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Because his friend said he needed a break from “staring at words” all night—which is her indelicate way of referring to the copious amount of readings MJ has to cull through in his fourth and final year of his Philosophy major—and because she hasn’t gotten drunk in a week and he in more than that, MJ’s knees were wincing at the incline as they made their trek up the infamously terribly-sloped road up to Club Condo. It’s Thursday, trivia night.
“Dude, I’m not built for this,” he groans.
Kemi’s a couple feet in front. “And what are you built for? Sitting hunched in front of your computer screen?”
He’s staring at the back of her head, but can see the eyeroll like he has x-ray vision. She’s been in an exasperated mood all evening and MJ subtly enjoys prodding her, knowing that the tension should dissipate over the course of the night.
“Also,” she whips her head around to face him, revealing the fact that he has been trudging slowly like the asphalt were quicksand. “Damn,” she quickly remarks. “Also, you should’ve pregamed with me.”
“I had to finish my outline. You know how crazy I get about finding a good stopping point.”
“Well aware!”
The hellish incline finally levels out and MJ breathes a sigh of relief. One right turn and they hit an intersection. Kemi presses the crossing button and MJ checks his phone.
We’re leaving now btw
We’ll get there in like 15-20
Peter
ok!!!!!
we’ll be there at like basiclly the same time hehe perfet timing
Ok see you there
:)
Peter
:D!!!!
“So?”
MJ looks up. The light’s still red.
“What?”
“Is he actually coming this time?”
MJ tucks his phone into his pocket and huffs.
“Don’t be mean, Kemi.”
“I’m asking a simple question. Betty’s already there holding our table and we signed up as four. I’m just saying…”
“Saying…what?”
Kemi shifts, preparing. She crosses her arms.
“Did he ever give you an excuse for ditching you last time?”
“He had an emergency.”
“Of what kind?”
“He had to go to the hospital, literally. I saw pics. He had like chemical burns and shit.”
Kemi’s eyes go wide. MJ can’t distinguish whether it’s surprise or concern or her usual incredulous sarcasm.
“Oh, wow.”
The little crossing man pops up on the screen and they cross, passing by a woman carrying groceries. They were in a certain pocket of the city that was quiet for the meantime. Sirens were blaring as they usually do, but a few blocks away. Far enough that they can pretend they’re not in Queens.
“You attract some very strange people. Have you ever thought of that?”
“Like you?”
“Mmm.”
Kemi hums, looking at MJ sideways, a playful yet pensive glint in her eye. It sets MJ on edge a little.
“What?” he asks, befuddled.
“Nothing. You just have an interesting life.”
They come upon Club Condo then, two bouncers idling outside a hole-in-the-wall brick building adorned by a glittering RGB sign spelling out the name with a decorative cabana roof over the letters. After getting their IDs scanned and confirming they’re here for the event, they’re sent inside. It’s fantastically well-lit and the bar is manned by two young women wearing polos. The spot makes use of its space well. The small amount of floor space is governed by small tables but mainly booths to make space for a small stage in the corner, and there’s a second tier with slightly larger tables to seat up to six or eight, which is where Betty, Kemi’s friend, is waving them over.
“Hey guys!” Betty yelps excitedly once they hit the landing, exclaiming an oof when Kemi slams into her with a bear hug.
“Good to see you again Betty, finally.”
“Yes, finally.” MJ doesn’t miss the way her hands rest at Kemi’s waist for a nanosecond too long or the way her eyes soften now that they’re face-to-face. But then she wakes up. “MJ! Hi! Good to see you out of your hole!”
MJ snorts as she comes in for a hug. “Good to see you.”
She squeezes his back, then pulls away and sizes him up, her hands roaming up his arms.
“Tense much?”
“His posture is shit,” Kemi adds.
“I did not come here to be ganged up on.”
“Silly,” says Betty.
“That’s exactly what you came here for.”
They all go to sit down. Betty had already ordered waters for the table and MJ, already instilled with a destabilizing anxiety and nothing-to-do-with-my-hands sickness, goes for unwrapping the straw and going for a sip, looking around idly at the other tables.
