Archive of Our Own

It was raining when Peter found the kitten. Three pounds of soaked fluff, it was staggering around down in the gutter on Mott Street, so light in Peter’s hand when he scooped it up that it seemed to weigh less than nothing, at once the lightest and heaviest thing he’d ever held.

“Hey there, buddy,” he said to it. “Where do you think you’re going?”

The noise it made was tiny and pitiable, a squeak instead of a meow.

“I know that feeling,” he said, fumbling a one-handed swing up off the street and onto the nearest fire escape, out of the rain where it was dry, if still miserably cold. Peter’s breath ghosted up through his mask like fog. “Alright, let’s figure out where the nearest place I can get you dropped off is.”

Awareness prickled across his neck as people down below gasped. His head snapped up just in time to see the final letters form fiery in the sky: WE NEED TO TALK.

“Seriously?” Peter said, squinting up at the bright flickering letters. “Right now? He’s gonna do this to me right now?”

The kitten squirmed in his grasp, tiny little needle teeth and claws sinking into the heel of his palm. Peter shushed it, wincing when it just earned him more of a struggle.

A second message appeared under the first, a bad side effect of having been tangled up in each other for over a year: YES, RIGHT NOW.

The “idiot” was unwritten, but read all the same. Peter fought not to roll his eyes.

“Man, the media’s going to have a field day with this one,” he told the kitten, bringing it up to his face. It squirmed in displeasure. “Okay, emergency boyfriend detour. At least he’ll warm you up while he’s biting my head off.”

Peter had never intended to fall head over heels for the Human Torch, but then he’d never intended to get bitten by a radioactive spider, either. When life handed you a gorgeous blond superstar you made lemonade, or however that old saying went.

They’d both been in Los Angeles, baited into another harebrained supervillain plot under the guise of shooting a movie, of all things. Well, Peter had needed the money, and Johnny – at the time Peter had suspected Johnny just liked seeing his name in lights.

He hadn’t understood the Fantastic Four then, not really. He’d only seen the fame and the money and the way Johnny had looked in that blue costume. Not that he’d acknowledged that last part.

What was one magazine kept under his mattress, anyway. Practically nothing. And if it was webbed to the underside of the bedframe so Aunt May couldn’t find it while cleaning, that was also nothing.

It wasn’t his fault that he kept running into Johnny, seemingly everywhere he went. Even out in Hollywood, where some director wanted Spider-Man for a major motion picture.

And Peter? Peter wanted money.

Not that he got it.

The story went like this: Spider-Man got to Los Angeles. Spider-Man got into a fight with Johnny Storm. The whole movie turned out to be a supervillain plot to defeat him. Story of his life.

So now there he was, sitting on the roof of the studio with Johnny, neither of them speaking to the other.

It was awkward. Peter wished he could swing away, but it turned out that was a lot harder on a Los Angeles film lot than it was on literally any block in New York.

There was also the matter of him having no idea how he was getting home. He hadn’t exactly booked a return ticket and now he was out here with a grand total of $71.40 in his bank account.

He didn’t know what Johnny was sulking about. He probably had the Fantasti-Plane folded away in the fifth dimension, just waiting to escort him back to New York.

Around the tenth time Johnny snuck a sidelong, guilty look at him, Peter snapped.

“All right, Sparky, out with it,” he said. “What’s wrong with you?”

Johnny sucked in a harsh breath. For a moment, he looked like he might not say anything at all, which unnerved Peter more than anything else. He hadn’t known Johnny was capable of shutting up.

“It’s just…” he finally said.

“Just what?” Peter said. “Spit it out.”

“I saw your face when we were fighting,” Johnny said quietly, and Peter’s blood turned to ice. Johnny dipped his head, blinking those big blue eyes at Peter. “I know who you are. I’ve seen you before – it’s Peter, right? Peter… Parkman. No.” He snapped his fingers and sparks flew. “Parker.”

He sighed before Peter could think up some halfway convincing lie about clones or shapeshifting aliens or Soviet androids, flopping down on the ground with his arms above his head.

“Ugh,” he said. “My ex-girlfriend was like, in love with you.”

Peter was still puzzling out ways to get himself out of this situation, like by claiming he was the Chameleon or committing murder. His mouth was on autopilot.

“Is she cute?”

Johnny snorted, staring up at the sky.

“Dorrie? Yeah, she’s really cute,” he said. “Cutest girl at our high school. She thinks you’re a real gentleman, and I’m a flaming joke.” He glanced away. “In more ways than one.”

It took a moment for his meaning to click. Peter felt his eyes widen behind his mask.

Johnny looked back over at him.

“Your secret for mine,” he said. “I figured that was fair.”

Peter nodded sharply.

“I wonder which would make the front page of the Bugle, and which would end up on page six,” he said, and Johnny barked out a laugh.

“Jameson hates you way more than he hates me,” Johnny said, grinning. “So, we got a deal? I don’t tell and you won’t either?”

He held out his pinky finger. Peter snorted, but some of the panic still lurking behind his ribs settled. He slid his pinky through Johnny’s, and they shook on it.

“I wouldn’t have told anyway,” he grumbled under his breath.

“Yeah,” Johnny sighed. “Me neither. I’m a jerk, but I’m not that much of a jerk.”

Peter snorted and shook his head, looking away. His heart felt like it was in his throat.

“Hey,” Johnny said. “I want to go to the beach.”

By some unspoken agreement, that meant Peter had to go, too. He didn’t fight too hard about it, just the usual verbal sparring as Johnny led him down into the dark depths of a parking garage and towards the sleekest little red car Peter had ever seen.

If there was one thing Peter Parker hadn’t expected when he’d gone out to Hollywood, it was this: going eighty down the road in Johnny Storm’s convertible.

Johnny was laughing, throwing one hand up in the air. At first, Peter just wanted to white knuckle grip whatever he could get his hands on.

“Ten and two!” he shouted at Johnny, a phrase which was basically meaningless to him because he didn’t drive. But he still knew you were supposed to do it.

“Oh, come on!” Johnny yelled over the engine and the blaring radio. “I’m a great driver! I’ve been doing this since I was fourteen!”

“You’ve been doing what since you were when--”

“Spidey!” Johnny cut him off. He glanced over and the sun caught on his profile and Peter just – froze. He was gorgeous and golden, every inch of him radiating joy. “Let loose a little! Feel the wind in your hair!”

Peter could, actually, feel the wind in his hair for once. Because it wasn’t Spider-Man and Johnny Storm going to the beach. It was Peter Parker and Johnny Storm.

Late November in Los Angeles, the sun just starting to set behind them. The weather was nice, especially compared to what Peter was used to in New York, but the water was freezing.

Johnny, typically, didn’t care. He kicked off his shoes as soon as they got to the beach and left them in the sand, running into the waves.

“Come on!” Johnny called from the water, his hands cupped to his mouth, as Peter dithered on the beach. “It’s great! Spi – Peter!”

Johnny, through luck or magic – probably through money – had managed to find them an abandoned stretch of beach. So it didn’t matter much whether Johnny called him Spidey or Peter. Still, it made Peter feel weirdly warm, that Johnny was putting in an effort to protect his identity, even here, with no one else around.

“What the hell,” he said, and shucked his shirt.

Johnny, laughing, barely put up a fight as Peter tackled him into the water. They went down together, into the ocean’s spray, each of them fighting for the upper hand – Peter not very hard, not wanting the game to end too easy.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had fun like this. Maybe never.

They washed up on the shore together, soaked and sandy, Johnny not even bothering to dry himself off. He just lay there, sandy and laughing, his head tipped back. And suddenly Peter couldn’t stop staring at him. Suddenly, looking at Johnny made him feel free.

He was so pretty, practically sparkling in the sunlight, his cheeks flushed and his eyes screwed up with laughter. In that moment Peter didn’t think he’d ever seen someone look so much like sunlight.

He levered himself up, braced over Johnny on his hands, and just stared down at him for a moment, caught up in him.

“Spidey?” Johnny asked, a laugh caught in his voice. His eyes were sparkling as he draped his arms over Peter’s shoulders. “What are you doing?”

“Well, gee, Sparky,” Peter said, tilting his head so their noses brushed. “If you can’t figure it out, maybe I should just call it quits.”

Johnny laughed, real and unglamorous, too loud and obnoxious.

Peter had no choice but to kiss him again.

They’d talked about it early on and agreed that theirs was a relationship best kept secret, at least from the public and at least for now.

It was on both of them, really. Peter, obviously, had his dual identity – would Johnny date Peter Parker, or would he date Spider-Man? Did Johnny even want to come out publicly, say that he was dating a man? They went back and forth on it, unhappy with either option. And, Peter argued, his ten-ton bag of neuroses related to it – would someone try to hurt Johnny if he was with Spider-Man? Johnny always sniped back that he could take care of himself, like Peter had never had to free him from a glass cage and a team of supervillains before.

Twice. Just that year. He wanted it on the record.

Would someone try to hurt Peter’s aunt, if they knew Johnny was dating Peter? That one made even Johnny fall silent.

And Johnny had his life – his very, very public life, and the dozens of maniacal weirdos who regularly tried to blast him and his family into space or trap them in an underground kingdom. Spider-Man had enough enemies; Peter Parker didn’t need to be a target on top of that. So that was that. Table the discussion, revisit at a later date, and keep Peter’s face out of any and all social media stories.

Johnny wasn’t built for secret-keeping, though. It weighed on him, made him squirm when interviews asked about his love life, if there was anyone special. Made him angry when people accused him of making his mystery partner up. Made him twist his fingers in Peter’s hair, head thrown back, begging him to bite instead of kiss, leave a string of marks up his neck, proof of their time together that he could see and touch and feel even when they weren’t together, to grip his thighs harder when he spread him out.

And, okay, Peter got a little jealous sometimes – Johnny, just turned twenty and gorgeous, had celebrities and billionaires and other, mask-less superheroes lined up around the block to date him. How could Peter compete? Peter, who, when he was lucky, had enough money to bring snacks to movie night?

Movie night, which was always at the Baxter Building. Where Peter snuck in through the window and didn’t walk through the lobby. Because Peter had a secret identity.

Okay, so it was mostly on Peter. What else was new.

And then there was college.

