U-NOPE.
“You tryna chisel me out of my money?” Noir said.
“Rules are rules,” PB said, nudging the +2 into the center of the pile.
Peni snickered as Noir wrinkled his lip, pulling two cards into his hand. He plunked a “skip turn” into the center and squinted. Judging by how Peni’s face fell, it was the correct color. He turned to her and gave her a pat on the head as she flopped down, irritated. She only had two cards. He had to take what he could, even from a good kid.
“You all suck,” Gwen said, drawing until she was able to plunk a blue into the center.
“Yeah, you Peters are brutal,” Wade said, then played a +4 on Miles. Miles was holding enough cards to stitch together a fan. He pouted, but drew them. This game kept people honest. Noir liked that.
Miles flicked a blue into the center and nodded to Ham. Noir looked to the ex-pig, who looked like the happiest joe in town. God, he’d be bad at poker. Adorable, yeah, but bad at poker. Wait. Shit.
“Didn’t take you for a gaycat.” That’s what the Prowler had said. Why’d he have to go and say that? It was messing his flow up, big time. He liked dames, he knew that, and he was able to ignore... other feelings when he was with a doll. But he remembered how he’d felt the first time he’d heard one of the smooth-jazz singers at Rickaby’s say a few words into the mic.
Also, Peter Porker was a pig. Good thing to remember. He shouldn’t be having thoughts like this in the first place.
Noir shook his head and snapped back as Ham ruffled through his cards, humming to himself. The game was distraction for him. He could kick himself for that boneheaded kiss earlier.
“You’ve got a bad straight face, Ham,” Noir said. Wade snickered.
“Cut me some slack! I’m only human.” Peter joked. It was the first time Noir had seen him really joke about his… circumstance. He smiled.
“Come on, pally. You’ve clearly got the big bulge, here.” Noir answered, trying to sort his greens from his blues
Ham stopped. Gwen stopped. Wade stopped. PB stopped. Peni stopped. SP//dr rebooted. A few cards fell to the floor as Miles stopped, loosening his hold on his bouquet of bad luck.
Ham’s eyes ticked up from his hands with a xylophone tapping sound and met Noir’s eyes.
“Whaaat do you mean?” Peter asked. He was petrified.
“That’s slang. That’s slang, right?” Gwen asked.
Noir felt that he’d said something very, very wrong. Damn. Was he supposed to know future language from the get-go? Why couldn’t they cut him some slack?
“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with it. Nothing at all.” Wade said, composing himself. PB set his hand down and put his hands to his face, groaning. Miles managed to close his open mouth long enough to collect his fallen cards and shut his mouth, tightly.
“Yeah! Let’s keep playing!” Peni said, nudging SP//dr.
“I meant that he has the advantage! What’s so crazy ‘bout that?” Noir threw his hands up, irritated.
“Oh, thank god. I mean, we probably should have known, but, that’s a relief.” Gwen said. The atmosphere of the room began to return. Ham threw a wildcard down without looking and yipped out “Blue!”
“But it was already blue,” Peni said. Ham ignored her and put his cards up in front of his face. Noir decided to ask PB what that whole shebang was about when the game was over. It was nearing 9 in the night, according to the clock--in his world, this was when he’d start working. Here, it apparently meant it was almost time for bed.
“Uno,” PB said, tossing down a blue 5. Noir followed with a yellow 5. He knew it was yellow, because it was so different from the others. Peni gave him a murderous look and drew until she plopped down a yellow “skip turn.” Gwen huffed as Wade dropped another +4 into the center, making Miles deflate.
“Can I give up?” the kid asked. PB shook his head.
“We always get back up,” he joked. His eyes were more melancholy than his words. Miles sighed and tossed a green 6 into the middle with the enthusiasm of a lame dog. There was a pause as Ham sat, completely still, not shuffling through his cards or considering.
Gwen looked from side to side, then leaned over and poked him. He swayed with the motion, mumbling a reply.
“Hey, Porker? Your turn.” Gwen said.
“What? Oh. Yeah. My turn.” He said. Peter tossed a wildcard into the center and tried to cover his face again, but, as he was down to only two cards, just succeeded in covering the center.
“Color?” PB asked.
“Bright red,” Wade joked. Miles looked to Peter and lifted an eyebrow.
Damn. Peter Porker was blushing. Was it the word he’d used? He hoped not. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the guy’d just had a hot dame get real close.
“Red!” Peter echoed. It was more of a yip than a word.
“Gotcha. I win,” PB said, stretching. He placed a red +2 in the center and stood up, mock-bowing, as Peni grumbled and Gwen congratulated him through gritted teeth.
“Noir was the real winner.” Wade wiggled his eyebrows.
“I’ll mallet you,” Peter muttered, stealing Miles’ hand to add cards to the face-shield. A few moments later and he dropped them, all trace of a blush fading like a New York summer storm left.
