Chapter Text
“Limitless undying love which shines around me like a million suns
It calls me on and on across the universe.”
-The Beatles
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The only thing Peter-Three feels as he stands before Peter-Two, awaiting the golden and shimmering light to dissolve them both back into their proper universes, is regret. He feels this deep, agonizing sense of regret, so similar to how he’d felt all those years ago, holding Gwen’s lifeless body, which is crazy , because Peter-Two isn’t dead , and Peter-Three hasn’t killed him, but he’s still going to lose him , lose him like he’d lost Gwen, like he’d lost Ben, lose him like he loses every good thing that comes into his life. And he’s only just found him, only just found both new Peters, but somehow with Peter-Two he knows it’ll hurt so much more. And he already regrets letting him go, but he hasn’t even gone yet, they’re still just standing here on the ruins of the giant weird shield thing that was once attached to Lady Liberty, staring at each other with just a few feet of empty space between them, watching the wizard heal the universe around them with glowing purple wisps of magic , and Peter-Three blames the shock of the past twenty-four hours for what he does next, because it’s much easier than blaming himself .
He lunges at Peter-Two, grasping onto him again, like he’d been doing before as he’d supported his weight because of his stab wound, but this time it’s different, this time it feels like Peter-Two is the only thing holding him up, keeping him standing as he sags against his body, his arms around Peter-Two’s shoulders, his chin pressed hard against the juncture of his neck, where his suit ends and his bare skin begins.
“ I’m sorry ,” Peter-Three whispers, and his voice is grating and rough, his throat hurting like it’s filled with sand, somehow, and he doesn’t even know what he’s apologizing for, not really, just that he feels, for the millionth time in his life, that somehow everything bad in the world is his fault . He feels Peter-Two shaking his head, his arms still around Peter-Three’s taller frame, his hands beginning to grasp the fabric at the back of his suit.
“Hey, there’s nothing to be sorry for,” Peter-Two says, and his voice is so much steadier, so much stronger than Peter-Three feels. “You did it, man— we did it ,” he continues, and Peter-Three just sobs against his neck, because it shouldn't feel this good to be comforted by himself , but Peter-Two doesn’t really feel like a version of him, he feels like his own person, and that’s somehow weirder.
They’re still hugging, and Peter-Three is still crying, his eyes shut tight, overwhelmed with all the horrible conflicting feelings inside of himself, so he barely notices when his body suddenly feels lighter, his limbs all buzzing softly, like pins and needles, growing steadier and more present, towards his core, until he takes a gasping breath, and then all the loud noise around him is gone, and the buzzing stops.
He lifts his head, and opens his eyes. He looks around quickly, and sees he’s back in his apartment, where he’d been taken from the day before. The T.V. is still on low, the pizza box he’d been eating from still open on the coffee table. Everything is as it should be. Then he looks down, because the warm weight in his arms is still there. Peter-Two is smiling at him, looking bashful, of all things. And Peter-Three’s heart shoots into his throat.
“ Oh my god! ” He cries, his hands coming to his own face in shock, backing away from his other-self, and stumbling into his sagging couch right behind himself, falling backwards onto it. He’s breathing heavily, it feels like he’s about to have a panic attack. His cheeks are still wet from crying, and it makes his hands slippery where he’s dragging them down his face, trying to force himself to wake up, because he’s certainly passed out from inter-universe travel, there’s no way he actually just stranded Peter-Two in his own universe.
“ I — I didn’t mean to, I was just, I just wanted to hug you, I just wanted to say goodbye, oh, shit, oh my God, what have I done ?” He’s babbling, hyperventilating now for sure, barely taking in gulps of air between words, and his vision is blurred from fresh tears. He feels like he’s going to die, right here, after everything . He thinks it might be fitting. But then Peter-Two is there, right in front of him again, kneeling at the edge of the couch, and he’s holding onto Peter-Three’s forearms.
