Archive of Our Own

The opening is burned into your memory with green, glittery gel ink. Weapon of choice for a fifteen year old with a crush. Object of raging shame for a rent-paying adult with a job. You just had to love that pen. 

The tool of your sophomore obsession is evading justice in a landfill, having run out of its seemingly infinite ink mid-junior year. It died valiantly in the final stretch of a history DBQ, and your cute seat partner—you can't quite recall a face or name—lent you his blue ballpoint pen. 

"Hey, you there, Cronkite?" 

You startle from your thoughts, almost dislodging the receiver from where it sits between your cheek and shoulder.  

"Yeah, sorry," you sigh into the line. Your thumb fiddles with the clicking part of the mysterious classmate’s blue pen as you try not to spiral over the last time you crushed this hard. "Just...weird week, I guess." 

The guy on the other end—Peter, no surname provided—chuckles. It's small. Almost lost to the static. If you didn't know better, you'd call it bashful. "Well, that is why I'm your friendly neighborhood IT support." 

You choke back your laugh on the grounds of dignity. The neon sticky note on your monitor says it best: JUST A VOICE. One with a boatload of awkward, boyish charm, but still just a voice. Doesn't really stop you from thinking about it in bed, though. Maybe you have a thing for faceless guys. 

Around you, the chatter of the bullpen goes on. It’s one of those relatively q-word days, meant for idle gossip and fluff pieces on fall fashion (you can’t say quiet lest a breaking news headline jinxes your peace). 

No red rash of editing marks on your article. An actually good beverage you bought ‘as a treat’ sweating a ring of condensation onto your desk. No one’s phoned in a tip-off either.  

Someone near the drip machine that spits out petroleum for coffee complains loudly about J. Jonah Jameson’s questionable journalism. An intern rushes by with a stack of proofs taller than her head, shoes squeaking against the linoleum floor.  

None are wiser to the way your feet are swinging beneath your desk, or the way you duck your head to hide a grin. You feel like a high schooler all over again, giddy to hear a sweet, sincere voice like Peter’s. 

You just like him. You can’t put your finger on why, but you can pin down his silly quips, the way he mumbles to himself as he fixes your network issues, and the occasional muted chuckle that makes you feel girlish and warm. 

"Hey—could I ask you something random?" You worry the old rubber grip of the barrel between your fingers. Peter hums a low yeah, shoot as he sorts out your third login failure of the week. 

As nonchalant as you can manage: "Have you ever asked someone out? I—uh, asking for a friend." 

It was only a passing curiosity, mulled over in the living room last weekend. MJ had been doodling in her sketchbook; Ned designing his Lego MOC; and you finishing one of the many abandoned jigsaw puzzles. 

The autumn sun was setting then, lighting up the dust angels dancing in the air. Rays passed through the thin curtains and filled the walls with soft gold. 

This was the time to unpack all that had happened during the week. Your small council, of sorts, to debate the next steps.  

“He seems like a sweet, but super shy person,” you said, picking through the pile of colorful tiles. “If he stutters answering the phone, would he even be the kind to make the first move?” 

“Yeah, those guys are either single for life, or they’re the CEOs of Sex,” Ned blurted, swiping his hand through your pile to make space for his Legos. You shot him a glare, but there was no bite behind it. 

“Doesn’t seem like either.” 

“Keyword: seem,” MJ interjected. “Is this a Love Is Blind scenario?” 

You blinked. The piece you held in your hand clattered to the table. “I cannot believe you know what that is.” 

She flicked her eyes to the ceiling, the barest hint of an exasperated smirk tugging at her lips. “Blame Paul.” 

“I definitely will.” 

“Well, if he stutters over helping you log in, there are two options.” She placed her pencil down and held her fingers up in a V. “One: he’s naturally shy and totally hopeless. Two: he likes you and is still totally hopeless.” 

Ned made a face, stretching his mouth into a thin line that matched the downward set of his brows. “So optimistic of you, MJ.” 

“Say he is cute…” you started, stealing one of Ned’s 2x4 bricks and turning it in your fingers. The smooth plastic glinted in the dimming light.  

“Statistically, your chances plummet,” he said, punctuating it with a matter-of-fact snap of Legos joining. 

MJ hummed a negative, bouncing her shoulders. “I know people who thought Sammy Abbott at MIT was hot, but no one wanted to date him because he was shy.” 

Ned argued, “Yeah, but Sammy Abbott was quiet shy. Flash said he had the charming dryness of a plywood door.” 

“Didn’t know we were listening to Flash now,” you mumbled. MJ huffed a little snicker at that. 

“Go for it,” she said, picking her pencil back up. “But don’t forget to expect disappointment—” 

“—So I won’t be disappointed.” 

From your peripheral, Ned nodded sagely as if this was advice from his own mouth. “What’d you say this guy’s name was?” 

Your chest burned at that. “I didn’t. But that’s for me to know and you to find out.” 

Back in the present, Peter hiccups. Flustered, "Uh...maybe twice?" 

If you lived in a cartoon, a cloud would be thundering above your head. A slow, withering curl grows into your spine. Expect disappointment. “Oh.” 

"Did—you didn’t expect that," he stammers. The furious sound of keys clacking fills the line. "It didn’t go the way I wanted it to." 

“What makes you say that?” 

“I wanted it to be romantic, you know? Like, everyone does, so I obviously had to fumble it really badly,” he exhales. It’s tinged with self-deprecating amusement. Voice softening, “We still dated for a little. Then…life got in the way, and that was shitty, but I’m on better terms with her now.” 

You let the words sit in the static for a moment. Just seems polite, to give things like these some space and let the feelings bloom on their own.  

“I’m sorry that life got shitty,” you say, earnest. And even though a tiny part of you nips at the fact that he’s single, the better whole knows that he might still be grieving it. “It’s good that you’re on better terms, though.” 

“Yeah, yeah, it is.” Another stretch of quiet, filled only by the murmur of your peaceful office and the sounds of his keyboard. “How about you? Have you…?” 

“Oh, never,” you breathe. That would be crazy. The last time you even acknowledged your feelings had to be… 

You shut your eyes to see that glittery green Dear Spiderman emblazoned in your memory. Thank god you never tried to find him and send it. The misspelled name was enough to bury it in the depths of your shoebox of secrets.  

Ned thinks the man is from Queens. If that wasn’t incredibly local, he had narrowed it down to Midtown High with his top two suspects: Flash Thompson (disgusting), and Mr. Harrington (disturbing).  

Both are highly unlikely, because Flash’s voice lives in an entirely different octave, and you once saw Mr. Harrington trip over a banana Looney-Tunes-style. It has to be a secret third option.  

Whatever. The whole thing that happened in sophomore year is just short of forgotten. You don’t have a crush on Spider-Man anymore…but if he did ask you out, however outlandish that fantasy is? 

Hmm. Alright, maybe you still hold some residual feelings. Just admiration. Gratitude. That’s all there is to it.  

MJ totally doesn’t catch you biting your cheek when you come across a close-up of his skintight costume on social media. You can’t help that he’s fit.  

Heart picking up, you interlock your fingers and twist them to and fro. You huff a passive, vaguely amused breath through your nose. “Y’know. Not much hope for me. Kinda too awkward for that.” 

“You’re not awkward,” Peter says immediately. 

“Oh, please—” 

“I mean it. You’re perfect the way you are.” And that deserves a silent moment of reflection, too. One you spend ringing celebration bells in your head, until he remedies: “I mean—well, you know…in the way everyone is perfect the way they are.” 

“Yeah, ‘course,” you mumble, wringing hands falling slack and stunned. “Totally get it—” 

A loud series of chimes cuts you off. Peter bites back a muffled curse. 

“Shit—oh shit, can’t say that—um, I have to take another call. Sorry.” You can practically hear the apologetic wince in his voice. You wonder what it looks like. “Really great talking to you again, and your login should be fixed now. Bye!” 

Disconnect tone.  

That has to be a rejection. Even if he didn’t outright say it, the universe certainly crushed your hopes with that ill-timed call. You couldn’t ever face (err, speak with) him again, not with this lingering between you.  

At least he called you perfect in that honest tone that has become his signature, which was followed by him stumbling through an excuse about everyone being perfect. 

You call Ned next, because of course you do. It takes three rings for him to pick up, unlike the usual two—probably because he’s still a little annoyed over the fact that you chucked his week-old banana lumpia into the air fryer for yourself. He should have labelled his leftovers. 

“Dude,” he sighs, heavy. You can imagine him plucking the glasses off his face and scrubbing his cheeks with his hands. “I’m modding an argument in the Spidey server right now. Toddlers are way more polite than these guys—” 

“Dude, I have to keep it friendly with the IT guy.”  

“Shit, did he call HR?” Ned stresses every word, which smooths down your fraying nerves for a moment. If you’re overreacting, then your roommate is surely framing this as a doomsday scenario. 

“No! No, he didn’t...wait, at least I think he didn’t.” Peter wouldn’t, right? You usually let him do the talking with all his muttering about the firewall not recognizing your credentials, which is occasionally interrupted by a passing question or two about how you’re faring. The only time you compliment him is when he fixes your problems. 

“Dude!” 

