#which was my main coping mechanism 12 years ago ahaha

[buggiesnax]

rewatching Life on the Murder Scene just to feel something

[a-simple-lee]

Tipping Point

Peter Parker, Reader

Synopsis: June is a difficult time of year when you’re closeted. You need someone to talk to. Peter’s willing to listen, and provide some distractions once it’s all over.

A/n: Yes, writing fanfic is my coping mechanism. Yes, I know it’s not healthy. Am I bothered? Not particularly. I tried to leave descriptions of identity vague for both Peter & the reader, so people can put in whatever head-canons/identities they want.

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   A dog barks from somewhere outside your bedroom window. Your ceiling seems lighter than it did a few minutes ago. You sigh and turn your head to the open window, immediately squinting as the first sliver of sunlight hits your eyes. Why you didn’t shut the curtains last night is beyond you.  It must be around nine am, but you wouldn’t know. Despite going to bed early last night, you think you’ve slept in. There’s a weight in your chest. It’s hard to ignore. You were hoping it would’ve left by now.

  Your phone blips; it was supposed to be on silent – perhaps you forgot? You forgot to do a lot of things last night, too numb to do anything except crawl into bed. Clambering out from beneath the covers, you read the notification. It’s Ned, posting yet another Instagram photo, at – yes, it’s nine AM.

  A sigh finds its way out. Pride was yesterday. Everyone went. You know Ned’s post will be a selfie from yesterday, so shouldn’t open it; basically every self-care article on the internet would tell you not to. But you do so anyway, tapping in your pass-code with groggy fingers and blinking as the notification expands to show his post.

  This turns into what must be at least 15 minutes of you scrolling through social media. You weren’t planning on opening it, since you knew it would hurt. It does, of course, but it’s bittersweet, seeing everyone post about yesterday. Every picture and vlog brings you comfort, but you do feel envious.

  Flash has mini vlogs showing floods of rainbow-clad people, the crowds bathing in sunlight with drink cans held to the sky, music thrumming through the air over joyous laughter as people march their way down the New York streets. You put your phone down at last, once the frustration gets too much.

  You couldn’t make it. For the fourth year in a row. You’re still not out to your family, and every year you inexplicably find yourself wound up in their important plans or outings on the same day as the parade. You wouldn’t mind so much, but you and your friends have grown up in school together, part of which means watching each other come out to your families over time. One by one, around five of your friends came out. You’re the only one who still hasn’t been to pride.

“Hello?” Pete’s voice comes through the phone. He sounds tired, maybe hungover. But you’re not sure he’s the type to get hungover. Doesn’t matter, you weren’t with your friends to find out. You don’t remember pressing the call button, but you must’ve done. Taking a moment to gather yourself, you take a deep breath in.

“Hi, Peter. It’s me.”

“Oh, hi! How are you doing?”

You hesitate. “Can, uh, can we meet up today?” Your voice sounds thin, & unstable.

“Uh, sure, you wanna come over? We could get coffee, or-“

“-I just feel kinda trash.” You interrupt, double checking your bedroom door’s shut in case anyone overhears your conversation.

“Oh. Do you want to talk about it?”

“I- actually, can I come over? I’m- I just need- Is that okay?”

“Yeah, sure! I’ll-I’ll see you in a minute?” His tone is overly cheerful, but you can sense his concern.

“Yeah, in a minute.” There’s a silence between you. You look down and smooth out your bedclothes from where you’d been scrunching them up in your hand. “Hey, Peter?”

“Uhuh?”

“Did I wake you up?”

“No- well, yeah- but- don’t worry, it’s fine.”

“Are you hungover?”

“What? I – no, no. I’m fine. We stayed up late last night, that’s all. I didn’t drink.”

“Okay.”

“Okay…I’m gonna go. See ya.”

“Yeah, see ya.”

  The journey from your house to his apartment is only 10 minutes. You trudge over in some clean pyjamas, too tired to put on normal clothes but not wanting to stay in the same pair for over 12 hours. There aren’t many people around, and those who are have more important things to worry about than strangers’ attire. Besides, you know shortcuts to avoid being seen. The streets of Queens are fairly quiet for this time of day, which is simultaneously convenient and infuriating, since the barrage of adverts and shop windows is now your primary view. This wouldn’t normally bother you, except for the fact that it’s June, so there are rainbows everywhere. You put headphones in and look at the floor as you walk, avoiding the puddles of semi-dried vomit and confetti from the night before. The bins are filled with red solo cups. This is probably similar to how missing the holiday season would feel, you decide, bending down to pick up the fragments of somebody’s rainbow cardboard sign and shoving them in the trash. The garbage-men must be running late, since every dumpster’s stacked with party gear and drink bottles. A woman passing you smiles, and you return the gesture with a polite nod before putting your head back down and walking faster.

