spiderman @spiderman-3000 - Tumblr Blog

anyone else but you || SpideyTorch

summary: a series of moments in their friendship in which peter learns he may like johnny more than he wants to admit

tags: hurt/comfort, college-age spideytorch, mental illness, ptsd, fluff, yearning, they love eachother so much, not mcu-compliant, a smidge of irondad sprinkled in

wc: 9,902

cross-posted on ao3 under the same name!

Let's be honest. Nobody in the entire world could shake the last time they had interplanetary visitors. Peter didn't exactly need to think hard to remember the feeling of his atoms splitting like nuclear fission, the taste of decay on his tongue, chalk and ash, the impending doom rattling his senses so badly he couldn't pinpoint the threat. It had been everywhere. All consuming. Inevitable.

Coming back hadn't been all that great either. Neither was the aftermath. Or Tony almost dying. Or—

Basically, everything went to shit the exact moment a massive spaceship decided to burst New York's bubble, and now it was happening again.

Tony was convinced it was fine, though, and no offense, but Tony was the most paranoid person he knew. If he wasn't worried, then Peter shouldn't be worried. He's eighteen, he's got his whole life ahead of him, and he definitely isn't going to be torn apart by a power hungry genocidal alien again. Lightning couldn't strike twice, right?

(It absolutely could strike twice! Lightning was known to do that! It especially liked striking repeatedly on people— things, that were known to attract horrible incidents like, well for example, lightning—)

"Finally, there you are. Come on in," Tony waved him forward. His arm was all synthetic, wires and vibranium and carefully integrated nano-particles. It stood a very vivid, inorganic reminder of all that could have been lost. He had been lucky.

Peter wasn't one to push his luck. Still, he stood beside Tony, let his hand clapping his shoulder ground him, and he forced himself to wave. "Hi."

There's a group of people in front of him. A woman, sunny blonde hair, short at her shoulders with neat waves. Beside her, with the same tones and face, a teenager, about his age. Both of them had vivid blue eyes. A man, slightly older, tired and angular, brown eyes, white horizontal streaks gone up the sides of his brown hair. Then there was the obvious, which was a massive heap of chiseled rock, built like the Hulk, with kind eyes and a strong structure.

"This is one of our secret identity heroes," Tony explained, gesturing to Peter. "But he's very nice, smart as a whip. This is Spider-Man."

Objectively, Peter should feel on guard. They're intruders. It's unknown what they really want, where they're from, what they can do, and all of that spells out bad. Danger. Threat. High-risk.

But he's looking at them, and it's weird, because it's like listening to a song you know you've heard before, but can't place the where, when, and what. Familiarity pressed at the stem of his brain and prodded around at the edges like it was trying to find a missing root.

He can't find any possible, logical reason, to feel the sense of calm he does. He genuinely can't explain it— he saw them, and just felt intrinsically that they were safe. His senses were just... quiet.

"Do I know you?" Peter blurted out— coincidentally at the same time as Johnny.

Well.

It all kind of spiraled from there.

—

Technically, him and Johnny met when they were eighteen. It took a slight adjustment period, because yeah, being dropped into a different universe wasn't exactly easy for either party, but after that, it was like they'd known each other their entire life.

Peter felt like he had known him his entire life. It's hard to remember they've only known each other for three-ish years. They had inside jokes, but they couldn't remember what their origin was, and consequently didn't know why they were laughing. Then Johnny would be sensitive about things that Peter hadn't even told him, or Peter would know routines just naturally, knowing the best times to drop in and bug him.

At the beginning, when it was new, Reed had theorized there must be other universes, many of them, perhaps all of them, where they were close. And so Johnny joked, "What, so we're soulmates?" and Peter gave the ceiling his most affronted lead-paint stare for the following ten minutes.

(But much later, when they were sitting in his dorm room, and Johnny was yapping his ear off about some car he had 'rescued' while leaning way too far into his personal space, Peter had to admit. If he had to be stuck with someone for all eternity or whatever, there were worse people to suffer with than Johnny Storm.)

"That's," Ned started, and then he closed his mouth. He scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck, looking at the table. "Well."

"What?" Peter demanded, because he was definitely thinking something. And MJ had that look in her eyes that made Peter feel like he was the dumbest biggest idiot in the room. "What?"

"I mean," Ned started again, carefully. He shrugged. "So. You've known me for like seven years. And MJ for about the same time."

MJ squinted, her eyes going back to the thesis she had open on her laptop. He didn't know why, but the lack of eye contact felt way more judgmental than when she was staring at him before.

Peter furrowed his eyebrows and picked at his cuticles. "Yeah...?"

"Maybe there's a reason, you're like," Ned trailed off. "Like that. With him. You know?"

"What do you—?"

"It's homoromantic, Peter," MJ finally said, blunt. "Like, sickly so. You just called him your soulmate. Either go get laid by someone or like, ask him on a date or something."

Peter immediately reeled back, spluttering. "What the fuck?"

"Please," Ned begged. "Please, dude. It's sad. This is sad."

"That's— I don't want— I'm done talking about this, actually," Peter crossed his arms. "You're all enemies."

MJ shook her head with a dramatic sigh. "Peter acting like not talking about his problems will make them go away... At least he's reliable."

Peter scowled. His friends were dicks. He actually had a really normal relationship with Johnny Storm. No, seriously.

For example. Sometimes when Johnny said something that was outrageously stupid, his vision went all buzzy and he wanted to strangle him. (Spidey gloves leave no fingerprints. No fingerprints.) But other times Johnny would say something remarkably insightful, and it was like Peter was the only one who actually heard him.

Or Johnny would show up after a really shitty day with pizza and beer. Or Johnny would patrol with him. Or Johnny would leave his window unlocked so Peter could drop by whenever. Or—

The point was, they're friends.

What, Peter can't have friends?

—

Peter groaned, leaning heavily against him. “Torch, I am wiped. Hold me.”

He’s sweaty. His whole body ached. Kind of what happened when you were fighting aliens for like, five hours straight with no mid-day naptime.

“Ugh, get off,” Johnny swatted him lamely. “I’m too tired to hold you.”

The whole team was worn out. Peter had lifted, like, an entire fucking spaceship, and that was only during halftime. He wanted a heating pad, that cheap TENS unit he bought on a deal two years ago, and like, a table full of leftover kung pao chicken. Immediately.

It took energy to use his powers, so Johnny was pretty tired too. He’d spent the whole battle flames on, chucking fire at the neverending waves of enemies.

