Chapter Text
Michelle doesn’t talk to the Parkers until the funeral rolls around.
At least, not if she doesn’t count that night, the few moments after the death was still processing, the dust still settling as traffic continued down the street, leaving them separated on opposite sides of the road. She’d seen May and Peter leaning on each other, and the last thing she wanted was to intrude.
It was after that moment when her mom had offered to bring her home, that maybe they should let them have their space. They’re mourning, she’d said, as if Michelle wasn’t mourning as well. But maybe that was her own fault for not showing it better, her eyes dry despite the way they were stinging, her heart still beating regularly despite the Ben Parker sized hole ripped open. Crying has never been her strong suit, though she had a feeling she would get a lot of experience in the next few weeks.
The medical examiners were taking care of the body and the police had approached May after talking to Peter about what he’d seen. It’s not as if the mugger was still lingering around, so they needed a thorough description of what he looked like, what happened and all that. Not like it couldn’t wait, not as if a family was mourning a big loss.
Michelle felt like she was trapped in a daze or a lucid dream that evening, but she managed to look through the beam of the car headlights whizzing by to see Peter’s own weary, stricken expression looking back at her. He took a step forward but didn’t move any further, glancing back over at May, so she took the initiative herself and crossed the street.
Her mom yelled after her, but she didn’t really have half a mind to respond. All she focused on was not thinking, only moving, and her arms were around him within seconds. He nearly deflated against her, a dampness already seeping through her shirt, and she sucked in a breath. Tried not to cry with him.
It was nearly impossible when he was letting out wet shuddering gasps like pieces of him were floating away, but she managed. At the very least, she wasn’t loud about it, her tears a silent thing.
They spent nearly a half hour that night just holding each other, and she hasn’t spoken to him since.
Michelle knows he needs space. Hell, she needs space and time and maybe a big reality check as a reminder that this is real. This is the world they live in where people will be killed because they haven’t forked over their wallet and their dignity.
It’s the day of the funeral, the Saturday after the incident, and word has spread relatively fast about what happened to Ben Parker. Everyone at school was talking about it all week—as teenagers do when something big happens that’s worth gossiping about. She wondered for days if everyone had been raised in a barn due to the lack of respect, but not everyone had an Uncle Ben to help teach them shit.
She and Ned didn’t say much during lunch, the absence of Peter a somewhat bigger thing now than it had ever been before. They didn’t talk about how it hurts because that’s not what you talk about at school, but it was glaringly obvious in the silence and quiet exchanges of food.
Maybe she should feel separated by a degree. She didn’t know Ben for that long, didn’t know him as well as many. But it still hurts in a way that’s not muted, and she can’t bring herself to be the comforter even if that’s what people expect from her.
“Are you ready to go, Michelle?” her dad asks from the doorway of her room.
Michelle tucks a loose curl behind her ear, smooths down the fabric of her dress, and releases a breath—albeit somewhat shakily. She nods, follows her father out of the house with hands clenched at her sides as if her nails digging into her palms is a sufficient distraction.
She sits behind her parents in the backseat of the car on the way to the funeral home, fiddling with her phone. Ned texted something about getting there a little early, so he’s already with Peter. That’s good. She knows they need each other right about now.
There are a lot of people inside when they arrive, and she shouldn’t be as shocked as she is, knowing how much of a loved man Ben was. But his death was sudden, the funeral sudden, and the amount of people willing to drop everything to come visit is absurd. She sees May in the corner of the room, talking to someone with one arm crossed while the other holds a handkerchief to her cheek.
Michelle stays with her parents because she doesn’t know where Peter or Ned are, and she already feels out of place. She doesn’t have interesting stories or anything of importance to share, and saying things like ‘he was a good man’ seems as useless as can be since everyone already knows.
She inhales sharply, resting her head against her mom’s shoulder, her eyes burning. Not from tears but from the weariness that comes with crying and running out of tears. Her throat is dry and her stomach feels empty despite just eating, and she wonders if these are simply the side effects of grief.
“I’m going to go put these flowers over there,” her dad says, gesturing to the table by the window that’s already covered in vases and loose petals. Flowers don’t seem like such a meaningful gesture anymore, but maybe just them being there is enough.
“Michelle?”
