Archive of Our Own

— four hours before you forget peter parker —

peter can’t get the glove off.

he stands beside your old chemistry bench with his wrist braced against the edge, pulling at fabric that has dried into the cuts across his knuckles. the fluorescent light above him keeps threatening to go out. each time it hums, his shoulders lift, and each time you look at the door, he follows the movement as though someone else might still arrive.

there are three versions of him in the room. you have already stopped finding that the strangest thing about tonight. “let me,” you murmur, setting the tray of supplies beside his elbow.

peter looks at your hand before he looks at you. on the school roof, he let you hold him while he told you about may. now, with something useful to do, he has pulled himself into an approximation of the boy who always finishes the assignment first. he keeps his eyes on the workbench while you ease the glove over his fingers.

“it’s stuck,” he tells you unnecessarily. his voice sounds scraped raw. “i can do it. you should help ned with the—”

“ned’s got it.” you work a damp piece of gauze beneath the fabric, waiting until it loosens before trying again. “you’re allowed to stay here with me for a minute.”

he lets you finish. beneath the glove, his hand is warm and trembling, dried blood caught in the lines of his palm. you clean it with the careful attention you usually reserve for his visits after patrol. peter watches the gauze turn pink. when you reach the base of his thumb, he closes his fingers around yours.

“she was talking,” he whispers. “at first, she was still talking.”

you set the gauze down. his grip tightens while he stares at the space between your hands, and you can see him searching for the point where the night could have become something else. he has been doing it since the roof. a different decision, a faster turn, one injury noticed soon enough.

you step close enough that his forehead finds your shoulder. his other hand closes around your sleeve, dragging the cuff down over your wrist. for several seconds he makes no sound at all.

“i know,” you tell him, pressing your palm to the back of his neck. “i’m so sorry, peter.”

he takes one breath that catches and another that fails. across the room, glass clinks as mj deliberately turns her attention to the supplies. ned begins asking one of the other peters a question in a voice slightly louder than necessary. you stay where you are until peter loosens his hold enough for you to move your hand into his hair.

may called you two days ago to ask whether he was eating lunch. she knew he would claim he was, and she knew you would tell her the truth. you had complained about being recruited as an informant while standing in this same hallway with peter beside you, trying unsuccessfully to hear both sides of the conversation. you can still remember the sound of her laughter through the speaker.

now peter lifts his head, and you have to swallow before you can touch his cheek. “i need to finish this,” he says. he looks ashamed of needing anything else. “i can’t stop yet.”

you nod and turn the tray toward him. “then tell me what goes where.”

the work gives the next hour somewhere to go. peter explains measurements, checks in with the other versions of himself, and loses his place halfway through instructions he could ordinarily deliver in his sleep. you read labels back to him when he needs it. once, he reaches for an empty beaker without looking, and you put it into his hand before his fingers finish opening.

he looks at you then. you squeeze his wrist and let him keep working.

outside the high windows, evening settles over queens. your phone lights with a message from your mother asking whether you are still with ned. you answer that you are, and that you’re safe, and put the phone facedown before peter can see how difficult it is to type a lie.

when the preparations are almost finished, he follows you into the hallway. he waits until the lab door swings shut before reaching for you again. this time his hands settle at your waist, and he draws you close enough that you can feel the uneven movement of his breathing through the suit. “i don’t know what happens after,” he admits.

you rest your hands against his chest. a seam has come loose near his shoulder, and you press it flat with your thumb because there is nothing else here that you can fix so easily.

“friday,” you say. “you’re coming over.” peter looks down at you, bewildered by the smallness of the plan.

“we’ll get food,” you continue. “you can tell me everything wrong with whatever movie i pick. i’ll tell you to shut up, and you’ll keep talking, and then you’ll fall asleep before the good part.”

his mouth moves without quite becoming a smile. “your good parts are usually scientifically impossible.”

“you crawl on walls.” you smooth the damaged seam again, your fingers beginning to shake. “you can cope with one bad movie.”

peter covers your hand with his. for a moment neither of you manages to look away. you want to take him home now, to put him in your bed and close the curtains and call may to tell her where he is. the thought comes so naturally that you almost reach for your phone. “friday,” he agrees, and kisses your forehead.

later, on the scaffolding, you hold on to that word while the world comes apart around you. ned opens a portal, mj catches the supplies you push into her hands, and metal shudders beneath your feet. you hear peter call your name from somewhere above. when you find him, he is already moving toward the next person who needs him.

you raise your hand so he can see you are still there. he looks once at the railing beside you, checking that you have something to hold, then launches himself back into the fight.

you think that surviving will be the difficult part.

— minutes before you forget peter parker —

the sky is breaking open.

you can see it beyond peter’s shoulder as he approaches, purple light spreading between clouds that no longer look like clouds. he has already spoken to ned and mj. ned is crying openly, and mj keeps wiping beneath her eyes with the heel of her hand, furious at the tears for making it difficult to see.

peter stops in front of you. his mask hangs from one hand. you take the other before he can speak.

“what is it?” you ask.

his thumb moves across your knuckles. it’s the same motion he makes beneath cafeteria tables, on subway platforms, in bed when he thinks you have fallen asleep. you recognize the moment he decides to tell you because his hand goes still.

“strange can stop it,” peter says. “but everyone has to forget who i am.”

you wait for him to finish explaining. wind pushes your clothes against your legs. somewhere behind you, loose metal strikes the scaffolding with a hollow, repeated sound.

“everyone forgets spider-man?” you ask, although his expression has already answered.

“peter parker.” he swallows. “everyone.”

you look at strange, high above the wreckage, holding back something too large to understand. then you look at mj and ned. neither of them gives you another possibility.

“okay,” you say, reaching for your phone. “okay, then we record something. you tell me, and i explain why i should believe you, and—”

peter catches your wrist gently. “we can’t count on that surviving it.”

“then i write it down.” you hear your voice growing thin. “there has to be something we can do. your name, a picture, something.”

he shakes his head, crying before the movement is finished. “i don’t know what it’ll leave.”

you put the phone away because his face is crumpling and there is so little time. both your hands come up to hold it. he leans into your palms with an awful, immediate relief, as though you have caught him falling.

“i need to get you home,” he says. “i need to know you’re somewhere safe when it happens.”

he turns toward strange and calls out. you can’t make out the exchange over the wind, only peter’s repeated glance toward you and the strain in strange’s face. then a circle of orange light opens beside the damaged railing, and through it you see the familiar corner of your desk.

peter steps through with you. the noise falls away so abruptly that the radiator knocking in the wall sounds impossibly loud.

your lamp is still on. you left in a hurry, and the room has held everything exactly where you abandoned it: notes spread across the desk, his sweatshirt over the chair, and a mug with a little tea left at the bottom. peter looks at the sweatshirt and makes a sound you have never heard from him before.

“hey.” you bring his face back toward yours. “look at me.”

he tries. tears run beneath your thumbs, catching in the shallow cut beside his mouth. you want to clean it. the first-aid kit is just down the hall, beneath the bathroom sink, but the thought of leaving him for the ten seconds it would take is unbearable. “you’re going to find me,” you tell him.

“i will.” he catches at your waist. “i’ll come here. i’ll tell you everything.”

“as peter.” your voice breaks on his name. “you come back as peter, and you let me decide. you don’t stand outside and decide i’m better off, okay? you don’t get to do that.”

he nods too quickly, but you hold him still. “promise me,” you whisper.

peter presses his forehead against yours. “i promise.”

you kiss him, tasting salt and the blood at the corner of his mouth. he pulls you closer with a desperation that makes his hands clumsy. when you separate, he follows you the little distance you have moved, unable to bear even that.

“you said you’d always come if i asked.” your fingers tighten against his jaw. “i’m asking, peter. however scared you are, and even if i don’t know what to say at first.”

“i’ll find you,” he says again. “i’ll find you. i love you.”

you have heard him say it sleepy and distracted, embarrassed by ned, grinning against your mouth. this time he sounds as if he is trying to give you something to carry when everything else is gone. you kiss his cheek, then the other, and make yourself answer while you still know how.