“Sorry!” you hiss, cupping your hand over the receiver and peeking over the top of your cubicle. Everything is still in place; the drip pot sits untouched on the counter, and your editor-in-chief's office door is tightly shut. You lower yourself back into your chair. “I only asked him if he’s ever made the first move.” 

A set of hushed grumbles makes its way through the speaker. “Did you at least work it into the conversation?” 

You shut your eyes and pitch your head down, knocking it against your knuckles. “...I was supposed to do that.” 

You think he might be trying to say your name, but it just comes out in a jumble of hisses and frustrated sounds. “Oh my god, you are—okay, did he say anything, though?” 

“Uh,” you choke out, a little high-pitched and breathless and warm at the memory. The clicking top of your ballpoint pen digs into the pad of your thumb. “I mean...said he fumbled really badly and still dated her for a bit. He’s single, I think? And he also said I’m perfect the way I am, which—wow.” 

You can’t help the shy, disbelieving smile blooming on your face. You giggle (giggle!) quietly at the way Peter’s vocal chords formed around the word. Perfect. 

“CEO of Virgins, this guy,” Ned mutters, and even though it’s under his breath, you know he means for you to hear it. “So, you’re panicking because...?” 

“Oh, he hung up on me.” 

“Then why are you calling me!” 

“I don’t know, Ned, maybe I want a second opinion from one of my best friends,” you hiss, throwing your hands up to emphasize, or gesticulate, or get your needless anxiety across the line. “It was so awkward. He’s never gonna pick up a call from me again, which sucks because the rest of IT doesn’t give a shit that I can’t log in to check my doc, and he’s also literally the only person who’s been nice at work so far—” 

The speaker crackles. 

“You need to chill out,” MJ says, droll. There’s an audibly wry curve to her mouth; Ned probably shuffled out of his room and passed the phone to her so he could go back to modding the arguments in his Spider-Man Discord server. 

Sheepish and small, “Hi.” 

“Hello.” She sighs, shifting in her seat. She allows a brief stretch of silence for you to do a set of box breaths—in four, hold four, out four—before starting again. “It’s not like you’re getting Blipped.” 

“Yeah.” 

“What are your next steps?” 

You fish for your options and string them together before responding. “Carry on, and if he asks, I’ll just say I was curious...?” You wince at how much that sounds like an uncertain plan that will crumble like the streetlamp outside your office building, the one Spider-Man crashed into the other day. 

MJ also doesn’t seem too impressed. The patient silence is almost overbearing, forcing you to steel your resolve and admit, “I...will own up to it and apologize if it made him uncomfortable.” 

“That’s better.” 

“Thank you,” you say, exhaling hard through your nose. She is ridiculously correct, once again; the weight of the feelings swelling in your chest is easier to manage. 

“Now, I’d like to get back to applying for a job, and you should be exposing the Daily Bugle’s pro-establishment, anti-vigilante psy-op. Or whatever it is you do at your desk.” 

“Write fluff pieces on the entertainment industry?” 

“Uh, sure. By the way, Ned’s asking about some shoebox he found...” 

You gently crane your neck over the wall of your cubicle again, scanning the bullpen for anyone that would scold you for using the company phone on company time. Your editor is at his desk, good...and the chief’s door is open, which means she is wandering out and about on the floor. 

Shit. 

“...labelled do not touch, private stuff inside, and he wants to know if he can use it—” 

You stumble over your own breath, frantically blurting, “Gotta go, tell him to do whatever he wants with it. Bye.” 

You have no idea what you’ve done to yourself. 

// 

Your side grows warm when Ned sidles up to you on the couch a week later. He has this strange, anticipatory glimmer behind his glasses, and a matching grin that makes you do a weary double-take. 

You’re rightfully claiming your rest and relaxation by flicking through all the boring stuff on the bootleg app he designed and put into the TV somehow. All that comp-sci brilliance, and he still refuses MJ’s suggestion of becoming a hacktivist.  

It takes a good minute of him waiting and you scrolling past at least twenty unappealing movie posters for you to acknowledge his weird, unannounced presence. 

Training your eyes on the screen and feigning nonchalance, you say, “…What.” 

“Has he talked to you yet?” 

As the universe would also have it, not only did Peter dip to catch a phone call while you were mid-failing-at-flirting, but your heartbreaking IT problems have vanished mysteriously. 

You aren’t quite pouting, but you compress your lips with the corners slightly downturned. “Define ‘he.’” 

“Your editor,” he deadpans. 

“Is this about IT guy?” 

He looks taken aback, one eyebrow curving up in thinly veiled surprise. “Of course, this is about IT guy...” 

MJ pads over and curls up in the armchair, hardly sparing a glance before quipping, “Guilty politician face.” 

Ned catches her drift automatically. Incredulous, with every syllable more stressed than Spider-Man must be, “You haven’t called IT guy.” 

You slump further into the couch. “Why yes, because I don’t have a valid excuse seeing as my IT problems have magically disappeared.” 

Ned shrugs, giving you a pointed stare. “What if he left them unfixed before so you’d keep calling…?” 

You gape. Actually gape, with your brows shooting up your forehead and your eyes blinking hard and all. Then it breaks, leaving you cowering behind your hands and drawing your legs up to your chest. “Don’t feed my delusions, Ned.” 

“Sorry.” 

MJ sits up straight, seemingly recalling an important memory. Butting in, “By the way, I left your mail on top of the moving boxes.” 

Savior once again. 

“Thanks,” you say, dropping the remote into Ned’s lap (his real objective) and skittering back to your room. 

The walls are half-bare, just plain paint and the occasional poster or picture. Most of your things are still in your moving boxes, save for the essential furniture and work clothes, and the Boston University sweater crumpled atop your pillow.  

MIT just wasn’t a fit, and the rejection was expected. That letter was tossed into the trash can at MJ’s old café job like fodder for an amateur basketball game. But you had originally been waitlisted at BU too, for reasons you can’t seem to remember. 

It wasn’t one of those run-of-the-mill, ‘unable to make a final decision at this time’ letters. They had a concise explanation that remains blurry in your mind. You remember feeling strange about it, a little out-of-body as if another you had sat behind your eyes instead. 

At least you remained close to your friends, just a train ride away from locking in for finals or getting buzzed because you’ve been dumped by more internships than boys.  

You only regret the times you weren’t there. When you were stuck in class and MJ dragged Ned to get his caffeine-induced palpitations checked out. When they’d video call you from some STEM retreat and you’d be in your dorm, living off instant ramen. 

You blink, chasing away the strange well of memories. Two envelopes sit atop one of your boxes: an unimportant ad letter about letting an agent broker job opportunities, and… 

Your eyes scan it three times over. Heartbeat spiking, breath quickening. Your fingers feel like wood. 

Your name, your address. In a dark blue, neat, but still boyish scrawl, as if this was science notes that needed to be legible: From Spider-Man. 

(Yes—he actually bolded the hyphen and capital ‘M’ with vicious purpose, if the deep indent of the paper is anything to go by.) 

Wisely, he didn’t wet the gum-seal on the envelope. Instead, the flap is tacked down with Scotch tape over an old, cute sticker that feels oddly familiar. 

It looks like it had been peeled off something else before he put it on the letter. Likely a notebook. The edges are slightly yellowed and wrinkled, and Hello Kitty stares up at you innocently. 

You don’t know why you take great care in not damaging her when you pop the makeshift seal. It just feels special in some unexplained way, so you think yourself right when gently slipping your fingers in the space between the paper flap and body and gradually peeling the adhesive away.  

You put the envelope on your desk, next to the pair of scissors you’ve been using to slice open the packing tape on your boxes. The letter inside is just a simple, folded scrap of printer paper, tucked beside a familiar page of high school stationery that your green glitter pen is slightly visible through. 

The first line of Spider-Man's note is simple enough. Your name written blue ballpoint ink like he tried to come across as polite on paper, followed by: Hi, Spider-Man here! 

You read down the rest of the letter, which is thankfully short. 

(There’s a weird smear between ‘pretty’ and ‘smart’ that looks suspiciously like a comma someone tried to erase. Your traitorous heart twinges. Pretty smart? Or pretty, smart? Then there’s the very dark period cutting off the sentence, like Spider-Man wanted to go on but just pressed his pen to the paper instead. Maybe you’re just looking into it too much.) 

Stunned eyes drift to the corner of the page, meeting a poor smudgy attempt of a self-portrait. It’s mostly a blob of cobweb lines, plus the recognizable dinner-plate lenses—though they seem like an exaggeration of their real size. You think he might be doing a thumbs-up, but it also looks like a finger-heart and a crude gesture at the same time. 

For someone whose suit is deceptively high-quality for something clearly home-tailored, Spider-Man has shit doodling skills. Or maybe he kept smudging the ink and gave up on redrawing it. Or maybe he just kept it ambiguous and distorted because he thought it would be funny for both of you. 

You try not to find it funny, you really do. You exhale hard through your nose as you press your fingers to your mouth and will your heartstrings to stop vibrating like a fiddle. 

Alright. It is funny. It is also new, and giddy, and ridiculously girlish for something you thought you had outgrown. You were so close to forgetting the old, unrestrained self you tried to bury once you became an adult. 