“What’s so wrong with a gap year?” Johnny had asked, straddling Peter’s lap and plastering roughly three bandaids too many across a fresh scrape on his forehead. Peter healed too fast for minor injuries to need patching up, but Johnny didn’t seem to care. They were Human Torch bandaids, too. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

Peter had a year of ESU under his belt; Johnny had a reluctance Peter didn’t understand and Johnny wouldn’t explain. With the Fantastic Four’s money, he could have gone anywhere he wanted, done anything he wanted, and instead he’d decided to stay home and help his sister pick invitations and tablecloth colors.

“You’ve already had a gap year,” Peter had pointed out, perhaps unwisely. Johnny huffed, dramatic. Peter squeezed his waist, apologetic.

“But not with you,” Johnny said, sliding out of Peter’s lap to put the first aid kit away. “We could do Europe! The whole backpacking thing, it’d be fun.”

“Yeah, I, um, I’m picturing you in a crappy hostel and it’s…” Peter trailed off, laughing helplessly. Johnny smacked him over the head. “Ow!”

“Baby. You didn’t even feel that.” Johnny yawned, settling back down next to Peter on the bed. He grabbed Peter’s hand, twining their fingers together. He dropped his head to Peter’s shoulder. “I could totally do the hostel thing.”

“I’d get stuck carrying both our improbably giant backpacks,” Peter said, smirking and abandoning Johnny’s hand in favor of his hair, curling sweetly across his forehead. He tugged gently, forcing Johnny to look up just enough so Peter could kiss him. “We’d – we’d die on Everest, probably.”

Johnny laughed. “That’s not even in Europe.”

“We’d die on some big mountain in Europe,” Peter amended, just to keep Johnny laughing. “Very tragic. Floundering around in the snow…” He tossed an arm dramatically over his eyes. “Go on without me, Johnny!”

“I wouldn’t,” Johnny promised, all sincerity. “I’d keep you warm.”

“I know,” Peter said, kissing him softly. “You gotta go to college.”

“Next semester, maybe,” Johnny huffed. Peter touched his jaw with the back of his knuckles and hummed disapprovingly, a poor copy of May’s signature tone. “I’m helping Sue with the wedding. You know I’m helping Sue with the wedding.”

Because picking flowers really takes up all of your free time, Peter wanted to say, but it seemed unimportant in the face of Johnny swinging himself up and into Peter’s lap, straddling him and running his hands down Peter’s chest, his mouth hot over Peter’s.

Peter slipped a hand up the back of Johnny’s shirt and decided to postpone the argument.

Which just meant that when they had the argument, it went much, much worse.

Peter hadn’t even meant to say it. It was just his big mouth, going a mile a minute. He hadn’t realized the bantering had moved into danger territory until it was too late.

“If you don’t want people to think you’re dumb, hot stuff, maybe don’t act like it.”

He hadn’t meant it. It had just slipped out.

He didn’t even really remember what they had been arguing about – Peter had just offhandedly said something about his college classes, and then Johnny had said something snippy about blonde coeds, and then Peter had said he would know all about blondes. It had spiraled from there.

“Right,” Johnny said, voice tight and eyes damp, angry flushed all over, “because it’s really my brains you date me for.”

It felt like Peter had been sucker punched. It hurt a whole lot worse than that.

“Johnny,” he said, not fast enough. He reached for him, not fast enough.

“Get out,” Johnny said. When Peter didn’t move, he repeated it, hotter in more ways than one. “Get out!”

“We’re at the Statue of Liberty, where am I supposed to go?” Peter demanded.

“Fine!” Johnny shouted. He lit himself all the way up and took off, an angry trail of fire in the sky.

Peter knew he should have followed him. He still didn’t.

Instead, he sat at the Statue of Liberty until dawn’s first light, brooding and feeling sorry for himself.

Johnny was loitering out on the rooftop, the heat shimmer around him keeping the worst of the drizzle away. He jumped a little when Peter landed behind him, spinning around. It wasn’t fair how the first sight of him after any time apart, be it minutes or days, took Peter’s breath away.

“Hi,” he said. He wanted to rip off the mask and kiss Johnny in the rain, like a scene out of a movie, but he didn’t know if he was allowed. People touched Johnny without his permission all the time, like being famous meant they were allowed, like his celebrity meant they owned him. Peter had sworn he was never going to be like that, so his hands stayed at his sides.

Correction: one hand stayed at his side. The other one stayed on the cat.

“Hi,” Johnny echoed, sounding miserable. Then his gaze dropped to the tiny bundle held in Peter’s hand. “Is that a kitten?”

His voice had risen sharply. Peter blinked.

“Uh, pretty sure,” Peter said. “But did you ever hear the one about the little old lady and the Chihuahua?”

Johnny wasn’t listening, though – he scooped the cat up out of Peter’s hold and, to Peter’s alarm, started cooing at it.

“It’s so little!” he said. The kitten didn’t try to bite Johnny at all, which Peter felt was unfair. “Where’d you find it? Are you keeping it? It’s all cold! We should take it to Sue.”

“Uh,” Peter said, but Johnny was already headed for the rooftop elevator. Peter had the speed advantage when Johnny was flamed off, but he still had to scramble to keep up.

“Sue!” Johnny called as soon as the doors opened.

She was in the kitchen, potentially burning the Baxter Building down. Peter followed close behind Johnny, ready to pull him out of the line of fire – not that the needed it. But the kitten probably did.

“If something’s not on fire, baby brother, I’m going to –” Sue went slightly cross-eyed as Johnny shoved the cat in her face. “Where did that come from?”

“Peter brought it,” Johnny said, handing his sister the kitten.

“Oh, of course,” Sue said, rolling her eyes a little.

“Hey,” Peter protested, futilely.

Sue took the cat gingerly from Johnny’s hands and carefully turned it over. It didn’t yowl for her either; Peter couldn’t exactly blame it for being weak for the Storm siblings.

“She,” Sue said. “It’s a she.”

Johnny cooed, reaching out to scratch it under its tiny chin.

The kitten purred.

Peter was filled with a sudden looming sense of dread.

Later, with the cat and Peter both warm and dry, Johnny settled across from him on his bed and passed him a mug of hot cocoa. It was the kind with little marshmallows in it, because when Johnny actually committed to something, he committed all the way.

It just made the previous argument all that much worse. Peter felt like a jerk all over again.

They sat in silence for a few long minutes, on opposite ends of Johnny’s bed. Peter knew he had to apologize. He had to open his big mouth and just say it. But the words didn’t seem to want to make it past his lips.

Then Johnny shifted towards Peter and sighed. He glanced at Peter, looking oddly guilty, like he’d done something wrong when it had been all Peter’s fault anyway.

“I was going to apologize,” Johnny said. “I know I kind of blew up on you the other day. I was just being dumb.”

“No,” Peter said. “It’s my fault. I was – I was being my aunt.” He inhaled sharply through his nose. “I didn’t mean to be like that. I just – I worry about you.”

“Don’t?” Johnny implored, leaning into Peter. He tilted his head; Peter read the silent cue and kissed him. It was soft and sweet, an apology pressed to Johnny’s lips.

“You know, right?” Peter said. “That I don’t think you’re dumb?”

Johnny shrugged, gaze fixed on the cat, eyes shadowed by long lashes.

“I don’t think you’re dumb,” Peter said.

“Okay,” Johnny said. Peter waited, but he didn’t continue.

After a moment, though, he reached out and took Peter’s hand. Peter rubbed a thumb over his knuckles and tried not to ruin the moment.

“We had a cat, before,” Johnny said out of nowhere. He flipped Peter’s hand over, holding it in both of his. “Back in Glenville. Left her with the neighbors when Sue and I went out to California for Reed’s big project.” He was quiet for a long moment, idly drawing patterns on Peter’s palm.
He always got quiet when he talked about life before the crash, like he didn’t really want to think about it. “They left the door open one day and she ran out. Didn’t bother to tell us until Sue and I went to get her, after the accident.”

Peter turned his head and kissed Johnny on the temple.

“M’sorry,” he said. “World sucks, sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Johnny agreed. “But you don’t.”

“Yeah?” Peter said.

“You got me a kitten,” Johnny said, settling his head down on Peter’s shoulder and lacing their fingers together. “Best boyfriend ever.”

Peter bit his tongue before he said anything to the contrary.

Johnny glanced up at him. Peter wondered if he knew that, sometimes, in the dark, it looked like there were sparks dancing in the depths of his blue, blue eyes.

“Can you stay?” Johnny asked.

Peter couldn’t, not really. He’d planned at least a few more hours of swinging, and Aunt May worried when he came home too late, or didn’t come home at all. But Johnny was looking at him, all wide-eyed, and Peter had come down with a terrible sickness since they started dating where his stomach twisted all in knots if he had to say no to him.

“Let me call May,” he said, and it was worth it for the way Johnny lit up like a Christmas tree.

Johnny was already in bed when Peter got off the phone, trying to tempt the kitten into playing with his hoodie string. It was a Spider-Man hoodie, Peter noted with no small amount of chagrin. Ever since they’d started dating, Johnny had started collecting merchandise like he was opening a museum to New York’s least favorite vigilante.

The cat, dry now, was puffed up to three times her former size. She didn’t seem very interested in the string. She had one hind leg extended, licking herself like she had something to prove.

“Very ladylike,” Peter told her, and got a tiny little cat glare for his effort.

“Don’t be mean to the kitten,” Johnny said.

“I’m not being mean.”

Peter rolled his eyes as he pulled back the blankets, slipping into bed. Johnny immediately snuggled close. He was blazing warm, just like always, melting away any residual Spidey-induced aches and pains. He immediately tucked his feet against Peter’s calves, even though they never got cold.

The kitten put her leg down, apparently all groomed out, and carefully padded her way onto Johnny’s stomach, probably seeking his warmth. She kneaded the blanket for a moment before settling down, her tail over her nose. She began to purr like a chainsaw.

“Does she have to sleep on the bed?” Peter asked, already knowing the answer.

Johnny flicked him on the forehead.

“She’s small,” he said.

“She could have fleas,” Peter pointed out.

“Baby,” Johnny said, and Peter knew full well it was an insult, not an endearment. Johnny settled his head on Peter’s shoulder and yawned. He patted clumsily at his chest. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”

Peter heaved a sigh he hardly meant and reached over to turn off the bedside lamp.

In the middle of the night, the cat took revenge by pouncing on Peter’s feet.

