Chapter Text
Peter Parker wouldn't define Chemistry class as particularly dangerous. It was fairly simple. Listen to the teacher, take notes, follow the labeled instructions. It seemed more that Peter Parker's body was an instrument for attracting danger, even in the most secure of environments. It turns Chemistry class into a war ground.
The bell is due to ring any minute, and Peter can't wait much longer than that. His legs are shaking like leaves, and his right one is bouncing up and down in time with the racing beat of his heart; he's not hearing anything his teacher is saying. His eyes are fixed on the clock right above the teacher's head, his hand gripping the strap of his backpack painfully tight. His breath is shallow, bated in anticipation of the bell; a minute has never been this long.
But it rings, as it always does every day at the same hour, and Peter is out of his seat before the second toll of the bell, flying down the hallways. He's pushing passed classmates who huff or grumble or make any other verbalized sounds of irritation, but he doesn't stop, not even when he hears the shout of a teacher's voice telling him there's no running allowed in the hallway. He's racing passed Harry Osborn, who clips his name, but Peter doesn't stop, can't stop; stopping for a friend isn't worth being caught.
If he's lucky, and he wishes today is that lucky day with all his heart, he might be able to make it to his next class, to feign feeling sick, convince the teacher to let him see the nurse, and get picked up for a shortened school day. Missing his AP English class would be worth missing the last ten minutes of the chaotic cluster of students rushing to their lockers and buses, the kind of distraction that someone could take advantage of. But Peter isn't usually lucky, at least not when it comes to avoiding danger, and he'd think himself a masochist if it wasn't for his sprinting and his heaving lungs, trying to escape whatever punishment lay in front of him.
He feels a strong grip on his backpack, and he lurches forward, his hopes plummeting with the fall of his stomach, His feet are slipping out underneath him, he can feel the worn rubber soles of his shoes scrapping against the floor, and he's panicking, trying to gain purchase before he falls, but the hand on his backpack keeps him from crashing in a heap, and the straps dig into his armpits. His stomach finally returns to him, but it's ice cold, adrenaline pumping through it like it's trying to kill him before anyone else can.
"Hey, Puny Parker," there's heat curling on the back of his neck, and there's flecks of warm spit to accompany it from the mouth that's too close to his head.
Peter's legs are still shaking.
***
"Jesus Christ," a familiar voice blurts out in awe. "What the hell happened to you?"
Peter looks up from where he's been burying this head in his arms. Warmth at the familiarity of the voice fills his stomach before he let's the dull cold of his own disappointment refill it.
He'd been sent home from school with a blooming black eye and a bleeding nose, and he'd sworn to the nurse that it was just a bad fall down the stairs, that he was stupid enough to take a dare to ride his skateboard down it. He doesn't think she believed him, but he was sent home under that premise anyway. But his walk home was met with a locked door, and he'd lost his house key a week ago when the contents of his backpack has been flushed down the school's second floor boys' bathroom. He'd have to wait on the porch steps for someone to return home.
"Hey, Wade," Peter replies. The name is warm on his tongue despite his dejected tone, and he wants to say it again, just for the gratification of saying something that carries no implication or danger behind it.
"Hey, Petey-Pete," Wade says back. His backpack is hanging low on his back, and it rides up as he moves to sit on the stairs beside Peter. "So, give it to me. Did you fall down the stairs again? Slip in the bathroom? Hit your head against the sink?"
He sighs, looking away from Wade to rest is chin on his arms folded over the curl of his legs. He knows Wade's teasing, knows he wants the truth, and Peter knows Wade's the only person he's going to tell. "I spilled Sodium hydroxide on Flash's new sports pants; Y'know, the really good kind that only real athletes wear. I think he said they're professional."
"What the fuck is that?" is Wade's response, but it's not aggressive and not mean, just an exclamation. Wade flings words at things like that's all words are meant for.
"Sports pants?" Peter purposefully misinterprets the question. "Probably something you wear when you play sports."
"Not that, asshat," there's a hint of a grin on the corner of Wade's lips. "The Sodium hydroxide. I'm not in Chemistry, remember?"
"Oh, that," he says, with a sudden, forced understanding in his words. "It's just lye. You can mix it with some other compounds to make soap."
"So," Wade presses him. "What were you doing with a soap ingredient in the proximity of Flash Thompson?"
Peter frowns, thinking back on the events that led up to his fateful afternoon. "The teacher paired us together."
"Yikes," he drawls. "Is the teacher new or something? I thought everyone knew to keep you guys separated after last year?"
"Yeah, he's new," Peter confirms. "I'm sure news will get around in the teachers' lounge though, now. I doubt it'll happen again."
