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littlelovelyspiderling · 1 year

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Meeting The Real You (Chapter 8)

Chapter 1 -- Chapter 2 -- Chapter 3 -- Chapter 4 -- Chapter 5 -- Chapter 6 -- Chapter 7 -- Chapter 8

word count: 24,958 (lordy 😳)

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Johnny burst through the balcony doors and barreled into Avengers Tower, panic clawing through his veins. Spider-Man dangled limply in his arms, beaten and bloody, barely clinging to consciousness.

“Help!” he cried at the top of his lungs. “W-we need help! Somebody—!”

“66th floor,” FRIDAY directed him from the ceiling. “The Avengers medical bay. Mr. Stark is already there waiting.”

“Right,” Johnny rasped. He rocketed into the ornate circle stairwell, nosediving past thirty-two stories, clutching the wounded hero like a treasured childhood toy. Once they’d reached the correct floor, he fumbled the door knob with shivering, blood-soaked fingers.

“Say something, Spidey,” Johnny pleaded, yanking it open and staggering inside. “Please. Let me know you’re alive.”

“S-still here,” the masked hero croaked. “M’alive.”

“Barely, by the looks of it.”

Johnny’s gaze jerked up to find Tony Stark standing in the center of the room: arms crossed, eyebrows scrunched, face twisted into a hard scowl. He wore a silken blue pajama set with bunny slippers and fuzzy pink socks. This would’ve made Johnny laugh, were the glare paired with them not so menacing. A hospital bed was assembled to his left alongside a tray of pointy medical tools.

Spider-Man’s droopy eye lenses widened. He lifted his head off Johnny’s chest weakly.

“Mr. Stark! This isn’t—”

“One rule,” Stark snapped. “You had one rule to follow while your aunt was away. No life-threatening injuries under my care. You promised me you could manage that. You insisted I had nothing to worry about. So imagine my surprise upon waking up to the vitals alarm from your suit blaring in my ear like an airhorn, warning me that you’d lost 24% of your body’s blood volume in the past eight minutes.”

Johnny licked his lips, glancing down at the young vigilante, who was floundering for words. It was somewhat refreshing to hear an adult speak to Spider-Man like the kid he was instead of the diabolical menace the public believed him to be. It was also a relief to have someone else acknowledge how serious Spidey’s wounds were, since the masked hero seemed incapable of accepting that fact.

Spider-Man faced away from Stark, wilting a little in Johnny’s arms. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. His fingers tightened around his wound. “We just—these thugs k-kidnapped a girl and this kid; we had to save them, but the bad guys had a lot more firepower than we expected, so we tried to—”

“Nope,” Tony interjected, holding up his finger. “I don’t want to hear it. Storm—on the bed. Now.”

“Okay,” Johnny answered stupidly. He rushed Spidey across the room and laid him on the sterile white sheets, guiding his head to the pillow as he slipped his hand out from under his knees. The masked hero whimpered from the movement, the spotless linens beneath him spattering red almost instantly. Stark peeled back the bloody fingers clamped fiercely to his side.

“Let me see,” he said. A beam shone from his glasses and scanned Spider-Man's body in a grid of blue light. One hand gently prodded the bullet wound while the other held onto Spidey’s, gripping it like a lifeline. Rows of data bubbled across the high-tech lenses he wore, making the lines in the Avenger’s face deepen.

“What happened to him?” Tony asked without looking up. It took Johnny a second to realize he was the one he was speaking to.

“Oh, uh—a bullet,” he said. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I mean—he was shot. A thug shot him.” His brain felt like it was marinating in molasses while his heart raced at a hundred miles an hour.

“He’s been burned,” Stark noted aloud. His eyes snapped to Johnny’s this time, dripping with daggers and question marks.

Johnny’s mouth went dry. “It wasn’t—I didn’t—it w-was an accident—”

“Get out,” Tony fumed, jerking his thumb towards the door. “I’ll deal with you later.”

Shock and guilt encased Johnny’s heart. He followed Iron Man around the foot of the hospital bed, hands trembling. “Wait! Mr. Stark! Please! I—I can help! I want to help!”

“Out!” he roared, whirling on him. “My blood pressure can only handle one irresponsible super teen at a time!” He shoved past Johnny, bunching up a cloth in his hands and pressing it hard into the vigilante’s wound. A pained yelp punched from Spidey’s chest. Johnny stood stone-stiff, vision blurred with tears, numb despair spreading through his limbs like ice.

“P-please let him stay,” Spider-Man grated out, eye lenses squeezed shut. “I want him here. It wasn’t his fault.”

Johnny turned towards him slowly. Warm droplets slipped down his cheeks and onto his neck. Stark’s bitter gaze stayed locked on Spidey’s wound a little while longer before hesitantly flickering back to Johnny. A moment passed, and his eyebrows gradually unfurled. With a sigh, the older superhero shook his head. The rage in his voice withered.

“Fine. But if you’re going to stay, you’re going to make yourself useful.”

Johnny joined him at Spider-Man’s bedside, nodding frantically, mopping away his tears. “Of course. Anything. Just tell me what to do.”

Reluctantly, Stark lifted the cloth away from Spidey’s abdomen. The wound was still bleeding, but only a fraction of the amount it had been before. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and released a weary huff.

“All right. Listen carefully, Mr. Storm. You’re going to focus on treating his other injuries while I take care of the gunshot wound. I’m going to run out real quick to grab an I.V. and suture kit from storage. While I’m gone, I need you to remove Spidey’s suit and gently clean his minor injuries. Don’t touch the bullet wound; just lightly sponge his cuts and burns to remove any excess debris. Understand?”

Johnny stared at him blankly, his frenzied mind struggling to process the request, a flush of heat prickling along the back of his neck. “You…I have to…take off his clothes?” he heard himself squeak.

“You can leave his mask and boxers on. Everything else has to go. We need access to all of his injuries in order to properly treat them.” Tony plucked a needle filled with clear liquid off the tray by Spidey’s side, gave the barrel a couple of flicks, then slid the point into the masked hero’s upper arm. A small whine escaped him, and Johnny had to look away. He’d always hated needles.

“This will dampen his pain and fight off potential infection,” Stark explained. “He may get a little drowsy and out of it as a result, but he cannot fall asleep right now. You have to make sure he stays awake until I've returned. It should start working almost instantly, so no dawdling.” He pointed to the bedside table as he jogged towards the elevator. “The sponge and wound wash are there on that tray. I want him prepped and cleaned by the time I’m back, all right? And have him keep putting pressure on his side.”

Johnny’s eyes dashed between Tony Stark and Spider-Man, frazzled and wide. “B-but—wait—Mr. Stark, I can’t—”

”No time to be squeamish, kid,” the Avenger called from inside the elevator, jabbing at the buttons on the wall. “Right now, Spidey’s safety is more important than his dignity. Don’t make me regret letting you stay! Strip and scrub, pronto!”

Then the doors slid together, Stark disappearing behind them, and the Human Torch was suddenly alone with the masked hero, jaw hanging open, face tinting pink, wondering how the hell he was going to complete the daunting task laid before him without spontaneously combusting.

“Oh, I’m in trouble,” he whispered.

“Johnny?”

At the sound of his frail call, the Human Torch spun back towards Spider-Man, swallowed, then hurried to his side.

“Yeah?” he stuttered out. “What’s up?”

“Where’d M-Mr. Stark go?”

Johnny blanched. “You didn’t hear him? He said he’s going to grab more medical supplies.”

The masked hero exhaled softly. “Oh. Okay.”

Johnny chewed his lip, eyes tracing anxious paths across the vigilante’s tattered costume.

“Are you all right?” Spider-Man asked groggily. “You look…stressed.”

Nervous laughter spilled from his lips. “Oh no, I’m fine. Not stressed at all. Why would I be stressed? Everything’s fine. It’s just—” A stone lodged in the flaming hero’s throat. “Did you hear what Tony asked me?”

The wounded teen shook his head slowly. Johnny breathed in deep, then rested a hand on Spider-Man’s chest.

“It’s gonna be okay. Everything’s going to be okay. We’re gonna help you, okay?”

“Okay,” Spidey murmured warily.

Johnny pinched the red fabric of his costume between his fingers. “B-but, um…I have to take this off of you to do that. You understand?”

Spider-Man tilted his head a little. “Take what off?” he asked.

“Your suit. Tony asked me to take off your suit. So we can treat your wounds properly. I have to take it off of you.”

The vigilante blinked sluggishly, his words still not registering. “My suit?” he mumbled. “W-what about my suit?”

Johnny groaned. This was taking too long. He couldn’t stall anymore. He had to get it over with. He gripped Spider-Man’s shoulder with one hand and pulled on the neck of his costume with the other.

“Spidey, I gotta—I’m sorry, but I’m gonna take this off now, okay?” He tugged at the fabric, but it was skin-tight, unmoving. There had to be a hidden zipper or clasp somewhere. The idea of scouring every inch of the webhead’s body in search of a way inside was enough to make him manic. Fortunately, it didn’t come to that.

“Press the spider symbol on his chest,” FRIDAY suggested.

Johnny gulped. “Oh. Okay. Thanks.” He followed her instructions, clicking the emblem in the center of his costumes. The masked hero’s suit puffed outwards suddenly, unraveling from his narrow build like a snake skin. The fabric hung loosely off his frame like it had grown four sizes too big in seconds.

Spider-Man looked down at himself in sleepy surprise. “Hey,” he pouted, raising his arm, the sleeve limp and floppy. “W-what gives?”

“I’m sorry,” Johnny repeated. He lifted Spidey’s back off the bed, leaning his weight into his chest, and started peeling the suit from his shoulders—first his left, then his right. Gradually, the vigilante’s eyes bugged wide—first from the pain, then in realization.

“Johnny?” he exclaimed. The Human Torch slipped the costume all the way off his fingers, revealing knuckles and nails and blistered palms. “W-wait. What are you doing?”

“I have to strip you down to get to your wounds,” he said again, embracing the chaos and humor of the situation. A bashful laugh escaped him. “Sorry I can’t buy you dinner first.”

Spider-Man’s neck went red. “You don’t...I can d-do it myself.”

“It’s all right. I gotcha. What are super awesome superhero besties for?” He smiled hesitantly at him, trying his best to be reassuring. These were very vulnerable and awkward circumstances for the webhead to be in. However embarrassing this was for Johnny, he knew Spider-Man had to be experiencing it ten times over. He didn’t want him to be ashamed. He wanted to make him feel safe and protected. He wanted him to know he could trust Johnny at his most exposed and defenseless.

“Well,” Spidey said a little while later, “at least you…m-made me breakfast.”

Johnny giggled, glad they were able to make light of the situation. He laid him back on the bed and moved his hands down to his torso.

“This next part might hurt,” he warned him. “Try to stay still, okay?” He grabbed hold of his blood-soaked suit, carefully peeling it away from the bullet wound. An ailing moan rose from his throat. Spider-Man tensed his muscles, pinching his eyes closed, digging his fingers into the mattress. It took a couple quick pulls to tear the fabric completely free. Johnny winced as hard as Spidey with every tug.

“Shit,” the masked hero gasped, sounding lightheaded.

“Sorry,” Johnny said earnestly. “Hard part’s over. Let’s shimmy the rest of this thing off, yeah?”

He raised his lower half off the bed and wiggled the remainder of his costume down his thighs, calves, and finally, his feet. He tried to think of it like the cars he used to work on with his dad. You had to open up the hood to fix any problems with the engine. That’s all his suit was—a layer Johnny had to peel back in order to do his job. And the body underneath was just a mechanism that needed fine tuning. Nothing more. If Johnny framed it like that, staying calm and collected didn’t sound so hard. Maybe he could get through this without flustering himself out of his mind after all.

Once the bloody suit was fully off him, Johnny tossed it aside, then turned to face his patient. In an instant, all the heat in his body rushed into his face. Spider-Man was draped languidly across the bed, breathing hard, right hand gripping his opposite side, wearing nothing but his mask and a pair of gray boxers. He was bruised and burned and scraped and bloodied. His skin was pallid from blood loss and glistening in sweat. He was carved like a demigod in ancient Greek marble—lean but muscular, with abdominal muscles Johnny couldn’t tear his eyes away from. He was a goddamn work of art. A vision from which he’d likely never recover. Insufferable and perfect. Blush broke across his flesh like hives.

“Jesus Christ,” Johnny coughed.

“It’s n-not as bad as it looks,” Spider-Man insisted, glancing at his palm. “Bleeding’s almost stopped.”

The Human Torch shook his head. “No, it’s just—my god, webhead. You’re hot.”

The masked hero looked up at him, shoulders tensing, his porcelain skin flushing scarlet.

“Huh!?”

Johnny wasn’t sure what possessed him to voice his monkey brain thoughts aloud, but he couldn’t back down now. He grinned, the flirt in him taking over, burning away all unwelcome coyness.

“You heard me. You’re hot. Like, really hot. You’ve been holding out on us, Webs. If New York knew what a shredded little heartthrob Spider-Man was, they’d be drooling all over you instead of hating your guts.”

The masked hero shot a glance at his abs, then shrunk his arms to his midsection defensively. If his face was anywhere close as red to his chest, the poor teen had to be blushing up a storm.

“You’re n-not funny,” he said in a mousy voice, avoiding Johnny’s gaze like it would turn him to stone.

“I’m not being funny,” Johnny continued mercilessly. “You’re the one who called yourself ‘the hottest Avenger.’ Now that you’ve proven it to be true, suddenly you’re gonna act all shy and try to deny it?” He wolf-whistled in awe, hands on his hips. “Hot damn, Spider-Man. Looks like I’ve got some competition in the teenage superhero modeling world. I should introduce you to my photographer. One shoot with her with a bod like that, and you’ll have all of New York eating out of the palm of your hand.”

“Johnny!” Spidey giggled sheepishly, burying his face in his hands. “This is already h-humiliating enough as is!”

“What’s humiliating about being New York’s friendly neighborhood eye candy?”

The young vigilante hid from him, shoulders hunched, skin rosy, groaning into his palms. Johnny grinned in triumph. At least the teasing was making him laugh, keeping him conscious.

“Sorry,” he snickered. “I’ll stop now.” He grabbed the sponge off the tray and dipped it in the tub of warm water, approaching him gingerly. “Only because I have to do this next.”

Johnny gave the sponge a squeeze, then held it to the bend of Spider-Man’s shoulder, just below his collarbone. Jagged cuts and scrapes overlapped with charred flesh—a bitter reminder of the Human Torch’s past mistakes. Beneath his skin, hard muscle rolled and stretched like waves, making Johnny hesitate, heartbeat thumping in his ears. He wrestled his feelings into submission. A tune up. An auto repair. That’s all this is. He reached out and began brushing the vigilante’s wounds with care, gently wiping away dirt and dried blood, making him peer through his fingers in surprise. His hand shot out suddenly and seized his wrist. Johnny flinched.

“I can…I can d-do this part,” he said, exhausted and desperate. “Please let me do this part.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Johnny said softly. “We’ll all be getting sponge baths when we’re crotchety old grandpas—well, if we make it that long. Look at it like a glimpse into your future.”

“F-future can wait,” he grated out, his grip unyielding. “Let me do it.”

Stung, but understanding, Johnny handed him the sponge. Spidey held it in his left hand while his right clasped the bullet wound. He ran the sponge over his chest without looking, movements torpid and ineffective, missing a lot of what needed to be cleaned. He brushed lazily at his arm, then paused, staring down at his feet. In his current position, he couldn’t reach the injuries on his legs or his back. With a determined huff, Spider-Man braced his palm against the bed, head hanging low, sputtering with effort. Johnny realized he was trying to sit up. He reached out to help him, but the masked hero fell back against the mattress before he could, gasping in pain, sweat speckling his skin, hand clutching his wound like a claw.

“Hey! Easy, webhead!” Johnny placed a palm on his chest to keep him from getting up again. Spider-Man panted raggedly, eyes slipping shut, head lolling against the pillow in defeat.

“I c-can’t do it,” he whimpered.