“Hey, Pete, Pete look at me,” he says, soft and easy, and it’s like his own kind of magic, because suddenly Peter-Three can look. He focuses on Peter-Two’s face, right in front of his own, focuses on the curves of his cheekbones, on the blue of his eyes, different from his own brown ones, he knows that for sure. And it grounds him. He forgets that he’s in the middle of a panic attack, and he forgets that he’s just ruined this man's life, and he forgets that all of this is his fault , and he just starts to breathe again. Slowly, steadily, his chest fills and deflates, his hands dropping from their death-grip on his own face, and Peter-Two’s hands take their place, gently brushing away the wetness on his cheeks, his presence an anchor in the storm that is Peter-Three’s very existence. And Peter-Three is reminded of the other reason why he’d wanted to cling to this man so badly before, the reason that he knows is so wrong still, as he stares into the eyes of the man who is, for all intents and purposes, himself . But it doesn’t really feel wrong, not in the way it probably should. Not as Peter-Two caresses his cheek with his thumb, and slowly sits himself down fully beside Petre-Three, realizing that the worst of the attack is behind them. It doesn’t feel wrong, the fluttering in his chest, the warmth that fills him, and it scares Peter-Three, almost as much as the prospect of Peter-Two being stranded here, in this universe forever, all because of his stupid mistake. The regret he’d felt before seems like child's-play compared to now.
Peter-Three lets his head fall back against the couch, looking over at his counterpart, who’d taken his own hands away, gathered them into his lap, prim and proper. He’s just sitting there, looking at Peter-Three, all expectant and patient, like he’s waiting for him to say something. Like this is perfectly normal. Peter-Three takes a few more deep breaths, feeling so exhausted, and guilty, and sick with worry.
“I don’t . . . know what to say,” is what he finally decides on, his voice sounding more normal. Peter-Two just nods, like he understands.
“It’s alright,” he says, and Peter-Three wants to laugh , because how is this guy so calm right now!? But he doesn’t laugh, instead he just groans.
“How are you so fine right now!? I just brought you to my universe! And—and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but that wizard guy isn’t here to fix it! ” God, he‘s raising his voice again, he feels bad, but this is all so insane , it only feels right to discuss it like this.
Peter-Two shakes his head. “I know, I know. I feel like I should be freaking out right now, to be honest. Like, I think your reaction here is appropriate. But, uh. . .” he looks down at his lap, like he’s embarrassed or something, “To be perfectly honest, I was sort of hoping this would happen.”
Peter-Three gapes at him. “ What ?” He whispers.
Peter-Two’s cheeks redden. He’s blushing .
“Yeah, I, uh, I don’t know, man. This has been like, the best day of my whole life, kinda?” He rubs at the back of his own neck, sheepishly, and Peter-Three is just astounded, for more reasons than one, “And I sorta didn’t want it to end.” Peter-Two finishes, looking back up into Peter-Three’s eyes, so open and honest. And adorable .
Peter-Three blinks at him, mouth stuck open like a fish, but what the Hell is he supposed to say to that? Ditto!? Because that’s literally exactly what he’d been thinking, but been too much of a coward to say before. And now Peter-Two’s gone and said it , and Peter-Three feels torn open and exposed in a way he never has before. Raw and vulnerable. And he’s never been good at things like this. So he just smiles shyly, and tries to tamper down the persisting guilt gnawing at his heart.
“I understand,” he says, just two small words, looking into Peter-Two’s eyes. But it feels like something’s shifted with them, an understanding emerging between the two men. Peter-Two nods, like that’s all he needed to hear, and Peter-Three finally collapses back onto the couch, almost unaware he’d straightened up, but he’s so tired and defeated by the weight of this day that he can’t physically keep his limbs from going limp. He sighs, closing his eyes. They’ll figure this out , he thinks to himself. They’ll do everything they can, to get Peter-Two back to his own universe. He’ll fix this. But right now, all he wants to do is take a shower.
