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Peter anxiously touched up his makeup in the bathroom mirror.
He pressed at his eyelashes with a curler and then swiped at them with a thick mascara wand. He drew a deep magenta-coloured lipstick across his lips, rubbing them together to help it blend. He dusted glittery golden eyeshadow on his eyelids and penciled in vivid winged eyeliner. He prodded at the foundation carefully contouring his cheekbones.
Finally he stood back from the mirror. He adjusted his crop top and pulled his shorts up a little so the waistline was on his belly. There. He looked good, he had to admit. The only thing now betraying his nerves was the telltale tremble of his hands. He hoped they wouldn’t sweat and make it so he couldn’t hold the mic.
Peter exited the bathroom and strolled down the hall. He moved with a smiling, swinging confidence and in the club’s main room he fell into his seat at a table with four friends.
“Rumour has it you’re up first, Parker.” Wade nudged him with an elbow, wiggling his eyebrows at him.
“Oh God,” Peter sighed and pouted with his meticulously painted lips, “I don’t wanna go first. That’s just wrong.”
“Ah you’ll do great,” Wade reassured him, “And if you do fuck everything up, well, it’s not like there’s anyone important here tonight to see it.”
Peter sighed and leaned his head on Wade’s shoulder, closing his eyes and breathing in his scent, balsam wood and tea tree oil. Clean.
“Alright, alright, alright!”
Everyone in the club shifted their attention to the stage, where a pretty Black woman was standing up at the microphone, “Welcome to the Red Grapes White Vine monthly Open Mic Night!”
Those gathered cheered and whooped and whistled.
“Remember everyone, you are cut off at five minutes, but otherwise you are free to take the mic and perform your heart out. Read a poem, sing a song, play an instrument, hell just eat your buffalo mac and cheese while standing in front of the mic — the world is your oyster!”
A small current of laughter hummed through the club. Peter looked around anxiously. He’d been to Red Grapes White Vine before, but never for the Open Mic. And until about a week ago he’d never have thought he’d be signed up for the Open Mic. He always just figured he’d go one day to watch.
But here he was, sitting and anxiously clearing his throat in hopes that it would be ready for him to sing.
“Okay, first up singing a Gracie Abrams song: please give a huge welcome to Peter Parker singing Where do we go now?”
The club erupted into cheers and Peter wobbled to his feet. He was wearing a small heel with his outfit, and suddenly he wished he’d had the foresight to pick flats instead. He missed his trusty Converse back at home. But Peter made his way around the stage and up the steps. The woman had stepped back from the mic stand and Peter approached, squinting under the harshness of the stage lights.
Peter touched the mic with one hand, and he looked into the corner of the stage where a three-person band was waiting and ready to back him up. He just had to give the word.
Peter nodded a couple of times, tapping one of his feet to set the rhythm. Then he nodded for the band to start playing, and just a few moments later he turned and crooned into the mic:
Twenty-fourth street
Where you held me, grabbed my arm
What a mental fire alarm
‘Cause a lot of that felt wrong
Like I miss you
But when I kissed you back, I lied
You don’t know how hard I tried
Had to fake the longest time
As he launched into the first chorus, someone whistled and a few shrieks of support rose from the audience. Peter leaned in the direction of the table with his friends. Then, growing more confident as he got into the beloved song, he took the mic off the stand and walked to the edge of the stage, bending to one knee to sing as directly to the audience as he could.
He stood up again, walked backward, walked forward. Not exactly dancing, but he swayed with the music.
We could meet down the line
After all of the time
And give an actual—
Peter choked.
He’d made his way to the front of the stage again and bent down to see the audience past the blaring lights. He scanned the crowd before him, and he spluttered when he made eye contact with a young man all the way in the back.
Tony Stark’s face lit up when Peter made eye contact with him. And he waved his hand big in the air.
And beside Tony, strawberry blonde hair pulled back into a severe ponytail though her head was bobbing along to the music, was Virginia Pepper Potts.
Peter paused, swallowed, listened to the band, and then picked up:
You're the best in my life and I lost you
And we had no control when it fell through
It was one-sided, hate how I hurt you
As he capped out the song on the final chorus, he lurched back to his feet and returned the mic to its stand, holding it with both hands as he finished the song. The final musical notes from the band seemed to hang suspended in the air, falling over the audience alongside their cheers and praise.
Peter stumbled off stage. The Black woman took his place and said, “Alright, a little nerves there but nothing you couldn’t handle, Peter. What a beautiful performance, and please accept a one free drink ticket as a thank you for going first.”
