Lifeboat
“So...you got detention.”
Oh. My. God.
Peter dropped his head down onto his desk, a resounding bang accompanying the impact of his forehead to the plastic surface. He didn’t stop there — nope, he banged his head again, and then again, and then again —
Because the old, VHS playing, vintage CRT television was stuck in a loop.
This was hell. It had to be. He died — again — and this time he went straight to hell. Only, hell wasn’t full of flames and fire and torture. No, Parker Luck meant it was chock-full of Captain America’s ironic, hypocritical lecturing.
Peter banged his head one last time, keeping it there as his lips all but kissed the dirty desk. There was no simply other way to explain it.
“You screwed up,” Captain America’s voice echoed through the otherwise quiet classroom, somewhat full of static when the P’s of his words popped. “You know what you did was wrong.”
Peter didn’t understand how tuition here could cost so much and yet they couldn’t replace the television from 2002. He didn’t know how many more popped P’s he could stand to hear before fixing the broken speakers himself. It’d been a while since he dumpster dived for computer parts, but it’d be worth it just for the sake of his sanity.
“The question is, how are you going to make things right?”
There was only one other thing louder than the PSA’s. Peter folded both his arms underneath his chin, peering his eyes over them to catch a glimpse of Mr. Wilson — sitting at the teachers desk straight ahead.
Peter had a good feeling he could leave detention this very second and the gym teacher wouldn’t even notice. He had his legs propped up, uncaring as his shoes sat directly on a few scattered papers left behind from the English teacher assigned to the classroom. If those papers were important, she’d definitely regret leaving them behind — Mr. Wilson’s tennis shoes scattered dirt from the track field onto the already crumpled documents.
He clearly didn’t care. Not as heavy snores came from his slacked-open mouth, jolting his body with each breath he took in. The man absolutely needed to be checked for sleep apnea.
Peter arched an eyebrow but otherwise stayed quiet — he wasn’t about to wake him up to tell him that.
“Maybe you were trying to be cool,” Captain America kept talking as Peter fought to keep his eyes from rolling to the very back of his skull. He wasn’t sure either eyeball would make it back to the surface. “Take it from a guy who’s been frozen for sixty-five years. The only way to really be cool...is to follow the rules.”
“Shut up,” Peter mumbled into the crook of his arm, turning his cheek over to press the side of his face there. If he smothered his face any harder, he’d be eating his own flesh. “You break the rules like, all the time, dude!”
The only response to his muttering was a loud snore from Mr. Wilson. And a crackle of static from the television as the VHS skipped over a few parts — but, Parker Luck be had, it just skipped right back to the beginning.
“So...you got detention.”
Oh. My.
God.
Peter held back a sigh, looking up enough from the pocket of his arms to see the clock on the wall. It was stuck on 8:16am, the batteries having died a long time ago with no one caring enough to change them out.
A quick glance on his wrist showed him it was 4:26pm.
Peter lolled his head until he was face-on with the television, though half his mouth stayed so deep in the burrows of his arms that his own nostrils couldn’t get a breath in. A good sniff and he realized he should’ve used more soap after gym class.
Maybe he’d take another shower when he got home — assuming the next four minutes didn’t stretch on into an eternity.
“You screwed up,” Captain America looked the camera straight in its eye, and in turn, Peter didn’t look away from the screen. “You know what you did was wrong.”
Peter had been too busy staring at the television to hear the door open, let alone see who entered. Dress shoes hit the floor one at a time, footsteps that narrowly crossed the threshold from entrance to entryway.
“Mr. Parker?”
By the time Peter snapped his head up — and got a good whiff of fresh air that didn’t involve his body wash and residual gym B.O — Principal Morita was already inside the classroom.
Peter opened his mouth to speak.
Nothing came out.
“The question is, how are you going to make things right?”
Principal Morita eyed Peter, five rows back and off to the side, before turning to Mr. Wilson, still fast asleep in his chair. He cleared his throat — once and then twice, and then a hard throat-clearing for a third time, before he simply settling on rolling his eyes.
“I see detention is wrapping up,” Principal Morita somewhat mumbled, his one hand pocketing deep into his khakis as the other waved casually ahead to Peter. “Join me in my office when you’re done here, Peter.”
Peter opened his mouth to speak. Again.
Still, no words came out.
A loud snore would’ve taken over anything he said, anyway.
Principal Morita made a face as he turned to Mr. Wilson, the gym teacher’s jaw nearly to his chest as he exhaled out a raggedy sound that Peter hoped was a healthy noise and not the early signs of a stroke.
“Mr. Wilson!” Principal Morita firmly scolded, following through with a hard kick to the side of the desk. It rattled the few miscellaneous objects placed about, and a loose pen rolled to the floor in the process. But the teacher didn’t budge.
Mr. Wilson barely cracked an eye open. And though it was only one eye, and though Peter was a few rows back in the classroom, he swore he saw Mr. Wilson’s eye roll no different than the pen that rolled onto the floor.
“Do better, Mr. Wilson,” Principal Morita drawled out, his tone as exasperated as his expression. He turned to leave, rubbing gingerly at the back of his head as he did.
“Pay better!” Mr. Wilson shouted after him, folding both arms snugly against his chest as he slumped further down in his chair.
The classroom door closed shut with purposeful tact, scantily making a sound as it did. Peter frowned as he watched the principal depart, his slow and somewhat sluggish movements not going unnoticed.
That frown only deepened when Peter looked over to the clock — 8:18am. Screw this, that was good enough for him.
With one swift movement, he reached for his backpack and stood up all in one go.
“Hi, I’m Captain America.” The P in Captain popped so hard Peter almost mistook it for a bomb. “Here to talk to you today about the dangers of drugs.”
“Oh my god.” Peter was already half way out of the classroom and yanking his backpack up over his shoulder when the PSA switched. He may have even glared at the outdated CRT television on his way out. “You’re such a hypocrite!”
Mr. Wilson threw his legs off the desk. “Hey!”
“Not you!” Peter didn’t even look back as he left the classroom, already jogging for his locker the moment he cleared the hallway.
Principal Morita’s office was in the opposite direction, and four corners down. But Peter had something he needed to get first.
He was in the middle of inputting his locker combination when the sound came from down the hall.
“Are you—!?” An exasperated groan echoed all the way down to Peter’s locker, followed by the shuffle of indiscernible noises that Peter could only make out once he turned to look at the source. “Un-fucking-believeable, you have got to be kidding me!”
School had ended a while ago, with the only kids hanging around being those in extracurricular activities. Most were wrapping up now, of course. Peter could see that the track field students had already made their way to the gym, with the floors covered in fresh mud leading that way. And there wasn’t any sound of band practice coming from above — they may have been on the fifth floor, but the drums were so heavy Peter could sometimes hear them down on the first; enhanced hearing not needed.
And of course, Academic Decathlon practice ended at four thirty. Peter knew that one by heart. Which meant it made perfect sense for Flash to be hobbling out of the library, books spilling out of his backpack and both his crutches not allowing him to easily clean up the mess.
Peter dropped his combination lock halfway into his code, already making his way down the hallway in a few large strides.
