Chapter Text
If anyone were to question him in any other circumstance at any other time in his life, he would say no. Love at first sight is not a real thing. Just a concept reserved for fictional plots and fictional people who don’t really know what they’re doing, but they’re having fun anyway—and good for them.
But it’s different if it’s love within the first few days, and it’s especially different when you’re young and have no reason not to call it love.
The first thing he ever noticed about her was the way her hair curled entrancingly around her shoulders, bouncy and clipped back with one barrette, a reddish brown tint in the sunlight. He would know because she sits by the window in the back of the classroom, quiet with her head down, almost always writing something, and the sun has taken a liking to her.
It’s kind of a fact that she’s the prettiest girl in his fifth grade class. Even if he subjectively agrees with that fact, it’s still as objective as it can be.
He’s usually a sucker for doing his schoolwork and manages to keep well-focused, but his wires have been getting crossed recently and he can’t really help all that he does or feels anymore. But in his defense, this is the first time he’s ever had these thoughts anyway—that there’s an undeniably pretty girl sitting a few feet away from him.
As someone who’s always been more interested in Legos and Battlefront and comic books rather than other people, this is new territory for him.
She’s only been here for a week, but there’s just something about her that keeps catching his attention, has him constantly twisting his head and craning his neck to catch a glimpse of her.
Sometimes she’s chewing the tip of her pencil, or she’s gnawing on the inside of her cheek, but there’s always some sign of concentration in her expression that makes him want to know what’s going on in her head.
She’s not so easily distracted like he is, which is probably for the best, and he’s been fine living with that kind of dynamic. Well, correction—he’s been fine up until today when he actually gets called out for it by the teacher right in front of the whole class.
Embarrassing and blush-inducing, yeah. Almost too much. But it’s fine—completely fine—even as he resists the urge to hide his face in his sweater, hopefully shrivel up and if he’s lucky, not come back to school ever again.
It’s not like he cares about his classmates’ opinions, not that badly, but he doesn’t want to know if her first impressions of him are that he’s a creep or obsessed with her, neither of which are mutually exclusive.
When he sneaks a look back though because he can’t really help himself, he doesn’t see any type of disgust written on her face. All he sees is her staring back at him, a little crease between her brows.
“Peter. Michelle. Eyes up front, please,” their teacher says, firm in a way that would’ve gotten him a smack with a ruler if it was a few decades earlier.
This might be why this is his least favorite teacher but most favorite class.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, dropping his head onto his arms, but something keeps snapping his eyes back to her like a magnet. He notices the way she absently tucks hair behind her ear, knee bouncing underneath her desk, and he wonders if she was completely unfazed by their teacher calling her out when she didn’t do anything. It doesn’t seem like it.
She’s staring straight ahead with her mouth pulled into a frown but then she glances over in his direction. Their eyes lock and her lips twitch, and she turns her notebook around for him to see.
She hasn’t been writing—she’s been drawing. It’s a sketch of their teacher with a grimace on his face, glasses askew, and a lightning bolt above his head. And Peter can’t help but laugh a little at the accuracy, getting a slight smile out of her that could be pleased if he squints.
They get in trouble again and he thinks he should feel bad because it’s his fault, really. But the guilt doesn’t manifest in his head, and he can blame it all on the fact that he gets to spend the afternoon cleaning chalkboard erasers with her—where he learns that Michelle isn’t just pretty. She’s kind of perfect, too.
But that does make him wonder what she would think of the other voice in his head.
To be fair, his parents have always said that the basement was off limits, and it wasn’t just a thing that could go in one ear and out the other. No, they had an entire deadbolt lock from the inside and even a sign, straight to the point and directed entirely at him because no one else ever came to their house. He didn’t think much of it—who was he to ask if they had any friends?
But this was the first time they’d been careless, leaving for their trip in a rush and forgetting to lock the door, it swinging open just a crack until he noticed. He wasn’t the type to purposefully disobey, but he was the type to be curious. His uncle has said that that’s going to get him in deep trouble one day, but Peter had a tendency to roll his eyes at the whole ‘ curiosity killed the cat ’ thing.
So naturally, he went into the basement.