“Don’t worry about it,” Johnny assured him, despite knowing that from the start. He gently plucked the sponge from Spidey’s fingers. They looked so soft and pink and human. “You rest, and I’ll take care of this. Okay?”

The spider-themed hero gave a miserable whine in reply. Johnny re-wet the sponge, warming it a little in his fist, then went back to dabbing lightly at his skin. He blotted the wounds on his chest, arms, and shoulders, being as gentle as he could while making sure to brush them squeaky clean.

“I’m a useless blob,” Spidey bemoaned.

Johnny snickered. “A hot useless blob.”

Spider-Man blushed, fingers cinching around his side. “Stop,” he said, timid laughter reclaiming his voice. “This is like a horrible n-nightmare come to life.”

“How is this a nightmare? I’m pampering you. It’s like you’re a prince in a fancy day spa. Want me to put on some soothing zen music, my liege?”

“Being stripped and sponge-bathed against my will…is n-not my idea of pampering.”

Johnny carefully cleaned the deep cut spanning the length of his forearm. “Based on the insane amount of pornographic self-insert fanfiction I’ve read about myself, I think the entire world would disagree with you. Do you have any idea how many of my horny little fans out there dream of me doing something like this to them? You should count yourself lucky, Webs. You’re living out their wildest fantasies right now.”

Spider-Man laughed in spite of himself, clamping his palm over his eyes.

“This is not helping!”

“Just saying,” the Human Torch added with a shrug. “Your nightmare is everyone else’s pervy wet dream.”

“You’re twisted, you know that?”

“Hey, blame the fans, not me. They’re the raging horndogs with too much time and imagination on their hands.”

As he worked, Johnny talked at length about the hundreds of smutty stories he’d read about himself, delving into enough graphic details to kill a Victorian child. He talked to fill the air between them and distract them both from the glaring intimacy of what he was having to do. Johnny held the masked hero against his chest to wipe down his back, then returned him to the mattress like a precious baby deer. Despite his demonstrable embarrassment, Spider-Man cooperated throughout the entire mortifying process, doing his best to stay still.

That is, until Johnny brushed his ribs.

He planned to start with the right side of his rib cage first, steering clear of the gunshot wound, sponging the grime from his less lethal injuries. But the moment he touched him below his pectorals, he felt his body flinch beneath his fingers. Johnny grimaced, his playful tone faltering.

“Sorry. I’ll be more gentle.” He tried again, softer this time, but Spidey winced even harder, a sharp noise escaping him. He pinned his elbow to his side, blocking Johnny’s path. The Human Torch blinked in surprise.

“It’s fine,” Spider-Man insisted, voice shrill. “I’m n-not wounded there.”

Johnny snorted. “The way you’re covering yourself and jumping away from me says otherwise.”

He nudged at his arm with the sponge, but the masked hero wouldn’t budge. Johnny sighed.

“Come on, webhead. We’re halfway there. Just bear with me a little while longer.”

When he still didn’t move, Johnny narrowed his eyes, but decided it wasn’t worth the headache. He’d clean the rest of him for now and try his ribs again at the end. He swiped the sponge across his obnoxiously chiseled abdominals, which only had a small scratch underneath his belly button. Nothing too big or exceptionally painful.

And yet, the second the sponge made contact, the masked vigilante yelped and flinched. Johnny retreated in alarm.

“What is going on?” he exclaimed. “You were completely fine while I was cleaning your other wounds! Why is it hurting so much all of a sudden?”

Blush crawled up the young hero’s neck. “It’s not—it isn’t—” he stammered. He pinched his eyes closed with a groan. “It’s n-nothing, okay? You don’t have to scrub there! It’s fine!”

Johnny studied him dubiously, wrinkling his brow. He observed the way his arm was tucked protectively against his rib cage. If he wasn’t in pain, why was his touch making him leap and squeak? A memory resurfaced from the delicate archives of his mind: a moment between Spider-Man and Tony Stark from the power demos this morning. An exchange he’d deemed important. When Stark tasered his side then, the masked hero had made the same startled sound and assumed the same defensive position he did now.

A curious smile broke across Johnny’s face. Wordlessly, he scrubbed the sponge against Spider-Man’s tummy, intentionally aiming for an uninjured section and brushing a tad harder than before. A strangled sound sprung from the masked hero’s throat. He reached for the sponge exactly as Johnny had planned—leaving his rib cage open to attack. The Human Torch evaded his grip and shoved the sponge against the upper half of his ribs, scrubbing aggressively. The reaction he was hoping for happened instantaneously.

“EEP—!” Spidey squealed. He twisted and flailed, clamping his arm back to his side, struggling to protect himself and grapple with Johnny’s wrist at the same time. Bubbly giggles flooded out of him. “J-Jahanny! Ahagh! Wahait!”

“Ah-ha!” Johnny cheered. “Sensitive ribs! I knew it!” He wiggled the sponge as much as he could with his hand trapped beneath his elbow, beaming at the sound of the masked hero’s bright, adorable laughter. “I wasn’t hurting you! You’re just ticklish and too embarrassed to admit it!”

“Ahahow! Johnny!” Spider-Man grasped his injured side with both hands, arching his body away from his touch. “You’re h-hurting me nahow!”

Immediately, Johnny retracted his hand. “Oh god! Sorry!” Spider-Man sank into the bed, the strained giggles flitting from his chest gradually slowing down. “Bullet wound. Right. Laughing with a hole in your side probably isn’t fun, huh?”

He shook his head, trying to calm his breathing, airy laughter petering off. Johnny didn’t think he’d ever been more infatuated with a person than he was at that moment.

“My bad,” he chuckled. “In my defense, this is the best discovery I’ve made about you to date.” He bopped him on the nose and smirked. “Now I know Spider-Man’s weakness.”

The masked vigilante hunched his shoulders and stared off to the side. “Sh-shut up,” he giggled nervously, trying to brush him off. “Clearly my weakness is machine guns. And flash bombs. And magic tricks with…m-more than one step.”

“But mostly ticklish ribs,” Johnny retorted. He wiggled his fingers at him with an evil smile. “You’re lucky you’re injured right now, Spidey. I’d love to see how hard I could get you laughing when I don’t have to hold back. I can’t wait to use this against you after you’re all healed up. We’re gonna have a lot of fun later.”

To his unending delight, Spider-Man shrunk away from his spidering fingers with anxious, stifled giggles, holding one palm over his mouth while the other swatted feebly at Johnny’s hands. The Human Torch laughed right along with him.

“Holy shit. Are you kidding me? I’m not even touching you!” He swirled one finger above his torso threateningly. “Oh, you’re screwed, Itsy-Bitsy. You better watch your back. I’m gonna get you when you least expect it and make you regret being born so goddamn cute.”

“Johnny!” Spider-Man squeaked, laughter laced with pain. He grabbed Johnny’s hand and held it away from his midsection. “Please—! My sihide…!”

Johnny chuckled, brimming with endearment, wrapping Spidey’s hand in his own and giving it a pat. “Sorry. You’re wounded. I shouldn’t be teasing you.” He picked up the sponge and started carefully blotting his injuries again, moving down to his legs. “I’ll be nice,” he promised, shooting him a smug grin. “For now, anyway.”

Another way to make the webhead squirm added to his arsenal—this one in much more literal terms than the others. As an extra bonus, it also gleaned that sunny, irresistible laugh from Spider-Man’s lips. Johnny couldn’t be more pleased. This would serve him and his master plan well.

He could tell the unexpected tickle attack had severely flustered the poor webhead. He was skittish and jumpy, but trying his best not to show it. It was too adorable for words. Johnny forced himself to sponge his skin in the least tickly way possible, snickering at Spidey’s reflexive twitchiness. He’d have the chance to test the limits of this discovery real soon; but for now, Johnny wanted him to relax. Gradually, the masked hero’s obnoxiously pretty muscles uncoiled.

As Johnny squeegeed the last of his wounds, which only amounted to a couple road burns on his knees and shins, the young vigilante started to mumble something about the weather, clearly eager for a change in subject. But he was cut off by a chime from the elevator. The two teens glanced up as a very agitated Tony Stark came charging into the room, arms overflowing with bandages and burn cream packets and I.V. bags. Pill bottles full of pain meds toppled from the stack he held and bounced across the tile. He hurried to Spider-Man’s side, cursing like a sailor.

“Sorry. This place is a disaster right now. We just started transitioning our headquarters to the upstate facility. Half our medical supplies is already there, and what’s left on site is scattered around the tower like hidden clues for a goddamn scavenger hunt.”

Stark dumped the materials on the nearest table and gestured to Spider-Man with his chin. “All cleaned up?”

Johnny nodded, tossing the sponge back into the bucket. “Like a freshly polished Porsche. Right, webhead?” He side-eyed the injured hero playfully. “He didn’t make it easy, though.”

Tony assembled his tools on the mobile tray and rolled it around Spider-Man's bed, huffing amusedly. “Oh, yeah. He’s a squirmy one. I’ve never met another hero who could grit through bullet wounds and sutures no problem, but practically jumps onto the ceiling if something brushes his side.”

“Hey!” the masked vigilante protested. If he were a cat, Johnny imagined he’d be puffed into a flustered little fluff ball right now. “Can the mocking please wait until after I’m able to…k-kick both your asses again?”

Johnny and Stark laughed in unison, making Spider-Man grumble under his breath. The Human Torch grinned at the Avenger, thrilled by the idea that Iron Man enjoyed poking fun at Spidey as much as he did.

“I suppose that’s only fair,” Tony chuckled, flicking the teen’s temple. “But for the record, you’ve never been able to kick my ass.”

With careful movements, Stark lifted Spidey’s hand off his side and started mopping the blood from his bullet wound, causing the young hero to stiffen. While he worked on cleaning, sterilizing, and sewing up the worst of his injuries, Johnny was tasked with treating his burns and scrapes. He dabbed him with ointment and antibiotic cream, swabbed his scratches with alcohol, and fashioned the deeper gashes on his arms and back with bandages and butterfly tape. Spider-Man stayed surprisingly still and made very little noise the whole time—minus the occasional whimper.

“You’re lucky your body heals so fast,” Tony said, knotting off the last of his sutures. “A wound like this would put any regular person out of commission for the next few weeks.”

“How long do you think before I’m good as new?” Spider-Man asked, sleep weighing on his voice once again.

“No web-swinging for a minimum of three days. No crime-fighting for five. You’ll check in with me every morning until I deem you fully recovered. Got it?”

Stark helped the young hero sit upright, resting Spidey's upper body against his shoulder. All of his anger from before was gone, replaced instead by gentle attentiveness and paternal instinct. He bandaged both sides of his injury and wound his torso with gauze.

“Does that mean we can…keep this between us?” Spidey offered hesitantly. “Save May the emotional burden?”

The Avenger frowned, one eyebrow crawling towards his hairline. “I promised your aunt I’d tell her everything you’re up to—the good and the bad.”

“Well. I bent the rules a bit with the promise I made you,” he reminded him. “Maybe you should…follow my example? Stop being a total stick in the mud and try being cool and r-rebellious for a change?”

Stark scoffed. “You little shit. Jonah’s been right about you all along: you’re nothing but a conniving, irredeemable menace.” He hooked an arm around his neck and gave the teen hero a light noogie, making him giggle and squirm.

“Come on!” Spidey prodded him, wrestling free of his hold. “This will keep us both from looking bad.”

A defeated sigh slid from Tony’s lips. It seemed Johnny Storm wasn’t the only one wrapped around the webhead’s sticky little finger. “Fine,” the older superhero huffed. “If you don’t tell, I won’t tell. I don’t think either of us want to face the wrath of your aunt anytime soon.” Stark stuck a finger in Spider-Man’s chest before he could celebrate. “But if she finds out, you’re taking the fall. I knew nothing about this. You hid it from me. We clear?”

Spidey made an “O.K.” sign with his hand. “Crystal!”

Johnny chuckled, crossing his arms. “Remind me to never get on your aunt’s bad side. She sounds like quite the force to be reckoned with.”

Tony shuddered. “You have no idea.”

With a yawn, Spider-Man swung his legs off the hospital bed, his body a collage of stitches, band-aids, and butterfly tape. “Can I go to bed now?” he asked drowsily. “I’m spent.”

Stark stopped him from trying to stand with a hand on his shoulder. “Not on your own you’re not. And not without an I.V. drip. You lost a lot of blood today, kiddo. We gotta replenish your fluids.”

“But I’m feeling a lot better now,” he insisted, rubbing the side of his face. “Just tired.”

“You were shot through the stomach hardly two hours ago!” Johnny snapped, marching to stand in front of him. He pulled at the stained fabric of his costume. “The blood you got all over my suit isn’t even dry yet! You’re not walking anywhere by yourself!”

The masked hero stared at him, blinking bemusedly. Stark hinted a smile, then turned back to Spider-Man.

“Yeah. What he said.”

Spidey held out his hands in surrender. “All right! Geez! I’m not moving, see? Relax.”

“I’ll carry you,” Johnny and Tony said at the same time. The two heroes turned to each other sharply. An awkward couple of seconds passed before Johnny barked out a laugh and backed away, scratching his neck.

“Sorry, I just—you go ahead. I’ll, um—head to my room now. Pretty exhausted myself.” He held his fist out to Spider-Man, smiling softly. “Glad you’re feeling better, Webs. Get some rest, okay?”

The masked hero tapped his knuckles against his. “You too, Flame Brain. Thanks for the team-up. Sorry it kinda sucked.” He pinched the sleeve of Johnny’s blood-spattered costume. “Better clean this before your sister sees.”

Johnny winced. “Right. Good idea.”

Stark patted Johnny’s shoulder, making him look up in surprise. “You mind helping me set up his I.V. before you go?”

Johnny cringed at the thought of seeing more needles, but he’d promised to help however he could. Reluctantly, the Human Torch nodded.

“Sure.”

Stark walked towards the back of the room and motioned for him to follow. “Over here.”

Johnny joined him by the sinks as he strung a bag filled with liquid to a metal pole. They were far enough from Spider-Man that he likely couldn’t hear them speak—even with his super senses.

“What do you want me to do?” Johnny asked.

Tony wrapped the tube attached to the drip around the metal base. “I want,” he began, bending low to secure the chamber then popping back upright, “to thank you.”

Johnny narrowed his eyes. “Thank me?”

“For getting him here in mostly one piece,” Stark clarified. “He very well could’ve died if you hadn’t been there to fly him home.”

Johnny considered this, smiling hesitantly. Then he thought on it more, and lowered his gaze. “He would’ve been better off without me. I’m the one who burnt him in the first place.”

“I saw,” the Avenger stated. “In the baby monitor footage.”

Johnny frowned. “The what?”

“Nothing. The video from Spidey’s eye lenses. Inside joke. Don’t worry about it.” He tossed the untethered tubing over his shoulder. “Point is, I saw what happened. You made a mistake, but it wasn’t your fault. I know that now. I’m sorry I blamed you earlier.”

The Human Torch gripped his elbow and shrugged. “It’s okay.”

“I also saw you protect him from those police officers,” Stark added. Johnny lifted his wide eyes to meet his. “It’s nice to know he has someone else out there, standing up for him.”

A tangle of relief and bashfulness blanketed Johnny’s heart. He shot a glance at the wounded hero, who was starting to drift off in the hospital bed.

“It’s hard not to stand up for him once you get to know him,” he admitted. “And when you realize just how many people really don’t know him at all.”

Stark nodded thoughtfully, then crossed his arms against his chest. “So, then. You’re sure you’re up for this?”

Johnny tilted his head to the side. “Up for what?”

“Being a member of the Spider-Man Defense Squad.”

A dubious smile found his lips. “Is that a thing?” Johnny asked.

“Unofficially, but yes.” Tony rested a hand on his shoulder, his tone playfully melodramatic. “I have to warn you. It won’t be a walk in the park. Lots of people will hate you for it, and Spidey doesn’t make it easy—as I’m sure you’ve already experienced. He’s stubborn. Idealistic. Too compassionate and selfless for his own damn good. He sees everyone else’s pain and needs a thousand miles ahead of his own. He’ll drive himself into the ground before acknowledging his limits, or admitting he needs help. He’s an absolute pain in the ass to deal with, but a worthwhile one, in my opinion.”

