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Ned is by no means an athletic kid, but on the night of July 14, 2017, he prides himself over the fact that he is able to hum Troye Sivan’s “My My My!” under his breath while taking the stairs up to Peter’s apartment two at a time. Not even the bummer of a broken elevator could erase the brightness in his step.
He doesn’t go through the motions of knocking anymore--they ditched that formality when they were ten, to be honest. He simply jiggles the knob, and upon finding it locked, he opens it with the copy of the house key that has been hanging on his fob for years now.
Ned finishes lip syncing to the final refrain--Living for your every move, living for your every move--then tosses his keychain at the wall hook, misses, and chirps: “Honey, I’m home!”
“I am not bending down to pick that up,” he adds in a mutter to himself. He doubts Peter will miss it, though, what with his super cool Spidey hearing.
Silence greets him.
That’s odd, Ned thinks, considering the light in the kitchen. He kicks off his shoes and shuffles in that direction. Pete must be too busy jamming out with his earbuds in--
--Or too busy, apparently, swinging his legs over the edge of the kitchen island, with a tiara askew in his curls and an open bottle of Jacob’s Creek nestled in the ridiculous pile of chiffon between his knees.
“Uh,” Ned says, quite eloquently.
To be fair, he’d practiced for weeks before winning that public speaking award. People don’t normally practice for the sight of their boyfriend drunk off his ass for the first time in his life while decked out in a tacky, floofy party gown.
Peter turns his head to acknowledge Ned for the first time. “Heyy,” he rasps. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“You’re not supposed to be drunk--dude, you’re sixteen! Does May know? Hold up, hold up. Is that her wine? Oh my God, Peter, you’re gonna get in so much trouble.”
Peter squints at him and moves his mouth a couple of times, but makes no sound, as if the words have suddenly disconnected from his brain and fallen through a hole into the void.
“Wait--how are you even drunk? Can your metabolism even allow that? I thought Captain America said he can’t--”
“--Second,” Peter hiccups.
Ned stands there with a helpless stare, hoping against hope his boyfriend isn’t actually saying what he thinks he’s trying to say.
Peter lifts the bottle and gestures sloppily at the garbage bin next to the stove. Ned doesn’t even want to look. “Second bottle,” he explains.
There’s an awful, stifling silence after that that stretches for miles and miles. Ned’s thoughts trip one over another in that sliver of a minute, and he, too, is floundering for the proper words for the situation.
Finally, his limbs begin to work again. He takes a few steps forward until he’s standing between Peter’s knees and looking up at the other boy with a quiet pleading in his eyes. “Give it to me.”
Peter’s gaze is locked on his, eyes unfocused. There’s a sheen covering his irises that refuses to fade. Ned has known about this side of him for years now: the terror of emotions, the frantic slam of the windows against the flood--and the inevitable, heartbreaking dissociation.
Just let it go, he wants to whisper to Peter. It isn’t that bad. I’ll hold you while you cry and it’ll suck for a good solid hour, but I’ll be holding you and it’ll pass. Just let it go.
He doesn’t voice it, of course. He doesn’t know yet if it is a boundary he can cross.
“Babe,” Ned tries again. “I’m taking this from you now.”
Peter comes halfway alive at that. He throws back his head for another gulp, winces, then hands over the near-empty bottle to his boyfriend.
“Of all the things,” he coughs out. A choking fit overcomes him, and Ned hastily sets down the bottle on the stove behind him so he can lay a tentative hand on Peter's back and rub circles across the skin. Finally Peter’s breathing evens out. “Of all the things,” he speaks again, “and you didn’t even comment on the dress.”
“I’m, uh, I’m getting to that.” Ned blinks and sucks in a breath. “Just, uh, trying to address things one at a time, you know? By order of importance.”
Peter shoots him a lazy smile. “Nerd.”
“Dork.”
Pete leans back with his eyes closed, his lips still quirked upward, and Ned thinks he just about suffers three separate mini heart attacks in the second before he lurches forward to seize the other boy by his wrist. “Nope. Don’t do that. There’s no wall behind you, dude. There’s tile. A--a whole lot of tile. You’re Spider-Man, okay? I can’t let you die by smashing your head on the tile--that would be so anticlimactic…”
“Spider-Man is anticlimactic,” Peter mumbles.
