Chapter Text
"I'm dating MJ!"
Flash Thompson’s sneer froze, his mouth hanging open as he processed the claim. Peter Parker, the guy who spent more time cleaning his camera lens than talking to girls—or anyone, really—was claiming to be with the star of the ESU hockey team?
"You're dating Michael James Watson?" Flash finally barked out a laugh, though it sounded a bit uncertain. "The guy who has literal fan clubs in the stands? Yeah, okay, Parker. And I’m the next Prime Minister. You expect me to believe the hottest guy on campus is into a guy who wears shirts with science puns on them?"
"He—he likes the puns," Peter tried to say, but it came out as a weak, pathetic squeak.
"God, you’re desperate," Flash said, his voice dripping with pitying amusement. "You’re so pathetic you have to pick the most untouchable guy at ESU just to try and sound cool. It’s honestly embarrassing, even for you."
Peter’s face was a shade of red that was probably visible from space. He adjusted his glasses, his fingers trembling so hard he almost dropped his bag. He didn't say another word—he couldn't. He just gripped his camera strap, ducked his head, and bolted out of the lecture hall the second the professor walked in, Flash’s mocking laughter following him all the way down the hall.
By Friday, Peter supposedly dating MJ was the talk of the locker rooms, the dining halls, and the quad. Peter lived those three days in nothing but fear. Jumping every time he saw even the tiniest bit of an ESU jersey.
He was headed to the lab when a heavy hand clamped onto his shoulder and yanked him sideways. Before he could cry out for help, he was pulled into a cramped janitor’s closet.
A hand slammed against the door right next to Peter’s head. He looked up, his breath hitching, the color leaving his face.
MJ was tall, broader than he looked on the posters. A few stray locs framing a face that was currently fixed in a firm scowl and he was wearing his team varsity jacket, smelling faintly of his expensive cologne.
"So," MJ started, his voice a low, smooth drawl. "I’m hearin' some real interesting things 'round campus, Parker. Word on the street is I got a boyfriend I didn't even know about."
"MJ, I—I can explain," Peter stammered, his hands shaking as they clutched his camera. "Flash was... he was being a jerk, alright? And I just—the words left my mouth before I could stop myself. It was the first name I saw on the poster and I didn't think—"
"You didn't think?" MJ stepped closer, invading Peter’s personal space. "Man, you got people blowin' up my DMs asking if I'm off the market. If I really swing that way, my mentions are a mess."
"I'm so sorry. I'll set it right, I swear," Peter said, the words tumbling out. "I'll go to the dining hall, I'll stand on a table, I’ll tell everyone I’m a liar and I just felt pressured. I'll make sure everyone knows you're... you know, not with me."
MJ went quiet, his dark eyes scanning Peter’s panicked face. The anger seemed to flicker out, replaced by a glint that Peter didn't quite like.
"Nah," MJ said suddenly, a slow smirk spreading across his lips. "Change of plans. This actually works out perfect."
Peter blinked. "What?"
"Look, my folks are constantly on my back, complaining about my 'lifestyle.' They think I'm not taking school serious enough, sleeping around, not focused. They want me settled down with someone 'respectable,'" MJ explained, gesturing vaguely at Peter’s sweater vest and glasses. "And you? You're about as respectable as it gets, ‘Professor’."
"Wait, you want to... keep the lie going?"
"Let’s date," MJ said, his tone turning decisive. "I get my parents off my case, and you get Flash Thompson to stop actin' like he owns the place. It’s a win-win."
Peter’s jaw dropped. "Is it not a problem that I’m a man? What about your parents—"
MJ waved a hand dismissively. "Eh, they’ll come around. They just want me in a committed relationship. Besides, nobody’s gonna mess with Michael James Watson’s man."
"MJ, I really do not think this is a good idea," Peter pleaded. "This is ESU, not a movie. Let me just come clean and tell them that I'm just some loser who made it up, please!"
