Chapter Text
The photography class hadn’t even existed at the start of the year.
Peter remembered hearing about it sometime in October, an announcement over the loudspeaker that most people ignored. Something about new funding, a trial elective, limited spots. It didn’t sound like much at the time. Just another thing the school was trying out.
He signed up anyway.
It wasn’t a big decision. Not something he thought too hard about. He already liked taking pictures—had for a while, even if he didn’t really show them to anyone. Most of them just stayed on his phone, or half-saved on his laptop, or forgotten entirely. Random things, mostly. Street corners. Fire escapes. Blurry shots taken too late at night.
Nothing important.
The class ended up smaller than he expected. Maybe a dozen people, if that. The room still smelled faintly like fresh paint, like it hadn’t been used in a while. Half the equipment didn’t match. The teacher spent the first week just figuring things out along with them.
Peter liked it more than he thought he would.
It gave him a reason to pay attention to things he usually passed by. The way light hit the hallway windows in the morning. The way people stood when they thought no one was looking. Small stuff. Easy to miss if you weren’t trying.
By December, it felt… normal. Class truly felt in session and not like some study hall where I group of strangers awkwardly surround each other or show off the photos they took while being hooked up to the projector by their phones.
The project got assigned on a Monday.
“Find a muse,” the teacher had said. That’s all he said, really.
There’d been a few groans. Someone laughed. One girl asked if it had to be a person.
“It can be anything,” the teacher said. “But it should be something you keep coming back to. Something you see differently than other people might.”
That part stuck.
Something you keep coming back to.
Peter didn’t write it down, but he remembered it anyway.
He tried not to overthink it at first.
The first few days, he took pictures of whatever was around. The usual things. Lockers. Stairwells. The school gym started. A row of windows catching the early sunset, the light already fading before it really had a chance to settle. He thought his teacher meant “something you keep coming back to,” in terms of practicality.
The pictures were fine…
They were fine.
Not bad, exactly. Just… not anything.
Nothing that felt like what the assignment was supposed to be, or so he believed.
By the end of the week, it started to get to him a little.
He felt clueless. He’d taken pictures of literally everything. But nothing was catching his interest at all. He even took a picture of himself but he felt that was too egotistical.
He didn’t want to doozie out of it either by choosing his muse to be Spider-Man. Because, come on. That’s too damn easy!
It was colder now, too.
December had settled in without much warning, the kind of cold that stuck around even during the day. People stayed inside more. Hallways felt more crowded with people not wanting to spend their free periods outside or make the treacherous walks to their cars.
Peter leaned against the cool metal of the lockers, thumb scrolling through the tiny screen on his camera.
Nothing.
Every shot looked… fine. Clean. In focus. Properly exposed. But there was nothing in them. Nothing that made him want to stop and stare. Nothing that made him feel like he had a muse.
He clicked through the images again, the little beep of the camera sounding way too loud in the mostly empty hallway.
Great, he thought. Just great. I have a project due, and all I’ve got is… this.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe that was the problem. Every time he tried to find something worth photographing, he froze. He’d see someone walking past, a group talking, a random kid tossing a basketball in the gym—but nothing felt right. Nothing said this is it.
Peter set the camera down on the edge of the lockers and rubbed at his eyes, feeling that quiet, nagging frustration that always came with trying too hard.
He glanced down the hallway, half-hoping for some spark of inspiration, some random person who might accidentally be interesting enough.
That’s when he noticed him.
Michael.
Casually leaning against the lockers across from him, one hand tucked in his hoodie pocket, the other holding a basketball like it was nothing. He wasn’t looking at Peter yet, just scanning the hall, calm, relaxed, like he owned the place.
Michael Jones was the kind of guy you noticed without even trying. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and what some of the girls he’d overhear in the city would call “fine as hell.”
He kept his hair short, neat, the kind of style that never looked messy even if he rolled out of bed five minutes before school. His hoodies were always simple, clean, zipped just enough to look effortless. Not a single piece of him screamed attention-seeker. And yet, somehow, he got it.
He was good at everything he did, not in a “show-off” way, but in the kind of way that made people pause and think, how does he make it look so easy? Basketball? He could handle it with skill that made people stare but never roll their eyes. Academics? He didn’t need to flex, but he rarely struggled with anything. Even the small stuff, carrying a pile of books without dropping one, holding doors open without being asked, passing a pencil to someone who forgot theirs, he did it without making it a thing. He was just so cool.
Because of that, people were drawn to him. Other students he barely knew stopped in the hallway to say hi, even when they weren’t normally the type to socialize. Teachers didn’t have to call on him in class, he volunteered anyway, always calm, always competent. Friends leaned on him for advice, for support, for help moving something heavy. Even strangers noticed him, asking questions or just gravitating to sit near him in the cafeteria.
And yet, none of it ever seemed forced. Michael didn’t act confident because he wanted attention. He didn’t walk around like he was untouchable or superior. He just existed in the world. Existed for Peter Parker to ogle at him like some idiot fanboy.
Michael Jones was easy to be around.
That was just a fact.
And yeah—he was friends with everyone.
So Peter being “friends” with him didn’t mean much.
They talked. Sometimes sat near each other. Michael would make comments during class, ask random questions, tap Peter’s desk when he got bored. It wasn’t deep. It wasn’t supposed to be.
Peter knew that.
He just… didn’t treat it like that in his head.
Because every time Michael laughed at something he said, or looked at him a second too long. It got him so giddy.
Peter Parker was, by definition and in every sense of the word, easy. It dint help that he’d saved him once or twice before.
Peter’s thumb hovered over the buttons on his camera, going through the same photos for the tenth time. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He felt a tight little twist in his chest. He was so frustrated.
”Yo Parker. You good?”
Peter nearly jumped out of his skin.
Michael was leaning casually against the lockers next to him now, one hand tucked into his hoodie pocket, the other resting on a basketball. He didn’t even realized when he’d moved closer.
“Uh—yeah. Yeah, I’m good,” Peter said, though his voice came out sharper than he meant. He adjusted the strap of his camera like that would make him seem more composed.
Michael glanced at the camera sitting on the edge of the locker. “Photography project, right? I heard about it from some of the others. I figured you’d be in that class.”
He figured. He figured someone about Peter that most people would know if you stopped and noticed him but not many people actually did that. But Michael. Michael Jones noticed and Peter would be a liar if he said that it didn’t make him feel good.
“Yeah. Project.”
Michael’s eyebrows lifted, just slightly. “You look… kinda stuck.”
Peter felt heat rise to his ears. “I—I’m not,” he said, even though the last thirty minutes had proven otherwise.
Michael’s gaze followed him, calm, patient, and just curious enough to make Peter fidget. “I mean…” he said slowly, pausing like he was weighing whether to actually say it. “You’ve been staring at that screen for a while.”
Peter’s stomach flipped. “I… uh… I’m just… checking stuff,” he said. “Making sure the shots are okay.”
Michael hummed. “Mm-hm. Sure.” He leaned back slightly against the lockers, bouncing his basketball absentmindedly. “I get it. Trying to find… something you like.”
Peter’s throat went dry. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words got tangled up somewhere behind his ribs.
Michael didn’t push. He just waited, quiet, letting Peter squirm under the soft pressure of being noticed.
“I mean,” Michael said after a moment, tilting his head like he was thinking out loud, “finding a muse… that’s kind of a big deal, right? You want someone who actually… fits?”
Peter nodded quickly, even though he wasn’t sure he could explain what that even meant. “Yeah. That’s… exactly it.”