=====
After they both shower, Peter-Three insisting Peter-Two goes first, because it’s literally the least he can do, and they’re both dressed in actual clothing, not their dirty Spider-suits, with Peter-Two wearing an old set of Peter-Three’s pajamas, (which barely fit him and which make Peter-Three’s heart stutter in his chest at the sight of the older man wearing his own clothes) they finally sit down on the couch again. Peter-Three is calmer, and Peter-Two is still the same cool and collected man he always is.
Peter-Three runs a hand through his own wet hair, though he knows it’ll be just as hopelessly messed up as it always is when it dries. He reaches for the remote on the coffee table, finally clicking the T.V. off, plunging the apartment into actual, real silence. It’s heavy, at least to him. There’s been nothing but noise, nothing but chaos, for the past day and a half. Now, nothing. He looks over at Peter-Two, who’s leaning forwards, his elbow on his knee, rubbing a hand over his back. Suddenly, Peter-Three remembers.
“Oh my god, you were stabbed! ” He gasps, and he’s leaning towards Peter-Two, ready to help in any way he can. Peter-Two just holds up his hand from where he’d been reaching under his shirt, displaying his dry palm.
“It’s okay, I’m alright, see?” He wiggles his fingers, and Peter-Three stares at his hand, free of blood, before he’s leaning over fully, pushing Peter-Two forward slightly, lifting his shirt to check for himself.
“Oh, right, of course,” he says quietly, seeing the already scarred-over skin, the pinkish-white tissue, a small line across Peter-Two’s lower back. Super-healing. He has it, too. He just forgot. The idea of Peter-Two being in danger had clouded his mind, boggled it with red-hot fear. He flushes, realizing he’s still holding the other man’s shirt up, still leaning over his back. He wants to run his finger over the scar, feel it for himself, make sure he’s really going to be okay. But Peter-Two clears his throat, and it pulls Peter-Three back from his thoughts. He lets his shirt go, and leans back into his own spot, putting distance between them. Good, welcomed distance. Safe distance.
“I’m glad you’re not gonna die,” he admits, before he can stop himself, because that sounds so weird, even considering his own tendency for awkwardness. But it’s the honest truth. Something he seems so prone to saying, around Peter-Two.
The other man just smiles, the same calm, reassuring smile as always, the one that makes Peter-Three want to melt into a puddle of nothingness.
“Me too,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Ugh . Why is his other-self so good at talking, like this isn’t still the weirdest situation, sitting on a couch with a version of yourself . Speaking of which, Peter-Three really has to figure out this name thing. He can’t keep calling the other man Peter-Two, not if they’re gonna be living with each other for the foreseeable future. Which he assumes they will be. He assumes the other Peter will just stay here with him, and maybe he’s being presumptuous, maybe he’s just hoping that he will, because despite all of this being his own fault , he can’t really bear the thought of being away from Peter-Two for any extended period of time right now. He needs him, possibly more than he’s ever needed anyone before. Which is a little pathetic, but sue him .
“Hey, uh, Peter?” The older man looks at him, waiting for him to go on. “What, uh, what should I call you? ‘Cause, I mean, I guess we could stick with the whole numbers thing, but uh,” Peter-Two smiles lightly, shaking his head, which just makes Peter-Three chuckle. “Yeah, yeah I’m kinda getting sick of it,” he agrees.
“What about Pete? I could be Pete, and you’d stay Peter,” The older man supplies. Peter-Three ponders it for a moment, testing it out in his head. Pete . Pete . Pete . . . He says it over and over, under his breath, looking over at Peter-Two, who’s smiling at him, with his stupidly handsome face, and his towell-dry hair, and his blue eyes, until it just clicks into place.
“ Pete ,” Peter says, louder, and Pete smiles wider, nodding minutely, like it feels right to him, too, his cheeks crinkling, and oh God, Peter’s heart picks up it’s pace, his insides fluttering uncontrollably now. Pete’s looking at him with something so open in his features. And it’s like he’s not really a different version of himself anymore, now he’s just Pete , the guy who shares his name but wears it differently. And it works . And all Peter can think is: Oh , fuck , as he feels something fall into place.