“i love you too.” you can barely see him. “tell me your name.”

peter’s eyebrows pull together. you brush your thumbs beneath his eyes, pleading with him to understand that you need to hear it once more. “peter benjamin parker,” he tells you.

you repeat it into the space between your mouths. peter kisses you halfway through, and you begin again when he lets you breathe. you know this face, the small scar beside his eyebrow, the place his hair refuses to lie flat. you know how he sounds trying not to laugh in a quiet room. you know the weight of his hand when he falls asleep holding yours.

from the other side of the portal, strange calls his name, and peter’s arms tighten. you feel him shake his head against your cheek.

“you have to go,” you whisper. the words nearly make you sick. “so you can come back to me.”

he lifts his face. for a second you think he will refuse, and then you see him force himself to loosen his hold. he kisses your forehead with his eyes shut, lingering there until strange calls again.

you keep his hand as long as you can. peter steps backward through the light, his fingertips sliding over yours. even after they are gone, you hold your palm out toward him.

“peter benjamin parker,” you say. you see him say your name in response. “peter benjamin—”

something shifts.

there is a boy looking at you through a ring of light. his face is wet. you have the terrible impression that you have just hurt him, although you can’t imagine how.

then the light closes, and you are standing alone beside your desk.

— one hour after you forget —

your mother knocks twice before opening the door. you have been sitting in the chair for some time. there is a damp mark on your sleeve, and your hand hurts from holding the fabric too tightly. when she asks what happened, you tell her about the statue of liberty, although the words sound like something you have heard on the news.

she sits beside you. you remember ned’s hands moving through the air, mj shouting, spider-man passing overhead. some of the details are so clear you can smell the water beneath the scaffolding. others dissolve as soon as you approach them. you can’t explain why your room seems to have been the end of something.

eventually, your mother makes you drink a glass of water. she leaves the door open when she goes, telling you she will be down the hall. you nod because she has already asked twice whether you understand.

the sweatshirt is on the back of your chair. you pull it into your lap. there is a white mark on one cuff that doesn’t come away when you scratch at it, and something about the stubbornness of it makes you want to laugh. instead, your throat closes. you press the fabric to your mouth and begin crying so hard that you have to bend forward to breathe.

you remember may dying. you volunteered at the shelter, and she was kind to you. but you can’t work out why that grief keeps leading you back to this room, to the window, and to the side of your bed nearest the door.

in the bathroom, two toothbrushes stand in the cup. you turn the blue one between your fingers and put it back. you are too tired to solve anything tonight.

across the street, peter lowers himself behind the parapet of an apartment building. he has come straight from the battle because he promised he would. he has watched your mother leave your room and seen you lift his sweatshirt to your face. for several seconds, hope catches so violently that he begins to stand.

then he sees how frightened you look. his own name feels strange in his mouth as he practices it. he tries adding that you know each other. he tries explaining the spell. every version ends with him asking something of you while you are already crying, and the thought stops him at the edge of the roof.

he presses his injured hand against his eyes. you have been afraid for months. he could at least let you sleep.

tomorrow, he tells himself. when he has cleaned the blood off. when he can get through the explanation without making you take care of him. he stays until your lamp goes dark, then leaves with your bedroom window still unlocked.

— two weeks after you forget —

ned brings three college sweatshirts to the coffee shop because he can’t decide which one looks best. mj tells him they are all the same sweatshirt. he points out the differences anyway, spreading one across the empty chair beside you while you cradle a cup between both hands. “you could just keep all three,” you suggest.

ned looks relieved. “that’s what i said.”

“of course it is.” mj takes your untouched drink and pushes it closer. “and you could try actually drinking that.”

you try. the coffee has already cooled, and for a moment you are certain somebody is about to complain about it on your behalf. you look at the door before you can stop yourself.

outside, peter unfolds a piece of paper for the fourth time. he has written the beginning carefully. his name, the fact that you knew one another, a request that you let him explain. further down, the handwriting becomes less controlled. he crossed out girlfriend because it sounded like an obligation and replaced it with important to each other because that felt easier to hear. then he crossed that out too, ashamed of how little it said.

through the window, he watches ned reach for the sweatshirt on the chair beside you. for a second the movement looks like an invitation. peter can almost feel the table against his knees, your hand finding his beneath it. he goes inside before he can argue himself out of it.

the bell above the door makes you look up. a boy stands near the counter, his coat too thin for the weather and a folded piece of paper clutched in one hand. his eyes find yours immediately, and the expression in them makes your chest tighten.

you know him, but the certainty lasts less than a second. when you try to reach for a name, you find nothing at all.

“sorry,” you say as he passes your table. “did we have a class together?”

he stops so abruptly that his shoe catches against a chair leg. ned looks up, and mj watches him over the edge of her cup.

“i—” he begins, and then your fingers move to the healing scrape near your temple. he remembers looking for you across the scaffolding. he remembers may on the floor. the folded paper crumples inside his fist. “i don’t think so.”

“oh.” you lower your hand. “sorry. you look familiar.”

he tries to smile at you. “it’s okay.”

by the time you decide to ask his name, he has turned toward the counter. you watch him order a coffee and fumble for change, ears pink as he counts the coins twice. ned resumes explaining the relative merits of his sweatshirts, but you hear almost none of it. he leaves with the paper still in his hand.

on the walk home, you keep thinking about the way he looked at you before he smiled. it follows you through dinner and into bed, where you lie awake with the inexplicable feeling that you should have asked him to stay.

— one month after you forget —

you put the blue toothbrush in a drawer. it seems like a reasonable thing to do. you don’t know who left it, and every time you brush your teeth, you find yourself staring at it. the drawer is an improvement. you can forget to wonder about it for whole stretches of the day.

the sweatshirt proves more difficult. you wash it, wait beside the dryer, and put it on while it is still warm. the white mark on the cuff survives. you rub it between your fingers as mj talks to you through the phone. “i think something’s wrong with me,” you admit when she pauses.

the line goes quiet. then you hear the scrape of her chair as she settles somewhere more comfortable.

“what kind of wrong?” she asks.

you stare at the window. christmas lights from the building opposite divide the glass into red and green squares. you have spent a month looking toward it whenever a pipe knocks or a branch scrapes the brick, and you can’t explain what you expect to find.

“i keep missing someone,” you say. “all the time. i’ll have something to say, and i get my phone out, and there’s nobody i’m trying to call.”

mj breathes out slowly. “after everything that happened, maybe you’re still waiting for things to feel normal.”

you know she means well. you also know you have tried telling yourself the same thing, lying in bed while the ache settles so heavily that you turn onto your side to make room for it.

“maybe,” you agree. “it just feels like somebody should be here.”

beyond the curtain, peter lets his raised hand fall. your jacket is folded beneath his arm. he has brought another version of the speech, one that ends before he can ask you to love him, in a letter he wrote on the floor of his new apartment. he thought that if the words failed again, he could at least leave them with you.

now he stands outside the room he once entered without thinking about how welcome he was. he can hear your voice. he can hear that you have been crying. every instinct he has tells him to open the window and go to you.

he rests his fingertips against the cold glass. “it scares me,” you tell mj. “how much it hurts. when i can’t even tell you what it is.”

peter shuts his eyes. he can’t bear to be the reason you sound like that, and somehow he makes the fear into an argument for leaving. by the time your call ends, he has climbed to the roof with the jacket pressed against his chest.

you cross the room and pull the curtain aside. the fire escape is empty. cold air slips through the imperfect seal, brushing the bare skin above your collar.

the latch has been open all month. you turn it closed with your thumb. above you, peter hears the small click and sits down before his knees can give out.