You can’t even imagine how Spider-Man got his hands on your letter, though. As far as you knew, you had stashed it into your shoebox of secrets, which should have been with your things unless you lost it in transit or—oh. 

“Edward Leeds!”  

// 

Wanna get out of here? 

Freshman homecoming. Cheap strobe lights in blues and purples. Dollar-store streamers and tinsel hanging from the rafters of the gym. It’s too loud, and your dress looks like a kindergartener’s compared to the sleek, modern styles everyone else is wearing. 

The makeup you did yourself sits heavy on your eyelids. You didn’t know what primer was for, and you paid the price when your eyeliner disappeared in the middle of the dance because you blinked it away. 

There’s a boy you don’t recognize holding out his hand with a cheeky, hopeful smile. Sweet brown eyes. Dark brown hair swept back with gel, but you think you’d like him with his natural curls more. Sometimes the edges of him get a little blurry when you squint, or his hand-me-down suit turns the same color as the strobe lights, or his face draws a blank. 

You should recognize him. You know him, but you don’t. He shouldn’t be here, in this juvenile scene, but he fits in a little too well. 

Like he was supposed to be standing in front of you this whole time, but someone Photoshopped him into the mass of dancing bodies instead and painted over the space poorly. And now that he’s back, you’ve realized that the missing thing you’ve been looking for has been in front of you the entire time. 

“Huh?” 

“Do you wanna go!” is what you think he exclaims, trying to drown out the booming music. You shake your head, confused. He takes a step toward you, but you’re rooted into the sticky gym floor, and you don’t want to move. 

Something in you unfurls. He’s familiar. Safe. You really care about him, whoever he is. 

The boy puts his hands over your ears, muffling the sounds of the party. You can hear him a little better as he explains, “Me and Ned are skipping. We’re gonna grab pizza and watch Star Wars at his lola’s. Wanna come?” 

“Yeah,” you shout, misjudging how loud you need to be heard over the ocean of sound. He winces, and you pat the back of his left hand in apology. “This party’s lame anyway.” 

“Tell me ‘bout it. Flash almost poured punch down my back,” he chuckles, flicking his eyes up in that playful way you know so well. Knew so well. Knew...not at all. “May would kill me if I stained this jacket.” 

Who is May? The jacket sits loose on his shoulders, almost like it was meant for a taller, more grown man. The buttons are repaired with different shades of thread. The hem hangs too low. 

His name is just on the tip of your tongue as he grabs your hand with an eager grin and leads you toward the doors. His skin is warm, palm a little callused. There’s a fading mark on the side of his thenar eminence, which came from the unfortunate combo of a Bunsen burner and an incorrect molarity during third period chem. 

You don’t know how you remember that. 

A small, red bump peers at you from his nape, half-eclipsed by the collar of his button-down shirt. 

You feel like you’re underwater. Your limbs drag, your ears are still muffled even though he had long removed his hands. The glass doors draw further away the longer you walk toward them. 

His gel is breaking in the back, letting loose soft waves of brown. It takes everything in you to lift your free hand, reach for the odd bump at the back of his neck. 

You sit up too quickly. 

Your messy room reorients in a dizzy whirlwind. The pale dawn sunlight replaces the neon strobes; the shadowy figures of your dancing classmates become the stacks of boxes you’ve been reluctant to unpack. Dust motes swirl in the slat of light from your window, like the glittering tinsel hanging from the rafters. 

There’s a faint muttering coming from beyond your door. MJ probably fell asleep watching a true crime documentary again. Or it could be Ned, on call with his teammates because he’s been playing through the unholy hours. 

You should go back to sleep. You could still beat the morning rush if you got five more minutes. But your mouth is a little dry, and you should use the bathroom before one of your roommates steals it.  

The remnants of your dream are starting to slip away, despite the way your mind grasps for the wisps of that faceless boy. You’re only left with the image of the scar on his hand by the time you drag yourself out of bed. 

Shuffling out of your room, your bleary eyes take in the rest of the apartment in disjointed fragments. 

First, the TV is dark and MJ is not slumped on the couch like you thought. Second, your best friend has his back to you and is rummaging around the kitchen. Third, you can hear Ned’s snoring through his shut door. Fourth, the window beside the TV is wide open and a pleasant morning breeze is swaying the blinds that hang in front of it. 

...That is not your best friend looking into the fridge. 

The yelp that bursts from your mouth is startling enough to wake your slow brain up. 

The man turns around with his hands up and dinner-plate lenses blown wide. You register the bright red and blue he’s wearing, the webbed lines running across the fabric. Finally, the muscular swell of his thighs in the suit, which match exactly what you’ve memorized from the candid photos on your feed. 

You plaster your back to the wall, fingers spread and pressed flush to the paint as you gape at Spider-Man holding a plastic jug of lactose-free milk in your kitchen. 

“Uh...um—I...” He sets the jug down and leans against the open door of the fridge in a manner that’s too relaxed to be casual. In a thick, obnoxiously fake Queens accent, “Hey there.”  

“Ignore him,” MJ shouts from her room, the syllables slurred together and heavy with sleep. “Does that sometimes.” 

“MJ,” you warble, “where’s your nailed bat?” 

“Nonononono, hey!” Spider-Man protests, dropping the nonchalance and furiously waving his hands in panic. “Don’t need to do that, I’m perfectly harmless and they always let me in!” 

“They were both sleeping,” you say, face twisting. You try to get a grip on your racing pulse, but you only manage to calm your breaths. 

He stammers, “I mean—yeah, okay, but I’m also really good friends with you guys, remember? I just come in to grab a bite sometimes, and Ned said he had banana lumpia.” 

“I finished it last week.” 

No wonder he was so irritated, you realize. He’d been saving it for Spider-Man, who would have been sick with food poisoning had you not eaten it. Self-satisfaction rises in your chest—seems like you can save New York’s hero, too. 

“Shit,” he says, dropping the frenzied hands and sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. His lenses narrow in disappointment. “You...just moved in. They told me that you got held up by your lease in Boston.” 

You eye the deep scratch on the floor at that, the one that is evidence of the time freeze you missed because your lease hasn’t expired yet. A dropped mug, hitting the scuffed hardwood at the wrong angle, shattering and leaving a scar.  

They’ve been a little touchy about the subject. MJ only acknowledges it when she’s wisecracking about how your landlord will cover it up with crusty white paint. 

Swallowing, you inch away from the wall, but keep your tiny footsteps wary. “So what are you doing here?” 

“I thought I literally just said that I was getting breakfast. Oh, and...” Spider-Man tips his head up, pondering. “I wanted to see you.” 

You tell yourself that you should be alarmed. That getting a return letter and a visit in the same week is something out of a daydream you’d conjure up in sophomore-year English. That your heart can’t be racing and that your sensibilities cannot be staging a mutiny just because you’re seeing his huge thighs in real life. 

“What,” you say, very astutely. First face-to-face encounter with the object of high-school-you's desires, and so far you’ve just freaked out and looked dazed in your pajamas. 

“The letter,” he fills in, as if it should make any more sense. He speaks haltingly, pitching each word up at the end like a question, “I know you probably wrote it a while ago, but I’m kinda tight with Ned and MJ, so I wanted to hang out with you more?” 

“Are you tight with them, or are they just being nice because you’re Spider-Man.” 

“C’mon, you’ve seen the stalker wall,” he deadpans. 

You click your tongue. Touché. 

“I have work, you know,” you grumble, making your way to the bathroom. 

“Great! I can walk you like normal. Or would you prefer swinging? I don’t usually give free rides, but—” 

You pull the door shut on its squealing hinges and press your forehead to the chipping white paint. This has to be a continuation of your weird, alternate-reality-esque dreams. 

The floorboard just outside the bathroom creaks, and not in the way Ned or MJ make it creak either. Ned’s is more abrupt and short because he has a habit of stomping. MJ’s is long and drawn out because she walks through the world like she’s plotting every move. 

Spider-Man is unnaturally light on his feet—that much you know. So when he pads across the apartment on the balls of his feet, presses on that board like he knew it would be there, it feels like he’s giving you space. 

“I’m sorry,” he says after a stretch of silence. Through the flimsy door, through his mask, he sounds...real. A little guilty. Just this side of self-flagellation on the spectrum of apologies, which is a lot better than begging for forgiveness. “Uh—coming by here, it’s still pretty new to me. I get too excited sometimes. Your friends are super nice, and I’m sure you’re just as kind as you were in that letter...” 

Another beat passes. All around you, the building breathes; pigeons settle on the windowsill, the light shifts as the sun climbs higher, your upstairs neighbor turns on the shower with a squeal of the pipes. 

You imagine him ducking his head down, hands held politely in front of him. Maybe he’d twist his lips beneath the mask, or bite them. Maybe he’d squeeze his eyes shut as he thought out his next words. Are they a soft, wide brown? Is his hair the same color? 

He lets out a light cough. “Anyway, I know it’s pretty weird. I’m a little embarrassed; you might be too. I don’t wanna pressure you, but I really would like to be just friends.” 