Only when Uncle Ben went out to grab the mail though, just so he couldn’t be blamed for Peter’s recklessness.
The stairs descended into an ominous darkness that made him feel like he was in a horror movie of some sort, but by the time he reached the bottom, it was just shocking and also disappointing how ordinary the basement seemed. No ghosts, no dead bodies, nothing of the sort that his parents should’ve felt the need to hide. Just a pantry and a freezer shoved off to the side, a table in the middle, and a boxy television. Sure, it felt out of place in the entirety of their house, but it wasn’t worthy of a deadbolt.
He snooped around a little bit more just because of who he was as a person, and he found some stale rice crackers on a shelf in the back of the room alongside a bunch of weird knick knacks that looked like they belonged in a museum. Or a laboratory.
There was a weird lever on the side of the shelving unit though, something that wouldn’t push down unless he hung on it, using the entire force of his body weight. That was probably the point that he shouldn’t be able to open it, but he did. Oops.
And okay, fair enough that his parents had the cool stuff hidden away through a secret door. It looked more like a place full of breakable objects, like just one touch and everything would shatter into a million pieces. Kind of reminded him of a scene from one of his favorite movies, which made him wonder if he was just dreaming this all up because there was no way his parents were hiding this from him and not just some filing cabinet where they kept their tax documents.
Was he a little bit upset over the fact that they never told him about this? Yeah, kinda. It probably meant that Ben knew and May knew, and he was the only one out of the loop.
He walked alongside a table that displayed a bunch of glass jars, peering closely at them. Differently colored globs of slime were contained in each one, but he didn’t think much of it until one of the slimeballs moved.
It was only the black one though, stretchy and gooey as it slunk across the glass, almost tapping against it. If his parents really were trying to experiment with a sentient piece of putty, Peter thought they were doing a pretty good job.
He almost felt drawn to the jar as he reached towards it, picked it up, seeing the way the material inside clustered against the glass when he put his hand up against it. Very weird and kind of creepy but also intriguing.
Peter had to resist the urge to open the jar because he wasn’t dumb or careless in that way, but the slime inside almost seemed to know his intentions of backing away when it made the most ear splitting screeching noise he’d ever heard. Like, the kind of noise that’ll make your eardrums bleed if you didn’t immediately protect them, which was instinctual.
It also meant that the glass that was once in his hands was now falling quicker than he could even react, and then it shattered, pieces flying, his own soles of his feet getting a few caught in them.
And admittedly, Peter was a bit squeamish of blood, but his attention was more caught on the fact that the black goo was nowhere to be seen anymore. Like, poof, completely gone, not even a trace, and he would be lying if he said that didn’t cause immediate panic in him because now his parents would know he was down there and he’ll be donezo. Grounded for life.
He had to tiptoe his way out of the lab and locked that door again, but dripping a trail of blood behind was still a dead giveaway. Ben was waiting for him at the top of the steps with a what did you do kind of expression, as if the guilt on his face wasn’t already evidence enough.
The basement door was deadbolted once more, and Peter was banned with threats of his video games being taken. But he was able to get away with saying he just broke a jar without any further interrogation, which made him think that maybe Ben didn’t know the full story of his parents either.
He got a lecture in the bathroom as his feet were being bandaged, saying that this is why he shouldn’t disobey his parents, that he should be more careful.
“I’m sorry. I was just curious,” Peter had said with his head down, ashamed that he even took advantage of the fact he did it while Ben was over. He didn’t want him to get in trouble either.
“You know what they say about curiosity,” Ben sighed like it was his motto.
Peter went to bed that night with another reminder that his parents were gonna be told the moment they got back from their week-long excursion about his little basement escapades and the fact that he injured himself in the process. At least he’d have time to prepare for that scolding.
Funnily enough though, the next morning when he got up to change his bandages, he took one look at the soles of his feet and found that there was no trace left of any injury. Just smooth, pale skin left behind.
And for the rest of that day, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something else that shouldn’t be there, slinking around the empty space in his head.
That was a rough day for him, and Peter knows that. It’s been a little while since then, from Saturday to Thursday now, and he’s more or less stopped thinking about the implications of it all so hard. Probably because his mind is still caught up on the fact that Michelle sat next to him yesterday at lunch.