— three months after you forget —

the music at the party is still ringing in your ears when you get home. you leave your shoes beside the bed and peel off a jacket that smells faintly of somebody else’s drink. mj offered to walk with you, but you told her you wanted to sleep. the lie was meant to be temporary. you are tired enough for it to become true if you can stop standing in the middle of your room, disappointed by an evening you can’t find anything wrong with.

rain rattles the window. you have just turned on the lamp when something hits the fire escape hard enough to make the frame shake.

for a second you don’t move. then you hear the scrape of a shoe against metal and a low, abruptly muffled sound of pain.

spider-man is on the other side of the glass. he has one hand closed around the railing and the other pressed against his side. water pours from the edge of his mask. when you pull back the curtain, his head jerks toward you, and he begins trying to stand.

“wait.” you fumble with the latch. “don’t move.”

“sorry,” he says through the window. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to—”

his knee folds beneath him. you get the window open just in time to catch his forearm, although the strength it takes to stay upright is still his. he clings to the frame while you step back and make room.

“inside,” you tell him. “come in before you fall.”

he climbs through awkwardly, protecting his right wrist. a broken piece of metal dangles from the device strapped to it. the new blue panels of his suit look almost black with rain, and blood has spread from beneath his palm to the waistband. “you need a hospital,” you say.

“i heal fast.” he looks around the room, then toward the door. “it’s mostly the landing. i just need to stop the bleeding.”

“let me look, spider-man.” you shut the window and point at the chair. “sit down.”

he obeys before you finish pointing. for some reason, that nearly makes you cry.

you find the first-aid kit beneath the bathroom sink. it has more supplies than you remember buying, tape and gauze neatly replenished beside a small pair of scissors. when you return, he is leaning forward with his elbows braced on his knees, trying to keep blood off your rug.

“bathroom’s narrow,” he says faintly. “it’s easier here.”

you set the kit on the desk. “how do you know that?”

his masked face lifts toward yours. rain ticks against the glass in the silence that follows.

“old buildings,” he offers. “they’re usually—yeah.”

you pull out a clean towel and kneel beside him. “move your hand.”

the cut along his side is long but shallow, the torn suit making it look worse. beneath the blood, a bruise is spreading over his ribs. you work slowly, checking his face when you press too close to it, although the white lenses give you little to read.

“what happened?” you ask.

he studies the broken device on his wrist. “somebody dropped part of a fire escape on me.” you look toward your own window.

“a different one,” he adds quickly.

“i had gathered that.” you open a packet of gauze. “hold still.”

he makes a small sound that might be a laugh. it ends before you can be certain.

you clean his side with the room quiet around you. your parents are out for the evening, and there is nobody to ask why spider-man is bleeding in your desk chair. he keeps his hands on his knees while you work. once, when you lean across him for the tape, he lifts it from the kit and holds it out before you ask. “thanks,” you murmur.

his fingers close around the edge of his knee. you notice how carefully he’s controlling his breathing, the occasional uneven inhale he seems unable to prevent. you assume it’s his ribs until the fabric beneath his jaw grows wet again.

the first drop disappears into the towel. the second lands on your wrist.

you stop with one end of the tape between your fingers. “are you crying?” you ask softly.

his head turns away. “it’s rain.”

you glance at the closed window. the towel beneath his hands is damp, but the top of his mask has begun drying. you have been inside for at least ten minutes. another drop gathers beneath his jaw while you look at him. “okay,” you whisper, and lower your attention to the bandage.

you press the tape down more gently. the breath he takes afterward shakes through his whole body.

peter looks at your bent head and tries to find something in the room that doesn’t hurt. the lamp is angled toward his side because you always move it so the light will stay out of his eyes. his sweatshirt hangs on the wardrobe door. the chair still catches at the edge of the rug when you shift it, and the floorboard near the bathroom creaked beneath your heel exactly as he remembered.

for a little while, he managed to stay inside those details. he listened to you telling him off and almost answered with the kind of complaint that used to make you press your mouth together to hide a smile. then you called him spider-man.

he bites the inside of his cheek beneath the mask. you have one hand resting against his uninjured side to keep him steady, and he has missed that hand so much that the first touch nearly stopped his heart. he can’t imagine how to survive you being this close without knowing why he has come.

“does it hurt when you breathe?” you ask. he shakes his head, although everything does.

you finish securing the dressing and rest your hand on his shoulder. the gesture is meant to get his attention before you stand. instead, he leans into it with an exhausted little movement, his head almost coming to rest against your arm.

you stay still. “you can take a minute,” you tell him.

his shoulders shake once beneath your palm. he bows his head, both hands covering the front of his mask now, and you turn toward the first-aid kit so he doesn’t have to be watched while he gathers himself.

when he finally lifts his face, you give him a glass of water. he rolls the mask only high enough to drink, revealing a trembling mouth and a small scar near his chin. something about the line of his jaw pulls at you. you look down before it becomes an explanation you can’t make.

“why this window?” you ask, folding the used towel inward.

he lowers the glass. “it was close.”

you glance toward the window. “there are several floors beneath mine.”

he looks toward the window again. you know that look, somehow. you know he is calculating how quickly he could leave. “i’m sorry,” he says.

you stand to move the lamp, and your sleeve catches on the scissors beside the kit. spider-man says your name before they reach the floor. one hand shoots out to catch them, impossibly fast, but it is your name that makes you stop.

“i didn’t tell you that.” you look from his hand to his face. “how do you know my name?”

he sets the scissors down. this time he offers no explanation.

“you know me,” you say. your voice has changed. “that’s why you came here.”

spider-man looks at your sweatshirt, and you follow his gaze. the room seems to pull inward around you. you remember standing here for no reason, crying with a sleeve pressed against your mouth.

“who are you?” you ask.

he reaches toward his mask, then stops. his hand is shaking badly enough that you can see it from where you stand.

“i need to explain,” he says. “all of it. i can’t—i don’t want this to be how you hear it. because i needed something from you.”

you sit on the edge of the bed. there is blood on your fingers and a stranger in your chair, except every part of you has begun resisting that word.

“then come back on sunday,” you tell him. “and let me see your face.”

he stares at you. you hold his gaze through the lenses until he nods. “i’m sorry it took me so long,” he whispers.

after he leaves, you wash your hands and go back to the window. you rest your thumb against the latch without turning it.

—

two days later, the doorbell rings.

the boy from the coffee shop stands in the hallway with your jacket folded over his arm. the sight of him brings back the same sudden pressure beneath your ribs. this time he stays still while you look at him, although it appears to take everything he has.

“hi,” he says. “my name is peter parker.”

the name hurts. you grip the edge of the door, waiting for something to arrive with it. nothing does. “spider-man,” you say, recognizing the voice.

peter nods. he looks as if he has slept very little since you last saw him. there are shadows beneath his eyes and a split along one knuckle that has almost healed.

you step back to let him in.

he follows you to your room, carefully avoiding the loose floorboard by the bathroom. you notice. he notices you noticing, and for a moment neither of you knows where to look. “you can sit,” you tell him.

peter chooses the edge of the chair. he places the jacket on your bed and takes a folded stack of papers from his coat pocket. when you reach for them, he holds them out immediately.

the top sheet begins with your name. “i wrote those after,” he says. “they’re not proof. i just kept trying to work out what to tell you.”

you look up. “after what?”

he starts with the battle. some of it you know, and some of it makes you stare at him until he stops to ask whether you want him to keep going. he tells you about strange’s spell and the people being drawn into your world. he tells you what stopping them required.

you glance at the empty frame beside your desk where a photograph used to hang. you can’t remember taking it down.

“everyone forgot you?” you ask.

peter twists his hands together. “yeah.”

“ned? mj?”

he nods again. his eyes remain on the floor.

“and me.” you look toward the sweatshirt. “what were we?”

peter opens his mouth, then looks at the papers in your lap as though the right version of the answer might be visible from across the room.

“we were together,” he says finally. “you were my girlfriend.”

the words make you go very still. you look at his face, trying to find the place where that knowledge might settle. he is familiar. he is beautiful in a way you notice unwillingly, with frightened eyes that keep searching yours. you can believe you would have loved him, but that’s a long way from remembering that you did.

