Chapter Text
perhaps this was supposed to feel terrifying.
the trickle of water, the incessant tragedy, flowing down your back in an incandescent reminder of where you were.
perhaps you were supposed to be afraid, should've been.
the honeysuckle air, a golden aura invading your senses crippling the so certain self-preservation that used to rest itself on the tip of your chest.
maybe you should've been scared by the unfamiliarity; the slightest nod towards you, the tiniest smile invading a sullen face.
there were so many things, so many possibilities hidden under a special pair of eyelids.
how glorifying it was to finally see.
to look around and feel nothing but the surety, the confidence that this was it.
to see the colors without all the spots.
to know so many things you could never understand. to comprehend insanity perfectly.
you really should've been terrified.
there was nothing usual here. nothing to point you in any good direction.
but you'd never claimed to follow a set path.
you could hear birds, whistling.
*
if there's anything to be thankful for, it's the golden-cast hue of sympathetic eyes as they look upon you.
not that you appreciate it in the slightest.
you don't need his pity.
but, you don't have time to protest his eyes, because a stricken fond look appears on his face.
"peter," you say, almost warning him.
"you look terrible."
he says it admirably, as if he weren't insulting you.
you frown.
he only rubs his thumb across your cheek, appreciating you in some creepy, unbelievably adorable way.
"that's rude," you tell him, trying to sit up on the bed, making room for him to sit down next to you. he does so willingly.
his hands are rough, calloused as they cradle your head.
he's so warm. it's disgusting.
"you're warm," he frowns then, without losing the insane look in his eyes. brings a hand up to your forehead. the frown increases.
it's a green flag. you've won.
"i feel freezing," you do make an effort to keep the smirk off of your face.
efforts are so often futile.
"you can just tell me if you want to cuddle," peter promises, looking into your eyes once again.
his brown is so irritatingly beautiful.
"ugh, gross."
and then you lay down again, turning to your side so that he can't look at you anymore.
some part of you feels embarrassed. and you know--you know--that you shouldn't. it's obvious in the sickeningly sweet way peter's still looking at you, in his warm hands and rough gentleness.
it's not embarrassing to be sick.
it's human.
and yet, there's something so trivial about it. it makes you want to crawl under the covers and tell your boyfriend to go away for at least a week until you rejuvenate yourself into something slightly more alive.
more human.
but peter hasn't mastered the art of reading minds. he simply moves from his place on the bed--you can hear him kicking off his shoes--and walks around to the other side--your eyes wide open because his presence fills you with something very close to energy--and sits down again.
right next to you.
still looking so very sweet.
"one," he says, smiling. "i'm offended. you love cuddling. two, have you been drinking water?"
"you probably shouldn't get so close to me," you nod to emphasize. "i'm diseased. spiders might be allergic."
"that doesn't even make sense."
"i'm dying, peter parker, and you don't want your last memories of me to be on my death bed."
it's a futile attempt because both of you know that he's not going to leave.
there's a pause, and then: "if you were actually dying i wouldn't leave your side for a moment." although you can hear the sarcasm in his voice, his brow still furrows.
a bit distraught at the prospect.
"not even once?" you ask.
peter, with half a smirk, leans down, his nose brushing against yours. "never."
you want to drink in his skin. you want to kiss him until neither of you can breathe and the world has fallen at your feet.
you want to keep him from getting sick.
so you push him away, albeit with a smile.
he stares at you for a moment, not bothering to protest, and pretends to think. "though, i'm sure i could figure out some way to save you, whatever it is."
"are you referencing magic ?"
you say it with the excitement of a toddler. peter rolls his eyes. "science."
"how boring."
there is something familiar about his eyes. something so familiar about this moment, this breathtakingly powerful exhaustion that threatens to overcome your body.
you're not really that sick.
"you didn't answer my question."
you roll your eyes. "i had a gatorade at approximately 1400 hours, doctor. "
"that was three hours ago."
"it was a big gatorade. i'm dying. aid me."
"when was the last time you took any medicine?"
you smile at him, bigger than you have all day. "when i drank the gatorade."
"i'm bringing you nyquil."
"you're bold for assuming that i just have nyquil in my house, peter."
and of course, he only smiles, bringing his hand down to craddle your face again--
briefly. it reminds you of something else. some kind of intimacy that you've missed for so long. it feels like a gentle reminder, a roaring fact that he's there, that he's with you, that he cares, despite whatever guilt swims around your insides, infecting every inch of you.
briefly, a memory flashes behind your eyes.
and then it's gone, and so is his hand.
he's still smiling at you.
"i know you, you know," he says. "i stopped at the pharmacy before i came over."
something pokes at your heart.
"did you get more gatorade?"
peter laughs, standing up. "course."
