He taps the pen against his lips, his elbow propped up on the light wood of his table in the library. Peter admits with little shame that he has difficulty concentrating. He's easily distracted by trivial things like the cracks in the window frames or the dust particles that float delicately through the air, coated in the afternoon rays of sunshine. He's terribly distracted all the time, a daydreamer of the worst kind. He'll tell you that it's part of his charm when you nudge him and whisper for him to pay attention, and you'll respond with a blatantly dramatic roll of the eyes and vigorous head nodding, and then he'll shove your shoulder against his just to be annoying. And then his cheek falls against his fist again, eyes glazing over in a way only you would notice as he slips back into his dreams again. He's been this way since he was young, and with senses dialed to eleven, there's not much he can do about it now.
You certainly don't help the situation, Peter decides today, still drumming the pen against his lips as he scrapes his elbow across his open notebook. The white paper crinkles underneath him, not that he notices. When you sit beside him, there's never much else he deems worth noticing. His elbow continues to scrape noisily back and forth over the paper in his spiral book, ruining the neatly scribed global notes he had gotten from you because he had failed to pay the teacher any mind during second period global class; though was that really any surprise to anyone? You ignore the crinkled sounds as he readjusts himself in the wooden chair that you know he hates but puts up with because you can't study anywhere but the school library. Peter doesn't even realize he's making any noise. He's incredibly busy thinking about the way the golden hour looks from this angle, this viewpoint. He loves his view right now- his favorite person in the world right there, hair falling in front of your face and the sun making you glow like the world's best and brightest angel, your eyes shining so prettily it makes Peter's palms hot and his smile too much to contain.
Peter's thoughts drift wildly, but they always find themselves intertwined with strands of your hair or the color of your eyes. He finds that you're the subject of fantasies wherein he's a boy who bleeds confidence and stardust and never fails or trips over his feet when he tries to slow dance with you in his tiny bedroom with the low lighting and soft music. Where he can effortlessly spin you around in a hug the way he sees it in the movies without bumping his hip into something, almost dropping you not because you're heavy but because he's ridiculous and lacks coordination even with the spidey everything. He's still clumsy Peter. He spins a daydream of him being able to kiss you without bumping his nose against yours like he always does without meaning to. He thinks about being the one to go in for the kiss first, take you by surprise and let his lips glide softly over yours without it being difficult or nerve-wracking or injury inducing.
He imagines everything and anything, the sweet and the lovely and the far away in the future. He can picture himself on his wedding day and the only person he can see standing there in front of him is you (and he knows people will think it's stupid because he's fifteen and they don't get it, so he refrains from mentioning this at all) and he can envision himself on his first day of college as a call from you chimes on his phone. And there's an excited bubble of laughter through the phone, he can practically hear it like it's right in front of him because in a way it is, as you tell him about your first class on the other side of Manhattan and about your roommate who thinks you talk too much about Peter even though it's only been a week of living there. Every day a new daydream, but the topic stays consistent, because Peter is nothing if not consistent. Sometimes, he gets so caught up in his dreams of the future, he forgets to focus on and enjoy the present; he's always ready for the next thing, the next adventure, especially if it involves you.
But his sweet daydreams are interrupted by a flicked pen hitting the middle of his sweater clad chest, impeccable aim thanks to you. Peter glances up with a frown, looking around quickly to ensure no authority figures are watching before he holds up his middle finger at you with a roll of his eyes. "What was that for?" He says as you lean across the table to push his finger back down into his fist.
"You looked like you were possessed, your eyes were all glazed over," you inform him, pushing your cheek into your fist with a little laugh. "It was like when we saw IT and Bev was hangin' in the air and she was all possessed, remember? You better remember," you poke him again with the pen and he swats your hand away, taking the pen from you and launching it across the room. It hits the bookshelf on the other wall with a light thump, and a girl across the room sends him a glare that could help the polar ice caps freeze again. He glances away from her with a sheepish grin, turning his attention back to you and pretending to not feel the warmth coming up into his pale cheeks. "Nice one, loser."
