Chapter Text
The brush of his fingers against her cheek makes habitual warmth bloom underneath, warmth that spreads everywhere. It flows through her veins, fast, furious, could probably reach all corners of her body if she let it. If she wanted his touch to mean everything to her.
“It's a great party, MJ. You look beautiful tonight,” her boyfriend tells her with a smile tilted to the left, one that she can easily mirror when it's just the two of them in her bedroom with the lights dimmed, but not so much out here. There’s a certain vulnerability, she thinks, being able to flirt while there are others around, and maybe she hasn't unlocked that yet. Maybe she isn't capable.
His shoulder is leaning against the upper kitchen cabinet, familiar and casual, so he's comfortable with this. With her. She wants to smile back, wants to mirror him, but all she can do right now is nod, like there's something inside of her hitting an invisible wall.
She’s too aware of herself and others in moments like these, she knows it. That's all this is. They're not the center of attention, but they're not being discreet either, and she has to pretend that she can't feel anyone’s eyes burning into the back of her head in the same way the sun beams down on the earth, wholly and inevitably.
Paul sits with her silence for a moment, maybe in an attempt to assess how engaged she is, before straightening up—as if realizing it might be less than 50%. Unusual for them. His hand absently rolls ice cubes around his empty glass.
“Are you okay?”
“Hmm. Yeah, of course.” She meets his gaze with a ghost of a smile, like that’s enough reassurance. For him, it usually is. “Why wouldn't I be?”
“You just seem a little distracted.”
MJ just shrugs, shakes her head no. Maybe on a different day, she would've been more honest, more forthcoming, because she knows he likes that more than her evasive answers or worse, her silence. But not tonight. She doesn't know what's distracting her or when it even started, let alone how she would explain it to him.
The brief moment of concern has ended anyway, a certain relief she decides to keep to herself without analyzing it too hard. His attention has dropped to her collarbone instead, so her hand instinctually goes up, fingers tracing the two glass petals that have rested in the same place for four years. It's a habit older than the thought that follows it.
“Is that new? I've never seen it before.”
“It’s not new.” She's never taken the necklace off, even if it's usually tucked beneath the folds of her clothes. It feels safer there. Protected. Closer to her heart. And she'd feel a little more affronted by the fact that he never noticed this about her, this small detail of her favorite necklace, but then she reminds herself they've only been dating—casually—for less than four months, and those four months have all been sweaters and layers. “They're my favorite. Black dahlias, I mean.”
“Maybe I should've gotten you some as a housewarming gift,” he says with a laugh, though his eyes stray to the bouquet of pink roses she already arranged neatly into a vase on the counter. He squints, barely noticeable, a wrinkle appearing between his brows, but doesn't say anything. His thoughts are usually private, and she never pries—mostly because she's the same way, and prying into his head would mean owing him the same kind of vulnerability in return. “Where’s the necklace from?”
She wants to laugh. Not because it's a ridiculous question but it has a ridiculous answer, and it's not one she really understands.
There are bits and pieces from the past few years that have blurred in and out of her memory like fog on a window. Before she started college, before she even moved away from the city, certain things stopped making sense in a way she was sure they had before. Like everything in her mind had been shifted slightly to the left, throwing everything off but not enough for her to certainly say this is wrong.
What she does remember with conviction is a broken bridge, a broken necklace. She can remember the shape of hands cupping hers, but when she reaches for the memory of skin, all she can feel is fabric, tight and textured—a suit. She can remember the sound of a voice, pitched low and easy, but when she tries to picture his mouth moving, all she can see is a mask, unreadable. She remembers the way his words made her feel so warm inside, like a fire lighting up something brand new, never experienced before, but there was no one else standing in front of her.
Just Spider-Man.
Again and again, she remembers his presence as the only constant, like gravity insisted on bringing them together every time she needed him. She doesn't examine that too closely because if she starts, she isn't sure what she'll find underneath, or if she even wants it back.
He’s been there for her in the past, consistently. She just can't remember ever agreeing to that.
“You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” MJ simply says with a smile that really wasn't meant to come out, and she can sense Paul wants to push further. His expression tells her exactly how withholding he thinks she's being again, because what an unsatisfying answer.