“you don’t owe me anything,” he adds. “i need you to know that. i should have told you sooner. but you don’t have to—”

“when?” you interrupt. “how long ago?”

he gives you the date of the battle. you already know it. you have watched footage, talked about it with mj, and told yourself that all the things you can’t explain began with being frightened that night.

three months. you put the papers on the bed because you’re afraid of tearing them.

“did i know it was going to happen?” you ask.

peter’s eyes fill. “yes.”

you fold one hand inside the other. “did i ask you to come back?”

he looks at the window. that’s enough to make your throat tighten.

“peter.” his name comes more easily than you expect. “did you promise me?”

“yes,” he whispers.

you press both palms against your knees. the boy in front of you begins crying, silently this time, letting the tears fall because there is no mask to catch them. you want to comfort him, but you also want him to explain why you have spent three months waiting for somebody who knew where you were.

“i thought you’d be safer,” he admits. “after may and the battle, i kept thinking about what could happen if i came back.” he rubs his hands over his face. “i know that doesn’t make it okay.”

you brush a crease from the jacket with your thumb. “did i ask you to choose that for me?”

he shakes his head. “you specifically asked me not to.”

the honesty leaves you with nowhere simple to put the hurt. you look at your jacket, the familiar zipper and worn cuffs, and remember searching for it in your closet. it was something you had lost. you had never thought to wonder whether somebody else was keeping it safe.

“what was i to you?” you ask.

peter lowers his hands. “you were the person i wanted to tell things to.” he tries to smile and fails. “good things and stupid things. when i was scared, i came here. when i was happy, i came here. i was probably here too much.”

“did i mind?” you ask.

he looks at the window again. “you kept leaving it open.”

you cry then, with your own room stretching unfamiliar around you. peter moves before he seems to realize he has done it, then stops halfway out of the chair. you reach for him. he crosses the remaining distance and crouches beside the bed, letting you take his hand.

you don’t remember holding it, but you know exactly where to put your thumb. for a long time, neither of you speaks.

eventually, peter stands to leave. he has explained what he can, answered the questions you can bear to ask, and stopped trying to force the whole truth into one afternoon. 

you walk him to the door with the jacket over your arm. “friday,” you say before he steps into the hallway. he turns back so quickly that you lose the rest of the sentence.

“if you want,” you add. “we could talk more.”

his mouth trembles. “yeah. i’d like that.”

you close the door and lean against it, listening to his footsteps move away. then you lift the jacket to your face. it smells of an unfamiliar detergent and something warm beneath it, something that makes your fingers tighten in the fabric. “peter parker,” you whisper into the collar. this time, you know who you are missing.

— four months after you forget peter parker —

peter brings the wrong coffee. you discover this one friday, when you take a sip and try to hide your expression behind the cup. he notices immediately. 

he is sitting on the floor beside your bed, coat folded over his knees, and he starts reaching for his phone as though the mistake requires an explanation from someone.

“they changed the labels,” he says. “i checked. i thought that was—”

“peter.” you lower the cup. “it’s okay.”

peter frowns at the cup in your hand. “you don’t have to drink it.”

“i wasn’t planning to.” you hold it out to him and take his instead. “we’ll trade.”

he accepts the cup, looks at the label again, and sighs so unhappily that you begin to laugh. peter glances up at you. the look on his face makes the sound catch in your throat, but this time he laughs with you before either of you can apologize.

by the following friday, the coffee has become a joke. you tell him he can bring something worse if he wants to keep challenging himself. he arrives with tea and announces that he has removed himself from competitive coffee purchasing.

you tell your mother he’s a friend from school. peter says hello in the hallway, polite enough to make her smile, and carries the cups to your room. afterward, you wonder whether she knew him before. when you ask, he nods. “she used to ask whether i needed feeding,” he says.

you look toward the door. “she still does that.”

peter rubs a thumb along the cup sleeve. “yeah. she does.”

you have begun recognizing that expression, the little pause before he chooses what he can bear to tell you. sometimes you ask, and sometimes you just sit beside him, letting the moment pass without making him explain why a familiar hallway has hurt him.

there is a great deal to learn. you ask about the first time he climbed through your window, and peter tells you he couldn’t sleep. he had heard a dog from streets away and tried to explain why he knew what breed it was. you had given him chips and let him stay.

“did you like me then?” you ask, settling against the bed with your tea.

peter looks at you with an expression so soft that you forget to be embarrassed by the question. “yeah. i liked you then.”

you look at him over the rim of your cup. “how long before that?”

he pretends to consider. “i’m not sure my dignity can take this conversation.”

you nudge his knee. “you climbed into my room bleeding.”

“that’s not how i planned to introduce myself.” his smile fades a little. “either time.”

you let him tell you about europe. you remember being frightened there, remember drones and smoke, remember spider-man appearing when everything seemed impossible. peter gives you the pieces between those things: the flight home, you sleeping on his shoulder, how long he waited afterward before asking if you were awake.

some details make you laugh. others leave you quiet for the rest of the evening.

when he describes the rooftop where he first kissed you, you can picture the ledge but can’t find yourself beside him. you spend several seconds trying, staring at the blanket over your knees until peter reaches for the empty mug near your foot. “we can stop,” he says.

you touch his wrist before he stands. “did you want to kiss me for a long time?”

he sits back down. “a really embarrassing amount of time.”

“tell me that part,” you ask.

peter smiles at his hands, and you listen to a story you should have been able to tell alongside him. you can see what it costs him to leave pauses where your replies belong. he remembers what you said, where you stood, and how you touched him. sometimes he starts to ask whether you remember a detail before stopping himself halfway through. each time, you wish you could give him the answer he wants.

you begin writing things down after he leaves. whole afternoons return to your life as descriptions in a notebook: a diner awning, a rooftop, a sandwich he couldn’t quite afford. peter owes you three dollars, apparently. you would give far more to remember the look on his face when he asked to borrow them.

the notebook is open one evening when peter arrives. he sees his name at the top of a page and looks away so quickly that you close it. “i’m trying to keep track,” you explain.

he hangs his coat on the chair. “you don’t have to study me.”

“i know.” you move the notebook aside. “i’m afraid of losing something else.”

peter sits beside you on the bed, leaving a little space. you look at the gap and wonder whether you once would have found it ridiculous. 

he told you about the toothbrush last week. you lay awake afterward thinking about a morning you had survived without remembering, sunlight across your sheets and peter asking if he could leave a small piece of himself here.

“were we happy?” you ask.

he turns toward you. “yes.”

you glance down at the space between you. “all the time?”

peter shakes his head. “i was late a lot. i worried you. sometimes you worried me, and i made that your problem.” he picks at a loose thread on his pants. “but we talked eventually. i could tell you things i didn’t know how to say to anyone else.”

you rest your fingers on the blanket between you. “like what?”

“when i was scared.” his hand stops moving. “when i didn’t want to go out again. stuff i thought would make people look at me differently.”

you turn toward him. “and i didn’t?”

peter looks at you for so long that your eyes begin stinging. “you used to ask if i wanted something to eat.”

you laugh through the ache in your throat. it sounds like you, and that’s the difficult part. everything sounds like you, and you keep waiting for the familiarity to open into something you can enter.

“sometimes i feel like there’s a girl i’m supposed to know,” you admit. “you tell me what she said, and i think, of course she did. but i can’t get to her.”

he reaches toward your hand, then lets his palm rest open beside it. “i’m sorry. i don’t want to make you grieve someone you never knew.”

you take his hand. “i did know her, peter. she was me.”

his fingers close carefully. for once he doesn’t apologize again. he stays beside you while you cry, passing tissues from the box on your desk and letting you hold his hand as tightly as you need.

later, you make sandwiches. peter follows you to the kitchen and opens the right drawer before catching himself. you hand him two plates, and his shoulders ease when you ask him to carry them.

by the time you finish eating, he can barely keep his eyes open. “when did you last sleep?” you ask, collecting the plates.

he considers the question too long. “properly?”

you set the plates down again. “peter.”

