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Wade didn’t need some corporate, greeting-card holiday to tell Peter he loved him. In fact, one of the best things about being with Peter was the oodles of affection that could freely spill from his lips (and hips) now that they were officially together. But since it was their first V-Day, Wade was lowkey (okay, highkey, very highkey) excited to spend it with his Petey and have yet another excuse to profess his feelings for his one-and-only bubble butt.
They’d agreed: no money on gifts, just words. Poems. Which actually made a lot of sense, seeing as they were both pun-master paladins and quipping queens. The only rule they imposed was a limit of one piece of paper each, dealer’s choice on the paper. Printer paper, notebook scraps, the back of a taco wrapper, it didn’t matter, as long as it fit on one page and came from the heart.
Wade had chosen his Kuromi stationery—the one he picked up from the Sanrio store at SkyView Center in Queens. Yeah, Wade knew what you were thinking: what about his numero uno gato, Hello Kitty? Well, Kuromi had that edgy, ride-or-die romantic swag that screamed perfect rom-com bestie for life. She was practically his flirtation-fling soul sister from another mister. And Queens? That was Petey’s turf. It was poetic fate from all sides, and Wade was not going to fuck this up, heart set on wooing the red and blue right off his baby boy’s socks.
The night of, Wade rounded up every last candle in the apartment (no new ones were purchased, pinky promise!), and made sure to wash their bestest and coziest blankets for him and his love bug to snuggle up with on the couch after takeout from their fave noodle spot down the block. Everything was as perfect as a Buy One, Get One Free Build-A-Bear.
YeP. Capital P. For Petey. And Perfect.
… And Panic maybe.
Because, even though he’d literally fought Juggernaut, his way out of The Void, and survived building the infamous IKEA PAX wardrobe system, Wade couldn’t shake the jittery, somersaulty feeling in his belly. And it wasn’t the twelve chimichangas he had at lunch.
Yeah. Wade Wilson was nervous about sharing his poem.
-Pbffhh!- Wade blew out a little puff of air and stared at the ceiling like it had a pep talk for him. Spoiler alert: it didn’t.
“Okay, sweetums,” Wade said, fiddling with a loose thread on the blanket, “I think we should do our gifts now. Before I lose my nerve. Or overthink it. Or both.”
Seriously! Why was he sweating like a burrito at a hot yoga class!
“Um. That sounds good.” Peter’s fingers curled into the hem of the blanket, brushing against Wade’s. “Do you… wanna go first?”
“Weeeeeeeeeeellll—” Wade dragged the sound out like he was winding up a pitch at a baseball game, which was weird, because he wasn’t into sports even if he was into throwing balls.
“I suppose. But just so you know, no refunds on this gift, Peetums. No take-backs, no exchanges, no receipts. Just love and admiration.”
“Heh.” Peter did that fluttery thing with his lashes that always melted Wade. “I like the sound of that.”
Wade fished the poem out from inside the pocket of his hoodie, like it was NBD (even though it was a BD), and so what the fuck if his fingers were shaking a little. Ha! They weren’t shaking. His leg wasn’t shaking either. It was slinging over his emotional support Spidey, cool as a cucumber. Cool as a cucumber who was about to dive into the deep end of a pool, with zero floaties, which was a terrible comparison because when was the last time you ever saw a fucking cucumber in a swimming pool?
Okay, deep breath in…
“Roses are red, your spandex is tight,
I think about your butt every night.”
Peter snorted before he could stop himself. “Wade.”
“Baby, I’m just setting the scene.” He cleared his throat. “Anywho…”
“Your dumpy’s been traveling through my mind all day,
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“I tried to write a normal poem, but then your ass walked in first,
I promise there’s more to this than just my thirst.
Yes, your butt’s an absolute work of art,
Though the most beautiful part of you is your heart.”
And hey, all this metaphorical ass play had been a real treat, but Wade was about to get into the mushy stuff, and as much as he wanted to look over at Peter, Kuromi was a helluva lot safer, so his peepers stayed the fuck down.
“You save the city, sure, but you saved me first,
By seeing something good beneath all my worst.