Johnny giggled softly. “Sounds like I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

“I won’t hold it against you if you decline,” Tony added. “You know Spidey will put his life on the line to protect yours no matter what. But I figured I’d extend the offer and try to prepare you for what you’re getting into should you choose this daunting but noble path.”

The Human Torch held out his hand without hesitation. “It would be my honor,” he said.

Grinning, Stark gave his palm a firm shake. “All right, then. Welcome to the club.” When the billionaire released his hand, he gave the teenage superhero a speculative once-over. “I have to admit: when we first met, I wasn’t the biggest fan of yours. Reminded me a little too much of myself at sixteen: reckless, hotheaded, a tad self-obsessed. But I guess Spider-Man was right—maybe you’re not so bad after all.”

Johnny brightened. “Spidey talked to you about me?” he asked a touch too eagerly. He faltered, wanting to take it back, but the words were already out of his mouth.

“Only briefly,” Tony clarified. “But that’s all I needed. Anyone who the kid deems trustworthy is a good egg in my book.”

Sunshine lit him from the inside-out. “I’ll try not to let either of you down.”

Stark pushed his high-tech sunglasses up the bridge of his nose and clapped Johnny Storm on the back. “Get some rest, kid. You earned it.”

The seasoned Avenger trekked across the room with the I.V. in tow and slipped the needle into the back of Spider-Man’s hand. He grabbed a blanket from a basket in the corner then wrapped the sleepy superhero in it like a little spidery burrito as he lifted him into his arms. With one hand, he rolled the I.V. pole across the white tile; with the other, Stark held the wounded teenager close. He gave Johnny a smile and a nod on his way out before vanishing behind the elevator doors once again.

Alone in the empty medical bay, Johnny took a second to breathe. His mind was alive and buzzing, but his body was absolutely exhausted. He hadn’t realized how tired he was until now, when it was just him and his thoughts. The past twenty minutes had been an absolute rollercoaster of emotions. He could crawl into bed right now and be out in seconds.

Unfortunately, Johnny Storm had homework. He wouldn’t be able to rest until he'd hashed out phase one of his plan. Getting The World To Fall In Love With Spider-Man: A New Passion Project by the Human Torch. He had to approach this delicately, with patience and intention. Rebranding a disgraced superhero was not something he had any expertise in, yet he was confident he was up to the challenge. In every sense and from every angle, there was no one more deserving of people’s adoration.

Besides—it was high time Spider-Man entered his Reputation Era.

But first and foremost, he had to clean his suit. As Johnny strode into the stairwell, rolling his achy shoulder, he pulled out his phone, googling “how to get blood stains out of spandex fast” while trotting up to his room.

It was nearly noon by the time Peter’s eyes sluggishly blinked open. He was in his bedroom at Avengers Tower, sprawled carelessly across his king-sized mattress. The I.V. had been removed from his hand sometime in the night—or perhaps in the morning; he wasn’t sure. But the meds from the drip still clung to his brain, making his head fuzzy. When he shifted onto his side, dull, deep pain bloomed from his abdomen. He groaned into his pillow, tucking his limbs in close to his body.

“Hello, Peter,” FRIDAY greeted him from the ceiling. “My scans indicate you slept relatively well last night. How are you feeling this morning?”

Peter mumbled some half-conscious nonsense in reply, pulling the comforter over his head. He had no plans of getting up anytime soon. Dainty beams of sunlight streamed in from the gaps in his blinds.

“Johnny Storm left a gift at the door for you, by the way.”

Spider-Man’s eyes popped open instantly. He sat upright, heart somersaulting in his chest.

“W-what? He did? When?”

“About three hours ago. He asked that I not wake you when he dropped it off.”

Peter kicked the covers off his legs and crawled to the edge of the bed, easing his feet onto the floor. He stood cautiously, dizzying pain piercing through him. Light years better than last night’s agony, but still annoying. He was sore more than anything else. No longer teetering on the brink of death. He traversed the room with hesitant steps and pushed the door open, peeking outside.

Two objects were waiting on the floor in front of him. The first was a plate with a dome-shaped dish cover on top of it—like an expensive room service meal in a fancy hotel. The second was a basket with three things inside: a large Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, a bag of sour gummy worms, and a stuffed bear holding a card and a “Get Well Soon” balloon.

A thrill of warmth spurred from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Peter glanced left and right, then quickly dragged the gifts into his room, locking the door behind him. He placed the dish on his side table and hopped back onto the bed with the goodie basket in his lap. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling like an idiot as he plucked the teddy bear from the pile of treats. He slipped the letter out from under its paws and held the toy close while gently peeling away the envelope.

The card inside looked like it was meant for a child: colorful and kiddie with cartoon Avengers scribbled on the front. He opened it up to find a message written in obscenely pretty handwriting:

Hope you’re feeling better, Webs! Here’s a little care package to lift your spirits and speed up the healing process :) I hope the sugary caramel abomination I ordered for you from Dunkin’ was made how you like. I also cooked some pesto pasta since I figured you wouldn’t be up until around lunch time, and because I found this great new recipe online. Please eat some of that before gorging yourself on candy and shitty coffee.

Take it easy!

XOXO -Johnny

Peter’s stomach flip-flopped and fluttered as he read the note again and again, honing in on that last line in particular.

XOXO. Hugs and kisses. Johnny.

He chewed his cheek, gazing at the collection of carefully selected presents scattered across his comforter. It was such a kind and thoughtful gesture. Too kind. Too thoughtful. Pasta sounded wonderful right about now, but the thought of eating made him queasy. His insides were too restless with excitement, too twisted with nausea, too jumbled with a third sensation he couldn’t quite place.

Maybe it was from the gunshot wound. Maybe it was something else.

Reeling, Peter fell back into the pillows, holding the card against his heart, staring at the ceiling fan until he could see the individual blades spinning round and round and round.

The events of yesterday played back in the young hero’s mind, returning to him in waves. Peter swinging through the city with the Human Torch by his side. The feelings he’d felt as they talked and laughed and fought together. The way Johnny looked as he soared above the city, brilliant as a shooting star, his body twisting and twirling within the billowing halo of fire. Those cobalt blue eyes flashing in his direction. Those moments of paralyzing intimacy that made Peter hold his breath. The embrace of his arms around his broken physical form. The compliments. The protectiveness. The generosity.

And the teasing. Jesus Christ. Peter had never met anyone so disarmingly good at flustering him, so fluent in rendering him crimson and tongue-tied. Nobody had ever had such a debilitating effect on him before. Within the five short days they’d known each other, Johnny Storm had successfully infiltrated every nook and crevice of his mind. When he was with him, he was nervous, scatterbrained, yet lit from within by colors he didn’t know existed. And when they were apart, he longed minute by minute for the return of that peculiar bashfulness, those exhilarating butterflies, that indescribable glow. It made one wonder…

What did it mean?

Why was he feeling this way?

What was happening to him?

You know.

Peter’s blurred vision suddenly snapped back into focus. Dread branched through his chest into his throat. He shut his eyes.

No. I don’t.

Yes. You do.

He could feel his pulse beating at the tips of his fingers. Blood surged through his veins like flood waters. He tried to tuck the feelings away like he always did—bury them somewhere deep enough that he’d never have to interrogate their significance. But this time, they were fighting him. He couldn’t push them down, couldn’t will them from his mind. They would not be ignored any longer.

I can’t, he protested hollowly. It—it can’t be that. It doesn’t make any sense.

But it’s the truth.

Peter wallowed in disbelief at the realization. His limbs were cold and numb. A panicked bird beat against his ribs where his heart was supposed to be. His lungs were starting to hurt inside his chest. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t breathing. Backhanded by clarity, he sucked in a gasp, eyes flying open.

“Oh no.”

Peter sat up rigidly, the letter slipping from his clammy fingers. Sudden electricity flashed through his cells; goosebumps prickled along his forearms. He groped frantically for his phone, punching in his passcode as fast as humanly possible and scrolling desperately through his contact list.

“Oh no, oh god, oh no, no, no.”

His body was heated to a million degrees yet somehow still freezing. The goofy image of his friend’s contact photo appeared before his eyes. He tapped the call button and pressed the phone to his ear, chewing his thumb nail while his knee bounced anxiously against the bed. Three generations lived and died before the familiar voice of his classmate finally came through.

“Hey, dude! What’s up?” Ned Leeds answered from the other end.

Peter hugged the “Get Well Soon” teddy bear so tight, the stuffing threatened to burst out of its head. “Ned?” he croaked into the speaker.

“Uh, yeah? This is in fact my number. Did you mean to call someone else?”

Spider-Man shook his head. “N-no, no. I just—” He swallowed, grappling to gather his erratic thoughts together, scratching at his scalp. “Can, um—can we meet somewhere? Like, now? I think I need to talk to you about something. I have pesto pasta and gummy worms.”

A beat passed before Ned spoke again. “Is that code for something that we’ve discussed before that I’ve completely forgotten about?” he asked hesitantly. “Is pesto, like—a bad guy’s nickname we came up with? Are you not able to speak freely right now? Oh god, what does gummy worms mean? That you’ve been captured by one of your enemies and they’re torturing you for information?”

Ned’s reply was so funny and unexpected, it helped jar him a little out of his existential meltdown. “What?” Peter stammered. “No, that’s not…I really do have pasta and gummy worms. I’m fine. Honest. Well—as far as not being kidnapped or actively tortured goes. I just…I really need to talk to someone, and I’ll bring food if you agree to meet up with me. You know, like, a bribe.”

Ned sighed in relief, then laughed. “Thank god. That would’ve been terrible if you were actually in danger. And embarrassing. Maybe we really should come up with a secret language or code word in case you ever find yourself in a situation like that.” He yelled something to his lola, feet stomping down the stairs. “Anyways—yeah, I can meet you somewhere. You know I would’ve said yes without the bribe, but I’ll never turn down a free meal. ”

Peter inhaled clipped breaths of relief. “Thanks, Ned. How about Washington Square Park? See yah in ten?”

“Sounds good. See yah there.”

Peter hung up the phone and launched himself out of bed, ignoring the daggers of pain in his side, desperate to keep his body in motion so his brain didn’t have the space to think. Being alone with his thoughts right now was out of the question. He couldn’t bear it. He had to keep himself distracted and moving until he could talk to Ned. Ned was his best friend. He’d promised to always be there for him, no matter what. This was the kind of thing best friends were supposed to be able to talk to each other about.

Right?

Peter stuffed his headphones into his ears and blasted the first Spotify playlist his thumb came into contact with. He threw on some clothes, nuked the pasta in his bedroom’s microwave, dumped it in a travel container with two sets of silverware, tossed everything into his backpack along with the gummy worms, and jogged out the door towards the elevator, slurping up nervous gulps of watered-down caramel iced coffee just to keep himself occupied, even though caffeine was the last thing he needed right now.

The elevator rose to his floor and split open like an egg. Peter moved to rush inside, but jumped back in surprise when someone stepped out at the same time. It startled him so much, he almost dropped his Dunkin’ Donuts cup.

“Whoa,” Stark exclaimed, raising his hands and chuckling a little. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare yah. I thought you were still in bed.”

Peter heaved shaky lungfuls of air. “It’s fine,” he stammered. “I just w-wasn’t expecting—it’s fine. I’m not wearing my mask, and I thought you were someone else.”

Immediately, Tony narrowed his eyes. “Are you all right?” he asked, stepping closer with a skeptical look on his face, reading him in an instant. “You seem...frazzled. Out of breath.”

Peter licked his lips and shook his head. There was only one person he felt even remotely prepared to have this conversation with. Mr. Stark hadn’t even been on his radar until this moment. In no way, shape, or form was he ready to talk to him about this yet. Not a chance. It was all too new and confusing. He felt like he didn’t even know himself anymore. He had to get out of here.

“I’m fine,” he insisted. He pulled the headphones out of his ears. “Just, er—late for lunch with Ned.”

“Your face is flushed,” Tony noted, placing the back of his hand against his forehead. “You sure you don’t have a fever?”

Peter swallowed. “Pretty sure,” he said stiffly. He flinched out of his reach. “Can I go now? I’m really late.”

“We need to change your bandages first,” Stark reminded him. He nudged him with his coffee mug, steering him back towards his room. “Come on, in here. Real quick. Then you can go.”

Screaming internally, Peter begrudgingly retraced his steps. He lifted his shirt on the way inside and started peeling the old bandage away from his torso.

“Jesus, kid. Slow down. You gotta be gentle while everything’s still healing.” Tony placed his cup on Peter’s bedside table and helped him unwind the rest of the gauze, carefully removing the bloodied dressing from the bullet wound. Peter shifted impatiently from foot to foot while his mentor tended to him, his mind hundreds of miles away from his injuries and this room.

“What’s that?” Stark asked, nodding towards the teddy bear on his bed while he worked. Peter followed his gaze to the stuffed animal and reddened.

“Oh, um…a gift,” he mumbled. “From, uh—from Johnny.” Just saying his name while in his current headspace was enough to pique his heart rate to dangerous velocities. He flexed his hands at his sides. “Are you almost done?”

“That was kind of him. He seems like a good kid. I think I had him pegged wrong before.” He blotted his stitches with disinfecting wipes and dressed the injury with fresh binding. “You two switched from bitter enemies to team-up buddies awfully quick, huh? I’m glad you were able to kiss and make up.”

Heat flashed through his body like a bolt of lightning. “W-why would you say that?” Peter choked out.

“Say what?” Tony replied, wrinkling his brow.

The teenager blinked, then lowered his gaze, running his palm across his forehead. “Nothing. Never mind. I gotta—I really need to go now.”

“Okay,” Stark said warily. He finished bandaging the injury on his torso and gave his side a light pat. “All done. Do you want any more pain meds before you leave?”

Peter gave a curt shake of his head. “Nope. I’m good. Thank you.” He jammed his headphones back into his ears and made a beeline for the door. But Tony caught him by the arm before he could escape, grip tight with concern.

“Hey. Kid. Look at me.”

Miserably, Peter turned to face him.

“Be honest, all right? You’re sure you’re okay?”

Nope. Negative. Absolutely not. He painted on his best attempt at an easygoing smile.

“Mm-hmm. Of course.”

“Because you’re acting kind of weird right now.”

He tensed his muscles against his hold. “I’m just really late,” Peter lied again. “And you’re sorta, y’know—making me even later by keeping me here.”

Slowly, Stark released his arm. His expression softened into something remorseful and grim. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you explain yourself last night,” he said. “I just—really hate it when you get hurt like that. I wish I could prevent it from ever happening. But I know that’s impossible, which frustrates the hell out of me. That doesn’t give me the right to be so hard on you.”

Peter’s fists unraveled at his sides. He met his mentor’s gaze, pricked with sudden guilt. Just enough to distract him from the hurricane of emotions currently raging in his head.

“I made you a promise and broke it,” he reminded him somberly. “You deserved to be mad at me.”

“It wasn’t a fair promise. Getting hurt in our line of work isn’t something you can always control. Especially when there’s hostages involved and the bad guys know your M.O.”

Peter winced. “You saw that?”

Tony nodded. “No denying it. They were armed to kill you specifically.”

The teen hero prodded at his bandages and shrugged. “Probably because I keep busting all their attempted kidnappings. This is the fifth human trafficking plot I’ve stopped in three months.”

“And you think they’ve all stemmed from the same organization?”

“I know they have.”

Stark pursed his lips and stroked his beard, releasing a slow, calculated breath. “Fisk?” he asked quietly.

Peter nodded.

“And you’ve seen the news?”

Spider-Man balled up his hands and glared at the ground. “It’s infuriating. I know this is all him. He’s the monster funding the trafficking ring and the drug cartel and probably hundreds of other awful things I don’t even know about.” He hung his head, puffing out a sigh. “But everyone’s too deep in his pocket. He covers all of his tracks and leaves zero loose ends. I can’t tie any of it directly back to him. And even if I could, it’s not like anyone would believe me.” Peter threw his hands up with a scoff. “Especially now that he’s gonna be the goddamn mayor.”