Gwen yawned, and stared at the top and bottom bunk with distaste. “Yikes. Those look uncomfortable.”
“They’re okay!” Miles defended. He nodded toward the bathroom and rolled the cricks from his neck. “We can change for bed in there.”
“I don’t have a change,” Noir said.
“We do, though! While I was peeking into next chapter, I had the luxury of… acquiring these through pseudo-legal means.” Wade said. He, inexplicably, reached under the bed and pulled out the trunk of clothes he’d had in the dimension hopper, yanking some loose-fitting things out with great gusto.
“How the Hell? You know what, don’t answer that,” PB said. “But… thanks.”
“Anything for you, hero,” Wade said. He dusted his suit off and yanked a pair of shockingly plain pajamas from the bin--until he turned them around to reveal the dabbing Spider-man emblazoned on the back. He snickered and waved them at PB before whirling into the bathroom to change.
“Yeah, hero. Sure.” PB said. He grabbed a loose shirt and sweatpants from the bin and yawned. “These look good.”
“Alright, I have my stuff,” Gwen nodded to the backpack she’d brought. “And so does Miles. I call the hammock to sleep in.”
“There’s no hammock,” PB said. Gwen smirked, then webbed the wall corner to corner and jumped in.
“Yeah, there is.”
“Touché.” PB tried the same, and only managed to stick one string to the wall, he tried a few more times before Wade came out of the bathroom, saw the strands, and gave PB a sympathetic smirk. The Spider-Man huffed and stepped into the bathroom to change.
“We’ll take the floor. Peni gets one of the beds, Ham gets the other.” Wade said, in a display of altruism that Noir thought uncharacteristic of the guy. Peni began to open her mouth, in protest, and Wade put a finger up.
“No. You’re a kiddo. Get some sleep. Don’t be irresponsible like me.” Wade said. He rolled an inexplicable set of sleeping bags onto the ground with gusto and mock-bowed to PB, indicating them.
“I’m not a kid,” Peni said. But she hopped onto the top bunk anyway, as SP//dr nestled itself into the corner.
“I got a sleeping bag, too. I thought some of my friends might like to stay over some time, so I packed it when I came. You guys probably need the bed more than I do.” Miles said. PB stepped out of the bathroom, looking even more dishevelled than usual in his baggy tunic of a shirt, and flopped onto the floor with a happy sigh. Noir went in afterward, snagging a black shirt and some color (purple?) of short-pants to wear. His eyes caught on his own reflection as he stepped into the bathroom before he pulled away, uncomfortable. Scars. Maybe he’d have the guts to look himself in the mirror if the scars didn’t run up his face like sloppy welds in silver.
When he emerged, the room was quiet. Ham’s spider suit was folded neatly under the bunk bed--the guy could do that spinny tornado, like a cartoon character, when he was changing. That was probably handy.
Then he realized that every inch of the floor, every bed, and the only Prime Hammock Making Spot had already been colonized.
Noir looked to the left and right, frantic. Shit. Could he make one of those hammocks, like Gwen had?
No. He could already tell it was a no. Whatever she’d whipped together, she’d done it with practice, and she’d already popped what Miles called “head-phones” on, to drown out noise. Tinnitus--that’s what she’d said she had. He decided not to disturb her, which left a small patch of floor. He’d been unconscious on worse.
Wade, still clearly awake, made eye contact with him for only a split second before he flopped onto his stomach, starfishing away the last nudge of space on the floor. What a pill of a guy. Noir tried to nudge him, but Wade feigned loud snoring, with a smile on his burn-marked face. PB shrugged and shut his eyes as Miles scribbled. Peni was already nodding off.
That left sharing a bed with someone.
Peni? No. She was sprawled like a dancer across her whole bunk, too. Little Japanese characters floated above her head as she slept. He’d never understand those. No hammock, no floor space, no top bunk.
That meant--oh. Oh.
Little Z’s floated above the bottom bunk, tapping the bed above and popping into nothing. His eyes followed them down to the lower bunk, to a lump under the covers, a tuft of dark brown hair peeking out of the top. Man, Peter’d gone out like a light.
Noir considered the other options again. Kick Wade aside. Figure out that hammock set up. Either one would do, wouldn’t it?
The bed looked warm, though, and he’d nudged the blanket aside before he could think it over a thousand times he’d slipped in,
Peter tensed next to him. Great. He’d woken him.
“Hellooo. Are you, uh, okay?” Ham asked, voice pinched. Noir could swear--no.
“Uh, yeah. But there’s no other space.” Noir could swear he heard Wade giggle, all too faintly from the ground.
“Oh! Allllrighty. That’s fine. We’ll just…” Peter trailed off.
