Archive of Our Own

Flash sat across from his dad at dinner. The table was small so it could fit in the small kitchen and there wasn’t any extra room on it for any serving dishes or whatever… fancy centerpieces, you know, silver candlesticks and all that. His mom kept the food on the stove, in the pans she cooked it in. Ran loaded plates to them across the lumpy linoleum floor every night. Flash watched her progress with each plate and waited for her to trip, her grip to slip, and like every night he tried to keep from cringing, for her sake. His jaw ached with the effort.

The table was small and so he could smell the whiskey sweats real well coming from across it, where his dad sprawled, watching his mom’s progress with a scowl he didn’t bother hiding. Just waiting. His sister sat pale and quiet and small in her chair by the tiny window, eyes on her plate. And when their mom finally took her own seat at the table, shaking, his dad smiled with teeth; asked her for another beer. And his mom stopped herself flinching. She froze solid and then she smiled back, nodding. And Flash thought he’d crack a tooth keeping the cringe off his face when she got up one more time.

Not tonight.

Just not tonight.

He couldn’t afford the bruises.

He had a game tomorrow.

Peter Parker was nice to Flash, at school. Flash would mess with him—hit him with a basketball to the head, like today. Whatever. Anything he could think of. And Peter would just be nice at him. Would tell him good morning, like today. Would stop him with a gentle hand instead of flinching away when Flash got in his face, moved in quick to psych him out. Flash didn’t know why he messed with the kid so much. Didn’t know why he singled Peter out. He never really thought about it. He just did. He just did things.

Thinking was for people with the time for it.

Flash needed to keep on the move.

But no matter where he went, it seemed like he was always running into the kid. Not five minutes after Peter’s good morning, Flash, Peter was there, in his face again and telling him to stop. To quit. Peter the nice guy, telling him to put Gordon down and stop trying to make the kid eat his vegetables. And Flash was only looking out for the little guy. How else was he gonna grow? But then Peter refused to take a picture, like Flash knew he would, and he was just so goddamn polite about it even as he told Flash off. And then Peter called him Eugene, called him by that goddamn name Flash’d had to work so hard to get away from, and still had the nerve to be nice about it. And well, there was only so much Flash could let stand. There was only so much he could take.

Eugene.

No one called him Eugene.

No one in their right mind. Not for years.

Figures Peter would. 

Everyone else was too afraid to do it. Too afraid of Flash. And that was maybe why Flash had to pick at Peter. Kept coming back, like he had an itch to scratch. Peter wasn’t scared of Flash at all. 

I’m still not taking the picture.

Peter was nice. He was nice, even with Flash’s sneeker in his ribs. He was nice without being weak, somehow. And Flash couldn’t figure out the trick.

Flash couldn’t figure out Peter at all.

Peter, or Gwen.

She scolded him like a mom. Like Flash always figured moms were supposed to. Good moms. Ones that cared. Ones that came out of their rooms for more than cleaning and cooking and showering and shitting and running endless beers. Ones that looked at their kids once in a while. Ones that gave a fuck how their kids turned out. That were nice, without being weak.

Ones that helped their kids with homework.

But she wasn’t like a mom at all. Not really.

She just cared, for some reason. She just cared about Flash and wouldn’t stop, for some reason. And because of that, because she cared, Flash started to care a little too.

He cared what Gwen thought of him.

He cared if he disappointed her or not.

He cared enough to go back to class.

Peter would keep till later.

His sister hid her toys. 

The hiding spots changed, whenever she felt like people might catch on. Always in her room. Always impossible to find, if you didn’t know where to look.

It was pretty easy for her to hide them. She only had, like, five.

Flash had bought her three of them. Bought them with money shaken down at school, but he’d never tell her that. He’d never tell her because sometimes she pulled him silent into her room to play with one of them. And if she knew what he did, who he was, at school… Well, she might not want to anymore.

He didn’t know when he’d turned it around at school, exactly. When he got sick of the older kids messing with him over his shitty name and his shitty clothes and shitty haircuts and shitty lunches and started fighting back. He didn’t remember when it had happened. All he knew was at some point, it had gotten out of control. Out of his control. He couldn’t remember when he’d become Flash. It had kind of just happened.

He hadn’t exactly stopped it happening, though. It was better being Flash.

It was better to be that older kid, giving the younger ones shit. The guy he’d started out hating.

And he might feel bad about who he’d become, sometimes, like when he was sitting with his sister brushing the ratty hair on her only doll, but that didn’t matter.

All he really knew was that it was better to give people shit than to shovel it.

And as far as he’d seen so far in life, those were the only two options.

At least for people like him.

Peter had never been scared of Flash. Not ever.

But he’d never scared Flash before, either. No. He’d always been nice. Even to flash. And Flash never thought that would change. Took it for granted, maybe, that it wouldn’t.

But of course it did change one day. And he should have known better. Flash couldn’t take anything for granted.

Anything could be taken.

Anything could change.

This new change started the moment Peter’s cute little stunt catching the basketball and keeping it, asking Flash to take it, just begging for another beat down, turned into Flash being humiliated by reflexes Peter hadn’t had yesterday. Strength Peter hadn’t had. And Flash would know. Flash knew exactly how strong Peter was. He’d been pushing against him for years.