Stark laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. “I understand your frustration with all of this, kid. I really do. But you need to be careful.” He gestured to his gunshot wound. “This is the second time Fisk’s men have nearly taken you out. They’re expecting you to come after them at this point and preparing for it. Hell—maybe even orchestrating it. You’re lucky Johnny was there to catch them off guard and pull you out of that mess.”

With one word, Peter’s tumultuous quandary from earlier came crashing back over him like a sucker punch to the jaw. Feelings he wished he didn’t understand reignited somewhere in space between his guts and his heart. He opened and closed his mouth, warmth rising to the surface of his skin.

Stark studied him closely, giving his arm a small squeeze. “Is this what’s got you all riled up right now?” he asked. “Fisk’s operation, the campaign, all of it?”

Peter hesitated, the truth burning holes in the back of his throat, devouring his brain like a flesh-eating amoeba. Eventually, he nodded, grateful for the cop-out.

“Yes,” he answered reluctantly. “I—I guess it is.”

Tony grimaced, unconsciously cracking his knuckles—perhaps out of habit, or maybe because he felt like socking Kingpin in the balls.

“Well. The good thing about him running for mayor is that his life is about to become a lot more public. It won’t be as easy for him to get away with the things he used to now that he’s out in the limelight. Perhaps he’ll make a mistake, expose himself. Do your job for you.” Stark ruffled Peter’s hair. “Don’t stress yourself out over that douche canoe, all right? It’s not your job to fix every problem this city creates—especially those of the political variety. Just lay low for a little while, take some time to heal, and we’ll figure out how to deal with this once you’re better. Okay?”

Peter rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans. “Okay,” he murmured, slowly backing away, pawing blindly for the doorknob. “I’m, um—I’m gonna go now, okay?”

The Avenger frowned, still noticeably puzzled by the kid’s odd behavior, but didn’t protest. “All right,” he said, wagging his finger in his direction. “No web-swinging. Understood? Get wherever you need to the old fashioned way: walking, taxi, or subway.”

Peter nodded fervently, eager to be free of his mentor’s scrupulous stare. “Got it. Yep. Thanks for, um—the bandages and the chat and stuff. Good talk. Uh-huh. You’re great. So cool. Love yah. Goodbye.” Then he sped out of the room, ears ablaze, kicking himself for whatever the hell that just was, trying to steel his nerves for the even scarier conversation ahead.

Tony watched Spider-Man leave with both eyebrows raised high, only to knit them back together suspiciously. He lifted his coffee cup off the bedside table and held it to his lips, taking a long, pensive sip.

“FRIDAY,” Stark called once Peter had left. “Any idea what in the fuck is actually going on with the kid right now?”

“I’m not sure, boss,” his A.I. responded. “He does seem more anxious than usual. His heart rate has been abnormally high since he woke up today.”

He downed the rest of his latte and drummed his fingers against the ceramic handle. “Keep an eye on him for me, would you? And fill me in on any possible causes you find. One thing’s for sure: he’s hiding something. And I do not enjoy being lied to.”

“Yes, boss.”

Peter had forgotten how much slower the rest of the world moved, imprisoned by gravity and dependent on a century-old public transportation system. He took for granted how much time web-swinging saved him— the roaring wind and pumping adrenaline driving all anxieties from his bones. Riding the subway left you simmering in your thoughts, fidgeting in place, trapped and twitchy and avoiding everyone’s prying gazes, fighting not to look as crazy as you felt.

Or maybe that was just him.

It would seem the universe had a vendetta against him that afternoon. Halfway through his trip across Manhattan, as he clung to a pole near the back of the subway car, he started noticing an uncanny theme to the songs Spotify was queuing up for him.

I've been watchin' you for some time

Can't stop starin' at those ocean eyes

Burning cities and napalm skies

Fifteen flares inside those ocean eyes

Your ocean eyes

He gripped the pole tighter. Skip.

Gleaming, twinkling

Eyes like sinking ships on waters

So inviting, I almost jump in

But I don't like a gold rush, gold rush

I don't like anticipatin' my face in a red flush

I don't like that anyone would die to feel your touch

Everybody wants you

Everybody wonders what it would be like to love you—

Heat radiated off the teenager’s neck. Skip.

Johnny Angel, Johnny Angel, Johnny Angel—

“Ah!” Peter cried, tearing the headphones out of his ears. A couple passengers shot weird looks in his direction, but no one bothered to say anything. Stranger things had happened on New York public transit. Peter breathed in quick gulps, fighting to stay composed. He spent the remainder of the journey listening to the subway thunder and screech through the tunnels, pacing along the back wall of the car, daring not to play another goddamn song.

The torturous train ride gave Peter lots of time to think. Too much, in fact. By the time he spotted Ned sitting on a picnic blanket in the shade of a large oak tree, he was seriously beginning to question if he was making a mistake. If he should be doing this at all. If he should keep the truth bottled up inside where no one else would ever see it.

He didn’t have to tell him. He didn’t have to tell anyone. Things didn’t have to change. They could stay the same, so long as he kept his mouth shut.

“Peter!” Ned greeted him, waving cheerfully. Peter froze in place, panic swelling in his chest, second guessing every choice he’d ever made that had led him to this moment. Part of him wanted to whip around and sprint all the way back to Avengers Tower.

Instead, his feet pressed forward, carrying him across the lawn all the way to his friend’s side, as if they had minds of their own. Peter sat on Ned’s right, tucking his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs.

“H-hey, Ned. Thanks for, um—for meeting me.”

“I’ve got good news!” Ned announced, grinning as wide as the Hudson. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to hear that I’ve finally found a buyer for my full set of limited edition Fantastic Four Funko Pops. I can’t wait to get those little bobble-headed assholes off my desk. Every time I look at them, all I can think about is how mean they’ve been to you! Even though it pains my collector’s heart to part with them, I won’t be caught dead owning merchandise from anyone who doesn’t support my superhero best friend—especially that dickhead Johnny Storm.”

Peter just stared at him, mouth falling open, blinking in disbelief. It took him a second to remember how to talk. “Oh my god,” he said, almost laughing at the realization. “We haven’t spoken since hanging out at Pop Star Boba, have we?”

“You mean the place that shitstain excuse for a superhero burnt down? Uh, yeah!”

Peter cupped his hands around his face, stifling an incredulous chuckle. “Right. Okay. So, about that…”

Ned craned his neck to try to see his friend’s expression. “What is it?” he asked.

Peter inhaled and exhaled slowly. “So, Johnny and I…” He forced his hands to drop from his cheeks onto his knees. “We’re actually kind of…friends now?”

Peter watched the excited twinkle gradually return to his friend’s eyes. “Really?” Ned said.

“Mm-hmm. We had the chance to really sit down and talk to each other a couple days ago, and we’ve been hanging out a lot ever since. He apologized for how he’s treated me, asked for my advice on being a superhero at our age, and from then on has only ever been kind and friendly.” He giggled to himself, thinking back through everything that had transpired between them in such a short amount of time. “He bought me a tarantula as an apology present.”

Ned blew a raspberry. “What? Aren’t you terrified of those things?”

Peter frowned at him. “No, I am not. I just—I’d rather not have one sleeping in the same room as me. They’re venomous. And hairy. And they’ve got those beady little eyes that follow you around no matter where you’re standing…” He shivered, then hunched his shoulders. “Anyway. We’re on a trial run right now. I’m trying to see if we can tolerate each other’s presence enough for me to keep him. Johnny said he’d take him if I can’t, though.”

“Yikes! Twenty bucks says you chicken out and give it back.”

“Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Ned.”

Ned wrinkled his brow. “All right, so, he gave you a gift that you clearly hate. What else has he done to make up for being a jerk?”

Peter rested his chin on top of his arms, a fresh flood of warmth moving through him. “A lot, actually. Did you know he’s a really good cook? He made me the biggest, most insanely delicious breakfast the morning after our chat. He’s also the one who made the pasta I brought. Here—let me get it out.”

Ned lit up. “You’re telling me I’m about to eat something the Human Torch touched? I’m allowed to be excited about this, right? Since we’re both agreeing we’re fans of his again?”

“Yes,” Peter chuckled. “Be excited as you want.”

Ned rubbed his palms together eagerly. “Oh man, wait ‘til my lola hears about this! She’s gonna be so jealous!”

Peter lifted the tupperware out of his backpack and popped the lid off. He handed Ned a fork and placed the pasta on the blanket between them. They each assembled the perfect first bite and shoved it into their mouths at the same time. In unison, the two friends melted.

“Oh my god,” Peter mumbled.

“Holy shit,” Ned concurred.

“This might be the best pesto I’ve ever eaten,” Peter decided, heaving another portion into his face.

“Stuff that,” Ned laughed over a second forkful. “This is the best anything I’ve ever eaten, period.” He poked at the veggies and seafood scattered between the pasta noodles. “Are there fucking scallops in here? Jesus Christ. That guy is fancy as hell, man.”

“You see now why I was so quick to forgive him?” Peter chuckled.

Ned nodded zealously. “Shit, dude. I’d marry that man if he made this for me.”

Peter choked on his next bite, coughing and sputtering and pounding his fist against his chest. Ned laughed boisterously.

“It’s no fair that on top of being a superhero, he’s also an amazing cook, crazy famous, filthy rich, and insanely hot. I mean—leave some for the rest of us, am I right?” He nibbled at a pine nut on the end of his fork, eyes narrowed in thought. “I wonder what it feels like to be god’s favorite.”

When Peter didn’t answer, Ned shot a glance at his friend. He looked distant and anxious—limbs bunched in close, cheeks dusted pink, gaze locked rigidly in front of him. Ned tilted his head to the side, smile faltering.

“This is good, right?” he asked hesitantly. “I mean, that you guys are getting along?”

Peter turned to face him, breath hitching, breaking out of his trance. “Y-yeah,” he replied after a long pause. “Of course.”

“Because you seem…I don’t know. Scared, maybe? Worried?” He scooted a little closer to him, chewing seriously. “Do you think he’s got some kind of ulterior motive or something? That there’s a reason he’s suddenly being so nice?”

Peter hugged his knees a little tighter to his chest. “No. I don’t think so. I mean—I hope not.”

“Because you know I’m still your guy in the chair. If you suspect any foul play, I can program bots to flood his phone with robocalls about extra strength erectile dysfunction medication and premature male pattern baldness. I’ve done it before. You remember our psycho 7th grade history teacher Mr. Warren?”

Peter chuckled skittishly. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. I truly believe he’s a genuinely nice guy who was just going through a really tough time when we first met.” He licked the last globs of whipped cream off his Dunkin’ Donuts straw then set the cup aside. “We teamed up last night to stop some men from abducting two kids. I got pretty badly hurt, and the cops were looking to arrest me. Unlike Spider-Man, the Fantastic Four have a good work rapport with the NYPD. I didn’t want Johnny jeopardizing that by defending me. I told him I could get back on my own so he wouldn’t have to ruin his team’s relationship with them for my sake.” A hesitant smile touched his lips. “But…he stayed. He stood up for me in front of all of them and put his life and reputation on the line to protect me. Then he flew me back to the tower and stayed awake to help Mr. Stark patch my wounds. And when I got up this morning, he’d left a ‘Get Well Soon’ basket outside my door.”

Ned listened to him speak with an awed, fixated expression, like a preschooler watching a puppet show. Then his face scrunched into a scowl. “Aw, dammit! This bastard is really gunning for my spot as Spider-Man’s best friend! How the hell am I supposed to compete with that?” He clasped his hands in front of his chest and gave Peter his biggest puppy dog eyes. “Please don’t replace me! Being besties with a superhero is the only cool thing I’ve ever accomplished in life! I can make ‘Get Well Soon’ baskets! I can stand up to shitty police officers! Just say the word!”

“Ned!” Peter exclaimed with a laugh, gripping him firmly by the shoulders. “I’m not replacing you. No one could ever replace you. You’ll always be my number one bestest friend. Promise.”

“Good,” Ned growled, crossing his arms and legs tautly. He stabbed at the pasta and jammed the fork in his mouth. As he chewed and swallowed bitterly, he punched the air in frustration. “Fuck, that’s amazing! Ugh! I hate this guy! But also love him! Can you introduce us? Pretty please?”

“That’s the thing,” Peter said, biting his lip. “He hasn’t met Peter Parker yet. Right now, he only knows me as Spider-Man.”

“Oh, nice. Take that, Johnny Storm. I know Spider-Man better than you.”

Peter stared across the field of fluttering butterflies, laughing picnickers, and dancing wildflowers. Sunlight filtered through the leaves above them, painting the grass in shimmering, golden patterns. Across the lawn, parents and their children sat in a circle around a man playing a guitar, singing “I’m A Little Teapot” while miming out the words. It was such a beautiful day. All he wanted to do was sit here with his best friend and simply enjoy it. But he was too distracted by his entire understanding of himself and his life and his future crumbling around him like the walls of Troy.

“Are you planning to tell him your real identity?” Ned asked.

Peter’s throat tightened. “No. I don’t know. Probably not.”

“Okay.” Ned twirled his fork between his fingers before spearing another helping of pesto. “Was that all you wanted to talk to me about? Your new bestie Johnny?”

Peter picked at the grass beneath his feet, the world weighing on his shoulders. His emotions in that moment were difficult to define. It wasn’t like these feelings he was wrestling with were something he was taught to see as evil or shameful or wrong. He knew and loved loads of people who existed this way and never once batted an eye. But not him. Not Peter Parker. This wasn’t supposed to happen to him. Never in a million years had he expected to find himself in his current position. This was something other people were and lived as and dealt with. Not him. This wasn’t him.

Was it?

Perhaps sharing the truth would make this all seem smaller, simpler; less suffocating and all-consuming. All he knew was that he couldn’t let it stew inside him any longer. He needed a confidant, a second opinion, a heart that cared about and knew his own. He needed his friend.

But how would he find the words?

“Peter?” Ned prompted him. The teenage hero met his classmate’s gaze. He realized he’d been sitting in silence for quite some time.

“There’s…something else,” he heard himself say, barely above a whisper.

“Okay,” Ned replied.

Every nerve in his body was set on end, buzzing like magnets of equal charge crammed together beneath his skin. I guess this is happening, he thought meekly. He forced his lips to keep moving, knowing they’d fail him if he let them stop.

“I think I might like someone,” he blurted out, cheeks burning like embers, heart hammering through his chest. He pinched his eyes shut and pressed his forehead against his knees. “But...I don’t know how to tell for sure.”

A massive smile broke across the entirety of Ned’s face. He nudged him with his shoulder, beaming as bright as the sun. “Oh yeah?” he chirped eagerly. “That’s exciting! Piping hot chisme alert! Spidey’s got a brand new crush!”

Peter shook his head without looking up, blushing from end to end. “I might not, though,” he retorted shrilly. “M-maybe my mind’s just playing tricks on me. My brain feels like mashed potatoes right now. I’m all mixed up.”

“What makes you say that?” Ned asked.

Peter dug his fingers into his arms. “They’re just…not the kind of person I normally like,” he stated delicately. He drove the heels of his shoes into the soft soil beneath the picnic blanket. “I don’t know.”

“I think it’s pretty easy to distinguish when you like somebody versus when you don’t,” his friend snickered. Peter peered at him timidly from behind his knees.

“What do you mean?”

Ned laid back against the ground, threading his fingers on top of his stomach as he stared into the canopy of green above them. “Well,” he mused, “how does this person make you feel?”

Peter cupped his palms around his elbows, scratching nervously at the backs of his arms. The simplest question, cursed with the most impossibly unsimple answer. How did Johnny Storm make him feel? He could probably fill entire libraries with poems and sonnets and prose trying to capture it, and it still wouldn’t be enough. Birds trilled from the treetops overhead.

“Like a moron,” he decided with a bleak laugh. He watched a ladybug crawl to the top of a bright yellow dandelion. “But also…important. Like maybe I’m worth more than I think.”

“And how do you feel about them?”

Peter grimaced, then sighed. “Like I’m not really worth their time,” he admitted. “I know that’s a bit contradictory, but…yeah. I enjoy being around them, don’t get me wrong. But whenever we’re hanging out, I’m constantly nagged by the sense that they have better things to be doing, more important people to be with. Like—out of everyone you could be talking to right now, why me?”