You don’t try to fix me, don’t tell me to flee,
You were the only one who believed in me.”
Peter’s hand found Wade’s across the blanket, lacing their fingers together with quiet certainty. Wade’s breath hitched—he knew what was coming next.
“And on the hard days, when I get stuck in my head,
You’re the one who’s sweet with me and cuddles me in bed.
You reach for my hand like it’s a goddamn prize,
And sweetheart, no one’s ever made me feel like that, it ain’t no lie,
Baby bye bye bye.”
“Sorry, I had to make a joke, you know me,
I love you forever and ever, my sweetie, Petey.”
“Wade.”
Wade looked up at Peter. Then back down at Kuromi. Then back at Peter.
Those big, beautiful Bambi eyes were looking right into the depths of Wade’s fucked up soul, and he was so kerfuffled he couldn't quite read Peter’s tone.
Was it a good-Wade? An I-love-you-Wade? Or a you-made-one-too-many-butt-jokes-and-I’m-breaking-up-with-you-on-the-couch-Wade?
“I know I’m not… what you deserve,” Wade interjected before Peter could say anything else, voice a little wobbly. “You deserve someone soft and clean and sweet. Someone without all the baggage.”
Peter leaned in closer and kissed his cheek. It was soft. Clean. Sweet.
“You don’t have to be anyone else. You’re already everything to me.” Peter looked up at him, thumb brushing over the tiny, moist print his lips left behind. “I love you. Not some polished version of you. Not a fantasy. Just you.”
Wade breathed in like it might crack his ribs. Then he asked, “So you liked my poem?”
“I loved it,” Peter said, blinking up earnestly. "Plus, I liked the NSYNC lyric."
“Boy bands inspire me,” Wade said, half-sheepish, half-smug. “But not as much as you. And your dump truck caboose.”
Whew. Time to pause for a cause. Specifically, the cause being Wade’s rapidly overheating emotional processor.
...
Fuck it. If he didn't hear Peter's poem soon, that would surely make him short-circuit.
“Anywho, ready to hit me with yours, Spidey Shakespeare?”
Peter snorted, despite himself. Then blinked, once, twice. The third time, he looked up at the ceiling.
Wade knew that move. “Hey,” he said, gently, “you good, honey bug?”
“I, yeah, um.” Peter smiled crookedly, then glanced down at the sheet of ruled notebook paper, folded into careful, anxious quarters. “Okay, uh. Mine’s kind of stupid,” he mumbled, fidgeting with the edge. “But I wrote it. So. Yeah.”
Wade gently nudged Peter’s knee with his own. “Baby,” he said quietly, “Nothing you make for me is stupid. I promise.”
Peter cleared his throat. Twice. Then he unfolded his poem one careful crease at a time, and started reading:
“Okay, disclaimer, this isn’t profound,
I was aiming for funny, maybe punny, ‘cuz I’m just a nerdy guy fooling around.
So I’m going to start simple, without any pressure or dread,
I love how tall you are, and you look great in red.”
Wade swallowed a small, helpless yelp.
“You take care of me and all of the things that I missed,
Like laundry and Taco Tuesday, the grocery list.
Your thighs are like tree trunks, that’s a fact—”
Peter’s hand drifted to Wade’s left thigh and gave it a purposeful squeeze.
“—I’ve done the research. You can’t argue that.”
“Guh!” Wade gasped, hand to chest, heart in shambles. “Baby! You even have choreography in yours?! I wasn’t emotionally prepared for that level of stage presence.” Then, feigning momentary composure, added, “Heh-hoo. Please do go on. Ruin me with your talent.”
“Heh.” Peter smiled, cheeks a little pink. He cleared his throat and continued.
“I thought we would stay friends, just patrolling and no risk,
Jokes and some flirting, a thwip and a kiss.
But somewhere between your laugh and your size,
You caught me off guard with the warmth in your eyes.”
“Sorry…” Peter paused, “This got… real?”
Wade had already stopped breathing three lines ago, and he was pretty sure he was experiencing full cardiac poetry arrest. But, no matter what, his baby pie came first.
“Sweetums,” Wade started softly, “You got this. I’d love it if you kept going.”