MJ hoped that the two girls would be so caught up in each other that they might, at least briefly, forget about him, sidelined to the other side of the table, strategically placed so that he’s only in the periphery of Kemi’s vision, who’s wholly focused on Betty, talking her ear off about the new advances in big tech and the new releases from artists they like.
He takes his phone out of his pocket and checks it under the table, immediately lowering the brightness after the flashbang, and opening his messages. Nothing new from Peter, last message being over thirty minutes ago. They should’ve had the same ETA, according to him.
“Running late?” Betty suggests.
“Or maybe not running at all?”
“Kemi,” Betty scolds her lightly. MJ knew he always liked Betty. She looks at him with eyes that read more of sympathy than pity, cat-like and gently prying. “Maybe his Uber’s running late. Some people have no sense of urgency.”
“Or he’s held up with something,” says Kemi.
MJ realizes he hasn’t gotten a word in. He swipes his tongue over his teeth. To be fair to Kemi, he is tired of being stranded. He and Peter have been talking for over a month now, having met by unlikely circumstance—an order mix-up at Paddy’s Bagels. He walked out the door and made it three steps before unwrapping the foil and being met with the vile concoction of sausage, egg and nova lox on a cranberry bagel. Peter apprehended him and apologized, but MJ demanded an answer for the crime of ordering the bagel he’d just laid eyes on, leading Peter to invite MJ to try a bite, leading to MJ discovering just how terrible Peter’s taste is.
Ever since then, he’s been endlessly intrigued by Peter, and that’s part of his anxiety: how far does this go? Is it just intrigue? He likes Peter. They have incredibly fun, exploratory conversations. Since talking to Peter, he’s started opting for salt-and-vinegar chips over barbecue and delved into Yu Yu Hakusho and Gintama. He’s figured out that Peter’s in his second year studying Biology with a minor in Photography and a burgeoning interest in becoming a wildlife photographer. They’re the same age, but he took a two-year gap after graduating high school, which MJ hasn’t questioned. He also hasn’t questioned the long stretches of time where Peter won’t reply, practically falling off the grid before returning with profuse apologies and doubling-down on his communication to make up for his frequent absences, shamelessly double- and triple-texting him through his late-night study sessions which have only recently evolved into Facetimes.
This is only the third time they’ve attempted to cobble a hangout together. The first time, he had to leave early during the movie. The second time was the chemical burns.
MJ clears his throat.
“He’s probably…yeah, I think I’ll call him, probably.”
He doesn’t catch either of their faces while he slides out of the booth and ambles down the sticky steps, passing a group of friends already reeking of booze.
Outside, he realizes he misses the night air, despite the cold. The bouncers eye him warily, so he walks down the block for a bit before finding a good nook to dip into for some privacy, away from the crowd. He isn’t sure why he’s so self-conscious all of a sudden.
He unlocks his phone, but doesn’t make the call just yet. He debates in his brain for a bit, thinks about giving him the benefit of the doubt and not doing anything and walking back in and telling them that there was no issue, and that he’s literally two, three, four minutes out. No big deal. He’s not being stood up. He’s not a loser and he’s not insecure.
Calling feels like an act of defiance. And yet, he does.
He holds the phone up to his ear, grumbles preemptively. In all that dithering, he didn’t even prepare for what he’d actually say.
It rings and rings. And rings. He huffs.
Then, he picks up.
“Hey! Hey MJ, uh—I’m so sorry. I know it’s been, uh…not twenty minutes.”
“Damn near forty, Parker.”
“I’m so sorry. I’m genuinely so sorry for this one—”
“But not for the other ones?”
A car horn and what sounds like the rumbling of train tracks. It just now clocks to MJ that everything sounds distorted and blistery, Peter’s mousey voice obscured like he’s in the middle of a hurricane.
“Where are you, Peter?”
“On the way.”
“No, Peter, give me a physical location.”
