching the freckles moved as he breathed, watching his chest rise as he breathed, watching him breathe as he breathed.
Peter.
"No, don't-" the boy choked, shutting his eyes, covering the glossy brown, fractured brown, skin crinkling. His jaw was locked shut, teeth grinding.
"Peter."
Peter.
"Listen, I can't - I can't, I can't," he shuddered, eyes still slammed shut, glued shut, with those salty tears. His head hung, his curls nearly brushing your forehead. He shook it back and forth (I can't, I can't).
"Peter, look at me."
Your heart was screaming in your throat, in your eyes, at this boy in front of you. And he obliged, shakily showing you those bloodshot, sleepless, wet and glossy, and greedy, deprived, and broken eyes once again, raising his head. And your words managed to break again in your throat because you weren't able to spit them out like you did to those salty tears that you hated so much, because you couldn't spit out a reason for Peter (Peter. Peter. Peter.) breaking in your arms, falling apart as he kissed the lines of you.
And so you just looked at him, your eyes clawing in his, trying to wrap the broken brown in bandages and blankets, like this boy had done for you so many times when you were broken. When you were cracked, then fractured, then broken, and then Peter was there.
"What's wrong?"
And now you were the one spilling the cloudy tears, you were heaving, you were shaking in synchronicity with this hurt, hurt boy in front of you. And your hands rested on his chest, pawing gently, begging for an answer as you crumbled in his arms.
Peter.
"Peter, what's wrong?"
He stared at you, chest rising and falling.
And then you saw the same Peter you had seen when you had cut your knee, the same Peter you had seen when you fell into tears, when you had lost your loved one. He looked at you the way a child would look at a hurt dog; not with pity, but concern. Not with disgust, but curiosity. Not with confusion, but sympathy.
"I can't - I can't do this, I can't, I'm sorry, I can't -"
His salty tears halted his statement, his voice hitching. The words stung as they hit your ears and stung as they coated your skin and stung as they wrung your heart out dry and stung your mind with confusion.
"'This'"?" you questioned, resting a hand on his arm. "What's 'this'?"
Part of you already understood. Part of you heard the words, listened to the words, felt the words, knew the words. Knew the words.
Then that part of you that hated those salty tears and those broken brown irises and the idea of Peter hurting, that part, that part refused. That part ran through the memories, the reflections of the pleasant past. And so as you looked at the shaken boy in front of you, there they went, the reflections of the past, and you wanted nothing but to keep them, relive them, sink into them and into Peter (Peter.).
"This, Y/N," he babbled, bottom lip quivering, "this."
And then his finger was pointing between the two of you and your heart twisted and your breath caught and the storm of sadness washed over your body, the hurricane of sadness and greed, deprivation, and breaking, washing over you, knocking you over, chucking your mind into a hole somewhere in a dark alley, behind a box.
"T - this?" you stammered, your gaze trailing from his fingers, to his chest, to his collarbones, then to those broken brown eyes.
He choked out, moving his hands from your arms to his hips, clenching his jaw and biting his lip, trying to hold back those salty tears.
"Why?"
Peter.
"Peter, what's going on?"
Peter. Peter. Peter.
"I can't do this, I told you, I can't do this, I can't, I can't, Y/N, I -"
"Peter what are you -"
"Listen to me!"
He was shaking in front of you, pulling away, his loss of touch leaving blisters on your skin. He was shaking, shuddering, and those blisters burned.
"I can't do this!"
You felt your stomach knot, burning like the blisters. And now it was you who was greedy, deprived, and broken, it was you who's shirt was stained with Peter's tears, it was you who was crying those salty tears.
His hands were perched above his head, yanking at his hair. He doubled over, shaking, heaving, babbling, emotions spilling over the collar of his sweatshirt. And then you were lurching, your body rejecting the idea, your chest heaving involuntarily, staggering before this boy, this boy, this boy who you loved. You loved this boy and what the hell could be going on?
"What?"
"Listen to me, Y/N, I can't do this, listen to what I'm saying!"