She didn’t say anything, just put her bag down with a thump and opened up a book, reading while crunching on a bag of SunChips. He didn’t say anything either, somewhat because he was a little too nervous since they hadn’t spoken since the classroom incident and also because he didn’t want to interrupt her. Eventually, it just fell into a more comfortable silence until the period ended.
And now it’s become a thing, he thinks—or at least hopes—because she’s sitting next to him again today, silent as ever, but still present with her book and lunch.
He wants to say something this time, try to hold a conversation maybe, but his tongue feels like a cotton ball in his mouth when she’s around. So instead, he silently eats the sandwich that Ben packed him and stares down at his lap, hoping he doesn’t exude awkwardness.
Peter…
The guttural voice makes him jump slightly in his seat, has his eyes darting around the cafeteria, but of course the source isn’t going to be there. No one else talks to him. He shakes his head, bumping the heel of his hand against it just slightly, as if that’ll knock the noise right out of his ears.
This isn’t the first time this has happened. All week, he’s been feeling a presence in the back of his head, like there’s been something other than just him looking through his eyes—as crazy as it might sound. And sometimes, he has the pleasure of hearing it too, the voice that’s almost like nails on a chalkboard, making him wince.
He could just be imagining it all, but calling himself insane isn’t much more comforting than the idea of this being reality.
Ignoring it has been his relief and only comfort because when he’s not thinking about it, the problem goes away. That’s all he really cares about.
So that’s what he’ll do—continue to ignore it. All of these weird signs that have been accumulating over the past week since his trip down to the basement. The voice, the sensation in his head, and even the fact that his wounds had mysteriously healed themselves within less than twelve hours. All of it just…doesn’t mean anything if it doesn’t exist.
“So, is it always just you here?”
“What?” The question startles him just as much as her soft tone does, Peter looking up and realizing that more time passed than he thought. He rubs the back of his neck, finding that a few beads of sweat have gathered.
Michelle just stares at him with an impassive expression, brows furrowed. “I mean, it doesn’t matter to me if it is. I was just wondering if I was taking anyone’s seat.”
“Oh. No, you’re not. You’re good,” he tells her, swallowing thickly, trying to process the fact that this is the first time she’s initiated a conversation with him at lunch, or ever. “I, um…it’s nice when you sit here.”
“I don’t have many friends…since I just moved here last week,” she says quietly, tacking the last bit on as an afterthought. “So thanks.”
“I don’t have many friends either,” he responds, and it comes out more pitifully than he would’ve liked because he doesn’t have any real excuses for it, but whatever. She doesn’t seem to care either way. “But we could, um…we could be friends? If you want.”
Her lips twitch slightly, tugging upwards near the corners, and she looks back at her book like she’s trying to fight a smile. “Sure.”
“Awesome,” he breathes, feeling warmth in his cheeks.
“You can call me MJ,” she adds quickly, a little embarrassed laugh escaping. “Instead of Michelle, if you…want to.”
“MJ,” he tests out, a smile growing on his own lips. “Sorry that I don’t have any cool nicknames in return.”
“I like Peter just fine.”
His heart flutters stupidly at words as simple as that, and he has to look back at his lunch with his palm pressed against his mouth to hide his giddy grin. He thinks this a positive turn of events for him, gaining someone who he can call a friend and not just an acquaintance when his parents inevitably ask at dinner time, as they tend to.
He thinks about their eraser-cleaning session on Tuesday, how they only shared the barest of small-talk, which was still enough to give Peter the idea that she was perfect, but this is just a step up and solidifies that idea even further.
“Hey, uh,” he prompts, desperate to not let their conversation die off when it seems like she’s about to turn back to her book. She looks at him expectantly, and he racks his brain for something to say. “Your drawing of the teacher the other day…it was really good. Are you an artist?”
“I wouldn’t say that.” She folds her lips inwards, kneading her fingers. “It's just a fun hobby, really.”
“No, but that’s still super cool. I—”
We’re growing stronger, Peter.
The voice sends a shockwave through him, louder than it’s ever been before, and he falters in his seat as his words abruptly cut off, a sheen of sweat gathering on his forehead.