Michael’s eyebrows rose, like he understood without needing any more explanation. “Hmm. Makes sense.” He stayed quiet for a beat, looking at Peter like he was considering something.
Peter wanted to get the attention off himself. Even for just a moment. He nodded at Michael’s ball. “The ball… uh— what’s up with that?”
Michael stopped bouncing it, holding it out for Peter. “Was gonna hit up the park with my homeboys after school. Still got like forty minutes till the bell rings though. So I’m preoccupying my time with you, Parker.”
Anything he said just sounded so cool. And sincere. Of course, Peter couldn’t let it get to him. Michael was like that with everyone. Just so kind. And sweet. And calm. And nice. And sincere. And perfect. And handsome. And breathtaking. And eye catching.
Yes.
Yes!
Michael was eye catching. That’s perfect. The perfect way to describe him. Even his super powers couldn’t stop his knees from going weak, but his pride was stronger.
He took the ball back.
Then Michael straightened, bounced the ball lightly once, and said in that casual, too-easy way:
“Well… if you want, I could… help. You know. Be your… muse.”
Peter just stared at him for a second. “Oh.”
Michael shifted the ball under his arm. “Only if you want. I don’t care.”
Michael gave a small nod, like that settled it. “Alright.”
And then nothing happened.
Peter just stood there, camera in his hands, aware of how quiet it suddenly felt between them. Not actually quiet—the hallway still had people moving through it, lockers opening and closing—but it felt quieter.
He shifted his weight. Looked down at his camera. Back up.
Say something.
“Can I—” He stopped, cleared his throat. “Can I take one? Just… to see.”
Michael shrugged. “Yeah.”
That was it. No questions, no jokes.
Peter nodded, even though he hadn’t really expected it to be that easy. He adjusted his grip on the camera, fingers pressing into the sides a little too tight.
“Just—stand normal,” he said.
Michael looked at him. “I am standing normal.”
“Right. Yeah.”
Peter let out a small breath and lifted the camera, but didn’t take the picture yet. He hesitated, lowering it again slightly.
This was a bad idea.
Not because of the project. The project was whatever. He could’ve picked anything. A staircase. A window. Literally anything that didn’t involve… this.
He glanced back up. Michael was still there, waiting, not rushing him.
“Do you want me to, like… do something?” Michael asked.
Peter shook his head quickly. “No, just—” He stopped. “Actually—yeah. I don’t know. Whatever you’d normally do.”
Michael shifted a little, leaning back against the lockers again. He tucked the basketball under his arm, then after a second lifted his hand in a quick peace sign, like he wasn’t taking it seriously.
“Like that?”
Peter nodded. “Yeah. Hold on.”
He brought the camera up again. This time he kept it there.
It took a second to find the frame. He moved slightly to the side, adjusting without really thinking about it. The lens caught the windows behind Michael, the light coming in at an angle. Not bright, just there.
Michael didn’t move. He wasn’t posing, not really. Just standing there, looking at Peter through the camera with that same calm expression, like this didn’t matter much to him.
Peter focused. Then he pressed the button.
The camera clicked.
He lowered it, not saying anything right away.
Michael straightened a little. “You get it?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
Peter looked down at the screen.
He expected the same feeling as before. That flat, empty thing where everything looked technically fine but didn’t actually matter.
It wasn’t like that.
The picture looked… normal. But in a way the others didn’t.
Michael wasn’t centered perfectly. The light wasn’t dramatic. The background was just the hallway. But it worked. Nothing felt off.
It looked like him.
Peter stared at it for a second longer than he meant to.
“Lemme see,” Michael said, stepping a little closer.
Peter hesitated, then turned the camera toward him.
Michael looked at it, quiet for a second. Then he nodded once. “That’s good.”
Peter nodded too. “Yeah?”
He looked back down at the photo again.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t anything crazy.
But it was the first one that didn’t feel like a waste of time.
Peter looked down at the camera again, then locked the screen like that would help him think.
“So… uh.” He shifted his weight. “If you’re actually serious about it.”
Michael glanced at him. “About what?”
“The—” Peter gestured vaguely with the camera. “The muse thing.”
Michael nodded once. “Yeah. I said I was.”
Peter let out a small breath, nodding to himself. “Right. Okay. Then I guess I should, like… plan it out or something.”
“Plan what out?”
“I don’t know,” Peter said quickly. “Just—when I take pictures. Where. Stuff like that.”
Michael adjusted the ball under his arm. “I’ve got practice today.”
Peter immediately shook his head. “No, yeah, that’s fine. We don’t have to do it today.”
Michael continued like he didn’t interrupt him. “But I was probably gonna skip anyway.”
Peter blinked. “Skip?”
“Yeah,” Michael said. “Me and my friends were gonna play outside instead.”
“Oh.”
There was a pause.
Then Michael added, like it was nothing, “I could just not go.”
Peter frowned a little. “You don’t have to do that.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“It kind of is,” Peter said. “If you already made plans.”
Michael shrugged. “I can see them another day.”
Peter shook his head again, grip tightening on the camera. “No, you should just go. I can figure something else out.”
Michael looked at him for a second, like he was deciding whether to argue. “Or,” he said, “you could just come with me.”
Peter paused. “To… play basketball?”
“You don’t have to play,” Michael said. “Just bring your camera.”
Peter hesitated. That sounded worse somehow. Standing around while Michael played, trying to take pictures without looking like a complete idiot.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Michael tilted his head slightly. “Or you could come by mine after.”
Peter looked up. “Your house?”
“Yeah.”
Another pause.
“I mean,” Michael added, “if you actually want to do the project.”
“I do,” Peter said quickly. “I just—” He stopped. “I don’t wanna mess up your plans.”
“You’re not,” Michael said.
“It feels like I am.”
“You’re not,” Michael repeated, a little more firm this time. “It’s fine.”
Peter looked down again, thinking it over. There wasn’t really a good reason to keep saying no. It just felt like there should be one.
“Are you sure?”
Michael nodded. “Yeah.”
Peter hesitated one more second, then gave in. “Okay.”
Michael gave a small nod, like that settled it. “Alright. We can just head out after school.”
Peter nodded too, slower this time. “Yeah. Okay.”
And just like that, it turned into actual plans.
Peter adjusted the strap of his camera again, trying to ignore the fact that he’d just agreed to go home with Michael Jones like it was a normal thing.
———
Peter almost backed out twice on the walk there.
Once when they left the school building and the cold hit harder than he expected.
Again when he realized Michael actually meant it—they weren’t turning around, weren’t stopping anywhere else. Just heading straight to the park like this was normal.
Michael didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t say anything. He just walked a little ahead, basketball tucked under his arm, talking about something Peter wasn’t fully paying attention to.
The courts came into view through the fence, already occupied. A few guys were there, moving around, the sound of the ball hitting concrete echoing sharper in the cold air.
Michael lifted a hand as they got closer. “Yo MJ!”
MJ?
“Bro finally decided to show up,” one of them said, jogging over.
“I been here,” MJ said.
“No you haven’t,” another one cut in. “You always say that.”
“This is Peter,” MJ said, nodding toward him. “He’s got that photography project. He’s just gonna be around.”
They all looked at him at once. Not mean. Just sizing him up.
“For what?” one of them asked.
“School,” Peter said, adjusting his camera strap. “It’s just—like a photography thing.”
“Ahh,” someone said. “So we in this now?”
Peter hesitated. “I mean—only if that’s cool.”
One of them laughed. “As long as you don’t catch me missin’, we good.”
“Nah, he definitely catchin you missin’,” another said immediately.
“Relax.”
They went back and forth for a second, light, easy. Then one of them looked back at Peter and nodded.
