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If you asked me what he was sorry about, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. It was something I had attempted to work on with him during our relationship, that he didn’t have to feel obligated to be guilty in every situation, and as I had told him previously, the fact he did have that need was most likely due to something in his childhood. I shut up once I remembered the whole “psychoanalyzing” boundary he had.
But, in this situation, I couldn’t be bothered to correct the behavior, instead deciding on a cold, suffocating sigh. Peter, the boy who sat in front of me, hid his face with his hair, leaning down so I couldn’t see the tears I'm sure were threatening to fall. I didn’t bother hiding mine. Instead, I opted to stare at him with eyes that, I’m sure, scream emotions such as anger and sadness, which were one and the same for me.
The argument wasn’t even his fault, so I’m unsure exactly where the anger came from. It felt embarrassing to admit it was one brought on by the love I felt for him. I could never stay angry, but the fear I felt was one that could get overwhelming.
But when I said yes to dating Peter, I knew what I was in for.
I had discovered he was the vigilante, Spiderman, after I walked in on him. He had just climbed through his window, on the verge of bleeding out on his mattress, (At least to my point of view, he later told me about his fast healing when I told him how gruesome it looked.) So, when he asked me out, I knew what to expect. My nights from then on were spent staying up to very amateurly patch his wounds, worried sick at the idea of him one day not coming home.
I’m not sure why recently the fear has been worse, but it was. It was overwhelming, operating every thought I had. Nights spent fighting intrusive thoughts of all the way my boyfriend could die, whether it be quickly or in agony, the aftermath would be the same. I was constantly grieving the loss of him, all while he prevented the loss of others. It was selfish I know, but I never did fall for Spiderman, I fell for Peter.
Some days I wondered why he couldn’t just give up the mask and stay with me. He was smart, a genius, really, (though he would never let me call him that to his face.) He could find a job in some engineering company, and we could stay safe in our small New York apartment. He could be mine, and I wouldn’t have to share him with the rest of the city.
Other days the selfishness was put aside when I saw the impact he left on others, like when he told me about the kid he saved on that bridge. It is hard to ignore the fact that my boyfriend has done more for New York than any cop could, and for that, I understand the necessity of his persona. It still doesn’t quiet the fear.
So, when he came back through our bedroom window, with a gash on his chest that was far bigger than the night I found out about his identity, it was all too much.
I fixed his wounds in silence, the flesh mending itself together under my fingers. I’m sure Peter could tell something was wrong, as the silence that was usually filled with stupid jokes was deafening. I finally cut the silence with 7 words that erupted from my mouth.
“Sometimes I wish you were just Peter.”
His eyes blinked in a state of confusion with his lip caught in his teeth. He hesitantly spoke with inflection.
“What?”
I repeated my words and he laughed quietly, “Yeah I know what you said, but what do you mean by that?”
His laughter stupidly enraged me, as if he should’ve read my thoughts. I wanted him to know what he did to me without me having to tell him. I wanted him to feel the pain I felt for him.
“I just hate the Spiderman thing sometimes.” I paused, choosing my words as carefully as I could because even though I was angry, I would never wish to hurt him, “I know it’s important, but I miss when this wasn’t all we were.”
The silence continued for what felt like a solid five minutes but was realistically just thirty seconds until it was replaced with an argument that lasted until we both ran out of energy. The entire time I continued to patch him up, unable to let him bleed out on my bedroom floor.
I snapped back to reality with that, “Sorry.”
His apology made me angrier than it should’ve, but that was most likely guilt, if anything. I hated fighting with Peter, and the fact it didn’t happen very often made it hurt worse. I knew it was almost always the result of things I let get to me.
“It really isn’t your fault.” I finally spoke, my original tone of bitterness replaced with one of an emotion I really couldn’t place, “I just really love you, Peter.”
He finally let me see his eyes then, red and wet with a look of guilt, like some punished puppy.
I spoke again, beating him to it, “I don’t want you to stop saving people, I just wish you wouldn’t forget I’m here waiting for you.”
“I never forget.” He interrupted me before I could continue, “I could never forget you.”
“Peter.” I said, reminding him I wasn’t done, “I just want you to be careful.”
It clicked for him then, I think, what I was truly trying to tell him, because he stopped to reach over, his hand caressing my cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he said with a tone that made my heart feel tight, “I worry you so much, and yet you still wait up for me,” he says, sliding his hand to mine, holding it. “You’re so good to me, and I think I take it for granted.”
“I love you, Peter. So much,” I say, tears falling from my eyes.
“I love you too,” I watch as similar tears stain his cheeks, “more than I could ever really tell you.”
I knew then that no matter what happened, I would wait up for forever to ensure he was safe. It was worth it, all for him.