The cat didn’t love Peter.

The cat kind of hated him, actually.

“Whoa, hey!” Peter said, spider-sense tingling. He jumped back when the cat, ears all pulled back, took a swing at his hand and only his ability to stick to walls and spider-given grace kept him from toppling right back out of Johnny’s window.

“Louis!” Johnny scolded, scooping the cat off the windowsill. Instantly the cat went boneless and starry-eyed, letting Johnny skritch it under the chin.

Okay, Peter thought, shaking out his hand even though the cat had barely made contact, he knew that feeling all too well.

“Louis?”

“Vuitton,” Johnny said, putting the cat down on the bed. She purred at Johnny, and then turned those eyes on Peter like she knew exactly what his evening plans had been and she was saying not one single chance. “I’m doing an ad campaign.”

“Of course you are,” Peter said, rolling his eyes under the mask a little. Not that he cared what Johnny called the cat – Monster would’ve been Peter’s choice. Louis Vuitton eyed him from Johnny’s bed like she knew as she disdainfully washed herself.

He swung his other leg over the sill and Johnny met him halfway, sliding Peter’s mask up over his nose so he could kiss him.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Peter replied, sealing his lips over Johnny’s.

There was a crash. Johnny startled; Peter grabbed at him out of instinct, mostly, spinning them around so whatever Dragon Man or the weirdo with a sound hand or whoever it was this day would have to go through him, first.

Then he realized his spider-sense was silent.

He just stood there, stunned at the lack of any explosion or ensuing ultraviolence, while Johnny burst out laughing. The cat, all puffed up, was standing on his bedside table like she owned it, Johnny’s Fantastic Four-themed lamp crashed to the ground.

“Are you jealous?” Johnny asked the cat, lifting her up so he could look into her little face. “Don’t you like Spider-Man?”

“Johnny,” Peter said, a warning note in his voice.

Unsurprisingly, it went ignored. Johnny turned the cat over so she could face him.

“She says you’re a menace,” Johnny declared. “She says the Bugle is right about you.”

“Johnny,” Peter said. “The cat does not read the Bugle.”

The cat stared at him with heavy judgment in her eyes. Johnny raised one of her little paws and waved it at him.

“We were in the middle of something,” Peter reminded him.

The moment was clearly over, though. The cat squirmed in Johnny’s hold until he put her down. She meowed pitifully, staring up at him until he sat down, and then she circled three times on his lap before settling down. Her purring was obnoxiously loud.

The pattern continued.

Day one: Peter tried to kiss his boyfriend. The cat intervened.

Day three: Peter tried to hold his boyfriend. The cat got herself stuck on a blanket and caterwauled until Johnny freed her.

Day eight: Peter brought over a romantic meal of dirty water dogs. Johnny spent the whole time feeding the cat careful little bits of Sabrett.

Day ten: Peter tried to stick his hands down Johnny’s back pockets. The cat attacked his ankles.

Day fifteen: Peter was lying on his back, Johnny straddling him, kissing him fiercely. Peter thought, finally, and then the cat, somehow, set off the fire alarm down the hall.

Day twenty-three: Peter didn’t even get anywhere. It was time for the cat’s favorite Latverian soap opera.

“Why do you even get this channel?” Peter demanded.

Johnny and the cat turned equally disdainful looks on him.

The message was received. Peter had done something good—rescuing a tiny, defenseless animal and landing it in the lap of flame-printed luxury—and he was being punished for it. Sometimes this whole responsibility thing really was for the birds.

It was a Thursday when the Green Goblin attacked Empire State University and, subsequently, half the ceiling of a classroom fell on Peter. But, first, he’d been thrown through a window. And before that, he’d had a glider rammed into his ribs.

Peter was made of sturdy stuff, but he wasn’t exactly feeling a hundred percent. That was probably evident from the way he was sprawled on the ground and groaning.

Things, he thought, could have been worse. Sure, the door was blocked by debris, and sure, his ears were still ringing from one of the Goblin’s pumpkin bombs, and okay, so his healing factor was dealing with his ribs and his back and what was probably a concussion, but that was all basically nothing.

Also maybe he was bleeding. Just a little bit.

“Shrug it off, Spider-Man,” he groaned to himself.

“Don’t move!” a familiar voice snapped when he tried to sit up.

Oh, right. He’d almost forgotten the worst part. He wasn’t trapped alone.

Gwen Stacy’s pretty, judgmental little face appeared above him, her hair swinging dusted with crumbled plaster over her shoulders. She held up—fingers. Maybe two. Could have been three.

He would have noticed before now if she had six on one hand, wouldn’t he?

“Is he dying?” Harry Osborn asked from just over Gwen’s shoulder.

“No,” Peter said. Then, “I don’t know. Maybe.”

It would save him the abject humiliation, at least.

“You’re not dying,” Gwen said. Then, in what would have been something out of a dream if Peter wasn’t taken, she swung one leg over his hips and settled on top of him, her hands pressed to the bleeding wound on his shoulder. “Harry! Do you have cell service yet?”

Harry shook his head.

“Great,” Gwen said under her breath.

She seized the torn edges at the shoulder of Peter’s spider suit—the Goblin’s glider’s sharp edges had gotten him good—and yanked, tearing the fabric open.

“Ms. Stacy,” Peter wheezed, surprised into a laugh. “On a first date?”

Gwen shot him a disgusted look.

“Flash!” she snapped. “Grab my bag! Harry, give me your sweater vest!”

Flash went scrambling for her purse while Harry, with trepidation, stripped off his sweater.

“Careful,” Harry whispered. “It’s cashmere.”

Gwen gave him a deeply unimpressed look as she wadded it up and pressed it against Peter’s bleeding shoulder.

“How do you even know how to do that?” Harry said to Gwen, his voice rapidly rising to a pitch heretofore unknown by either dogs or Spider-Men.

Peter was briefly concerned that he was confused about the simple act of putting pressure on a wound, but also he looked like he was about to pass out, so Peter could cut him some slack, even it was it was his dad who was the reason he was currently lying prone and bleeding on a linoleum floor.

“It’s called first aid, Harry,” Gwen snapped back at him.

“That doesn’t answer the question!” Harry said. “Flash, stop crying--”

“I’m not crying!” Flash shouted from somewhere Peter couldn’t see. His voice was suspiciously wet.

As if Peter’s day couldn’t get worse.

“Listen,” he said, waving a hand loosely in the air as Gwen put pressure on the wound. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate beautiful blondes straddling me –”

“I can still stab you,” Gwen pointed out.

“Rain check,” Peter said. “I promise I’ll hold very still and let you stab me another day, but I’m kind of seeing someone, you know--”

“What you’re doing is bleeding all over Harry’s sweater,” Gwen replied.

“Sorry,” Peter said to Harry, because he felt like he should say something. “Try baking soda. My au—uh. My landlady swears by it.”

“I think I’ll just get it dry cleaned,” Harry said faintly. He looked like he might pass out. Peter hoped he didn’t; it would be terrible to have his thunder stolen.

Peter gave him a thumbs up. He looked like he needed it, and it really wasn’t his fault his father had slammed Peter straight through a wall.

Or that’s what he would have thought, anyway, if Harry, pale and shaky, hadn’t taken that moment to whisper to Gwen.

“We could take his mask off.”

Peter’s blood ran cold. Gwen went still on top of Peter, still leaning her weight on his bleeding shoulder, and Flash looked up.

“My dad says,” Harry said, his voice shaking, “He says Spider-Man’s breaking the law. He says that whoever unmasks him will be a real hero.”

“No,” Gwen said, at the same time as Flash said, “We can’t do that!”

“Why not?” Harry protested.

“Because this room hosts an ethics class, Harry,” Gwen snapped. She took a deep breath in through her nose. “And we’re not taking off his mask.” She looked down at Peter and lowered her voice. “We’re not taking off your mask, all right? So stop treating us like we’re one of those supervillains you fight. We’re not your enemy.”

Peter wanted to believe her, but half the time it felt like the entirety of New York was his enemy.

Well, he thought, thinking about Johnny and his bright, sunshine-filled smile. Almost the entirety of New York.

“Sorry,” Harry said after a moment, glancing away. “That was—I wouldn’t really do that.”

Peter wanted to believe him. He really did.

He just didn’t know how far the apple fell from the Green Goblin’s tree.

He could feel his healing factor starting to work, the process of his body knitting itself back together kickstarting itself. He’d ache for a day or two, but he’d be out of danger in a few hours.

Carefully, and with a groan that was only halfway exaggerated, he grabbed Gwen around the waist and lifted her off of him, ignoring her squawk of surprise, and sat up.

It was a mistake. His ribs screamed. His head spun.

He grit his teeth and forced himself to stand. The world was unsteady, but the earth held underneath his feet.

You’re Spider-Man, he told himself. You get back up. Every time, you get back up.

No matter how much it hurt.

He handed Harry’s bloody sweater vest back to him—he took it with a grimace and held it by the very tips of his fingers—and webbed his shoulder instead, trusting his own webbing to hold him together until his body could do the rest.

“Is that hygienic?” Gwen asked after a stunned moment.

Peter shrugged his good shoulder.

“Come on,” he said. “We’re getting out of here.”

It was hard work breaking through the rubble with only good arm, but no one had ever said Peter was anything but determined. To his surprise, both Flash and Gwen rushed to help out. Harry tried, too, but Peter suspected physical labor wasn’t his strong suit.

It couldn’t be easy for him, he thought, to be himself with a father like Norman Osborn. Part of him felt bad for Harry, he realized. He had all the money in the world, but he carried himself like he was walking on eggshells all the time.

Despite whatever else went wrong in his life, at least Peter had always known Aunt May and Uncle Ben had his back.

He expected them to part ways as soon as they were free, but for some reason Peter couldn’t comprehend, Gwen, Harry, and Flash all followed him up the stairwell, all the way up to the roof, like they were ducklings he couldn’t shake.

“All right, kids, this is my stop,” he said once they were up on the roof. He could see police cars circling down below, their lights flashing in the gloom. He had no idea what time it even was; it had already been evening when the Goblin had attacked, and the campus had been locked down. “Not that this hasn’t been great and all, but let’s try to avoid me bleeding out next time we all get together, capisce?”

“Flash is the president of your fan club,” Harry said as if by way of apology.

“Harry!” Flash yelped.

