Chapter Text
the sun and moon- one:
The sun loved. It loved with every ray, every tan, every sticky neck, every sandy beach day, and every action. It loved with everything it could. It loved with warmth, it loved with lack of presence, it loved with too much existence, it loved. So did Gwen Stacy.
Metal doors, much like people accept the warmth from others. Love and warmth fade into each other, the lines between them are a line in the sand, footsteps destroying them, but the line is always recognized. It's acknowledged and despised. To love is to be warm, it is to bask in sweaty backs, and itch at the sand between your toes. It's to sit by the fire and let your eyes water from the smoke. To be warm is to hold hands and always laugh when they're around. To draw hearts on your notebooks and trace words into their backs.
There's safety in the line as well. A safety for those unsure and unbelieved. A line for people who miss and cuddle for the sake of warmth and not love. Who hold hands for love and avoid thinking about the sweaty hands, and itchy wrists. For those who laugh for the feeling, it creates in their lungs. Safety is the line, and so is confusion. Confusion when you don't know if hugging is just for warmth or for love. When saying 'I love you is not a reaction to leaving, but a real feeling.
Gwen Stacy was the fine line between warmth and love while coexisting as the two.
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Peter is unaware of his growing dependency on the sun. It had stayed high in the sky all that summer. It had never wanted to leave. If it could, it would stay clung to the polaroid photos in teen girls' rooms. It would live in a permanent place of high and setting, as to let the colors control the world.
He's grown used to the sticky hands from ice creams on the beach, and the constant burn on his nose. Peter likes the lighter tone of his hair, it makes him look nicer, more kind, soft in a way. The cats and dogs sunbathing in the front yards of houses in different neighborhoods grow into a normal sighting, yet the smile is never the same. The smile lines are new, and they're nice. Gwen wants to trace them every time they're out. The summer is long and wild, it holds dreams and comfort. It holds Gwen Stacy's laughter, and Peter Parker's joy.
The sun holds Peter Parker's memories in the palm of its hands, it cradles them and wishes them good things. The sun holds Peter Parker's future, past, present, and love. The sun holds the world.
When it finally sets in late October, it sets alongside Gwen Stacy's casket.
He took it for granted. He took the nice curls, and rosy lips and never paid for them. It was like he had shoplifted the good, and left the sun to pay for his mistakes. He never said thank you, he never appreciated it, as much as he should've.
There's a lot of unsaid in the summer. The words sit in your journal buried under your bed. It sits with burnt laughter and doodles from other people. It sits under a glasses case filled with photos. It sits with warmth. It's as though the journal is summer. It's all the words whispered and thought, all the thank you's you should've used, but always forgot. There are phrases you used in the summer, and people you saw on the pier. Summer holds good, it holds her.
Once the sun leaves, so does the good. Peter clings to the past, and to the future. He waits for future summers and holds onto this past one. He hugs metal doors and tries to absorb their warmth on the days the sun comes out. He goes out in as little clothing as possible to let it radiate on his skin. He lets it absorb into him until he's buzzing with it. Like everything he'd touch would go warm and would fill with the love that is the sun.
He visits her grave on those days, and he lays in the grass next to her, in hopes she'll come alive. In hopes that the sun will fuel her with the same energy that it did in the summer.
Gwen Stacy is like a flower. She needs the sun to survive, she needs the water and the soil, she needs the bees and their buzz. She needs nature, and for people to talk to her. She needs water, soil, and sun. She gives to the world and it gives back to her. She needs the sun mainly. She needs it to feed her and encourage her. She needs the smiles it gives her, she needs the encouragement from it. The sun is one of the few things she had ever needed in the world.
Peter would climb up and give her the sun, he'd grab whatever he could and rush to give it to her. She deserved the sun, she deserved to be alive. But there are lots of things we should get, but we'll never receive, her life back, is one of those things on the constant carousel of existence.
The moon loomed in his mind. It chased him in the night as his wheels turned and his shoes slowly decayed to grip tape on his board. The sun can't exist without the moon, yet they can't live together. The moon is dark and unknown, it is wild and causes the waves to turn over. The moon creates a life of its own, it creates purpose and fear. There are monsters hiding under beds because of the moon. And it's all because of the moon.
You could push the thought that the bad isn't because of the moon, it's because of the lack of sun, just like the cold. It doesn't exist on its own, it's simply the lack of heat. But what would the werewolves howl at? What would be the effect of all the bad in old tales, what would be the thing causing mood's to change, and plants to die? What would be the cause of bad, because the sun is too good to be bad.
Peter Parker has accepted the thought that he's the moon. While yeah, he does like to protect people and while he can do good things, he's bad. He caused death and destruction, and chaos. He caused horrible loss that money can't fix. He caused things and ran. He broke the world, he broke himself, he broke her. He broke the promise he made to her father, he didn't just break, he destroyed. He ruined, ruined beyond repair.
The moon holds your secrets at night, it holds the things you whisper when you're lonely, and the bodies carried out to sea. The moon holds the things torture couldn't get out of you. It holds the tears of gods and young boys. The moon keeps things from the sun, it keeps things locked away tight, never letting it travel. The moon has no rays, it has no warmth, it has nothing to give, and yet people trust it. They give it offerings and pray to it. They give it words and expectations. The moon does nothing, absolutely nothing.
The moon exists with no warmth, just cold. It lives with nothing to excel in, it dies, yet functions. The moon is hatred, the moon is 'why?' The moon is raccoons in the night, tipping over your trash cans and scaring you shitless. The moon is a wonder it can't respond to. Peter Parker has shoes to fill, yet they're out of stock at the store. Peter Parker has to protect others and keep his emotions locked up. He has to save them and listen and has to deal with emotions that aren't his.
The moon is the words you say that turn sour, the memories that make you cringe at night, and beg to forget in the morning. The emotions that make you cry because how could you let things go bad? It's your favorite shirt having a stain that won't come out. The moon is off, the moon is lies, the moon is winter, it's bright, keeping you awake at night. The moon lies to you, it whispers lies, lies you want to hear.
Peter Parker couldn't save Gwen Stacy, he couldn't save her sunkissed smile, and warm hugs, he couldn't save her, not even when she was the one he loved most. So how is he expected to save everyone else? He tries, but he's failed once, and failure is a constant. He couldn't save her, he couldn't save the Sun, so where is the hope for the rest of the world?
The moon is Peter Parker, unable to help a dying Gwen Stacy, because one day the sun will go out, and the moon will continue to live.