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Some older works with the same holiday cheer <3
#deadpool#ahh deadpool phase#spiderman#i just think they're neat#DP is from two years ago I believe#If not three. Spidey is two years old by now#how time flies... i see a gazillion mistakes#nobody ever saw the loss meme i put in the window#ill stop tagging now
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Hair: Chapter 3
Chapter 3: Ash
Description: After a fire the ashes remain, alone and deserted. And Peter always hated being alone.
Spideychelle
F/M
Notes: CHAPTER 3 IS UP! My gosh, everyone has been so amazing and supportive of this story! I do want to apologize for how long this chapter took to complete, so thank you all for sticking it out! This chapter is gonna be a long one so I hope you guys enjoy! You guys can also read the fic here on AO3.
Big shout out to my amazing beta @literalprincess for being amazing and being such an awesome help this chapter! Seriously, look this girl up because she’s fabulous! Also another shoutout to @you-guys--are-losers who was a great friend and help during this chapter as well.
Enjoy guys! :)
Peter had never been the type of person who enjoyed being alone. After he’d come to live with May and Ben when he was little, May had said he’d barely ever left their side. They’d cleared Ben’s office out to make a room just for Peter. He never slept in it. He’d slept with them for a year until they started prodding him to his own bed. He’d hated it. The night always was far to silent, too easy to disrupt. Without his Aunt May’s steady breaths brushing his neck or Uncle Ben’s snores right in his ear, he couldn’t know that they were safe. Bad things happened to people, and if he wasn’t there to stop the bad things, how could they be safe?
Maybe he thought he was stronger than he was, but every car-ride, every place they went, he needed to be right there beside them. Peter made himself sick with worry when they’d leave him with a babysitter. He’d sit on the couch, waiting for the phone to ring or a knock on the door. The sounds that changed his life so easily, so suddenly, before May and Ben.
As he grew older—wiser—the anxieties faded, but never left. He spent more time with Ned, but not once did he sleep over like other kids did. Peter couldn’t be away from May and Ben for that long. He was convinced something would happen to them. He needed to make sure that, whatever that thing was, it could never hurt them.
Once he hit his teenage years, Peter was able to function normally. He did his school work while Ben tinkered with old computers. Sometimes, Ben would let Peter help once he got all of his work done. They’d watch movies as a family nearly every night, half the time with Ned included. When the nights came to a close, Peter slept in his own bed, rarely worrying about a faceless threat to Aunt May or Uncle Ben.
After the spider-bite, Peter found his anxieties nearly quelled. Ned and him had sleepovers. He went to parties. He lived the life of a teenage boy.
Peter had been at a party the night Uncle Ben died. His uncle had gone out to the nearest store for milk and never come back. The police had quickly caught the man responsible. He’d still had blood on his shirt when they found him, and yet he never confessed to the crime. When asked, he wouldn’t give information. Nobody really knew how everything had progressed, or how the confrontation ended so tragically. All they knew was that Ben been stabbed in the chest, and when the police had found his body an hour later, his wallet had been missing.
Peter knew damn well that if he’d been there, the way he would have been any other night, he would have been able to stop it. It wasn’t a what if question. He knew that if he’d been there, his uncle would still be alive.
Spider-Man was born of the loss and loneliness that came following Ben’s death. If Peter could save people, put criminals behind bars, he could make sure nobody had to suffer the losses he’d suffered in his life. If he could just be like Iron Man or any of the Avengers, he could keep the bad things from happening. He never felt isolated again; he threw himself into Spiderman instead. Alone wasn’t something he could feel when he was helping old ladies with directions, stopping arms dealers, or trying to prove himself to Mr. Stark. He couldn’t possibly feel the void when he was helping to keep others from experiencing it.
So, when it happened, he couldn’t cope. Turning to ash—dying—it had been all too real, too much.
He had never experienced a pain so intense that it felt like he was being ripped apart by a fire. Fire that consumed organs and bones. It charred his skin until there was nothing left but ash, carried away in a breath of wind.
The pain wasn’t the worst part of it. Begging Mr. Stark to save him wasn’t what gave Peter nightmares—it was the loneliness that followed.
Others had described the Soul Stone as comforting. They said it was harmonious, that they never really missed home while they were there. Peter didn’t know what that was like. He’d spent hours, months, decades alone. Completely and utterly alone. He was confined to his room, just beyond his windows an endless plane of water the same golden color as the sky.
The people that were still alive, the people that needed him were unprotected. He couldn’t leave his damn room, and everyone he loved was either gone, or unreachable. Not knowing anything about how, or where, they were destroyed him.
Confined to the four falls of his room, an island on the water in total isolation, Peter spent days, years, or maybe even minutes—he’d never know—waiting for Iron Man to save him. He waited because he was scared, and a kid, and sometimes he needed to be saved instead of vice versa. Over what felt like an eon he tried every possible way out of the room. Nothing would budge: the window stayed intact, the walls survived his beatings, and the door remained unmovable. Eventually he spiraled into despair. The inferno urging him on turned to nothing more than ash as he spend more unmeasurable time in silence, utterly desolate.
When his soul was pulled back, the first thing Peter saw was the warm, swimming eyes of Tony Stark, and he knew he was home. Peter had cried, sobbed, because he wouldn’t spend eternity rotting away, wondering if the people he loved were safe and if he could have ever saved them.
Peter had come back, back to where he could feel the heat of the sun on his face, and the chill whisper of rain as it rolled down his neck. There was warmth when he heard MJ laugh, and calm when Aunt May sang. There was passion when he saved civilians, and happiness from joking with Ned.
The memories were ones he repressed, and Peter never talked about his time in the Soul Stone. Peter actively forced down the panic when he found himself alone in his room as it glowed gold when the sun set in the sky. He forced down the anxiety when May left for the store and Ned canceled plans. Forcing it all away was better. It was selfish of him to dwell on the ash or the island—the pain and the isolation—when so many others had suffered worse fates at the hands of Thanos. Others would give up the earth and sun to have a miracle like his.
For the past twenty-four hours, however, the welling panic of desertion continually forced its way into Peter’s thoughts. He knew why the anxiety was slowly building, tangling knots and snarls in his chest. It wasn’t a mystery to him why he felt the singe of desolation coiling in his abdomen.
One day—a total of eleven and a half hours—ago, MJ had stormed out of his apartment, after confirming that she and Ned were romantically involved. He hadn’t heard from Michelle since. Which may not sound unusual, if it weren’t for the fact that she had made a habit of texting him in the middle of the night, just to wake him up with random memes. He’d slept through the night, much to his concern. Her lack of communication had only served to water the seed of Peter’s anxiety. The loneliness spread far beyond just that. His two best friends had been a couple for god knows how long and had seemingly kept it a secret behind his back.
Peter ignored a fleeting moment of scathing bitterness when he saw Ned leaning against his locker waiting for him. Strolling up and throwing a strained pleasantry to the shorter boy, Peter worked on opening his locker, stalling so as not to have meet Ned’s eyes. The blue paint around the lock was chipping, showing muted metal underneath.
“Hey.” Ned began, a weary tremor in his voice. “So, uh—do you know if MJ is ok?”
Peter yanked his physics textbook from his locker, his eyes fixated on the cover, still unwilling to look at Ned. “I was going to ask you the same question.” The malice in his voice was nothing like his usual tone. Guilt panged in his stomach, but he said nothing to rectify the statement. He only turned, finally looking at his best friend, the same best friend who had shared every secret with him since elementary school. It felt like he was staring at a stranger. How many times had he kissed MJ? Peter blinked the abrupt thought away. It didn’t matter. At least that was what he told himself.
He and Ned started navigating through the hordes of students. Peter wouldn’t admit it, but he was still attempting to avoid looking at Ned. “I figured you’d know if she’s ok.” It was his lame attempt at diffusing the tension, even if there was still a small bite to his statement.
Ned shuffled between a few cheerleaders before catching back up with Peter’s brisk stride. “Why would—Oh right. Um, yeah. She hasn’t talked to me.”
“So how long has, uh—you know, it been going on?” The words stumbled off his lips, half of him not wanting to know, while the other really did. The question had been burning the corners of Peter’s brain since MJ had said yes to his question last night. When he’d asked if she and Ned were an item.
Ned slipped next to him. Peter threw his arm out, steadying him. “W-What?” Taking the opportunity to meet his eyes for the first time, Peter silently asked what he couldn’t bear to aloud. Why had they never told him? Why had they kept it a secret? Just, why?
Peter smiled reassuringly, trying to be genuine and focus on being happy for them, if only shortly. “I’m just curious, Ned. I had no idea.” His head gestured for them to continue.
