Chapter Text
It takes two months for MJ to admit he doesn’t hate Brooklyn like he thought he might.
Brooklyn isn’t Queens, and it shouldn’t be home, but MJ feels the borough like an undercurrent in his skin. But maybe that’s St. Margaret’s talking.
St. Margaret’s was not in the top five of MJ’s college choices—honestly, it didn’t even make the list—but somehow, between financial aid, a last-minute major change from Chemistry to English Lit, and what he could categorize as a quarter-life crisis, MJ ended up here.
St. Margaret’s is familiar: the shitty dining hall dinners, the even shittier and underfunded liberal arts buildings, the professors who either knew how to teach or were only experts in their field.
MJ grew used to the ever-present feeling that he was running behind all of his peers, like he’d stopped one day to tie his shoe and looked up to find everyone around him miles ahead and knee-deep in a five-year plan he hadn’t even begun to think about. Even more so, five months into the semester, the question of what he’d like to do with an English Lit major bothered him less and less, until it was just another sting in a sea of jellyfish.
The unfamiliar thing is his roommate, Peter Parker.
St. Margaret’s is one of those strange ‘city-is-your-campus’ colleges, which is another way of saying that living arrangements are left in the hands of students, and the beauty of a four-hundred-square-foot studio apartment is in the eye of the beholder.
MJ hadn’t known Peter before signing a legally binding contract with him, but MJ’s friend, Jeremy Hobbs—more like a friend of a friend, but it was all the same—went to Midtown High School in Queens, mentioned that Peter got accepted to MIT and St. Margaret’s, and surprisingly, he chose the latter. Jeremy reached out on his behalf, and the next two weeks were a blur of cordial conversations over the phone and meeting for the first time during move-in week.
Peter Parker is an enigma of a roommate. For one, he never complains.
Ever.
It’s the most unnerving thing, and makes MJ feel a little like an asshole. Their building, New Haven Apartments, is notoriously loud and lives up to its bad reputation in stride. He and Peter are on the second floor of a five-story building, and while Peter seems to have gotten used to the constant shuffles, thuds, stomps, and steps above them, MJ has not. He walks around with headphones on more often than not, and the habit is beginning to make his jaw ache.
Beyond that, MJ is convinced that Peter is either deeply antisocial or a vampire.
Peter sleeps like the dead during the day, and when MJ is tossing and turning at three in the morning, he can hear Peter in the kitchen fishing around in the drawers for cutlery or swearing softly to himself when something hits the floor. Other than that, the only things that prove Peter is an actual functioning human being are his habits of leaving a single empty yogurt cup on the counter and occasionally breezing through the apartment in the late afternoon for a glass of water.
In their first year as roommates, all MJ learns of Peter is that he is deeply addicted to artificial strawberry yogurt, he wears glasses in the daytime, he plays instrumental rock in the evenings, and nothing more.
Freshman and sophomore year pass easily like that, and avalanches in the summer before junior year.
MJ’s older now, and feels like it. He misses the time when his major did not stress him out as much as it does now—his future and prospects, or lack thereof. He somehow acquired two friends, Carlie Grey and Jean Sanderson, and although they’ve come over more times than MJ can count, they insist that Peter is a made-up roommate and MJ is affording his rent through more explicit means.
“I don’t have the ass for stripping,” he says one day. They’re piled in his living room, sharing a large cheese pizza from the place across the street, and there’s more grease on the pizza than actual cheese, but MJ doesn’t make enough from his student job at Elizabeth Library to afford much of anything else.
There’s nothing to watch, so they’ve put on the news. Last night, the Grocery and Go six blocks down got broken into by two men in animal masks—a wolf and a lion. The wolf held the cashier at gunpoint, while the lion ransacked the aisles, stuffing candy, mild medication, and Twinkies into a blue duffel bag. That should have been the end of it, but of course it wasn’t.
A few years ago, Brooklyn adopted their own little Spider-Man.
MJ isn’t sure if there is more than one Spider-Man, maybe one for each neighborhood. The Spider-Men? It makes his brain hurt to think about.
“I’d let him web me any day,” Jean says, resting his head on the peeling leather couch.
Carlie swats at him with a dirty napkin. “You’re talking about a hero, have some decorum.”
“Is there a ban on thinking about heroes naked?”
