His middle digits flexed into his palm as he pressed on his web shooter, web fluid ejecting, the sticky substance jettisoning towards the reflective surface of the skyscraper towering over the busy street below; the sound of it like that of an old, cherished friend, making contact and allowing him to continue swinging. He wove through the buildings with graceful, practiced ease; two years of web slinging now under his belt. His eyes scanning as he moved, ears perked as he changed arms, repeating the same motion, web latching on at a different point and onto a different structure. His body jerked slightly as he changed direction, his muscles responding with a little hesitation, cold air biting as his speed increased with each arc.
He still struggled with a few things. He'd gotten better about changing into his alter self, better about back packs; for which his Aunt was grateful.
Fighting was hard. Losing even more so.
But this he could do. This was relaxing. This was peaceful.
This was when he found refuge in his thoughts.
Thoughts that were now on a subject he'd only recently taken up; carrying him off to the night before, swinging on the webs of his memory to drinks and chapped lips.
It wasn't the first time he'd found those lips to be the focus of his attention. There had been many late nights since middle school spent talking into the early hours of the morning; hours where he'd studied the lines of them in the dim light of the television as movie after movie played on, fixating on them while they moved, pink flesh curving around her voice, tongue peeking out when she got caught on her thoughts or when she'd spent so much time weaving her stories that the instruments of her craft needed lubrication.
He was always eager to hear everything, watching as the things she held captive in her mind sprung free for him to hold in his own thereafter.
This, however, had been the first time that fascination had twisted it's way deeply enough into his mind that it suddenly transformed into this tangible thing; a passion; an awareness, that from that point on, would push to the front line of the war waging in his chest anytime he was in her presence.
He'd spent a lot of time watching Liz's mouth, eyes tracing over their plumpness, admiring the way she decorated them with splashes of color, wondering how those colors would look on his face and neck, smeared against the paleness of his skin if she pressed her mouth there.
He'd liked how the whiteness of her teeth had stood out brightly against them when she stretched those plump things into a smile.
Liz was beautiful in an obvious sort of way, beautiful and kind. It had seemed only natural to him that he should admire Liz; that he should want to feel her. But then what happened, happened, and she was no longer obtainable, gone, and he had found that as days turned into weeks, he no longer thought about the shape of her, or the way she laughed.
Truthfully, and in hindsight, she hadn't even left before he had unintentionally started his thoughts on a different path; it had begun with a promise, a note, and a hug he hadn't known his worn being had been craving.
Then, and it took a while, it got worse.
And it was all because of hot chocolate.
He'd told her to meet him on the bench beneath two trees a couple of blocks away from her apartment, 'the place in between;' where you always met before school. He'd told her he would see her after dinner. He hadn't expected to get hung up by a group of thugs beating on a sharply dressed white collar in an alley on the way. He certainly hadn't planned on swinging out into the street just in time to pull a little girl into his arms before that bus could flatten her; mother in hysterics; little blue and purple sneaker blackened and smashed under the weight of a tire.
He also hadn't expected the clouds to sink, for the air to further chill, and the wind to begin blending little white flurries into the darkened sky.
He was thankful for the built in heater Mr. Stark had gifted him, although it had been Karen who had reminded him of it. It had been a blessing as the sun had sunk below the horizon and the cold air had turned bitter as it began to snow.
And then he was glad for the thick jacket May had shoved at him when he pulled it out of his bag, insisting he avoid being too cold as he'd left earlier that morning.
She sat on the bench exactly where he'd asked her to; always proving that she was the better friend by never failing to answer that question he had been asking for years. Billowy white clouds of moisture puffed out from her as she blew hot air into her chilled hands; tips of her fingers reddened to match with her exposed ears. She had drawn as much of herself into her center as she possibly could, legs shoved against her chest, arms wrapped tightly around knees, a plum colored sweater pulled snugly to her shivering form.
He immediately felt a thousand times worse when he was close enough to see her face, at how red her nose was, the rosiness of her cheeks, her blue-tinged lips, and the furrowed lines of her brows as she frowned.
