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There's a small, crowded bookstore in Lower Manhattan in the midst of a meet and greet that Peter kept swinging by every 20 minutes to check up on. He didn't expect anything to happen that required his presence, but it didn't hurt to keep his eye out.
He moved up Lower Manhattan into Chelsea and saw the tourists as usual alongside all the people taking photos. With everyone maintaining a steady flow of foot traffic, there was also no reason for him to stick around too long, especially because he hates playing traffic police.
It's when he made it over to Midtown that Peter actually found something to pause at. He saw a unicycle. It was bright blue and stuck out amongst the backdrop to anyone paying attention. The reason it garnered more than a cursory glance was because it was very distinctly not secured to the pole it was resting against. He considered webbing it as a deterrent to bike thieves at the cost of being a mild annoyance to the owner, but before he could come to a decision, the only person that looked to match the vehicle arrived.
With bright red hair and dressed in a white shirt, vest, long bloomers, and combat boots, it all seemed about right in Peter's informal and, admittedly, uneducated opinion. Still, what tipped him off to being right was the ease in which the redhead mounted the unicycle and started off. Crisis averted. Peter didn't linger past that, also continuing on his own way.
Two days later and out of pure curiosity, civilian dressed Peter made his way back to the same part of Midtown to see if the person in the unicycle was a regular of the area. To his delight, there the unicycle was again, propped up against the same post. Though this time, it was actually chained.
Curiously though, while Peter was still eyeing the unicycle from a distance, someone came up to it—someone completely different from the red head.
Platinum hair and dressed smartly in monochrome, this person unlocked the chain with such ease that Peter had to assume they knew what they were doing.
Sharing, he figured. Or maybe a sale happened.
Peter didn't think too much about it, and the rest of the week went by without seeing the unicycle, in Midtown or otherwise.
Until Tuesday again, and suddenly the redhead was once again in possession of the unicycle. He saw them using a new lock, different from the previous chain, while attaching the unicycle to the same pole.
Peter's curiosity wasn't just peaked. He was invested now.
It took two weeks for Wade to get involved.
While Peter was perched on a roof across from the scene of interest—the place with the best vantage point—Wade, hovering his head above Peter's, looked on from behind.
"Are you just going to let them steal that foldable bike," he asked.
"Not a bike, unicycle."
Wade took a moment to register the correction. Then:
"Holy shit?"
"These two have been stealing this unicycle back and forth for the past three weeks," Peter started. "I'm not convinced it's not flirting."
"Maybe foreplay."
"It's always a different lock or increasingly more difficult ways to unlock it. Every Tuesday and Thursday, same time. I don't even know how this routine starts and I watched it happen."
Wade seemed to hum behind him.
"This information is not safe with me."
"Don't be mean," Peter said back, looking up at Wade.
In turn, Wade looked down. A grin showed against his mask.
"I ship it."
From that day on, Wade and Peter start their own schedule of congregating every Tuesday and Thursday on the roof with the best view.
It's a harmless pastime, a guilty pleasure. Would Peter admit to doing this if anyone asked? Probably not. But did he enjoy it? Definitely. Moreso once he had Wade around to share it with.
It's the thief's day, fiddling with unlocking two heavy looking chains. Wade brought an excessive amount of popcorn. He used any excuse to share a food, and Peter used any excuse to eat.
"White hair makes people look fly as hell," Wade muttered, mouth full.
"That's not white," Peter corrected, "it's platinum."
"Wow, well excuse me. Platinum hair rocks my world. Better?"
"Also aren't you, like, into old people?"
Wade shrugged.
"I don't discriminate. You won't catch me saying no to a salt and pepper beau."
"You're ridic," Peter said between bites.
"Don't objectify me."
"Ridiculous," Peter repeated, though in full. "You're ridiculous."
It takes about a month before a confrontation when Ginger—Wade's brilliant nickname—runs late. As in late to actually arrive and lock up the unicycle. Which coincided just enough Blondie's—again, very creative—arrival.
Peter wouldn't exactly call the encounter an argument. He could listen to it if he wanted to, but instead focused on whatever Wade was saying. He had brought milkshakes today.
"Do you remember the day we met?" Wade asked.
"No."
"Ouch."
In Peter's defense, he didn't remember most days. It's just wake up and go to work. Plus, the actual day of meeting Wade is wholly insignificant to where they are now in their relationship.
"You do?" Peter asked back.