“Here, let me —” Peter hesitated a few feet from where Flash half-stood, half-leaned over in an attempt at picking up his books. He waited a second before moving any closer, partially due to the look Flash gave him. “Let me get those for you.”
Peter bent low, gathering the textbooks and loose papers in his hands.
“I got it!” Flash tried to snap — he wasn’t exactly intimidating hobbling over crutches and swaying for balance all at the same time. “You don’t gotta — hey, I said I got it!”
“I know.” Peter kept packing the books away regardless of what Flash said, stacking the loose papers into a neat pile before slipping them inside the backpack as well. “But you don’t have to.”
The hallway was too empty to hear anything but Peter re-pack Flash’s school supplies and homework, and though Flash didn’t vocalize it, the heat to his cheeks said what he didn’t.
He practically ripped the backpack out of Peter’s hands when all was said and done.
“Thanks,” Flash muttered, struggling to slip the strap over his shoulder without losing balance. “I guess.”
Peter forced a meek smile; the tug on his lips was as forced as Flash’s gratitude. He waited until Flash was standing upright, with no risk of falling flat on his ass, before timidly pointing to his face.
“Your eye…” Peter started to ask, gesturing to his own eye as if that better explained the question. “Is it better?”
It was hard to tell if the last few weeks Peter spent away from school had healed Flash’s black eye from their fight, or if Flash really did throw on his mom’s makeup for dramatic effect. Though Peter really wasn’t in a place to say for sure, he had a feeling it was a bit of both.
The way Flash shrugged only cemented that train of thought.
“It wasn’t that bad,” Flash insisted, more perturbed than anything else. He suddenly looked over his shoulder, as if checking to see if any students were nearby to hear their conversation. The kid scrambling out of the bathroom provoked his next response. “Not like it hurt or nothing. You throw a punch like a girl.”
Peter made a face, right as the same time Timothy Parsons threw open the exit doors, running down the stairs leading outside and shouting to someone along the way. The echo of ‘Wait for me, dickbag!’ dwindled away the further he ran.
Peter shook off the confusion and shrugged, both at the same time. “I know some pretty strong girls.”
His smirk did nothing to appease Flash.
“Whatever,” Flash mumbled, immediately twisting at the hip and biting away a few curses as he worked to get his crutches underneath him.
He’d barely turned around when Peter spoke again.
“I’m sorry.”
If Flash didn’t throw him the most bizarre, bewildered, downright baffled expression, Peter wasn’t sure he would’ve bothered to clarify the apology.
He figured it was kinda obvious. But yet again, this was Flash.
“I shouldn’t have punched you,” Peter went on to say, scuffing the toes of his sneakers across the floor as he fought to keep eye-contact with Flash. They both looked like they wanted to look away. “It was wrong, I shouldn't...shouldn't have done that. I’m sorry.”
Peter knew the apology was nearly a month over-do. He also knew it should’ve been the first thing he did when returning to school. It wasn’t as if this was the first time he saw Flash — though he’d been doing his best at avoiding him most of the week.
And unfortunately, it wasn’t just Flash getting that treatment. Peter hadn’t bothered much with most the people he hurt, letting himself get occupied burying his head in his books in a hasty attempt at fixing his grades. It felt easier to control what he could and worry about the rest later.
Later seemed to have finally found its time, and Peter looked down at the floor, watching his sneakers scuff the already-scuffed tiles.
“Yeah, well…” Flash trailed off, sniffing hard as he also looked away. “What I said wasn’t...cool. About...you know. The R word. And...Tony Stark. And...yeah...so…”
Despite failing to put together a coherent sentence, Peter understood the gist of what Flash was saying. And though MJ would’ve had his head for his ‘piss-poor word structure’ as she’d call it, Peter didn’t need any further clarification from him.
“I’ve said some stupid stuff lately, too,” he admitted, his voice noticeably falling low. A hard shrug shook his shoulders. “I get it.”
Flash nodded, and Peter nodded — and a thick blanket of silence fell over them both, barely punctured by the lone saxophone that could be heard from the floor above, coming from whatever poor sap stayed behind after band practice.
Peter went to look at the ceiling. He was pretty sure it was Carl Kimmel — his parents were divorced and his mom always picked him up late. Sometimes she’d forget, and Peter would end up walking the freshman to the train station so he’d get home safely.
As if suddenly remembering something, Peter looked away from the ceiling and back at Flash. It wasn’t uncommon knowledge that he also had divorced parents. In fact, Flash liked to brag about his hot-shot city lawyer dad more than anything else.
Yet despite how often Peter saw Flash, even going to his house at the end of summer vacation, he never once saw his father.
Or Flash with his father.
Peter awkwardly shifted weight on his feet. “Hey, have you been okay —?”
“Are you and Tony Stark —?”
They both spoke at the same time, and subsequently stopped speaking no different.
Peter immediately clamped his mouth shut. Flash looked away, seeming more annoyed than anything else — Peter could tell it was an act. The way his cheeks changed color, once again, spoke what he didn’t.
“Go ahead,” Peter said, almost too quiet to hear.
Flash did — hear him, that is. But he didn’t resume talking right away. Carl Kimmel’s terrible saxophone playing briefly filled the space between them.
“Just...like...curious and everything...” Flash pretended to kick dirt off his only tennis shoe, his other leg still wrapped in a heavy plaster cast and decked out in far more signatures than Peter remembered seeing. It was quite the collection. “I mean, are you guys...? These trips.That you keep going on. That he...takes you on. Do you actually talk? And stuff?” Flash paused, taking the moment to actually look at Peter, as painful as they both found it to be. “You and...Tony Stark?”
Peter decided the best answer to that question was a simple nod.
He was surprised when a look that wasn’t annoyance fell over Flash’s face. There was no demand for proof to back up his statement — no picture, no screen-cap of text messages, no abrupt phone call to support his story. Flash could very well call him a liar and Peter wouldn’t have any desire to prove him differently.
But he didn’t need to. The look on Flash’s face told Peter that he believed him.
“That’s cool.” Flash nodded, absently casting a look to the floor. He wiggled his jaw around until his nose crinkled, making the few lone hairs on his upper lip stand out more than before. “I may...have been...a bit jealous. About that.”
Peter almost opened his mouth to ask why. He could feel the word rising in his throat, practically slipping on his tongue in a desperate attempt to get out.
Flash spoke up before Peter could. “I talk to my driver more than I talk to my dad.”
It was a mumble — a garbled mutter that only had the privilege of being heard thanks to the empty hallway, and Carl taking a break from playing the saxophone to likely call his mom and ask when she’d pick him.
But Peter heard it.
He heard it, and then it hit him.
“Oh,” Peter didn’t mean to say that — it sorta slipped out. He quickly made up for it with, “I get it — that. I get that.”
Flash pulled at his backpack strap and Peter did the same, though he didn’t need to. It occupied his hands more than anything else.
It had only been a few weeks, but as Peter expected, that was all it took for the school to stop talking about his trip to Paris with Mr. Stark. His ‘trip to Paris’, that was — a cover story that held absolutely no merit whatsoever. It was high-school, after all, and it never took long for everyone to latch onto the next crazy thing.
