Chapter Text
PETER
The elevator pinged, and Peter stepped out onto the street, the crisp evening air immediately threading through his jacket. His bag was slung over one shoulder, still faintly warm from the heat of the labs. He felt good. Tired, but good. There was a buoyancy in his step that he hadn’t had in a while.
Working under Dr. Richards had turned out to be everything he hoped it’d be. Maybe more.
Peter still hadn’t gotten used to being called a junior fellow—it sounded like something out of a Victorian novel—but Reed insisted on titles, and Peter wasn’t about to argue. He’d never felt so appreciated in a work environment before. Reed listened. He asked Peter for his opinion. He handed him equations and actually trusted him to find the flaws.
It was the kind of thing Peter had dreamed about when he first applied to Empire State. It felt… like momentum. Like maybe, finally, things were starting to click into place.
He ducked into the subway station, thumb already flying across his phone screen.
He texted Bobby.
Hey are you home? want me to pick anything up for dinner?
He hit send, tucked his phone into his pocket, and boarded the train. The car was half-empty—an older couple speaking rapid Cantonese in the corner, a teenager nodding off with headphones around his neck. Peter leaned against the door, watching the city blur by through the scratched glass.
No reply.
Weird. Bobby was usually quick to text back, especially if food was involved. Maybe he was napping. Or out. Or…
Peter frowned.
When he got off and climbed the stairs to their walk-up, the sun had almost fully dipped below the skyline. Their apartment building looked the same as ever—cracked bricks, faded numbers, the comforting hum of someone’s bad saxophone skills echoing faintly from a nearby window.
But something was off.
He noticed it the second he opened the door.
Boxes.
Not many. But enough. Two stacked by the entryway, another near the kitchen counter. One still open, filled with neatly folded t-shirts and labeled “Winter Stuff.”
Peter blinked. “Bobby?”
“Hey,” came a voice from the hallway.
Bobby appeared, sheepish. He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking between Peter and the boxes.
“Sorry I didn’t text back. I was… dealing with this.”
Peter dropped his bag by the door. “You moving out?”
“Uh. Yeah. Kinda. Not permanently—I mean—can we sit?”
Peter followed him into the living room. Well, “living room” was generous. A loveseat, a circular coffee table they rescued off the curb last fall, and a 30-inch TV balanced precariously on a makeshift stand made from milk crates. It was home.
They sat.
Bobby took a breath. “Okay, so… at the beginning of the year, I applied to this super competitive business thing that offers a semester abroad in China. I didn’t say anything because I figured it was a long shot. But—”
“You got in,” Peter said.
“Not initially, just the waitlist but as of two days ago…I got in.”
Peter blinked. “Holy crap, Bobby, that’s amazing.”
Bobby relaxed a little. “Yeah?”
“Of course! That’s huge.”
Peter pulled him into a hug, and Bobby let out a breath of relief.
“I thought you’d be mad,” he said against Peter’s shoulder.
“Why would I be mad?”
“You know. Leaving you here. Alone.”
Peter pulled back. “Come on. I’m not a puppy. I’ll survive.”
“Still. It’s… soon.”
Peter tilted his head. “How soon is soon?”
Bobby grimaced. “A little over a week. I leave before the semester starts.”
Peter’s face fell. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Peter nodded slowly. He looked around their tiny apartment. It suddenly felt much smaller.
“I have to sell out my part of the lease,” Bobby added. “Or find someone to sublet, pay rent, and cover my portion of the insurance. I’ve already talked to the landlord. They’re cool with it as long as someone signs off.”
Peter chewed on the inside of his cheek. “You’re really doing this.”
“I really am.”
Peter offered a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Okay. Then we find someone.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
Peter stood and patted Bobby’s shoulder. “Sure I do. You’d do it for me.”
Bobby looked up at him. “Thanks, Pete.”
Peter gave him a quick grin before heading to the kitchen. “Now let’s order dinner. You owe me dumplings for emotional whiplash.”
Bobby chuckled but didn’t move from the loveseat. He watched Peter dig around in the drawer for the takeout menus.
“Hey,” he said after a pause. “You looked like you were gonna tell me something when you walked in.”
Peter glanced over his shoulder. “What?”
“Before you saw the boxes. You had that face.”
“I don’t have a face.”
“You do. The ‘I’ve been stewing on this subway ride and need to talk but won’t admit it’ face.”
