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“Did you think I wouldn’t miss you? Or did you…”
Ned’s trying to wrap his head around it. His head is pounding; it has been ever since a simple handshake broke his brain. His best friend let himself be erased from existence. The guy who brought flowers to their housewarming party is someone he’s known since he was twelve years old. Peter Benjamin Parker. Ned remembers now. How had he ever forgotten? How had Peter let him forget? He let Ned walk around for four years, oblivious to what he’d lost.
Ned Leeds went to MIT without Peter Parker. God, he wants to cry.
Across from him, Peter intently studies a water mark on the table rather than meeting Ned’s gaze. Sunlight pours through the window, painting auburn highlights in the other man’s curls. It’s a bit of a mind-fuck looking at him. He keeps expecting 17-year-old Peter and getting arrested by the hardened planes of his best friend’s face. He’s still young, but his features are sharper. His shoulders are broader. He’s all grown up, and Ned wasn’t there when it happened, even though Peter had promised.
He’d promised.
A horrible suspicion is swirling around in Ned’s gut. “Did you realise you didn’t want to be my friend anymore?”
That finally gets a reaction. Peter’s head snaps up. He looks aghast. “Ned no. How can you even say that? I missed you every day, man. God you don’t even know how much.”
“Yes I do,” Ned grits out. Humiliating tears are pooling in his eyes. His heart feels too big and too painful, like it might explode from his chest. “You— I made a fucking app to track Spider Man. Peter. Do you think that’s a coincidence? I have been looking for you, in every face, in every person I have met. The spell didn’t work properly on me because clearly there was a part of me that knew something really important was taken away from m—“ his voice cuts out, a lump forcing its way into his throat. Shit, he’s blubbering. But so is Peter, whose eyes are shining, red-rimmed, heartbroken. And Ned is. He’s so angry. He didn’t know he was capable of being this angry.
“You made new friends though,” Peter says, voice small. “You went out for drinks all the time. Your study group. Movie nights. Everyone loves you, Ned. You didn’t…don’t need me.”
And Ned just. Stops. “What?”
Peter’s face blooms red, like he realises he’s said too much and he has, because the only way Peter could know that is if he… he…
“Peter, did you watch my Instagram stories?”
“Um.”
Suddenly he can see it — Peter, all alone, watching Ned and MJ having the time of their lives without him. Ned even said it, didn’t he? Over and over, he’d say these are the greatest years of our lives. Come on, tell me this isn’t the happiest you’ve ever been? And Peter, grieving the loss of May without any support, living in a tiny apartment somewhere that he paid for god knows how, watched Ned get on insta every other day and talk about how happy he was.
He might actually be sick.
Peter’s hand twitches, a gesture Ned instinctively knows means he’s about to get up and try to leave. Before he can even think twice about it, he’s surging out of his seat, rounding the table and hauling Peter into his arms. Peter practically collapses against him. They’re both shaking, sniffling and after a moment, Ned finds the strength to speak. “Dude, you’re an idiot. Yes, I made friends. They were great but none of them were my best friend. Honestly, after a while I figured that I just wasn’t meant to have one.” Peter makes a broken noise against Ned’s neck. “I made a freaking stalker wall dedicated to Spider Man. I created an app to track where you were every day. I have missed you every day for four years. Four. Years. Peter.”
He draws back to meet his best friend’s teary gaze. “Why did you do this?” Ned asks again, gently this time. “Peter, I—“ images of the Punisher carrying Spider Man into an ER play across his mind. Gun shot wound, the news anchor had said. Traumatic injuries. Critical condition. Days without updates. The entire city holding its breath. “You nearly died, and I didn’t know it was you. If you hadn’t—“ his throat constricts around the words. It feels like poison to even say them out loud, to speak the mere idea into existence. “If you hadn’t made it, I would have gone the rest of my life not knowing what I’d lost.”
A choking sound.
“Ned, I—“
“So, I’m going to ask again. What the fuck were you thinking?”
It’s uncharacteristically vitriolic for Ned and he feels a pang of guilt when he watches Peter shrink in on himself, shoulders hunched around his ears, eyes veiled by a glassy sheen.
“I just wanted to keep you safe,” Peter whispers, voice devastatingly small.
Ned kind of wants to hit him, but he also never wants to let Peter out of his sight again. He wants to inspect the bullet wound that nearly killed his best friend. He wants to get some food into him, because a single glance tells him that Peter’s not eating enough. He wants… shit, he just wants a hug.
Without ceremony, Ned yanks Peter back into his arms. “That wasn’t your choice to make,” he says into Peter’s hair.
Peter shudders. “I know,” he mumbles, pressing his face into Ned’s shoulder. “I know.”
They probably look insane, crying all over each other in a public setting, but Ned finds he simply doesn’t care, because having Peter in his arms feels like building a lego Death Star on a Saturday afternoon. It feels like passing notes to each other in AP Bio. It feels like standing at the base of the Statue of Liberty and having your whole life slip needlessly through grasping fingers.
It feels like home.