=====
Pete does end up staying there, at Peter’s apartment. It’s really not even a question. Peter offers him his bed, mentioning his bad back, but Pete just shakes his head, and takes the extra blankets offered to him, curling up on the couch every night. Peter feels lonely during the nights, when the sun sets, and his bedroom grows dark, and he’s left by himself. It’s crazy, because Pete is just in the other room. But even small distances between them feel ginormous, like Peter’s just cold, and alone, and it’s only when he rises in the mornings and stalks out into the living room and sees Pete snoring on the couch, his mouth half open and drool pooling on his pillow, that the aching feeling dissipates, and he feels better.
He still has to go to work everyday, but it’s not as if assisting in a lab is strenuous stuff. He finds his mind drifting back to Pete, whenever there’s a lull in his day, any time he’s left alone to think. He thinks about Pete, and for the first few days he thinks mostly about his guilt, and the ways that he’s gonna try and get him back to his own universe, as insane as the prospect seems. He files through the possibilities in his head, as he fills beakers and measures experiment outcomes and washes his hands, and his coworkers probably think he’s going insane, staring off into space so often, but he’s never gotten along that well with any of them anyways. He’s never really gotten along with anyone as well as he gets along with Pete. Except Gwen, but. . . She was different. Pete is different. It’s not the same. Peter doesn’t know what it is, but he knows it’s not the same.
But after about a week, Peter’s thoughts start to drift a little. He still thinks about Pete, whenever he has the chance, but it’s in different ways. He thinks of Pete, sitting next to him on the couch as they eat dinner every night, talking about anything they can think of. About the multiverse, or the weather, or their favorite kinds of music. Sometimes Peter asks about Pete’s life, his other life, the one he’s missing out on. Pete never says much about it, only telling Peter the basics, painting a minimalistic picture of his home universe. But his eyes give him away, some. They look distant, almost sad. And then Peter feels guilty all over again.
But Peter also thinks of Pete laughing, his cheeks crinkling in that way that sends Peter’s heart thudding in his chest. He thinks of Pete reading, late at night, curled up on his couch, the little crease he gets in his forehead when he squints a bit to read the pages, complaining about how he’s too young to be getting old, already , making Peter laugh every time. And yeah, it’s a little weird to daydream about his other-self like this, but Peter can’t really bring himself to care. It’s only when his thoughts start to drift off even further, to images of Pete half-dressed, and wet from the shower, walking around the apartment without a shirt on, his skin pinkened from the steam—it’s only then that Peter scolds himself, and forces his brain to stop thinking about the other man. Because that is just weird. But the scoldings never hold for long.
They fall into some semblance of a routine, and Peter doesn’t want to let himself admit it, doesn’t feel like he deserves to admit it, but living with Pete is the easiest thing he thinks he’s ever done. They grow familiar with each other so quickly, it’s like they’ve known each other their whole lives. Peter wakes up every weekday at 6:45 in the morning, and Pete is up already, making breakfast in the small kitchen. Nothing fancy, usually just toast, or some cereal, and some fruit if Peter has remembered to buy any from the store. The warm and fuzzy feeling that fills Peter everytime he sees Pete, his hair all fluffy with bedhead, his eyes glossy with remnants of sleep, standing at his kitchen counter in the soft glow of New York morning sunlight. . . It's always a lot to take in. Peter tries to push it down, and keep things as they usually are between them: Simple and easy. He’ll thank Pete for making the food, sink down into a stool to eat, and try not to notice it if Pete sits too close to him, their feet brushing together where their legs hang off the tall stools.
