Mini Playlist: Falling in Love at a Coffee Shop by Landon Pigg // Why We Ever by Hayley Williams // She’s the Prettiest Girl at the Party and she can Prove it With a Solid Right Hook by frnkiero and the cellabration
this is short asf and did i enter my own writing contest bc i was bored ? yes i did. i used prompt 13: “that’s inappropriate” and i hope yall like this even tho its cheesyyyy
its more like a blurb than anything else bc i have VERY BAD WRITERS BLOCK and writing dialogue is NOT my thing. fr i need help dialogue is really fucking hard for me it takes double the time to write it on god 😡
masterlist
The small window of time that followed mid-afternoon and came before dusk was a time that Peter Parker cherished.
He found it comfortable and warm and relished in the way the late-afternoon glow of the sun would heat up his freckled cheeks, tinting them to a darker rose. He would look up into the sky and close his eyes, feeling the way the cool breeze would grace across his face like a lover's tender kiss, lips twitching up into a small, contented smile - feeling nothing other than pure adoration for his city.
That certain affinity is why he found himself sitting on top of the tallest apartment building complex in Queens alongside his fiancé, holding a classic Delmar's sub in his right hand and a ring on the other, wearing a smile large enough to put the tallest tower in the world to shame.
"God, Pete, that never gets old," she laughed breathlessly, leaning on his broad shoulder and shaking her head slightly in disbelief. "I can't believe you do this every day."
"I can't believe you don't like doing this everyday," Peter said, narrowing his eyes playfully and nudging her side. "It's fun!"
She scoffed.
"'Fun' my ass," she said, glancing at him through the corner of her gleaming eyes and taking a bite of her sub (that was now cold thanks to the rapid wind they had endured). "Not going to lie, I have come close to shitting myself more times than I would like to admit."
"And that's my problem?"
"Okay, first of all, shut up," she snorted, punching his side, "You have an enhanced body for fuck's sake. You have abs. I don't. And second of all -" she flicked her forefinger against his forehead as he pouted, "Your ass isn't as fucked up as mine considering the amount of times we've done anal."
"Y/N!" Peter's face turned a bright red. "Not the time! That's inappropriate!"
"It's true though," she raised an eyebrow, "You're a weird man, Parker. But it's okay. Your abs are positively lickable."
She leaned back and sighed, closing her eyes as her lips turned up into a smirk (admittedly thinking about their intimate time and getting crazy butterflies). She gestured to his toned stomach that was hidden by his tight suit and moaned.
"I thought you wanted to come here to watch the sunset and eat dinner, not talk about sex," Peter mumbled through a mouthful of sandwich as he looked up at her through his eyelashes, "I'm losing my appetite."
"Oh honey, this isn't dinner. What we're in for when we get home is dinner."
Peter frowned, "I thought the whole reason we got subs was because he have no food at home."
Y/N's mouth fell open and she looked at him incredulously for a moment, before her lips turned up into an amused smile and a small chuckle fell from them.
"You're cute." She tilted her head to the side and smiled sweetly, reaching up to press a kiss to his cheek. "You've been like this for ages."
"Been like what?" His lips turned down into an even deeper frown.
Y/N offered him a closed-mouth smile and leaned her head on his shoulder, nuzzling her head into the crook of his neck as she intertwined their hands.
"You've been nothing bad," she shrugged, "Just really oblivious."
Peter scoffed. "You just can't come for my brand like that, babe!"
Y/N remained silent though he felt her lips move against the fabric of his suit, trying to refrain from laughing.
"You're probably the most observant person on the planet, so that's not really fair coming from you, Y/L/N."
"Nothing in life is fair," she replied, bringing up their hands and swinging them back and forth, regarding how well they fit together. A small smile painted her lips. "Not everything is fair."
"I feel like out of everyone you know I'm the one who knows that the best."
Y/N bit her lip and turned to look up at him.
She knew what he had been through and hated how unfairly life had treated him. He had lost everyone important in his life and she hated having to see him grieve so deeply, because more often than not, he would put on a mask and smile just for her - though she knew underneath it all he was struggling.
And as Y/N's thoughts went off on a spiral Peter suddenly felt her heart rate spike.
"Are you okay?" He frowned, smile fading as he brought her hand up to his lips and pressed a small kiss to the pad of her thumb, "Your heart rate just went crazy."