“What? You are!”

“Ignore them,” Gwen said to Peter, rubbing her temples. “They’re overgrown children. Are you sure you’re okay to…?”

She trailed off, waving a hand in the air.

“Swing,” Peter filled in for her. “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.”

She didn’t look convinced.

“You can barely stand,” she said. “Do you live alone?”

“Ms. Stacy!” he said, pressing his hand to his chest. “So forward!”

Gwen glowered at him.

“What I meant was is there someone who’ll notice if you collapse bleeding on your floor,” she said. “Assuming you have a floor and don’t just web yourself in a corner somewhere.”

“Do you think I’m actually half-spider under this mask?” Peter said.

When Gwen just raised her eyebrows judgmentally, he tipped his head back and sighed. She was something, Gwen Stacy. In another life, he could see her running rings around him.

“Yeah, I got – someone,” Peter said, waving a vague hand in the air. “I can go there.”

“Another beautiful blonde?” Gwen said archly, her arms crossed over her chest.

Peter gave her the world’s saddest attempt at finger guns. She snorted.

“Try not to swing into anything,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you worrying whoever they are.”

“Heard you loud and clear, Ms. Stacy,” he said.

Johnny would have liked her, Peter thought. She gave him almost as much of a hard time as he did.

The idea settled a strange sort of melancholy over his shoulders. His two lives were so separate—Spider-Man and Peter Parker, ESU student. And Johnny, somewhere in between. Johnny, who got both sides but never enough of him. Never got all of him.

He flipped his wrist over and swung out.

He’d meant to slip in through Johnny’s window the way he usually did. Graceful, in possession of all his faculties, and most importantly quiet enough not to wake the family.

That’s what he’d meant. What actually happened was that he got one leg over the windowsill—Johnny always left it unlocked these days, the building’s security system programmed to let Peter through—and then immediately tripped all over himself.

He went down hard, cursing.

There was a truly undignified squawk from the direction of the bed. The light clicked on, flooding the room, revealing Johnny, his blond curls sticking in every direction, halfway to falling off the bed.

He was wearing one of Peter’s t-shirts. Peter was going to fixate on that, and not how he thought he probably couldn’t get up off the floor.

“Pete?” Johnny said.

“Last I checked,” Peter groaned. He waved a hand in the air. “Go back to bed, hot stuff.”

Johnny was hanging halfway off the bed, his eyes huge. The cat was still on the pillow, staring at Peter smugly, like she was mocking him for being on the floor while her fluffy bulk graced Johnny’s bed.

“What are you even feeding that cat?” he demanded, watching her tail swish back and forth.

Johnny raised his eyebrows.

“Did you get hit in the head?” he asked, his voice flat, like he expected Peter to crawl in his window with head injuries.

“I resemble that remark,” Peter said. Then, “Wait.”

Johnny rolled his eyes and hauled himself out of bed.

“All right,” he said, reaching down for Peter’s hands. “Come on, up you go.”

He grabbed for Peter’s hands and, with a long groan, Peter let him pull him to his feet. They stumbled to Johnny’s bathroom together, Peter’s arm slung over Johnny’s shoulders and Johnny’s arm blazing warm around his waist.

Johnny pushed him towards the counter and Peter hoisted himself up with Herculean effort. He exhaled, long and slow, and Johnny’s expression softened.

He reached for the edge of Peter’s mask with careful fingertips and peeled it up, away from his face. He hissed at what he saw.

“Give it to me straight, Torch,” Peter said, trying to force humor into his tone, but sitting there in Johnny’s cavernous bathroom, a veritable shrine to all the latest skincare, he could feel exhaustion starting to seep into his very bones. “Am I still pretty?”

“You were never pretty,” Johnny told him, snorting.

“Ouch.”

Johnny tilted his chin up, clicking his tongue.

“What happened?” he asked, grabbing the first aid kit from underneath his marble sink.

Peter told him the whole story. The Green Goblin, the attack. The collapsed classroom and his wounded shoulder. Johnny fumbled for the hidden pocket in Peter’s costume while he talked, grabbing the little bottle of web fluid dissolver and carefully pouring it over his shoulder.

Peter hissed at the webbing dissolved, the wound beneath raw and aching. Johnny bandaged it with surprisingly patient hands, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth and his blond brows drawn together.

No one else got to see this side of him, Peter thought fondly, too tired for anything but sincerity. The real Johnny Storm, the one who cared so much it hurt to look at him.

Peter cupped a still-gloved hand to his cheek and leaned in to kiss him.

Johnny flicked him on the forehead before he could.

“Dude,” he said. “I’m still debating dragging you down to Reed’s lab. Not the time.”

Peter groaned and tipped his head back.

“I got thrown through a building, Johnny, have some pity,” he said. “The police captain’s daughter could have strangled me with a sweater vest.”

“Captain Stacy’s daughter?” Johnny said, tilting Peter’s face to examine a bruise. “Yeah, she looks like she could take you out.”

Peter made a noise of agreement before Johnny’s words caught up to him.

“Wait, why do you know my classmate?”

“Reed and Sue had a meeting with her dad a while back,” Johnny said, dabbing gently at Peter’s forehead. “I think they were trying to set me up. She’s nice.” He hesitated. “Pretty. If you like blonde pretty.”

“I like blonde pretty,” Peter said, staring at the way the light caught on Johnny’s pillow rumpled blonde curls.

Johnny pulled back and scowled at him. The next dab against Peter’s forehead was decidedly less gentle.

“Ow!” Peter hissed. “You – I was talking about you!”

“Well, say so next time,” Johnny said, still scowling, although his touch gentled.

“Sure,” Peter said. “Hey, how many blondes does it take to -- ow.”

“You want to finish that thought, or you want to sleep on the bed tonight?” Johnny asked, his eyebrows raised.

There was a very obvious right answer there. Still, Peter opened his mouth to say something snide.

“Nope,” Johnny said, kissing Peter square on the lips, short and sweet. “Bed now. Stupid argument later.”

Peter let himself be led back down the hall and shoved down onto Johnny’s plush mattress. He sighed and pressed his face into the pillow, wiggling under the covers. After a second Johnny joined him, knees knocking, warm toes against Peter’s cold feet.

“Hey,” Peter said without opening his eyes. He buzzed with awareness – not quite spider-sense, but a pleasant alternative, the electric tingle of Johnny in bed next to him, the soft sound of his breath and the bonfire-faded, criminally expensive cologne scent of him. “You know I love you, right?”

Johnny breathed out, slow, and settled his head on Peter’s shoulder. “I love you.”

“Good,” Peter said, smiling.

Johnny flung an arm over Peter’s chest and Peter hummed sleepily, relaxing into his hold.

He woke up around sunrise to the pad of paws on the pillow, a two second warning before five pounds of fluff settled on top of his head and immediately started purring. A tail swished in his eye.

“I hate this,” Peter said without conviction.

It didn’t take much to convince Jonah to let Peter take photographs of the Storm-Richards wedding, even with Phil Sheldon covering it already. For one thing, Jonah was feuding with the society page editor. For another, Peter had said he’d take photos for free.

Luckily, Peter had done away with self-respect the first moment Johnny Storm had sat on his lap and breathed in his ear while they were arguing about what movie to watch. Surrendering the very last scraps of his professional dignity didn’t sting that much by comparison.

It was a poor compromise, attending the wedding this way, but it wasn’t like he could go as Johnny’s date, either as himself or as Spider-Man. It would be too much attention on Peter Parker, and too risky linking Spider-Man to Johnny that way.

So he went, courtesy of the Bugle, and he took pictures, and Reed and Sue were nice enough to make sure he got a couple especially good shots, shooting him sympathetic smiles. Jonah would weep when the photos landed on his desk.

He took pictures of Ben and Alicia, too, not necessarily for the Bugle, but just in case Ben wanted them. And the pictures of Johnny—the pictures of Johnny definitely weren’t for the Bugle.

Even halfway across the room, Johnny still commanded his gaze.

He was wearing a suit the same color as his Fantastic Four suit, perfectly tailored to him, and a black tie. He’d foregone, Peter noted, the red loafers with the orange and yellow flames picked out in brilliant rhinestones. He was sure Sue was relieved.

But even without the extra added sparkle, Johnny still shone. Peter wasn’t the only one who was starstruck.

A girl roughly their age, wearing a slinky blue dress, was talking to Johnny. It didn’t take a genius to know she was interested in him; she was leaning in close, playing with her blonde hair, laughing at everything he said. Peter thought he had probably seen her in a magazine somewhere.

Peter watched her lips form the words: Dance with me?

Johnny hesitated. His gaze caught Peter’s across the crowded room. Peter felt a little bit like he’d been knifed, except he had actually been knifed before, and it had hurt less than this, watching doubt fill his boyfriend’s big, blue eyes.

Go for it, he mouthed back. It’s okay.

He hadn’t expected Johnny’s face to fall.

It was a quick thing, there and gone in a second. Johnny wouldn’t let anyone see longer than that. Like a light switch flipped on, he turned back to the girl, smiled, and held out his hand. The girl took it and together they made their way out onto the dancefloor, looking like the perfect couple—both young, rich, and beautiful.

Peter shook his head and looked away, focusing across the grand ballroom. Over by the buffet, he could see Hawkeye hitting on Millicent Collins, the supermodel.

He raised his camera and told himself to get back to work.

When he found Johnny a few hours later, he was up in his room, sitting on his bed, his hands clasped between his knees. He’d ditched the tie and his jacket, his shirt hanging open at the collar, and his hair was mussed like he had been running his fingers through it.

Or like someone else had.

Peter hated himself for the thought as soon as he had it.

“Hey,” he said, leaning in the doorway. “The party’s still going, you know. Last I saw, Ben had Reed and Sue both up on the same chair and he was doing a one-man Hora with them.”

Johnny snorted, shaking his head. The cat wound her way around his ankles, making little chirping noises, like she knew he was sad. He reached down with one hand to pet her, but he still wouldn’t look at Peter.

“I’m just tired, Spidey,” he said.

He inhaled shakily, shaking his head.

Peter sat down on the bed next to him, leaving a careful couple inches between them. He didn’t know if Johnny wanted to be touched. He didn’t know what was wrong, or how to fix it, and he hated not being able to fix things.