*
"how mad would you be if i kissed you?"
peter's eyes are so perfectly intimidating.
he sees beyond the careful sculpture of your face. he looks at your eyes, and the sullen-like infraction of your nose, at the blemishes and scars--all the bad, all the good--and he just knows.
he's unrelentingly observant.
still. "on a scale from one to ten?" you ask.
he nods, a soft smile as he plays with your fingers.
you've drunk all the water, taken all the medicine. you've completely embarrassed yourself in sneezes and coughed until peter actually looked concerned.
and yet here he sits, looking so perfectly content.
it's entirely unfair.
"hmm," you say, pretending to think. "a million."
he barely looks at you. "you know, i don't think you can get me sick."
"it's shocking to me that you can think in the first place."
his eyes meet yours, something like defiance. "mean."
you look away, feign apathy. "oh i suppose, peter," you say, curling the words on your lips as he brings your hand up to his own. it tickles, but not enough to break you. "as long as you think it'll all be fine. and i guess if you think neither of us will die of disease, then go right ahead-"
peter's smiling, trying to get you to look back at him. you barely notice when he tilts your head back towards him in the simplest of gestures.
"i'm going to kiss you now," he says, but you're not listening.
"-and if you think we should go get matching spider tattoos right now, then we have to, because as long as you think -"
he interrupts you in the cruelest of ways.
his lips are soft, a particular brand of torture.
it's barely three seconds, barely one peck and pull and push you away, but it's just enough to give you the need to gasp for air. it's just enough to be too much.
you're so hesitant to let him go.
so scared to finally breathe. so afraid to let it go.
you push him away. "you're going to get sick, peter."
he's so close, you can feel his breath on your philtrum. he's so close, he's melting his smiles into you.
"it's worth it," he promises you in a bout of stupidity.
"not to me," you insist, trying to get him to move even further back.
but he's peter, and so he doesn't even budge.
you sigh, hands right against his chest--no, you're not paying attention to that, nor the heat flooding your body. "if you get sick i'm going to have to nurse you back to health."
luckily, peter laughs, taking your hands. "oh, that's what this is about?"
"i'm busy, peter," you whine.
"so unappreciative," he tsks, shaking his head.
you've been sitting together on your bed for the past hour.
"you literally just brought me gatorade."
"and medicine."
" and medicine. do you want me to venmo you?"
peter scoffs. "please."
he moves then, seeming to realize what you had moments before, getting up from the spot he'd dug out for himself and standing just a bit above you.
it might be scary. it's really just cute.
he's barely smiling. "will you move over?"
"uncomfortable?"
"we're cuddling. you're sick."
you hum. "are you going to make me do this when you're sick?"
peter doesn't answer, he's trying to hide his smile, trying not to stare at you with those unappreciative, hopeless eyes.
you're thankful for that if anything. grateful for his hesitance, even now.
it's a brief tether to reality.
a wake-up call.
he doesn't answer, instead, gestures his head to the side, gently moving you away from the edge of the bed.
you don't protest. maybe it's the lack of energy, but you really do love cuddling.
love to tie yourself down.
peter moves in right next to you, sweatshirt bunching at his waist, and opens his arms, making room for you in the solace of his embrace.
you go oh so willingly.
he's warm--he's always warm, it's a quirk--and you're freezing.
that's your excuse for melting your skin together until you can feel nothing but him.
it's so very simple, to be welded here.
there are only satisfying burns.
only the golden aura of peter, all his acuity punched into your chest. you love it.
"comfortable?" he asks, only slightly mocking you.
"this is terrible."
"i know," you feel him nod his head against yours. you're curled up into his neck, smelling the flowers.
"the worst," you say, again.
"i know," peter repeats.
you think you can feel him smiling.
and there's just a brief moment, guilt, flowing into your skin.
ruining the limbs you'd glued together.
"thank you," you say, just loud enough for peter to hear. "i didn't say it. thank you."
"you don't have to thank me."
but you shake your head, cuddle closer to him.
this is peace, this is agony.
"i can't remember the last time anyone took care of me when i was sick."
it's not really a lie.
peter sighs, holds you tighter. "i don't like it when you're sick."
you move, back letting a smile tease at your lips, your eyes meet his. "it's not so bad," you tell him.
"i kinda think you might be faking."
you cough, just to prove him wrong.
he laughs, and you can feel the vibration right in your core.
"don't worry," you say, voice groggy. "you'll get me back."
peter just nods, brown eyes so soft on yours.
his presence is comfort you might've known, just once.
or twice.
you crave more. more energy, more smiles, more laughter, more perfection--carved out in the subtlest of hearts.
"i'll take care of you."
peter promises things. so many things you can't begin to comprehend, can't begin to believe.
"me too," you say.
and it's enough. for now.
*
how nice it is to open your eyes.
how perfectly perfect is this?