“i sleep.” he rubs the back of his neck. “it’s just different now. the building i’m in is noisy.”

your radiator knocks as though objecting to the comparison. peter gives it a tired look, and you remember him saying that the first visit began because ordinary sounds kept becoming something else.

“what helped here?” you ask.

he looks at the pillow near your elbow. the tips of his ears turn pink.

“you were here,” he admits. “i could hear you. sometimes we talked.” his voice lowers. “sometimes you just held my hand.”

you glance down at your hands, still joined between you. after a moment, you shift farther onto the bed and draw him with you. peter goes very still while you settle beside him. you give him time to move away, then rest your head against his chest. his heartbeat is much faster than you expect.

“is this okay?” you ask.

“yeah,” he breathes. “yeah, it’s okay.”

his arm remains at his side until you reach for it and place his hand against your back. the warmth of his palm travels through your shirt. slowly, his fingers relax.

you listen to him breathe. his chest rises beneath your cheek, pauses, lowers again. somewhere beyond the window a siren begins, and his breath catches before it passes. you move your thumb over his knuckles without thinking. the tension leaves his ribs beneath you.

for a moment, the room changes. you feel a different shirt beneath your face. there’s rain against the glass, a hand tracing a slow line between your shoulders, peter murmuring something so close to your ear that you know you’re smiling before you know why. you can almost hear the rest of it. then the radiator knocks, and it’s gone.

you sit up too quickly. peter lifts his hand from your back, searching your face.

“what happened?” he asks. “did i do something?”

you shake your head. tears are running down your cheeks before you can explain, and you hate that he has seen you cry so often without once being able to tell whether he should come closer.

“there was something,” you say. “just for a second. we were here, and i knew—” you press your hand against your mouth. “i knew how it felt.”

peter’s face changes. hope moves through it so openly that losing the moment again becomes unbearable.

“it’s gone,” you whisper. “i’m sorry. it was there, and now i can’t—”

he sits up and takes your hand away from your mouth. “you don’t have to hold on to it for me.”

you look at him. he is crying too, very quietly, and you wonder how many times he has wanted to do it while you sat beside him asking questions. how often he has gone back to his apartment carrying the things you couldn’t remember.

“i don’t remember loving you,” you tell him, your voice breaking. “but i can feel where it used to be.”

peter closes his eyes. when he opens them, he brings your hand against his cheek and holds it there.

you move closer on your own. he lets you rest against him again, his arm settling around your shoulders, and neither of you tries to make the memory return. after a while, his breathing begins to slow beneath your cheek. you remain awake long after he falls asleep.

— five months after you forget peter parker —

you start sending peter things that can’t possibly matter as much as they do. a photograph of a pigeon standing on the wrong side of a closed café door. a complaint about the person on the train watching videos without headphones. a message during lunch asking whether he has eaten, followed by a second one telling him that coffee doesn’t count.

he replies to everything. sometimes immediately, sometimes hours later with an apology and a picture of whatever food he has managed to find. once, he sends you a photograph of a sandwich beside a web-shooter as evidence. you tell him you’re glad one of them is working.

on a tuesday, he calls while you’re folding laundry because he wants to tell you about something funny that happened during his patrol. he talks for eleven minutes before either of you remembers that your conversations used to begin with questions about the spell.

“are you busy?” he asks belatedly.

you sit on the bed with a sock in each hand. “i’m matching socks by intuition. it’s going badly.” peter laughs, and you lean the phone against your shoulder to keep listening.

you learn things he never told you in the past. he hates a particular cupboard in his apartment because it catches at the hinge and dumps the contents of the shelf if he pulls too hard. he has a neighbor who leaves unnecessary notes in the hallway, and he reads you the newest one in a low voice so she will not hear him through the wall. he’s studying for an exam, trying to reclaim things that used to be easy to prove about himself.

you ask him to send the chapter he is stuck on. he tells you the subject itself is fine, it’s sitting still long enough to study that is the difficult part. you switch to a video call while you work through your own assignments, and an hour passes with only occasional conversation.

when you look at the screen again, he’s asleep. you don’t hang up until your phone begins to die.

the flickers keep coming, although never when you try to summon them. his hand brushing yours while you reach for the same mug. the smell of damp fabric when he takes his coat off. a laugh that makes you turn, certain you know exactly where you have heard it before.

each time, you get a little closer. each time, you have to come back without the thing you went looking for.

—

one friday, peter stops halfway through telling you a story about ned. he sees your expression change, and he mistakes the reason.

“sorry,” he says, setting his cup down. “i already told you this one.”

“i know.” you pull your knees up beneath the blanket. “i remembered you telling me.”

peter glances toward you. you can see that he understands the difference a moment after you do.

you have become good at recalling his accounts of your life. you know which words he uses, where he pauses, the jokes he makes when something is difficult. you could repeat the story almost exactly, but you still can’t remember being there.

he moves closer on the floor until his shoulder touches the edge of the mattress. you lower your hand into his hair, a gesture that has begun happening so often that neither of you looks surprised anymore.

“you can finish,” you tell him. “i like hearing it.”

“do you?” he asks quietly.

your fingers stop. peter looks at his hands, rubbing a faint mark from his thumb.

“i keep doing this,” he says. “telling you how it was, and you keep trying so hard. i don’t want you to think there’s an answer you’re supposed to get to.”

you let your hand rest against his shoulder. “there is an answer, though. it happened.”

“i know.” he swallows. “i just don’t want you to have to keep hurting yourself looking for it.”

you look at the notebook on your desk. the last entry is from almost a week ago. lately, you have wanted to remember the things happening in front of you like peter laughing in the kitchen, arguing with your headphones, and falling asleep during an old film and insisting afterward that he saw the whole thing.

you want to kiss him. you have wanted to for days. the feeling comes at ordinary moments, when he is leaning over the desk or smiling at something on your phone, and afterward you’re left trying to decide which part of your life it belongs to. “when you look at me,” you ask, “does it feel like something’s missing?”

peter lifts his face. you can see how badly the question hurts him before he begins trying to answer.

“sometimes,” he admits. “i miss telling you half of something and having you know the rest.” he reaches for your hand. “but you’re here. you’re the person i want to talk to when i get home now. i don’t have to remember that.”

you press your lips together. peter watches you, his thumb moving gently over your knuckles.

“i think i need a little time,” you tell him. “just a week. i keep trying to work out what i feel, and then i wonder whether it’s something i’m just remembering.”

his hand stills. you hold it more securely before he can pull away.

“i’m not asking you to disappear,” you say. “i just need to hear myself.”

peter looks toward the window, then back at you. he takes a breath slowly enough that you know he has had to think about it.

“okay,” he says.

he leaves through the door because you have come to the hallway with him. at the threshold he pauses, hands in his coat pockets, and you lean forward to hug him before you can think better of it. peter holds you carefully, his cheek brushing your temple. when you step back, he lets you.

—

the week is awful in small, irritating ways. you keep taking your phone out. once, you get halfway through a message before remembering why you are waiting. you miss the sound of him moving around his apartment, the sleepy end of a phone call, the particular way he tries to disguise a laugh when he thinks you are being serious.

friday arrives, and you go to a party because you said you would. ned is having a disagreement with somebody about the music. mj stands beside you in the kitchen, peeling the label from a bottle of water. she knows you have been spending time with peter. she has watched you smile at messages and go quiet afterward, and she has waited for you to volunteer the rest. “you can go,” she says when you check your phone again.

you lower it. “i just got here.”

