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Wade hadn’t answered any of Peter’s texts today.
I mean. Maybe Wade was busy. Or maybe it was something else. But Wade always answered. Or at the very least, sent Peter an entire monologue in emojis. Or a long, rambly voice note. Or a blurry selfie of him eating a burrito with no context.
It was fine.
So fine that Peter maybe kinda sorta spent the past two hours swinging through the city before he finally found Wade on a rooftop in Hell’s Kitchen.
He was wearing his Deadpool suit and a faded Spider-Man fleece blanket tied around his shoulders like a cape. His mask was rolled up over his nose, and a six-pack of cherry soda sat on the pavement beside him, keeping him company, along with an unopened party-size bag of Funyuns.
“Hey.” Peter landed softly on the ledge beside him.
Wade glanced over. A small smile flickered across his lips, tired around the edges. “Hey, baby boy.” He pulled a soda from the six-pack and handed it to Peter.
“I, uh…” Peter pushed his mask up to the bridge of his nose and cracked open the can. “You didn’t—I mean, are you okay?”
Wade shrugged beneath the blanket. “Yeah. Just one of those weird brain nights. Days. Weeks. Year.”
Peter hummed quietly. He knew those. All too well. He shifted a little closer, not enough to crowd Wade, but just enough for their shoulders to touch.
Wade stayed still at first, but then, bit by bit, some of the tension eased out of him. His shoulder settled more firmly against Peter’s, like he’d decided, for now, to let Peter hold a little of his weight.
And for a while, they just sat there drinking soda in comfortable silence.
Yeah. Silence.
That’s how Peter knew it was serious. Still, he didn’t want to pressure Wade, so instead, he noticed. The little things. The way Wade kept staring out at the skyline instead of at him. The untouched Funyuns. The way he curled in on himself a little, like he was trying to take up less space.
“You know,” Wade said after a while, and let out a little puff of air. “Sometimes I think my brain got stuck in survival mode and got lost in the sauce. Like even when things are good, or just even decent enough, there’s part of me that’s still waiting for something bad to happen.”
Without thinking too hard about it, Peter reached over and gently took Wade’s gloved hand, threading their fingers together carefully. “Hey, you don’t have to be okay all the time with me.”
Wade went still. “…I know.”
But he said it as if he were still learning to believe it.
A few more quiet seconds passed. The evening’s cool, summertime breeze moved over the roof, fluttering the edges of Wade’s blanket cape, and then his lips started to move again.
“Birthdays are weird. Congrats, you survived another spin around the moon. Please enjoy this complimentary existential crisis and a sheet cake from someone named Debbie in accounting. Only there ain’t no sheet cake and there sure as fuck no one that I know named Debbie. Except for Little Debbie. Snack cakes. Not even a sheet cake, Petey.”
“Wade." Peter’s hand gently squeezed his. "Is it your birthday?”
Wade gave a weak little laugh. “Why do I look older? Sadder? Sexier?”
“Wade.” Peter smoothed a thumb across the back of his hand. “I would’ve wanted to know.”
“I know.” Wade’s fingers twitched against Peter’s. “That’s kind of the problem. It’s easier if nobody knows. I don’t have to be disappointed if it’s weird, or if I’m being weird, or too much, or not enough, or if I make a joke and nobody laughs, or if I’m crying in my Burger King birthday crown. Have it your way. Or not.”
“Hey,” Peter said softly. “Look at me?”
The whites of Wade’s mask tilted towards Peter, his lips in a soft pout.
“You don’t have to be anything for me. You just have to be you. I like you because you’re weird. ‘Cuz I’m weird. And your jokes always make me laugh. And I’d cry next to you in a Burger King crown if you let me. Besides, I heard they have a Mandalorian and Grogu menu there right now. Might be fun to hang out and eat shitty burgers in our crowns and go see the movie afterward.”
Wade sniffled. Something eased inside of him. “You mean, like a date?”
“Uh.” Peter’s chest fluttered. “Yeah. I mean, if you wanted to.”
“Can we get popcorn?”
“Heh. Yeah. Is extra butter okay?”
“This is the way. Can we get chocolate-covered peanuts?”
“Sure. Anything you want. It’s your birthday after all.”
“Can we get nachos with extra cheese sauce?”
“Extra cheesy.” Peter nodded. “I’ll even ask for two cups of cheese. Three if it makes you smile. And we can get cherry soda if they have it.”
Peter lifted his can, a quiet little offering.
Wade stared at it for a beat. Then he clinked his soda gently against Peter’s. He let out a slow breath, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders.
“‘Kay.” He paused, then added, quieter, “Why are you being so nice to me, Petey?”
“Because I like you. A lot.” He gently squeezed Wade’s hand. “And for the record, I’m honored I get to spend your birthday with you. Even if you made me find out through rooftop detective work and sus cherry soda behavior.”
Wade took a swig from the can. With his other hand. No way in hell was he letting go of Peter’s. “Hey, that was classified cherry soda behavior. Very high clearance.”
“Mm-hm. Sure it was.”
The breeze drifted through the buildings again, skimming across the rooftop, and Peter shivered a little. Wade stared at him for half a heartbeat before immediately scooting over closer and wrapping the blanket around both of them.
“This okay, Petey-pie?”
“Yeah,” Peter said, beaming up at him. “Now we’re wrapped up like a present.”
That got Peter a smile. Small, but real. “Heh. The perfect birthday present. And I ain’t returning this one. It’s a keeper.”
Then, somewhere in the building across the alley, a window creaked open, their friendly anonymous neighbor playing some music, smooth jazz drifting out into the dusk of the night.
Wade took a swig of soda. “Great. Now the city’s trying to score my emotional breakdown. With a saxophone.”
Peter crooked a sweet little half-smile. Then he shifted to nudge Wade with his shoulder, just a tiny sway beneath their shared blanket. “May I have this blanket dance?”
Wade gasped dramatically. “A blanket dance is just what the doctor ordered. Doctor of Birthday Depression. DBD. No MD. Don’t ask for credentials, Petey, but I happen to have a prescription for one cute, criminally cuddly spider tucked up against one another-year-older merc underneath his favorite comfort blanket.”
He rested his head against Peter’s shoulder, gently rocking together, like a birthday candle flame leaning toward warmth. Just the two of them under one blanket, Peter’s hand in his.
“Happy birthday, Wade,” Peter said, voice soft.
And this time, when Wade exhaled, something in him let go. “Yeah,” Wade whispered. “It is.”