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“I’d like to preface my response with this: I am not as surprised as you think.”
Peter stares at his wall. It’s a plain wall. White, or at least it definitely used to be three tenants ago. Small cracks and chips in the paint, aged with poor upkeep and Peter is absolutely not helping because his space is always a mess, just like his life.
“I – how?” he says. “Seriously. I’m like, having a panic attack over here coming to some holy revelation and you’re – you’re not surprised? Harry!”
A sigh cracks over the phone. “Peter, can I be completely honest with you?”
“Is it going to hurt my feelings?”
“You’re probably the worst friend I’ve ever had.”
Peter makes a face. “Feelings hurt.”
“But you’re more than a friend. You’re practically my brother, and family fucking sucks. It’s painful, annoying, stupid, and rage-inducing… but I’d come running to you in a heartbeat, and you’d do the same. You know I… When we were in college, I had a crush on Flash. You were the only person I told, because back then you were more important than anyone else. Even if I couldn’t rely on you all the time, you always loved me. That was enough.”
“I still love you, Har’,” Peter murmurs.
Harry laughs, “Yeah, I know, Pete. I love you, too. But what I’m trying to say is that for me, for the person I was back then — I could see it. All the little things I struggled with or didn’t want to admit. I saw them in you sometimes. Didn’t have to mean anything, really, but it just makes this… this whole thing feel a bit like a long time coming.”
“A long time coming, huh?” Peter repeats quietly.
Maybe it was.
He hears a few different variations of the same thing as he comes out to his close friends and family. Technically he doesn’t need to come out. He can just. Be. But Peter can’t keep his mouth shut and feels like everyone needs to know about his latest thought process.
You mean you weren’t already out? Felicia had said, after smacking him around with some sharp words about how he left last time, and about the lamp. She didn’t forget the lamp.
Oh, how nice! Do you have a boyfriend? Is what Betty had said, suddenly looking incredibly interested in his love life.
(No, Betty, he doesn’t have a boyfriend.)
And he’s not thinking of city streets in the dark, of lamplight shadows and flaking metal smelling of blood — crimson, crimson, crimson. Stubble or bright ginger hair belonging to a man, not a woman, unseeing blue ice and the scent of spice and bergamot.
(You’re so stupid, Peter. So fucking stupid.)
Even Moon Knight, who Peter didn’t really go looking for but always seemed to appear in violent shadows to say cryptic or oddly empathetic things, faced Peter’s rambling. I don’t really care, but I thought you were gay.
The Defenders — again, Iron Fist apparently thought he was gay. Luke Cage didn’t give two shits. Etc, etc, it turned less into him coming out and more into people giving him odd looks, as if they were already three steps ahead and it was him catching up to his own sexuality.
I already knew, said Logan. Please shut the fuck up.
Oh, okay. Is all Flash had said. Like he didn’t know what to do with the information.
To be fair, Peter did spring it on him in the middle of Galaga. Nothing changed there, either, although Peter did feel the need to say that Flash wasn’t his type, not even a little. (Which is a bit of a lie, but he’s not touching that with a hundred foot pole and Flash definitely doesn’t need to know.) But he has no romantic feelings or expectations or even…interest in Flash. He’s more like another Harry. A more annoying Harry.
Which is also kind of relative, as Harry occasionally turns into a murderous goblin.
Him and MJ don’t really talk anymore. They’re on a break, or whatever. Peter’s not sure how long it will stick — if it’s permanent this time or just another case of them lying to themselves. He sends her a text anyway. Isn’t really sure if he can get it out in words over a phone. It’s not like he thinks it’s gonna change anything. He still loves her, after all.
But he…
He isn’t sure what to do if she starts asking about it. Doesn’t want to admit that he kissed Daredevil, that he still thinks of kissing Daredevil, that he’d probably kiss Daredevil right now if given the chance.
It’s just curiosity. That’s it.
(Denial, thy name is Peter Parker.)