"Shut up, meanie," he retorts, the space between his eyebrow creasing like he's annoyed with you even though he's not. He shakes his head at you, then starts laughing his summertime sunshine laugh because he can't help himself, and then you're both stuck trying to muffle your hysterics underneath sweater sleeves. When he finally catches his breath, thankful that you chose a table in the back of the library hidden away by the vast shelves and stacks, he reaches under the table to slide his hand into yours. He gives you a soft smile, because everything he is revolves around featherlight softness. "I daydream a lot. You know that. I have concentration issues. Are you new here, babe?"
"Stop, I'm not new." You place your intertwined hands upon the desk so you can see them, absentmindedly playing with the fingers that lock between yours. "You're always lost in your head, Peter. It's pretty adorable."
"I have a very good reason to be," he informs you earnestly, and you feel a gentle squeeze on your hand. He acts as if he hasn't heard the comment about him being adorable. It makes his heart shake too much, makes his head hurt in a good way and his smile burn too bright. "Like, the best reason ever. You'd be very happy, I think." His dreamy smile returns, and he's the dreamiest boy you've ever seen in your life, before his focus retrains on the beauty sitting in front of him. Then, he says, "Daydreams have nothing on the subject of the dream itself, though. There's no comparison." There's that sincere, intense look in his eyes that makes sure to meet your gaze, squinted slightly as he studies the way you take him all in. He tries to appear stoic when the realization that he dreams about you quite often, maybe too much, dawns, but the amusement is too much for him to handle, and so he starts grinning like a lovestruck maniac and laughs when he sees your demeanor completely shift. He's the only person that can make you go from serious, to hysterical, to flustered in a matter of only ten minutes and it's a silly little thing that he prides himself on.
"Peter." Your neck feels hot as you sink low in your seat, covering your face with your hands. You can't tell if you love the way he makes you feel or hate it- but let's face it, you lean more toward love because there's no way feeling this soft inside could ever be a bad thing. You know you'll only grow more flustered, embarrassed, if this continues and he keeps shoving lovely words down your throat, but you decide in a split second that it's worth it. "Okay, daydreamer, tell me what you dream about, then. I wanna know."
Your words are gently spoken because you have to keep reminding yourself that you're in a library, for God's sake, and you can't have screaming or anything of that sort going on right now. Peter's hands run along yours. "Just simple things. Sweet ones. Before we were together, before I was even blip on your radar-" he places a hand over your mouth to prevent you from telling him that he's aways been on your radar- "it was stuff like holding hands. Sitting together on the subway. Playing with your hair." He twists a strand around his finger because he's allowed to do this now. "Now, it's more stuff like... I don't know... uh, going to college together, maybe, getting an apartment and, like, I don't know, just stupid stuff I guess I mean we're like sixteen so you know it's nothing that's for sure but... uh, like, you know, stuff." He blushes profusely, clearly embarrassed and unsure of what to say next. He's not even sure how he allowed himself to get that far into the conversation, and once he had, he couldn't stop the words from coming out.
"Would you want us to move in together?" You ask, eyebrows raised. Peter ducks his head, a little shake of the shoulders given to you and that's it. "That's a good daydream to have, Peter. I like that a lot. One day. Eventually." You don't want to embarrass him further. The poor boy's already a pretty shade of red, like crushed rose petals in pink and orange sunset lighting, but you figure that the small sentence is enough reassurance he needs. And it is. He's not big on public displays of affection, or at least he tries not to be, but he reaches for your hand and brings it up to his lips, lets it linger there for a moment, then releases your hand with the tiniest smile.
Peter's heart is singing as the comfortable silence washes over the space between you both, and he admires the glint of light that illuminates strands of your hair, and he thinks to himself i'm the daydreamer, they're the daydream, and i don't think anything could compare to this.