This new change became real to Flash the moment he tried to take the ball from Peter’s open palm and found he couldn’t. Which shouldn’t have been possible. Didn’t take a genius to know that.

It changed when Peter damn near flew, when he took out the backboard with an impossible slam dunk, scattering Flash’s court with glass.

It changed, because no normal guy could do that. Hell, professional basketball players couldn’t do that. Not like that.

Flash should know.

In that moment, lying on the court and looking up at Peter towering above him, Flash couldn’t even feel the sting of the humiliation he’d just been given. He stared at Peter, jaw slack, and watched Peter look down at him. And Peter looked surprised. Surprised and a little bit nervous, eyes quick scanning the crowd that were too busy cheering him really to notice what happened. And right before Peter turned away, Flash swore he looked ashamed. Just for a second. Like he’d disappointed himself.

And Flash could only feel relieved. Felt a little less terrified.

Whatever Peter had become, at least he was still a nice guy.

At least there was that.

Flash couldn’t get it out of his head. Couldn’t get the image of Peter ripping down that hoop and shattering the backboard out of his head. Couldn’t shake it.

Which is probably why, the next day, Flash couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t thinking clear, was the thing. Was the reason. Flash saw Peter when he walked into school and went in to scratch that itch like always. And it all played out the same as it had always been before. Peter told him good morning. Kept him from coming in too close with gentle hands. Wasn’t scared. Wasn’t scary. Like not a goddamn thing had happened at all.

Like he was just Peter. Just like always.

And he somehow had the whole school believing it too, and that made Flash feel crazy. Scared him even more. Peter was anything but normal.

Flash knew that for a goddamn fact. Peter had changed.

Flash would know.

His itch to lay eyes on Peter became constant. Became habit. Turn the corner of another hall, scan for Peter. Enter a room, search it for Peter. Exit a room and do the same. Sit in class, always behind Peter so he could watch him. Keep an eye on him.

Who knew when he’d do some weird shit again.

Who knew what he’d do next.

And he started pushing his luck.

Reached out and messed up Peter’s hair as he passed in the hall. Stole his pencil and gave it back eventually on the first, second, third, reach for it. Sometimes he’d steal it for a whole class and find Peter after to return it with a grin. He took a bite of Peter’s apple at lunch and winked at the kid when he set it back on the tray, just waiting for some kind of retaliation.

All he got was the same old routine.

All he got was more soft—spoken words, more gentle hands holding him off.

Flash didn’t know why he didn’t stop, why he couldn’t leave the kid alone.

He just did things. He just did.

Peter was the one with all the brains.

Everyone already knew what had happened, the day Peter came back to school after his uncle died. The day after. Seemed like they’d all heard before they’d even made it to school. Seemed like they all just knew. And everybody was staring at Peter and not Flash as he made his way over toward the guy, because even on that day, the itch wouldn’t leave him alone. He had to scratch it. Touch him. Maybe because nobody else would. Nobody else would even talk to the kid, and that was a fact.

Not that they ever really had.

They just stared.

Well, not Flash. Scared or not, it wouldn’t stop him. Not ever. Not even today. Screw that.

Flash’d give em something to stare at.

He’d been expecting something, see, some kind of response, explosion, when he gripped Peter’s shoulder. Peter’s not today, Flash had been a pretty clear warning. But it didn’t matter. Flash couldn’t have stopped himself. He had to touch Peter. Had to scratch that itch. He had to, because no one else was gonna do it.

And just because he knew he’d get a reaction out of the guy, it didn’t stop him from being surprised to find his feet dangling half a foot off the floor, held up impossibly against the lockers by Peter’s shaking arms, by trembling hands fisted in his sweater.

And maybe that’s what Flash’d been after all along. Before any of this. Before Peter had changed. From the beginning, really. Flash had been after that violence that he’d always known Peter had in him, kept back, kept in check, by all the niceness he dished out instead. Anger kept under control, the way Flash had never been taught to do. He’d always wanted to see Peter break. Get angry. Snap.

And maybe that’s why he’d said it.

Feels better right?

Like, see? Like, get it now?

As if Flash could explain himself, if Peter knew how it felt.

As if it could excuse him.

As if watching Peter break like this didn’t make Flash feel a little like he might puke, knowing that he’d caused it. Because he’d wanted it for so long, hadn’t he, so bad, and now that he had it it was goddamn terrible. He didn’t want to have to look at it, especially when that anger turned to regret, to guilt, to shame.

And Peter’s breath was shaking too, now, with his arms, his hands. But when that breath broke the silence, it made it seem alright to talk again. So he did. Because he owed the fucking kid something. Some kind of apology. Something.

Look, he tried, your uncle died.

As if that explained why Flash was here now, again, today, prodding Peter. Poking at his defenses like this. Reaching out and pawing as if he had any right.

As if it was any excuse.

I’m sorry. And he was. He was. That much was true. I get it.

And he didn’t even know what he got, exactly. What he understood, suddenly, now. He just knew he did. He just did.

I’m sorry. Okay?

He was sorry. Sorry for all of it. Just, everything. He watched Peter shaking apart and he was sorry. So fucking sorry. So sorry he didn’t know what to do about it, so he did nothing, which might have been a first for him.

And Peter wouldn’t look at him—which was fine, Flash didn’t deserve those eyes on him—was finished touching him. Turned away from him and ran right into her.

Gwen.