MJ leaned in, his grin widening, looking every bit of the star athlete who always got his way. He reached out and straightened Peter's glasses with a gentle flick of his finger.
"Too late for that, heartthrob. You and me are in this together now. See you at the game tonight, babe?"
He didn't even wait for a response. "And hey, Pete? Since you’re my 'boyfriend' now... you better be ready to carry my gear after the game." MJ winked—which made Peter’s brain short circuit—and then shouldered past him, the scent of his cologne lingering in the cramped space as the closet door swung shut.
Peter stood frozen for a solid ten seconds, the only sound being the distant thud of MJ’s heavy footsteps echoing down the hall.
The second he heard the hallway quiet down, Peter let out a breath that he had apparently been holding for way too long. He slid down the back of the door until he hit the floor, burying his face in his hands and tugging at his hair.
"I'm screwed," he whimpered into his palms. "I'm screwed, I'm screwed, I am so screwed!"
"Hey, kid?"
Peter nearly jumped out of his skin, his head snapping toward the back of the dark closet. Nestled between a stack of industrial-sized toilet paper rolls was the school’s janitor, leaning back in a lawn chair that definitely wasn't school property.
"If you’re done losing it," the janitor said, looking over the rim of a newspaper, "please leave. I’m tryin' to enjoy some alone time. Someone just threw up in the Hallway, and I don't know what that was, but it looked like—"
Peter’s eyes went wide, "Please! Please do not finish that sentence." Peter scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over his own camera strap in his haste to get out. "Right. Sorry. I’m leaving. I was never here. You saw and heard nothing! Especially not the part where I lied about the star athlete!"
"Trust me. I’ve seen and heard worse, 'babe,'" the janitor called out as Peter shoved the door open.
Peter didn't look back. He bolted down the hall, his face burning. Not only was he fake-dating the most popular guy at ESU, but his first "date" was going to be at MJ’s hockey game where he knew absolutely nothing about the rules—other than the fact that MJ looked terrifyingly good in a jersey.
He checked the hallway corners—clear. With a practiced flick of his wrist, a line of webbing snagged the edge of a high window frame, and he hauled himself upward. He scrambled through the opening and scaled the brickwork of the ESU library, landing silently on the flat, gravel-dusted roof.
This was Peter's spot. Whenever he was dealing with an internal crisis—which was basically every Tuesday—the top of the library offered the altitude he needed to think without Flash Thompson breathing down his neck.
He pulled his phone out, his thumb hovering over the search bar as he sat on the ledge, legs dangling over the side.
’How to understand hockey in under 4 hours’
’What is a power play’
’How to not look like a nerd while dating a jock’
He deleted the last one with a groan, rubbing his temples. There wasn't enough Google in the world to help him with that one. He was a guy who wore a camera like a permanent accessory and had "spectacularly awkward" written in his DNA.
He sighed, the weight of the fake relationship pressing down on him already.
"I'm gonna die," Peter whispered to a passing bird that had landed on the parapet. The bird just flicked its tail, gave a judgmental chirp, and took off, clearly unimpressed by Peter's ‘romantic crisis’.
"Great. Even the wildlife thinks I'm a loser," he sighed, shoving his phone into his pocket.
The arena was on the north side of campus. He had a few hours to go home, find a shirt that didn't have a pun on it, and pray that MJ’s "genius idea" didn't involve any public displays of affection that would cause Peter to spontaneously combust.
"Okay," Peter stood up, adjusting his glasses.
"Step one: Don't trip over the bleachers.”
“Step two: Don't call it 'the puck-ball thing’.
“Step three: Survive. At. All. Costs."
He fired a web, swinging off the roof with a stomach-churning mix of adrenaline and pure, dread. Tonight was going to be a long night.
The ESU Ice Arena was very cold and smelled like expensive popcorn. Peter stood out in his plain maroon hoodie, keeping his camera hidden under his jacket so it wouldn’t get bumped.