“Um, not long. It’s a, well—um—It’s’a still a’pretty new.” Ned’s voice turned into a horrible Mario impression, obviously trying to lighten to mood.
“Seriously? I’a know you can’a do a’better than that.” Peter glanced back at Ned while they walked through the door to first period. The ghost of his smile was still on his face. For a moment they fell back into their usual rhythm, until Peter’s nagging brain grew unsatisfied, wanting answers that weren't vague deflections hidden in the guise of the Italian plumber.
“Anyways, it’s new then?” Peter once again prodded, hoping for an actual answer. His carefree, happy friend instead looked like he had hidden a body. “Hey, you ok?”
Ned answered while they took their seats at the front corner of the classroom. “Yeah. No, I’m cool. I’m fresh. It’s all good.” His smile was wobbling, strained.
Seeing Ned flustered wasn’t unusual. He rambled more times than Peter could count. This time was different though. If Peter knew any better, he would have thought that Ned was hiding something.
“Did you just say that you’re fresh?” Peter’s smile broke through for just a moment. Ned’s vernacular never ceased to amuse Peter. “But seriously, what’s going—”
The warning bell cut through the air, effectively cutting off Peter’s conversation with Ned. People who hadn’t already filed into class began pouring in. Flash was among them, he smacked into Peter’s shoulder on his way to the back of the class. “‘Sup, Penis Parker?” Ignoring Flash had become habit, but it didn’t stop Peter’s temper from rising particularly quickly.
“You’d think someone that’s as smart as you claim to be would be able to come up with a better insult.” It was neither Ned or Peter who had spoken. MJ had come through the doors, slipping through people like silk. She walked directly past Peter and Ned, not even acknowledging their existence.
“Shut up, MJ.” Flash snarled.
“Wow, another stellar response from the resident dip-shit.” Her voice was her usual cool melody.
MJ had wrangled her hair into a ponytail, a drastic contrast to the bouncing mess of tangles she’d sported the day before. Her face was composed and her eyes their normal, critical selves. She looked the opposite of the rolling anger Peter experienced just the night before as she’d stormed out his apartment. The rays of the morning sun bounced off of her cheeks and nose. Her deadly eyes turned copper in the sun, glaring down at Flash, MJ was as indifferent as always. Instead of turning around and sitting next to Peter—on his left side as always—she slouched into the unclaimed corner seat in the back of the room.
The seat was broken, which was why no one sat in it. Peter knew she was pissed, but he didn’t think she was that pissed.
He turned in his seat. She’d taken her sketchbook out; her hand was already flitting around the page. “MJ,” Peter couldn’t say anything else before the final bell rang and the physics teacher came bounding into class, already shouting out the page numbers to open their books to.
Throughout class, Peter desperately tried to get MJ’s attention. He had absolutely no idea what he would do once he got it, but he wanted to see her steely gaze just to verify that he wasn’t invisible. Never once did she look up.
Half-way through the lecture on nuclear fusion, Peter turned to Ned, who was busy scrawling notes over the page. “Dude, how can you read that?” It was all a jumbled mess of ink and maybe hieroglyphics. How the obscure text translated into something, Peter had no idea. Ned opened his mouth, ready to reply, but Peter didn’t bother waiting for it. That wasn’t what he cared about anyway. “Why isn’t MJ sitting with us?”
Ned’s head remained down, his hand furiously producing more notes. “Maybe she wants space?” He glanced up to the whiteboard. Peter found it odd that Ned wasn’t even gracing him with a sidelong glance.
“Shouldn’t you know, though?” Catching another glimpse of MJ over his shoulder—her head bent down with her bangs shielding her face from view—Peter felt his breath catch somewhere behind his sternum. Her hair was a haloed brunette-copper, a realization of celestial beauty. Why was her hair so perfect?
“Know what?” Ned’s response brought Peter’s attention careening back to reality. The reality in which he had just been making googly eyes for his best friend, who happened to be dating his other best friend.
Clearing the knot that was forming into a stone in his chest, Peter distracted himself with copying down the notes he had abandoned while he had been focusing on MJ. “I’d think that since you guys are, well, you know—” The stone was impeding the word from taking shape. He deserted the words all together, clearing his throat. “I just thought you’d know why she would decide to sit in the Broke-Back-Mountain chair instead of by us.” The way in which the desk had acquired that name was too long, and too graphic, of a story to tell.
Ned snuck a look over to MJ, as did Peter. She was shifting in the cracked seat, looking uncomfortable. Her eyes momentarily flitted from her notebook up to Ned. She completely ignored Peter. Peter didn’t even have enough time to form her name on his lips before her eyes flitted away, latching attention onto her notebook. Her gaze never wavered back their way.
“I’m sure she’s fine. She’s probably just having an ‘MJ’ day.” On some days, rarely, and out of the blue, MJ would barely talk to Peter and Ned. Peter always felt like she’d gotten trapped in that brain of hers and couldn’t find her way out. There was always a dazed, introspective look to her. But she never actively ignored them.
Peter turned back, clenching his jaw. “No, I don’t think that’s it.”
When the bell rang Peter fought against the rush of students stampeding toward the door, wanting to catch MJ before she left. However, her newly found spot was empty, much to Peter’s surprise. Broke-Back-Mountain stood alone. Peter whipped his head toward the door, at a loss for words. How had she managed to sneak to the front without him noticing? Yet, there she was. The shoulder of her leather jacket was peeking through the crowd, her hair floating like a cloud over her head.
“MJ, wait up.” Peter was hurtling desks to close the distance. He needed her to see him, to listen to him. She needed to understand how badly he felt about the previous night. “MJ! Hey, come on, wait up!” When she ignored him yet again, Peter groaned, following her out the door. “MJ?” She wasn’t in the hall when he emerged from the classroom. Her mess of waves and curls had completely vanished.
Ned appeared next to Peter holding the boy’s forgotten backpack out to him. Aimlessly, Peter accepted the strap of his bag, swinging it onto his back.
It felt like a small part of his chest had fluttered away into ash.
…………………………………………………
Decathlon practice had yet to be canceled. Peter took this as a good sign, seeing as MJ was the captain of the team. Both Ned and Peter headed to sixth period in silence. Ned had been acting odd all day, and Peter was still trying to understand why MJ was upset enough to not even be talking to him, much less Ned, her boyfriend. No matter how many times that word rolled around in Peter’s head regarding Michelle and Ned, it never felt right.
There was no conversation between the two as they weaved through the hallway. Peter braced his hands on the straps of his backpack, trying to gently approach the topic that he so desperately wanted more answers to. Answers about the one and only Michelle Jones, who, over the course of twenty-four hours, had become a complete enigma. “So, why do you think MJ’s so mad?”
“Seriously, Peter?” The exasperation in Ned’s voice wasn’t unearned. Peter had been subtly prodding all day. Not so subtly.
Peter responded with a shrug of his shoulders, flashing a quick closed-mouth smile, feigning innocence. “I’m just wondering.” Ned looked completely unconvinced. Peter dropped the act, his face shattering into an anxiousness that was slowly spiraling out of control. “I mean, I get why she’s upset. I didn’t think she’d be this mad though.”
Ned pushed open the doors to the library, turning to head into the private study rooms where they met for decathlon practices. “We all kept digging into her love life after she told us not to. She got mad at me for pushing during lunch, and then you and Gwen kept asking her questions. Can you blame her?”
Peter stopped short outside of the study room. Through the windows he could see Flash leaning back in his chair and Cindy going over notes with Abe. MJ was nowhere to be seen.
Right before Ned closed his hand over the door knob, Peter’s full attention latched to the boy. “Wait, why were you poking around at lunch yesterday?”
There were more than a few things Peter knew about Ned. One of the defining things about his best friend was that he was not good under pressure. “What do you mean? What makes you think I was poking around?”
“Stop answering my questions with more questions, Dude!” The librarian a few bookcases over leaned her head into the open to shush them. Peter lowered his voice to a strained whisper. “You’ve been doing that all day.”
Ned’s eyes blinked rapidly. “Why are you so interested, anyways?”
“Why are you not? She’s your—” The word still wouldn’t crest past the stone. “Well, you know.”
“I am worried about her. But she probably wants space. As she explained to me yesterday, sometimes girls just need time to think.”
“When did she say that?”
“After she stormed out of the lunchroom.” Ned said.
“And why did she storm out of the lunchroom?” Peter set the bait.
Ned took it. “Because I was digging into her love life, at lunch, just like you and Gwen did last night!” Another shush from the librarian. Ned’s ears turned minutely darker, blushing.
“My question is, why would you be digging into MJ’s love life.”
Checkmate. Peter could feel it, something was going to happen. Ned looked on the verge of cracking when a voice sliced through Peter’s mind and body. “Can you move?” It was authoritative with none of the usual malice.
