Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Living in New York City rarely feels as glamorous as the movies and aesthetic blogs make it seem. Most days, that lively hustle and bustle of our beautiful, ever-dreaming city reminds me of a horde of flies conducting emergency drills underwater. Especially on foggy days. And muggy days. And Mondays, Tuesdays, occasionally Wednesdays. However, the almost-weekend to weekend days that sprinkle in refreshing breezes alongside bright sunshine - those days pull you up by the back of your collar and shove optimism down your shirt like it’s a cool, wet towel. The city tingles from the ground up.

Today is one of those good days.

Ironically, I woke up exhausted. I nearly spilled my breakfast in my lap (but didn’t, thanks to Peter) and I walked with him, MJ, and Ned to school through fields of exhaust fumes half-awake. Once there, though, it all seemed to turn around. The classes I attended went by quickly and easily, and the classes I didn’t attend I’ll assume went just as well. I skipped half of them for the first time in my life.

Occasional “homework sharing” is the only rule-breaking behavior I tend to engage in regularly, and while certain teachers would probably be disappointed, feel betrayed, or reprimand me for it if they knew, it’s hard to see it (or today’s truancy) as a serious infraction when one or two of my friends have far more dangerous habits. 

In any case, Michelle and Ned can be extremely persuasive, and it was their idea to skip those classes. Not that I needed much persuasion today; the suggestion was enough. I’ve been so giddy this week that I embraced the tiny rebellious action with open arms. (“Tiny” seems like an appropriate description: all we did was hide out in random parts of the school watching Vines, playing minor pranks in the hallways during breaks, and stealing food from Peter’s stash of locker snacks as payback for his refusal to join us.)

Today has been perfect, and outside of Peter acting a bit strange, it’s been a pretty amazing week overall. It’s just so easy to be happy with everything going on. Tonight: special dinner with our friends. Tomorrow: Midtown’s academic decathlon team heads to Washington, D.C. Shortly after, my friends and I will attend homecoming, go on summer break, and enter our senior year of high school. My anticipation for this trip, the dance, the summer, and our eventual graduation bubbles up in my stomach anytime the conversation between me, Ned, and Michelle takes a short dip as we walk back from school.

Despite all of the upcoming things I have to think about, this walk is making my thoughts drift back to the one topic I’ve been trying most to avoid. Why wouldn’t Peter sneak out of class? It isn’t as if he’s above rule-breaking. And then why leave during seventh hour when we all have class together? Is it just a today thing? He’s seemed… off all week.

I need to stop thinking about him. Wondering why he’s been strangely reserved lately or imagining the previous seven hours with him more present in their events is not going to help me do what I need to do, which is just to keep our friendship normal and pretend like nothing’s changed on my side. Just think about something else. Anything else. Even someone else.

“Should we invite Flash?” I ask, interrupting something Ned just started to say. I ask this partly because it’s a question nobody has brought up yet, and partly because I haven’t been able to focus on our conversation for at least a mile. The lack of concentration keeps letting my mind wander out of my control. I even thought I saw Spidey a minute ago, even though by now he’s on the other side of Queens. Think of something else.

We stop on the sidewalk, traffic rushing in front of us, the air current blowing everyone’s hair to the left, countless people dodging each other as some rush and others do their best to keep out of the way.

Ned and Michelle turn to me with matching expressions of surprise and disdain.

“And why would we do that?” Ned asks, his voice cutting dully through the buzzing noise of the street.

“Because every—”

“Oh, shit.” Michelle groans, catching on. “Because everyone else, bar Mr. Harrington, is going. The entire team except Flash.” She pauses, as if waiting for a good enough reason to say no. But there isn’t one and we both know it. She huffs; the sound confirms that there’s no way around the necessary, inconvenient irritation that is about to be having to invite and potentially put up with him. “For being so smart, we’re all a bunch of fucking idiots.”

“Technically we don’t have to do anything,” Ned says, obviously resistant to the idea. “It isn’t an official team dinner or whatever. We can’t get in trouble for it.”

“Still, as captain, I can’t organize a social gathering with everyone but Flash and pretend it isn’t a shitty thing to do. God damn it.”

The walk signal turns white as Michelle starts a text to Flash. Peter’s apartment is only a few blocks away.

Once we reach the door, Ned knocks. We all know Peter and May won’t be in, but Ned has a habit of politeness that’s almost unshakeable. After a couple seconds, he unlocks it himself with one of the five total keys to the apartment. (Strictly speaking, May isn’t supposed to have had three extra copies made. But she wouldn’t be May if she paid that rule any mind.)

“So,” Michelle says, heaving her backpack into a chair. “Music and clean, then Netflix and chill?”

The three of us look around at the destruction our last night of studying brought the apartment. Snacks and dishes are strewn in odd places and the fallen pillow fort is a ruin. A sticky 5 Hour Energy must have splashed on the carpet at some point, because there’s a pink stain to the right of the couch. Coating most of the colossal mess are countless pieces of scribbled-on paper.

Ned and I nod in agreement.

Michelle’s speaker beeps awake so we set to work.

As I gather garbage, I let the music fill up my head. I imagine confetti raining down inside of it, each piece sparkling with tiny letters reading: It’s a good day.

The only thing that could make this day better would be the presence of Peter and May Parker. But then again, Peter ducked out of last hour, I suppose to get a head start on his “internship” (he’s never done that before though, so the irony of his skipping part of Psych and not any other classes did not slide by unnoticed by Michelle or Ned either) and May has… a job, a hobby? I really don’t know. Wherever they are and whatever they’re doing, I can’t help wishing they were home.

May returns around 5 p.m. As usual, she’s unsurprised to find us watching Netflix. Over the last couple weeks, we took study breaks by picking out a lighthearted show and making questions from an episode. Today is an exclusively no-studying day, but we can’t help continuing the mini-tradition while we marathon Friends.

“Ah, the Studying-Not-Studying game,” May says as she walks over smiling, her arms crossed.

“It’s a vital healing process for our near-fatally strained brains,” I tell her, nodding.

“I’m sure it is. You kids have studied harder in the last week than I remember ever studying in high school.”

Michelle laughs.

“Yeah, probably because you didn’t have to study as much. Didn’t you ace all your classes without trying?”

“Who told you that? You know, standards are so much higher now, especially at a school like Midtown, and there’s more to learn. Plus, I wasn’t on a decathlon team or anything like that.” She pauses, still smiling. “Though, Peter’s brains were never a huge surprise to Ben or me. It’s a prerequisite to being in the family.” 

May winks, though her smile falters a little. For a second, I wonder if we’re about to be in one of those quiet, still moments; they happen sometimes when someone mentions Uncle Ben.

And then a phone buzzes, distracting us all. 

Michelle goes to reach for it—

“Wait, MJ! You can’t answer that text until you answer my question for this episode. Were they,” May says, “or were they not,” she pauses, “on a break?”

“Oh god, no,” I pretend to plead. “Don’t start this again, Ned and MJ argued about this for twenty minutes before you got here.”

“Okay, but Rachel did say—” Ned begins.

“Oh my god, Ned! We talked about this!”

Michelle begins explaining with her hands and May grins again, walking into the kitchen. Feinting defeat, I put my head in my hands and sink into the couch cushion. Slumped, I take out my own phone. Nothing.

I text Peter.

“Still good for 7:30?”

Whoosh. And now the waiting game begins. Actually, it began at 3:00 p.m. when I sent the first of a dozen messages. But none of them were questions, so an answer wasn’t exactly necessary.

“Hey MJ,” I say after a minute or two. “What was that text you got?”

Michelle and Ned halt, hands frozen in expressionistic flight.

“Let’s see.” She flips her phone over. “It’s from Flash.”

Ned clasps his hands together.

“Dear merciful God,” he prays. “Please, please, let MJ read us a rejection text from Eugene ‘Flash’ Ass-Hat Rich-Boy Bitch-Boy.”

We made up that nickname today while cutting fourth hour. Not quite eloquent, but to the point. Plus, it’s almost impossible to say seven times fast. (We made a game of trying.)

Michelle types a quick response and takes a breath, placing her hand on Ned’s shoulder.

“Prepare yourself for something dreadful, Ned.” She hangs her head. “Eugene ‘Flash’ Ass-Hat Rich-Boy Bitch-Boy is… ‘super doped out’ to accept our invitation.”

“God damn it.”

“Kids!” May calls from the kitchen. “Haven’t I ever told you to watch your language?” 

Chapter Text

I hate the waiting game.

It is by far my least favorite game to play with Peter. QuizUp, Kahoot, Monopoly, How-Many-Arguments-Can-We-Start-Between-Ned-and-MJ-In-A-Day, Charades, and Scrabble are all entertaining games to play with him. The waiting game, however, is grey and bland. It makes me feel both paranoid and clingy. Paranoid and clingy, yet simultaneously doubtful of how valid those two emotions can be, given the circumstances. It’s a draining game of mental tennis. On one side of the court: I’m being — and coming across as — so clingy. On the other: My emotions are justified reactions that anyone would have in this situation, not knowing if their friend is okay. Peter probably knows that too. Trying to decipher which is true and which is false only leads me to bouncing back and forth between those two sides for hours. Until Peter responds. Then it all goes away.

The stress of the waiting game always manifests as an itch on my right index finger.

Most days that itch only somewhat bothers me— but today, of course, isn’t most days. It’s been a wonderful, sunny day that everyone (but Flash) has been planning for over a month. Like the city, it might not be glamorous, but it’s ours and it’s meant to be special.

I mean, even Peter has been excited about this from the start, all the way up to today. Despite being somewhat of a recluse this week.

At this point, my finger is red and burning. Peter hasn’t answered my texts, Michelle’s ironically professional emails, or Ned’s dozen calls. It’s 7:15 p.m.

Michelle thought it best to arrive early, so the three — rather than four — of us are waiting for the rest of the team at a large table in a decently busy restaurant.

I open my messages. Still nothing.

“We’re already here, btw.”

Whoosh. I close them. Ned glances at my phone.

“Tell him if he’s later than 8, I’ll rat him out to Aunt May. She told him this morning that he should skip his ‘Starky stuff’ and just hang out with everybody today. I don’t think she was too happy when she got home and saw he wasn’t there.”

I hadn’t heard May say anything to Peter this morning. Then again, I had fallen asleep at the table. (Michelle kept kneeing me on the couch all night— the reason I barely slept.) And when Peter woke me up because the cereal bowl I was cradling threatened to fall, May didn’t even make a joke about it. Did they have an argument?

“Earth to Y/N?” Ned waved his hand in front of my face. “Daydreaming about Spider-Man again?”

On the bright side, Peter isn’t here to hear that. Ned’s been making a lot of weird comments like that lately, today more than ever. It’s not helping the fact I feel so paranoid. How would Ned know? And why so suddenly?

“Very funny. I’ll text him.”

I open my messages again.

“You and May okay? Ned says he’ll tell her you bailed if you don’t get here by 8. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

A few minutes later, the waiter brings a tray of waters. Two minutes more and he leads Abe, Cindy, Sally, and unexpectedly, Betty, the blonde newsgirl, non-decathlon member, to the table.

We exchange a round of Hello!’s. 

“It’s cool if Betty joins us, right?” Sally asks. “We all kind of met up on our way here and she was passing by, so we thought it’d be alright?”

“Of course,” Michelle says. Her nails drum the table. Our little code.

“Absolutely,” I add. “Ned was just saying we should have invited you, Betty!”

Ned thinks he can keep a secret. But he can’t. I’ve noticed him staring at her in seventh hour and Michelle is far too perceptive to miss it. With me, Michelle, Peter, and Flash all being in that class, you’d think he might make an effort to be less obvious.

Have I been obvious? Is that why Ned kept making those jokes today? But why today? I barely even saw Peter, let alone while Ned was there.

“Really? Thank you! I didn’t want to intrude on the team before you guys left or anything.”

Her smile is genuine. I suppress a laugh as Ned’s ears twinge red and he struggles for a cool way to play along.

“Yeah, totally. I mean, you should go with us to D.C. It’d be totally cool.”

“And totally against the rules,” Cindy points out, frowning. “Don’t get me wrong, it would be cool, but Mr. Harrington doesn’t let anyone outside of the team come. Trust me, I-”

BEEEEEEP! A horn blares outside. Once. Twice. Thrice. The third blast holds for ten seconds, minimum.

A waitress, her arms full of hot plates, glares out the window she’s now blocking. I have a guess as to which car in all of New York it is, though. Nevertheless, the scent of freshly baked salmon, wild rice, chocolate, and something lemony from the plates is making my mouth water. Hurry up, Peter. Even Flash is on time.

“I predict,” Abe says, “Flash will walk through those doors in approximately sixty seconds.”

Everyone watches the clock, all knowing it’s undoubtedly him.

A little over a minute later, Flash strides in.

“You know,” he announces, pulling off his the price of this could buy Ned a new gaming console jacket, “in this world, there are the Have’s and the Have-Not’s. And the Have-Not’s are real dicks to any Have’s with a worthwhile car.”

Michelle immediately starts to speak.

“No need to go off on a spiel, O’ Captain, Our Captain,” he mocks. “I know, I know. Rich people, poor people, power structures, etcetera etcetera. Don’t get your braids in a knot.”

“Are-”

“Oh my god! It’s not a race thing! Chill out. It’s literally because you’re wearing braids today. Not everything means something, you know!”

He’s barely sat down and he’s already trying his best to pick a fight. The consistency of it borders on comforting. In a strange, stupid way, Flash is dependable.

“Freud would beg to differ,” says a voice to my left.

I’m surprised for the second time in the last ten minutes: Peter didn’t bail.

I feel my pulse jump as he runs a hand through his hair and shrugs. I hate myself for it. He slides into the booth to take the table’s last seat beside me. Oddly, he doesn’t say hello or acknowledge me at all. Then again, he’s been odd all week.

Does Ned know something? Did he tell Peter? Does Peter feel awkward about me now? 

I try to shake these thoughts out of my head. Ned can’t know anything. I haven’t said a thing to anyone. Ever. It has to be something else. 

“Yeah, well,” Flash says, affronted. “Freud wasn’t a real psychologist anyway. What’s his work got to offer? It’s not even valid.”

Everyone races into the topic at once, drowning out the restaurant’s gentle music.

Moments like this make me fall in love with my friends all over again. My best friends are talking passionately with their hands, their individual mannerisms and voices blending together like warm colors and soft city sounds. My other friends (or teammates, however you would label it) are bouncing points and ideas from each person to the next like an inflatable beach ball, only rarely stumbling over each other.

For once, I sit back and soak up the moment. Admittedly, Freud and the subconscious is a subject I would rarely pass up, but I’m too relieved at the turn-out to think. Everyone showed up. Everyone is getting along. (As much as can be expected.) Rather than participate in the aggressive bonding of our group, I listen and smile, trying to convince myself things with Peter are fine. This is the perfect night for an almost perfect day, don’t overthink it.

I take a moment to admire the restaurant. It’s one Abe suggested. The room is deep red, the hanging lights emit a delicate glow, and for the sake of minimalistic elegance, gold flecks are painted to sprinkle down the walls from the ceiling. It’s such a small detail I almost miss it. Other tables are talking and joking, silverware clanging and plates steaming. It smells like a fresh bakery impregnated with a vegetable garden and a smokehouse.

Mouth watering again, I notice Flash is the only one looking at a menu. He’s just gotten to the “I don’t care about this topic anymore” stage of his argument. I don’t want to interrupt anyone, so I pick up my menu as well. Maybe someone else will catch on and one by one we’ll come back down to Earth.

“Yes it does!” Peter shouts beside me.

Maybe not.

“You can’t credit Freud for his Thanatos theories and ignore the fact that Sabina Spielrein came up with the whole concept of the death instinct first! Even he admitted it!” Peter says. I suddenly realize he’s seriously into this argument. The point he’s making is one of my own though, so it gives me a short flutter of pride. I know he listens to me and to everyone else, but it’s satisfying to have it confirmed, to know, with evidence, that we learn from each other. “Right, Ned?”

Peter turns from Flash to me to Ned. In the half-second they’re directed at me, his eyes shine with anger. My gut drops. Peter never gets angry, not like this, not at me.

“Yeah,” Ned says slowly, “but Y/N gets this better than I do. Didn’t you say—?”

Peter whips back to Flash.

“My point is—”

Ned gives me a questioning look, head tilted.

Peter is less than a foot to my left, but I take out my phone anyway. He’s too deep into the argument to notice and I can’t ignore whatever is going on anymore. I message Ned and Michelle.

“Peter mad at me for something?”

Whoosh.

The waiter returns to the table.

“Anyone ready to order?” he says, pen and paper pad in hand.

“I am,” Flash affirms immediately. “I’ll have the-”

“We’ll need a few minutes,” I say. Nobody picked up the menu hint.

The waiter nods and leaves with a smile.

“Okay, how about we all shut up now?” Michelle says. “Everyone have their menus? Excellent. Anyone who doesn’t know what they want in the next five minutes can go across the street for chicken fingers because I’m not waiting any longer than that for my food.”

Her flat smile is clearly a (mostly joking) warning. Finally, everyone picks up their menus.

The table as a whole seems fine and still energetic. Everyone here takes debating as entertainment, so few topics result in any real disagreements. (Well, we get over them quickly, at least.) 

Across the table, Abe points at his favorite dish as a suggestion for Cindy. Everyone else is calmly reading the first page.

Except Peter. Peter’s mouth is screwed up in mute irritation. Truthfully, it’s hard to take him seriously with that expression. It looks like he’s trying to hide something in there. Just a couple secrets, no big deal. I consider whispering a joke to him about it to lighten the mood, but I deflect the thought immediately; I doubt it would work right now.

Ding! Ding! 

My phone. Peter huffs. I switch it to silent.

MJ: “He’s acting weird. Maybe it’s about May? They got into an argument in her room while you were cuddling your Fruity Pebbles.”

“About what?”

Whoosh.

Bzz.  

MJ: “I couldn’t hear. Kind of pissed me off. I have no idea. Ned?”

I glance up. Michelle has built a house out of her and Abe’s menu since he’s looking at Cindy’s. Her phone must be hidden inside like an Easter egg.

Ned, like me, hasn’t put that kind of effort into covering up our gossiping. He’s scanning the menu, but texting under the table.

Bzz.

Ned: “I heard 1: time management 2: friendly-at-home-occasionally Peter Parker 3. Y/N might”

Me?

“I might what?”

Whoosh.

Ned: “I cnat believe i typed that without any mistakes not looking. and idk. those were just the words i cauhgt.”

MJ: “Ironic, Ned.”

I sneak a peek at Peter. He lifts an eyebrow. I’m not sure if it’s a reaction to something on the menu or if he knows I’m trying to analyze him through my peripheral vision. Either way, I give up on both the analysis and the texts.

Chapter Text

Aside from Peter’s obtrusive moodiness, the dinner ends up better than I imagined. We try to avoid too much debating— to save our brainpower for the coming tournament… and, though no one says it, to avoid being kicked out of the restaurant because Peter was getting way too loud while arguing with Flash.

Instead, we go a different route. We breathe life back into a handful of school memories, the kind I hope we always remember, no matter how old we are or how far apart we all live. A personal favorite of mine is the time the captain of our baseball team misheard “shoe string” as “g-string” during the “Lost and Found” pep assembly game and, without hesitation, reached into his pocket and threw one down to Mr. Harrington (whose face was appropriately horrified). Or, a favorite of everyone’s, the time Abe spilled saline on Flash in Chemistry. Most of us were there when Flash pulled the emergency shower and started stripping in the middle of class because he assumed the liquid was acid and Abe couldn’t stop laughing to tell him otherwise.

“Seriously? That’s so old!” (It was only two months ago.) Flash can’t let that story slip without protesting, yet he has to force his own laughter down. His mouth might be running, but I can tell he’s mostly amused, partly embarrassed. For once, he doesn’t seem like such an asshole. “And you shouldn’t laugh, Y/N, given what you did in first grade!”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Me? What about first grade?” I ask. He raises an eyebrow back to me as I squint, trying to recall. After a long pause, I remember. “Oh. That about first grade.”

Of course he remembers. Heat spreads across my face.

“Oh come on, what could you have done that was that bad?” Ned asks, intrigued.

I try to stifle the laughter rising in my throat but I barely manage it. I really can’t believe I forgot about this. If Flash hadn’t mentioned it, maybe by the grace of God, it would never have crossed my mind again. Damn you, Flash.

Peter shifts in his seat. His arm brushes mine as Flash begins to boast; he pulls it back. It makes me jump, just barely, from the warmth.

“Miss Goodie Goodie Two Shoes dragged me,” Flash says, “an innocent young boy, under the slide — during recess — to kiss me. And boy did she.”

Flash leans back in his chair, arms crossed, with an I won smirk that he directs at me, then Peter.

Screw you, Flash.

“You did not,” Michelle says in disbelief. “You kissed Flash? And never mentioned it?”

“Hold on!” I say, hands rising from my lap. Side conversations have halted for this piece of old gossip and there is no way Flash gets to bring me that low with something from a decade ago. “Back then, he was little, brainy Genie, and he'd had a gum ball machine delivered to my doorstep. Yeah, Flash, don’t think I won’t bring up the fact you liked me, not the other way around.” I hope my tone conveys how badly I want him to shut up and let this go. “And as ridiculous as this sounds, I was like six years old and genuinely thought there was a chance he was a rich prince, so if I kissed him, maybe he'd turn into a frog and I could steal his money from his locker and his desk. It wasn’t like I got naked in front of twenty-eight students and my teacher two months ago!”

“That’s so not how the fairytales go, Y/N,” Ned mutters. “Was your childhood okay?”

“You thought he was a frog?” Peter asks, speaking to me for the first time tonight. He crosses his arms.

“Yes, Peter. I thought I could rob a magic frog prince. It borders on childhood criminal fantasy, but the point is, I was a child. You can’t make fun of me for something I did at six years old.”

“Oh, really? And what does frog taste like?”

His shoulder nudges mine as he leans in closer, his eyes flickering to my lips for emphasis. My heartbeat is pulsing at the tips of my ears. I untuck my hair from them, even though they’re burning. I hate that he’s looking at me like this. Even if that look is for the wrong reason, it’s like a finger curling around my collar bone building pressure as it pulls downward. My breathing verges on painful. 

What was the kiss like?

I pause.

“Dirt,” I say. Make this funny again. “Even as I dragged him to the slide, his hands were stuffing his mouth with dirt.”

Laughter erupts again. Thank God. Soon, Abe is almost in tears over it, clapping Flash on the back as Flash stammers to defend his choice of lunch ten years ago.

Peter goes silent again, eyes on the floor. Against my will, I can picture a tiny Peter Parker sulking inside my brain picking at the loose threads of my mental Perfect Day tapestry. My optimism is coming completely undone. Frustration or anxiety or both are pushing me off of my little “today” high.

We exit the restaurant at 10:27. Goodbyes and See you in the morning!’s pass between everyone in a jumble of half-conversations. I eavesdrop on Ned and Betty, both leaning against the window, cloaked in neon red glow with taxi headlights gliding over their kneecaps.

“So lame that Mr. Harrington won’t let us bring non-team members,” Ned’s saying. “He’s always being such a stick in the mud. Somebody should just… I don’t know.” He stumbles for words. “Like, kill him or something.”

Betty lets out an awkward chuckle.

“You know,” he hurries, “as, like, a prank.”

She snorts, covering her mouth as she doubles over.

“Totally,” she says. “I’ll write the Morning Announcement piece on it and everything. See you in Psych in a few days?”

“Yeah! If I’m not in jail for murder, you know?”

Now they’re both laughing. Little stars of excitement bloom in my chest. I’m so glad Betty came. I’m thinking about all the future excuses I can muster up to force them to work with one another in class. My daydream dissolves as Michelle hip checks me back into the present.

“I hope you’re ready to lose a seventh hour buddy,” she whispers.

“Nah. I’ll stay on that love train as a third wheel. Gotta make sure the conductor doesn’t wreck it.”

“Trains have like, eight wheels per segment.”

“Per car, you mean.”

“Exactly. I think Ned can handle it.”

“This must be a new record for us derailing a metaphor because I don’t follow the tracks you’re laying down.”

“Those are terrible puns and you know it.”

I shake my head and roll my eyes. The phrase I love my friends should be etched into the bone of each of my ribs. The phrase repeats itself so often in my head I occasionally visualize it that way.

As Cindy, Abe, Sally, and Betty wave goodbye, I turn to Ned. He’s waving back at them, a grin sprawled across his face. Eventually I catch his eye and smirk.

“You saw what you saw,” he mouths, jerking his head slightly to where Betty had been standing and giving me his best “cool guy” attitude.

Before I can respond, Flash finishes his conversation with Peter (which… though tense, didn’t seem hostile for once), and addresses the remaining four of us.

“You know, I thought this dinner thing was a joke at first, but it was actually… not the worst idea in the history of Midtown Tech. It gets an official Flash rating of ‘Not Totally Lame.’”

Michelle raises her eyebrows. Ned and Peter look vaguely annoyed. Personally, I’m not that surprised. (I’m kind of surprised— that he vocalized it.)

“You’re wel-”

“Yeah, dude, well, you were only invited a few hours ago,” Peter says. He scratches the bridge of his nose and rubs his eyebrow before making eye contact with Flash again. “And the rest of us planned this last month. Like, forever ago.”

Everyone freezes.

“Cool,” Flash says. “Bye guys. Fuck you, Penis Parker.”

Peter doesn’t speak a word as we walk back to his and May’s apartment. His behavior is so foreign, so drastically cold even compared to how he’s been all week, that Ned, Michelle, and I keep our mouths shut too. Until we reach the door.

Peter unlocks it and turns around.

“You guys staying here tonight?”

“Yeah,” says Ned with the tone of obviously .

“Do you want us to go home?” I ask.

He looks at the ground as he shrugs. He seems almost as shy as the first time I met him, years ago.

What is going on in Spider Town?

“Just thought you guys might sleep better in beds. I know that couch sucks.”

“The couch is fine,” I say, wondering if he needs the reassurance of us wanting to be there. “MJ is what sucks. She pushed me off in her sleep half a dozen times. This time, she gets to sleep on the edge.”

Michelle nods. “But if you try to spoon me even once, I’m going to roll over and crush you.”

Peter stops listening and pushes the door open.

I fight the urge to kick at his heel while I follow. Peter Parker has always been the kindest person in this city. Right now, though, he’s genuinely pissing me off. He’s acted worse than Flash has tonight, completely unlike himself. If anything, he’s making Flash look like a better friend.

After faces are washed, teeth brushed, and retainers stuck into place (everyone but Michelle— her teeth are naturally perfect), we turn off the lights and head to our usual sleeping stations. Michelle and I on the couch, Peter and Ned in the bunk beds. I lie on the couch for fifteen minutes, itching my index finger.

“Hey, I’ll be right back. Don’t steal my spot.”

Because of my retainers, it sounds more like, “Don’t thteal my thpot.” I take them out.

Maybe I can end this on a good note.

I stumble in the dark for a few steps until I find the hallway with my hands. I reach Peter’s door and turn the knob. A quiet conversation stops.

“Ned,” I whisper from the doorway. “Before I go to bed, I just need to clarify: if you do murder Mr. Harrington, legally I’ll have to testify against you. And I don’t want to see you behind bars. Try a different way to impress her, maybe?”

“Oh my goddd,” Ned groans. “I…. I still have no idea why I said that.”

I imagine Peter smiling on his bunk. He probably isn’t. If he were in a good mood, he would laugh and ask what we were talking about. If he were in a better mood at all, he would know by now.

“I know,” I say. “Goodnight!”

As I pop back out of the room, I hear Ned’s reply and Peter’s quiet, “Yeah.”

Who says “Yeah” to a “Goodnight”? 

Peter Parker, apparently.

Tomorrow, I’m either going to hug him or kill him.

Chapter Text

I wake up to brown eyes in the almost-dark. (I’ve imagined this in a slightly different context a hundred times by now.)

Peter’s lightly shaking me awake. And Michelle, by default, who smacks him away. Despite former promises not to cuddle her, I must have latched on at some point last night, like always. The fact that I’m not on the floor is another reason I love Michelle. For all her tough talk, she’s as soft as a pillow. Actually, that’s not completely true. A pillow would be more comfortable to sleep on. And Michelle is the fiercest person I know— when the stakes are higher than sleeping arrangements.

I detangle myself from her and smile at Peter, hoping today is different.

Peter smiles back. It’s small, but it’s there.

“Shower open?” I whisper.

“Yeah. When did MJ want to get up? Aunt May said she’ll make pancakes once everyone is awake.”

I squint at the clock. 6:13 a.m.

“7. But she’ll settle for 6:45 if she smells food.”

Peter nods. My eyes adjust a bit and I force myself up, into the hallway, and around to the bathroom. At the door, I hear May and Ned talking quietly in Peter’s room. If I were less tired, I might eavesdrop. But I’m not. Ned will probably tell me anyway.

During my slightly too-long shower, I try my best to stop thinking about Peter and last night and his eyes before the dirt comment and this morning and the thousands of impossible future scenarios that would link those moments together under more favorable conditions. For months now, I’ve spent most of my time thinking about Peter Parker and how I need to stop thinking about Peter Parker. Again, endlessly, it doesn’t work.

After pancakes, May drives us to school where the bus and rest of the team wait. She hugs each of us individually, wishing us luck and reminding us to keep her updated by texts and calls.

“I know how competitive all of you are,” May says with a smile, “but remember that this trip is a chance to have fun and act like real teenagers for a few days.”

Her smile relaxes as she looks pointedly to Peter.

“Okay? Just remember the stuff we talked about. Be a little more adventurous.”

“More adventurous?” Peter asks. “Are you sure?”

May’s hands go to her hips.

“You know exactly what I mean. And I’m going to check up on things. Count on that.”

This seems soaked in subtext, though I have no idea what sort. I should talk to Ned.

“Alright kids, come back in one last time.”

May binds us all into a group hug before kissing our foreheads. I maneuver to the end of the line for this one (least amount of forehead lipstick). Ned gets it worst, Peter plenty, and Michelle a smudge. Hopefully I have nothing.

May must realize this, because she musses up my hair afterward and laughs.

“I’m going to force Peter to do that every night while you guys are away. How will you kids survive without a full balance of Parker love?”

Peter starts to say something in an exasperated tone as his cheeks turn pink but she shakes her head and laughs again. At the same time, I try to suppress the warmth I feel tickling my neck. If Peter ever kissed my forehead and then did that to my hair….

“I’m only half serious. Totally serious. But anyway, I love you guys and I’ll be here when you come back!”

We walk to the bus where Mr. Harrington and the rest of the team are talking. Peter, Michelle, and I try to discreetly wipe our foreheads with our sleeves.

“Ned? You’ve got… a lot,” I say, gesturing.

He smiles.

“I know.”

“Oh come on, man,” Peter says. “Seriously?”

Mr. Harrington counts each member of the team and passes around a sign-up sheet before we can step onto the bus. As the last three of us approach the door, Flash taps Peter’s shoulder.

“What’s that?” he asks, pointing above Peter’s eyes to the circle of smudged red. As Peter opens his mouth, Flash nails his forehead with the heel of his hand. “What? Somebody already do that?”

Without thinking, I jam my knee into the back of Flash’s leg. He falls with the most unflattering huh-yuht sound I’ve ever heard as he hits his head on the bus door. My heart is racing.

What just happened?

Peter pauses, his mouth in a tight line. He steps over Flash and onto the bus. At the top of the stairs, he turns and waits for me. Flash stands up and tries to play it cool.

“I get it. Making me eat dirt. You wanna recreate some childhood memories?”

I notice the red mark now on his forehead, a mirror of Peter’s. I can’t think of anything to say. I’m still processing the fact that he actually hit Peter. And that nobody on the bus saw it, judging by the lack of Mr. Harrington’s voice. I could kill him. I could really kill him.

I shove Flash out of my way and go to sit with my friends. I can’t believe him.

Michelle being chosen as our captain is the best thing to happen to our team. Particularly because Mr. Harrington lets her arrange which rooms all of us sleep in as a privilege.

The list goes:

• MJ and Y/N

• Peter and Ned

• Cindy and Sally

• Abraham and Eugene

(Anytime she writes our names down for anything, she always writes “Eugene” instead of “Flash.” He has made many public protests about it.)

Our room is right next to Ned and Peter’s, at the opposite end of the hall from Mr. Harrington. If we’re too loud or if we stay up too late, the chance of being caught is slim. (Not that we would ever stay up late enough to compromise the competition… just a little after curfew. The following night we’ll stay awake until some time in the morning.)

Now that the half tense (me, Peter, and Flash), half friendly (everyone else) team bus ride is over, MJ and I get to unpack. But first I need to tell her about what happened earlier.

“Flash hit Peter,” I blurt.

“What do you mean?”

“He made a comment about the mark from May’s lipstick and he hit him. Just—!”

I make the motion with my hand.

“Are you serious? Why didn’t you guys say anything to Mr. Harrington? Or me or Ned? I’m team captain, I could have—”

“Because,” I rush, “Peter acted like it didn’t happen, and when he didn’t say anything I got a feeling he might get angry with me if I did, and yesterday was so awful. I think he wants this year’s trip to be normal, you know, compared to last year? I just had no idea what he wanted me to do.”

Michelle takes a breath.

“So, you did nothing?”

“I mean, I kind of got Flash back for it? He hit the door with his head and got the wind knocked out of him.”

It’s not enough, I know. Talking about it has me worked up again. I could kill him. I’m sure Michelle feels the same way, given her current expression.

“Ask Peter about it,” she suggests. “If he says drop it, we drop it. If he says anything else, we go from there.”

I nod. Slowly we begin to unpack.

Drawers are being opened and closed as we both turn to each other at the same time and say the same thing:

“I could kill Flash.”

Chapter Text

If I said that this was the worst week, and that yesterday was the worst day, of my life, I would be an absolute idiot. Of course it isn’t. But it does suck. It sucks a lot. A lot, a lot. The last few months have been pretty awful, but for some reason, this has been the worst week of them. 

Y/N is just so happy. It’s driving me nuts.

I blame it mostly on Halloween. If Halloween hadn’t happened the way it did, maybe everything would be different and the other things would matter less.

That night, she and I were supposed to meet MJ and Ned at Ned’s apartment before going to Betty’s party. (Ned forced us into it, I didn’t really want to go in the first place.)

Anyway, she came to my apartment first so we could walk to Ned’s together. Just as I answered the door, MJ sent something to our group snapchat. The little popcorn sound echoed between us as I let her inside, the notification coming from both our phones. I pulled mine out of my pocket.

“It’s from MJ,” I said, opening it.

MJ, dressed as someone from the 1700s judging by the bonnet, was perched on the back of Ned’s couch and holding a whip outside an open window; Ned was in the background, running toward her from the hallway. He was wearing an Indiana Jones costume and his signature Don’t you dare, MJ! face. 

I laughed.

“Look, MJ’s already tormenting Ned with his own costume,” I said, showing Y/N the picture before it disappeared.

“What?”

She looked at the screen and froze.

“It’s a costume party?”

I thought she knew, especially since Ned talked about it so much. I hadn’t planned a costume, but that’s because I was hoping if I showed up to Ned’s without one, he might tell me not to come at all. I guess it made sense though. I’d been wondering all week what she was planning to go as. I thought I even asked her at one point. Maybe not. Yeah. I wouldn’t have wanted her to think I was being weird.

“It’s not a big deal. I don’t have a costume either.”

She groaned.

“No, I should’ve paid more attention to Ned when he told me about it. I’ve been so… so out of it and distracted lately, and I can’t let him down like this. I know how much it means to him. I told him just an hour ago that I was completely ready for tonight. I can’t believe myself.”

I tried to console her a bit, make jokes and lighten the mood. But she was kind of right. Ned had been talking about it a lot and she had seemed pretty distracted the last couple weeks. Plus, we only had an hour before we needed to leave.

I remember wishing May were home. She would know how to help. But she must’ve been busy because she didn’t answer any of my texts.

As Y/N beat herself up for being unprepared, she kept pacing and wringing her hands. Then, she stopped.

“I always told myself I would never ask this,” she said slowly, “but Peter, can I… try on the suit?”

I always told myself I would never let my friends try the suit on. I didn’t want it to get complicated. I mean, once you get a hang of the suit, it’s kind of addicting.

In that moment though, I wanted to let her. She tends to get stressed when she isn’t one hundred percent on top of things and this was definitely one of those times. I thought it would help distract her while I came up with costume ideas. And maybe another reason I didn’t want to admit to myself yet.

“Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t I let you try it out?”

She shrugged, the corners of her lips tugging upward. I smiled immediately, like a reflex. I could tell she was getting excited in spite of herself. Oddly, I realized I was excited too. I told myself it was a reaction to feeling helpful.

“I just thought Ned said something about it once. Like you were overprotective of it or whatever.”

“Pff, no way.” I tried to be nonchalant. “Ned is always saying crazy things.”

That wasn’t true and we both knew it. Awkward things, occasionally. Crazy, not so much.

I dug the suit out of my bag and tossed it to her.

While I waited out in the living room for her to change, I heard a sharp thud from my room. I ran to the door.

“Uh, you okay in there?”

An oomf later, she replied, “Yeah. I just tripped a little. The suit’s fine! Hit my funny bone, that’s all.”

I let out a sigh of relief. Not for the suit, obviously. It can take a beating.

A minute later, she called my name. Her voice carried a distinct… reluctance.

Outside the door again, I offered up a, “Yeah?”

I know, I know. I’m an idiot.

“Um, how exactly does this work? I can’t figure out how to make it not so… baggy.”

“Hit the spider.”

“Hit… the spider?”

“Yeah. In the middle?”

She groaned and opened the door.

I had to shove down the laughter rising in my throat. She was in the suit and holding it up by the collar, clutching it to her chest. I knew exactly how she felt. It’s one thing to look at the suit and imagine how powerful you’re going to feel once it’s on, but it’s another thing to have to step into it the same way you would onesie pajamas, knowing how undignified you look while doing it.