Ned pursed his lips disapprovingly. “I’m upset that you think that way, but I guess I can relate.” He fished the gummy worms out of Peter’s backpack and tore the bag open, offering him first dibs. “I suppose both of those are things you could feel for a friend or a crush.”

Peter grabbed a handful and tossed a few into his mouth, sour deliciousness bathing his tongue, a spark of hope flickering in his chest. “You see my dilemma, then?”

Ned waved dismissively. “All right—new plan.” He made a box with his fingers and held it in front of his eye. “Picture the person you’re talking about right now in your mind.”

Reluctantly, Peter closed his eyes. It took a moment, but the image gradually came to him: Johnny’s captivating face staring back at him inside his head. All mischievous smiles and strawberry blonde locks and freckle-splashed cheeks.

“You got it?” Ned asked.

“Yeah,” Peter said, squirming in place a little. “Now what?”

“Do you think they’re pretty?”

Fire blossomed at the base of his neck. “W-what?” Peter squeaked, caught off guard.

“Are they attractive? Do you like the way they look? Would you like to hold their hand? Do you want to kiss them?”

With the truth staring him directly in the face, Peter could deny it no longer. His eyes popped open as his heart sloshed into his gut. “Shit,” he rasped. He flopped back against the earth, limbs sprawled across the picnic blanket, gazing helplessly into the patchwork of criss-crossing branches overhead. “I have a crush on Johnny Storm.”

“Wait—what?” Ned exclaimed, shooting upright. Peter covered his face with his hands and groaned. “That’s who you’ve been talking about this whole time? You’re telling me you’ve got the hots for the Human fucking Torch? Holy shit, dude!”

“Ned!” Peter yelped, slapping a palm over his friend’s mouth, immediately drowning in terror and regret. “Quit screaming about it! This is a best-friends-only type of secret, okay? No one else can know!”

Ned pried his hand from his lips, giddy with giggles. “I’m sorry! I promise I won’t tell! It’s just—” Glee sparkled in his eyes. “—sooo cute! And unexpected! How long have you known?”

Peter whimpered feebly, smothering himself with his arms. “I don’t know! This is all so new and confusing to me. I have no idea how to feel about it, or what it really even means...”

Ned tapped his chin with his index finger. “Well. Do you still like girls?”

Stars danced across the backs of his eyelid as Peter picked his brain for an answer. “I…I think so,” he murmured hesitantly, dazed by the volume of thoughts and feelings churning around in his body.

“But you like boys, too?”

He didn’t want to say it. Saying it made it real. It confirmed all those tiny moments of interest and attraction he’d felt growing up, but absolutely refused to investigate—which had increased exponentially over the past couple of years. It turned this into a tangible piece of himself he was finally going to have to acknowledge and face. Another label that othered him, setting him apart from the rest of the world.

But there was no point in resisting now. And he was tired of lying to himself.

Peter pushed up onto his elbows. “I guess I do,” he said solemnly. “I guess…I have. I just never wanted to admit it.”

Ned smiled at him. “In that case, that probably means you’re bisexual.”

Peter glanced at his friend, eyes wide, jaw tight.

“Or pansexual. That’s an option, too. I think it’s one of those situations where being one of them means you’re also the other, but not everyone is both. Right?”

He’d heard these terms a thousand times over, but had never associated them with himself until now. They bounced around inside his skull like grasshoppers, animated with new meaning.

“Y’know, you’re taking this a lot better than I am,” Peter observed warily, almost offended.

Ned giggled. “What—would you rather I be shocked and horrified? I can pretend to be, if that’d make you feel better.”

Peter squeezed his eyes shut. “No, I just…I don’t know. I figured you’d be surprised, at least. I’m still only barely beginning to come to terms with it myself.”

“Of course I’m surprised,” Ned assured him. “And I’m happy you trust me enough to share something like this with me.” Ned hinted a cautious smile. “But I’m also, like…not that surprised.”

Peter turned towards him, scrunching up his brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ned shrugged and smirked. “I’m just saying. Being your best friend and all…there’s been some hints. Y’know, here and there.”

Peter crinkled his nose. “Define hints, Ned.”

Ned rolled his eyes. “Peter, come on. I’ve seen your For You page. No exclusively straight individual watches that many Joe Burrow fan cams.”

Peter’s ears went scarlet. “What? That doesn’t—I’m not—I just—I like—sport.”

“Really? You ‘like sport’?”

“Y-yeah. Totally. I have a very deep appreciation for the complex strategy of the game.”

“Oh yeah? What position does he play?”

Peter swallowed. “Um…runner back? No, wait—defensive end? Those are positions, right?”

“Nope. Not even close. How about what team he’s on?”

Peter huffed. “I’m trying to be vulnerable with you right now, and you’re bullying me. I do not appreciate being victimized in my tender, fragile state.”

Ned cackled, slapping his knee. “The TikTok algorithm doesn’t lie, my friend. I didn’t even mention how often I’ve caught you liking Johnny Storm thirst traps.” He threw him a sinister grin. “Which, looking back, makes a lot more sense now.”

Bone-deep embarrassment radiated through him, but he tried his best not to give his friend the satisfaction. He buried his face in his hands, laughing sheepishly.

“I’m having a terrible time right now; I hope you know that.”

“Also, what kind of straight guy designs their superhero costume to be that tight? Oh, and another thing—”

“All right! I get it! It was glaringly obvious to everyone except me! Thanks, Ned!”

Ned chuckled. “I don’t know about glaringly obvious. I doubt anyone who hangs out with you less than I do has any idea.”

Peter watched a plane wink through the gaps in the boughs and leaves above them. “Do you think May knows?” he asked gingerly.

Ned tore a gummy worm in half with his teeth. “I’m not sure. I mean—she probably knows you better than anyone. So maybe.”

Something cold snaked between Peter’s lungs.

“But if she doesn’t, I’m positive it wouldn’t change how she felt about you at all,” Ned added quickly. “She loves you more than anything.”

Peter was grateful he couldn’t argue with him. He gnawed his inner lip.

What about Mr. Stark? What would he think?

Now he was lumped with a second enormous secret to keep under wraps. It was almost humorous. Perhaps Peter Parker was a more complicated individual than he gave himself credit for.

“But anyways,” Ned continued, laying on his stomach with his chin perched on his palms, kicking his feet in the air and grinning like a loon. “I need all the juicy deets on how this adorable crush of yours came to be. When did the feelings start? Do you think he likes you back? How are you planning on telling him?”

Peter clammed up, heat bleeding across his skin. “I’m not…I don’t…” he stammered. The young hero licked his lips, throat tight, then faced away from him dejectedly. “I’m not telling him. No way. Half the world has a crush on him, and we’ve only just become close in the past couple of days. It’d be weird and selfish of me to mess that up by burdening him with my stupid emotions. Hundreds of people confess their undying affection for him every day; it’s nothing special, and not worth bringing up.”

“Is making you breakfast and the most delicious pasta in the world and leaving you ‘Get Well Soon’ gifts after rushing your injured self to safety not special too?” Ned countered, leaning in close. He poked at Peter’s ribs, making the superhero jerk sideways and giggle. “Face it, Parker: the mutual pining between you two couldn’t be more obvious.”

“It’s nohot like that!” Peter insisted, shoving him away. Ned tumbled backwards onto the blanket with a laugh. “That’s just how Johnny is, okay? He’s thoughtful and generous with everyone. It’s why so many people like him so much.”

“Other than the fact that he’s an absolute hottie?” Ned snickered. Peter’s cheeks burned like fire as his friend’s choice of phrase unearthed a memory from the night before. Spider-Man sprawled weakly across the hospital bed as Johnny tended to his battered, half-naked form, his touch soft and gentle while his words struck like arrows, relentlessly teasing him about how cute and shredded and hot he was. In the moment, Peter thought he might erupt from the inside out. Thinking back to it now, the threat persisted.

Peter forced his brain to recalibrate, grounding himself with a wobbly breath. “Johnny doesn’t even like guys,” he reminded them both.

“Who says?” Ned retorted.

“Everyone! I mean—there’s no evidence proving otherwise!”

“But he’s so whimsical!” Ned protested. “He’s rocked a full face of makeup for some of his photo shoots! He wore a corset and platform heels to the Met Gala this year!”

“None of those things make you gay, Ned!” Peter shot back. “Dating other guys does! Which, as far as anyone’s aware, he never has.”

“Maybe he’s a baby gay,” Ned suggested. “You know—like you. Maybe he’s only just beginning to recognize and embrace that side of himself.”

Peter scratched and tugged at his messy tangle of curls. “Johnny is a very open person,” he insisted exasperatedly. “He’s confident, outspoken, and not great at lying. I don’t think he’d try to hide something like this. I doubt he even could. Besides—he’s always being photographed running between events with some girl hanging off his arm.” He winced, realizing how shallow and jealous that sounded, but stuck with it nonetheless.

“You of all people should know how unreliable tabloids can be,” Ned pointed out. “Johnny Storm’s strength is that he appeals to the masses. Being openly anything except hot and charming and straight could hurt his image. Maybe his PR team doesn’t want him risking that. Or maybe Johnny’s just not ready to share his sexuality with the world.”

Peter slipped a cheerless forkful of pasta between his lips. “Whether he is or isn’t doesn’t matter,” he stated. “I’m not telling him. I want us to stay friends, and this could ruin that.” He stared at his shoes with a gloomy haze over his eyes. “I’ll just have to find a way to…get over it. Keep it a secret.” He lifted his shoulders listlessly. “Lucky for me, I’m good at those.”

“I don’t know,” Ned said, hooking an arm around Peter’s neck. “You’ve been bitten by the lovebug pretty bad, my friend. You sure you’re gonna be able to resist those dreamy eyes and flaming biceps cooking you meals and giving you presents and whisking you off your feet?”

“You’re a dick,” Peter giggled, shrugging him off. “And yes, I think I can manage.”

“At least tell me what you like the most about him,” Ned pried. He picked a flower from the lawn and held it out to him dramatically. “How did the Human Torch manage to capture your tender, spidery heart?”

Peter rolled his eyes, taking the flower in his hand and twirling it between his thumb and forefinger. His expression softened a little, a comforting warmth glazing over him. “Johnny…kind of amazes me,” he said. “He’s so sure of himself. He’s not ashamed of who he is, and he’s not afraid of openly expressing his emotions. He’ll give you his honest opinion about everything—often unprompted, which can get annoying—without any diluting or sugarcoating. But it’s never to be rude; he just understands the value of healthy communication. He’ll call you out on your shit because he cares, not because he’s mean. And when he’s proven wrong or makes a mistake, he admits it wholeheartedly and takes ownership of the consequences. All of his confidence is genuine, which has made me realize just how phony mine is. I’m good at putting on a mask and faking it, like an actor playing a role. But it’s all just for show; none of it’s actually real.”

Absentmindedly, Peter began plucking the petals from the stem one by one, letting them drop from his fingertips and fall into his lap like tiny, spiraling feathers. “He’s also very attentive to detail,” he went on. “He’ll remember little things you said you liked in passing and just—get them, or make them for you. For no reason. He makes people feel noticed and special. The media likes to paint him as a bit of an airheaded jock, but it’s not true. He’s thoughtful and sensitive. And despite being so famous, he stands up for what he believes is right—even when his fans or teammates or allies disagree. When he cares about something, he cares so much. He has a very rare, very delicate heart. He’s funny, too—and way too good at poking fun.”

Ned elbowed Peter in the side, jarring him out of his lovey-dovey rambling. “And he’s hot. Right? Come on. I need to hear you say it.”

With a huff, Peter threw up his hands in defeat. “Fine. And hot. Stupidly, ridiculously hot.” The teenage superhero smiled to himself. “But mostly pretty. Like…so pretty. He’s got these long, fluffy eyelashes you can only see up close and this little pink scar just above his eyebrow that kind of looks like the square root symbol but flipped upside down and facing backwards and don’t even get me started on those adorable goddamn freckles of his or the fact that he smells like lavender and coffee beans and some other third thing I’m probably too poor to recognize but smells fucking amazing and oh my god I am so not straight.”

Ned cracked up, wrapping his friend in a big bear hug as Peter dropped his face into his hands, moaning in dismay. “I know it must be hard to still be actively processing your gay awakening in real time, but I hope you understand how entertaining it is to watch,” Ned giggled.

“How am I going to do this…?” Peter whimpered into his palms. His eyes snapped up to Ned’s, wide and panicky. “W-what if he figures it out on his own?”

Ned smiled delicately, rubbing Peter’s back. “Would that really be such a bad thing?” he ventured to say.

“It’d be the worst thing.”

“Oh, please. Don’t be so dramatic. Again: what if he likes you back?”

Peter shook his head, crippled by uncertainty. “How could anyone like someone if they don’t even know what they look like?”

“Blind people fall in love every day, Peter. Quit being insensitive.”

“Oh my god. You know what I mean. For this kind of situation—where everyone’s used to seeing each other before developing feelings.”

Ned punched him in the arm, making his friend recoil. “Come on. You’re so likable. You’ve got a great personality and a very toned little butt—which that suit of yours does a marvelous job of highlighting, might I add. Johnny does not need to see your face to know how lucky he’d be to date you.”

Peter flopped onto his side and whined like a wounded puppy. “It’s hopeless, Ned. My perfect ass isn’t enough.” He curled into a fetal position, bunching his eyes closed. “Why are we even talking about this anymore? I’m not ready to show him who I really am, and we don’t even know if he likes guys. I’m just driving myself insane at this point.”

Ned’s face suddenly lit up like the Fourth of July. He grabbed Peter’s shoulder and gave it a violent shake, grinning from ear to ear. “OMG! Genius idea alert!”

“Ouch! Dude! That’s the side I got shot on! It’s still healing!”

“You were shot?” Ned sputtered, hands springing back. Then he shrugged. “Oh, whatever. I’m sure you’ll be fine. Anyways—I think I know how to fix your Johnny Storm heartsick conundrum.”

“I’m terrified to hear where you’re going with this,” Peter admitted.

Ned whipped out his phone and pounded his thumbs against the keyboard. “I wasn’t originally gonna go to this because I thought we’d canceled Mr. Storm, but now that you’re crushing on him instead, we have to be there!” He flipped the phone towards Peter, bouncing on his knees with excitement. “Look! Johnny is having a fan meet-and-greet event!”

Peter squinted at the screen. How Ned managed to stare at a phone set to full brightness all day long was beyond him. “Okay?” he said, still puzzled. “How is this gonna fix anything?”

Ned narrowed his eyes, turning the screen back to himself. “All right—so maybe it won’t fix everything,” he conceded. “But it would give you a chance to meet Johnny as yourself and see how he’d react to the real you.”

Peter frowned, tilting his head to the side. “I kinda already did that,” he reminded him. “I confronted him as Peter Parker after he set fire to Pop Star Boba, remember?”

“Oh. Right. Well—how did he react to you then? Probably not too nicely, huh?”

Peter blushed, wrapping his arms around his legs. “He, um…kind of called me ‘pretty boy’?” he squeaked. Then he immediately retreated. “B-but I don’t really think—”

“What? Are you shitting me right now?” Ned grabbed his wrists, cutting off all circulation to his hands. “Oh, we are so going! You two have to see each other again! You need a proper reunion!”

“Johnny flirts with everyone!” Peter said skittishly. “It doesn’t mean anything!”

“Now you’re just being a little bitch,” Ned snapped. He released him from his death grip and tapped wildly at his phone screen, sticking his tongue out in concentration. “We’re going, and that’s final. Me to get my Funko Pops signed, and you to see Johnny as Peter again. Oh shit! That reminds me! I gotta tell my buyer the deal’s off.”

“I don’t know what you’re expecting to happen,” Peter mumbled. “I doubt he’ll even remember me.”

Ned waved dismissively. “Shut your face hole. I’m trying to find the date for this thing. The screenshot I took cut off the bottom of the poster.”

Peter sighed, snapping the lid back onto the tupperware. “You only get, like, five seconds with the celebrities doing those things, anyway. I doubt it’ll be enough time to make it worth—”

“Shut up.”

