summary : nothing beats winter in new york, except maybe walking to school in the snow with a certain peter parker.
wc : 2.4k
author’s note : tags are under the read more and ik it’s august but it’s winter in my soul !
There were people who dreamt of a Christmas in New York. People who sat by their windowsills, gazing past the confining glass screens and wishing to one day set their eyes upon a town blanketed by a mass of snow. In the city, it was a sight to behold and cherish. You go to Rockefeller Center and look up at the tree, lit with hundreds of lights and looking like a dream, and your Christmas in New York is complete. It was a thing of fiction for many people, but for you, it was the harsh reality.
You were not yearning for a white Christmas the way some people would. You were, however, hoping that your parents would surprise you with an impromptu vacation to the Bahamas for a month while the snow in your beloved city melted to more of a slush, whisking you away to a paradise where you were not forced to trek through the piles of snow surrounding your apartment building as you attempted to make your way to the nearest A train.
It was a miserable day, to be quite honest. You had forgotten your hat in your apartment after you had scrambled to get out of bed, you had underestimated the temperature outside and so you were wearing way lighter a jacket than you should be, and your jeans were soaking wet due to the way you had sunk knee deep in a pit of snow. This was absolute bullshit and you were ready to march back home, prepared to draw up an essay as to why you shouldn’t attend class that day until Peter Parker practically ambushed you in the middle of the sidewalk.
He had ran nearly a block to try to catch up with you. Peter had been waiting to take the train with you and walk with you to school for nearly two weeks now, but he had never gotten out of his apartment early enough, and if it wasn’t for his profoundly excellent eyesight, he probably would’ve spent another day walking alone. The sight of a boy dashing down the street with his jacket blown open by the wind and a ridiculous hat pulled down over his ears was enough to make anyone laugh, but you had been too preoccupied with fuming to hear his thunderous footsteps behind you. He nearly knocked you over when he finally caught up to you, his cheeks rosy from the bitter wind nipping at his face as he ran and his breath coming out in harsh pants.
“Oh my God!” You whipped around, taking a step backward and holding a hand to your heart. He did a little shrugging motion, somewhere between an apology and pleased with himself for managing to surprise you for once.
Grinning, he fell into step beside you, though not easily due to the random, deep pockets of snow that covered the path ahead. He bumped his shoulder against yours. “Not God, just me, though it’s been said that we’re practically the same thing.” You laughed, bumping his shoulder back.
“No one has ever said that, and no one ever will,” you replied, pulling your sweater down over your hands for more warmth. Peter examined your attire with a shake of his head.
“You realize it’s not fall anymore, right?” He quirked an eyebrow, and you rolled your eyes in response, gesturing a hand at the mountain of dirt stained snow piled in front of an apartment building.
“Nah, didn’t notice at all.” You huffed. You crossed your arms, trying to preserve as much warmth as possible. “Especially ‘cause of the snow that’s starting to come down now, really throws a girl off.” As you said that, the puffy white flakes fluttered down and landed in your hair. Peter, ignoring the blatant sarcasm, pulled his hat off his head. “You didn’t gel it down today?”
“Nope,” he said, catching your wrist in your hand and forcing you to stop. “Didn’t feel like it.” Also, you said you like my hair when it’s curly, I heard you talking to Michelle. So here I am. Do you realize this yet? He stretched the hat out before plopping it down on your head, tugging it so that it covered your eyes. You lifted it back up, staring up at him questioningly. “You’re gonna catch a cold. The snowflake hair look is cool, but your health is better.” He said it because he knew it sounded ridiculous, and because he was sure you’d affectionately punch his arm or something and he liked the fuzzy feeling in his stomach that he got whenever you touched him.
“That’s lame,” you said, just the way he had expected. You smiled slightly at his ruffled mop of hair, reaching up to tousle it in a way that he supposed he should have found irritating, as it made his hair even messier than it had been before. “Nice hair.”
You turned to continue walking, pulling him along with you as he smiled smugly to himself. He tugged on a lock of his hair, the strand that had settled in the middle of his forehead defiantly. “Oh, you like it? Didn’t know that. Thanks.” You headed down the steps of the 71st avenue station, a little past Queens boulevard. You only needed to ride it one stop, but it was better to waste the $2.75 on your metro card than continue trudging through the snow with a murderous expression adorning your face. You boarded the F train together, Peter managing to find the only open seat and sliding into it quickly, laughing at the face you made at him. You took a step forward to grab onto the pole in the middle of the train but it lurched forward suddenly, and you surely would have been thrown to the other side of the car if Peter hadn’t grabbed your arm and pulled you backwards into his lap before you could embarrass yourself even further. The trains were tricky, and he knew you had more of a knack for falling down than anyone else.
You exhaled, turning your head to stare at Peter. He was staring back with a sheepish expression, the tip of his nose pink. “Thanks Peter,” you smile, patting his shoulder. His arms were still secured around your waist when he shrugged, appearing utterly nonchalant even though internally, he was sort of screaming. Sort of. “When did your reflexives become so good? You struggle to do one push up in gym, no offense.” Oh, you know, just when I become Spider-Man. I save Queens daily. I saved you once but you didn’t know. Should I tell you? Probably not. One day.
“Oh, um, you know, I need good reflexives so I can save your clumsy self from tripping down the stairs at school every day,” he lied not so smoothly, giving your knee a little tap. You nodded thoughtfully. Seemed simple enough. “You can keep sitting here, if you want.”
Mistaking this for sarcasm, you went to move. “Oh shit. Sorry Peter, I’ll get up.” Surprising himself with his own confidence, he pulled you back. “What are you doing?”