At that moment, she was helpless.

“‘Hit the spider.’ Really? What does that even mean?”

Her confusion was amusing, but how could she not see the black spider symbol right under her hand?

“Ignoring how ridiculous you look, which, by the way, is off the charts ridiculous, it means,” I said, stepping forward. “Hit. The. Spider.”

I lightly punched the spider symbol, as if it was a fist bump.

Probably a stupid idea, seeing as it was situated sort of… right between her, um, breasts?

Makes sense that she screamed a bit.

“Jesus! Are you serious? More of a warning would have been nice!”

The suit can be shocking if you aren’t used to it snapping like that. I’ve gotta admit, I was not used to it snapping on her. On me, yeah. Of course. But on her… not at all. Luckily she was too engrossed in the suit to have noticed my expression. I remember thinking, it definitely doesn’t look so ridiculous on you anymore.

“Oh my god,” she muttered, looking at her arms as she turned them here and there. “This is so weird.”

She moved her shoulders a bit as if testing mobility, then her fingers, toes, legs.

“This is… the weirdest sensation. I can’t tell if I hate it or if I love it.”

Actually, that’s probably the best way to describe how I’ve been feeling since then.

That night, we never ended up going to the party. Y/N called Ned to explain that she didn’t have a costume and he immediately said it was alright if we didn’t make it. Something about, “MJ is already enough to handle at the moment.”

Instead, we stayed in and watched Lord of the Rings while she kept experimenting with the suit. Testing different web shooters (she nearly destroyed my closet), watching Spider-Man Youtube videos in the mask and mocking my “poses” (for the record, I do not pose… as often as those videos suggest), and talking to Karen (they got on immediately). Once she started asking Karen personal questions, like her first one about me: “What does Peter talk to you about every day?” I decided it was time to end her Spider Time.

(Yes, I was worried Karen would tell her how often I talked about her— but to be fair, she’s my friend. Obviously I talk to Karen about her a lot. I just couldn’t figure out why it was more than Ned or Aunt May or MJ. And Karen had plenty of ideas I knew she would love to tell Y/N about.)

“That’s enough! Karen, say goodbye now!” I hurried.

“Really, Peter? We just started a real conversation. You didn’t tell me the system was basically a person! How many times have we talked about ethics and AI and you never brought her up? I’ve been so rude, I’m so sorry, Karen, if I had known-”

“Come on,” I begged. “I’m being serious. I don’t want the suit to be a thing with everyone. Better to stop now, before you get… attached.”

“Attached?” The left eye of the mask widened to match her sarcasm. “Worried I’ll steal it and hide in a cave, stroking the fabric? My precious Spidey suit?”

“Very funny,” I said. “And you just said, ‘My,’ so clearly, you are being affected!”

I reached across, about to hit the spider, when I realized exactly what the suit would do if I did, and pulled back.

Not a good time to accidentally see her naked. 

I swear, I didn’t mean to think that. Especially because it’s not like she even was naked under it. But that idea — of one of my best friends, that way, in my room — took me off guard. Like a massive idiot, I jerked back too quickly. My ankle hit hers and she fell on top of me, simultaneously hitting the spider and setting off a series of awkward movements in which she tried to hold the suit together and I tried not to, well, see too much. (I saw a tiny bit, not going to lie.)

On the t.v., the Watcher in the Water began attacking Frodo, so the chaos of fiction and real life blended together in the worst way possible. The screaming from the movie made our own awkward grunts and “Sorry!”’s more intimate by contrast. Mostly it was just weird because she was practically drowning in the deflated Spider suit and as we moved against each other, trying to get off of each other, it wasn’t much of a barrier between us. Plus, the baggy mask on her face was a weird addition to the situation.

After untangling herself from me, she stood up gingerly and pulled the mask off. Her hair was a nest, a soft I-wish-I-could-reach-out-and-feel-it-moving-through-my-fingers kind of nest.

“D-do you mind if I change now?”

My mouth gaped. Here? Now? 

“I mean, if I have to call May to escort you out, I do have her on speed dial.”

Without me here. Duh.

“Yeah. Sor-sorry. I’ll just, um, get up then.”

I must have looked like an idiot, staring at her from the flat of my back on the floor, practically spread eagle. Sliding past her to the door, I swear I could feel heat coming off her face. Then again, my own face was burning. But then again, that was because I realized I liked her. Like really, really liked her. So maybe her blush meant she liked me too?

That was Halloween.

Six months later, that memory plays back almost every day. On top of six months worth of other memories. She’s there, in my head, all the time. Simple things, like her ridiculous victory dance when she wins Scrabble or her helping Aunt May make dinner (and when it comes to food, she helps a lot— in terms of taste and frequency) or even Karen telling me that she sent me a text, they all make my chest hammer. It’s the absolute worst, all variables considered.

I don’t know. This week has been weird. Seeing her so excited reminds me of how she looked trying on the suit which reminds me of everything else from that night and how I’ve never worked up the courage to just ask if it meant anything. Knowing that it’s way, way too late to ask now makes me a bundle of nerves and serious regret. Plus, her unguarded joy and enthusiasm itself…. It’s a lot to take in. Sensory overload or something. It’s like, I catch a glimpse of her teeth as she’s laughing and my brain spirals into One Hundred and One Ways I Could Make Her Laugh If She Was In Love With Me Instead or Ten Kissing Scenarios In Which She’s So Happy We Can’t Kiss Properly Because We’re Smiling Too Much. This week, these imaginary scenes keep getting out of control. It’s driving me nuts.

I need to stop thinking about her. It’s impossible when we’re always together, though. All of us. I can’t tell which is worse: when it’s just us, or when it’s us and MJ. And Ned, obviously.

So the last few days, I tried to keep a smidge of distance. Yesterday was particularly rough. Ned and MJ convinced her to skip a bunch of classes with them. They sent me dozens of snapchats, half trying to rope me in, half reporting on their adventures. (My favorite was when they nicknamed Flash an Ass-Hat Rich-Boy Bitch-Boy. Or maybe it was the video of Ned where he dissolved into a fit of laughter because he couldn’t say the phrase more than twice without messing it up.)

At the end of the day, because we all have Psych in seventh hour, I may have annoyed them by leaving that class early. I couldn’t help it. Y/N was so stupid crazy beautiful happy and it was agonizing to watch her scribble notes back and forth with MJ, her pen clicking in the almost dark as she did everything she could to not laugh and disrupt the episode of Mind Games playing on the screen. I had to get out of there before I got, like, a boner or something.

That was weird. And graphic.

God, it’s such a mess. I’m such a mess.

The point is, I need to stop thinking about her like that and just forget what happened yesterday and this morning and six months ago.

That being said, it’s not exactly easy when she’s been pissing me off the last few days. This stuff with MJ and Flash is starting to seriously eat away at me. Some of it isn’t her fault, and I’m trying to work through that on my own, but plenty of it is and I can’t tell if she even cares how I (or Ned) feel about it.

I hate these secrets.

Chapter Text

Halfway through unpacking my things, I realize Michelle is right. I have to talk to Peter. Now. Especially if the pool is still a plan for tonight. 

When I tell Michelle so, she nods but doesn’t look up from her book. (She mentioned it a minute ago and promised to lend it to me when she finished; consequently, the moment she dug it out, she decided to put off unpacking and read instead.) I toss my bag on my bed and go to the hallway.

I knock on the boys’ door.

Ned answers.

“Hey Y/N. Wow, I haven’t seen you in a whole—” he looks at his watch, “seven minutes!”

“Can I have a quick minute with Peter?” I ask.

“Are you really asking me to step out of my own room?”

“You can get on my laptop and message Betty from my Facebook,” I say, shrugging. “Ask what she’s up to. Maybe mention yourself, see what she says?”

“What, why wou— I don’t— can’t you just— I mean, honestly.”

“I put the little knob thingy in the door, so it’s open if you want to go do that.”

Ned considers the idea. 

“Actually, that’s a violation of trust. Not cool.” He shakes his head. “But I will go chill in your room. I need to talk to MJ anyway.”

Talk to MJ without me?

“Wait, why?”

“Um, there’s just… a thing. Anyway. Yeah. Hey, Peter!” Ned opens the door all the way and shouts behind his shoulder. “The uh, the stripper’s here!”

“The what?” I ask, less bewildered than mildly annoyed. I’ve had to endure his jokes about me and Peter the last couple days, but this is the first time he’s made any in earshot of — let alone to — Peter. “Why would you say that?”

Ned shakes his head, hands open.

“Dude, I don’t know! I just— I need to go! Bye!”

Ned shoves me out of his way and into the room.

“Ned, the what?” Peter says, jumping into frame from their bathroom.

My pulse jumps in surprise. 

“I’m a stripper now?” I say with an eye roll, unable to boost my energy enough to make something new out of the joke or change its direction. 

“You’re a— you’re a what, now?”

Peter’s eyebrows nearly graze his hairline. I wish he’d stop looking at me, my face is definitely warm.

“Nothing. Ned was just being really… strange. Anyway, I wanted to ask you something.”

I close the door and walk over to Ned’s bed, thinking Peter will sit across from me on his. He doesn’t. He stays, standing next to their closet.

“About this morning. With Flash. Do you want me to… say anything, to Mr. Harrington?”

“Wh— no, no, definitely not. It’s nothing. I— I don’t even know why you’re bringing it up. It’s not like he can hurt me, obviously.”

“Physically, I know, I just mean that you shouldn—”

“Can we just forget about it?”

“Absolutely, if that’s what you want. And last night, with dinner—”

“And maybe that too? I was a dick. I’m really sorry. I kind of feel like I almost ruined your night and that would have been awful because I know you were excited.”

You were excited too, remember? 

“It’s fine. Is everything okay with you though? The last few days were… odd.”

He runs his hands through his hair and clasps them behind his head. He makes a face like he’s trying to remember if he’s had any minor inconveniences recently. He avoids eye contact.

“Yeah, yeah. Everything’s, ah, everything is… normal.”

Everything is not normal, Peter.

“Peter, I….” I want to say that I don’t believe him, that he shouldn’t have to put up with how Flash treats him. I want to say that he can talk to me. “I’ll go back to my room. You probably have more to unpack.”

I start to get up.

“Eh, not really.”

I pause. Does he want me to stay? Is he going to tell me why he’s been so an-arm’s-length-away this week? 

“But if, um, you could tell Ned that I wanna talk to him, I’d appreciate it.”

He half-smiles. 

“Tomorrow, I’m either going to hug him or kill him.” 

It’s tomorrow and I’m leaning toward kill. Killing all of my friends. What does everyone need to talk about without me? 

But that won’t get Peter (or anyone) to talk to me about whatever’s bothering him (or them).

So I end up doing a stupid thing. As I pass Peter on my way to leave, I turn around, pivoting suddenly on my heels like a robot programmed for a sharp corner, and I hug him. I just latch on like a parasite. It’s a pretty tight hug. Especially for two people who don’t hug a lot. Or ever. Except when May made us this morning. 

He smells so good. I know from half-living at his apartment that it’s Old Spice deodorant, but that doesn’t stop me from thinking how much I associate it with the word home (or from thinking how awkward that thought is in the first place). 

Last night he was close enough to kiss me, then with the way he looked at me before I rambled about the dirt, and now this. I’m self-sabotaging my Stop Thinking About Peter mission.

He jerks back at first, but after a second he’s almost leaning into it. His hands are cautiously, sort of, patting my back. Oh, god. This is awful. I had to make this weirder. Why not make it worse? I squeeze him harder. It’s meant as a “You’re my friend and I love you more than you realize, so please, please, please, trust me— talk to me” squeeze. I’m not sure it comes through, since he doesn’t do it back. Or move at all. He clearly wants it over with.

Thoroughly embarrassed, I pull away and beeline to the door. Neither of us says a word.

Well done, moron.

During the ten seconds I stand in the hallway between our two doors with my hands on my head thinking about how stupid I am, I decide not to tell Ned or Michelle about this awkward hug. If they ask me about it later, then I’ll know Peter is willing to talk to them and not me… or that they really are all communicating without me and it’s not just my paranoia. Then… I’ll just need to figure out why. 

Maybe they’re sick of you. 

Or maybe you’re overreacting.

Ten seconds up, I turn quickly to push my door open.

It’s locked. My key card is sitting on my bed, next to my bag. 

“MJ?” I call, knocking. “Ned? Can you guys let me in?”

Nothing. I press my ear against the door. They’re definitely having a conversation.

“Guys, seriously. Please let me in.”

I really don’t want Peter to hear this and open his door right now.

Ned answers, his voice a bit distant.

“Just hold on a second! I need a minute with MJ.”

“It’s been a minute! It’s been like five minutes!”

“Only three, dude.”

I jiggle the door handle and bang my head against the door.

“Let me in, please.” 

I stay silent for a moment and hear a phone dialing somewhere past the door. Seriously? Are they calling Peter now? When did my friends become such secret-keepers? (I know, I know. That’s rhetorical.)

I press my ear to the door. All I can hear is a muffled cloud of hushed conversation. Whatever is going on, I know Ned and Michelle well enough to know that I could be out here for a while, so I sit.

A door opens. 

But it’s not mine. And it’s not Peter’s. It’s at the opposite end of the hall. 

Flash.

No, no, no, no, no. Not right now. 

I’m too lost with this new, weird exclusion dynamic at the moment. I’m not going to let Flash anger me. So when I scramble and jump up, I try a knock on Peter’s door.

“Hey, Y/N!” Flash shouts.

Open the door, open the door, open the door.

Thank god, the door opens.

It’s only slightly ajar, but I can see Peter with a phone up to his ear.

“Hey, um, I’ve got a call.”

The door closes.

Fuck.

Needless to say, Flash had the opportunity to get at me, and he did. For the whole seven minutes I was locked out, he had a lot of observations to make. Mostly stuff like, “Oh my God, are you locked out of your own room? And isn’t that Ned and Peter’s room? They won’t let you in either? Ha! That’s a weird place to be, huh? They’ve seemed really secretive around you lately. Lots of texting and side conversations when you’re not around. Then that dinner thing where you’re Silent Sally the whole time. Hey, why’s Penis Parker so mad at you, huh? You’ve looked like such a lost dog the last couple days. You know, the kind whose owners dropped it off in the middle of a road, but it doesn’t get the hint and keeps searching for them?”

Rule #1 of being anywhere in Flash’s vicinity: Never listen to Flash.

If I had to choose between my three best friends and Flash, I would always choose my friends. No matter the circumstances. No matter the repercussions. I just don’t get why Flash’s regularly shitty behavior is somehow reassuring. At least I know what to expect.

Chapter Text

I often expect too much, set my sights a little too high. I know this, so I always prepare myself in case nothing goes according to plan.

For example: I had hoped this second annual break-into-the-hotel-pool activity would be easy, that everyone would come willingly, and we would have fun before the tournament tomorrow. Still, I prepared myself for a few bumps. For example, if Peter refused, if the entire thing flopped because everyone was worried about getting enough sleep, or if someone in the hotel caught us and reported it to Mr. Harrington, I was prepared, I had contingency plans. 

Strangely enough, everyone crept out on time and Peter barely hesitated at all. Well, Michelle did force him from the start, heading off his first protest too quickly for him to find another: “Dude, just say you’ve been working out. Nobody’s going to get suspicious because you’re jacked. Even Flash can’t turn that,” she motioned to Peter’s entire body, “into a joke.”

Yet I’m more uneasy now than if everything had gone wrong. I’m not even concerned about getting caught. Mr. Harrington is watching Jurassic Park in his room and checking the hallway at ten-minute intervals and I’m almost certain the hotel staff knows we’re here, but doesn’t care.

Nevertheless, I’m just… anxious.

It might have to do with how the boys are stacked upon one another in the shallow end for Chicken and, given the small area of the pool, injuries are on the table. It might have to do with Flash’s new habit of winking at me and being, in general, insanely obnoxious. It might also have to do with the fact that my friends are being abnormally secretive. (I hate to use Flash’s words, but he’s sort of right. It’s the best description. Even once I got back in my room, MJ and Ned kept sending texts— I have no idea who to, though I would guess between them and Peter.)

Admittedly, my nerves might also be connected to Liz, whose face I can see across the water. As our team captain, Michelle thought it would be nice to Facetime her, ask about college, and show her that her pool idea has become a tradition.

Liz’s dorm room is beautiful, from what I can make out. She has calendars and planners neatly pinned up, Christmas lights outlining them. Photos hang from mini clothespins on a string and she even has a little library set up on her windowsill with a porcelain cat-shaped bookend. It’s like a freaking Pinterest photo. I’ve always been somewhat jealous of her, but I know that outside of our past disagreements and my envy for her style and Peter’s (old? current?) crush on her, I am glad she seems happy. Everyone knows how much she’s been going through.

As Abe and Peter pretend to duke it out on Flash and Ned’s shoulders, the light of Liz from Michelle’s phone skips through the ripples, illuminating them like the sunset against the tide. I keep zoning out and staring at the pattern. I feel weird staying on the other side of the pool with her there, but I don’t know Liz that well outside of the team and truth be told, she always intimidated me. Even before our… fight seems like a strong word, our spat? She just… has things together. Even now, after such a horrible year. She’s wonderful and precise and good in every way a person can be. I feel minuscule by comparison.

Then again, it might be the overwhelming smell of chlorine that’s getting into my head and putting me off. Plus, all the glints of light swimming across the glass walls — making them reflect further like a hall of mirrors — are beginning to strain my eyes. Part of me just wants to sleep. To climb out from the water, change into some pajamas, and go to bed and forget this.

But I can’t. So I tread water alone in the corner, watching and listening and feeling like an idiot for isolating myself.

Does anyone really want me here in the first place?

Stop thinking like that.

I try to listen to Liz’s voice as a distraction. It’s muffled with echo, but it’s audible.

“With my AP scores, a bunch of my gen ed credits are already taken care of. But I want to take my other gen eds seriously. I have Global Ethics, Statistics, and World Journalism on Mondays and Wednesdays, then Into to Biological Chemistry and Public Relations on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

The words bounce from wall to wall, shadowing splashes and voices and little bright doses of laughter from the boys. I close my eyes for three seconds as if to catalog the moment. I have to admit, it’s pretty much perfect.

Then why do I feel so nervous?

In the same way that some days just feel so good, some nights just really, really don’t.

Flash catches my eye. God, here we go. He’s smirking. 

My stomach drops. I don’t think I can handle him right now.

“Hey!” he calls. “Y/N, you should join in! Hold on, let me clear you a spot.”

He jerks his body back to make Abe fall from his shoulders, hitting the water with a hard splash.

“There, now you have a place to sit,” Flash says, patting his own shoulders.

Abe stands up, shaking water from his ears before shoving Flash underwater. Ned laughs as Flash comes back up sputtering. Peter, on Ned’s shoulders, has little reaction. Michelle rolls her eyes and turns back to the girls’ conversation.

“It’s more fun watching, trust me.” Watching Peter shirtless , my brain adds.

Stop thinking about him. Despite his smile this morning (it was idiotic of me to think it meant anything significant), Peter has remained pretty cold to me today. Just like everyone else.

Michelle looks back our way again.

“Actually, yeah. We’ll play,” she decides.

If I had more energy, if I weren’t feeling so despondent, and if it wasn’t her this-is-happening-don’t-argue voice, I might put up a better fight. Instead, I give a quiet defeated groan and make my way over to the shallow end. Sometimes it’s easier to do as she says.

“Michelle in a chicken fight?” Liz laughs, her voice reverberating on all sides of my head. “I can’t wait to see this.”

“Oh, no,” Michelle answers as she shakes her head. “Y/N is up top. I’m not getting involved in that business.”

I sigh and try to ignore the fact my limbs are starting to shake. Just a little. Not enough for anyone to notice. But enough that it reminds me of the first twinges of body aches from a fever.

“Abe, mind if I fight Flash this round?” I ask.

If I have to do this, I want to be against the one person I wouldn’t mind actually fighting.

“I think I’ll sit this one out,” Abe says. “I’m sick of him. Plus, if he has the chance, I know he’ll piss on me.”

Despite my exhaustion, I can’t help laughing a little. It’s definitely true. But if Abe sits out, there’s no chance that Ned or Peter will team up with Flash.

Flash knows this too. Shrugging, he follows Abe away from the center, saying hello to Liz.

Shit.

I climb onto Michelle’s shoulders, the air making me shiver more, my ankles hanging just low enough to stay in the warm water. I stare blankly at the situation. It’s me and Michelle, Peter and Ned. And I’ve barely spoken to them since they all locked me out earlier. I wouldn’t want to disrupt their texting.

I do my best not to tug Michelle’s hair as I steady myself.

Now what?

Everybody else is talking again, Liz included. I’m glad their attention is elsewhere.

Staring at Peter, who’s staring at me, it’s clear neither of us knows what to do. Things have definitely gotten stale and bizarre between us over the last day, and it's gotten worse than I ever thought possible over the last few hours. I feel like an idiot. But I’d be a moron to think it’s all because of some impulsive hug. Something in our friendship is stuttering, I can feel it faltering and falling away.

Abruptly unstable ground— that’s what it is, I realize, staring at him. And everybody has been able to see it coming but me. How else could Flash see it?

Thinking of all the shitty ways Peter has ignored me today, yesterday, and this past week, I shove him with as much force as I can muster, knowing it’ll be nothing to him anyway.

Peter’s legs are over his head a moment later. If it were a real fall, it would have been instant. The rippling disturbance of the water churns up more chlorine fumes. I can feel a headache spreading from the base of my skull.

“Come on, Peter,” I say while he stands and pushes wet hair out of his eyes. “Don’t pretend to let me win.”

“You caught me off guard,” he replies. All of the prior playful attitude he had with Abe is gone. He’s trying — I can actually see him trying — to seem blank.

What is his problem with me?

“No, I didn’t. Don’t lie. Get back up.”

He does. Ned’s expression is unreadable for once. Michelle pats my leg.

Ned and Michelle actually move around this time, both stepping to one side or the other with half steps backward and forward. Peter keeps his hands on his knees, looking bored and glancing from MJ to her phone behind us. He won’t even look at me.

It pisses me off.

Michelle rolls one shoulder before lunging forward: a little hint. I shove Peter again, now resenting how stiff his muscles are beneath his stupid skin. And again he falls sideways, though faster this time.

Flash is whooping and making some stupid comment. Liz gives a surprised, “Oh, wow.” Sally and Cindy are talking, but I can’t tell whether it’s to me or someone else. Peter’s splash is echoing too much to hear a lot at the moment.

He stands up. His hands go to his hair. He looks at me and shrugs like Got me again, I guess.

The chlorine scent is hanging heavily over the room now like a pillow being slowly forced into my face. My headache pulses and creeps up behind my ear, beating my bone like a thick drum.

“Peter,” I say, teeth grinding, “this is going to get boring pretty quickly if you keep this up. Push back. Don’t you dare ‘let me win.’ I’m serious.”

My jaw is clenching as I try to pack my anger down into a little box between my ribs. A pressurized numbness climbs up my throat.

Shove it down.

Peter says nothing in reply but mounts Ned’s shoulders again. Ned is looking at Michelle, and though I can’t see her face, I know they’re having a silent conversation.

I nudge Michelle with my foot and she lunges forward again. I shove Peter’s left shoulder as hard as I can. Both shoulders hit the water at the same time. I know that no matter how hard I could ever hit him, it wouldn’t bother him a bit, yet the fact he’s clearly not even trying to play this one game that he was just playing with Flash and Abe is burning and biting at my tongue.

Peter stands lazily as if silently offering a forfeit.

Maybe he wants to get this game over with so he can talk to Liz.

“Get up, Peter,” I say, frustration spreading like fire through the ligaments of my arms. My irritation has reached my hairline.

Last week, I would never have doubted my friendship with Peter. Suddenly, I’m almost certain he wants nothing to do with me anymore. It scares me. A familiar dense pain pools in my lungs, a physical weight knocking my ribs into one another.

How did everything go so wrong so quickly?

Peter doesn’t move. I could kill him.

“Peter! Get up! Fight back, do something! This isn’t funny anymore. Why won’t you just do something?”

At last, he looks me straight in the eye.

“What?” he shoots back. “What do you want me to do?”

He’s angry now too, blatantly. It’s worse than last night. I can see it, a red patch of irritation growing from his chest up to his neck. Neither of us has ever gotten like this. We’re not the kind of people who do. Not with one another, and certainly not in front of other people.

It’s a violently refreshing change: honesty.

“Anything! Stop messing around,” I say. “Just play the fucking game.”

“Maybe I’m sick of it,” he says, his hands open. “This whole stupid idea! I’m not playing anymore.”

What is he talking about? It’s been barely a minute of this game.

“MJ,” I say, “let me down.”

“Alright.”

She jerks back like Flash did to Abe. The water stings through my nostrils and the lining of my lungs. Is this just MJ being MJ or is she angry at me, too? And what about Ned, could he be mad at me?

What have they all been calling and texting each other about?

I wipe water from my face and open my eyes, stinging.

“Come on, Peter, play a game,” I mock, moving closer to him. He just stands there. “Play a game.”

I’ve been playing some sort of game for at least 24 hours now, maybe over a week, maybe even longer. He can too.

Peter doesn’t move a millimeter. I shove him. Nothing. His expression remains blank. He doesn’t fall, he doesn’t budge.

“Peter!”

I shove him again.

Nothing.

Michelle and Ned are creeping out of the water. Their waves are the only sound besides my echoing shout in the whole room. God, this is bad. I know starting some kind of fight isn’t going to increase my chances of leaving D.C. with any friends, but I almost can’t stop myself. I have to do something.

I move closer, face burning with an itch of fury.

“What? ” he says.

Michelle and Ned, blurry reflections I can see from the glass wall behind Peter, have grabbed their towels and are walking through the door.

Damn it. Where are they going?

Something is crushing inside my chest. I can feel my eyes brimming with tears.

Shove. Them. Down. I will not angry cry in front of my classmates right now. Absolutely not. Especially not with Flash and Liz here.

My hands are visibly shaking as I grapple for a reply.

“Just— just do something , Peter!”

The muscles in his jaw are working and pulsing. I wonder what words he’s chewing— of course, I’ll likely never know because it seems Peter is refusing to tell me anything.

“That’s just it!” he shouts back. “What do you want me to do?! ”

That something in my chest is spasming, collapsing.

Peter’s chest is heaving and the red has reached his face. His words are fogging up my already pounding head.

That’s just it. What do you want me to do?

There are too many people here and as I notice their reflections standing over Peter’s shoulders with eyes glued to his face and my back, I realize I’ve just lost them too. In only the span of a couple minutes. The understanding hits me over the head and slices through my gut. I’ve ruined everything with everyone here, not just Peter and Ned and Michelle. They’ve never seen me like this and it’s too late to pretend to reverse it. There’s no way I’ll leave this trip with any friends.

It takes every particle of concentration to not let my emotions get the better of me and cry; especially when I’m still staring at Peter. The brown of his eyes seems darker than I’ve ever seen before and his brow is knotted up, hard.

The moment is so still and static.

Without warning, Peter smacks the water in front of me with one hand. It’s like a lukewarm tidal wave washing over my head, tangling my hair across my face.

My nose and lungs burn again. I gasped at the wrong second. In less than a moment though, it’s doused my nerves. I suddenly feel smaller than a child, humiliated.

“Are you kidding? ”

I don’t know if he or anyone hears me. The question was quiet and overcome by countless echoing splashes. It’s for the best: nobody can see my chin shaking at this distance so maybe if they didn’t hear the crack in my voice, I can pull myself together.

Guilt and regret seep into my skin as Peter climbs out of the pool. I want to apologize, but apologize for what? And fear, fear is mixing with those other emotions. A mountain of blurred emotions coated in black dread and red fear.

I take a breath and turn around.

Fuck.

Cindy, Sally, Abe, and Flash are just… staring. Worse, Liz is too. Of course, Michelle forgets her phone this one time.

The door closes with a bang behind Peter.

His towel is slung over one shoulder and water droplets spatter across the hallway floor as he storms through it. If I could get over him, if I could stop thinking about him for one day, stop thinking about him for one minute, my heart rate wouldn’t be leaping off the charts as I watch him. Actually, my heart rate might just be a result of me realizing how serious this is. The fact that four faces are still staring, now waiting for me to explode, likely doesn’t help slow it down either.

“Guys,” Liz’s voice calls. “Come on. Don’t make this weird.”

Flash laughs. Hard.

“It’s super weird completely on its own! Man, what was that?”

Tension loosening its hold on the room, Flash is back to himself, looking astonished and amused beyond belief.

“Flash, seriously. Let it be,” Liz snaps at him. When she looks at me, her expression softens. “Don’t let Peter Parker get in your head. He can… be like that sometimes. He might just be going through something.”

I know what he’s like, I think. I’ve been friends with him for longer than one Homecoming date. Liz is trying, at least, and maybe later I’ll appreciate the thought.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding.

She mirrors the motion.

“I should go before my roommate gets back to study. And Y/N, if you ever want to talk, I’d like to hear from you again. From any of you guys. Anyway, good luck everyone! I’m sure tomorrow will be great.”

The room dissolves into Goodbye!’s. I use the distraction to get my towel and phone and slip out.

What have I done?

Chapter Text

What have I done?

Real blade-in-the-belly fear is tying me up with this question.

I’ve probably ruined the best friendships I’ve ever had within minutes. It’s been building up, apparently, but I broke it tonight. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. Why did I have to act like that? Fuck.

I’m shaking as I head up the stairs to our floor, chlorine fumes still clinging to my skin and towel. My limbs feel numb. I’m slightly nervous I might fumble over my feet and fall down the steps. I consider stopping to let out a couple tears as pressure nears unbearable; it’s not like anyone will find me. Everyone else will be taking the elevator. Unless, of course, they think avoiding hotel staff is important. Shit.

I keep moving.

All I can pray for now is that Michelle doesn’t hate me and she’ll tell me what’s been going on with everything, or at least some part of it. Any part of it. This invisible conflict is suffocating.

Out of breath, I reach the third floor and push the door open, ready to talk this through with her.

Peter’s banging on our door. Inside the partial moment before he realizes I’m here, a faint pinprick of hope thinks he might be there for me.

“Ned, MJ, I’m not messing around. This is the least funny thing you could do right now.”

The stairwell door clangs closed behind me. Peter looks over, sees me, and closes his eyes as he knocks again, harder.

Nobody answers from my and Michelle’s room— a semi-serious inconvenience for me, seeing as she has my keycard. I notice a note on Peter and Ned’s door. Reluctant, given Peter’s proximity, I walk forward and pick it off, hands trembling.

“Work yourselves out — MJ & Ned.”

Under this, on the floor, are two keycards. Obviously to this room, or else Peter would have used them on my door.

Shit.

“Have they answered at all?” I ask, biting the inside of my cheek.

“No.”

Peter stares at the door. It’s evident, very evident, that he’s still upset, though now he appears to have anger reserved for Michelle and Ned, too.

Do you really hate me so much that you can’t stand to be in the same room as me?

My mouth tastes like metal. God, I want to cry. But I won’t, not in front of Peter, not like this.

“I’m going in before Mr. Harrington checks the hall or Flash shows up.”

Keeping a tight grasp on my towel, I bend down, grab a keycard from the floor, and use it to open the door.

Oh, shit.

Now I understand Peter’s reaction.

Ned and Michelle have taken out one of the beds and moved the other to the center of the room. It stands alone between the door and window. The covers are suggestively pulled halfway down.

I pause in the doorway, heat flaring up my neck.

For months, I’ve daydreamed about similar scenarios. A night in which Ned and Michelle fall asleep in the living room so I have to sleep in Peter’s. (Two beds, but still— a similar concept.) Or else Peter and I watch a movie on the couch and fall asleep cuddled up for the night, May placing a blanket over us like some form of blessing. (May’s approval is always critical to these imaginary scenarios.) Sometimes, I just daydream about falling asleep on his shoulder while we’re riding the subway, his sweater warm against my cheek.

Countless simple situations in which I share a tiny dose of intimacy with this best friend who rarely leaves my mind. For a split-second, I imagine things aren’t as they are tonight and there’s a tingle of excitement tickling under my jaw.

“You gonna move?”

Peter’s voice startles me. I didn’t hear him walk up.

I move, into the room. Just as I start to feel jittery and consider whether or not to text Ned or Michelle (I realize my clothes must be in the other room), my phone dings.

Ned: "It’s MJ. Your clothes and bag are in the bathroom. Toothbrush and charger included. Love you and see you in the morning. (Good luck.)”

Relief sweeps under my feet and fills me head to toe. Love you and see you in the morning. Thank god. Michelle and I are good. We’re definitely good. It’s fine with her, things are going to be alright with her. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. You haven’t lost MJ.

It dings again.

Ned: “it’s Ned. what MJ said. but from me too.”

I wish I could hug Ned through the wall separating us. His nine words are a monumental comfort, more than he probably realizes. Ned isn’t leaving either. You guys are okay, it’s going to be okay with him. Ned isn’t going anywhere. I really could cry now.

“Who’s messaging you?” Peter asks, arms crossed. Again, his voice startles me.

He’s standing by the door, opposite from my stance at the window.

“MJ and Ned.”

Peter shakes his head, hands digging into his hair as he looks to the ceiling while biting the inside of his cheek.

“Are you serious?”

“They were letting me know where my things were.” His attitude is pushing me to the edge of anger again. “It’s not a big deal.”

This, evidently, is the wrong thing to say.

“Yes, it is! Do you really not get why this bothers me?”

  For once, he makes eye contact. He looks half furious and half hurt.

“Peter, what are you talking about?”

His frustration mounts. He glances at the floor with his hands clenched together before shaking his head again and looking me straight in the eye.

“You guys are constantly doing this shit,” he says, arms open. “You and MJ with these never-ending side conversations. You know, it’s beyond frustrating that you two know everything about me, yet you guys have your own codes and your own stupid languages that you use to keep secrets from me and Ned. You guys are always having a private conversation. Passing notes to each other in class under the table, sending text messages during our freaking dinner, tapping your fingers on chairs to signal whatever. It’s irritating! I know what you guys are trying to hide. We’re all supposed to be friends, and that means not keeping secrets like that. Why haven’t you guys just told me and Ned?”

Hiding what? God, please don’t let this mean Ned knows somehow.

“Told you and Ned what?” I demand. “Yes, we text each other sometimes when we’re all together but don’t act like you and Ned aren’t closer to each other too. You guys are less industrious about it, that’s all. There’s a reason May talks to him privately without me and MJ— it’s because you trust him more and May knows she can’t tell us everything like she does him. And I don’t blame anybody for that, but I don’t think it’s fair for you to hold me and MJ up to a double standard. Plus, you and her and Ned have been messaging each other without me all day! That’s a hell of a double standard, considering. What was all of it about, Peter?”

“We didn— I mean, one time is beside the point. And it’s not a double standard with me and Ned because it’s completely different!” Peter’s hands are in the air and his face is reddening. I start to protest but he doesn’t even hesitate. “I mean, Ned and I have been friends way longer while you!— you and MJ are dating and trying to hide it from us!”

My brain hits a cement wall.

“Wait, what? You think we’re—”

“Come on, this game is over! It’s been obvious for ages and I really don’t get why it’s even a secret in the first place. Did you think it would bother us? The only part of it that bothers me is the fact that I— th-that you guys kept it a-a secret. From me. ”

I stammer momentarily, lost in an attempt to unravel his train of thought.

“We aren’t— this isn’t— I mean, honestly? How long have you thought that MJ and I were dating?”

“I’ve known for months. You guys are not subtle.”

“Peter Benjamin Parker,” I say slowly, steadying my hands on the window sill behind my back. “Michelle Jones and I are not dating. Where— where did you even get that idea?”

Peter’s face is flipping through a catalog of expressions in his attempt to figure out if I’m lying or not. The rising and falling of his chest hasn’t slowed and his face is still red. 

“Because every time you guys spend the night, I wake up and I find you guys t-together, you know, holding each other on the couch. And all the texting, the little codes you guys have, the looks you give each other. I mean, trying to play Uno with you guys is almost impossible! You’re always teaming up against me and Ned to get out first. A-and all of your inside jokes, too! It’s so all the time. Not to mention that you guys touch each other way more than you touch me or Ned!”

“Peter, I promi—”

“Can you at least let me finish?” Despite his momentary pause, he’s getting worked up again. “And this stuff with Flash is another thing. Did you have to invite him last night? I’ve put up with you talking to him and actually, like, hanging out with him in classes, but I was really excited about that dinner until I heard you tell MJ to invite him. Did you even consider how much I would hate him being there? Did you even think about me?”

That triggers a gut punch. “Did you even think about me?” The absurdity of the question makes me feel like I could explode into flames. 

“Peter,” I interject, my finger feeling a familiar, burning itch. “I think about you all the time , more than anyone else! I only invited him because I needed to stop thinking about you! Do you know what it’s like, waiting and waiting and waiting every single day? You’re almost always in danger and I— and I get why, trust me— I understand why you do what you do every day and I’ve never tried to interfere with that. But it leaves the rest of us on edge. Sometimes it’s exhausting, all the hours I spend thinking about you, waiting to hear from you, telling myself not to imagine all the awful, nightmarish reasons you might not be texting me back. So maybe once I made a call you didn’t like, but like most of the time, you weren’t there! And I didn’t like last year with you mooning over Liz and you never noticed that, ever. The— the point is: I figured you and Flash could sit on opposite sides of the fucking table for dinner. Or else you could get along for one night.”

I shouldn’t have mentioned Liz.

Peter barely breathes while I speak, until the end, when I think he might combust.

“Get along with Flash? Are you serious? I know you think I ‘shouldn’t let him get to me’ but frankly, I think that’s bullshit. He’s a bully. A bully you kissed, apparently, but a bully nonetheless. And you shouldn’t have tried to make sure I wouldn’t tell on him, or whatever, to Mr. Harrington.” On the word kissed , Peter looks at the wall in repulsion, his balled up fists hitting the sides of his thighs impatiently. “I could handle you and MJ together, but if you’re telling me you guys aren’t, then it seems like Flash is next in line and I’m serious when I say I would not be able to handle that .”