At first, and according to Ned, the next big buzz was what happened to Principal Morita. Peter gave a quick glance over his shoulder, realizing he needed to get going if he were to meet with the man and leave school grounds anytime soon.
Then there was some kind of rumor about Stacey Walsh being the daughter of the cross brow principal downtown — and Peter tuned out after that. It was high-school. It didn’t take much for a topic to come and go before Peter could even latch onto whatever nonsense was floating around.
Still, Flash had been the one to try and get everyone on the rumor-mill of ‘Peter Parker has Daddy Stark paying for everything’, going so far as to put emphasis on the term as if it were an insult.
And it suddenly made sense why.
Peter absentmindedly clutched at his backpack strap — careful not to squeeze too tight. The idea of people being jealous over him was a bizarre concept he’d never get used to. This time last year, he was dumpster diving for new computer parts to fix his laptop. Now, half the school body was jealous of his mentorship with Mr. Stark.
Only, it wasn’t just a mentorship.
Peter forced himself to remember that — looking at Flash, watching as he swallowed a few times too many; talking about how own relationship with his dad in the same sentence as Peter and Mr. Stark.
If others were seeing through the veil of what Peter was just now starting to see himself...well, maybe it was time he came to accept the reality of what his life had become.
“You know, you can...you can talk to me,” Peter started to say, ignoring the way Flash wrinkled his nose with disgust that may have been genuine, but was way too exaggerated to be sincere. “If you ever want, I mean. We can be friends.”
The pause that followed gave Peter hope.
The way Flash smirked completely devastated that hope.
“Can I have your spot on the Decath team?” Flash asked, his grin only growing by the passing seconds — time that Peter definitely needed to process his request.
Slowly, Peter shook his head. “...no.”
To his surprise, Flash merely shrugged — the best he could with two crutches under his arms and a backpack slung over his shoulders.
“I tried.” Flash turned around, letting his weight fall on both crutches as he began to hobble away. “See you ‘round, Penis.”
Peter blinked.
And then again, unable to fully comprehended what just happened. And unsure if he even wanted to.
Flash was halfway down the hall when Peter suddenly called out.
“Hey!” he didn’t really yell, but there was an echo nonetheless. Peter waited until Flash turned back around before asking, “Have you seen Harry? He hasn’t been in school all week.”
Flash paused no differently than Peter had before, with a furrow on his brows speaking to his confusion.
“Didn’t you hear?”
Peter took a moment to think — did he hear something? Not that he could remember. The last time he saw Harry was literally a week ago; last Friday night, when they first flew back from Wakanda, and Peter didn’t even take the time to unpack his bags before shuffling into a car with Mr. Stark and heading for Harry’s dads place.
That was also the last time he anything heard from Harry. Granted, it wasn’t like he’d been reaching out.
It wasn’t like he could.
But it was still strange not seeing him around.
Ultimately, Peter shook his head.
“Dude doesn’t go here anymore,” Flash answered, raising both his eyebrows to the point where Carl Kimmel up on the floor above could catch them and stuff them in his saxophone. Peter kinda wished that was possible — the kid needed to pick another hobby. “His dad pulled him out. No one knows where he goes now.”
Peter felt an odd mixture of ‘not surprised’ and ‘very surprised’ both churning in his stomach. He knew Harry’s placement at Midtown was temporary, but he figured it wasn’t just one month temporary.
He hoped to at least see him around for the remainder of the semester.
Peter really hoped Harry didn’t leave because of him. But again, it would’ve been an odd mix of ‘not surprised’ and ‘very surprised’ if that panned out to be true.
“Figured he would’ve told you that.” Flash tore through his thoughts like a runaway bulldozer, specifically one driven by a drunk driver. The lack of tact in his bite was oozing with the jealously Peter remembered witnessing at Flash’s party — and this time, he didn’t hold back.
Peter shot his head up, unaware that he’d dropped his gaze to the floor until he realized the words he heard didn’t come from his dirty sneakers.
“Yeah…” Peter trailed off, a frown pulling at the skin of his face. “Me too.”
Flash gave an overblown shrug as he made his way to the exit doors, audibly cursing at the students who blocked his path when he tried to leave.
“Jesus Christ, dude! Get out of the way, it’s a door, for fucks sake!”
Peter didn’t stick around for what came after. Unfortunately, the sophomore skateboarders who hung out on the east wing steps would have to deal with Flash’s wrath — he had other things he needed to get to.
It didn’t take long to grab what he needed from his shared locker with Ned — and realize that Ned had definitely snuck into the gift basket he bought and taken half the wrapped candies during the school day.
Peter rolled his eyes as he retrieved the wicker basket and headed four corners down the opposite direction for Principal Morita’s office.
The door was already open when he got there. Regardless, Peter knocked on the door-frame.
“Mr. Parker,” Principal Morita greeted, not even looking up from his desk and the papers scattered about as he waved Peter in. “Please, have yourself a seat.”
Despite the hospitality, Peter briefly hesitated at the doorway. It wasn’t until Principal Morita finally looked up at him that he slowly shuffled inside, one sneaker dragging after the next.
He absolutely hated being in the principals office. It didn’t help that every time he was in the principals office, he was in trouble. Which these days, felt like more often than not.
Making his way into the office, Peter pushed that feeling down as much as his internal strength would allow him. There was no reason to think he was in trouble — grades aside. And he’d been told, countless times by countless people, that Principal Morita suffered retrograde amnesia from the accident. He didn’t remember what happened.
Peter wished he could say the same about himself.
“I, uhm…” Peter gently placed the wicker basket on Principal Morita’s desk, trying his best not to touch any of the papers that were spread over the mahogany surface as he did. “I got you something. Sir.”
Principal Morita quirked an eyebrow, looking at the wicker basket and the items neatly placed inside. There was a card sticking out near the front, and Principal Morita gently pulled at it until the entirety of ‘Get Well Soon!’ could be seen beneath the individual bags of pretzels and other little commodities.
“That is…” Principal Morita looked the wicker basket up and down before sliding it to the side, giving it a small pat as he did. “That’s very kind of you, Peter. Thank you.”
Peter took in his gratitude with a forced smile and a shaky nod, and eventually made his way to the chair across from Principal Morita — finally taking a seat only when the man gestured a second time for him to do so.
“I apologize,” Principal Morita began to gather the papers on his desk when he spoke again. “I don’t have anything in condolence for your loss.”
“My…” Peter pulled a face. “Huh?”
Principal Morita paused, just briefly, before tapping a stack of papers against his desk and neatly setting them aside.
“Your cousin. Vinny?” he reminded Peter, cleaning the space on his desk one pile at a time. “The funeral you had to fly to Italy for?”
Peter watched as Principal Morita moved a stack of documents from one side of his desk to the other. The trays on his left side had the most mess; the file organizers labeled as ‘To Do’ slowly being emptied one stack at a time.
He’d only been working part time hours since returning from the accident — the whole school knew that. And Peter could tell his work was piling up in his absence. Literally.
Peter was too busy staring at the mess of papers to realize Principal Morita was staring at him. It wasn’t until the man cleared his throat that Peter snapped out of it.