“It was a nice wedding,” he tried. “I mean, aside from all the supervillain attacks, but, you know. It was nice once those were handled.”

“Yeah,” Johnny agreed, but his head was still down. “Sue looked happy. I’m really happy for her—for them.”

He sniffed, swiping too hard at his eyes, and Peter couldn’t take it anymore. He reached over and pulled Johnny towards him, tipping him over so he ended up sprawled across his lap. He tried not to laugh at Johnny’s surprised yelp, because when he stared up into Peter’s face, Peter saw that his eyes were red-rimmed and puffy.

He looked beautiful doing everything but crying. Peter felt immensely, impossibly in love with him.

“What’s wrong?” Peter asked, twirling one blond curl around his finger. “And don’t lie to me. I have you at my dubious mercy.”

Johnny snorted, shoving a hand in his face. He pushed himself up, ungainly, and Peter nearly got an elbow to the crotch for his efforts. Instead of moving away, though, Johnny slumped against him, his head down on Peter’s shoulder.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “My sister married the smartest, nicest guy on the planet, a guy who really, truly loves her. No supervillains broke up the wedding and Doctor Doom didn’t object. Everything’s perfect.”

“Right. Everything’s perfect,” Peter said. “That’s why you’re crying on my tux. Don’t, by the way. It’s a rental.”

Johnny snorted. He gripped Peter’s arm, just above the crook of his elbow.

“I’m not sad,” he said, like he was trying to convince himself. “Even if I was, it’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” Peter said, too quickly, and Johnny leveled him with a look. Peter rolled his eyes and wrapped an arm around him. “It’s probably not stupid. So tell me what’s making you sad so I can fix it.”

“It’s not something you can hit,” Johnny said.

“Try me,” Peter said, planting a kiss on top of his head. “You’d be amazed at all the different things I can figure out how to hit.”

Johnny snorted. He fidgeted with Peter’s sleeve, twisting the material between his fingers.

“I’m not sad,” he repeated, like if he said it forcefully enough he could make himself believe it. “But if I was…”

“If you were…?” Peter prompted, nosing at his hair. “It would be because…?”

Johnny was quiet for a moment. When he next spoke, his voice was thick and wet.

“Because I wanted to dance with my boyfriend at my sister’s wedding,” Johnny said. “And I can’t, and it’s all my fault, because my life is too fucked up.”

Peter had no idea what to say to that for a long moment. There were too many different things—Johnny wanting to dance with him. Johnny calling his glamorous, sky scraper life fucked up.

Johnny blaming himself.

“What are you talking about?” Peter said. “I—you—how is your life the fucked up one?”

Johnny just scoffed and looked away.

Then, with a bravado he didn’t really feel, Peter said, “If you wanted to dance with me, you should have just said so. I would have danced with you. I don’t care about the rest of them, Johnny.”

Johnny gave him a sidelong look, firelight glimmering in his eyes.

“Okay, but I care,” he said. “And I care what they would say about you.”

“The Bugle skewers me daily,” Peter said. “I still show up for work.”

“The Bugle skewers Spider-Man,” Johnny said. “You’re Peter Parker. There’s a difference.”

Peter wondered about that sometimes.

“I don’t care,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. Let everyone think what they want—they hate me as Spider-Man already. Let them hate me for taking the internet’s boyfriend away from them, too.”

“The press will find out,” Johnny said, counting down on his fingers. “Someone will see. And then they will find out every single tiny detail about your life. Your name. Your age. How tall you are, how much you weigh. What color glasses you wore in third grade. Where your aunt works. Where you live. They won’t stop.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Peter said, even though he knew, with a pang, that Johnny wasn’t, because Johnny had lived it already.

“As soon as the Fantastic Four became household names, they found out everything about me,” Johnny said, his eyes blazing. “Where Sue and I lived before. Stuff about our dad, our aunt. The girl I kissed in eighth grade. The boy I kissed in ninth. They went through the trash outside the Baxter Building to find out what kind of shampoo Sue used, Pete.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “They’ll find out about your parents.”

“What?” Peter said.

He had told Johnny the truth about his parents just after he’d found out himself, desperate and aching to share the truth with someone. He’d curled up in Johnny’s bed, put his head on Johnny’s chest, and just talked the whole night. Johnny had combed his warm fingers through Peter’s hair and said he was sorry. He’d said he wished he could have known them. He’d said they were heroes.

Peter had never needed to hear anything so badly before, and Johnny had just said it like it was the most natural response in the world.

“They’ll find out,” Johnny repeated. “They’ll drag the whole thing through the mud. They’ll make it a scandal. I can’t do that to you, Peter, and I can’t do it to your aunt. Do you understand that? I won’t do it to you just so I can be selfish for ten minutes. It’s not worth it.”

There was nothing Peter could say to that. His tongue failed him completely.

“Do you get it now?” Johnny said. “It doesn’t have anything to do with you being Spider-Man. You’re normal. You like being normal. I won’t do that to you.”

There was a single spark clinging to his cheek. Peter leaned forward and blew it away, catching Johnny’s chin and turning his face towards him.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” Peter said.

Johnny snorted.

“What, no jokes?” he said.

“A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead were all stranded in the desert—”

Johnny punched him in the shoulder. To add insult to injury, the cat started purring.

Peter waited for a moment, watching Johnny fume, before he reached over and scooped the cat off his lap. She made an offended little yowl, kicking her short little back legs furiously against Peter’s wrist as he deposited her against the pillows.

“Okay,” he said. “Dance with me, then.”

Johnny looked at him like he was out of his mind.

“Right here,” Peter said, holding out his hand. “Right now.”

“It’s not the same,” Johnny said. He sounded petulant, but he was eyeing Peter’s hand.

“Doesn’t matter,” Peter said. “Dance with me.”

“Get lost, Parker.”

“I’ll let you pick the music,” Peter said, leaning in close. “And I won’t even make fun of it.”

Johnny looked up, a spark in his eye.

“Really?” he said. “Promise?”

“I promise,” Peter said solemnly. “If it’ll make you smile, I’ll do anything.”

Johnny snorted, rolling his eyes.

“You’re so cheesy,” he said, but there was finally the shadow of a smile tugging at his lips. “I can really pick the music?”

Peter really let him pick the music. He barely even regretted it as he took Johnny’s hand, his own settling on Johnny’s shoulder. He really wasn’t much of a dancer, but he had enough spatial awareness to keep from stepping on Johnny’s feet, and that was what really mattered.

It was barely more than swaying, but he could feel the heat of Johnny’s body, warmer than anyone else, and Johnny squeezed his hand, and for a little while it really seemed like everything would be okay. The cat was even watching them from Johnny’s bed, slowly blinking at them like she was pleased.

But around the third song, Johnny folded against him like his strings had been cut. He put his head down on Peter’s shoulder, wrapped his arms around his waist. His tears were fast and hot.

“It’s not the same,” Johnny whispered wetly into his shoulder. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”

“Shh, hot stuff,” Peter whispered. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Let it be on me, okay? Let it all be on me.”

He’d take all the pressure, shoulder all the responsibility. He didn’t want any more of it touching Johnny, who had never done anything wrong, who had only ever wanted to go exploring with his family.

“I don’t want to dance with anyone else,” Johnny said.

Peter could only hold him closer and sway with him.

It had been a week since the wedding, and a week since he’d seen Johnny.

They’d talked, of course—over the phone, over text. But not in person. It was probably, Peter reflected, the longest they’d gone without seeing each other when they weren’t fighting. And they weren’t fighting. It was just that Peter felt lost.

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do.

He hated not knowing what to do. Everything was so much easier when there was a problem he could punch, like a guy in a rhinoceros suit, or a guy vulture costume, or basically anyone dressed up like an animal.

Peter really needed better villains.

He also knew that he needed to see his boyfriend. He still didn’t know what he needed to do to make it right, but avoiding the problem wasn’t helping. Gwen Stacy had told him as much when she’d caught him daydreaming in one of their shared classes and chewed him out for it.

He took the elevator up to the Fantastic Four’s living quarters, a common enough event these days that the doorman tipped his hat. He didn’t know what the staff at the Baxter Building thought about him—aside from Roberta, but then she was literally a robot—but he did know they were deeply loyal to the Fantastic Four. Reed and Sue wouldn’t have it any other way, and given what Johnny had said last time about the press, Peter couldn’t blame them.

The newlyweds were nowhere to be seen when Peter arrived at the top floor, but Ben was sitting in the living room, watching some football game on the Fantastic Four’s truly gigantic television.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said when he caught sight of Peter. “Great. Maybe you can talk some sense into ‘im.”

That probably should have been Peter’s first clue that something was wrong. His second clue came when he opened Johnny’s bedroom door and found that he wasn’t alone.

There was a girl in Johnny’s room. She was wearing a white dress, and she had long strawberry blonde hair. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed Peter had tackled Johnny down on top of just a week and a half ago, when Johnny still thought he might wear those flame-patterned loafers to his sister’s wedding, and when Peter had no idea just how badly his boyfriend wanted to dance with him in public.

She was very, very pretty in an almost ethereal way, like a fairy from a storybook, and she was smiling at Johnny the way people usually did – like if they had to choose between a million dollars or ten minutes alone with him, they’d say screw the million.

Or maybe that was just how Peter felt.

“Am I interrupting something?” he said.

Johnny looked up at him, big excited smile on his face. He was sprawled out on the blue rug, supporting his cheek on one fist, elbow propped up against the floor. He looked—happy.

Peter should have been glad to see him looking happy.

“Pete!” he said. Peter was beginning to regret that he’d come up by elevator; the costume always made him feel bigger than he was, like it was completely reasonable for him to go up against hardened criminals in rhinoceros suits, or guys who shot electricity out of their hands, or the pretty girl in his boyfriend’s bedroom. “This is Crystal.”

“Hello,” Crystal said, and even her voice had to be nice—gentle and clear, like windchimes.

Johnny reached up to grab Peter’s hand and tug him down onto the floor next to him. “Crystal, this is my boyfriend, the one I was telling you about.”

A hissing noise drew Peter’s attention.

Louis Vuitton—Peter had grudgingly come around to the name—was puffed up to twice her regular size, her back arched and her tail like a bottle brush. As soon as she caught sight of Peter, she jumped from one of the many shelves Johnny had assembled for her to perch on, straight onto his shoulder, digging her sharp little kitten claws in.