My heart rate has been sky high since I admitted how often I think of Peter but that comment is a final straw. My chest is pounding like there’s a rabbit drilling through it with a jackhammer.

We’re both breathing too quickly with too much pent-up energy in the air. It doesn’t help that we’re still soaking in our swimsuits either.

“There is no line , Peter Parker. I am not some business for dating, so let me make this clear: I am not dating anyone, let alone Flash . I’ve tried explaining why I treat him the way I do, but you never listen, so why go over it now? I only asked you if I should tell Mr. Harrington because I wanted to do something about what he did to you, I wanted for him to face consequences for once! I tried to tell you that you shouldn’t have to ‘put up’ with the shit he does to you, but you wouldn’t listen! Next time you start counting up the reasons you’re angry with me, talk to me about it rather than waiting and pushing my buttons until I explode.”

Peter and I stare at each other. He’s lost for a moment, then he shakes his head.

“That doesn’t address all the texts between you and MJ at dinner!”

“With me, MJ, and Ned, you moron! ”

“Awesome, so you guys are all texting each other without me!”

“It was about you being such an ass! And you’ve been doing the exact same thing all of today! And locking me outside with Flash!”

“If you say ‘Flash’ one more time, I swear to God, I’m going to jump out that window.”

He points behind my back.

“Fine! But will you just explain the calls and texts with MJ and Ned today?”

Peter’s eyes are red and flitting from the window to the bed to me to the carpet to the closet, half in guilt, half in exasperation and frustration.

“W-well what about the constant couch cuddling, huh? You didn’t answer that!”

Now I might jump out the window.

“Oh my God, Peter! It’s just something I-I do! It’s not on purpose and it doesn’t mean anything! It’s embarrassing, but it’s not an ‘MJ and me’ thing, it’s a ‘thing MJ puts up with because there’s only one couch’ thing! I am not dating my best friend! ”

Peter’s face screws up like I’ve said something horrible. His head is still shaking slightly and his fists are knocking against his legs again. He stares at the ground near my feet.

“I-I’m just gonna go… um, somewhere, uh, else,” he says.

“Can you please explain why you guys have been texting all day?” I ask. “It’s been freaking me out. Peter, please?”

Peter doesn’t meet my eyes. He’s focused on the ceiling, fingers trembling.

“I… just…. Later, alright? I think I need to leave.”

Standing with my hands still clutching the window sill, Peter flings the door open and leaves without another word.

What have I done?

Chapter Text

As the millionth text from Ned buzzes my phone, I consider chucking it off the roof. Maybe myself with it.

It only took an episode of yelling with Y/N and a door slam for him to finally answer me back, as if the five minutes of me pounding on his and MJ’s door earlier hadn’t been a concern of his. Now, given the timing, I’ve decided to respond with his own stubbornness and refuse to even open the messages. I can guess what they say. Probably what Aunt May said when she called forty minutes ago.

Something like: Maybe it’s time to be straightforward and tell her. What’s the worst that could happen? It has to be better than how you’ve left it. As long as you handle this properly, I think the Peter Parker Gets a Girlfriend initiative is still in the running!

I know I’m not handling this well. I know it’s bad. I know. I mean, it’s kind of impossible to feel how I feel about her and not understand that I’ve probably — definitely — blown all my chances at this point. I wish Aunt May understood that. Trying to explain what it was like back there, how bad I made it, how angry we both were… all it did was make me want to throw up. And Aunt May didn’t exactly listen, really listen, to that part anyway. If I hadn’t gotten choked up, she probably would have called Y/N herself. I’ve never been so relieved to start crying while talking to someone. At least she’s backing off. For tonight, at least.

I can’t stop thinking about how it happened. It was so fast. Even though I knew it was building up all week, I had no idea I would snap like that— and especially at first, I really didn’t mean to.

I mean, it’s been hard keeping everything in. Aunt May and Ned have been putting so much pressure on me to “tell her how I feel” lately and then she was just so happy the last few days that every time I was around her, which was constantly with all of our studying, I kept finding myself balanced between wanting to burst out and finally tell her, consequences be damned, or else call Happy and see if Mr. Stark had any potentially lethal missions available. Instead, I kept my mouth firmly shut and avoided eye contact with her and Aunt May. After this morning with Flash, last night with Flash, the thought of her kissing Flash (even at six years old, which, I know, is so stupid to be upset over, but like… it’s Flash , who’s literally never not tormented me when given the opportunity) and all the private texting between everyone, the pool was the last straw.

I tried to get out of it earlier. Maybe I should’ve. But Y/N asked me if I was coming in a voice that warned me something was off, so I went. I didn’t want to be there. But I was worried she might need someone. (Ironic, given how I behaved in the end. God, I’ve been such an ass.)

Plus, after she hugged me and ran off, things got really weird. I knew why she did it, even if Aunt May keeps denying any involvement. It’s awkward to imagine what Aunt May must have said to her to make her do it. She obviously didn’t want to. Not to mention, I knew I got her stuck outside with Flash when Aunt May called again.

In my defense, I really thought Ned and MJ would let her in the other room.

Anyway, the point is: things have never been more unclear with Y/N than they were an hour ago. I’ve been so worried about letting myself get too excited around her that I’ve probably been leaning too far into reasons to be upset with her (Ned thinks it’s some “self-preservation” thing, and I’m starting to agree). I must have been coming across as a rude asshole all week. If Aunt May and Ned have been trying to push her towards me, it must have been super confusing for her, it probably made my behavior even worse.

 All that aside, it still doesn’t make any sense why she would try to get me to play that game in the pool.

With Abe it was easy. We were just pretending, like acting punches, pretend shoves. She knows that if I really hit someone it could go seriously wrong. I can’t risk it. I would never risk it with any of my friends, not ever, even if it’s a game. So when she started getting angry, I figured it was just a way to get angry with me like I’d been doing with her. Do something! I can still hear her saying it. I just don’t understand what she wanted me to do, though.

The more she said it, the more I worried she was hinting at something bigger. Was she trying to poke me into letting some Spidey secret out? I’ve never suspected that type of motive from her, but why else mock me with something she knows I can’t do because of it? Could it really have slipped her mind? She’s always on top of everything. It doesn’t exactly seem like something she’d forget.

I guess— no, I know— I let fear get the best of me. I should never have shouted or gotten angry or splashed her like I did. It doesn’t matter if I’ve been a nervous wreck around her or scared of everything I’ve been feeling or frustrated that she invited Flash to the dinner or even panicked about her practically yelling a phrase I didn’t understand. I should have kept my temper and waited to talk to her later, like she said.

That’s the shittiest part. More than anyone else, she’s the person I wish I could talk to most about, well, everything. But I can’t.

I’m torn in two parts right now and neither of them is concerned with securing her as my girlfriend. (I know that isn’t how Ned and Aunt May meant it, but “winning the game” or “accomplishing the mission” is not even on my radar at the moment.) First, I’m still frustrated. Not angry, at least, but everything we talked— well, yelled— about didn’t just dissolve. It’s still in my head, even if I’m trying to erase it. Second, all I want to do is go back and apologize like an idiot. Even if we’re fighting, I don’t want to make her feel bad about anything. I want to go make sure she’s alright. All I wanted in the first place was to finally hear the truth about her and MJ, to get through to her about Flash, and to just… feel like I’m a real part of her life. Even if not in the way I want.

I don’t think I accomplished much in the way of those three things, but then again, I’m still reeling. There’s so much to go over. My brain’s on overload.

I need to think this out.

I need to be rational.

Okay.

First: She said she and MJ aren’t dating. Ned and Aunt May always thought I was looking too far into little things when I brought this up. Maybe they were right. She did seem seriously surprised. Why deny it when confronted? And why else would MJ have been texting me today, hinting that she knew I liked her? If they were dating and Aunt May or Ned told her, wouldn’t she have gotten upset about it and said something to my face? It made me paranoid today that she was playing with me, but now the tone of her messages doesn’t seem threatening like it did before. It seems… curious, if not supportive. I… I guess that part is settled. Y/N did say, I’m not dating my best friend.

Did she mean none of her best friends, though? Like, ever? It felt coded. It felt like shit. I know I don’t have a chance in the first place, but it still stung like a slap to the face.

That phrase keeps playing in my head.

I’m not dating my best friend!

I need to stop thinking about it.

Second: Flash. That hasn’t moved anywhere. He’s still a dick and she’s still too forgiving with him. Thank god she doesn’t like him, at least. But the other things she said when I brought him up are definitely significant. What did she mean about Liz? Liz doesn’t have disagreements with many people and if they didn’t like each other, I certainly never noticed. But she said that too: I never noticed it. I’ll ask her about that later. Not too soon, definitely not tonight, but when — if — things get better.

There’s something more important to focus on.

She thinks about me. All the time. I can’t dwell too much on this. I know it doesn’t mean what I want it to mean, but it is meaningful in a thousand other ways.

She cares. She worries. She waits. She thinks about me. She really, genuinely, seriously cares about me. And she thinks about me, all the time.

How many times has she thought of me while I was thinking of her?

This thought is too dizzying. My legs feel like they might fold in.

I wind my towel up and put it behind my head to lie on it like a pillow.

I picture her walking home from school and sending me a text, thinking of me. All the while, I’m on the opposite side of Queens assuming her message is just a usual kindness, something she would do for anybody.

I think about you all the time, more than anyone else.

I nearly fainted when she said that, I swear.

So third: I am a real part of her life — proven by what she said. I think that’s enough. Knowing she genuinely, seriously cares is enough. I’d rather she thought of me in a more positive way, but if worrying reflects any sort of dedication to our friendship, that’s plenty. Though I will, from now on, respond to her messages immediately, even if it makes me feel desperate and lame, just to make sure she isn’t stressed out anymore. She worries about me.

Conclusions combined, I have no idea how I feel. I was so angry today. Flash’s stunt, the fact I thought she actually wanted to defend him, thinking she and MJ were in a secret relationship, the pressure Aunt May and Ned have been putting on me this week, especially since that hug thing… overall, the entire idea of their “mission.” (Honestly, calling it a mission did not make it any more appealing, despite what they may have hoped.)

It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m on unstable ground, but at least I know that when I go back to the room, I won’t feel claustrophobic, like I can’t get enough air. I’ve got fear to spare in gallons, but there’s hope mixed in too. I can fix this.

It’ll be okay. I can do this. I’m Spider-Man, for fuck’s sake.

I just need… a few minutes longer to get my head together.

Holy shit.

Chapter Text

I know Peter won’t be back, not after everything. That’s the worst bit. Even after we finally confronted each other, things aren’t fixed— if anything, they’re worse than ever.

I love my friends, all of them, beyond words… yet even though I’m overjoyed to know that I still have Ned and Michelle, my friendship with Peter is undeniably in immediate decay and it’s almost unbearable. I’m half in love with him and he can’t even stand to be in the same room as me. Not to mention, I still don’t know why they were all ignoring me in the first place.

Like a child, I’m sitting on the floor with my back against the bed, the sound of the door slam echoing around in my brain, replaying over and over and over. My thoughts are reaching and clawing at every insecurity I have. Within minutes my head is aching again and I have to wipe the tears leaking from under my eyes. I’ve stopped shaking for the most part at least.

It’s not the end of the world, I tell myself.

I won’t be able to go to May and Peter’s anymore though, I realize. I push that thought away immediately. I can’t — I really can’t — think about that right now.

I glance at the clock. It’s 11:13 p.m. I might as well try to sleep.

I change into some pajamas, fingers still trembling. I turn out the lights and climb into bed. The air is a bit too bitter, so I pull as much of the comforter around myself as possible. If I close my eyes and focus enough, I can imagine the weight of the blanket as an embrace. 

I really wish I could call May. It’s not too late that she wouldn’t answer, but I’ve kept this Peter-crush a secret from everyone and it would be way too obvious if I tried to explain what’s going on. And even if she offered the best, most comforting and useful advice, there’s no way she wouldn’t eventually tell Peter. They’re too close for that. Plus, I don’t want her to worry about either of us — especially when we’re away from home. I couldn’t do that to her.

A sheltered part of my brain nags me, whispers that I should reach out to Peter or Michelle or Ned. Again, off the table for obvious reasons. I can’t talk to anybody about this without making it complicated. Plus, I’ll start crying again and I don’t want to deal with that twice. The urge alone is driving me insane.

I need to stop thinking if I’m going to fall asleep.

I huddle deeper into the blanket and pick up my phone. I tap Instagram to numb my brain.

Dumb idea. Most of the team has already posted something from today and Peter and I are often in the background. We look miserable in the majority of them. There are a few that aren’t too awful. A handful are of the entire team and all of us look rather happy. (It’s impossible not to smile and laugh while Ned is being petty enough to put bunny ears on Flash.) Then there’s one from the pool, taken by Cindy. It was when Michelle first called Liz. Peter’s got this look, this expression, as he stares at the phone leaning against the wall. Some sort of longing. I know he must miss her. It’s been almost a year and he’s probably missed her every day since. I know it.

All of my insecure Reasons Not To Keep a Crush on Peter Parker are confirmed by this photo. Peter is still hung up on Liz. He likes Liz. He likes people like Liz. I’m not Liz. I’m not even like Liz.

I’m halfway in love with my best friend and he’s halfway in love with someone who isn’t anything like me. The little tiny piece of hope I’d kept hidden away like a lightning bug in a bottle is now extinguished. Or dead. Whatever.

I zoom in on the picture and force myself to stare at it. This is reality. It’s time to let go and accept the fact that my friendship with Peter is nearly finished. Nothing will change, none of those stupid daydreams are ever going to come true. It’ll only get worse from here.

I exit the app and set my phone on the nightstand. Arms wound tight around a wet pillow, the night is swallowed up by black, heavy, deafening silence.

Chapter Text

Standing up, I turn and survey the area by default. Cars are gliding down streets, two workers from the hotel are smoking outside, and the bugs from the trees and lamp posts are buzzing and flying without purpose.

Everything is calm, normal, and still. It gives me another dose of hope. I can fix this.

I’m going back and making things right. I’m ready to apologize. Maybe I can salvage this trip, the thing she’s been so excited for. Speaking of which, I’ll definitely need to apologize to Ned and MJ too. The whole team, considering.

I pick up my phone, wondering if I should send her a text so I don’t waste another minute of her being upset or worried while I figure out how to sneak back in the building.

My screen is full of ignored messages.

“Ned: did you just leave? seriously?

“I heard the door. was that you or her?

“MJ said if I can’t hear yelling under the door you’re probably not there. sooo where are you??

“unless you’re there by yourself.

“but i’ve heard you cry and that’s not you.

“I know my messages are going thru. you’re totally ruining whatever chance you’ve got.

“dude this is like the worst peter parker behavior ever. way worse than ditching me and MJ at that party. she’s seriously upset. you should be there.

“may said you’re still being unreasonable. come on bro. this is the last text I’m sending u.”

The last message is from half a minute ago, half an hour after the previous text.

“DUDE.”

Shit.

It’s like ice water has been poured down my back. I’ve never seen Y/N actually cry over anything . Like sad-scene-in-a-movie cry or just-finished-reading-a-really-good-book cry sure, but nothing real. She’s only quiet if something gets at her. I’m the one who can almost never keep my emotions off the radar. If I could, my eyes and throat wouldn’t still be burning and my face might look less red than my suit. (Not that I have it. Aunt May has it on lockdown at home.) Ned’s right: I should be there. I should have been able to stay with her in the first place to talk this out.

As I picture her in that room, crying alone, I feel my gut drop and my throat itch. This is the worst part of tonight.

Ned is definitely right. Or was, half an hour ago when he dubbed this my worst behavior ever. I have to go back immediately.

Get it together. You’re Spider-Man.

The whole walk back, I think about how I left her alone and probably more confused and hurt than I was when I stormed out. I’m such a shitty friend. This is exactly why I don’t deserve to be more than that to her. Jogging up the stairwell, I imagine how many people are in this hotel, all concentrated in the area I’m about to enter, and how if each of them knew how horrible I’ve been, they would probably kick me out. I can’t believe I left her crying.

I pause at the top of the stairs. I take a breath and I open the door.

Quietly with the key Ned and MJ left me, I slip into the room. For the split second it takes me to shut the door, light from the hallway falls over a massive blanket cocoon huddled on the left side of the bed. It’s something she does whenever she’s stressed or anxious. Anytime she has an important paper or project or presentation, she ends up like this the night before it’s due. It helps when she gets headaches too, I think.

You did this, dumb ass.

My chest is tightening all over again. I take a few steps forward and kneel beside the bed. I’m semi-prepared. I tug a corner of the blanket away from her face and lean in near her ear to whisper.

“Hey, you awake? I know you probably don’t want to see me right now. I just want to say I’m so sorry. I... I’m an idiot. A bona fide moron. If you never want to talk to me, I understand. But if you do, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll be your personal butler for a month. I’ll let you wear the suit whenev— like twice a week. I’ll do anything you want. I’m so sorry I freaked out and messed everything up.”

That wasn’t so hard. I exhale.

She doesn’t respond.

She’s not even awake.

The faint glow from the streetlamps outside and the alarm clock on the nightstand is enough to outline her face in pale red. Not a muscle moved. I’ll say it again tomorrow. More. And I’ll say it better. If I practice a better speech in my head a thousand times, maybe she’ll forgive me. Then we can work on never letting this happen again.

God, I’ve been such a moron.

I stand up and head to the bathroom to get ready for bed. Maybe it’s from trying to talk to her after today, but there’s this numb tingle in my arms somewhere between an itch and restlessness. It reminds me of how weird the first week was after the bite. Like the rest of my body is pushing my skin too far.

I look at the mirror. Shit. If Aunt May were here, she’d probably be freaking out a bit. I look rough. I look like shit.

I shake my head and focus on just getting ready to sleep. As inconvenient as it is, the competition is still tomorrow.

On the sink: my toothbrush, toothpaste, and retainers. Right where I left them. My bag.... Not where I left it. It was on the floor. Now… it’s not. It’s not in the bathroom at all. There’s a bag, but not mine. I turn off the light and open the door.

I use my phone to look over the room with dim light. Nothing. I open my messages.

“Ned, did you take my bag by accident?”

Whoosh.

Ned might be asleep now; MJ definitely is. If they have my bag, I don’t have my clothes. I planned on sleeping on the floor, but I really don’t want to be just in my trunks when she wakes up and we talk. That’d be weird.

Buzz.

“Ned: not an accident. MJ’s idea. you’ll be the most vulnerable person in the room and self-conscious enough to feel cornered into a bit of honesty. it might help the mission. it might make you think before you speak.”

Life would be easier if my friends weren’t so smart.

Chapter Text

The whole idea of being honest seems like a bad one. I’ve been telling Aunt May and Ned this since they tried to push it on me. The thought of following their advice is uncomfortable enough that I want to resist it — and MJ’s idea — a smidge (minimum).

I’ll just wear one of Y/N’s shirts. She and MJ wear each other’s clothes all the time.

Back in the bathroom, I brush my teeth, pop in my retainers, and open her bag. Under a pair of jeans is a plain black t-shirt. Perfect.  

But then, as I pull the collar over my head, I realize I’ve messed up too many times today to think she’d just give me permission to wear her clothes if she were awake. Not a good time to annoy her. I should take it off.

As I attempt to maneuver my arm out of the left shoulder sleeve, I tug a bit too forcefully and hear a tear, suddenly losing balance and hitting the wall with the entire right side of my body. Shit. There’s a clear crack in the yellow paint. My head stings. I scramble to my feet and try again.

I slowly and carefully take it off, folding and putting it back as I cringe and try to ignore the damage I just did to the wall. Nice one.

I turn off the bathroom light and pad through the room as quietly as I can. I open the closet door near the window and reach for the blankets stored on the top shelf. Nothing. I check again with the light of my phone. Nothing at all. I’m going to strangle Ned and MJ tomorrow. What were they thinking? It’s way too cold for this.

I’ll still sleep on the floor, I decide. I’ll use my towel as a blanket... once it’s dry.

My heart is pounding. It’s chilly and the only blanket in the room is attached to Y/N, on the bed.

What would Aunt May say?

For once, I don’t know. I mean, we just had a huge fight that I haven’t had the chance to make right yet. The competition is tomorrow. It’s late and she’s asleep. The situation between us is... stalled.

What’s the logical thing to do?

Get in the bed. Shift some of the blanket over. Get warm while the towel gets dry. Get out of the bed. Sleep on the floor with the towel.

It’s not the best plan, but I like it more than I need to.

Gingerly, I tiptoe to the bed and climb in. I stay as still as possible while I drag a corner of the comforter toward myself. It’s so warm. For the sake of body heat, I inch a smidge closer. I scrunch up part of the blanket to wrinkle up a mini wall of fabric between us. That’s as much personal space as I can make, given the size of the bed. I’m so close that even if my senses weren’t hyped up, I’d be able to smell her hair across the pillow. I love her shampoo.

Dude, knock it off.

Like I’ve told myself a million times, I need to not make things so weird. At least she can’t hear my thoughts. Thank god.

I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. Even though I wanted her to be awake when I got back, maybe this is better. There’s so much I have to say tomorrow, this extra time is probably for the best.

I turn my head toward her— or rather, the mountain of blanket with a face. I don’t come up with stupid scenarios about why we’re sleeping beside one another in a hotel bed or any other What If questions my brain is aching to invent. Instead, I go over all the shit she’s gone through this week because of me. I go over everything I need to own up to and everything I need to say to her in the morning. Maybe it’s selfish and pathetic, but I let myself hope that tonight was stupid and wrong and mostly my fault, but not irreparable. I imagine that forgiveness is on the table. That’s it. That’s all I have a right to consider anymore.

Maybe I can’t be with her the way I want to. Not now, maybe not ever. And yeah, it sucks. I mean, since the start, and I’m ready to admit now that it started way before October, it’s been so different with her. It’s almost terrifying. It’s not the same kind of crush I’ve had before, like with Liz or anybody else. I know her, I really know her and I care about her like crazy. And I think about her all the time, too.

But none of this matters. It’s not happening. I can’t be with her like that and it’s obvious now more than ever. The vital part is how I can be with her, and with Ned and MJ, almost every day for the foreseeable future. I can just enjoy her— their presence without any strings. If things only go back to normal, that’s enough. It has to be.

What if she really doesn’t forgive me, though? What if I’ve really crossed the last line this time?

The same heaviness is pressing into my chest like before, a pressure that reminds me of swimming too deep underwater.

I need to remember what Aunt May said. If anybody is willing to give second chances, it’s almost always her. Then again, which chance was I even on tonight? I’ve run through too many to count.

I close my eyes. God, I wish I could turn my brain off.

Why didn’t I just talk to her when she came here earlier? It seems impossible that fewer than twelve hours ago she hugged me and I shrugged her off. I can’t believe I actually let myself think of her like I did, as if she would do any of those things or, more importantly, as if any of it was even my business to begin with.

I’m such an idiot. I should’ve—

A twisting sound snaps my eyes open.

Y/N starts moving beside me. She awkwardly shifts positions with slow and mechanical movements until she’s lying on her back, her arm thrown over her eyes.

The red light from the alarm clock allows me to just barely trace the faint outline of her hand a few inches from my face. It reminds me of the first time we met, a memory that would usually make me laugh, and of the fact that handshakes are our main form of physical contact. And that it’s not exactly as if we shake hands all that often. 

It suddenly reminds me of all the tiny distances and boundaries that exist within our friendship, the ones that keep us from being as close to each other as we are to Ned and MJ. Just the shadow of her hand reminds me of how badly I wish everything could be different.

None of this matters right now. Let it go.

I breathe out. Try to clear my head. I think of that counting exercise Mr. Stark told me about. One. Two. Three. Four. Four, three, two, one. One. Two. Three. Four. Four, three, two, one.

One thought refuses to stop though. The same one as all week.

Despite everything, Y/N is still the only person I want to be around right now, the only person I actually want to talk to about this stuff, the only person I know would listen and really, really understand it all. But then again, after everything, maybe not... even if I could tell her.

Fear and anxiety churn in my stomach.

For a split-second, I stop thinking and let myself do a stupid thing.

I reach out, slowly, and trace her fingers with my own. I’m about to take her hand in mine, just for a moment, before I think better of it. I draw my hand back to my chest, the sudden absence of her skin making my own fingers itch. 

God, why am I constantly so weird around her?

“I’m serious about what I said before,” I whisper, needing to confess one final time tonight. “I’m really, really sorry. Anything you decide is suitable, I’ll do whatever you want if it helps you forgive me. I swear, I never meant to be such a jerk and I’ll never act like that again. Please, just tell me what you want me to do.”

I exhale and push my palms into my eyes. I need to turn my brain off.

But then a warm hand touches my shoulder.

Is she—?

Chapter Text

He came back?

A hard crash in the bathroom slaps me awake. The consequent groan confirms it’s Peter who’s likely just tripped over his own feet. My eyes snap open and my heart leaps.

The light from the bathroom is outlining the door in harsh gold, a shadow darkening the left floor corner. I close my eyes again, unable to handle the sudden light, and focus on keeping my body completely still. I’d rather he doesn’t know I’m awake. I’m not ready for what we might say to each other.

I just can’t believe he came back.

This thought swims the perimeter of my brain again and again, almost endlessly alongside my concentration to stay still... until, of course, the door eventually opens. There’s a burst of light popping red against my eyelids. Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t move. It’s only a second though before it goes black once more. 

The moment the door closes though, the silent air freezes. If I could see anything, I’m certain I would be able to pick out every particle of dust in the room, standing like statues in their assigned places. Everything around me — and me — feels trapped in this tiny timeframe. At once I’m far too warm.

He really came back?

Peter’s trying to be quiet, I can tell. Maybe that’s why I’m too aware of myself. My breathing shifts from an involuntary function to a mess of trying to regulate it consciously. I hate it. Breathe in. One, two, three, four. And out for five, four, three—

I hear something creak near the window. Is he really—? But then I realize it’s only the closet. He’s staying, then? I wish I were facing the other way so I could try to peek and see what he’s doing.

Without warning the blanket pulls.

What—?

The bed dips behind me, the springs compressing enough that I can sense exactly where Peter’s weight is centered. He’s inches from my back.

Holy shit.

His head must be close to mine on the pillow because something is tickling my scalp. What else is it, if not his breathing near my hair?

God, I’m still thinking about my own breathing.

Peter adjusts slightly.

Focus. In for one, two, three, four. And out for five, four, three, two, one. Shut up, brain, please. The heaviness in my lungs is making it difficult though. I need to turn over to relieve the pressure on my ribcage.

Slowly, steadily, and as convincingly as possible, I roll my shoulders over and push my legs to follow. It’s awkward and disjointed. As it would be, probably, if I were asleep. For good measure, I place my arm over my eyes. That should keep me from trying to sneak a glance. I really shouldn’t risk him knowing I’m not asleep particularly because I should be. The competition. I need to be ready. If I let Michelle down—

He’s touching me. What is he doing? His fingers are brushing mine as if— but now they’re gone. What?

One, two, three, four. Five, four, three two one. One two three four. Five four three—

Peter’s voice nearly makes me jolt.

“I’m serious about what I said before.” He pauses. My mind sprints through too many of the things he said tonight and my stomach drops. “I’m really, really sorry.” What? “Anything you decide is suitable, I’ll do whatever you want if it helps you forgive me. I swear, I never meant to be such a jerk and I’ll never act like that again. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

He’s apologizing… and for the second time tonight, apparently.

That’s Peter. That’s the person I’ve been friends with for so long. He’s really back.

It’s unbelievable, I realize, how much I’ve missed him this week.

All I want is for us to be on the same side again.

My hand feels cold now, my fingers itching to have his back for a moment. I think I get the gesture now. Coming from Peter, it might’ve been a question, a mini request for compromise, a hint at truce in case I was awake. The shock of the initial contact made it weird in the moment, but in hindsight, it is uniquely Peter. Almost weird, but oddly perfect in context. I can’t believe he’s back.

Come tomorrow, the two of us are going to have a lot to work through and I know that. Yet… I almost want to say something, to signal back that it’s okay. If his apology is genuine, as it sounds and I trust it is, I should do something too, right?

God, I’m just going to do stupid things until I die. With that in mind, I ignore the protests pounding in my head and let my who cares? side have control for once.

I roll over onto his side of the bed and, quite frankly, onto him. Sort of. My hand fumbles across his shoulder before awkwardly reaching across his middle to latch on, as Michelle is well familiar with. He half-jumps. By instinct, I immediately pull myself closer, my fingers pressing themselves against his bare ribcage.

Why didn’t you change into pajamas? Damn you, Peter.

I really thought he would at least have a t-shirt.

Although I’ve seen him shirtless a handful of times before, like an hour ago, it’s suddenly a very different thing to physically feel him this way.

“Uh, um. Are… are you awake?”

Don’t move a muscle, definitely don’t answer.

“I don’t want to be weird or anything….” He hesitates. “But my arm is going to go numb if— if I stay like this. So it’s, you know, logical I guess, if I move a bit? But if it’s weird you can, you know, just hit me or something. Or maybe I should sleep on the floor? I was going to once I—”

I force a fake, drawn-out exhale and for some stupid, idiotic reason, I pull myself up a bit more, my leg by habit (I’ll pretend) following the overall motion to slide between his knees. Why am I like this? I can picture how this must look: Peter on his back, his arm crushed under me as I cling to him like a koala bear or tree frog. Our ankles knock against each other slightly. That itself gives me a sense of security, like being locked into a safe place.

Peter stills.

“So you’re not awake?”

Only Peter would ask this right now. The question tickles the top of my head. I can tell from the quick intake of breath that he’s about to keep talking— but given the situation, I think my heart might combust if he whispers another apology.

“Peter,” I mumble. “Please, shut up.”

His chest freezes under my head. He definitely knows I’m awake now. He nods.

“Yeah. Okay.”

Why did I have to say something?

My face is burning and his skin seems more like a furnace than a human body. I could play it off tomorrow as if I had been still asleep… but he knows, he has to know. That really wasn’t a convincing still-sleeping voice. Just as I consider rolling off the bed, rolling under it, and staying there for the next twenty years, Peter moves.

He slides his arm from under my own and wraps it around my shoulders. His right hand brushes my hair away from my face.

I’ll be surprised if he can’t feel the heat from my forehead. Why are we always so awkward?

I expect him to stop there, but he combs his fingers through my hair, rather hesitantly and very lightly, twice more. The second time, one of his fingers catches on a tangle. He accidentally tugs it (I bite my cheek in surprise) before he pauses and half-pats my head as if to say, Sorry, my bad. He drops his hand to his side and sighs. His breathing begins to deepen. Admittedly, I wish he hadn’t stopped.

Peter shifts slightly.

He starts to say something, but hesitates— a half-formed sound trailing off.

Then, there’s a long pause. We both seem to be waiting for the other.

What are we going to do after tomorrow, Peter?

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

This time, I don’t say anything back.

Instead, I kick the corner of the blanket bunched around my foot — the one that isn’t between his legs — until I can tell it’s finally covering both of his feet too. Once I’m certain he has enough of the blanket, I settle in a bit more and pray I’ll be able to sleep at least a little.

This is such a stupid idea.

Still, it’s better than I imagined. And how many times have I imagined this? An embarrassing amount and honestly—

His arms tighten around me. The knots in the back of my neck relax.

It’s a thousand times better than I imagined.

Shit.

Chapter Text

Possible Consequences Of The “Cuddle Situation” Of Last Night (Also Known As Reasons I Should Never Listen To Myself Again):

1. I wake up with half of my body clinging to Peter’s shirtless self, my heart rate leaping off the charts.
2. I ruin — irrefutably demolish — my commitment to get over my crush, like I’m some sort of Peter Parker addict and this is a disastrous relapse.
3. I wake up before my alarm because his boner is digging into my left leg.

My practical, analytical side is punching my who cares anymore? side into oblivion because all of those things are really, absolutely happening right now. And I’m kind of freaking out since I’m the sole person to blame.

On his back, Peter sleeps with his entire right hand wound up in my hair. My head rests on his chest, my arm hugging his middle, my leg still between his. His… um, Penis Parker is way too… prevalent. Don’t even— the last thing I need to think about right now is Flash.

I’ve gone too quickly from dead asleep to wide awake. It’s dizzying. I can feel the blood rushing in waves through my ears.

The alarm clock on the nightstand says 5:38 a.m., its glow just barely illuminating the room enough to make out shadows. I move my head slowly to look up. Peter’s face is the only thing I can really see in any detail, and even though his expression is calm and still, it’s sending my stomach into somersaults, given our positions. Focus. Today is about the competition, not Peter. You need to be prepared.

I need to get up and take a shower, even if I go back to sleep. (And I really should, if I want my brain to function even slightly.) 

I shift my arm slowly, retracting it like a chameleon from a National Geographic episode of Life . It takes a minute. Once it’s safely back on me and not on him, I try my leg next. I can’t believe I let any of this happen. Penis Parker. Oh my god. If things go back to normal, when is too soon to joke about this? Would he be awkward about it if I told Michelle and Ned? Of course he would. It’s Peter. He’d be mortified. A thousand other thoughts sprinting through my brain, this particular effort takes more time. Not to mention, the further I move my leg, the more off balanced I’m becoming. At least his trunks are dry now; their dampness had been uncomfortable last night.

As my leg slips off of his, he grunts, twitching slightly. My eyes flash up. Still sleeping. I let out a silent sigh.

All I need to do is slide his hand out of my hair and sneak my head off of his chest. It might be easier if all of my weight wasn’t balanced on one side of my body. Nevertheless, it can’t be that hard. God, I won’t be able to say “hard” with a straight face for weeks.

I reach just behind my ear to find his hand. Gingerly, I lift it while I ease my head out from underneath. My hair catches some, but I shift my fingers until it falls from his. Perfect. I set his hand back down, on his chest.

Before I can roll over to exit the bed, my vision of the alarm clock is obstructed by a sudden, heavy shadow. 

“Wait,” Peter says, voice thick with sleep as he rolls on top of me, arms latched with an iron grip around my middle. “I can’t figure out the code ‘cause it’s just, like, so ughhh, you know? It’s the sleep. Jus-just makes sense. Promotion for the… the, uh, future of Parker Industries. Right.”

As he slurs nonsense into the crook of my neck and shoulder, he moves the rest of his body like a child trying to get comfy in their blankets, his torso squirming against mine frozen beneath him. His words half-pressed into the skin of my collarbone send shivers through my spine and I fight some jittery sound rising in my throat. I might have more time to process this, how absurdly good it might feel, but his weight is literally crushing the air from my lungs and I don’t even want to explain where certain parts of him are on me. 

I try to wiggle out from under him to catch my breath, my hands pulling at the bedsheets as I struggle.

But I can’t move. He’s too heavy. Anxiety floods and washes through my bones.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I really can’t breathe. 

Images of Ross Geller and Chandler Bing pop into my head, blaring like panic alarms.

Hug and Roll. Hug and Roll. Hug and Roll.

I mirror Peter’s embrace and wrap my arms around him as tightly as possible. I squeeze and roll. 

Not enough. 

I don’t get more than halfway, a half gasp of air, before my back hits the bed again, his weight shoving each of my ribs downward into each other. Peter merely tightens his grip and nuzzles his face into my hair, muttering something about Happy Hogan and shampoo.

Come on, come on. Do it. Get yourself out. Hug and Roll. Just do it.

This time, I put all my strength into it.

Fuck. Almost.

The fall backward hits even harder this time. Peter clings tighter still and my lungs might as well be deflated plastic bags. Shit, I might actually pass out in another ten seconds. My vision is darkening. I can’t see the alarm clock anymore.

I jam my foot hard into the mattress and roll our bodies to the right before using the momentum to roll sharply left, scrambling so both of my feet dig into the bed, one nearly tripping over the other.

Yes!

I gasp, nearly choking and almost not caring if the sound wakes him up. 

We’re on the other side of the bed — thank god — and I’m on top of Peter. 

Relief melts my posture, the former strain in my neck and back fading out. I rest my forehead against his shoulder, eyes closed tight. 

After a dozen full, deep breaths, I move to get up. 

I can’t. 

Peter’s arms are still locked around me. The grip is looser at least, and I can breathe perfectly fine, but I know my chances of breaking his super grip are slimmer than slim.

Shit.

The jabbing in my hip is growing more and more frustrating each moment. If he wakes up like this… we may never speak again, even if we forgive each other for last night. I can already picture it: Peter would drown himself in embarrassment, sputtering apologies as his face turns a thousand shades of red. I’d like to spare both of us from that. If possible, I’d like to avoid any more unnecessary stress between us. I need things to be normal with Peter… and this is not normal for us.

“Nah, man,” Peter’s mumbling next to my ear. “Mr. S is chill, no worries. Keep it on the D.L. and no problema, partner.”

If we were on stabler terms, I might try to reach my phone to record this. His retainers are making him sound drunk and soft and oh so stupid. And his skin is so warm. His breath is tingling the side of my neck, my toes curling in response. 

Maybe… maybe I’ll just rest my eyes for a couple minutes.

Chapter Text

It’s 6:13 when I wake up again.

A faint brush of almost-sunlight is highlighting the window curtains, illuminating the rest of the room as if through a thick film. Still, everything is sharper now. I can actually see the buttons on the alarm clock, for one thing.

For another thing, I can finally see Peter— see him well enough that I could count his eyelashes if I wanted to, or else trace the three freckles just under his jaw to mimic his hand thing from last night. Don’t even think about it. But I do — think about it — and the ache that accompanies the thought verges on painful. This is too much. Maybe it would’ve been better if he hadn’t come back at all.

No, that’s not true. Not even slightly. I can handle this crush, no matter how deeply I keep sinking into it, but I couldn’t handle it if our fight actually ended my and Peter’s friendship. I just need to focus on the competition. I’ll deal with the emotional consequences of everything later. Today is about the team, about Michelle and all of her hard work to get us here. I cannot mess this up.