When Peter flipped around, there, in her shining glory, was MJ. Three academic decathlon study guides were hooked by her left arm against her chest. Hanging from her opposite shoulder was her bag, riddled with patched holes and broken zippers. Her face was cold, the depth of her eyes closed off, housing emotion so controlled Peter couldn’t tell if there was any left. Maybe she’d used them all up the night before.
MJ elbowed past Peter and Ned, throwing open the doors to the study room. Peter and Ned stumbled in after her. “MJ—”
“Alright! It looks like everyone’s here—”
“Mr. Harrington’s not here.” Flash interjected.
“Flash, I swear to God.” The animosity in her voice was enough to shut Flash up. It was enough to scare Peter.
MJ situated herself at the table in the center of the room, right in between Cindy and newcomer Alexa. “Anyways,” MJ continued, controlling her voice, yet again, into her usual aloof tone. “We have the first qualifying meet for Nationals this weekend. We need to hit this one hard if we want any chance of defending our National title this October. I’ve printed up the quiz sheets. They’re color coded by subject. Answer sheets are stapled on the back.” She slapped a stack of papers on the table and continued. Her devotion to organized study guides was something the team was used to at this point. “Okay,” She clapped her hands. “Let’s run some drills.”
There was literally no opportunity for Peter to get a word in. She kept the meeting packed with non-stop questions and drills. She never picked Peter to do any. She called Flash in every time. Flash. Peter could tell everyone thought it was odd, but no one was willing to call her out on it. She looked like she had just killed twenty people and buried the bodies.
Sixth period eventually came to an end. Peter tried yet again to get a word in with MJ. She was just as elusive as he was persistent and managed to slip away yet again.
Peter elbowed Ned. “Maybe she’ll listen to you.”
Ned rolled his eyes, muttering something about ‘stupid love’ before following her nonetheless.
“Wait, did you say ‘love’?” The stone in Peter’s chest exploded to the size of a boulder. Ned never responded, already taking off after MJ, not hearing Peters quiet whisper.
Peter stood, a feeling of desolation creeping along his skin.
//////////////////////////////////////////
Ned plopped down next to where Peter was sitting against the wall of the hallway. Two days of MJ avoiding Peter had passed, and today was the decathlon meet.
Ned handed Peter a breakfast sandwich still wrapped in paper. Peter blindly accepted it, his eyes still glued to the study guide in his lap. “Thanks.” He deftly unwrapped the sandwich and took a large bite.
“What happened to your face?” Ned tucked into his own sandwich, eyeing the bruise that had bloomed across Peter’s eye. “Don’t you have like, healing powers or something?”
Peter quickly shushed Ned. “It’s not ‘healing powers’, it’s enhanced healing.” Again, concentrating on the study guide, his lips pressed into a thin line. “A mugger punched me.” The smirk in his friend’s voice caused Peter’s shoulders to sag.
“You swung into a building, didn’t you?”
“Maybe just a little.” Peter replied
The snicker shielded behind Ned’s hand was the only response.
“It’ll hopefully be gone in a few hours.” Peter stated.
“Must’ve hit pretty hard.”
Peter folded up his study guide and tucked it into his bag. “So, have you talked to MJ?” For the past two days Peter had been asking the same question, with the same result. Each time Ned replied, Peter’s chest constricted farther. He found asking somewhat doused the blistering fire ravaging the cage of his ribs. Each day, he snuck more questions about MJ and Ned into conversation, hoping Ned would take the bait. Peter told himself he was only being inquisitive, told himself that the flame licking his interior was nothing more than curiosity.
“Actually, yeah,” Peter’s eyes zipped over to Ned’s, searching to find any extra information. “She answered the phone last night.”
Peter’s entire body pivoted towards Ned. He was up on his haunches now, ready to pounce. Grabbing Ned’s shoulders, Peter pulled him the smallest bit closer. “Well, what did she say?”
The natural almond shape of Ned’s eyes rounded. The shoulders beneath Peter’s increasing grip, stiffened. “Uh, nothing much. We just talked.” From the pitch of his voice, Peter found Ned’s statement unconvincing.
“Dude, you know I can tell when you’re lying right?”
Ned shrugged himself out of Peter’s hold. “Well, we did. We talked. That’s what people do on the phone.”
“What did you talk about?” Peter’s felt like all heat in his chest was aimed into lasers cutting Ned open.
Ned scrapped his teeth along his lip. His eyes broke away from Peter, all cylinders firing. “I, uh—I can’t tell you.”
“Why?” And then, the most horrific reasoning shot into Peter’s brain, as violently as possible. Maybe they’d not talked about the fight at all. Maybe, they’d talked about intimate things. Oh god. “Were you guys talking about—” His tongue suffered some type of temporary paralysis. He muddled through, forcing out the next words. “—like, sexual stuff?”
It was the first time Peter had seen Ned turn totally red. It wasn’t just a slight coloration under his dark skin. No, he was confident saying there was a full blush taking hold of his friend’s entire face. “No! Oh my god, no. That’s just—ugh,” His body managed a quiet shiver. “That’s so not what happened. That’s just gross.” He was still shaking his head, face blown into utter shell-shock.
Peter recoiled. “What did you say then?”
Ned, still reeling from Peters question, took a large chunk out of the breakfast sandwich dangling in his hand. “No. I mean, MJ’s great and all, don’t get me wrong. Super pretty, nice when she wants to be. But no, I’m just not into her that way and—” He froze in the middle of his sentence, mid chew on his sandwich. Peter could see the sense of doom crawling over his friend’s face. Something horrific was playing behind his eyes.
“Hold on, what?” Peter managed. There was a concoction of dangerous emotions welling up around his lungs, causing the air suck in. He hated to feel so relieved, Ned had sounded so dismissive to MJ, she didn’t deserve that. But then again, Peter had never known Ned to be so heartless with other’s feelings. It was like a frenzy. The fire was lighting in so many places across Peter’s body. Electricity felt like it was crackling in the air.
On the other hand, Ned looked completely shell-shocked. War veterans may have thought the poor kid had gone through some gruesome battle with the empty, terrified expression he wore. When his breathing picked up after it’s momentary pause, two small words wheezed out of his lips, “Oh shit.”
“What do you mean, Ned? What’s going on?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.”
Peter tried again, not willing to let this opportunity slip him by. Ned had been acting weird ever since the secret came out about MJ and him. “What’s going on, dude? Seriously, you can tell me. Just what’s going on with you and MJ? Why aren’t you talking to me about it? You haven’t told me anything.”
Ned stood up, clearing his throat, searching for a way to escape. Peter could see the flight response in his eyes. “MJ has been all we’ve been talking about for the past two days.”
“No, you’ve been avoiding all of my questions. What aren’t you telling me?”
Ned glanced down the hall, chuckling. “You know, I think I dropped my study guide down the hall.” He tried to slip past Peter. Peter caught him by the arm, the momentum swinging them around. Somewhere behind them Flash made some lame joke about them dancing together.
Peter, hand clasped around Ned’s arm, begged him silently to talk to him. “Look, it sucks that you and MJ didn’t tell me about your relationship. I thought we were friends and you guys have totally shut me out and it’s seriously freaking me out. I just want to know what’s going on. Please, just, don’t shut me out.” Peter let his hand drop from Ned’s arm, too tired to fight the crush of desertion as he spoke what had been boiling under the surface for days.
There was a moment of silence, of understanding between the two. Ned was the first to break it, a sharp breath sucked in before he spoke. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” A smile stretched across Ned’s lips. Not the reaction Peter was expecting. “You’re totally digging MJ.”
“What? No. That’s not what’s—No. I’m not into—She’s your girlfriend. That’s just—” It just wasn’t true. MJ was his friend, just a friend. So, what if she had incredible hair, or soothing eyes? And, yeah, maybe he loved it when she watched Star Wars with him and her arm touched his just slightly, but Peter definitely didn’t love her. Peter didn’t love how when she looked into his eyes it was like he had never known loneliness. He, for sure, didn’t love that when she sang under her breath she captured the world’s attention with her melody. He didn’t think it was amazing that her hard exterior could handle anything the world threw at her, and it definitely wasn’t his favorite thing about her. Peter didn’t love Michelle, didn’t like her in any way beyond a platonic kinship. There was no way he had feelings for his sharp, sarcastic, and intelligently annoying friend. No way that he secretly loved that her style was a kaleidoscope of weirdness, or when her hair was secured to her head or floated around in natural coils. There was just no possible way that Peter felt that way about Michelle Jones.