The student section was packed with green and gold, and many students were holding up signs to support their team. Some read “We love MJ” and “MJ you got this!” One sign even had a drawing of MJ on it. As Peter walked through the bleachers, he couldn’t help but feel like everyone was watching him.
"Yo, is that him? That’s Parker?"
"No way MJ is into a guy who looks like he’s perpetually lost his library card?"
Peter kept his head down, staring at his sneakers until he found a spot near the glass. He barely had time to sit before the lights dimmed and the school fight song blasted through the speakers.
The team skated out, and MJ was impossible to miss. Even with the helmet and the heavy padding, he carried himself with a specific kind of grace—aggressive and smooth all at once. His short locs peeked out from the back of his helmet, and he looked like he owned every square inch of that ice.
During warm-ups, MJ circled the rink, flicking pucks into the net with effortless snaps of his wrist. As he rounded the corner near Peter’s section, he slowed down, his skates carving a sharp spray of ice against the glass.
He looked up, caught Peter’s eye, and gave a cocky, two-finger salute from his brow.
"Oh my god," a girl behind Peter shrieked. "Did MJ just salute him?"
Flash Thompson, sitting three rows back with his jaw practically hitting the floor, looked like he was suffering a mental breakdown. Peter, meanwhile, tried to look "cool" and "supportive" but he’s really just trying to not die inside.
The buzzer sounded, the game started, and Peter quickly realized two things:
1. Hockey is incredibly violent.
2. He had no idea what was happening.
Every time MJ hit someone into the boards, the crowd roared. Every time MJ got the puck, the entire arena held its breath. About halfway through the first period, MJ intercepted a pass, danced around two defenders like they were traffic cones, and ripped a shot into the top corner of the net.
The place went ballistic.
As the team swarmed MJ to celebrate, he broke away for a second, looking straight at Peter and tapping his heart twice with his gloved hand before pointing right at him.
"He's laid claim! He's laid claim!" someone yelled.
Peter sank into his hoodie, his face a shade of red that shouldn't be biologically possible. He is so good at this, Peter thought, a terrifying mix of admiration and dread pooling in his stomach. He’s such a good actor.
After the period ended, Peter was trying to blend into the brickwork when a shadow fell over him. It wasn't MJ; it was a massive guy in an ESU jersey—one of MJ’s teammates.
"Hey, Specs," the guy said, his voice booming. "MJ said to bring you back to the tunnel during the break. Says he needs his 'lucky charm' or some sap like that."
Peter blinked, clutching his camera strap. "He... he said that?"
"Man, don't make me repeat it, it was embarrassing enough the first time. Come on, move it."
Peter followed the giant through the crowd, feeling Flash’s burning gaze the entire way. They reached the mouth of the tunnel where the players were cooling off. MJ was leaning against the wall, his jersey drenched in sweat, helmet off, breathing hard. He looked up as Peter approached, a grin crossing his face.
"Yo, look at you," MJ chuckled, his voice raspy from shouting on the ice. "You actually showed up.“
"Nice goal. That was a... very good use of momentum and… torque?"
MJ barked out a laugh, stepping closer and dropping a heavy, damp arm around Peter’s shoulders. "Torque? Man, you’re such a nerd. But you're my nerd for the next hour, ‘kay? Keep that camera ready, I'm tryna look iconic out there."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for Peter’s ear, his breath warm against Peter's cheek. "Check the stands, Pete. Flash looks like he’s 'bout to cry. We killin' it."
He gave Peter a playful shove toward the seats. "Go sit down. And try to look like you're enjoyin' yourself.”
MJ winked again and headed back toward the ice.
The final buzzer blared, a sound that was immediately drowned out by the roar of the ESU student section. The scoreboard flashed a glorious 4-3.
ESU had won.