Peter will go to work, spend most of his free time thinking of the other man in his apartment, and come home as soon as his shift ends at 3:30. He’ll go out on patrol some nights, swing around the city a bit and stop petty thieves and would-be muggers in the act. He asks Pete if he doesn’t want to join him most nights, but the other man will just shake his head, and comment on the public going mad if they were to see two Spidermen out and about. Peter understands. They probably want to keep a low profile for a while, all things considered.
They’ll eat dinner together, of course, usually on the couch, with some stupid T.V. show on in the background, eating take out, or something that Pete puts together, because Peter’s never been much of a cook. And then they’ll go to bed, Pete laying down on the couch, Peter sulking off to his bedroom alone, always with a nagging sensation that he should say something to Pete, offer him his bed again, ( the smallest, most off-limit voice in his head begging to offer to share it).
The weekends are reserved for Operation: Get Pete Home, as Peter has been calling it in his head. They’ll go to the library, and find every book they can on string-theory, and the multiverse, or pour over the Internet, filling notebooks with ideas and possibilities. But they never really get anywhere. And Peter feels horrible for feeling relieved sometimes. He always apologizes to Pete after another weekend goes by, and they haven’t gotten any closer to getting him home. And Pete always shakes his head, and says not to worry about it, gives him that stupidly handome smile of his, squeezing Peter’s arm in a friendly way that shouldn’t make Peter weak in the knees.
Two weeks turn into three, and three into four, and soon enough it’s the middle of December, and Pete’s still there.
It’s a Saturday night. Peter’s laying on the couch, his legs stretched out over the armrest. He’s scrolling through his phone, reading an academic journal about an experiment some scientists did in Germany involving rats, and hooking electrodes to their nerves to stimulate cognitive function. He has no clue how this could relate to the multiverse, he just sort of got distracted. His eyes hurt from the bright light, but he’s too lazy to turn the brightness down, and so he just squints, sighing loudly.
“Okay, I’m vetoing research tonight,” Pete says from across the room, the sound of a book dropping onto the counter accompanying him. Peter tilts his head upside down to look at him, seeing Pete get up from his stool at the counter, and walk over to where Peter is laying, gently taking his phone out of his hands and putting it on the coffee table. Peter smiles, and twists around, sitting up.
“What do you wanna do instead?” He asks, because he doesn’t really have any ideas. Pete just gives him a grin.
“I think we should put on our suits and head out,” he says, already making his way into the bedroom, where he keeps his suit tucked away in Peter’s bottom drawer. Peter sputters, because Pete hasn’t gone out on patrol since. . . well, not since he got here. Why the sudden change of heart?
“Wait, wait,” Peter calls, finally standing up and heading into his bedroom, trying to tame his wild hair where it’s sticking up in every direction from laying down for so long. But Pete’s already coming out, he somehow changed that fast, and Peter bumps right into him.
“Woah, sorry there,” Pete is quick to soothe, his hands coming up to Peter’s face, where he’s rubbing his nose. It’s a little tender, seeing as he just smashed it against Pete’s forehead. Pete’s fingers move his out of the way, and Peter can do nothing but stand there and hold his breath, letting Pete gently touch his nose, his nimble fingers prodding at his skin, as if he’s some delicate flower. “Does it hurt too bad?” Pete asks softly, and Peter loses himself for a moment, staring down into the other man’s eyes, overwhelmed by the feeling of his warm breath just barely ghosting over his chin. He comes back to himself, wincing, a little more out of embarrassment than pain.
“No . . . no it’s. . . I’m fine,” Peter says, so quiet he barely hears himself. For a long moment Pete doesn’t say anything, he just keeps touching Peter’s nose, and Peter swears he sees his eyes glance down to his lips, just for a second. The air between them is silent, and hot, and Peter gulps, feeling suddenly so exposed, like one of the rats in the experiment he’d been reading about.
Then Pete’s patting Peter’s cheek lightly, a friendly sort of gesture, and stepping back out of his space. He walks around Peter, off into the kitchen, and Peter can only sigh, closing his eyes and calming his erratic heartbeat. After that he’s quick to just change into his suit.