“Peter, you’re awesome and all, but sometimes you’re actually really stupid.” Ned’s words broke Peter from his stupor. Ned was only smirking at him, no signs of betrayal that his best friend liked his girlfriend. Suddenly the anxiety, the fire in Peter’s chest, made so much more sense. The light bulb flickered on. Peter felt the realization crash into him. The circuitry in his brain fired and sparked. “Oh, dear god.” He tried to gauge Ned’s response. “I’m—I think... What am I gonna tell Gwen? Oh god, Ned, I’m so sorry.” He was frantically gesturing, as though to show just how sorry he was.
Ned reassured him with a calming smile. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal? You’re dating MJ. How is this not a big deal to you?”
Sighing, Ned rolled his eyes. “Dude, did it ever occur to you that maybe MJ and I aren’t dating?”
Peter stopped. “No, Ned. That was not something that crossed my mind.” Peter kept his voice level, but his brain was raging. “Wha—why would she say you guys are a couple then?”
Ned waved down the hallway, a smile breaking on his face. “Hey, MJ.” Peter jerked his head over to look. Walking down the hall, the light from the windows dancing across one side of her face, was MJ. Her teeth bit aggressively into the apple in her hand, and she raised her brows in greeting. “Maybe, she just wanted people to stop asking so many questions.” Ned answered under his breath as she approached.
“Alright Losers,�� MJ said as she pulled open the door to the practice room. “Let’s hit the drills one last time. We’ve got three hours before we need to check in.”
Mr. Harrington, who had been awaiting MJ outside the practice room with everyone else, sighed. “Michelle, how many times do I have to tell you not to address the team as ‘Losers’.”
Ned pushed the still miffed Peter into the room after the rest of the team. Peter glimpsed MJ moving the table around and setting up the chairs on one side. “It’s just a simple team motivation strategy, Mr. Harrington. Makes them work harder.” She shot him an innocent smile and Peter thought maybe the room had exploded. There was no excuse as to why it took him so long to notice how his fingers and toes seemed to tingle around MJ, or how her smile caused his chest to swell.
“Bro, pull yourself together. Stop staring before it gets weird.” Ned hissed in his ear.
Peter blinked a few times, effectively cutting off his wandering thoughts. “MJ, do you think—”
“Alexa, you’re going to be put in for the competition. Justin can’t make it.” MJ’s eyes were focused on the study sheet in her hands. She marked something on the paper before shoving the pen behind her ear.
Flash scoffed. “Are you serious, Michelle? She’s brand new. I’ve been on the team for a year.”
Scowling, MJ turned to look at Flash. “Maybe it's because I don’t want to screw this up. You’ve never answered a single question during competition. And what you do answer during practice is wrong half the time.”
Flash started complaining to Mr. Harrington.
Peter turned to Ned. “Why is she still so pissed at me? You said she talked to you.”
“I told you, I can’t tell you.” Ned shrugged off his bag. “Just try talking to her yourself.”
Laughing quietly, Peter dropped his own bag to the floor. “Right, I never thought about that. How silly of me.” His eyes were murderous. Ned only shrugged before taking his seat at the table.
“The next person to talk is going to end up with a leather boot up their ass.” MJ wasn’t looking at Peter, but he snapped his jaw shut nevertheless. Peter plopped in next to Ned, shooting daggers his way.
From his chair behind MJ, Mr. Harrington let out a long, tired sigh. “Michelle, no threatening the team, and please watch your language.”
“Sorry,” She cleared her throat, readying her papers. “Alright. Economics. If the money multiplier equals eight, the reserve ratio equals?”
……………………………………………………………………..
Quarter to one o’clock, the team started to get ready to head backstage. Everyone was placing their cell phones and study guides into their bags, some of them sliding back into their bright yellow coats. Peter slid past Ned and dropped his sheet and phone into his bag.
MJ was marking something else on her study guide in the spot she’d been standing throughout the practice. When she placed the pen between her teeth, folding the paper neatly, Peter lightly pushed her by the small of her back out of the room.
“What the hell?” When they were in the hallway, tucked away in a classroom doorway, she elbowed his hand off her back.
Her glare was piercing, but Peter’s was growing with intensity too. The burning anxiousness that had been creating hopeless ash over the past two days burst into anger. “I could ask you the same thing.” His voice hissed, his words a snake, leaking the venom that had been shut inside him for days. He stepped closer, eyes just barely having to glare up at her. If she were barefoot she’d be the same height as him, but her clunky boots always gave her the advantage. “You’ve been ignoring me for days. I’ve tried to talk to you and you didn’t listen. I’ve been worried. You can’t—” Peter managed a strangled breath, pushing back down the words he couldn’t say. The words that showed Peter Parker couldn’t handle three days of being ignored by her because he felt abandoned. Instead, he averted his eyes, trying to come up with the right words. “I’m sorry about the movie night. Gwen pushed and so did I, and you’re right, it’s nobody’s business. I was just curious who you liked, and when Gwen started asking about you and Ned. I thought you guys were a couple and didn’t tell me. I never wanted to make you so upset, but I just—I can’t keep wondering if you hate me over this. If you want to flush a year long friendship down the toilet because of one mistake that’s your decision, but I don’t agree with you on that. You just mean—”
“Peter, calm down.” Her voice, smooth, with just enough edge, brought him back. He realized he hadn’t really been seeing anything at all until her eyes enveloped his vision. The steady, unwavering, gaze that he’d been striving to connect with for days was now focused solely on him. Her hand reached over and gently squeezed his wrist, spreading a cool warmth up his arm. The feeling of desolation—of being the boy stuck forever in the prison of a room—was fading, floating away into the wind. “I’m not angry.” She still wore her dissociation from the world like a mask on her face, but it was just a mask. Peter could see the emotion brimming in her eyes. The guilt. “I was embarrassed. Really embarrassed, about letting everything boil over like that, and then yelling at you. I feel so bad about it.” She was fiddling with the paper still clutched in her hands.
This was one of the few times Peter saw MJ lacking her hardened exterior. He could see the uncertainty washing over her face. There was even the slightest blush kissing her nose and cheeks.
Peter crushed her into an embrace, his chin resting perfectly on the curve of her shoulder. Her body froze. In all the time Peter knew MJ, he couldn’t remember a time when they’d ever hugged. “I was so worried you’d never talk to me again.” MJ’s heart was beating against his chest and it was the most wonderful thing he’d experienced in his life. It was home. “Next time,” He spoke into her hair, which smelled like lavender, “I’d rather you yell at me for three days than ignore me.” She laughed against his shoulder, just a chuckle, but he felt it soothing the barbed knot that had been tightening in his throat.
“Fair enough, Loser.” When her slender arms wound around his shoulders, he was no longer grounded to the earth. He was grounded to her.
“Peter?” He knew the voice. He broke away from MJ, and if there had been a sound of their embrace breaking, it would’ve been a booming crack.
There Gwen stood, dressed in her Student Council sweater and a flowing tulle skirt that was the same cream color as her hair. Her eyes shot between Peter and MJ, calculating. “Gwen, hey. Uhm, MJ and I were just having a friendship moment there.” Guilt was clawing his stomach to shreds. He wasn’t planning on breaking up with her until after Prom. He wasn’t going to be the heartless dick who broke up with her a week before the biggest dance of the year.
Gwen smiled, her teeth perfectly straight and white against the peach coloring of her lips. Peter sensed no malice behind her smile. “I’m glad you guys made up.” She motioned her head down the hall, her fingers folding into both her pockets. “But the decathlon is about to start, and I’ve been tasked to come find you. So, you might want to book it in there.”
MJ stuffed the paper in her pocket. She glanced at the clock above the lockers on the opposite wall. It was five to one. “Oh, Shit!” MJ was already sprinting down the hall.
Gwen, with her hands hidden in her sweater, her smile turned into a sweet grin. The smallest drop of sadness in her eyes. Peter stepped toward her, reaching out. He wanted to explain, tell her that he didn’t know this would happen, that he didn’t want to hurt her. “Gwen—”
“It’s ok, Peter. We’ll talk later.” She bumped her shoulder against his, that same wonderfully kind smile was still on her lips. In a way, he wished she’d just be angry with him, her kindness was making him feel worse. “Now go. You’ve got a competition to win.”
…………………….
“We are now entering sudden death. The next team to answer this question correctly will win the District Competition and advance to Regionals this June.” The host of the decathlon presented a showy smile to each side, gesturing with a manicured hand to the small trophy the winning team would receive as a physical prize.
Peter shifted in his seat, setting his elbows on the table. There were bells placed in front of each of the twelve participants. Six on each team. Everyone was gearing up for the question. “Alright, here is our final question of the night!” Each person on both tables leaned forward just the slightest bit. “This is an Economics question. The question is: If the money multiplier equals eight, the reserve ratio equals?”