“You straight, bro. Just don’t be in the way.”
“Yeah—yeah, I won’t,” Peter said quickly.
“Aight then.”
And just like that, it was done.
They started their game.
Peter stood there for a second, then moved off to the side, spotting a bench a little ways from the court. He sat down, immediately feeling the cold through the metal.
He shifted, exhaling through his nose.
It was freezing.
He glanced back at the court. They didn’t seem to care. If anything, they were moving more, faster, like the cold didn’t matter once the game started.
Peter picked up his camera, turning it on.
He started with wide shots. The whole court. Everyone moving at once. The ball mid-air, someone jumping for it, shoes scraping against the ground.
It felt easier than the hallway. Less forced.
He adjusted slightly, zooming in. Took a few more.
A pass. A block. Someone laughing after missing.
Then, without really deciding to, he started focusing on MJ.
At first it was small. Just a couple shots where he happened to be in frame more than the others.
Then more. Then some more.
Peter lifted the camera again.
Caught him mid-step. Turning. Calling something out. Catching the ball clean without looking down.
“Pass, pass—”
“I got it.”
The rhythm stayed the same no matter what.
Peter barely noticed he’d stopped taking pictures of anyone else.
Every shot was Michael… MJ? now.
The way he moved. The way he reacted. The quick smile when someone said something to him. Peter lowered the camera for a second, watching.
Then lifted it again.
Took another shot.
Peter didn’t realize how long he’d been sitting there until the game slowed down.
Someone called it. A couple complaints, a “run it back,” but it didn’t actually happen. The ball rolled off to the side, and people started catching their breath instead.
Peter lowered his camera, flexing his fingers a little. They were cold. He hadn’t even noticed.
Michael glanced over toward him, then jogged off the court.
Peter straightened up a bit without meaning to.
By the time Michael MJ got over, he was a little out of breath, a light sheen of sweat despite the cold. He wiped his hands on his hoodie, then nodded toward the camera.
“You get anything?”
Peter hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”
“Lemme see.”
Peter adjusted his grip before handing it over. For a split second he thought about saying no—just brushing it off, saying he’d look at them later—but it was too late. Michael already had it.
Michael scrolled through, quiet. His face spit into a toothy grin. “Parker, these are good as fuck.” He showed some of them to Peter as if he wasn't the one who took them. Michael stared in awe at photos of him and his friends playing.
”MJ?”
Michael looked over. “Huh? Oh, that. Yeah. Close friends call me MJ. Yknow? Michael Jones? MJ?”
Peter nodded slowly. “Neat.”
Michael looked down at him. He just stared. “Yo.”
Peter looked up.
”Parker, you’re cool. So call me MJ.”
Peters brows furrowed. He choked out an awkward laugh. “We’re close?”
Michael— MJ laughed. “I said we’re cool, not close.” Peter laughed at his foolishness but could he help it? Mi— MJ thought he was cool! Now, imagine if MJ knew he was Spider-Man? Okay. That was dorky.
Peter didn’t even care about the camera anymore. Just seeing that smile on MJ’s face. Oh, he felt like such a creep right now.
MJ kept scrolling.
More shots. Closer now. Pieces of the game instead of the whole thing.
Then—
He slowed down.
Didn’t stop. Just… slowed.
Peter felt it immediately.
Because now it was just him.
MJ with the ball.
MJ turning.
MJ mid-step.
MJ laughing at something someone said off-frame.
Peter looked away for a second, jaw tightening slightly.
MJ kept scrolling. One more. Then another. Then another.
“…Damn,” he said under his breath.
Peter’s stomach dropped a little.
MJ glanced up at him, one eyebrow raised, not serious—just a little amused.
“You takin’ this ‘muse’ thing kinda serious, huh?”
Peter let out a short breath, somewhere between a laugh and a failed attempt to play it off. “I mean—it’s the assignment.”
“Yeah,” MJ said, looking back at the screen. “I can tell.”
Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t really notice I was doing that.”
MJ smirked a little. “Mm.”
He stopped on one of the photos for a second longer than the others. Didn’t say anything about it, just looked.
Then he handed the camera back. “They’re good.”
Peter took it, careful not to drop it. “Thanks.”
MJ nodded once, like that was it.
Behind him, one of his friends called out, “Yo, we runnin’ it or what?”
MJ glanced back. “Hold on.”
Then he looked at Peter again. “You stayin’ or you heading out?”
Peter hesitated. “Uh…”
He looked down at the camera, then back up.
“I can stay,” he said.
MJ nodded. “Aight.”
———
They didn’t stay much longer after that.
Another game started, but MJ didn’t play the whole thing. He stepped out early, grabbing the ball when it rolled off and tossing it back without much thought.
“Yo, you good?” someone asked.
“Yeah,” MJ said. “I’m out in a minute.”
There were a couple half-complaints, nothing serious. Someone told him not to disappear again. He waved it off.
Peter stayed on the bench, camera in his hands, not really taking pictures anymore. Just watching without the lens this time. It felt different now. Harder to hide behind it.
After a few minutes, MJ walked back over.
“You ready?” he asked.
Peter looked up. “Yeah.”
He stood, slinging the camera strap over his shoulder again. His legs felt stiff from sitting in the cold.
MJ nodded toward the court. “I’ll see y’all,” he called out.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Don’t duck next time.”
“Bring your photographer friend again.”
Peter froze for half a second at that, but MJ just shook his head like it was nothing and started toward the gate.
Peter followed.
The cold hit again once they stepped out, sharper now that he wasn’t sitting still. For a bit, neither of them said anything. Just the sound of their footsteps on the pavement, the faint noise from the court behind them.
Peter adjusted the camera strap again. Then again, even though it was already fine.
“That was… good,” he said finally.
MJ glanced at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I mean—the pictures. I think I got something.”
MJ nodded. “I could tell.”
Peter huffed out a small breath, half a laugh. “Yeah, you made that pretty obvious.”
MJ shrugged. “You weren’t exactly being subtle.”
Peter looked down at the ground. “I wasn’t trying to—” He stopped. “I didn’t notice.”
“I know,” MJ said.
That didn’t help.
They walked a little more.
“You cold?” MJ asked after a second.
“A little.”
MJ nodded toward the street ahead. “It’s not far.”
Peter looked up. “Your place?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
Another pause.
Peter’s brain felt like it was trying to catch up to the situation again. This was actually happening. He was just… walking home with MJ. Like it was normal.
“You don’t have to stay long,” MJ added. “Just figured it’s easier than standing outside.”
“No, yeah—I mean, that’s fine,” Peter said quickly. “I don’t mind.”
MJ gave a small nod.
They turned down another street. Houses now. Quieter.
Peter kept glancing around like he needed something to focus on that wasn’t the fact that he didn’t know what to do once they got there. Take more pictures? Sit somewhere? Talk? Not talk?
“You always do photography?” MJ asked.
Peter blinked. “Uh—kinda. Not like… seriously.”
MJ looked at him. “You’re good at it.”
Peter looked away almost immediately. “I just got lucky.”
MJ didn’t argue with him. “Mm.”
They reached the front of a house. MJ stepped up first, pulling his keys out.
Peter slowed just slightly before following up the steps.
“You can come in,” MJ said, pushing the door open.
“Right.”
Peter stepped inside, immediately aware of everything—where he was standing, where to look, what to do with his hands. He adjusted the camera strap again before finally letting it rest.
MJ kicked the door shut behind them. “You want something? Water or something?”
“I’m good,” Peter said.
“Alright.”
Another small pause.