He doesn’t expect some grand insult. MJ isn’t that kind of lady. That kind of person. But it still makes him grin a little to see her responding text just a few minutes later.
I’m happy for you, Peter.
Maybe it’s a little annoying that he seems to be the last to the finish line. Maybe he’s taking this more seriously than everyone else, and that’s why it feels weird when their reactions don’t match his own. The acceptance, the shrugs, the shut-up-I-don’t-care ’s, and the awkward congratulations…
Feels pretty good.
So he decides to tell Aunt May.
Sits her down in the old walls of a familiar home, in the arm chairs with the worn, frayed arms that used to be so big when he was a kid. The same rug, same grape juice stain in the corner they tried their hardest to get out, colors faded with age and use. There’s photos of Uncle Ben on the mantle, photos of their family hung about the walls. No matter how hard he stares into their unmoving eyes, he’ll never really know what they think about this. They remain silent observers to his conversation with Aunt May.
“I like guys,” he says. Blurts it out, really, because he can’t figure out how to start and the first instinct is just to leap. Instinct usually bad.
Aunt May stares at him, her hands around a steaming mug of tea. It’s halfway to her mouth and she just — pauses. Holds it there. Watches him like she needs to figure out exactly what it is he just said.
“And women,” he rushes to reiterate. “Just. I like both. Surprise? I know it’s not exactly something that needs to be said but I felt like I had to, uh, just in case.”
May puts her mug down on the coffee table, right beside some old magazines and a coloring book filled with five year old Peter’s scribbles — he keeps telling her to get rid of it. She ignores him every time. “Just in case what? Were you worried that one day you’d come home with a man and I’d react poorly?”
“I—I don’t know.” It’s not as if he’s thought about relationships including men. Accepting he even likes them in general is a hurdle on its own. Besides, he has MJ. Maybe not now, but she’s always there. In his heart and consuming his thoughts. Her touch is imprinted upon him, her scent and the feel of carmine hair through his fingertips.
“I would never, Peter. I thought you knew that. I accept you however you are, and whoever you love.”
Peter scratches at the back of his neck, right below where the ring of an inhuman sense will sound in the event of danger. Or a puddle, sometimes. It’s a finicky thing. He feels sheepish, curving his mouth into an awkward half-grimace.
“I didn’t think you were the type. This isn’t — I’m not… This isn’t about anything you’ve done. You’ve always been so good to me. The best. I’m just…me. I guess. Had to be sure that no part of you would need to…”
“Figure out how to love that part of you, too?”
He laughs, but it’s not really a laugh. “Yeah, that.”
“Goodness, Peter! It’s not as if you’ve died!” May picks her mug back up, breath fanning over the steam. Her eyes are warm and her head shakes just slightly. “You’ve always been this way, so what exactly would I have to learn to love? Now tell me, is there some man in your life?”
They don’t talk about him. About Skip. For that, he’s grateful. This is past Skip, beyond the hold the man has in the faintest corner’s of Peter’s memory. The top of the mountain, where the avalanche starts and the rest is just picked up on the way down—
He can’t see the top of the mountain anymore. Doesn’t even want to try looking.
“No, May,” he tries to say. There’s an ache in his chest and an ugly heat on his face. “Why would you — what? Why would you even say that! O-Of course there’s no man. I’m just. Processing. Coming into myself and coming out. I don’t need a man to do that. In fact, I’m so man-free I might as well have a sign taped to my back warning them away.”
Red hair, blue eyes. Stupid silk briefs.
“Now, I don’t think that’s true at all,” May murmurs, eyes twinkling. “And you really are protesting too much, my dear.”
Johnny Storm comes back from space.
Peter Parker enters the Baxter Building wearing a shirt with the bisexual flag stamped across it. Under a jacket, of course, because it’s weirdly exposing. Like walking around the streets naked. He’s wandered around in the barest rags and remains of his suit, showing more skin than he ever would on the first date – but this? This is like one of those dreams where you walk into school in only your boxers.
So. Jacket. At least until the feeling leaves.