“Wow, so genius. I’ve never talked to a drunk person before and I guess this is the reason why. You have, like, exactly two brain cells left. Although, why am I surprised? You getting drunk off your ass at sixteen? With no adult supervision? I never knew you were that much of an idiot.”
To his credit, Peter attempts a full eye-roll and succeeds. “Takes one to know one.”
Ned just gives him a flat look. “I’m divorcing you.”
“Oh, boo-hoo, no alimony for you.”
“Why the heck do I always end up being the one asking for alimony?”
“Because.” Peter gestures expansively. The movement causes him to wobble on the counter, making Ned go through another aneurysm as he watches him. “I’m Spider-Man. I probably got the bigger earning capacity in these situations.”
“You do Spider-Manning for free, Peter.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Um, really? Churros?”
“Oh. I guess you’re right.” Suddenly Peter brightens. “Well, Spider-Man has an Iron Dad. Tony has a savings account already set up for him.”
“Speaking of Tony, I should probably call him, because we’re really in way over our heads with this whole Spidey-getting-drunk thing. Can you get alcohol poisoning? Or would your metabolism just--you know what, never mind. Why am I even asking a drunk person? He can probably ask Dr. Banner. I’ll call Mr. Stark now.”
“No.”
Peter’s voice is so loud and chaotic then that Ned nearly drops his phone.
“Peter, if you don’t want me to call May, then you’ve gotta--”
“I said no.” Peter’s former puppy-like demeanor is gone. His shoulders are tense, muscles drawn like wire, the hollows in his neck and clavicles growing more prominent. His eyes are wild. Breaths are coming to him shorter and faster; his chest heaves and shudders, even without the binder on. His hands react last--they always do--and then they’re curling and uncurling around the chiffon skirt, clenching at the material so hard it threatens to tear into ribbons.
“Okay, okay, okay, okay. I won’t. I’m sorry, babe. Peter. Peter. I won’t call Mr. Stark just yet. Can you--can you just look at me and breathe with me? Can you do that? Okay?”
Ned walks Peter through the breathing exercises about six or seven times. Internally he trembles with relief: a full-blown panic attack with Peter normally takes twenty to thirty counts.
It’s another small victory that Peter doesn’t say sorry the instant he comes down from his spike of anxiety. Perhaps his drunk brain is too sluggish to keep up, or perhaps he’s learned enough from years of Ned helping him through the panic that the boy will not tolerate apologies for things outside his control.
“I didn’t mean to yell at you,” Peter says meekly.
“I know. Why don’t you want me to call Mr. Stark, though?”
Peter just shakes his head, unable to form a coherent explanation. Ned has to stave off the urge to wilt at that.
“He’s not gonna be mad. Well, okay, maybe a little. But mostly worried. Right?”
“Just...stay here.” Peter slumps forward and inches his hand toward Ned’s. Ned goes to grip it immediately.
“Yeah, I’m staying. Not going anywhere. Couldn’t get rid of me even when you cooked that hideous sofrito, remember?”
Peter groans, and Ned’s not quite sure for a minute if it’s because of embarrassment, annoyance or a new discomfort brought on by the inebriation.
“Babe, why don’t we get you down from the counter first? I’m, like, having fifty different kinds of strokes just watching you and making sure you don’t fall.”
“You’re gonna get a stroke from all the pork belly you eat, anyway.”
“Oh my God, shut up.” Ned tugs Peter down from the island, and thankfully the other boy complies, landing heavily against Ned’s side. He loops Peter’s arm around his neck and shuffles them both forward into the living room. Never in his life has he been more grateful for such a tiny living space. It only takes about eight steps before they’re both collapsed on top of each other on the couch.
“Ow,” Peter whispers. “Ow. Ow. Elbow. Boob.”
“Shit, sorry.”
“’S fine.”
Ned shifts again so he’s a few inches away from Peter, giving him space to breathe. The other boy whines low in his throat and tugs at the sleeve of his hoodie. With a sigh, Ned shuffles back until their arms touch each other. Peter’s entire body sags against him as he relaxes again.
The next several seconds tick by measured by rhythmic breaths. Ned turns his head slowly to check that Peter is still awake. The other boy is slumped against his shoulder with his cheek mushed against the cotton of Ned’s hoodie, his eyes fixed ahead through fluttering eyelashes.