“Uh, Park & 85th. I’m passing the phone repair…the nail salon…the falafel truck…I can’t make all that up!”
MJ stares at the brick wall in the front of him and the garbage dumpster down the alley and sniffles.
“Just come, okay? Please.”
“On everything, I’ll be there. Five minutes. Eight tops, not even ten.”
Maybe he’s feeling petty, but he sucks his teeth and hangs up without answering. He waits to see if his phone buzzes again, but it doesn’t. His screen stays black. He breathes out a long, deep sigh.
He wishes he had a cigarette to ease his nerves, but he quit smoking over the break and it’s honestly sad that the thought even crosses his mind. He keeps an eye out on the way back, walking slowly, hoping that Peter would somehow magically appear before he got there, waiting for him at the door.
But he walks back in alone. The MC is at the corner of the stage, seemingly distressed, conversing with an employee who’s fiddling with the sound system. The MC lifts the microphone that was given to him and taps it, causing a shrill, piercing spike of feedback to reverberate throughout the venue, everyone recoiling. He makes a face, then puts the microphone down.
“Uh, how’s everybody doin’ tonight?”
MJ climbs the steps and reappears, catching Kemi’s eye.
“How’d it go?”
Betty whips around to see him. They’ve both already got their drinks—a Corona for Betty, a martini for Kemi—and a basket of fries for the table.
“He’s coming, no biggie.”
Betty seems satisfied, nodding. Kemi not so much. MJ returns a head tilt.
“I swear. He said on everything.”
“Hold him to that,” says Kemi.
“I plan to.”
The event was supposed to begin at nine and it’s already fifteen past, so it seems the entire city is running late. The MC is halfway through what seems to be an improvised stand-up routine, resembling an up-and-coming comedian waxing through an opening monologue at the Oscars. The bar bubbled with forced laughs. He could spot some try-hards at the tables on the ground floor already having their pencils in hand that they must’ve brought from home, considering he hasn’t seen anyone come by with pencils or paper yet. MJ slumps the side of his face into his fist, his gaze slowly magnetizing toward the front door, eyes glazing.
“I’m sorry, could I speak to you for a second?”
When MJ looks up, he’s met with the stern, sinewy face of an older man with a grizzly beard wearing a low-button flannel and khakis. MJ shoots a cautionary glance at the other two; they both shrug.
“Sorry girls,” he says with a wave. “Have you ever thought of being on TV or going into acting? Or maybe even modeling? You have a wonderful face. Really captivating, truly. Adonis-like, even. See…” He fishes out his wallet and pushes himself into the booth butt-first. MJ scoots down a bit to make room. He brandishes an orange-and-white business card reading Ned Leeds. “I’m with RC Talent Agency and we’re casting for a new show that’ll broadcast on the CBS. The first season was a hit, so you’ll get exposure for sure—”
“I haven’t really considered it. I’m really busy up until May so I probably won’t be able to do it.”
“No, that’s perfect! Filming is in July. It’s a summer dating show with a lot of—”
“Dating show!?” Kemi exclaims, making eyes at MJ, who scoffs and waves a dismissive hand.
“I’m…I’m not really…I don’t think—”
“Really? You don’t think so?” Ned counters, shoulders hunched and leaning forward. “What’s your name?”
“Jean-Michel, but my friends call me MJ.”
“MJ? Fantastic. That’s a movie star name.”
A psychic eyeroll. This guy is such a schmoozer.
“MJ, if you’ll give it a shot, I promise it’ll be a great experience. We worked with the production team last year and they were great. All the contestants—well, most—loved their time on the show and they earned, on average, a surplus of 2.5 million followers following the broadcast!”
“Wow,” Betty remarks.
“Exactly!” Ned shouts. “It’s a major career booster. Take my card and say you’ll think about it, MJ.”
MJ stares at the proffered business card warily, as if it were radioactive, then takes it, if only to get this Ned out of his hair for a second. Except he stays planted there.
“So when you go to apply, make sure you—”
“Hey!”