Except it doesn’t really leave, because he gets in a tense…conversation? Argument? Some weird fucking verbal interaction that ends with a very terse Leave Me Alone from Johnny, and a Peter who zips his jacket up all the way to his chin on the way out.
“Peter, please, he doesn’t mean it,” Sue tries to say, little Franklin clinging to her leg. He watches Peter with wide eyes. Sue’s eyes.
“I just – I can’t. Right now.” Peter shakes his head, tugs his hair in a nervous habit. His skin’s all jittery again and he’s starting to feel sick. “I gotta go.”
“Peter!”
Then he’s out on the streets, in the crowd, in the smog of New York. He needs to clear his head so he takes to the alleyways, where he can rip off his skin and become the better version of himself. Spider-man scales the nearest building and takes to the skies. Flings his lithe body between concrete and steel, wind whistling loud enough to drown out his thoughts. For about two hours he swings and hits and pretends, which isn’t too far from the usual.
When the tension gets too much he thinks of–
Of opening his mouth and talking to Daredevil.
So he does.
( I could be wrong, but I think he really liked you, Peter. )
The usual place is the top of Lady Liberty. Lit up by artificial lights under a cloudy sky. Smells like wet metal, the tang of blood clogging his throat. The air is damp, heavy like the feeling in his chest.
“Hey, idiot.”
Johnny doesn’t reply for a moment. He takes a breath, cheeks puffed out. Looks like an ugly marshmallow. The shorter strands of hair by his ears are curling with the humidity. There are bags under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept the night before. As if he had been the one worrying about his best friend hating his guts for coming out as bi. Ass.
I think he really liked you, Peter.
“Who you callin’ idiot, idiot?” Johnny doesn’t look at him. Instead his gaze – those blue, blue eyes – is turned to peer out over the ocean.
Peter hesitates only a moment before dropping to sit beside him. He tugs his mask off, curls askew and sweat dotting his brow. They argue all the time, him and Johnny. It’s never quite felt like this. Everything teetering on a line, except he doesn’t really know how they got on the tightrope to start. Or even if it’s worth trying to keep his balance.
Leap, Peter.
“Johnny, what’s this about?”
“I thought you were straight.”
“So did I,” Peter replies, shrugging. Fake it ‘til you make it, or whatever. If he pretends he’s not as mad as he really is, maybe he’ll finally get that stupid matchstick to look at him.
“You kissed that crazy bastard with the devil horns.”
Peter doesn’t quite choke, but his breath catches in his throat. Hisses through his teeth. See, when you have superhero best friends, you tend to tell them some superhero gossip. Like kissing another superhero. It’s easier to tell Johnny that he kissed Daredevil. Telling Harry? Tell him what?
I kissed Daredevil?
Then what? Peter will be bombarded with questions as to where he even met the hornhead! It could compromise Matt’s identity. Compromise Peter’s. Even trying to downplay it and switch to ‘ I kissed Matt Murdock’ would lead to a million questions in a different direction.
Where’d you meet him?
Who is he?
A lawyer? Are you in trouble?
God, Peter can see it now. His well-meaning but obnoxious friends. Johnny is different in the sense that they don’t have borders. No masks between them.
Matt is like that too.
“He’s not crazy, just Catholic.”
“Shut up, Peter,” Johnny exclaims, and his voice cracks the way it hasn’t since they were sixteen and more stupid than they are now. “Why now?! Of all times? I can’t even–”
A sharp exhale. Johnny shakes his head like a wet dog and shrugs his shoulders up to his ears. He puts a hand over his eyes. The air around them grows warm.
Peter knows he’s oblivious to some things. He’s awkward and dumb when it comes to nuanced social skills, can never really tell if people like him because he’s always assuming they don’t – but as much as he calls himself one, he’s not an idiot.
I think he really liked you, Peter.
Why now?! Of all times?
He swallows.