Y/N scoffed and waved her hands in the air, "I'm fine, Pete. I really am."
She offered him a weak smile and pecked his cheek, patting his shoulder in reassurance.
But, as the wind blew through her unruly curls, she had something lingering on her mind. Peter could sense it and opened his mouth to ask, but he contemplated for a moment and decided not to. Though he had known Y/N for years, she was still as silent and observant and as closed-off as she was when they first met. And now that they were 21, a good five years later and engaged, she still didn't tell him everything.
But , after all - Peter was content with that. It was just how she was and he wouldn't change it for the world.
"Okay," he said reluctantly, frown still etched on his face as he leaned over to press his lips to her temple. "Just... don't hide what you're thinking from me. I love you and won't judge anything you think or say. You know that. Okay?"
Y/N's lips turned upwards into a soft smile, eyes glittering with something he couldn't quite place.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay."
She leaned forward slowly, eyes darting back and forth between Peter's lips as she licked her own, bringing up a hand to gently hold onto the back of his neck and twirl her fingers around the unruly brown ringlets of curl that hung just below the nape of his neck.
Her heart picked up again and Peter couldn't help but to smile contentedly. After all these years, she still got as flustered with him as he was with her.
"I love you, Peter," Y/N said quietly, the words barely gracing her soft lips.
An airplane sounded off in the distance but still didn't cover the beating of her heart.
"I love you too, Y/N." Peter smiled softly and closed his eyes, leaning forward to touch their foreheads together as his hand snaked around to gently grip her hip. "I love you so, so much."
"I know," she mumbled, closing her eyes too, before surging forward to connect their lips in a kiss that made all of their heated love-making sessions pale in comparison.
And all Peter could think as she moved her lips lazily against his was how much he loved moments like these.
When the sun was barely scraping the top of the horizon with tones of pink and yellow. When his love was sitting in his arms, coy smile and unruly curls and all. When his tongue moved perfectly against hers, against the one he had become so accustomed to over the years.
Summary: In which Peter follows a different path after Tony’s death and she stages an intervention.
Word Count: 3K
Warnings: Mentions of alcohol and drug use
Mini Playlist: Between the Bars by Elliott Smith // Autumn Tree by Milo Greene // Where’s my Love by SYML
Author Note: this is based on the song “between the bars” by elliott smith and i really really recommend listening to it while reading. it’s one of my all time favourites and super soothing. try listening to the whole mini playlist, i think it adds to the piece :)
also i aged him up to college age for the sake of shit not being illegal
masterlist
drink up, baby
stay up all night
His hands are weathered and unkempt; there's a layer of dirt underneath his fingernails that are bitten and rugged and his breath smells faintly of the whisky he nicked from his roommate's liquor cabinet.
with the things you can do
you won't but you might
What he's doing is wrong and knows that for a fact. There's an ever-present sense of guilt that follows him everywhere he goes like a parasite, worming its way into his head and twisting his mind to warp to its will. It's not right and he knows that but he still finds himself taking long sip after grudging sip, alone in his room at an hour that's ungodly to the other people wandering the nighttime streets, numb and feeling nothing other than the bitter tang of whisky that clouds his eyes and makes the room spin on a top.
the potential you see
that you'll never be
He doesn't care anymore. His brain is tired and overworking, steaming and on lockdown... the very thought of escaping his gaping black hole of a life isn't satisfactory. The mere thought of being anywhere but his room, laying on his bed and listening to Red Hot Chilli Peppers on repeat as his hand slowly guides the top of the drink to his chapped lips is close to nonexistent. He doesn't find anything interesting. His ambition to pursue a career in the science field along his deceased mentor isn't even an inkling of thought anymore. Lying alone on the floor in his room and ignoring every 'ping' of his phone - signaling a text message from his friend that he does not want to respond to - is where he sees himself for the remaining future, given he doesn't do anything reckless to ruin it.
the promises you'll only make
He's distanced himself from everyone he holds dear and not even his closest friends can get a rise out of him - he's stoic and numb and the only emotion he feels is pain, guilt, and a sense of loneliness... his broken promises are weaved tightly with purpose, with the intention of fulfilling them, though he can't. Holding up his end of the bargain has never been so difficult... he turns away.
drink up with me now
and forget all about
He's in a loophole of blacked out. He's been on a month long bender and his head is always spinning. He's always irritable and unkempt, hair untidy and clothing smelling faintly of alcohol.