“Do you think of Mother Theresa naked?”
Jean grimaces. “Fair point.”
Some time later, Carlie commandeers the television and switches it to a teen drama show MJ’s heard of but never really watched, and while it’s background noise for him, it’s the pinnacle of cinema for Jean and Carlie. Carlie goes to turn up the volume, but MJ snatches the remote from her hand.
“Peter’s probably asleep,” he says. Truth is, MJ isn’t really sure what Peter does while the sun is still out, but his vampire theory grows stronger every day.
“Ah, Peter,” Carlie says, her voice drawn and teasing. “Your imaginary roommate.”
“He’s very much real.” MJ takes the last piece of pizza and ignores Jean’s groans. “He’s just shy, I don’t know.”
“You have to understand how this looks, MJ,” Jean says. “No one has seen the guy.”
MJ shrugs, a weird feeling washing over him. “He does his own thing, leave it alone.”
They leave it at that.
MJ is content to go through the remainder of his years at St. Margaret’s, having never spoken more than five words to Peter, but fate does not allow that to happen.
It’s July, and MJ spends most of his mornings in the corner of his bedroom, sitting directly in front of his plug-in fan. He decided not to go home for the summer, and Brooklyn in July is a beast.
MJ wakes up in an uncomfortable sweat most mornings and finds there’s no relief anywhere in the apartment. Rent is a stupid amount, but it is not enough to have an in-unit AC, so MJ suffers. He reads with a damp washcloth over his forehead, chews enough ice cubes to give a dentist a mild heart attack, and chugs electrolytes like his life depends on it.
Elizabeth Library doesn’t pay nearly enough to sustain him throughout the summer, so on top of that, MJ works the evening shifts at the local movie theater thirty minutes away. The hours are brutal, and the pay isn’t great, but MJ likes to catch glimpses of the newest showings and eat insane amounts of popcorn behind the counter when nobody’s looking.
Jean flew back to California at the end of the semester, but Carlie stayed over the summer. So, when she invites MJ to the musical theater club’s party on Thursday night, conveniently the only nights he’s off, there is no excuse to say no.
So, here he is in jeans and a black tee-shirt that’s already plastered to his back, in a house of people he doesn’t know, with music playing loud enough to rattle the walls. Whoever the DJ is should not quit his day job. How the hell is MJ supposed to dance to remixes of “Walking on Sunshine” mixed with “Umbrella”?
He endures it for Carlie, who screeches the lyrics into his face, her breath smelling like sour gummy worms and jello-shots. The music fades into “Uptown Funk”, and Carlie’s eyes go comically wide, and her voice goes comically higher, and she’s screaming into MJ’s face. Her smile is so joyful, and some of that joy spills onto MJ, and the next thing he knows, he’s three jello shots deep and nursing a lethal mix of cheap vodka and lemonade. The scary thing is, his drink tastes nothing like alcohol, and so MJ has two. Suddenly, every song that plays is the best song he’s ever heard, and the night is perfect, and has he mentioned he just loves Brooklyn?
MJ feels like he’s walking through water as he pushes through the crowd in the living room and makes his way to the backyard. The party overflows in every direction, but the last time MJ saw Carlie, she was hand in hand with some girl with neon-pink hair. They aren’t inside, so that really only leaves one option, right?
What MJ doesn’t anticipate is stairs. A lot of them. A whopping five.
He only makes it two steps before he trips over himself, his world going sideways before a hand yanks him upright.
MJ crashes into whoever’s pulled him up. When MJ rights himself, he barks a laugh.
It’s Peter. Of course, it’s Peter.
“Are you okay?” He asks. Peter’s in a short-sleeve tee-shirt that cuts off mid-shoulder and jeans that MJ has never seen before. It really dawns on MJ that he hasn’t seen Peter in anything other than pajamas in probably months—if not years. He’s having a hard time piecing together this information and blames it on the alcohol. “MJ?”
“Yeah,” he says too quickly. “Yeah, man, I’m fine. What are you doing here?”
“Harper Beasley, she’s in my Science of Sport class,” Peter says. He must notice that MJ is completely lost because he follows up with, “Harper’s the club secretary. She asked me to come.”
“And you said yes?” MJ isn’t sure why he asks this, but it’s too late to take it back now.
Peter laughs. “I said yes. Is that surprising?”