They half-drag themselves back onto the jet, slumping into the first available seat.

“You’re hot,” Peter said with joyful delirium, dumping his body weight onto Johnny’s side. He made a quiet sound of relief, the warmth just slightly soothing the aches.

“Pardon?” Johnny muttered, squirming away.

“You’re hot. Feels good,” he repeated, and frowned when his head was dislodged from its place on Johnny’s shoulder. “Stop movin’. I’m going to sleep. Goodnight.”

“Ugh. Bug on me. Sue, there’s a bug. It’s on me, Sue. Where’s the Raid.”

“Shut up, flamebrain,” he muttered, his eyes dipping shut.

In response, Johnny made a half-hearted grumble, but didn’t move from his spot.

They fall asleep pretty quickly, using each other as a makeshift pillow. And yeah, Peter woke up with a cramp in his neck, but his whole body was sore anyway. What did it matter? They did this all the time.

Normal.

—

"No, Tony," Peter said into his phone, dropping heavily onto the fire escape. "I'm alright. Just tired. No, I didn't get beat up too bad. Don't worry about it. Yeah. Yep. You too. Okay, talk to you later."

After he hung up, he blew out a long, tired breath. It took him a moment of sitting there, recollecting himself, before he found the energy to move again. He pulled open his window and climbed inside.

Every bone in his body ached. He took a nasty slash from Scorpion, one long slice from his chest across the side of his body, ending at the back of his hip. It stung, it was all crusty with blood, and with his luck, probably was already cooking up some infection he'll have to deal with.

He hated when his bad guys decided to rally during finals week. It was like they could smell the exhaustion on him. Not fair.

He pulled off his mask, tossing it to the side, and took another deep breath. He had a paper due four hours ago, but unfortunately, sickos in poison-wielding robot suits don't really care about deadlines, so that's at least one assignment he'll have to beg and bargain over.

He could stay up and chip off some more studying for his o-chem final, but just the thought was making his eyes ache. Maybe he could convince all of the teachers to let him hibernate for the rest of the year if he looked miserable enough showing up tomorrow morning.

"human" torch

horrible night solid zero out of ten [3:15 AM]

Are you like [3:16 AM]

Bleeding out [3:16 AM]

no [3:18 AM]

hahadontkys.png [3:18 AM]

always the same image from you. [3:19 AM]

you make it SO EASY to use [3:20 AM]

Srsly tho are u ok [3:20 AM]

ah you know [3:20 AM]

helpless-cat.png [3:21 AM]

Nothing antibiotics and a nap wont fix [3:21 AM]

right. right... [3:22 AM]

Naturally, Johnny showed up in less than fifteen minutes after that. To be honest, Peter had forgotten he'd even sent him a text message. He got distracted somewhere between cleaning up his own blood and trying to find something in his freezer that he could make without having to use the oven. (The oven wasn't broken, he just didn't have the time to wait for it to heat up and then wait for it to actually cook.)

Johnny crossed his arms, looking him over with his stupid ice blue eyes. He had on a long-sleeve, skinny jeans, all of it neat and styled. His hair wasn't gelled, but it still looked good, because Johnny was just insufferable like that. He always looked good. Even at four in the morning. The moon even made his hair glow this incandescent white with how blonde he was.

Peter couldn't stand him.

"How bad is it?" Johnny asked bluntly. "Is Stark about to break down the door?"

"No," Peter mumbled, falling back on the couch. "I didn't tell him."

"Obviously."

Peter gave a lazy nod. "Obviously."

"Cool. Well." Johnny crouched over him, squinting. Disgust tugged at his bottom lip as he surveyed over the injuries. Ouch. Peter knew he looked bad, but seriously. Ouch. "Jesus. Who was it this time? Wait, no. Let me guess. Kraven."

"Nope."

"Rhino?"

"Not tonight."

"Got it, okay," Johnny said. "Grizzly."

Peter lifted his arm from his face, showing his raised eyebrows. "Wow, you actually got it."

Johnny's eyes lit up. "Really?"

"No," he said flatly, dropping his arm. "It was Scorpion."

"Asshole. You're an asshole. Anyone ever tell you that?"

"Pot, kettle," Peter sighed heavily, and pushed himself back up to sit. He groaned, tilting his neck so the muscles tugged, and the joints crack uncomfortably. He pointedly ignored Johnny's responding wince.

"You didn't clean it up very good. It looks like shit, actually," Johnny said, gesturing to the long diagonal slice across his side. "Kit still under the sink?"

"On the counter, actually," Peter muttered, lifting up his arm to look at the wound again. He didn't think it looked that bad, honestly. He'd definitely had worse, at least. (He'd gotten hit by a train before. It took a bit now to actually concern him.) "I took it out earlier."

Peter watched absently as Johnny got up and made the short stroll to the kitchen. He seemed displeased at the state of his first aid kit. Guess it was time to swing by a pharmacy and restock.

“I don’t know how to do all of this shit,” Johnny complained as he walked back, flipping open the kit and poking around in it with his hand. “Why do you have so much stuff, web-for-brains.”

“Because health insurance is expensive, Johnny,” Peter complained back. “And can’t exactly swing into an ER with a GSW. You know they have to call the cops over that? I didn’t.”

Johnny raised an eyebrow suspiciously, and made no attempt to hide how he was looking him over again.

Peter saved him the trouble with a tired snort. He leaned back on the couch. “I didn’t get shot. Not this time.”

That seemed to satisfy him, because Johnny shook his head and ducked back down to fish through the first aid kit. He made a noise of annoyance and got back up again.

In the few moments he’s gone, Peter drifted. He tried not to think about most hallucinations he saw on the job from the various exposure to toxins and gas and poisons, blood loss, magic spells, etc. (normal 9-to-5 stuff). But that was always easier said than done.

He hated when his bad guys used psycho-active drugs. Give him a target, he’ll fight til he’s bleeding and bruised, but the second they start messing with his head…

He’s zoning out, he can feel the way his vision goes delicately blank, like a blur filter, a sheet of satin pulled over his head. He’s staring somewhere between here and nowhere and he’s thinking about the feeling of concrete when it hugged a ribcage. He’s thinking of small details, grubby fingers gripping through the murk, cold water dripping from his hair and shocking his cheeks.

It was funny, how after all of this time, the events he now considered small still left their imprint on his body, on his mind. Having a building fall on him was not the worst thing to ever happen to him. Honestly, it didn’t even make top five. Not anymore.