MJ’s hand slammed down on the buzzer. “Midtown Tech?”
Peter couldn’t believe their luck. The question was exactly how they’d studied it during practice. Mr. Harrington had even mentioned that the money multiplier wasn’t mentioned in depth in the practice guides and studying it wasn’t crucial.
MJ shrugged, turned her head towards the official, and Peter could see the slightest twitch of her lip. There was the glimmer of pride in her eye. He could see how much this meant to her. “Twelve-point-five percent.”
There was a drawn-out silence. The entire team knew they’d won, they were all trying to keep their excitement to a minimum until it was officially announced. Peter clasped Ned and MJ’s hands under the table. “Midtown Tech has won the District Division!” The team immediately ruptured into shouts and chants. Peter swept MJ out of her seat and hugged her. The entire team joining in. He could feel her quiet laughter bubbling over everyone’s happy shouts. Her beaming smile was pressed against Peter’s neck. Out in the crowd somewhere, Peter could distinctly hear May screaming over the applause.
The group-hug lasted only a few seconds more before the team broke off. They all collectively walked over to shake the other team’s hands. A particularly greasy looking kid gave MJ more of a sneer than a polite smile. Her face remained cold as ever, but it didn’t stop Peter from glowering at the kid when he shook his hand.
Before Peter could even reach the next person, the kid called over the official. The crowd was still cheering, Ned was pushing at Peter to move, but something bad was about to happen. He could feel the tingle rushing over his arms, up his neck. When the official arrived at the boy, Peter perked his ears up. Pushing away Ned’s jabbing hands, Peter shushed Ned as the official leaned his ear to the boy’s mouth.
Peter picked up the conversation easily, it was second nature by this point. “Sir, I don’t mean to be a poor loser. But, I’m only concerned about Midtown Tech’s captain.” Peter’s eyes shot over to MJ, she was shaking the last person’s hand, starting to move toward the edge of the stage. “Sir, I only noticed that she has a paper sticking out of her pocket, I was concerned that it was possibly a guide or quiz answers. I found it suspicious she knew so quickly the final question after my team had only begun working it out.” Peter’s heart stopped. As the kid had said, there was a folded sheet of paper barely sticking out of MJ’s back pocket. It had been hidden up until this point by her decathlon jacket. When they’d all hugged her, it must have pushed her jacket behind the paper. Peter knew with absolute certainty MJ had no idea it was still there.
With a few words into a walkie-talkie, the official called for MJ to be taken aside. Peter had managed five swift steps towards her, but she was already to the edge of the stage, just out of his reach, when a security guard pulled her off to the side. Mr. Harrington arrived beside her just before Peter did. “Miss, we’re going to have to ask to see your pockets.”
Mr. Harrington interjected, “What’s this all about?” He shoved the glasses back up his nose, his eyes carrying over the officer.
“Sir, your student has been accused of cheating—”
“What?” MJ’s arms swung out, nearly elbowing Peter’s gut, before she folded them firmly across her chest. Peter attempted to slip his hand into her pocket, just enough to grab the paper and store it in his own jacket.
“Sir,” The officer’s tone was unyielding, and Peter’s head snapped up. His fingers were inches from the paper, but the officer was right there, his eyes clearly staring at the little corner of white peeking out of MJ’s forest-green jeans. “I see what you’re trying to do, and you need to back away.”
MJ twisted her head around, her glare finding Peter’s fingers inches from her bottom, and inches from the paper in her pocket. Her indifference broke so thoroughly, so quickly, Peter felt like he’d been gut punched. Stoic and unbreakable as MJ was, it was like crushing diamonds when her eyes burned out. The flicker of fire in them giving way to dread.
“It’s mine!” The confession was easy. He needed to save MJ from that look plastered on her face, from the thing inside her that was causing her eyes to dim so drastically. He could save her from it. Peter knew he could. He stepped in front of her. Looking the officer dead in the eye and lied. “It’s mine, I was planting it on her.” Four pointed knuckles jabbed into Peter’s back, He shot MJ a hard glare over his shoulder, urging her not to intervene.
The officer crossed his arms, unconvinced. “Why would you sabotage your own team member?”
The entire team was starting to circle around. Mr. Harrington was trying his best to push them back, as well as get a word in with the officer. Peter spoke over him. “I, uh—hate her. I’d rather see the whole team go down than have her win for us.”
The officer swept Peter out of the way. “Look, kid, I really don’t have time for heroics. Come on, Miss.” MJ stepped up to the officer, oozing broken confidence, and pulled out the paper in her back pocket. Her fingers dropped it into the officer’s hand.
An official showed up, talking over the radio. Midtown’s principal trailed behind. “Is this her?” The official asked. The officer nodded, and before Peter could get another word in, they were taking MJ away with Mr. Harrington in tow.
The entire team converged on Peter. Flash was grasping their newly won trophy like an idiot. “Parker. What just happened?”
The anger was tinting his world red, he wanted to punch that sniveling kid who’d ratted on MJ. He looked over. The kid was gone. Flash was the only asshole available. “Put down the trophy, Flash. You didn’t even compete, you look like an idiot.”
Flash’s chest puffed out, his nostrils flared, and Peter was ready to aim his fist right at them. “Say that again, Penis. I dare you.” Flash growled.
All Peter needed to do was cock his fist back and let it fly. He got as far as snapping his back his fist before two small hands were pulling his arm down. Two more arms were holding him back. Ned was yelling in his ear to leave Flash alone, that he wasn’t worth it.
“You’re so fucking full of yourself!” Years of pent up anger, of swallowed pride, was bursting from Peter at the seams. Ned was dragging him back with the help of the mystery hands. Abe was grasping with all his might to keep Flash from launching at Peter.
When the stage door closed and there was nothing but the silence of the hallway and the shimmering light of the evening sun filtering through the glass, Peter finally shrugged Ned off.
“Dude, what was that?” Peter turned to Ned and could only stare at the scrape on the peak of Ned’s cheekbone.
“Where did—? Ned, did I do that?” A rush of shame hit him. He’d hit his best friend. He’d lost his temper.
Ned touched his cheek lightly, checking for blood. “It’s not a big deal, Peter. You just bumped me.” He smiled, as if that would fix Peter’s impending guilt.
“Peter, what’s going on? What was that?” Gwen stepped out of nowhere, Peter assumed she’d been the other set of hands pulling him back. He rapidly checked her for any bruises, but she seemed fine. Her ponytail was now slightly askew.
The hum in Peter’s bones, the memory of MJ’s face, crippled him. His back smacked against the wall and he sunk. The ground smacked his bottom hard, his head fell between his hands. “They think MJ cheated. When I talked to her before we went in, I’d grabbed her before she put her study guide away. We had to run to get in the gym on time and she must’ve put it in her pocket without thinking.” He sighed. “They could expel her.”
“I don’t think they’d expel her. She’s an amazing captain and she’s got amazing grades. There’s no way they’ll expel her for cheating. She didn’t even cheat, we both sat by her, there’s no way she cheated.”
Peter knocked his head back against the bricks of the wall. “May’s probably wondering what’s going on. Why she hasn’t seen us yet.” Peter stood, ready to go seek her out and explain what’s been going on.
Gwen helped him up, worry etched into her brows. “Ned, maybe you could go get Peter’s aunt and then meet us by the principal's office? That’s probably where they took MJ. Is that ok, Peter?”
Peter could only stare for a long moment. Gwen was a gorgeous and wonderful person. He could only hope that she found a guy that deserved her. “Yeah, that works.” Ned headed off down the hallway, leaving Gwen and Peter alone.
Peter risked a glance at Gwen. He knew the conversation was coming, and he had no idea how to broach it.
The subject was addressed by Gwen right away. “You love her, don’t you?” There was a long spell where she gave Peter the time to find his words. None of the words or sentences he could think of would do. He didn’t even know if he loved MJ, but he sure knew that he liked her a lot. After a reasonable amount of Peter’s floundering jaw, Gwen cut in again, her voice sweet and calm. Her hands were tucked into her yellow student council sweater yet again. “You do, even if you don’t want to admit it. I have a good eye for these types of things, always have.” Her smile was small, understanding, and he ducked her head down. The fine hairs on her ponytail hovered in the minuscule breeze walking created. “I know this isn’t the time to bring this up, but were you going to tell me?”
Peter finally swallowed his tongue and managed to find some words. “Yes. I mean, I only figured it out today—that I like her. I was going to tell you as soon as I could, though. But I didn’t want to tell you before Prom and ruin it for you. I asked you and I still want you to have a good time, it’s just—”
“I’m just not the person you want to be with the most.” She shrugged. “I’m not going to say I’m not upset. I do like you, Peter. You’re very kind and funny, but I’m sure that this won’t hurt for too long.” Peter cocked an eyebrow. She laughed. “You know what I mean. We’ve barely started this,” She motioned between the two of them. “Thing.”
