[Shadow]
The little bell above the door to Needle & Groove chimed a cheerful, tinny note, announcing my arrival to the empty store. I offered a weak smile to the guy behind the counter, a college student with piercings and a faded Misfits t-shirt, before retreating into the comforting maze of wooden shelves. My fingers, cold with a nervous energy that had nothing to do with the autumn chill outside, tightened on the worn strap of my guitar case. I was early. Of course, I was early.
Being early meant I had time to second-guess everything: my worn-out gray hoodie, the scuffed toes of my boots, the very idea of asking Peter Parker to hang out somewhere that wasn't a rooftop or a crisis. Here, surrounded by the smell of old paper sleeves and dust, I felt exposed. This place was a part of me. What if he hated it?
A familiar thwip-thwip sound from the alley outside pulled me from my spiral. I peeked through the front window, my breath fogging the glass. A flash of red and blue descended, landing with impossible softness behind a dumpster. A few frantic seconds later, Peter Parker strolled out, pulling a beanie over his messy brown hair and shrugging into a slightly-too-big flannel shirt. He pushed open the door, the bell chiming again, this time feeling less like an announcement and more like a starting gun.
"Hey! Sorry I'm late," he said, his grin as easy and bright as always. "Traffic was… you know. A menace."
I felt a genuine smile break through my anxiety. "Spider-Menace, I presume?"
"The one and only."
We fell into a comfortable silence, drifting through the aisles. Peter, naturally, gravitated toward the punk section. He pulled out a vinyl, its cover a grainy black-and-white photo of four guys who looked like they'd rather be in a fistfight than a photoshoot.
"The Ramones," he said with reverence. "The kings." He glanced at the shoegaze CD I was holding, the cover a swirl of hazy, indistinct color. He squinted at the band's name. "'Lunar Bloom'? Seriously? You're telling me this band of… whisper-singers is better than The Ramones?"
I snatched the record from his hands. "First of all, it's not whispering, it's ethereal soundscaping. And second, The Ramones are great, but they basically wrote the same song two hundred times."
Peter's jaw dropped in mock outrage. "Blasphemy! They perfected a formula."
"Dee Dee Ramone couldn't even play bass on half their records," I shot back, a thrill running through me. I was actually doing this. Bantering. "Johnny Ramone's down-strumming technique was revolutionary, I'll give you that, but he got it from watching early glam rock guitarists. It's all connected."
He stared at me, his playful smirk softening into something like surprise. "Whoa. Okay. Music nerd alert."
I felt a flush creep up my neck but didn't look away. "Just because I like quiet music doesn't mean I don't know where the loud stuff comes from."
We kept walking, the debate dissolving into a shared exploration. He'd point out a classic, and I'd tell him a weird piece of trivia about the producer. I felt myself uncoiling, the constant tension in my shoulders easing. The guitar on my back felt less like a shield and more like a part of me I was finally willing to share.
Then, I saw it. Tacked to a corkboard behind the counter, between flyers for local gigs, was a glossy magazine cover. It was a recent issue of Rolling Stone. On it, Iceman—Bobby Drake—was leaning against a wall of his own making, a shimmering ice guitar in his hands. The headline read: "The Coolest Avenger: Iceman on Mutants, Music, and being a Superhero."
My feet stopped moving. I just… stared. At the way the light caught the frost on his jacket, the easy confidence in his smile. He looked like a rock star. He was a rock star.
"Whoa, that's so cool," Peter said, coming up beside me. "It's awesome that one of our friends is getting that kind of press." He trailed off.
"Yeah," I managed, my voice a little too quiet. "It's… really cool." I lingered for just a beat too long, my gaze tracing the line of his jaw on the poster, before forcing myself to turn away. Peter just nodded, completely misreading my momentary trance as solidarity for a fellow super-powered individual breaking into the mainstream. He had no idea.
"Hey," I said, changing the subject abruptly. "See those little rooms over there? They're listening booths. You've gotta hear this."
I led him to the indie section and pulled out an album by an acoustic artist I adored. Inside the cramped booth, I handed the giant, old-school headphones to him. He fumbled with the cord, getting it tangled around his arm before finally managing to put them on, one cup slightly askew over his ear.
As the delicate finger-picking of the guitar began, Peter closed his eyes, listening intently for a moment. Then, a slow, goofy grin spread across his face. He started doing this ridiculous little dance, a sort of awkward shoulder shimmy and a foot tap that was completely off-beat. It was so absurd, so utterly Peter, that a real laugh bubbled up out of me, loud and unreserved in the tiny, soundproofed space.
He opened his eyes and winked, his dance getting even worse. And I just kept laughing. I realized, in that moment, how utterly comfortable I felt.
Peter took off the headphones as the song ended, his smile softer now. "Okay, that was actually really good." He watched me for a second, his expression thoughtful. "You're different when you talk about this stuff. Not shy. You just… light up."
I ducked my head, suddenly self-conscious again. "It's just… important to me," I mumbled, tracing the cover of the CD case. I took a breath, deciding to risk it. "When everything's too loud in my head… this," I gestured to the record player, "makes it make sense."
His gaze was understanding. There was no pity in it, just a quiet recognition. "Yeah," he said softly. "I get that. Guess that's like me and swinging around. It's chaos, but it clears my head."
We looked at each other then, and a silent understanding passed between us. The city was loud for both of us. The weight of the world, our own secrets, the constant noise. We just had different ways of finding the quiet.
At the checkout, I bought the acoustic album. Peter, in a move that shattered the tender moment into a million hilarious pieces, bought a cheap-looking CD titled "Avengers Assemble: The Official Dance Remixes." He held it up with a completely straight face. "For team morale."
Outside, the evening air was crisp. I clutched my thin paper bag to my chest, the corners of the CD case digging into my palm. I felt happy, but also strangely flustered, my emotional equilibrium completely off-kilter.
As we prepared to part ways, I risked one last glance back through the window of Needle & Groove. My eyes found the poster instantly. Iceman, frozen in time, effortlessly cool. A familiar ache bloomed in my chest.
"Alright, well, this was fun," Peter said, pulling my attention back. He was already bouncing on the balls of his feet, ready to disappear into the city. "But next time, I'm picking the store, and we're going straight for the comic book section. No more of this… ethereal soundscaping."
He grinned, oblivious, and with a lazy wave, he ducked into the same alley he'd appeared from. I heard a faint thwip and knew he was gone.