Peter glanced around, then back at him. “So… do you—do you want me to, like… keep taking pictures? Or—”
MJ looked at him, then shrugged lightly. “You can. Or we can just chill for a minute. It’s up to you.”
Peter nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Okay.”
MJ looked at him for a second. “I’ma get you something anyway.”
“I said I’m—”
MJ was already walking off. “You good.”
Peter stopped talking.
He stood there, still near the door, hands half in his hoodie pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them. He listened to MJ moving around in the kitchen—cabinet, fridge, something opening, closing.
“Bro,” MJ called from the other room. “You can sit down.”
“Oh—right.”
Peter stepped further in, slow, like he was trying not to touch anything by accident. He sat on the edge of the couch, not fully relaxed, camera still hanging from his neck.
He glanced around.
There were pictures on the wall—family photos, mostly. Different sizes, different frames. Some older, some more recent. MJ in a couple of them, younger, shorter, still the same face though.
Peter leaned forward slightly, looking closer at one near the corner.
“You look like a kid,” he said without thinking.
“Wow,” MJ said, walking back in. “That’s crazy.”
Peter straightened up quick. “I didn’t mean—”
MJ handed him a Gatorade. “I know what you meant.”
Peter took it. “Thanks.”
MJ dropped onto the couch, not as stiff, leaning back like he’d done it a hundred times.
Peter twisted the cap open, mostly just to have something to do.
There was a small pause.
Then MJ nodded toward the camera. “So what’s the project, exactly?”
Peter looked down at it. “It’s… I don’t know. My teacher didn’t really explain it that well.”
MJ raised an eyebrow. “He just told you ‘go find a muse’ and left it at that?”
“Basically,” Peter said. “He said it could be anything. Just something you keep going back to. Something you see differently than other people.”
MJ nodded slowly. “That’s vague.”
“Yeah,” Peter said. “That’s what I said.”
MJ glanced at him. “So what are you supposed to do with the pictures?”
“Capture it in a way that makes sense, I guess,” Peter said. “Like—not just what it looks like. More like… how it feels.”
MJ leaned back a little more. “And I’m that?”
Peter froze for half a second.
“I mean—” He looked down, then back up. “I didn’t have anything before.”
MJ watched him, quiet.
Peter tightened his grip on the bottle slightly. “And then today was the first time it actually worked. So.”
MJ nodded once. “Alright.”
He didn’t make it weird.
Just accepted it.
Peter let out a small breath, shoulders dropping a little.
“Do you, like… need certain types of pictures?” MJ asked after a second. “Or you just figuring it out?”
Peter nodded, already bringing the camera up.
“Just—uh… relax,” he said.
MJ looked at him for a second. Then he actually did it.
He slumped back into the couch, legs spreading out a little, one arm thrown across the back, the other resting loose at his side. Like he’d been sitting there the whole time and just decided to stop holding himself up.
“Like this?”
Peter hesitated. “Yeah. That’s—yeah.”
MJ shifted a little more, settling in, then gave this easy, almost smug smile. Teeth showing slightly, like he knew exactly how he looked and didn’t really care.
Peter swallowed, adjusting the focus.
“Don’t—don’t move,” he said quickly.
“I’m not,” MJ said.
Peter took the shot.
Then another.
And another.
The camera helped. A little. It gave him something to look through instead of directly at him. Something to focus on that wasn’t just… MJ sitting there like that.
Still, it was different from before. These shots didn’t feel forced and crappy. Not like the ones he took in school prior to the excellent discovery known as MJ.
Peter shifted his stance, stepping slightly to the side to change the angle. The light in here was softer than outside, coming in through the windows but not as harsh. It hit one side of MJ’s face more than the other, leaving the rest in a softer shadow.
He adjusted again. Click.
MJ moved a little, not asking, just changing things naturally. His arm dropped from the back of the couch, resting on his thigh instead. His head tilted slightly, expression less obvious now.
Peter followed it without thinking.
Click.
He took a few more, then stepped closer.
“Hold on,” he muttered.
He lifted one knee onto the couch without really thinking about it, trying to steady himself for a better angle. The camera stayed up the whole time.
MJ glanced at him, a quick look, then back toward the lens. Didn’t say anything.
Peter leaned back slightly. Took another shot.
Then leaned in again.
Everything felt too close and not close enough at the same time.
MJ shifted again, slower this time. His hand came up near his face for a second, thumb brushing along his lip before he caught it lightly between his teeth without really thinking about it.
Peter paused.
Then took the picture.
Click.
He adjusted the focus, just a little. Took another.
MJ didn’t ask what he was doing. Didn’t break the moment. He just stayed there, letting it happen, changing things here and there without making it obvious.
Peter kept moving. Small adjustments. Leaning back, then forward again, trying to get it right without fully knowing what “right” was.
The room stayed quiet except for the soft clicks of the camera.
After a few more shots, Peter finally lowered it slightly, like he needed a second.
“…Okay,” he said under his breath.
MJ shifted a little, then nodded toward the camera. “Lemme see.”
Peter hesitated. Just for a second.
Then he lowered it and stepped a little closer, turning the screen toward him. “It’s probably not—like—I’m still figuring it out—”
MJ leaned in anyway.
He scrolled.
First picture. Then the next.
His eyebrows went up a little. Then he let out a short laugh.
“Damn.”
Peter immediately looked away.
MJ kept scrolling. Another picture. Then another.
“Yo,” he said, shaking his head a little. “I look sexy as hell.”
Peter’s grip tightened on the camera. “It’s just—”
MJ glanced up at him, a grin pulling at his mouth. “Nah, hold on.” He looked back at the screen. “You got me lookin’ different.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Peter said quickly. “It’s just the lighting. And the angle. And—like—the pose helps.”
MJ looked up again. “The pose?”
“Yeah,” Peter said, already talking too fast. “Like—you’re just sitting there in a way that—works. For the shot. So it’s not—”
“Mm,” MJ hummed, not looking convinced.
Peter kept going. “And the lighting’s coming from the side, so it adds—contrast, I guess. And that makes it look better than it actually—”
“You sayin’ I don’t look like this?”
“No—” Peter stopped, then restarted. “No, you do, it’s just—”
MJ waited. Peter’s brain caught up to his mouth a second too late. “You’re just… naturally attractive,” he said.
Silence.
Peter froze.
“…I didn’t mean—like—not like that,” he added quickly. MJ didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at him.
MJ didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at him. Then he huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head a little. “Aight.” Peter felt his face heat up immediately. “I meant like—in general. Like objectively. Not—”
“Objectively?” MJ repeated.
“Yeah.”
“You got a whole explanation ready,” MJ said, still holding the camera.
“I don’t,” Peter muttered.
MJ scrolled back to one of the pictures, pausing on it again. “So this just… happened?”
“Yes.”
“And it ain’t got nothin’ to do with me?”
“It does,” Peter said, then immediately regretted it. “I mean—not like—”
MJ looked up again.
Peter stopped talking.
MJ smirked slightly, handing the camera back to him. “You not slick, Parker.”
“I’m not trying to be slick.”
“Mm.”
Peter took the camera, holding it a little tighter than necessary.
“I’m just doing the assignment,” he said, quieter this time.
MJ nodded like he heard him, but didn’t fully buy it. “Yeah. I can tell.”
Peter looked down at the screen again, even though he already knew what the pictures looked like.
He didn’t say anything else.
MJ handed the camera back, still half-smiling.
“Take some more,” he said. “I was lookin’ good in those.”
Peter blinked. “Oh—uh. Yeah. Okay.”