She turns around to see Ned and Peter walking into the room, both in suits fit for a funeral. Her lip wobbles slightly as she nods her head in greeting, and she feels her mother’s hand on her shoulder. Like a gentle nudge to go over to them.
“Hey,” she greets with hesitance, wrapping her arms around Ned first. He squeezes her tight and brief, and she wishes this is something they could’ve done at school without being whispered about—if only because they would both be teary-eyed by the end, and kids like to talk when other kids cry.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Peter manages quietly when it’s his turn, his arms circling her waist, and she lets him bury his face in her neck because really, what else is she supposed to do?
“We, uh…” Michelle clears her throat slightly when they part a few moments later, a strand of hair falling in her eyes when she looks away. “We brought flowers. And a card. Sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“I mean...it’s a terrible consolation? You already have too many flowers now to take care of. And they’re gonna end up dying because of less than ideal conditions anyway, so I’m sorry that we brought something entirely useless to a funeral,” she rushes out, hoping her tone doesn’t sound too bitter. But his stance goes stiff, gaze dropping to the ground.
“What kind of flowers are they?” Ned asks as if to change the subject, trying to lighten the mood. She doesn’t know what they’d do without him.
Michelle takes a minute to answer, knowing they didn’t pick these flowers for nothing. The flowers are insignificant but the sentiment behind them is far from it. “Black dahlias.”
“Like your book?”
“Yeah...I don’t know. Ben and I have talked at length about the murder and that’s kind of how we, like...bonded?” Michelle shrugs slightly, chewing the inside of her cheek. “I just wanted to bring flowers that meant something to both of us, I guess. You can trash them if you want.”
“As if,” Peter says with a roll of his eyes, a barely-there smile on his face. But it’s more than nothing, more than what she’s got right now. A moment of comfortable silence passes between them before he folds his hands together, knuckles cracking. “Your parents are here, right? I should probably go say hi. Or something.”
“Or something,” she echoes with a small lilt to her voice, catching his eyes before he starts walking away. She releases a short breath, rolls her neck, and finds Ned staring at her like she needs to stop fidgeting. “What?”
“I know I haven’t really asked because...well, it seemed like a dumb as shit question, but...how are you doing?” Ned questions in a tone that sounds carefully constructed. “I wasn’t as close to Ben as Peter or even you, but it still...you know.”
“Yeah. I mean, I’m...coping? If you can call it that,” Michelle says with a humorless chuckle, rubbing her lips together. She sneaks a glance over at Peter who’s still talking to her parents, cataloguing the bags under his eyes, the hollows of his cheeks. “What about him?”
“Same answer as you. He keeps talking about the mugger, like…’what if it happens again, what if he comes back?’ sorta thing. Shook him up pretty good. I don’t know, man,” Ned exhales, shaking his head. “They haven’t found the guy yet, but they’re still working. Just gotta stay on high alert for now.”
Michelle wraps her arms around herself, knowing that’s always a risk. She wants to say something stupidly reassuring, like she doubts that the guy would have the guts to return to the premise where he murdered a man. But she can’t make promises like that.
“Hey, hon,” May’s soft voice greets from behind, Michelle turning around to see her kind yet devastatingly exhausted face. Her smile is stretched too thin, an ache behind her eyes. “Hey.”
“Hi, May,” she whispers, and they don’t say much more before wrapping each other in a tight hug, rocking slightly on their feet. Her eyes don’t spring with tears, but they get close as she thinks about how intertwined Ben and May were. It’s a dangerously tear-inducing thought, she knows. “I wish I could...say something more, but I’m sure you’ve heard it all already.”
“You just being here is enough. I’m sure you three,” she prompts, looking around at them when Peter comes back over and stands to her right. “Need each other more than ever right now. It makes me happy knowing you’ve got a support system like this, so just...never lose that, okay?”
The three of them nod, but Peter is the one who says something under his breath. Not that she can hear him. He looks between her and Ned though with rapidly blinking eyes and the barest smile that ever was.
“It’s about to start,” Peter utters when people start taking their seats. They’re preparing for the speeches, the eulogy, the closing of the casket before it’s buried in the cemetery. And she doesn’t think she’s ready, but no one looks like they’re ready. “I’m gonna sit in the front with May, but maybe you guys can…”
“We’ll be right behind you,” Ned assures him, nodding towards the second row of seating.