Peter found himself on his feet, shouting along with the rest of them. He’d actually forgotten he was supposed to be "acting." Between the cold air and watching MJ weave through defenders like a hot knife through butter, Peter had genuinely caught the hype.
On the ice, the team was bunched together, hugging and patting each other on the back, green jerseys pressed close as their skates slid against the ice. MJ pulled away from the group, his face flushed and his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. He looked up at the stands, scanning the crowd until he found Peter.
MJ waved and then smiled as he looked straight at Peter, and gave a quick, confident nod, "Oh, he is gone for you, Parker!" a guy next to Peter yelled, hit him on his back hard enough to rattle his teeth. "Watson’s playing like a man possessed!"
Twenty minutes later, the hallway outside the locker rooms was packed with scouts, press, and lingering students. Peter leaned against a concrete pillar, his thumb rhythmically clicking the playback button on his camera.
He was lost in the digital viewfinder, scrolling through a sequence of shots he made of the game. There were a few of the team huddle, one of the goalie making a spectacular save, but then... there was the rest.
A shot of MJ mid-stride, ice spray kicking up behind his skates like a halo of frost. Another of MJ’s profile, jaw set in pure, lethal concentration. And then, the one Peter lingered on: MJ looking directly into the lens during the warm-ups, that two-finger salute captured in perfect, crisp focus.
Suddenly, Peter felt a weight against his shoulder—someone leaning in close, peering over it. A droplet slid down the side of his neck, making him flinch. "Damn, Pete. You really caught my good side, huh?"
Peter nearly dropped the four-thousand-dollar setup. He snapped the camera shut against his chest, his face heating up instantly as MJ materialized from the locker room, right next to him.
MJ had clearly just stepped out of the shower; his short locs were damp, clinging slightly to his forehead. He’d swapped his gear for a black turtleneck and his green varsity jacket, looking less like a hockey player and more like a model who happened to be good at sports.
Flash Thompson was standing a few yards away, pretending to talk to some teammates but clearly keeping his ears pinned back to catch every word.
MJ noticed. A slow, shark-like grin spread across his face as he stepped deep into Peter’s personal space—close enough that Peter could see the faint dampness on the collar of MJ's jacket.
"You stayed," MJ said, his voice dropping into that smooth, effortless drawl. "I thought for sure you’d bolt the second the buzzer hit."
"I... I had to make sure the photos were clear," Peter stammered, clutching the camera strap like a lifeline. "The lighting in here is terrible, but you... you somehow look good in all the pictures I took, Your velocity was remarkably consistent."
MJ barked out a laugh, leaning one hand against the pillar right above Peter’s head, effectively boxing him in. "Consistent velocity? Man, what does that even mean? Could you just show me those instead or are they for… 'private study' only?"
”W-what no!” Peter stammered, the words tumbling out in a frantic, high-pitched rush. "It’s not—it’s for the school paper! Or the yearbook! Or... scientific documentation of athletic biomechanics! It is definitely not for 'private' anything! I live in a dorm with a roommate who eats my cereal, MJ!"
MJ’s grin widened, his eyes full of mischief. He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“I’m just messing with you. But you’re cute when you’re all pressed—it really sells the ‘smitten’ vibe.” He paused, glancing past Peter. “Our audience, by the way, looks like he’s about to have a stroke. Keep it up, Parker.”
MJ didn't wait for a reply. He reached down and tangled his fingers with Peter’s, his palm warm and calloused from the hockey stick. The tentative hold sent a jolt straight up Peter’s arm.
"I'm starvin' after carryin' the team on my back," MJ said, loud enough for the hallway to hear. "You down for some food?” MJ leaned even closer, the tip of their noses almost touching, “My treat." He winked.
Peter looked down at their joined hands, then up at MJ’s confident, dark eyes. "Yeah," Peter said, his voice finally steadying. "I'm down."
MJ grinned, squeezing Peter’s hand before leading him toward the exit. As they passed Flash, MJ didn't even spare him a glance, just kept his head tilted toward Peter as if he was the only person in the building worth talking to.