That didn’t matter to Scorpion’s poison, and apparently, didn’t matter to his psyche— because it took five minutes for his legs to stop shaking after he broke from the hallucination, and it took even longer to remind himself that he wasn’t that fifteen year old kid.

He wasn’t ignored, or forgotten. He wasn’t alone, screaming until his voice was hoarse. He wasn’t trapped under a fallen parking garage with nothing but his own shoulders to keep the weight from crushing him.

So why did everything feel so heavy?

“Pete—?”

Johnny startled him with a hand on his knee, and Peter’s eyes snap back to the present.

“Sorry,” Johnny hesitated, and held up a washcloth. Damp. “Need to clean that cut.”

“Right,” Peter said, swallowing around the wet concrete and debris in his throat. He shifted to the side and held his arm up for better access.

Johnny was known for being brash, burning too hot to touch, all too bright, too far to reach. But with Peter, he was solid, right here, and so, so gentle. He was barely touching Peter’s skin, with the damp cloth. Just slight brushes against the worst of it, making sure it was well and truly clean.

The entire time, the damp cloth had stayed a soothing heat against his skin. The water had never cooled, meaning that Johnny had actively been keeping it warm the entire time. It was such a minuscule display of his power. Such an unnecessary exertion of energy for no reason other than the sake of Peter’s comfort.

That’s kind of just who Johnny was, though.

That’s kind of just why Peter found himself in this predicament.

—

Anyways, yeah. Peter was slipping. That was obvious to him now.

He'd probably been slipping for a long time, but willful, stubborn ignorance was one hell of a drug. If there was one thing Peter knew how to do, it was getting back up, and he's been getting back up all month with no reprieve. He's tired.

The Sinister Six were having a wonderful time tearing up Manhattan, Peter was generously failing five classes, and he hadn't slept well since... well, honestly since he was thirteen, but it was getting harder and harder to bounce back from.

He's got this consistent feeling of nausea, lately. It came in waves, and it left him rattled, on edge. It's like his head was actively fighting just to stay in the pilot seat, and everything around him became static. But he'll keep getting up, because he has to. There's nothing to do except get up, right? He had a responsibility. Peter wasn't free today. Actually, he had a lot to do— but Johnny had been texting him for at least three weeks that he wanted to hang, so, now they were hanging. Admittedly, he was treating it more like another thing on his to-do list. He wanted to go home. He wanted to sleep for a long time, and then dissociate at a wall for a few hours, and then go back to sleep again with the hopes that he'll feel a little more alive afterwards.

But I like hanging out with Johnny, he kept telling himself. I'm not making a sacrifice, I'm just... being a decent friend.

So he gaslit himself all the way to Johnny's couch.

They're not even doing anything. He's sitting, scrolling at his phone, and he's been scrolling at his phone for a while. He's not even really processing anything on it. It's just another bit of stimulation to keep his head busy, because if his head was busy, he couldn't think about how his heart was racing out of his chest, or how his hands were cold, or how his stomach was threatening to tilt.

He had a whole rogues gallery out on the streets right now, planning any number of things. Peddling some horrible new psychotropic, breaking all the gangs from Ryker's again. Maybe both. Maybe they're planting bombs, some impossible game of hide-and-seek for Peter to suffer through, later– but he couldn't win, because he couldn't be in five places at once, and people will die because he wasn't out there stopping them now—

Johnny pressed against his side with a laugh, leaning over and showing him something on his phone. He was saying something, but it sounded underwater.

"Ha," Peter smiled weakly, nodding. "Yeah, that's funny."

Johnny glanced up at him, still leaned in,and he smelled like ozone and his eyes were bright and blue and he's— he's—

"Pete," Johnny said, pressing a hand into his shoulder. He was so warm. He was always so warm. The inside of a star. "Hey, you're good, man. Peter."

"Sorry," Peter said, taking a shaky breath. His stomach twisted, every muscle felt tight, heavy. He kept swallowing like it would make a difference to his rapidly drying mouth. "I don't know," he tried to explain.

Johnny shook his head, squeezing his shoulder lightly. "That's alright," he said easily, his eyebrows dipped in concern. "Take it easy, just breathe. You don't have to know, sometimes shit just happens. Bet your brain was just working too fast, huh? Happens. You're just too smart for your own good."

Johnny's other hand comes up to card through Peter's hair, and his eyes sting immediately. Johnny was just— he was so gentle. Gentle, and good, and steady, and everything Peter felt like he kept forgetting how to be.

"Aw," Johnny noticed how fast he crumbled, because he always does. He gave a troubled little smile, cupping Peter's face now, tilting so he's at his eye level. "Hey, it's okay. You're okay, right?"

Peter nodded, jerkily, and dipped his head down. He pressed his forehead into the crook of Johnny's neck, welcoming the touch. He kept his eyes shut tight and took short little breaths, trying to steady himself. Focusing on Johnny's warmth, and his strong, steady heartbeat, his personal proxima centauri.

"Sorry," he repeated. "Need a minute. 'M fine."

"I know."

"Long..." Peter let out a big breath, "life."

"I know," Johnny said again, his voice softer. "Take a minute then. Take ten. I don't care."

"Sorry."

Johnny huffed gently, amused, and nodded. "I forgive you," he said back, like it was impossibly easy for him to do.

The thing with them was that, for whatever reason, it really was easy. Johnny was... exactly what he was; a living, breathing flame. He was hotheaded, and teasing, and bold in everything he did; always the first one in the room to take up space and attention. He acted first, and thought later, always did what he believed in his chest to be right. He was always burning up so much of himself that sometimes, he forgot how to come back down to earth.

And Peter was the opposite. He had bad days, and worse days, and a lot of his life was dedicated to picking himself up from the current. Always trying to keep his head above the water, because it was so, so easy to drown. When he got low, he got low, and it was always cold, and dark, and lonely. He was so used to being cold, dark, and lonely.

So Peter kept Johnny from burning out in atmosphere— and Johnny kept Peter from drowning in the dark.

In a way, they were the only ones who could do that for each other. Maybe that's why, in Reed's theories, there was such a high theoretical percentage of "cross-universal entanglement". ("Soulmates," Johnny had called them, and in Peter's head the word kept spinning around again, and again, and again, caught in orbit. Soulmates.)

"What're you thinkin'?" Johnny asked quietly. His hands hadn't stopped curling in Peter's hair, looping his fingers gently around the greasy waves without mind.

"I'm really tired," Peter croaked. Tired felt like a better word than tainted. Better word than sick.

Well-manicured nails scratch thoughtfully at his scalp. "Do you want to go home?"