It was almost like his pleas had finally reached the heavens, and the angels decided it was time to alleviate his pain. A camo-jacket-clad and backpack-wearing Peter Parker appeared next to the booth, his chest heaving and a confused yet excited toothy grin on his face, looking between MJ and Ned, eyes bouncing like a pinball.
“Peter,” MJ breathes, mirrors his wide grin, then tempers it. He can’t show that he’s too happy.
“Oh, am I in the way?” says Ned.
MJ doesn’t dignify him with a response. Ned shuffles out of the booth and Peter takes his place with an awkward neutral look.
“Well, Jean-Michel,” says Ned with a showy bow, “I hope we’ll get a call from you soon. Ring my office any weekday between nine and four and someone will answer. Have a good night.”
“You too,” Betty chimes, then raises her eyebrows once he’s gone.
“Well, Jean-Michel,” Peter echoes in that snooty, growly tone of Ned’s before unzipping and digging into his backpack.
“Jesus Christ,” MJ sinks his head into his hands.
“Ta-da!”
When MJ removes his face from his hands, he sees Peter’s splotchy bruised hand holding a bundle of wind-blasted white hydrangeas and pink roses wrapped in clear foil. For some reason, it’s his flaming red knuckles he sees—and worries about—first, then the explosion of color and the floral scent.
“Oh, wow.” MJ almost frowns. Peter gives them over and he takes it. “Stop it, Pete.”
“What?” Peter’s grin widens, all mischievous and knowing, apple of his cheeks pink.
MJ sighs, levels him with a piercing look. “Thank you.”
“Actions speak louder than words. I can say sorry a million times—”
“I would still like to hear it,” MJ interjects. Peter groans.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m a stupid idiot loser, I’m sorry—”
“Woah, omit that last part. Don’t talk about yourself like that.”
“You’re right. But anyway, I’m gonna show up more. And on time. Actually, let me not promise that. Ten minutes late at the worst. The very worst.”
“Uh huh,” MJ nods, lifting a brow. “Ten minutes?”
Peter puckers his lips to the side, sheepish. “Fifteen on a bad day.”
“And what was today about? Couldn’t have been good.”
“Uh,” Peter stammers. “I mean…I don’t wanna kill the vibe.”
“Guys, lock in, it’s starting.”
The MC finally got his microphone working and he’s halfway through explaining the rules, but MJ lets his gaze linger on Peter for a little while. He lets everything show on his features: his red sniffly nose, his expressive eyebrows, his taut lips. MJ feels like he’s been waiting for something. The lights dim.
“Sorry I was kinda useless.”
This late at night, 164th is lit in grungy greens and yellows by the streetlights and the headlights and the storefronts. Peter hangs his head low, hands in his pockets, blushing. MJ’s holding his flowers close to his chest, as if the slight breeze might knock them out of his clenched fist. They came third in trivia, with MJ and Betty contributing to most of the team’s success, racking up a lion’s share of points when it came to presidential history, horror films, and theatre.
“At least we each got Starbucks gift cards,” MJ says.
“A whopping ten dollars.”
“You only need an extra ten to afford a latte.”
“Lol,” says Peter drily. His Chucks scrape lightly against the concrete, loose shoelaces getting caught under his soles. He shoots MJ a shy, conspiratorial look.
“What?”
He shrugs. “You gonna take that guy up on his offer?”
It takes a second for MJ to figure out what or who he’s even talking about, then he remembers the encounter that happened. Peter’s arrival had completely blacked it out. He blows a raspberry.
“Yeah right.”
“What?”
“That’s totally not my gig, man.”
Peter rolls his eyes. “You don’t have that real hustle mindset. I guarantee you, you go on that show, boom!” An animated motion with his hands, which elicits a bubbly laugh from MJ.
“Boom, what?”
“Everybody in your DMs begging for a slice of MJ pie.”
“You’re insane. MJ pie? You think I’m giving away slices for free?”
“Oh, my bad.”