Peter shot a glance at him, gawking in disbelief. “Jesus, all right! No need to be an asshole about it! I’m just saying—”

“No, Peter—shut up.” He shoved his phone in front of his eyes. “Look! You’re trending right now!”

Peter blinked in surprise, then nudged the screen out of his face, heaving an irritated sigh. “Oh, great. What scathing, baseless lies is Jonah pushing about me this time?”

“It’s not Jonah,” Ned insisted, scrolling frantically through his feed. “I think Johnny talked about you in his interview on the Today Show this morning.”

A tremor shot through Peter’s skeleton. “Wait—what?” He flew to Ned’s side, eyes glued to the screen. “Where? What did he say?”

“Here’s the video,” Ned said, clicking the “play” button. It started with a wide shot showing everyone involved in the interview: two hosts, and every member of the Fantastic Four. Peter’s pulse climbed as he watched the conversation unfold.

“Okay—this one is for all of you,” the bubbly news anchor announced. “Obviously you four are me and Savannah’s favorite superheroes; that goes without saying. But I have to know: outside of this team, who are each of your favorite superheroes?”

“Let’s start with you, Mr. Grimm,” the other host chirped.

Ben grunted, dwarfing everyone in the room, the water bottle in his hand looking comically small. “The Hulk,” he said gruffly, man-spreading to keep from crushing the fancy coffee table between his knees. “He and I got a lot in common, yah know? He paved the way for me to accept myself after the accident and start using my powers to help people. And he proved that one guy can in fact be the brains and the brawns.”

The hosts and the crowd applauded approvingly. The camera switched to showing all of the Fantastic Four. Johnny lounged regally in his chair, left leg crossed over his right, one finger pressed along the side of his temple. He wore sharp plaid pants with a satin short-sleeve button-up and a pair of Doc Martens. His hair was all gelled up except for one delinquent strand dangling rebelliously in front of his eyes. He looked positively divine. He had a wry grin on his face, as if thinking of a snarky remark to make in response to Ben’s last statement. But if he was, he kept it to himself.

“How about you, Dr. Richards?”

Reed chuckled shyly. “All right, I know this might not be the most original answer. But Tony Stark has always been a major inspiration of mine. The man wasn’t born a superhero; he made himself into one using the power of his mind and the technology at his disposal. I’ve always admired his remarkable intelligence.”

More applause. Nervousness crawled across Peter’s skin like ants.

“Dr. Storm?”

“Captain Marvel. I mean—what an icon, right? Her strength and bravery is literally out of this world. So many young girls look up to her and recognize their own power because of her. I’d be lucky to be half the superhero she is one day.”

Everything around him had fallen away. All that remained was the tiny rectangular video screen flickering before Peter's eyes and the little talking heads chittering back and forth. The hosts turned to the Human Torch expectantly.

“And you, Johnny? I’m sure everyone watching is eager to hear their favorite superhero’s favorite superhero.”

Laughter bubbled from the audience. The teenager smiled, a daring gleam in his eye.

“Oh, that’s an easy one,” he said without hesitating. “Spider-Man.”

A few sharp gasps cut through the silence that immediately swept the entire studio. The two hosts blinked, jaws slightly hung. Ned pinched Peter’s arm, squealing with excitement. Sue’s head whipped towards Johnny so fast, she easily could’ve snapped her own neck.

“Wow!” the older host eventually exclaimed, clapping her hands together with an awkward laugh. “Really? Spider-Man?”

“That’s right,” Johnny said.

“Now there’s a bold choice,” the other host chimed in, flashing the camera a nervous grin. “You do know that most of New York doesn’t see Spider-Man as a hero, right? A lot of people believe he does more harm than good.”

“And I respectfully disagree,” Johnny replied.

“Johnny…” Sue warned him, the veins in her neck throbbing beneath her skin.

“Well,” the older host continued hesitantly, “I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say I’m dying to know: what makes Spider-Man your favorite?”

“His uncompromising selflessness,” Johnny answered immediately, voice level and direct. “Spidey battles crime and saves lives without asking for a single thing in return. He protects the people of this city because he’s a good person—plain and simple. He cares more about helping others than wealth or fame or anyone else’s opinion of him. Despite all the terrible lies the world spreads about him, he still does everything in his power to defend it. And I find that incredibly noble.”

Peter's heart did cartwheels inside his chest. One second, he was swooning over Johnny’s heartfelt compliments. The next, he was bristling with panic. He didn’t know what to do or what to think.

“You sound pretty confident in your endorsement of our resident wall-crawler,” the younger host noted. “May I ask what brought you to this conclusion? What made you decide that Spider-Man might be a hero after all?”

Johnny interlaced his fingers together and placed them against his knee. “A lot of things,” he responded. “But the moment that really sealed the deal was when I teamed up with him yesterday to stop a group of thugs from kidnapping some kids, and watched him take a bullet to protect one of them.”

Murmurs of surprise and doubt rumbled from the audience. The other members of the Fantastic Four exchanged pointed glances. The older host pressed a hand to her chest in shock.

“Goodness! Is he all right?” she asked.

“He’ll be okay,” Johnny assured them. “He’s tough. But he doesn’t deserve all the hate this city throws at him. Spider-Man is a prime example of a true, authentic hero.”

The other host turned to face the audience. “Well, you heard it here first, folks: Spider-Man’s got Johnny Storm’s stamp of approval. Perhaps the web-slinger isn’t a menace after all.”

“Up next, the Fantastic Four take on our superhero cupcake decorating challenge. Who do you think has what it takes to win it all? Stay tuned to find out!”

Then the video ended, replaced by an ad for vegan protein powder that probably tasted like dog food.

“Holy shit,” Peter whispered, sitting back on his heels.

“Holy shit!” Ned cried.

“Why would he do that?” he asked bewilderedly, gripping his head in his hands. “Sue is going to skin him alive!”

“Duh! Because he loooves you!”

“Ned!” Peter yelped, ears burning. “Not the time!”

“It’s the only explanation!”

“I—I have to go,” Peter stammered, cramming the gummy worms and leftover pasta into his backpack. He slung the bag over his shoulder, moving to leave, thoughts spiraling, but Ned hopped to his feet.

“Wait!” he called after him. “There’s something else.”

Peter turned around, wired with enough anxious energy to power every building in the Bronx. “Now what?” he groaned.

“Johnny got into a Twitter fight with some fans of his shortly after the interview aired,” Ned explained, thumbs flying. “They went back and forth for a bit arguing about you, and then…” His fingers slowed as he frowned at his phone screen. A couple seconds later, Ned bit his lip, fighting back laughter.

“What?” Peter said, squeezing the life out of his backpack straps. “What is it?”

Giggles slipped through Ned’s defenses. Peter ran to his friend’s side and snatched the phone out of his hand. As his eyes absorbed the image on the screen, blush exploded across his face.

to all of you who still believe #spider-man is a menace, the caption read, i need you to know that THIS is what that dumbass wears to sleep at night. diabolical, right?

Below the cut was the photo Johnny had taken of Peter yesterday morning, wearing his Spider-Man mask, his oversized “I Survived My Trip to New York” T-shirt, and his bright pink Hello Kitty pajama pants. He had the knuckles of one hand pressed against his left eye lens, kneading sleepily at his face. He was absolutely drowning in his clothes and looked way younger than Spider-Man usually did compared to the typical pictures shared of him online.

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“He didn’t,” Peter croaked, cupping his palm over his mouth. “Oh my god! He posted that photo of me? He wasn’t supposed to share that!”

Ned cackled hysterically. “At least he’s standing up for you! Maybe this will make people stop hating you so much! I mean—how could anyone hate you after seeing you in that outfit?”

“I have to find him,” Peter said, voice brittle. He handed the phone back to Ned. “I have to—shit! I don’t even have his number!”

“Ooh! Perfect opportunity for you to ask for his digits, then!” Ned’s expression shifted when he saw the look on his friend’s face. “We’re excited about this, right? I mean—your crush is voicing his support for you on live TV! You’re not, like, freaking out right now, are you?”

Peter shook his head, sweaty and frazzled. “I don’t know. I mean…kinda?” He heaved his backpack higher up on his shoulders. “I—I’m gonna go now. Thanks for meeting up with me on such short notice. We’ll talk more later, okay?”

“Hold on! Peter!” his friend yelled behind him. But Peter didn’t stop. He raced out of the park and cleared a couple of blocks before flinging himself into the first deserted alleyway he happened across, shooting wild glances over his shoulder as he stripped out of his street clothes and threw on his Spider-Man suit—the extra one Stark had made for him that wasn’t currently torn to pieces and soaked in blood.

Once he was in costume, Peter leapt off the ground and buoyed into the street, carrying himself towards Avenger Tower on frantic lines of webbing. It wasn’t until his side started throbbing like the devil that he remembered he wasn’t supposed to be web-swinging right now, but by then he was almost halfway to his destination and had no plans of slowing down.

When he finally arrived at the imposing skyscraper, Peter dropped onto the tower’s extended balcony in the center of the helicopter pad, gripping his wound with a groan.

“FRIDAY!” Spider-Man grated out breathlessly. “Where’s Johnny?”

“Peter Parker!” the A.I. scolded him. “What do you think you’re doing? Mr. Stark gave you specific instructions to limit your physical activity and refrain from—”

“I know! I forgot! I’m sorry, okay?” He forced himself to stand up straight, grimacing behind his mask. “Please just tell me where he is.”

With an aggravated huff, FRIDAY begrudgingly complied. “On the roof,” she stated. “Just be careful climbing up there so you don’t tear through your stitches even more.”

Peter exhaled in relief, grateful he wasn’t far. “Thank you,” he said. Then he scaled the short stretch of wall leading to the roof, which sat between the two extravagant panels fanning out from the top of the tower. There was no access to it from inside; the only way to reach it was by flying or climbing, which meant it was a relatively sequestered space.

Spider-Man hopped over the crown of the tower, panting weakly, hugging his midsection. He hoped FRIDAY wasn’t planning to tell Stark about his freshly popped sutures, or how he’d gone about ripping them. Tendrils of pain lanced through his side like shark’s teeth.

“Johnny?” he wheezed, lifting his head. “You here? I, uh, need to talk to you about—”

Whatever words he was about to say next got lodged somewhere in the back of his throat. Peter froze in place at the sight before him, inhaling sharply, pulse revving into overdrive.

Johnny stood with his back facing him, shirtless and barefoot, hands gripping the pull-up bar Stark had installed for himself back before the Avengers were even a thing. Other decades-old workout equipment littered the rooftop—scuffed and rusted from years of exposure to the elements, but still relatively functional. It looked like Johnny had been bouncing between the different stations before Peter had arrived, testing out the various weights and machines. But right now, he was focused on his arms and back.

Coincidentally, so were Peter’s eyes.

Again and again, Johnny raised his chest above the bar, then lowered himself back down with controlled, precise movements. The muscles in his back powered through each motion in the most beautifully mesmerizing way, rippling and coiling and pinching together fluidly. He puffed out quick breaths between each rep, sunlight gilding the curve of his biceps.

When he finished his set, Johnny dropped to the floor and snatched a water bottle off the bench, tipping it back with the nozzle between his lips. Tiny streams trickled from the sides of his mouth and slipped down his neck. The world suddenly dipped into slow motion, the outline of Johnny’s body glowing with supernatural light, the edges of Peter’s vision tinting pink. Jesus, he was pretty. Heartbreakingly so. He forgot for a moment why he’d scrambled here in such a rush in the first place. Was it for something important? Or was it just to admire how lovely Johnny’s muscles looked in the afternoon sunshine?

Dear god. How did he ever convince himself this was anything other than a big, fat crush?

Johnny turned towards him, pouring water over his head, letting it spill down his face and chest and soak into his hair. He ran his fingers through his scalp, slicking back dripping strands of reddish-gold. Sweat-damp skin gleamed and glistened like a dewy spring morning; exertion painted his face in rosy, splotchy colors. He pulled out the towel he had tucked into his waistband and swiped it across the back of his neck. As he dried his hair, his eyes flickered up to meet his, electrified by the summer sun.

“Wah!” Johnny shrieked in alarm, tiny flames erupting from his shoulders. Peter shrieked back, startled out of his infatuated stupor.

“Gah! I—uh—shit—sorry!” Peter whirled away from him, covering his eyes with his palms, struck with realization that he’d been caught red handed ogling Johnny like a goddamn weirdo.

Johnny squinted in his direction, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Spidey?” he said, pulling an Airpod out of his ear. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” Peter answered, voice shriveled with embarrassment. “Sorry for scaring you. FRIDAY told me you were up here.” He spoke without turning around or uncovering his eyes.

Johnny jogged across the rooftop to meet him, scoffing in amusement. “Why are you hiding your face like that?”

Timidly, Peter peered at him over his shoulder. “Sorry, I thought you were—I don’t know. Working out in private or something? I didn’t mean to intrude.”

The Human Torch giggled. “Dude, I had to strip you down to your underwear yesterday. If I got to see you in all your nakey, shredded glory, the least I can do is return the favor.”

Peter laughed awkwardly, hands fidgeting at his sides. This boy was going to be the death of him.

“Besides,” Johnny continued, tossing the towel over his shoulder. “I don’t care about people seeing me like this. I’m not up here to hide from anyone, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He frowned. “Well…except for my sister.”

Spider-Man breathed in slowly. Right. The interview. The Twitter posts. That’s why I’m here. Focus, Peter.

“She’s gotta be so pissed off,” Peter started to say. “Why the hell would you—?”

“Did you get my present?” Johnny interrupted him, flashing the most adorable, bright-eyed smile. The excitement on his face was so sweet and disarming, Peter found his own lips curling upwards.

“Yes,” he said after a moment. He stared off to the side, blushing and smiling and scratching the back of his head. “That was…really kind of you.”

“Did you like the pasta?” he asked eagerly. Peter slapped himself in the forehead.

“Did I like it? Holy shit, man! That was the most insanely delicious thing ever! How’d you even make that?”

Johnny laid a dramatic hand across his chest. “It’s an art,” he said, pretentious as ever. Now that he was standing right in front of him, Peter could see the hundreds of tiny freckles speckling not just his limbs and face, but his torso as well. They decorated his skin the way a pointillist dotted a canvas or constellations adorned the cosmos. Peter thought it would be fun to trace the paths between them with his finger.

Whoa. Okay. Reel it in there, Pete. Even after accepting these feelings for what they truly meant, intrusive thoughts like that were still gonna take his baby bi brain some getting used to. He felt like a foreigner in his own body: thinking and desiring things completely out of his control. Things he knew he’d never be able to act on, which only made him want them more.

“It’s good to see you on your feet again,” Johnny said, pointing to his side. “How’s your injury doing? You’ve been taking it easy today, right? No web-swinging?”

Peter blinked, struggling to anchor his wistful thoughts. “Uh…sure,” he stammered. He jerked his eyes back up to Johnny’s face, then gave his head a quick shake. God, he was distracting. “Anyways, um—I wanted to talk to you about—”

“The Today interview?” he finished for him. A wily playfulness entered his expression. “You saw it, right?”

Spider-Man gave an incredulous huff. “Why would you do that?” he asked helplessly. “What on earth were you thinking? Are you trying to make everyone hate you?”

“I was asked a question, and I told the truth,” Johnny answered simply. “I didn’t go into it with any sort of agenda. It just happened.”

“Johnny,” Peter snapped. “Please, just—listen to me, okay?” He hunched his shoulders and balled his hands into fists. “I don’t care what people think about Spider-Man. I’ve told you before; It doesn’t matter. But I know you care what people think about the Human Torch. Their support is really important to you, and I don’t want you falling out of their favor. If you keep this up, you’re going to regret ever meeting me.” He rubbed at his aching side, voice sinking. “You really—you have to stop, okay? Please.”

The look that shuddered across Johnny’s face wasn’t what Peter was expecting, and also maimed his heart a little bit. After a beat, the Human Torch scoffed.

“Hold up—are you mad at me for telling people to stop treating you like shit?”