And Flash was glad to see her hug the guy.

At least someone could.

At least someone was brave enough for that.

Nobody else seemed to notice the bruises.

Maybe it was all the years trying to hide his own that made them seem so obvious to Flash.

Fight bruises. On Peter. New ones every day, though they always looked a few days old. Could always almost be something else, a rash or a shadow or too little sleep. Could always go unnoticed, mostly. But Flash noticed. And Flash knew they were bruises. He would know. And he knew there were new ones everyday, because he saw how they moved. He kept track.

Peter was hiding something.

Something big.

And with Peter suddenly fast like a freak and too strong to be human, coming in day after day with new bruises, and with some guy in a mask out there hunting down lowlives that all looked the same—all looked like the police sketch of the guy that shot Peter’s uncle—well, it didn’t take a genius to make a connection there.

Clearly, if he’d figured it out.

Parker was— 

Distracted.

The kid didn’t know where he was going half the time. Always late. Falling asleep in classes. And Flash found himself scratching that itch in new ways with Parker. Turning him around when he saw him wandering the wrong hall— English is that way, smart guy. Mussing his hair to wake him when class ended. Morning, sweetheart.

He even lent the guy a pencil once.

It was all wrong. All of it.

But Flash didn’t mind much how wrong it was, somehow. The itch got scratched, didn’t really matter how. And the rest of it seemed boring all of a sudden. Flash left Gordon alone when he saw him. Left all the usual suspects in one piece. Tried to control his anger when it came and be nice, be good, without being weak too. The way Peter did it. And he told his friends to fuck off when they said he’d gone soft. And he smiled, almost proud, when he sat with his sister in her room and helped comb out her doll’s shitty hair.

Peter was out there, every night, helping people. Coming home with bruises. Still a nice guy, after everything. After his parents. After his uncle. After getting goddamn superpowers. After Flash.

Peter was still a good guy.

And Flash found himself trying to be good, too. Wanted to be, all of a sudden. Somehow thought it was possible, now. Even for a guy like him. Flash wanted to be good. Nice.

Like Peter.

Like Spider-man.

Flash knew the neighborhood. You had to, you know? Know where was safe and when. Know who you should stay the hell away from. And why.

That’s why he figured it’d be easy, helping Peter out. Helping Spider-man get his guy.

Only so many blonde douchebags to go around, even in New York.

How hard could it be?

Famous last words.

He’d done pretty good, just scoping people out, not doing anything to draw attention to himself, and he’d crossed out a few names already. Guys he knew were shit. Guys on his block.

He should have known that it’d be more dangerous when he got out into unknown territory. He had known, you know? He just hadn’t let it stop him. Figured that was what being brave was all about. Not letting the fear stop you.

Problem was, there was a very fine line between brave and stupid. And Flash had always been real good at stupid. Had a lot more practice with stupid than with brave.

He got too close, was the problem. Wasn’t paying enough attention to his surroundings. So when some guy came in from his side and asked what the fuck he was lookign at, Flash was surprised when he shouldn’t be. Had been too busy looking for that star tattoo on the guy down the alley. Watching the blonde guy’s wrist as he was yelling, gesturing wildly at the little guy backed into the dumpster. 

He should have been watching his own ass.

He knew better.

Just like he knew he deserved it when this asshole asking questions didn’t even wait for answers before shoving him down the alley towards his buddy. Closer to Flash’s target—no tattoo. Bummer. It was easy to see what he’d been straining to look for at this distance, shoved into the dumpster alongside the little guy and held there as two more assholes crawled out of the woodwork to come gawp at him.

Shit.

Well, what the fuck had he expected? What the fuck had he been thinking, playing hero?

They’d already started in on him when there was an unexpected break in the beating. Knowing he was probably being stupid again, he ducked his head out from behind his sheltering arms to see what was causing the holdup. Stared up at Spider-man, standing over the blonde asshole, who was out cold on his back. Spider-man studied the guy’s wrist while the little guy that had probably thought he was a dead man stuttered a quick thanks as he scurried away.

Flash dropped his arms from his face. Sat up and spat out some blood, working his jaw after to see if it was broken.

Lucky him, it wasn’t. One of his ribs might have been, though, by the feel of it. Guess he was only kind of lucky.

Spider-man dropped the blonde’s wrist and walked toward Flash. For his part, Flash sat up straighter—straight as that rib would let him. Flash let his eyes travel up that spandex-covered body on the way up to the mask that hid Peter’s face. Took the hand when it was offered and was more surprised than he should be when Peter pulled him off his ass like it was nothing. Caught him up when he stumbled a little. And Flash had never touched so much of Peter before. Smiled a little, hands running spandex, just for balance.

He couldn’t help but open his mouth.

Morning, Peter.

He hadn’t thought before he said it. His mouth was running on autopilot. He pushed away from Peter’s body to stand on his own two feet and look the guy in the eye, at least as well as he could with that mask over his face. Wondered what would happen next.

What did you call me?

Peter looked antsy. Twitchy. And Flash’s smile only grew. He pocketed his hands, spat more blood on the pavement.

Oh, I think you heard me.

When Peter didn’t say another word, just shot a web and disappeared up the side of the building, Flash’s smile broke into a chuckle. He kicked the asshole who’d got him in the rib as he walked by. Spat another mouthful of blood and left the alley at a trot, hands in his pockets, jumping as he turned the corner and knocking his heels. He felt drunk. High. He felt alive.