Peter imagined returning to his apartment, which was drafty and cramped and most devastatingly didn't have a Johnny Storm in it, and his mouth tugged into a pained frown. It was pathetic, but he was weary in a way he couldn't even understand. He just knew that Johnny was helping. This was helping.

He made a soft noise of indifference in the back of his throat. He was trying to give the impression that it matter to him either way. (It did. He didn't think he was fooling Johnny either.)

"Sleep here, then," Johnny suggested. "I'm not doing anything."

"Are you sure?" Peter said, as if his words weren't muffled by the way his face was tucked into Johnny's neck. Like he wasn't already glued onto Johnny's side with no intention of moving.

"Yeah," Johnny huffed again, and shifted so he was settled back on the couch. "I'll just chill here. You can take my bed if that's more comfortable."

Peter was plenty comfortable here, so he quietly kept his head down, didn’t move too much. It was a habit to treat nice circumstances like they were made of glass. He didn’t want to be the one to break the illusion.

Peter fell asleep with the comfort of Johnny’s chest rumbling every so often when he laughed, and the sound of his heartbeat steadily putting away.

—

Being friends with Johnny meant that he was intimately familiar with messages in the New York sky, broadcasted to everybody. Curling flames written in Johnny’s neat upperclass cursive, blazing shiny in the sky.

Meet me at our spot ;)

Peter dropped onto the crown of the Statue of Liberty, his feet making contact with the copper. There were blankets set up, pillows, snacks— a laptop, connected to a power brick, paused on a production title card. Johnny smiled cheerfully, crossing his arms. He looked ridiculously smug.

“Um,” Peter huffed, laughing slightly. “Hi? Was– do you have a date I’m interrupting?”

“No. Just wanted to do something for you,” Johnny stretched back out on the blankets, giving the impression that it was actually comfortable and not a centimeter of fabric laid out on cold, hard metal. “I knew the past few weeks have been shitty with all the uglies in your yard, so. Victory movie night.”

Ugh.

“What movie is that?” Peter gestured to the laptop, climbing over the edge of the crown and dropping next to him on the blanket. He pulled up his mask, letting the cold air hit his face. It gave a much more acceptable reason for why his cheeks were red.

“SpaceCamp,” Johnny said, and reached over to rip open a package of marshmallows. “But I downloaded other stuff too. But I figured, you know. I like space, you like weird old movies…”

“Sounds perfect. And it’s not weird, it’s Joaquin Phoenix. And John Williams. He did Star Wars. And E.T. And—“

“—and every other 80s movie that ever made a buck. You’ve said. God, you’re such a nerd,” Johnny unpaused the movie. “Do you want a s’more? I’ll make it nice and hot for you.” (He winked).

Peter rolled his eyes and bit back a smile, sitting back against the hard copper. “Sure.”

He tried to focus on the movie. He idly handed Johnny marshmallows, and he would get distracted watching Johnny toast them and smush the gooey thing onto a graham cracker for him.

Peter had a complicated relationship with space. Sometimes weird things will set it off, like shooting stars, meteor showers, eclipses. The knowledge of being so infinitely small in a vast world wasn’t the frightening part. Frightening didn’t even seem like the right word. He wasn’t afraid of space.

There are times, though, looking at pieces of recent history — Chitauri, the Black Order, the Kree, Thanos— where he just felt cold, and tired. Space made him tired the way a war would wear on any seventeen year old’s body, because that’s what it meant to him.

“Why do you still like space?” Peter murmured. It was insensitive. If he were to have asked anyone else, he’d be biting his tongue and wincing in the aftermath. Johnny wasn’t anyone else.

“I’ve always liked space,” Johnny smiled, tilting his head at him. “Ever since I was little.”

“Well. Yeah. Me too,” Peter said. “But.”

But…

Johnny made a noise in the back of his throat, subdued. He understood now. “Oh. Because of the accident.”

“Yeah. The accident.”

Johnny lit a flame in his palm. “I mean, it gave me this. Which was pretty cool.”

Peter tried to think of it like that. Less as a traumatic event, more of a paradigm shift. That test flight was Johnny’s ‘spider bite’. (That wasn’t to say both instances weren’t traumatic, but the bigger takeaway from them was definitely the superpowers.)

Peter glanced back at him. “Do you remember it?”

Peter remembered every single detail about going to space. He couldn’t scrub it away if he tried, and god, had he tried. It stuck in his head like a sliver that the body decided to grow around, rather than reject. Unnatural, painful, prodding.

A beat of silence.

“Yeah,” Johnny said, dull. His eyes cast down at the movie absently. “I remember a lot. My sister was screaming, she kept trying to hide her face from the light… and Reed was trying to reach for the controls. Ben, he… he could hardly move, but he tried to shield me, kept telling me it would be alright.”

“And you…?”

“I felt like I was on fire.” He shrugged. “I guess I probably was.”

Then Johnny sighed and stretched out his neck. He tilted back to look up at the night sky. He looked almost wistful.

“But I don’t know,” Johnny said. “I just always had this feeling, like there was something up there, just waiting for me… and then I got these powers. It feels right. You don’t ever feel like that?”

No, Peter thought immediately. Yes. I don’t know.

Being Spider-Man, it didn’t feel like destiny. It was a responsibility, it had been from the first day he wore the mask. The thing was, anybody could have been bitten by a spider, and anybody who had would be in the same predicament. With great power, and all that.

There are times where Peter was swinging, and when his body slung up through the air after an arc, and force made gravity feel slow— it felt weightless. Free.

But most of the time it was heavy, and full of loss. To be Spider-Man meant to be stitched with grief, and that was something a lot of people didn’t realize.

Anybody could have been bitten, but it didn’t happen to anybody. It happened to him. What a selfish and immature thought it was, but he felt like everything always happened to him.

Peter’s fingers were sticky with marshmallow, and he itched to have better things happen to him. He wanted to hold Johnny’s hand. He wanted to turn off this stupid movie and kiss the chocolate from the side of Johnny’s mouth.

Instead, he only hummed, and turned back to the laptop screen.

—

Okay.

Okay, fine.

He liked Johnny a little more than the usual threshold, whatever that was. It was annoying, actually, because everyone on the planet was a little bit in love with Johnny Storm. There was no place on the internet that was immune to hoards of fans talking about how pretty he was.

He was pretty though. The worst part was all of those fans really had no idea, they never saw him close enough. But Peter did. Peter unfortunately had to see his stupid coiffed blond hair, and his stupid unilateral dimple, and the stupid smirkish pout he had when he was smug— all of it, up close and personal.