Peter didn’t know what to say to this. Just savoring the feeling of you on my lap? Too creepy, and too exposing. You’d sound like one of those cat callers on the street, the ones she screams back at with vicious insults and creative threats. Get it together, Peter. “You needed a seat and, uh, you know, this one is… available. I wasn’t being sarcastic or anything.” He winced as soon as the words came out of his mouth, moving his head to play it off like he just wanted to look out the window. There was nothing to even look at it. It was dark.
“I’ll take it then,” you said softly, and, for his sake, you pretended not to notice how embarrassed he was that he had said what he did in the first place. He was endlessly thankful for that, because the fact that you were sitting on his lap right now was enough to make him sweat through his winter clothes even though it was below 25 degrees fahrenheit. If you had started teasing about him saying that his lap was an openly available seat, he most likely would have imploded. Before either of you could say anything else to shatter the silence that had settled there, the train screeched to stop again, and Peter’s grip on your waist tightened. You glanced down at his hand, sitting there on your waist, a fist bunched in the sweatshirt you had thrown on in this morning not knowing how fucking deathly it was going to be outside. You stood up when the doors opened, your hand absentmindedly wrapping around Peter’s wrist as you pulled him up toward the doors with you.
“If you’re still cold I can give you my jacket, I don’t mind,” Peter said, glancing down at your hand, locked on his wrist. You bumped into someone as you turned around, giving them a quick apology.
“Peter, stop giving me your clothes-” Before you could finish your sentence, a guy cut in between you two, your hand slipping from Peter’s as he abruptly interrupted the conversation.
“Hey, you and your boyfriend are cute, but the PDA is too much. Lay off for a second, yeah? It’s uncomfortable.” The guy clapped Peter on the shoulder, then swiftly exited the car, leaving you and Peter to stumble out, flushed with embarrassment because while the guy was leaving, you had called out, “He’s- he’s not my boyfriend, actually!”
Okay, am I that bad? Does she seriously think I’m that, like, repulsive? Oh, God, she hates me and I made her sit on my lap. I’m awful. And creepy. Ew. I’m sweating too much. Is that why she doesn’t like me? Because of the sweat? I need new cologne.
You two trekked the rest of the way to school in awkward silence, as opposed to the tranquil one that you had felt on the train. You had Peter’s hat still tucked over your head and to be honest, you were in desperate need of his jacket at the moment. But you knew the words you had said on the train, shouted at the retreating man’s coat with such ferocity, had wounded Peter a little. You hadn’t meant for it to come out so harsh, like you could never be his girlfriend or that you hadn’t ever thought about it, not even once. You had thought about it on multiple occasions, in multiple scenarios. It just wasn’t the reality.
You were around the corner from your school when Peter turned you around and placed his jacket over your shoulders. “You’re gonna need it,” he said, stepping away from you.
“Huh? Why?” In replacement of a proper answer, a verbal one that is, Peter gave you his signature saccharine smile and threw a snowball at you, laughing when you shrieked, your hands flying to zip up his jacket. He was nearly doubled over with laughter when a snowball landed in his hair, the white flakes sticking to his curls and dampening his hair.
“Hey!” He exclaimed, wiping the snow off his hair frantically. “I have a look I need to uphold!” He launched another snowball at you, hitting the side of your leg.
You threw one back and hit his shoulder, laughing hysterically. “Look? What look, Peter? The disheveled curly mess look?”
He stopped, a half made snowball in his hands that was already beginning to melt. “You like it, don’t even lie.”
Instead of replying, the way he had done earlier, you chucked another snowball at him, and it was soon a full blown war of flying snow and screams of laughter, messy hair and flushed cheeks and the nothing but the brightest of grins. “We’re gonna be so late, oh my god,” you panted, your hands practically frozen from the amount of snow you had picked up.
“We’re geniuses, we’ll deal with it somehow,” he answered, watching your hands. He moved closer, taking his sweater sleeves and pulling them over his hands, then grabbing your hands in his and slipping them underneath his sleeve. “Just ‘cause you’re cold.” When you smiled up at him thankfully, your cold hands squeezing his, Peter knew that if he didn’t kiss you right then and there, he’d regret it for the rest of his life. You take a step closer to him, because you knew that he’s thinking the same thing you are and you need this, too, but you slip on a sheet of ice. This time, he doesn’t catch you, he falls right down alongside you. You land on your back with a groan and he lands on top of you, hoisting himself up so that he’s able to hover over you.
“Y/N, I have to ask,” he sighed, biting his lip, then continued, “why’d you sound so offended when that guy said that we were dating? Would I be that bad to date?” There was a slight pout to his lips as he looked down at you, his hands beginning to shake slightly from the pressure of holding himself up. “’Cause I kind of have a confession to make, depending on your answer.”
You place your arms around his waist and he falls down on top of you, his eyebrows raised in surprise, but he wasn’t one to complain about the position he was in. “You’d make a wonderful boyfriend, Peter.”
“Your boyfriend, maybe?” He tilted his chin, lips inches away from yours.
“I could get behind that.” Soft lips met yours, but Peter was smiling so hard he could barely do it right. Your hands moved to his face, tracing over his dimple. It was perfectly impossible to resist smiling back into the kiss. The snow was still falling, falling, falling, but neither of you deigned to move. He took a deep breath before opening his eyes, face still bright.
You continued your walk to Midtown holding hands this time, well aware that you were twenty minutes late but too blissed out on the kiss to even pretend to care. “I like being called darling.”
“If we’re gonna do the whole boyfriend and girlfriend thing, you need to call me darling.” You paused. “It’s my kink.”
He knew you were joking around with him, but he still shook his head, playfully rolling his eyes as he wrapped his arm around your shoulder. You said weird stuff like that all the time, it was no different now than it had been yesterday, except this time he was your boyfriend, and if it was going to make you happy, he’d call you darling for the rest of your life. “I could get behind that.”