“Yeah,” MJ mirrors Peter’s bemused smirk. “I’m not about that life. I just wanna graduate and then…”
His voice trails off. They’ve passed most of the pedestrians, so it’s really just the sound of engines rumbling and phone conversations.
“And then what?”
“I don’t know, really. It’s weird. I’ve always been a planner, you know? Thinking at least three steps ahead and working toward it. And the goal was just to get my degree and not burn out which—mostly successful so far, as long as I complete this thesis. Which I will. Then, in May…I don’t know. I think I’m just tired of working so hard all the time and having such high expectations for myself. I just want to do nothing. That would be nice. That would be so sweet. How’d you do it?”
Peter blinks at him. “Do what?”
“After high school, you took a couple years off.”
“Oh, that…” Peter scratches the back of his head, a tic that MJ clocked since the first time they met. It’s cute. He’s like a little mouse. “I had some bad shit happen. I lost someone. I didn’t really make the choice to do nothing. I just couldn’t.”
“Oh, man. I’m so sorry Peter.”
He shrugs. “It’s fine. Happens to everybody at some point. And I lost someone before that so I wasn’t a rookie or anything. Feeling sorry for yourself gets really boring after a while. I’m functional now. And human again. See?” He flashes a needlessly cartoonish grin, stretching his cheeks.
A sympathetic smile bleeds through onto MJ’s face. “You don’t need to prove to me that you’re human. I believe you.”
It comes out more sentimental than he means it to, but maybe that’s just the way his voice decrescendos when he’s talking to Peter. There’s something about him, whether because of or despite his nerdiness, his David Fincher-esque rate of talking, his lanky build, that makes him feel safe and calm, like there’s an invisible forcefield around them.
They turn down a street and walk for a bit before Peter halts them.
“Wait. Stay there.”
He takes a few steps back toward a bench and digs through his backpack. MJ looks at him sideways. Then, he brandishes a camera and starts fiddling with the settings.
“Hello?”
Peter points up. MJ is standing under a lit-up sign of a small indie theater that seems to have closed for the day.
“Take a few steps back for me.”
“Are we really doing this?”
Peter grins, then makes a shooing motion. MJ groans but complies, holding his flowers close to his chest and teetering backward until he’s sufficiently doused in an orange glow.
“Fantastic,” says Peter, moving forward and crouching a bit, searching for an upward angle. “This is great. It makes your face look like a sunset. Very pretty.”
MJ has a hard time posing after that. He likes to look stone-cold, a little callous in pictures, not exactly to look tough, but to project an image of calmness, like he has everything together. But he’s having a hard time trying to decipher whether Peter’s pretty was in reference to the lighting or his face, and the way he said it, like it fell into a pile of feathers while it left his mouth, has him buzzing from the pit of his stomach.
Peter does the photographer thing that MJ has only seen in movies, where he moves through a sequence of positions to get different angles: down on one knee, then crouching like a frog, then one leg up on the bench, then full on standing on the bench, then standing closer. He only thinks of suppressing a cheesy smile and keeping a tempered, content one.
“You have dimples. So cute.”
MJ rolls his eyes.
“Okay done.”
He breathes out a sigh of relief while Peter puts his camera down and flicks through the images he’s just taken with the grin of a mad scientist who’s just discovered a new alloy or something.
“You look pleased,” says MJ. “What are you gonna do with those?”
“Mmm, maybe forward them to that guy’s agency?”
“You’re trying to set me up.”
“Joking. I’ve changed my mind. You really shouldn’t go on that show.”
MJ stalks closer. Peter’s still distracted fiddling with the images.
“And why is that?”
Peter looks up, nervous all of a sudden. His trepidation shows all over his face, just like every other emotion. MJ can pick up on it easily. His mouth twitches with an apprehensive jolt.
“‘Cause I want you all to myself.” He looks to the side. “In like, a muse kind of way, of course.”
“Ah, of course,” MJ echoes, closer now. He has him up against the back of the bench where his backpack still lay unzipped. While a blush overrides Peter’s face, MJ’s eyes dip down at the open backpack. Just a cluster of paper and folders and—
“Is that…”
Peter moves so quickly that it doesn’t even register to MJ, barely does, just a flash, him instantly leaping to shove his camera in and zip it closed, flinging it around his back again.