For that reason, I know I ought to force myself up, start getting ready, and steer my mind back in the right direction. Though… though maybe it wouldn’t hurt to wait another thirty to sixty seconds.

God, why does he have to be so comfortable and warm?

I’m still lying on top of him, like before. My body rises and falls slowly to the tide of his breathing. His arms are wrapped around me, loosely hugging my middle while his chin sits on the top of my head. My face is buried in his neck, hands lying onto his bare shoulders. Our ankles are still tangled together beneath the blanket. The…problem is gone.

I let myself soak in the moment before it dissolves.

I am really glad you came back, Peter. More than I should be. This is such a mess, isn’t it? I try my best to shut off my brain.

After thirty seconds, I lift my head up and carefully reach behind my back to push away the blanket and set Peter’s arms back on the bed. I move my feet to either side of his legs, my hands similarly pressed into the mattress beside his shoulders, and I gently push myself up.

It’s far easier than last time, at least. Peter’s dead to the world.

I keep my eyes on his the entire slow crawl backward on the bed, however. I’m determined to drop to the floor the moment he wakes up— if he wakes up; I’m not sure how he might react to me hovering over his body while he sleeps. I can only pray his fighting instincts wouldn’t kick in.

As I near the end of the bed, I feel a sudden burst of relief, realizing that I’ll have at least one answer within the next couple hours. After that little blip of an apology last night, those few sentences, I can tell Peter that the only thing I want him to do is explain why he came back. That’s all I’ll ask. For now.

Hopefully, things will go back to normal today.

From here I cannot — I refuse — to let my feelings get in the way of our friendship. I really can’t lose him; I know that now without doubt or hesitation. One argument, one night where I thought he might slip out of my life and never speak to me again, and it was like a nest of sharp wires had been shoved into my gut. I can’t risk that again.

Not to mention, sharing a bed for one night doesn’t erase that photo of him looking at Liz. God. That image still tastes metallic, like a teaspoon of blood under my tongue. He doesn’t care about me in that way and he never will. Liz is who he likes. Liz is the type of person he likes. And I’m not Liz.

I need to remember that. 

I slip off the bed.

Before tiptoeing to the shower, I glance at him one last time. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear he has that expression again, that look of disheartened longing from the picture. Or maybe it’s just a blank face from sleeping.

I wonder if he’s dreaming about her.

Chapter Text

An alarm is blaring, shocking me out of sleep like freezing water. I scramble to sit up without thinking. My eyes flash open to an empty bed.

I’m alone, the blanket neatly laid over me. She—?

Alarm still ringing, I rush to the other side of the bed and pick up her phone. The screen reads, “Wake up now for an extra hour of studying!”

I hit the off button and set it back down.

Jesus. It’s like my entire body has been jump started. I pause a minute to steady myself and absorb my surroundings.

The room is only barely beginning to glow with sunlight, everything still faint. Water’s running in the bathroom and the light under the door is hazy. Oh. She’s in the shower. Realizing a more (or less, I should say) awkward detail, I silently say a prayer of thanks: she must’ve gotten up recently and luckily, there’s nothing, um, going on, you know, down there like most mornings.

That’s an enormous bullet dodged. Well… maybe not enormous.

My hands go to my hair, memories of last night rushing through my head. It’s like countless images and sensations have been condensed into a thousand bouncy balls all thudding down a staircase in my brain. All my senses are tripping over themselves reaching to remember as many details as possible. The lying next to her, the trying to hold her hand, her — maybe awake? — cuddling me, being able to feel all of my stress from the last week melt away, and even the limbo of tipping slowly over the edge of sleep with my arms around her, holding her, and wanting to never actually fall asleep— instead exist in that moment for as long as I could. If I hadn’t kept pinching myself to make sure it was real (and, maybe, to stay awake a little bit longer), I might have thought it was all another one of those dreams again.

I have to text Ned.

This all seems crazier with the sun coming up. Just the smell of coffee sneaking in from under the hallway door is like an adrenaline shot to the face. I roll back over to my side of the bed and grab my phone from the floor where I left it last night. Next to it is my retainer case. Oh yeah. I take those out before I start typing. 

“Ned”

Whoosh.

“Ned”

Whoosh.

“Ned”

Whoosh.

“Ned”

Whoosh.

“Ned”

Whoosh.

“Ned”

Whoosh.

I set the phone on the bed. He probably isn’t up yet. I should calm down first. Yeah, calm down first. I take in a deep breath. Slowly, I let it out. I bring my hands to my hair, ready to pull it out. Just be patient. It could be a while. 

Ding!

Nearly leaping out of my skin, I try to snatch my phone back up— but I knock it across the bed and scramble for it like a dog with a toy. Even when I pick it up, I drop it again. Shit, Peter. Chill out.

I fumble to pick the phone up again. This time, it sticks.

Ned: “what happened last night????”

“Dude its hard to explain I just woke up but let me try it might take a minute to type”

Whoosh.

I start typing about how she did what she always does to MJ but this time it was with me last night and I’m wondering if it’d be dumb to talk about how it felt to cuddle a girl like that or if I even should, you know, since it’s her and maybe she wouldn’t want me to tell anyone if she even remembers it, but then I realize that situation itself doesn’t make sense without going back to the actual fight but I really really really don’t even want to think about that right now. I’m trying to resist the urge to grab a pillow and shove my face into it. Then again, I can’t do that without remembering how she used me as her pillow only a few hours ago and how I need to remind myself that, like she said with MJ, it doesn’t mean anything . I wish it did though. God I wish it did. I mean, it did for me. Shit, I’m in so deep. This is such a mess.

The typing bubbles start on Ned’s side for a moment. Then they stop. Oops, I’m supposed to be typing. Then I hear a door in the hallway open and close. There’s a soft tap on my door.

Of course, duh, that’s way smarter. I don’t know why I didn’t just walk over in the first place.

I flip out of the bed and rush to the door. I swing it open to reveal Ned’s face.

“So?” he whispers, eyes wide, going up on his tiptoes to see around me and into the room.

Where do I begin?

“Dude,” I start, “It’s crazy. She’s in the shower, so I don’t know how long I can talk, but-”

“And you’re not in there with her?” Ned says, mock-surprised.

“Ned! That’s not funny- so, so, so not funny. Why do you keep saying things like that? I have enough to think about and that’s, that’s just not cool!”

Ned stifles his laughter and puts his hands up, one covering his mouth for a half-second.

“Okay, I get it, I get it. That was inappropriate. My bad. Go on.”

“I-I-I don’t know. We had this really serious fight and I was just— just such a dick. Like thinking about it right now, I want to punch myself in the face—”

“So do it.” Again, Ned’s trying not to laugh, which only makes my brain scatter more. I’m suddenly aware that my hands are shaking and flying as I speak.

“—and like we worked some stuff out sort of— well, no, we yelled about stuff, but I think we can talk about it today! And make it better, you know? Conflict resolution and all that. Anyway, I left for a while — sorry about not answering you, but you did totally ignore me knocking on the door so I don’t feel that bad — and I was on the roof thinking it all over and I realized everything I’ve been freaking out about wasn’t even that bad!”

“We all told you that!”

“I know, I know! But anyway, I’m gonna have to call Aunt May soon, but I don’t want to talk to her while Y/N’s in the shower just in case she comes out. And then I was trying to warm up and just use some of the blanket and she just— just sort of… and I—”

“What did you do, Peter?” Ned asks, now serious. “Peter, what did you do?”

Ned’s leaning forward, his eyes now less amused and more concerned. I stumble for a second shaking my head, then step around him just to check that there isn’t anyone in the hallway. I keep one hand on the doorframe and stay half in and half out of the room while I sputter out an answer.

“I didn’t do anything! And I don’t know if that’s wrong given the situation because, I mean, but I did kind of, a little bit, try to wake her up? She muttered something, like ‘shut up’ and I thought she might be awake but now I’m thinking probably not—”

“Peter!” Ned cuts me off.

I take a breath, still shaking, trying to steady myself against the doorframe. Why is this so hard to say out loud?

“We,” I start again. “We sort of cuddled all night by accident—”

“Jesus, that’s all?” He rolls his eyes. “You’d think you were about to confess to murder the way you’re freaking out!”

“As if you wouldn’t be exactly the same way if this happened with you and Betty!”

His mouth drops open, despite the fact his crush on her has never been a secret from me. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! This is not about me, and I will not put up with those kinds of comments, even if they are accurate! What we really need to focus on here” he says forcefully, “is that you said it was by accident? You don’t just accidentally— ”

The water cuts off.

We freeze. Ned and I both whip our heads toward the inside of the room, mouths still half open. I look back at Ned who might as well be mirroring my panic because he seems stunned too. The shower curtain’s scraping against the bar. I flinch.

Time to do this. It’s cool. It’ll be fine. You’re Spider-Man.

“You gotta go!” I whisper, hands flailing.

Ned nods rapidly and turns to his and MJ’s door.

“Wait!” I grab his arm. “Can you bring me a shirt, please?”

Ned slides his card in the other door and looks at me, torn between laughter and pity.

“MJ said I’m not allowed to. She said she’ll bring you your clothes when you deserve them.”

My hands go to my hair again. I really think I might pull all of it out.

Just be cool. I swivel back and rush to the bed. I sit on it. That’s weird. I stand up. That’s weirder. Should I lay back down and pretend to be waking up? No, of course not. Why would you do that?

I hear a bag unzipping. I really wish I had anything besides swim trunks to wear.

I can taste my mouth. Ugh. I open the mini fridge and grab a water bottle. There’s floss on the dresser by the window, I remember Ned leaving it there when we unpacked.

As quickly as I can, I floss, throw out the string, ball up some more and swish it in my mouth with water. That’s a lot of mint going almost nowhere. It’s not great but it isn’t like I can barge into the bathroom for my toothbrush. I spit it into the trash can— or try to; it sticks to my bottom lip and I nearly panic as I tear it off with my fingers and throw it away.

Just be cool, Peter. You don’t have to freak out. You just… have to find a way to apologize that makes up for leaving one of your best friends to cry here alone and spend the eve of a big competition sad and probably hating you completely.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.

I feel like such an ass, waiting for her without a shirt. It sounds like a dick move Flash would do to someone. And he’s the worst.

I turn around to the bed and grab at the sheet, tugging until it comes off, knocking pillows onto the floor at the same time. I wrap it around my shoulders and sit at the foot of the bed. There. That’s probably less weird. I shake my shoulders loose and try to be natural, putting my hands in my lap.

The doorknob turns.

Oh, god.

Chapter Text

Oh, god. 

The door opens.

Her hair up in those towel tornado things like Aunt May always does and she’s wearing sweatpants and some sort of tank top undershirt thing.

And I’m wearing a bedsheet.

She freezes when she sees me, stalling in the doorway.

For a split second, we stare at each other. This might be the worst possible moment, but I can’t help noticing how pretty she is right now. It’s twisting the knots in my stomach even tighter than before.

We both start to speak at once.

“Hey, I’m really —”

“Why do you look like a hobbit?”

Of everything I thought she might say, I wasn’t expecting that. How does she always take me off guard? Her eyes flit between each of the pillows strewn on the ground. I should’ve picked those up. 

“Ned, um, Ned and MJ took my clothes,” I say, looking down at my make-shift cloak.

“Oh. That sounds like something they’d do.”

It takes everything in me to not stand up and pull her into a bear hug. With all of my energy right now I’m somewhat afraid I would actually hurt her.

“I-I’m so sorry. About everything. Everything. Are— are you okay?”

She looks as taken aback as I probably did when she called me a hobbit. Slowly, she walks forward a bit, just a couple steps.

“I’m… I’m a little off. I’m really nervous. About the competition. I just feel like I should be, um, studying, you know?”

That can’t be all. It can’t. But I think of her alarm and how of course she even made time to study when she planned this trip. It means so much to her and MJ. But still, that can’t be all she’s thinking about, right? She basically tucked me in after she woke up this morning. After how awful I’ve acted this week, she still cared enough to make sure I was comfortable. She couldn’t hate me and still be that considerate, could she? Yes she could. She’s always been that kind to people, even when they don’t deserve it.

“Look, I-I know I’ve really been messing up the last few days and yesterday crossed a lot of lines,” I say, trying to ignore the desperation bleeding into my voice, “like a million lines, and I feel like there’s something I should— that I should be doing right now to make up for it. I mean, I should never have freaked out like that. That… that was bad. Really, really bad. And I should never have left because—”

“Peter,” she interrupts, “I get it. I was yelling too. It’s not like it was one-sided.” 

As she shakes her head slightly, her eyes drop to the carpet. She’s blinking repeatedly and wringing her hands. Judging by the muscles working in her jaw, she’s either grinding her teeth or biting her cheek. I feel like she just wants me out of the room.

She goes quiet when something gets at her. The more I think about it, the only times I’ve noticed her get quiet is after Flash has pushed her too far, finally pushed past her limits. I really am being Flash-level awful. Shit.

Part of me wants to run outside quickly and call Aunt May. She would know exactly what to do, exactly how to handle this.

“I want to worry about it,” I blurt out, suddenly remembering what she said about worrying over me last night. “I didn’t— I never realized how much stress I cause you every day. It’s completely unfair. And I’m going to fix that immediately. Like now it’s fixed and it’s never happening again kind of immediately. Here,” I say, scrambling to pick up my phone. I unlock it and start typing.

“Hey. Update: Safe in hotel room. Everything’s cool, just trying to make things better. What are you up to? I’m really sorry I’m a chronic moron. What can I do to make up for it? I’ll do anything you want.”

Whoosh. Her phone dings. Behind me. On the nightstand.

Damn it.

“That… that would’ve made a lot more sense if you had your phone right now,” I try, offering my best I’m an idiot, but please, be patient with me for one more second face before I rush over to the table, grab it, rush back, and hand it to her.

Her fingers brush mine as she takes the phone and we both flinch. Was she awake when I tried to hold her hand last night? I sit back on the bed again, my heart pounding. Calm down, Peter. 

She reads the message and smiles a little. She almost laughs. It’s small, but it’s enough to know I’m getting somewhere. She pauses, sets the phone down, then takes her hair out from the towel, putting the towel on the dresser. She’s looking down at her hands, her expression faltering again.

“Peter,” she says, “can I ask you something?”

Panic buzzes in my brain. What if she asks about the texts from yesterday? I want to be honest with her from now on (well, as much as I can be while definitely not telling her how I feel), but I don’t have any explanation for all those texts. Ned and I were just texting each other about how Delmar should cater prom? She won’t believe that.

“Y-yeah. Of course. What’s... what’s up?”

She walks over to the window and turns, facing me, hands fidgeting behind her on the sill. The first word stops before it starts. She presses her lips together for a moment. Is something wrong or is she embarrassed about last night too?

“Why did you come back?” she asks, her eyes lifting to meet mine. “You know, after everything?”

Because if we hadn’t been fighting, our situation last night would’ve been an exact fantasy I’ve had for months now. Because I wanted to talk to you. Because you’ve been the only person I’ve wanted to talk to for the last week.

“I shouldn’t have left at all,” I say. Then I realize what else she might’ve meant. “If-if this is about, you know, being on the bed instead of the floor, I’m really, really sorry. I meant to sleep on the floor but it was so cold and I was going to get warm while my towel was drying, you know? I-I must’ve fallen asleep or something. I—”

The knot of her eyebrows and the slight tilt of her head tells me she isn’t buying my half-lie. But at least there isn’t any anger.

“Peter—”

“I know, I know.” For some reason, her saying my name like that makes me feel brave enough for a sliver of honesty. “It wasn’t really an accident which is—”

“Peter,” she stresses. “I meant, why did you come back to the room? Why are you here, now, talking to me?”

She does want me gone.

“I’m sorry, you’re right.” I stand up, practically jumping off the bed to leave. “You don’t want me around right now and I get—”

As I start toward the door, she steps forward and grabs my arm. Well, my arm through the bed sheet fabric. I probably look like such a kid right now.

“That’s not what I meant either,” she says earnestly. “I do want you here. Last night I thought you hated me. I thought you never wanted to talk to me again. I… I guess what I’m trying to ask is: why aren’t you still mad at me like you were when you left? What changed?”

She’s so close. I can see her pupils expanding as her eyes scan mine and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so vulnerable, a fact that’s halting and freezing my brain. Her hand is heating my entire arm, all the way up to my shoulder. Blush spreads through my chest and I’m glad, in the moment, for the sheet, even if I do look like a hobbit like she said. God, her eyes really are super close, just like last night, even if I couldn’t see them in the dark. Thinking about that tightens the knots in my chest again. Stop thinking about all of that before your face turns into a tomato.

“Peter?”

I nod probably too much and stare at the towel on the dresser as if it’ll help me concentrate.

“I’ve been so stupid lately,” I confess, trying to remember what I rehearsed in my head last night. “I let myself get wound up about mostly nothing. I-I was mad at you for stuff totally in my head. Being alone for a bit helped me think through everything you said. And you— you were right. I mean, I hope I’m smart enough to be reasonable and admit when I’m an ass, you know? From now on, I’ll always talk to you first, no matter what. And because— I came back because we’re friends. Best friends.” I can practically hear Karen’s voice in head. Aunt May’s and Ned’s too. “Because I care about you. I think about you and I worry about you too, even if I haven’t acted like it. I love you and I don’t want to screw things up just because I thought you were keeping secrets.”

Holy shit. I can’t believe I said love. I didn’t even mean it that way. I meant it, but from the years of friendship, not just a crush. Maybe she didn’t notice.

My arms are numb, dead weight. My tongue tastes like sawdust.

Say something. Please, say something.

For a moment, she doesn’t move. Then her hand loosens its grasp on my arm and she lets go.

This is bad. I shouldn’t have said it. My gut falls. My heart is racing and I know how badly the red in my face is deepening. Her reaction is proof of everything I’ve told Aunt May and Ned and Karen: I can’t tell her how I feel. It’ll only mess us up. You idiot, why would you say that?

I do a stupid, awkward thing, since I’m in the habit of it now and I doubt this can get any more painful than it already is. I step forward and pull her into a hug, the bed sheet wrapping around us like a cape as I close my eyes as tightly as possible, bracing myself for the emotional impact of what’s about to come. Please say something. What are you thinking? Her skin is still a little wet from the shower and so warm. I think my chest might explode. 

For four insanely tense seconds, she remains stiff.

Let go, dude. The longer you hold on, the weirder it gets.

But then she softens, arms tightening around my torso as she takes three deep breaths.

She’s nodding quickly when she rises on her tiptoes, nudging my arms out of the way so she can wrap hers around my neck. I readjust and accidentally lift her up a little, but she only squeezes tighter, still nodding and now laughing.

Something clicks in my brain without warning.

If she isn’t dating MJ and she definitely doesn’t like Flash and she’s actually as happy as I am to be friends again, then maybe there is a chance.

Then again, that’s something to think about another time.

Chapter Text

Peter’s face is half-buried in my hair, yet again. I could get used to this. Wrapping my arms around his neck, he reflexively stands up straighter, lifting me onto my tiptoes. Before I can register it, I’m laughing.

I realize I’ve been nodding my head for a weird amount of time, but I almost can’t help it. Less than 24 hours ago I tried hugging him to say exactly what he’s just told me. If the ocean broke through the window behind me to wash me away, I couldn’t feel more overwhelmed with relief.

As long as things just stay normal, we’re going to be okay. I squeeze tighter again before letting go.

“So, things are back to normal now?” I ask, taking a step backward. 

Peter grins, nodding so quickly his frizzed morning hair seems almost cartoonish. For how intensely swerving the last few days have been emotionally, I’m surprised to feel so light and see Peter so happy. I relax and breathe in, finding unspeakable comfort in the crinkles around his eyes. Things are okay. I’m grinning too, I realize. I press my lips together, though I’m unable to stop smiling completely.

“Back to normal,” he affirms, reaching out his hand.

As we shake hands I roll my eyes. This is such an old, dumb joke. The first time we met and fumbled through introducing ourselves, he shook my hand— as if sitting next to each other in class warranted the formal conduct of a business meeting. Now, though, given our circumstances, the once awkward exchange feels like a pact. It reassures me. It almost reminds me of all the other physical contact we’ve shared over the last few hours, but at the moment, for the sake of my mental health, I try not to let it.

As our hands fall from each other’s, I hear Peter’s voice in my head. You guys touch each other way more than you touch me or Ned! I always thought Peter didn’t like physical contact for some reason. Maybe I was wrong? He never initiates it at least. I’ll ask him about it. Later, though. Right now, my brain is nagging me that I still have to awkwardly apologize to everyone else on the team. The team. Shit.

“You should start getting ready,” I blurt. “Ned and MJ spared you an extra towel in the bathroom. And you should really brush your teeth. You smell like retainers. It’s kind of gross.”

Peter almost opens his mouth to breathe in my direction but thinks better of it, instead taking an extra step back with his hands up, his cheeks reddening despite his smile. And there’s the Peter humor I haven’t seen in awhile.

“That’s fair,” he says, covering his mouth with his hand. “You know, you sound like Aunt May.”

“Good,” I reply, biting back a grin. “You should listen to her more often.”

Peter smiles and shrugs, the bed sheet making a dragging sound against his trunks. I want so badly to take a snapchat of him like this and draw on it to emphasize the hobbit or toddler resemblance, but it’s best not to test any limits just yet. 

“Maybe. Um, uh, also, would you mind asking for my stuff from MJ? She said she’d give it back once I ‘deserved it,’ so I don’t think she’ll trust my word without proof.”

“Yeah, I’ll go get it.” I wave my hand as if to say, Of course, no problem. 

I don’t mind. In fact, I’m glad he asked.

Finally, I can talk to Ned and Michelle.

Chapter Text

Now that things with Peter are on the mend, my brain can swing back around to MJ and Ned. What were they playing at yesterday? What were all the messages about?

I hear Peter turning the shower on as I open the door to slip out. My senses are shocked awake and I shiver, surprised by the cold of the carpet under my feet.

Coffee. The hallway smells like morning and breakfast: dewy grass clippings, some distant earthy trees, and a hint of (thankfully bearable now) chlorine. All of that piggybacks the faint whispers of packaged blueberry muffins, orange juice, and coffee. The trademark scent of hotels everywhere.

I take a second to breathe it in, closing my eyes and leaning my back against the door.

I love hotels. There’s something about them that can keep me calm, even in the final hours before our competition. I think it’s the stillness of hotel air, the lack of immediate time.

Breathing out and opening my eyes, I turn to knock on MJ’s door.

But someone’s already there, staring at me, posed as if he were about to knock on that door too.

Eugene “Flash” Ass-Hat-Rich-Boy-Bitch-Boy. His hair is generously gelled and he’s already in uniform. We don’t need to get on the bus for another hour and a half. His expression is a surprised sort of blank with a trace of an almost-frown. He looks the way I feel: totally taken off guard. Why is he here?

I picture his expression last night, gleeful and laughing after everything that had happened, mocking me and Peter like he always does — like he always does to everyone almost all the time about everything.

My blood simmers.

“Flash, what the hell? What are you doing here?”

I speak as a reaction without thinking. He scoffs. The former trace of frown is now a pronounced, twisted irritation. He takes a step back and turns to face me better.

“Excuse me? More like what are you doing in there? That’s not your room. That’s Penis Parker’s room.”

I resist the urge to punch him. I bite my cheek before speaking.

“What, seriously?” I ask. “What do you want?”

He looks taken aback. I know I’ve always been kinder to him than the rest of the team. Maybe patient is a more fitting word. I almost feel guilty for how I’ve just reacted, but I don’t— I can’t. I can’t let myself. The last thing I need is for him to get involved in anything right now. I hope an unusual dose of aggression will hold him back.

“Nothing,” he says, raising his hands in surrender, backing up. “Absolutely nothing.”

He turns on his heel and walks back down the hall, his hands shoved in his pockets.

That’s weird enough to be concerning. I didn’t actually think that would work so easily. I push those thoughts away and knock on Michelle and Ned’s door.

I hear a heavy double thud, then quick footsteps.

Michelle swings the door open and ushers me in.

So that’s where the coffee smell was coming from.

A pot is brewing on the dresser, two cups already full. Ned has his laptop open, typing, but he stops and grins when he sees me. Michelle is hesitantly half-smiling. Both appear to be waiting.

Enveloped in the fresh air sweeping through their balcony screen door and the warm smell of coffee, standing between these two with those faces makes me feel like I’m in the world’s nicest interrogation.

Ned finishes some quick typing before he closes his laptop.

Given everything from yesterday, I have no idea where to start.

I feel my pulse quicken a bit as I try to articulate my lasting, undeniable confusion. My heartbeat is tapping the skin of my neck just below my ear. Say something.

“M- Ned?” I start. “Guys. How and why—? What has been going on?”

Michelle’s eyebrows twitch, but Ned’s expression stays the same. 

“So?” Ned asks, still grinning. It’s his here comes the gossip grin that he would never admit to having, but absolutely does. “I didn’t hear any yelling this morning.”

Is that supposed to be the total sum, the answer to everything? A congratulation on not arguing with Peter? 

My eyes dart from one to the other.

I’m almost at a loss for words. I really thought they might begin with an apology.

“What? What the hell has been going on?” I ask, crossing my arms.

That may be the best place to start.

Michelle walks over, pats me on the back, and guides me, not ungently, to sit on the third bed — what should have been Ned’s bed in the other room — situated perpendicular to theirs, making a horseshoe shape of mattresses. Michelle jumps backward to sit in the middle of hers. I sit on the edge of the third, elbows pushing down on both knees to keep either leg from bouncing.

“You’ll need to be more specific,” she says.

I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or sincere. I shake my head slightly, tempted to roll my eyes.

“What in the world was going on yesterday?” I clarify. “With the texting and the calling?”

Ned stops smiling and looks at Michelle.

Michelle glances at him. I know that face.

“Guys! That’s what I’m talking about! Instead of-of that,” I motion between them, “just tell the truth. I know those looks. They’re for coming up with or confirming the immediate use of a lie — we all know that. And don’t you dare lie to me after yesterday. You, both of you, should be apologizing.”

Michelle’s face loses all sign of her former near-amusement. She nods, and I know she’s not joking anymore.

“You’re right,” Ned says quickly. “We’re sorry. I thought things were cool now. But it makes sense if you’re upset.” He pauses. “It did sound pretty intense in there last night.” He nods toward the wall, his face falling a bit.

I stare.

“Yeah, I know. I was there,” I say. “And no one came to intervene. Not even once. But that’s not the problem. Peter and I are fine, I think.” I pause, taking a deep breath. “Right now, all I want to know is why you guys were messaging each other all day. Why were you ignoring me?”

Michelle answers first, practically cutting Ned off.

“We were trying to figure out what Peter was so upset about. And… and we didn’t want to have to tell you that it was, well, about you.” Her hands gesture my way as she shrugs apologetically. “We’re sorry though. We didn’t want to lie, but we didn’t know how or what to tell you.”

Oddly, despite already knowing Peter’s weird moods were about me, that first sentence still twinges a bit. I suppose it was well meant then, for them to try and hide it from me while figuring it out. I exhale slowly, my hands going to my hair.

Still, they could’ve spoken to me more. I won’t start a fight for the sake of a poorly timed oversight though.

“So,” I ask, “what did he say in all of those texts? And that call?”

It can’t be anything worse than what he said last night. Still, my finger itches as I speak, nervous for the answer.

“The call was to May,” Ned says. “And so were most of the messages. Peter wasn’t exactly answering us.”

Michelle nods, biting at a fingernail before speaking.

“Yeah. She’s been trying to fix things all week. She noticed way before we did.”

I didn’t expect that. May’s been involved? I remember what Ned said about her arguing with Peter Friday morning. “Y/N might.” What had they been talking about?

“What do you mean?”

Ned looks at me, confused.

“You do know that May cares about you, right?” His eyes narrow in concern. “She loves all of us. Like, a lot. Once she noticed Peter was acting weird about you, she tried to talk to him and sort it out before he did something stupid.”

“Clearly, it didn’t work in time,” Michelle says, offering a half laugh, glancing at the wall separating our two rooms.

I relax my shoulders and stare at the door handle to the hallway. May figured this out? Before Michelle? I think of all those daydreams about Peter, about May always being somewhere inside them, always somewhere near: quiet but vital to everything.

“Oh,” is all I can think to say.

Still, I wish you guys had just told me.

That sounds like something Peter said last night. “Why haven’t you guys just told me and Ned?” Even if his assumption was wrong, the concept is the same. It’s the same thing.

I pause. Then I sit up straighter.

“I think I’ll go back to the room,” I say, standing suddenly. “I need Peter’s clothes though, he said you guys had them.”

Michelle nods, pushes herself off the bed, and goes to get a bag from the closet.

“Here,” she says, handing it to me. “We’ll sort out the room stuff later, but make sure you and Peter are ready on time. And try to get your head in the decathlon game.”

I nod.

Ned says something to me but my brain’s straying like a dazed cat. I say something in reply before walking to the door and slipping out.

I pause between the doors to collect a deep breath. I have no idea what I’m about to tell Peter but I know I need to tell him something. My stomach is doing mini-trampoline jumps. And not in a good way. 

I unlock the door and push it open before I have time to talk myself out of it. I brace myself, arms tense at my sides.

Peter isn’t there. The water’s still running in the bathroom.

Maybe that’s for the best.

I need a minute. I’ve only just now realized Peter wasn’t completely in the wrong. I’ve been making mistakes too. Plenty of them.

I think back on the last 24, 48, and 72 hours. All the stages of fear and doubt and anxiety.

Is this how Peter felt this whole time with me and Michelle? I mean, we do text each other at least a few times every day while we’re with him and Ned. And our little languages are their own form of secret-keeping. They always have been.

Shit.

I glance around the room. It might be empty, but it’s still messy. I rush over to the bed and start putting it back together and picking up pillows, just to have something to do for a couple minutes.

Wow, I’m so stupid.

Has he really felt this left out for that long? All this time that we’ve been friends and Michelle and I have excluded him and Ned regularly, so regularly. How long has he felt this way?

I shake out the blanket and try to get it to cover the mattress as evenly as possible.

I know Ned isn’t bothered by any of it, he’s always been fine with me and Michelle keeping little secrets. He’s even said so a thousand different times, like when the two of us can’t stop laughing at some snapchat we’ve sent each other (usually of the boys at awkward and hilarious angles).

“I don’t mind if you guys make jokes on those tiny little cell phones,” he’d say. “I knew who Spider-Man was before anyone else. And you know what? That’s priceless. Whatever memes you guys are sending each other, those are cheap.” He loved to point that out. Then he’d get serious. “But for real, if those are more embarrassing pictures, just make sure they’re under ‘My Eyes Only’ on your accounts. I’m not letting you guys accidentally show Betty another picture where it looks like Peter and I are kissing. Really. Never again. I’m serious. It’s already happened a bizarre number of times.”

But Peter never said anything. Ever. At most, he’d glance at our hands, both of us typing away, and ask if we were still paying attention.

Could I really have missed all of this?

Holy shit.

I try to smooth out the blanket, pulling a couple corners as I walk around to the other side.

And he’s been so desperate this morning for things to just go back to normal, so happy to get back to where we were last week. He didn’t even bring this up. He probably won’t. He’s willing to just put up with it.

I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been. Peter trusted me, trusted each of us, with an insanely serious secret… and the whole time, Michelle and I have been so oblivious. We laughed all the time, any time he would ask us what we were talking about together. The worst — the most idiotic part of it — is it’s always been such trivial things. Little jokes about... about nothing .

I start tossing the pillows back near the headboard.

No wonder he thought we were dating. Who wouldn’t suspect something after all this time? And from the beginning, none of our conversations really needed to be kept from him or Ned; most of the fun was simply in watching them try to figure it out. We were only teasing them. I never realized how it might seem from the other side.

God, Peter. I am so sorry.

The shower knobs squeak off. I stand up. Then, remembering the bag, I grab it and walk to the bathroom door.

“Hey, Peter? I’ve got your clothes. And… and I need to— well, I need to say something.”

I probably could’ve waited until after he was dressed and out of the bathroom to say that last part, but then again, I have to give him his clothes anyway and I don’t know if I could wait another minute to admit how badly I need to talk to him.

“Yeah, yeah, okay. Give me just a minute. Can you put my stuff by the, um, by the door?”

I set the bag down and go back to sit on the bed. I turn a bit and adjust the pillows like a nervous habit.

After a minute, the door peeks open and Peter’s hand snatches the bag. Like it would be so terrible for me to see you in a towel. I almost laugh, feeling a bit lighter already. Even though I feel awful right now, at least I know he’ll accept the apology; otherwise, he wouldn’t’ve agreed to be friends before I realized I needed to give one.

Just breathe.

Finally, the door opens completely and Peter walks out in his uniform. Like most mornings after a night spent at his apartment, I have to resist the temptation to imagine running my fingers through his wet hair. Unlike most mornings, I also have to resist the temptation to remember how at one point, around 3 a.m. I think, I distinctly recall half-waking up for a minute and spontaneously letting the thought become a reality. I definitely shouldn’t think about that, or the sighing groan that came from Peter’s lips when it happened. Shit.

“Y/N?”

Peter’s looking at me curiously, slowly placing the bag on the floor near the dresser.

“Yeah?”

“You okay?” he asks. “You look like you’re… like you’re not totally here.”

I shake my head and pray my face isn’t revealing my embarrassment. He stands up straighter and starts to walk over to the bed.

“Sorry, just thinking,” I say, trying to concentrate. “I, um, I need to apologize.”

Peter shakes his head as he sits next to me.

“No, you don’t,” he says, shifting on the bed, his hands fidgeting. “It was all on me, I was— I was the one who acted like, well, a moron. I should apologize. What I said before wasn’t enough, not… not even close.” He exhales and his eyes fall to the carpet and I can tell he’s focusing on something. “I was thinking about it and there’s so much—”

“Peter, please,” I interrupt, my hand accidentally knocking against his as I start to explain. “I messed up too. I didn’t realize how shitty it is to be on the outside of something, you know? Of course you do. Sorry. That’s the point. Even if it’s just a-a stupid conversation. And those conversations with me and MJ were never anything that was a big deal. I really want you to know that.” I fold my hands in my lap. “I’m really sorry we used them to mess with you and Ned.”

Peter looks back up to my face. He’s curious and... something I don’t get yet.

I should explain better than that. Like I wanted them to explain about yesterday.

“When we’re texting each other,” I keep going, “it’s only stupid stuff. Like….” I pause, my scattered brain running through our most recent secret conversations, struggling to remember. “Like… the other day when Jason was on the morning announcements reporting on the car crash you stopped on Monday, he made a comment wondering what the webs are made of, so MJ said—” Nevermind, I’m not telling him that. “She, uh, just whispered a, um, joke about it.”

I feel my face grow warm. That didn’t sound nearly as awkward in my head as it did out loud. Jesus, why would I not pick a different example?

Peter’s eyebrows are raised and his expression seems torn between wanting to ask a question and really not wanting to ask a question. Still, he’s waiting for me to say something.

“The point is,” I say quickly, “that must’ve sucked for you, to be on one side of a fence and not know what’s happening on the other. I’m really sorry it took all of this for me to notice. If yesterday for me was anything like… well, every day for you, I can’t apologize enough. I had no idea.”

Peter’s smiling now. There’s a light in his eyes I’m struggling to translate.

“It’s totally okay,” he says. “Honestly, I’m just glad things are good with us again. I mean, I’d appreciate it if you and MJ didn’t message each other so much when we’re all together, but it’s not up to me. For now, for the rest of the trip, can we maybe agree to wait until we get back home to bring up that sort of stuff?”

I nod instantly. Relief sinks into my skin. I still feel guilty, but it’s fading away like sand carried from the beach after a wave.

“Yes. Absolutely. I think that’s a good idea. We need to focus on the competition.”

Peter’s smiling, his posture relaxed. He’s looking at me again in that way I don’t understand. Something seems… different. His eyes are so close I can differentiate between all the shades of brown in his eyes, the lighter flecks closer to his pupils. The air doesn’t feel as cold as before.

Peter nudges his shoulder into mine, as if joking to push me off the bed. Peter actually initiated physical contact? That’s new. Definitely new.

“By the way,” he says, leaning back, “your phone went off a few times. At least one message is probably from May. She sent me one too.”

The bubble around us pops instantly — too soon — but still, I nod in reply and stand up to check it on the window sill. There are four unread messages.

The first is from May:

If you’re awake, call me! Good morning and happy competition day!

The last three… are from Flash. As soon as I open them and skim his words, the blood drains from my face and my throat closes up.

Eugene: I know you slept with Peter last night.

Eugene: Pretty sure that isn’t on the trip’s itinerary.

Eugene: Definitely not a Mr. Harrington approved activity.

Chapter Text

This is straight-up the strangest weekend I’ve ever spent with Peter, Y/N, and MJ— and I’ve spent a lot of weekends with them. I kind of saw it coming, though. Peter can be such a stubborn idiot sometimes, it was probably inevitable. But right now all I want to think about is getting off this bus and taking a nap. Then getting back to Queens tomorrow and taking an even longer nap in… third hour? Fourth? I can’t remember what time we’re supposed to arrive, just that whatever class it is, I’m sleeping through it. And no one can stop me. This whole “thing” with those two has given me too many second hand emotions. I’m exhausted, and I know that exhaustion is going to last at least another 24 hours.

Maybe this is what it’s like for men who get pregnancy symptoms after their partner tells them they’re having a baby. Like, yeah I’m definitely involved in this but I shouldn’t be this involved, you know?

If Peter had just listened to me for once he could’ve avoided this whole weekend disaster in the first place and maybe everyone would be way less stressed out. After all, I’ve been nudging him to tell Y/N how he feels for over two months now and I’m pretty sure he’s liked her for way longer anyway.

Not that I’m still bitter or anything, but the only reason he even told me was because he got super obvious right before Christmas and I basically forced it out of him. Subtlety is not Peter’s thing, I realized. 