“Uh, yeah, Vinny, right. Cousin Vinny. In Italy,” Peter stammered, clasping both his hands together and squeezing them tight in his lap. “Yeah, it’s been...uh, yeah.”
Thank God for May and Mr. Stark. If he didn’t have them covering for him, there was no way he’d still have any secrecy about all the things that happened this year. Between Ned finding out, then May, the MJ, then the entire Avengers —
Yeah. He really needed to get better at lying.
“You’re doing quite well making up for the school you’ve missed,” Principal Morita said, gathering a bunch of papers and slowly combing through them one page at a time. “And I see you insisted on finishing your last week in detention.”
Peter nodded.
“Well...I–I still had four days left...before...going to Italy,” Peter managed, holding back a grimace along the way. ‘Italy’ feeling ten times more weird on his tongue than ‘Paris’ did. And the way Principal Morita looked through the documents had Peter wondering if there was something specific he was looking for. Even as Peter responded, Morita kept his attention on the papers. “And I – I know my absence didn’t erase the punishment. It...it only felt right to finish it out.”
Ah-ha, Peter was right. Principal Morita pulled out a piece of paper from the bunch, laying it in front of him and tapping his index finger at no specific section.
“Vice Principal Davis noted here, during my own absence, that he excused you from needing to finish your time.” Principal Morita pushed the paper forward so Peter could see it. “Giving you permission to attend your homecoming dance, as well.”
Peter saw the document ahead of him, but made no moves to reach for it. He didn’t need to. Not even when Principal Morita arched an eyebrow his way, tilting his chin low as he did.
“And he told you that directly. Monday morning when you returned to school, correct?” Principal Morita asked a question that didn’t really need an answer.
“That’s correct, sir,” Peter answered nonetheless.
There was always something about Principal Morita that Peter could never quite pin down. He was almost always expressionless, firm and stern when needed and nearly deadpan when the moment called for something else.
It wasn’t that he was cold or callous; no, Peter never felt put off by him. He just couldn’t get a good read on the man.
So when a flicker of emotion crossed his face, Peter was taken aback.
“Tell me, Peter,” Principal Morita started, leaving the piece of paper to lay on the desk as he leaned back in his chair. “As young as someone like yourself...why do you look like you’re so...burdened with guilt?”
The question was so out of left field that Peter’s mind immediately went blank. To make matters worse, his mouth dried up like a desert where the sun hit the hardest.
“I, uhm…” Peter kept his hands clasped together, and squeezed tight enough that his fingers should’ve snapped in two. When he went to swallow, his throat nearly spasmed shut at the force needed just to get his tongue wet again. “I guess I...have a lot to feel guilty about.”
Principal Morita casually grabbed a few documents from his ‘To Do’ pile, skimming through them with a low hum that was only audible in the silence that followed. He divided the stack in half, taking a few papers and placing them in the tray that sat next to the wicker gift basket.
Peter watched as his hand bumped into the basket along the way, and Principal Morita paused there. He noticeably gave the items a once-over before pulling out the ‘Get Well Soon!’ card that had been stuffed inside.
“Do you feel like a bad person?” Principal Morita asked, all while eyeing the card in his hand.
Peter cringed as he opened the card and swept away some dust from inside — Delmar’s rack of Hallmark cards left much to be desired; stuffed in the back corner of the deli where no one paid it any attention, Mr. Delmar included. Peter thought he got all the dust and cobwebs off before putting together the gift basket. Clearly he missed a few spots.
Principal Morita looked up from the card and met Peter’s gaze.
Peter squeezed the hold on his hands even tighter. “I’ve...I’ve done some bad things.”
Principal Morita lifted a single eyebrow, glancing down at the card one last time before looking back at Peter.
“But do you feel like you’re a bad person?” he asked the question again, with a different emphasis on different words.
That time, Peter understood.
And his lack of answer was more than enough for Principal Morita.
“That’s what I thought,” he simply said, setting the card aside where it as surely at risk of disappearing in abundance of papers surrounding his desk. The only defining trait that would keep it from getting lost was cartoonish design decorating the front — a bunch of brightly colored flowers with a band-aid in the middle, and for some bizarre reason a few hearts in the upper right corner.
The design certainly wasn’t Peter’s first choice — it was slim picking at Delmar’s, and the closest drug store overcharged for their products to the point where not even May bothered stepping foot inside. It was either the flowered covered band-aid with hearts, or a card that said ‘Congratulations on your bar mitzvah.’
Peter settled on the two dollars and twenty-five cent flowers and band-aid, and made note to tell Mr. Delmar to dust off the rack in the near future.
“You’re a good kid, Peter.” Principal Morita looked Peter head-on as he spoke, no distraction from his work or the gift basket keeping his eyes anywhere but straight ahead. Peter looked away from the card and back at the man, giving him the respect of that same attention. “Doing bad things doesn’t always make you a bad person. And punishing yourself for your mistakes isn’t conducive — not to your friends, not to your family. And especially not to you.”
Peter wanted to nod, but he couldn’t find it in him to do that. He wanted to say that he understood — because he did, on every logical level he absolutely understood.
The trouble laid in allowing himself that grace. Especially when he didn’t feel it was earned.
It was why he finished out his detention sentence, even when given a pass on cutting it short. Why he didn’t have any plans to attend the homecoming dance, even when he’d been told he was allowed to.
Why he’d been avoiding MJ, Ned, even Flash.
And looking Principal Morita straight in the eye, Peter found himself swallowing past a hard lump as he remembered that afternoon in the school hallway. When an adult in his life wanted nothing but to help him, and he pushed them away — hurting them in the process.
Principal Morita leaned forward, snatching a small bunch of papers from his right and holding them firmly in his grasp. They weren’t part of his ‘To Do’ pile — Peter could tell right away that it wasn’t any official school business or work related stuff. It looked far too out of place to be any of those things.
“This isn’t bad,” Principal Morita said, gesturing the papers ahead towards Peter. They flapped a bit with each shake his arm made. “Your teachers can all tell that World History isn’t your strong suit. But, unlike your first copy, they can tell that you tried with this one.”
Once Principal Morita stopped moving his hand, Peter could see the first page with crisp clarity. It was his essay — his second essay, his re-write that MJ sorta-kinda helped him with before...
Well, Peter didn’t feel like touching those memories just yet.
He kept his focus on the subject at hand. And the papers in Principal Morita’s hand, with the World War II essay neatly printed out for submission.
Principal Morita set the papers on his desk. “Mrs. Warren failed it.”
“Ugh —!” Peter immediately threw his head back with a sigh that could’ve been heard throughout the school. Even with Carl Kimmel’s saxophone playing.
“But,” Principal Morita was quick to trample over his teenage angst. “I convinced her to give you one more chance.”
No sooner than Peter threw his back did he give himself whiplash looking back at Principal Morita, the hope in his eyes swelling the brown that coated his pupils.
“Really?” Peter all but whispered, his hands subconsciously unclasping and giving his bones much needed relief from the pressure of his own strength.
Principal Morita used one hand to push the papers towards Peter, right until they were at the edge of his desk.
Tentatively, and slowly, Peter reached out for them.
