Peter is eighteen when he thinks fuck it, counts to three, and kisses Tony.
Tony is forty when it happens. As of a few hours ago, actually, because of course Peter does it on the night when Tony officially enters the next stage of his life — by some boring basic standards created by boring basic people Tony has nothing in common with. Still, the sheer mathematical distance between the numbers marking the time of their respective existence becomes a bit more apparent. Even if Peter can't for the life of him seem to care.
The thing is, Tony is aging in a way that somehow makes him… well, hotter by the hour, for the lack of a better term. Like fine wine, or whatever the saying is. Except, Peter doesn't like wine so he doesn't really know what to compare it to or how to explain it. All he knows is that he's had a crush on this man for as long as he can remember, and when they met — Peter still can't wrap his head around the fact that he came home one day and Tony Stark was sitting on the couch in his goddamn living room — it reached what felt like the highest possible point. Only, it didn't stop there. And for the next three years all Peter did was wait patiently for this childhood crush to soon go away with the childhood.
Only it never did.
Watching the tiny flames of eighteen candles flicker in the dim light while everyone gathered around the table were whispering "c'mon, make a wish" impatiently, Peter realized that his childhood had been long gone. He didn't know when it happened, exactly — maybe when a social worker walked into his home instead of his parents. Maybe when he watched life bleed out of the man who wasn't his father but who was to him no less than one. Maybe when he was crying violently into his pillow, his whole body shaking in agony, trying to stop the sheets from sticking to his skin and feeling, with pure terror, not quite human anymore. Or so, so many times after that, facing the simple but brutal danger of trying to make his city just a little safer on a nightly basis. Maybe that's what made the remnants of childhood finally leave him for good.
Whenever it was, it happened long enough ago that he struggled to remember what it even was like, not feeling the weight of responsibility with his every step, not thinking through his every move like someone's life depends on it — because sometimes it does.
He didn't make a wish when he blew those eighteen candles. It's not that he didn't have anything to wish for — he had something he desperately wished for, thank you very much — it just didn't feel right to leave the work up to the universe or whatever Birthday Fairy whose job it might be to listen. Plus, it wasn't even really a wish, not one that could be put into words and actions. Not yet, anyway. It was more of a realization, a decision to stop pretending, to let it be real and treat it accordingly. He just thought Tony, and blew the damn candles, ate the damn cake with his family and friends, and allowed the determination to settle over him in calming, steadying waves.
Of course, because he was still very much himself, and the state of New York didn't magically grant him confidence together with the right to vote, marry and join the army, it took almost a year for that determination to manifest into action.
It's kind of poetic, really. It would seem that maybe being the youngest and undoubtedly the most inadequate person at Tony's 40th birthday party — huge and loud and classy and everything it was expected to be — would scare Peter off, at least a little bit. At least enough to want to rethink things.
And now he’s here and… it doesn't. Not at all.
He even lets the thought pass through his mind, even makes himself aware of it. At some point during the party, a man who's obviously taken good advantage of the open bar shakes Tony's shoulder and exclaims, gesturing at Peter with yet another champagne glass in hand:
"I remember when you were his age! And now you're forty, you son of a bitch! That's a whole damn lifetime!"
Peter makes himself consider the obvious fact that the man is not wrong, even if it's completely unclear whether he tried to congratulate Tony or mourn the years gone by. Peter makes himself acknowledge that, yeah, sure, it's a lot of years, it's a whole lifetime, it's all true.
But then the man slips back into the crowd and Tony leans in, closer than probably necessary.
"Well, that was awkward, alarming and amusing all at once,” he says and his eyes crinkle in the corners. He's smiling one of his let's-judge-people-together smiles, and Peter feels like they're on some hilarious inside joke, even if the joke is just a drunk old colleague getting nostalgic.
"We can call it a Triple A situation," Peter says because he's lame, and a nerd, and somehow is comfortable enough to let it show. Tony laughs, genuinely laughs, and later on, every time someone waves him over or tugs at his elbow, he whispers something like, "Triple A on the horizon, save me if I don't come back in five," to Peter with a wink before sacrificing himself to his guests as a great host should.