MJ shifted again, getting more comfortable this time. Not stiff like before. He sank deeper into the couch, one arm stretched across the back again, posture looser.
“Go ahead,” he added.
Peter lifted the camera, trying to reset his focus.
MJ didn’t stay still for long. He adjusted slightly, shifting his weight, his hand dragging briefly across his stomach as he moved before settling again. His shirt lifted just a little with it, not on purpose, just from the movement.
Peter paused for half a second—
“Chill,” MJ said, catching the look. “I’m just musing.”
There was a hint of teasing in his voice.
Peter cleared his throat, bringing the camera back up. “Right. Yeah.”
He adjusted the focus again, forcing himself to look through the lens instead of at him directly.
“Just—don’t move too much,” Peter muttered.
“I’m not,” MJ said, even though he clearly was.
Peter worked around it.
Click.
He stepped slightly to the side.
Click.
MJ glanced at him through the lens this time, more aware of it now. Not awkward about it. Just… there.
Peter leaned back a little to widen the frame, then forward again to tighten it.
Click.
“You always this serious?” MJ asked.
“When I’m trying to get it right,” Peter said.
MJ smirked. “So you tryin’ to get me right?”
Peter ignored that. Or tried to. “Just—look over here.”
MJ did, but not all the way. Just enough.
Click.
The room stayed quiet again, except for the camera.
Peter kept moving in small adjustments, trying not to think too hard about how close he was getting or how aware MJ seemed now.
Every time he lowered the camera, MJ was already looking at him.
So Peter stopped lowering it for too long.
Click.
“Yeah,” MJ said under his breath after a second. “These about to be crazy.”
Peter didn’t answer.
He just kept shooting. MJ looked at him, then shook his head like he’d just decided something. “This shit needs to be a banger, Parker.” He said suddenly. “Peter just looked at him. “Huh?”
“Nah,” he said. “I gotta muse the hell outta myself.”
Peter frowned behind the camera. “That’s not even—”
Before he could finish, MJ grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it off in one easy motion, tossing it somewhere off to the side.
Peter froze.
For a second, he just… stared.
MJ didn’t even react like it was a big deal. He just leaned back into the couch again, like this was part of the process now.
“Relax,” he said, catching Peter’s expression. “You said be natural, right? This is my natural at home.”
Peter blinked, snapping out of it. “I didn’t say—”
“Take the picture.”
Peter lifted the camera again, a little slower this time.
It was harder to focus now. Not impossible, just—different.
Of course it was different. MJ’s athletic build was obvious even under a hoodie, and now more noticeable. Broad shoulders, defined arms, the lean strength of someone who trained regularly. Peter had heard about MJ doing boxing for stress relief; it clearly showed in how he carried himself. Rumors about boxing weren’t exaggeration. The small scars, the light bruises.
The afternoon light fell across him in soft lines, highlighting the lean strength of his arms, the curve of his shoulders. He wasn’t doing anything intentionally flashy, but every movement felt deliberate.
Peter adjusted the focus, trying to think about composition instead of… everything else.
MJ shifted slightly, leaning back with an easy grin. “Yo… why’d you even agree to let me be your muse, huh?”
Peter froze mid-adjustment. His fingers tightened on the camera. “Uh—”
MJ raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the pause. “I mean… you didn’t have to say yes. You could’ve just been like, ‘nah, not interested,’ and that’d be it.”
Peter swallowed. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because if he opened his mouth, he’d talk too much, and it’d all come out—the flustered admiration, the stupid little crush. Maybe even the fact that he’s— Whatever.
MJ let it hang. “I’m just curious,” he said, voice softer now, teasing but not pushing. “You didn’t have to.”
Peter’s throat felt tight. His eyes stayed behind the lens, pretending the camera was a shield, a way to not have to answer. Anything else, and he’d just… say too much.
“Look,” MJ continued after a beat, “it’s cool, Parker. I get it. I’m just—figuring you out, I guess.”
Peter’s stomach tightened. He focused on the frame, adjusting the lens, anything to keep himself from stuttering.
MJ’s eyes caught his, though—not the camera, not the viewfinder, just him. And for a second, Peter thought maybe MJ could see everything he wasn’t saying.
He blinked, forcing himself to raise the camera again. “Uh… okay,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.
MJ chuckled softly, leaning back further. “Alright. Just… keep doing your thing. You’re good at it.”
Peter nodded, pretending to be absorbed by the shot, but the warmth in his chest said otherwise.
———
MJ moved around the kitchen, noodles boiling in a pot, sauce heating in a pan. “You hungry?” he asked without really waiting for an answer. “Cool. You’re staying for dinner.”
Peter blinked. “Uh… I mean, yeah, but I didn’t—”
MJ waved a hand. “Relax. You’re here. You’re eating.”
Peter gave a small, awkward nod, letting himself be pulled along. He stayed near the counter, camera still around his neck, half observing, half trying not to look too lost.
“So… uh… where are your parents?” he asked, leaning slightly, curious but careful.
MJ paused, holding the spoon over the noodles for a second. “My mom? Always working. My dad… not really around. Divorce stuff,” he said casually, shrugging. “It’s whatever.”
Peter’s stomach sank a little. “Ah… that… stinks.” He immediately added, too fast, “I mean, not like it—stinks all the time. Just… sucks sometimes. I… uh… know what it’s like not having someone there. Kind of.”
MJ glanced at him from the stove, eyebrow slightly raised, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Oh yeah? You some kinda therapist now, Parker?”
Peter shook his head quickly, cheeks warming. “No! I mean—I just… I dunno… I’ve been there, you know. Like, people depending on you and not being around, and—uh… yeah.”
MJ chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re a little weird, man. But I like that. You care.”
Peter blinked, adjusting the camera strap nervously. “I… I mean… not weird weird. Just… empathetic?” he offered lamely.
MJ laughed awkwardly at his crappy save.
He turned the stove off and grabbed two bowls, moving quick but not rushed. He portioned the noodles out like he’d done it a hundred times, not really measuring anything, just eyeballing it.
Peter stayed by the counter, watching, still holding his camera like he forgot to take it off.
MJ glanced at it. “You still got that on?”
Peter looked down. “Oh—yeah.” He fumbled with the strap, pulling it over his head and setting the camera carefully on the counter like it was fragile. “Habit.”
MJ hummed, then handed him a bowl.
“Yo, Parker,” he said, nudging it into his hands. “Eat this. Trust—you gon like it.”
Peter took it, a little cautious. “You sound real confident.”
“I am.”
Peter grabbed a fork, twirling some noodles like he didn’t want to look too eager. He blew on it once, then took a bite.
He paused.
Brows knitting slightly.
Then relaxing.
“…Yo.”
MJ smirked immediately. “Yeah.”
Peter took another bite, faster this time. Then another. “Wait—hold on.” He looked up. “This is actually good.”
“‘Actually’?” MJ repeated.
“I mean—no, I just didn’t know what to expect,” Peter said quickly. “Not in a bad way. Just—like—”
MJ laughed, cutting him off. “You thought I was gonna feed you trash?”
“No, I didn’t—” Peter stopped, then just shook his head, taking another bite instead. “Nah, this is really good.”
MJ leaned back against the counter, eating his own like it was nothing. “Told you.”
Peter pointed his fork at him. “No, seriously—what’d you put in it?”
MJ shrugged. “Hella garlic. Onion powder. Some other stuff.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah.”
Peter squinted at the bowl like it offended him. “There’s no way.”
MJ grinned. “You questioning the chef now?”
“I’m just saying—this tastes like actual ramen. Like those spots in Chinatown.”
MJ let out a short scoff. “Nah. My shit’s better.”