“Are you gonna be sick?”
Peter huffs unintelligibly. “...Dun thin’ so.”
“You’re probably gonna be sick tomorrow.”
Peter is probably attempting to shrug. He accomplishes nothing but jostle Ned’s side.
“Why are you wearing that, babe?”
Peter mumbles.
Ned grimaces. “Sorry. What?”
“I found it lying around.”
“Uh...okay.”
“It was grandma’s quina--kina--quinceañera dress.”
Ned tries his best to keep in the jab behind pursed lips--he really does--but he can’t help it. He gives the outlandish pink getup another once-over and declares: “It sure looks like it.”
Peter groans out something else which Ned doesn't have the energy to have him repeat. After another moment, Peter straightens, and the abrupt movement sends the tarnished tiara tumbling from his hair. “I have two words for you,” he says with sudden, alarming clarity. “2014. Barong.”
“I’m suing your ass.”
“But I’m druuuunk.”
“I’m gonna force feed you tomato juice first, and then I’m suing your ass.”
“I’m gonna tell Tony and then he’s gonna--he’s gonna…” Peter furrows his brow in a comical display of concentration. He seems to struggle remembering where he was going with this threat. “Oh! Yeah. He has lawyers.”
Ned takes one look at his boyfriend, flush-faced with his hair mussed and his eyes too shiny to be normal, and he doubles over and laughs and laughs until he’s wheezing.
“You’re laughing at me. I’m drunk.”
“Yeah, we’ve established that, babe.” Ned chokes on his own spit.
“You’re being mean.”
“You’re still giving me alimony.”
“True.” Peter taps his own chin with a tad too much force and ends up swaying backward on the couch. “Even though I am the girl in the relationship.”
All the mirth immediately drains from Ned. “Peter.”
The other boy doesn’t answer. He stares at his hands in his lap.
“Peter, you’re not--I mean, unless you want to be?”
Peter draws a deep breath but decides on a silent, wobbly shake of his head, as if he doesn’t trust his voice enough to reply.
“Is that what this about?”
Peter rubs the heel of his palm over his eyebrow. “First date tomorrow.”
“Uh-huh. Yeah. We’re still on for the park, right? But wait, what does that have to do with any of this?”
“You like girls. I’m a girl.”
“No, you’re not. And I’m bi as fuck, remember? We both are.” Ned’s pretty sure there is something deeper and more eloquent that Peter is trying to convey, but the alcohol is stewing his brain and preventing him from producing anything more coherent than monosyllabic utterances.
“Wish I was.”
Ned looks at him a little helplessly.
“Jus’...would be easier.”
“I’m sorry, babe. You don’t deserve to go through this. Dysphoria is, like, the bitch of all bitches.”
Peter shakes his head. “Hngh. Meant, easier for you.”
“Peter, nothing about this is hard for me.”
Peter gestures down at himself, as if that clarifies anything. “I’m built for it. Boobs. Hips. Ass. Even--” He forces out a breath from his nose to cut off whatever else he was going to say.
“Considering you’re the star of the decathlon team, you can be super dumb sometimes.”
Peter looks offended, but vaguely so, as if he’s not even sure why he is in the first place.
“Being a boy isn’t about your body. Okay? You’re Peter. And if you’re Peter, then I think you’re Peter. Everybody else should think of you as Peter.”
Pete buries his face in his hands and slumps sideways against Ned. Ned happily encircles his bare shoulders with an arm and gives a gentle squeeze.
“’M Spider-Man.”
Ned has to giggle at that. “Yeah. Yeah, you are.”
“You deserve better…”
“Than Spider-Man? Are you fucking kidding me, man?”
“N-no. Than me. Than this.”
“I don’t care what your chest looks like. You’re Peter, and more importantly, you’re my Peter.”
“But...but why can’t I just--put on a dress and nice shoes and--this stupid hair just--I--”
“Baby.” Ned’s voice cracks a little. “Babe. Babe. Look at me. Don’t you ever go thinking like that, okay? You’re gonna kill yourself with those kinds of feelings. That isn’t who you are. Also, for the record, I love your hair just the way it is. Remember when you were seven and May gave you that haircut that made you look like Inigo Montoya? Yeah, no. I really prefer you this way.”