“... doss in the same bed. Don’t worry, I don’t kick.” Noir said. He heard a chuckle from beside him, and his mouth quirked in the dark.
“Was that you trying a joke, Sherlock?” Peter whispered.
“Maybe.” Noir said. He turned to face away from Peter and tried to ignore the warmth at his back. “Goodnight, trotter.”
There was a pause, then a quiet “See ya tomorrow, Noir. Stay on your side of the bed.”
---
Noir didn’t dream. Or, rather, he didn’t have any dreams worth remembering. Every snippet he caught was just gray on gray, with rainfall snippets between.
For a little while after meeting the others (Ham), he’d had good moments in his dreams. Friends appeared in half-remembered colors to wave hello, until they were extinguished by the torrent of his subconscious like a dead firework, sopping in a gutter.
Maybe it was the result of sleep deprivation, or the fact that all of these universes were so damn bright, but he was having a REAL weird dream now. One strange enough to grab his full attention and hold it, catching him, keeping him from jolting into wakefulness.
He was falling through the multi-verse, arms out, half-floating. Japanese writing scrawled its way around him in white and settled into cartoon censors and then into English typewriter-text, blurring as he rushed past.
You’re a good kid. Don’t screw it up. You got an eye for guys? Be a gumshoe and put it to good use. A teacher at his school. He hadn’t even been caught doing anything wrong. The teacher had just assumed (or maybe caught something that Noir thought he’d hidden better).
You okay? C’mon, let’s go. Those were his own words, to Peni. A vision of her, thin and transparent against the starry background, and he reached for it, and then was ripped away, spinning around. His head heart, and he reached out, but found no tether.
I see you eyeing that canary. It was the bartender, now, the bartender at one of his favorite dives. He’d been looking up at the stage, with a singer stalking up and down it, rapt, and he nodded, just to get the guy off his back and handing him egg creams.
Nah, he’s lookin’ at the piano man! Gunsel Parker, that’s him. Those words came from the drunk, whose face blurred into his cup, fractured by the bizarre lens of Noir’s dream. And he was right. Noir HAD been looking at the man who was playing the piano, eyes down, skin shiny in the light. He remembered punching the guy, later, probably for other reasons entirely. He punched a lotta people.
Gunsel Parker. Gaycat. Guy with a private eye for guys. The words laced together around him, and the field was white, and his molecules felt like they were being coaxed apart by the lines, and then--an anchor. Warmth. The words stopped.
Noir brought himself closer to the rock in the current of the dream, a soft place in a storm. He was numb, and his mind was fuzzy with exhaustion, but he could tell he was safe, wrapped in something gentle, holding tight.
The dream ended with him in New York, but it was in color, and it was a bright blue morning.
---
Oh god. Oh #@$%. Peter was going to die of mortification.
It was dark all around, and quiet as the grave--other than PB’s snoring--and Noir was wrapped around him, his arm around his chest. Oh no. This. Yeah. Mmhmm. Okay. Okay. Alright.
Ham tried to turn, to extricate himself from the taller man’s grasp. He felt an arm detach the slightest bit as he pulled, breath held.
Noir grabbed on tighter. Warmer. Man, the guy was a furnace. It was a surprise. He wouldn’t expect him to be warm, knowing the guy, how he stared off into space with all the drama of an actor in an Indie movie realizing that his father had died--hey, maybe THAT was why Noir and Peter were Big Name Actors in Peni’s universe. Okay, Peter, maybe DON’T think about how you’re married in another universe when you are being snuggled Mr. Sherlock Hots.
Sherlock HOTS? Is that the best pun you can come up with, Peter? You sad, sad dude. Peter exhaled, trying to clear his head. One of his legs was caught between the other guy. Great.
So he was definitely attracted to the guy. What was so wrong about that? Just thinking a friend was attractive? It wasn’t like he wanted to date the guy, or hold his hand, or show him a book of colors so that he stopped calling green yellow and blue purple and whatever else or k--nope, didn’t want to do that!
He relaxed downward, making peace with it. It was just a standard-issue attraction.
Nothing else.
As if sensing an opening, Noir rolled over onto his stomach, one arm rolled over, and murmured something about guns. Ham concentrated on staying very still, willing himself to be quiet. Then Noir buried his face in the pillow just next to him, his (damn soft) hair scraping his face.
A snap in the air above. A light. Noir stirred, but stayed still.
Ham’s eyes pulled up to find Wade, standing over them, with a phone camera.
Peter’s blood stopped dead in his veins.
“Blackmail,” whispered Wade, winking.
“I. Will kill y--” Peter began. Noir cuddled in again, and the words died on his lips. Man, the guy was warm.
Wade dropped back down in a flash, and Peter was back where he started. Trapped. And sleepy.
If he was lucky, Noir would roll back over by tomorrow. If he wasn’t?
Peter Porker would die, stricken down by embarrassment.