Peter winced. “No. I’m not mad at you. I mean—I am slightly pissed that you posted that photo of me from yesterday after I asked you not to, but…”

“You said ‘I’d better not see that on The Daily Bugle’,” Johnny pointed out. “You never said anything about Twitter.”

“Well, the Bugle retweeted it, so now it technically is on there.”

“And that’s probably the most flattering photo they’ve ever shared of you,” Johnny countered. “You wanna know what they were talking about before I posted that or did the interview? The Bugle was trying to make everyone believe that you were the one who kidnapped that kid yesterday! Not Fisk’s men! Oh—but thank god Johnny Storm was there to pry the poor tike from Spider-Man’s evil clutches! What a hero! They had poorly photoshopped pictures to back up their story and everything!” Johnny stepped closer to him, jabbing his finger into his chest. “But I stopped them. I told the truth, and they were forced to retract their lies. Now everyone will know they can’t be trusted, and you can start to clear your name.” Wisps of smoke trailed off his shoulders and dissipated into the sky. “But you’re mad about that? I don’t understand. I thought you’d be grateful!”

Even though they were in the middle of a semi-heated disagreement, Peter had to take a second to acknowledge the way Johnny’s powers reacted to his emotions, and how devastatingly cute it was. When he was startled, little fires flared out of him in every direction, punctuating his shock in the most hilarious fashion. When he was frustrated, his head and shoulders smoked like a grouchy, overworked radiator, making his irritation all the more obvious. He wondered if positive emotions could trigger his powers in ways Peter hadn’t witnessed yet. If so, he hoped he’d have the chance to see it.

Peter lowered his gaze skittishly. “I am grateful,” he insisted. “Really. I’m just—I wish you would listen to what I’m saying, instead of going off and doing things like this without my input. That’s all.”

Gradually, the smoke stream rising from Johnny’s skin eased to a halt. His face fell, twisted with guilt.

“Fine,” Johnny stated. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have posted the picture without asking you. I’m sorry about that.” He met his gaze reluctantly. “It’s just…people share photos of you all the time trying to tear you apart. I only wanted to challenge them by showing how cute and likable the real you is.”

Peter’s cheeks flushed. Cute? Likable? Was that really how Johnny saw him? But in what context? A cute and likable friend? Who the hell described their platonic companions like that? Only someone as blatantly honest as Johnny Storm, he supposed. Johnny spoke his mind without ever considering how his words might be misinterpreted or used against him. It was as admirable as it was reckless.

“And to be fair, I knew if I asked you, you would’ve said no,” Johnny added with a hesitant smile. “You’re too cautious, webhead. You’d rather let the world shit all over you than give anyone the chance to defend you and change their minds.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Me? Cautious? You’re kidding, right? You mind running that little observation by Mr. Stark? I don’t think anyone has ever used that word to describe me.”

“All right,” Johnny corrected himself. “Scared, then. You’re too scared to let anyone stand up for you.”

Peter scoffed. “Uh—yeah?” he said, forcing a bitter laugh. “Obviously I’m scared! Scared that you’ll mangle your perfect reputation to try to save my shitty one for no reason! I’ve told you a hundred times, Johnny! It’s not worth it!”

The Human Torch scowled at him, throwing his hands in the air. “What kind of asshole do you take me for?” he retorted. “You really expect me to sit by and do nothing while people praise me in one breath and bash you in the next? That’s not how friendship works, moron! That’s not what friends do! Real friends stick up for each other no matter what!”

Peter stared at him, stunned silent, touched by his loyalty but still thoroughly annoyed. Poor, sweet Johnny was too damn sentimental for his own good. Why couldn’t he understand that Peter was just trying to protect him from meeting the same miserable fate as Spider-Man? He kneaded at his temple, trying to decide how to properly phrase this.

“I know you have the best intentions, Johnny. You’re a really good person and a really great friend. So I’m asking you, as a friend, to please let this go. Okay? For both of our sakes.”

Fresh smoke ballooned from the teen’s adorably freckled shoulders. After a moment, Johnny crossed his arms, scrunching his face into a knot of hard lines.

“You’re telling me if the roles were reversed and I was the one the world was hating on and lying about, you’d be perfectly fine holding your tongue and just letting it happen? You seriously believe that’d be the right thing to do?”

Peter grimaced, hugging himself around the middle. “N-no. Of course not. It’s just—it’s different, okay?”

“How?” Johnny shot back. “How is it different?”

Peter shrunk a little, grasping for a reply. “It—it just is.”

“Because you’re the one who’s getting fucked over? Not someone else?”

Spider-Man’s eyes went wide. “What? No, that’s not—I’m not—”

“‘Cuz if any other person was going through what you’re going through right now, that’d be wrong, right? Their friends should stick up for them? But you, on the other hand—oh, no. You can take it. You’re tough. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. It’s not worth anyone’s time. Getting crucified by the press on a daily basis for crimes you didn’t commit is just a silly little occupational hazard for Spidey and Spidey alone to deal with. Anyone who thinks otherwise should just fuck right off and mind their business. Am I understanding you correctly?”

A disquieting sensation Peter had come to know well settled in the pit of his stomach. A discomfort Johnny did a miraculously unnerving job of inflicting him with on a regular basis. The shame of having your insecurities named aloud and brought to light. The feeling of someone carving you open and pulling out your guts and peering inside you like a dissected frog.

Numb, Peter pushed past him. A wounded spider trapped between the edge of a skyscraper and an accusatory matchstick did not sound like a scenario that ended well. He could feel Johnny’s eyes boring into the back of his neck as he stopped a few paces away from him, fists clenched.

“I’m just trying to protect you,” Peter mumbled sullenly.

“And I’m trying to protect you!” Johnny shouted back. “You work so hard to protect everybody around you, but you brush off anyone who tries to return the favor. Why can’t you let someone protect you for a change?”

Peter set his jaw and shook his head. “You can protect me in other ways,” he insisted, turning to face him. “You already have. But not like this. I’m telling you; you’re not going to change their minds.”

“Not if you don’t give me the chance to try,” Johnny replied. “And not if you don’t let the world get to know the real you.” He stood his ground, eyes sharp with resolve, flames licking off the tips of his collarbones. “I don’t care if you don’t think you’re worth it, Spidey. Because I do.”

Something hot and spiky slithered through his entrails, tearing him up inside. His tongue was tacky and tasted like lead. Whiplashed with emotion, Peter sat against the ground, pinning his knees to his chest, swallowing thickly. He didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t look at him.

Johnny studied him in silence. His features had softened, but he still looked upset. He retracted his flames and walked over to him, kneeling by his side. They sat that way without speaking for nearly a full minute.

“You wanna know what I think?” Johnny said eventually. Peter scratched at the bandages beneath his suit, frowning at the concrete.

“Not really,” he admitted.

Johnny ignored him. “I think part of you likes the fact everyone hates you. I think you think you deserve it somehow.”

Needles pricked at his skin. Peter thought they’d reached the point in their argument where gentle, reassuring Johnny would rear his head, tell him everything was okay, and the vicious assault on his ethos would finally come to an end.

Apparently not.

“You think their hatred is some penance you have to endure for your past mistakes,” Johnny continued venomously. “Part of you believes there’s some truth to what they say when they call you monster or traitor or menace. So why stop them?” Johnny pulled a protein bar out of his pocket and tore off the shiny packaging, shrugging his shoulders as he took a big bite. “And hey, maybe it makes things easier for you. After all, you can’t disappoint people who don’t have any faith in you to begin with.”

Peter had lost his voice somewhere in the depths of his lungs. When he finally managed to find it, his words came out weak and small.

“That’s not true,” he said feebly.

Johnny raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh, yeah? Then what is the truth, Webs? ‘Cuz if you really didn’t care what others thought about you, you wouldn’t be so wigged out by the idea that maybe—just maybe—people might actually like you if you gave them the chance.”

Peter blinked, sudden tears stinging in the corners of his eyes. He was grateful Johnny couldn’t see them through his mask, but it was impossible to hide the tremble in his voice.

“I’m not scared of people liking me,” he said quietly. He gripped the sleeves of his costume in his fists and hung his head. “I mean—maybe I am. A tiny bit. But…” He released a shivery breath, throat dry, heart heavy. “I’m scared that I’ll let them get to know me, that they’ll finally start to see me as I am, but then…they still won’t like me. M-maybe they’ll just hate me even more than before.” He choked back a sob, turning to Johnny helplessly. “What then?”

Peter was surprised to find Johnny’s face red and puffy and drenched in tears, gazing back at him with the saddest, wettest eyes in the world. The sight was so unexpected, he almost laughed.

“Johnny?” Peter said, chuckling lightly. “Why are you crying?”

“Because!” Johnny sniffled, wiping at his tear-stained cheeks. “Anytime someone else starts crying, I start crying, too. It’s just how I am, okay?”

Peter giggled, crossing his arms on top of his knees. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he teased him. “I’m not crying at all. Not one bit.”

“Shut up!” Johnny laughed through his tears, punching him in the leg. “Don’t lie. You totally are.” He wrapped his arms around Peter’s bicep and laid his head on his shoulder, making the masked hero stiffen. “And in the completely impossible scenario that everyone still doesn’t like you after all this, then you’ll have me. I’ll like you. And I’ll tell all your haters they can kiss my flaming ass.”

Spider-Man tried to laugh with him, but it came out shrill and forced. He sat very still, the skin Johnny was touching feeling warm and tingly beneath the fabric of his suit. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to shove him away or lean into his embrace. The choice left him breathless and paralyzed.

“But that’s not going to happen,” the Human Torch assured him, raising his head and digging his phone out of his pocket. “My fans are going to love you. In fact, some of them already do! Look!” He held the screen up for both of them to see and scrolled through the top posts mentioning Spider-Man. “Now that I’ve endorsed you, loads of people are coming out of the woodworks to do the same. People who always supported you, but were hesitant to talk about it since you’ve always been so unpopular.” He pointed between the many different tweets, reading a few aloud. “‘I never really understood all the Spider-Man hate tbh. Dude saved my best friend from a group of muggers last year. Seems like a decent guy.’

“‘During my spring break trip to NYC, Spidey spotted me and my friends struggling to navigate SoHo and swung down just to give us directions. I think Johnny is right about him. Not very menace-like.’

“‘This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Need more Spider-Man in Hello Kitty pajamas content ASAP @flameonf4.’”

Peter giggled lightly. “What about that one?” he said, tapping the bottom of the screen. “‘Throwing away all of my kids’ Human Torch action figures this morning. What a waste. #spidermanisamenace.’”

Johnny scowled. “Oh. Well—”

“And this one? ‘Johnny, honey, sweetheart, why are you supporting that problematic asshole? Make better decisions, baby boy.’”

“Okay, but—”

“And this! ‘The only real hero here is whoever pumped that spider freak full of lead. Next time, go for the headshot.’”

“Jesus, all right! So maybe not everyone’s convinced just yet.” Johnny dropped his phone into his lap and gave Peter’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “But they will! More of them, anyway. All you have to do is let me work my magic and know that I have your best interests at heart. Can you do that for me? Please? I promise you won’t regret it.”

Peter swallowed, every argument and protest dying on his tongue as the Human Torch gazed back at him, eager and expecting. How could he say no to that face? To that smile? To those eyes? Those ocean eyes. Those eyes like sinking ships on waters, so inviting, he almost jumped—

Oh, fuck you, Billie Eilish and Taylor Swift.

“What exactly would this agreement entail?” Peter asked nervously. “You posting more embarrassing photos of me in my pajamas?”

“First of all, that photo was not embarrassing,” Johnny insisted. “It was cute! And it won over more people than my speech on the Today Show ever could. It showed a side of Spider-Man most people have never gotten to see—you as a cute little sleepyhead breaking gender barriers with your affinity for Hello Kitty.”

Peter laughed shyly. “I don’t know if ‘cute’ is the adjective I want the general public associating with Spider-Man,” he confessed.

“Would you prefer ‘evil’ instead? Or ‘putridly deplorable’? How about ‘demonstrably dangerous and untrustworthy’?”

Peter hunched his shoulders. “Dangerous sounds kinda cool.”

“I’m trying to introduce you to the world as you are, not invent a new online personality for you. And what you are is cute, funny, and charmingly awkward, so that’s how you’ll be presented. Not cool and dangerous. That’s my job.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “More like brutally honest and bossy.”

Johnny snickered. “How do you want the world to see you, then? How would you like to rebrand yourself to the citizens of NYC?”

Peter thought on it for a moment, scraping his heels against the gritty concrete rooftop, gazing across the jagged sea of buildings as they curved into the horizon.

“Just…someone they can depend on. Someone who’s here to help.” He met his eye with a hesitant smile. “You know…friendly neighborhood Spider-Man and all that.”

Johnny mirrored his grin, clapping him on the back. “Then friendly neighborhood Spider-Man it is.” He poked him in the cheek with his finger. “But also cute and funny and awkward Spider-Man, ‘cuz you’re gonna continue being that no matter what.”

Peter swatted his hand away with a giggle. “What’s your plan for all this? What are you expecting me to do that’ll somehow make people hate me less?”

Johnny hopped to his feet with his phone in his hands, tapping at the screen with his back facing Peter. “You, my darling, spidery compadre, are tasked with the perilous endeavor of simply being yourself. Leave everything else to me.”

Peter frowned. “Yeah, that’s not reassuring at all.”

“You trust me, right?” Johnny asked, glancing at him over his shoulder. Peter chuckled lightly, scrunching up his nose.

“To a certain extent,” he conceded.

Johnny cracked a smile. “Do you trust that I’d never do anything to intentionally cause you harm?”

Peter gripped his knees a little tighter, cheeks warm and heart weightless. He rested his chin on top of his arms and stared at his feet.

“Yes,” he decided. “When we first met—no. You wanted to fry me like a tater tot. But now I do.”

Johnny nodded. “Good.” Then he held up his phone like he was taking a selfie. “‘Cuz it’s time to start phase two of my plan.”

Peter blinked obliviously. “Which means…?”

“Going live with you on TikTok, of course.” He faced the camera away from Peter and waved into the lens. “Hey guys! I know I haven’t done this in a while, but today felt like a very livestream-worthy Friday after all of the drama that went down, and I wanted to clear a few things up.”

Peter rolled his eyes, not buying his bit in the slightest. “Ha-ha, very funny,” he deadpanned. He pulled his own phone out of his backpack to check his notifications, and felt his body take a screenshot when he spotted the most recent ping.

flameonf4 is live on TikTok! - 1m ago

“What?” Peter yelped, flying to his feet. He turned towards Johnny sharply. “Wait—you’re actually—?”

“First of all,” Johnny carried on, flashing the camera one of his irresistibly winning smiles, “yes, Spider-Man and I actually know each other, and yes, we're actually friends. I wouldn’t make shit up like that just for funsies.” A sparkle entered the teen hero’s eye. “In fact, Spidey and I are actually hanging out right now. See?” He spun on his heels so both he and Spider-Man were in frame, grinning exuberantly. “Say hi, webhead!”

Peter tensed in alarm, startled bashfulness seizing his throat. “Oh,” he stuttered, shrinking into himself a little. This was not where he’d anticipated this conversation going. He scratched at his neck and gave a small wave, feeling nervous and a tad bit silly. “Um…hi?”

Johnny cackled. “Don’t mind him; he can get a little camera shy. Poor guy. You know how it is.”

Peter reddened. Spider-Man had never really done any interviews or press junkets or things like this before. It wasn’t his style. He preferred sticking to actual superhero stuff and steering clear of the controversy constantly hanging over his name. He’d tried to film a few promotional videos for F.E.A.S.T. after May shoved a script into his hands and dragged him in front of a green screen, but every take was so stale and robotic, they abandoned the entire project and just made cardboard cutouts of the wallcrawler with encouraging speech bubbles above his head. Peter had always been anxious about putting himself out there in that way—worried he might accidentally reveal something that could jeopardize his secret identity. The closest thing he’d ever done to anything like this was filming those little video diaries he used to make back when he’d been recruited by Stark to fight Steve Rogers in Germany. But he’d never shown them to anyone except Ned.