“Always,” Michelle tacks on softly, and Peter’s eyes glaze over at that, shining with tears. She thinks if this is the reason she starts crying as well, it’s the most fitting thing that could’ve happened all week.
They start having sleepovers more often.
It’s not as if they hadn’t had sleepovers before, but they’d always been unintentional, Michelle falling asleep at one of their houses before she had the chance to call her parents. She blames the fact that Peter and Ned have chosen some dull movies in the past, so she can’t quite help herself.
But now they’re having them more as a move of comfort, Michelle and Ned camping out in the Parker household pretty often now. It’s not easy being there with one less person milling about in the background, the absence of Ben a heavy and sharp thing that they’re reminded of each time they turn the corner, expecting to see him. And yet, she can’t really imagine being anywhere else right about now.
Her parents aren’t entirely happy about it, reminding her that finals are going to be coming up and she should really spend the time studying. But they never tell her to stay home, never tell her that she should stop hanging around Peter and Ned so much. They know better than that.
Michelle thinks Peter tries to use the nights as a distraction but not a very good one. He’s quieter during the movies when before, he and Ned would never shut up. She kind of misses that now when there’s dead silence throughout.
“Hey,” Peter says one evening, his cheek pressed against her shoulder. He makes sure to keep his voice quiet, Ned already having fallen asleep and May—who was invited to join them that night—still engrossed in the movie. Some science fiction thing about aliens.
“Hmm?” she hums noncommittally, feeling him shift against her. He’s been doing this a lot lately, leaning on her, and she knows she can take it better now than she could have before. “Pete?”
“I’m seriously thinking of joining the decathlon team next year.” He hesitates, toying with a loose string on the fraying pillow from his lap. “Do you mind quizzing me on these practice questions I’ve made for myself?”
“Sure.” Anything to distract her from this movie.
“Thanks. Um, here’s my phone. I wrote them in the notes,” Peter explains, handing over his device, cracked screen and all. She remembers him telling her he’d dropped it on the pavement that night, but it still works well enough.
Michelle knows he doesn’t want to just get a new one because first of all, they don’t have the money, and second, he doesn’t want to lose all of his old texts. Especially not the ones he’d had with Ben. It’s understandable, and she almost tells him she would do the same thing.
“What is the tensile strength of spider silk?”
“1.3 GPa,” he answers easily, and she tells him he’s right. He made the questions after all, so she doesn’t know why he wouldn’t be.
“How much can a spider lift?” she asks, biting her lower lip, and he laughs quietly. She really doesn’t know what’s funny but it’s Peter, so things rarely make sense when it comes to him.
“170 times their own body weight.”
“Doubt a spider could lift the weight of my foot coming down to kill it,” Michelle mutters offhandedly, and he gasps, mock-offended.
“Stop killing spiders.”
“I hate them,” she exclaims, and his lips quirk slightly as he wraps himself around her right arm, lids getting heavier. “Am I just a pillow to you, or what? It’s not even ten o’clock—do not do this to me, Parker.”
“Sorry...can’t hear you,” he mumbles.
Michelle rolls her eyes before looking back down at his notes. A small smile graces her face as she asks, “How far can a spider hear?”
“They can hear a range of sounds from more than six feet away due to sensory organs on their legs,” Peter hums. “But spiders don’t have ears, so you can’t really compare us.”
“Ah. Yeah, you’re right. Your ears are massive,” she snorts, and he sits up at that, mouth opening and closing like a fish. It’s kind of funny to her, the idea that he isn’t self-aware about his ear size. But it’s not like it’s old news—everyone knows this. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Would you rather me look at you with eight eyes?”
“God, stop putting images in my head. These decathlon questions are going to be useless, by the way, when it comes to joining next year.” She puts his phone on the coffee table and leans back, using him as a pillow this time instead. Her heart is beating pretty loudly though, so she hopes he can’t hear that. “What’s up with all the spider facts, anyway?”
“Just wanted to brush up,” he murmurs quietly now that she’s the one almost ready to fall asleep. His hand hovers over her shoulder, like he doesn’t know what to do with it. To be fair, it’s never her who falls asleep on him, always the other way around.
But then his palm finally settles in her hair, combing his fingers through her curls gently as if that’s just a normal, friendly thing to do. She really can’t believe the audacity of this guy and wonders if he’s getting a kick out of this.
“You would tell me if you were about to do something reckless or stupid, right?” she whispers, half asleep by the time she asks.