Suddenly, MJ stopped in his tracks, his locs swaying with the sharp movement. “Oh, hold on!”
Before Peter could ask what was wrong, MJ hauled his massive equipment bag off his shoulder. With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he shoved the heavy thing directly into Peter’s chest.
“Carry this, my shoulder’s killing me.” MJ announced, his voice still carrying that effortless, public-facing charm.
Peter’s jaw dropped, his knees nearly buckling under the sudden weight as he fumbled to catch the strap before it hit the floor. He felt like he’d just been handed a small boulder. He leaned in close, hissing through gritted teeth so only MJ could hear, “You were serious back there?”
MJ looked back over his shoulder and flashed a smile that was bright enough to be lethal. “Of course I was, babe!”
He didn't wait for Peter to protest. MJ doubled back, closing the small gap between them, and hooked his arm firmly through Peter’s. He leaned a significant portion of his weight against Peter’s side, acting for all the world like a weary athlete seeking comfort from his partner.
“Let’s go,” MJ whispered, his smile softening into something that felt dangerously close to real.
Peter opened his mouth to snap, but the words died in his throat. Up close, MJ’s eyes were focused entirely on him, and that specific, lopsided grin was doing things to Peter’s heart rate that he couldn't really explain.
He just gripped the bag, adjusted his glasses, and let himself be led out.
The neon "Open" sign of Benny’s Burgers flickered, casting a warm, greasy glow over the cracked linoleum. It was a hole-in-the-wall joint three blocks off-campus—the kind of place that smelled of onions and fry oil, and more importantly, was completely empty at 11:00 PM.
They slid into a corner booth, the red seat wheezing under their weight. The second the door clicked shut behind them, the heavy "performer" energy MJ had been radiating all night seemed to evaporate. He slumped back, his shoulders dropping two inches as he let out a long, weary exhale.
"Man," MJ muttered, rubbing the back of his neck where his locs met his jacket collar. "My legs feel like lead. I think that defenseman actually tried to take my soul out there."
Peter sat across from him, carefully placing his camera on the tabletop like it was a holy relic. The sudden shift in MJ—from the untouchable ESU star to a tired guy who just wanted a cheeseburger—was schocking.
"You played really well," Peter said, "I mean, from a physics standpoint, your center of gravity during that third-period power play was... actually let me just stop, it’s obvious I googled the terms before heading to the match.”
MJ chuckled, but it wasn't the performative laugh from earlier. It was quiet, tired, and a little bit soft. "Nah, keep goin'. It’s better than the scouts talkin' about my 'draft stock.' So," he leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, "now that Flash isn't breathin' down our necks... we good? I didn't push it too hard back there, did I?"
"The ‘private study’ suggestion was... a lot," Peter admitted, his face heating up again at the comment. "But it worked. I think Flash is currently reconsidering every life choice he’s ever made."
"Good. He’s a clown anyway," MJ said, his gaze drifting to the camera. He tapped the casing with a blunt fingernail. "So... for real this time. Can I see 'em? I wanna see if you actually caught that goal, or if you were too busy prayin' I didn't get flattened."
Peter hesitated for a second, then turned the camera around and clicked the screen on. He navigated to the shots he took from the second period. MJ pulled the camera closer, his brow furrowing in concentration as he scrolled. The silence stretched out, filled only by the hum of the milkshake machine behind the counter.
"Dude..." MJ breathed, his eyes widening. He stopped on a shot of himself, caught in a moment of pure, tension just as the puck left his stick. The lighting from the arena rafters hit the ice crystals around his skates, making him look almost ethereal. "Pete, this is... man, I look like a superhero or somethin'. You got a real eye for this."
MJ looked up from the screen, his dark eyes locking onto Peter’s. The smirk was gone, replaced by a look of genuine curiosity. "Why you always hidin' behind the glass, Parker? You’re smart, you clearly got talent... why let a guy like Thompson get under your skin?"