“and you’ve been looking at the door for twenty minutes.” she drops a strip of label into the trash. “i can tell ned you were abducted. he’ll be unbearable about proving it, but you won’t be here to hear him.”

you laugh, and the sound loosens something. from the next room comes the opening of a song peter spent an entire evening trying to identify after hearing three seconds of it through your neighbor’s wall. he got it wrong six times, and you teased him until he threatened to go and ask.

you didn’t know that story before the spell. it happened last friday.

the realization is so simple that you stand still with your phone in your hand. you miss the boy who gets your coffee wrong. you miss the way he asks about your day and remembers the names of people he’s never met. you miss how he sometimes forgets to be cautious and reaches for you in the middle of laughing.

you know him. you have spent two months getting to know him. “tell ned i went home,” you tell mj, pulling your jacket from the chair.

she looks at your face and smiles faintly. “less interesting, but okay.”

you call peter from your bedroom. he answers so quickly that you barely hear the first ring.

“hey.” his voice is careful. “everything okay?”

you sit on the bed. “yeah. can you come over?”

he exhales, and you hear fabric move close to the phone. “yeah, of course. should i use the door?”

you cross the room and lift the window. cool air carries the smell of rain from the pavement below. “the window’s open,” you tell him.

peter arrives eight minutes later. he is wearing an ordinary coat and the sneakers you recognize, hair flattened on one side as though he was lying down when you called. he steps inside and looks at you without taking anything off. “i missed you,” you say.

his hands loosen at his sides. you go to him, stopping close enough that his shoes nearly touch yours.

“i kept wanting to tell you things all week,” you continue. “and tonight i heard that song you couldn’t figure out, and i wanted you there to complain about it.”

peter gives a disbelieving little laugh. “it was three seconds.”

“you were very confident.” you touch the front of his coat, smoothing a fold that doesn’t need smoothing. “i miss you when something happens and you’re not the person next to me.”

he looks at your hands. “i missed you too.”

you help him take off his coat because he doesn’t seem able to remember that he can. then you put your phone on the desk and find the song. peter groans when it begins, and you laugh, taking his hands before he can retreat behind the joke. “come here,” you murmur.

he lets you draw him closer. there’s barely room to sway between the bed and the desk, but you manage it, your cheek near his shoulder and one of his hands settling at your waist. peter watches your face as though he is afraid to stop looking. “i’m not very good at this,” he admits.

“standing?” you ask.

“you’re making it difficult.” his mouth curves, and for once the smile reaches his eyes before sadness can follow it.

you touch his cheek. he leans toward your hand without thinking, and you feel the familiar ache, but this time you don’t go searching through it. peter is in front of you, his breath warming your wrist. you want him here. 

“i want to kiss you,” you tell him.

he stops moving. “are you sure?”

you nod, letting your thumb pass gently beneath his eye. “i’m sure.”

peter waits for you to close the distance. the first touch is soft and a little awkward because you are both trying to be careful. you feel him take a breath against your mouth, then his hand slides to your back, drawing you nearer. something inside you settles so completely that you have to stop kissing him long enough to breathe. his eyes are wet when you open yours.

you kiss beneath one of them. peter gives a small, broken laugh and rests his forehead against yours. his hands stay at your waist, warm and trembling through your shirt.

“hi,” he whispers, absurdly, and you begin crying too.

“hi.” you brush his hair away from his forehead. “i think i’m falling in love with you.” his face changes with such naked hope that you hold it more securely between your palms.

“i love you,” he says. “i know you know that. i just—i really love you.”

you kiss him again before he can worry about having said too much. peter folds you close, one hand at the back of your head, and lets you stay there while the song ends and something quieter begins. the room grows dark around the lamp. neither of you moves to turn another light on.

later, you fall asleep with your hand against his chest. peter lies awake for a while, listening to your breathing, and lets himself imagine another friday.

— six months after you forget peter parker —

peter has started leaving a charger beside your bed. he asked the first time, holding it up as though you might object to the amount of space it occupied. you moved your book and made room. now the cable trails beneath the bedside table, and he complains when you borrow it, although he always leaves it where you can reach.

tonight, he uses it to charge his phone while you sit at the desk. rain taps against the window. he arrived an hour ago with a bruise on his jaw and a bag containing two sandwiches, both of which he managed to pay for himself. “financially impressive,” you told him, taking the bag.

“thank you.” he kissed your forehead. “i’m growing as a person.”

you have finished eating, and the wrappers are folded inside the bag on your desk. peter is supposed to be telling you about his evening. he gets distracted halfway through because you take his hand and kiss the red marks across his knuckles. “go on,” you murmur when he stops.

peter looks at your mouth. “i forgot what i was saying.”

you smile and kiss his hand again. it has become easier to do things because you want to. sometimes familiarity still catches painfully, but there are whole evenings now when you let the past stay where it is. you can love him while something is missing. you have begun trusting that the missing thing won’t make everything else disappear. 

“i love you,” you tell him, turning his hand over in yours.

he bends to kiss you properly. even now, he pauses afterward to look at your face, letting the words reach him before he answers.

“i love you too.” he touches your cheek. “i’m gonna give you ten minutes to finish that.”

you glance at the work spread across your desk. “very generous.”

peter moves toward the bed, then steps onto the wall with the distracted ease of someone taking a familiar staircase. you tip your head back to watch him settle against the ceiling. he has done it a few times lately, usually when he is thinking or trying to stretch a muscle he insists doesn’t hurt. “there’s a perfectly good bed,” you point out.

he folds an arm beneath his head. “i can see you better here.”

“you are so weird,” you tell him, smiling down at your notes.

“you love me,” he replies.

you do. the knowledge follows you through the last page of your work, quiet and certain. above you, peter begins explaining something about the repair he has made to his web-shooter. his voice slows as he talks. you answer once, then twice, and eventually realize he hasn’t replied.

the rain has grown louder. you set your pen down and look up.

peter is asleep on your ceiling. one hand rests across his stomach. his face is turned toward you, all the small muscles around his mouth finally relaxed. for a moment you simply look at him. then you call his name, and when he doesn’t stir, you reach for the pink eraser beside your notebook.

you throw it before thinking through the movement. it strikes his forehead. peter jerks awake and lets go of the ceiling all at once. you push back from the desk as he drops toward the bed, catches the wall with one hand, and swings upside down above the mattress.

“what happened?” he asks, blinking at the room. his hair hangs away from his forehead. “is someone here?”

“you fell asleep on my ceiling,” you tell him.

the words are still in the air when you hear them again. same room, same rain, and a mask beside your pencil case, black and red instead of the brighter suit folded in peter’s bag tonight. there’s a cut at the corner of his mouth. you’re irritated with him for trying to leave while bleeding, and beneath the irritation is something so familiar that you reach for it without being afraid.

you remember the eraser hitting him. you remember laughing afterward, even though you tried not to. peter lowers himself to the floor while you stare at him. the old scene holds, complete and clear, and then another opens beneath it. you’re in the bathroom, cleaning his ribs. he’s looking at your hands. the room is narrow, and you have to stand between his knees to reach the cut.

you know what he says next. your breath catches before you can tell him. there’s a phone against your ear, peter talking about a dog you can’t hear. salt on your fingers, a bag of chips between you. the warmth of his shoulder on the flight home. you are beneath an awning asking him to come get you, and then you are high above queens, both arms locked around his neck while he laughs into the wind.

you remember the rooftop, and the wet concrete beneath your legs. your fingers against his hair. peter looking at your mouth as though the thought of kissing you frightens him more than anything waiting below the building. when he finally does it, you feel the same startled warmth all over again, the discovery of how softly he can touch you.

you make a sound you can’t control. peter turns. “hey, what is it?”

you can’t answer. you remember him stealing fries, stealing your jacket, leaving a blue toothbrush in the cup. you remember telling mj things you hadn’t yet told him and sitting in this chair with his hands at your waist while he asked if you loved him. you remember how his face changed when you said yes.

all of it has been happening inside you somewhere. your fingers close around the edge of the desk as you feel it return, too much and still nowhere near enough.

may opens her door. she looks from peter to you, sees your joined hands, and smiles as if she has been waiting longer than either of you knew. there are dinners, brief phone calls, her voice telling peter to take a coat. you love her. the realization comes with her laughter, and then with a school laboratory and blood drying beneath his glove.

you remember knowing she was gone, and your chest hurts. peter is in front of you now, crouching on the floor with both hands on your thighs. his fingers spread over your knees as he tries to see your face. you have begun crying so hard that the room blurs around him.

