The classroom smelled like old paper and burnt coffee—probably from the teacher's thermos that hadn't been washed since the Cold War. Fluorescent lights buzzed above like a swarm of lazy bees, and half the class was either asleep or pretending to be.
Math. First period. A special kind of hell.
Purgatory for the sleep-deprived and the socially damned.
The second I stepped into the classroom, I immediately felt the chill. Not from the AC—it was broken anyway.
No greetings. No nods. Not even eye contact.
I felt it—whispers tucked behind hands, that quiet tension that only shows up when someone everyone hates walks into the room.
I scanned the room, for a seat. My old group? They'd picked a desk cluster far away, already pretending I was a ghost. The ones I used to high-five after a solid insult, the ones who laughed when I shoved some freshman into a locker—they didn't even look at me.
I was a pariah.
Great
The desk next to Peter Parker was the only open one. Of course it was.
I walked over. A few people actually moved their bags when I passed, like I'd bite. One girl muttered something under her breath and hugged her textbook like a shield.
Reputation's a hell of a thing.
I dropped into the seat beside Peter. He was visibly tensed. Not dramatic, but noticeable. He was already scribbling in his notebook, but his pen froze mid-word like a needle skipping a record.
"...Morning" I tried, keeping my voice low.
Peter didn't look at me, and gave a stiff nod. "Hey."
Not friendly. Not rude. Just... careful.
I leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "Look, I'm not here to start anything."
Peter didn't answer. Just kept writing.
"Cool cool cool." I tapped the edge of my desk. "No one else had space, and I figured you were the least likely to throw a chair at me."
That got him. Barely. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile—more like a glitch.
Then he said, without looking up, "You sure this isn't just a long con? Be nice, get close, dump my lunch on me again?"
He raised an eyebrow.
I flinched. "Alright. Fair. I was a complete tool."
He said nothing, which—yeah, fair again.
The silence wasn't a comfortable one. The type where your brain screams at you to say something, but every option sounds worse than the last.
A few seconds passed. Then I added, quieter, "I'm not trying to screw with you, Parker. I'm just..."
He glanced at me. Not buying it. Not entirely.
And hell, I couldn't blame him. I'd spent who knows how long making this kid's life miserable. One awkward morning and a forced apology wasn't gonna flip the switch.
Still. He hadn't moved away. That had to count for something, right?
I shifted in my seat. "You, uh… did you finish the homework?"
Brilliant. Pulitzer-worthy dialogue.
Peter gave a small shrug. "Yeah."
Another beat of awkward silence.
"I wasn't trying to… I mean—sorry. I actually did the homework too" I said, scratching the back of my neck.
Peter looked up slowly, eyeing me like I'd just said I believed in Bigfoot.
"You? You did the homework?"
"Yeah" I muttered, pretending to shuffle through my tragically empty folder. "Why's that so hard to believe?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Because last time you 'did the homework' you handed in a napkin with 'math is for nerds' written in mustard."
"...It was a vanguardist piece." I said, trying to be funny.
Peter stared for another second before shaking his head and going back to his notes. "Sure. Whatever."
Okay. Progress? No death glare. No shifting his chair a foot away. Just wariness and mild sarcasm. That was practically friendship, right?
I leaned back in my seat, arms behind my head like I wasn't absolutely dying inside. "You still think I'm gonna pull something, huh?"
Peter didn't even look up from his notes. "You've had more sudden changes than a quantum particle under observation."
I blinked. "I have no idea what that means, but I'm guessing it wasn't a compliment."
"Not really" he muttered, still scribbling.
Ouch. Fair.
"Well, I haven't tried to throw you in a locker, so that's gotta count for something" I said, attempting a grin.
Peter sighed, and for a moment, I thought I saw something in his eyes—confusion, maybe. Hesitation.
"…Are you gay for me?" he asked suddenly.
I choked on my own spit.
"What?! No! Jesus—what?!"
Peter raised his hands like I'd just confirmed it. "I don't know! You've been weird lately! Nice. Smiling. Sitting next to me. You look at me like I've got extra arms or something."
"I'm not gay for you, Parker!"
"Alright, alright!" he said, trying—and failing—to hide his smirk. "Just checking."
I buried my face in my hands.
God, kill me now.
The rest of the class dragged on like a snail doing calculus. I tried to focus, I really did, but math was the least engaging thing in the room.
Instead, I found myself sneaking glances at Peter—partly to see if he was still uncomfortable, and mostly because he's freaking Spider-Man.
Every time I finished a problem or answered one of the teacher's half-hearted questions, Peter's eyes flicked toward me. So did a few others, the teacher included. Like they were expecting me to explode. Or start barking. Or go back to my regularly scheduled programming of being a jackass.