“Only good people feel guilt, Mr. Parker,” Principal Morita told him, waiting until Peter retrieved the essay before he leaned back in his chair. As he did, the same hand that returned the papers began to knead gingerly at the back of his head. “Whatever guilt you’re letting get under your skin...don’t let it burden you. Even somebody as smart as yourself only has so much space for rent in their head. You need to allocate that space for things that matter.” Morita let his hand drop from the nape of his neck, setting it in his lap after he did. “Beating yourself up? Not one of those things.”
As Principal Morita spoke, Peter found his gaze set firmly on the essay in his hands. The red scribbles and notes along the front page spiked an immediate feeling of shame, and he fought against the urge to crumble the papers up and throw them into his backpack.
It wouldn’t do him any good. Stuffing the essay into the depths of his backpack where it could be neglected and forgotten was no different than him trying to ignore all his problems; hoping they’d go away by the sheer force of ignorance. The last few weeks alone had taught him that wasn’t a healthy way of going about things.
Peter always wanted to help people. It was just in his nature, who he was. People like his uncle only further ignited that passion of his, always reminding him that the world was a better place if people gave one another a helping hand.
Slowly, Peter was starting to learn that if he wanted to help others, he had to help himself first.
So instead of crumpling the essay away and hoping the problem would fix itself, Peter gently folded the papers into two, allowing himself to finally nod at Principal Morita — and allow himself the grace to try again.
“Thank you, sir,” Peter said, earnestly, reaching down and slipping the papers into the front pocket of his backpack. He had to push away a couple bags of candy along the way, but he’d at least remember it was there. And he’d do better — or at the very least, he’d try.
Something in the few words he spoke must’ve been a testament to that, because Principal Morita let a small smile cross his face — and boy, was it small. But on a man who showed little to no expression, Peter caught it.
“You have until Tuesday to submit the essay,” Principal Morita instructed him, throwing his arm across the back of his chair as he watched Peter work the zippers of his backpack. It may have looked to be brand new, but two of the zippers were already broken. “Take the weekend and really focus on it.”
“I will, sir. I promise,” Peter kept nodding his head with every word he spoke, bringing his backpack up from the ground as he worked the strap over his shoulder. “I will. I really will.”
Principal Morita gave a curt nod before returning to the work on his desk, picking a stack of papers and visibly restraining a sigh as he began to sort them through.
Peter took that as his cue to exit.
He stood timidly from his seat, clutching his strap — and then unclenching it when realizing how tight his grip was — before making his way to the door. He made it halfway there before a voice stopped him.
“My grandfather was in this war, you know,” Principal Morita started up, barely glancing over his papers as he did. Even so, Peter turned to face him. “The one you’re learning about? He was a howling commando — James Morita. A great man, somebody I respected more than anyone else in this world.”
A beat fell over the office. Peter wanted to fill the silence by saying something, but he had no idea what — and knowing him, it wouldn’t be anything productive.
Principal Morita saved him from that embarrassment, looking up from the papers to catch Peter’s gaze.
“Think about that when you write your essay,” he said.
Peter managed a smile — tight-lipped only by nature — all as he adjusted the strap of his backpack across his shoulder.
“Thank you, Principal Morita.”
A simple nod was what the man offered in return. Along with a cliche, albeit sincere, “My door is always open if you want to talk.”
Peter barely crossed the threshold of the hallway when he heard his name being called again.
“Oh, and Peter?”
He quickly backtracked his steps, grabbing the door-frame to keep himself from tripping over his own shoes as he poked his head back into the office.
He was surprised to find Principal Morita gesturing a stack of papers right at him.
“You’re not doing drugs, are you?”
Peter laughed — genuinely, the sound so abrupt and heartfelt that it took even him by surprise.
“I don’t even know where to find drugs!” Peter insisted, one arm out so wide it smacked into the glass window of Principal Morita’s office.
Principal Morita allowed himself a small chuckle at the response.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, waving the papers at Peter. “Now go on, get out. Enjoy your weekend.”
Peter didn’t need to be told twice. He left before Principal Morita had even finished the word ‘weekend’,skipping so fast down the hallways that he was close to breaking into a full-on run.
He never saw Principal Morita placing the ‘Get Well Soon!’ card into the drawer of his desk. He was too busy bursting through the double doors of the school, taking the steps two at a time — never using the guardrail as he did.
It was only when he caught sight of the bench near the track field that Peter found his pace slowing down. Though he never came to a stop, his path ultimately changed — his hips twisted sharply as he turned the opposite direction, making his way there in quick, steady strides.
“Hey…” Peter stated to say, his speed lessening the closer he got to the bench. “Your mom still picking you up?”
Ned looked up from his textbook, only to drop his gaze just as quickly. “Yeah. She said there’s traffic.”
The bluntness to Ned’s response didn’t go unnoticed.
It hadn’t gone unnoticed all week.
Peter frowned, but didn’t let the expression linger. No sooner than he approached the bench did he swing his backpack off his shoulder, taking a seat next to Ned — with comfortable distance between them, enough space for his bag and Ned’s, if his friend chose to move his off the ground.
Peter’s hand was still halfway into his bag when he spoke. “I couldn’t find the crunch and chews, but I stocked up on the gummies and got a few bags of the regular Jolly Ranchers as well. We can even melt them down again, if you want. We just can’t use any of May’s casserole dishes this time.”
Pushing his history essay aside, along with a few other pieces of homework he’d forgotten about, Peter brought out a handful of candy — bag after bag stacking on top of one another as he unloaded his stock onto the bench.
Before he knew it, the empty space between him and Ned was no longer empty at all. The tower of candy nearly reached to Ned’s hip. And the only thing bigger than Ned’s eyes was the family-sized bags of candy Peter kept pulling out of his backpack, creating a tower full of brightly colored trademark names that had Ned’s mouth practically salivating.
When Peter looked up at him, Ned looked away — so suddenly, it was like something else caught his attention.
But the track field he stared at was empty, and even if it weren’t, Peter knew him long enough to know what was really going on.
“I know buying you stuff doesn’t make up for...you know. Everything.” Peter looked down at his backpack, focusing his attention on the zipper that refused to close shut. He briefly gnawed on his bottom lip before forcing himself to stop — both chewing his lip, and using the zipper as a distraction. “I just want things to be okay with us again.”
Peter had barely finished speaking when, one by one, Ned moved the bags of candy off the bench. There was little to no concern for them as they plopped down to the ground, gathering in a pile by their feet.
Not a second later and he scooted closer to Peter, filling the space between them with his own body.
“I was really worried about you, Peter,” Ned quietly said, not once looking up from his shoes as he spoke.
Even with enhanced senses, Peter almost asked him to repeat himself. But the look on his face easily said what he could barely hear.
“I know,” Peter admitted, just as quietly. He swallowed hard, looking down at his own feet in the process. “I’m sorry.”
The condition of both their sneakers left much to be desired. Peter noticed the that tip of his left shoe was fraying, and the heel of Ned’s was starting to peel apart, with a tongue that was either completely missing or stuffed inside with his foot.
Not to mention the grass stains on them both, and Ned’s mismatched colored laces — the black laces originally came with his sneakers, the yellow on his left foot came from Peter’s. He gave Ned the yellow laces after Ned’s grandmother’s cat chewed through his original pair, and he kept losing his shoe all day without anything to tie and keep it in place.
