Chapter Text
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The bright overhead lights of the auditorium hummed with an intense, sterile energy as Peter Parker walked onto the Academic Decathlon stage, squaring his shoulders and settling into his designated seat for the super quiz round. It had been three full months since the terrifying bus accident.
The preliminary tests had been a breeze, but the super quiz was where championships were won and lost. He took a deep breath, smoothing down his blazer, and leaned over to whisper a quick joke to MJ, who was setting up her buzzer next to her.
Ned scannied the packed auditorium for his mom, who had promised she'd catch the final stretch. Instead of spotting her in the stands, he let out a sharp, involuntary snort of pure disbelief. He blinked hard, nudged Peter hard in the ribs, and pointed a trembling finger toward the front row.
"Dude," his best friend choked out, his voice cracking. "Look."
Peter followed his gaze up toward the center section of the front row, and a startled guffaw ripped straight out of his throat, slamming directly into the live microphone. He slapped both hands over his mouth, his face turning a violent shade of crimson.
They weren't even trying to blend in. Clint Barton was sporting his fake 1920s handlebar mustache and a tweed cap, glaring intensely at the stage like he was guarding a bank vault. Natasha Romanoff was wearing neon pink tourist sunglasses indoors, casually sipping an iced coffee. Bruce Banner was wearing a terrifyingly bright Hawaiian shirt that could be seen from low Earth orbit, and Steve Rogers-God help him-was wearing the clip-on Groucho Marx glasses complete with the fake bushy eyebrows and big plastic nose. Beside them, Pepper was trying very, very hard to maintain her corporate composure while shaking with silent laughter, and May was outright beaming.
His mind blanked, a massive surge of hysterical laughter clawing up his throat.
This is not funny. This is an important competition. This required professionalism.
Across the aisle, a member of the rival Midtown team let out a confused snort. Then another teammate choked on a laugh. The entire Midtown Decathlon team was noticing now, shoulders shaking as they fought a losing battle against absolute hysterics. They were trying so hard not to laugh because this was undignified, immature, and completely unprofessional.
This was academic excellence. It was serious.
It's not funny. It's not funny. It's not funny. Peter chanted internally, desperately hoping that if he repeated the phrase enough times, the bizarre circus in the front row would vanish or at least stop being hilarious.
Neither of those things happened.
He made the fatal, irreversible mistake of accidentally locking eyes with Clint, who offered a slow, incredibly dramatic theatrical funny face from beneath his tweed cap. Even the official competition presenter at the podium was starting to giggle into the microphone, utterly bewildered by the group of terribly disguised superheroes in the front row.
Then, Peter made his next mistake: he looked sideways at Ned.
Rule number one of lifelong friendship: When something is aggressively funny but you are under strict social orders not to laugh, you must never, EVER, under any circumstances look directly at your best friend.
The eye contact lasted a millisecond.
That was all it took.
The teen let out a helplessly, loud laugh. Ned instantly cracked, and both boys burst into a full, uncontrollable fit of giggles right there on stage with everyone else. Dang it. He hadn't wanted to give them the satisfaction. It wasn't funny at all. Except, looking back at Clint's ridiculous fake mustache, it was undeniably, catastrophically hilarious.
"Alright," the presenter cleared their throat, trying to regain a shred of professional composure while visibly holding back laughter. "Welcome to the Super Quiz..."
Peter lifted his head, wiping a tear of pure mortification from his eye, and glared across the auditorium at his ridiculous, wonderful, infuriating family. He shook his head, desperately trying to suppress a wide grin.
Across the aisle, Tony caught his eye, leaned back in his seat with absolute swagger, and gave him a slow, deliberate wink.
Peter dragged a hand down his face. He really, truly loved hated them.
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