Johnny sits up straight. Those blue eyes finally turn and pin Peter in place, electric and burning. “I fell in love with you when we were eighteen. Had a crush on you for almost two years, but it was ignorable. You were an ugly duckling – don’t even try to deny it – but you were funny. You…you got me. And then you got a little older, we both did, and the next thing I know you’re pretty.”
“Johnny, I didn’t—”
“Shut up! Shut up! I won’t get this out if you interrupt me!” Johnny inhales shakily. “Your stupid eyes, and your smile, and you grew into those dumb ears and the hair. Got less like a knobby-kneed stick figure and more like a man. And I spent six fucking years like that. Stuck with my eyes on you. I tried getting over it a million times. But it was always just Peter Goddamn Parker . Do you know what I went through to even start getting over you? You were straight! Of course there was no hope! I was this. Fucking. Close.”
He goes quiet. The air seems to ring. Peter feels too hot and too cold. He remembers being sixteen-seventeen-eighteen, thinking Johnny Storm was pretty, but boys couldn’t be pretty. Pretending he couldn’t see it, that he didn’t think about it. He buried it so deep it simply... Stopped. Faded out of existence under the force of his will.
Because Peter Parker has the kind of willpower that crushes Gods.
“I’m. I’m sorry. I didn’t–”
“I know you didn’t know, idiot.” Johnny kicks his leg out, all the fight fading from his form in the next exhale. “Everyone else did. But never you.”
“Do you still…”
“I dunno. Started accepting it a little while ago, I guess. Started getting over it. A part of me just…might always feel that way for you, even if I do move on. I wasn’t mad because of you being bisexual, Peter. I was mad at myself, and a little at you – but because of the timing. I was close, Peter. Real close. And just – it gave me hope. You telling me you liked men. Gave me hope when I didn’t want it. Suddenly all those years of pain and pining just hit me and I was so – mad. Just mad. I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” Peter whispers. He doesn’t know what else to say. A dumb joke doesn’t seem right. And there aren’t any grand declarations of returned love that he can give. There isn’t anything he can do to make Johnny feel better and that’s what hurts the most. It makes that familiar well of guilt expand and rise.
He can sit here and say sorry for hours, but it isn’t what either of them need.
Johnny clears his throat, breaking the thick silence. “It doesn’t matter. I’m still going to get over you. I already said it’s better now, this was just a setback. Caught me by surprise, is all. I know it’s never gonna work out.”
Peter – can’t deny this. He can’t say anything. He just doesn’t know. He’s never thought about anything beyond or after–
“You’re always gonna choose her, anyway.”
(Red hair, green eyes, dimples, freckles. Mary Jane Watson in all her glory, pulling him in like a collapsing star. Of course it’s going to be her. It has to be. He’s not sure he remembers how to love anyone else. Not sure if he can. )
But you don’t need love to kiss.
Red hair, blue eyes.
“I just – I just have one question,” Johnny says.
“What?”
“Daredevil, really? Was it the red? I know you have a thing for redheads, but the whole suit–”
Peter nearly shoves him off the statue. “Shut up, Johnny.”
“Matty?”
“Are you dying?”
“Why is that always your first question? Can’t I just call to call? Ye of little faith?”
“I’m certain I have more faith than you, Peter.”
He laughs, brighter than he has in a few days. “Oh yeah, yeah. You stand on that high horse, altar boy.”
“Is it legal trouble?”
“No, it’s not. This time. I’ll keep you in mind, though. ‘Cause it’s bound to happen.” Again, he doesn’t say.
Peter Parker, who’s never really had anyone to hold out a hand to him while growing into the webs, the sky, the streets. Matt Murdock, who had his back against cops, the media, other heroes. A quiet voice. An ‘ I believe you, Spider-man.’
“Let’s go see a movie.”
“Did you forget who you’re asking?”
Peter shakes his head, it wasn’t that. Not really. It had just been reflexive. “Sorry, shit. You know what I mean. I wanna hang out.”
“...as us?”
“We’re always us, Magoo.”
“Suppose so, Peter. What brought this on?”
“Dunno,” he says. “Just feel like seeing you.”