“I’d never keep anything from you,” he replies back, something soft to his tone, but for some reason—whether it be because they’re in the position they are right now with Peter giving her nothing to go on, or because secrets are typically the easier route—she doesn’t quite believe him.
On the nights they don’t spend with each other, Michelle can admit that sleep doesn’t come the easiest to her. And it’s not for any real reason—not if you don’t count the fact that sometimes when she closes her eyes, she can still hear the gunshot ringing out. But most people would count that as a real reason, so she’s in the minority.
It’s annoying and hard to process at the same time, knowing that she wasn’t even there for it to have the same impact. But she heard it, and that was all it took for her brain to remind her that this is the sound of a life ending. Truly what she needs instead of sleep, absolutely fantastic.
Tonight is one of those nights where she feels trapped awake, staring up at her ceiling fan as it spins in aimless circles, not quite fast enough to even cause a draft. Jasmine is by her side, fast asleep and snoring, and Michelle is admittedly jealous.
But it’s Friday, which means it doesn’t really matter if she screws up her sleep schedule to go downstairs and sit on the couch, flicking on the television. The blue light wakes her up, but even if it didn’t, the news channel that was last on would have. She mutes the sound, turns on subtitles, and rests her cheek against her knuckles, watching as the news anchor speaks in front of a burning building.
Someone left their gas oven on. She doesn’t read the text on the screen after that, aware that the last thing she’d like to know is how many casualties there were. But the house isn’t too far from her neighborhood, which makes her stomach hurt.
She brings a pillow to her chest, grabbing her phone after it vibrates with a message. It’s not a surprise that it’s from Peter. They’ve gone and messed up their sleep schedules together.
Peter: did u hear about the explosion?
Michelle: I'm not gonna ask how you know I’m awake but I’m watching the news right now. What a coincidence that we’re on the same wavelength yet again.
Peter: our minds !!! we’re like the same person
Michelle: go to sleep parker
Peter: no :/ can’t
Michelle: why not
Peter: bc I’m too busy watching the news and dwelling on all of these tragic accidents that we’re basically helpless to stop. exhibit a — explosion. no time for sleep
Michelle: no rest for the weary
Peter: wb you?
Michelle: just don’t like closing my eyes anymore
Peter: they’re gonna dry out if you do that :(
Michelle: :/
Peter: :’) just want u to take care of yourself
Michelle: Sometimes I hear it. The shot
The next thing Michelle knows, her phone is ringing with a call from him. She exhales slowly, wondering if it was a mistake to let him in on that tidbit of information. But she answers anyway—of course she does. And she’s greeted with silence.
“Pete?” Michelle says quietly, and she hears him inhale sharply. She tries not to press further because it’s still a very sensitive topic, but he called her. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said—”
“I don’t hear the shot, usually,” he finally responds, interrupting her, but she lets it slide just this time. “But I hear his body falling...and the sound of the mugger running away. It's too much and my senses can’t handle it and sometimes I have to lock myself in my closet just to make it stop.”
“Why haven’t you told me?”
“Why haven’t you said you’ve been hearing the gunshot?” Peter counters evenly, and she snaps her mouth shut. “I’m—I’m sorry that you had to hear Ben getting—all because I couldn’t...even bring myself to hang up and be there alone. But I wasn’t able to save him anyway, so what good did it really do me—”
“It was not your job to save him,” she tells him firmly because despite everything, it’s the truth. In a scenario with a kid, an adult, and a robber, it should not be up to the kid to risk his life for anyone. “I understand that you wanted to and I understand that you thought you could have, but you would’ve gotten hurt.”
“He might not have been killed though,” Peter argues, a wobble to his voice, and she has to open her eyes so as to not picture his face anymore.
“Or you would’ve been killed too.”
A moment of silence passes, and she wonders how many times he’s warred with himself over this very topic.
“I thought murders were your thing,” he finally jokes, trying for a more lighthearted tone, and damn him for managing to get a small smile out of her. “You made me listen to that true crime podcast and I was like...wow. Why am I friends with you again?”
“Shut up,” she says with a roll of her eyes, biting back a smirk, and he hums, pleased with himself. “Murders are my thing, but if you don’t have to die, then don’t .”
“Is this your way of saying you’re glad I’m alive?”