They end up swinging around for a good hour, mostly over quiet areas, arching between buildings and criss-crossing streets and alley-ways together. There’s next to no crime to stop tonight, surprisingly, just one pick-pocket who they team up on and force to return the stolen wallet. Pete does all the talking, and Peter just stands next to him and tries to look intimidating.
The December wind is biting, Peter’s suit has never done much for insulation, and he feels his fingers and toes turning colder and colder as the minutes pass by, the tip of his nose icy where it’s pressing against the inside of his mask. But truly, he doesn’t care at all. Not when he can look over and see Pete swinging beside him, his body naturally attuned to the ups and downs of the movement, catching himself with his webs almost gracefully, at just the right second, so that he seems to float midair, weightless, for a few moments. He looks so at home in himself, more so than Peter has ever felt before. And it’s. . . comforting, in a way. Peter knows that at least the older man is having fun. Perhaps the familiar activity is taking his mind off of, well, everything . Peter hopes it is. He’s constantly found himself hoping that Pete is at peace, these last few weeks. The guilt hasn’t really gone away.
Peter follows Pete on a long swing, as they move north, and out of a back alley, into busier, bustling 5th avenue. The sidewalks swarm with people below, and nearly every head turns, noticing the two masked men. Peter’s stomach drops, not from the momentum of the next swing, but from the knowledge that people are noticing them, more so than usual. But he pushes the feeling down, and just looks ahead towards Pete’s back, following him as he ascends and takes another turn, webbing up, and up, and Peter knows exactly where he’s going.
They make it to the top of the Empire State building easily. Pete lands first, steadily, in a half-crouch, and Peter curses himself when he stumbles a bit, catching himself on a metal handrail. Up here, the wind is even colder, and it whips against the side of Peter’s face, but he still pulls his mask off, breathing in a deep lungful of the fresh air. He slowly lowers himself down next to Pete, who’s sitting with his legs bent in front of him, a few feet from the edge of the building. There’s space between them, but not a whole lot. Peter can almost feel the other man’s body heat against his side.
They look out over the city below, the twinkling lights of nighttime in New York like their own private show. The sounds of life on the street a hundred stories down are distant, muffled. Peter feels almost calm. As if he can just. . . stop, for a moment. He looks over at Pete. The man’s taken his mask off, too, and he’s staring out into the distance, one of those looks on his face that Peter hasn’t been able to crack, yet. Another piece of the Pete-puzzle that makes up this man that he’s so quickly becoming addicted to figuring out.
“You bring all your friends up here?” He leans a tiny bit closer to ask, even though he doesn’t really need to. He knows Pete can hear him just fine. The other man huffs out a small chuckle, finally glancing over and meeting Peter’s eyes.
“Honestly, no. This is usually where I come when I wanna—”
“—think?” Peter cuts him off softly, and Pete smiles, a bit wistful.
“Yeah,” he replies. There’s a quiet moment, an easy silence. “Y’know, sometimes I forget that we’re, like, supposed to be the same person. Isn’t that crazy?” Pete talks low, like he’s sharing a coveted secret, something almost forbidden.
Peter chews on his bottom lip, pushing his hands into the inside of his bent knees to warm them up, looking out over the city below. He shakes his head gently.
“No, man. ‘S not crazy. I forget, too, sometimes,” he shares. It feels nice, to say it out loud. Like a relief, to know that Pete is thinking the same thing as him. Less off-limits. “It’s like, you’re so,” he takes a hand out from under his knee, waves it noncommittally, gesturing towards Pete, “ you , and, and I’m so me.” He finishes, feeling underwhelmed with his word choice. Pete laughs. It startles Peter. He pinches his brows together, looking back up to Pete. “What?” He asks. Pete shakes his head.
“What do you mean, I’m so me? ”
Peter grunts, rubbing his free hand over his face, trying to find the right words.