Peter barely remembered that day. All he remembered was removing his own laces and insisting Ned use them. He never asked for them back — he never felt the need to.
Those same yellow laces knocked into Peter’s foot, touching against the frayed sneaker that was close to gaining a hole no different than the pair of socks he knew needed to be thrown away.
“What was Wakanda like?” Ned asked, a little more volume to his voice, growing louder with each tap against Peter’s foot.
Peter finally looked over at him, unable to keep the smile from growing on his face.
“So cool,” he gushed, quickly reaching into his back pocket and whipping out his phone. “I have pictures. If you wanna see them.”
Ned nodded, but didn’t seem nearly as eager as Peter to look at the photos. His head stayed bowed, even with Peter offering his cell phone to take.
His behavior wasn’t completely out of the blue. Though it had been a week since his return, Ned had barely said much of anything to him. Peter didn’t push it, despite how badly he wanted to. He knew his absence didn’t exactly leave Ned in the greatest of places — especially after everything that happened a few months back.
Losing Harry as a friend was bad enough. Peter didn’t know what he would do if he lost Ned, too.
“Ned, I...I really am so sorry,” Peter wasn’t sure why he thought apologizing for the sixteenth-hundred time would help. He just felt the need to do it. “I should’ve told you what was going on. I should’ve...I should’ve told somebody. And I promise — I really, really promise, I won’t keep anymore secrets from you.” Peter knocked his shoe against Ned’s, hard enough to make his friend look up. “Never again.”
Ned met his gaze, but a beat followed what came next.
“No secrets?”
Peter gave a curt, sharp nod. “No secrets. None.”
Ned threw his head back and groaned — loudly. So loudly, it probably reached to the end of the track field. Peter really wasn’t sure if that was an exaggeration or not — Ned didn’t stop until the air in his lungs ran out and the sound became something closer to a crackly whine.
Peter just stared at him. Eyes blown wide with an eyebrow so high it may as well have been in the clouds.
“Dude, what—?”
“Harry texted me last weekend and told me to tell you that he’s not coming back to school ‘cause his dad pulled him out and he probably won’t ever see us again cause he’s gotta go to some sort of GED classes instead and he asked me to pass it on and also said he’s sorry for everything he did and you deserved better than how he treated you and I definitely don’t disagree with that cause what he did was really not cool and I tried not to tell him that but it sorta slipped and I mean it didn’t really slip cause it was a text but I still said it and I told him I'd tell you what he asked me to tell you but I didn't want to tell you because Harry coming to school was like, such a sudden thing and —”
Peter grabbed Ned before he fell face-first into the bag of candy on the ground, his friend suddenly gasping for air like he’d been strangled.
“Wait, wait, wait —” Peter interrupted him, one hand on Ned’s back as he drew in a deep breath of air, followed by another — and another after that. “What? Huh? Harry said what?”
Even trying to cherry pick through what Ned said was too difficult. Peter quickly began to understand why so many people insisted he talked too fast — if he was even half the speed of Ned’s word vomit, then it was no wonder nobody listened to him.
He looked to Ned for some clarification.
Ned didn’t seem too thrilled to provide it.
“I wasn’t going to tell you,” he admitted, reaching down to the ground and grabbing a bag of Jolly Ranchers as he did. “But…that wouldn’t have been right. No secrets, none.”
The bag was gently ripped open, just a tear at the corner. Ned poured out a few pieces of candy, handing half to Peter along the way.
“I just...I may have been…” Ned slowly unwrapped the Jolly Rancher with his fingers. It matched the color of his laces. “You know...a little jealous about Harry.”
Peter made a face, but otherwise stayed quiet. He figured as much — like Harry said, Ned didn’t exactly hide it.
But it was one thing to assume. A whole other to hear it from the source.
Ned kept his head low as he muttered, “You guys were always closer than we were.”
Peter felt his shoulders as they dropped, right along with the sigh that exhaled all the air in his chest. He wished he could’ve given some of that air to Ned — the guy was still breathing heavy from his almost-never-ending-tangent, and Peter made a mental note that going forward he’d try and slow down a bit when he spoke.
Because that was...something.
“Yeah...we were,” Peter emphasized, looking down at his hand and the candy that sat in the center of his palm. He was already sorting through the different flavors. “Ned. Come on, man. No one tops you. You’re my guy in the chair.”
With that, Peter outstretched his hand to Ned, every yellow Jolly Rancher from his bunch handed off without a single word.
Ned took them just the same, but with a small smile to follow suit. The yellows were always his favorite flavor — Peter knew him long enough to know that by heart.
“It kinda sucks,” Ned admitted, softly, already unwrapping the candy and popping it into his mouth. His jaw twisted around as he sucked on the Jolly Rancher, and his next words came out slightly muffled because of it. “I was actually kinda-sorta-maybe hoping to give Harry another chance.”
The look Peter gave said everything.
“Okay, maybe not.” Ned shrugged, unwrapping another candy as he did. The way his cheeks puffed out told Peter he hadn’t even swallowed the first two pieces. “Now I guess we won’t know.”
A familiar car began to pull up, with a license plate Peter vaguely recognized, if only by a few numbers and letters. Ned saw it as well, bending over and quickly loading the bags of candy into his backpack.
“I gotta go,” he said, zipping the bag shut and standing from the bench. “Text me tonight?”
Ned outstretched his closed fist, and Peter smiled — really smiled, the kind of grin that made his cheeks ache. No different than the candy, words weren’t needed for what followed.
The handshake took a good thirty seconds to complete. They weren’t even finished yet when a student walked by them both — and Peter couldn’t help but feel insulted as Carl Kimmel muttered “Losers,” underneath his breath when he passed by.
Ned didn’t care. And that’s all that mattered to Peter.
He was getting into his mom’s SUV when Peter called out, “I can have Doctor Banner call you!”
Peter had no idea if that was something he could actually do, but he suggested it nonetheless.
Ned turned around, one hand on the passenger side door as he slipped inside the car.
“You don’t gotta get me stuff, Peter. I’m your guy in the chair, remember?” Ned rolled down the window the moment he got inside, the door closing shut but his head immediately popping out. “But yeah, totally, have him call me!”
Peter didn’t have a chance to respond — Ned’s mom was already driving away, her voice unheard from a distance but her mouth moving nonstop. A telling sign that Ned was about to be victim to her perpetual ranting about work.
May couldn’t stand hanging around her for that very reason. She always said the woman complained more than she did anything else.
“Yeah, okay,” a voice came from behind. “Cause of all things a nuclear physicist working for a top secret government agency has on his agenda, calling some high-school dweeb on a Friday night is his top priority.”
Peter spun around so quickly that his vision almost blurred a the sight of —
“Hey-hey, MJ.”
With an expressionless expression — MJ was always like that — Peter watched her slowly walk around the bench, opting not to sit down next to him but instead lean her hip against the side.
“You take one trip to Africa and suddenly our playlist is full of tribal music?” she asked, the slightest smirk to her lips betraying the drawl to her voice.
Peter let out a nervous laugh, looking at the phone that sat in his lap as he slowly began to unwrap a piece of candy.