But she leans forward as a cop out, pressing her lips against his in a way that's pliant and soft, hoping that he’ll take it as consolation. And he does—in a way that makes her stomach churn in guilt because she's always been too good at trading questions for kisses. When she pulls back, she finds him watching her like he knows exactly what she just did and is deciding whether or not to let her get away with it.
Her attention is drawn away though by the sound of a sharp breath, and she turns around quickly—just in time to catch the last few seconds of wide and rheumy eyes glued to her in an almost helpless way, like being trapped and not knowing how to get yourself out.
Maynard, he had said earlier, stuttering through each syllable of his own name as if he didn't even remember it. She thought he had been odd then, even odder now, but something deep inside of her wonders if he’s on the same wavelength of what the hell is going on? that she is.
That's how his face reads when their gazes lock, his cheeks flushing a deep red like he's flustered or frustrated or something angrier. But it doesn't last, his expression smoothing over in seconds, a perfect mask of indifference, even if his body language says otherwise, fingers clenched at his side and bottom lip rolling between his teeth.
She doesn't know what to say, even though she wants to say something. An excuse, an apology, neither of which she owes anybody for kissing her own boyfriend in her own apartment, but her throat still tries to work around the words.
It doesn't end up mattering anyway, as he's the first to break eye contact, looking down at whatever he can before his body even starts moving. The crowd makes room as he weaves in and out, all the way towards their exit. There's no goodbye as the door quietly clicks shut behind him, and she doesn't know why, but the whole exchange—whatever it meant to him—stings her in the same way that alcohol does when revealing a paper cut you didn't know you had.
She can still hear him though because his footsteps are comically loud, and she realizes he's going up the metal stairwell adjacent to their apartment. Perks of living on the top floor meant that they had easy access to the roof.
MJ hesitates for a moment, debating whether or not it's a good idea, and then decides to take the same path. It's raining, she can tell that much from the quiet tapping of water against the concrete. She doesn't know why but there's a twinge of nervousness building up inside her chest the closer she gets to the rooftop. There's no real reason to be following him, no plan of what she's going to say when he inevitably asks why she did.
But by the time she's outside, bombarded equally by cool air and a splash of rain, her heart drops like a stone in her chest. She sees him folded over himself by the edge of the rooftop, holding his head in one hand while the other is clenching a piece of paper, and it sets alarm bells off in her head.
“Hey, are you okay?” she asks with urgency, not bothering to fight the instinct to rush over, even though another rational—yet somehow less loud—part of her knows she should give him space, at least enough to breathe. His only response is a groan of pain, his eyes squeezing shut. “Hey, hey. What's going on? Are you sick?”
Maybe he has asthma, or maybe it's something else that she's equally unequipped for. Either way, she swallows down any remaining hesitation and crouches next to him, even pulls her phone out in case she needs to call 911. But then she sees his face as it lifts to meet hers.
His eyes are completely drained of any light, any color—just pitch black and bottomless.
MJ inhales sharply, a tight knot of fear forming in her chest, but then his voice comes out weak, soft, almost vulnerable, and it dissolves in an instant.
“MJ?”
Everything in his body goes limp a second after her name leaves his lips, and his head would have hit the concrete hard if it weren't for her reflexes working overtime, catching him. She cradles him in her lap, trying to calm her own breathing while simultaneously checking his pulse, ensuring he's just unconscious and not something far worse.
“You scared me,” she murmurs under her breath, mostly to herself but also to him, if a small part could still hear her. “I'd really appreciate it if you didn't die here, okay? Just hold on.”
She fishes her phone out of her pocket, shooting a text to Ned to see if he could help, and then looks down again. Brushes a strand of wet hair from his forehead, his expression somehow more peaceful now than before. Her gaze drifts to the paper that's still crumpled up in his hand and out of curiosity, she reaches for it.
MJ scans the first few words, her brow furrowing in confusion. A few more sentences in, a wide range of emotions starting to flood through her veins, and she decides to stop. Not just for her own sanity, but for the fact that maybe this is something that Peter Parker should be telling her himself.