➳ Oh, Well Imagine Marvel➳ FINISHED

•Book Love~Peter Parker•

You've always had an endless fascination with books and novels of various different shapes, sizes, and lengths. The way someone could paint an entirely different world with the mixture of just 26 letters, whisk the mind away from reality, stir emotions inside someone—emotions of laughter or sadness or one of complete contentment. The influence a simple novel could have on a person's viewpoint has always fascinated you.
During your younger years, you would find yourself trekking to the nearest bookstore, if only to simply run your fingers along the spines of all the latest releases. You would open a random novel, just to skim the first sentence, allowing the words of a complete stranger to fill you with familiarity.
Not much has changed in the years following your childhood. Something about corner bookstores have always lured you with the promise of peace and quiet, an escape from the harsh reality you occupied yourself with. You constantly looked forward to the days you could run away and hide within the shelves of the shop, no matter rain or shine, sleet or snow, 30 pages of homework to get done during the night, you always made an effort to visit at least once or twice a week as soon as you entered college.
Today is no exception to the rule. With midterms rapidly approaching, you're already drowning in papers, projects, and upcoming tests, the stress practically eating you alive. But still, instead of returning to your apartment, you find yourself turning down the familiar sidewalk in the opposite direction. The rain overhead is steadily pouring down today, serving as little warning bells that perhaps making the trip to the bookstore might not be the best option.
Judging from the gray clouds, it's clear that the weather has other plans for the remainder of the day—the lightning that suddenly shoots across the sky is a clear indication of that—but you find yourself not minding much. The heels of your boots clash gently against the sidewalk, your hair curling slightly as the water comes in contact with it, but all those worries and annoyances dissipate off your skin like steam as the familiar shop comes into view. With the lights on inside, the place looks like a beacon of hope, allowing the smile to spread itself across your face as you quicken your pace to shoulder open the door.
The bell rings overhead as you gently shut the door close, running your hand through your hair quickly to rid some of the water trapped in your locks. After exchanging a smile with the familiar cashier at the counter, you make your way deeper in the store. Like usual, there isn't anything in particular you're seeking, but just being surrounded by text, aisles and aisles of hardcovers and paperbacks fills you with comfort.
You're just starting the turn into contemporary novels, when one particular black, hardcover spine catches your attention, causing you to stop dead in your tracks, eyes widening with recognition as you distinctly remember this particular novel being one of the very few you've wanted in your own personal collection of books: John Green's Looking For Alaska.
Your lips curl up into a smile, momentarily unfazed by the fact that the book had been placed on the highest shelf, towering a few inches above you, even as you stand on your tippy toes, even as your fingers barely manage to graze the book you want. It takes five times before you plant both feet firmly back on the ground with a gentle huff, considering the next movement to grab the book.
You're just about to consider getting a running start between the two shelves, before a slightly amused voice cuts in through your concentration: "Need some help?"
Starting slightly, you turn to fix your attention upon a boy, staring at you across the way, in front of a shelf lined with what appears to be comic books (at least, judging from the sign overhead). His head is turned towards you ever-so-slightly, as if he caught your feeble attempts out of the corner of his eye and had waited until you could make a real fool out of yourself to finally step in.
You try not to feel too embarrassed about the fact that this boy has probably heard your grunting, huffing, and puffing during some attempts as you lean back slightly on one leg to fix your gaze on the book rather than the boy. You try for a slightly humorless smile. "Was it that obvious?"
"I guess I'm just good at reading people," The boy says, abandoning his own search to approach you. He's a little taller than you, with brown hair that has curled slightly in the rain, his own attire of a raincoat on top of a red sweater and black jeans. He looks to be around your age, perhaps a little older, and the sight makes you smile—for some reason. He stands next to you. "Okay, which book are you trying to get?"
"Erm, John Green's Looking for Alaska. It's the black hardcover..."
"I got it." The boy's smile is one of easiness and attentiveness as he reaches over, barely getting on his toes, before plucking the book from the shelf and lowering it down to your level.
