Spiderson Oneshots

Where I'm Meant to Be--Peter

Warnings: Food mentions, allusion to unspecified eating disorder in the past (for just a paragraph, nothing graphic), discussion of past insecurities, language, brief social anxiety over meeting new people, brief death mention...and so much fluff it'll be coming out of your ears.

The comforter is warm against his back, pressing into each crook and cranny—each hill and valley, tangled and wrapped around him with the warmth of arms holding him securely in place. The sun kisses its way up his neck, slipping into heat-drenched coils from the cracks in the blinds and scurrying up the bed. The pillows cradle his head, wrinkles and creases running feather-light fingers through his hair.

Held in the soft arms of comfort, shirtless and bed-headed, Peter is completely undone.

He comes to softly, breath soaring across the folds of the blankets that hold him so close. His muscles tense as he stretches, spine moaning and creaking. A yawn, pleasant and hungry, slips loudly from his mouth. He blinks and then again, tears springing to his eyes at the brightness of the sun.

The morning is bright and shining, calling to him with humor on its lips.

Peter groans and twists his face into the pillows.

—~—~—

He pulls on some soft clothes, tames his hair, and scrubs at his face before making his way down to breakfast, still sleep-drunken. A kind server takes him to his seat for once, and he asks for tea before making his way to the buffet.

Peter sits down to a nice steeping cup of tea, inhaling the scent as he sets his plate down. A simple breakfast—one of a few pastries and fruits—sits picturesque on the plate, and he grabs a pad and paper from his bag as he waits for the tea to steep.

Sketching is a habit he's taken up over the years, and though it's nothing that'll ever be fit for a museum, he enjoys the slices of lives that each drawing holds immensely. Around him, glasses clink and people chatter, sipping from cups of tea and coffee, milk and juice. Peter sets his eyes to a small girl dressed already like a princess and the two men that fawn over her, helping her cut her stack of waffles. He barely glances as his pencil hits paper and the scene blooms there.

Sweet fruitiness and warm butter dance on his tongue when he finally lifts a pastry to his mouth. The layers flake away between his teeth, and he savors the taste before swallowing and taking another bite. The tea is warm and cool on his tongue at the same time, the peppermint tea calming him from untouched anxieties hanging above his head.

In the past, Peter never really enjoyed breakfast. It was futile, he thought, when all you really needed was water to tide you over until lunch. The unnecessarily sugary foods gave more energy than he needed, storing themselves away to create an image he didn't really like on himself.

But now, he doesn't mind it. The sweetness sets up something picturesque and romantic for the day, shaping and sculpting a mindset that he never had to do with before. It's peaceful, a buffer between sleep and truly waking. It's a time to see people undone or completely wound. It's a luscious swirling rainbow of life, a blue sky with a sun to airbrush blush to the skin.

It's something so simple yet fairy tale-esque. Something to evoke a nostalgia for swooping turrets and sooty sculleries. Thoughts of winding elegance and striking blows. It's something worth capturing on a piece of paper though there really aren't words to describe it, so Peter does to the best of his abilities. Breathes in and back out again. Even among people, times have changed, and he's finally allowed a few moments to enjoy it.