Peter laughed, shaking his head. “You’re so confident for no reason.”
“For no reason?” MJ repeated, pushing off the counter slightly. “You just said it was good.”
“I said it was good,” Peter corrected. “I didn’t say it was better than—like—actual restaurants.”
MJ stepped a little closer, not in a big way, just enough to make Peter notice. “You’re eating it like it is.”
Peter froze for half a second mid-bite. “…I’m hungry.”
“Mm.”
Peter looked down at the bowl again, suddenly very focused on it.
They ate for a minute like that. Quiet, but not awkward. Just the sound of forks and the occasional small movement around the kitchen.
Peter glanced up again. “So… you cook a lot?”
“Sometimes,” MJ said. “When I’m home.”
Peter nodded slowly. “That’s cool.”
A small pause.
Then Peter glanced up again. “I heard you box too.”
MJ looked at him immediately. “Wow.”
Peter blinked. “What?”
“That spread fast,” MJ said, shaking his head.
Peter lowered his fork slightly. “So it’s true?”
MJ hesitated for like half a second, then exhaled through his nose. “I was tryna keep that lowkey.”
Peter’s eyes widened a little. “Wait, seriously?”
“Yeah.” MJ took another bite. “But yeah. I box.”
Peter stared at him for a second. “That’s—yo, that’s actually really cool.”
MJ shrugged again, but this time there was a slight shift—like he didn’t mind hearing it. “It’s whatever.”
“It’s not ‘whatever,’” Peter said. “That’s—like—you play ball and you box? That’s—” He stopped himself before he started rambling again. “…that’s cool.”
MJ looked at him for a second longer than necessary.
“Yeah?”
Peter nodded, a little more sure this time. “Yeah.”
MJ smirked slightly, looking back down at his food. “Aight.”
They finished eating a little slower after that.
Peter kept sneaking small glances at him, like he was trying not to be obvious about it—and failing. MJ noticed. Of course he did. He just didn’t say anything.
Not yet.
When Peter finally scraped the bottom of the bowl, he let out a small breath. “Yeah, okay. That was really good.”
MJ took his bowl from him without asking, stacking them together. “I know.”
Peter huffed a quiet laugh.
MJ rinsed them off quick, setting them in the sink like he’d deal with it later. Then he turned back around, wiping his hands on a towel.
He looked at Peter for a second.
Then smirked.
“Yeah,” he said, easy, like it was already decided. “When we’re done, I’ll take you up to my room. Show you my gloves and stuff.”
Peter blinked.
“Oh—uh… yeah. Okay.”
He shifted his weight slightly, hands awkwardly hovering before he shoved them into his hoodie pockets.
MJ watched that, amused.
“Relax,” he added. “It’s just gloves.”
Peter nodded too fast. “Yeah. I know.”
MJ didn’t say anything else after that. He just nodded toward the hallway, like come on, and started walking.
Peter hesitated for half a second before following, wiping his hands on his hoodie. The stairs creaked a little on the way up. MJ didn’t seem to notice. Peter did. Of course he did.
At the top, MJ pushed his door open without ceremony. “Aight,” he said, stepping in first. “Don’t judge.”
Peter blinked. “I wasn’t—”
He stopped.
His brain kind of… stalled.
There were boxing gloves, yeah—hung up neatly on the wall, a pair resting on a shelf, another on the floor near a gym bag that looked like it actually got used. Hand wraps half rolled, a water bottle, a hoodie tossed over a chair. It all made sense. A basketball sitting in the corner of the room with one of those kiddie hoops nailed to his closet door. That part matched.
But then—
Peter stepped in a little more.
“…Wait.”
On the wall, just past the gloves—
A Spider-Man poster.
Not some cheap, wrinkled one either. Framed. That shit was framed.
Peter just stared at it for a second.
“…You like Spider-Man?” he asked, before he could stop himself.
MJ glanced over, like it was obvious. “Yeah. Why you sound surprised?”
“I’m not—I just—” Peter walked a little closer, like he couldn’t help it. “This is—this is cool.”
He was smiling. Actually smiling. Not the awkward, half-contained thing he’d been doing all day. This was different.
There was a figure too. On the shelf under the poster. One of the more detailed ones—pose mid-swing, suit stretched, one hand out like it was about to shoot a web.
Peter leaned in slightly. “Yo, this one’s—this is the good one.”
MJ watched him, a small smirk forming. “The good one?”
“Yeah,” Peter said, already nodding. “The articulation on this version is better. And the paint’s cleaner. The other ones mess up the webbing lines sometimes but this one’s—”
He stopped.
Slowly turned his head.
MJ was just looking at him.
“…I mean,” Peter cleared his throat, straightening up. “It’s just—it’s well made.”
“Mm,” MJ hummed, clearly entertained. “You sound like a fan.”
Peter shrugged quickly. “I mean—he’s Spider-Man.”
MJ nodded like that explained everything. “Exactly.”
Peter looked back at the shelf.
Then noticed something else.
“…You got comics?”
MJ followed his line of sight. A small stack, not huge, but not random either. Organized enough to show they weren’t just there for decoration.
“Yeah,” MJ said. “What about it?”
Peter stepped closer, crouching slightly to look. He picked one up carefully, like it mattered.
“…You read these?”
MJ let out a short laugh. “Nah, I just buy ‘em for fun.”
Peter glanced back at him. “…So you do read them.”
“Yeah.”
Peter looked back down at the comic, flipping it open a little. Then at the poster. Then the figure.
Then back at MJ.
The thought slipped out before he could stop it.
“…You’re kind of a dork.”
Silence.
Peter froze immediately.
“…I didn’t mean—”
MJ raised an eyebrow slowly.
Peter stood up too fast. “Not like—bad. Not in a bad way. Just like—this is—” he gestured vaguely at everything. “—unexpected.”
MJ tilted his head slightly. “Unexpected how?”
Peter’s brain short-circuited. “Just—you’re like—” He stopped. That wasn’t helping. “You play basketball. And you box. And you’re—”
He cut himself off again.
MJ took a step closer. Not fast. Not aggressive. Just… closing the space a little.
“I’m what?”
“I didn’t mean that—like—not in a bad way. Just—like—you have—this—” He gestured vaguely at the poster, the figure, the comics. “And I just didn’t think you’d be into—like—this.”
“‘This’?” MJ repeated.
Peter winced. “That sounded worse.”
MJ pushed off the wall slightly, walking in a little. “Nah, keep going. I’m tryna hear this.”
“I’m not saying it’s bad,” Peter said quickly. “It’s just—you’re—” He stopped. Reset. “You’re cool.”
MJ looked at him, unimpressed. “And people who like Spider-Man not cool?”
“No!” Peter said, way too loud. “No, that’s not—what I meant.”
MJ’s expression didn’t change much.
Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “I just didn’t think someone like you would be into it.”
“Someone like me?”
Peter shut his eyes for half a second. “…I’m gonna stop talking.”
MJ let the silence sit for a beat. Then—
“You done?”
Peter nodded immediately. “Yeah.”
MJ huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “You’re weird, Parker.”
“I know.”
MJ stepped closer, not in a big way, just enough to close some of the space between them. “It’s not that deep,” he said. “I like what I like.”
Peter nodded. “Yeah. No, that’s—good. That’s normal. That’s—great.”
MJ glanced at the shelf, then back at him. “You sound like you got a personal connection or something.”
Peter’s stomach dropped.
“…What?”
MJ tilted his head slightly. “You was real excited over that.”
Peter forced a small shrug. “It’s just—Spider-Man’s cool.”