Peter straightened, one hand on the fridge handle. “It’s nothing.”
Bobby raised a brow.
Peter sighed, closing the drawer. “Seriously, it’s fine. I don’t want to dull the vibe. You just dropped big news, and I’m really happy for you.”
Bobby crossed his arms. “Then let me return the favor. Dull the vibe. I’ll allow it, just this once.”
Peter leaned against the counter, chewing his lip.
“It’s… MJ,” he said eventually.
Bobby made a small noise of understanding. “Ah. Situationship still situating?”
Peter gave him a look. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not trying to be funny. I’m being honest. You guys have been stuck in the same loop for what, a year?”
Peter crossed his arms, looking down. “It’s just—she keeps saying she wants time. Space. But then she calls. Or shows up. And I keep thinking maybe that means something.”
Bobby shifted on the loveseat to face him fully. “Does it feel like she wants you? Or just doesn’t want you to move on?”
Peter didn’t answer.
“I’m not trying to be harsh,” Bobby said gently. “But I’m leaving soon, and I don’t want to go without saying this. You deserve better, Pete. You deserve someone who actually wants to be there. Who doesn’t make you feel like a placeholder.”
Peter ran a hand through his hair. “I know. I just… I don’t want to give up on something that maybe just needs time.”
“She’s had time.”
Peter didn’t reply right away.
Bobby leaned forward. “You’re the most loyal person I know. But loyalty doesn’t mean self-sacrifice. Not like this.”
Peter let out a slow breath and sank into the armchair across from him.
“So what do I do?”
“I think,” Bobby said, “you try something new. Let go of the expectation. Stop waiting for someone to choose you. Choose yourself for once.”
Peter gave a bitter little smile. “That sounds corny.”
“It is. And it’s true.”
They sat for a moment in the low hum of their too-small apartment, the smell of city air and the faint sound of traffic drifting in from the cracked window.
“Dumplings?” Peter said finally.
Bobby nodded. “And soup. We earned soup.”
Peter stood. “I’ll order. You keep packing your emotional secrets into boxes.”
“Deal.”
JOHNNY
The loft was quiet.
Golden light slanted through the tall windows, crawling over pale wood floors and reflecting faintly off brushed steel countertops. Somewhere in the building below, someone was practicing scales on a piano. It was faint—just enough to remind Johnny he wasn’t actually alone, no matter how much the apartment made it feel that way.
He was sprawled on the sectional couch, half-sunk into its overly firm cushions, one arm flung over the back and the other loosely holding his phone. The screen had long since dimmed, but the same message still burned behind his eyelids.
KOURTNEY : I think it’s best we leave things here. I care about you, but it’s clear we’re heading different directions. Take care of yourself, okay.
It was three weeks old. He hadn’t answered. Still hadn’t decided if he should.
Johnny unlocked his phone and read it again, eyes scanning each word like they might’ve changed since this morning. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Some secret subtext? A sign that she hadn’t meant it? A typo?
Nope. Still short. Still final. Still cordial.
He snorted to himself and dropped the phone on his chest. “So that’s that,” he muttered.
Some part of him—the one that burned bright and fast, the one that always wanted to win—expected more of a fight. Maybe a dramatic scene. A slammed door. A ‘you’ll never find someone like me.’ Something. But no. Kourtney had simply… opted out. Unsubscribed. No fuss. No fireworks.
He should’ve cared more.
And maybe that was the worst part.
The door creaked open behind him.
"Yo," came Wyatt’s voice, heavy with end-of-day fatigue. The smell of gym sweat and eucalyptus wafted in with him. He tossed his bag onto the floor and nudged the door shut with his foot. "You’re still horizontal. That couch’s gonna imprint your soul."
Johnny threw an arm over his face. “Then I’ll be comfy in the afterlife.”
A protein bar landed on his stomach.
He peeked out from under his elbow and made a face. “Is this punishment?”
Wyatt grinned and headed for the kitchen. “That’s dinner until you get a job, man.”
Johnny sat up and tossed the bar onto the coffee table like it offended him. “I’ll eat when the economy stops being a personal attack.”
Wyatt pulled a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge and leaned against the counter. “Speaking of which. We, uh… need to talk about rent.”
Johnny raised both brows. “Oh, we’re doing serious talk now ? What happened to the romance?”