Your fingers curl around the cold metal of the doorknob. Heart pounding and hesitant, you twist your wrist and free the latch with a quiet click. He’s standing a good distance away from the door—yep, with the respectfully clasped hands and ramrod posture—when you crack it open by a millimeter. 

He tilts one of his gloved hands up and does a shy little wave, which shouldn’t make you feel so buzzy on the inside. Sheepish, “Hi again.” 

You widen the gap between door and frame by a couple inches. The journalistic chip you keep in your shoulder overpowers your wariness with an itching curiosity. You make a vague circling gesture around your face. “Do they—”  

“Oh, yeah,” he breathes, sounding relieved as his lenses widen impossibly. He starts reaching for the top of his head. “I could—I mean, if you really want to know, I don’t mind—” 

“No.” 

Spider-Man freezes, a question already shouting from the way his body stiffens. 

You open the door all the way and force yourself to take a step out. The board creaks beneath your feet. “I wanna figure it out.” 

He tilts his head, ever-so-expressive with the blanket of red covering his face. “You sure? It’s really hard. Ned spent, like—” 

“—Five years, I know.” You offer a tight, polite smile. 

“But you have to keep it under wraps,” he rambles, holding up both of his index fingers to really communicate the point. “I can sit exclusive interviews, but if you catch me, no headlines. I mean, I can get you a participation trophy—a shirt from Delmar’s, they’re pretty rare—but you should know that I can get a very good lawyer for an NDA.” 

“Alright, Spider-Man.” It comes out easier than you expected it to. Seven years ago, you would have tripped over your own words and made a fool of yourself. You reach your hand out with your mouth threatening to curve up, because good journalists do that with their sources, right? 

“...Are you doing a magic trick again?” 

“What?” 

Again? 

“Oh,” he says, dramatically rocking back on his heels like the answer is so obvious now. He claps his hands together like he just found you wanting to shake his hand out of respect extremely amusing. “Right. Forgot that you journalists are so formal.” 

Spider-Man joins your hands with a firm grip. He doesn’t crush, but he holds and lingers for a second too long. His skin is warm through the thin material of his gloves; strangely, the memory of an accidental burn on the side of someone’s hand gets dredged up. 

You had soft palms over your ears. Playful, earnest eyes meeting yours. You take a sharp breath in, and somehow you can still taste in the back of your throat the heavy salt and grease of the air at the pizza joint you and Ned went to after freshman homecoming. “Do you like pesto on your pizza?” 

Spider-Man drops your hand, a disbelieving scoff escaping him. “Hell yeah.” 

// 

The fourth time he swings—hah, pun intended—around the apartment, he presses a sandwich from Delmar’s into your hands. It’s the right weight, the right resistance and crunch of the toasted bread when you press your thumbs into it, and when you lift the layers apart at your desk, you find that he got your order down to a tee. 

“Weird,” you mutter, blinking rapidly at the perfect ratios of ingredients between the two buns. Was this the spider-sense he was talking about?

“Uh, the only weird thing I’m seeing is this firewall,” quips Peter, an amused grin clear in his voice. It took another week for your IT problems to flare up, which was around the time you complained about them to Spidey.  

Peter didn’t so much as mention your horrible fumble the last time you had spoken, and when you brought it up, he just said that he thought it was an innocent question. Totally get it, I’ve been asked that before were the exact words. 

And your brain had matched the graceful way he handled it to the way Spider-Man quickly shut down your explanation about that weird schoolgirl love letter you wrote him. You dismissed that quickly though, on the grounds of being impossible and outlandish and the product of an overreactive imagination. 

“I’m talking about my lunch,” you say, forcing your voice flat to not sound too impressed. You never know if Spidey is listening. 

I have eyes and ears everywhere, he had muttered in a raspy, dramatic voice over a bowl of popcorn. It was a poor Emperor Palpatine impression compared to Ned’s, yet you couldn’t help but think that they really complimented each other. Then he tacked on in a lighter tone, Well, mostly because the good citizens of New York tell me stuff for free. Though my AI buddy helps me occasionally. 

As you said: weird. 

“Why?” Peter asks, still hammering away at his keyboard. “Something wrong with it?” 

“No,” you sigh, slapping the layers back together and wiping your hands off on one of the many napkins Spidey so graciously provided. “This...new friend I met, he got me a sandwich and guessed my order correctly.” 

“Seems like a friendly neighborhood guy,” he offers. 

You almost choke on your own spit. He can say that again, you think to yourself. “I just dunno how he knew to toast the bread for two minutes, too. Like, contents are easy, but bread?” 

“Maybe it’s intuition.” 

Scoffing, “Or freaky magic.” 

“You never know,” Peter says, chuckling lightly. Your chest pulls a little too tight for comfort. You really do pine for the bashful, sincere cadence of his laugh. “My aunt used to be able to guess your order with one look.” 

“Now that is a story I’d like to hear.” 

// 

Dream-Boy is shrugging on a yellow Decathlon jacket with a hangdog look. 

Dappled light streams in through the windows, patterning the vinyl seats with blurs of leaves and street lamps. The sunspots flicker over his face, glowing where the corners of his eyes crinkle. 

Your eyes protest staring at that hideously bright coat, but you still haven’t parsed his features clearly. You know he has brown eyes, a mid-length button nose, and he stands on the shorter side of most guys at school. 

He also has brown hair, which had turned darker during the summer between freshman and sophomore year. The ends of it curl, especially at his nape, and sometimes they brush the backs of his earlobes and make him itch there on instinct. 

You just can’t quite put it all together. 

“I can’t believe you’re rejoining just like that,” Dream-You scowls. You sink into the stiff bus seat, leaning your side into the firm support of your overpacked bag. Ned is further back, huddled over something ‘top secret’ in his row. “You should’ve gone back to band. The horns sound like shit now.” 

“Nah, Mr. Baylor is making that up,” he retorts, face twisting. He folds his arms along the back of his seat and rests his chin there with a disarming, boyish simper that makes the nervous knots in your stomach loosen. “He should talk about the saxes’ formation. You woodwinds are so spoiled.” 

You make a show of rolling your eyes until your sockets ache. Not all the woodwinds are spoiled. It’s only the flutes and saxes...definitely the two piccolos, because they’re so lonely and Baylor always holds their hands...oh, alright—as assistant section leader, you have to admit that the clarinets are spoiled too. 

It is not your fault that Baylor associates the trombones’ and trumpets’ bad behavior with the attitude of the entire brass section. Add in the fact that percussion is genuinely fucking insane, and you get the result of woodwind favoritism. Besides, the saxes aren’t even as bad as people make them out to be—they just play up their weirdness for comedic relief. 

(You are ninety-percent convinced that Dream-Boy has something against the saxophones because one of them only plays Squidward noises when he walks by.) 

You hold up a very non-threatening middle finger in front of the boy’s amused face. 

“That’s a neat magic trick,” he quips, flashing a cheeky smirk. 

“I will pour Windex into your tubes.” 

“I sold my horn.” 

“Then you will find used reeds in your shoes very soon.” 

“Yours, hopefully?” he asks, teasing grin widening into something that spells danger for your fluttering insides. 

“Hmm, I think not. I’ll collect them from the saxes.” 

Dream-Boy puts on a Tony Award-winning production of fake gagging and retching. Mouth curled in exaggerated disgust, eyes half-rolled into his head. He braces a hand on his sternum like he can feel a hairball down there, all while you watch him with an uncontrollable giggle tugging at your cheeks.  

He only stops when Liz calls him up, because he chokes for real at the sound of his name and flares bright pink. 

“For the threat—” he looks at you pointedly, pinching his lips together as he shoves a hand into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled yellow post-it note “—I’m keeping your daily paper.” 

You don’t even have time to feel disappointed or make a grab for it.  

He shrugs his shoulders with an apologetic raise of his eyebrows before rising and bounding toward the front of the bus, where Flash is whining about losing the sudden-death practice.  

“Do you ever get the feeling that he’s hiding something?” comes a dry voice across the aisle. Maybe you do. Maybe you don’t. 

Maybe you’d rather wait until he was comfortable with telling you the real reason why he quit band, because you sure as shit think that the Stark internship is total bull.  

You dip your hand into your bag, pull out a semi-flattened granola bar, and offer it across the aisle to MJ. She squints at it, sidelong from behind the curtain of her curly hair like you’ve just brandished a sword. “Want one?” 

// 

Who knew that the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man could mutter colorful words beneath his breath? 

“Crap…dude, where did my fuckin’ thing…duh, dipshit.” His self-narration is the only thing that breaks the calm in the living room. 

Late-autumn wind drifts in from an open window. The last gold fingers of the sunset reach through the blinds, cast slats of light against the walls, and shine through the dust motes lingering in the air. 

You’re the only one holding down the fort tonight. MJ is interviewing for a job that she’ll certainly turn down, and Ned is trying a new restaurant in Flushing—he also promised to bring leftovers for you to try, and you hope that he remembers to grab some extra sauce too. 

Currently, Spidey is struggling to stay afloat in this little jigsaw contest, which is seeing the two of you race to complete more than half of the same puzzle. For a guy so sticky, he has some awful butterfingers when it comes to the tiny pieces. 

His gloved hands make muted thumps as he pats the floor for the little tile of cardboard he just dropped. 