“Yeah?” MJ said, watching him a little closer now.
Peter nodded. “Yeah.”
A pause.
Then MJ smirked slightly. “You a fan?”
Peter hesitated.
Too long.
“…I mean—yeah. I guess.”
MJ’s smirk didn’t go away. “Mm.”
Peter immediately turned back toward the desk, grabbing another comic just to have something to do. “These are—uh—these are actually good issues.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Peter said, flipping it open. “This one’s—like—kinda underrated.”
MJ moved a little closer behind him, not hovering, just there. “You read it?”
Peter nodded. “Yeah. A while ago.”
“Damn,” MJ said. “You really a nerd.”
Peter huffed quietly. “You have a whole poster.”
“Yeah,” MJ said. “But you knew which figure that was in two seconds.”
Peter opened his mouth.
Closed it.
“…I’m gonna stop talking again.”
MJ laughed, low and easy.
“Yeah,” he said. “You should.”
But he didn’t move away.
And Peter didn’t step away either.
The space between them felt smaller now.
MJ leaned back just enough to look at him properly, head tilting a little.
“Aight,” he said. “So what else you like?”
Peter blinked, still holding the comic. “What?”
“You heard me,” MJ said. “If you not just a secret Spider-Man superfan, what else you into?”
Peter huffed a small breath, glancing down at the page like it might help him think. “I mean… normal stuff.”
MJ raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t tell me nothing.”
Peter shifted his weight. “Uh… I like photography. Obviously.” He gestured vaguely toward the camera still hanging near the doorway. “Science. Kinda. Not like—in a weird way. Just—like—regular interest.”
MJ nodded slowly, like he was judging the answer. “You said that like it’s not weird.”
“It’s not weird,” Peter said, a little defensive. “It’s just… stuff.”
“Mm.”
Peter kept going anyway, because stopping felt worse. “I watch movies. I read. I hang out sometimes.” He paused. “…not a lot. But—sometimes.”
MJ snorted quietly. “I can tell.”
Peter shot him a look. “Wow.”
“What?” MJ said, not even sorry.
Peter shook his head, then added, almost like he didn’t mean to say it—
“I play basketball sometimes.”
MJ paused.
“…You what?”
Peter looked up. “I mean—not like—seriously. Just for fun.”
MJ’s whole expression shifted, just slightly, but enough. His eyes lit up a bit, interest snapping in quick.
“For fun?” he repeated.
Peter immediately felt like he said the wrong thing. “Yeah. I mean—I’m not, like, amazing or anything. Just—sometimes.”
MJ pushed off the spot he’d been leaning on, stepping a little closer again. “Nah, hold on,” he said. “You play?”
Peter shrugged, trying to downplay it. “A little.”
MJ looked at him for a second, then a slow grin started to pull at his mouth.
“Aight,” he said.
Peter didn’t like that tone. “What?”
MJ tilted his head, still smiling. “We gotta run that.”
Peter blinked. “Run what?”
“A one-on-one,” MJ said like it was obvious.
Peter let out a short, awkward laugh. “Oh. No, I—no.”
MJ’s grin widened. “Why not?”
“Because I just told you I play for fun,” Peter said. “Like—not against people who actually know what they’re doing.”
MJ stepped a little closer again, not backing off at all. “How you know I know what I’m doing?”
Peter stared at him. “…You’re on the team.”
“And?”
“And—you’re good,” Peter said, like that should end it.
MJ shrugged. “You might be too.”
“I’m not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
MJ laughed, shaking his head. “You scared?”
Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “No.”
“Sound like it.”
“I’m not scared,” Peter said, a little too quick.
MJ leaned in just slightly, not enough to be obvious, but enough that Peter noticed. “Then play me.”
Peter held his gaze for a second. Then looked away. “…This feels like a trap.”
“It’s not a trap,” MJ said. “It’s basketball.”
“With you.”
“Yeah.”
Peter hesitated. He could feel it—if he said yes, there was no backing out of it later. And MJ was looking at him like he already expected the answer.
“…Not today,” Peter said finally.
MJ’s eyebrow lifted. “So that’s a no.”
“That’s a later,” Peter corrected.
MJ watched him for a second. Then nodded once.
“Alright,” he said. “I’ll remember that.”
Peter exhaled quietly, not sure if that made things better or worse.
MJ’s grin came back, just a little.
“You better not be trash, Parker.”
Peter huffed. “You’re gonna be disappointed.”
“We’ll see.”
“Your gloves.” he asked, nodding toward them.
MJ followed his gaze. “Yeah?”
They sat near the wall—one pair a little more worn than the others, another cleaner, newer-looking, and a third somewhere in between.
Peter stepped closer without really thinking. “Can I—uh… can I see them?”
MJ looked at him for a second, then nodded. “Yeah. Go ahead.”
Peter crouched down, picking up one pair carefully, like he wasn’t sure how rough he was allowed to be with them. They were heavier than he expected.
“…These are kinda—”
“Heavy?” MJ finished.
“Yeah.”
MJ walked over, stopping just behind him. “Those are the 16s,” he said. “Training gloves. You use those for sparring mostly.”
Peter turned them over in his hands. “Sparring like… actually hitting people?”
MJ huffed a small laugh. “Yeah. Not full force, but yeah.”
Peter looked at them again, a little more aware now.
“Here,” MJ said, reaching down. “Put ’em on.”
Peter blinked. “What?”
“Put ’em on,” MJ repeated, already taking one from his hand. “You can’t just hold ’em.”
Peter hesitated, then nodded. “Okay—yeah.”
MJ took his hand, guiding it into the glove. His grip was firm, steady—matter-of-fact, like he wasn’t thinking about it.
Peter, on the other hand, immediately went still.
“Relax,” MJ said. “Your hands stiff.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
Peter exhaled, trying to loosen up as MJ adjusted the glove, tightening it around his wrist.
“There,” MJ said. “Now the other one.”
Peter lifted his other hand automatically. MJ slid the second glove on, fingers brushing briefly against Peter’s wrist as he secured it.
Peter swallowed.
MJ stepped back slightly, looking at him. “Aight. Now you look like you know what you’re doing.”
Peter looked down at his hands, flexing them awkwardly. “I don’t.”
MJ smirked.
Peter let out a small pathetic laugh, testing the weight. “These are kinda cool though.”
“Yeah,” MJ said. He reached for another pair, picking them up. “These are lighter.”
Peter looked up as MJ held them out slightly. “Bag gloves,” MJ explained. “You use these for hitting the bag. Faster. Less padding.”
Peter nodded, listening. Actually listening.
“And those—” MJ nodded toward the last pair, “competition.”
Peter glanced over. “You’ve used those?”
MJ shrugged. “Once or twice.”
Peter looked back at him, a little impressed again. “…That’s still cool.”
MJ didn’t say anything to that. Just watched him for a second.
Peter lifted his hands slightly, mimicking something he’d probably seen before. “So you just—like—” he made a vague punching motion in the air.
MJ laughed under his breath. “Nah, not like that.”
Peter frowned slightly. “Then how?”
MJ stepped closer again. “Here.”
He lifted his own hands, adjusting Peter’s stance without asking—one hand lightly at his arm, the other nudging his shoulder.
“Keep ’em up,” MJ said. “Not down here.” He tapped one of the gloves lightly.
Peter raised them a little higher. “Like this?”
“Better.”
MJ watched him for a second, then nodded once. “Aight.”
He reached for one of his own gloves, slipping it on quick, like muscle memory. Didn’t even need to look.
MJ flexed his hand once, then looked at Peter again.
“Hit me,” he said.
