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Last November Mrs Grenier, the lady in the apartment across from MJ, with the bangles that clinked with her every step, had asked MJ to model for her. MJ had been bewildered, but cheerfully agreed, and spent a weekend lying fully clothed in Mrs Grenier’s bathtub, being painted and eating lemon cake.
Peter hadn’t been bewildered by the request at all, and had told MJ so. He’d made her take him to see the final product in Mrs Grenier’s gallery show after Christmas to appropriately marvel at the painting’s beauty.
Mrs Grenier painted in long loose strokes, thoughtless grace of movement—and that was MJ. But she’d retained a sharpness about the figure in the painting—because that was MJ too.
Peter’s not sure why he’s thinking about that now, when it’s June, and MJ has made herself comfortable stretched out on his floor on her stomach.
Her calves, exposed by her bike shorts (which used to be leggings, until they’d worn away in a disastrous fashion at the knee), flex when she kicks her ankles back and forth. She reaches for the last dumpling, and the linen shirt which she nearly broke the bank over at the thrift store, draped over her wrist, threatens to mutiny in the sweet chilli sauce.
“We should just start without him, right?” MJ says, still chewing, and reaching for her phone.
Peter pulls the phone away from her, and moves her wine towards her. “Probably. But you can’t have your phone to text him that, because I know you’ll just refresh your email yet again.”
Peter Ned and MJ had had plans for two weeks now to get through season four of Buffy together tonight, in an effort to distract MJ from the cast list for the upcoming production by her community theatre group. She was uncharacteristically externally nervous for it, hence Peter confiscating her phone.
Peter, because he knows her, knows she’s going to get the part. That didn’t do very much for MJ though, hence Buffy and distraction.
And Ned had ditched their last two meet-ups, last minute with the flimsiest of excuses, for reasons that had been rampantly speculated upon in Peter and MJ’s text thread. That was the very occasional hazard of Ned’s friendship—he was a horrific liar, and knew it, therefore avoiding all in-person contact when he felt lying to be necessary. Peter, at any rate, was a much more hazardous friend, and so he forgave Ned. Which didn’t mean an ambush wasn’t imminent.
MJ took a very large sip of her wine, then waited for Peter to do the same to say, “Ned’s fucking someone,” and watch Peter splutter. He couldn’t even deny it, Ned was probably fucking someone he didn’t want to tell them about.
Peter went to get the kitchen roll, then settled himself on the floor next to MJ, sitting up against the couch. MJ had queued up Buffy, and she pressed play on his crackly TV.
He is glad he brought the whole kitchen roll back over, because MJ makes him splutter his wine three more times with timed disparagements of Xander and Riley. She makes a break for her phone four times.
“I will web it to the ceiling.” Peter is grinning, so he’s not sure his threat is very effective.
“That wouldn’t stop me.”
On the pixels of the TV, Willow is casting a spell a little too proficiently.
Then MJ says, “I’ll put it on airplane mode, promise. I just can’t do nothing while watching things anymore.”
Peter gestures sharply with her phone. “No. You can’t trick me, Michelle Jones-Watson.”
MJ huffs, and rolls onto her side to look at him. “Can I paint your toenails, then?”
Peter huffs back. “Not black.”
MJ expertly retrieves a bottle of yellow nail polish from Peter’s bathroom. He’d vaguely known it was there, but couldn’t say why. She shuffled them both into the ideal positions for simultaneous nail-painting and TV painting, and rolls Peter’s fraying jeans up.
MJ pauses there and looks at him, dark eyes smiling. “You’re wearing it on your ankle.”
Of course he is. Peter’s wearing it almost always, under his socks, his jeans, his Spidey suit. Its colours have faded significantly over the years as a result. Softer though.
MJ doesn’t quite snort, but her eyes keep smiling. Peter can’t look away. “It’s called a friendship bracelet for a reason.”
“You know I’ve always worn them on my ankle. Otherwise they fuck with the web-shooters.”
MJ did know this. Friendship bracelets had become a thing among their AcaDec team, a silly joke that became tender. Peter had always moved them to his right ankle, citing wrist irritation. Senior year, he was famously known to wear a dozen on it at once.
He didn’t wear a dozen now. Only one, the one beautifully handmade from embroidery silk.
MJ had braided a bracelet for everyone from their team, Peter’s wasn’t more special than anyone else’s. His was just the only maroon and navy one.
“I’m glad I brought the yellow polish.” MJ smiles with her teeth now, and maybe she’s the most beautiful person in the galaxy.
“Like our jackets.”
“It might be an exact match.”
MJ strokes her fingers over the hair on Peter’s calf to adjust the maroon and navy bracelet. (Anklet). “It looks good.”
“That’s good. It’s not like I take it off.”
MJ’s hand is still on his ankle.
She lifts it, but it’s only to take the bottle of nail polish and screw the lid back on tightly.
Peter listens to her exhale, and scoots forward, so his knees are bent, and they’re face to face. One side of the collar of MJ’s linen shirt lies unfolded against her neck. She puts her hands on the tops of his knees.
“MJ, you know—”
“You don’t only wear my friendship bracelet because you like the colours best.”
“It helps.” Peter’s voice cracks a little.
MJ smiles with her teeth again, and she’s definitely the most beautiful person in the galaxy. “Good.”
Mrs Grenier’s painting of MJ was beautiful, beautiful like he wanted to gasp at in the street. Not beautiful like he couldn’t let go of her hands.
She leans forward, all intention, and he meets her halfway.