"Peter Benjamin Parker," she said, her lips drawn in tight, "you told me you would be here right after dinner. It's nearly 8 o'clock." Releasing her knees, she crossed her arms in front of her, exposing her fingers to the air.
"Uh oh," he took a seat next to her, sliding over to where the scratchy material of his jeans sandwiched against the chilled fabric of her leggings; cool skin leeching into the warmth of his, "using my middle name and everything," tone light, a poor attempt at making her laugh.
She tucked her fingers further under her arms, nestling them into the warmth her core provided; wild tendrils of hair that had come loose from the messy bun she wore the rest of her hair in twirled around her face, the pieces chasing after the flurries dancing on the breeze.
She wasn't having it.
"It's freezing, Parker," body coiling as she pulled the exposed skin of her neck into the nest of her shoulders, knitted sweater bunching between her breasts as she retreated into herself further, "I've been here for over an hour."
"I know, I know, I'm so, so sorry," his fingers tingled as he pulled them from the safety of his pockets to unzip his jacket, "it's just that - you know, something came up." She frowned at that, but nodded her head in acceptance, used to the standard response he offered almost daily; always answering, but never questioning.
Little tufts of the fallen sky littered her hair, crystals hanging from the strands like he did from his webs. A flurry found the bridge of her nose, constellation of freckles hidden beneath the lightness of it; another found a long, pretty set of eyelashes; the light of the lamps overhead shining through their translucence and giving her eyes an almost ethereal, glimmering appearance.
He worked his arms out from the sleeves, freeing his shoulders and baring himself to the bitter air, shivering violently when it caressed the back of his neck and nipped at his ears. "Here, you should take my jacket."
"No, that's OK, you keep it." She shook her head, the briefest of smiles pulling at the fullness of her lips.
"Please? I feel bad, and you look a little silly all scrunched up like that." He held it out to her, the sleeves brushing against a bent knee. She took it then, pushing numb fingers through the arms, warm air pushing past her lips as she released a contented sound when the residual heat from his body trapped within the woven fibers latched onto her shivering form. She buried her nose in the collar of the slightly too big jacket.
"Thanks, Pete," she smiled then, her lips hidden, but her eyes lighting up, the rosiness of her cheeks deepening.
"Y-yeah, sure," he said smiling back, his own cheeks lighting up curiously. He looked down at his shoes then, at the way he'd sloppily looped the laces together in the alley he'd hastily swapped costumes in; easier and less distracting to look at than the pretty way the color in her cheeks accentuated the way the skin there curved over the delicate lines of her bones. He toed at the straps of the bag he'd sat between his feet.
A strange thought crossed his mind then: Was it normal to want to touch your friend's face? Was it normal to want to finger through your friend's hair? Surely it was. She had done it for him many times.
Was that normal?
It had to be.
He looked up from his feet and across the street to the yellowed lights spilling from the windows of the diner that resided squished and out of place between two towering apartment buildings. Raggedy looking garland hung around the door, faded green plastic illuminated by the equally fading light of the bulbs dotting the length of it. Someone had painted various themed figures on the door. The flurries in the air becoming more frequent, heavier; making the artificial snowy scenes on the windows seem less than as the white of the falling sky and paint blended together. Another shiver wracked his rapidly cooling muscles; envious of the striped scarf the painted snowman wore.
"We should go inside," he said gesturing to the cozy looking insides of the building, standing before she could answer, swinging his bag around a shoulder before shoving iced fingers into his pockets, "I'll get you a coffee or something," shrugging his shoulders and quirking a funny brow as she looked up at him.
"OK." She stood slowly, taking a second to stretch her muscles, zipping the borrowed jacket, her nose still hiding in its collar. Her eyes bright like the moon that was beginning to peek from the clouds.
"OK." He stood awkwardly for a moment, looking at her, at the way his jacket sat on her shoulders, at how different it looked on someone else, someone so familiar; two sets of moistened air puffing from cold noses in sync. He looked away when her brow arched up in question, turning to walk across the street, bodies stiff from the chill of the air and the unfamiliar tension it was filled with. He reached the door first, fingers wrapping around the frozen metal of its handle, skin tingling in shock at the temperature; burning when the heated air of the diner shook its contrasting hands with his nerve endings.