At once, you start to grin from ear-to-ear as you take the book gingerly from his hold. "Thanks!" You say rather cheerily for someone who had been able to ram head-first into the shelf out of frustration over your own shortness. "I was just about to try out a running start to get my hands on this."
The boy's still smiling as he watches you gently run your fingers across the cover. "You must really want to read that book, if you're willing to go so far for it."
"Oh, I've already read it. A few times, in fact," You disclose, looking up from the book to look up at the boy. "Have you ever read it?"
"Uh, no, I don't really read books... like that." The boy flushes slightly. "I mean, I do read. Lots. Just John Green novels aren't my preference, if that makes sense."
You start to grin. "No, I got it, I understand. You might want to reconsider that though, because John Green is extremely talented—despite the reputation of his work. Looking for Alaska is one of my favorites, actually."
"Really?"
"Yeah, everything about it is beautiful. The language, the storyline, the characters, the quotes..." You trail off, closing your eyes momentarily. "Thomas Edison's last words were: 'It's very beautiful over there'." I don't know where there is, but I believe it's somewhere, and I hope it's beautiful."
You open your eyes, only to find that the boy's smile has gone from his face, the expression replaced entirely with a look of awe. His lips are parted slightly, and there is a glint in his eyes, a vague adoration, his eyes tracing over every corner of your face. "Wow," He whispers.
"What?" You whisper back, eyes wide, suddenly aware of the proximity between the pair of you. It suddenly makes you nervous, although you aren't entirely sure why. You've only just met this boy, after all. Nervously, you bite your lip. "It's a great line, isn't it?"
The boy blinks, snapping himself out of his trance as he looks away immediately and settles with rubbing the back of his neck. "Oh, yeah, it's beautiful. Memorable."
You have a vague feeling that he isn't talking about the line. But you don't bring it up as you smile and hold the book up in your hands. "Well, uh, I should go. But thank you. For getting the book for me."
He casts you a quick look before managing another polite smile. "Yeah, no problem. Glad I was able to help out."
Giving him one last smile, you slowly turn on your heel and make your way to the cashier at the front of the shop. You don't watch the way the boy's gaze lingers on your retreating back, or the way his eyes flicker back to the additional copy of Looking for Alaska on the high shelf. You don't watch the way his eyes close, momentarily remembering you reciting that line from the book, how your voice flows through his mind like music and wind chimes, smiling softly at the memory.
You do, however, barely catch him take the book off the shelf, tucking it underneath his arm, as you smile to yourself and turn to pay the cashier.
.
The rain is heavier the following day (although not by much), and even though you have at least three essays that need more attention beyond the name and class subject you've written on your laptop, you still trek your way across the dampening sidewalk.
A ringing bell overhead, a relaxed smile of greeting to the cashier, the sound of your heels gently roaming between the shelves, hoping to find a new addition to the collection of contemporary novels along the way.
You do find something. Rainbow Rowell's Eleanor and Park stares right back at you (this time, at eye level), and even though you don't mean to, you look over to your left at the comic book section. There's no one there.
You look away, frown, and rub gently at the crease that has formed between your eyebrows.
Gingerly reaching over, you pull out Eleanor and Park from the shelf, opening it a little to skim the pages, taking in the words along the first page. He'd stopped trying to bring her back...
"Hey, you didn't need a running start for that one."
Your heart almost gives out, partly because of shock, and partly because you hadn't expected to hear his voice again...
You turn your head, managing a smile as the boy nears you once more, slightly more tentative in his step. He's wearing what looks to be a thicker rain coat, a blue sweater underneath, the rain fresh in his nicely curled hair. "Yeah, luckily," You say back. "Good thing too. Knowing me, I would have slipped at the last minute and crashed into the shelf."
The boy grins. "That's a shame, I ran here hoping I would have to tiptoe for you again."
Your lips part in an amused shock as you raise an eyebrow. "Did you really?"
"Well, okay no. I didn't run, because it's wet outside and I might have fallen into a puddle, which isn't fun."