You couldn't listen, though, you could only hear it. Those words were not willing to go through the filter, not willing to be shredded into understanding, not willing to fall down into the pit of ache in your chest (Listen to what I'm saying!).
"I am listening, Peter! I'm listening, and I'm hearing you saying that you want this, this, to be over?" you shouted, matching his volume. Those salty tears were coating the inside of your throat and breaking your words and you choked, twisting. "Why are - why are you saying this?"
"You -" he whispered, biting his lip to stop more sobs, "you could have been hurt." And then he broke, again, breaking more than he was already broken, cracking, breaking. His head fell into his hands as he clawed away the salty tears, scratching at those freckles, yanking at the emotion spilling out from between his eye lashes.
You understood.
"Peter, I'm fine, Peter, look at me, look at me, Peter."
And you gestured up and down yourself, begging him to lift his head, to meet your eyes, to realize he was wrong. Instead, he shook his head, curls hanging, hands still clawing at those salty tears.
"They hurt you, Y/N."
He breathed the words, spitting them into the air, finally raising his gaze to meet yours. The heaves that escaped his lips were filled with rage, his hands bunching at his sides, staring deeply at you, into you.
"They hurt you."
"Peter, I'm -"
"You're not fine, Y/N!"
His chest was convulsing, his arms searching the air, outstretched towards you, his brows furrowed.
"You're not - you're not fine!"
"Peter, listen to me! I'm okay! You don't -"
"You have scars on your hips!" he screamed, yanking at his hair again, fingers ripping at those misshapen curls. "Don't tell me you're okay, because you're not okay, you're not, you're going to have those scars until the day you die! And they're there because of me! Me!" His finger slammed into his chest, eye contact never breaking.
"I can't do this!"
And then there was silence, stained with yours and Peter's shaky breaks, broken breaths, smeared with salty tears. Your legs felt like they were going to buckle, your arms positioned on your hips, on those scars, on those scars that were there because of him. On those scars that weren't his fault, on those scars that weren't scars anymore, on those cuts. On those rips in your skin that Peter had shaken over, the rips that Peter had bandaged, the rips that were not his fault.
"It's not your fault, Peter," you shook, breathlessly fumbling with the words on your lips. "Listen to me, it's not your fault."
He went back to shaking his head, staring you dead in the eye with that broken brown, his eyebrows tugged at the middle in concern.
"Bullshit," he whimpered, biting his lip, blinking, in an effort to clear those salty, salty, hurt tears. "They wouldn't have taken you if it weren't for me, you have those scars because of me, it's me, you can't - I can't be with you, I can't - I can't -"
Your feet carried your body, your shaken, broken body, to him, and then you were right in front of his eyes, his fractured eyes, close enough to smell the salt in those salty tears. His chest trembled, shoulders shaking with discomfort, his breath fanning onto your face. And you watched him, spilling your own tears.
"I wouldn't give you up for the world, Peter."
He squinted his eyes at this, brows furrowing, broken brown clouded by wetness.
"They hurt you. They hurt you, they hurt you, and they'll hurt you again and I won't be able to -" he heaved, "I won't be able to stop them again and you'll have more scars and I won't be able to -"
"It's okay, Peter."
He whimpered, biting his lip, eyes red with irritation.
"You just don't get it, Y/N."
And then your heart broke for the seventh time, shattering across your insides, scarring you, cutting you, breaking you. Your throat clawed with all of the words you wanted to say, all of the reasons he was wrong, all of the unnecessary things you were feeling, all of those unnecessary, aching feelings.
"I love you, Peter," you croaked, demanding his eye contact with your words, rough and dipped in remorse. "I love you and I don't care how many times those assholes lock me up, I don't care how many times they spill my blood, I don't care how many times you can't deal with it, because I need you, Peter." And in sucked another shaky, thought-stained gulp of air.
"Peter, you're breaking me. I love you, and you're breaking me."