“Are you okay?” MJ asks, concerned, and he has to force himself to shake his head yes, make up an excuse that he’s just a bit lightheaded. She frowns, twists her bottle of water open and offers it to him.
“Thank you,” he says and ends up drinking half of it, to which he promises he’ll get her a new one. She doesn’t seem to care all that much about that though, her expression twisted into something thoughtful. “Sorry about that, I don’t…”
“Maybe you should go home and get some rest,” she suggests, but he shakes his head vehemently because he’s fine, honestly. “Peter, you looked like you were about to pass out there.”
“I’m okay, I swear.” He swallows thickly, catching her skeptical expression before turning back to his lunch, hoping she won’t call him out on his white lie. There’s something about MJ that makes him think she could see right through him if she tried, but thankfully, she doesn’t push it, looking back down at her book.
He feels the slightest bit of relief that she gave up but that’s overpowered by the pounding still in his head, right behind his eyes, a tension headache of sorts that’s about to snap. It lasts for fifteen more minutes until the bell rings, dissipating like the voice was never there in the first place.
Maybe insanity really isn’t so far-fetched after all.
“You’re looking a little pale, Pete,” May says, soft and gentle as she pushes his hair away from his face, him resting with her on the couch. She dropped by to visit but she doesn’t stay the night like Ben does to watch over him. “You doing okay? Are you tired?”
“Yeah, kinda.” He moves so that his head is in her lap, the soothing motion of her rubbing his back putting him to sleep, almost. “I just haven’t been feeling well lately, I don’t think.”
“Want me to make you some soup?”
Peter knows it’s an enticing offer, especially because her soup is the best soup out there, even better than his mom’s. But he doesn’t think he could stomach anything right now, so he shakes his head and only buries himself further in her arms. She’s comforting in the same way that home is, a way that his own parents admittedly are not.
It’s not that they’re bad parents—far from it. They care about him like any parents should, but it feels as if they would rather care about him from a distance because of all the trips they go on by themselves. There are enough of them that Ben and May are almost here more than they are. Maybe that’s part of the reason he feels like he’s been growing up alone.
He sighs to himself, wallowing in the type of self-pity that only loneliness can bring. Not just brought upon by the lack of his parents’ presence, but also his lack of friends in school. He’s tried before, but nothing has ever stuck, and he was beginning to think it was just him who was the problem.
At least, that was until MJ gave him a chance. He just really hopes he won’t mess this up, too.
“There’s a girl in my class,” he eventually mumbles, wondering if the sheepishness is audible. He turns so that his cheek is against May’s thigh, her looking down at him with a slight smile. “Her name is MJ.”
“MJ, huh? This is the first time you’ve talked about anyone from school.”
It’s true. The whole ‘no friends’ thing has really hindered a lot of potential conversations, but May seems pleased by this outcome.
“Is there something special about this MJ?” May continues, teasing him a little, and he’s glad she can’t see his face right now because it’s burning a bit.
“Yeah. Everything, really. I dunno.” Peter sits up now, if only to lean against her, May’s arm draped around his shoulder. He fiddles with his hands in his lap. “She’s cool. You’d probably like her a lot.”
“When did you meet her?”
“She moved here last week, but we started talking this week,” he says, unsure how embarrassed he should be about the fact that he’s gushing over someone he’s known for the equivalent of two seconds to his aunt.
The consequences of it all is that May absolutely knows what’s going on in his head regarding MJ, but she doesn’t say it outright—thank god. Instead, she makes a suggestion that makes him want to melt into the crevices of this couch. “Invite her over sometime. I’d love to meet her.”
“I mean, we barely know each other—”
“You’re friends, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, but…”
“But what?”
“I don’t think she would…” He trails off awkwardly, only to be startled by her dramatic gasp.
“Peter Benjamin Parker…are you ashamed of us?” May asks in a teasing tone, expression folding into mock hurt as she places a hand over her heart, and he giggles a bit. She breaks into a grin, ruffling his hair. “Well, the invitation is always open.”
“Okay,” he says with a nod, feeling warmth in his heart seep all throughout him. “I love you, May.”
“Love you too, kiddo.” She kisses his temple. “It’s me and you always.”