Peter made eye contact with Wade first, who mouthed a question that Peter didn’t make out, but it was probably related to whether he’d be sharing the free drink ticket. Peter just shook his head and made a beeline for the bathroom.
Peter locked himself into a bathroom stall in the men’s restroom and shoved his fist into his mouth, terrified that he was about to hyperventilate. Tony Stark was here — not just in LA here, he was here at the club where Peter had just performed a song that might as well have been dedicated to him. This was bad. This was such a deplorable, shitty situation to be in. Peter felt his heart rate climbing higher and higher in his chest and he naively hoped maybe Wade or one of his other friends would come looking for him if only so he could beg them to get him out of here.
But…
But this was ridiculous, wasn't it?
Tony Stark wasn’t here. Tony Stark couldn’t be here. Tony Stark was back home, in the Midwest, finishing seminary or maybe even preaching at his own church by now. There was no logical universe in which Tony Stark had come out to LA, brought his girlfriend with him, and happened to stumble into the exact same club where Peter was performing for an Open Mic Night.
No.
No, it was outrageous. Peter hadn’t seen Tony Stark in the crowd, nor had he seen Pepper, he told himself. He’d been nervous about singing the song, he was mistaken, his mind had played a trick on him.
Peter lowered his hand from where it was still half-stuffed in his mouth, but he was no longer anticipating throwing up on himself.
Peter unlocked the bathroom stall and stumbled out. He washed his hands for a very long time, lathering with soap three separate times. He kept repeating to himself that it wasn’t what he’d thought, that it had been some kind of mirage, that he’d just made eye contact with a very Tony-Stark-like stranger and his blond girlfriend in the crowd. Now he just had to go back out there to prove it to himself and he could enjoy the rest of the Open Mic with his friends.
The bathroom door swung shut behind him and Peter started back toward the main room.
“Peter.”
The single word, cloaked in that smooth, drawling Midwestern voice, arrested him on the spot.
Peter spun around. There, between the door to the men’s bathroom and the door to the kitchen, was Tony Stark.
Not a mirage at all, but solid flesh and blood. And though he was dressed somewhat ridiculously for Los Angeles — a sweater vest over a long-sleeved button-up shirt — Peter stumbled back a step. One hand went up to his chest but he didn’t know what to do with it except clench it into a fist.
“Tony,” The word came out in a weak, breathy gasp.
Tony mustered the tiniest of smiles, but he didn’t move any closer to Peter.
His voice sounded strained, like he was fighting back emotions threatening to rear up inside of him like the waves in Peter’s beloved Pacific, “Peter, it’s so good to see you.”
Peter looked over his shoulder and then snapped, accusation leaking out of his voice and all over the floor, “Where’s your girlfriend?”
Tony sounded calm in contrast to Peter, “She’s back at our table. If you want, you could come sit with us? Your song was amazing. You’re a better singer than I remember.”
Yeah, well. Peter certainly hoped that his singing had gotten better in the years that had melted away since high school and undergrad. He imagined he now sounded more mature, more confident, more storied.
They all were, in a way.
It had been two years since Peter had last seen Tony. On that frigid winter day between Christmas and New Year’s, their lives teetering on so much promise and such different trajectories.
Peter had avoided going home ever since that day. He’d languished his days away out here in LA, celebrating holidays with friends or even strangers also too bent out of shape to bear to return home. When his Mom or Aunt asked if he was coming home this year, he hedged and hesitated, claiming the rigour of his degree to be too intense for him to even think about returning home.
Now, on a bright evening in April just a month away from graduating, he wouldn’t have that excuse anymore. But he could come up with something else, and Wade would keep him company over Christmases left alone.
“What are you even doing here, Tony?” Peter’s voice was withered with shock and exhaustion, “How did you even know I’d be here?”
“Your parents gave me your address.” Tony said, “But when we went by you weren’t there. Your roommate, he’s nice, he said you’d be here.”
Peter tamped down his own irritation at Ned. Ned had actually planned to join them tonight at Red Grapes but had come down with a head cold. It was weird to think that if just a couple things had gone differently, Ned would’ve been here and the apartment would’ve been empty, and then Tony and Pepper never would have been able to track him down.
And he could’ve sung his song for Tony in peace.
“You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here,” Peter groused. Tony hadn’t explained why he’d come to be here at this bar.
Tony gestured down the hall, “Do you wanna come sit down, Peter? Then maybe we could talk more comfortably.”
No. Peter definitely did not want to go sit down with Tony and his girlfriend. Peter folded his arms,
“I’m fine here.” He didn’t try to disguise the grumpiness from his voice.
