June

Wade lingered on the fire escape longer than necessary, the metal under his boots still humming from the night’s chase, his suit half-crouched in a way that made his spider-webbed gloves look like a child’s finger-painting. He glanced up at the rooftop, where the glow of the city’s neon veins bled into the early June sky, and saw Peter already perched on the edge, legs dangling, his spider-suit creased like a well-creased shirt. The rooftop’s lone rusted vending machine clanked a lazy “ding” as it dispensed a half-eaten chimichanga into the wind.

“Nice of you to finally show up,” Wade called, voice echoing off the concrete like a misplaced saxophone solo. He tossed a spare chimichanga onto the railing, catching it with a flick of his wrist as if the universe owed him a show.

Peter didn’t look up immediately. He was the picture of tired precision, his eyes tracing the horizon where the sunrise was already trying to convince the world it mattered. “You’re early,” Peter said, the words clipped but somehow warm, as if the city’s neon had softened his usual bluntness.

“Early? I’m always early, buddy. I’m the kind of guy who shows up to a party before the host even gets the invitation. Besides, I’ve got a whole schedule of midnight tacos and 3 a.m. philosophical crises to keep me busy.” Wade’s grin was as wide as the rooftop’s metal railing, his laugh spilling into the empty air like a sprinkler.

Peter finally turned, his mask off, his face lit by the amber glow of the streetlights below. “You’re still talking about tacos,” he said, shaking his head. “You know we agreed on chimichangas.”

Wade’s eyes flicked to the half-melted cheese on the chimichanga, then back to Peter. “Ah, but you see, I’m a man of principle. My principles are that tacos are the universe’s way of telling us that you can’t trust a burrito. I’m not saying I’m a philosopher, but I’m also not saying I’m not.” He took a dramatic bite, sauce splattering on his cheek. “Mmm—still tastes like regret and hot sauce.”

Peter smirked, a tiny crease forming at the corner of his mouth. “You’re the only one who could make a condiment sound like a life choice.”

Wade’s head snapped back to the edge of the roof, the city sprawling beneath them like a giant, tired circuit board. The wind tugged at his hair, the kind of wind that whispered, “Maybe you should go home,” and Wade answered with a snort. “Home? I have a lease on this rooftop. It’s a… uh… shared-space arrangement with a very stressed out web-slinger.” He gestured at Peter, who chuckled, the sound softer than the city’s roar.

For a moment, Wade’s chaotic thoughts settled into something that resembled a genuine thread. He watched Peter’s shoulders relax as the night’s chill faded, a small, unspoken sigh escaping his lips. “You ever think about why we keep doing this?” Wade asked, his voice dropping just enough to sound sincere, not a punchline.

Peter stared out at the horizon, where the first hints of orange tried to push the darkness back. “Because it’s the only time we’re not… saving the world,” Peter said, his tone low. “And because… we’re not alone.”

Wade’s eyes widened, the sincerity of the moment cracking his usual armor. He felt a flicker of something that wasn’t just the adrenaline of a fight or the buzz of a joke. “Yeah,” he whispered, “it’s… it’s nice, isn’t it? Knowing there’s someone else up here who’s also… watching the sunrise and pretending they don’t have a life beyond the next villain.” He swallowed, the weight of the words hanging in the thin air.

Then he snapped his fingers, as if a light switch had been flipped. “And speaking of pretending, did you know that if you stare at a sunrise long enough, you start seeing the next villain’s face in the clouds? I swear I saw… a guy with a cape and a terrible sense of fashion. He was trying to sell organic kale to the pigeons.” He burst out laughing, the sound ricocheting off the rooftop’s steel girders. “Kale! The only thing more terrifying than my love life.”

Peter let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “You’re terrible at timing, Wade.”