Peter shrugged, picking at a loose thread on his hoodie. "It’s easier to be the guy taking the pictures than the guy in them. Less expectations."
"Yeah, well," MJ slid the camera back toward him, his fingers lingering near Peter’s for a second, "I think you’re underestimating yourself.“
The bell above the door chimed as the cook brought out two overflowing trays of burgers, as MJ thanked the waiter with a bright smile, Peter was looking at MJ, and he realized with a jolt of alarm that the "fake" part of this was becoming the hardest part to remember.
"Look, Pete,” Sitting back down again, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious. He tapped his fingers on the table, looking at the dark window of the diner before bringing his gaze back to Peter.
“Since we're being ‘ourselves’ right now... I gotta ask one more favor," MJ said, his voice low. "Spring break is comin' up. My folks are already callin', talkin' about some family dinner back home.”
Peter blinked, a fry halfway to his mouth. "You want me to... go home with you?"
"Gotta sell the act to my parents too," MJ explained, shrugging like it was just another play on the ice. "After that, we can just think of something and part ways. Make the breakup look natural. You know, 'different schedules' or some regular college drama."
Peter felt a sudden, sharp pinch in his chest, a strange hollow sensation he couldn't quite put a name to. It was exactly what they’d agreed on—a temporary, strategic alliance. So why did his words hurt? He forced a small smile, adjusting his glasses to hide the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
"Uh—yeah. Sure. Of course," Peter said, his voice sounding a little more hollow than he intended. "That was the deal, right? Helping each other out."
"You're a lifesaver, Parker. For real," MJ said, seemingly oblivious to the shift in Peter's mood as he reached for a napkin. "My moms is gonna love you. You look like the type of guy who actually knows how to use a coaster."
Peter laughed, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. He looked back down at his camera, the digital screen still glowing with the image of MJ in his element. "I’m very well-versed in coaster etiquette. It’s a core part of the nerd curriculum."
"I figured," MJ grinned, but then his eyes softened just a fraction as he looked at Peter. "Hey, you okay? You got that look on your face like you're calculatin' the end of the world again."
"Just thinking about what to pack," Peter lied quickly, his heart giving a treacherous little thump. "I, uh, don't have a lot of 'meeting the parents' clothes. Most of my shirts have periodic table puns on them."
MJ leaned across the table, his hand hovering near Peter’s again, but this time he didn't grab it. "Don't worry 'bout that. Just be you. The puns are... they’re fine. They’re part of the charm, I guess."
He went back to his burger, but Peter stayed quiet, the word ‘breakup’ echoing in his head. He was a superhero; he was supposed to be good at keeping secrets and playing parts. But as he sat in that quiet diner with Michael James Watson, Peter realized he was starting to get really, really bad at the "fake" part of their arrangement.
When Peter walked back to his dorm with MJ that Sunday night, it was… surprisingly normal.
They talked about the most random stuff—how the dining hall’s meatloaf was statistically likely to be made of recycled gym mats, the absolute nightmare that was Professor Warren’s Intro to Bio class, and how MJ’s teammates were basically overgrown golden retrievers with ice skates. MJ even asked about Peter’s vintage Leica camera without making it feel like he was just being polite.
For a second, Peter almost forgot this whole thing started because of a massive lie in class. MJ was easy to talk to. He kept shaking his head, his short locs bouncing with every laugh, looking less like a hockey star and more like a guy Peter actually wanted to get to know.
When they reached the dorm elevators, MJ gave him a casual two-finger salute and a grin that didn't feel like it was meant for a camera.
Peter went to bed thinking, Okay, maybe this won’t be a total disaster. Maybe we can actually be, like— friends..?
That illusion lasted exactly one weekend.
Because by Monday morning, Peter learned something very important about Michael James Watson:
He was just… kind of an asshole sometimes.