I will never understand you, Peter Parker.

And... He's Cooked!

Peter's life is officially over. As far as he's concerned, his only two options are to move to Saskatchewan, dye his hair blue, and assume a new identity— or crawl into a hole and die.

His third, most viable option is seeking psychiatric help, because he's obviously going crazy, since there's no way— no way— that Peter has a crush on Johnny Storm.

Because that just doesn't make sense, does it? That's the kind of thing you figure out a year into meeting a guy, right when you really start getting to know him. That's the kind of thing you figure out in high school when the pretty boy next to you in algebra asks for a pencil— not that that's ever happened to Peter.

But it's the kind of thing Peter swears everyone else has figured out by now. The kind of thing he thought he had figured out too.

But here Peter is, nearly nineteen years old, sitting in the corner of his apartment googling 'Am I gay?' quizzes.

Fuck Buzzfeed. Fuck his life.

Buzzfeed says yes. Again.

Clearly, he answered the questions wrong. Just because he wants to spend time with Johnny, and smiles every time he sees him, and thinks he has pretty hair, and gets butterflies when he gets a text from him and wants to hold his hand—

Okay. Maybe that's a little gay.

Oh, god— he's a little gay. For Johnny Storm of all people.

That move to Saskatchewan is looking pretty tempting right about now.

How is he even supposed to face Johnny tomorrow knowing that he has a big fat crush on him? Peter's terrible at having crushes on people; it's like all the brain cells fall out of his head the second he sees a pretty face.

He slams his laptop shut, so the glow of the Buzzfeed quiz results can't haunt him anymore. No dice. It's like they're burned onto his retinas.

His brain might be melting. The longer he thinks about it, the worse it feels.

New plan: don't think about it. He has a mission tomorrow. Think about that instead.

He needs to collect information. With the extra prep time, that means an audio recorder and a camera. Tangible evidence of what they find, instead of just something shared in Peter and Johnny's collective memories.

It is kind of nice to be able to share something with him, though. Peter's cheeks burn.

New plan, part two: scream into his pillow.

<><><><>

"Webhead!" Johnny comes blazing onto the rooftop, a grin planted on his face. "You're on time!"

"Oh! Well, you know." Peter waves his hands awkwardly. "I didn't want to keep you waiting."

Johnny gives him an amused look. "Did you get abducted and replaced by a Skrull? You're, like, the least punctual person I know."

"I am not!" At least it's shame burning at Peter's cheeks now, instead. "I'm usually barely even late!"

Johnny just raises his eyebrows.

"Okay, maybe I am a little late sometimes."

Johnny snorts. "That's as close as I'm gonna get to an actual admission. I'll take it."

Peter ducks his head. "Sorry."

"Awww, Webhead," Johnny coos. "It's okay, I still love you."

And it's a joke, and Peter knows it's a joke because he's made the same one a thousand times. His heart jumps anway.

And then Johnny reaches for him. His arms graze Peter's shoulders, sending jolts of electricity down his spine. Peter shrivels away, gasping.

"Spidey? Are you okay?" Johnny leans down to look at him. Peter can see every shade of blue in his eyes, stretching out from the edge of his irises in thin lines.

Way too close.

"I'm fine," Peter spits out.

Johnny tilts his head, and it's like a switch flipped, because it would barely have been a passing thought before, how pretty Johnny looks when he stares like that, and now all he can think about is how, if he leaned forward just a little, it would be so easy to press his lips into Johnny's.

He wrenches his gaze away. If he doesn't think about it, maybe it will go away. "We should go. If we keep standing here, Twitter's going to give away our spot, and then none of the gangs will come out anyway."

"You're trying to change the subject."

"No," Peter insists. "I'm serious. I tried to follow this guy back to his boss once, and he stopped and showed me the picture someone took of me following him."

Johnny holds up his hands in surrender. "Okay, whatever you say. Lead the way."

Heart thumping in his ears, Peter leans back, slipping over the edge of the building and slinging a web at the corner of the roof.

God, he's such an idiot. He's never been anything but relaxed about Johnny. It doesn't change anything: nothing about his feelings for Johnny is new, apparently. It shouldn't make him feel like a stranger in his own friendship, scared to lean too close or be grabbed for too long. Nothing about their friendship is different.

Nothing about him is different. He's still himself.

Right?

The thought rattles through his brain, crashing over him until it's the only thing he's conscious of, flashing over his awareness like a neon sign.

Whether or not he likes boys doesn't define him. It's only one crush— or two, maybe three, now that he's really thinking about it— and it's not like it means anything.

It's never meant anything before: Peter's never been anything but supportive of gay people. Why does this feel so different?

The smack of his heels into concrete jars him back into reality just in time to stop himself from completely face-planting into the ground. Johnny swoops in next to him, extinguishing himself and then giving Peter an odd look.

"Are you sure you're—"

"Fine!" Peter interrupts. "Whatever you're going to say, the answer is I'm fine!"

Johnny shakes his head. "Whatever you say, man." He leans over the edge of the railing, squinting. "I don't see any gangs. Are we sure we're in the right spot?"

"We're close. I can feel it."

In the same way, he can feel his heart buzzing in his chest, nerves sending bolts of energy through his body.

God, he is so screwed.