He’s so funny, they cried out, and oh, he’s dumb that it’s cute!

If Peter’s eyes could roll back any further, they would. Nobody in the world understood Johnny Storm in the very unique way that Peter understood him, and it made him want to tear his hair out.

Johnny was funny, sure. Cute— debatable. He definitely wasn’t dumb, though. Peter was pretty sure anyone related to Sue in any capacity was automatically intelligent, and Johnny wasn’t exempt from this. He wasn’t smart in the way that Reed was, but, Jesus, barely anybody was on his level.

Peter thought that the most infuriating part by far was somewhere along the way, Johnny actually got it in his head that he wasn’t smart enough. Or strong enough. Or worthwhile enough. Or just plain enough.

“Why do you do that?” Peter blurted, scowling at Johnny’s phone. He paused the recorded interview, only two minutes in. “That’s so— urgh.”

“Urgh?” Johnny laughed. “Not exactly a glowing review. What did I do? They all love me!”

“No, they don’t,” Peter said, emphatic, and he scowled harder. “They don’t.”

Hurt flashed over Johnny’s face, masked by a crooked smile. “Um… ouch? Wow. Tell me what you really think, Pete.”

“I’m saying, they don’t love you. They love,” Peter gestured to the paused video. “This… I don’t even know. This, like, slapstick caricature thing that you do. The ‘idiot playboy’. They love that. It’s fake, Torch.”

“Hate to break it to you, but, that is me,” Johnny said, crossing his arms defensively. “It’s not a caricature, I’m just…”

“Being yourself?” Peter scoffed. “Who are you kidding right now? Because it isn’t me.”

He wished he could just take Johnny by the shoulders and shake him, yell: You’re perfect!!! I’m happy to have the real you to myself, but I need you to understand that you don’t have to hide yourself!!! You’re not built wrong!!!

Johnny floundered for a moment, unsure how to respond, before finally landing on frustration. “Why are you being such a dick? If you didn’t like the interview, just say so.”

“Okay. Fine,” Peter said bluntly, trying to ignore how his tongue felt like sandpaper. “I didn’t like the interview. I hate most of them, actually. You act like a dunce, and you’re not. You aren’t stupid.”

Johnny rolled his eyes, looking away.

“I’m serious,” Peter stressed. “I know you think you’re the world’s biggest idiot, but nobody who actually gives a damn about you actually believes that. Not Sue, not me, not even Ben.”

Johnny continued to glower at the rooftop.

“You’re important, Johnny,” Peter said firmly.

“I know that,” he mumbled.

“Then you also know how much I’d miss you, if you disappeared? If you… I don’t know, got it in your head you were some kinda superhero and sacrificed yourself for the self-perceived greater good?”

Peter said it like a joke, but they can both hear the tension under it. He’d told Johnny about a lot. Everything, almost. Sacrifice was something Peter was intimately acquainted with, and he’d told him about all of it. Johnny would know what he meant, now.

Johnny exhaled in a short little burst. The fight left his body like water put to fire. “Yeah, Pete. I know.”

“…Good,” Peter said. He felt winded. He still didn’t feel like Johnny understood, but. It took more than a few strong words to change an entire inner dialogue, and Peter got that.

He’s said his piece. He was content to just sit in awkward silence for the rest of the night if Johnny kept sitting beside him.

“…I knew you liked me,” Johnny spoke. Lighter, now. Back to teasing. Easy ground. Peter was glad to know that the cosmic rays he got hit with didn’t give him super hearing, so Johnny would never know how hard Peter’s heart rocketed.

Peter fought back a smile, and shoved him back. “Get bent, Johnny.”

—

“Fuck, fuck, are you okay?” Johnny stuttered, his hands hovering anxiously over him. “Hey, look at me. Are you awake? Say something.”

Peter breathed in and out, his vision cloudy, blurring together. There was ringing in his ears, six different tones layering and reverberating with every slight sound. He blinked hazily at the rough form of Johnny crouching over him.

“Are you real?” he rasped. He’d lost a lot of blood. He’d hallucinated due to blood loss before, so he was just checking. He only regretted asking when Johnny’s face split open at the question.

“Yeah,” Johnny said intently, his blue eyes big and sad. “Yeah, I’m real. Are you drugged?”

Peter shook his head slightly, and tried to force himself upright. His vision spun. He kept hearing screaming, car alarms, police sirens. He winced, a hand coming up to his ear and then belatedly dropping. “Kraven, this time,” he managed to say, his tongue heavy in his mouth.

“Okay.” Johnny knelt down to help him stand, and he’s so…

He’s beautiful. Even when he’s worried, and he’s got that little dip in his squarish blondie brows, that furrow in the line of his lips. He’s beautiful. Peter wanted to sit and study him like humans first studied space, with all of the wonder in the world— myth becoming fact.

“You’re slurring your words there, babe. Can't understand you,” Johnny said, his expression pinched as he lugged Peter up as carefully as he could manage. “Fuck, you’re bleeding. Okay. Okay. New plan. I’m calling Stark.”

“Noooo,” Peter whined, his head falling back dramatically. It lost its effect when Johnny very gingerly caught it in the cradle of his palm. “He’s… busy, n’ stuff…”

Peter didn’t like bothering Tony, these days. For one, he was an adult now— he kind of did all the hard shit already as a teenager, the whole dying and coming back thing, the war, the space travel, the world ending events— all of this was small potatoes, in comparison.

Secondly, Tony had a life outside of the Avengers, now. He had like, a kid, and a wife, and even a retirement that was relatively peaceful; so long as Peter didn’t keep calling him with his occasional mental health episodes and life-threatening injuries. (It didn’t matter that Tony was willing to help at every message he sent. It’s the principle of the thing!)

“I know, I know, you hate calling him, but I kind of don’t have any faster option,” Johnny stressed. He pulled the mask up, just to Peter’s nose, and Peter leaned into his hand like he needed the touch. It made sense, in his boggled mind. All living things stretch for the sun.

“Mgh…”

“If you don’t want me to, I won’t,” Johnny promised, his thumb brushing over Peter’s cheek. “But I’m really worried, and he’ll get here faster than the Four will.”

Peter could feel Johnny’s pulse thrumming, could hear his heart’s rapid pace in wobbly dissonant tones. So he nodded faintly, trusting Johnny to do whatever was best. The best, meaning whatever put Johnny at peace. If calling Tony to help made him at peace, then Peter will simply put his insecurity aside and do the damn thing.

At his nod, Johnny exhaled.