You heard me.

You heard me, Peter.

Nothing changed at school.

Flash messed with Peter and he answered with good morning. He got in Peter’s personal bubble and was kept back by gentle hands. Watched for Peter in the halls, in every room. Watched the back of Peter’s head in every class they shared.

Everything changed.

When Flash messed with Peter, asking about his bruises, Peter raised his eyebrows and asked about Flash’s, then grinned a little. Peter’s gentle hands always lingered for a moment now before pushing Flash away, giving Peter’s eyes time to run Flash’s face like he was looking for something. And Peter’s gentle hands only touched at shoulders, arms, and always steered clear of Flash’s aching rib. When Flash looked for Peter in the halls, in classrooms, he always found that Peter was looking back. When he watched the back of Peter’s head in class, sometimes Peter turned and looked at Flash and bit his lip, eyebrows mashed together like he was thinking something over real hard. And then he turned away when he noticed Flash smiling.

It was cute.

Pete was cute, the way he didn’t just talk with his hands but with his whole body. The way he spoke soft, or not at all, letting his muscles do the talking like they were better at it than his mouth would ever be. The way every emotion the kid had was just there, for everyone to see. For anyone.

Cute the way he pretended Flash didn’t know his little secret, probably so he wouldn’t have to have a talk about it.

Pete was cute.

Everything had changed.

It had been a shit day. Evening—the day had been fine. Flash’s days were never the problem. During the week he spent his days at school, and Pete was at school. On weekends he could chill at one of his friends. But he was always home for dinner. And dinner was always hell. And sometimes after dinner, after if Flash was lucky, something would set his dad off and things would really go to shit. Like today.

Didn’t matter what it was, it could be anything. Anything. Something his mom did. Something he did. Something his dad had seen on TV. His sister was usually blameless but sometimes her quiet pissed his dad off too. And no matter what had set him off, Flash was the one that anger got pointed at.

And that was fine, by the way. Flash worked hard to attract it.

No way he was gonna see his mom with the bruises he ended up with—his baby sister. No. Hell no. So when he saw his dad’s cork really pop, he always made it a point to pick a fight. To start something. And sometimes his dad was happy just to yell at him. And sometimes he’d get real cold, and let Flash know what he really thought of him and go find Flash’s shit after and sometimes break it because as far as his dad was concerned, Flash didn’t deserve it. Not that he ever had much of it. And then there were the times when the only thing that would cut it was to really lay into Flash. Up close and personal, fist to face type of deal.

That had been tonight.

And that was fine, like he said. His mom had made some real good meatloaf and he’d got to finish almost all of it. Was bruised, yeah, cut up on his lip, but his belly was full and he hadn’t been gut punched or kneed in the nuts so he puked his dinner up, and he was happy enough about that.

Made it hard to get comfortable, though. Find a position to fall asleep in.

Between the bruises and his tiny mattress on the floor that he was too fucking big for, with the spring poking through the fabric top that he always had to dodge or get caught up on, and his scratchy-ass blanket, he was about to just give up. He stared at his ceiling, not really thinking, but maybe somewhere close to it tonight.

That’s when the tapping came.

His head whipped toward his window and the fire escape outside it, just waiting for the day to get worse. If it was another goddamn drunk with the wrong apartment, swear to god—

A masked man stared in at him.

He huffed a chuckle, climbed out of bed, padded over and opened the window.

You do house calls now?

It came out as a whisper. He didn’t know if his dad was asleep out there or not.

Yeah, uh, Peter looked him up and down, maybe I should have got here a little sooner, I’m thinking.

Peter gestured at Flash’s face and with the mask Flash couldn’t make out his expression.

Flash shrugged. Whatever, right?

The mask came off and now Flash could see the leftover concern. Maybe a little anger underneath. Pete’s jaw was as tight as his eyes, his brows. So Flash smiled, mussed Pete’s hair and Pete shrugged away, pushed Flash back with gentle hands that lingered on his chest, smiling back now and head shaking, eyes rolling. Pete was smiling, so Flash’s distraction had worked, and Pete even chuckled a little, staring. He kept staring, smile slipping off his face in concentration. His eyes flicked down a tick, to the cut on Flash’s lip, and Flash licked at the dried blood. There was a tense beat of quiet between them as Peter’s eyes lingered. Then Peter said hey. And his eyes Found Flash’s again and he motioned with his head, nodding back over his left shoulder, out into the world. Wanna show you something.

Flash was out the window before he could even think about it. He never would have thought about it. He didn’t think. He did. He just did. And right now, he was climbing.

The view from the rooftop was different than Flash ever remembered seeing it. Maybe because Pete was here seeing it too. And when Pete pulled him in close and jumped from the building, the view as they swung out over the city was like nothing he’d ever experienced. He had to catch his breath when he was set down again on another roof looking over the best view he’d ever had of the city. The rooftop was cold on his bare feet as he walked out toward the edge. Looked out.

See it?

Peter pointed out a bridge. From this distance, Flash could see that there were cars dangling from it, rescue workers dangling down alongside and extracting people. It didn’t take a genius to tell what had happened. It was all over the news while his mom had been finishing up cooking. His dad hadn’t stopped yelling about it during dinner while Flash shoveled in food, rushing past all the red flags. Listened to his dad going on about the spider menace, and back in his day on the force, and blah blah blah until he’d blew. Till he’d seen something on Flash’s face and didn’t like it.