“hey, hey.” he says your name, trying to catch your eye. “talk to me. what hurts? is it your head?”

you shake your head, but another memory is already opening. the statue of liberty. orange light. your bedroom. peter’s face between your hands, wet and terrified, his mouth against yours while you try to say his name enough times to keep it.

you remember asking him to find you, and you remember how completely you trusted that he would. the months afterward come with it, unchanged: the sweatshirt, the empty chair, the stranger at the coffee shop. a drop of water landing on your wrist while he tells you it is rain. you look at him beneath all of it and finally understand what he was trying to survive.

“please,” peter whispers. “tell me what’s wrong.”

you look down at his hands, then into his face. he is right here. you have known that for months, and the realization still goes through you with such force that you forget to breathe.

“i remember,” you whisper.

peter goes still. his hands remain on your thighs. you can feel the warmth of them through your clothes, the slight pressure of his fingers where he has been trying to steady you. his mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

“i remember,” you say again, and your voice breaks on it.

he draws a breath that barely reaches his chest. “what do you—” he swallows. “what do you remember?”

you move forward in the chair. peter catches your elbow as you slide down, automatically helping you until your knees meet the rug. for a moment he looks frightened that you have fallen. then you lift both hands to his face, and he stops breathing.

his cheek fits against your palm. you know the small scar beneath your thumb. you know exactly how he will lean when you brush his hair away from his forehead.

“peter benjamin parker,” you tell him.

you watch him begin to believe you. his eyes widen, and his mouth moves around your name without quite making a sound. he shakes his head because he has wanted this too badly to trust it at once. then his expression crumples. a sob leaves him so suddenly that you feel it through your hands. 

“you remember me,” he says, and the words break apart.

you nod, crying too hard to answer properly. peter catches you against him before you can try again. his arm closes around your back, his other hand cradling your head, and he pulls you so close that the breath leaves both of you. you cling to his shoulders, dragging him toward you with the same frantic need.

he buries his face against your neck, and there’s no attempt to be quiet. his first sob shakes through you, and the next makes his fingers tighten in your shirt. you press your cheek into his hair and hold the back of his head, trying to get closer when there is no space left to close. your own crying has become messy and breathless, but you can’t make yourself care.

you had him. you had him in this room, in your bed, holding your hand. you had the right person in front of you and couldn’t remember how much you loved him. now the love you have learned over the last three months meets everything that came before, and your body can do nothing with it except hold him tighter.

peter lowers himself fully onto the floor, drawing you with him. you stay pressed against his chest, knees tangled with his, and feel his hand move over your back as if he is trying to convince himself that you will remain here. his face is wet against your skin. he says your name once, then again, without lifting his head.

“i’ve got you,” you manage, although your voice shakes as badly as his. “peter, i’ve got you.”

he makes a sound against your shoulder that almost becomes your name again. you kiss the side of his head. the chair rolls a few inches behind you and stops against the desk, and neither of you looks at it.

when he finally lifts his face, his eyes are red and his mouth is trembling. you keep one hand at the back of his neck and use the other to wipe his cheek. he turns into your palm immediately.

“all of it?” he asks.

you nod. “all of it.”

his forehead comes down against yours. he laughs once through a sob, unable to decide what to do with relief this large. you are shaking with him, your thumbs moving helplessly over his face, and for a while all either of you can say is the other’s name.

then peter looks at you differently. something smaller and frightened has entered his expression.

“may?” he whispers.

you close your eyes because you can hear her voice so clearly now. when you open them, peter is waiting as though the answer might hurt more than he can bear.

“i remember her,” you tell him. “your aunt. i remember her calling to ask if you ate lunch. i remember that terrible joke she made when you finally told her we were together.”

peter’s face collapses again. you draw him forward, pressing his cheek against your shoulder before either of you can lose the other’s grip.

“she loved you,” you whisper into his hair. “peter, i remember how much she loved you.”

he cries so hard that you feel him struggling to breathe. you hold him through it with tears running down your own face. there is nobody on the phone to call, no sentence that will bring her into the room. you remember what her arms looked like around him, and you can tell him something about her that he didn’t have to teach you. 

“you were alone,” you say when he can hear you again.

peter doesn’t answer. his hand tightens against your back, and the silence tells you enough.

you remember the coffee shop with terrible clarity. the thin coat, the paper in his hand, the way he looked at the scrape beside your temple. you remember asking whether you had a class together while ned sat across from him with a college sweatshirt in his lap.

“oh, peter.” you bring his face up so he can see you. “i’m sorry.”

he shakes his head immediately. “no.”

you wipe his cheek with your thumb. “i looked right at you.”

“you didn’t choose it.” his voice catches, but his hands remain firm around you. “you don’t apologize for that. please.”

you nod because he needs you to, but it doesn’t make the memory hurt less. you press your forehead against his again, holding him while all the things you didn’t know settle into the months you did live.

“i missed you,” you whisper. “i missed you, and i didn’t know who i was missing.”

peter squeezes his eyes shut. “i know.”

you grip the back of his shirt. “i kept thinking somebody was going to come.”

he folds closer around you. “i’m so sorry.”

you hold him there. the promise hurts now that you remember making him give it, but you can’t bear to spend this first hour on the distance between you. you will ask him about it when you can both breathe. tonight you need him to know that you are here, that the person saying his name remembers how he sounded the first time he said he loved you. 

“you came back,” you tell him.

“too late.” he looks at you, tears gathering again. “i should have—”

“you came back,” you repeat, and kiss his cheek. “i have you.”

peter reaches for you as if the words have undone the last thing holding him upright. he presses his mouth to your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth, trying to speak between them.

“you were right here,” he says. “and i missed you so much. even when it was good, even when you—” he stops to breathe. “i was happy. i was so happy you wanted me again. i just kept wanting to tell you something, and you didn’t know what i meant.”

you remember him swallowing the ends of sentences. you remember the pauses, his careful smile, the relief when you touched his hand without thinking. “i know now,” you whisper.

he nods against you, openly crying. you let your own tears fall into his hair. for months, he has had to explain himself from the beginning. now you can meet him in the middle of a memory and stay there with him.

you kiss him when he lifts his face again. it is clumsy with tears, interrupted by both of you trying to breathe. peter holds your cheek while his other arm keeps you close, and you feel how carefully he is touching you even now, even with relief making his hands shake.

“i love you,” you tell him against his mouth. “i loved you before. i love you now. i remember both.”

he lets his forehead rest against yours. “i love you so much.”

you stay on the floor until your knees begin aching. even then, peter hesitates when you move, his hands tightening before he realizes what he has done. you turn back toward him and touch his face. “i’m just getting a tissue,” you tell him gently.

he nods, embarrassed and still frightened, and you draw the box from the desk without leaving him. the first tissue tears in your wet fingers. peter takes another and carefully wipes beneath your eyes, beginning to cry again halfway through the task.

you laugh because you can’t help it. he laughs too, a ruined little sound that makes you kiss him again.

eventually, you help each other onto the bed. peter lies facing you, one hand holding yours between the pillows. every time his eyes begin closing, he opens them again to find your face. “you can sleep,” you murmur.

he brushes his thumb across your knuckles. “i know.”

you understand why he doesn’t. you’re afraid of closing your eyes too, afraid that this room will change again while you aren’t looking. you move closer until his hand can rest against your back, then press a kiss beneath his jaw. “peter benjamin parker,” you whisper.

his breath catches. you say it again when he pulls you closer, and again when he finally lets his eyes stay shut. outside, the rain continues against the window. you can feel every breath he takes.

— the morning after you remember peter parker —

you wake because peter’s hand tightens in your shirt. morning has reached the room in pale strips around the curtains. the rain has stopped, leaving the fire escape wet and shining beyond the glass. beside you, peter is awake, staring at your face with the frightened concentration of someone waiting for an answer. you lift your hand to his cheek.

