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It started with a hoodie.
Peter had been eighteen, exhausted, and mildly hypothermic after a rooftop stakeout in October—easily one of his worst ideas.
Johnny showed up like he always did—loud, bright, too much—and when Peter joked about freezing from head to toe, Johnny squinted at him, unimpressed.
Then he peeled off his hoodie and tossed it over.
Peter just stared at it.
Johnny had never given him his clothes before.
“Keep it,” Johnny said, shrugging as he stepped closer, heat bleeding off him in waves. “You look like you need it more than me.”
Peter blinked down at the fabric. “You’ll want it back.”
It looked expensive. Everything Johnny owned looked expensive.
Johnny grinned. “Nah. Doesn’t go with my whole flame aesthetic.”
And then he flamed on, like that settled it.
Peter didn’t argue.
He kept it. Washed it.
Wore it again the next week—because, annoyingly, it was comfortable.
Johnny spotted him in it within five minutes and gave him a look so smug Peter immediately regretted every life choice that led him there.
Not enough to give it back, though.
No, that was his now.
Since then, it became a Thing.
Peter’s shirts? Missing.
His sweatpants? Gone.
That Midtown hoodie from junior year—the one he’d buried in the back of his closet and hoped would never see daylight again?
Johnny wore it to pizza night and called it vintage.
At some point, Peter just… gave up.
He still complained, out of principle, but he never actually tried to get anything back.
Mostly because Johnny refused to return anything—and because any attempt at retaliation ended badly.
“You look horribly off,” Johnny would say, staring at Peter in one of his shirts like he’d committed a crime against fashion.
“Like a raccoon in a lab coat. No offense.”
“None taken,” Peter would deadpan, already taking it off. “Thanks for letting me borrow it for five minutes.”
Johnny would wave him off. “Keep it. It was a gift. Also, MJ texted me. Said congrats on the outfit upgrade. You’re welcome.”
Peter would always blush at that.
Now they were dating.
Had been for months.
And somehow—
The stealing had only gotten worse.
Johnny had been acting weird for a full week.
Not dramatic weird—no explosions, no spontaneous declarations, no setting anything on fire out of boredom.
Just… twitchy.
Like he kept reaching for something that wasn’t there.
It wasn’t until they were curled up on Peter’s couch, half-watching some movie Johnny had picked, that Peter finally said something.
“You’ve been staring into the void a lot,” he said, poking Johnny’s side. “Want to tell me what existential horror is haunting you?”
Johnny stiffened. “Nothing’s haunting me.”
“Uh-huh.”
Peter followed his gaze.
And then he saw it.
His jacket.
Old. Blue. Soft in that perfectly worn-in way that made it better than anything new.
Draped over the back of the chair.
Peter looked back at Johnny.
Squinted.
And then—
Oh.
“…Oh my God,” Peter said slowly. “Do you want my jacket?”
Johnny recoiled like he’d been shot. “No. Shut up.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
“You’re pining.”
Johnny buried his face in Peter’s shoulder, ears going red. “I hate you.”
Peter grinned, delighted. “You’ve stolen half my wardrobe, but this—this one thing—I never let you take, and now it’s driving you insane.”
Johnny muttered something into his shirt, probably a curse directed at him.
Peter huffed a quiet laugh, then slipped out from under him, ignoring the immediate whining.
He grabbed the jacket.
Tossed it over.
“Here,” he said. “It’s yours.”
When he sat back down, Johnny was holding it like it was something fragile.
Something important.
“I’m never taking this off,” Johnny said, staring at it like it had personally changed his life.
“You better,” Peter said, rolling his eyes. “That was my uncle’s favorite.”
His voice dipped, just a little.
“I want it back in a week.”
He’d even annoy him with reminders if he had to.
Johnny ignored him completely, already pulling it on, tugging it closer like he could soak in the warmth, the familiarity.
“I’m going to wear it in my grave.”
“If you try that, I will fight you.”
Johnny just hummed, pleased with himself.
Peter sighed, fond, and leaned in to press a kiss to his temple.
Johnny didn’t even react.
Too busy hugging the jacket.
Johnny walked into the kitchen the next morning, humming under his breath, still wearing the jacket.
He wasn’t taking it off.
Not for anything.
Ben looked up from his coffee and newspaper, squinting.
“That ain’t yours.”
Johnny pulled it a little closer anyway. “It is now.”
For the week, at least.
The kids looked up immediately.
“That’s Uncle Peter’s,” Valeria said, like it was obvious.
“I knew it,” Franklin added. “You smell like him now.”
Johnny blinked.
He did?
Huh.
Bentley didn’t even look up from his tablet. “Statistically speaking, I’m surprised you didn’t steal it sooner.”
Johnny flipped them all off. Especially Bentley. That was rude.
This was his boyfriend’s dead uncle’s jacket, thank you very much.