“No, because you already know that,” she finishes softly, and he lies his phone somewhere on his chest. She only knows because she can hear his heartbeat. “Don’t keep dwelling on tragic accidents we’re helpless to stop. Turn off the news.”
“I’ll consider it,” he responds, something to his tone that she can’t really read, and that’s a first. But he does turn off the news as the clock hits three a.m. “Talk to you Sunday?”
“Not later today?”
“I’m gonna be busy with a few things. Helping May pack some stuff away and whatnot,” Peter tells her, and she accepts that quietly. “You turn off the news, too. Try to get some sleep.”
“Goodnight, Pete,” Michelle eventually says, and they both hang up the call. She leans back on the couch, her eyelids heavy as she continues staring at the flashing TV screen. But it’s all still muted, which is why she catches the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.
“Meesh...why are you awake at this time of night?” her mom asks, massaging an eye with her knuckle. She looks like the most tired person Michelle’s ever seen in her life, but only because she hasn’t looked in the mirror lately. “Something the matter?”
“Not really,” she says, swallowing, but it’s mother’s intuition that sees right through her.
“You wanna switch that over to Seinfeld?” her mom says with a ghost of a smile, taking a spot next to her on the couch and flipping through the channels, eventually landing on reruns of Seinfeld. “Mind if I crash here with you?”
“Please,” Michelle responds with a small exhale, resting her head on her mother’s shoulder. And maybe falling asleep to the sound of laugh tracks, the feeling of her mom rubbing her shoulders, is more comforting than hearing the crisp sound of burning wood on repeat.
Ned clicks his tongue and his pen, shaking his head. “You’re late.”
“You’re late,” Michelle echoes, crossing her legs up on the seat that was meant to be for him, ignoring the way Ned snorts and cracks a knowing smile. She raises an eyebrow before wrinkling her nose, taking note of the way his curls are damp against his forehead. “And sweaty.”
“Sorry—sorry, guys. I just…lost track of time,” Peter admits, biting his lower lip, rocking on his heels like he doesn’t really want to say where he was despite the fact that it’s pretty obvious. His hand clamps around the back of the chair like he’s gonna pull it out right from under her feet. “I, uh...was working out a little bit? Down in the gym, um—”
“You’ve been working out? For what?” Ned asks, squinting.
“For...fun?”
“Okay, well, we’ve been here...in the library. Not for fun but for studying without you...since, you know, we’ve had this planned,” Michelle says without preface, and his lips tug into a betrayed frown as if he wasn’t the one who was late. Dramatic. “Hey, Ned, we should go over to your Lola’s if it’s just gonna be us—”
“Yeah, Michelle, you’re totally right. Like Pete can ditch us to go have fun in the gym if he wants—”
“But at least we’ll be the ones prepared for our finals,” she finishes flatly, gauging the way Peter looks between the two of them with a pout. Her and Ned wait a beat before she concedes with a lengthy exhale. “We’re messing with you, obviously. Just don’t be late again or you’re no longer invited.”
“I won’t,” Peter immediately promises, perking up. He glances down at the chair with her feet on it and then looks back over at her. “Can I sit here?”
“I don’t know. Can you?”
“May I?”
“Not a trick question, but good for you for correcting yourself,” Michelle jokes. He smiles at her, looks down at the chair again, and without warning, takes a seat by lifting her legs, placing them onto his lap. She isn’t sure what universe he’s living in that this would be remotely okay. “And here I was, expecting you to shove me off.”
“I’m not that rude,” Peter counters, his fingers tracing circles against her ankles and leaving a sensation of warmth in their wake. “Consider this my punishment for being late.”
“ Punishment ,” she repeats, aghast, as if this wouldn’t be a moment of his dreams . He merely smirks at her. “And you say you’re not that rude.”
“Punishment times two,” Ned tacks on, draping his legs over Peter’s lap as well, and they’re suddenly stacked like a game of Jenga. “Buckle up, bro, we’re gonna be here for another hour and a half.”
“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” Peter says with an earnest expression, but with the amount of times he glances at the clock throughout their session, she isn’t so sure what to think.
The rest of the school year comes and goes quicker than Michelle could’ve imagined, but all that’s really been on her mind lately has been passing finals—which she managed with ease. No thanks to their useless study sessions though as they had turned into periods of time where they would just goof off and waste hours away. Not that she should be surprised considering it’s Peter and Ned.