First, all the way back in November, he begged me to rig our Secret Santa drawing so he’d get her name. (Honestly, I thought he just saw some easy gift the day before, bought it, and wanted to make sure he got her— that way, he wouldn’t have to find something else if he picked me or MJ.) Then, a week before winter break, I caught him scrolling through his Snapchat memories of her in seventh hour that day she was home sick. (I did think that was odd but two seconds later Betty asked me a question about our homework and I totally forgot about it.) After, when he said he was going to Spidey it up after school, so he couldn’t come over, but instead went to bring her soup and the homework she’d missed — as himself, not even as Spider-Man — I probably definitely should’ve realized. (Somehow I never even noticed he’d been picking up extra copies of our assignments and visiting her other teachers between classes.)

What did finally give it away was the less-than-subtle, “Do you think we should put mistletoe up as, like, a decoration? You know, for Secret Santa?” while we were waiting in line at Target. (He dragged me there to print her final present.)

Thirty seconds beforehand, I had told him that me and MJ were probably going home an hour earlier than planned that night because of the winter weather advisory thingy, but I didn’t think Y/N needed to since she lived closer to his apartment. Anyway, then he said that whole thing and took a long pause, looking at the aisle with fake holly and mistletoe and whatnot. When I asked why, his face turned redder than the Target logo and he tripped over his words half a dozen times as the line moved forward. So that’s how I figured it out. Well... I waited until after we got the picture to start asking questions, and then I knew it knew it.

At first, the idea of two of my friends dating was so… so strange and awkward, I was totally on board with his “just gonna wait it out and get over it” plan. By February though, it was obvious he definitely was not over it. Not even close. Zero progress made. Worse than ever, honestly. A complete failure. He spent an hour and a half pacing around a flower shop on Valentine’s Day without buying anything. Two workers kept trying to offer suggestions but Peter couldn’t speak in a straight line to save his life, let alone process the color symbolism they were explaining. I was sure he was headed fast toward a mental break.

By then, though, I’d gotten used to the idea. And it seemed like a good one. It made a lot of sense.

That’s why I finally told MJ yesterday. She probably already knew, since she notices the smaller stuff. Plus I really needed her help to move the bed and have somewhere to sleep. And because May gave me permission to blurt it out since Peter was being such a jerk.

So, now we all know! Well, except Y/N, obviously.

I do feel really guilty about avoiding her and making things worse yesterday, but things now are better...ish? Maybe? Based on this morning, though, maybe not.

This weekend has been so insane with them overall, and then, like some absurd red cherry on top of the tense and awkward sundae of everyone’s weekend, she refused to compete today.

Why would she do that? She didn’t even warn the rest of us. She didn’t say a word to me, MJ, or Peter. We found out last, after everybody else on the team.

Before the competition, a few hours ago, this whole other scene went down.

MJ had just downed her coffee, so she could use her cup against the wall to eavesdrop on Peter (we thought we heard May’s ringtone), when we heard Y/N arguing with Mr. Harrington. About four seconds later, Peter must have heard it too because his door swung open and he did that white people half-jog down the hall. By the time MJ and I had poked our heads out to look, every door on our team’s side of the hallway was opened. All of us, half-dressed, standing in pairs, were listening to Y/N and Flash arguing with Mr. Harrington.

Seeing her defend Flash is one thing. It happens a lot. Watching them argue together though, against a teacher, was just... wrong. There was definitely something off there.

Then Peter, who didn’t understand what was going on either, tried to interject and— well, everything just got louder and more confusing and worse. MJ muttered something like, “Oh, for fuck’s sake,"  before she rushed over too. Within fifty seconds everyone had shut up, the conflict was settled, and the doors started awkwardly closing with little hush sounds. MJ put an arm around Y/N’s shoulders as they walked back to our room in silence. Peter trailed a few steps behind. If I know him at all, I’m pretty sure his expression meant he was torn between turning around to start something with Flash or else jogging up a bit to make sure she was okay. But he couldn’t make up his mind so he stayed where he was. Like always.

It took at least ten minutes to get any straight answers from her. Maybe what she said was true, but she seemed more nervous than sick. Was she just freaking out from competition anxiety?

According to her, at least, she told Mr. Harrington she was feeling too sick to compete. Mr. Harrington, however, said he really, really didn’t want Flash to have to take her spot. Flash, being next door to Mr. Harrington’s room, had heard everything and wanted it known that he was more than ready to compete this time, and that it was totally unfair to try to force her to compete if she said she couldn’t and wasn’t feeling well. Mr. Harrington protested a bit more, apparently unconvinced and probably suspicious like the rest of us, so the three of them kept arguing until MJ put her foot down. (Peter was only in the argument for like a second since he couldn’t figure out what was happening.)

So, now we’re here. (Except Y/N.) On the bus. Almost back to the hotel.

The competition is over and MJ could not be more pissed.

Well, I’m sure she could be… but let’s just say she’s not exactly happy.

Me? I’m going to make the best of a bad situation. Flash keeps nodding off in the seat in front of us, Peter and I have extra fries, and there’s just enough of a gap between Flash’s neck and collar so we can slip a bunch in. That’s what he gets for tucking his shirt in so tight: a pouch of cold, celebratory french fries to lump down the back of his shirt.

That’s all the thanks he’ll get from us.

Chapter Text

By the time the hotel’s parking lot comes into view, Peter and I have filled Flash’s shirt with nineteen french fries, two chicken nuggets, and the pinched off end of a mustard soaked hamburger bun without waking him up. Behind us, the quick, thud-thud-thud-thud sound has started back up. MJ’s doing it again. Peter stopped her a few minutes ago, but I was surprised she listened even then. On my right, Peter lifts himself up a bit to kneel on our seat, facing her. 

There are seagulls flocked near the hotel entrance, still a little ways off. Man, what I wouldn't give to shove Flash out the door once we’re close enough just to watch the birds swarm and peck him for the food we planted. But I shouldn’t think about that right now. MJ is upset… though, to be fair, she’d probably find it funny too.

“MJ,” Peter half-whispers, a mixture of awkward and gentle. “Come on. Get your head off the window. If we hit another pothole you’ll get a concussion.”

I turn to join the conversation.

“Yeah,” I say. “And we can’t risk having to deal with you concussed. It’d be a nightmare. I don’t think concussed people are allowed to read or do homework.”

MJ stares out the window without blinking, her face blank. I was hoping for a I get the point, I’ll try to lighten up face, so this is a set back.

“After today,” she says, still refusing to look at us, “I’m going for an amnesia-level impact.”

“MJ, it’s really not that—”

“I swear to God,” she continues, unbothered, “if I step one foot inside the hotel with my memory intact, I’m going to…. I’m going to spear Flash through the eye with that stupid… fucking trophy.”

MJ closes her eyes, shaking her head slightly against the vibrating glass. It’s strange. Her voice was actually pretty flat, like she didn’t really mean it, for once. I’m not even sure if she’s angry or… tired and upset? Her voice has been in a deadpan ever since we exited the stage and she seems as exhausted as Flash.

I look behind my shoulder.

He’s still sleeping, head bobbing over his chest. I wonder how late he must’ve been up last night if he hasn’t even noticed the smell (or feeling) of smushed french fries sticking to his skin. 

Further up, Mr. Harrington is talking with — well, more like to — the bus driver, and everyone else is reenacting the competition and laughing a little too hard, trying not to spray each other with the food in their mouths. 

I wonder if Cindy or Abe already texted Betty to tell her we won. 

I’m turning back around as Peter finishes wedging his jacket between the window and MJ’s temple. It doesn’t really matter though, since we’re almost to the entrance anyway. Still, she closes her eyes and takes a long, deep breath. Maybe that’s a good sign? For now, I hope so.

If things had played out differently, today would have been perfect. Or maybe not. If Flash hadn’t answered that last question, we would’ve lost and that might’ve been worse, since this morning was so weird and Y/N could’ve been dragged into it and who knows what could’ve happened blame-wise and fight-wise. Even if I don’t get why she dropped out today, the last thing I’d want is the rest of the team to be mad at her.  

The bus is rolling to a stop when Mr. Harrington stands up. As the hotel comes into view behind him, it feels more calming and inviting than before, despite everything that happened last night and this morning and the day before and even just now with MJ. It seems like a good sign… despite the flock of creeping seagulls. I hate the way they hop from foot to foot to edge closer, like it’s some kind of freaky beady-eyed murder dance.

Everyone’s conversations finally dissolve until seagulls’ cries and the rumble of the engine are the only sounds left in the air.

“Alright, kids,” Mr. Harrington starts, almost tripping as the bus lurches to a full stop. “As requested, we have returned to the hotel where you can be bored out of your minds indoors, rather than doing fun, tourist-y things outdoors in our nation’s capital. But, then again, I guess that’s the millennial generation for you.”

He sort of smiles and shrugs half-heartedly, like he doesn’t even find his own joke that funny. He kinda looks dead on the inside. But, then again, that’s Mr. Harrington for you!

I almost say that to Peter, but I stop myself. We all already know why nobody wants to do what we did last year. Joking about Mr. Harrington’s awkwardness might just make it more awkward, since Peter and I were, mostly, kind of, the whole cause of it. He shifts beside me. Does he still feel guilty about it, too?

“Gen Z… actually,” he mutters. 

Nope. I roll my eyes. Peter’s always had a thing for correcting teachers under his breath. Even when it got him in trouble, he’d still do it.

“What’s that?” Mr. Harrington cups his ear with his hand like, oh, you darn kids! 

This time, he is actually partially smiling, like we’re all back on track with some running joke. Maybe it was better when he looked dead inside. His gags aren’t as funny as he thinks and I think maybe we should tell him that eventually. I get he’s trying to lighten the mood, but at what cost?

“Sorry, Mr. Harrington! I just— I said, we’re in Generation—”

Smack! Peter’s shouting finally wakes Flash up, who jerks his head back so quickly it hits the seat full force.

I laugh on impact. Everyone else is a bit confused when he jumps up, startled. Abe actually almost looks concerned. Then, Flash realizes there’s something inside his shirt. I hold my laughter in as much as possible and I catch Peter’s smirk from the corner of my eye.

“What the—!?”

Flash squirms and spins for a split second before yanking at his shirt like he’s covered in bugs. Since everyone watched me and Peter sneak the food down his shirt, they quickly catch onto what’s going on, the understanding lighting up their eyes.

“Whoa, whoa!” Cindy shouts, standing immediately with her hands waving like a warning. “Flash, let’s not repeat the chemistry incident again!”

I can’t help laughing now, and neither can anyone else. Well, MJ can. She’s watching, unamused, sinking down into her seat lower to avoid him completely. And Mr. Harrington— he’s as confused as Flash. The rest of us on the bus, even the driver who finally seems amused for the first time today, are snickering and doing their best not to snort.

Flash says something indistinguishable in reply before finally tearing the shirt up enough for the french fries and chicken nuggets to spill out. Shaking them loose, he turns to me and Peter. The dark circles under his eyes make him look even angrier. We shut our mouths immediately.

“Are you f—?”

Mr. Harrington, apparently bamboozled by the food flood, does that teacher, Hey, hey, hey, hey! shout.

Flash whips around, stumbling for a second over his feet. Mr. Harrington gives him a questioning look, then glances back to the floor. He pauses before speaking again.

“Flash,” he says tentatively, clearly uncertain. “Clean up your mess before you exit the bus, please.” He nods to the seat and floor.

Flash starts to make an indignant sound, probably words of an angry protest, but stops.

Then… he doesn’t move or speak. There’s a super awkward staring contest between the two, student vs. teacher. Flash isn’t facing me anymore so I can’t see what his face looks like, but the collar of his jacket is trembling so badly it loosens some salt specks that fall onto his seat. Nobody’s laughing anymore— the grins are shifting off of everyone’s faces.

It’s definitely awkward now.

With a smack of hands against fake leather, MJ shoots up out of her seat, balling up Peter’s jacket to throw at his head, and marches out of the bus. Mr. Harrington practically jumps out of her way as she passes him, her stomps shaking the bus slightly.

It’s like a crack in super thin ice.

Abe stands up next, quickly.

“Oh good,” he says. “I love a spontaneous game of Follow the Leader.”

That’s a cue for the rest of us. MJ and Abe know how to diffuse — or at least distract — tense situations.

We all stand up and file out as quickly as possible. Our feet creak the joints of the bus and it shivers.

Neither Peter or I look back as we pass Flash… and it’s obvious that we’re avoiding him. The rest of the team is too, but not in the same way. And he knows it, just like everybody else.

For a split-second, I regret it.

Then, instead, I just start to hope that Y/N is feeling better so Peter and I can hang out with her to celebrate. 

Chapter Text

The gift shop is the smallest part of the hotel and it’s still the size of three classrooms smushed together. It’s stacked with trinkets, magnets, mugs, glass miniatures, and all the other usual sort of souvenirs that glitter back at the sunlight peeking through the windows. Near the front of the store, it smells like a grandmother’s laundry room... likely because the air conditioning is blowing right in my face, making my eyelids click when I blink.

I should get off my phone and go look around, rather than wait for the texting bubbles to pop up again. Oops.

Phone in my pocket, I take a moment to locate everyone. The team is dispersed throughout the aisles. Given how maze-ish the place is, it looks like everybody is in the middle of some slow-motion war or hunting strategy game.

On one side, near the stuffed donkeys and elephants, Cindy and Sally are flipping through postcards and travel guides. From here, I can’t hear what they’re whispering, but Cindy keeps glancing at Abe.

Abe is totally immersed in the stuffed animals a few feet away. He’s on FaceTime with his dad, holding up various stuffed animals, asking which his sister would like best or if she’s too young to align herself to a political party yet. His dad is laughing and shaking his head while Abe settles on, “I’ll get her the teddy bear with the top hat— I think it looks pretty politically neutral.” After reminding his dad not to tell anyone about the gifts he’s getting the rest of their family, Abe says goodbye and walks over to show Cindy and Sally the stuffed bear.

MJ is in the middle of the shop. She must be in a hurry, since she buys a Notorious RBG sweatshirt, rips the plastic bit of the tag off with her teeth, and practically shoves herself into it headfirst within 50 seconds. Either she’s gone from mildly annoyed to seriously pissed or she’s wanted the meme-ed out Supreme Court Justice’s face on her clothing for a long time. Knowing MJ, it could totally be either option.

Flash is being an idiot, sulking in the corner. He’s leaning against an advertisement for some sad whale documentary stuck to the window, but his eyes are flickering back and forth from whatever app he’s scrolling through on his phone to Peter talking with Y/N, standing a couple rows up. Maybe he senses me noticing him because he glances suddenly in my direction. We make awkward eye contact before he stiffens and looks away.

He was probably eavesdropping on the two of them. But I don’t have the energy to confront him about it. Not after yesterday and this morning. Instead, I shift my focus to my friends. Peter, mostly.

Oh god, Peter. I can already tell he’s about to be at his utmost annoying the moment we get back to our room. (After we switch the rooms back to normal, at least.)

Standing beside her, he tries to juggle a bunch of keychains for no apparent reason, nearly knocking the shelf over when he fails; she gives him a pitying laugh as she takes them from his hand and organizes them on the shelf where they belong. Her eyes stay on the small task, but Peter’s are practically glued to her face. I think he’s forgotten whatever conversation they were having because there’s a short pause and then the second she turns her head to ask him something, Peter does an odd hop thing like he’s been mildly shocked. She tilts her head, squinting for a moment before moving on to the next overpriced item on the shelf. After a few seconds of finally paying attention, he follows her further down the row.

And I’m standing next to stacks of coffee mugs. I should probably rescue Peter now before he makes a fool of himself. Or a bigger one, I should say.

I pass Flash — well, sort of, since he’s three rows away — as I walk toward them. He ignores me like usual, so I ignore him too.

Neither Peter or Y/N notice me approach; they’re lightly arguing. She’s shaking her head and groaning in discontent. It seems playful, but there’s a real hesitance to whatever she’s resisting. Peter sounds like he’s trying to tone down his own grin and failing miserably.

“Nope, no way out of it. You have to choose,” Peter says, smirking. “Necklace or bracelet?”

She shakes her head again, at a slight loss for words.

“What, so I can feel handcuffed to you? Those necklaces are practically chokers, they’re so short.”

Whatever they’re talking about, it’s definitely the perfect spot for me to jump in.

“Handcuffs and chokers?” I ask, mock shocked. “Kinky.”

They both turn at the same time. Her face lights up when she sees me and barely seems embarrassed by the comment, so there’s no doubt she knows I’m joking. Behind her, Peter gives me a Why are you always like this? exasperated look with a spreading blush.

“Ned!” she says. “Christ, you scared me.”

“Too engrossed in handcuffs?”

There’s a grin on my face now and she returns a tired, close mouthed smile. It’s only at this point that I realize how exhausted she looks. The darkness under her eyes combined with her tense posture seems to cloak her whole body with a faintly haunted — paranoid even — halo.

Nonetheless, she seems tempted to laugh and hit me. Instead the beginnings of those movements halt and rolls her eyes and takes a step to the side.

“Peter,” she says, turning toward him, “show Ned what you wanted to buy.”

Peter opens his hands. One has a short necklace, the other a bracelet. Both are fake gold and have half hearts with something written on each. It might be best friends?

Christ. Way to be subtle, Peter, you idiot.

“We agreed we need to work on our friendship,” he explains hesitantly, as if he’s just now realizing how fumblingly obvious he’s being. “So, friendship… stuff…?” He cringes at his own words.

Don’t laugh, Ned, I tell myself. Don’t you dare do it.

Before I can comment, MJ’s voice cuts in from the back of the shop and we all turn.

She’s standing in front of Flash, near the door, in a stance that suggests she wants to push him out of her way, or down to the ground. Man, he must be desperate or stupid to attempt to talk to her right now.

“Whatever it is, go tell her yourself!” she shouts, hands reaching up to her hair. “Leave me out of it, I don’t care!”

MJ shoulders past him, not enough to knock him over, but certainly enough to leave him jostled and lost. His back rises and falls like he’s taking deep breaths. He turns to look directly at Y/N, expression somewhere between frustration and… sadness? That can’t be right.

As I try to riddle out whatever’s going on, replay the reasons why MJ would be this mad at him and what it has to do with Y/N, I hear Y/N make an almost silent strangled sound beside me. Knowing there’s no way to stop her from whatever she’s about to do, I just shut my eyes and curse Flash for being born.

When I open them, I see that MJ has planted herself in a hotel lobby chair outside the shop with her hood pulled up, arms and legs crossed, sunk deep into the soft leather. Mr. Harrington, sitting in the seat adjacent, leans to ask her a question but she yanks the strings of the hoodie and it closes around her face like an annoyed collapsing black hole.

Y/N takes a quiet breath and Peter tenses on my right. Before he can open his mouth, she says she’ll be right back with a tone that explains nothing and warns us both not to intervene.

I look at Peter, who looks at me, and we both watch her approach Flash. If I know Peter at all, I’m sure his feet are itching to race over to them too.

With her back to us, we can’t see her expression or hear anything she says. All we can do is catch glimpses of Flash, who keeps trying to interrupt her and losing. After about forty seconds they start to argue, or at least that’s what I’d guess from the angry gestures.

When she starts to leave, Flash grabs her hand. A red flag goes up in my head. That’s an idiotic move. She smacks it off with the back of her other hand and leaves him struggling to say… something. I’m bad at reading lips.

Kinda looks like, Keanu just loves truly. Reeves? But I’m 98% certain that’s wrong.

Well, all the same, that clarifies nothing.

As she quickly starts walking back over to me and Peter, I turn my head to ask what he thinks just happened, but he isn’t there. Well, he is, he’s just further down the aisle, where he nearly knocked everything down a few minutes ago. He grabs something and heads toward the cash register without a word.

“He’s not buying those bracelets, is he?” she asks, slightly out of breath. Standing beside me, we both watch him set something small down on the counter.

“I don’t think so,” I say.

Really, I have no idea. I couldn’t see what he took, but I’d like to offer her some comfort in whichever ways are currently available.

She bites at a nail.

“Good.” I realize she isn’t meeting my eyes. “It would’ve been… awkward, if he had gotten a pair for the two of us and not you and MJ, right?”

Awkward?

I pause.

Until now, I hadn’t really considered what might happen if she doesn’t like Peter back. I mean, I have reasons to think she does, but I didn’t exactly notice those reasons until I began to look for them. Oh shit, what if she doesn’t? MJ said she’s never mentioned liking him, but she also said she didn’t think she would, even if she did. Apparently she only ever admits her crushes after she gets over them.

Still, “awkward” doesn’t have to mean anything significant, right?

I hope not.

“Plus,” she continues, biting her lip for a split second as she watches Peter, “I really don’t want to give Flash any new material to bully him with, you know? Middle school friendship bracelets would be more than enough.”

I nod as Peter finishes his purchase. He turns around, smiling at us, lifting a small plastic shopping bag like a greeting.

Man, I hope this is the end of the mess and not the beginning.

Chapter Text

The alarm clock reads 10:28 p.m. on the nightstand between our beds.

Alone with Michelle, the room feels emptier and more foreign than when we arrived. Yesterday, its perfect cleanliness was comforting; today, the air of the room has crystallized into a pristine husk of the words, It’s over, at least.

The only light in the room comes from the alarm clock and t.v. screen, the two coating us and the angles of our beds, dressers, walls, and window in thin outlines of red and flickering blues, greys, and deep greens. It makes the space feel strangely muffled by subtle motion, like a lightning storm charging over water, too weak to spark. It’s a smidge hypnotic. I keep finding myself tracing the keychain charm in my hand without remembering having taken it out of my pocket.

Basically, too much has happened this weekend and the room is too clean to take our minds off it, and neither of us want to talk. Even in spite of the good parts — our team winning the competition, Peter and I fixing our friendship, untangling everything with him, Michelle, and Ned — this stillness between me and Michelle seems like defeat. The unspoken conversation hangs over us.

She knows, and I know she does. She knows that Flash blackmailed me into missing today and she’s frustrated or irritated, maybe even angry. I don’t know if it’s at me or him. It could be both: mad at him for doing it, mad at me for giving in without a fight. The idea nags like a string tugging just under my ear, the worry that she might be upset with me. But then rationality reminds me: it wasn’t me she yelled at earlier and there hasn’t been a single hint of aggression in her eyes when she’s looked at me; if anything, she must mostly be pissed at Flash.

Maybe it’s selfish, but I don’t mind both of us pretending that everything has fallen back into its usual place, at least for tonight, like Michelle seems to want. It’s how she deals with personal stress: she goes silent until she’s over it, or until she says she is. Normally I’d ask her small questions, try and get her to open up and let me help. Right now though, I don’t exactly want to discuss Flash or what happened this morning either. It’s probably best for the both of us to act like we have nothing on our minds. And I think we’re accomplishing that fairly well, given the mindless movie we chose to watch.

As Bella tears her arms from Jacob’s grip and Edward steps in to defend their honeymoon plans, I sink lower into the bed. Behind my head, I can just barely hear Ned and Peter’s voices through the wall. Their sentences are short but I can’t make out the words. Every few seconds there’s a change in the buzzing sound of the t.v. on their side of the wall. Of course they’re still channel flipping. I nearly smile. Those two can debate simple tasks for hours— they’re the opposites of Michelle and me, of our decisiveness. In trivial things, that is. It’s part of the balance that makes our friendship work so well most of the time.

Apart from Michelle’s self-isolation, today seemed to begin evening those scales out again. Though some moments felt... different, for some reason.

After the gift shop, Mr. Harrington briefed us on our leaving schedule for the morning, then asked (for the millionth time, according to Ned and Peter) if we were all absolutely certain there wasn’t anything we wanted to do while in D.C. Aside from Sally’s muttered “Can we set the White House on fire?” joke, no one had any suggestions. So we all hung out in the lobby for a bit.

The team (Flash and Michelle not quite included, since they were mostly silent) recapped the entire competition— naturally arguing over specifics and mocking each others’ If my answer is wrong I’m going to piss myself faces. Mr. Harrington had plenty of photos to slide through on his phone (which, by demand, were all sent to a group chat that put our phones into a ding! -ing and buzzing circle of hell, earning some glares from other guests in the lobby).

Then, a good hour and a half later, when the hilarity of their Flash’s voice cracked five times within the span of three questions! story had bubbled down to smirk-level material, we all (Mr. Harrington excluded) crammed into Cindy and Sally’s room to play Cards Against Humanity. Finally, the hotel’s too-cold air conditioning came in handy: already being so close to so many people in a small area, we laughed too much for too long and the room bordered on uncomfortably warm. The humidity was tangible. The AC did its best to keep up.

At one point, I tried to think of a time when the team had ever laughed themselves into so much pain (again, apart from Michelle and Flash, though Flash did laugh once or twice, when he thought no one saw him, in a way that nearly let me feel sorry for him before remembering what an asshole he’s been; Michelle sat unflinching on the window sill, nose in a book). All I could recall was our dinner, only two nights ago. Maybe it would become a pattern. I hoped so.

For the rest of our collective time together, we played card games, flicked through movies, and burned four bags of popcorn in the microwave by accident. (Fortunately, the microwave was in the floor’s kitchen area and a hotel employee, seeming to expect it, was standing by to turn off the alarm with minimal annoyance.)

Everything ended up better than I would have thought possible this morning. At best, I expected awkwardness or irritation from the pool incident, but nobody seemed to hold last night’s fight against me or Peter. It was as if nothing had happened. And Peter….

Alone in the hotel during those hours before they came back, I thought he might retreat back into the frustrations he exploded over last night; I thought he might come back still upset about parts of it, still distant and hard to read, or else just quiet.

But he didn’t— not at all.

In fact, Peter was a bit of a class clown all day. He didn’t fold into himself like he tends to with larger groups. Instead, he made jokes (genuinely funny ones), told stories (“Do you guys remember that one time when Mr. Harrington…?”), and celebrated his wins with as much enthusiasm as when he called bullshit! on his losses during our games. It’s been months since he’s done something to surprise me so much, probably since Christmas.

Likely as a way of making up for our fight, he eventually forced Ned — physically — to switch spots on the floor with him so he could sit beside me during Uno. We cheated, but horribly; we probably made it harder for ourselves than anything else. Peter is the opposite of subtle. He kept using his cards to hide his mouth while he whispered ideas about how to attack Ned and Abe, sitting to our right and left. I did my best to establish some form of code to make it less obvious, but he was completely unfocused and picked up on nothing. A couple times, he’d be looking right at me, nodding as I gave him advice, only inches from my face, and then, as if he hadn’t heard a single word, played a card that didn’t match whatsoever. Luckily, since only Abe and Ned were occasionally affected and because most of our plans failed anyway, no one else cared that we tried teaming up.

For once, Peter was open (and somewhat of a dork) with the whole team. It reminded me of how he was before his uncle Ben’s death: less guarded, more extraverted, and just... happy. Calm, even. Watching it was almost painful. Not that it was a bad thing he was so happy, just— different. Unexpected. It tipped over boxes of memories I hadn’t realized I’d stored away. A lot of warm ones.

Around 9:00-ish, Michelle shut her book and excused herself with a small Let’s go nod to me followed by a hesitant and bring the boys glance. Once we were all out, door closed, we waited for laughter to start up again to cover any sound we might make. Then Peter and Ned quietly moved the extra bed back from our room to theirs.

The moment they carried the frame out, Michelle shut our door.

A twinge of regret hit me. Part of me had hoped that— but it didn’t matter.

At that moment, the high of everything trickled down as if all our energy was melting off into the floor, charging that tiny static storm just above the carpet.

I paused a few feet from my bed and waited for her to say something, to explain what was wrong, but she didn’t. Then again, I didn’t expect her to, I just hoped. As Michelle put her book on the nightstand and climbed into bed, I somewhat reluctantly got into mine, thumb running over the keychain in my pocket like a worry stone. Compared to everything else, this part of the weekend was… underwhelming.

And that’s when I became hyper-aware that the room was too clean.

Our own beds were so neatly laid out (a housekeeper must’ve come in) they gave off an impression of giant frozen ice-cream sandwiches. With the covers peeled down on the right corners, they even looked half-unwrapped.

That’s a bit how it feels now, an hour and a half later in the present: we’re both neatly packed into the little freezer storage spaces of our beds. And I think it’s helping. Michelle will tell me what she’s thinking when she wants to, but for now we can numb our brains with some of the most awkward acting in the film industry.

It isn’t quite that easy, though. I am still concerned, no matter how much I pretend otherwise. I try to remind myself that she’s stayed this quiet before plenty of times and that normally her anger spills all over her face rather than looking as almost-relaxed as she does, but another voice tells me that normally she’d at least tell me something small to assure me that she’s fine. Don’t overthink it. I glance at her from the corner of my eye.

Michelle’s profile is illuminated in dark red, her book cover reflecting the glow from the alarm clock between us. She’s slouched against the headboard of her bed, immersed in her comforter, staring straight ahead at the t.v. screen. Pillows are piled high beneath her back and Ruth Bader Ginsburg seems to glare at Edward from the front of her sweatshirt.

If we had exchanged a few more sentences than those necessary to pick out the movie, I would ask her what she thinks RBG’s real opinion on Edward Cullen would be if she had time to watch movies. But I don’t. (Plus, it’s not that hard of a question. RBG would hate him.)

Before I look back at the t.v., my gaze drops and I notice something— for all the time she spent reading today, Michelle’s bookmark isn’t too far from where it was this morning.

But I do look back. The trees rush by in the window’s reflection across Bella’s face as Jacob’s poor, pained howls blend into the music. Here comes the most boring part of the movie. The driving, boat riding, staring, the agonizingly awkward “human minutes” scene, and the moonlight swimming that always ends with Michelle making a Christ, those are some white people comment just to fill the silence.

It’s a good part to skip. And I want to. To step out for a minute and get a breath, seeing as the room is still too still.

“Hey,” I say, sitting up and swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. “I’m going to get some ice.”

Michelle turns her head. She glances at my water cup on the nightstand, picks it up, and takes a sip. She makes a face.

“Yeah, bathroom faucet water is disgusting lukewarm.” She looks over to the window sill where she left hers, probably weighing whether or not she’d rather stand up or stay thirsty.

Practically hearing her thoughts, I walk over and get it for her.

“Thanks,” she says as she takes it. “If you get me some ice too, I promise I won’t spit in yours while you’re gone.”

I roll my eyes and smile. Her humor is still there.

That short dialog is enough to untie the knots in my shoulders and reassure me that she’s feeling better.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Grabbing the ice bucket and keycard, relief rinses my lungs. Maybe she just wanted me to start the conversation. Ironic.

The hallway buzzes with sounds of talking and t.v. behind each door, the smell of popcorn and cheap candy faintly hovering around our side of it. It’s calm, soothing. As I hoped, the signature stillness of the hotel is the perfect fresh air I needed. The soft light helps too, but it’s mostly the comfort of knowing people around us are happy and calm.

At Abe and Flash’s door, there’s a smaller hallway I turn left into. If I remember correctly, the ice machine is in a small pocket room off to the right in ten-ish feet near the family restroom and staircase.

Maybe when I get back, Michelle and I can start a normal conversation. We don’t need to talk about anyth—

I turn into the small pocket room.

It’s Flash. He’s standing just inside the door, on the phone.

And I’m… blank. At this point, I’ve run out of emotions: I don’t feel anything at the sight of him. No, actually, I do— I feel weird. He’s in pajamas. It’s like seeing Coach Wilson at the grocery store, like a Twilight Zone episode.

I immediately turn to leave.

“Hol- hold on, dad,” he says behind me. “Let me call you back, I’ll call you back!”

Within two seconds, he’s in front of me, eyes wide.

His mouth opens and closes rapidly at least four times, his hands struggling to make a clear gesture in front of him. Strangely, he looks lost and almost afraid, not at all matching the blackmailing shithead persona from this morning.

Then again, he hasn’t been an ass since they got back either.

“Wh— how, how,” he sputters. “Why, uh, why haven’t you responded to any of my texts?”

Flash seems to stop himself before saying more, which is unusual, given how he constantly steamrolls conversations. God, what could he have sent me? As long as he hasn’t tattled to Mr. Harrington, I don’t care.

“I blocked you,” I tell him. “As soon as I bailed on the team this morning, I blocked your number.”

His eyebrows furrow together as he shakes his head, as if he’s totally bewildered.

“What? Why?”

I almost laugh, the anger or annoyance or whatever starting to build again at his act.

“Because,” I say quietly, just in case anyone else conveniently shows up, “if I had to give up my spot, I wasn’t going to let you hold it over my head all day. And on that note, I really don’t care how else you want to blackmail me with it, I won’t do anything for you again—”

His face twists further into confusion.

“Blackmail?” he interrupts. “What are you talking about, blackmail?”

My brain halts.

For a split second, we stare at one another incredulously. Then he speaks again, voice higher than normal but still straining to be quiet.

“Why would I blackmail you?”

I look over my shoulder— again, just in case. I silently point toward the room with the ice machine. No matter what, I’m not getting in trouble or getting Michelle and Ned in trouble for the room swap.

Once we’re out of sight, I put the ice bucket down, pull my phone from my pocket, unlock it, and hit the message app.

“Your texts,” I whisper, scrolling to our conversation, “sound a little threatening, don’t you think?”

I shove the phone into his hands. He reads them quickly and gives it back.

“You— you thought I was trying to blackmail you?”

My face twitches, my certainty faltering.

“Are you seriously telling me you weren’t?”

“No! It was a joke!”

The air goes completely still.

I gave up my place in the competition for nothing?

Flash’s face suddenly becomes serious, like reality has hit him in the face at the same time.

“Holy shit. I didn’t, I seriously didn’t think you would take it that way. Is that why Michelle flipped shit at the gift shop?”

“Probably,” I say, weirdly relieved yet freshly frustrated. “I didn’t actually tell anyone but she probably figured it out. Or thought she did.”

I missed everything I’ve worked all year for… for absolutely no reason. Fuck.

If I were alone, I’d probably stare at the wall for five minutes in numb shock. But Flash surprises me.

“Shit. I’m so sorry,” he says, eyes wide. “I had no idea, I swear. I really thought you were sick. You looked awful. Not that— not like— I mean, you know. For real, I promise, I was only trying to help— I thought Mr. Harrington was being a jerk and no one would back you up.”

That might be the first time Flash has ever apologized for anything.

If the last couple days hadn’t already been insane, I’d probably be more upset. But there’s a calmness flooding my veins to lower my pulse. It’s done and there’s nothing more to do. Plus, he apparently tried to do the right thing. Even if he ended up doing the opposite.

“It’s….” I almost say it’s okay, but it’s not, exactly. “Thank god we won.”

Flash smiles for a second, then he goes back to looking guilty and apologetic.

“Yeah, I got my shit together this year. I studied. A lot. ”

So did I. It’s over though, and there’s always next year. It’s a poor consolation, but—

Peter.

I bite the inside of my cheek, remembering. I’m glad I didn’t start feeling bad for Flash even momentarily.

“You’re still an ass.” I consider nailing his forehead with the heel of my hand to get him back for that. “I’m not kidding when I say that if you ever touch Peter or anyone else one more time, I’ll never talk to you again, and trust that I’ll make you regret it.”

Flash was about to speak when I paused, but he freezes and his face slackens. He looks like a child caught in instant regret at the sight of a strict parent.

“It’s not an excuse, but…”

“But what?”

“The dinn— I.” He restarts. “It really wasn’t that hard.”

The expression on my face must convey plenty. He rushes on.

“Understood though. As long as he shuts up once in a while.” He halts, visibly wincing. “Yeah, no, uh, agreed.”

“Good.”

He nods, avoiding eye contact and sinking into an awkward posture. Maybe it’s because he’s actually apologized and agreed to lay off Peter combined with how genuinely sorry he looks, not to mention the fact he’s wearing pajamas is still taking me off guard, but I do kind of feel a tiny bit bad.

Might as well compromise a little.

“Sorry I told you to shove it up your ass earlier.”

That’s not usually how I apologize, but those were my exact words at the gift shop when he asked me to “just listen” to him. All things considered, I guess I should have. Oops.

“It’s cool. I would’ve said the same thing in your position.” He pauses. “Will you tell MJ I’m sorry to her too? And explain the rest?”

“Sure.” I shrug. “I’ll even unblock you.”

He picks up on the fleck of humor and his lip twitches upward.

“Thanks. And again, I’m really sorry.”

Neither of us seem to have anything else to say, so once I nod in acknowledgement, he mirrors it, turns, and slowly walks back into the hallway.

I pick up the ice bucket and, as intended, fill it.

Well, that’s another box to check off. Figuring out how to get Flash to drop the blackmail: done. Now I just need to talk to Michelle about it—

His footsteps, which had been steadily fading away, abruptly rush back.

He leans into the doorway, looking more like his obnoxious self.

“So you actually slept with Peter?”

I resist the urge to swing the bucket at him.

“Flash, I swear to god I will murder you.”

Chapter Text

After clarifying to Flash that it was not like that, I return to my and Michelle’s room, ice bucket in hand.

It’s brighter now. The light on the nightstand is on and Michelle’s sitting up, eating Twizzlers from a bag she keeps upright with her feet. Her hair is tied back too. On screen, Bella analyzes her bruises and Edward starts an argument.

“Holding out on me, huh?” I ask, gesturing to the candy.

She shrugs and smirks. Another good sign. A great one even, after a long day like today.

“I planned on bartering for some ice, but I waited for forever and there was no one to trade with. What was the hold up?”

I make a pretend distressed face and blow out a long breath as if the story physically pains me. Walking over, I put the ice on the nightstand between our beds and sit on the edge of mine. Peter and Ned’s side of the wall still hasn’t settled: the t.v. noise continues flickering, now at a faster pace. One of them is undoubtedly trying to annoy the other into picking something to watch, and the exchange of incoherent voices seems to support that assumption. 

Part of me wants to check in on them and hang out for a bit, but I need to focus on my current task: explain things clearly to Michelle and give her Flash’s apology. Plus, I’m pretty sure she’s too tired to stay up much longer and I doubt she’d want to be left alone (even if she assures me otherwise). 