I saved people tonight . And Flash was back in the moment watching Pete shake his head. Nothing to do with me, or with payback for my uncle, or anything, just…. I just… did. Because I was there and I could and so I…. He shrugged with his whole body, every muscle moving under the spandex. Rolled his neck, bringing his hand up to rub at the back of it. 

Pete sounded surprised. Flash wasn’t.

Flash turned and studied the side of Pete’s face as he looked out at the bridge. Well no shit, Pete. Peter stilled at the words, sort of froze and Flash watched him. Course you did. He couldn’t help but watch him. You're a hero. You’re good.

That got him Pete’s face head on, with an expression that wouldn’t stay still enough long enough to read, so Flash just grinned, hoping it would get him something. He grinned and Peter sort of giggled, staring, studying Flash, shaking his head before looking away, head still shaking no. He looked out over the bridge, more relaxed now and face soft. Shrugged again with just his shoulders. And he said yeah. Said maybe.

I can be better, though.

Flash was talking with the boys on a break during football practice, only half listening, hydrating thoughtlessly, eyes drifting every few seconds back up to the bleachers where Peter and Gwen sat close. Talking.

He swallowed as they got closer.

Flash didn’t think of Gwen like a mom or a sister or as just some girl. But he did think of her. He—

He didn’t think of Peter like a dad or a brother or like one of the guys, either, did he? Couldn’t get the guy out of his head.

They were both just weird, Peter and Gwen. One of a kind, kind of deal. No neat little box for either one of them to fit in. And Flash hated it because both of them made him think too much. Feel too much. He shouldn’t be expected to think this much. He didn’t know what to do with these feelings.

He watched them kiss and swallowed again. Shifted. Looked away before he had to excuse himself, for once thankful for his goddamn uncomfortable cup. He only looked back up at a crash and the sound of metal warping. Looked behind him at the twisted goal post, at his teammates stunned faces surrounding him, then back up to Peter in the stands, who stared on guiltily. Flash shook his head, hands on his hips, averting his eyes to the ground. 

Unbelievable.

People had to be freaking morons not to suspect something.

It didn’t take a genius.

Gwen was distracted today. She sighed. It was the fifth sigh since they’d sat down at the table in her room half an hour ago. He’d been keeping track. See? Math.

And they said he’d never learn.

Gwen’s big blue eyes drifted back to the window and he maybe didn’t mention it for a while, just watching her from under his eyelashes, face down and eyes ready to follow when she caught herself and looked back at him. Which she did. He looked down before she turned. Tapped his pencil on his open book.

So. He looked back up at her. Wanna talk about it?

She rolled her eyes, battling down a smile.

Let’s just worry about number fifteen, huh, smart guy?

He huffed a laugh and read the question out loud. By the time he was done and looked up, she was looking back out the window and he fought down a smile of his own.

She sighed. Sigh six. 

He shook his head, opened his mouth.

So that Peter Parker, huh? And her eyes found his, thrown wide. What a guy, am I right? She squinted them into a glare with no real heat. Then she bit her lip, eyes clouding and fingers tapping out a nervous rhythm on the tabletop. Sighed for the seventh time.

I worry about him.

And he could have laughed it off. Could have asked why. Could have done anything except what he did, which was to take her hand between both of his and meet her confused eyes, hold them for a while, watching her cheeks go a little pink in the hangtime before he swallowed down the feelings, had to look away.

She knew about Peter. Knew about— He knew it. Why bother hiding it? Why bother hiding anything from her? Why worry about Peter alone when they both could—?

Well I don’t, he said. Shrugged. Guy’s gonna pull through okay with this lizard asshole. He waited out her gasp, then went on, still not looking. I just have that feeling about him, you know? He’s tough like that. And he’s… he’s got to, right? So…. He felt her free hand fall over his. Felt it warm the back of his hand. Looked up to her face to see her smiling soft back at him. He said, I’ll worry with you though, if you want some company. And then he chuckled. Leaned in and spoke in a stage whisper. Anything to get out of math.

She gasped and pulled her hands free to punch him in the arm, not able to fully hide her smile.

Oh no. No no no no. Problem fifteen, bucko. She prodded his book violently. Go.

The tap at his window was too gentle to wake him. Flash’s eyes broke from the cracked white ceiling above his bed and he let whatever thoughts had been growing in his head fall away. Happy for an excuse. Happier that the excuse was Peter.

He got up, happy to move.

And Peter nearly fell through the window before Flash caught him up. Held him steady as he sunk to the floor and Flash followed, hands never leaving Peter’s shoulder, his heaving side.

Peter?

Even through the suit he could see how deep the cuts were. How there should’ve been a lot more blood.

You should see the other guy. Peter’s smile was still bright, despite the pain in his eyes. His head fell back against the windowsill and Flash could see every muscle in his neck working as he swallowed.

Bridge guy?

Peter nodded, eyes closed. Bridge guy. They stayed closed as his breathing evened out a little.

Flash got a gentle grip on the spandex and pulled it away a little to look at the wounds underneath.

Bridge guy seems like a real asshole, you ask me.