Peter laughed this time. “I really am sorry. I didn’t want you not to have a date for Prom.”
“Oh, I’ll have a date. You can’t get out that easy, Parker. I’d love to go as friends, if you’re not set on dumping me completely, that is.” She bumped her shoulder into his, stopping outside of the darkened front office. Peter could see a sliver of light under the door.
He took a glance away from the door and smiled at Gwen. Her eyes were soft, if a little sad, but in all she looked okay. “Nope. I’d be honored to take you out.” Gwen smiled back at him. She wrapped an arm around Peter’s bicep. It was comfortably platonic and did well to help calm the anxieties rearing their ugly heads.
There was a door between MJ and himself. He could be doing so much more to help her, but he was stuck on the wrong side of the door.
When Aunt May and Ned showed up, they had half the team in tow. They’d ended up camped outside of the office, waiting. The afternoon light turned into the blue ashy color of twilight. May had been trying to get ahold of MJ’s mom, but it repeatedly went to voicemail every time. Peter mentioned that MJ had said last week that her mom was going to be out of the country on business. May left multiple voicemails and text messages just to be safe.
By the time the lights flicked on in the hallway, Cindy’s head was on Alexa’s lap and her feet in Abe’s. Ned had placed both MJ’s and his bag beside him against the wall. He was going through his phone to pass the time. Gwen had also stayed, her head resting against Peter’s shoulder as she to scrolled through her phone. Seeing how she switched her position every ten or so minutes, Peter realized he was nothing more than a more comfortable cushion than the wall.
May checked her watch. “They’ve been in there for a while.” She eyed Peter with a sly smile. “You think she’s putting up a fight?”
“If she didn’t I’d be worried.” Peter said. The light under the office door flickered. Flickered again.
May’s smile turned into a retrospective, prideful one. “That’s my girl.”
Then Peter could see people through the glass. He bolted up, Gwen and Ned following soon after. The decathlon official, with her curly red hair and snug high-waisted khakis, emerged first, casting a curious look towards the group of kids sprawled on the floor. The officer then emerged, followed by Mr. Harrington. May shot over to Mr. Harrington instantly. They began talking in hushed whispers, as was common with adults in situations like this.
MJ snuck around Mr. Harrington, her eyes never rising from the floor. Peter couldn’t see the brown of them beyond her bangs. He took a small step forward, before Gwen grabbed his wrist. So lightly that only he could hear, Gwen whispered. “I don’t know her like you do, but she doesn’t look like she wants to talk right now.”
Peter was just about to discount what Gwen had said until MJ’s eyes finally, painfully slowly, dragged up to meet Peter’s. The blood in his veins came to a complete halt, he felt the impact deep in his chest, piercing the place where everyone he cared about was kept.
Michelle Jones was crying.
Her eyes were puffy, red, and even as she looked at him a tear skidded down her cheek, crashing into her lips. Her throat visibly contracted. Her eyes bounced between Ned and Peter, Peter and Gwen.
Peter had no idea what had happened, what had gone so wrong as to cause MJ to cry. He never thought God himself could make MJ cry. It just wasn’t possible.
“MJ—” He reached out, ready to catch her, wanting desperately to heal her. “What happened?”
His only answer was the quiet shake of her eye as she averted her eyes once more and walked down the hallway. Everything was silent. May had halted her conversation, eyes raking over MJ, just as shocked as the others.
Ned called after her so did Peter, neither one knowing if they should run after her or not. She disappeared around the corner, looking like a specter floating aimlessly away. “What do we do?” Ned asked the question, Peter needed the answer. He was so close to running after her, he would have if the shock of what just happened hadn’t immobilized him.
May stepped between the boys, her eyes never leaving the corner MJ had disappeared behind. “You don’t do anything right now. I’ll go talk to her, see what I can do.”
Neither boys argued, they merely watched as May disappeared around the corner after MJ.
Taglist: @themainek @monikastec @psychicrunawaybouquet-aus @avengers-gonna-avenge @nerdofthehighestcalibre @itsrockannelove @ladybugrodriguez @you-guys--are-losers @princessechahrazad @whydoineedtowriteanamehere
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#spiderman#spider-man: homecoming#spider-man#spiderman/michelle#spiderman infinity war#michelle jones#peter parker#ned leeds#peter/michelle#peter/mj#michelle/peter#michelle jones/ peter parker#the-adorable-spiderman hair fanfic#the-adorable-spiderman hair story#chapter 3#ash#mcu#marvel mcu#marvel spiderman#marvel fandom#marvel fanfiction#spideychelle#spideychelle fanfic#mcu fanfiction#spiderman fanfiction#spiderman fandom#fanfiction#f/m#michelle&ned&peter friendship#gwen stacy
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Personal big (like really big [I’m not kidding it got way bigger than I thought it would be{LIKE REALLY BIG}] jesus christ I had no idea) text thingy... thing
I think this doesn’t work on mobile but well anyway.
Last night I thought about some stuff and I was gonna write about that but eh that mood is gone. Also disclaimer: as I write this I’m not like sad or anything or uhh well I do have a headache after playing Xenoblade Chronicles 2 for HOURS but anyway.
So like uhh 2 days ago I was home alone for the night and I was gonna play Xenoblade (which I’m gonna call XC2 if I ever mention it again) in the living room. But here’s the thing:
2 years ago or so, during New Year’s eve, I was also alone in another house because me and my family were on a trip. That night some people threw a rock at one window and got inside and stole some bags, electronics and my laptop. My two dogs were right by the stairs and I was upstairs in the bathroom. When I first heard the sound I assumed it came from the street because well maybe someone dropped a bottle or something. But then my dog started barking endlessly and I knew what that meant. What my parents had been warning me about for years had finally happened. The bathroom door was unlocked and I had no way to lock it at the time. My phone just couldn’t call any number, I was completely torn between being quiet or risking making noise and attracting attention. I don’t wanna talk about this anymore so well they didn’t beat me up or anything but they did almost opened the door and probably gave up and left.
So yeah my parents, especially my mom, are always bringing up the possibility of someone invading our house like it’s something that can happen at any given time. And when they go out I get anxious and just hope my dog won’t bark. Two days ago there was something bothering him and he did bark for a bit and I just froze until I could really do anything again and enjoy the game.
But uhh this text isn’t actually about that night. It’s about what that night reminded me. Something that I always remind myself. Yes it looks like I’m building up to something but well I’m not really I just- well anyway.
I’m always constantly reminding myself that I have always felt completely alone throughout my entire life. (Ok this is was like the main thing of the thing that I was gonna write last night but anyway) Today I recently reblogged a post about uhh toxic people and such? You know the one with the ✌️ tags.
Ok so if you skipped everything because it was too much please start reading from here if ya- wait tbh this isn’t really for anyone it’s just me putting my thoughts out there lmao
So I’ve been going to therapy for a few months now and uhhh like I started being active (as in like uhh sending asks and stuff and stuff) on Tumblr like maybe 3 or 4 months ago? And I’ve been on this hellsite for like 5 years I think. I was like super anxious to make some friends because at the time I really had like one friend and someone else to talk to but didn’t really consider a friend because idk low self esteem I guess and they didn’t really talk to me a lot so well anyway. I saw this post that said something like “if you wanna be friends with me don’t say hi or whatever just say something and I’ll be interested” and that post made me think that tactic would work with anyone.
It didn’t. (Damn that was kinda dramatic and shit lmao) Okay so I have this really annoying thing with being ignored because it makes me anxious and makes me think I’m boring and such. But yeah I tried talking to some people and tbh? I’m gonna start sounding like a bitch now but I felt like I was cutting off my arm to get a nail in return. That’s a terrible analogy but that’s the one I came up with.
I was often left on read or just straight up ignored and I still tried and still got hurt. I even reblogged an ask meme and like I BEGGED for asks when I was like really feeling down and nobody sent me anything. (Like for real I was like “please someone send me an ask I’m not ok” or something) (if you read that and still ignored it honestly fuck you) (yeah that sounds bitch-y and entitled-y but honestly fuck you) (ok I just wanted to let off some steam because that shit wasn’t cool) (but yeah I don’t wish ill on whoever ignored it) (IF someone ignored it) (btw these are like post-text) (sorry) That led to lots of frustration and wastes of time but now I’m a lot more at peace with things and such and now I’m finally gonna get to the point of this big ass text.