She led the way to the back, picking a secluded booth in the corner; cardboard cutout of a Christmas tree hanging above your heads, spinning lazily in time with the convection of hot air spilling from the vents. He slid his bag in first, pushing it against the wall. The vinyl cushions crinkled as you sat on either side of each other. The tips of her fingers worked to free the table of the glittering salt crystals decorating its sticky surface.
"I'm thinking hot chocolate would be good," she said, finally comfortable enough in the warmth of the diner to free her lips; chapped from the wind, dark pink and no longer slightly purpled; color attractive without the need for the waxes Liz had favored.
"Yeah? It's been a long time since I've had any," he pulled his eyes away from her to look towards the place's lone waitress. She turned to nod her head at him as she finished taking the order of the couple on the opposite side of the room, writing diligently in her notepad. "May stopped making it for me years ago." He needed to stop and grab a box of mix at the store. Maybe he would make her some this weekend. Ben had loved the stuff. Maybe it would warm her like he used to.
You'd placed your order, waitress walking away with a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye.
His fingers carded through his hair, fidgeting with the waves, fingernails raking over his scalp as he looked down at her hands; hands that wove themselves together and apart again, fingertips that ran over the stitches at the cuff of his jacket. She stopped to fiddle with a hangnail.
It was unusual for the two of you to be so quiet; odd that you were finding it difficult to come up with words to fill the silence. It wasn't entirely uncomfortable; he was never uncomfortable around her, not really. She looked up from her nails to meet his eyes, bright and glittering, an infectious smile gracing her features, pulling at his own lips before he'd even processed the fluttery feeling brewing in his chest at the sight.
Two steaming cups of sweetened, chocolatey milk clanked as they met the table, a bowl of whipped cream finding a place between them.
"Thank you," you both said at the same time, waitress offering a smile. He pushed a cup over in her direction, her fingers looping through the porcelain handle, a pink tongue peeking through her lips as she brought the cup up to her face.
"Wait, wait, wait," he said as he worked to unroll the napkin blanketing his silverware, pulling out a spoon and scooping a dollop of whipped cream into its silvery bowl, "If we're doing this, we're doing it the right way." She released a tinkling laugh as the cream splashed into her cup, the hot liquid making quick work of melting it, sweetness mixing into the sharpness of the chocolate. He put a generous scoop of the stuff in his own cup, enjoying the sugary taste as it coated his tongue; warmth of it working to heat him from the inside.
"Definitely, you're right." He watched as she took her first sip, eyebrows rising as she closed her eyes and made a pleased sound; the noise bordering dangerously on what he would consider a moan; ears flushing at the strange sensation the thought stirred in his abdomen. His eyes followed her tongue as it ran over those lips, watched as it caught on the chocolate and cream that had stained them, as her tongue retreated back into her mouth, leaving a glistening trail in its wake.
He swallowed hard, his throat tight and bobbing, heart fluttering, mind shouting at him in excitable confusion, whispering its traitorous appreciation.
"...D-do you like it?" He found himself stammering, his voice cracking in a way it hadn't in a couple of years. 'Come on, Peter,' he chided himself, feeling a fool for being affected and flustered by his friend.
His very attractive friend.
His friend with very nice lips and a pretty tongue.
'Good God, being a teenager sucked.'
But was it really just that? He wasn't sure. He didn't think so.
She took another drink, making the same noises, the same face; lashes fluttering, teasing pink cheeks.
He put his drink down.
She nodded her head then, "This is probably the best hot chocolate I've ever had, truly." A single finger reached up to run along the corner of her mouth, wet, pink flesh responding to the pressure, dimpling and stretching as she wiped sweet cream from its surface.
Then she popped that finger into her mouth.
He watched as it pushed past her lips, as she pulled it out, fingertip wet and slick.
He whipped his head to the side, heart hammering in his chest, taking his eyes off of that finger and those lips. His stomach flipped. His cheeks burned. The whole of him burned.
'Oh no. Oh no. Oh God,' his internal self uttering through his panicked brain.