the pressure of days
do as i say
There's a pressure on his chest. It eats away at him and digs into his vulnerable being with malicious intent, like a sinister speaking parasite implanting its eggs in his heads and leaving seeds for new negative thoughts... they grow like weeds. He can't live with it; he turns towards a numbing substance.
and i'll make you okay
He's convinced it's right.
and drive them away
It's left him alone and seething in his own guilt.
the images stuck in your head
Memories of an ash-stricken sky plague his dreams. Eerie, ghostly hues of purple indicate that the moments replaying in his head are a dream, but it doesn't stop his steps from being agonizingly slow, trying to run away from the hoards of aliens running after him with sinister intent... legs jelly as if underwater... tensile thread in his web-shooters absent; the scent of something rotten and decayed invade his nostrils as he runs, dream-like, legs aching and burning... but the stench isn't dirt, it smells organic... like a human... he reaches a burnt, shrivelled being, and everything stops - silence envelopes the wasteland like a thick fog and the beings chasing him vanish, turn into dust and blow away, eerily calm.... it's a human. A burn victim. There's a bloodied, gnarled hand, pointed to the sky as if reaching for something, and the stink makes Peter's stomach lurch.
There's a faint blue glow where the heart should be, but it confuses him - shouldn't the thing be dead? Isn't that a signal of activity? Peter slowly reaches forward, heart in his throat, but only before the thing sits up at an inhuman speed. It shrieks, a shrill, haunting, echoing sound, and Peter cries out and falls onto his tailbone, scampering away with a terrified grunt as he clamps his dirtied hands over his ears. It sounds like a siren, haunting and petrifying, though holding notes of despair -
Peter jolts up in bed in a cold sweat. He throws off his thick comforter with an angered grunt, feeling overwhelmingly hot and sweltering. It was a dream, he knows that, but it felt so real and now he can't help the involuntary heaving of his chest and the fear that bubbles inside of him, crawling up his throat and prohibiting him from breathing because now tears are falling down his freckled cheeks and he's scared because he can't breathe and desperate gasping noises are echoing deep in his throat but he can't get them out and May's working the nightshift so he's alone and he's going to suffocate on his own breaths - is that even possible? - and die, and she's going to find him dead in his bed, foaming at the mouth and blue and bloated -
He blindly reaches for his phone on his bedside table and fumbles through his contacts, searching for the only person he knows to call - he hopes he chooses the right person because his eyes are swimming in tears and his vision is going black at the edges - bringing the phone up to his ear and hearing the obnoxious ring of the connection, signaling that the call's going through though she's probably not going to answer at this time of night -
"Peter?" There's a muffled rustling and her voice is raspy and hoarse with sleep. "A-Are you alright? Why are you calling me?"
Peter's vision is still wavering and he doesn't know if he's in another dream because everything's dark and he doesn't have a grip on reality but he responds in the only way he knows how to.
"I-I can't breathe," he says, weeping softly with fear, trying to keep his composure for the sake of her mental wellbeing because he knows she has gone through as much as him but he can't keep himself together - his body is wracked with a sudden onslaught shakes and he nearly drops his phone. "I need you, I-I'm not okay, please come over."
There's another sound of rustling on the receiving end and it sounds like she just jumped out of her bed. Her voice loses its dreamy quality as she speaks into her phone, and Peter can tell she's picking apart her room in search for her old MIT sweater she wears religiously, and he doesn't really make out any words in his panicked state other than the three words that leave her mouth and mean more than what the world could ever offer: a simple, "I'm coming."
the people
you've been before
A firm knock rings out through the apartment an approximate twenty minutes later.
Of course, she's wearing that MIT sweater, and it swallows her whole. Her eyes are lined with purple and are slightly bloodshot, looking pained, following Peter's line of sight. Her hair is thrown up into a messy bun and the flyaway strands that frame her face are most likely a result of her fevered running through the downtown streets and through the Metro.
Peter's sure he doesn't look too much of a looker either: he's donning a stupid oversized tie-dye t-shirt he got on Spring Break with his college friends and he's positive it smells reminiscent of weed and beer, but the exhausted girl standing in his doorway doesn't look like she cares.
She looks like she's in pain.