“peter,” you murmur. “i know.”

his eyes close. he turns his mouth against your palm, breathing into it for a moment before he can open them again. “okay,” he whispers.

you draw him close. he comes willingly, pressing his face beneath your chin while your hand settles into his hair. his shoulders shake once. you hold him until the movement passes, then kiss his forehead and ask whether he slept at all.

“some,” he says. “you?”

“some.” you rub your cheek against his hair. “i kept checking.”

peter lifts his head. “me too.”

you look at one another for a moment, exhausted and swollen-eyed, and begin smiling at almost the same time. he kisses you with a tenderness that makes your throat ache. afterward, you keep your foreheads together until somebody shuts a door down the hall and the ordinary sound reminds you there is a morning to get through.

your parents are in the kitchen. you tell them peter stayed, and your mother asks whether he wants breakfast. you glance back at him. he is standing in your doorway, hair a mess and your blanket still caught over one shoulder, trying to answer without crying. 

“he does,” you tell her.

the two of you take toast back to your room. peter sits cross-legged on the bed while you try to find space on the desk for the plates. the eraser is beneath the chair. you pick it up and turn it between your fingers, and he watches the movement without speaking.

“was it this?” he asks eventually.

you set it beside the notebook. “partly, i think. the rain, you falling, what we said. it all felt the same.” you look at him. “you never told me about that night.”

peter shakes his head. “i forgot it was something to tell.”

you sit beside him. there are so many things like that now, small afternoons and unfinished conversations that have returned without announcing themselves. you remember where a charger came from, why you learned to keep extra gauze, the reason you once spent twenty minutes arguing with ned about fries. they arrive while you butter toast, while peter takes the plate from you, while the radiator knocks.

you loved him before the spell, and you love him after it. both sets of memories remain, including every time you looked at him and didn’t know how to answer a question that hurt.

“i still remember the last three months,” you tell him. “the coffee, that phone call where you read me the note from your neighbor, you getting that stupid song wrong.”

he smiles faintly. “you’re never letting that go.”

“absolutely not.” you touch his knee. “it’s all still ours.”

peter covers your hand. something in his face settles, a worry you hadn’t realized he was carrying until it eases.

then you see the crust he has left on his plate and remember may teasing him for the same thing. you open your mouth to tell him, but the words stop at the back of your throat.

he knows before you explain. “what?” he asks softly.

you look at his plate. “she said you were old enough to eat the whole piece of bread.”

for a second peter looks confused. then his mouth moves into a small, stricken smile.

“she always said that.” he picks up the toast, then puts it down again. “i liked when she said things like that after everything. like i could still just be a kid being annoying in the kitchen.”

you turn into him, your hand closing around his sleeve. may is gone. you have known that for six months, and this morning you know it differently. you can remember loving her, remember her pressing food into your hands to take home, remember the way peter looked when she walked into a room. 

“i miss her,” you whisper.

peter holds you while you cry. after a while, he begins telling you about something she said when he was little, an old complaint about him dismantling things she would have preferred to keep assembled. you laugh against his shoulder. he laughs too, then falls quiet with his mouth pressed to your hair. you stay there until the toast is cold.

later, when you take the plates to the kitchen and come back, peter is folding the blanket. he smooths the same corner twice, working up to something. you sit beside him before he can begin. “i remember what i asked you,” you say.

his hands stop. he looks down at the blanket between you. “i know.”

you wait. this time, he tells you about every attempt. the roof across the street the first night, the paper at the coffee shop, and your jacket beneath his arm while he stood outside and listened to you say that someone felt missing.

“you heard me?” you ask.

peter nods, his face pale. “i thought if i came in, i’d make everything worse. i kept thinking you’d had enough of being scared because of me.”

you turn your hand over on the blanket. he looks at it but doesn’t reach until you touch his fingers.

“i was scared anyway,” you tell him. “i didn’t understand what was happening to me.”

he bows his head. “i’m sorry.”

you let the silence remain for a moment. it hurts to remember the promise and then remember waiting, even now that he is beside you. you can understand why he was frightened without making the months vanish. “i would have chosen you,” you say.

peter looks up. tears have gathered along his lower lashes. “you did,” he whispers.

you press your lips together and nod. he moves closer when you draw on his hand, stopping with his knee against yours.

“next time you get scared, tell me,” you ask. “even if you think i’ll hate the answer. i need you to come inside and let me hear it.”

“i will.” he holds your gaze despite the tears. “i should have listened to you. i won’t decide for you again.”

you lean your forehead against his. the hurt remains, but his hand is in yours, and he has finally told you the whole thing. you can work with something he gives you, but you can’t reach him through a closed window if he never lets you know he’s there. 

“i’m glad you came back,” you tell him.

he folds his arms around you. “me too.”

for a while you sit that way, your cheek against his shoulder, listening to the traffic below. then you remember the mask, the blood on the towel, and the drop that landed on your wrist. “you were crying that first night,” you murmur.

peter shifts slightly. “there was rain.”

you lift your head. he meets your eyes for a second, embarrassed, and then both of you remember the cafeteria. ned telling on him, and peter insisting that the window had been open. you had leaned against him while he tried to explain away being happy enough to cry.

this time your smile doesn’t quite hold. “we’d been inside for ten minutes,” you tell him gently.

peter lowers his eyes. “you had your hand right here.” he touches his side. “and you kept telling me to hold still, and i knew what you were going to do before you did it.”

you wait while he takes a breath.

“i’d missed you for so long,” he admits. “i thought i could do it with the mask on. just sit there and have you close for a minute.” his mouth trembles. “then you were kind to me. you didn’t even know it was me.”

you put both hands on his face. he closes his eyes, leaning into the touch so completely that your own begin to sting. “you can cry here,” you whisper.

he opens his eyes. you brush beneath one of them with your thumb and kiss his cheek. peter catches you against him again, his face finding your neck, and you hold him while his breathing shakes against your collar.

when you go to the bathroom later, the blue toothbrush is still in the drawer. you take it out and carry it back to your room. peter looks up from the bed. his expression changes when he sees what you are holding. “you kept it,” he says.

you sit beside him and turn it over in your hands. “i couldn’t throw it away. i tried to make myself, but every time i opened the drawer, i thought somebody might come back for it.”

peter takes the toothbrush as carefully as if it could break. he runs his thumb over the handle, staring at something that belonged to him when he had so much more. you put your hand over his. “we should probably get you a new one,” you add softly.

his laugh comes out wet. “yeah. probably.”

you leave it beside your notebook for now. there will be time to buy another one, to put his things back where he likes them, to ask all the questions you couldn’t bear last night. he can tell you about his apartment. you can go there and learn where he has been living while you were trying to understand why your room felt empty.

“do you think it could happen for ned and mj?” you ask as he reaches for your hand again.

peter looks toward the eraser. “i don’t know.” he turns back to you. “i tried so many things without meaning to. telling you stuff, being here. none of it worked like that until last night.”

you nod. you wish you could give him certainty. instead, you rest your head against his shoulder and let him keep hoping without making a promise neither of you knows how to keep.

by afternoon, you are both exhausted again. you clear the bed, pull back the blanket, and tug peter down beside you. he settles onto his back, drawing you against his chest with a familiarity you can finally remember learning.

the room is warm. you get up once to crack the window, letting in the smell of wet pavement. peter watches you turn the latch. when you come back, he lifts the blanket before you ask.

you put your head over his heart. his hand settles against your back, fingertips moving slowly through the fabric of your shirt. you know this rhythm. you have found it in pieces for months, and now you can remember all the nights that taught it to you.

“you still there?” he murmurs when your breathing begins to slow.

you lift your head enough to look at him. his eyes are nearly closed, but the question is careful, and you reach up to touch his face.

“i’m here, peter.” you kiss the corner of his mouth. “go to sleep.”

he holds you a little closer. you settle against him again, your hand resting over his, and this time he lets himself believe you.