“I don’t know, man. You’re just you. Put together, and, like, wise. You know shit, y’know? Me, I’m just. . .” Pathetic, he wants to say. A loser. A scared, pathetic loser. “Regular,” is what he actually says, with a heaving sigh. His eyes are stuck on the stone beneath their bodies, tracing the insignificant patterns in the grey, cold material.
“Hey, no ,” Pete asserts. He reaches out, touching Peter’s shoulder, gripping it with his fingers clenched. Peter almost gasps, but manages to play it off as another sigh. He meets Pete’s eyes. They’re determined. Not reproachful, but firm. And so blue, like always. Little flecks of light reflect in them from the city below. Peter feels them boring into his own, like lasers. Or searchlights. “You’re not regular, Peter. You have to know that by now,” Pete keeps talking, his fingers squeezing the smallest bit harder at Peter's shoulder. “You’re amazing , man. I told you that before. And it’s still true. I know you see me as this old, all-knowing Peter, or whatever. But I see you ,” He shakes Peter’s shoulder, making his whole body move slightly, his head rocking back and forth, “and I see the goodness in you, man. Like, real goodness. More so than I ever saw in myself, for a really long time, I’ll tell you that much,” He finishes bluntly, like he’s surprised at his own words. But his gaze doesn’t leave Peter’s, and his hand on his shoulder stays there.
Peter feels his eyes sting. He wants to blame the freezing wind. He doesn’t want to admit to himself that he’s about to cry, because Pete just said the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to him. He sniffs, feeling so small, and so young, despite his thirty-something years. Finally, he breaks Pete’s gaze, because the tension is too much, and the other man takes his hand away from his shoulder.
“Thanks,” Peter says, because he has to say something. He wants to believe Pete, he really does. It’s just. . . hard. When he still has all this guilt inside of him, like a weight in his chest, which he just can’t shake off. But Pete sounds so sure of himself, it makes it a little bit easier to think that maybe, just maybe , his words have some merit to them. Pete isn’t usually wrong, about anything. So Peter takes his words, and tucks them away, and he feels a tiny bit warmer now. A tiny bit more okay. But maybe that’s just from Pete shuffling closer, so their legs are touching the smallest amount, and Peter’s heartbeat shoots off again.
They’re quiet for a long time. Peter wants to say more—to ask more—to keep Pete talking, because it’s so nice up here, with just the two of them. Not that they don’t spend most of their time together, because he doesn’t have any other friends, and Pete certainly doesn’t. They have no one to spend time with but each other. But this just feels. . . different. Easier, somehow. Like the expectations and conventions of society can’t reach them, way up here, halfway to the sky and closer to the stars than the ground. Peter wants to stay here. He wants everything to be this easy, all the time.
“I don’t know if I miss it,” Pete says, and it pulls Peter back to the moment, from where he’d been drifting between the stars and the lights below. He thinks he knows what Pete’s talking about, and for once, it doesn’t make his stomach roil.
“Your universe?” He fills in, and Pete nods, leaning a hairsbreadth closer to Peter’s side.
“It’s weird. I feel like I should, right? Like, it’s my home, and all that. It’s just. . .” he ponders for a moment, this look on his face like he’s coming to a long, drawn out conclusion, one that’s taken a great deal of thought, “I don’t think I was happy, there. Not anymore. Not after she left.”
Peter knows who she is. He holds his breath, looking at Pete’s profile, the way the lights behind his head cast an almost halo-effect, peeking through the wispy parts of his brown hair.