Her eyebrows are knotted together in worry and behind her eyes are signs of suffering, but, she doesn't leave any time for Peter to speak before surging forward and wrapping her arms around his waist. She squeezes her eyes shut and nudges her head in the crook of his neck, trapping him in her warm embrace, not allowing him to back away. It's ironic, because Peter used to be the one to hold her and wipe away her tears, but now, it's the opposite... things have changed so much and it makes Peter's heart sting.
He's not the same person he used to be. He pushed her away.
The last time he's willingly made contact with her was months ago, but now she's looking out for him like she's always had, and it makes the sticky guilt inside of him pile up layer upon layer.
"Hey, Pete," she says quietly, resting her head on her shoulder and pulling him from his reverie with her voice. "Let's go to your room to talk, you sounded pretty shaken up on the phone."
"Okay," he finds himself saying, nodding against her skin and sinking into her touch, though he doesn't know if it's a dream or not because he still feels faint and drowsy... he digs his face into the crook of her neck and lets her hand guide him towards his door.
that you don't want
around anymore
Not many words are exchanged. There's a peaceful silence and the occasional whirr of cars speeding by on watered roads. It's raining heavily and Peter can't help but to find his chapped lips twisting up into a sardonic smile at the situation he finds himself in, because of course the universe is mocking him with its weather. It's offering them a storm; a symbol of his damaged psyche.
She's sitting on the edge of his bed and he's sitting on the opposite end, staring at the floor with an intense gaze that doesn't do a very good job of hiding his wild inner monologue. If she wants to glance at him, she would know immediately what he was thinking based on his body language: furrowed eyebrows, fingers picking at his cuticles, a leg bouncing restlessly.
His facade is crumbling and he feels foolish for calling her because now he's in his purest form... pitiful and sensitive and vulnerable... but he doesn't care to bring up the elephant in the room.
He called her for a reason, and a reason that was very clearly shown through his scared words and tone, but now there's a thick silence wary with tension and he hasn't said a word. She's been silent too, but he thinks she's waiting for the perfect time to interject. Strategy and planning - it's so overwhelmingly her that he feels a pang of something unknown in his stomach.
He pretends to gaze at the floor, and he knows that her insistent gaze is on his back. He can just see what she looks like through his mind's eye: disappointed and saddened.
The empty whisky bottle rolling aimlessly on the ground is a reminder of that.
that push and shove
and won't bend to your will
"Peter," she finally says, puncturing the silence with a stern edge.
He slowly looks up, dreading what expression he would see on her pretty features... sadness? Anguish? Rage? He expects the worst, but as his eyes meet her with bated breath, he is instead met with something much more stony.
She looks conflicted and behind her eyes are battlefields.
"Peter," she repeats, and her gaze doesn't waver. It's insistent and soul-crushing and he feels like she can look into his eyes and figure him out right then and there. She reaches out a hand and leaves her palm open, inviting him to take it though leaving a reminder that she's trying not to intrude. "We need to talk," she finishes.
"About what?" he asks dumbly.
"Things," she answers. "There's some things we need to address, Pete."
She shrugs deeper into her sweater and waits patiently for his reply.
A small silence passes and a muscle jumps in Peter's jaw, peering deeply into her eyes and trying to identify the war she's waging, but she's stoic. He can't get a read on her.
He sighs and kicks an old beer can at his feet.
"There's nothing to talk about," he says baldly. "I called you because I needed help."
"You had a panic attack." Her words are said evenly though she furrows her eyebrows and tilts her head to the side. "That's not normal."
"It's normal for me."
"That's my point."
Silence.
"You need to take better care of yourself, Pete." She slides over towards him so that her leg is touching his. She peers at him with conflicted eyes and cups his cheekbone gently, tilting his head down to meet her line of sight that is considerably shorter than his. "You..." she bites her lip and tears well in her eyes and her words are laced with grief. "You aren't the person you were before. We... we need to talk. Please."
There's a pang of despair in Peter's stomach and he feels it crawl up his insides and taunt him.
"I'm still the same Peter," he tries, offering her a small smile, though he can't ignore how his eyes are starting to water... his hand comes up on top of hers though he can't properly hold her because it's shaking so severely. "I haven't changed."
Her eyes soften. Her lips twist up into a pained smile, though they start to tremble... Peter frowns and reaches out a hand... but now, tears are pouring silently down her rosy cheeks.