It didn’t take Peter very long to realize why she was terrified: there was a gigantic bulldog with a fork on its head curled up in the corner of Johnny’s room. Peter had never seen a bear, but by his estimate, it was roughly the size of one.

“What the hell is that?” Peter said, taking a step back. The kitten, still hissing, made her new home in the hood of his sweatshirt. It would have been sweet, if her tiny little dagger claws weren’t flexing at the nape of his neck.

“That’s Lockjaw,” Crystal chimed in, even though Peter had asked Johnny. “My puppy dog.”

That, whatever it was, was not a puppy. It was also drooling on Johnny’s bedside table.

“He’s scaring the cat,” Peter said, reaching behind him to scratch Louis Vuitton’s ears. He felt a sudden, fierce affinity for her, like she was actually his cat and not the furball he’d scooped out of a gutter and unintentionally gifted Johnny. Maybe because she trusted him to defend her. Maybe because they were united against the beautiful fairy princess in his boyfriend’s room. Maybe because she was trying to wiggle down the back of his hoodie and her bottle brush tail was in his ear.

“Lockjaw wouldn’t hurt a fly, would you now, puppy?” Crystal soothed, scratching her fingers around the dog’s ruff.

Louis Vuitton didn’t seem convinced. Neither was Peter.

“You’re so lucky to have a boyfriend, Johnny,” Crystal continued, rolling over onto her stomach and kicking her bare feet in the air. She had tiny, delicate feet, and perfect toes, Peter noted with ire. “I’ll probably be betrothed to a cousin. Hopefully one with normal appendages.”

She gave an exaggerated little shudder.

Peter felt like he was missing something. A lot of things, even.

“But maybe,” she said almost dreamily, rolling onto her back now, her arms crossed behind her head. “If my family knows there are people like us out here…”

Johnny’s ceiling was painted like the night sky, a dazzling array of constellations that, with Reed’s magic, changed depending on the season. Even in the afternoon light, the stars glittered like diamonds.

“Make a wish, Crys,” Johnny said, and she laughed, bright as bells.

Peter was developing a sudden grudge against wind chimes.

“Can I talk to you?” he said to Johnny.

Johnny blinked up at him, eyes wide and guileless.

“Sure?” he said.

“Can I talk to you outside?” Peter said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. He tried to relax his jaw before he cracked a tooth gritting them.

Johnny shrugged, climbing easily to his feet. He looked soft and comfortable, the wave of his golden hair untamed, his t-shirt—Peter’s t-shirt, the ESU one that Peter had left it there months before—showing a hint of collarbone. Peter had the sudden urge to mark him up.

He wasn’t going to think too hard about it.

“I’ll be right back,” Johnny assured Crystal. She just beamed at him, her eyes sparkling. The backs of Peter’s teeth itched.

He grabbed Johnny by the hand, just because he could, and towed him out of the room behind him, down the hall, and into the living room where Crystal couldn’t hear them. Ben, who was still watching the game, raised his rocky brows at them.

“Who is that?” Peter demanded.

“Who?” Johnny said. “Crystal?”

He launched into a rambling explanation about how he’d found her lost in New York, how she had powers just like them, and how, apparently, she was some kind of princess from a hidden colony of an offshoot of humans who had been isolated for centuries.

It wasn’t that Peter couldn’t believe it. After everything he’d seen the past few years, he could definitely believe it. He just didn’t particularly care.

“Why is she in your room?” he asked.

“Oh boy,” Ben said from the couch. “Here we go. Johnny boy, don’t answer that.”

“Because… she’s my friend?” Johnny said, ignoring Ben. His eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Wait, are you actually upset about this?”

“I’m not upset,” Peter said, too quickly.

And he really wasn’t; he was just standing there, in the Fantastic Four’s living room, calmly having a discussion with his boyfriend while a kitten tried to chew on his hair. He was perfectly calm.

“She’s my friend,” Johnny said.

Peter knew he was making a mistake as soon as the sound left his lips, but it was too late for that. He scoffed.

Loudly.

“What, am I not allowed to have friends now?” Johnny demanded. Spitefully, he added, “You have friends.”

Peter barked out a harsh laugh.

“Since when?” he said.

“Can you two do this somewhere else?” Ben asked.

Peter ignored him.

“Since when do I have friends, Johnny?” he repeated.

“Since you started college!” Johnny exploded, throwing his hands up.

The kitten, apparently sensing danger, leaped out of Peter’s hood and padded over to Ben, expertly scaling his leg until she could perch on his lap.

Ben heaved a very loud sigh.

“You don’t want to go back to his room?” he said, apparently to no one. Maybe to the cat. “The kitchen? Garage? Mole Man’s place? Anywhere?”

“What are you even talking about?” Peter demanded.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about!” Johnny said, slapping a hand against Peter’s chest, right over where the spider lay underneath his sweater.

“Neither of you knows what yer talking about,” Ben grumbled.

Down the hall, Crystal stuck her head out of Johnny’s door, her expression curious and her long orange hair perfect and voluminous. Peter, by comparison, had mask hair.

“Gwen Stacy,” Johnny said, ticking off on his fingers. “Harry Osborn. The president of your fan club. And, oh yeah, what about the super hot model who lives next door to you!”

“She’s done one commercial!” Peter shouted back. “And she doesn’t even live next door, her aunt does!”

“That’s not the point!”

“Then what is the point?”

“There’s no point to this,” Ben told the kitten. She purred in response.

“Wait,” Peter said, throwing up one hand while Johnny made strangling motions at him. With the other, he grabbed Johnny by the wrist, dragging him behind him on instinct. “Why does it sound like the subway is coming through the wall?”

It was a low rumbling, coming closer and closer. The floor began to shake under their feet. Peter’s spider-sense suddenly blared like five alarm fire.

Ben, with the weariness that came from having done this for a few years now, picked up the kitten and set her gently down on a throw pillow. He ambled over to Peter and Johnny, cracking his rocky knuckles.

“Now what?” he asked.

The wall collapsed, revealing a fish man and a giant with hooves.

Ben summed it up nicely.

“What a revoltin’ development.”

After everything—after Black Bolt and the rest of Crystal’s family, after the Great Refuge, after the Inhumans had been trapped in their kingdom by Maximus the Mad—Johnny had gone radio silent. Sad-eyed, he’d told Peter when they landed back in New York that he’d call him.

He hadn’t.

The worst part was, Peter couldn’t even blame him. Johnny had just wanted a friend, and Peter had been a jerk. Now that friend was locked away in the Himalayas, trapped behind a barrier of negative energy so potent that Johnny would probably never see her again.

So few people understood Johnny. Crystal had, though. And Peter had been petty, and jealous, and possessive.

He knew that, and he still wasn’t apologizing, which made him a jerk all over again.

Peter’s thumb hovered over Johnny’s contact in his phone, just his first name with a little flaming heart next to it. Johnny had been the one to put it in his phone, grinning at him as he held up his own, showing him his own name next to a camera emoji and a spiderweb. Subtle, Johnny was not.

Peter missed him.

There was a sharp rap on his door. Peter put his phone down just in time as Harry leaned into the room.

“Hey,” he said. “Gwen and MJ are on their way. You sure you don’t want to come with us?”

The living arrangement with Harry was new, but he’d offered and Peter couldn’t think of a reason to say no. His place was massive and modern, and he didn’t care about Peter coming home at odd hours or if he even paid rent.

Johnny was right; Peter did have friends. That just made everything worse.

Late that night, after he got back from the club Mary Jane had dragged the rest of them to, when Harry when passed out on the couch and the girls were laughing at each other in the kitchen, Peter leaned against the wall and texted Johnny.

I miss you.

He didn’t think he would get a response. Not immediately. But after a moment, the three little dots appeared, followed by a flaming heart. After that was a picture, a selfie of Johnny lying in bed shirtless, his hair all askew. The kitten was curled up under his chin, a content expression on her sleeping face.

Just one emoji and one picture. Nothing else.

Peter smiled anyway.

It started with the weather.

An unexpected cold snap blew in as June faded into July. One day it was sweltering and the next people were bundling up in sweaters and coats, confused tourists rushing into stores trying to find the warm clothes they had never thought to pack. Icy winds whipped through the New York City streets, followed by fluffy, fat flakes of snow.

“It’s global warming,” Harry said sagely, huddled on his leather sofa in a plush blanket, one finger raised in the air and his teeth chattering.

“Uh-huh,” Peter said, passing him a mug of hot tea.

When the cold didn’t break, Peter took the subway out to Forest Hills so he could check on Aunt May’s ancient furnace. He stayed for dinner while he was there, too, because May had made meatloaf, and Harry was a great roommate but a chef he was not.

He cleared the table after dinner and helped May with the dishes, idly chatting about what they’d been up to, her book club and volunteer work and his classes.

“How’s Johnny?”

Peter manfully did not crack the dish he was washing in two. He breathed in deep.

“Johnny’s fine.”

It was even true, as far as he knew. They were texting a little bit these days, but—not much. Peter would send messages about his day, if a class was particularly annoying or if something interesting had happened as Spider-Man. Johnny would reply with pictures of the cat. Nothing deeper than that.

And it was driving Peter up the fucking wall.

May raised an eyebrow.

“Are you fighting?” she asked.

“No,” Peter said, too quickly. He set the dish down with exaggerated care. “We’re not fighting. We’re having a difference of opinion.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days,” May said. “Did you apologize?”

Peter grimaced.

“It’s not good to go to bed angry,” May continued. “Your uncle and I always made a point to apologize, no matter which of us was wrong.”

Peter hadn’t been going to bed angry. He’d been going to bed grumpy and missing an annoying blond shoving his always-warm toes against Peter’s calves. He missed Johnny being an octopus in the middle of the night. He missed him reaching for him when Peter got up in the morning. He missed him drooling on his shoulder.

He even missed the cat.

A week ago, at a club, Mary Jane had swanned up to him, five-foot-ten worth of sequined should-be supermodel, and flung herself down next to him. She’d wrapped both her arms around his and leveled him with a look.

“You’re cute when you’re sulking, tiger,” she said. “But whatever it is—whoever they are—just work it out, okay? You’re even less fun than usual when you’re sad.”

Then she’d sashayed back off, grabbing Harry by the paisley patterned tie on her way. If Peter didn’t know better, he’d have almost thought that was advice.