“I’m not usually clumsy like this,” he insists earnestly, lenses going wide to plead for your belief in him. “But I’m also a lot better with Legos, so…” 

“Way too expensive for my R-and-R budget,” you laugh quietly. “I did them with Ned in high school, and oh—the pain of separating two-by-twos…” 

By the way his mask ripples, you think he winces at a similar memory. “Yeah, I used to do it with my fingers—lost some cuticles to that. Thank god for the brick separator.” 

“Deserves a Nobel Prize, that orange gift.” 

He snorts. You ignore every organ in your chest cavity that wants you to leap across the coffee table. 

Instead, you study his hands, long and slender and skilled, as he picks his way through the pieces. The thin fabric of his suit stretches over his tendons as they flex. You loiter on the shallow dip between the muscle and bone of his elbow. And the strong line of his shoulders, the edges of which are illuminated by the soft yellow sunlight... 

Bad idea. God, you've become such a pervert. 

Warmth creeping up your neck, you duck your head with guilt lodged in your throat. 

“Tell me a little more about yourself,” you say, trying to tear your attention away from your increasingly obvious attraction to Spider-Man. You keep Peter’s voice in the back of your mind, but that awkward, boyish charm laced through the memory only serves to make you feel more flustered. “They said you have brown eyes, but so does most of New York.” 

 He snickers at that and tips his head down in shyness. “It’s really hard, right?” 

“I’m working my way up to it,” you mutter, face twisting and indignance flaring in your tone. “How do you smile?” 

“I just smile,” he says with another light laugh. You imagine his eyebrows drawing down and a lopsided curve lifting his lips. He seems like the kind of person whose eyes squeeze into endearing crescents when he finds something funny. 

“No, I meant—like, do you show teeth? Or are you one of those frog smilers?” 

“Erm...teeth was for school pictures and stuff. Sorry, what’s a frog smile?” 

“The upside-down smile. Makes you look like a happy frog with the wide eyes and flat mouth.” More pleased than a cat at a bodega counter, you tease, “Spider-Man is a frog smiler.” 

Spidey freezes with his mask stretched a little longer, which you have learned means that his mouth is ajar. “…I guess.” 

The hesitance to admit it is palpable. Playing coy, you set a smug angle to your mouth and lean forward like you’re partaking in conspiracy. “Can I see?” 

He angles his head to the side. His shoulders creep up to his ears and he stammers, “Wait, that—doesn’t that defeat your whole mission?” 

“I’m not asking for the full monty, Spidey,” you say, flicking your eyes up to the popcorn ceiling. But would you mind the full monty? ...No, you would not. 

He huffs and slumps down for a moment. With defeat being the only path in front of him, he resigns to hooking his thumbs beneath the flap of his mask and shrugging it up to rest just above the tip of his mid-length button nose. 

You can’t place why you’re drawn to it for a moment. Just his nose, and you aren’t trying to do a police sketch. But something about it is so achingly familiar, lancing through you for a brief flicker of a half-buried dream. 

He flattens and stretches his pink lips into a closed, charmingly lopsided, frustratingly dorky angle. He’s a geek, through and through. You note that in your mind for later, pinning it between the hypothesis that he’s a Midtown alumnus and the fact that Ned guessed his general appearance correctly (with a Pinterest photo reference, of all things). 

Eyes trace the defined edge of his jaw, the remnants of soft baby fat lining his cheeks. Peach fuzz, mostly, but some faint shadow of stubble lines his cupid’s bow. He lacks dimples, but makes up for them with smile lines that look like they were once deeper. The tiniest ends of curly, dark brown hair peek out from his nape. 

Spider-Man’s mouth is…handsome, in a purehearted, tender way. You could imagine Peter grinning like this as he worked out your IT issues. The sunset is kind to him, and the warm orange light from the lamps even more so.  

Breath hitches in your windpipe. You stop yourself from leaning forward too much; you clear your throat and whip your gaze toward the wholly interesting floorboards. 

Stilted, “Two steps closer to my NDA.” 

// 

You can’t really put your finger on when the little scraps of paper started coming in.  

You just woke up from another one of those eerily realistic half-dream-half-memories, tangled in your sheets and shivering in the winter sunrise. Lately, tears have been staining your eyes, but they always moved to the sliver beneath your door. 

By then, you had realized that you were already looking forward to the note Spider-Man wedged in that space, and the dreams were all but forgotten. 

They’re piling up in their container, which has been overhauled from your shoebox of secrets to your shoebox of notes-that-bring-back-your-little-crush. The cardboard is a little singed and has some tiny holes, courtesy of Ned trying to build a cyberdeck inside it. 

This morning, the strip of lined notebook paper said: Let’s get pesto pizza again, I’ll wear my matching silly socks! - Spidey 

You couldn’t have laughed. You didn’t let yourself, but the flimsy paper wrinkled between your fingers, and your mouth pinched tight before you could break into a grin. Nothing helped your insides from somersaulting. 

So you wear your silly socks to work, too. 

You tell yourself that the matching socks are a coincidence, that they’re just a friends thing—like an inside joke that circles back every blue moon. It shouldn’t mean anything when you pull them on, or make your breath quicken when you think about how happy Spidey would be when he sees them. 

“Hey!” Peter’s greeting is as cheery as ever, and he huffs through his nose a little like he had to redirect a shy chuckle. His voice takes a turn toward confusion. “Um, you haven’t called in a while.” 

“I was actually starting to think that you fixed me for good,” you say, reaching for the trusty ballpoint pen in your bag. The old plastic only has a few scratches, and the rubber grip untouched by age. You run your thumb over the clip and ponder over Peter, and Spider-Man, and the mystery boy in your dreams. 

“I was close,” he tells you as the familiar song of his keyboard fills the static of the line. “Y’know—well, could I ask something really weird?” 

“‘Course, shoot.” You rip a post-it note off the pad and begin scribbling down pitches for your next article. Chances are, the chief will ask for another Spider-Man exclusive to piss off J. Jonah Jameson.  

He blows out a long stream of air, as if he crossed his fingers and sought a falling star to grant his wish. The gentle rushing sound of it tickles, sending frisson down your spine. 

He could do anything, you think, and you’d still be soothed by his voice. Then, you’re washed with guilt over crushing on two—or three, if your dreams are anything to go by—guys at the same time. 

“Uh, here goes: I…know you interview Spider-Man a lot. Do you know who he is under…all that?” 

“No.” You answer truthfully. No, you’re still rooted at square one, and you have a feeling that there’s still something amiss. 

Still, you find yourself…weirdly content. 

The you from before Ned gave out your letter would riot. Life for him, you, and MJ just felt so odd about Spider-Man. Like you should be compelled to know him, like the man himself is some missing piece that explains why he was always there. 

In DC, in Europe, in that weird moment where the three of you ended up being sent home by Dr. Strange via sparkling portal.  

Like there was a gaping hole in your lives that you weren’t aware of until you thought of New York’s best again.  

And now that he’s so entwined with your orbits, leaving granola wrappers in the kitchen trash and crashing on Fridays for movie night, you just feel complete again. Never mind the fact that he keeps his mask on for your games. Or that he only lifts the edge up to jam a handful of popcorn into his mouth—the sight of which makes your head spin with heat and déjà vu.  

It hasn’t mattered. The most important thing is that he is as kind as you remember, as optimistic, as funny. That he radiates a comfortable heat when he sits next to you, and never fails to fall into a new yet familiar routine.  

That you might really like—or even be halfway over the threshold of loving—him. You hate that he started feeling like a best friend so quickly, that you get a little nervous and warm when he’s perched beside you on the couch. Most of all, you hate that you didn’t just let him pull off the mask in the first place. 

“I think I cared more about the kind of person he was than what he looked like,” you admit, twisting the phone cord around your finger. “He knows people so well and when you spend time with him, you feel...so safe and cared for. You kind of remind me of him. Is that weird?” 

Peter is silent for a long moment. You fear he might have hung up, until he takes a trembling inhale and mumbles gently:  

No, no, it’s not weird. 

// 

“You—” he swallows, eyes red-rimmed and wet as your stomach sinks “—you’re gonna forget who I am.” 

You freeze. Feet fused to the cobbles beneath the ruined Statue. The gulls have begun to cry, but your ears feel so underwater that they sound like mourning doves.  

The world narrows down to a tunnel on this single moment. His lashes stick together with tears. Sweat darkens his hair, plastering the curls to the devastated furrow of his brows. Scrapes and already healing cuts litter his skin.  

The quiet lap of the Hudson is a taunt to the overwhelming heartbreak swelling in your chest. How dare it be calm? How dare it pull waves to the shore while your best friend gets pulled away from you? 

Dream-Boy is panting, body trying to chase the exhaustion of a fight. The sunrise is still kind to him—watercolor hues of pinks and oranges mute the bruises blooming beneath his skin. 

His lip is split. You don’t feel steady enough to lift your hands without shaking apart. 

MJ has always been a fighter. She’d be a much better journalist than you, with her cutting questions and witty retorts. 

She loses her sharpness the moment all of your faces crumple.  