Either way, it’s time to tell her about my conversation with Flash.

“You know how, um—” I pause, wondering where the best place to start is. She knows what Flash did, there’s no need for extensive exposition. She raises a curious eyebrow at my hesitation and glances pointedly from the bag between her feet to me as if to say, You can have a Twizzler once you spill. A fair and simple trade. Better to dive right in, then. “You know how Flash blackmailed me this morning? To give up my spot?”

Michelle’s head tilts to the right.

“No?” Her eyebrows scrunch and her lips press together. “I think you forgot to mention that.”

We stare at one another, mutually perplexed and frozen.

Huh. I was certain she had put it together. 

Behind us, Ned shouts muffled words and laughs loudly while his and Peter’s t.v. volume begins to increase. 

“I, uh,” I start, tilting my head too. “I thought you knew.”

“Yeah, I got that from the, ‘You know how’ part of your sentence.”

A beat of silence passes between us; I can tell that’s not the end of her sentence, so I wait. If she had more energy, maybe she would be frustrated with me. Right now though, all she can muster is a look of stunted disbelief, an emotion I’d label the tame, languid cousin of scandal and outrage: a gentle but honest really?, with the edge of a potential eye roll. She plops two ice cubes in her water, takes a sip, then continues.

“How would I know something like that when you never said anything to me?”

The wall gets louder behind us. The boys have resumed their argument it seems. It’s playful, probably, but the t.v. volume is increasing at the same rate as their voices so I can’t distinguish any words to really tell. Michelle notices my distraction. She gives an abrupt smack to the wall as a warning to them.

Her eyes remain level with mine, though, questioning.

“Because,” I say, “you always notice things without people telling you.” 

She pauses again. Unable to deny it, she makes an eh sound which translates to true enough, I’ll give you that and her shoulders relax as her eyebrows smooth back into their usual place. She reaches over and extends a Twizzler like an official olive branch. To complete our silent agreement, I move on to exchange my end of the bargain: I tell her the rest of my story.

The sound behind us stagnates right around my second or third sentence, which is an unexpected relief, seeing the boys rarely halt their ridiculousness when they make up their minds to annoy one another. While trying to ignore them and stay on track, my phone buzzes a couple times. Probably Flash, now that we’re on better terms and I unblocked him. It’s probably a meme. Unimportant.

Quickly rambling on with only a couple short moments of respite for chewing or sipping water, I go over the rest of the incident. I explain how I ran into Flash, everything we said to each other, his apologies (one for her, one for me) and, of course, how unsettling it was to see him in such casual wear as pajamas. As I talk, tracing back once or twice to recount my version of what happened — or what I thought had happened — this morning (and shooting my phone annoyed looks when it buzzes again since it must be him), Michelle eats her licorice on autopilot, keeping her face deliberately blank even though I can tell she’s picking through the strings of her old assumptions and matching them up to my own version to compare narrative split ends. 

“You know,” she says after I finish, a half eaten Twizzler dangling from her hand as she waves it to gesture. “You could have double-checked with me this morning, to make sure I actually knew. You would’ve been on that stage with us today if you had. I would’ve confronted him and gotten to the bottom of it all. I would never have just let it happen.”

Fortunately (or unfortunately, I haven’t decided which), I’ve already come to terms with this fact. It was an incredibly stupid mistake to have made — to have misread both Flash and Michelle — but it happened and the consequences are over. Today has been irreversibly stamped into the short timeline of my high school career and nothing will change it now. The opportunity was missed. And at least there’s next year. The less I think about it, the better. It’s done.

“True,” I shrug. “But who knows if I would’ve gotten all those questions Flash answered right. Maybe the way it played out was for the best.”

That might as well be true, why not? I offer a devil’s advocate smile and she shakes her head, finally giving into a full eye roll. 

“Don’t remind me. But really, I doubt that. He was good today, but you would’ve been better.”

Would I have been? After all those… distractions from the previous 24 hours, I have no idea if my concentration would have been up to par. All the same, it doesn’t matter anymore. The two of us are on the same page at last and that’s all I have room to care about tonight. We can relax completely. No more tension, no more unanswered questions. No secrets. Well, aside from my teeny tiny stupid one.

I start to move backward, further onto the bed. Then I stop. 

Just because it did work out though, that never really had anything to do with my behavior or the choices I made. I had no idea what would happen. There were multiple reasons I let Flash take my spot this morning, apart from the real fear of nonexistent blackmail, but I still shouldn’t have given up so easily.

I turn and look at her. 

“Really though,” I say, realizing the truth of it, “I’m sorry for bailing. If Flash hadn’t come through, if he froze up like last year, I know it could’ve been... things might not have ended up as well as they did. I hate flaking on you, especially when you worked crazy hard this year. I promise, next time I’ll come to you first.” Michelle’s posture stiffens and she has her subtle, trademark backed into an emotional corner face, the one she makes when someone unexpectedly gets too sincere. Try to make it a little funny, at least. “And, naturally,” I add, leaning back, “I’ll never trust your infinite wisdom and analytical skills again.”

Michelle smiles then, a lopsided one I know is genuine. Infectious, I can’t help but to return it like a reflex. The final drops of my own relief rush through my veins, rivers of warm comfort settling under my skin. 

“First,” she says, holding up a finger, “there’s no need to doubt me. Technically you were never blackmailed which is why I didn’t catch on, so you can keep faith in my deductive skills. Two,” another finger goes up, “I highly doubt this scenario will happen a second time. Third,” and another, “don’t sweat it.” She waves her hand away.

“ But what if it does? ” 

Egging each other on is vital to our friendship. Previously unsure if we’d get back to that level of normalcy by tonight, I’m perfectly happy knowing we actually have.

“I’ll kick your ass. Naturally .”

Yet again, she offers a Twizzler, this time with a promissory bow. 

Now less hungry and far more relaxed than before I left, we both shuffle back against our headboards and turn our attention to the movie. Leah tells Jacob to get over Bella, and he angstily rants to the younger boys about how relationships are all but prisons. I try to get more comfortable, sliding an extra pillow up behind my back. After a few minutes, my phone vibrates. Oh yeah. I forgot to check it. I reach over, surprised to find that it hasn’t been Flash.

Peter, 11:03 p.m.:

“Hey. Update: still alive.”

Peter, 11:04 p.m.:

“You?”

Peter, 11:10 p.m.:

“shit... are you dead? have you been kidnapped??”

Peter, 11:12 p.m.:

“:(”

Peter, 11:13 p.m.:

“dying is dumb, don’t do that.”

Peter, 11:17 p.m.:

“If you don’t reply soon, beware. Ned is being dumb and annoying. the worst.”

As I read, another pops up:

“You know. like always.”

I hear Ned shout a complaint a second later, though it’s too blurred from the t.v.’s interference to hear his exact words. My lips tug upward. 

The housekeeper interrupts Edward and Bella’s makeout session, staring at him with a mixture of fear and hatred, and they breathe-laugh until she leaves. 

I type back: Alive, safe and sound. I consider writing, But barely. I ran into Flash a few minutes ago. I don’t though, knowing it would only aggravate him without purpose. Plus I don’t want to go over it again, especially the particulars. It’s boring at this point. It was boring to begin with, and now after verbalizing it once, it would be exhausting. Instead, I type: It sounds loud over there. How come?  

His bubbles spring up immediately.

“See above.”

“Ned = annoying.”

There’s a small crunch from their room, like a half empty water bottle hitting someone.

Knowing those two, Peter probably read the insult aloud to Ned as payback for their t.v. argument, if Ned wasn’t already reading over his shoulder.

I reply: “Ned? Never. He’s an angel and we’re thrilled to have him.”

As expected, a few seconds later I hear a distant whooping sound and the shadow of Ned shouting something grateful and co-conspiratorial to me.

In reply, Peter sends back three eye rolling emojis. 

At the same second I send a shrug, his bubbles turn into: “btw I have a really great idea”

An idea? For what? Even though the wording is positive, it makes me nervous.

“?”

Four messages follow, one after the other, as quickly as he can type them.

“Okay so hear me out”

“I know you don’t like Freud…”

“BUT”

“Operant. Conditioning.”

The bubbles disappear. 

What? 

This makes no sense to me. Is it supposed to? We haven’t discussed operant conditioning in Psych for months. And, now might not be the time for me to point it out, but he’s mixed it up in the first place. 

Unable to resist and not knowing what else to say, I send back: “You mean Skinner?”

The bubbles start up, then stop. Twenty-ish seconds later:

“You got me there. +3 points! but what do you think?”

Despite the background noise of Bella vomiting peanut butter chicken legs into a toilet, the “+3 points” nearly makes me laugh. We haven’t played that game (if you could even call it a game) in months.

“Peter,” I type. “Context is important, remember? No clue what you mean”

Figuring said context will take a few minutes, I put my phone back down and look up at the movie. Maybe I imagine it, but Michelle’s head seems to twitch when I do. It might’ve been a small jump from seeing the kick in Bella’s stomach matched with the suspenseful music.

Buzz. Pause. Buzz. Longer pause…. Buzz.

Three is usually Peter’s go-to, so I check it.

Peter:

“I know you’re going to say you’re not mad at me anymore, but you deserve to be and probably are a little bit subconsciously or unconsciously (idk which is which so +2 to you before you correct me)” 

“so in order to get our friendship back to normal I think we should try operant conditioning” 

“Like me doing nice stuff when I see you so you think ‘oh wow I get to see peter today! how cool! love that guy, he’s the best!’ when really it’s just me pyshcologically tricking you into positive associate by giving you snacks when you come by my locker”

Another pops up: “Psychologically* Im dumb”

And another: “I’M*** association*** smh”

I stare.

That’s possibly the worst idea I’ve ever heard. The last thing I need are more reasons to look forward to seeing Peter. I mean, the part he quoted isn’t all that far off from how my brain usually reacts when I see him. Simplified, for sure, but a similar sentiment nonetheless. 

I wrack my brain for a response, trying to block out Edward’s shaky Portuguese begging. “Sure, you can try your best.” No. Sarcastic and challenging is definitely the wrong approach here. “Maybe. Talk about it later?” That could work. It might also mean he brings it up on the bus tomorrow, potentially resulting in unpredictable reactions from anyone who overhears. I’d rather people not know so much about our personal post-fight dynamics. “I’ll think about it.” That one’s neutral enough.

Still... it’s basically a promise to talk about it soon, which means I have to think about it now and knowing myself, I’ll likely try to puzzle out his plans, imagining dozens of scenarios before I can sleep tonight, allowing his general plan to start working before it even begins, given that I’m fully aware of how considerate and generous he can be when he decides to make an effort. If I spend tonight creating stupid Peter clumsily attempting to display kindness and affection scenes in my head, it’ll just end up… being overwhelming. It’ll worsen this inconvenient, impossible crush.

Or, maybe my expectations will simply go too far and that’s how I’ll ruin it. I’ll agree to this idea now, and by the end of the week or month or whatever the time frame is, I’ll be disappointed at the reality. Yes, that’s the most likely scenario. I’ll read too much into it, as always, and my brain will make it all more painful than necessary.

So instead, I type: 

“Subconscious. Unconscious would be trauma related, memories your brain hides from you and whatnot. You weren’t *that* awful. And I think you mean classical conditioning?”

Sent.

I’m the worst, sometimes. 

I wait for his response with a taste of guilt. His bubbles appear immediately, then evaporate. Again, Ned and Peter’s voices mingle with the t.v. flipping sounds, trampling heavily over the somber music and hum of Jacob’s motorcycle coming from ours.

Just say you agree, part of my brain argues. It’s not that hard. Or say no flat out. Explain yourself to some degree, otherwise you’re an avoidant coward.

I lift my phone, about to type. 

Then, a plastic crunch hits behind my head. Either Peter or Ned definitely just threw a water bottle at my side of the wall. 

Michelle turns to look at me, left eyebrow raised in amusement. Her eyes flit from me to my phone to the headboard.

“What’d you do?” she asks.

Before I can open my mouth to speak, music blasts at a deafening volume behind us: someBODY ONCE TOLD ME, THE WORLD IS GONNA ROLL ME. I half jump from shock, phone flying out of my grasp, and Michelle immediately hits the wall with her open hand. I AIN’T THE SHARPEST TOOL IN THE SHED. Ned’s laughter is the only thing I can hear besides the Shrek soundtrack. SHE WAS LOOKING KIND OF DUMB WITH HER FINGER AND HER THUMB—

As I hop off the bed and retrieve my phone from the floor, Michelle speedily unlocks hers.

The song continues pounding for about eight seconds. Thankfully, however, by the grace of god (or Michelle, I suppose), it lowers. I’m about to text Peter when Ned appears on her phone directly across from her face, his own face turned, half out of frame.

“Come on, Peter!” he shouts, head shaking in melodramatic pity. “Turn it down, seriously! You’re so obnoxious!”

Peter makes an indignant noise.

“That was all you! ” he protests, his voice more distant in the background. “ You’re the obnoxious one!”

Ned rolls his eyes and turns back to face the camera.

“Anyway,” he says with his usual grin and cheerful charm. “Hi MJ. How’s it going? We’re just—”

“Guys,” calls Peter’s voice, “I swear I tried to take the remote from him!”

“—hanging out,” Ned continues, bulldozing on, “you know, over here. Chilling, one might say. Celebrating, in fact.” 

Michelle squints at him as if mentally weighing the value of continuing this conversation. 

“What if,” she suggests, “you did that in a way that doesn’t tempt me to report you two to Mr. Harrington?”

Ned starts to respond in a fake scandalized tone, but Peter jumps into frame and shoves him to the side for a chance to speak, the camera shaking as he fumbles and grabs it.

“Again, just to restate, I didn’t do anything— Ned was the one messing with the t.v. the whole time.”

Ned pushes Peter’s face with one hand and yanks his phone back with the other, Peter disappearing momentarily before popping right back up behind him just as the camera steadies.

“You can ask your roommate,” Peter says to Michelle with his arms open wide in surrender. “I’ve been texting her for the last ten minutes. I couldn’t have been messing with the t.v. at the same time.”

The mention of our conversation jolts my pulse. 

Michelle looks my way.

“That’s true,” I say. “But I don’t know if it irrefutably proves he didn’t do it, seeing as he has two hands and all.”

She nods and looks back at them. Her face, only minutes ago full of sly joy, remains unamused.

“Overruled.”

Ned ha! ’s in his face, but Peter barely seems to notice aside from a distracted shoulder shove.

“Actually, can you point me in her direction?”

Michelle does, and I sit up a bit straighter, feeling strangely unprepared.

He inhales as if he’s about to say something longer and more serious, but instead, all he says is: “You suck. Minus ten points.”

The screen goes black. Whether he or Ned ended the call is hard to tell.

Knowing exactly what he means though, I reach for my phone to text him a real answer to his question, hoping to minimize my guilt and satiate his curiosity. 

“Should I ask?” Michelle tosses her phone onto her bed.

Might as well explain it now rather than later.

“It’s not a big deal,” I say, partially to convince myself that it isn’t. “Peter pitched an idea to help fix our friendship. He wants to psychologically condition me to look forward to being around him. Snacks or something.”

Her eyes widen before rolling. I realize my word choice is poor (though accurate). 

“And?”

I lean my head back against the headboard.

“It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Chapter Text

“It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

The thought of Peter making more of an effort, of him consciously choosing to pay me closer attention with the active intention of improving our friendship— it isn’t the worst idea. If anything, it’s a rather attractive solution to a nonexistent problem. The suggestion alone is already prompting imaginary scenarios I refuse to acknowledge right now; though, inevitably, they’ll become daydream fuel within a couple days. Still, the whole plan is unnecessary, and I know it. I’m not angry with him anymore. I may have a few questions (some I plan on asking, some I’ll keep to myself), but if I do have any hidden resentment for his behavior stowed away in my subconscious, it’s as small and inconsequential as a handful of sand in the sea. Allowing him to carry this plan out would be using him. The pretenses would be false. 

Even apart from that, though, his texts gave off an odd, metallic aftertaste. The proposal reads mechanically— it’s a scientific study with a simple hypothesis (and a reluctant dependent variable). It’s the idea of being a lab mouse, I think, that earns it the title the dumbest thing in my mind. It’s condescending. Even if tempting. 

Then again, I know Peter. I understand he doesn’t actually view me as a test subject to analyze and discard after the results come in. We’re friends. He feels bad and tossed out a poorly worded solution because he thinks I’m secretly pissed at him. It’s only an idea he offered, one I have full power to reject. 

Maybe I’m trying to dismiss it quickly because, if I’m being honest, I’m selfish. Incredibly selfish. I want to say yes despite knowing the sort of negative message it would send to Peter. A small part of me is willing to let him feel worse so I can pretend his own guilty feelings are more significant than they really are. The possibility, the mirage just within reach, of balancing that tightrope between reality and fantasy with him is... alluring, to say the least.

And impossible. It would be wrong. Wouldn’t it? Of course it would.

Like blades slicing fruit in a blender, my brain whips through these thoughts within seconds. Across on her bed, Michelle’s expression can only be described as disapproving or faintly disgusted as she too digests Peter’s idea. It’s the male stupidity is endless look we share when near particularly annoying men in public. It’s not often one we have to exchange in reference to the boys; their moronic moments tend to be entertaining rather than obnoxious, ignorant, or misogynistic.

She meets my eyes, and I wonder if my face gives anything away. 

“That feels weird to me.” 

The sentence is a verbal tiptoe forward, an almost-question probe.

“It did sound weird saying it out loud,” I agree. 

“You know,” she says, her tone mildly serious as she sits up straighter. “You’re not obligated to say yes to everything because you don’t want to disappoint someone. Especially a boy. And especially if he’s trying to fix his dumb mistakes by pressuring you into something you’re not comfortable with.” She pauses, glancing at the ceiling and raising an eyebrow. “If you want, I can make him come to his senses.”

Michelle tightens her fists and mimes three exaggerated punches. I imagine it, amused: Before the bite, Peter wouldn’t have stood a chance against her if she really meant it; now, he’d probably put his arms up to block her blows, barely annoyed, and wait for her to tire herself out. I roll my eyes and can’t help mirroring her smile. 

Nevertheless, her wording is…. 

The same question pops up for the millionth time. 

Do I want her to know? Should I tell her?

“It’s Peter, it’s not, like, ‘a boy,’” I say first, air quoting the last words. No, not yet. Maybe later. For now, I’ll avoid it. “And I’ll pass, but I appreciate the offer. I’m not uncomfortable and he isn’t being pushy or anything. I only meant that the…” nearly impersonal approach to our personal relationship? “the hyperconscious wording is weird. I wouldn’t turn down free snacks if the offer wasn’t described as a….” situation in which he views us as mere associates or abstract friends—

Again, I remind myself he probably doesn’t see it that way. 

“Monitored social experiment with unequal power dynamics?” she offers.

That fits.

“Precisely.” 

She snorts. Shaking her head, Michelle pauses for a few more seconds. Mentally chewing it all over again, her expression bounces from annoyance to curiosity to neutrality to annoyance again to what looks surprisingly close to compromise or understanding. In the meantime, I focus on watching her facial journey and not thinking. 

In the tune of surrender, she sighs before she speaks.

“I’m sure he’s trying his best,” she says reluctantly, her hands opening outward like a shrug, “his best is just bad. If it were anyone else, I’d tell you to refuse and block them. But, as much as it pains me to admit, I think we both know him too well to think his motives are as stupid as his phrasing. If anything, he’s probably excited about his ‘new genius friendship plan.’”

Nodding, relief hums under my skin: she’s right. I mean, how many people would fight crime to protect strangers in their city, then turn around and have cold, detached views of their chosen, personal friends? 

“That’s true,” I say. “I should probably text him back, then.”

She holds up a finger as I reach for my phone.

“Still,” she adds with a tone of subtle authority, “it’s up to you. I’m not saying you should say yes — no obligations, remember? — I just don’t think you need to worry that he isn’t trying or isn’t being genuine. That’s all.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Michelle’s stare lasts a moment longer, her sincerity as visible and certain as the brown of her eyes. After a second or two, she sits back onto her pillows and relaxes, turning to face the t.v. once again, leaving me to work out my final decision on my own. As I allow myself to reiterate my own arguments in my head, the Cullen family discusses the mythology of half human, half vampire fetuses with Jacob. 

It doesn’t take me long to reach a conclusion. Maybe it’s because I’m pretty tired, but the answer seems obvious, straightforward and simple in logic. I unlock my phone with the feeling Michelle knows exactly what I’m about to type. I begin to write the message I had settled on before: “I’ll think about it.” Simple and honest. And temporary.

But then something else pops into my brain, and, foolishly, I write that instead.

“What about you? Do you need new reasons to be around me?”

I send the text without a moment’s reflection. Rereading it, it sounds a little… coded, to say the least. Like a Freudian slip. Don’t overthink it. God, I hate Freud. But it does sound desperate. And awkward. Damn. It definitely does. It reminds me of the embarrassing things I used to post on social media in middle school, which I really shouldn’t think about either. 

I only wondered if the idea should go both ways. Instead, the message sounds insecure... which I am, I suppose, but he doesn’t need to know that.

Bubbles appear on his side. I resist the urge to send a series of backpedaling messages. They disappear. Again. My self control dissipates and I quickly send the original one: I’ll think about it.

Unthinking, I pull the small keychain out of my pocket as I wait for his reply and massage the edge. Sticking the pointed corner into my thumbpad, I accidentally dig it in harder than intended. And I realize something. 

The keychain was the first. The gifts or incentives or things. 

A flat click of a nearby door closing snaps my attention. The boys’ room? Glancing up, I see a flash of Edward pleading with Jacob on the t.v. screen, and to my left, a shadow stepping up to the door. A gap in the golden line of outside light.

For half a minute, nothing happens. Aside from Rosalie shouldering past Jacob as he walks in to speak to Bella. After that, when it does come, the sound is soft.

Knock. Knock knock knock knock, knock knock.

It’s Peter. Ned’s knocking pattern is shorter.

The sound is like a phantom defibrillator to the heart.

Michelle’s head rolls to one side to stare at the hallway, her shoulders slumped in an I’m giving up posture. 

“That’s very obviously for you,” she says, pushing herself up and tossing the Twizzler bag on the nightstand, “so I’ll let you go deal with it. I think I’ll brush my teeth and get ready for bed.” She hops off the mattress, raises her arms, and stretches them from side to side. “You okay if we call it a night?”

“More than okay,” I say, standing up as well, the carpet cool under my toes. Once I speak to Peter, I’ll need to knock out. Otherwise my brain will spiral. And maybe, if all goes well, my dreams tonight will be better than staying up to snicker at this hilariously shitty movie. “But what if it is for you?” 

She rolls her eyes.

“Tell them I’m gone. Missing, dead, whatever.” Michelle clamps her eyes shut and sticks her tongue out to mimic cartoonish death. Then she pops back to life with a fake warning glare. “So long as no one bothers me.”

She hits the off button on the remote, Jacob and Bella dissolving into nothing, and as she trudges to the bathroom, I slip the keychain and a keycard back into my pocket before copying her arm stretch to calm my buzzing nerves. Michelle salutes me before turning and closing the bathroom door. I walk to the hallway’s. The handle is cold to the touch.

I swing it open. As expected: Peter. The empty space surrounding him is relatively quiet, only muffled laughter and television sounds coming from rooms at the opposite end. The air smells like linens, cleaning supplies, and artificial lavender. This too is as expected: the typical, sanitary comfort of staying in a nice hotel at night. I tell myself it’s a calming environment. 

Peter’s in his usual pajamas, an old beat up t-shirt and sweatpants, standing slightly to the left, hands clasped in front of him. His height drops a tiny bit at the sound of the door, like he was rocking from heel to toe a second ago, and as his eyes lift from the floor to meet mine, he smiles. A warm swooping sensation envelops my stomach. 

“Hey! You answered.” 

He almost sounds surprised. I make a face in response. 

“You thought I wouldn’t?”

I mean this as a joke, a reference to the couple late nights he’s shown up at my door (window, really) to clean or patch himself up before going home. As he knows, I’m not in the habit of shutting him out. 

Still, his head tilts and his eyebrows go up into an expression of, Well, you weren’t exactly answering me before. It isn’t a challenging or upset look. If anything, it’s almost flustered.

“Fair enough,” I concede, lukewarm guilt sticking in my throat. “I was thinking about it though, I promise, I just hadn’t decided for sure yet.”

He nods, fidgeting with his fingernails and glancing at the floor.

“Yeah, I get that,” he says, looking back up. His ears redden. “I, uh, phrased it pretty moronically. Or at least that’s what Ned said.” 

He takes a step or two back, closer to his door. It seems like an invitation to make the conversation more private, so I close mine and Michelle’s and step forward.

“All I meant,” he continues, his hands rolling over one another in gesture, “was that I thought it might be helpful if I did a few nice things for you when we get back. Not like I’m actually trying to condition you, like a, like a—”

“Dog?”

His hands halt and his face pinches into an expression that practically reads I am painfully aware of every mistake I have ever made and how the number continues to grow in marker across his forehead. His eyes retain a lightness though, the sort that suggests he’s able to laugh about it. He runs his right hand through his hair. Mine twinges.

“Exactly. I feel like that makes it seem kind of, um—”

“Bad?”

“Very bad,” he confirms, nodding. He takes a deeper breath, half-smiling in an embarrassed, self pitying way. “I honestly forgot about that Pavlock stuff, I was just trying to use psych terms to make it sound more persuasive and, um, I don’t know, impressive?”

He shrugs and offers an I know I’m an idiot, but thank you for being patient smile. I bite my tongue against correcting Pavlov, which he seems incapable of pronouncing properly. Even when we studied for that exam, he only said it properly a handful of times, despite Michelle flicking bits of paper at him each time he said Pav lock.

I smile too, noting the irony. And I think of what she said: he’s trying his best, his best is just bad. It doesn’t seem so bad when he’s standing in front of me, though. If anything, it’s easy. 

“You mean,” I begin to ask, more to tease than to clarify, “as opposed to the highly offensive and much more disagreeable, ‘Hey, I want to make up for being a jerk, so I’m going to stash some snacks for you in my locker’?”

He bites his lip as if it’ll keep his grin pinned down, but it doesn’t. A blush spreads across his cheekbones and for a split second, he looks away to the other end of the hall. When he looks back, his smile falters, just a little. The vulnerability reminds me of his apology last night, when he thought I was sleeping. 

“I was thinking maybe it’d be more than snacks?” he offers. “Like, I don’t know, I don’t really have it figured out yet, but hanging out a bit more? Movie nights and that sort of thing? Or if you have a lot of homework, we could study together and help each other stay focused?”

That last suggestion seems like an oxymoron. Study together to keep ourselves on track? It’s a laughable concept. Well, only if it’s—

“Just us?”

Peter freezes, his shoulders straightening slightly, his height rising a few millimeters. 

That is the central question, though. Whether it’s a positive or negative point toward my decision, I can’t tell. All the same, it’s been ages since we last tried studying together, just the two of us. It works best with Michelle and Ned there as well, seeing as we tend to get distracted. 

His eyes move quickly between mine as if he’s trying to read my thoughts before answering. He squints.

“Is that okay?” he asks, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “I understand if not, if it’s uncomfortable or—”

I shake my head, putting my hand on his arm to stop him, only realizing it when his eyes flicker to that hand.

“Of course not,” I say, removing it. “I mean, of course it’s okay. We’ve hung out without Ned and MJ tons of times before. It’s been a while but it’s no big deal. That’d be fine.”

“Okay, good!” he says, the tension in his body evaporating. “That’s great!” 

His eyes have lit up. I imagine he’s relieved those two won’t be around the whole time to make fun of his movie choices or whatever he has planned. I try to hold a smile to reassure him and clear his doubts while internally pinching myself to remember to not think too much on this. There’s no need to dust off those old, useless daydreams of movie nights and falling asleep on his shoulder with his head atop mine and May lightly laying a blanket across us and all the rest. Absolutely no need. Shut it down.

He runs a hand through his hair, nodding in a way that’s usually accompanied by him saying cool, cool, cool, cool.

“Would Fridays be good for movie nights?”

I barely register the question before I answer it.

“Probably, sure. That should be alright.”

His smile widens and he shakes his head once and continues nodding. 

“Perfect! We can have it at my place.”

I nod back, chest tightening as I process. At the same time, I beg my brain not to process. Just for a minute. But then, since I refuse to let them move forward, the gears in my head turn backward, thoughts reeling like a bicycle chain. Judging by the look on Peter’s face, we’re realizing the same thing.

“Wait,” he says carefully. “So you’re saying yes? Like, you’re cool with it? You wanna give it a try?”

God help me.

“I suppose so,” I say. At hearing my own answer, a different type of swooping feeling runs from my feet up. The looking over a high balcony type.

“And we’ll figure the rest out later?” he asks.

“Peter, really, if you’re still planning on the locker snacks, that’s more than enough.”

He laughs.

“Yeah, that’s what you think because you’re being lame. And self-limiting. And—”

“Leaving?”

It’s time, definitely. I’d forgotten how blinding Peter’s excitement and positivity can be without interference. Today has been full enough, I should end this now. 

“That’s fair,” he says. “I think Ned rubbed off on me. All that obnoxious energy.”

He shakes his whole body as if ridding himself of said energy and I restrain myself from making a joke about his word choice. Instead, I nod and with an exasperated “Night, Peter,” and step back toward my room. He does the same, heading toward his. Just as he lifts up his keycard, he pivots back. 

“Wait! I almost forgot.”

I turn around and he’s closer than before. Peter suddenly looks particularly nervous, his head angled to the side like a question, his hands fumbling over themselves. His cheeks are reddening again too, spreading from his cheeks to his hairline.

“Yeah?”

He steps forward to place himself directly in front of me. His eyes flit a quick path which his hands follow— they reach out to touch my elbows before jumping up to my shoulders, settling there almost steadily before shooting a little higher to suddenly but gently hold my head. And then he leans over and firmly kisses my forehead. As he pulls away, one hand disappears and the other musses up my hair.

What is he—?  

We both take a tiny step back. My pulse pounds as my thoughts blur into nothing but impressions of nonsensical, ridiculous questions my brain won’t dignify with clarity. Peter’s expression is halfway between an apology and.. a dare? His eyes are as wide as I know mine must be, but there’s something playing at his lips. For a second, it feels as though we’re balanced on a challenge neither of us is willing to answer. 

The bubble of the moment pops as he shakes his head and gestures vaguely to his and Ned’s room, his floundering arm movements returning him to the strong appearance of embarrassment.

“May,” he blurts, “Aunt May threatened to, uh, um, well, that part’s not really important, if I didn’t pass that along with ‘all her love.’” The red in his face deepens. “Apparently she’s not too happy I didn’t do that last night too.”

Of course. It makes immediate sense. The memory rushes back. She told him to do that to all of us when she dropped us off at the bus that morning. I’d laugh at my own stupid shock and poor memory but I can’t seem to manage it. 

“Do you want me to get MJ too?” I ask, realizing May likely demanded that he make the rounds. Maybe this is what started that play fight between him and Ned tonight. Either Ned dodged it or made a joke about wishing May were there to do it herself. 

It clicks together.

“What?” He looks lost, his head tilted to the side, brow knotted up. “What do you mean?”

“Unless— do you want me to pass it along from May?”

The realization hits across his face. He shakes his head rapidly.

“No, no, no, she’d probably kill me if I tried to do that to her. But, I mean, if you want to pass it along— or just tell her to lie if May asks. She probably won’t, honestly, but, you know, just in case.”

His shrug and half smile are practically helpless. May ought to have more mercy on him. And me. 

“Alright.” A grin breaks over my face in a way I don’t quite understand and can’t stop. “I’ll see you in the morning then.”

“Right. Goodnight, then. See you in the morning.”

“Night, Peter.”

Rather than stepping back, as intended though, I rush forward. Involuntarily, or at least I’ll pretend, since it’s just as surprising to me as it is to him, I lean forward and kiss his cheek. Or try to. It happens too quickly to register fully, but I’m almost positive I knick the corner of his mouth? That would definitely be unintentional.

“ThatwasforMay,” I explain, stumbling backward. Seeming to sense it, Peter grabs my arm to steady me before I trip outright. He releases his grip and stares, stunned. 

If I thought his eyes were wide earlier, it turns out they can open much wider. His pupils are comically blown open. 

“What?” he asks, seeming concerned. “What was that? I, uh, I didn’t catch what you said.”

“That was, um, that was for May. You know, in exchange.”

That’s perfect. For the first time in a while, my brain saves me. Then a joke comes to me.

“I’ve just been waiting so long to do that, I figured I should take the opportunity to practice. You know that song ‘Stacey’s Mom’? I’ve been writing my own verses for ‘Peter’s Aunt,’ but the lyrics aren’t as catchy.” 

His face, though still flushed red, relaxes.

“Get outta here,” he laughs with a wave of his hand. “You’re as bad as Ned, I can’t believe you went there.”

His facial muscles twitch as if he’s glitching between bewilderment, amusement, and a flint of mischief.

“Oh, come on,” I say, “You know everyone in Queens has a crush on May, including us.”

He shakes his head.

“Nope. Minus five points!”

“Then minus ten points for your lame attitude” I say— and before he can come up with a retort, “Goodnight!”

He grins as near as he ever gets to a smirk (a term I associate too closely to ass-hattery to assign to him) and I turn to my room as he repeats it back.

We both step to our doors and open them. I glance back just in time to see him practically jump into his room with a speed that reminds me he’s a superhero, even if he’s an idiot. Filled with tangled emotions, I pause, listening or waiting or catching my breath. I only need a moment.

Behind his and Ned’s door, there’s a sudden crash, a sound like leaping bedsprings and something smashing, immediately followed by Peter groaning and Ned’s mocking laughter. Right before I go to my own room, I hear Peter’s exasperated voice: “Shit! Dude, can you help me fix it?”

The room is dark when I slip back inside but the alarm clock shines enough red to see vague outlines of the walls and dressers and beds. Legs slightly numb, I stumble my way to the small bathroom to get ready for bed. It only takes a couple minutes, distracted as I am. 

I slip into the blankets of my bed. The warm body heat next to me can only mean one thing: Michelle. I move closer and wrap my arms around her.

It’s just one of those unspoken things. 

Chapter Text

The bus ride will probably get boring soon, or at least as long as the girls stay asleep, but even as quiet as it is, it’s almost a perfect morning. Being early (around 6:00, I think?), there’s barely any light except street lamps and car lights, but some of the clouds on the right have caught a pretty bluish purple tinge. It reminds me of that Rainbow Fish book Aunt May used to read me as a kid. To make it better, the morning air is chilly enough that the driver turned the heaters on low so it’s wrapped-in-a-blanket-while-it-snows warm in here. Although that also might be why, apart from general dirt and old gum, the strongest smell on the bus is salty grease— since the nearest heater is under the seat Flash spilled french fries and chicken nuggets in yesterday. It could be worse, though. I mean, it’s not necessarily a bad smell and the traffic isn’t horrible. It’s not the best, but it could definitely be louder and a lot slower. The field of flowing red tail lights ahead of us is oddly comforting, like a snail-slow pasture of mechanical color. 

All in all, it’s a pretty cozy start for a dreaded five hour bus ride. It’s giving me quiet time to think. So that’s where I’m at. Or should be. I got some stuff organized in my head last night even if I keep getting distracted now. Well, it was more like a couple hours ago, since I wasn’t able to get to sleep for so long after we said goodnight. But anyway, I’m trying to focus. It’s just hard, even with both of them sleeping.

From my and Ned’s spot behind them, watching the girls’ heads gently shake and bump against each other as the bus shudders through potholes is kind of calming. They seem so peaceful from this angle, like two people who’ve never pranked me and Ned to the point we were nearly suspended, or kept us awake and annoyed by asking paradoxical hypothetical questions because they know how Ned and I will argue for days if we don’t agree on an answer, or anything else like that. It’s like finding two mischievous cats sleeping, curled up on a chair. It’s easier to appreciate them when they aren’t causing chaos. But it’s not that hard to appreciate them when they are anyway.

Though Ned and I won’t admit it when they’re fully awake, seeing their heads smack into the seat in front of them each time the bus lurched to a halt at stoplights (during the first ten minutes after they’d fallen asleep) was funnier than it should’ve been. Even knowing then that we wouldn’t mention it later didn’t stop us from exchanging silent laughs when they leaned back up, muttering unintelligible complaints before settling their heads back onto one another. For the last couple stoplights before the highway, at least, we decided to be better friends. We both stood up with one leg on the floor and one knee on our own seat so we could easily hold their foreheads back each time it happened. Again, I wouldn’t admit this out loud, even to Ned, but it’s a little bit funny that Ned was a split second slower than me, so while I kept catching MJ’s head before the stop, he half-smacked Y/N’s forehead, like a really-close-to-the-floor basketball dribble, and made a wincing face each time. A lot of times. But it did stop her from colliding with the seat, and she didn’t wake up or complain. 

As nice as it is with them and almost everyone else sleeping through the dark, quiet first hour of the bus trek back to New York, I am excited for her and MJ to wake up. Whenever that is. I’ve missed them. 

But anyway, I really need to focus. God. I’m not doing a great job of that this morning. Apparently. So I’m focusing now. It’s like Ned said. I need to be honest with myself. 

Okay. 

Alright. 

No distractions. 

I’m going to set myself straight now, before we get back, so I can make a game plan and be more decisive and make less mistakes. Fewer? Yeah, fewer mistakes. She’s told me that half a dozen times this since she read that grammar book last summer. But that’s not important.

If I’m being honest... I think I’ve avoided the real possibility that things could work out between us because it felt too risky. And I make some dumb, impulsive choices. So that’s saying a lot. If she said no, what’s the worst that could happen? May and Ned have been asking me that for months, and it’s been so frustrating. The answer should be obvious. The worst thing wouldn’t be the rejection, it’d be if it made her uncomfortable and she broke off our friendship. Or, even if she stuck around, if our friendship changed and I had to watch her get more and more distant, knowing it was my fault and nothing would ever go back to normal. 