  At long last, you’ve reached your destination; you dump your bag on the floor outside Pete's apartment and knock; hurried footsteps sound, followed by a creak as your friend opens the door. He smiles, and so do you.

"Hi!"

"Hey!" you're stepping inside, checking your phone's connected to the wifi. Both of you are still in pyjamas. Neither of you address this as you walk through his apartment. Then you see Peter's pride flag hanging from his bed.

"How was yesterday?" It's a question you already know the answer to.

"Oh, it was great!" Pete turns, sitting down on his bed as he puts on his hoodie. He starts talking about the parade, and mentions an after-party at MJ’s, but you’re having trouble listening.

“…and Ned said-“

“Pete,” You start, at a loss for words. Your expression wavers. ”I’m the only closeted one now.”

  And suddenly you’re practically collapsing into his arms, managing to utter something about missing the parade and finals being an added stress. Tears warm your cheeks, but you’re not sure when they started. Peter stays silent, just holding you. The fabric of his hoodie gives you a little comfort, and you try to take deep breaths. At some point the both of you shifted into a lying position, but as the tears retreat, your main focus is on explaining yourself.

“I…I just feel lonely? Is that weird? E-everyone else came out so easily, but I’m so scared, and I’m-I’m happy for everyone but it hurts so much not being able to celebrate with you guys every year, because I want to be- a part of…the community, and I feel so shut off right now.” Your speech is interspersed with sobs and a couple sniffs – Peter conjures up a packet of tissues from somewhere whilst you’re talking, and hands them to you midway through – not saying anything, just listening. You notice his thumb’s rubbing back and forth over your shoulder as he hugs you.

“It hurts not being able to be honest with everyone. I’m pretending all the time, and I’m sick of it – but I just never feel ready, and I know that no one ever does feel ready, but- I just hate how something this trivial has to make things so difficult!” You fall silent, and Peter moves his hand to card through your hair. He shifts after a few seconds of you regaining your breathing, and you feel something wrapped around your shoulders.

“Here,” He says, and you sit up to get a better look – it’s his pride flag, draped over you like a blanket. You grasp the corners as Peter wipes a stray tear from your face and looks you in the eye. “We can share it. It can stay at mine, so your family won’t know, and you can use it whenever you want. You’re not alone. I know it sucks being closeted, but you have us. You have me, okay?”

  You tackle him then, forcing the both of you into another hug. “Okay.” The bright colours of his flag glow from the sun coming through the window, and everything feels a little less painful. Peter’s caught off-guard by the embrace, but quickly returns it. It feels like you spend an eternity just laying together, but it could be just a few seconds – you’re not interested in keeping track.

“We could throw our own pride, yknow.” Peter starts, and a smile finds your face.

“Yeah, we could.”

“I’m sure there are still decorations on sale. We could buy rainbow cups and banners. Mr Stark would probably help if I asked.”

“That’d be cool!”

“Yeah,” He pauses. “What do you want to do?”

“Can we just talk? I wanna forget about it for now.”

“Sure…” He stops, and smiles. “Did you walk over here in pyjamas?”

“Perhaps.”

“Fair. Can’t go wrong with Pikachu, I guess.” He pokes the design on your shirt, just above your navel. You recoil, swatting his hand away.

“Careful,” a giggle almost slips out – almost.

“What?” Peter repeats the motion, unaware of what he’s doing.

“Wait- it tickles!” You yelp, trying to grab his wrist as his fingertip collides with your torso a second time. Some inner part of your being cringes as you say ‘tickle’, but you manage to force the word past your lips despite the pang of embarrassment.

“Oh?” He’s grinning now- never a good sign. Your elbows dig into the mattress as you make a move to roll over and crawl away, but Peter grabs your waist, pre-empting your escape attempt.

“You’re ticklish?”

“Uh- no! No, I take it back, I-uh-“ You start rambling incoherently, simultaneously pulling to get out of your friend’s grip with very little success as he pulls you back towards him and into his lap; it’s a slightly awkward position, Peter sitting against the wall with you held against him in front. Nonetheless, his hands quickly find your sides, giving them an experimental squeeze and immediately continuing when you let a renegade snicker escape.