You watch, hollow, as MJ scrambles in disbelief, pressing for answers and assurances that he’ll come back, he’ll find them, and it’ll be like none of this ever happened. 

I’ll explain everything. I’ll make you remember me. 

Ned fawns. Goes numb, those wheels in his brilliant brain reeling towards accepting, trusting that your friend won’t go back on his promise—because since you were kids, he’s never lied. 

They do their secret handshake, the one you only got halfway through deciphering despite the years you’ve spent trying to memorize it. Dream-Boy betrays the last step, clasping Ned’s hand and pulling him close.  

He moves to MJ next, and they talk in hushed, sincere tones. Their lips meet, so tender that the kiss might as well be a bruise, and the sun is so forgiving to bask them in a slat of warm light. 

Still shell-shocked, you instinctively avert your eyes to give them privacy. Your nails bite at the flesh of your palms, knuckles aching from how tight you’ve clenched them.  

Debris and gravel crunch underfoot. 

“I don’t have a lot of time,” he whispers, voice a raw tremor. “I’m sorry.” 

Solid arms snake around your middle. He holds you flush to his chest; body heat floods you through the thin material of his clothes, which elude your jumbled, hazy memory. 

A ghost sits behind your eyes. Distantly, you think he’s attempting to memorize the fit of your body against his. Your fingers feel like wood. 

With a shuddering inhale, his ribs expand like that will finally push him through your skin and let him live between your lungs.  

(He does live there, in a little nest made of Lego figurines and cheesy chemistry shirts and laundry-loved hoodies. He always has.) 

“Notes,” he mumbles, and your head pitches down to rest on his trembling shoulder. Scent of sweat, salt, blood, but most of all: the comforting warmth of your best friend. “I’ll keep writing to you.” 

He soldiers on despite the bleak despair cracking both of your hearts open, “We’ll finish that puzzle. And get pizza—that always helps you remember before tests, right?” 

You can’t help the sob that bursts from you. Even now, he’s hopeful. Even now, he’s trying to soothe you. 

“I love you,” you sniffle, face scorching hot, vision swimming with saltwater. And then you realize how strange it must seem, saying those words. You blubber, “Not even in that way, but I just love you. Can’t explain it.” 

He only offers a sad, ironic twist of his mouth, pressed into the slope of your shoulder.  

“Our secret, okay?” Every ounce of strength he has left, he packs into his next words, which are muffled into your sweater: “I love you, too. Same unexplainable way.” 

You force yourself to keep your eyes open as he pulls away, turns to display the spider graphic printed on his back. 

You don’t watch him go. You can’t have your last memory of him leaving. You hear the whoosh of his feet leaping from stone. 

When you finally open your eyes, confusion floods your mind at the sight of Dr. Strange frowning at the three of you. 

He swirls his hands, runes glimmering around his forearms. “I just need you to not panic in three...two...” 

// 

The wall of tightly-crammed lettering on cheap newsprint looms before you. Above it, a sliver of a red dome. Below, the torso of Spider-Man's costume stretches down and gets intersected by the wood of the table, which is slightly sticky in the way that all old pizza joints are. 

You’re cloistered into a dimly-lit booth at the back of the restaurant, and the upholstery is the type of old vinyl that absorbs the heat from the kitchen and is cracked or taped over in some places. Today is uncharacteristically warm for autumn, and you personally tack the blame on the rogue DODC agents that Spider-Man is ‘working on catching’ but ‘needed a little bite first.’ 

These bites are not little. You can hear him munching on his folded-up slice, which is dripping clumps of marinara and pesto onto the paper plate he had set into his lap earlier. He occasionally hums in content when he gets a good mouthful of basil and salty garlic. 

“This is still on the record, by the way,” you deadpan, squinting at the tiny blocks of print obscuring your view. “All of your—” a thick glob of cheese smacks the plate and you have to think twice as you instinctively reach for your recorder “—sloppy eating sounds.” 

You cringe at your own tragically short foresight which led to that particular combination of words. 

“Okay, okay,” he finally says, though it’s still around half a mouthful of pizza. He reaches around the newspaper to gesture with the crust in his ungloved hand, which is pink at the knuckles with some fresh scrapes. “My thoughts on these guys? Working a super similar model to Vulture’s gang around eight years ago. Remember the ferry? That was me.” 

His chest puffs out a little bit, stupidly proud.  

Miraculously, Spidey is the only reliable source that doesn’t wear your patience thin. DODC is obviously denying any wrongdoing despite their very public incident still in the limelight, and the NYPD is split clean through by federal-ass-kissers and federal-ass-kickers. 

DeWolffe is at least being honest with you on some fronts, but due to the nature of her civil service job, she can’t be fully transparent with MO and names. To the chagrin of your more ambitious colleagues who want that front-page headline, the feds and police have downplayed or swept most of it under the rug already. 

You almost felt bad that they don’t personally know your secret weapon clad in red spandex, until you remembered how they proposed cutting your articles to save money. 

Before he can launch into a rehash of the infamous Staten Island Ferry incident, you pinch the corner of the newsprint and peel it back to reveal one of his bug-eyed lenses. Unimpressed, “I’ve seen your mouth already.” 

With how he cocks his head a degree to the left, you know that he is either rolling his eyes or sighing to himself. He twists his wrist so that the wad of paper only obscures his face from the side facing out of the booth. 

He offers you a tiny, wry quirk of his mouth. “Our secret, okay?” 

Time goes honey-slow. Each second drips by, viscous and dizzy. The booth becomes an echo chamber as your thoughts spin over why his quip dredged up this intense, chest-aching nostalgia. Familiarity dawns with heartbreak on a platform and hands over your ears and a flash of a dorky grin. 

“Guy tried to kill me with a whole plane, but I think we’re pretty cool now,” Spider-Man rambles with crumbs littering the corners of his mouth. “I felt really bad for his family, especially—” 

Your attention inevitably drifts to a pale mark at the base of his ungloved right hand, tracing the edges of that scar you’ve come to know so well. A solvent molarity of 4.5 that you both miscalculated as .45, and reacting that with a volatile solute over the Bunsen burner spelled out fire blankets and two weeks of detention. 

“Liz Allan.” The name cools rapidly in the table-length between you. The shadow of a playful grin on his face is banished in a blink. Words too thick for your throat, you press the pause button on your recorder instead. 

The black border of his eyes narrows imperceptibly. “Yeah,” he says, and it’s too quiet to not be holding back unsaid things. Guilt, maybe, or mourning for something that could have been.  

You recline into the vinyl back of your seat, fidgeting with your fingers. He gnaws the inside of his cheeks, knowing that you’re beginning to teeter over the precipice of no return. 

“Say, if Ned’s Midtown High theory was...right,” you manage, averting your gaze from his face. “Would Dr. Strange have anything to do with it?” 

“What do you remember about him?” he responds, smoother than you anticipated. His mouth sets into a firm line, fortifying himself for your impending answer. 

You pick your words slowly, deliberately tip-toeing through the sentence because you haven’t fully convinced yourself that your recent dreams were really memories. “We...woke up at the Statue for some reason. And then he dropped us through a portal with a referral to Metro-General’s counseling department.” 

His lenses grow comically wide. And despite the weight settling in your aching chest, you still snicker at the sight. 

“It sounds crazy, I know,” you say, flicking your hands in dismissal. “We knew you were close to us, but…as evidenced, we also thought you could’ve been Flash.” 

“That’s generous for him.” 

You first fix him with a scowl that has no real heat behind it. Then it melts between this breath and the next as Dream-Boy’s dopey grin—or should you say, Spider-Man—lingers in your mind. 

Delicately, as if creeping toward the truth would lessen the impact of it, you murmur, “Did he make us forget that we knew each other?” 

“You—” he takes a sharp inhale, the words suddenly heavy with conflict and grief and yearning “—you forgot that we were friends.” 

“Was I a good friend?” Your eyes sting. You wonder if his are glittering with salt tears, too. 

The line of his mouth quivers. He rasps, “The best.” 

You smile. It’s all you can do, offering a kind, metaphorical, friendly shoulder for him to lean on. You might not remember him, and you don’t know if you were in love with him before, but you want to. 

Your mouth goes dry as you ask, “Do you wanna swing by tonight? It’s just me and Chinese takeout, but…” 

Just because you can. Just because you want to let him in, and you know he won’t come with empty hands and he’ll joke about being raised responsible. 

// 

Opening the door, you’re greeted by a ghost cradling delicate blooms to his chest.  

And you know, already. Just by the first glance, something long buried in your chest unfurls and sighs.  

A worn and laundry-loved hoodie sits over his frame, unzipped to reveal a corny chemistry pun printed onto a plain shirt—I wear this periodically.

Scuffed sneakers nervously toe at the floorboards outside of the apartment. He wears straight legged jeans that are slightly large but are also somehow too short. 

It’s all gangly modesty. A dorky understatement to who he really is.  

His hair is longer than you dreamed of. Darker, wavier, a little less neat and just this side of flattened at the top because of his mask. Tragically brown eyes dart around your face, taking you without the lenses.  

He gazes at you, wide and unblinking, before he cracks a tiny smile. Your fingers tighten around your mug at how kind and intimate his hopeful expression feels, warmth prickling up your neck and ears. 