"You've changed, Peter," she confirms quietly, slowly shaking her head. "You're not the same person anymore. I can't watch you drive yourself deeper into the ground."
"I'm the same, Y/N," he pleads, moving closer and resting a hand on her thigh. It's clad in grey sweatpants, the pair that he reminds buying her for her birthday all those years ago... he's surprised they still fit. Tears stream down his freckled cheeks and he has to suppress a hiccough. "I haven't changed, I swear."
She shakes her head and smiles sadly. "You have."
Peter's struck with silence and his mouth goes dry. Words can't meet his lips and a surge of hurt washes over him like the pounding rain outside.
"You're not the same LEGO loving boy anymore," she whispers, looking down at the grey comforter. "You... you drink, you do drugs, you surround yourself with the wrong people, and you dropped out of school... you're the brightest guy I've ever met, yet you still managed to completely jeopardize your future. What happened to Spider-Man? What happened to talking to your real friends? They don't care for you, Pete. We do. We miss you so much. And actually, MJ can't stand to bring up your name anymore. She'll either start yelling or burst into tears." Y/N laughs bitterly and looks up at him, and the wars that she's waging behind her eyes are obvious... she's been waiting to defeat them and she's been waiting for the perfect time to bring them up. She's addressing them. Peter realizes what that means.
He lets go of her hand and backs away, wiping at his red-rimmed eyes with a trembling hand.
"No... d-don't do this. Y/N, please don't."
She regards him for a moment, but only before her lips begin to quiver, slowly, slowly... like a teapot being brought to a boil, and before Peter can even comprehend it, she breaks out into a sob.
"I can't have you calling me when you need something, Peter," she says with a cry, words slurred. "I know you only care about me when you need reassurance, and I want to help you, but why else would I be here? For no other reason, surely. You only need me when you want something. You've never talked to me or invited me over in months!"
She gazes at him with pain, agony, and Peter can't even respond. His walls haven't had time to respond and be put up yet. He just never would've thought it would be her to cut ties.
"I care for you, Pete, that's why I came." She cups his face and now her tears are streaming quicker than ever. "But, I can't put your needs over mine. I hate doing this, and I feel so fucking selfish, but I love you so much, I really do, please know that. I'll never stop loving you. You're my best friend, and I've never felt this way towards anyone before, but you're not the same Peter I met in seventh grade history class." She hiccoughs and her eyes are lined with red. "You've changed. And now, I..." she sucks in a breath and sits up straighter, retracting her hand from his. "I have to go now, Peter."
Choking out a sob, she stands up and stumbles to the door, tripping over her feet.
"W-Where are you going?" Peter asks, moving to stop her, though he decides against it because he doesn't want to end up with another broken wrist on his watch. "You're leaving?"
She doesn't answer.
She wraps her hand around the knob with a cough. She stares at the door for a moment. Suddenly, her hands begin to blindly reach for the bottom of her threadbare sweater, and he pulls it slowly over her head, sniffling as her eyes stare blankly at the door.
She throws her MIT sweater onto his bed and opens the door, staring into the hall.
Peter's heart stops.
No, no, no...
"You can have it, Peter."
She leaves.
i'll keep them still
Peter's stuck on his bed again, tears leaking down his cheeks.
Again, his life is a loop - of course, the universe likes to mock him.
He's on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, and finding a bottle of vodka being drawn to his lips.
Red Hot Chilli Peppers is playing in the background.
His eyes are blank and unwavering.
His hands are weathered and dirty, and his breath smells faintly of alcohol.
A cycle.
***
as per usual, taggin’ some mutuals :)
@quackeroos @chaoticpete @eridanuswave @parkersbliss @my-patronus-is-mabel-pines @thirzaholland @andromedaaaaaaaaa @lost-space-ranger @peachyparkerr
Mini Playlist: Where’s My Love by SYML // Little Black Submarines by The Black Keys // Sunrise by Coldplay
Actions hold more meaning than words.
His heart pounded in his chest and his eyes darted nervously around the hall.
His feet tapped the ground and his legs bounced as he bit his lip, crossing his arms tightly over his chest in predisposed defence, and whether or not it was from the battle that came earlier or the lingering trauma that followed he did not know because all he could feel and think was an awful burning sensation of anxiety.
A type of anxious that was dreadful and made him calculate his every move as if something unspeakable was going to happen. As if something was going to bounce up behind him and crawl into his throat and prohibit him from speaking.