Wade’s grin faltered for a heartbeat, then steadied. “Timing’s overrated. I’m more of a… ‘spontaneous combustion’ kind of guy.” He tossed the empty chimichanga wrapper into the wind, watching it flutter like a discarded thought. “Anyway, what’s on the menu for tonight? I brought a special—”

He pulled a battered cooler from behind the vending machine, the lid squeaking like a tired door hinge. “—the ‘Do-Not-Ask-What-I-Did-To-The-Chicken-Sauce.’ It’s a secret recipe that involves… well, let’s just say the chicken didn’t consent to being a sauce.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “You actually made a sauce out of a chicken you didn’t ask?”

Wade shrugged, his shoulders slumping in exaggerated defeat. “Hey, I’m an equal-opportunity offender. I offend the chicken, the sauce, the entire culinary hierarchy. It’s a… a performance art piece.” He laughed again, louder, the sound cracking the quiet that had settled after their brief earnest exchange.

Peter’s eyes softened, his gaze lingering on Wade’s chaotic silhouette against the neon horizon. “You know, sometimes I think you’re the only person who can make me feel… normal. Like, not the whole world on my shoulders kind of normal.”

Wade’s head cocked to the side, his eyes flicking up to the sky where the sun was finally pushing the night’s curtain back. “Normal? Dude, the only thing normal about me is the fact that I’m the only guy who can turn a rooftop into a comedy club and a therapy session at the same time.” He gestured at the vending machine. “Look at that thing—‘Fate of the Universe: 0.2¢’. It’s literally cheaper than my therapist.”

A sudden gust of wind sent a stray napkin spiraling across the roof, landing on Wade’s foot. He looked down, then at Peter, as if the napkin were a profound metaphor. “You ever feel like the universe is just a giant… napkin? Like, we’re all just… wiped clean after a really messy pizza?” He stopped, realizing how absurd it sounded, then added, “Or maybe that’s just the cheese talking.”

Peter laughed, a genuine sound that seemed to shake the rooftop’s rusted bolts. “You’re a walking cliché, Wade.”

Wade’s eyes glittered with mischief. “And you’re a walking spreadsheet of neuroticism. We’re a perfect pair, like—” He paused, his face softening again. “—like two people who have seen each other’s worst and still stay up at three in the morning eating fried dough. That’s… that’s actually kind of sweet, isn’t it?”

Peter’s smile widened. “It’s… it’s not sweet. It’s just… practical.”

Wade threw his arms wide, as if embracing the entire city. “Practical! That’s the word! I’m practical, too—practical in the sense that I keep a spare chimichanga in my utility belt for emergency morale boosts. And by the way, I think you’re the only person who can make me feel like I’m not the only guy who accidentally shoots himself in the foot with a grappling hook and then blames it on the coffee.”

Peter let out a soft, amused sigh. “I think I’ve gotten used to your… dramatic self-inflicted injuries.”

Wade’s grin widened, his teeth flashing in the early morning light. “Good. Because I was planning to start a new trend: ‘self-inflicted injuries for the soul.’ It’s all the rage on the underground hero forums.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You ever wonder if we’re just… characters in someone else’s story? Like, maybe there’s an author typing away, making us eat chimichangas at three a.m. because they think it’s funny?”

Peter stared at him, his eyes reflecting the sunrise’s first blush. “If there is, they’ve got a weird sense of humor.”

Wade chuckled, then suddenly looked thoughtful, his usual chaotic chatter fading into a quieter cadence. “You know, I think there’s a part of me that wishes I could just… stay here, forever. Not the whole ‘saving the world’ thing, but just… this. The rooftop, the noise of the city, the smell of burnt cheese, and you—” He gestured at Peter, the motion awkwardly earnest. “—being… here, not having to put on a mask for anyone but the wind.”

The wind howled a little louder, as if approving. Wade’s eyes glimmered with a fleeting sincerity, then his tongue slipped. “And then maybe I could finally get a date with that taco truck lady who always gives me the wrong order. I’d tell her I’m a… superhero, but she’d probably just ask if I have a loyalty card.” He burst into a laugh that rang out, louder than before, drowning the moment in a cascade of jokes. “You see? I just ruined the heartfelt part with a punchline. That’s my talent—turning romance into a punch-line buffet.”