And Peter laughed, cringing with the pain of it but not stopping. The cuts looked good. Looked clean, already healing.

You just come from Gwen?

Flash lowered the ripped spandex back onto the cut, slowly, fingers lingering on the fabric. And Peter shrugged, nodded. Peter’s hands reached out to find him.

She worries. He knocks his head against the windowsill once, twice, eyes far off and jaw too tight. She worries and I try to make her feel better, but, hmm. Peter’s hands tightened in the fabric of Flash’s shirt, pulled him in a bit closer and Flash shifted to keep balance. Peter shrugged again. And he talked again and this time his voice was tight too. Seems like the more I try, more I’m around her, the worse I make it. And his eyes meet Flash’s. Not fair to her, no matter what I do it’s just— And I know it too, it’s just— He bites his lips closed. Shrugs, eyes darting away. Sometimes I just, I really need somebody. And I want it to be her, I think, it’s just— Sometimes I kind of wish she needed me too, you know?

And Flash gripped Peter’s shoulder a little tighter.

Yeah, but other people need you. Flash said it and wanted to look away after, but didn't. She’s not— Other people are here for you too, okay? And he thinks it’s maybe the quietest he’s ever spoken, and it wasn’t just the fear of his dad out there in the living room that had him talking in a hush like this. He knew that. And he was glad his dark room hid a little of the blush he could feel heating his cheeks. How fucking embarrassing. Look at him, over here, embarrassing himself.

What the fuck was he doing?

Peter met his eyes again, brows cocked in a question, and now it was Flash doing the shrugging, Flash swallowing. He watched as Peter’s eyes followed the movement.

Other people?

It came out soft, distracted. Peter’s eyes never left Flash’s neck until he spoke.

Yeah.

And then they only flicked up to Flash’s mouth.

Yeah? Peter said it with a smile, leaning in as if to kiss Flash only to flick his pupil-blown eyes up to make eye contact, rocking back a bit to read Flash’s face. Like who? he asked. Who needs me? A whisper. A breath. Flash could feel it brushing his lips. Peter dragged him in closer by an inch and Flash swallowed. And Peter’s eyes tracked the movement. His eyes flicked up to flash again, questioning, as his hands unfisted the fabric at Flash’s shirt only to rest there gently, at his chest. They didn’t push him away. They didn’t push against him as he moved in closer, chest heaving with want want want. He couldn’t stop himself if he tried. He just did things. He just did.

He kissed Peter. Needed Peter to kiss him back—groaned soft into the kiss when Peter did, moving into Peter like spilled water wicking up through cotton. His hands swept spandex, memorizing the feel of Peter’s muscles, steering clear of cuts and the hot spots that meant healing bruises.

Maybe I do, huh? You ever think about that, Peter? Maybe—

I need you. I do.

Peter hummed at the spilled words, needy, and crushed Flash further into him, almost too tight, not careful, not caring he was hurt, apparently, either. Flash pulled back to get a breath in. Need you, Pete. Was kissing Peter again before he knew it, pouring Peter full of all his want you, god I want you, fuck I want—and felt Peter’s hands begin to run his skin gently, first over the fabric of his shirt then under, slow, unhurried, as their lips brushed and tongue tips touched. As they gasped shared breaths stealing oxygen, millimeters of distance and kisses, more touches. God, it was—

A noise in the living room dumped cold water through Flash’s veins. He froze, listening. Peter backed off, gripped Flash’s sides, lowering his forehead slowly to Flash’s shaking shoulder. Rested there a moment, silent, solid, before turning so he could whisper into Flash’s ear.

Let’s get out of here, huh? So he could nip at his neck.

Flash shivered. Peter leaned back and knocked Flash’s chin up so Flash would look him in the eye. So he could watch Flash for an answer, work those big brown eyes to get his way.

Whadda you say?

It had come to the school this time. Giant fucking man-lizard or whatever. To their school.

Didn’t need to be a genius to figure out what that meant.

Peter hadn’t told him anything. And Flash, well, Flash hadn’t asked. He saw how worried Peter was over Gwen, her being so close, her wanting in closer, not just to him but to that other world he lived in. The one she didn’t have any superpowers to protect her from.

He didn’t think Peter would worry about him—not like her—but he didn’t want to chance it. He stayed out of it. Stayed out of Peter’s way to keep him safe.

Gwen was as good as Peter, was the problem. As smart. Gwen was as brave as him, too. Maybe braver. It was easy for Flash to stay out of it because he wasn’t any of those things. Not yet. Not even one. Not even close. 

He sat on the table out in front of the school, feet on the seat, hunched over his thighs, ignoring the crowd around him. Ignoring the cellphone in his pocket, too, the itch in his hand to pick it up and call Peter because that thing knew who he was. For sure. No question.

And he was sure, somehow, that Peter knew who it was too.

But he didn’t ask any of the questions that popped into his head when Peter was with him. If Peter wanted to tell him, he would. And clearly, he hadn’t. Clearly he didn’t. And he didn’t need—probably wouldn’t want—Flash calling him, either.

Peter didn’t need to be distracted right now—not by him.

Flash glanced up to Gwen, to see her pacing, cell phone in a white-knuckle grip and face all determined and shit, like it got when she was about to do something stupid with all those smarts of hers. Something brave. And there was another reason not to call, right there. Exhibit B. Flash wouldn’t know what to say in a voicemail. And no way was Peter skipping out on Gwen’s call to answer his. No chance.