Everything happened pretty fast after that. It was probably because he was bleeding out, kept going in and out of consciousness. He knew he was being moved, knew that his body hurt. He couldn’t open his eyes without having to squint, everything was too bright.

There’s a hand carding through his hair, astringent burning his nose, and over the beeping of machines, there were voices in his ears that he couldn’t quite hold onto. But he felt safe, and known, and warm.

“I’ll be okay,” Peter mumbled, and it wasn’t a question, but he felt a surge of the presence at his side grow brighter.

“Yeah, you’ll be okay, Pete. Promise. I’ll be here when you wake up, okay?” A squeeze of his hand.

“Mmkay,” Peter’s mouth went slack, his eyes drooping.

–

Peter had woken up in the Avengers Compound medical bay more times than he could count. He knew its walls and floors, he knew the nurses, he knew where to get bandaids, and pain medications, and IV fluid bags.

When he woke up this time, the room was dim, curtains drawn. His head felt full of cotton, and heavy on his head. Johnny wasn’t there.

But Tony was.

“Sorry it’s me and not your friend,” Tony started, gesturing with his hand. “He said he had to go on a mission, or something. That he’d be back soon. Until then, you’re stuck with me.”

Peter’s lip wavered for a moment and then he resolutely bit down on his own teeth. It’d been a while since he’d seen him. Longer since he’d called. A few months, maybe. He knew he had his reasons, and he’d been busy and Tony didn’t push, but looking at the older man now, all he felt was shame.

Tony looked older every time he saw him, it seemed. A head full of grey hair, crinkling lines at his eyes, his cheeks, his nose. Proof of life, of having lived— despite everything.

It’s hard to stomach that there was a time, not that long ago, where all Peter did was sit in his hospital room and stare at the wall, unable to look at him but unable to leave.

Peter’s throat burned, looking at him now. His eyes stung, his vision got blurry.

“Mr. Stark,” he warbled out, feeling all of sixteen years old again. His chest hiccuped, and he let out a blubbering noise as everything fell apart. He just wanted Tony to fix it, and make it right again. Make him right again.

Tony made a pinched face, and brought him into a hug from the side of the bed. It was awkward, the placement, Peter’s bony elbows and hunched over shoulders as he tried to bury himself in Tony’s scarred sternum.

“I’m sorry.” It was like he was drowning, the way his lungs and throat burned. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why— why I didn’t— everything is a mess, and I’m a mess, and it’s so hard—“

“I know,” Tony soothed. He didn’t smell so much of motor oil, but it was still there, faint. Now, he smelled more like pine. Fabric softener. His timbre was practiced, now. So was the way his hand dragged over Peter’s back. Different, different, different. “You’re not a mess, you’re just growing up. It sounds crazy, but it happens.”

“Why is it so hard?” Peter begged, a fresh wave of tears wrapping wire around his neck. “Why don’t I know anything?”

Tony made a soft sound, equal parts amused and pitiful. “You’ll get there,” he promised gently. “It doesn’t feel like it, but you’re doing so good at this life thing, you know. Better than I did. I’m proud of you.”

Peter turned his face back into Tony’s shirt. He’s sure he was drenching the thing with snot and tears— but he didn’t want to say anything, because if he heard Tony’s responding “it's seen worse” he’d definitely spiral more. He was barely keeping it together as it was.

Tony let him sit there for a long time, and for a moment, Peter was able to pretend that he’d never known the antithesis of this safety. That it was always like this, peace and comfort without a time limit, and Tony being here, and Peter being here, and everything was okay.

Everything was okay.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice hoarse.

“You never did kick that habit, did you?” Tony teased gently. He sighed. “You’re alright, kid. I’m not mad at you.”

“I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing,” Peter admitted miserably. “About any of it. Life.”

Tony patted his back. “Twenty-one will do that to you.”

“I’m barely making it in college, I get beat up in my free time like every night, I’m living off two hours of sleep and crappy instant ramen, I’m in love with my best friend—“

A small beat, and then Tony hummed thoughtfully. “I thought you and Michelle broke up?”

“What? We did,” Peter sniffed. “Like, ages ago. We’re just friends.”

“Okay, so you— oh. Oh! Well, that’s fine too. Ned is a great choice, really smart…”

Peter pulled away, his eyes bleary and confused. “Ned?”

“Not Ned,” Tony quickly surmised, squinting back at him. “Storm,” he said. “Is it Storm?”

Peter groaned and hid his face in his hands. He wanted to feel humiliated by it, but he couldn’t find it in him to be embarrassed. He missed Tony. He missed talking to Tony. And there was something weirdly comforting about having a normal, non-world-ending problem for once. To pretend that he’d never had to stop being a silly teenager with a crush.

“Hotshot, then,” Tony confirmed. He clicked his tongue, disappointed. “That should have been my first guess, he’s the one that called.”

“I hate him,” Peter complained, muffled into his hands. “Everybody on Earth is obsessed with him, I can’t go anywhere with him without being flashed by cameras. He’s so annoying, and his eyes are too blue, and he smells like kerosene, and I can’t stand him.”

Tony’s eyebrows climb. “Yeah. Sounds like it.”

“He’s so…” Peter trailed off, and exhaled like a balloon let loose into atmosphere. “He’s just nice. Not like, fake nice, but just… nice, and good. He’s good.”

“You’re really giving him a stellar review,” Tony remarked. “Do you want to crack open a thesaurus before you tell him that, or…?”

Peter gave him a half-hearted glare.

“He cares about you,” Tony shrugged peacefully, letting up. “He was really worried when he carried you here. Poor kid might develop frown lines, then where would he be?”

“He carried me?” He mumbled, not sure if he should feel mortified or oddly endeared. Both, he figured. Both was good. “Nevermind. Is he— can you call him? I don’t have my…”

Tony huffed in amusement, and pulled out his phone. He rolled his eyes as he handed it over, but Peter could see the fondness the way his mouth curved.

Peter typed in the number with ease.

Johnny picked up far faster than he assumed, and immediately he was talking fast and sharp. “Stark, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Peter smiled and tucked his chin down. “Easy, flamebrain. Just woke up.”

“…Hey,” Johnny’s voice softened carefully, the same way someone would talk to a wounded animal. “You still— are you all messed up, or what?”

“The loopier of the meds have worn off, I think,” Peter answered, scratching his chin awkwardly. He didn’t feel as emotionally volatile as he did ten minutes ago, his head was clearer.

“Awesome!” Johnny chirped up, the gentleness washing away. “I can tell you to stop getting hit by shit without feeling guilty!”