Peter rolled his shoulders back, squaring up like he was about to swing into a burning building. Only this time, vulnerability was the fire.
“I love you as you are, scars and cancer included,
Your strength is fierce and undisputed.
You stay when it’s quiet, you stay when it’s hard,
You still love me when I’ve run out of puns, and I’ve lost my guard.”
“So yeah, there were jokes, and I swear that’s how it began,
But now here I am, saying more than I planned.
Sometimes I think I’m the luckiest guy in the world because you chose me,
Wanna be forever Petey and Wadey.”
There was a little magical unicorn shield inside Wade’s heart, deflecting the pew-pew-pew of emotions, letting him survive the rest of Peter’s poem without melting into a sentimental smoothie. But then -bam!- his sweetie whipped out the web-shooters loaded with weaponized tenderness and precision aim. Right through the shield. Direct hit to the feels.
Cue the pretty girl tears.
-Sniff! Sniff!- “… Baby? Holy shit … -Sniff! Sniff!- I wasn’t prepared for this… We shoulda made an exception for gifting each other boxes of tissues, because I’m gonna need a Costco supply of them. -Sniff! Sniff!- I’ll add ‘em to the grocery list.” Wade reached for Peter’s hand, tangling their fingers together. “You realize that I am never emotionally recovering from this, right?”
Peter squeezed Wade’s hand, firm and sure. “I meant every last word,” he said softly.
Of course, Peter would say some shit like that, his precious baby boy, who was the sweetest, kindest, and most caring person, who wrote the whole fucking moon for Wade in his poem.
Cue the ugly tears.
-Sniff! Sniff!- “Hoo boy,” Wade whimpered, “I need to hear your poem again, sweetheart. For science. And my poor little romantic pancreas.”
So Peter did. Quieter this time, slower. The words nestled into the folds of Wade's fucked up brain, burrowing deep as they healed parts that he didn't even realize that he needed. His thumb absentmindedly traced little hearts against Peter’s hand, mouthing a line or two like he was singing along at lovesick karaoke.
When Peter finished, Wade blinked slowly at him, like a kitty cat saying I love you. “Forever Petey and Wadey, forever Petey and Wadey… Petey, my brain is going to explode. Or melt. Or turn into kittens. Your choice.”
“I choose this,” Peter said quickly, easily, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Us.” He reached for Wade’s hand again, their fingers lacing together in a familiar rhythm. A soft breath, then, “Hey, this might be a silly question, but… do you think I could have your poem?”
Wade gasped. “My poem? Baby, my poem ain’t shit compared to yours.”
“Babe, your poem is awesome. One moment you were talking about my butt, and the next you were giving me goosebumps,” Peter insisted. “Besides, I’d really like to keep it. Close to me. When I’m having a bad day or just any day when you can’t be there.” He gently squeezed their hands, then looked up, "Would you like to keep my poem?"
-Sniff! Sniff!- "Baby, I thought you'd never ask. C’mere, my little love-poem legend.”
Wade wrapped his arms around Peter, settling him into his lap like he belonged there (because he did), Wade’s hands sliding down to squeeze that bootiful booty. He kissed him like he was telling him everything else with his tongue that he couldn’t write into words.
After one helluva makeout sesh, they swapped poems. Wade clutched Peter’s like it was a love letter from Bea Arthur — only better, because it was from Peter. He slid it beneath his shirt, right over his tragically full-of-feelings heart. Peter did the same, and they curled up together on the couch, while the candles flickered around them, like even the room was exhaling.
“Heh. You know,” Peter said, voice a little shy, “I was, uh... kinda nervous at first. It’s silly. I don’t know why.”
“Hey, that’s not silly.” Wade leaned in, their foreheads brushing. “Full frontal confession? I was nervous too. Felt good as fuck to let it out, though. If I die tonight, bury me with your poem,” he added. “And maybe a butt print.”
Peter snorted. “You want me to sit on a Xerox machine?”
“Nah. Too cozy. Keep your butt right where it is,” Wade said, giving an affectionate squeeze. “Hey, babykins. Hit me baby, one more time?”
“Forever Petey and Wadey.”