Peter shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “You’re impossible.”

Wade raised his hands in mock surrender, a half-eaten chimichanga dangling from his fingers like a ceremonial baton. “Impossible is just a word people use when they can’t keep up with my schedule. Speaking of schedules—did I ever tell you about the time I tried to set my watch to ‘hero time’ and ended up in a karaoke bar in Tokyo?” He launched into an animated recounting of a night involving a karaoke machine, a mis-pronounced Japanese phrase, and a stray karaoke-loving ninja who demanded a duet. The story spiraled, each sentence more outlandish than the last, until the rooftop’s edge seemed to vibrate with his energy.

Peter listened, his eyes tracking Wade’s rapid gestures, the way his cape fluttered like a flag in a storm. “You’re a mess,” Peter said, the words gentle, a quiet acknowledgment of the chaos that defined Wade.

“Messy, man. That’s my middle name. It’s actually ‘Morris.’ But you can call me Wade.” Wade winked, then glanced at the cooler, opening it with a theatrical sigh. “Alright, let’s dig into this ‘Do-Not-Ask-What-I-Did-To-The-Chicken-Sauce.’ If it’s as bad as it sounds, we can always blame it on the taco truck lady’s wrong order.”

Peter took a tentative bite, his expression neutral, then his eyes widened in surprise. “That’s actually… good.”

Wade’s eyebrows shot up, his grin turning into a grin so wide it threatened to split his face in half. “See? I told you! I’m a culinary genius, a therapist, a… a… well, I’m also a genius, right?”

Peter rolled his eyes, but a faint smile tugged at his lips. “You’re a genius at making a mess of everything else, Wade.”

Wade laughed, the sound echoing across the rooftop, bouncing off the steel and concrete like a joyous defiance of the day’s seriousness. He jabbed his fork into the sauce, spearing a piece of chicken with the precision of a man who’d spent his life shooting pistols and punching jokes. “To chaos, chimichangas, and the occasional moment where we don’t have to pretend we’re anything more than two exhausted heroes eating bad food at three in the morning.”

Peter lifted his cup of coffee, the steam rising like a ghost of the night’s thoughts. “To that,” he said, his voice low but steady.

The sun finally broke over the horizon, bathing the rooftop in a warm, orange glow that seemed to melt the night’s edges. Wade stared at it, his expression shifting from manic to something almost reverent, then back to manic in a heartbeat. “Look at that, Peter! The world’s turning, the sky’s on fire, and we’re still here, eating chicken that probably shouldn’t have been… whatever it is. It’s like… a metaphor for life, but I’m too lazy to write the essay.”

Peter chuckled, his shoulders relaxing. “You’re not lazy, Wade. You’re just… efficient.”

Wade lifted an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Efficient at ruining heartfelt moments with jokes. I’m practically a professional.” He tapped the rim of his cup with his fork, the clink sounding like a tiny bell. “But seriously, dude—”

He stopped, eyes meeting Peter’s, the brief held look from the night before lingering like a promise. In that moment, the chaotic swirl of jokes, the laughter, the sincerity that had slipped through the cracks—all of it settled into something that felt less like a routine and more like a quiet, stubborn friendship. Wade swallowed the thought, then quickly turned it into a punchline. “—I think I’m going to start a new trend: ‘Romantic Comedy Hero.’ It’s like a rom-com, but with more explosions and fewer happy endings.”

Peter shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You’re impossible.”

Wade raised his fork in a mock toast. “And you’re the best excuse I have for staying up past my bedtime.” He took a bite, the sauce smearing across his chin, his eyes twinkling with mischief and a flicker of something else—something that, for a heartbeat, felt almost like hope, before he capped it with a sarcastic sigh. “Now, let’s finish this sauce before the sunrise decides it’s had enough of us.”