#man what an adorable and sweet kiddo! nothing is wrong with him or his imaginary monster friend :) <333

[yuriyuruandyuraart]

*sighs* precious baby version of night and his mentally drained brother/dad got me dropping everything for a quick doodle<333

au by @dreemurr-skelememer

[honeyparker]

seventeen — p.p.

summary: august 10th. 2001.

a/n: happy birthday to our lil webslinger<33 missing him extra today. also this sucks i was so rushed lol. requests coming up soon xoxo

masterlist

August 10th. 2001.

A day so important to you, so loved, your excitement builds up as if it’s your own birthday. As if it’s your special day and a day just, simply, for you.

It’s not.

It’s Peter Parker’s. It’s the day of a boy so sweet he makes maple syrup seem bitter, a boy so light that the flowers seem jealous, a boy filled with so much sunshine he only rivals the sun itself.

So the tenth of August is Peter Parker’s day, yet he’s nowhere in sight to celebrate. You’re not sure where he is, not since he left the school bus, and it’s been driving you crazy.

There’s not a day that you haven’t longed for Peter since he’s left. There hasn’t been a day that you haven’t prayed to whoever may be out there, prayed to whatever force that may help him, desperate for any sign of his life. Of his survival.

You fear Peter has met the same fate of many of your friends and classmates — gone in a poof, taken by the wind. You fear he’s somewhere, all alone, terrified, on a day meant to be happy and filled with giggles and friendly teasing. With kisses and five minute hugs. You can only pray that he has some of his friends with him, Avengers that would look out for the sixteen year old boy who risked his short life for a chance with the all-stars.

“Hey, May,” you mutter as she opens the door. “Brought some food, uh, pancakes and some cupcakes.” You motion at the takeout bag.

May Parker, bless her soul, has become a woman too hurt by the cruelty of the universe, a woman who’s lost so much, yet still smiles in the face of darkness. You wonder has she does it.

“Yeah, yeah,” she opens the door wider. “Come on in.” She reaches up to wipe a tear.

Walking into the apartment, you’re amazed by how empty it feels. Peter’s shoes no longer litter the doorway, a tripping hazard. Sweatshirts are no longer tossed carelessly along the couch. Forks remain in their place, not dirtied in the sink. It’s clean. Untouched. Untainted.

May carefully sets plates on the table. “How’ve you been, Y/N?”

“I miss him,” you admit. “And it’s hard. It’s so hard because what can I tell people? That my good ol’ friend Spider-Man is missing? Presumed dead?” Your voice gets increasingly louder as you talk, but you’re completely unaware of it. You’re only aware of the tears leaking from your eyes and the ache in your heart. “And I guess that’s selfish. Because you’re his mother, basically, and I’m just his girlfriend, but I wish he was here.”

She pulls your head into her chest gently, pancakes long forgotten as you sob.

It feels like you can’t breathe. Like you can’t breathe and oxygen is Peter Parker. But of course, you’ve run out of oxygen. And air is scarce. And so is happiness. Smiles are hard to come by these days.

“I know, I know, sweetheart. I miss him, too. But he’ll be here. Tony, and, and the rest of them — they’ll figure this out. As much as I hate that Stark, he cares about Peter. He’ll fix it.”

You can only hope she’s right.

“A very happy birthday, baby,” you whisper to the sky.

May gives you a small smile. “Happy birthday, Peter. I miss you, son. Come back to me.”

Peter Parker keeps track of the days.

He counts them and counts them, until the day comes he’s been waiting for. August tenth. His seventeenth birthday. A day meant to be spent with loved ones. On Earth. Not in some imaginary realm of death. Not crying. Not in pain.

“Kid, what’s wrong?” He feels Bucky’s metal hand on his shoulder.

“Nothing, Mr. Barnes,” Peter mutters, kicking a rock at his feet. “I’m okay.”

“Alright, c’mon kid.”

“Fine,” Peter turns to look at him. “Today... today is my birthday. August tenth. Seventeen. And me and my girlfriend, ever since we were nine, we’d always go to Coney Island with my Aunt and my best friend Ned, and eat pancakes, watch Star Wars, yaknow? And it’s my first birthday in nine years without Ned and Y/N and May,” his voices catches in his throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes. It’s not your problem.”

“Wow, uh okay,” Bucky takes a seat on the rock next to Peter’s. “First off, happy birthday, kiddo. And second, well, your girlfriend, she sounds lovely. And from everything you’ve told me about her, not just now, you never shut up about her, she’s celebrating for you. She’s down there, waiting for you to come home, because god knows that she loves you. And we’re going to get out of here. Steve and the others, we’ll be just fine. We won’t be here much longer.”

Peter rubs the tears out of his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispers, before hesitantly leaning his head on his shoulder.

“And, now that I know it’s your birthday, your last one until you’re no longer a kid, we’re gonna celebrate.” He extends his hand, standing up.

“Uh, how?” Confusion laces his voice.

“You’ll see, kid.”

And he watches as Stephen Strange begins a light show with Groot, only thinking of how much you’d love it, how much you’d adore the multicolored fireworks and illusions. The pop of the prisms and the fireflies.

“Happy birthday to you,” Wanda sings quietly, shooting him a wink.

Stephen places an illumination of a candle in front of him. “Make a wish, kid. Happy seventeen.”

Not that he’d ever tell anyone, but his only wish right now is you, May, Ned, and Coney Island. He whispers a quiet message to the sky. “I love you, Y/N. Have at the pancakes today, my love. I’ll be home soon.”

And you so desperately wish he could hear yours, far down on Earth, a desperate call for him to come home.

And he wishes you could hear him. Pleading to wait for him, to hang on, that he’s coming home.