Peter smiled more, pinching the bridge of his nose. He avoided Tony’s continued amusement. On the line, he heard the familiar rumbly ambience of work, orders yelled and strained metal, air whooshing past. “Are you still out on the field? Why did you answer?”

“Uh, to make sure you weren’t dead? I gotta go now. I’ll drop by in a minute.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Ughhh. Shut up.”

Peter handed the phone back to Tony, fighting back a smile. “He’ll be here soon,” he explained, looking away.

Tony hummed, squinting idly, like he was still trying to parse what he thought of all of this. And it was weird, but he really wanted Tony’s acceptance on this, like a kid showing a parent their latest crayon drawing. Throughout all of the imperfections and fuckups, Peter had done this one thing right. He was proud of this. Of being friends with someone who was so good, and so selfless.

“He likes working on cars,” Peter blurted. “He gets old ones and fixes them up. Taught himself, I think. After his— yeah. Just taught himself.”

Tony stared for a moment, then lifted his eyebrows. “…Well, I guess you’ll have to bring him around sometime.”

It was casual code, just like everything else Tony said. Maybe it was grief, or growing older, or just the familiarity that came with knowing someone so long, but Peter understood now what he meant now. Come over, Tony was saying. I miss you. You’re still the kid I found all those years ago.

Peter smiled.

—

They’re both twenty-one, when Johnny went Supernova for the first time.

It’s terrifying. His body alight in plasma, his eyes glowing with energy, beams of pure UV crushing in on itself high above New York. Everyone shielded their eyes, had to, if they didn’t want to be blinded, and Sue was screaming at Reed to do something, please do something, that’s my baby brother—

Peter shielded his eyes with a gloved hand, and stared at the concrete with horror, light spilling into every imperfect crack. His best friend was dying. He didn’t know what to think.

A Supernova required immense amounts of energy. The temperature of a dying, exploding star could reach way over ten billion kelvin, a hundred billion depending on the star’s size. Johnny wasn’t as big as the sun. He needed energy to breathe, to live, and that energy was rapidly burning up in one frightening display of power– quite literally larger than life.

A Supernova was made of plasma. Pure energy. Even if Peter wanted to, and God did he want to— if he tried to swing up there and grab him, pull him down, cool him off, then every atom in Peter’s body would hypothetically just cease to exist, before he even got close enough to touch. There wouldn’t be a body to bury.

Peter’s best friend was dying, and he couldn’t even hold him.

It was hard to breathe. Peter kept his eyes trained on the concrete, watching the backsplash of light, and waited for anything. He tried to listen to Reed, rapidly talking out loud, a desperate winding monologue of electron degeneracy and reverse decay and nuclear energy— but he’s not hearing a solution.

“The light, it’s dimming,” Ben said suddenly. “I’m gonna look.”

“Ben, wait,” Reed quickly started.

“I’m doin’ it,” Ben snapped back.

They brace for the inevitable scream, but it doesn’t happen. Peter noted that the concrete was getting darker, too. He pulled his hand down and looked up, seeing the light rapidly shrinking, absorbing into itself. The night sky, swallowing it back up.

“He’s burnin’ out!” Ben yelled. “He’s gonna fall!”

Sue gasped and turned to Peter, her mouth open with the question— but he’s already launching up.

He swung fast, knowing full well this might burn him. Third-degree, maybe fourth, and that would be one of the better hypothetical outcomes. He didn’t care. Johnny was dropping like a stone, and Peter was going to catch him.

Every ounce of light blinked out, just as Peter crashed into him. He held Johnny to his chest, wrapping an arm around him without any thought. He didn’t feel like he got burned, but Johnny was uncomfortably warm, even for Peter.

More importantly, Peter could hear Johnny’s heartbeat, which was slow, but there. He landed them on the ground and gently kneeled on the floor, and the team made quick work around him.

Ben leaned in as close as he could get, trying to hear his chest. “He’s breathing?”

“Heart rate is low, but stable,” Reed determined, his fingers up to Johnny’s pulse. “Hotter temp than normal, undergoing rapid cooling process…”

“Hold on. Let him breathe, let him breathe,” Sue said, holding her hands up. They’re shaking. Her eyes are red-rimmed and wide.

They all still. Peter hadn’t quite let him go, yet— can’t bring himself to. (Even if it was a small chance, Peter wouldn’t let any more of his loved one’s final moments be on the street. Not again.)

Johnny’s eyes flit, half-open, and a weak moan passed his lips. He blinked up at Peter, and then his body did a weird seizing motion. “No, no, don’t touch me,” he slurred out. “I’ll burn you—“

Peter steadied him quickly. “You’re not gonna burn me,” he said, sure. He cupped Johnny’s cheek. “You won’t burn me, hey. Look, I’m okay. See?”

Johnny inhaled, and exhaled, and then slumped back into Peter’s arms. He looked exhausted. His eyes were half-lidded and hazy, his breathing labored.

Peter had never seen him sweat before, honestly didn’t know he could, but right now Johnny was glowing in it. His hair was damp and stuck to his forehead, and Peter was hopelessly endeared by how it looked when it was messy.

“The city saved?” Johnny asked, dragging his eyelids open. The simple task looked like it took an exorbitant amount of effort. (Peter understood all too well what that felt like.)

“For now,” Peter said. He gave a wry smile, and it felt fake and flat and wrong. “Hardly ever stays that way. You scared the shit out of me, by the way.”

“Good.” Johnny closed his eyes. He swallowed, and Peter watched the movement of his throat. Proof of life. “Tips the balance.”

“Asshole,” Peter mumbled, and he’s too caught up on all of the details again. Johnny’s long eyelashes and faint moles, the Cupid’s bow of his soft lips, the gentle line of his nose.

There’s a fleeting moment where Peter couldn’t help but imagine Johnny’s skin a waxy grey, instead of pretty peach, and his fingers being ice cold, and not sunbeam warm. A moment where Johnny’s eyes stay open and void, because he’s unmoving, he’s still, he’s—

Whatever word you could stomach.

“You’re feeling okay?” Sue worried beside him. She gestured to Reed. “Honey, bring the car around.”

“Just tired,” Johnny sighed. He shifted barely in Peter’s arms. Breathing. Moving. Alive.

Ben tsked, looking just as rattled. “You worried us all, big time. Don’t do that again, matchstick.”

“We’re going to take you home,” Sue assured. She put a hand on Peter’s shoulder and squeezed. “Thank you. Do you want to come back with us? Surely that gave you a fright.”