“I’ve never seen you go anywhere.” MJ shakes his head. He has to look down on Peter a bit, having a good two or three inches on him. “Since when do you leave the apartment?”
“You’re making me seem like a hermit.”
“You are!” MJ has to shout over the music, which has turned into a mix of EDM and hyper-pop. “You don’t leave your room!”
“You don’t see me leave my room,” Peter corrects. “There’s a huge chasm of difference there.”
“This is the most we’ve spoken ever,” MJ says. “We never talk, why do we never talk?”
Peter’s smile dims, and MJ misses that smile immediately. He’s only just got it. “I don’t know, we’re always busy.”
“I’m not always busy, I’m moderately busy.” MJ takes another sip of his drink, which is half-empty now, and the liquid darkens the stone stairs where it’s been spilled. “What could you possibly be busy with?”
“Homework. Classes. Contemplating the meaning of life. Are you going to throw up?”
MJ doesn’t think so, but he is gripping his solo cup tight enough to compress it, and saliva pools in his mouth. He shakes his head, changes his mind, and nods. MJ hates throwing up.
“Okay,” Peter says, not at all calm in the way he usually seems. “Okay, okay, okay. Let’s go this way—do not face me, if you’re going to vomit, vomit on literally anyone else. That’s great, keep walking. Excuse us!”
They make it all the way to the end of the yard where the grass meets the pavement before MJ thrusts his cup in Peter’s direction, places both hands on his knees, and pukes his guts out.
Peter rubs a hand on his back, and that somehow makes it worse. MJ doesn’t stop until he’s dry heaving and his eyes are watering.
Peter bends down to catch his gaze. “Want to go home?”
MJ nods. His throat is raw, and his shoulders are sore from tensing. “I think I need to shower. Or die. Whichever comes first.”
“Hopefully the shower,” Peter says, amused. “Come on.”
MJ wakes with a splitting headache and a foul taste in his mouth. Last night isn’t a blur, but MJ wishes it was; at least he could pretend he didn’t want to bury himself six feet under from the embarrassment. The first proper conversation he has with Peter ends with his breakfast and lunch on the sidewalk.
Fucking delightful.
MJ smells like a sewer, and he’s still in his jeans. His shirt is across the room and emitting the sour scent of vomit. Washing wouldn’t save it now; MJ has to toss it.
His bedsheets are a mess around his ankles—the duvet thrown to the floor, and the loose sheet half on the mattress. MJ groans as he fumbles around his nightstand for his phone. He needs to check on Carlie, see if she got home okay.
He almost misses the glass of water on his nightstand.
“The hell?” MJ props himself on a forearm, but his mind isn’t playing tricks on him. Next to the glass are two small white tablets and a note written in the world’s worst handwriting: Hope you feel better soon. Sorry we don’t talk. I’ll work on it.
-P
MJ takes the pills with a full glass of water, throws himself into an ice-cold shower, and yet he still burns. He can’t shake off the memories of Peter with his hand on his back, Peter in a white tee-shirt, Peter’s smile. It’s Peter, Peter, Peter all the way down, and MJ feels like an idiot.
Peter is his roommate, for God’s sake. And on top of that, he probably knows more about that Harper girl than he does about Peter. MJ doesn’t even know if he has a favorite color.
What if he’s colorblind?
MJ’s still stewing about this mid-afternoon. He’s on the couch in the living room, one foot propped up on the coffee table, the other on the floor. He’s watching the news again, meaning he’s watching Spider-Man intercept an ongoing car chase for the cops early this morning.
His phone is still on the charger back in his room. Carlie didn’t make it home, but she did make it to Neon-Pink’s dorm, which, from the look of her messages, was even better.
The front door unlocks and swings open, and there Peter is, in sweatpants and a navy blue STMU sweatshirt. His hair is damp like he’s freshly showered, and the neckline of his sweatshirt has a ring of water. Around his torso is an army-green messenger bag, nearly stuffed to the brim.
“Oh!” Peter shuts the door with a kick, slips off his bag, and climbs over the back of the couch to settle next to MJ. He props both of his shoes on the coffee table. “Anything good on?”
“You’ll have better luck than I will,” MJ says, and hands him over the remote.
That smile is back, and MJ wants to scream. He’s fucked. Royally fucked.