“Gotcha!” He exclaims, laughing when you swiftly dissolve into hysterics.

“Ahaha-no!” You’re flailing and squirming, but it’s difficult to do anything except sit there and take it, since Peter’s arms are wrapped around your abdomen in a sort of restraining hug now, fingers finding purchase on the fabric of your shirt as they seek out your ticklish spots. It’s very difficult to decide whether it’s torture or exactly what you were hoping for. Perhaps it’s mostly the latter, but the way Pete’s wriggling his fingers into a sweet spot at the back of your ribs makes you question that just a little. He takes your bout of hysterics as an opportunity to flip you onto the bed, and your back hits the cushions; Peter follows your fall, and is now crouched over you, hands colliding with your tummy as you land. You realize you’ve dropped the pride flag at some point, because you feel it lying on the mattress beneath you now. It’s hard to focus on anything except the helpless giggles pouring from your lips, endorphins quickly flooding your blood stream and adding to the sense of giddiness as Peter reduces you to a puddle of shrieking laughter.

“Pehehete! Wahahahait, wahahahahait- ahahaha!”

“What?” He smiles, moving his focus to your underarms and drawing a squeal from you in the process.

“Nononono- plehehehease!” But you speak carefully, making sure your tone of voice doesn’t sound panicked so he doesn’t get worried and stop. Your hands find the corners of the flag, and yank it over your face to cover up the blush swiftly taking over your features. The world becomes a blur of colour, and your laughing blends with his for a second. It’s beautiful and warm, and safe. You don’t want it to end.

“Where’s your worst spot?” Peter asks, fingertips drifting up to swipe gentle lines across your neck. Your shoulders hunch up and you try to cover yourself as much as possible, holding onto the flag tighter. You don’t reply, too lost in laughter. “Are you blanking me? Do I have to find out myself?”

“Nohoho, no! I’m not blahanking you!” Your voice returns all of a sudden, and your legs kick into motion, trying to backpedal away from your attacker. It’s probably a ridiculous sight, considering the fabric covering your face, and your pokemon pajamas. You don’t think that matters to Peter, though – you’re both a ridiculous duo.

“Good. I thought I’d gone too far or something.”

This stumps you. It’s now near impossible to reply without confirming you don’t entirely mind this.

“Ihihihi’m fine!” You manage to giggle, simultaneously noticing the heat spreading up your neck. Just then, the flag’s snatched from your grasp, and Peter’s face becomes visible again. He grabs your hips, giving them an experimental squeeze and grinning wider when you try to wriggle away.

“Your laugh’s infectious, you know that?”

“Shuhuhut up!”

What could be minutes or hours pass. Peter seems content that he’s distracting you sufficiently, taking his time exploring any ticklish spots he can find, teases and pleas passing between each of you every few seconds.

But then your laughter goes silent, and he pulls away instantly, letting you recover your breath.

“Sorry! Sorry! I-“ He starts, then notices you giggling with a massive smile on your face.

“S’fine,” You utter, trying to calm down your residual laughter slightly. “I’m okay. I think.”

“Oh, okay,” Peter lets himself fall back to lie next to you, the bed bouncing slightly. “I was worried.”

“No, it’s alright. I...” Pausing, you fight back the urge to hide underneath your flag again. “...didn’t hate it.”

“You didn’t?”

“Uh...I might’ve liked it?” You mutter this last part, turning away so you can’t see Pete grinning.

“What?”

“I...liked it. Being...yknow.” God, this is the most embarrassed you’ve ever been. You’re grateful you can’t see your friend’s expression - until he squeezes your side, forcing you to turn around. He’s smiling, and part of you sighs in relief.

“You like being tickled?”

“Mayyybe?” You grab hold of his wrist, not sure whether to look him in the eye or hide under the covers for a few years till your blush fades.

“How about I tickle you again? Would that help you decide?” His fingers whir into motion against your t shirt, gently teasing the sensitive nerves and drawing another stream of giggles from your lips.

“WAit-Nohoho!” You cry, already squirming to get away. Peter wraps his arms around you in a hug, and starts going to town for the second time. It’s definitely a good distraction, and part of you feels lighter as you struggle against his hold. The hysterics don’t seem like they’ll stop anytime soon, and as endorphins begin flooding your body, you’re definitely not complaining.

You realize you’ve never felt less alone.