Honestly? I got here by myself. I realized many things in just a few months. Mind you I’ve been dealing with anxiety and depression for years now and I can honestly say that I was the only person there for myself. I still feel very much alone but now I feel like it’s everyone else’s loss? I realized that I am funny, creative, nice, smart, I ran out of adjectives but you get the point. Sure, people along the way said those things to me but I never believed anyone. But then, out of spite, months ago I just decided to tell myself that and make myself believe that. Because I spent a long time telling myself the exact opposite. Honestly if you’re getting what I’m saying at this point I applaud you because I’m not gonna proof read any of this sorry it’s just too damn long holy jesus.
OK SO I THINK I NEED TO WRAP THIS UP. Thing is: I’m such a strong person in a way? I mean physically I’m weak af because my diet is not good at all. But ok so I like dropping analogies for no reason so here’s another one:
I was in a deep well, y’know like uhh imagine Samara in The Ring, but instead of being pulled out with a uhhhhhh rope I think? It’s been a long time since I’ve watched that movie but yeah I climbed miles and miles by myself. Sure, some bricks were there for me to honestly I lost myself in my own analog rip.
tl:dr: I’m an awesome person who deserves a lot more than I get and really should learn how to write shorter texts. I hope I achieve my really old dead broken dream in the future. Because this guy here deserves it. (I’m the guy if you didn’t- well it sounds condescending I’m sorry but I just wanna be clear here)
tbh y’all should try confidence, it helps
(ok I’m not really confident about myself but being fake confident helps me get more confident? pls shoot me for this last sentence)
#personal#like really personal#long post#LIKE REALLY LONG#If you're on mobile I#DO NOT APOLOGIZE BITCH LMAO#ok sorry I do apologize for the length but not for the things I wrote#also I spent like a couple of days being really passive aggresive in tags it was so dumb lmao#OK BUT LIKE GREEN LIGHT STARTED PLAYING WHEN I WAS FINISHING THE TEXT AND CHRIST I LOVE LORDE#she saved my entire existence tbh
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the ghost of a sword
Some words regarding the stories collected in this volume:
BARTLEBY THE SCRIVENER
I’m sure that nobody could have predicted that a stage in the afterlife of poor Bartleby would be to become a semi-niche meme amongst literary millennials. You can buy t-shirts and coffee mugs with ‘I would prefer not to’ on; it seems unlikely that most other characters from Melville’s other fiction could become currency in the same way. I don’t have any particular problem with this but it does mean the story now comes with baggage which is at least worth unpacking before we dispose of it altogether.
Something of its popularity has to do with its form: it’s a short existential comedy about a strange man who will never leave his office; it is not a million miles from the bits of Kafka that everyone knows about, and it’s not far removed from Seinfeld either. It is funny, and it’s accessible. It’s about work. It’s about the opposite of the ambition we are all supposed to nurture. It’s about a certain kind of resignation which is not felt in terms of surrender but in terms of safety. If you ever find yourself in a job you don’t especially like, but which you find it impossible to leave, you will find something to enjoy here.
In this regard the story has broad appeal, just as it was intended to have: Melville originally wrote it for a magazine to make money after the critical and commercial failure of Moby-Dick, and in terms of his prose it at least has the vibe of a straightforward story, simply told. But ‘simply told’ does not necessarily equate to ‘simple’. The narrator is an intelligent man, an elderly lawyer; worldly as far as his profession is concerned, but entirely lacking in imaginative faculties. His flustered incomprehension at Bartleby’s permanent state of reluctance is entertaining on the level of a bewildered boss in a sitcom. But more troubling is the total absence of any other perspective.
A different narrator — Ishmael, perhaps — would know the questions to ask of a Bartleby. And he would know the limit of any such questions. He would take an axe to his skull if necessary. But in this instance, there is no such room for deliberation. The narrator’s concern for his welfare is contemptible and founded in self-interest: ‘…to humor him in his strange willfulness, will cost me little or nothing, while I lay up in my soul what will eventually prove a sweet morsel for my conscience.’
As it turns out he will not even have the patience to humour him for very long. Self-abnegation is not a viable strategy in the modern world, not even for those as monastic in their habits as Bartleby. It enrages others when it comes to their attention.
We are supposed to find a certain relentless horror in the repetition of this image: a man alone, facing a window day after day behind which there is nothing to see; a man going slowly blind. It is the horror of the condition of the worker who willingly gives up space in his brain to accommodate the capital of his employer. But it’s also the horror of his employer who can only see before him a machine gone wrong.
There is something perpetually inscrutable about almost everything Melville ever wrote. This extends even to the popular conception of him: the title alone of Moby-Dick has become shorthand in public life for the great unreadable novel. But Bartleby the Scrivener is a story about the human cost of becoming unreadable. Presenteeism will not do; it is not enough to show up, and technical mastery will not suffice, in any vocation; if one cannot (or ‘would prefer not to’) perform the requisite emotional labour required to engender human empathy, one's presence can only ever be a net loss on society. The only rational action remaining is to erase oneself entirely from the world, or to allow oneself to be erased.
COCK A DOODLE DOO!
Talk about relentless: this is a tale with all the pace and vigour of the steam trains the author so deplores in the first few pages. Part picaresque, part parody of Wordsworth, it’s a bizarre story about a man who becomes preoccupied with the crowing of a local cockerel. With all the clear-eyed obsession of a character from Poe, he sets out to find it, and its owner.
(Wikipedia gives an uncited description of this as: ‘one of Melville's experiments in utilizing sexually explicit metaphors, in an effort to challenge what Melville saw as a culture of sexual repression and the subjugation of women in contemporary America’. If this is the case then I missed it entirely.)
It starts out like a stand up comedy routine. The words come in long, rampaging paragraphs, along the lines of Sterne (who the narrator sits down and reads at one point). Our man is much too busy pronouncing on the state of the world to much care about the debt collector lingering at his door. From time to time appears something that looks like an allegory — the old farmer struggling to repair his swaying fence that rests on rotten pins — but until he finds his cockerel, the story cannot settle.
He has to follow the voice of the cockerel to its source. And what he finds there is terrible: a man who has forsaken his wife and children in favour of worshipping his cock. He lives in a poor shack, and while dedicated to his pursuits, he seems utterly deluded about the state of his existence:
‘Poor man like me? Why call me poor? Don’t the cock I own glorify this otherwise inglorious, lean, lantern-jawed land? Didn’t my cock encourage you? And I give all this glorification away gratis. I am a great philanthropist. I am a rich man — a very rich man, and a very happy one.’
Much the same might we find amongst the bios of certain wags on Twitter. This one has pursued his artistic vision to the extent that it has required him to forego every other part of his life. Is the world grateful? They are not. Only he and this other man, our narrator, recognise the greatness in his crowing. He is probably some kind of monster. But it does not follow that he is wrong, either.
THE ENCANTADAS
When Melville served on a whaling vessel, he visited the Galapagos islands on board the Acushnet. Many years later, his experiences there formed the basis for this series of ten sketches. He does not paint an especially alluring picture; but then he did jump ship, and spend many days and nights living off the land before he mustered up the courage to approach the locals.
Still, one might think it a little strong to describe these islands as if they were an image of evil ‘glued into the very body of cadaverous death’. It is far removed from the sort of travel writing he wrote when he was younger: the author now seems bent on conveying the absolute seriousness of his tone through his insistence on the dearth of mammalian life on the island.
There are only reptiles in sight — and the tortoises, with which he develops an obsession:
‘Nay, such is the vividness of my memory, or the magic of my fancy, that I know not whether I am not the occasional victim of optical delusion concerning the Gallipagos. For, often in scenes of social merriment, and especially at revels held by candlelight in old-fashioned mansions, so that shadows are thrown into the further recesses of an angular and spacious room, making them put on a look of haunted undergrowth of lonely woods, I have drawn the attention of my comrades by my fixed gaze and sudden change of air, as I have seemed to see, slowly emerging from those imagined solitudes, and heavily crawling along the floor, the ghost of a gigantic tortoise, with " Memento * * * * * " burning in live letters upon his back.’
Nobody would set a story in such a place if they did not wish to make a point about something. But as ever, Melville’s intentions remain elusive. The sketches vary wildly: one describes the ascent of a local rock, describing the birds that live on it in accumulating layers; another the ascent of that same rock and how it and the islands came to be discovered and named; all conventional stuff, prettily written. But the stories get progressively more strange.
Sailors escape in the Encantadas and make it their home. One sets up a sort of buccaneer rule there, keeping a rough sort of order by the pack of vicious dogs he breeds there. It’s a rough sort of allegory for a nascent America, I suppose; needless to say they do not last long in Melville’s imagination. More durable is Hunilla, a woman left alone on one of the islands for years, after the sudden death of her husband and his friend. The book approaches the tragedy of her condition, and attempts a depiction, but it keeps a distance.