Unfortunately for him, keeping a low profile wasn’t going so hot for his reputation. If he really wanted the people of New York to trust him, it was clear he had to be a little more accessible; follow Johnny’s example. Not to a ‘T,’ but enough that there was content out there featuring him other than smear ads made exclusively by underpaid Bugle interns.

He had very little faith that any of this would make anyone hate him less. But he’d never know if he didn’t try.

So, Peter took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, stood up straight, and painted on his best, most confident, totally-not-freaking-out face.

“I am not camera-shy,” he lied, clearing his throat as he inched a couple steps closer to the screen. “You just...y'know! Caught me off guard! I didn’t know we were doing this. I would’ve prepped some jokes, polished my eye lenses, maybe taken a rain check on that half a gallon of pasta I ate before squeezing into this suit and introducing myself to millions of your fans.”

Johnny giggled, which helped ground him a bit. “There’s only about six thousand people watching at the moment,” he corrected him. “Not millions. But it’s climbing by the second.” Johnny bopped him on the nose in that obnoxiously patronizing way he always did. “And don’t worry; you look great.”

“Still,” Peter pouted. He turned to address the phone camera. “Did you all know how amazing he is at cooking? ‘Cuz I sure didn’t. Ever since his team’s been staying at Avengers Tower, he keeps waking up at, like, 4 a.m. every morning and making all this fancy food that I have no choice but to stuff my face with ‘cuz it’s so damn good, and I absolutely hate him for it.”

Johnny scoffed. “For the record, if you all couldn’t tell, Spider-Man is a scrawny little beanpole who could absolutely stand to gain a few pounds.” Johnny made a grab for his rib cage, grinning mischievously, but Peter anticipated the attack and jerked away from his pinching fingers.

“Hey!” Peter exclaimed, hugging himself around the middle. Johnny laughed brightly.

“I mean, look at you! You can count all twenty-four of your ribs clear through your suit! How do you not break into pieces getting tossed around by bad guys all the time? I’m just trying to put a little meat on your bones.”

Peter gave him a playful shove. “Not all of us can be beefcake Speedo models eating eight thousand grams of protein per meal, Torchy.”

The two of them cackled together, and for an instant, Peter forgot about the livestream and the thousands of people watching. Right now, it was just the pair of them bickering and being idiots as usual.

“There’s, like, a ton of questions piling in for you, by the way,” Johnny noted. He scrolled through the exponentially growing list of comments. “A lot of people are asking for you to prove you’re the real Spider-Man.”

Peter tilted his head to the side and tapped his chin with his thumb. “Huh. How do I do that?”

“I don’t know. Climb a wall? Shoot some webs?” Johnny’s face lit up. “Ooh! Do a flip! People love flips.”

Peter snickered. “If you say so,” he said. He retreated a few paces away from Johnny and executed a clean and simple backflip, striking a little pose as he stuck the landing. Johnny snapped his fingers in applause as Spider-Man offered the camera a bow. He smiled, straightening his spine, then doubled over again with a hiss, gripping his side in his hands.

“What’s wrong?” Johnny asked. Then his eyes flashed wide. “Oh shit! Your bullet wound! I completely forgot!”

“M-me too,” Peter grated out, groaning at the ground. “Shit. Shouldn’t have done that. Really bad idea. Uugh…”

“Sorry, Webs,” Johnny chuckled reluctantly. He faced the camera, blowing a tuft of hair out of his eyes. “For those of you who aren’t aware, Spidey got shot yesterday by a bunch of slimy Russian-sounding assholes who were trying to kidnap some kiddos. We stopped them, but they really did a number on our friendly neighborhood webhead.” Johnny leered into the lens, summoning fire to his fingers. “So if any of you douchebags are watching this—especially that crooked bastard Wilson Fisk—please know you’ve made enemies for life, and we’re coming for your entire evil operation.”

Sudden panic slugged Peter in the gut. With a gasp, he lunged forward, reaching around Johnny’s head from behind and clamping both palms over the Human Torch’s mouth.

“Shh! Johnny!” he cried in alarm. “You can’t say that on here!”

Johnny sputtered muffled curses into his hands, clawing at Peter’s wrists until his lips were free. “Blech! Dude! Get your sticky spider fingers off my mouth! Yuck!” He knocked his shoulder against his chest with a sly grin. “And don’t shush me! I’ll bash that guy as much as I want! He’s the reason you nearly died yesterday.” To Peter's horror, Johnny jabbed his index finger into his phone’s camera and added: “Which is why you absolutely should not vote for him to be mayor of New York. If you’re a true fan of mine, pick another candidate. Literally anyone else. Don’t let him win. Dude sucks majorly.”

Frantic, Peter shot a web-line from his wrist and ripped the phone right out Johnny’s hands, covering the microphone with his thumb.

“Hey!” Johnny cried, whirling on him. “What the hell was that for?”

“Listen to me!” Peter sputtered desperately. “You cannot talk shit about Fisk on here or in interviews or anywhere else! It’s too dangerous! Fisk does not mess around with these kinds of things. He doesn’t care who you are. He’ll send people after you. I’ve seen him do it. He’ll kill you to keep you silent, or worse.”

Johnny scoffed, placing his hands on his hips. “If Fisk is truly as horrible as you’re making him out to be, we can’t just sit by and let him become mayor! Someone that corrupt needs to be exposed and imprisoned, not raking in donations on his campaign trail for the most powerful political office in the city!”

“I know!” Peter insisted. “And I promise I’m going to stop him. We’re going to stop him. But we have to be smart about it, all right? You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

Johnny glowered, snatching his phone back. “You’re no fun,” he grumbled. Peter winced slightly. Johnny had no comprehension of the bear he was currently poking. He had to make sure he didn’t pull anything like that ever again. He never should've mentioned Fisk to him in the first place.

Johnny combed his fingers through his hair, cracked his neck, then grinned back into the camera. “Sorry about that—technical difficulties. Where were we again? Oh, that’s right: I had a very important mission to charge all of you with—my friends, my fans, and anyone else who sees this.”

Johnny swiveled so that both he and Peter were in frame again. “Spidey here doesn’t believe there’s any point in trying to convince you guys he’s not actually the evil menace that news outlets and Internet blogs and the Bugle claim him to be. He thinks his image has been so thoroughly raked through the mud, there’s no chance the people of this city will ever stop hating him. He’s accepted that despite all of the good he does for the world and how much he sacrifices to protect others, he will always be seen as a villain.”

Red-hot blush roared across Peter’s skin. Rarely did Spider-Man ever find himself speechless, but Johnny always managed to rattle every thought from his skull with his chaotic and spontaneous way with words. He let out a laugh, clumsy and incredulous, kneading his fingers into his upper arm as he glanced between Johnny and the phone screen.

“It’s, um—it’s really not that serious, guys,” Peter tried to add meekly. He nudged the Human Torch in the back. “Johnny, you don’t have to—”

“You see what I’m dealing with?” Johnny huffed, gesturing to Peter aggressively. “Poor little Spider-Man’s self-esteem is shot thanks to J. Jonah Jameson and the Bugle and all the other media channels who’ve been bullying him nonstop for the past two years. It’s heartbreaking! Maybe he’s okay with things continuing on this way, but I’m not. Both Spidey and the people of this city deserve to know the truth.”

Johnny laid his palm against his chest with a gentle smile, skin glowing in the summer sun. “So this is my call to action: I’m challenging all of you out there who have been personally saved or helped by Spider-Man to share your stories with the world. No wild fabrications you saw online, no outlandish gossip you heard through the rumor mill. Only experiences that you yourself or someone you’re close to went through where the webhead was involved. Any photos or videos to back up your testimonies would be awesome as well. Let’s flood social media with real stories about Spider-Man to drown out the haters and give our friendly neighborhood hero the love he deserves.”

Reactions and comments began pouring in like crazy, blocking out half the screen. The number of viewers had jumped from 6K to well over thirty thousand. Peter's insides felt queasy yet warm. No one had ever vouched for his character to this degree before. No one had ever fought so hard on his behalf for the entire world to see. Even if it didn’t change a single person’s mind, he’d never stop appreciating him for trying. Even though their friendship would never grow into something more, he found himself falling for him harder than ever before. He didn’t think that was possible.

“Sound good?” Johnny asked the viewers cheerfully. Peter studied his face intently, followed the sharp line of his jaw with his eyes. His feelings for him were dancing circles around his head, practically oozing out of his skin.

What if he figured it out?

What if everyone figured it out?

“What are all of you jabbering on about now?” Johnny continued with a chuckle, holding the screen close to his face. “‘Johnny’s amazing, Johnny’s the best, thank you very much, blah blah blah…” His eyebrows stitched together as his lips arched into a frown. “Wait—‘Spidey’s hurt’? ‘Spider-Man’s bleeding’?” He jerked his head towards Peter. “Why are you saying—wah! Shit! They’re right, Webs! Your wound!”

Peter blinked, gaze dropping to his torso. He was surprised to find the left side of his abdomen stained and sticky and soaked through with blood once again.

“Oh,” Peter said, poking at the dark spot, his fingers coming away wet. “Whoopsies. Guess I really did pop my stitches with that backflip, huh?” The masked hero gave an awkward laugh. What he thought were butterflies fluttering inside him were actually just talons of pain probing the flesh beneath his rib cage.

“Dammit. My fault. Let’s get you back to the med bay.” With a sharpened sense of urgency, Johnny threw a wave to his fans on the livestream. “Thanks for the heads up, folks! I gotta take this guy to get cleaned up. Don’t forget your assignment! I wanna hear all your Spidey stories. And be sure to tag me! Love you!”

After peppering the camera with kisses, Johnny ended the live and hurried to Peter’s side, looping an arm around his midsection. “Sorry, webhead. Come on—let’s go find Tony. I’ll take the blame for this one.”

Johnny’s hand was strong and steadying where it held him at the waist. Peter cupped his palm against his injury, grasping for the right words to fully encapsulate his gratitude.

“Thank you, Johnny,” he said quietly. He met his gaze and bit the inside of his cheek. “You’re, um…you’re a really good friend.”

A soft blush dusted across Johnny’s freckled face. Today he smelled like salty sweat mixed with the fading aroma of whatever cologne he’d put on this morning. The scent reminded Peter of cherry blossoms, as did the pink color tinting his cheeks and ears. Then there was that other smell—the one Johnny’s skin seemed to breathe—lingering beneath it all. The thing Peter couldn’t put a name to, but made him want to sniff him like an overpriced Bath & Body Works candle. Part of him hoped he never figured out its true origin. In his mind, it was Johnny’s smell; not perfume, not some fancy organic moisturizer from Morocco only celebrities like the Human Torch could afford. It was just him. Him and him alone.

He wondered what he smelled like. Probably dollar store shower gel and swampy armpits.

“Don’t sweat it,” Johnny assured him, sounding a little shy. He gave his torso a squeeze. “I told you I had a plan, didn’t I?”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever done something like that for me,” Peter admitted.

To his surprise, the blush in Johnny’s cheeks spread down to his chest and across both collarbones, ultimately spanning over half of his upper body. His skin was practically glowing pink. The Human Torch laughed sheepishly, avoiding his gaze, and Peter half expected him to burst into flame.

“Well—they should’ve,” Johnny said eventually, voice cracking slightly. “You deserve it.”

Peter hinted a smile. “Your hair is smoking,” he observed.

“What?” Johnny squeaked, clawing wildly at his scalp. “No it’s not!”

Spider-Man broke into a laugh, then hugged his aching wound with a grimace. “It’s cute how your fire powers respond to whatever you’re feeling,” he said.

Johnny exhaled sourly, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes. “Oh yeah?” he said, feigning smugness. “And what exactly are you assuming I’m feeling right now?”

A small chill shivered down the young hero's spine. Peter knew what he wanted him to be feeling right now. The same as me, his heart implored. Crushing head-over-heels like a helpless little schoolgirl.

But he knew he was kidding himself. Johnny was Johnny. And he was…well, himself. Nothing. Nobody.

“Like you just tanked your credibility even further by featuring me on your page,” he chuckled. But the words tumbled hollowly off his tongue.

Johnny rolled his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, Webs. Enough with the self deprecation already.” His face lifted into a smile, beaming with blinding confidence. “Just you wait. Soon the world won’t be able to get enough of you. You’ll see.”

Peter eyed the phone in Johnny's hand. “You really think this’ll work?” he said, hunching his shoulders timidly. “What if people only have bad stories to share about me?”

“It’ll work,” Johnny insisted, patting him on the back. “You’ve helped too many people for it not to work. And if it doesn’t, don’t worry; I’ve got plenty more tricks up my sleeve. This is only phase 2 of a very extensive and highly sophisticated marketing strategy, my friend. We’ve barely even scratched the surface. The real fun is still to come; I can promise you that.”

Peter chuckled, wrinkling his nose. “Wonderful. I couldn’t be more terrified.”

Without warning, Johnny bent down and scooped Peter right off the rooftop and into his arms, making the masked vigilante squeal in surprise. He flailed a little on reflex, unintentionally catching himself with a hand against Johnny's shirtless chest.

“Johnny!” Peter exclaimed, startled, squeaky giggles spilling from his lips. “W-what are you doing?”

“You can’t get down from here without climbing or jumping or exerting yourself in some other way that could tear your stitches even more,” Johnny explained, smirking triumphantly. “Guess I’ll just have to carry your helpless little spider butt all the way to the medical bay—again. Darn. What a bummer. Oh well. If I must.”

“Just fly me down to the balcony,” Peter stammered skittishly, biting back a smile. Johnny’s heart beat faintly against his fingertips, quickening his own pulse to a frenetic, fluttering thing. “I can, y'know. Walk from there.”

Johnny shrugged. “Nah. Your safety is my number one priority. This guarantees you making it to Stark without injuring yourself further. You clearly can’t be trusted with your own well-being.” The Human Torch lit the parts of himself that weren’t touching Peter on fire and lifted the pair of them off the ground. “Besides. Carrying a shrimpy little superhero like yourself is the perfect cool down for my workout today.”

Peter blushed, hyper-aware of every inch of Johnny's skin that was flush with his own, every rock-solid muscle supporting his narrow frame. He crossed his arms firmly against his chest.

“Eat shit,” he laughed, voice nervous and shrill. “You know I could lift you over my head and chuck you like a tennis ball if I felt like it.”

Johnny’s eyes twinkled. “Ooh. I want to be chucked! Okay, how about this: you let me carry you to the med bay now, and once you’re fully healed, you can pick me up and chuck me around with your crazy super strength as much as you like. Deal?”

Peter giggled some more, feeling silly and bashful and overwhelmed by his closeness. But equally happy and safe. He smiled up at him with a sigh.

“Fine. Deal.”

As Johnny toted him inside Avengers Tower, teasing him relentlessly as he always did, calling him his favorite little damsel, his pretty little princess, Peter’s heart refused to settle. The flush in cheeks only grew more intense with every second longer Johnny held him in his arms. It was clear these feelings were not going away. They were only getting worse. Keeping them hidden was beginning to feel like swimming against the current of a raging river with a deadly waterfall looming in the distance—something he could battle through and fight with every ounce of his willpower, but inevitably ended with him barreling headfirst down the unforgiving drop.

Why was he like this? Why couldn’t he just be happy being friends with him? Why did his greedy little heart have to demand more?

Whenever he thought he was doing a pretty decent job keeping this crush under wraps, Johnny had to go and pull something like this: advocating for him to the entire world, cradling him like something precious and fragile, then assaulting him with his playful words and that hypnotizingly beautiful smile.

At this point, Peter wasn’t just hiding his feelings from Johnny. Now, he hiding them from him along with the millions of people who followed him online. Not to mention, Mr. Stark, Susan Storm, and all the rest of their teammates.

As his eyes danced across the lovely contours of Johnny’s face, Peter swallowed, a monstrous dread rising inside him.

Oh, I’m in trouble.

#spider-man #spideytorch #peter parker x johnny storm #peter parker #spiderman fanfiction #johnny storm #my writing #bi peter parker #fantastic 4 #fantastic four #enemies to lovers #irondad #lots of taylor swift references in honor of eras tour

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