Peter shook his head distantly. “No, no. I gotta… I’ll swing by later. Johnny, take it easy, alright?”

“What?” Johnny mumbled, sitting up more. “Hey—“

And then Peter was carefully putting him in Ben’s arms and swinging off home. He doesn’t look back.

He was a coward.

—

It took a week.

A long, awful week, where Peter got his teeth kicked in a little more on patrol because he didn’t want to go home and lay down. Laying down and closing his eyes, that meant going to sleep. Sleep meant REM, which meant nightmares of Johnny, and ash, and Oh God, he’s cold, why is he cold, he’s never supposed to be cold, please wake up please don’t leave me please—

Needless to say, Peter’s running on a crisp two restless hours of sleep, when he crawled wearily back into his apartment window. Peeled the suit down, ignored the ache in his bones, and then stilled— he recognized another heartbeat in the room. Nobody else’s was that strong.

He slowly looked up, finding Johnny on his shitty couch like he’d found perch there. He’s in civvies, a neat turtleneck, a fitted jacket, nice jeans. He’s got his crossed arms and meets Peter’s face with a rightfully unimpressed glare.

“You’re looking better,” Peter noted, straightening up. Act normal! “Are you feeling okay?”

“No,” Johnny said bluntly. “I’ve been feeling pretty bad, actually.”

Peter winced, pulling his mask off. “Oh, I…”

“Because my best friend has been ghosting me,” Johnny interjected, “and has been spiraling so bad that he’s not talking to anyone.”

Guilt shot up his spine and tightened each joint like static friction. He looked down. “I haven’t—“

“I got a message from MJ, saying she was worried,” Johnny scowled. “Should I pull out my phone and read it?”

“No,” Peter said quietly.

“That’s what I thought,” Johnny said, and he stood up from the couch with a heavy sigh. He pushed his hand through his hair, making it messy, unkempt. “Look, I get it. You got freaked. It reminded you of a lot of stuff you’d rather forget. I understand.”

Peter exhaled stiffly through his nose and looked away. He stared at the floor as if it was personally responsible for all of the trauma that made him like this. Like if he stared hard enough, he’d forget drying arterial blood caking his hands and his own carbon ash choking his lungs and every other horrible, awful thing that kept him awake at night.

“Hey. I’m serious,” Johnny’s voice gentled. “I’m not mad at you, I really do get it. I remember what it’s like for you. The whole… almost losing people, and the… all of it.”

“Mm,” Peter said noncommittally. He didn’t want to look up. That meant seeing Johnny’s face, which was undoubtedly empathetic and beautiful, and all of the words would numb on Peter’s tongue like mint.

“I just wish you’d stuck around, so I could have helped you through it,” Johnny continued. “You were probably lonely and miserable the whole week, huh? For no good reason. Goofy bug.”

Johnny reached out tentatively for Peter’s wrist, and slipped the glove off. His warm thumb worked gingerly through the tension of his palm. Peter’s jaw clenched.

“You’re my best friend,” Peter finally said, fighting to maintain steadiness. He swallowed thickly. “You’re stupid. And I love you. And I’m a mess.”

Johnny huffed lowly with amusement. “Yeah, I know.”

“I’m really glad you’re okay. I was…”

“I know that, too.”

Peter glanced up at him, and Johnny was already looking, soft and fond, knowing everything that Peter could never grasp at well enough to string into words.

“I don’t know what I would do if there was a universe where you couldn’t annoy me everyday,” Peter admitted quietly. His chest felt tight, his ribs not a large enough cage to fit his heart. It was painful and too much and not enough and Johnny just didn’t get it.

Johnny snorted, his nose crinkling up. “Is that supposed to be a compli—“

“Johnny,” Peter said, and he knew how it sounded. The yearning was dripping off his tongue like melted sugar, like syrup. He was sick with it.

Johnny’s words whisk away. He looked back at Peter for a long moment, and Peter could see the second it clicked, because a much softer smile began to rise on his face. “Peter...”

“Sorry. I know,” Peter answered quietly, leaning forward. “It’s a horrible idea—“

Johnny nodded, tilting his head in like he was the one pulled into orbit. “—I mean, we’ve had worse.”

“True,” Peter dipped his head, their noses brushing. “Like switching Ben’s cooking oil for car grease—“

“Ugh. Don’t bring Ben up when we’re about to kiss,” Johnny mumbled, his eyes closing. “That is so un-friendly.”

Peter’s eyelashes brush against his cheekbones. “Oh, is that what we’re doing? Being friendly? I thought we were—”

Johnny leaned in, and any word Peter had in his head immediately burst into sparks, fizzing and spiraling and collapsing in on itself, his knees threatening to shake. Johnny’s lighting up every nerve, causing each to fission, trickling from one after another.

There it was. Supernova.

Peter leaned his head to the side, a hand coming up to Johnny’s jaw. Clean-shaven. Johnny’s better at taking care of himself than he is. (Not that it was a terribly difficult bar to match.)

Johnny, he mouthed, and Johnny kissed him back in kind, teasing the edge of his chapped lips.

“Don’t let this give you the wrong idea, Webhead,” Johnny mumbled into his parted mouth. “You’re still in the dog house, you know.”

Peter blinked hazily, his chin tilting back in. “I do? I mean, I am?”

“Yeah. You owe me,” Johnny left another kiss on his lower lip, another at the corner of his mouth, “a week of your undivided attention, for ghosting me.”

Peter’s eyebrows lift wordlessly, the words going through one ear and swirling around in his head, leaving the other ear in a mush.

“Only fair,” Johnny added.

“Right, right…”

Johnny smiled and finally pulled away, a faint laugh in his throat. His eyes sparkle mirthfully, but his eyebrows crook in sympathy. “You’ve really worked yourself to the bone this week.”

“Little bit,” Peter admitted, his shoulders sinking into Johnny’s hands, which were steadily kneading into the overworked muscle. “Told you I was a mess.”

“I didn’t forget. But it doesn’t change anything either,” Johnny said. “You should shower. Sleep. I’ll still be here, y’know. Soulmates, and all that.”

Peter smiled, just because he could, and shook his head. “Soulmates. That’s so ridiculous.”

“We getting a happy ending?” Johnny mused.

“I think so. Feels weird. Not sure I like it.”

Johnny snorted. “Hold me.”

And Peter, who was still achey, and still tired, kissed his temple, short and sweet. “Alright,” he said simply.

He liked the way Johnny blushed.

It looked like a sunrise.

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