Peter lets out a sound that must have been a chuckle at some point but turned into a hiccup. “You had that buzz cut. Third grade.”
Ned's face looks pained. “Dude. My mom is Asian. She was trying to save.”
Peter simply sniggers at him.
“I am so gonna put jalapenos in your sandwich tomorrow.”
“I like jalapenos.”
“No, you don't, you stupid drunk dork. Remember when you threw up Ben's beans? Remember that?”
In response, Peter flops dramatically over the arm of the couch. “You’re so mean.”
“No, I’m being factual.”
“I hate you.”
“Actually? Mood,” says Ned, and tugs Peter upright so he can wrap an arm around his shoulders again and press a kiss to the top of his head.
Peter nuzzles his chest with a contented sigh. The moment of tenderness lasts all of about ten seconds before he bolts upright again, his hand flying to his mouth. “Mgonnabesick--”
“Shit. Fuck. Uh, here. Shit.” Ned grabs May’s crystal vase, tears the baby’s breath from it and thrusts the empty jar under Peter’s chin. Peter manages to hold it down for about two more seconds and then vomits with the most miserable visage conceivable.
Pete makes a grabby hand at Ned’s sleeve and misses when he stands up to head into the kitchen. “Dun go.”
“I’m not. Relax, Peter. I’m just getting you a glass of water.”
“Come back.”
“I will. I promise.”
Ned hastens to fetch the glass of water. On his way back, he spots Peter’s phone abandoned on the kitchen island and scoops it up.
“Dun take a picture ’f me,” Peter says, as he accepts the glass of water and eyes the phone in Ned’s hand with a wary look.
Ned rapidly proceeds to take three and then lowers the phone. “I won’t,” he says innocently.
Peter squints at him, but apparently the effort of trying to discern his boyfriend’s truthfulness is too taxing. He slumps forward with his forehead pressed against the cool beads of condensation on the glass.
“Are you hot? Cold? Do you need a blanket or something? No, wait, actually, we should probably get out of that dress.”
Pete considers a moment and then shakes his head. “Too sick,” he rasps out. “Gimme--gimme a minute.”
Ned moves closer to press his palm against Peter’s shoulder and rub soothing little circles across his back. “Take your time, babe.”
With his other hand, he pulls up Peter’s contacts and taps on Tony’s icon.
PP: Good evening Mr. Iron Man Stark.
PP: Hope you’re doing swell.
PP: Quick question.
PP: In a hypothetical situation, should a hypothetical teenager be throwing up ten minutes after hypothetically getting drunk? If so, what should hypothetically be done to make them feel better?
TS: Kid
TS: That’s a lot of hypotheticals buddy
TS: Pulling up your suit’s coordinates rn. Have Karen send me the info
TS: KID. Why is your suit is offline. I swear to god you better be on patrol being a good samaritan to some other drunk
PP: Sorry, this is Ned, sir.
TS: What the hell ar eyou two doing at a party??
Incoming call from Tony Stark
Ned smacks himself in the face. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Peter groans inquisitively behind him. Ned waves a hand in his general vicinity. “Stay there, babe. Don’t move. And drink your water.” In a moment of fleeting, blinding panic, Ned rejects the call, but it doesn’t take even three seconds of him stepping out into the hall before Peter’s phone buzzes again with a vengeance.
“H-hello?”
“Ted?”
“Yes, sir? Mr. Iron Man?”
“Who’s drunk?”
Ned doesn’t even have to answer that one, because Peter chooses that precise moment to holler in the background: “This is th’ crystal. Ned. Ned. Why you--le’ me puke in crystal--May’s gon’ be so mad…”
There’s a tense silence of both teenager and man breathing heavily down the line.
“Where the hell are you two?”
“At home,” Ned mutters miserably. “Peter’s apartment, I mean. I don’t--I came over and I found him like this. I got the drink away from him, don’t worry, sir. He’s actually been pretty, uh, lucid. But we’ve--we’ve already had the talk! Don’t worry, Mr. Stark, sir! I’ve given him a piece of my mind about this whole business. I was just...wondering, how is he able to get drunk and also on that note, whyishepukingsomuchohmygod.”
“Ted. Ted. Hey, Fred. Don’t panic. Is he upright?”
“Sitting, yeah. I put him on the couch.”
“Give him some water?”
“Done.”
“Is he still wearing his binder?”
