word count: 0.7k   --  lil sad drabble thing

warnings: angst in Peter's POV 

a/n: republishing this lol.  it's still cringe and unedited and i wrote it half asleep, but i decided it can be read as either peter, tbh. gn reader.

summary: peter never told his secret, and it ruined something.

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The wind whistled past Peter, bringing with it a biting chill that found its way in through his three sweaters, past his scarf, seemingly settling into his very bones.

If the snow is light, it doesn't stick to the ground in New York City. Too much body heat underground, Peter supposed. In other places it might crunch under your shoes, leaving tracks, stories of peoples traveling through the cold, white desert.

Here and now, the most you could hope for was a few flakes in your eyelashes, as it hit the ground and melted.

Peter made his slow way through the crowds of early Christmas shoppers, his gloved hands shoved deep in his pockets, head bowed against his own snowstorm. The one in his head.

The one you caused.

The one he could have prevented, had he just told you...

Had Peter in that moment, asked himself just where he was going, he wouldn't have been able to answer. His brain was stuck in a loop, like a broken record. Replaying the conversation he'd had with you less than an hour ago, replaying it like somehow, it would change the outcome.

Peter had come to your apartment that afternoon with yet another apology for flaking on the tip of his tongue, but it died when you opened the door. He'd known what was going to happen from the second his eyes met yours.

Some guy with a fancy looking trenchcoat and a sour look on his face knocked into Peter, nearly sending him off the curb. 

"Watch it, kid!" The man snapped, striding away to continue being a menace to society. Peter mumbled a sorry, and trudged on.

Some cringy Mariah Carey Christmas song played loudly from the store on Peter's right, but he ignored it. You'd made a joke once about how if Santa Claus had a sugar baby, it would be her, and he didn't want to think about it. About you.

"Peter.. We need to talk." Those words were the beginning to his demise. Peter had known he couldn't keep doing this to you, keep disappearing and rescheduling and ghosting without any explanation. It had kept him up at night, the guilt knawing at the walls he kept around himself like hunger knaws at the stomach of a starving child.

You'd put up with it for an exceptional amount of time. Enough time, in fact, that Peter had wanted to scream, to tear out his hair and just let his secret be known the the one person who kept him sane.

But he couldn't have done that. It wouldn't have been safe for you, he knew that from past experiences. Being involved with the 'Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man' got you nothing but trouble.

God, Peter hated Spider-Man.

Spider-Man was ruining everything Peter loved in his life, ripping it away from his hands, holding a match to it, and making him watch as the ashes floated through his outstretched fingers.

"I love you, Peter. I really do. And I just think.. I think whatever you're dealing with right now, I think it should be your top priority. Not a girlfriend."

That moment. That moment, right there, was what was currently burning in his brain, branded behind his eyes, swirling with the blizzard of self-deprecating thoughts. The way you'd brought him inside, made him hot chocolate, sat him down on your couch, and somehow managed to give him a tiny smile despite the obvious dejection in it that he still didn't offer an explanation.

You should have. Peter thought, beyond irritated at himself. She deserved that much, at least.

He could've cried at how understanding you were about the whole thing, saying you'd be in touch, how you'd be around 'if he figured it out.' Your apartment, your presence, your very spirit was warm. Then he left, dropping the fake smile, which you obviously saw through, and stepped back into the cold. 

It soaked in through his clothing, through his skin, his bones, and curled right up around his heart. It was an icy feeling, the kind you get on the roof of your mouth when you bite an ice cream cone. And it hurt.

He'd wanted you to be safe, and he'd ended up hurting you both.