Now, staring down at his aunt, Peter guessed he really had no choice.

They met at Bryant Park. A nice, neutral location, where Peter couldn’t break anything and Johnny wouldn’t set anything on fire.

Johnny was waiting for him, wearing sunglasses and a zip-up black and gold jacket that he didn’t need, despite the chill, and that probably cost more than Jonah paid Peter in a month. The kitten wasn’t with him, which meant that the leash training plans Johnny had talked about before everything had happened with Crystal and the Inhumans had probably worked out about as well as Peter thought they would.

He wasn’t going to say I told you so. Not for two, three weeks, at least.

Providing that Johnny forgave him in the first place.

He pulled the sunglasses off when he saw Peter approaching, and Peter held his hands up like he was trying to calm one of Kraven’s lions.

“Hey,” he said, and immediately wanted to slam his head into the nearest tree trunk. “Thanks for meeting me here.”

“No problem,” Johnny replied, pretty face twisted into a frown. “You could have come by the Baxter Building, you know. I wouldn’t lock you out.”

“I know,” Peter said, even though he didn’t, not really. He deserved to be locked out, probably. He knew he should tell Johnny that, but the words didn’t want to seem to make it past his lips.

It was Johnny who sighed and slumped, his hands tucked into his pockets. He gave Peter a long sideways look, probably taking in how awful he looked, his hair a mess and shadows under his eyes. He hadn’t realized until he’d had to sleep without Johnny just how used he’d gotten to having him in bed.

“I’m not mad,” Johnny said.

“Well,” Peter said, a little stiffly. “Good. Neither am I.”

Johnny rolled his eyes.

“Because you had literally nothing to be mad about--”

“Oh, so I just imagined the beautiful girl in your room!” Peter said, throwing his hands up.

Johnny clenched his jaw and looked away. When he exhaled, steam curled up from his lips.

“She was my friend,” he said. “And I could have—helped her. And now I’m never going to see her again, because she’s trapped, just like she was afraid of, so there’s nothing for you to worry about. Jerk.”

Peter sucked in a breath through his clenched teeth.

“Sorry,” he said, not quite managing to land sincere if the way Johnny stared at him was any indication. “I’m really sorry, Johnny. I don’t mean to be a jerk. You know I don’t mean to be a jerk.”

“I know,” Johnny said sullenly. “You can’t help it if it comes naturally to you.”

“You’ve dated girls before,” Peter pointed out.

“So have you!” Johnny said.

Peter had dated one girl before, unless he counted a disastrous uncle-chaperoned ice cream date with Sally Avril when he was in second grade. Other than that, there was just Betty Brant, Jonah’s pretty secretary, who had been wearing a red blouse the day Peter first met her. He’d never forget seeing her for the first time.

Betty Brant, who blamed Spider-Man for her brother’s death.

His shoulders slumped. He scrubbed a hand over his face.

“This is stupid,” he said.

“I know you are, but what am I?” Johnny muttered under his breath.

Against all of his better judgment, Peter snorted. Johnny glanced over at him, his arms folded huffily across his chest, a defiant spark still in his eye. After a second, though, the corner of his mouth twitched upwards.

“That the best you got?” Peter asked, reaching for his shoulder and reeling him in. “Huh? We’ve been verbally sparring for years and that’s all you can give me?”

“Oh, I’ll give you something, all right,” Johnny said, grabbing Peter’s face between his hands. He pulled him, leaning up, and planted a wet kiss right on his forehead. “There. Was that better?”

Peter swallowed a laugh. He put his forehead down against Johnny’s, shaking his head.

“Don’t you owe me something more than that?”

“Nope,” Johnny sang, twisting away from him. “You’re the one who got jealous for no reason. I don’t owe you anything.”

“I know,” Peter admitted, voice softening. He locked his hands behind the small of Johnny’s back. “And I am sorry. I want you to have friends, I really do. Just… maybe not pretty ones.”

Johnny flicked him on the forehead.

“You’re the one who keeps saying she’s pretty,” he huffed. “If anything, I should be the jealous one. You’re always hanging out with hot girls.” He heaved a sigh, twisting out of Peter’s grip like he was about to walk away. “I’m having second thoughts, Pete—”

He cut off with a sharp laugh as Peter’s self-control snapped and he dragged Johnny in by the collar of his jacket for a kiss.

“I’m always hanging out with you,” he growled, nuzzled the space behind Johnny’s ear where he was especially ticklish. Johnny laughed out loud, shoving at his chest, and Peter only held on tighter.

“You haven’t hung out with me at all!” he protested.

“I know,” Peter admitted, sobering, as he placed an apologetic kiss behind Johnny’s ear. “I know. I’m gonna fix it now.”

They walked for a while, hands swinging easily between them, Johnny’s sunglasses back on, talking about everything and nothing. Johnny’s guilt over Crystal’s situation. Peter’s new living arrangement. The strange weather. Peter asked if it was disconcerting for Johnny, watching everyone else shiver in the middle of summer, and Johnny only shrugged.

Peter hugged him from behind.

“Are you scared?” he asked.

Johnny twisted to look at him.

“Reed will find a way,” he said, which was answer enough. “Whatever’s going on, he’ll figure it out.”

Peter wanted to believe him. Johnny turned in his embrace, draping his arms loosely over Peter’s shoulders.

“I heard they reopened the ice skating rink,” he said. “Taking advantage of the weird weather and everything.”

“You mean they want tourist money,” Peter corrected, kissing him on the nose just to watch Johnny’s expression scrunch up.
“Ice skating in July,” Johnny said. “Let’s do it.”

Peter could think of several things he’d rather do, like put a giant target on his chest and dance around in front of Kraven, or stick his leg in a bear trap. But Johnny was looking at him hopefully, blue eyes shining as he tipped his sunglasses down, and Peter had a very hard time telling him no.

A sudden wave of heat washed over him, and for a split second he thought Johnny had lit up. But no, Johnny would never do that, not while Peter was still holding him. Screams went up all around them, and Johnny’s head snapped up, his sunglasses slipping down his nose and clattering to the ground.

Peter looked up and for a second he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The entire sky was filled with flame, a rolling blaze like a sea of fire.

“Pete,” Johnny said, sucking in a harsh breath. “I think we’re going to have to take a rain check on that skating date.”

After the flames, there were the rocks. Huge boulders suspended in the sky, threatening to crash down at any moment.

It was chaos in the streets. People said it was the end of the world. People blamed the Fantastic Four.

It would never strike Peter as anything other than unfair, the speed with which people turned on their heroes. At least as Spider-Man he was always distrusted. Sometimes he thought it was better that way, rather than having to depend on the fickle mercies of the public.

“Well, what are people supposed to think?” Harry mused when Peter brought it up, channel flipping past another doomsday proclamation on the news. “I mean, the sky was on fire. That’s kind of the Human Torch’s whole deal. And now there’s rocks, like the big guy.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Peter said. “It’s just stupid gossip. If they told people the Fantastic Four had a bridge in Brooklyn to sell them, they’d believe it.”

It was getting to Johnny, though. Peter didn’t even have to be in the same space as Johnny to know that it was getting to him. Johnny always took everything so personally, like if he’d just done something different, said something different, he could make people see his family for their true selves and not the lies the media peddled.

He believed that about Spider-Man too, and it made Peter ache inside.

Johnny was so good, and Peter had no idea how to protect him this time.

He had no idea if he could protect him at all.

It was only after the Silver Surfer appeared, spouting prophecies of doom, that Peter swung his way over to the Baxter Building. The sheer adrenaline made him land too hard on the side of the building, arms aching from the speed of his swing. He ignored it as he scuttled up towards Johnny’s window, already open, like Johnny had been waiting for him.

He found Johnny on the floor, half under his bed, trying to coax the cat out.

“Need some help, hot stuff?” he asked.

It wasn’t what he planned to say. He’d planned to say, What can I do? How can I help?

He’d planned to say, I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it.

Johnny emerged with a triumphant noise, holding the struggling cat. He held her tenderly to his chest, tucking her head beneath his chin and hushing as he pet her rumpled fur.

“We’re okay,” he said, breathless. He blinked up at Peter, his hair askew and a streak of grease smudged across one high cheekbone. He must have been in the garage earlier. “Pete, can I ask you a favor?”

Peter knelt down beside him.

“Anything, blondie,” he said, brushing a lock of Johnny’s hair back from his face. “You know that.”

Johnny smiled at him, not quite as wide as usual. He hugged the cat for another moment before he reached out and snagged a cat carrier patterned with flames on the sides. Peter held it open for him as Johnny carefully lowered the cat inside.

“Be a good girl,” he cooed, petting the top of her head. She yowled as he zipped the carrier shut, and Johnny covered his face with his hands, pushing his fingers up into his hair. He breathed out, careful, steam spilling from his lips. Peter reached out to touch his wrist, fingers carefully brushing against the prominent bone.

“You okay?” he asked and Johnny nodded after a second, dragging the back of his hand across his face.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be okay. What about you?”

“I’m doing as well as anyone else,” Peter said, and got a wry smile for it. He nuzzled into Johnny’s hair, inhaling the scent of him—smoke and sweat and engine grease.

He wrapped his arms around Johnny’s waist and just held on.

Johnny grabbed his arm and squeezed, tilting his head up for a kiss. Peter obliged him.

“Hey,” Johnny murmured in the space between their lips, his voice nearly lost as Peter chased after him, trying to get more of him. “I was serious—Pete—about that favor.”

“Just name it, hot stuff,” Peter said, nipping at his lower lip. “Anything. Anything you want, just tell me.”

He leaned in again and Johnny stopped him with a hand against his chest.

“I want you to take the cat and hunker down until this all over,” he said. “Get as far away from the Baxter Building as you can, in case things get bad.”

Peter stopped short.

“What?” he said. “No. No, I’m staying with you. I’ll fight, too.”

Johnny scowled at him.

“This isn’t a job for Spider-Man, Pete,” he snapped. “It’s not even a job for the Fantastic Four, but I believe in Reed, and I know we can win—but I can’t focus if I’m worried about you the whole time!”

“Then don’t worry about me!” Peter said. “I can take care of myself! But I’m not leaving you!”

“It’s not about leaving me!” Johnny said, shoving at him. “It’s about keeping yourself safe!”