“Hi,” he breathes, shy and sincere and still in disbelief, “my name’s Spider—uh, Peter Parker…” He offers up the bouquet, but your thoughts are racing around the final piece of this whole puzzle. “And I thought you’d like these for our dinner table.”

Witty, probably-cute Peter. Sweet Peter, who giggles softly at your jokes and has the patience of a saint. Boyishly earnest. Tinged with smart quips and something you just couldn’t place your finger on.

Who made you feel girlishly fond of seeing your portal malfunction again. Who…could work a remote IT job and not have to show his stupidly cute face in the office or make excuses to play hooky.

Every neuron in your brain clicks together like a spontaneous jigsaw.

“You’re shitting me—”

Two minutes later, your arms are crossed and you’re still scowling as he kneels to finish sweeping up the shards of your mug. He stuck the bigger fragments into a wrinkled canvas tote that was hanging in the broom closet, promising to fix it like nothing had happened.

The quiet rasp of the brush meeting the dustpan is broken by Peter softly exhaling through his nose. “I know you’re feeling mad...”

“I’m not,” you grit, keeping your glare trained on one of the cabinets that refuses to shut correctly.

“You are,” he pushes, tone creeping toward lightheartedness. “I can tell, because you’re tapping.”

You freeze and glance down at your socks. The ball of your foot is flexed into the air, about to make contact with the ground again. You shift to stand straight and firm, but the sheepish upturn of his brows is already tamping down your irritation.

“It’s just weird that it was always you,” you huff, loathing how natural it feels to give him grace.

Stephen Strange and his fucking glittery magic spells. He might have succeeded at erasing every memory of your tragic hero of a best friend, but for a neurosurgeon, he did a shit job at breaking down those neural pathways.

“I wasn’t stalking you or anything,” he mutters, rising from his crouched position with little sound. Navigates through the kitchen with ease, pulls out the trash cabinet like this apartment is his home too.

(It is. He belongs here just as much as you and Ned and MJ do, crashing in the spaces between your busy schedules, laugh haunting the apartment when he’s out saving the city.)

“I needed a job.” The spikes of shattered ceramic tinkle against each other as they slide off the dustpan and into the disposal bin. Your glare thaws at the curve of his shoulders, half dismayed and all remorseful. “It was easy to do on the side while being Spider-Man, and I really didn’t expect to pick up one day and hear you on the other end.” 

Peter turns, setting the pan and brush on the counter in a slow, clear motion so you can see exactly what his hands are doing. He then clasps them in front of him, standing like he just got summoned to Principal Morita’s office. 

Stupidly, you can picture it. Him, a little leaner and wide-eyed, wearing a flannel shirt beneath a sweater. Secondhand backpack fastened tight around his shoulders, which would be bunched up under his ears. Mouth pursed into an emotion saddled between anxiety and embarrassment at being caught.

He continues, “I was gonna visit and reintroduce myself. And then I got the letter, and you caught me stealing milk from the fridge, and I...” 

Peter squeezes his eyes shut, the tendons of his hands stretching taut as he clasps them tighter. Desperation and heartbreak clinging to every word, he stammers, “I guess I got so comfortable being Spider-Man that I was scared you wouldn’t want me to be your Peter again.” 

Your Peter. 

Salt glimmers on his eyelashes. He blinks furiously, chasing composure while working his cheek between his molars.  

Throat hitching, you let your gaze fall to the new scrape in the hardwood polish. 

That was why he was so willing to unmask himself when you first met. You thought that it was just precedent, because Ned and MJ knew, so you should too. But Peter—shy, funny, devastatingly sweet Peter—just wanted to be honest all along. 

And he didn’t even bring up the fact that you wanted to play this identity game. Tortured by angst, he blamed himself first. 

The dim blues of twilight slant through the blinds, meeting the orange glow of the lamplight just along the edges of the scratch. 

A creature of comfort, you fall back into old habits you don’t remember, but still know like second nature, and inch toward the soft, warmer light.

“But I like Peter,” you breathe, and all your ribs ache at the admission. You toe the line, walking the knife’s edge between his fractured lives. “And my Peter, the Peter you are now, is still Spider-Man. I just don’t—I think you should’ve let me choose if I wanted to know you.” 

“Yeah. And I’m sorry for that. I’ll always be sorry,” he promises, tension easing from his shoulders. He palms his nape, cheeks turning pink, but he makes the wise choice to hold back whatever sheepish quip his brain just cooked up. 

“Say it.” 

Wholehearted and wide-eyed, “If it helps, you’re a killer journalist for figuring it out that quickly.” 

“It was a hunch,” you mutter, mirroring him and absently scratching your shoulder. You still don’t meet his eyes, for the fear of cracking under those huge, brown puppy-eyes is too embarrassing for you. “And flattery gets you nowhere.” 

It kind of gets him somewhere. Maybe he lands a little too close to your bleeding heart. He doesn’t have to know that. 

“No more secrets.” He puts every ounce of determination into that promise, pushing off the counter he had leaned against and crossing the kitchen in a few strides. 

Peter’s outstretched hand comes into view. You’re reminded of a moment months ago, standing outside the bathroom with your heart still thundering. 

Helplessly, your lips twitch upward. “Are you doing a magic trick again?” 

Again. 

“I won’t flip you off, not like you always did to me,” he responds, eyes curving into the crescent shapes that you didn’t realize you had pined after. “I still have to tell all those stories of you teasing me.” 

You grip his hand—skin on warm, bare skin. There’s a callus slotted across his palm, from where he grips his webs too hard. It only makes him more real and you warmer than you’d like to acknowledge. 

“You’re gonna chuck my chow mien in the microwave,” you say, still holding the handshake. You muster all your strength and look him in the eye. Dignified, “It won’t be a dinner date—yet—and you’re telling me everything from the beginning.” 

// 

“I always wondered why I liked the view here,” you say, spoon clinking sharp against the edge of MJ’s flea-market ceramic bowl that you borrowed. 

Rings of cereal float in lactose-free milk—Peter bought two little juice-box sized cartons specifically for this. The cute cow cartoon grinned up at you from the polished cardboard just as bashfully as he had. 

“One thing you gotta relearn about me,” he had winced, arms so full of blankets that he had to hold the two boxes in a single hand. “Dairy gives me the runs while slinging—and lemme tell you, it’s not fun.” 

You almost chewed a hole through your cheek at that. Spider-Man, New York’s favorite hero, so easily defeated by milk. 

According to him, eating breakfast on the roof at midnight was one of your bucket-list items before Mysterio flipped your world on its head. You vaguely remember jotting it down, but thinking about it too hard only serves to make the past foggier. 

Perched on the edge, the thick stone railing is frigid beneath you. I’ll catch you, he assured as he guided you up, hand planted on the small of your back, leaving no room for doubts. I’ll always catch you. 

You clutch the blanket tighter around your shoulders, listening to the soft sounds of night settling over Queens, watching your breath billow in pale clouds and the moonlight swathes across the dew glittering on the football field. 

The lights of the neighborhood wink around you as a midnight train rattles across the street. The edge of the fence melts into the starless sky, which is striped with the wispy, grey-blue clouds of winter. 

Here, the world feels boundless; a breeze stings at your cheeks, whips around raw in your lungs.  

It’s just shadow and silver and two bundled-up silhouettes swinging their feet from the stone railing on the roof.  

The chill isn’t so bad, in part because of your two sweaters, thermal undershirt, and a pair of very insulated pajama pants. 

Plus, you know you’ve shivered worse in Harrington’s classroom, because the aircon there sat at a perpetual sixty degrees. Perfect temperature to lament a wife who faked her death for an affair, you suppose.  

The other part you reluctantly give to Peter. His enduring, endearing presence keeps that…thing stomping behind your ribs cozy. It warms you to the fingertips, makes you feel incandescent from the inside out.  

“We stopped coming up together after a while,” you say, spoon scraping metallic as you swirl it against the bottom of the bowl. “I think we all started feeling sad for some reason, and we blamed it on graduating soon. But now, I know it was really—” 

“—about me,” Peter finishes, looking at you all soft and sidelong. Deadpan, “I’m flattered.” 

Face screwing up in exasperation, you grouse, “Oh, shut up…” 

The two of you go back and forth like this, sniping at the funny bits in the other’s stories and whining when a recurring annoyance (Flash) pops up in the timeline again. You banter for hours, long after your bowl runs dry and your eyes begin to flutter shut; you banter down the bannister as he guides you down into the dark building. 

“How do you still remember all the blind spots,” you giggle blearily, feet dragging as he tugs you down the long, moonlit stretch of hallway. His hand is almost searing, wrapped around your freezing fingers, soft in the places that count and callused in the places you want to kiss. 

“Because,” his grin is easy, stopping before a wall of lockers. Bends down at the waist, hooks his free hand beneath a tiny ledge—and lifts the whole thing with a loud creak that masks his quiet grunt of effort. “No point in wearing a mask if CCTV caught me doing this.” 

You peer into the narrow hollow in the ground. In the dust sits a short cardboard box, empty save for a few stains and opaque glass jars, plus scatterings of rat droppings. 

“Oh,” Peter breathes, tilting his head at the new addition, “the rat infestation is new.” 

