shots, 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘰𝘪𝘳.

[005] dead.

It's been a long time. A very, very long time. His grave is in front of you, small trinkets that grateful citizens have left behind for him. Everyone's already moved on, but not you. The wind lashes against your snow-kissed face, frost from the grass staining your pants. You don't care. Your breath is icy and foggy, the winter air engulfing your senses. You stare at his grave. It's hard to forget about him. You just couldn't do it. Noir was your everything, and now he was gone.

"You enjoying the view?"
"Very."
"Good, 'cause it ain't easy getting up here. Tallest building in all of New York City, I'm tellin' ya."
"I take it you come up here often?"
"You have no idea."
"What if I fall?"
"I'll catch you."

There were these moments in your relationship where you would do anything to re-live. He was so sweet to you, so sweet to everyone. The world didn't deserve him, so he left it. His grave had a quote written on it. It's faded over the years, but you remember it clearly. How can you forget anything about him? It feels like yesterday he was standing next to you, his arms around your waist and the world melting around you. The quote was in French. Pour Toujours, it read.

"Darling, please."
"No, you cheated."
"C'mon, it was only Poker."
"Hmph."

His funeral was packed. You were supposed to give a speech, but you couldn't do it. It was too hard to bear. You've never cried as much in your life as you did on that day. The tears throughout your life seemed like cries of nothing compared to the grief you felt for him. Your sheets were stained with tears. Your curtains, your dress, your shirts, your face. You still thought he was alive. Somewhere in the night, bidding his time, waiting for you to find him. were wrong.

"I love you."
"No, you don't. You love the idea of ​​me."
"I love you."
"No."
"I love you."
"Don't break my heart.
"I won't."

The first time you visited his grave was two months after his death. Two months of not leaving your house and shutting everyone from your life. You went to the tallest building in New York City, the first place he ever brought you. Your tears fell from the rooftop. You could still hear his voice, whispering to you. He wasn't here to catch you anymore.

No one was at his grave when you visited. It was the dead of night. Flowers surrounded his grave. It seemed a spot on top of his grave was saved for you. A single white chrysanthemum rested on it. a summer night, one of those nights when he would bring you somewhere filled with adventure. Somewhere where you could see the sunset across the horizon, or where the water glimmered in the moonlight. Instead, you stood at his grave, alone. First time for everything, you thought.

"Peter, do you think this dress looks good on me?"
"You look good in anything, doll."
"Oh Pete, I know you don't mean that."
"I do, doll. You look stunning."
" Have I ever told you how much I love you?"
"You can tell me now."

The second time you visited his grave was a year later. On the anniversary of his death, you stood there with yet another white chrysanthemum. The other two on his grave were wilted, petals scattered across the dirt. Shattered, broken, and in pieces. It reminded you of your heart. His Aunt May had passed away a month after his death. He had no more family left. You were all that was left for him, but he was all you had left, too. Your cheeks were turning bright red from the cold in the air. You began to shiver but kept your eyes on his grave. There was no way you were leaving tonight.

"Oh my! Pete... what happened to you?"
"Shot. Two bullets, left ribcage. Ugh..."
"Your face is all bloody!"
"I know, doll. Not a good look... nngh ..."
"God, you need to be more careful. I won't always be here to bandage you up." "
But you will... agh..."
"There, I removed the bullets. Let me stop the bleeding."
"Agh- not so hard, dollface."
"I know it hurts, I'm sorry."
"... I love you, [Y/N]."
"Don't say that, makes it sound like you' re 'bout to die, Pete."
"Sorry, peach."

Tears prick your eyes. He was dead for five years now. Why did your heart still sting for him? This was the twentieth day in a row where you've gone to his grave in the dead of night. Spider-man always gets back up, no matter what, but he was really gone for good now. You held on to the idea that he was still alive. You knew he was. He loved you too much to leave you.

You could only see his face everywhere in the months following his death. Each night, you lay awake in your bed, staring at your window, praying there would be a knock, and it would be him, out to take you on another adventure. It never came.

Before you met him, you were different. You went to those parties. You smoked, you drank, and you were a canary. He changed you for the better. He loved you, even when you were a sore loser, when you were drunk , or when your breath tasted like smoke. He read your poetry, he wrote you poems, he wrote you love letters, he gave you gifts, flowers, and his love. He cared, and he was the only one.

The third time you visited his grave was his birthday. You brought a cake and pretended he was there with you. You wore a birthday cap and made him his favorite drink. You brought a present. Fifty-seven black roses. He was always sucker for dark colors.

"I hate you!"
"I know, doll. I'm sorry."
"How could you... how could you do this to me..."
"I'm sorry."
"Is that all you can say ? Just a sorry?"
"I love you."
"You don't have the right to say that anymore."

You blamed yourself for his death. You hated yourself for it, and you still did. There were times when you just wanted to climb up to that once romantic sunset rooftop and fall, waiting for him to catch you. night. You ran off because he cheated on you with Felicia Hardy, the Black Cat. He told you he was meeting up with her to discuss business. He was blown up after shooting his own explosive in an attempt to stop another attack done by Osborne.

There was a side of you that hated him, too. Hated him for doing this to you, for making your heart feel and smashing it down. He was different, you told yourself. You knew he regretted it. You trusted him. And even if he didn't, you couldn't help yourself but still love him.

Felicia Hardy was not present at the funeral.

Your face was beginning to turn a shade of purple from the ice in the air. You brush away some trinkets lining his grave and made space for you. You lay on the cold, frosted grass next to his grave and close your eyes, imagining him beside you.

He was everything. A lover, a fighter, a hero, a cheater, a romantic, a vigilante, a poet, a heartbreaker, and dead. You feel a tear slide down your cheek.

"I forgive you."

"ʜᴇ'ꜱ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴ' ʀɪɢʜᴛ ᴀᴛ ᴜꜱ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴡᴇ ᴛᴀʟᴋ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʜɪᴍ"
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