When Gwen rushed off, hanging up and off to help, it was harder not to make that call. He dug his fingers into his thigh so it hurt. He bit the inside of his cheek till it bled.

He felt useless.

Spineless.

But staying here, staying safe, at least Peter wouldn’t have to worry about him.

At least he wouldn’t get in the way.

He dug out his phone and typed one text out. Waited thirty seconds or so, then pressed send, pocketed his phone again, hand shaking. Got up and walked off and nobody even tried to stop him.

School was done for the day.

He listened to the news from his bedroom, trying not to listen to the commentary his dad added to the story. Laid flat in bed, staring at the sliver of light from his cracked door splitting the ceiling, fists clenched at his sides so tight that when his mom called him to dinner and he finally let them loose, he was bleeding a little where his nails had bit into the palm. He ignored it.

The news stayed on through dinner, which never happened, and his dad had brought his whiskey to the table, too. The fuckin guy dumped as much food into his lap as in his mouth as he ate, distracted. Flash tried to keep down his lasagna. He took small bites during commercials and washed them down with milk that didn’t sit right.

He didn’t want to know what was happening out there.

He didn’t want to know what was happening to Peter.

He didn’t want to, but he thought he maybe needed to. Just like he needed Peter to come back.

His dad didn’t even notice when he left the table, thinking he might vomit.

His bedroom door shut quietly and he made his way through the dark room to the window; climbed out on the fire escape. He looked up at the sky. Wished he could see the stars. He took his cell phone out and balanced it on his thigh, where he’d see a reply if one came. His last sent words lit the screen, before the screen dimmed then blacked out on him, asleep. He couldn’t help but tap the screen to read them again.

Walk you home after?

And it was after now. One way or another, it was over. The news had told him as much.

Day saved. Bad guy beaten. One police Captain down, but who was counting? The city was safe. Queue the parade.

Peter needed someone, sometimes, he’d said. Flash had been listening. And Flash wanted to be that someone, when he could. When Peter would have him. If he couldn’t help, he could at least mop up after. He was good for that much. He was good for this.

But he wouldn’t beg. Knew enough to stay away when he wasn’t wanted.

He woke his phone up. Stared at that text again.

Three little dots blinked in and out on the screen after a while. Finally, words came.

Hello up there.

Flash stood, pocketing his phone as he looked out over the railing. He could just make out Peter at the bottom. Started down the rusted metal stairs as Peter waved weakly up at him. 

When Flash made it to the bottom, he took one look at Peter’s face and pulled him in, wrapped him up, and he didn’t let go till gentle hands pushed at him to leave it. He kissed Peter, once, just a small thing before he could make himself back off. Traced the cuts on Peter’s face with barely-there fingertips once he did, when he was at a good distance to get a good look. Wiped the tear tracks that cut the dust down Peter’s cheeks. He stared. Tried to convince himself that Peter was really here, alive, here. Here with him, somehow, when there were so many better places to be.

Flash would just have to make Peter’s bad decision worth it, was all. That was all there was to it.

Peter was a wreck. And he was alive. And so the rest didn’t matter so much. But he was still a wreck and Flash let him be what he was. Let him be whatever the hell he wanted to be—Peter was here. Here with him. Here. And that was all that mattered, really.

And Flash was going to walk him home, as promised.

Flash smiled, wrapped Peter’s waist and helped him limp his way down the sidewalk.

Peter was barely holding it together and Flash just held him tighter, making up for whatever Peter couldn’t manage. Least he could do. And Peter let him. Smiled, eyes still flooded. Kissed Flash on the cheek and almost lost it again. But didn’t. Peter let Flash take his weight. He shuffled on down the sidewalk, keeping the slow pace, toward home.

Need to make a stop. Peter whispered more than spoke into the silence. The night was unnaturally quiet around them. I owe a girl some eggs.

It was raining on the day of the funeral. From what Flash knew of Gwen’s dad, he assumed the weather was too scared to cross him on the day he was supposed to be buried. So it rained. There was rain, like there should be for a funeral. And Gwen pretended it was the rain that had her mascara running, the few drops that had landed between the funeral home and the cars, and he let her. Whatever she needed.

They both searched the rooftops for Peter.

He held Gwen’s hand since Peter couldn’t, and she had let him. Let him hug her when she started shaking, and he let her bury her face in his chest while he shielded her sobs from being seen, his arms wrapping her shoulders.

She was used to being strong, so it hurt even more when she couldn’t, he supposed.

Some things you just couldn’t outfight, though. Some things just picked you up and broke you and didn’t care how strong you thought you’d been. 

He should know.

And as he sat at the reception after, not really sure if he had ever let go of Gwen’s hand since she had offered it, both of them sitting in front of untouched pot-luck, at an otherwise empty table, Peter still haunted them both. They were sitting closer to each other to fill the empty space where he should have been.

Neither of them mentioned it.

Neither of them mentioned him.

They sat at their table in silence. Every now and then someone would swing by to offer their condolences, or try to make Gwen eat something. She thanked them politely, politely declined, then fell back into silence and waited, staring. They always seemed to get the message, sooner or later.

He should have been here.

Gwen wasn’t looking at Flash when she finally said it, but he’d been listening for what felt like hours for her voice. He answered.