“Okay, well.” Tony hesitated, he rubbed his hands together and suddenly couldn’t make eye contact with Peter, “Your mom sent me. She kept saying how close you and I were in high school. So she thought maybe, if you wouldn’t listen to her, you’d listen to me. And I know we have… a complicated history. But I think maybe she’s right, maybe I can convince you to come home. Just for a week or two. Just to visit, Peter. Your family misses you — it’s been way too long.”
Peter dragged a hand through his hair, which was wild and mussed from his time on stage. He hadn’t gone no-contact with his family, not exactly. But phone calls were few and far between and he rarely initiated contact with his parents or aunt and uncle. Something deep in Peter’s gut was afraid that the next time he went home, it would be for Uncle Ben’s funeral. But the peace and joy of living in LA, of not going home, kept him afloat every time he grew tempted to travel home to visit.
“It’s just… healthier for me.” Peter said, “To not go home.” He glanced up and down the empty hallway, “I don’t want to go home, Tony. I can’t stand the thought of it. And I’m happy here. Really, genuinely happy. I’m finishing my degree next month, and I think UCLA will hire me as an assistant professor. I have a roommate I enjoy, friends I love, hobbies I’m passionate about. I don’t have any of that when I’m— home.” He halted, not even knowing whether to call it home or not.
Peter asked after a few still moments, “What about you? Did you finish seminary?”
“I did,” Tony said with a tight, single nod. “I’m an associate pastor at the church, working with Dad.”
They had graduated from high school at the exact same time, and somehow Peter and Tony had walked off the stage that day in opposite directions.
Tony added, “I’m gonna ask Pepper to marry me this summer.”
Peter said, “Oh.”
“I don’t think this is home for you, Peter. Not really.” Tony went on, “And I’m not just saying that because of, like, our eternal home in heaven. I mean our town — your family misses you. I — I — I —” But he couldn’t finish it, couldn’t confess that he, too, missed Peter and his company. Not after their talk two years ago. Not after how grotesquely their paths in the yellow wood had diverged.
“You what?” Peter demanded, wanting to hear him say it, even though it seemed impossible. “You what, Tony?”
And then Tony kissed him.
It startled Peter so badly that his whole body jolted forward, and he melted eagerly into the kiss, his mouth going slack against Tony’s and letting his tongue wander inward.
But even if Peter reciprocated the kiss, he still pulled back first.
“Pepp.” Peter said.
“I—” Tony still seemed stuck on the single word, “I — I — you’re right. I’m sorry. You’re right. We shouldn’t have done that.”
But it had been nice, Peter thought. He had missed those lips, maybe that was when he was truly at home. When he was melting into Tony’s kiss.
“We?” Peter asked.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” Tony amended, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Peter.”
There was a purple mark lingering on Tony’s lips, from Peter’s lipstick. It looked like a bruise, blooming and painful centred in the mouth that Peter wanted so badly to draw in for another kiss.
“What are you thinking, Tony? Are you — I don’t know — are you feeling confused?”
“No,” Tony shook his head briskly, “I’m not confused. I just — I got caught up in the moment. I’m so sorry, Peter.”
Peter nodded at this, not knowing what to say.
Caught up in the moment? What fucking moment?
“You’re gonna — you’re gonna need to wash your face.” Peter pointed to his lips, and now he could see traces of eyeshadow glitter on Tony’s forehead from how close they’d been.
Tony lifted a hand to wipe at his lips.
Unbidden, an old hymn surfaced in Peter’s thoughts.
Take my hands and let them move
At the impulse of thy love
Take my feet and let them be
Swift and beautiful for thee
“I — I think maybe I just didn’t know.” Tony was talking again, and Peter tuned back into him slowly, “I think I wondered — what would’ve been. But I know now. And I’m sure. I’m making the right decisions.”
Tony turned toward the door of the bathroom, to leave. To scrub his face and then return to his girlfriend and his life of religion and obedience.
Peter asked, voice breaking though it came out soft, “Are you sure?”
Tony looked back at him, and if Peter didn’t know any better he’d say the man was desperate to kiss him again. But Peter was done with that, done with Tony’s confusion, with his yearning.
Peter was happy now, and he couldn’t let any part of Tony Stark get in the way of that.
“I’m going home.” Peter said and he turned toward the hallway. He wondered if Tony and Pepper would stay for the rest of the Open Mic.
“So will you do it?” Tony asked, one hand on the bathroom door to push it open, “Will you come home to visit?” He hesitated before adding, “For your mom’s sake, Peter.” Which was a somewhat low blow.
“Bye Tony,” Peter said softly, and he walked down the hall to ask Wade to take him home.
He left Tony behind, standing by the bathroom door, with Peter’s lipstick still smudged deep purple against his lips.