The implication is that she has suffered a profound kind of awfulness, and even the narrator doubts his ability to convey it, to the extent of interrupting himself mid-sentence:
‘Against my own purposes a pause descends upon me here. One knows not whether nature doth not impose some secrecy upon him who has been privy to certain things. At least, it is to be doubted whether it be good to blazon such. If some books are deemed most baneful and their sale forbid, how, then, with deadlier facts, not dreams of doting men? Those whom books will hurt will not be proof against events. Events, not books, should be forbid. But in all things man sows upon the wind, which bloweth just there whither it listeth; for ill or good, man cannot know. Often ill comes from the good, as good from ill.
‘When Hunilla—
‘Dire sight it is to see some silken beast long dally with a golden lizard ere she devour. More terrible, to see how feline Fate will sometimes dally with a human soul, and by a nameless magic make it repulse a sane despair with a hope which is but mad. Unwittingly I imp this cat-like thing, sporting with the heart of him who reads; for if he feel not he reads in vain.’
The doubt here is notable. As with many of his little stories, Melville borrowed Hunilla’s tale from the real story of a lone woman who was rescued from San Nicholas Island. And here he is, taking her story, adapting it and selling it for money. ‘Events, not books, should be forbid,’ is a disclaimer of sorts — a way of saying ‘don’t blame me for taking this story; in its common awfulness it belongs to humanity’. The extent to which this convinces may depend on the nature of the reader.
THE BELL TOWER
On a superficial level this is a gothic parable about the folly of ambition. But it is also a rather odd, half-developed allegory for race relations. This much is actually announced by the anonymous epigraph (from one of the author’s own manuscripts) that precedes it: ‘Like negroes, these powers own man sullenly; mindful of their higher master; while serving, plot revenge.’
It is set in Italy, sometime in the early Renaissance, a master architect named Bannadonna designs and builds a great tower — one of the tallest ever conceived. (In my mind it looks something like the Torre del Mangia in Sienna, though there are countless other campaniles that would serve just as well.) To cap it, he conceives of a system of clock and bells that functions in a unique fashion; he reveals to nobody how it will work, but those who have been near the top claim to hear a set of footsteps where no person should be at the top of the tower.
The end comes soon, and almost by accident; Bannadonna is putting the finishing touches to the artwork of the clock when he is killed. He had created an automaton from black iron to ring the bell — it so happened that the creator’s skull, distracted with creative thought, intervened between the hammer and bell.
It’s not dissimilar to the man preoccupied with the sound of his own cock in Cock-a-doodle-doo! but there’s something else going on here too. A certain inevitability: the feeling that Bannadonna must die, and that his tower must fall, is surely evident to the reader as soon as the comparison to Babel is mentioned on the very first page. But that death should come via a figure so fundamentally imbued with blackness suggests themes that Meville would explore in more depth and complexity in a later story…
BENITO CERENO
We are back at sea. It is a story told in retrospect by Delano, the captain of a whaling ship. They encounter an old Spanish man o’ war, apparently drifting in some distress. He visits and boards the ship and finds that it has been lately converted to carry slaves. But something seems odd, and Delano cannot quite put his finger on it. The slaves are not in chains but walk openly amongst the Spanish on deck; a group of them sit on the quarter-deck, forever sharpening hatchets; a black man is seen striking a white sailor in anger, and no punishment is issued. Cereno, the captain, seems inexplicably nervous, even in the presence of his favourite slave Babo. And why is he asking about the armaments carried on Delano’s own ship? Could these be pirates plotting some kind of assault on the whalers?
This tension is drawn out over what feels like a long reminiscence. To a reader it’s likely to be fairly evident what has happened, but Delano is fairly stupid, and has no idea until he tries to leave. While his crew are rowing him away, Cereno leaps from his own ship and into Delano’s boat. It is not until Babo pursues and tries to kill Cereno that Delano comes to realise what has happened: the Spanish ship has been taken over by the slaves, who are holding the Spanish crew captive so as to pass undetected.
It is this which creates the uncanny atmosphere aboard the old ship. That atmosphere is perhaps the strongest aspect of the story, though as ever Melville’s style lays the sense of strangeness on thick at every opportunity. It is actually a tale taken from true life — the actual memoirs of the real Captain Delano — but Melville adds a great deal of embellishment.
Most curious of all is an extended section following Delano’s first-person narrative that is written as if the text of a legal document: it explains in detail the circumstances leading up to the uprising of the slaves, but it also effectively exonerates the sailors of much of the responsibility. Needless to say it says next to nothing about the lives of the black people aboard the ship. Delano’s casual unreliability as a narrator is thus contrasted; here is a supposedly authentic, accurate record of experience that nevertheless clearly and deliberately omits a vast further range of experience that goes unspoken, unwritten for this story.
It’s a feeling elegantly underlined by the coda here. Melville puts Delano and Cereno together again in a scene now overlooked by an omniscient narrator. Delano is optimistic but Cereno is deeply melancholic:
‘You generalise, Don Benito; and mournfully enough. But the past is passed; why moralise upon it? Forget it. See, yon bright sun has forgotten it all, and the blue sea, and the blue sky; these have turned over new leaves.’ ‘Because they have no memory,’ he dejectedly replied; ‘because they are not human.’
Cereno’s sadness comes from his sense of dereliction of duty. But what Cereno does not understand is that the problem was the duty itself, not his failure to inhabit it:
‘…The dress, so precise and costly, worn by him on the day whose events have been narrated, had not willingly been put on. And that silver-mounted sword, apparent symbol of despotic command, was not, indeed, a sword, but the ghost of one. The scabbard, artificially stiffened, was empty…’
‘Artificially stiffened’ would be an adequate way to describe the pages and pages of legalese that follow Delano’s narrative. Sincere to the end, on the other hand, is the character of Babo - if that is even his name. ‘On the testimony of the sailors alone rested the legal identity of Babo’. He is silent when questioned; when placed before the judge, he faints. He is a person turned into a fiction enabled by slavery. The human being behind that character has been erased by the process of history.
BILLY BUDD
It is odd that this novella should find its way into this volume at all. All the stories written above were originally written for magazines and published in a collection called Piazza Tales in 1856. After that, there would be another novel (The Confidence Man) and various poems, but very little in the way of critical or financial success. Eventually Melville gave up writing full time altogether. In 1866 he became a customs inspector, a job which he held for some 19 years; apparently he was quite good at it. What he wrote in his free time he published privately in small quantities, or kept to himself — Billy Budd wasn’t discovered until after his death, and even then went unreleased until 1924.
It is, in its way, a simple story. Billy is a sailor who is pressed into the service of the British navy during the time of the Napoleonic wars. He is a beautiful creature, a likeable innocent — a sort of noble savage — who for no particular reason attracts the attention of Claggart, the master-at-arms. Claggart comes to hate Billy. In front of the captain, a man named Vere, Claggart accuses Billy of treasonous thoughts and deeds; in response, Billy hits Claggart, who dies. As a result, Vere sentences Billy to death, and Billy is executed by hanging.
In terms of action, there isn’t much too it. It is supposedly unfinished; yet Billy’s story has a beginning, a middle, and a very definitive end. All of this is divided over 30 very short chapters, some of which are as digressive and discursive as anything in Moby-Dick. The writing has all the old mystery but it feels like a work of late style — the characters don’t seem to animate as one would expect from a work of historical fiction (and it was historic even when it was written) but rather they feel like moral abstractions brought to life.
The author is trying to explain to the reader what life was like on a such a ship at the time; but he is also trying to say something about the way in which humanity orders its affairs; and these two things aren’t so carefully balanced here as they were in Moby-Dick. Yet as ever there is the same sense we always have in Meville of exhaustion, even impatience, with the limitations of the novelistic form.
The point is that Billy’s situation is inherently absurd. He has been put in an impossible situation by the lies of a senior officer, and that officer is now dead. Vere is intelligent enough to see and understand all this quite well, but he also knows that in the interests of maintaining order on his ship (and throughout the fleet) Billy must be put to death. On the level of the individual, his execution is in nobody’s interest, but society demands it regardless.
The intent, I suppose, is that this is not only a story about the Navy but about the world at large. Belief in Billy’s fate is besides the point; we are only expected to recognise that this is the way the world works. From time to time it is necessary that a perfectly innocent person must suffer in order for the rest of the world to persist in the delusion that justice can be blind. Similarly, it was necessary to throw Bartleby in jail out of fear that we might all become Bartlebys. But at any distance of consideration it starts to look more like what it is: the sacrifice of one small man’s life to placate the shadow of a larger abstraction; an action born out of the fear that if overlooked, the abstraction might consume them all.
#books#herman melville#bartleby the scrivener#billy budd#the encantadas#benito cereno#the bell tower
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