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Peter's doing this because he's curious; he's got chronic science brain, the natural inclination to search for truth, knowledge.
That's why he's wearing these white lace boyshorts.
Buying them had been a clinical operation: he'd picked the safest option to start, a decent middle ground between 'boxer briefs' and 'panties' (he still can't say the word out loud without his face heating up) to ease himself into the idea. It'd still taken a few more days for him to actually put them on, but now that he has...
He can't stop looking.
Sinful, he thinks, the word inspiring a bloom of embarrassed excitement as he twists a little shyly in front of the full-length mirror. It's not a quality he's ever attributed to himself (or to anything, really), but it's...well, it fits.
The panties are weightless, delicate white contouring perfectly to his hips and his thighs and the curve of his ass. His pale skin looks faintly tan in comparison where it peeks out through the intricate detailing.
He lowers a hand to tentatively run fingertips over the swell at the front, and the touch is translated, magnified, in equal parts by the fabric itself and the thrill of the moment. When he looks up, he sees pink spread across his face and down his bare chest.
Flushed and wide-eyed, sporting a semi, he feels daring and electric; he wants someone to see, wants someone to follow the path of his blush themselves, kiss their way down to that line where pale skin transitions into intricate lace. Kiss him through it.
Would it feel like this? A light brush of lips, the rasp of a goatee--
It's only the tinny call of his cell phone alarm that stops him from beginning to explore in earnest.
He turns away from the reflection with some effort.
As he changes into a regular pair of boxer briefs and pulls on his jeans, he considers playing hooky for the first time since he started at MIT.
*
By the time classes are out and Peter gets back to his apartment, he's mentally exhausted (as usual) but happy (as usual for Thursday nights, specifically). It's his night off from patrol, and the only thing he has to expend energy towards is his call with Tony, later.
They've had the ritual going since the reversal of the snap: one call a week, same day, same time. It used to be just a phone call, but Peter had accidentally pressed video call the one time, so now they talk via webcam and he gets to see Tony every Thursday evening.
He's going about his standard pre-call tidying (picking up only the area of the living room that's visible via webcam, so what) when he finally gives up avoiding the idea scratching at the back of his thoughts.
The panties are in his bedroom, folded at the bottom of his underwear drawer...but they could be on him, instead.
He's been low key dying to put them back on since he took them off, wondering if it'll feel the same (of course it will, but what if it doesn't) and what it's like to just...walk around. Just wear them.
Pausing his half-assed cleaning, Peter goes in and changes. Sheds his jeans and boxer briefs and slips back into the lace with something like nervous anticipation. They do feel the same, still light and secure, still look like fresh snow against his pale skin.
He leaves his t-shirt on and wanders back out to the living room to finish up. He has an hour; he could keep them on for a little while and change before Tony calls--
But he wouldn't have to change, or cover up; he sits at his desk in front of the computer the whole time, so it isn't like Tony can see anything below the waist in the webcam. Peter could sit there for an hour, squirming in his new panties while Tony carries on obliviously about his day and his projects and whatever weird articles or memes FRIDAY's been showing him.
And maybe Peter could 'remember' something he wanted to show Tony, so he'd get up and Tony would see.
What would he say if he saw them--
But Peter absolutely can't do that. They're friends, now, close, platonic friends, and he kind of feels like an ass for even considering throwing a white, lacy wrench into things.
Tony finally talks to him; real, actual sharing of feelings and thoughts, no more hiding out of some misguided belief that Peter can't handle seeing his mentor as anything less than divine, like he hasn't always known that Tony's a deeply flawed human being and loved him anyway.
He's even said it; those three words. Said it a couple months in, the first time he accepted a video call to see a shaking, pale version of Tony who let out a hoarse sob and cried relieved tears as soon as he saw Peter's face.
They hadn't actually talked that night; Peter had just sat close to the laptop, tears trickling down his own face as Tony told him he was so glad Peter was alive, that he got him back. They'd spent minutes crying silently, Tony's eyes roving over Peter's face like he was memorizing him.
The "I love you, Tony," had slipped out quietly, thoughtlessly, and Peter'd felt poignant elation when Tony had given him a small, shaky smile and said "I love you, too, kid."
....So, yeah. They're friends.
Friends that don't talk about the way Peter still blushes whenever Tony compliments him on, well, anything. Friends that absolutely don't mention how Tony stumbles a little over his words if Peter answers a call shirtless. Friends that...
There's a muffled metallic chunking sound as the deadbolt turns, and apparently they're the kind of friends that don't knock, because Tony's striding into his apartment like he owns the place (he technically does, and it totally doesn't do things to Peter if he thinks about it too much).
"Hey kid, surprise--Oh. Huh." Tony's brows shoot up towards his hairline, and Peter yanks the hem of his shirt down to try to cover himself.
"Jesus, Tony, hi, what're you--you're supposed to knock--"
"I see that now. I'm seeing a lot of things. What're you wearing?"
There's a safe way to handle this; Peter could go pull on some sweatpants, tell Tony that he's doing the college experiment thing, laugh it off and blush while Tony gives him shit. They can eat dinner and catch up in person, and this become another thing they never talk about. Because they're not the friends that talk about this.
Peter clears his throat, and doesn't do the safe thing.
"Panties," he answers, face heating as he releases the hem of his shirt, "obviously."
"Obviously," Tony parrots, his eyes glued blatantly to Peter's lower half.
They're still hovering at that line, the one that exists in wordless agreement. There's still a chance for one of them to back off. But Peter's not thinking about that.
He's thinking about his sudden, desperate need to know how Tony might feel about the way his blush spreads all the way down to his chest. He's wondering if that stupid pornographic adjective would drift through his friend's brain, what other words might be there in its place.
And now he's thinking about how Tony's not even moving, just staring at him, so Peter's going to have to be the one to cross that stupid line.
His shirt hits the floor with a soft flump.
"So, what do you think? Because I think I like them," Peter says, proud of the way his voice is only a little strained.
Tony's gaze is disbelieving and conflicted and hot, practically a physical touch as it drags up Peter's body.
"Do you really want to know?" Tony asks.
He's looking into Peter's eyes, now, searching his face, and the small intimacy erases the last dregs of doubt Peter didn't even realize were still there.
"Yeah, I really do," he says.