Those were the worst — and, I thought, most probable — possibilities. For months I’ve been certain that if anything changed, everything would, and it’d all go to shit. So I kept dodging it. And dodging her before the trip. But, then, things did change this weekend. Things are changing. We fought, and it was super shitty and awful and a total nightmare fiasco, but we made up. And she seemed almost as relieved as me when we did. Now we even have this pact about spending more time together. I know it’s officially only in the name of friendship, but something’s… different. I feel it, and I think she does too. And it doesn’t seem bad. That’s the craziest part. I mean, she even kissed me last night. On the cheek, but still. “Keep it.” Maybe May’s not ridiculous: she really might feel the same way. 

I’ve been texting her this morning, actually. Aunt May. I had to admit that I’m happy she forced me to do the forehead kiss thing last night. As annoyed as I was that she and Ned ganged up on me like that, I can’t dispute the results. She kissed me! Kind of. (To be fair, she did hit my mouth a little bit even if it was an accident.) At first it made me wonder if she heard any of Ned’s shout-comments before I could turn the t.v. up to cover what he was saying. But I doubt it. Even if she felt the same way, I know her too well to think she wouldn’t freak out more and enough that it’d be noticable. Yeah, no, I’d definitely have been able to tell if she’d heard him saying things like, “Nobody’s saying you have to tell her that you googled the probability of high school sweethearts getting married that time she saved your ass on that Bronte essay, but yeah, Aunt May’s right! Just ask her to come over and either talk to her or do the hair/forehead thing!” Anyway, May’s on board with her coming over a lot this week and next week and giving us some space. So are Ned and MJ. Ned said they agreed on giving us two weeks (starting tomorrow) without them hanging out after school. And who knows, if the dance goes really well, maybe it’ll be normal for us to hang out, just us, without the whole group. Because… well, I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself. 

I’ll admit, they’re the best friends I could ever have. All three of them. 

And it’s nice to have them all here now, Ned to my left and the girls in front of us. It’s even nicer to be outside of class or the city or crazy study sessions and have had a short breather from all that (despite the shitshow before we smoothed things over and could enjoy it). To be somewhere chill together. Yesterday and today probably feel even better because the last few days, or even weeks… no— months, if I’m being honest— have had me in a kind of less than happy place. But that’s over now. We’re all here and things are finally good. I just wish the girls would wake up, especially since Ned’s back on his phone. Again. 

Yesterday, everybody hung out for most of the afternoon, but being in the whole decathlon group isn’t the same as just being the four of us. Or two. 

Speaking of two— Ned being away during this next week or two is going to make everything so… unfiltered. New. Without his interference and being able to talk to him as often as normal, it’ll mostly just be her and me. Nobody to distract attention or blame stuff on or help me out when I’m doing something dumb (which is often). Like, for example, last night when I maybe let my excitement get the better of me and I might’ve jumped on the bed and thrown a pillow that accidentally broke the lamp on the nightstand. While I don’t really think writing that “Bill Mr. Harrington” note with the school’s address was Ned’s best idea, it helped me not care too much, enough that I didn’t do something dumber like actually tell Mr. Harrington. It might come back to bite us, though. Still, he was genuinely helpful this morning when Flash showed up too. 

While we were hanging out in the girls’ room waiting for them to finish packing, there was a knock on the door. I figured it was Mr. Harrington about to yell at me and Ned for the broken lamp, so I motioned to Ned to shut up and move closer to the head of the bed we were already sitting on where, courtesy of the wall between the bedroom and bathroom, he wouldn’t be able to see us as long as he stayed by the doorway. MJ gave us an odd glance before she got up to answer it. Her annoyed, “What are you doing here?” didn’t immediately disqualify Mr. Harrington, but the sound of Flash’s voice saying, “I, uh, brought you guys some muffins,” made me tense at the first syllable.

“The free muffins they give us for breakfast?”

MJ’s dripping sarcasm nearly made me laugh even though I couldn’t see her, but Y/N turning from her suitcase and walking over to join them killed it still in my throat. 

“Nope,” he said. “They’re fancy muffins from a bakery a few miles away.”

I wanted to roll my eyes out of my skull.

She may not like him, but that doesn’t mean I was wrong about him being into her. What a dumb way to impress someone. “Fancy muffins.”

“Expensive?” MJ asked. Even without seeing her face, I could tell she was giving him the squint death stare. It’s scary to have to respond to that face if you don’t know what the right answer is.

“Yes, especially with the delivery fee,” he said, sounding prepared for the question, “but they’re from a small local place, not a chain, which I figured you guys would appreciate. Actually, I think you’d like the woman who owns it, she was super grouchy and hard to convince.”

“Convince?”

“They don’t normally deliver at 5 in the morning.”

“Oh, so you thought you could just—”

“What kind did you get?” 

That’s one of the things I like about Y/N. She knows how to manage tempers and when to jump in; she has Flash and MJ down to a science. In that moment, though, I wanted MJ to fire her most confrontational questions at him with no mercy.

“Well, they’re all apology muffins—” I heard MJ scoff. Exactly. She gets it. “But I got blueberry, chocolate, obviously, coffee, cranberry orange, maple, I think that one has chicken in it or something, and banana nut.”

Ned and I turned towards each other with silent smirks at the last one. It’s a dumb joke, but under normal circumstances we’d never resist—

“Cool. Since you’ve brought so many, you can come in.”

Sometimes MJ drives me up the wall. This was one of those times. 

I mentally took back my agreement with her scoff.

The three of them came into the room, and for a couple seconds, Flash didn’t see us. The girls were closer to the window than they were to the wall and the bed Ned and I were sitting on, and he didn’t look behind him. Until MJ pointed us out directly.

“You can give them some too,” she said, her expression bordering on smug. “Apology muffins, right?”

Flash froze for a second. I straightened my back. Neither Ned or I said anything.

“Yeah, yeah,” he nodded. “Of course.”

Surprisingly, he shook his shoulders like a bug just buzzed by his head and walked over, opening a giant rectangle of a box up to us. 

“Take however many you guys want.”

I stared at him, not moving. Nobody flinched. Then I realized he was tapping the side of the box with his thumb. Not in an asshole come on, hurry up way, but in an anxious way. Just as I started to reach toward the box, Y/N asked:

“Why’d you get so many of the coffee ones?”

Flash looked away at just the right second. 

Did I technically cave first by reaching into the box? Yes. But did anyone see? No.

Although, I guess he technically caved by offering us the muffins in the first place. Ha. All the same, I took a blueberry one. 

“They’re my dad’s favorite. I wanted to surprise him, you know? But I can’t even get a hold of.... Um, are your guys’ parents going to pick you up when we get there, or are you actually staying for school?”

“Staying.”

“All of you?” 

He looked around to ask all of us, even me and Ned. We all nodded. When he looked at me, though, his eyes twitched. It’s a face I’ve gotten a lot before. He realized he said parents. 

“You said these are orange cranberry?” Ned asked, pointing. 

Flash nodded. 

“They’re solid, though the banana nut ones are probably the best.”

As I said, under normal circumstances, like if one of the girls had said it, I would’ve laughed right then, but I’m not used to laughing around Flash. Ned, who usually follows that same rule, shook his head and grinned, if a little bit... nervously?

“Hell no!” he said, pretending to be mildly outraged. “I’m not eating banana-bust-a-nut muffins.”

A second surprise: Flash tilted his head and paused, clearly as stunned to be told a joke by Ned as the rest of us were to witness it— and laughed. So did everyone else. It was only for a few seconds, like literally three quick seconds, but for the first time for as long as I can remember, all of us were laughing with Flash. It stopped almost as soon as it started. 

Tension crept back in soon so he left pretty quickly after that with an awkward, “See you guys in a few.” Thank god. 

The girls finished tidying their room and going over the homework that’s due today (which we did last week since we knew we’d never get it done on the trip), before forcing me and Ned into the hallway so Mr. Harrington wouldn’t need to check our room for us and potentially find the broken lamp. 

And then, pretty soon, we ended up on the warm bus, loaded in with everyone else. It seemed like everybody but Ned and I were too quiet and sleepy and squinty to be able to talk much before dozing off or staring blankly out the window or scrolling social media on their phones, the latter two options leading to the first in most cases. At this point, I think Ned, Flash, and I are the only ones still awake. 

I’m going to work at tolerating him. As long as he doesn’t cross any lines with anybody from now on, I won’t bait him either. (Admittedly, I’ve been guilty of that, especially recently.) I mean, his comment about his dad was hard to miss. And even when he said it, it wasn’t a shock. Everyone in our grade at some point has had to listen to Flash’s rambling excuses for his parents ignoring or forgetting to show up for school events. Maybe being a dick is just hereditary for him. Or a family tradition. 

I don’t remember how I got so off track. Where was I before? Oh yeah. Risk. Possibilities. The almost-worst case scenario that turned out not so bad. It’s been a messy weekend with plenty of re-evaluating, but the point is simple: I think I’ve got to give a few new things a try, and I’m excited to have a chance over the next couple weeks.

Chapter Text

It might be for the best that tonight is our last guys’ night for a while because Peter is really killing the vibe. I’ve been trying to concentrate on texting Betty for forever, and his energy is not the laid back, advice-giving kind I need. Not even a little bit. Not at all. It’s manic and it’s off-the-wall electric and his words come out as rapidly as beams from a Star Wars blaster. Just constant pew-pew-pew-pew-pew! It’s distracting. And obnoxious. I listened to him talk for hours and hours and even tried to take notes on his thousand-and-one “not a date” date ideas for this friendship boot camp thing, and now I just want his voice to dissolve into little pieces of white noise that help me focus on my conversation with Betty rather than confuse and overload my brain. 

But that’s not really happening, so for every five or so words I read from her messages, just as many from Peter’s flapping mouth still register in my brain.

it’s just so frustrating that

“This review for Drunk Shakespeare says—”

I have to put up with it all the time

“they almost peed their pants”

and everybody thinks I’m paranoid

“because it was so funny.”

or “prissy” like I can’t take a joke. 

“Should I get weeknight tickets?”

it’s like I’m the only one

“Ugh. Only 21 and up.”

who takes it seriously!

“That would’ve been”

I don’t know, am I

“perfect. Like, so perfect.”

insane for being mad about it?

Yeah... this isn’t working. I don’t think Betty’s insane, not even a tiny bit. In any way. I can’t believe what she’s been putting up with, and I’m pretty pissed at Jason for everything she just told me about. But I might go insane soon if I have to juggle these conversations for much longer. I swear, Peter’s words are like buzzing bees racing in incessant circles around my ears, and they’ve been going for almost 24 hours, minus the handful of hours he finally slept last night and the couple hours we were around the girls on the bus and at school. Remembering those almost peaceful moments when Peter would shut up for a while, even if just for a fifty minute class, makes me miss Y/N more than usual. Obviously, Peter couldn’t talk about their hypothetical not-dates (which are definitely dates) in front of her, so instead of speed talking my brain into oblivion, he had to stumble through conversations about normal things. Mostly, he just kept scooting his chair closer to her in class, pretending to want to focus on our assignments even though he clearly used every option possible to get off track, from reminiscing about random stuff to laughing way too hard at her jokes and that sort of thing. Plus, since my locker is close to hers, I was there to see his face when he noticed the key chain he got her from the gift shop was already attached to her backpack. (And that’s not even mentioning how giddy he got when she thanked him for it again.)

So yeah. Peter’s been pining all day, and now that it’s night, I’d like him to chill out long enough for me to text Betty back without it taking ten minutes per message.

“Dude, ” I finally warn, leaning over the bunk rail. 

The creak of movement seems to catch his attention more than my actual voice. His face is illuminated blue with light from his laptop, and he looks like a confused, irritating puppy with his eyes staring up, pen in his hand, though he’s obviously been chewing it.

“What?” he asks. “She liked the Hamlet section in English and I’ve watched her and MJ laugh at drunk people on the subway, so obviously she’d like the combination of both of those things in one place, right?”

I sigh heavily, leaning further over the rail.

“You know, probably,” I admit. “But you’ve been through like a million ideas since yesterday. I think you can give it a break.”

His face scrunches and jerks back like he’s offended. 

“It doesn’t matter how many ideas I come up with if they all suck and don’t pan out! Why is everything good so expensive?” His exhaustion is coming though, and I kinda feel a little guilty for forgetting how much pressure he’s been putting on himself with all this. “But, actually,” he says in a more hopeful tone, glancing back at his laptop, “this next one could work.” 

Better than “Drunk Shakespeare”?  

Oh boy.

“Alright, I’ll bite. But then I just need like ten minutes of silence. What is it?”

Peter sits up straighter, instantly looking excited again. Sort of desperately enthused: still tired, but eager. He clicks keys on his laptop a couple times and starts talking with his left hand.

“Okay, so I swear I remember her and MJ talking about how cute his dimples are, and that’s gotta mean she watches his show pretty regularly, or at least would like to go watch it just for fun to see him in person, right?” His eyes go from his computer back up to me, and the wheels behind them are clearly turning. “The tickets are doable, and weeknights could work. The location might not be completely ideal, but I’m sure there’s a safe enough route even if it’s longer. What do you think?”

Dimples? Show?  

“Who? What show?”

“Trevor Noah! Didn’t I say that?” he asks, exasperated. “I know she and MJ watch him sometimes, I just don’t know how often.”

Oh, the cute Daily Show guy. Yeah, they’ve definitely talked about his dimples. Who wouldn’t? Of course Peter would think it’s a good idea to take his crush to see one of her celebrity crushes. I don’t have the heart to rain on his parade though. Plus, that kind of not-date would actually be pretty cool. A live political comedy show? She’d love it.

“No, you didn’t. But what’s the problem with the location?” I ask.

“It’s, uh,” he pauses. “The studio’s in Hell’s Kitchen.”

Jesus Christ.

The bed shifts and creaks as he sits up to better defend himself. 

“A nicer part, obviously!” he says, a bit louder than our whisper volume. “And it’s been a while since anything big has gone down there, so it’s probably safe, right?”

The last few words go back down to a low whisper, his doubt coming through. As much as I really need to text Betty back, this kind of clownery isn’t something I can speed through. 

“Let me get this straight,” I start slowly, “there haven’t been any international gang bombings or escaped criminals or FBI shootouts lately, so it’s just suddenly cool to go there now? Come on, Peter. Don’t you remember any of that? Whole mobs being blown apart by some freaky dude who had a total meltdown in court? The one I don’t think was ever caught after he evaporated into thin air in prison? Any of this ringing a bell?”

May would never approve. Way too much shit has gone down there in the last handful of years for any responsible parent or guardian to give their teenager the green light for a night trip to Hell’s Kitchen. Including the safe parts. Even in the daytime. Especially if you’re as anxious as May. 

“Of course I remember,” Peter says flatly. “Everybody at school was arguing about whether serial killers were allowed to be hot or not.”

“Really not the part I was thinking about, but yeah.” I pause, remembering the widespread debate. “Honestly, I lost a lot of respect for some of our classmates because of that.” 

I know he’s trying to distract me from the real issue here, but that was a super bizarre moment in our school’s history, and I still have a lot of feelings about it.

“I mean, sure, it’s possible for the face and body of a killer to be objectively attractive,” I continue, “but being attracted to a killer when you’ve seen footage of what they did? Messed up. And to be even more honest, I did not find the jokes about ‘Daddy Punisher’ even a little bit funny. I really think some of those senior girls meant them, it made me so uncomfortable.”

That was a serious low point for our school. Collectively speaking.

“All I’m saying is,” he says, cautious and quieter again, “the tickets are actually a lot cheaper than I would expect, and they’re not sold out for Friday. Plus—”

I close my eyes, pre-annoyed at what I’m sure he’s going to say.

“If you say ‘I’m a superhero’ as a reason you can just stroll into Hell’s Kitchen, I’m going to kill you.”

“I was going to say the other guy took care of that stuff and it’s not so bad anymore, but no, don’t be ridiculous. Although, you wouldn’t kill me anyway.” I can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “You couldn’t , actually, given that, like you said, I am a superhero.”

Opening my eyes, as expected, I see a pretentious grin plastered across his face, glowing blue from the light of his laptop. It’s an evil look for him, not going to lie.

“You need better ideas,” I say honestly. “And don’t call him ‘the other guy’ like you’re even remotely on the same level.”

The grin drops into a slanted look of indignation. 

“Did you say better ideas? As in more ideas ? Did you even read the email summary I sent you? Have you been listening at all? That’s like, idea 35!”

Ha, that’s ironic. I can’t laugh though, because I can’t back my way out of this one. I don’t have an excuse for not listening. Except— actually, I kind of do. 

“Honestly, no, I didn’t read your email. Or listen very well. But I have a good reason. I was thinking about something else.” 

That’s only half true. There is something I need to tell him, but I forgot about it until now. Knowing how he’ll likely react when he hears it, I sit up and move over, climbing down the bunk bed ladder, leaving my phone on silent up there; I’ll be distracted again if it goes off, and I just need a minute to get this over with. 

As I take a seat in his desk chair, Peter cocks his head, waiting for my excuse.

“Texting Betty isn’t a good enough reason,” he says. “You know, I’d help you talk to her if you’d help me get this plan worked out so I can stop stressing about it!”

I’m about to reply that I don’t need any help talking to Betty when he turns his laptop towards me with a messy looking spreadsheet, full of wonky mismatched fonts and too many colors. It’s the worst looking Excel calendar I’ve ever seen. Nothing like the kind the girls make for class schedules. I squint, searching for next weekend. 

“Friday: Park concert?? Symphony??”

“Saturday: Dance: group.”

There we go.

I put my finger on it, both excited and sorry for what I’m about to say.

“You’re gonna want to edit that cell.”

Peter half leans over, half turns the laptop to see what I’m pointing at.

“The dance?” 

I nod. His face looks serious now, eyes wide. Like he’s staring down a cliff side.

“Wait, why? Oh my god, does she not want to go? We didn’t actually talk about it yet but I didn’t think we needed to right away since we all go every year, but if she said something to you, then you’ve gotta—”

I cut him off.

“Dude, chill for a second.” I lean back in the chair, trying not to laugh because, honestly, this idea is almost like a prank. MJ is a genius. Accidentally or not. “The thing is… you have it labelled as a ‘group’ activity.” Peter’s eyes narrow again. Don’t laugh yet. Do. Not. Laugh. My face is twitching, but I need to keep it together for a few seconds more. “And, well, MJ and I are planning to go with dates. On our own. Not as a group.”

Peter freezes. He’s still holding the laptop out between us, his face full of concern and disbelief. For a second, I’m not sure if he’s even breathing. 

Surprisingly, I manage to not laugh. After hours of him talking in a loop, he’s finally dead silent. I smirk.

And then he laughs, relief plastered all over his face, and puts the laptop down beside him on the bed.

“For a second I thought you were serious!”

“Thought? I am!” I think of my phone up on the top bunk, of the message I’ve already started drafting in my notes to ask Betty to go with me. “MJ told me she’s going with someone this year and won’t be with the group, and she said if I wanted to, I should do the same thing. And I do. I’m gonna ask Betty.”

It’s a good thing I didn’t laugh, because the more I talk, the more he starts to look angry.

“You’re really serious? This isn’t a joke?”

Or panicked. It’s hard to tell with him.

I shake my head.

His hands go to his hair, which might be in danger of being torn out.

“This is bad, dude. This is really, seriously last minute—”

“It’s two weeks away!”

He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“It’s Monday night, which is basically Tuesday, and the dance is next Saturday. That’s twelve days away! Not fourteen!”

Yeah, actually, I am going to lose my mind. 

I take a deep breath.

“First off,” I say, “it’s not that big a difference, and second, it’s still plenty of time!”

Based on his expression, you’d think I just uttered the most offensive sentence in the world.

“You know how much she likes to have things planned out ahead of time, and two weeks — even if it was a full two weeks! — is last minute when it comes to a once-a-year event, especially as upperclassmen! Plus—” He stops. Dread creeps over his face. “Plus… it would mess up this whole plan if we go as, like, a couple with no group. I-I can’t introduce that idea right now. This is a delicate plan, and it has to be perfect, and this is gonna mess it all up.” He pauses again, and I wait rather than interrupt him. He looks embarrassed before he even opens his mouth. “What if we’re still a group? Even if MJ doesn’t come?”

“Yeah, no.” I shake my head. “If MJ’s out, I’m not double-not-dating with you guys.”

“It’s not— Not even for dinner?”

“No way. That’s like the one time Betty and I will be on our own before we have to see the whole school at the dance.”

Peter’s hands release his hair and stay frozen in the air above his head. He closes his eyes and scrunches his face.

“Do you have any idea how much stress this is gonna put on me?”

So he’s not going to fight it. Good.

“Yeah, but it’s not enough to kill you. I mean, you’re a superhero after all, right? You’ll be fine.”

Peter groans, moves his computer, and flops backward on the bed.

“This sucks,” he mumbles, rubbing his hands into his eyes. “I was actually starting to get excited about everything. Now I’m just gonna stress about how to talk to her about the freaking dance in a way that doesn’t make it a date.”

“You’re literally planning two weeks of dates though.”

“Have you listened at all today, they’re—”

“Not dates, I know. But just because they’re ‘not-dates’ doesn’t mean they’re not actually dates.”

He opens his eyes and glowers. 

“Can you go back up there? I need to think, and it was way easier when you didn’t talk so much.”

“Sure thing.” I get up from the chair. “But seriously,” I say, halting before I climb up, “you don’t need to freak out about this. Just blame me and MJ. It won’t be a big thing. If she’s willing to put up with this romance boot camp—”

“Friendship —”

“— then she’ll be fine with one more not-date.”

He sighs.

“Fine. You’re probably right. Maybe I just need to sleep.”

I smile and nod, then climb the ladder. I lie down and pick up my phone to see messages from Betty. As I unlock my phone, Peter says something I don’t hear fully.

“Huh?” I ask.

“I said, so who’s MJ going with?”

I answer honestly as I open Betty’s messages: “I have no idea. She wouldn’t tell me, no matter how much I bugged her.”

“Huh.”

I hear Peter close his laptop, meaning he’s genuinely going to try to sleep, and I start reading the quick landslide of texts Betty sent me only a minute ago. It sucks that this announcement “glitch” prank is bothering her so much, but I’m just glad she’s talking to me about it. I think she trusts me with stuff like this. She mentioned it to me in seventh hour today, and she kind of whispered it like she didn’t want other people to hear. The mess up was obvious to anyone watching the announcements, so it’s not like she didn’t want other people to know about it, she just didn’t want them in the conversation. I thought it was going to be awkward being back in person with her after we started texting this weekend, but it wasn’t. It was nice like always. Nicer even. 

If anything, Peter’s plan will probably help me and her too. It’ll be weird not hanging out with Peter and the girls as much as normal these next two weeks, and I can’t pretend that’s not a slight bummer, but it’ll give me more time to talk to Betty. And MJ will have more time to hang out with whoever her date is, even if she won’t give me hints about who they are. I really have no idea who it might be. There was a girl in our gym class she got along super well with last year, but I’m not sure it was/is anything more than that. Whoever it is, I just hope they’re a good person. MJ deserves good things in her life, and I worry about her sometimes. Some days it’s hard to tell if she’s just being MJ or if she’s dealing with stuff she doesn’t want to talk about. Maybe her date will be the person she wants to talk about stuff with, like Betty with me.

What are the chances we all end up with someone by the end of this? 

I’ll keep my fingers crossed. The odds seem better than bad at least. 

I text Betty back as Peter turns off the lamp, and I can’t help wondering: Am I going to have to fight Jason? I don’t want to fight Jason. If I did fight him, could I win? 

I seriously don’t want to fight Jason. But that was some bullshit he pulled, so maybe I have to.

Instead of my alarm waking me up, it’s shuffling noises. Peter’s awake, apparently reorganizing his backpack by the sound of it. If he’s up, it’s probably almost 6:30 anyway. I take a deep breath before sitting up and opening my eyes.

The room looks just like it did last night: the lamp is the only light dimly brightening up the space and things are much cleaner than I’m used to. Peter’s at his desk, transferring some of the candy and assorted snacks we picked up after school from a paper bag to his backpack. 

He turns around.

“Hey! So I know I talked through like a million ideas yesterday, but can I run my current plan by you?”

I start to answer, but yawn swallows it. I take a long, deep breath before trying again.

“How many times are you gonna change it and text me about it?”

He grins.

“Zero, if you and May approve it. Otherwise, maybe a lot.”

“And MJ, right? I’m guessing you’re running all this by her too?”

His mouth falls open.

“Shit, I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. That’s a really good idea. Uh, yeah, yeah, of course.”

What kind of idiot forgets someone like MJ?

Poor guy.

“It’s for the best that you didn’t think of her before. If she had to put up with you like I have the last 24 hours, she would’ve killed you,” I offer as consolation.

“Good point.” His grin returns. “So, I’m thinking….”

And then it all begins again.

Chapter Text

High school lunches are abominable, and should be illegal. I swear, what passes for pizza, macaroni, and even grilled cheese might as well be scraps of cardboard stuffed with some sticky yellow substance of unknown origins, as opposed to anything healthy or vaguely edible. The vegetables available aren’t much better: they give off the look and odor of something that’s been canned for a few hundred years before being briefly stuck in a microwave and dropped into a metal pan. Well, maybe that’s an exaggeration. They’re just super bland and tasteless. But don’t get me started on the very real danger of the milk that’s required with cost-reduced or free meals. After getting one that’s curdled like cottage cheese or a slimy, soupy sort of solid, you learn not to trust them. A lot of kids take them because they have to and immediately dump them into a garbage can on the way to their table.

The bagged apple slices aren’t too terrible though, given that the flavor hasn’t been boiled or steamed out of them and there’s no reason to doubt what they’re made of. Luckily for me, Peter’s gifted stash of snacks in my locker from yesterday held over to today and I’ve been eating enough during breaks that I’m only hungry enough for the apples, able to avoid all the other barely tolerable options for once. I’m as grateful for that fact as I was happily surprised to find he managed to remember and pick out my favorites. (Michelle probably helped him.)

Walking to the cafeteria ten minutes late is an uncharacteristically peaceful experience. The usual, deafening current of hundreds of teenagers rushing to their next class has been replaced by a trickling stream of occasional wanderers strolling along with hall passes lightly held in hand. It’s a calming change of pace. Still, as I draw closer to the cafeteria, the sounds of classes beginning behind closed doors grow softer, slowly overlapped by the swelling chaos of first lunch. It’s funny how approaching this part of the school during lunch feels like walking into a roaring tsunami of cacophony, but once you’re inside it talking with your friends, the enormity of it muffles into a tame tide, as if an invisible barrier has stitched itself together around the table. (At least if you’ve had enough sleep, that is. After another long night of texting with Peter, I’m not sure I’ll be able to block out much of anything.) 

By the time I turn the corner of the last hallway and head to the lunch line, most people already have their food and are sitting at their normal tables — my friends included — so it takes no time at all to maneuver through the pizza side. I grab a bag of apple slices from the tin pan beside the soft pretzel warmer and quickly get to the register. 

The lunch lady punches in the code for the apples as I swipe my ID card and type in my passcode, four little beeps quietly popping up through the bursting bubble of cafeteria noise. Like every day, I thank her and she offers me a tired nod in response. Then I make my typical path toward my friends sitting in the middle-ish back area.

A few tables away from Michelle, Peter, and Ned, more toward the front, Abe and Sally are sitting with their other friends, including Flash. That must mean Monday was an anomaly like I suspected— just a chance to collect the last morsels of gossip about the trip before everyone slid back into our normal school routines. (Surprisingly, neither of them asked about or alluded to the pool incident, thank god, though Flash must’ve told Abe about the accidental blackmail thing because Abe whisper-asked me about it once no one was paying attention. As soon as I said it wasn’t a big deal and I’d rather Mr. Harrington never hear a word about any of it, he nodded and let it go with a subtle “OK” hand motion.) 

Suddenly, Peter whips his head around and catches my eye. He jumps out of his seat and rushes to meet me halfway.

“Hey!” he says, smiling and slightly breathless a moment later, hair lightly ruffled from the mini-jog. “How come you’re late? Ned said you stayed after class, but he didn’t know why.” Then, looking at the lone bag of apple wedges in my hand, “And where’s the rest of your food?” 

As we make eye contact again, I try to ignore the swooping sensation in my stomach: I have been trying, really trying, to get used to his energy the last few days — to his wider smiles and the abrupt return of his sincerity — but his spontaneous excitement in moments like this still causes butterflies, as much as I resent the fact. Even so, his energy is infectious and, undeniably, pleasant.

I find my lips itching to mirror his bare smile, and do my best to hold it back.

“I stayed back to talk to Profé,” I explain as we walk together, “about the skit that’s due on Friday. I wanted to see if my group could just perform it for her tomorrow while everyone’s out recording theirs.” 

I glance at him and the crinkle around his eyes makes it clear he knows me too well.

“You mean get out of having to watch your own video on Friday.” 

“Maybe.” I keep my gaze on our table as we approach it, shrugging and hoping my guilty-as-charged grin isn’t too obvious. 

The deal I made with Profé is normal for the two of us. It’s usually the group members who make it more of a struggle, refusing to cooperate because they’d rather procrastinate than memorize their lines a day early. ( f they’re even willing to memorize their lines. 75% of the class just reads from a paper someone else has to hold up behind whatever phone or iPad they use to record it— even though Profé takes off 5% of their total project grade if she catches it. And she always does.) Luckily, my group for this one was just as happy as me to get out of the awkward recording process and the even more agonizing experience of watching it on the whiteboard the following day, forced to sit still and confront our stale acting and terrible, underdeveloped accents. 

“What’d she say?”

“She said it’s fine,” I say, climbing into my seat across from Ned and Michelle as Peter sits beside me. “As long as I help her grade the quizzes from her first year class once we finish.”

Ned and Michelle let their conversation about Chemistry fizzle out to join ours.

“Such a teacher’s pet,” Ned says with a wave of his hand. “Always manipulating the system for your own gain.” 

I give him a sarcastically sour look.

“If you made fewer jokes like that, I could still be grading ours.”

Last month, Ned just had to make a comment about me changing his test answers. As much as Profé likes me and would be happy to hire me as a personal assistant, she couldn’t keep handing me my friends’ and classmates’ assignments after he said that in front of everyone, which is fair. Plus, even though I enjoy helping her, it’s nice to have more time to socialize, especially since Ned, Betty, and I sit next to each other. 

It also helped me feel less guilty, seeing as I had actually done it.

“But it wasn’t a joke, right?” Michelle clarifies, reading my mind. “You did change Ned’s answers for him.”

Ned sighs, glancing down at his plate to spear a broccoli floret with his fork.

“And I should’ve been more grateful, I know.” He looks back up, clearly amused. “But it’s just so funny to freak you out.”

“Funny to you, maybe.”

Objectively, it was pretty funny.

I was walking up to Profé’s desk to hand in the stack of freshly graded tests when he very loudly asked me to change his answers on the next quiz too — which a few people laughed at, assuming it couldn’t be true if he had blurted it out — and it took me so off-guard that I turned and smacked right into someone else’s desk, hard enough it felt like I cracked my hip bone on it, triggering an ill-timed “Jesus!” Immediately, someone called out, “It’s pronounced Hay-soos in this class!” 

Even I could recognize the humor in it, once the pain had passed a minute later.  Profé was still shaking her head in pity as I hobbled over and handed her the papers. Her tone of voice conveyed a sort of disappointment and inconvenience when she said that, well, maybe it’d be better if I didn’t grade this class’s work anymore. 

“Wait, for real?” Peter asks, brow twisted into a quizzical disbelief. “You’ve never done that for me.”

Michelle’s mouth quirks into a (prideful?) smirk.

“She’s done it for me.”

He looks between the two of us, surprised. 

“You’re not in my Spanish class, though,” I tell Peter as I open my bag of apples, hoping the meager defense will assuage him.

“Neither is Michelle!”

“That was for our World History class.”

“And AP Psych that one time,” I admit reflexively, remembering. I reach over to her plate and swap a few fries for a slice of apple. 

“Wow, okay then. I see how it is.” Peter leans back as if against an imaginary wall, squinting at me, eyes glinting with teasing sarcasm. 

Like I said before, as much as I’m trying to get used to our new dynamics, it’s hard to pretend this playful attitude isn’t incredibly attractive; we’ve always teased each other, but something about the nature of it has shifted. It’s more fun than before. 

I lick my lips to get rid of the salt from the fries and ignore him. Meanwhile, Michelle takes the apple piece I gave her and holds it like a cigarette.

“Not to defend the cheating, lying, and overall academic fraud she’s committed,” she says, “but she was responsible for messing up my World History test right before we took it.” She bites the apple and chews for a moment. “We were quizzing each other on our way in and she said Genghis Khan went— what was it? As far west in Europe as Germany and as far east as Lebanon in the Middle East .”

“Instead of Poland and the Levant,” I repeat, the words having haunted me for weeks afterward, the answer seared into my memory since. “But Poland has been taken over by Germany at different points and it was fragmented when he got there. Plus, Lebanon is in the Levant, so I wasn’t totally wrong.”

Michelle makes an “Exactly” gesture with her left hand.

“And that’s why she corrected her mistake on my paper.”

She notices me about to sneak more fries off her plate and swats my hand away.

“And since I didn’t change my own answer,” I say, returning to my own food, “it wasn’t really cheating.”

“ Ha. ” Her laugh is flat, but bright. “Only because you used a pen to take the test and were too scared he’d notice a scratched out answer that wasn’t there before.”

Before I can (in bad faith) refute that, Peter interrupts.

“Wait, what about the Psych one?”

I pause and smile, remembering one of the reasons I love our Psychology teacher. 

“It was just an extra credit question: ‘Who is my celebrity crush?’ Michelle wrote Antonio Banderas instead of Dwayne Johnson. It was only half a point. Antonio Banderas is her mom’s crush, which she talked about in class a bunch of times, not hers. Easy to mix up.” 

“And Ned’s Spanish quiz?”

Ned coughs on a bite of spaghetti he just took, quickly taking a drink of water to recover. If he’s nervous about me explaining that one, I’m surprised. He and Peter usually tell each other everything, and the truth isn’t really embarrassing anyway.

“You wanna cover that one?” I ask him, just in case.

“Nah. Go ahead,” he shrugs, unbothered. 

That’s more normal. A noodle must’ve just gone down the wrong way.

“It was a few weeks ago,” I explain, “when we first started making our plans to study for the decathlon, I think? Ned was super stressed with it all and had a bad case of test anxiety. He told me he knew the right answers, he just freaked out in the moment.”

Peter’s eyebrows raise and he looks pointedly at Ned, whose lips are twitching. 

“Ned doesn’t get test anxiety,” he says, staring at him. “I think I remember that, actually. He just didn’t study. He stayed up all night and then freaked out in the morning saying he was gonna fail.”

Before I can react, Ned erupts into the same giggles I heard from across the classroom when I smacked into that desk. Michelle’s eyebrows lift, though she seems unsurprised; if anything, her expression is practically a mental handshake of congratulations to Ned for successfully cheating the system. (The system being me.)

“Okay, okay!” He puts his hands up to defend himself. “I lied, I know, and that’s bad, it’s a bad thing to do. But my GPA, my chances for college admissions, shouldn’t suffer because I’m bad at conjugating verbs in a third language.” He turns his head toward Peter. “And I did want to study more, but someone convinced me to play video games that night instead.”

The attention of the debate swiftly turns away from the ethics of test answer “editing” to which of them is more likely to put video games above school work. As the boys argue, Michelle and I continue eating in relaxed silence. Even though the two of us have been texting and talking less the last couple days now that my conversations with Peter have become more time-consuming, we’ve settled back into our usual, stable friendship without any lingering oddness from the weekend. Thank goodness. My eyes flit to her at the thought, then quickly back to the boys.

As they do, a gentle wave of comfort and humming warmth envelopes me. It’s a new sensation, one that’s easy to sink into and strange to explain. (And randomly recurring since Sunday morning.) Although it’s similar to the solace I feel when I appreciate that Michelle (and Ned) won’t be abandoning me anytime soon, like I briefly assumed over the weekend, I’d be lying if I didn’t own up to the fact it’s undeniably reserved for Peter. It’s been happening here and there during the most unexpected moments ever since we apologized to each other that morning. (This back-and-forth debate between him and Ned, which now involves them citing specific dates and exact hours of video game playing, for example, isn’t exactly heart-warming or intriguing enough that it should warrant this feeling, yet here I am.) 

At first, I thought the sensation was just the sheer relief of reconciliation after a shitty, hellish night. But now I’m not so sure. It’s complicated, of course, to say the least. After spending so long desperately trying and failing to shove down this crush, my anxiety surrounding Peter and how this all might end, it doesn’t make sense to feel so… normal. The months I spent begging my own brain to avoid thinking about him, only to fail miserably and obsess over how, inevitably, the best outcome could only be private pain while the best bad option, if I was found out, would be a simple unraveling of fragile humiliation that Peter would clumsily (and apologetically) inflict— those months were like being a small pet in a washing machine: drowning, jerked around, disoriented, and in general torment. This crush has been one colossal Sisyphean self-inflicted torture session after the next.

And yet, somehow, I’m suddenly alright. The danger has passed and I’m breathing just fine. Sure, I’m still nervous around him more often than not, and flustered, cautious, and even anxious at times, but it’s not nearly as overwhelming as before. It’s like most of the frightened, flighty energy this crush has plagued me with since the beginning has transformed into something less excruciating. Something that might border on exciting if I let it. It’s safe, above all else. Infinitely closer to safety than anything I’ve felt before, and certainly a thousand times more stable than that frozen, starless abyss I felt like I was staring into this weekend. 

To put it simply: my nerves have floated down to a reasonable level. Even if I still feel like I’m walking a tightrope some of the time, the rope is only a foot above soft-grassed ground rather than tied between skyscrapers. And since I’m less busy being worried, I evidently have more time to, as May would say, stay grounded and enjoy the moment. 

