Log, ex-pizza party: Peter P & MJ W
[Upstairs, MJ bumped into the wall, cheap sweater shushing loudly against wallpaper that probably cost more than her parents' house, and she leaned there, heavily, the sound of footsteps growing. She could tell from the overrushed speed it was Peter, and she turned toward him, just in time to hear the door to the basement lock with a finality she felt to the marrow of her bones.
Her eyes were red and she was crying now, no doubt about that. Her mascara was waterproof, so it only flaked a little along her waterline after she rubbed there with shaking fingers. Maybe this was normal to everyone else, but for her, this was a system shock, the likes of which are like, really hard to come back from. Last she remembered, Harry had looked at her the way Jason looked at Gwen, and he wasn't some animal behind steel-reinforced-with-God-knows-what with eyes that were empty of everything but agony. He had problems. Harry always had problems. But... not this.
MJ grimaced, the tear of Harry's sobs still loud in her ears, and she blindly reached toward her best friend, needing him to fill the role he almost always filled: comfort. She tucked herself close, her arms folded up to her chest, fully trusting he'd put his arms around her.
In a small voice, weak—so strange for MJ Watson, who always sounded so sure of herself—she spoke. She sniffled.] Why—what happened to him? He did—he did that to himself? Why? [She couldn't even look up, so her words were eaten mostly by Peter's shirt, but she figured he could hear her.]