If he’s not here, there’s a damn good reason. You've gotta know that.

Do I? Her big blue eyes found his, hard. But it didn’t last. Soon enough they were melting again, and she was crying, her lip quivering, and she hated it—hid in his chest.

I’m gonna ruin your shirt. She laughed, and it was wet and stuffy and he grabbed up a tissue and offered it to her. She blew.

That’s fine, he said, laughing back without any real energy. You let me borrow it. Yours to ruin, I figure.

She sat up a little and her head came to rest on his shoulder.

You’re different. It came out in a whisper, like she was telling him a secret.

Like he didn't know.

He just smiled, shrugged so he wouldn’t disturb her, leaned his cheek against her hair so softly it might not have been touching.

Trying.

They sat at their table in silence, not moving.

I’m glad you’re here. Thank you for being here with me. I really needed—

Hey. He placed one kiss on her head, unthinking. Froze after, waiting for her to push him away for crossing a line. She didn’t, so he did it again, rested his cheek more firmly against her. Don’t mention it.

He felt her smile, and his smile echoed hers.

Seriously, he went on. I’ve got my reputation to look out for, you know?

And now she laughed. Just for a moment, and quiet, just loud enough for him to hear, but a real laugh. His chest felt hot and tight where her palm rested against it.

Oh right, wouldn’t want to impugn your bad boy rep. What was I thinking?

She laughed once more, soft, against his cheek. Then she kissed it. Raised her head to look him in the eye, still smiling softly.

You’re a good guy, you know that?

She was serious, too. He could tell by her face she meant it.

He had to look away. Shrugged again, not willing to agree.

Yeah, he said, finally. Maybe. Smiled, remembering Peter. Could be better, though.

She nodded, eyes wet again. Then she leaned in and kissed him, once, sweet, on the lips. Smiled as she pulled away and brushed his cheek once with the backs of her soft fingers, tears falling soft down her cheeks. She didn’t bother wiping them. Picked up her lukewarm coffee and handed him his glass of water and motioned him to toast.

To being better. She said it with a smile that only wobbled a little.

Their glasses met with a sad Styrofoam squish in the space where Peter wasn’t. They drank without him. Put down their cups after and Gwen let her head fall back onto his shoulder. He kissed her hair one more time, still ready for her to tell him to stop, and let the silence sink over them again, comfortable.

They sat at their empty table together, filling up the space where Peter should have been.

He should have been here.

Peter was staring at Gwen again. Flash supposed the guy couldn’t help it, but the fact that he was being so obvious about it wasn’t doing Gwen any favors. 

Flash would know. 

Flash was the one who had to be there for her, because Peter couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

And Flash understood it. Understood why Peter did it. Don’t get him wrong.

Peter had made a promise to a dying man. To Gwen’s dying dad. And he wouldn’t be Peter if he didn’t keep a promise like that. There were certain things you had to do to keep being you.

Certain things you couldn’t change without changing. 

Flash should know. He changed as much as he could, as often as he could. He’d changed a lot, lately.

Mostly for the better, too.

He was a whole new man. A whole new man with twice as many problems.

Gwen was mad because it should be her choice, whether being with Peter was worth the risk or not. She’d spent her entire life fighting against her dad’s control only for him to pull this from beyond the grave, so Flash got it. He did. Gwen didn’t want protecting. She wanted respect.

See, he understood her side of it too. She’d made sure he had. He always felt half sure she’d spring a pop quiz on him about it nowadays, actually. And sometimes now she’d kiss him and sometimes he’d think it was because she was angry at Peter. But she never kissed Flash so Peter would know—would see and then get jealous. And she never told. And after a while of that, Flash didn’t know what to think. He was just happy to be kissing her.

Especially when Peter had found out, figured it out, and it hadn’t changed anything between them. When Flash got to be happy to be kissing Peter too. 

Flash walked around most days, these days, a very confused man.

That’s what you got for kissing geniuses.

Flash walked up to Peter now and shook him up with a bear hug, spinning him and depositing him back on his feet before greeting him after like always. Peter never pushed him away anymore. Greeted him with a smile instead of with patience.

You coming along, man? He asked it like he did every day, now.

And he could feel Gwen glaring daggers behind him. He ignored it, knowing she’d appreciate his efforts if they ever ended up working.

Peter walked with him sometimes and sometimes he didn’t. He never did when Flash was spending time with Gwen. And they never got too friendly when they were at school, any of them. Still messed with each other. Still scolded, in Gwen’s case. Now, Peter smiled, looked down, half shy and half laughing. And Flash knew Peter had seen it. He’d just bought the thing last night.

Peter looked back up, still smiling, now with the secret joke shared between them.

That’s a cool shirt.

And Flash smiled right back. Pete was smiling at him like that, and he couldn’t even help it.

Yeah, dude’s—

He looked down at the spider symbol on his shirt, smile shifting to a grin.

Dude’s crazy. But chicks dig him.

He felt Gwen roll her eyes behind him, walking off. Watched Peter scold him, shake his head in frustration, knowing what Flash was up to.

Peter had always been brainy.

And Flash—well Flash just did things. He just did.

He’d be sure to kiss it better later. Kiss it better for both of them.

And things would work out, in the end.

He should know.

Sometimes, things just did.