They fall silent for a moment, maybe only a second, but he can feel Wade looking at his face, his eyes darting from one injury to another like an examination, and then he's saying, "want me to beat him up? It'll be fun."
His voice makes it sound like a joke, his smirk sarcastic, his leaning in feigned excitement, but Peter can hear the static readiness buzzing in his ears, knows that Wade's sarcasm is seriousness, and all Peter has to say is yes, and Wade will draft up a plan, his form of ultimate revenge after all the years of being told no.
"No, thanks," he says lightheartedly, again, like always. He wonders if there will be a day that he doesn't say no.
Wade's leaning back, his face drawing into complain as he replies, "too bad, I'd love to give that fucker a real number."
"Sure, and get suspended."
"So? Worth it."
"If you say so."
"I do say so."
The conversation dies, and they're left in companionable silence, familiar with the years of studying, playing video games, and running around the neighborhood together. Peter can't help the drifting of his gaze to watching Wade out of the corner of his eye. He's slouching against the porch steps, casual and comfortable like he could stay there all evening, and he's staring out into the street with empty eyes; something must be on his mind. Peter wishes he has the gall to break the silence and ask, but the very idea of speaking something personal into the warm air between them is enough to make him sweat, so he stops considering the idea. Instead, his eyes move down to Wade's long-sleeve shirt, the collar stretched out and soft from years of use. There's faint bags under his eyes and barely-there stubble on his chin that Peter suspects will be shaved off tonight.
It's almost nostalgic to stare at Wade and point out all the things he's seen over and over again and to bear witness to the change of the little boy in his memory to the young man beside him. His eyes are hazel, he's always tired, his shirts are worn out, his hair is sandy; its always been that way. But now he's shaving, and there's muscle underneath the shirt, there's a sturdy presence in the shape of his shoulders. Peter wonders if Wade can see that change in him too, if Peter's nostalgia is a shared experience.
But, suddenly, Wade looks over at him, and Peter flinches, the fear and embarrassment of being caught running his face red.
"Are you, uh, going on the...the Biology field-trip to the lab?" he blusters, calling up whatever distraction he can think of.
"Huh?" Wade looks bewildered, as if he's just waking up. "Oh, nah. I'm not really into the whole science thing. I'll probably take the free Bio block to collect some job applications. Wait--Peter, doesn't that mean your taking two science classes this year?"
"Oh, uh, yeah. AP Biology and Chemistry, since it's required," he answers. "So you're going to start looking for a job? That's exciting! I should probably start looking too..."
Wade gives him a strange look, as if the idea of such a class schedule is ridiculous. "You're really somethin' else. But yeah, I'm job hunting, I guess. More to get out of the house than because I want to work with anyone. But having money sounds good."
"Yeah, it does," Peter responds wistfully, the idea of having his own money to spend infiltrating his thoughts briefly before he catches the familiar rumble of a car engine and looks up to watch a beige Cadillac STS roll slowly into the driveway.
A middle aged couple open the doors to the car and make their way to the trunk to reveal a pile of grocery bags. Wade rises from the porch, followed by Peter, and approaches the car.
"Need any help, Mrs. Parker?" he asks mid-walk.
"No, I think Peter will be able to help us just fine--" the woman, May Parker, looks up to smile at Wade, but her eyes land on Peter, and her mouth drops. "Peter! What did you do to your face?"
"It's nothing, Aunt May," he tells her, rushing the words. "Someone dared me to ride my skateboard down the stairs, that's all."
"And you listened to them?" her words are sharp with a reprimand, hands on her hips.
"I mean--"
"The boy's a boy, May," the man interrupts, walking passed with hands full of grocery bags. "We all make dumb decisions."
"Ben," Aunt May starts. "He's going to kill himself one day, behaving like that."
"Well then," Uncle Ben looks back to state teasingly. "Natural selection is coming for him."
Aunt May huffs at Uncle Ben's back as he unlocks the house door before turning to Wade. "Will you stay for dinner, Dear? We're having roast beef, so there's definitely going to be too much."
"No, thanks, Mrs. Parker," Wade replies nonchalantly. "My uncle will want me to have dinner with him tonight. Monday nights are family dinners. I appreciate it though."
"Of course, any time," she says sweetly to him. She then looks at Peter and says sternly, "get inside so I can clean that face up."
"Aunt May, I can do it myself--" Peter starts off with a complaint.
"No arguing. Inside," she ushers him inside, leaving no room for complaints or escape.
As Peter nears the front door, he turns back to glance at Wade, his mouth open on a "see you" when his face collides with the door post, pain running flush against his cheekbone. He hears Wade cackle, and his aunt sigh in exasperation.