The boxes of ice cream were freezing against his shirt; bitter cold biting at his arms as he raced towards the house. It was Friday, which meant two things for Peter Maximoff: watching movies in his basement, and overloading on pure sugar.
As he came to the end of his street, the world slowed. Reaching up to grasp the street sign with his palm had become a ritual now: he'd had his ear chewed off by his mother last month for speeding in the street and causing the neighbors to become wary. Peter couldn't care less; but she'd threatened to take his pong machine.
And that was personal.
He kicked a dandelion sprouting from the curb, tiny pieces of it fluttering upwards with the breeze. Walking was unthinkably dull, and Peter was tempted to sprint for the hell of it.
As he walked passed his driveway, he stopped.
She was standing by her mailbox; all gingham shirt and baggy jeans and hair tied back from her face like some sort of old western movie. They'd been neighbours their whole lives: when Peter was small, she'd tease him about his hair, and his parents would let them have sleepovers and build tree forts in the garden.
The years had changed them both, and they'd grown distant.
And somehow for Peter, deep down in his chest; he regretted that.
(y/n) pulled a handful of letters from the metal box, and rested against it for good measure, her eyes scattering through the letters as she did.
Peter tripped on the curb, stumbling slightly, interrupting his train of thought and letting out a small yelp in the process.
(y/n) looked up, grinning. "Afternoon, Peter".
Peter gave a half smile and a little nod, his cheeks flushed "sup, (y/n)"
Her eyes wandered to the four boxes of ice cream Peter was hugging to his chest "party for six?"
Peter held up the boxes, eyeing them "if there are five other people busting into my house, they can get their own ice cream".
(y/n) laughed, shuffling her mail into her back pocket "how's your mom been?"
Peter blew air from his bottom lip "cramping my style. Otherwise, still making good tacos. How are your 'rents?"
"Dad's out of town for work and mom has classes every second day, so I'm stuck minding the place on a Friday night"
"Parents. Can't live with 'em, can't live without them 'em" Peter added, fidgeting on the spot.
(y/n) laughed, turning up her driveway "well, good luck with your sugar habit, Peter".
Peter watched her leave, feeling as though he was releasing a breath he didn't know he was holding. Scratching the back of his silver hair with one hand, shifting the boxes of ice cream into the other, he started up the steps to his front door.
Next time he saw her; he wouldn't be such a loser.
Well, he would. He'd just try not to show it.