Chapter Text
⭒
"no, i think i'm gonna move out. i can't take it anymore!"
only a slighting hum came from the speaker of your phone.
"i’m serious!"
"you've been saying that for the last six months."
"yeah, and i'm gonna do it! it's like, three in the morning and he still isn't back yet! he does this every night. what the hell could he be doing until three in the morning every night?"
"have you, i don't know, bothered asking him?"
"that- i- it-,"
"maybe you should ask."
"no! i've never like- seen him when he comes home. i just hear him. how am i supposed to bring it up that i've been hearing him come home so late every night for the last six months?"
"more like how are you going to bring up that you've been waiting up for him to come home every night for the last six months."
"dude-"
"dude! i'm so tired. please, just let me go to sleep."
"y-yeah, fine, whatever. isn't it only like twelve for you?"
"that's still late! you wouldn't know 'cause you stay up till sunrise waiting for your damn roommate!"
"no i don't-!"
"goodnight, y/n!" you gaped at your phone while it merely flashed a 'call ended' sign at you. you couldn't help but let out a groan as you let the phone fall from your hands on to the bed you had been laying upside down on.
you glared at the opposite wall of your room where your desk appears to be attached to the ceiling from your angle. your room illuminated from the light pollution of new york. the light filtered into every crevice of your room. you already had difficulty sleeping but the light never ceasing to stop in this tiny two bedroom apartment made it ten times worse.
your eyebrows furrowed and your eyes sharpened as you could hear your roommate clambering around your shared apartment. you listened to him hiss in pain after a loud thud, which you could only assume was him stubbing his toe for the third time that week.
you listened to his door (that sat directly across the hall from yours) creak shut despite his efforts to make it home quietly and you finally turned yourself right up and flopped on your bed. you let yourself fall asleep, finally, with furrowed eyebrows and a frown plastered on your face.
⭒⭒
peter parker sat on the other side of his door, huffing and holding his side, while he listened to your bed creek and groan. annoyance was plastered all over his face.
the walls in this place were too thin.
he hated that he could hear your every move and that, even without super hearing like his, you could hear every move of his.
he was well aware of you being up late every night. he could hear the blankets rustle and your disgruntled hums of annoyance.
he wished, to the very bottom of his heart, that you would just go the hell to sleep!
he rolled his eyes and pulled the skin tight suit off of himself, wincing as it stuck to the bloody gash in his side.
he peaked his head out of his bedroom door, eyeing yours to make sure it was fully shut, then ran as silently as he could to the bathroom across the floor plan of the apartment.
he looked himself in the mirror: his glazed eyes held heavy bags, his shoulders were crunched up from the stress of his night's endeavors, his hair was tousled and flat from the mask sitting on his head for hours.
he eyes his side in particular, though. it was as if a chunk has been scraped out of his skin. it had started healing already, the blood clotting fast as ever, and the bruising had begun to form.
he went to touch the surrounding area of his gash, only to flinch back from the sharpness of his round finger.
he dug through the mirror-cabinet to find the cleaning alcohol he always kept stored. he grew more and more frustrated as he pushed aside your medicine bottles and childish, all-too-expensive band-aids with cartoon characters on them that he hated so much.
he was near yelling out and waking you up and making you show him where you had moved his stuff to, until he looked down and found it sitting on the back of the toilet, right next to an opened package of your childish, all-too-expensive band-aids with cartoon characters on them.
his frown softened a bit at the sight of your band-aids (that he knew you often only bought because you found them cute) being used for once. he rolled his eyes, however, and snatched the bottle up and continued to mind his business, muttering complaints in his mind.
⭒⭒⭒
peter left his room the next morning to find you in the kitchen of your shared apartment, headphones on, and humming a tune that he recognized too easily from how often he heard it from you, from your room, from your phone, or from his own mind at this point. your favorite song that you always had on repeat was stuck in peter's mind and he was sure one of these days he would snap and throw your phone out the window of your third story apartment.
he watched your head bob to the beat as you flipped a pancake on the skillet. you turned around, jumping at peter's figure.
"jesus, peter!"
"sorry," he mumbled, taking a seat at the small island that fit no more than two.
"do you want anything to eat while i have it out?"
"i can cook for myself when your done. thanks." peter refused to meet your eyes and the action caused you to roll your own.
even when you made efforts to be civil the man refused to reciprocate.
you truly didn't know where you two went wrong in your roommate relationship. when you first met, it was awkward, but it was kind and gentle nonetheless. small hello's and goodbyes would be exchanged throughout the day. peter would accept your cooking in the morning.
but, somewhere along the line, you both grew consistently frustrated with the other.
peter hated that you loved music and always had a song playing or were humming one.
you hated how he tended to flick his pencil in his fingers when he was thinking.
peter hated how you only knew how to make breakfast foods, and any other food was a risk of burning the building.
you hated how he slept on the couch often, night and day, despite the fact that you're hardly ever wanting to sit on it since you had a comfy chair you preferred.
every action taken irritated the other.
⭒⭒⭒⭒
after you had left for your work, peter made his way over to the horribly small kitchen.
he gritted his teeth at the sight of your unwashed dishes in the sink. the pans you had used failed to even be rinsed off, all the grit and char still sitting happy on the skillet.
"god forbid he picks up a sponge, jesus." he groaned under his breath.
he turned to grab the dish washing supplies that sat in the island counter cabinets, only to find a plate full of still warm turkey sausage, eggs and pancakes sitting on the counter with a fork and syrup next to it.
he found a sticky note in your messy, rushed handwriting sat next to it.
ran out of time, i'll clean after work.
he scoffed at the sticky note.
another thing he hated about you: how you left notes all over the apartment for him.
he dumped an ungodly amount of syrup over his pancakes (something you had pointed out on one of the first days of you two living together: "that-that's a lot of syrup." you had nearly choked on your bite at the sight. "you have none on yours," he said in equal disbelief).
he sat at the island in silence, begrudgingly eating the pancakes you had made him, and waiting until the clock strikes it's time for him to make his way to his own job.