( Peter is there for the tree lighting — it doesn't totally feel like it's an option, after all. he's uncomfortable, lingering near the festivities as he chews over the speech.

in theory, the words are good. family, lifting each other up, making sacrifices for the greater good. so why does he feel so uncomfortable? why did it feel like that Mayor guy pointed right at him and declared that this was his home now and he couldn't leave, even if he wanted to? that's not what he said... is it? )

What'd you think of the speech? ( he asks someone nearby, who seems to be another newcomer that the mayor pointed out in the crowd. it's not just him that's a little creeped out, right? )

A.
( Peter is not a festive guy, on his own. for starters, he's Jewish. not exactly actively practicing, though his Aunt had insisted on Hannukah dinner and dragged him down to help light the menorah if he happened to be home and not crawling the skyline at the time. but still Jewish enough that Christmas was just a convenient free day and while they'd celebrate mildly because most people did on Christmas, it didn't carry quite the same weight. and not just because his aunt always gave him clothes (usually socks, the occasional sweater) for Christmas, what with eight days of presents at the start of the month.

he'd gotten more of a taste for Christmas festivities through Gwen. she'd loved Christmas, insisted on wandering through Time Square and Hot Chocolate and Ice Skating and had invited him over to decorate a tree. so of course, seeing holiday festivities now aches, burns like a hole cut straight through him. technically it's his second Christmas since she died, but it's the first that he's actually present and not spending in his room in a depressive episode. it's the first he's had to deal with it, and that she's gone.

and that does not make a guy merry.

so when he opens the door to somewhere different, a random door on the street when he'd been trying to go to the grocery store to help out a not-parent... he blinks at the picturesque Christmas Village and stands there, staring, the cold seeping through the gaping doorway. )

I'm sleeping. I've got to be sleeping. I've been sleeping for weeks and I'll wake up any time now. ( ah, back to thinking he's dissociating... he's fine. it's fine. )

B.
( Peter has done his best to avoid the Christmas Village. it's like it senses the slight bah, humbug vibes and refuses to let him go, and it seems every other door he opens is gingerbread spiced and faintly humming of Christmas Carols. after doing all he can to avoid it, closing the door, doing something else, even trying to open close and open it a few times, he's become resigned to the fact he seemingly has to visit, but now that he's here, he doesn't know what to do.

an elf delivers him with an enormous mug of hot chocolate, and Peter looks genuinely pained. he can't drink it, long story, so he scouts around for anyone whose hands are free. ) Hey, you want this? I don't like hot chocolate.

( that's not totally true, but whether he likes it or not, Peter won't drink it. he looks hopeful and miserable all at once, so what would it hurt to take it, right? )

( Peter hates parties. he really wishes he was not at this one. he feels like he's dressed like a used car salesman. why is there a weird napkin in his pocket and why does it have to be folded like that? he insistently messes with his tie, eyeing the dance floor skeptically, and then darting his attention around the room like he's guilty of something and looking for an escape route. technically he hasn't done anything yet, but somehow still manages to look suspect.

he spends most of his time by the food. because of course he does. he's eating what feels like his 800th cheese and cracker combo, and does he HONESTLY have more jello salad on his plate? ) The tiny hot dogs are good, even if they're covered in barbecue sauce, for some reason. ( just a gentle suggestion, you know, if it's needed. Peter is not aggressive about his consulting, he's too busy tapping his foot lightly to the admittedly spirited Christmas music.

please don't mistake this as him wanting to dance. dear god, do not ask him to dance. )

( look. it was only a matter of time.

Peter gets the sense, distinctly, that snooping around the outskirts of the party is not welcome. lights? super off. doors? very locked. and honestly, that is a little bit of a deterrent, though... maybe not enough. because he's here, wandering. snooping and staring at anything he can get his hands on, trying to map the place in his brain. when he spots what looks like offices, he tries the handle, even though he realistically knows all the rest have been locked. why not this one?

it's locked too. he sighs, not quite defeated, but disappointed for sure. it's only after he's definitely fiddled with the door that he realizes he's not alone, and nearly jumps out of his skin. spider senses are pretty annoying, but it turns out when they're gone, practically anything can jumpscare him. he forces himself to relax, as being overly startled implies that he was nervous he'd be caught. and that means he's doing something wrong, and he's got to at least try and sell he doesn't know he's not supposed to be here. )

Whoa. I, uh, didn't see you there. Looking for the bathroom, too? ( it's a weak save, he knows it. but better something than nothing. )

want to do something else? family stuff? neighborhood nonsense? why is this weird boy trying to climb my garage? LET'S GO, hit me with it here! you can also catch me via pm or at meowed to plot! )