So far, I've done neither. Which I was incredibly proud of.
Low bar, I know.
But hey—baby steps.
Class ended with the shrill cry of the bell, and Peter was out of his seat like someone lit a fire under it. I followed—not closely, just... adjacent.
"You always walk that fast?" I asked, catching up.
He glanced at me sideways. "Depends who's following."
"…Right."
We turned a corner, heading toward the next period. A few students walking the other way glanced at us—then really looked when they noticed who I was walking beside.
A guy I used to sit with in the cafeteria stared me down, shook his head, and muttered something to his buddy. Couldn't hear it, but I knew the tone.
Wade the Traitor. Wade the Freak.
"Y'know" I said, trying not to sound defensive, "it's not illegal nor gay for two guys to talk. Not that there's anything wrong with being gay, I'm just—I'm not."
Peter gave a half-shrug. "Never said you were."
"Cool. Cool. Just clarifying."
He didn't say anything, but I caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Not a smile.
But maybe a truce.
We passed by my old table in the cafeteria—where the Kings of Locker Shoving held court. Scott, Chad, and Logan. All muscles, acne, and smug superiority complexes. The moment they saw me walking beside Peter, their expressions shifted—confusion, then annoyance, then that classic look of smug betrayal. Chad even puckered his lips and made a loud kissy noise as we walked by.
I kept walking like I didn't hear it.
Peter… didn't. He glanced their way, then at me—brows slightly knit, like he was fishing for context. "Were they always like that?"
I let out a slow breath through my nose. "Yeah. Just background noise. Best to ignore it."
He gave a small nod, eyes still lingering on them for a second longer than needed, then we diverted.
Lunch was a social minefield.
I hovered near the entrance, tray in hand, scanning the cafeteria like a soldier checking for snipers. Most tables were already half-full, buzzing with conversation and the occasional loud burst of laughter. A normal day for them. Not for me.
Every time I drifted near a table, something happened. A bag would suddenly occupy a seat. Someone would slide over, wide-eyed like I was rabid. One guy even got up entirely, as if I were radiation and he didn't want to grow a third arm.
It was immature. Petty. So very high school.
And yeah, I knew better. I was an adult in my last life—had a job, paid taxes. This? Teen drama? It shouldn't affect me.
But it did.
Maybe Wade's body came pre-loaded with angst, like some kind of emotional malware. Or maybe it was just the loneliness. Being hated hits different when you used to be the reason people ducked in the hallways.
I spotted Peter, alone at a corner table, nose buried in a book. Looked like physics or engineering, something smarter than the rest of us were eating.
I stood there for a second too long, debating it.
Screw it.
I walked over and pointed at the seat across from him. "This taken?"
He looked up slowly, like he was expecting a prank. His eyes narrowed just enough to make me feel like a test he was still deciding whether to flunk.
"I guess not" he said, cautious.
I slid into the chair. Not fast. Not eager. Just... there.
Didn't say anything at first. Just opened my milk carton, stared at it like it held the secrets of the universe, and tried to not look threatening or weird.
Peter kept reading, but his eyes flicked up now and then. Like he was waiting for me to throw food or insult his fashion choices.
Can't blame him, really.
I'd done worse for less.
Peter kept reading, eyes flicking up now and then. "You're not gonna try to be my best friend or something, right?"
"God, no" I said way too fast as i tried to not sound gay nor desperate. Then winced. "I mean—no offense. You just looked kinda lonely over here, figured I'd throw you a bone. Pure pity."
I smirked, trying to play it off.
Peter didn't even glance up, but a faint smirk was there. "Mm. Touching."
Someone across the cafeteria called out, loud enough to echo "Parker's boyfriend's here!"
A few tables snorted or laughed. Real mature stuff.
My hands clenched under the table, but I kept my eyes on my tray. Didn't rise to it. Didn't take the bait.
"High school's basically a zoo" I muttered. "Except half the monkeys have smartphones now."
Peter finally looked up at me. "That was… actually kind of insightful. What, you finally looked in a mirror or something?"
He was joking. Witty, even. That meant he was comfortable enough to poke me without flinching.
My win.
"Don't get used to it" I muttered back.
He smirked—just barely—and went back to his book.
We sat in silence after that.
Not friendly. Not hostile.
Just… less tense than before.
Which, hey. I'd take it.
Bit by bit. No grand gestures. No speeches.
Just showing up. Staying still. Not being a dick.
That was the plan.
And somehow… it was working.
Maybe.
A little.
Kinda.
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Word count: 1,796