Peter blinked. “What?”
MJ lifted his gloved hand slightly, like a target. “Just try it.”
Peter hesitated. “I don’t—”
“It’s fine,” MJ cut in. “I’m not gonna let you actually hit me.”
“That doesn’t sound reassuring,” Peter muttered.
MJ smirked. “You gon be aight.”
Peter looked at the glove. Then at MJ.
“…Okay, but if I somehow knock you out—”
“You’re not,” MJ said immediately.
Peter huffed, then slowly threw a light, awkward punch toward his hand.
MJ caught it easily.
“Yeah,” he said. “That was terrible.”
Peter frowned. “I said I don’t box.”
“I know,” MJ said, stepping a little closer. “Do it again.”
Peter adjusted slightly, trying again—this time a little less stiff.
MJ blocked it again, quicker this time.
“Better,” he said. “Still bad, but better.”
Peter rolled his eyes. “Wow, thank you.”
MJ laughed, lowering his hand slightly—but not all the way.
“C’mon,” he said. “Don’t think so much.”
Peter looked at him, then at the glove again.
Then threw another punch.
This time, MJ moved with it—just enough to keep it going, not stopping him completely.
It wasn’t really a fight.
But it also wasn’t nothing.
Peter stepped forward a little without realizing it. MJ didn’t step back.
The space between them got smaller again.
Gloves brushing. Movements slower now.
Peter let out a quiet breath, lowering his hands slightly. “…This feels kinda unfair.”
MJ smirked, just a little. “You’re the one wanted to try.”
“I didn’t say all this,” Peter said.
MJ tilted his head. “You good?”
Peter nodded, even though he wasn’t entirely sure what “good” meant right now.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m good.”
MJ watched him for a second longer—
Then tapped his glove lightly against Peter’s.
“Keep ’em up,” he said.
And Peter did.
Peter had loosened up, feeling more comfortable with the gloves. He shifted slightly on the balls of his feet, mimicking moves he’d seen MJ do before. Just little things—footwork, small punches—but with a little extra… something. A flicker of Spider-Man reflexes, strength he usually held back.
MJ caught it immediately. His eyes narrowed slightly, studying Peter.
“You a liar,” he said, voice low, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re good.”
Peter froze mid-step, hands still up. “I—no, I’m just—”
MJ shook his head, laughing softly. “Nah, stop lying to me. You’re better than you’re letting on.”
Peter shrugged, a little red in the cheeks. “I’m just… practicing.”
MJ stepped in closer, just enough that their gloves brushed as they sparred slowly. “Practicing, huh? You practicing to kick my ass?”
Peter didn’t answer, just threw another controlled punch. It was faster this time, more precise, and MJ’s hand barely blocked it. He leaned back slightly, impressed.
“Ohhh,” MJ said, smirk widening, “you’re getting into it now.”
Peter moved again, slipping and weaving lightly, adding just a fraction of his agility to the motions. Every movement was measured, careful, but still… undeniably effective.
MJ raised an eyebrow. “Bro—stop. You’re lying to me. I see what’s happening.”
“Stop what?” Peter said, trying to keep his tone casual, though his heartbeat had picked up.
“You’re good,” MJ said, chuckling. “Too good. I don’t even need to go full.”
Peter let out a small laugh, throwing a light jab that MJ barely blocked. He ducked slightly, moving again, and this time MJ reacted instinctively.
His movement was quick, fluid—his uppercut came up before either of them fully realized. Peter stumbled back, caught off balance, a breath hitching in his chest.
MJ froze for half a second, realizing what happened. “…Oh shit.”
He quickly dropped his gloves, stepping forward. His hands went to Peter’s face, cupping it gently to steady him. Peter’s head shook slightly, trying to regain his footing, focusing on breathing.
MJ’s laugh broke the tension, low and teasing. “Bro… you tanked that shit.”
Peter let out a small breath, a mix of embarrassment and adrenaline. “…I didn’t—”
MJ shook his head, still holding him steady. “Nah, it’s fine. Chill.”
Peter looked into MJ’s eyes, trying to focus beyond the laugh, beyond the teasing, beyond the closeness that made his chest tighten. “…I’m… okay.”
MJ nodded slowly, letting go but keeping a hand near him just in case. “Alright. But for real—you threw that last one like you knew exactly where I’d be.”
Peter’s mouth went dry. “…Maybe a little.”
MJ’s laugh came again, soft but full of amusement. “… you’re trouble.”
Peter could only grin nervously, adjusting the gloves, heartbeat still pounding, adrenaline still running. And MJ? MJ just shook his head and laughed, clearly enjoying every second.
———
Peter finally stepped out the door, the cold hitting him immediately. He adjusted the strap of his camera, still buzzing from the day.
MJ leaned against the doorway, hands in his pockets, a small smirk on his face. “Hey… since we’re still doing this whole ‘muse’ thing and you’ve got some kinda idea now, come to my practice tomorrow. Take pictures of me there.”
Peter froze for half a second, processing. His chest tightened, partly from excitement, partly from nerves. “…Uh… sure. Yeah, I can do that,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, though it came out a little higher than intended. He thought briefly of Spider-Man duties—patrolling the city, keeping an eye on the streets—and how he’d have to juggle everything. “…I mean, I’ll make it work.”
MJ’s smirk widened. “Cool. That’s another version of me you can… muse about or whatever.”
Peter’s chest tightened again, and he let out a short, nervous laugh. “…Yeah. Alright. I can do that.”
MJ stepped a little closer, hands still in his pockets, eyes glinting with amusement. “Then we’ll get ice cream after.”
Peter stopped mid-step, a brow raised. “Ice cream? In the winter?”
MJ shrugged casually. “Ben & Jerry’s is good all year round. Never too cold for it.”
Peter laughed again, shaking his head, feeling that little flutter in his stomach he’d been trying to ignore all day. “Sure. Okay. That sounds… fine.”
MJ gave him a little nod, that knowing smile still lingering. “Cool.”
Peter adjusted the strap of his camera again, feeling it scratch slightly against his neck. He took a deep breath, letting the air out slowly, trying to calm the rapid thumping of his chest. His head swiveled slightly as he glanced back at MJ, who was still leaning in the doorway like he owned the space. The sun was lower now, golden and soft, casting long shadows across the pavement and catching in the strands of MJ’s hair.
He exhaled quietly to himself. He’d spent an entire day with Michael Jones Watson. Michael Jones Watson—smooth, confident, untouchable MJ—was a fan of him. A real, actual fan.
The thought made his chest feel tight in the best way possible. Peter had always known MJ was popular, everyone liked him, everyone admired him. And yet… MJ wasn’t just smiling politely or being polite out of habit. He was interested. He was paying attention. He liked what he saw.
Peter glanced down at the scattered leaves on the ground, letting them shift with the wind. He kicked one lightly with his foot, watching it spin away, but his mind was still back inside MJ’s room.
He felt the camera against his chest again, warm from being held all day, and he realized how heavy it felt.
MJ finally stepped back, giving him a little wave. “Aight, Parker. Don’t be late tomorrow.”
Peter nodded, giving a small, awkward wave in return. “Yeah. I won’t.”
As he walked away, his mind replayed the day on a loop. Every laugh, every pose, every teasing glance. And the leaves underfoot crunched softly, marking the passage of time, while Peter thought to himself: he’d just spent an entire day with Michael Jones Watson. And Michael Jones Watson… was a fan of him.
That thought alone made the cold air feel warmer, the late afternoon sun feel brighter, and the quiet walk home feel like a small, perfect kind of victory.
This project was gonna kick ass.