“We tried to make it work, you know? Me and MJ. She was . . . great. She was so great, man,” Pete smiles, and Peter knows the feeling, his mind flitting to images of Gwen, quick, like a slideshow, flashes of her face, her smile, her laugh. “But I just couldn't give her what she wanted,” Pete’s voice drops, and Peter’s heart clenches. “A real life , you know? We stayed together, for as long as we could. But she got restless. She wanted to leave, go somewhere else, finally settle down. She needed someone who wasn’t at risk of getting killed every other night. I just couldn’t be that dependable. It broke my heart to know it was me keeping her here. So I broke it off. She understood, didn't make me feel bad for it. But I did. Because either way, I was the bad guy, you know? I couldn’t force her to stay with me, knowing she’d never really be happy. I knew it was the right thing to do, letting her go. And she was just . . . so good about everything. It took me so long to forgive myself, for leading her on as long as I did. Even though I wasn’t trying to. She knew that. She knew it before I did. She always did. . .” Pete trails off, his voice going gentle, softer, like an exhalation of breath, his eyes glistening. Like he’s been thinking these words for years, and only now, has he been able to speak them.
Peter just stares at him, hugging his knees close to his chest, feeling like he’s been punched in the gut, or fallen from a great height, like he’s tumbled off the edge of this building, a hundred stories to the ground below. He’s just blown away, by everything that is Pete Parker. He’s been through so much. So much pain, so much loss. And yet, he’s still so Goddamn kind , and good-hearted. The man’s a miracle, a living, breathing, warm blooded miracle, who’s gonna kill Peter one of these days, just by being himself.
Peter realizes he should say something right now, because Pete’s just staring into the distance, looking for all the world like some sort of movie star, all sad eyes and strong jaw. He looks . . . well, he looks like he belongs anywhere but here, hanging out with Peter . The best he can do is aim to comfort. Which he’s never been the best at. He takes a deep breath, laying his cheek down against his forearm, looking over at Pete, thinking long and hard about what to say. Finally, he speaks.
“I don’t wanna say I know how you feel, because that sounds so cliche,” he smiles, a bit wobbly, when Pete gives a wet little laugh, “But I will say I know what it’s like to lose someone, and to feel like it’s entirely your fault. To know that it’s your fault.” He closes his eyes, fighting against the tears, pushing them down as hard as he can. His throat is so tight, his face so hot, even with the wind. All of a sudden he feels a hand on his back, steady and firm, and he opens his eyes slowly. Pete isn’t looking at him, he’s staring straight ahead, but he’s pulling Peter closer, grasping the fabric of his suit just above his waist, until he has no choice but to let his head fall down against Pete’s shoulder, and then he’s leaning all his weight against the older man. He’s hopeless against the tears, now, and he feels a little bad as they slide down his cheeks and drop onto Pete’s shoulder, making a bunch of little wet patches. But Pete doesn’t say anything, he just holds him tighter, with one arm, leaning his head down, too, letting his cheek rest at the crown of Peter’s head.
Peter cries for longer than he’d like to admit, and he thinks maybe Pete does, too, after a while. He can’t be sure. He’s too focused on the buzzing, intoxicating warmth that he feels, being held like this, by this man who means so much to him. And a tiny part of his brain tells him he doesn’t deserve this, this comfort, this affection, not when it’s all his fault that Pete is stuck here in the first place. But right now, that voice is too quiet. The sound of Pete’s breathing is louder, and the steady weight of his body pressed against Peter’s is anchoring. Peter really wants to kiss him, and the thought makes him dizzy, so dizzy he can’t open his eyes, can’t do anything but burrow his face further into Pete’s shoulder. It should be a gross thought, but it’s not . He wants to kiss the other man, and he hopes Pete wants to kiss him, too. But they don’t do that. They just hug each other, Peter’s arms winding around Pete’s frame in return eventually, until they’re bundled up together, and it’s both the calmest and the most terrified Peter’s ever felt, because it was a hug that got them into this mess in the first place, wasn’t it? It was his own need to be comforted. But Pete needs to be comforted right now, too. He knows he does. He knows this is okay. Peter doesn’t open his eyes. He just breathes the other man in, cataloging his scent, his touch, his heat. They breathe together. It’s enough, for now.
They stay up there quite a while longer, and even if Peter can’t feel his toes, he doesn’t really care. He’s warm.