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Peter stares at the little box in his hands. The clear plastic is dented, and the cupcake within it is smooshed up to the side, the mass-produced pink piped frosting moulded into the top corner of the plastic. The box is topped off with an obnoxiously yellow discount sticker, proudly announcing that, because this cupcake is going to expire today, it is now 99¢ instead of $2.99!
Peter pops the lid open, exhaling with mild disappointment when the lid takes half the frosting with it. He uses his pinky to trace a 2 and a 0 onto the top, and then licks it clean while admiring his shoddy handiwork. It’s not like he owns any candles, so the yellowed ceiling light will simply have to do.
“I made it,” he whispers, the words directed to no one in particular, because he is the only person in his apartment. He flicks the ceiling light off for a moment, pretending there’s a candle to blow out, and then turns the light on again.
God, this is…
Well, pathetic isn’t the right word. It’s not even remotely the right word; Peter feels very proud of himself right now, actually. And he knows he deserves to be. But he’s celebrating his 20th birthday alone in a shoebox apartment and, well, though it it may not be pathetic, it’s certainly sad.
And, the thing is, he doesn’t have to be celebrating it alone. Though he doesn’t really want to celebrate his birthday with a handful of other heroes he happens to be on semi-friendly terms with, he could. He could rescind his previous decision to celebrate later in the week and catch the bus down to Aunt May’s, or remind Tony it’s his birthday and have some last-minute lavish party thrown.
Celebrating with them isn’t exactly what Peter’s missing, though. He could have everyone he knows over, get a big cake for cheap from the discount aisle (or get Tony to pay for a nice one); but it still wouldn’t make up for the fact that no one there would know the gravity that this day holds for Peter. They’d be there, and they’d be celebrating, which is fine, but they won’t get it. No one in his life does.
No one but him.
“I made it,” he says again, this time attempting to raise his voice to a normal speaking volume. The words fall strangely in the empty room.
“I…”
Peter trails off, his mind spinning as he tries to make sense of what he’s doing, his eyes glued to the 20 traced in cupcake frosting. The words seem to find themselves, eventually, stumbling out of his mouth like they have minds of their own.
“I got through Midtown High,” he says. “Valedictorian, too. I don’t know how I did it, with a job on the side and- and being Spider-Man, but I did it.”
He keeps staring at the cupcake as his lips move of his own accord.
“And I got into Empire State University. Full ride!” He clears his throat a bit at that, cheeks flushed red at the sudden change in his volume, despite the fact that there’s no one around to hear it, or care about it.
“It’s, um, going pretty well,” he says, more subdued now. “I got through my second year. Still with Spider-Man, and photography, and that part-time gig as a tutor. I’m on track to graduate in a couple years. Hopefully with honors, at least.
“I got through… everything that Spider-Man entails. All the nearly-dying crap. And watching other people die. And saving people, and comforting them, and fending off obsessive fans. Obsessive villains. Ben’s death, before I was Spider-Man at all. It’s not exactly easy, uh, being a normal person after all of that. I think some people would call that trauma, or something. But I’m doing my best, and… I mean, I think that’s pretty good, right? I’ve been doing pretty good, all things considered.
“I think my parents would be proud. And Ben. I know May is, even though she only knows about Peter Parker and not Spider-Man, and I think Tony’s proud too, even though he never says it and doesn’t really understand being not-rich.”
He scoffs a bit at that, and uses his finger to scrape the extra frosting off of the plastic lid, flicking it onto the cupcake to cover up the 20 that had been traced in earlier.
“I guess there’s not much else to say,” he mutters. “I’m just… glad I made it—hic—this far.”
His breath hitches then, and he becomes aware of warmth spreading across his face, burning behind his eyes. He presses his lips together, trying to keep his breathing even, to no avail. The world blurs, and a tear slips by. He swipes it away, but it’s followed by another, and another. The impromptu reminiscing speech is halted as he lets his head fall to his hands, the heels of his palms pressed to his eyes.
There were so many times where it really didn’t look like I was gonna make it this far.
The crying is short-lived and light. Tears are dried, sniffles are made, and Peter returns to staring at the cupcake. It is eaten with little fanfare, the container and the paper liner discarded in the nearly overflowing trash bin that Peter really ought to take out soon.
He’s got the hang of things, he thinks. It’s been an awful twenty years, but things are falling into a more manageable rhythm, now. It used to feel like every Spider-Man situation was life-or-death. Like any day would be his last. If he weren’t to succumb to vigilanteism, then at least he’d fall at his own hand when his mind inevitably broke from seeing all of… that. All vigilanteism entails. All that being Peter Parker entails.
But, in spite of it all, he’s twenty now. Maybe he’s a bit stronger than he thought.
Maybe it’s time to stop thinking he’ll die tragically young. Maybe he should look into that therapist, now that it looks like he’s going to live long enough to truly suffer the effects of PTSD. Maybe telling May about his masked escapades won’t result in the world’s end.
He wipes crumbs and frosting from the corners of his mouth, slips into his suit with a single, fluid motion, and pulls the mask over his face just as he slides out of the window and onto the brick wall because, regardless of if any of that is true, the world does not stop for him today, nor will it on any other day.
So, he simply must keep going.