Ned can’t help it. The nightmarish image of the cloud of tacky pink chiffon flashes before his eyes. He bites the inside of his cheek. “Definitely not.”
On the other end, Tony releases a shuddering sigh of relief. “Then it looks like you’ve got it covered, kid. You did good.”
“Uh...are you--are you sure? He’s, like, sweating all over and pretty red and he’s--Peter, don’t pour your water in there, I am gonna fucking get you back at the picnic tomorrow--”
Tony waits for the background scuffling to die down. “Ed?”
“Yes, sir,” the teenager replies a little breathlessly.
“I don’t really know how Pete got drunk, to be honest. I’m getting dressed and heading over there right now.”
“Uh--uh, no! I mean, you don’t have to, Mr. Stark, sir!” Ned squeaks. “I think he’ll be just fine!”
“Is May there?”
“No, sir. Overnight shift.”
“Shit. Are you sure you don’t want me to come down there? I’m in the garage already, kid. I’m ready to go.”
“No, please, it’s okay. I…” Ned runs a hand through his hair and lowers his voice. “Sir, I wasn’t supposed to call you. It’s a...it’s, um, Peter’s going through a rough time right now and, er, I get the strong impression that he really doesn’t want you to see him like this? At least, like, not until it blows over? If you know what I mean?”
The rev of a car on the other end of the line abruptly subsides as Tony cuts the engine. “You sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
Tony seems to consider the hidden meaning behind Ned’s confession. “If you’re sure.”
“Positive.”
“Okay.” Tony huffs out a strangled breath. “Okay, okay. You said he’s kinda lucid, right? Has he already heaved up everything?”
“I...think so.”
“Then it sounds like his metabolism is burning through the alcohol pretty fast. Keep him awake for as long as you can. At this rate, he’ll probably be half sober by the time you feel comfortable putting him to bed.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t leave him.”
“I won’t.”
“Just making sure,” Tony says softly.
“Ned. Ned. Ned.”
Ned pulls the phone away from his ear. “Babe?”
“Why’s there a tiara ’n th’ floor?”
“Uh…”
“Go take care of him. Text me updates, though,” Tony commands Ned. “If I don’t get details in the next ten minutes, I’m flying out there, suit and all.”
“I’ll text you! Oh, and sir?”
“Kid?”
“You wouldn’t by any chance, uh, have two bottles of Jacob’s Creek lying around, would you?”
Tony makes some kind of gagging noise on the other end. “No wonder he’s puking. I don’t, but I’ll have them at your doorstep early tomorrow morning.”
“Thankyousosomuch Mr. Stark. You’re the best.”
The moment Ned pads back into the living room, his heart performs a couple of Olympics-level gymnastic flips at the sight of Peter standing up and stuffing his feet into his hi-tops. “What are you doing.”
“Going out. Ice cream.”
“Nooo, no. Stay.”
Peter offers yet another dramatic groan and plops down in a pile of cotton candy pink on the carpet.
Ned simply rolls his eyes and retrieves the ever-present tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream that he knows is in the freezer. He returns with two spoons and a long-suffering grin slapped on his face.
“I’m probably being a bad babysitter, letting you eat ice cream while you’re drunk outta your mind. Actually? This is a really bad idea. I’m rewarding bad behavior. Like, anti-Pavlov or something.”
“Mm. You love me.” Peter stabs at his side of the ice cream, brow furrowed in confusion.
“I mean, I guess.”
“Could we buil’ sumfing while we eat?”
“I’m not up for dragging you to the hospital after you swallow a four-by-one brick, Peter. Eat your ice cream and reflect on your sins.”
“I love you.”
Ned melts into a sigh. “I love you too, you dumbass boy.”
“Called me a boy.”
“Yeah, ’cause that’s what you are.”
“’Ven in a dress?”
“Even in, like, an alien queen spacesuit. You’re a boy. The best kind of boy.”
Peter gives him such a gooey, glassy-eyed grin at him then around his spoon that Ned leans forward to plant a sloppy wet kiss on his forehead.
Behind them, Peter’s phone buzzes again on the carpet.
TS: I’m not getting my updates so you’re getting this
Attachment: UNDERAGE_DRINKING_WTH_WERE_YOU_THINKING_YOURE_GROUNDED_FOREVER.mp4