“Yeah, uh — yeah, that’s…that’s all Shuri.” Peter kept his eyes on the Jolly Rancher as he spoke, even though the wrapper was gone and he could easily pop it inside his mouth “She, uh...she said I'm in desperate need of a culture lesson.”
MJ huffed. Or chuckled. Peter couldn’t quite figure out which it was.
“Well...she isn’t wrong.”
Peter wasn’t expecting MJ to take a spot next to him. He threw his head to the side, surprised to see her all but plopping down on the empty space where Ned once sat.
“It’s not bad,” she followed up with a shrug, discarding her backpack somewhere off to the side. Her hands fell in her lap and stayed there. “I dig it.”
Peter nodded.
MJ nodded.
They both looked down at their laps — MJ chipping away at her cuticles, Peter fiddling with the bright red piece of candy between his fingers. Though his fingertips were naturally sticky since The Bite, there was no denying that the tacky feeling on his skin was one-hundred-percent due in part to the unwrapped candy that bounced from hand to hand.
They may have been outside, and the air may have been crisp with an autumn breeze, but Peter couldn’t help feeling like each breath he took was stifled. Like an elephant on his chest — or maybe even the Hulk. Two Hulks, even.
Nerves had a tendency to do that to him.
And MJ had a tendency to make him nervous.
But never a bad nervous — Peter tossed the Jolly Rancher from one hand to the next, resisting the urge to tap his foot on the ground as he did. It was a good nervous. One of the few nervous-feelings Peter could stand to tolerate.
MJ also made him...well, he didn’t really know. But it was never a bad feeling. So he clung to that little bit of knowledge, even as they both sat awkwardly in silence. Waiting patiently, and silently, for the next person to speak.
“You back on Decathlon next week?” MJ was the one to break the silence. Technically, a car alarm did that first — one of the teachers in the parking lot fought to silence their Honda Accord as they went to leave the school grounds, going so far to let out a few colorful words along the way.
Peter was pretty sure that was Mr. Harrison. He was the only one who used the term “mcfuckingcludge!” when he was upset.
“Maybe,” Peter shrugged along with his answer, and finally popped the red candy into his mouth not long after. He swirled it around a few times before following up with, “I’m almost caught up on my classes. I just gotta re-submit this essay and...you know. Go from there.”
Peter suddenly realized his foot was tapping on the ground. So much for that.
MJ crossed her legs, and the toes of her shoe knocked into his knee as he did, causing him to stop. He wasn’t sure if she noticed his bout of nerves. He also wasn’t sure if knocking into his leg was intentional or not — but he stopped the bouncing, just in case it was.
“Homecoming’s next week, too.” MJ mentioned, still looking down at her hands as she spoke. Not even Mr. Harrison shouting ‘oh for the love of mcfuckingcludge!’ broke her attention away.
“Yeah…” Peter said, all in one breath, looking down at his hands no different than MJ. “Time flies, huh.”
MJ nodded.
Peter nodded.
Just like that, the silence returned.
Truth was, Peter hadn’t let himself think much about homecoming. If he did, he’d start thinking about other things — like the kiss with MJ.
And then the slap from MJ.
And then the phone call with MJ.
So he didn’t let himself think about any of it.
Not until now, he supposed. Because MJ was here, sitting next to him, and it was somewhat-hard not to think about her with the toes of her sneakers tapping against the jeans of his knee.
It wasn’t much contact, but for Peter, it felt like far more.
Peter let himself look away from his lap and at hers, where she chipped away at the already-chipped-away red nail polish on her fingers. It almost matched the color or the Jolly Rancher that melted in his mouth.
Red was MJ’s favorite color; he distinctively remembered her disclosing that information during a Decathlon practice. He remembered, because learning details about MJ was like finding hidden treasure buried away on some foreign continent.
Like finding hidden treasure, he latched onto it and kept it somewhere safe where he wouldn’t forget.
“You think you can make time in your busy...you know…” With her hands still in her lap, MJ halfheartedly made two quotation marks with her fingers. “Spider agenda to go shopping?”
MJ didn’t look at him when she asked the question. But Peter shot her head towards her after she did, his brows so furrowed they almost became one.
“Shopping?” he echoed.
Peter was pretty sure MJ rolled her eyes. He couldn’t tell; her head was bowed so low, her chin practically touched her chest.
“Dresses?” she mumbled, barely craning her head to look at him. “Tuxes?”
Despite what MJ thought, Peter didn’t need the clarification. He hadn’t forgotten.
“You...” Peter trailed off, briefly startled by Mr. Harrison’s car alarm going off again — did that man not know how to get inside his own vehicle? — and mostly trying, and failing, to process what MJ said. “You wanna...go to...homecoming...” he pointed a finger at himself. “With me?”
MJ definitely rolled her eyes this time. But Peter also caught the small tug at her lips that followed.
“That was the plan, wasn’t it?” MJ had completely chipped away the nail polish on her index finger, with barely a speck of red left in sight. Her eyebrow arched and she gave Peter a side-glance. “What, is Morita still hung up on you giving Flash a shiner?”
Peter rapidly shook his head. “No – no, I’m...I’m allowed to go. I just figured…”
The way MJ continued to side-eye him told Peter that, unlike him, she didn’t assume. And also unlike him, she needed clarification.
“You really wanna go with me?” Peter asked, his voice almost too soft to hear. He had to swallow hard to get the next words out. “After what I did?”
No different than he and Ned, there had been little interaction with MJ since his return from Wakanda. He’d been off Decathlon until he caught up on all his missed schoolwork, and aside from a few random texts and brief conversations in the hallway, they hadn’t said much to each other.
The phone call was the last time he really spoke with her.
Peter almost wanted to keep it that way. If only for leaving things on good terms.
He hadn’t expected…
“I meant what I said, you goof.” MJ definitely knocked into his knee on purpose that time. “I wasn’t mad you kissed me.”
That.
Peter hadn’t expected that at all.
The way his mouth floundered for a response told MJ as much. She definitely chuckled that time — there was no doubt at it.
“I just...I dunno.” MJ looked at him — actually looked at him, with eye contact and all. And then she shrugged with such dramatic effect that Peter swore he saw her shoulders hit her ear lobes. “I just figured...you know, it’d be in a more...romantic place than...I dunno. The school library, I guess.”
She tried to mumble, but Peter heard her. Enhanced senses not needed.
He couldn’t help the grin that followed, as small as it was.
“I never pinned you as a romantic,” Peter let a chuckle bleed into his words, and somewhat-sorta pushed his knee against her shoe as he did. Her sneakers were in far better shape than his sneakers, cleaner, even. Less grass stains, for sure.
“Yeah, well…” MJ trailed off, only this time no noise accompanied the silence. No car alarm, no weird curse words. The track field was empty, and the school grounds were mostly vacated. Leaving just the two of them on the bench. “I guess we all got our secrets.”
Peter lowered his head away from where she could see him, though his smile still remained in place.
He certainty had no arguments there.