They stare at each other for a second, but for MJ, he thinks, and thinks, and thinks—the burns, the sudden leaving, cancelling, the lateness, the ghosting. The wind-swept flowers. That antsy, ready feeling that’s always dripping from Peter like he’s always on high alert.
“Uh…” Peter drones.
“Halloween was months ago, and I know I’m not crazy…”
Peter breathes out, every bit of his guard loosening and breaking down.
“You’re Spider-man.”
Peter hurriedly shushes him. The reaction confirms it.
“Oh my god, you’re Spider-man—”
“MJ!” Peter pleads. He places a hand on his shoulder and backs him up into an alleyway, out of earshot from the late-night pedestrian crowd. “I was gonna tell you, I swear, like literally soon, tomorrow even, I was going to—”
“I’m not offended you didn’t tell me, Peter. I’m just…”
Peter bites his lip. “You were gonna figure it out eventually.”
“I thought it was ridiculous. I thought I was ridiculous for the thought even crossing my mind. He hasn’t been—you were gone for so long.”
Peter nods, watching the dots slowly connect in MJ’s head. It feels heavy, but Peter cracks a smile.
“You look so pretty when you’re confused.”
“Not the time to shmooze, Parker.”
Peter throws his hands up. “My bad.”
“I think Spider-man’s first appearance was just about three weeks ago, a little less than a month. You apprehended those guys who were running a trafficking ring out of a hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen.”
Peter blinks at him, surprised. “You really know a lot about Spider-man.”
MJ clears his throat and averts his gaze. “I used to be a fan.”
“Really?”
“I had a poster of you on my wall.”
Peter basically emits a squeak in response.
“Don’t make it weird. I was seventeen.”
Peter, galvanized, places his hands on his hips and trots forward, chest-first.
“You had a crush on me.”
“I did not have a crush on you. I had a crush on Spider-man, dumbass. I didn’t know you.”
“But now you do.”
Peter pins MJ against the brick wall, braced by his arms. It’s just their two bodies, separated by the almost-forgotten bouquet of flowers. They’re hidden from passersby by a pile of low-rate furniture and bulging trash bags. MJ can’t really believe that Spider-man—a Peter Parker-flavored Spider-man—was standing right in front of him, had given him the time of day, had made trivia night for him. But his brain is running like a hamster on a wheel. He needs one last thing.
“Why did you come back?”
Peter’s so close now that MJ can feel his breath on his face.
“Because I remembered there are people here I still want to protect.”
MJ, whose brain runs a mile a minute, can’t think of anything else to say, especially with his heart dropping to his feet, liquefied, his eyes stinging. Peter’s almond eyes shine with a mixture of regret and reverence.
“I promise I won’t run away again. If you let me have this, MJ, I’ll stay—”
“Just kiss me, Pete.”
Peter crashes into him as fast as he can without hurting him, quickly bracing the back of MJ’s head with his hand to keep him from hitting the wall. His voracity catches MJ off-guard, who lets out a strangled yelp which settles into an unashamed moan, clutching Peter’s shoulder as Peter’s other hand snakes around his waist. He feels the cold metal of Peter’s glasses when he goes in for another from a different angle, Peter’s hand lining his chin this time. It’s breathtaking, literally. MJ can’t even breathe with the way Peter is attacking his lips. He taps out by patting his shoulder, breathing heavy when he pulls away.
“Let’s, uh…” MJ looks around. A rat scampers into a trash can a few feet away. “Let’s find someplace more romantic.”
Peter nods dutifully. He moves to go toward the alley’s exit, then stops, an idea fruiting in his brain, and offers MJ his hand.
“I know a place. We can get there real fast.”
MJ, if he had a Spidey-sense, he imagines it would be triggering right now.
“No sir. We are going to walk.”
Peter sucks his teeth. “Goddamnit.”