“Spring semester of senior year.” 

“Y’know, most improvements happen after you graduate.” He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, cheeky. “Midtown, you never fail to surprise me.” 

Next, you stumble toward the science block, winding through shortcuts and clinging to the cold walls of the staircase at his precise instruction. Linoleum squeaks beneath your scuffed shoes. The sky is only getting lighter. 

Using your momentum, he stops and lets his arm go taut, effectively switching places. He pulls lightly on your hand; stepping back, your spine meets the wall of his chest, and he leans down to whisper: “You don’t remember this, but Harrington never locks 2-08.” 

Equally hushed yet insistent, “No, no—I remember that. I complained to Morita once when my data notebook got stolen.” 

“I took your data notebook, silly,” he laughs, a breathless sound that echoes in the empty hallway. “I was in Germany and missed the Friday lab. He only locked it for a week before dropping the habit.” 

You sniff, regarding him with narrowed eyes. “Huh. No wonder I found it in my room later. Always thought that was weird.” 

Peter plants both hands on your shoulders, pivoting you to the familiar plaque displaying the room number. You open the door with little fuss, and it noiselessly swings in to reveal stools stacked on lab tables and dust motes flitting in the dim silver light. 

“Light switch?” you wonder. He comes around to the front of you and grasps both of your hands in his, earnest. Shakes his head with a tiny, dorky quirk of his lips before leading you toward the storeroom connecting all the labs. 

“I made web fluid in that drawer,” he tells you, voice low and conspiratorial, pointing at one of the desks. You snort at the idea of him; brown hair more hazel, oversized goggles exaggerating the hangdog set of his eyes, pouring random chemicals into a hidden beaker between practice problems. 

You jiggle the handle leading into the storeroom with a frown. He corrals you against the door, body warm behind you as he perches his chin on your shoulder and mirrors your troubled expression. 

“That’s not supposed to happen.” 

“No shit,” you hiss, alarm spiking through your sleep-soft state. Your fingers ache as you wriggle the knob harder, sending a rattle bouncing off the brick walls. “Must’ve been the janitors.” 

Soft touch encloses your hand, and he braces his shoulder against the door with patience still etched into the crinkles around his eyes. “Just needs a little push. On three, okay?” 

You nod, solemn, and press the side of your arm to the door like he is. 

“One...two—” 

He rams into the metal slab, and your hand is yanked by the sheer force of the door flinging inward that you’re dragged in the same arc. Somewhere in that whirlwind, you end up wide-eyed and pinned against his body, inhale caught in your throat. 

You’re acutely aware of the way your chests are flush to each other. How even through the thick layers of fabric, his pulse thrums with something strong and not-quite-human beneath the hand you planted on his sternum out of instinct. His hands are planted on your waist, his first instinct being to steady you. 

He just blinks at you. Owlish, mouth ajar by a sliver. 

Your attention flits from the gaping darkness of his dilated pupils to the soft, petal-pink plush of his lips. Like second nature, his fingers on your waist begin to flirt with the hem of your sweater. 

His tongue peeks out to dampen his mouth with a quiet, wet sound. Rasps, “I, uh...” 

You pitch your head forward and plant a chaste kiss right in the middle of his stammered apology. As quick as you leapt, you draw back and try to shrink into the door itself as your cheeks darken with heat. You eke out, “Hi.” 

“Hi,” he gasps, ears tipped with crimson. Hands fly off your waist and make a journey to cup your scorching face, which he tilts so he can meet your flustered expression with his sheepishly giddy gaze. “I actually was about to ask if I could kiss you.” 

“...Is that just retrospective?” you mumble, glancing at him with your brows drawn together dubiously. 

He huffs out of his nose, simpering. “You’ll never know.” 

The night is giving into the golds of daylight. Threads of pale yellows and blues stream out of the tiny vent window in the storeroom, lining the planes of his face with the early dawn. 

Peter kisses you, soft mouth moving against yours, caught between two places you certainly should not be in. Eyelashes flutter on your lids, sending sparks down to your toes. He grins into you with teeth and tongue, and that just makes a thing swell warm and welcome behind your ribs. 

Oh, it sighs, you know him, your best friend. By feel and sound alone. 

Tender palm cupping cheek, thumb tracing soothing arcs on skin, stealing the air from your lungs until you ball your hands in the front of his threadbare sweater and wrest yourself away. It’s preservation. If you went on, you’d end up devouring each other. 

(Not that you would mind. That would just mean that he’d have a real piece of you in him, and him in you.) 

“I’m sorry,” he splutters once the oxygen returns to his brain. “I’m so sorry, if you didn’t like that or—” 

“Just...” You split into a hopeless, astounded smile. At a loss for better words, you shrug and knock your fist lightly against his chest. “Dunno. Are you mine?” 

“Definitely.” The answer comes so quickly. Second-nature. Softer than the searching caress of his thumb on your cheekbones. Winded and stumbling over his syllables like the bashful sweetheart he is, “It’s up to you, though! I...well, I have my answer, and the rest is...” 

Trailing off as to not sound like a redundant, lovesick fool, Peter offers you that frog-smile you’ve become so stupidly fond of. 

His hands drop from your face. He digs around his back pocket, pulling out a crumpled envelope that looks way beyond its years. 

The paper has gone cream with age; there’s a water stain on the upper left corner, and some of the folded edges are so worn that the fibers are soft and almost fuzzy. The address on the front is smudged and written in blue ballpoint ink. 

And though you don’t live there anymore, you’d know the mailbox number by heart. 

Incredulous, your throat stings as you choke out, “You wrote me one, too?” 

“How could I not?” he says, tongue in the pocket of his cheek. “It was a long time before Ned sent yours, though. So don’t mark it up with your big editor pen, okay?” 

You hum out a shaky affirmative, taking the envelope with trembling fingers and tucking it into your own pocket. Voice splintering, you admit, “I do want to be something more.” 

Undisguised affection bursts behind his eyes. Unwilling to trip over his words again, he just exchanges a furtive grin with you as he firmly intertwines your fingers, tugs you through the storeroom and toward his secret staircase with giggles tingeing your breaths. 

The dawn turns his curls to amber as you tumble toward the exit. Grin golden, winter air raw and stinging as you burst on to the grounds. Kisses you again, just because, and a deep-seated ache is soothed by the sincere balm of his touch. 

He was and is your best friend. He’s yours and something more. You long for him, fucking incredibly and fate-defyingly so. 

Your sunshine Spider-Man. Your Peter Parker. 

// 

To my best friend: 

You know I’m better at science than letters. But if you knew what I could really do, something like tackling my feelings looks a whole lot smaller. And I mean kilogram vs nanogram small. Anyways: 

I liked you first. By all rights, Peter Benjamin Parker is yours.  

I remember that we watched The Count of Monte Cristo in history junior year (the real junior year, the one that counted, not the stupid one we’re repeating right now). It was after the fall midterm, and your favorite green gel pen just died. 

Personally I loved that you used the glitter on DBQs—you never apologized for being you. Kinda sad that Mr. Dell gets my boring blue ink on your essays now. 

The pirate guy said “I am your man forever,” and the whole class giggled ‘cause they thought it was weird, but you were so concentrated that I took it seriously too.  

I think getting Blipped really shot things into perspective. Yeah, I was terrified of turning dusty, but I also realized that I hated the thought of you surviving that and having to remember when I existed.  

(This is weird, I know, but I’m glad we all got Blipped. You, me, Ned, MJ. I couldn’t live without you guys and stay sane.) 

I want to be your man, your Peter, always and forever. Even if one day, we’re just two senior citizens who only meet for tai chi in Central Park. Right now I’m still just a boy, thankfully, the same one you helped up after Flash pushed me off the slide in third grade.  

Monte Cristo wasn’t the moment, though. I don’t remember a moment. You were already special to me by the time I realized it in seventh grade. After Uncle Ben, you hugged me in the dark exhibit at MoMA and I almost sublimated. 

Do you remember the note I never gave you? It was on the bus to Decathlon. I kept it and I’ll put it in the envelope, but just in case the ink got ruined, I wrote: “You look really pretty today, even tho the yellow jacket is fugly. Yeah, I know I have a mega crush on Liz, but you’re my first.” 

Yikes 

The reason why I’m writing this is because I don’t really feel butterflies around you anymore like I did in seventh grade. I’m starting to around MJ, and I did around Liz. That kinda scares me, because if I don’t like-like you, then why do I not love you the way I love Ned or May?  

Being extra clear here: you aren’t my second choice. You’ve just been a completely different one.  

You’re a lot better at poetry and Shakespearean love sonnets than I am. You’d know what to say… 

And look! I don’t even know how to end this. (Maybe because this is about us, and I don’t want us to end?) 

All I can say is, I love you. Not in an MJ way, or a Ned way, and definitely not in an Aunt May way. I love you and I’m probably not gonna send this until I’m really sure that you love me the same, different way I love you. 

Even if we’re dating, or just friends who have pesto pizza and puzzle dates, or if we only see each other for elderly tai chi on Tuesdays, I’m happy being yours in any way. You make me happy.  

— Always and forever your man, 

     Peter Parker