And then it hit him, smacked him upside the head, punched him right in the chest with the power and efficiency of the thugs he'd fought off only an hour or so before.
He liked you. He really, really liked you; the friend that had always been.
But it was more than that. He was attracted to you. Really, really, really attracted to you. He realized that he had been for a while; that his brain had been whispering to his heart and that his eyes and ears had been feeding it, and that he didn't just notice things about you, he really paid attention.
When he located courage among the muck of emotions swamping his addled thoughts to look at her again, her face was different. Under the lens of awareness, everything had softened; the hammering in his heart relaxing to a steady, fluttery warmth.
Another thought crossed his mind then: Liz had been obvious. [Y/N] hadn't been.
Until she was.
And somehow, that was better.
Now he found himself noticing everything; found that he wanted to notice everything, to build on the catalogue of things about you he had already started filling out years ago without even really knowing.
Now as he looked at her sweet face, at the lines of her nose and jaw, the soft angles of her chin, and the way her eyes caught the light from the glittering specks amidst the garland strewn about the room, he found that her lips; and his continued, almost necessary attention to them, were like sirens, singing to him, tempting him with their shape and color.
If her lips moved against his, with his, the same way they danced around the sounds and syllables in 'Peter,' how would it feel? Would his blood sing out in the same way her words did? Would it boil? Or would it be like a balm, soothing the roiling waves in his stomach; calming the storm brewing in the wild ocean of his mind.
What would happen if?
'But you can't do that to your friend, Peter. You can't ask that question, Spider-man.'
So instead, he'd smiled and you'd talked and laughed as you finished your drinks. He'd walked you home before trekking to his own; passing by the diner again on his way, looking into the windows, smiling as his eyes found their booth, paper Christmas tree still spinning away.
Four and a half years ago she was the new girl with the ill-suited bangs and dirty shoes offering him part of the lunch her parents had over-packed; bag of chips crinkling as she held it in front of his face, taking a seat next to him and Ned without asking if it was OK; talking about books and cartoons and stars.
Then she was sitting across from him on the bus, sitting next to him in class, walking alongside him in the hallways; bony shoulders bumping into each other, scratchy nylon backpack straps tangling together. Worming her way into their lives, his life, of her own volition, like even then she'd known eventually it would be his heart she slid into.
A year ago, she'd leant on a dented, scratchy locker; wide open, a friend offering her arms and ears in answer, not really knowing what the question was. Not knowing what she was giving. She'd been the familiar smell, his favorite braid, and a soft sweater for his chin to rest on; like then she'd known eventually it would be her comfort he would ache to slide into.
Three months ago she was the small set of too-warm fingers brushing against his as you'd walked home together. She was the sweet, floral scent in the air filling his lungs. She was the laugh that caressed his ears and squeezed at his heart; the connection between his chest and brain lagging, struggling to identify it for what it was.
Yesterday, she was.
But today, today she is.
Tomorrow, he would be.
Maybe.
When he worked up the courage to do something about it.
If he could.
Should he?
Was it really such a good idea?
With that final thought, he released the hold on the web he'd launched at the brick building across from his and May's own, allowing his body to push through the dry, chilly air, riding the waves of momentum as it carried him to the sidewalk below. With arms outstretched he caught himself on a street lamp, whirling around it in a last attempt at expelling his nervous energy before the soles of his boots made contact with the cement.
He hadn't even made it half way up the stairs to his door before his phone had rung. Before Tony had called asking for his help, tension and apprehension in his voice evident; he spoke of a threat to the whole of the world, to the universe. He spoke of how much he hated himself for calling.
Happy arrived seconds after that, uncharacteristically silent, face lined with worry and what looked like fear. There was a case in the back seat, not entirely unlike the one he'd been gifted that first time.
Tony had ended his call with "Suit up, kid."
So he did.
And he'd fought.
And he'd lost, they all did. So much, too much.
He'd thought of her when he closed his eyes and deafened his ears to the sounds of chaos around him. He'd continue thinking of her, of those lips and eyes, her hair and fingers and of hot chocolate while they remained closed for days after.