The silence that fell between them only grew with the passing seconds, reaching a level Peter didn’t think was possible. It was an absence of sound that had a lot of sound to it; his own pulse, thumping with the good-kind-of-nerves that made his foot tap anxiously. And MJ chipping away at her nail, bare of any red polish that decorated her other fingernails.
And every few seconds, the toes of her shoe would tap against his knee. Nothing aggressive, nothing inconsiderate. It may have just been her shoe, but it had a friendly touch to it. Each tap saying the words she didn’t.
“Where’d you want it to be?” Peter wasn’t sure why he asked the question. It just felt like the right question to ask.
MJ’s shrug had him doubting that.
“I dunno,” she mumbled again, and returned her gaze to her chipped nail polish. “Someplace...I dunno, special. Like...I sorta imagine, like...the London bridge or something.”
If Peter was drinking, he would’ve ejected liquid all over the place. As it were, he sputtered on his own saliva, nearly choking on his own spit.
“The...the London bridge?” he repeated, forcing his voice not to crack — and failing along the way.
“Yeah, I know —” MJ immediately reached down, grabbing her backpack and holding it close to her chest. “It’s stupid. Forget I said anything.”
Peter wanted to laugh — he didn’t, thanks to the two-and-a half Hulk’s sitting on his chest, and for once he was thankful for that. There was no doubt MJ would’ve taken it the wrong way. That much was obvious in how she clutched her backpack and looked down at the ground.
No different than how she held that backpack close to her chest, MJ always kept details about herself close where others couldn’t see them — even Peter. He knew some things, and always made sure to never to forget them.
Red was her favorite color. She hated her father’s last name, and refused to use it. She liked to sleep with a lot of pillows, and she was interested in journalism.
And now, Peter discovered, she was lowkey a romantic.
“It’s not stupid,” Peter finally said, letting his knee swing into her shoe as he did. Though he didn’t laugh, the smile on his face tugged harder, and he dipped his chin in case it somehow offended her.
MJ made a sound that was neither agreeance of dispute. All the while, she loosened her grip on her backpack.
“We can...we can forget that ever happened,” Peter suggested, turning slightly to face her. “Start over? Clean state? That way...you know…you can have your first kiss back.”
It was only fair, after all. For Peter, most of the moment was lost in a haze of delirium and fever, and swept away in all that chaos that followed. It wasn’t right that MJ was stuck with a tainted experience that may have been more adrenaline-fueled than anything else.
He didn’t regret kissing her. And by all means, he was relieved to know she wasn’t upset by it.
But by no means did it go down in a way either of them wanted it to.
Maybe forgetting it ever happened was the best thing they could do.
MJ seemed to agree, shrugging slightly with a mumbled, “Yeah, sure, whatever.”
Shuffling a bit on the bench, MJ placed her backpack to the side and somehow ended up moving closer to Peter. Her legs were still crossed, and her foot found a resting spot ontop of Peter’s knee.
Neither seemed bothered by the contact.
Looking down at his hands, Peter fiddled with the three remaining Jolly Ranchers still in his palm — still wrapped in plastic, and moist from the sweat of his nerves.
“I, uh...I’d like to try again. Maybe. Sometime,” Peter fumbled, swallowing hard past the constriction in his throat. He forced a grin, as goofy as it looked. “I dunno if I can afford to take you to London, though.”
MJ’s laugh eased the tightness in his throat, and the smile that followed made it feel like only one Hulk sat ontop of his chest. The much needed relief of pressure had him sighing a breath of air he didn’t realize he’d been holding in.
“You’re such a dweeb.” MJ swayed against him, her shoulder bumping into his with a chuckle that made the air a lot easier to breathe.
Frantically wiping his sweaty palm against the denim of his jeans, Peter began to divvy out two of the three Jolly Ranchers in his hands. Without a second thought, he passed them to MJ, his smile saying what words he didn’t speak.
MJ took the two red Jolly Ranchers just the same, failing to hide her grin as she tossed one in her mouth and pocketed the other inside her backpack.
“Wednesday?” she suggested, zipping the pocket shut and looking over at Peter. “My mom can take us out after school. Maybe we can do that cheesy shit where we dress in the same colors or something.”
Even with the eye-roll that followed her suggestion, Peter could tell MJ actually wanted that.
Instead of bringing it to attention, he simply nodded.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, his head bouncing enough times to make him dizzy. “Wednesday. After school. Got it.”
“Cool.” MJ smirked, clutching the strap to her backpack as she slowly stood from the bench.
Peter kept nodding. “Cool.”
There was just enough sun left in the day that Peter could tell it would be dusk by the time he returned home — if he started heading home now. Which he probably should, considering he needed to be packed and ready to leave Queens before dinner time. It was the weekend, which meant Happy would be picking him up sometime around seven — and the man hated when Peter was running late.
Judging from the way MJ bounced on her heels and took smalls steps away from the bench, he could tell she was just as eager to leave the school grounds.
“So…” she drawled out, a thumb pointing over her shoulder as the other clutched the strap to her backpack. “See you round, then.”
Peter cleared his throat — not once, not twice — actually, he lost count of how many times.
“Yeah,” he said, still nodding his head. “See ya round.”
MJ turned her back and began to walk away, the sound of her footsteps barely heard in her departure. She was always quiet on her feet like that. Sometimes Peter wondered if Natasha would be impressed at her stealth.
He certainly was. She could sneak up on him no different than the Black Widow — and that said a lot, considering Peter took pride in his spider-sense.
Peter chose to ignore the way his foot began to tap anxiously on the ground again, glancing down at his hands and staring a the single piece of candy sitting idly in his palms. He still swirled the red Jolly Rancher in his mouth from earlier, though it was close to dissolving completely. The taste of cherry was strong on his tongue, bringing a tart-sour-pain to his jaw as his grin only spread larger on his face.
Just as he went to unwrap the final piece of candy, a tingling sensation buzzed at the back of his neck —
Peter looked up just in time for MJ to kiss him.
There wasn’t a second to consider what happened. No sooner than MJ kissed him did she pull away, her lips sticky with the same red-tinted candy that also covered his.
Peter smiled.
“Oh,” he articulately managed, smacking his lips together if only to get a taste of the sticky candy that came from her mouth. “But...we’re not in London.”
He was lucky MJ laughed. Because no sooner did the words leave his mouth did Peter realize how incredibly dumb that was to say.
“Yeah, okay,” MJ’s grin kept the bite away from her apathetic slap against his shoulder. “When are we ever going to London?”
Peter had to look away, the smile on his face growing too large to contain. He found his thumb brushing against his bottom lip, savoring the sticky film of candy that wouldn’t rub away.
He stuffed the last remaining piece of candy in his front jean pocket, deciding to let the cherry flavor linger as long as possible.
“Wednesday!” MJ was already half-way down the track field by the time he looked up, her hand cupped over her mouth to make her voice all the louder. “Don’t forget!”
Peter nodded, this time just once. His smile said the rest for him.
“Wednesday,” he repeated back. “You got it.”
There was no telling if MJ could hear him, so far down the track field that she was more a speck of color than a person. But Peter figured the words didn’t need to be heard.
Grabbing his backpack from the ground, he made his way off the bench and in the opposite direction to the train station. If he happened to skip most of the way there, well, that was just him trying to make the train on time.