“I don’t care about being safe!” Peter said, taking Johnny by the shoulders and shaking him like he could get his point across that way. “I care about staying with you!” He broke off with a frustrated noise, glancing away. He couldn’t take Johnny’s wide-eyed gaze. “I can’t do anything for you. I can’t dance with you in public, or shout it from the rooftops. I don’t have elemental powers and I don’t know how to fix this. All I can do is get you a stupid cat--”

“Shh!” Johnny hissed. “She can hear you call her that!”

The cat was currently trying to tip over her carrier by throwing herself against its side, so Peter didn’t think he was that far off the mark with his assessment. She gave a pitiable little meow when her plan worked.

“I just,” Peter said, cupping his hands to Johnny’s face. “I need to be there for you. With you. Do you get that, Johnny? If I can’t do anything else, then I can at least fight.”

“You always think you have to, I don’t know, give me the world, or a grand gesture, or be more than yourself,” Johnny said, swiping angrily at his eyes. “And you don’t. I only ever wanted you, you fucking idiot!”

He took a deep breath, sparks spilling from his lips, like he was too angry to fully rein himself in. Peter was so in love with him he didn’t know what to do with it.

He had to kiss him. He had no other choice.

“Pete,” Johnny said when they broke apart, Peter’s forehead resting against his own. “If you want to do something for me, then please, for once in your life, just listen to me. Take the cat and go. Be with your Aunt May. Just please go somewhere safe. Do it for me.”

If he did that, Peter thought it really might kill him.

“Okay,” he said, hating himself for it. “Okay.”

Things happened quickly after that.

Peter swung out with the cat. Johnny and the rest of the Fantastic Four went up to the Baxter Building’s roof. And Peter watched with a growing pit in his stomach from blocks away as Galactus made his landing.

His phone ringing startled him; the cat yowled in response as Peter fished his phone out of his pocket. He had been trying to call May all day, but the service was terrible. It seemed like she’d finally been able to get through to him instead.

“Peter!” she exclaimed as soon as she heard his voice. “Oh, Peter, I’ve been so worried! Where are you?”

“I’m okay, Aunt May,” he promised. “Listen—I’m coming to you, so just stay where you are. I’ll see you in a little bit.”

“It’s too dangerous! Turn on the news, you’ll see.” May said. “Please, Peter, I’ll worry.”

Peter had to ease up his grip on the phone before he broke it.

“Okay,” he said, exhaling long and slow. “Okay, Aunt May. I’ll see you when this is over, all right? It’s going to be okay.”

“I love you, Peter,” she said. “More than anything else in the world.”

“I know,” he said, swallowing hard. “Me, too. I love you so much, May.”

He bit back a curse as the call cut out. He didn’t even know if she’d heard him.

He’d get to Queens, come hell or high water or interplanetary being hellbent on their destruction. He’d go there as Spider-Man and he’d watch out for May, whether she knew it was him or not. And once he knew that May was safe, he’d find Johnny. Let him yell at him, let him set him on fire—Peter didn’t care. He needed to be with him.

But first, he had the cat to handle.

The news was blaring when he made it back up to Harry’s penthouse apartment. Gwen was with her father, and Flash had left a terse message in the group chat about heading to Queens to help his mom and sister, but Peter wasn’t terribly surprised to find Mary Jane sitting on the floor with Harry, a bottle passed between the two of them.

She looked different than Peter was used to seeing her, her face bare from makeup and her hair piled messily on top of her head, a riot of dark red curls. She was wearing a pair of Harry’s sweatpants and someone’s ESU t-shirt, both of her arms linked through one of Harry’s as they stared at the coverage on television.

She looked up when Peter entered, her eyes wide in the dark living room. She was always beautiful—Peter wasn’t an idiot—but there was something about her like this, with her defenses dropped, that seized at his heart.

He remembered how hard Aunt May had tried all through high school to set him up with her. In another life, maybe, he thought.

“Hi, Pete,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Come to join the end of the world party? There’s room for one more little soulmate.”

Despite himself, Peter stepped closer. On Harry’s truly ludicrous widescreen television, he could see a flash of flame—Johnny, flying towards Galactus, all on his own.

Peter hadn’t felt so helpless since before the spider bit him. He slumped against the arm of the couch, just watching. He barely even felt it when MJ reached out and wrapped one hand around his ankle.

Then something happened, something unexpected. At first, Peter thought he’d blinked, or that the television had malfunctioned. One second Johnny was there, and the next it was like he blinked out of existence.

There and gone, in a split second. Peter sat down heavily on the couch.

The cat let out another pitiable little meow, scratching furiously against her luxury cat carrier.

Harry looked at the cat carrier, then up at Peter’s face. He did it again, slower this time. Held up one finger and drained his drink.

“The world is ending,” Harry pointed out, “and you steal a designer cat?”

The world didn’t end.

Not that Peter thought it would. There’s always a way, Uncle Ben used to say. There was always a way through the dark night.

He left the cat with Harry and MJ, who both seemed fascinated by her, squabbling with each other over who got to feed her a can of tuna fish. He didn’t even bother with the suit, just tugged the mask down over his face and swung the rest of the way back to the Baxter Building.

The streets were a riot down below, like New Year’s Eve had come early. People were laughing, dancing, strangers hugging each other in delirious relief.

Peter couldn’t relate. Not yet. Not until he saw Johnny with his own two eyes.

Seeing him on the screen wasn’t good enough, especially since Johnny had appeared weak, slumped over in Reed’s arms, his eyes unfocused like he wasn’t sure where he was. Without the heavy embroidered spider on his chest, Peter’s heart felt like it might beat right out of his ribs.

Nothing felt real until he landed on the Baxter Building rooftop, just feet away from Johnny. He still looked shaky, exhausted, washed out in his Fantastic Four blues—but golden. Johnny was always golden.

He shrieked as Peter grabbed him and spun him around, his head thrown back. He smelled like ozone and electricity, the faded ember of his own flames, and if Peter hadn’t been holding him, he thought his knees probably would have given out.

There were probably still cameras watching from neighboring rooftops, but Peter didn’t care. They’d deal with that afterwards. All that mattered was that Johnny was safe and warm in his arms.

Johnny pulled back just far enough to laugh, his arms winding around Peter’s neck. Peter ignored Sue’s fond sigh and Reed’s raised eyebrows, Ben’s grumbling, and squeezed Johnny tighter.

“Watch it, Spidey,” Johnny said breathlessly, catching Peter’s masked face between his hands. His eyes were shining. “Don’t break my ribs.”

“You’re okay,” Peter said.

“I’m okay,” Johnny echoed, and he started laughing again, knocking their foreheads together. “Did you see me out there?”

“I did and then I didn’t.”

“Yeah,” Johnny said, nodding seriously. “That was the Watcher.”

“The watches what now?” Peter said, setting him carefully back on his feet.

“Giant bald guy in a toga who lives on the moon,” Johnny said. “I’ll fill you in later.”

Peter was pretty sure that either he hadn’t heard that right, or that Johnny was in some kind of shock. It didn’t matter, though, not as long as they were safe and together. He hauled Johnny back in close again, hooking his chin over Johnny’s shoulder. Johnny hummed happily, petting the back of his mask with one gloved hand.

“Where’s Louis?” Johnny asked.

“I left her at Harry’s place,” Peter said.

He wasn’t expecting Johnny to pull back and look at him like he was out of his mind.

“You left my cat with the Green Goblin’s kid?!”

“Can we rename the cat, at least?”

It was a week since Galactus had been defeated, and Peter was lying on Johnny’s bed. He was turned towards Johnny, and the cat was curled into a tight, purring ball between their chests, safely recovered days ago from what Johnny deemed Green Goblin Jr.’s lair.

(“You have a good night, tiger?” MJ asked when he stumbled back into Harry’s penthouse at eight in the morning the next day, bleary, in need of coffee, and thoroughly mauled by Johnny.

She was dressed in a pair of Harry’s boxers—the ones with the rubber ducks on them—and a sweater that Peter was pretty sure belonged to Gwen, if the way it was riding up on MJ’s taller frame was anything to go by, but apparently the averted apocalypse had given her enough peace of mind to comb out her massive mane of red curls.

“Yes,” Peter said, before his mind caught up to his stupid mouth. “Wait. Why are you asking?”

MJ leveled him with a look as she handed him a cup of coffee.

“Oh,” she said. “No reason.”)

Johnny had told Peter in no uncertain terms that if he tried to move her, he was going to lose his eyebrows, so Peter was just putting up with it, his hand rubbing circles on Johnny’s hip.

“Why?” Johnny said, yawning. “You don’t like Louis?”

“It’s the Vuitton part I have a problem with, actually.”

Johnny reached over and flicked him on the forehead.

“Tough. My cat, my rules.”

“I got you the cat,” Peter grumbled, leaving out the part where it had been an accident. A happy accident, though, like everything with Johnny.

If he hadn’t gone to Los Angeles on a whim, desperate for cash and maybe just once for some of the approval every other member of the superset seemed to earn so easily, then maybe he wouldn’t be here, in Johnny’s bed, with Johnny and his fluffy little spoiled princess of a cat. If he’d said no to going to the beach with Johnny, if he hadn’t let himself get caught up in the moment. It could all be so different.

Peter didn’t know what different would look like, but he was happy here, in this moment, with Johnny. Even with the cat digging her sharp needle claws into his chest through the blanket. If she ever wanted to intern with one of his villains, Peter was pretty sure he could make it happen.

There were still things they had to talk about. There had been photographers on the neighboring roofs, and they had gotten pictures of a man in a Spider-Man mask spinning the Human Torch around that afternoon. Jameson had been absolutely apoplectic, though Peter thought it was mostly because it wasn’t him that had gotten the photograph that had graced page six.

What do I even pay you for, Parker, Peter thought to himself in Jonah’s angriest voice. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

It could wait, though, Peter thought. Because he felt sure now that whatever happened, whatever paths they both chose next, he could face it. If he had to restructure his life, if he had to move forward in a way he hadn’t expected, he could handle it. If he hated Johnny’s decisions, or if Johnny hated his, they could work through it.

As long as he had Johnny, it would be okay. He knew that.

“Why are you laughing?” Johnny asked, reaching over to drag one finger down the crooked bridge of Peter’s nose.

Peter caught his hand and kissed the back of it.

“Because I love you,” he said. “That's why.”