She knows now that school is over, it’ll only be a matter of time before she’s shipped off to her aunt’s house in New Jersey. Her mom reminds her all the time that Anna is gonna make sure she’s going to have a good summer, and it’s not that she doubts that. It’s just the fact that leaving home and everything that’s familiar to her for three months makes her stomach churn—probably not in a good way.
It’s why she spends time with Ned and Peter while she still can, having their last few movie nights at her house—if only because they both miss her dog.
“Jas,” Ned coos, ruffling Jasmine’s fur as he crouches to pet her. They’re clearly both enjoying themselves, and good for them. “Aw. You cutie. You wanna watch the movie with us? Yeah? I’ll let you sit on my lap.”
“You spoil her,” Michelle says with a slight smirk, and he laughs, nodding. It’s true, Jasmine’s routine having become a lot richer in pats and belly rubs when those two boys came into her life. “Is Peter coming late again?”
“He hasn’t messaged me or anything, so I’m...assuming. Does he know tonight’s your last night in the city?” Ned asks, and she tells him yeah, of course he does. He’s been the one counting down the days on his calendar until she leaves, which she thought was incredibly rude—until he said it was because he didn’t want one day to go by where he didn’t get to see her before she left. So slightly less rude, slightly more blush inducing. Whatever. “Hey, random...question. Kind of. Maybe I’m just reading too far into things, but has he been acting weirder than usual lately?”
“Weird how? In my opinion, he’s been weird ever since that incident at Oscorp. Sticky boy and everything,” she says with her lips pressed in a thin line, shrugging.
“But especially since Ben’s...you know...his head has sort of been in the clouds. Don’t you think? And he brushes it off as nothing because trust me, I’ve asked,” Ned tentatively says, and she thinks about that night when he called her—the night of the explosion. There was something about his tone that didn’t sit right with her, but she didn’t push him on it. “I’m just worried, that’s all.”
“No, I get you. I do. Maybe we could ask him if everything’s okay when or if he ever gets here,” Michelle says, lower lip caught between her teeth, and well, speak of the devil when the doorbell rings at that moment. She exhales and walks over to open it, Jasmine at her heels.
And there he is, looking like he’s about to go on a camping trip with a backpack slung over one shoulder and a familiar black case slung over the other. His expression is apologetic.
“Sorry I’m late. I, um, wanted to come prepared and I kind of couldn’t fit everything in May’s car, so I walked all the way over. Well, I ran,” he rambles, cheeks flushed but certainly not from exertion. “Did you guys start the movie?”
“No. We were waiting for you,” Michelle tells him, not unkindly, and makes a sweeping gesture for him to come inside. He ducks his head, walking in and bending down to greet her dog. “So. You coming to Jersey with me or what? What’s with all the...stuff?”
“I wish,” Peter says with a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. He and Ned do their classic handshake in greeting before he drops everything on the ground. “I’ll...show you after the movie?”
Michelle shrugs, gesturing to the couch, and the three of them crowd onto it as she finds the Black Dahlia documentary. No doubt they knew she would pick this. She’s seated in between the two of them, Ned chomping on popcorn to her right and Peter just leaning on her shoulder to her left. She’s pretty sure he has never sat up straight around her—ever.
It’s about halfway through the movie when Ned tells her he really likes this film, and she feels her lips stretch into a pleased smile.
“Your taste, honestly,” Ned hums, kissing the tips of his fingers, and she smirks. “Good ‘ol fashioned murder.”
“I like this movie too,” Peter says, quieter, but the soft smile is still there. He tells her it reminds him of Ben, and she feels a pang of guilt, like maybe she shouldn’t have chosen this one, but he shakes his head. Tells her he’s glad she did.
They finish up around nine at night, and Michelle isn’t sure how long either of them were planning on staying. Her parents were out for dinner, and she doesn’t know what time they were planning on getting back.
“Gosh,” Ned yawns, stretching his arms in the air. “That was great. I can’t believe this is our last movie night for three months.”
“You guys aren’t gonna do them during the summer?”
“Not without you. This is our thing,” Peter says, pressing his lips together. He drops his eyes after a moment, tracing his finger over the pattern on their couch. “Wish you weren’t leaving.”