You laugh at that, because you suddenly humor yourself with the mental image of this poor boy dashing across the street, only to come up completely empty-handed as he slides on a puddle and collapses onto the street.
His grin diffuses into a slightly more nervous smile. "But uh, I did come here hoping I'd run into you again. The cashier said you come here a lot—!" He seems to realize what he's saying, because he turns pink and scratches the back of his neck. "Uh, not that I was asking about you, it's just that I—shit."
This time, a real, genuine smile graces your lips and you can't help but laugh out loud. He stares at you as you continue to laugh for only a few seconds longer, but it sounds like the wind chimes that hang on the balcony of his bedroom. His own lips quirk up into another gentle smile, even though his hand is still behind his neck and he's still embarrassed. "It's okay, you can continue." But you are displaying a brilliant grin, and the boy looks lost.
"No, it's just... shit, I'm sorry. You probably think I've been trying to stalk you since yesterday."
"Not at all! I think that it's cute that you asked the cashier about my daily visits."
The boy turns red. "You don't have to rub it in."
You're still smiling. "Okay, I'm sorry. You can continue. I won't laugh or judge. Out loud."
He finally removes his hand from his neck and shoves it into the pockets of his raincoat. "It's just that, um, I got that John Green book. Looking for Alaska."
You smile widely. "Really? Did you like it?"
"Yeah, I actually did. It was really enjoyable—definitely not how I pictured it to go, which is a plus."
"That's so awesome!" You exclaim. "I'm really glad you enjoyed it."
The boy stares at your smile for a second too long before he suddenly clears his throat and offers his right hand to you. "I'm Peter, by the way. Peter Parker."
"(Y/N)," You say back, taking his hand in yours and shaking it firmly before pulling back.
"So, you're getting another book today?" He starts, craning his neck slightly to try and catch the title of the new book you have in your hand.
You look down, having completely forgotten the novel. "Oh, yeah! Eleanor and Park. It's a really good read too. A little depressing, but a lot of the lines are gold."
Peter tilts his head slightly, looking endearing. "Do you remember any of them?"
It warms your heart momentarily, the flashing realization that he remembers you quoting Looking for Alaska hitting you, allowing the light color to dust your cheek. You cough, hoping he'll brush it off for the cold outside. You bite your lip to distract you, thinking, before: "Eleanor was right. She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn't supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something."
Peter is wearing that same strange look as you finally will yourself to look away and study the other books on the shelf before you.
"So what's your deal?"
You raise an eyebrow, not sure you heard you correctly. "What's my deal?" You repeat, hoping he'll go into more detail regarding his reasoning for asking such a question.
"Well, I mean," Peter starts nervously. "Why do you come here so often?"
You shrug, looking at him out of the corner of your eye. "I don't know, I've been escaping to bookstores ever since I was kid. It comforts me. And meeting nice strangers who can grab the books from the high shelves are always a plus." You give him a grin, one he suddenly returns with ease. You look back to the novel, muttering something about perhaps only buying this book for this trip, making a mental note to return tomorrow, or maybe the day after since you have a few essays to write tonight—!
"If you're finished," Peter brings up, pulling you out of your thoughts as you turn to study his expression. He looks nervous again. "And you have an hour to kill, maybe you could... I don't know, um, get some coffee with me? I'll pay."
He looks hopeful and vulnerable for the first time since you've met him. "Hm," You say, dragging out the words, even though you already know what you want your answer to be. "I don't know—I normally don't get coffee with strangers."
Peter looks slightly crestfallen. "Oh, alright then."
"But you're not just a stranger, are you?" You hastily add on before he can get the wrong idea. "You helped me with my book and I know a little bit about you—you're Peter, the boy who ran to the bookstore because he wanted to see me again, who's secretly a closeted John Green fan."
Peter almost winces at that. "I think that's overstepping it, (Y/N)."
"Not quite!" You retort brightly, linking your arm suddenly with his. He doesn't complain. "Have you read The Fault In Our Stars? That's the thing about pain. It demands to be felt! My thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellations!"
Peter's lips have quirked up. "Nope, but I think I really want you to read it to me right now."