The slight wind of the opening door brought with it a hint of mint, and something tugged pathetically at Matt’s heart. He couldn’t help the hope rising in him as he picked up shea butter, too. The mix of fresh scents mingling with ever-lasting stress, and so unmistakably Peter. Almost umistakably, he corrected himself -- without his hearing he couldn’t be certain. But unless one of the nurses had taken to the lifestyle of a college student, his conviction shouldn’t be entirely unfounded.
He hadn’t really been aware of how anxious he was to see Peter until he was there. Or rather, he pretended not to, when a while had passed and he realised he was being unreasonable. The first... couple of days, he’d been almost desperate to. No one would talk to him about the city, just his condition or to relax and take care of himself. He was already in a hospital, restricted to a bed. There wasn’t like he had much choice, and they certainly didn’t give him an alternative. His radar sense flickered in near-useless bursts, but informed him that Peter ( because now, shaped erratically by the inexplicable power, he knew ) was approaching. The older sat up a little straighter, eyes tracking the other’s movements more vaguely than usual.
As Peter weighed down the mattress, Matt’s thigh dipping slightly, he felt something heavy lift off of him. He felt his expression ease up, unaware it’d been tense, and Christ how he wished he could hear that heart. Matt was a mess, but things seemed to resolve themselves when Peter -- or more commonly, Spider-Man -- came around. And right now, he was more likely to understand what Matt needed than anyone. There was probably something about experiencing trauma together, but -- there was no reason to pull that up. Hopefully. He had very little interest to dip his toes back in the murky waters he’d been consumed by the past week.
Immeasurably strong fingers wrapped carefully around his wrist, and the contact was enough to make Matt sink back a little against the headboard, exhaling softly through his nose. “I know,” he mumbled before he could catch himself. A knee-jerk reaction, wanting to show how he wasn’t completely useless; he could still do what he'd been able to before... Barely. A bitterness rose in the back of his throat, clenching his jaw and forcing it back down. He might be in a hospital with another sense crossed off the list -- again -- but that didn’t mean Peter had to deal with his childish need to prove himself. Foggy had. That, and more than he wanted to think about. Not now. Not again.
With the other so close, more clues appeared to him, and with them was the smell of unchanged bedsheets. It was different from person to person, but it always clung to them the same way, curling around everything else, like the serpent to the tree. His stomach twisted, all too familiar with what that meant. Could mean. Part of him wanted to reach out for Peter, but he recognised the light-hearted nature he was going for, and stored it away for later. Possibly.
Unlike when nurses were with him, Matt’s hand slid effortlessly out of Peter’s grip and returned the gesture. Moving carefully so not to stir the book, he stretched for the bookmark on his bedside table, biting back the groan as a bruise on his side made itself known. Slipping the paper between the pages, he closed the book and tucked it away behind his pillow. Then his fingers traced Peter’s palm, lingering a miniscule amount of time before he started writing. 'Funny. The marker smell would probably wake me long before that happened. It’s awful.' He put more pressure on the last word, and his lips stretched into a smile. ‘How is--’ Hell’s Kitchen, the city, the brain-washed. With a twinge in his chest, Matt remembered the scent of bedsheets. His lips pressed into a line, and his eyes searched once more for Peter’s, guided by his pulse. ‘How are you?’
yousharknotpass
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