Still standing completely still, rigid as a board, tears welled in his eyes. He didn't know why, but he felt scared and frightened and felt as if the erratic beating of his heart was going to make him pop out a rib. He was traumatized and knew that standing in the doorway of his beloved school shouldn't make him terrified, but he was, and was aware of it; yet, he couldn't break out of the shell. He had been living in it for the past few weeks.
His tired brown eyes darted the hallways and he bit his lip as he bounced on the balls of his feet again, awaiting her arrival. He didn't know if she had been decimated like him and he secretly hoped she had — if she wasn't, what age would she be now — twenty? Twenty-one? It scared him. He already lost all he had... he couldn't bare losing another. Especially one as important as her.
May had prohibited him from contacting anyone he knew ever since his return, saying that the overload of information would overwhelm him, and he did agree, but honestly, most of it was voluntarily anyway. He stayed in his room alone most of the time and stared at the ceiling with blank, tear-filled eyes and a scorching feeling in his gut, thick woolen blanket burning his legs though he felt too unmotivated to stretch and slide it off.
He didn't want to see her, yet he also longed for her to see him; it had been too long without any affection and he wasn't sure how much longer he could go —
A headful of tangled hair suddenly bobbed up between the hordes of students crowding the halls and Peter's heart began to double its speed. His eyes widening and his head longed to perk up, though he was too scared to make eye contact with her for the first time in... God, five years... oh, now her step is increasing and Peter can hear her let out a choked sob, eyes brimming with tears and grimy hands clamping over her mouth as if stunned to see him, as if seeing a ghost...
Peter's eyes widened and his mouth became dry. His legs suddenly began to surge forward, to move without his own accord, and his head pounded because she wasn't dusted, she was here, crying, running towards him wearing that stupid MIT sweater Peter had offered her on one of their study dates when she said she was cold.
With a start, Peter realized he had never actually given it to her. She had just decided to keep it and was wearing it as a reminder of him in case he wasn't there. She was wearing his hoodie. It warmed Peter's dormant heart.
He could hear her desperate shouts of his name, and he pushed past the crowd of emotional students with force, though they didn't seem to waver because they were caught up in their own reunions and he got that — suddenly the crowd cleared.
She was standing in the middle of it all, wearing his stupid hoodie and a pair of baggy sweatpants, hair left down and knotted. Her eyes were lined with a deep-set purple and she looked exhausted, but, the moment Peter's tired eyes met hers, they widened. She clamped a hand over her mouth and started walking forward, dream-like.
"Peter?" she asked, voice raspy and tired, "Is that you?"
Peter would've laughed and teased her, poking fun at her for not knowing if it was him or not, but that was in normal times. Things weren't normal anymore.
He nodded vigorously, tears falling fast down his freckled cheeks.
"It's me, Y/N," he confirmed quietly.
She clamped a hand over her mouth and choked out a destroyed sob, piercing the moment with her cry. "Peter!"
She suddenly burst into a run, and though they weren't far apart it felt like ages before she jumped into his arms, making the both of them stumble backwards before throwing their arms around each other in a tight embrace.
"Oh, God, Pete," she cried, fingers reaching blindlessly for the unruly chocolate curls she knew hung at the nape of his neck. "I — you — we were gone..." She dug her face into his warm neck and her hot tears made Peter's skin sizzle, "I can't — we — "
Peter rubbed his hands up and down her back and fisted the soft material that was so overwhelmingly her as her fingers tugged on his curls and brought his body closer.
"It's okay," he tried, though his voice cracked because he knew everything was not okay. "It's okay, we're here together now..."
His voice cracked again and he suppressed a sob, because not everyone was there.
She looked up at him teraily, and then suddenly everything was a blur of emotion.
She was sobbing into the crook of his neck and Peter latched tighter onto her with squeezed shut eyes, feeling the heat of her teary face radiate onto his neck. She was a mess and so was he, because now her fingers were climbing up his shirt and fisting the material with every cry and he was gripping onto her tangled hair and letting his hot tears fall.
It wasn't something two high school seniors were supposed to encounter.
Hell, it wasn't even something that should've happened — but, now, swaying back in forth in each others arms as they calmed and let out the occasional hiccup and shaky sigh, standing in the place that held so much bittersweet familiarity, their warmth and comfort was all that they needed.