"For sure. It was my big moment." Wade lowered his milkshake and shrugged. "Honestly, you guys aren't actually that mean."
"Who are you taking about?"
"You know what they say about New Yorkers. I've heard it, we've all heard it."
This time Peter shrugged.
"I think we're nice."
"You guys are like the kind, not nice thing. Or nice, not kind. Don't ask me which one I get confused."
"Were you scared to talk to me?" Peter asked instead.
"Are you kidding? I was shitting myself I was so nervous."
Peter lowered his own milkshake.
"Why?"
"It's not that I thought you'd, I don't know, kill me or something, but…" Wade hesitated, going back to finishing off his milkshake. "I guess it was some fear of rejection. From you? I'd kill myself."
"Wade."
"Just being honest."
Peter tried to return to his own milkshake but stopped short each time he thought of a response. Finally, he fell on an awkwardly stilted:
"I'm, um. I'm glad you, uh, gave us a chance."
Down below, Blondie and Ginger don't seem to exchange any numbers, but they leave smiling. And when they left, so too did Wade and Peter.
Wade is already on the roof a week later, with an entire cake that Peter doesn't have a chance to question.
"Dude," he said as Peter landed next to him, "you're missing it."
"What's happening?"
"It's a taller unicycle."
Peter stared down at the usual location and sure enough, he wasn't lying. The bright blue unicycle they were used to seeing had been replaced by a white one double its height. Though once again, it's both Ginger and Blondie at the scene.
There's a smugness to Ginger and Peter has to assume that, once again, they are the rightful unicycle owner.
"What do you think they do?" Wade asked after letting Peter settle in beside him.
"I don't know. Artists I'd say, but I could be wrong."
"Ginger makes rugs," Wade said as if it were true.
"Why do you say that?"
Wade shrugged. It was entirely possible he did his research, though it was just as likely he was just making it up.
"Blondie is in some type of marketing," he said just as simply. "If they can look past their differences they can work together and make a very successful business."
"Yeah? What are their differences?"
"Well, for one, Blondie doesn't think Ginger has an aesthetic. It's just a mess of colors and pattern. Ginger also thinks Blondie can't think out of the box."
Peter played along.
"How are they ever going to see eye to eye?"
"Blondie needs to change."
"Isn't it wrong to expect someone to change?"
Wade barely considered the question, as if he had thought this all out before.
"Ginger doesn't expect it. One day, Blondie will just get it, that's what marketers do. They understand their client. And at the end of the day, that's all Ginger really wants."
Peter and Wade watch as the two leave together that day, the unicycle secured to the pole by a simply chain again.
In the next week came another development. The blue unicycle was back, but the white one was still at the scene.
Peter figured this meant that in some way, Blondie and Ginger were in tandem now. Two halves of a bicycle—if that bicycle is one of those high wheel ones from the 1800s.
"Do you think people know they met someone?" Wade asked that day, with nachos in hand
"What do you mean?"
"Like does Ginger's roommate know about Blondie?"
"Ginger has a roommate?"
"Of course. And Blondie lives in a studio."
Peter stifled his laugh. He belatedly realized they were once again talking about the hypothetical lives Wade created for those two.
"I don't know. I think so."
"Lucky." He paused to much on chips then continued: "I'm not the type of guy you bring home and introduce to your parents."
"You're not the type of guy I bring home period."
"I'm your dirty little secret."
Suddenly, sitting on this roof with Wade felt wrong. They were intruding on something special. Turning a moment just for Ginger and Blondie to share into a spectacle.
"Come on," Peter said, standing, "let's let them have this."
"What? Why?" Wade whined. "They don't know we're watching."
"Wade."
"Fine." Wade stood too, dusting himself off if only to delay things further. "If we leave, it ends," he added.
"I know. But we don't. We find other things."
"As long as it's with you."
"Keep bringing nachos and we can work something out."
Peter can see the crease of Wade's smile through the mask. For once, they leave first.
And it's over.
It takes three weeks to stop checking, but no one comes back. No unicycles in sight.
"What do you think happened to them?" Peter asked one day, the curiosity seeping through the cracks of every quiet moment.
"Who knows," Wade said with a shrug, though Peter could bet he had everything thought out. "The story isn't finished, it's just no longer ours to see."
"That's deep."
"You asked."
"Yeah, I guess- I don't know."
The silence creeps back in, and with it the curiosity.
"Dinner tonight?" Peter asked.
"I'm thinking Thai."
"I could swing that."
"Ha. Swing."