"you?" "me."

I lie on my bed, glancing at my phone every once in a while, half-regretting what I said to Ellie. I hear a sharp, sudden knock and am jolted from my twisted daydream of being Peter in that moment last night. I trudge down the stairs, not knowing who the fuck is at my door. I swing open the door aggressively. I look at who it is and practically laugh.

“Well, fucking, well. Look who the cat dragged back,” I practically spit towards her.

“Flash, please, I’m sorry. Please let me explain,” she says, stepping into the doorway. She is close enough for me to smell her heavenly scent of lemons and strawberries. I step back from her.

“You don’t have to explain that you’re sleeping with the biggest loser in our school,” I spit at her, regretting it immediately.

“I’m not sleeping with him!” she screamed so loudly I heard it ring off the walls. “I’m no- I love him,” she whispers, so softly that it was hard to hear.

“Ellie, I’m sorry. I di-” I reach up to touch her face. She slaps my hand away.

“Don’t you fucking dare touch me,” I see tears in her eyes. I want to wipe them away, but I restrain myself.

I can tell she is shaking when I suggest that we sit and talk. She pulls her cardigan closed tighter and shifts her backpack uncomfortably.  We walk to the living room. She sits on the couch as far away from where I am as possible. The way she smiled, last time, felt like sunshine was here to stay, now it’s all storm clouds and tornadoes.

She takes off her backpack, Peter Pan themed, her favourite because she always wanted to fly away. She starts moving some things around and pulls out my blazer that she borrowed a few times. She places it onto the table between us.

“Ellie, I- I didn’t mean what I said in that message, I didn’t block your number. I wanted to see if you would call me or try to text back n-not just fucking show up, no warning,” I said placing my hands onto the blazer picking at the hems. She laughed sadly and looked down at my fidgeting hands.

“You know I’m one for dramatics,” she said softly, her sharp voice from before softening by a lot. “Damn it, Flash. Why do you hate him so much?” she lightly pounded the table, out of, what I can only assume is, frustration and anger.

“I-I,” I stutter, my voice breaking.

“Not so fucking tough now are you, Thom-I mean, Flash,” she said, harsh once more and standing up.

She grabs her bag and starts to head towards the front door to leave. I reach out and grab her arm, which she rips away from me. My fingers slipping off of the sweater. She whips around.

“I said don’t fucking touch me, not until you fucking explain,” her face reddens as she gets more visibly upset.

“Ellie, I don’t hate him. It’s ju- I,” I struggle to find the right words to say without upsetting her. “I guess, I’m jealous of him. Jealous of the fact that he of all people got the Stark internship. Jealous of th-the fact that-,” I feel the tears come to my eyes. I curse under my breath and wipe my eyes. “You really want to know, Eleanore?”

“Yes. I do,” she crosses her arms, spitting the words in my direction.

“He got to you first.”

“What?”

“He got to you first. You fell in love with him. Not me. And I don’t hate him. I hate myself for not telling you sooner. I jus-” she cuts me off with a hand held in my face.

“You’re fucking with me, Flash. Stop fucking lying,” she said aggressively. “You don’t love me. You just don’t want me to be with Peter. You’re angry about the internship, that’s true. But you do not love me. Fuck, I don’t even think Peter does anymore,” she opens the door and I watch her walk away.

I hold my hand out to try and stop her and say something, but I croak. She looks at me, picks up her bike, and rides away. Just like she’s done a million times, so why the fuck did it hurt so much now.

I walk back to the door, pausing in the doorway. I whip around and slam the door, yelling. I run up the stairs to my room, punching the wall. I feel tears well up in my eyes and I blackout, punching the wall once more.

When I come back from the blackout, my room is a mess, clothes and trophies thrown about. New formed holes in the walls and door. I wipe my face and assess the damage to my knuckles. They’re bloodied and raw. I walk to the bathroom and wash my hands. I open the cupboard and find the first aid kit. I wrap my fist and put everything back in order. I go back to my room and clean up. Covering the new holes with extra posters I hadn’t hung up yet. I sit on my bed and have a choking feeling in my throat. I cough to try to rid of it, but it persisted. I yell at the top of my lungs, which finally does the trick.

I grab my phone and look for his number, knowing I had it because I put it to use earlier in the week. I press the call icon, praying he answers.

“Hello? Who is this?” his voice is like diving into a cold swimming pool.

.

2 beats pass until I am able to speak.

.

“Peter? It’s Flash. Can we- Can we meet up to talk? It can be a public place if you don’t trust me. But I have no ill intentions,” I said softly into the phone, my voice not sounding like my own.

“Housing Works. An hour,” Peter said sharply, and then hanging up.

I take a shower and change my clothes, because if Parker saw me like this I would die. I mean, it’s not like I care what he thinks, but he could ruin my life if he saw me like this. I grab my wallet and keys and run out the door into the garage. I open the garage door and start my car. As I shift the car into gear, I think about what the hell I am doing. What do I even want to talk to him about? Eleanore? I could never. I can hardly face her as it is, but if i went to him about her, she would make me regret ever sending that message. As if I don’t right now.

I reach the café, it was sort of what I was expecting, the classic bookshoppe café. Of course Peter would be somewhere like here. I park my car, take a deep breath, and open the door to get out. As I get out, I text Peter, “ I’m outside, I’m not a ‘smoky french café’ man myself but okay.” He replies saying that he is in the old english section. I shove my phone into my pocket and walk in, searching like a mad man for the old english section.

Once I find it, I see Peter sitting at a tiny round table reading a book and drinking a large coffee.

“P-peter?” I said, almost scared of his reaction.

His head shot up, seemingly shocked that I actually showed up. “Flash, jesus. Hi, I guess? Is that how you greet the dude that has terrorized you for so long that you can’t remember the last time you felt joy in going to science?” he said so smoothly, I couldn’t tell if he was serious or if he was joking.

“Peter I-” he cut me off.

“So tell me, why the hell are we both here?” he said sharply, cutting the tension.

“I want to apologize and talk to you about something,” I said sheepishly, showing him that I genuinely meant no harm to him.

“Apologize for the years of torture. You know, I wanted Midtown to be an escape, an escape from YOU,” he practically spits at me.

I shrink back away from his venom.

I stutter through the rest of the apology, and he listens intently.

When I finish, he just stares at me, dumbfounded.

“You’re serious about this aren’t you?” He asked, his brow furrowing.

“Of course I am, I wouldn’t lie anymore than I already have,” I said, my faith in myself shaken to the core.

I sip the hot tea I got, carefully. I spill some down the front of my shirt. I look down at the dark stain starting to spread along my shirt and curse. Peter stands up and heads towards the counter to get me napkins. He comes back and when he goes to help clean off my shirt, it takes all of my will to not make fun of him or push him away.

“Make sure you soak that in bleach when you get home,” he says caringly. He pats my back and laughs.

I smile, easing into the situation finally.