“You quit your job, Johnny.”
“Not my fault if the gig didn’t appreciate my firecracker charm.”
Wyatt didn’t laugh. Just looked at him—solid, practical, calm as always. A grounding presence in a high-rise that felt increasingly hollow.
Johnny sighed and leaned his head back, gazing up at the high exposed beams above. “I know. I’m working on it.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Johnny swung his legs off the couch and stood.
“Come on,” he said, grabbing the half-full bottle of bourbon from the cabinet above the sink. “Let’s hit the roof. Sunset’s not gonna brood itself.”
Wyatt hesitated. “You okay?”
Johnny flashed him a practiced smile. “Never better.”
The rooftop was bathed in the burnished hues of dusk. Orange bleeding into purple, the kind of sky poets would sell their teeth for.
Johnny took a swig straight from the bottle and passed it to Wyatt, who sipped with more dignity. They sat side by side on a concrete ledge, feet dangling over the edge.
Below, Midtown buzzed. From this high up, it sounded like a distant tide—constant, low, unknowable.
“You ever think about getting out of the city?” Johnny asked.
Wyatt raised a brow. “You mean, like… permanently?”
“Yeah. Like… open a surf shack. In Queens.”
“That’s not where the ocean is.”
“Details.” Johnny smirked.
Wyatt shook his head, amused, but said nothing.
Johnny rested his elbows on his knees, watching the sun melt behind glass towers. “You’re right though. Might have to find somewhere cheaper to live soon.”
Wyatt was quiet.
“Thinking of calling in favors. I know Peter’s got the whole starving grad student aesthetic down. Dude could probably live off pocket lint and vibes. He probably knows a place.”
Wyatt chuckled. “He’s the one with the weird Tupperware full of plain rice, right?”
“Plain rice, cold coffee, and unshakeable optimism. He’s basically a monk with a Bunsen burner.”
Johnny didn’t say it, but the idea didn’t sound half bad. Simpler. Smaller. Maybe a little less… echoey.
They sat for a while longer. No big declarations. No breakdowns. Just the comfort of shared quiet and a bottle passed back and forth.
Wyatt’s phone buzzed with a text. He checked it and winced. “Gotta take this. Work thing. You good?”
Johnny nodded, not really looking at him. “Yeah. Go. I’m just gonna… hang out up here a bit.”
Wyatt gave him a searching glance before heading back downstairs, leaving Johnny alone on the roof with the bottle and the fading light.
The wind had picked up. It smelled faintly of exhaust and something sweet from a bakery down the block.
He leaned back, balancing his weight on his palms, and stared up at the sky. The stars hadn’t come out yet, but the moon was trying.
He hated how quiet it got when he wasn’t trying to fill it.
Reed and Sue had said it was time. That he needed to “find his own path.” That working for the Foundation full-time would stunt his growth.
Which sounded like encouragement. Supportive, even.
Except what he’d heard was: You’re a liability. You’re not serious. You’re not enough.
He knew what people saw when they looked at him. The fire, the flash, the charm, the body. The Fantastic Johnny Storm.
He was fantastic. He was amazing. He could melt steel and light up the sky and make strangers laugh in interviews.
But none of it ever felt like it was his.
He’d poured himself into relationships hoping they’d fix that feeling. Fill the space where meaning should be. And for a while, they did. The cuddles, the compliments, the idea that someone wanted him.
But it never lasted. Something was always missing.
He didn’t know what.
He reached for his phone and opened his reminders app.
He stared at it for a while. The blank screen felt honest.
Then he typed:
– Talk to Pete about cheap apartments and life advice for being poor
He let out a breath. It was half a joke. Mostly not.
The moon was brighter now. The stars had started showing up, shy and scattered.
He sat there a while longer.
Just long enough for the bourbon to start feeling warm instead of sharp.
Eventually, the cold crept in, and he returned to the apartment.
Inside, the loft felt bigger. Like it had grown while they were gone. Too many clean lines. Too much space between things.
Johnny hovered in the kitchen for a moment, then wandered back to the couch. He picked up his phone. The text still sat there. Waiting.
This time, he opened it. I care about you, but it’s clear we’re heading different directions .
He read it again. Then he deleted it.
He leaned back, stared up at the ceiling.
“Yeah,” he said to the empty room. “I’ll get right on that.”