It feels like warm sunshine. 

That’s it. 

Safety and warmth.

Anyway, suffice it to say that things are good between us. So much so that we’ve barely had a break in conversation since our fight. Between passing notes in the classes we have together, talking during lunch, and the obscene amount of texting we’ve done the last few days, it really does feel like being in a “friendship bootcamp,” like Ned and Michelle keep calling it. Especially because a big portion of our conversations has been Peter asking bizarre, random questions, like my opinion on Harry Houdini or if I know anyone who could get us fake IDs. (Each day I try to answer them as fully as possible with zero context. I gave up asking “Why?” and “What for?” early on; he would just text back things like, “wouldn’t you like to know, weatherboy?” or “you’ll find out later” or “I’m writing a memoir about you, duh.”)

If it were anyone else, the sheer frequency of such vague texts might’ve aggravated me; instead, I found myself stifling laughter in bed until three in the morning Monday night, then 1 a.m. last ni— this morning. Peter and I have always enjoyed antagonizing Ned and Michelle on our own, so much so that, comparatively, we’ve always tended to be more civil (if not distant) to each other than either of them. Without the filter of them between us, our texting quickly became a tug-of-war of jokes, insults, and other teasing. In fact—

“Hello? You there?” Peter’s waving his hand in front of my face. “You didn’t answer my other question.”

I shake myself out of the mental hole I’ve been falling through the last few minutes and apologize for zoning out, only now realizing that Michelle and Ned have moved on to a discussion on the Spanish colonization of the Philippines and consequent linguistic history between Tagalog, Filipino, and Spanish. 

“Peter,” I say after a short yawn. “I think you’ve set a record for how many questions a person can ask in a day. Which one are you referring to?”

I start to pull my phone out of my pocket to check my texts from him, wondering what might’ve gotten lost in the waterfall of messages we’ve sent to each other lately. But he puts his index finger on the table, or rather, on the empty plastic bag that used to contain the apple Michelle and I finished a minute ago.

“Where’s the rest of your food?” he specifies. “You and Michelle aren’t on any hunger strikes I don’t know about, right?”

I roll my eyes. 

“I’ve been eating all morning, actually,” I say, returning his sarcasm. “A bunch of my favorite snacks somehow showed up in my locker. Weird, right?”

“Super weird,” he says, nodding. “How’d someone get into your locker?”

I pause.

“That’s a good question. How did you get into it?”

He grins.

“Same way you got into mine on Friday.” He tips his head towards Michelle. “One of our friends pays way more attention to detail than anyone on the planet, and knows all of our codes.”

Without breaking her eye contact with Ned, Michelle sticks her hand directly in front of Peter’s face.

“Don’t bring me into whatever you guys are doing.”

After a flash of middle finger, she puts her hand back down on the table and goes back to telling Ned off.

“Really though,” I say, meeting his eyes again. “Thank you for all of it. It was nice to have a break from school food. Even if the sugar is going to make me crash sooner or later.”

Preferably in sixth hour. It’s easy to get away with taking a nap in film class, as long as you can keep your head propped up on your hand. 

His ears twitch as he smiles. 

“I told you, I really want to make up for… well, everything.” 

“And I told you—”

“That I don’t need to give you presents for that to happen.”

“Exactly.” 

“So, you didn’t like the pens today?”

Pens?

“What are you talking about?”

“I put some new pens in your backpack. You know, since you used up a bunch of yours taking notes during our decathlon study sessions.”

That's true. In retrospect, I was more upset about them running out of ink than I ended up being about missing the actual competition. 

“Oh, I never saw them. I haven’t looked in my bag since first hour.” I wonder if…. “But, to be honest, I’m kind of particular about my writing instruments, so—”

“They better be the Pilot G2 multi-color pack?”

Wow. That is surprising. 

It must show on my face. His smile widens and he pulls his shoulders back.

“Yes, actually.” I sit up a bit straighter. “You get that from Michelle too?”

“Nope.” He shakes his head. “You left one at my apartment. Dark green. It’s also in your bag.”

My heart rate jumps and I hate the fact that it’s over nice pens. 

Or maybe it’s the thought he put into it.

It’s a perfect gift. Useful and, in a way, personal. The only other person who would think of it would be Michelle. She’s the only one who pays that much attention to me.

“Alright then.” I try to keep my voice level, to not give away what I’m thinking or how happy I am that I can go back to color-coding my notes like usual. “That’s impressive, I’ll admit.”

My chest aches, and I’m not totally sure why.

“But,” I say carefully, “as much as I do appreciate it, there’s really no need for anything else.”

“Oh really?” He leans forward, putting an elbow to the table, head resting against his hand. “Because I feel like you wouldn’t say that if you knew what I had planned for Friday.”

I know it’s bait, that it’s meant to distract me from refusing his future gifts.

But I can’t help it.

“Tell me,” I demand.

He pulls backward and, grinning, shakes his head so rapidly it messes up his hair.

“It’s a surprise. I can’t.”

It only takes me mentioning that, given how many wild questions he’s sent my way the last few days, I deserve one hint, minimum, for Ned and Michelle to notice and jump into our conversation. Ned offers to tell me about the Friday “event”— the one-word little slip up alone offending Peter more than the whole video game argument.

“No, no, no, no!” Peter practically shouts. “Guys, I will kill you! Ned, I’ll tell Jason about how you’re planning to fight him, and MJ— I’ll, I swear, if you say anything, I-I’ll, I will—”

“Yeah, you’ve got nothing on me, dude.” she says, unimpressed, looking him up and down. “But, I’ll play nice this one time.” She looks at me, left eyebrow slightly raised with a clear message: There’s reason for concern. You’ll want to get it out of him as soon as possible. “So, Ned, when’s this fight happening?”

We all turn to look at him, Michelle and I particularly curious about that piece of information. 

“Obviously it’s not, ” he says, exasperated. “I’m just trying to figure out how to help a friend he’s been messing with.”

“A miss Betty Brant, right?”

As Michelle starts a rapid-fire interrogation into Ned and Betty’s beef with Jason, I turn my body and attention towards Peter once more.

“You have to give me hints,” I say. “I’d like three, along with unlimited guesses.”

He takes a deep breath, eyes searching mine carefully.

“Alright, I’ll give hints,” he concedes. “But only two.”

That’s better than I expected. 

“Two,” I agree. “But then you have to tell me tomorrow morning no matter what.” 

He extends a hand to shake, a smile perking back up.

“That seems fair, since you’ll never guess.”

I’m more than familiar with uncertainty when it comes to you, I think as that safe, sunny feeling settles over me again. I’ll manage just fine. 

Chapter Text

The sun is sinking fast somewhere beyond the innumerable buildings blocking any view to it, and the city streets have already turned from a shimmering gold to a deepening shade of salmon in the fifteen minutes I’ve been walking. The air is frigid, to put it lightly— so much so that it feels like an intentional contrast to the warm sunset colors bouncing against store windows. With my jacket on, the cold barely tickles my arms through the fabric, but somehow it keeps biting my hands no matter how tightly I shove them into my pockets. (Though that might have to do with the fact there are at least three separate holes in them that I have to pinch shut.) Judging by the number of people walking hunched forward with arms crossed; hands in mittens, gloves, or pockets; or slightly opened lips each time they breathe out, it seems I’m not the only one wishing I’d dressed warmer before heading out. 

It could be worse though. I could be one of the joggers to my left, wearing a loose tank top with exercise shorts, visibly shivering while loudly cursing God in the middle of a crosswalk. As usual, God doesn’t reply, but the jogger’s friends do: they laugh and claim that if she ran faster and stopped slowing them down, she might actually warm up. Whether it’s God’s fault or not, the sun isn’t gone just yet, but it is hanging quite low and fading lazily, seemingly doing very little work to keep anyone even tepid in this annoyingly flip-flopping April weather. 

The route to Peter’s apartment is long and getting chillier by the minute, but I don’t mind. The routine of it is practically a form of meditation. I’ve taken it so many times since they moved that it’s second nature, and I wouldn’t be surprised to one day find the concrete worn down like a path of patchy grass leading to the swings at a park. Passing the slow walkers, sliding between lost tourists, and avoiding clumsy bodies stumbling out of bars and restaurants as they spill out onto the sidewalk, bringing the smells of sharp alcohol and mouth-watering food along with them— it’s all autopilot. From the tops of the buildings here, I must look like just one more dot moving among countless others, colors slipping through each other like fish in water. I wonder if it’s even possible to recognize me from that high up.

But based on his last texts, Peter’s patrolling too far out tonight for him to see me, though that doesn’t stop me from imagining him somewhere near. Ever since I learned about his secret identity, it’s impossible to walk anywhere in New York and not feel like I could look over my shoulder and spot him up on top of some absurdly tall building. Some days it’s strangely comforting, the idea that I’ve got someone watching my back; other days it makes me feel a bit paranoid. 

The fact that I didn’t mention this quick trip to his and May’s place means today’s feeling is soft paranoia. If he did turn up for some reason, I’d be found out: caught sneaking points in a game I’ve fallen woefully behind in. 

Fortunately, there’s still no sign of any suited superheroes as I round the last corner and speed walk to their building, excited to get warm again in just a few moments. Jogging up the stairs to their unit, I hear the faint click of the door unlocking, and it opens just before I reach it. 

“There you are!” May says, expression as cheerful and pleasant as the living room lamps behind her. “Come in, come in!”

The light bursting from the apartment makes me realize just how dark it got on my way here. I have to blink a few times to adjust to it as I step inside. May closes the door behind me and immediately pulls me in for a tight hug.

“What took you so long?” she asks. “I was beginning to think you’d never show up.”

“I’m not that late, am I?” 

I look at the clock: 8:19 p.m. That’s not bad at all. I must’ve walked faster than I realized; I told her to expect me around 8:30 in my text.

“Of course not,” she says, rubbing my shoulder with one hand. “I just meant that it’s Wednesday. I haven’t seen you in almost a week, you know.”

I grin as I turn and kick off my shoes. 

It’s only been half a week.

“It must be pretty quiet without all of us crashing here to study every night,” I admit.

“Practically silent,” she sighs, shaking her head in pretend pity for herself, hair moving like waves from the motion. “Ned stayed over Monday, so there was plenty of bickering between him and Peter until I don’t even know when, but it’s not the same as having a full house.” She smiles in that kind way that might as well be a hug itself. “And the way Peter was talking, I thought you’d be here every day for the next two weeks.”

And here we go.

I let out a heavy sigh of my own, slide my backpack off, and set it on the table. I pause to look at her before I open it.

“That was his plan,” I clarify, “but I keep telling him: I’ve barely been home over the last few weeks and I promised I would be once the trip was over. I don’t want to risk missing the dance because I pushed too hard and ended up grounded.”

“Do you want me to call—?”

I shake my head and quickly interrupt.

“Nah.” I wave the generous offer away with my hand. “I’ve already negotiated for this Friday and at least two nights next week. I think I might be able to manage three as long as I play my cards right. Four might be asking for a miracle, but it’s not completely off the table yet either.”

May tilts her head.

“So I won’t be able to convince you to stay tonight, seeing as it’s already dark?”

She scrunches her nose and raises her eyebrows in a loving, baiting sort of way, like the inverse of Peter’s confused face. 

“Unfortunately, no. This is just a quick delivery stop.” I turn back toward the table and unzip my backpack, pulling out the plastic container. “I made a batch of brownies and had extra, so I thought you might like some.” 

May’s sweet tooth is an easy target. (With as wide as her smile is now, I could take my time trying to figure out which one it is). 

“And this is why you’re my favorite,” she says, winking. “Let’s give them a taste test, shall we?” 

She claps her hands together and turns, taking a few steps toward the cupboards, plates clinking against each other seconds later. I open the container and we quickly trade: plate for brownie.

She wastes no time in taking a bite, closing her eyes for the full effect. 

“Mmm, this is good.” Her eyes open and she gives a teasing glance. “Is it a secret family recipe? Does it have some wild, unguessable ingredient from a great great grandmother twice removed?”

I shake my head and swallow my own bite, almost laughing.

“Just a box mix from the grocery store. Nothing too special. The trick is to get the dark chocolate. It doesn’t taste like real dark chocolate or anything, it just has more flavor than the regular kind.”

She nods, pointing at me and shaking her finger.

“That’s the kind of baking expertise I need in my life.” She takes another bite and chews, but it’s clear there’s more she wants to say. I mirror her, taking a bite and waiting rather than responding. “You know what would go really well with this?”

I think for a moment and swallow.

“Hot fudge and ice-cream,” I say with a nod. “I should’ve thought of that on the way and picked some up.”

She laughs and shakes her head.

“I was thinking of something less physical, more abstract. I think,” she says slowly, angling her head towards the living room, “chocolate and gossip always pair well together. What do you think? Do you want to go sit?”

If I said the idea of gossip-swapping with May made me nervous, I’d be lying. This is the main reason I came. If Ned won’t crack and give me information (this new refusal to spoil Peter’s secrets, even through after-school texts, is extremely annoying, despite being the right thing to do in his position) and MJ barely seems to register my subtle, pushing inquiries (or else says she really doesn’t know much), then I have one final source to try. 

I unzip my jacket, lay it on top of my backpack, and follow May to the couch, where she sits criss-cross on a cushion.

“So, Peter tells me you two got into a bit of a fight on the trip this weekend.”

Oh. Shit. Well, that sets me back a bit.

Admittedly, I didn’t expect we’d start all the way at the beginning like this. My strategy was to dive right into the plans Peter’s been concocting and find out what “event” is happening on Friday— but I should’ve known this would come first. Of course she would want to hear my side of the story. Like any good parent, she wants to poke for details Peter might’ve withheld, to see if our accounts match up or if one of us is lying, to find out if I'm still angry at Peter. Or to know if I mistreated him in any way. The sudden concern that she might suspect me of being bad for Peter flash-freezes my veins and the blood sloshing through them quickly drops to an icee consistency. Then again, a voice in me says that if she thought she had reason to be angry with me, I would know; she’s way too protective of Peter to play nice with people she thinks would hurt him. 

So I tell her the truth. I glance at the key chain on my backpack like a reflex, and I start talking. 

I tell her about my confusion towards Peter’s odd behavior before the trip, the awkward results of the team dinner, being suddenly shut out at the hotel (I go over this part delicately; I don’t want her to think badly of Michelle or Ned in any way), the argument Peter and I had at the pool, and then the bigger argument in the room. Although I trust May, I’m still extremely careful about my words. It’s like verbal finger painting: I try to focus on impressions rather than absolute accuracy. There are details I’d rather keep to myself, both for the sake of my privacy and Peter’s. (For example, I don’t exactly lie about our sleeping arrangements that night, I just say I fell asleep before he got back and skip the part about the number of beds in the room.) 

As I talk, she listens intently and only asks small rhetorical questions. Occasionally she rolls her eyes at something I say Peter said or did, or laughs at my particular phrasing (such as, “And obviously only an idiot would think I want to date Flash, so I told him— oh, wait, I didn’t mean that your nephew is an idiot or anything, I promise, but, um, it’s just that nobody else has ever even joked about that, so it-it’s just not a ‘thing’ anyone else has even thought of.”). 

By the time I reach the end, I’m relieved to find she hasn’t given me any sign of disapproval or distrust. It’s as casual and relaxed as normal gossip. Like she said. 

“All I can say,” she tells me, taking a deep breath, looking impressed, “is thank goodness you’re a kinder person than I am. I’m not sure I would have forgiven him so easily.” Her eyebrows raise. “I can’t remember a single fight I had in high school that didn’t involve some sort of three day silent treatment before it was even possible to patch things up.”

Glancing down at her plate, she presses her index finger into the remaining crumbs of the second brownie she had to finish it off.

“I have too much anxiety for that,” I say, realizing it’s the truth. “Besides, it’s hard to not forgive someone when they genuinely seem contrite. At least when it’s someone you care about.” I shrug, hoping that didn’t sound too corny or desperate. “And it’s not like it’s all wiped away. We still have to work through things. There are obviously some underlying issues and whatnot we need to talk about.”

The corner of her mouth pulls upward as she readjusts her legs so that her feet touch the floor.

“Like Peter’s habit of, I don’t know… keeping important secrets and making life-altering choices without consulting anyone else?”

I laugh, and she takes the plate I’d all but forgotten was there from my hands.

“Something like that.”

“Oh, I’m familiar with it,” she says as she stands up with a knowing smile. She takes the dishes to the sink and pauses before putting them in. “Let me know if you solve that particular puzzle,” she calls from the kitchen. Plates clink inside the sink and she turns the water on. Maybe it’s an illusion inspired by the domestic image of her standing in front of a sink of dishes, but I swear her voice clicks into mother-mode: “I mean, some days I think I have it all figured out, and then the next day comes and flips it all upside down.” There’s another, longer pause before the water stops and she comes back into the room. “But, for all his mistakes, he really is an incredible kid, and I know he’s really trying his best.”

Michelle’s words pop into my head: “His best is just bad.”  

I press my lips together to keep from laughing as she sits down next to me again.

“MJ said something similar,” I tell May, nodding. “And that’s why I don’t want to stay mad at him. As long as he behaves like a normal human being again, I’m happy with that.”

May’s smile is gentle.

“And how do you feel about his… plans for the next two weeks?”

Finally, the destination. 

I’d almost forgotten about that.

“Speaking of secrets.” I take a deep breath and look around. “Do you know what those plans are? The way he phrased it, I thought he was just going to give me a little thing of candy occasionally, and even that I was on the fence about. Apparently it’s more than that? And really, none of it is necessary. I feel bad that I ever agreed to it in the first place.” 

May raises her eyebrows and it’s clear she’s choosing her words carefully, and, maybe, trying not to look amused.

“Unfortunately, I have been sworn to secrecy,” she says slowly. “But... I do think he might be relieved if you forced him to abandon his more… elaborate schemes.” She must notice the confusion growing in my face because she quickly explains further. “He’s been a bit stressed about juggling it all with both of your school and homework schedules, not to mention he keeps second guessing everything he tries to plan. I think he’s overwhelming himself.”

Christ. What is he planning?

It sounds like activities. Field trips. Excursions. Almost like da— Then again, there’s no reason to go there. There’s no reason to think about whatever it may or may not resemble if May thinks it’s best to prevent it from happening in the first place. 

“I tried to put the brakes on,” I say, thinking about yesterday when I see-sawed on the topic for a minute during our conversation in Chemistry, “but not very hard. I can be more stubborn about it, though. A lot more stubborn.”

“I’d warn you that he can be equally immovable when he wants, but I’m sure you already know that.” She sighs, and her gaze falls on the corner of the bookshelf near the door. “I think he’s just trying to do everything all at once, you know? It’s like he thinks he’s working against a time limit. If he knew there wasn’t one, maybe it might be easier to get him to pause for a little while.”

Oh. 

Oh.  

This is what May is trying to figure out— is the fix in our friendship permanent or is this whole thing an elaborate trial-run that ends with me deciding whether or not he’s really sorry and worth keeping around?

“Of course, I see what you mean. There isn't one, obviously,” I say, shaking my head a little too quickly. “It’s not like I’m going to disappear in two weeks. Do you think if I make that clearer, he might tone things down?”

Her smile becomes conspiratorial, an expression that reads: Yes, we’re on the same page.  

“Absolutely.”

Thank goodness.

I glance at the clock: 8:51 p.m.

“I’ll try that then.” I stand up, stretching my arms out in front of me. “And speaking of time limits, I should really get going.” 

May stands too, and turns to glance toward the window.

“Why not wait a little longer?” she asks. “Peter should be back any minute. He can walk you home since it’s dark.”

As tempting as that is, and it is really tempting, I have a feeling I shouldn’t. 

Like Peter, I could probably benefit from a few doses of moderation. If I walked home with him, it would just give me an energy rush that would keep me up all night again, and I can’t keep relying on film class for a mid-afternoon nap, especially with a quiz coming up. 

“No, no,” I tell her. “I’ll be fine. I only walk streets with good lighting, no dark alley shortcuts or anything. And I’ve always got my pepper spray on me.”

She frowns.

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Definitely.” I nod, then walk to my backpack, which is still slouching on the table, and she follows just behind. I put on my jacket. “Besides, I didn’t tell Peter I was coming and I wouldn’t want to start a thing over it.”

May rolls her smiling eyes and envelopes me in a warm hug. 

“Trust me, he’s not eager for another fight anytime soon,” she whispers in my ear, squeezing extra tight before letting go. “Text me as soon as you’re home, alright?”

A moment later, I’m out the door.

The air is colder and darker than before, but there are sparks of light inside my chest circling certain phrases and expressions from the conversation. The words skate around my rib cage, keeping me cozy and warm. All in all: nothing she said was explicit encouragement or anything; in fact, her suggestion to help Peter take a step back could be counted as discouragement if taken at face value and read like a monotone script. But that angle wouldn’t account for her subtle, well-timed winks or her nudging tone of voice.

A smidge — just a sliver — of understandable hope shivers in my chest. 

Chapter Text

I am an idiot. A happy idiot.

This whole conditioning plan was meant to be mostly an apology and partly a joke. More of a thoughtful punchline than any real, tactical scheme. But even when I first proposed it, I knew a piece of me hoped it would work like I said in our texts that night, that I would bring her gifts and she would begin to see me in a more positive light and associate me with happiness instead of irritation or anxiety. And as a result, she might forgive me sooner. Then, maybe — if I didn’t mess up too badly and I kept my fingers crossed — our relationship might heal enough to support something new. Something more. 

Being so early, I have no idea if I’m even close to being forgiven all the way or if it’s possible that the fantasy version in my head could ever play out in real life.

Instead, all I know is that I accidentally conditioned myself, which was never part of the plan. And as dumb as I feel for making such a glaringly obvious, inevitable miscalculation, I couldn’t care less. I love it. 

It’s been a perfect week, apart from being too short. It’s already Thursday and everything is blowing by so fast. It’s like I’m swinging through the days faster than I can web my way through entire neighborhoods. And it’s just as exhilarating. In fact, I can barely sleep at night because things are going so well. My brain is constantly either replaying the most recent good moments from the day or imagining what could happen tomorrow. Then, once I am asleep, it’s not for long. I wake up way before my alarm with a jittery, excited energy that should only be possible with the help of a dozen cups of coffee. 

The last four mornings have been like that: I wake up with a jolt as if I’ve been slapped in the face, and I immediately roll out of bed. My feet touch the floor before the sun even begins to sneak up out of the skyline, and each time I feel like it makes sense that there’s so little light outside, because I might as well have absorbed all the energy from the sun. Honestly, I’m as restless as I was when I first got bit, back when I had no idea what was happening. This time, though, there’s no mystery: I’m in love with my best friend and, naturally, there are side effects to that. Including rushes of noradrenaline, serotonin, dopamine, and other stuff. It’s a drastic energy boost, especially during those hours between when I wake up and when I can finally text — or, even better — see her.

As soon as I realized it was impossible to get back to sleep when I’m like this (I think it was Tuesday?), I tried using the extra time to get ahead on homework, which helped distract me a little and make me feel a tiny bit productive, but somehow, I still only used 15% of that spare time to accomplish much of anything. The other 85% I spend staring out the window or at a random pencil or the wall, my brain simmering in its own excitement, replaying more memories on loop and weaving my daydreams further and further out. Even when I pack her present-of-the-day in with my homework, I can literally feel my heart rate jump because I’m already looking forward to her reaction. It’s wild. But in a good way. The best way.

The last two days I’ve been sneaking my gifts for her into her locker before first hour. It’s pretty easy to do since we usually all hang out at MJ’s locker in the math hall before the second bell rings. 

The reward of seeing her face after she’s found that day’s gift is just…. It feels like an unequal exchange— like her joy and her gratitude are too generous. Meanwhile, she’s been acting like she’s taking advantage of me all week by accepting the couple of small things I’ve given her so far. It’s so ridiculous it makes me want to laugh thinking about it.  

Today, though, she might be changing her mind. 

I’m only a few minutes behind schedule (subway delay, not my fault), and as I round the corner of the hallway, I see she’s scrolling her phone in front of her open locker: a universal signal for I’m waiting for someone and I want to look busy. I cup my hands around my mouth and call her name, hoping it’s loud enough to climb over the noise of everyone else as they chat on the edges of the hallway before class, search their backpacks for missing papers or books, a (for a few people) slam their lockers harder than seems necessary. As someone with sensitive hearing, that last one is especially obnoxious. 

Evidently my voice was loud enough. She hears me and looks up with a smile— it’s subtle, but still the kind that’s able to knock my feet out from under me. I’ve been working on keeping myself calm and level-headed around her, yet I still feel like I’m in desperate need of oxygen. I guess I need to work on it more.

Once I’m a couple feet away she answers me.

“Hey, Peter,” she says, setting her phone on the top shelf by her pencil case.

“Hey, traitor,” I reply, trying my best (and failing) to suppress my smile in order to look annoyed instead. “Minus fifteen points, by the way.”

She scoffs, head jerking back slightly. 

“What could I have possibly done before 7:30 in the morning to deserve that?”

Reflexively, I cross my arms and lean my right shoulder against the locker next to hers.

“Hmmm,” I draw out the sound like a long question. “I’d have to say going to my apartment and hanging out with Aunt May after you said you didn’t have time to hang out with me.”

“Oh, that?” she asks, unbothered, with a small wave of her hand. “I brought dessert for both of you as an apology.”

One of the reasons I like her so much: her apologies are always very thoughtful and sincere. And delicious at times. But I can’t say that until I dig further into her sneaky strategy. 

“So it was a premeditated crime?” I ask.

Her neutral expression slips, but rather than look nervous, she rolls her eyes with a small grin.

“Just give me ten points for the brownies and we’ll call a truce.”

At the word “brownies,” a freshman (maybe sophomore? I can’t keep track of the underclassmen) whips his head away from the conversation he’s having in one of those annoyingly large groups of athletes that jam up the hallway. Then when he sees me, he makes a face and turns back to his friends as if he’s disappointed by the sources of the word, not even embarrassed that I noticed his reaction. 

I’m not sure what to make of that, so I ignore it and turn my attention back to her.

“You can have all fifteen back,” I tell her, “they were really good.” Especially for breakfast, much to May’s annoyance, given that the two I ate then were all that was left after our late night snacking. “But, honestly, I’m really tempted to take back the thing I got you today.”

I adjust my backpack, where it’s stored, yanking the straps forward so it pulls tighter against my back. Again I try to contain my smile; teasing feels less effective when I can’t keep my emotions off my face. It’s just so hard to keep myself together around her. 

“Actually,” she says slowly, tilting her head toward her open locker, “I wanted to talk to you about all that.”

Perfect. I know exactly what she means. It’s time to reveal the big surprise. It’s been hard keeping my Friday gift a secret, but it might be the smartest move I’ve ever made. I’m glad she couldn’t guess it yesterday at school or over text. I can’t wait to see her face when I tell her.

“I know, I know,” I say, raising a hand to reassure her, “I have to tell you about the tickets for tomorrow, as per our compromise.”

She purses her lips and makes an Mmm not quite sound.

That’s unexpected. 

And disappointing.

“We’ll come back to that,” she says, “but I was thinking we should just….” She looks around, glancing over her shoulder. “Maybe, um, maybe we should stop the whole ‘conditioning’ thing.”

Her voice is careful and very hush-hush on the word “conditioning.” 

I start speaking before I can even process it. 

“No, no, no, no!” I’m hearing my voice rather than using it, and I flinch because it sounds like it’s tripping down a staircase. “Come on, no way, please,” I plead, taking a quick breath to get my control back. “It’s not really supposed to be conditioning. That was just a joke. It’s very casual gift-giving, that’s all. You know? I mean, are you against getting presents every day or something?”

Her eyes widen and she laughs.

“Yes, I am!” Any combination of words could’ve come out of her mouth and her tone would have made it clear that she meant Obviously! “I know you mean well, I really do, I just think it’s not working. If anything, it’s starting to have the opposite effect of what you wanted.”

Shit.

“What? What do you mean?”

Does she know the universe played the reverse Uno card on me, that I conditioned my own dumbass self? That would be humiliating, but as long as she doesn’t know the extent of it, I can salvage things. 

“I told you before,” she says, her head shaking as she looks around the hallway, “it makes me feel like I’m in debt and I—”

Oh, that’s all. Thank goodness. I can handle that.

“A couple dollars for snacks and pens?” I shrug. “It’s nothing, I promise .”

I put my thumbs in the ends of my backpack straps, relaxing again. She looks at me with a raised eyebrow.

“Those pens are like $20 on sale, they’re not cheap. And how much were these ‘tickets’ for tomorrow?”

A heavy shoulder bumps into my back, followed by an “Oops, shit, my bad!” My face twitches as I turn to see a stocky senior give me the peace sign as an apology before spinning around to sprint down the rest of the hallway, carefully dodging the athletes’ circle. 

But the twitch isn’t from the accidental shove. It’s because I might find myself in trouble now. The tickets didn’t bankrupt me or anything, but I never would’ve spent that much for anyone else, myself included, and she knows enough about me and May’s situation to realize that if she heard the price. 

“I feel like you’re getting a little hung up on the money part of this,” I say, turning back to face her and moving an inch closer, hoping to distract her enough to get around the question. 

“Seriously,” she counters, her voice steady as she folds her arms. “How much were they? Can you return them?”

There is zero chance in hell I’m doing that.

“Are you sure you’d want that? And do we really have to argue about it right now?”

“I… I guess it depends,” she admits, arms loosening, shoulders half-rolling. “What are they for?”

Finally. I smile, my pride rising and excitement growing. She’s going to love it. I lift my head a little higher and smirk.

“Give me just a second to remember,” I tease. “I think they were something… something like tickets for, um, for The Daily Show? You know, the one with Trevor Noah?”

Her mouth opens and she struggles to find the words. Momentarily speechless, she closes her mouth with a snap . Her eyes shut briefly so I can’t make out her expression.

She sighs.

“That’s honestly really— but I can’t— and you should return them. It’s really nice.” Her eyes open. “And really thoughtful, but it’s too much. Like way too much.”

Her expression is clearer now. Guilt.

Ugh. Now I want to sigh.

“Even if I wanted to,” I say, “there’s a no-return policy.” That’s mostly true. I could very easily sell them if I wanted to. But I won’t. “And they weren’t as bad as you think, I promise. It’s nothing crazy.” The price was fair, even if more than I’m used to spending at once. “Plus, I really want to go. So if you say no, you’re actually punishing me, which would be super rude since, like you said, it was a really thoughtful gift.”

She looks pained. Or stubborn. 

Possibly both.

“Take Ned or MJ then.”

I smack my left hand to my forehead. For being so smart, she can be so incredibly obstinate. (Typically, I admire her iron will. It’s an admirable quality when it’s not used against me.) 

“That would defeat the purpose,” I say, somewhere between patience and desperation. “I got them because I thought you would enjoy going.”

She takes a deep breath. Her I’m-about-to-argue deep breath. 

Without thinking, as if in self-defense, I quickly add, “I thought you’d enjoy going with me.”

Well, I hoped. It’s hard to expect someone to be excited at the idea of hanging out with you after a fiasco like last weekend.

Luckily, she doesn’t seem to read much into it because she steamrolls on.

“And I would,” she rushes. “It was a good idea, really, but Peter, how many times can I say it feels weird and, and manipulative to let you try to buy me stuff like this? I’m serious when I say you absolutely do not need to do any of this.” She pauses, looking up at the ceiling with a brief shake of her head. “There’s no way I’m going to be able to figure out some dessert that balances out these tickets and whatever else you have in mind.”

Oh, so that’s what the brownies were for.

“Wait. Your random dessert delivery wasn’t an apology for avoiding me, it was to settle an imaginary debt?”

“Desserts are very versatile, they can be both,” she admits. “But ‘avoid’ is a strong word. I just wanted to talk to May and get her advice.”

“Advice on what?”

Her eyes widen again. I try to focus and not get lost in their color. Luckily, her hands roll over each other as she starts answering, distracting me.

“This.” She gestures between us. “And she agrees with me. She basically gave me permission to fight you on it. Encouraged, actually.” I open my mouth to reject that statement since I know Aunt May is happy with my overall plan, but she clears her throat and keeps going. “She said you’ve been stressing yourself out with too many big plans and that if I wanted, I should dig my heels in and refuse until you let it go.”

Damn it. That makes what Aunt May hinted at last night a lot clearer. The whole, “Honey, why not wait and see how Friday goes and then just listen to what she wants from there? You might be surprised how much easier her version of your plan is.” 

And it’s true. I have been killing myself over my awful list of potential not-dates, with very little help from either Ned or MJ. It’s been fun to find new ideas, but since almost all of them flop in the end, it’s also tear-my-hair-out excruciating to fail over and over again. The plan I showed the three of them on Tuesday was nowhere near as complete as I thought it was at first, and I can only blame sleep deprivation on how confident I was that morning that I’d made anything worthwhile. None of it was enough. Or the decent parts were too much— too pricey or too far away. 80% of it has already been erased.

“It’d be easier to verify that if I’d actually been there, but it does sound like something she’d say.” But I can’t give up everything because some (or a lot) of the plan sucks. I still have time to fix it. But even I don’t really believe that. How much more time can I spend making new lists and shredding them up ten minutes later? I search for something to hold onto. “What if we compromise?”

“I’m listening.”

I smile, but I feel it waver from nerves.

“Give me a second, I have to come up with something.”

She breathes out an almost laugh.

What can I save in this situation? 

I’ve probably got thirty seconds, tops.

I mean, Aunt May was right about being overwhelmed by the big stuff. Museums, tours, comedy shows, plays, musicals. Way too many options, and most of them are nowhere near affordable. The tickets were a small chunk of regular change — all things considered — for most people. But I’m not most people, and I don’t exactly have a job— not one that pays anyway. It would be a huge relief to stop debating whether or not I should ask Aunt May for a loan, or, somehow worse, Mr. Stark. Plus I could quit playing the guessing game of trying to calculate how much homework we’ll have each day for school and when we would have time to go anywhere in the first place.

It wouldn’t be so bad to let that stuff go, as long as I didn’t forfeit my other reasons for being around her as much as possible the next week and a half. 

“What if….” I start slowly. I know what I have to say, and I can already feel the weight lifting off my shoulders, but it still sucks to say it. To admit defeat after a surprisingly brutal, minute-long ambush debate. Especially since some of the places I found were really cool... even if they weren’t practical. “What if I stick to the small stuff? After tomorrow, no ‘events,’ nothing pricey. Just the small stuff like I’ve already gotten you.” I pause, realizing she might reject this too, so I say something half true for leverage. “And before you say anything, I already have the little things. And I can’t return them either.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Her eyes narrow a tiny bit, but the lines in her forehead have smoothed out. 

We’re both relieved, and we both know it. 

“Mixed bag. Now, can we compromise?”

She stares, silently weighing her options. Then she turns to her locker and grabs her text book, copy of Frankenstein (which I don’t think we even need this week) , pencil case, and water bottle.

“Nothing on weekends,” she says as she starts collecting her things, “it ends next Friday as planned, and the pens are still pushing it, so I swear to god,” she turns and looks at me pointedly, “if you have anything that costs more than they did, you’re either returning or keeping it.”

That shouldn’t be too much of a problem. I can stick to a budget.

Then I think of something else, a condition of my own, as she double checks her locker for anything she might be forgetting.

“And you’ll come over to help me and May cook a couple times a week so we can call it all even.”

Her eyes squint in a lighter way than before, and then she smiles.

“Deal.”

I laugh, enjoying the calm that’s settling into my muscles.

“Deal,” I agree.

I reach out my hand and she extends her water bottle to shake, which I’ll pretend I’m not a little disappointed at.

“Honestly,” she says as we drop hands (well, hand and water bottle), “I thought you’d be more stubborn about this. The ‘big plans,’ whatever they were.”

I let out a big sigh and lean my head backward. She unscrews her water bottle, about to take a drink. The one-minute bell rings. 

“I am kinda bummed,” I say honestly, “but May was right. I could not figure it out. I mean, why is everything so expensive? Why are cool things at the dumbest times? It felt pointless to keep going after so many hours. And anyway, how am I gonna top Trevor Noah at this point?”

I’m about to say I should’ve saved the tickets for my last present and built up to them, but she lurches forward, head suddenly low, and for a split second, I have no idea why. Then I hear a coughing sound above the rumble of the hallways. She’s choking.

“Oh shit, are you okay?” I ask, bending down to try to see her face.

Before I can even try to remember the CPR lesson from Coach Wilson’s first aid lesson, she flips her head back up, and rather than panicked or in pain, her expression is perfectly amused. Throat cleared from the water that must’ve gone down wrong, she’s laughing. And then I realize my grammatical mistake.

Unfortunately for me, Ned appears and claps me on the back just in time to ask her what’s so funny, and she, unmistakably glad to have an audience to retell it to, closes her locker and starts the story as we walk together to English. 

“Ned, you just missed it! So I got Peter to agree to give up whatever ‘events’ you guys were coming up with and….”

Hopefully she won’t recount the story to Trevor Noah himself during those audience-question-time break things he does. But either way, I’m happy we’re still going. 

It’s almost enough to make me forget about having to ask her to the dance today. 

Shit.

Almost.

Chapter Text

As much as I had hoped to post at least two more chapters before going on hiatus again, I'm officially putting a pause on this story again.

Thank you all for the love and support you've given me these last four years! I promise, I will finish this thing eventually. For the moment, though, I desperately need to focus on wrapping up my master's degree requirements, which means I'll be devoting all of my free time to academic writing until I'm finished. My current deadline goal is the end of the year, though I have no idea if it'll end up being sooner or later; it'll likely depend on whether or not I can push through the severe writing anxiety that resulted in 0 new pages over the last 10 months and an exasperating series of mini mental breakdowns.

Anyway, that being said, I am really looking forward to finishing that final project and returning to my personal, creative writing hobbies.

See you on the other side, and wish me luck!