Your hand thudded against your chest, your chest that was convulsing with sobs and emotion, your chest that wanted to be pressed against Peter's. And the boy watched you, bottom lip fumbling, lashes blinking at the tears, eyebrows bunched in commiseration.
"Do you- do you really?"
His breathing slowed, anticipation besting him as he prepared for the answer.
"Love you?" you asked, wiping away a hair glued to your cheek with tears. He nodded softly, lips parting, breaths needy. His eyes asked "do you love me?", his eyes that weren't very broken anymore, his eyes that were warm again, momentarily, his eyes that saw you.
"Of course I love you, Peter."
And with that statement, you watched his hands bunch at his sides, desperate to feel you, hold you, encapsulate you in his arms. He was desperate for you.
"I -" he started, choking on unspoken words, "I love you, too."
His fingers grasped at the fabric of his sweatshirt, yanking in disbelief.
"I know," you smiled, whispering the words against the face of the broken boy, mending his shaking lips, mending his broken eyes, mending his heart.
But he shook before you, quaking with ache, need, desire.
"They hurt you."
And there was that mouth full of greedy, deprived, and broken words again, that mouth full of longing, lust, pain.
"Peter -"
"They hurt you and they'll hurt you again," he shuddered, jaw clenching, "They'll hurt you again and they'll hurt you because of me, they'll hurt you because I love you, they'll hurt you and you are -" he choked, stammering, "you are the last person who deserves to be hurt."
And you were frantically pawing at his chest again with broken fingers, bones snapped by solace, bunching his sweatshirt in your palms. It was damp with him.
"Peter, look at me," you whispered, slicing the air with your demand. His head still hung, eyes dripping, fingers clawing at his sides because he needed you.
"Goddamnit, look at me!" you shuddered, moving closer to breathe the wet warmth of your breath over his face. "Look at me, Peter."
And he did, he looked into the eyes he had seen light up after a joke, eyes that had slammed shut in the night, eyes that had glistened with tears. Eyes that he could swim in, bathe in, soak in.
You grabbed at his hands from his sides, tracing the familiar rivers of his palms with your fingers, grasping him fully. And then you brought his hands to your hips, slipping them down the waistband of your shorts, along the scars that bubbled on your skin. Along the cuts that weren't his fault, along the rips that weren't his fault, along the gashes that weren't his fault.
"I healed, Peter."
He shook at your touch, grasping at your hips in his hands, fingers memorizing the scars, tracing them.
"I healed, Peter, and these?" you continued to press his fingertips into the bubbled skin, "These didn't hurt nearly as much as this."
Your eyes darted between the two of you, the familiar feeling of his hands on your hips soothing you and your salty tears.
"It hurts more to know that I can't see you, to know that I can't feel you anymore, to know that I can't -" you choked, rasping, "that I can't be with you."
"That hurts more than these scars ever will."
And you longed for him to understand with your eyes, begging him to regret his decision, to rethink the chaotic thoughts he had conjured.
Peter, you're breaking me. I love you, and you're breaking me.
"Please, Peter," you babbled, swollen lips ridding your mouth of withheld begging.
"Please, Peter, I need you."
His fingers continued to trace the scars, hastily, shakily, full of lust.
"I love you, Peter," you stammered, "And whatever the next asshole could do to me would never hurt as much as this. Please."
And then his hands were gripping your hips, ignoring the scars, pulling you against him.
"You don't have to do this," he breathed into your lips, his anticipated touch sparking on your mouth. He was still shaking, quivering, holding strong as much as he could.
Peter, you're breaking me. I love you, and you're breaking me.
"I love you, Peter, I need you."
You were shaking, quivering, too, eyelids falling slightly, breathing harsh.
"I healed. I'm okay. And these are not your fault."
You gripped your hands on top of his, the hands that were needily grasping your hips. His exhales were unsteady, sparking with the emotion in his mouth.
"It's not your fault."
And with that, his lips were locked on yours again, his hands working their way up your back, eyes stinging with the memory of tears.
His warmth was back.
It was you and Peter again, you and Peter and the remnants of those salty tears.
Peter.
