Fine, Thanks

Meeting

The harsh brightness of the fluorescent lighting in the club felt beyond overwhelming. Hues of electric pink and purple flashed against the floor, blinding anyone who dared to look in that direction. Shitty music, with an objectively shittier sounding bass, boomed throughout the room. It added to the ambiance of Peter's own misery. Unluckily for him, he had been cursed (or gifted) with heightened senses, including vision and hearing, which added to his headache and also his sour mood that night.

It was his twenty-third birthday and Peter could not have cared less. He had bigger and more important things to worry about than a dumb party. When MJ approached him and asked him if he wanted to go out to celebrate, he had kindly told her no. With exams on his tail, work, and dealing with the rising crime rates in the city, Peter just didn't have the time. However, after many minutes of pestering, MJ had convinced Peter to 'just get a few drinks' down the street. In all their years of friendship, MJ had never heard her dear friend tell her no. Peter should have realized it would be more than casual when she picked out an outfit for him that seemed somewhat dressy.

When they got to the club, the realization of what he had agreed to hit him like a ton of bricks. Only a few minutes in, MJ had been whisked away by a group of men practically begging her to dance with them. Peter told her to go and that he didn't mind, but once he was alone, he was significantly more grumpy than before. He was wasting his time. Thoughts of his to-do list clouded his mind and added to his stress. Awkwardly, Peter pulled at the already unbuttoned collar of his shirt as if it were choking him despite barely touching his skin.

Only a few minutes later, Peter had taken several shots because he figured why the hell not if he was already there. He had a little bit of money saved for a night out, as he had predicted MJ would ask him soon enough. In order for him to get drunk, to get actually drunk, he needed quite a bit of alcohol. Even then, it still wore off fairly quickly. Peter liked being able to sober up quickly, however. He also had never been one for drinking anyway.

After the fourth shot, no, fifth shot, MJ had so amazingly decided to grace Peter with her presence once more.

"Peter! Let's dance," she yelled over the music, resting her head on his shoulder. It didn't matter that she was slightly taller than him in heels.

"Uh... Yeah, okay," Peter decided after a moment's hesitation.

He pushed MJ's red hair out of his face and straightened his posture as if to prepare himself. She laughed as she pulled him onto the dance floor. Suddenly, Peter was hyper aware of just how out of his element he was. The alcohol made him sway on his feet and with MJ already dancing beside him, he felt like a baby deer learning to walk. Peter allowed his friend to grab his hands and dance with him even if he felt awkward.

"Dear god, Peter!" MJ said loudly into his ear. "Would relaxing a little bit kill you? Like just this once? It's your birthday! Have some fun." She ruffled his curls, messing them up slightly.

Peter groaned in response and fixed his hair. Taking a deep breath, he attempted to take her advice. He let the fuzzy feeling of tequila shots take over him as he remembered their horrible taste.

***

He wasn't exactly how much time had passed or how many shots later it was when he genuinely started to enjoy himself. The lights became less bright and the music less loud and his headache felt as though it had completely vanished. He just felt good. Peter's freckled face was blushed with the kiss of alcohol and his sweaty curls clung to his forehead as he danced. Vaguely, he was aware of how drunk MJ was too, but she seemed to be handling her own.

As he danced, girls tried to grind on him, to which he always turned away. Peter wasn't into that as much as other twenty-three-year-old guys were. But suddenly, he felt a pair of hands fall onto his hips, startling him. They were strong and large, certainly not those of a drunken college girl.

"Well damn, baby boy, you must be Shakira, 'cause these hips don't lie," a deep voice behind him rumbled. "Need a dance partner, sweetheart? You're looking a little lonely out here."

Peter attempted to recover from the surprise. He was hardly ever caught off guard by people behind him or anything of the sort. His spider sense hadn't alerted him of anyone, so it definitely made him jump. In his quick moment of anxiety, Peter's lip got caught between his teeth. He was about to turn around to decline the man, tell him that he was fine, thanks. But before he could, he lost the confidence and courage to. Instead, Peter continued to dance in a different kind of confidence, not moving away from the man.

"Oh, damn," he heard in a quiet, awestruck whisper behind him, despite the loud music.

He continued to dance, even somewhat grinding against this stranger, until the song ended. Once it did, Peter snapped out of whatever trance he had been in, overcoming whatever demon possessed him, and turned around to face this man. What he saw were some huge ass arm muscles that made him melt, beautiful eyes that demanded attention, and a face riddled with scars, poorly hidden behind a hood. He took a small step back, surprised at how attractive he found the man.

"Uh," Peter began, suddenly shy, "sorry. I've had like... wayyyy too much to drink, I think. I don't know what came over me," he explained weakly, taking his gaze to the dirty floor of the club.

When he looked back up, the man was staring at him, his jaw practically hanging open.

"Holy shit," he said. "I must've died or something. Yeah, I know I can't do that. Anyway, are you an angel? You look like one. Like, really. The freckles? The curls? The shirt like half unbuttoned? Fuck, baby boy, you must be an angel and I must be dead," the man rambled.

Peter's eyes widened in surprise and confusion at his words. He tilted his head as he tried to put the pieces together. It wasn't working. Usually attractive people didn't find him attractive and he honestly hadn't been expecting this guy to talk that much. An uncomfortable silence fell over.

"Not an angel," he answered eventually, a stutter to his words. Peter felt suddenly sober.

"I'm not sure about that!" The man snaked an arm around Peter's waist. "The name's Wade, so they can stop referring to me as 'the man,'" he announced, leaning closer.

Peter nodded choppily, still very confused. Maybe he was more drunk than he thought he was. He wasn't exactly sure how to respond. Thankfully, he was saved the trouble as MJ approached yet again. She always had the best timing in Peter's opinion.

"Peter!" She exclaimed, stumbling closer. Even wasted, she was more graceful than Peter. "Who's this?" MJ shot Wade somewhat of a glare and Peter suspected she had a 'Peter sense' for when he needed out.

Wade shrugged and moved his arm, getting the hint immediately. "No one, if baby boy isn't interested."

MJ looked at Peter, bewildered, as she mouthed 'baby boy?' Peter shrugged with wide eyes. All of this had happened so fast and he was yet again aware of how badly he wanted to be home.

"To be honest, I need to get going. My friend is also pretty wasted, so I need to get her home too," he explained to Wade. "It's not that I'm not interested." Was he? Peter wasn't entirely sure how he felt about the situation.

"Oh no, I totally understand, Petey," Wade said, and he remembered how MJ had exposed his name. "Maybe I can give you my number for if you ever need a dance partner again."

Peter hesitated for a moment before pulling his phone out as MJ leaned heavily against him. He opened a new contact and handed his phone to Wade who returned it after just a moment. For some reason, he wasn't entirely shocked to see the new contact titled 'Wade ❤️🖤❤️🖤'