“I’ll be back before you know it. You can call me every day if you feel so inclined,” Michelle reminds him, and he cracks a small smile. His eyes slightly widen just then like he remembered something, and he grabs her hand, tugging her off the couch. “What—Peter—”
“Okay, I’ve been practicing.” He lets her hand go as he stands in front of the black case, if only to knead his own fingers together nervously. “For Ned. And he said I didn’t suck, so—”
“Bro, I told you that you were amazing,” Ned pipes up, twisting around on the couch to look at them. He gives Peter an encouraging two thumbs’ up. “You’ve got this. I’m sure Michelle wouldn’t even laugh if you messed up anyway.”
“Gee, thanks,” Peter says with a shaky laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. He plucks his saxophone from its case, the brass shining under the dim light of her living room’s single lamp, and he drapes the strap around his neck. “I wasn’t able to write you an original song or anything, but I hope you still...like it.”
Michelle feels herself smiling already, even before he starts, and when his lips find the mouthpiece, she knows she’s going to love it. The melody is sweet and smooth and reminds her of an old record her father used to play in the mornings when she was small.
His fingers travel skillfully across the keys, eyes closing, and she’d be lying if she said hers didn’t do the same. It’s relaxing, and she wants to melt into it all.
When the notes fade into nothing, Michelle opens her eyes again to see him already looking at her with an expression she thinks she’ll tuck into the folds of her heart forever. Ned’s clapping into the background sort of takes her out of it, but she smiles all the same.
“You were fantastic. That was so good,” she tells him, and he blushes at the ground. “I hope you’ll invite me to the rest of your band concerts from here on out.”
“I don’t even know if I’m gonna stay in band for the rest of high school,” Peter says tentatively, and she frowns because why the hell not? He doesn’t give an answer though. “But thank you. I’m...really happy that you liked it. I may or may not have been stressing over this for ages, so…”
“I mean, it’s just me,” Michelle replies with a half smile, and he nods, eyes shining.
“Yeah. It’s you.”
Michelle especially wishes she wasn’t going anywhere the next day when he’s looking at her like that, making her heart race. And she knows she’ll be back, but she hopes it’ll still be the same. For now, she gives what she has, and that’s her arms around him before he can even blink twice. His bulky saxophone is kind of in the way, but she doesn’t really care.
“Thanks for sharing your talents,” she tells him quietly, and he inhales sharply, one arm coming around her waist while the other swings his sax to his back. And then both arms are holding her to him, nose brushing the skin of her shoulder.
“Anything for you,” he whispers, and her face heats up. If it were just them, she wonders what could have happened next. But it’s not, so she pulls back slightly and smiles and looks over at Ned, who isn’t really paying them any attention. She calls him over anyway, and they let him join in their hug because it’s been the three of them all year. She hopes that’ll never change, even if they do.
“Gonna miss you a lot, Michelle,” Ned mumbles, squeezing them both all that much tighter.
“You guys can call me MJ,” she says tentatively, looking at both of them with a small smile, her heart pounding hard as she thinks about Ben. “If you’d like.”
“MJ,” Ned echoes.
“MJ,” Peter says with a wet smile. “It fits you.”
Michelle presses her hand to her cheek, smiling, and they stand like that until Peter pulls away after a moment, looking around for his bag. It’s leaning against the wall, and he starts to rummage through it. She asks if either of them want to stay for dinner—which will probably be some microwaved hot pockets, and they both chorus with a yes.
“You know, it runs in the family, I think. The fact that I can’t cook shit,” Michelle says offhandedly, starting to walk towards the kitchen and rummaging through the freezer. She takes out the box, dropping it on the table where Ned has taken a seat.
“Hey, guys,” Peter calls from the living room, and she twists her head to glance over. But it’s too dark to really see him. “Maybe...this is an out of the blue request, but it’s...I’ll explain everything.”
“What is it?” Ned asks.
“And maybe I’ve timed this for today because I know MJ is gonna kill me. Hell, you both might,” he continues, his voice wobbling slightly as he approaches the kitchen. “But I’ve been thinking...for weeks now about this... thing and—”
“Spit it out, Pete. Why am I apparently gonna kill you since you’re telling us the day before I’m about to leave?” Michelle asks with a sigh, pushing a hand through her hair, and he walks into the well-lit room, dropping two rolls of spandex onto the table. One red and one blue.
“Do either of you know how to sew?” he asks with a wry smile, and she truly wonders—what the hell is he planning.