Work Text:
It's really fucking cold.
Peter weathers through the growing storm, feet sinking with every step as he trudges through inches of snow.
Goddammit, couldn't his spidey powers have come with magical ice-repellent?
He groans silently as his breaths come out in quick, crystallized puffs, and wraps his jacket closer around himself. A coat would be nice right now. Or shelter. Actually, if he's wishing for things, something unrealistic like a million dollars or a significant other would be nice (as long as that also came with a coat and shelter). The universe fucking owes him one.
Peter squints miserably through the flurry of snow and makes out a light on the other end.
And — bingo — thank the godsdamned universe. He’ll take it.
There’s a coffee shop, some small, quaint bakery-style coffeeshop, nearly hidden away in the snowstorm. And for some miraculous reason, it’s still on and open, shining out to Peter like a lighthouse with a glowing beacon.
Maybe he’s being a little dramatic right now but, hey, it’s really cold.
Peter hauls ass to the door, which chimes with the movement of swinging it open. The warmth of the shop and smell of coffee hit him immediately. Stepping over the threshold, Peter breathes a grateful sigh of relief.
He wipes off the snowflakes crystallizing on his eyelashes and across his reddened cheekbones with his scarf. Peter’s already wavy hair poofs up even more as he runs his hands through it, violently shaking the snow free.
And the barista decides to appear, while he’s shaking off like a wet dog. Nice.
“How can I help you?” The figure out of the corner of his eye says with a lovely drawl to his voice.
When Peter finally looks up, he immediately regrets his less-than-smooth appearance even more.
The barista is a cute ( very cute) black guy, with a curly head full of hair dyed red at the tips. He must be somewhere around Peter’s age. His apron is tied loosely at his hips, as if he couldn't care less about being at work, and his red button-up shirt is rolled up to the elbows, revealing surprisingly muscular forearms.
The whole thing is giving off a carelessly confident vibe, an effortlessly beautiful look.
And he has so many piercings, on his eyebrows and snakebites under his lips, which Peter finds so alluring for some reason. He wonders what those piercings would feel like during a kiss. He wonders if the barista has piercings anywhere he can't see-
COFFEE. He's here for coffee . Chill out, Peter.
“Hey,” Peter manages to choke out, and fuck why is he so awkward?
“Hey!” The barista responds, with a brilliant smile across his face. Godsdamnit, he’s pretty when he smiles too. “What kinda coffee do you want, dear?”
Peter’s still cold, but he melts at the pet name.
It occurs to Peter suddenly that he doesn't even like coffee, not really. But it's not exactly like he can leave and go to Jamba Juice. Not in the snowstorm, and especially not when he’s been given the wonderful opportunity — gift, really — of talking to this guy.
“Black… uh, I guess.”
“You got it,” the barista says with a wink. He turns around to get a cup, and Peter uses the opportunity to look at the sky and silently mouth thank you, universe.
“What's your name, sweetheart?” He asks, now with a cup in his hand.
The guy is so gorgeous Peter legitimately forgets the answer for a second.
“Parker... Peter, I mean,” he stumbles out. “Peter Parker.” Peter coughs awkwardly, starting to turn red.
The barista laughs gently at what a mess he is, a smirk gracing his face. "Nice to meet you, Parker, Peter Parker. So, do you have the most unfortunate name in the world or do you just like introducing yourself like James Bond?"
"It's just Peter Parker," he corrects quickly. "My parents didn't hate me that much. And you're...?"
The man puffs out his chest and leans forward so he can read the little silver nametag on his apron. Peter tries to ignore how much closer they are together.
"MJ," he finishes. "Cool. Are you a junior of anyone?"
MJ shakes his head. "Nah, it's short for Michael James if you can believe it," he says, grinning at him. "Turns out, my parents do hate me. They cursed me with two first names." MJ sighs dramatically.
"I think it's a cute name," Peter blurts out before he can think twice.
MJ watches him turn quickly redder with an amused smile on his face, though he brightens at the compliment. Peter swears he can feel the heat radiating off of him now. He must look like a tomato.
"Are you always this red?" MJ teases, with a glint in his eye.
"It's um," Peter coughs again. "It's cold outside."
MJ shoots a look at the growing snowstorm outside, as he takes an almost antique-looking coffee pot off a burner. “Yeah, you’re right. You might wanna stick around here for a while, dear.”
It occurs to Peter all of a sudden that yeah, MJ's probably right. He's so preoccupied with the hot barista (and trying not to make a fool of himself in front of Hot Barista) that he hasn't even considered how he's gonna get back home. The snowstorm—whether the universe is cursing him or granting him a giant favor, he hasn’t decided—seems to have picked up even more since he’s come in.
Peter winces, watching the snow pile up at the windows and wind howl at the walls. “I probably shouldn’t walk out for a bit, huh?”
MJ nods eagerly. Maybe too eagerly. Peter can’t tell if he’s just being courteous or not. “Oh no, you’ve gotta stay. It’s too cold out there.”
He finishes pouring up his coffee, and screws on the lid. The name Peter is scrawled on the back of the cup in big bold sharpie letters. A little heart is doodled on the side. “I insist,” MJ adds smoothly. “I can’t have a customer die in a storm like that, you're practically a liability.”
He holds out the coffee and Peter accepts the steaming cup with grateful hands and a couple of skips in his heartbeat. Their fingers brush together in the transfer, with just the slightest feather-light touch, and that alone burns Peter to the core.
“That’d be bad for your business,” Peter agrees. His eyes dart up nervously at MJ’s, who has a sly glint in his expression. “Maybe I should stay with you.”
He feels like he’s standing on a precipice, some sort of dangerous, thrilling cliff. They’re both edging closer and closer to falling, until someone takes the first, fatal leap.
“Then stay with me,” MJ says. “I’ll keep you warm.”