And just like that, Peter doesn't feel that inadequate anymore, despite everything.
He’s not stupid, though. He knows that whatever he feels is only half of the matter. The other half is whether or not his feelings could objectively be returned.
So he finds himself talking to a scientist working for SI about… some scientific stuff, he’s barely paying attention. The scientist, a nice young lady, is going a mile a minute about her current project and Peter knows he should be fascinated and engrossed into the conversation but his mind is somewhere on the other side of the room, where Tony took off to “make Pepper happy” and entertain some stockholders ten minutes ago.
The thing is, Tony spent most of the night with his hand on Peter’s shoulder, on the small of his back, wrapped around his bicep. And Peter can’t shake off the heady feeling of it.
It doesn’t mean anything, he tries to tell himself. Tony is a touchy person with the people he’s close with, isn’t he? He probably didn’t even realize he maintained physical contact with Peter for the majority of the evening.
But here is another thing. Why did he spend the majority of the evening with Peter at all? There are at least a hundred people here. His friends, colleagues, teammates, admirers. Why does he keep returning to Peter’s side? It’s not the first event of this sort that Peter’s attended since they met, he doesn’t need to be introduced to people, he doesn't need to be taught how to mingle. Besides, it’s not just some event they’re attending together, it’s Tony’s party, he could pick anyone to be his preferred companion. But somehow Peter is the one he whispers snarky comments to and hands the glass of a non-alcoholic seltzer he personally requested from a server to before toasts. He even asked Peter what flavor he preferred.
Why is that?
Peter stands there, nodding to whatever the lady is saying, and fails to find a reasonable justification to all the attention Tony’s paying him, lately. Because it hasn’t always been like that. Peter can’t pinpoint when it started, or what it even is, but it’s new. It’s fresh and electric and it’s the rocket fuel powering this whole manic idea to make a move on someone so alarmingly far out of his league.
Peter turns his head towards the general area where Tony might be and freezes, because he catches Tony looking straight at him, their eyes locking and just… staying that way for a moment too long. Tony turns back to his conversation, eventually, and Peter turns to his, hiding his smile into the glass, frowning enthusiastically at the scientist as if he knows what she’s even saying. He makes a mental note to actually look up her research later and write her an email or something, because he can’t focus on anything else right now, he can’t. Not when he knows Tony Stark is watching him across the room. Not when the only conscious thought he has left is a decision, quiet and definite, to kiss that man tonight.
He honestly gave his brain a chance to talk him out of following his heart. All it did, though, was encourage him.
And then the guests are gone, and it's just the two of them in the huge empty space with balloons floating silently in the corners and confetti covering the floor. Tony offers him a ride home, just like he did to some of the lingering partygoers struggling to sober up enough to get on the way. But also not like that at all, because directed at them his voice behind the polite smile was clearly implying "please leave my place, party's over, be gone". Very poorly concealed. When he says it to Peter, it's soft and reluctant, as if maybe he doesn't want him to go. As if maybe he wouldn't mind if Peter stayed a little longer. Which is all Peter needs to shrug, because he's absolutely not going to leave just yet, not one bit.
"Someone needs to help you clean up the ruins," he says as a matter of fact, picking up a torn piece of... a pinata? He didn't even know there was a pinata involved, geez. He wonders briefly what it was filled with. Iron-Man-shaped weed gummies, maybe?
"And someone's gonna be paid a nice hourly rate tomorrow to do just that in a professional manner," Tony raises an eyebrow.
"You don't always have to get someone else to do things for you, you know, wouldn't hurt to do it yourself from time to time," Peter replies, just for the sake of friendly banter, but he doesn't really mean it. He doesn't actually expect Tony to single-handedly clean up after a party hosting over a hundred people. Unless it's for an obscure scientific purpose, that is.
Plus, he knows for a fact that SI's cleaning staff is paid about as much as most New York corporations pay their accountants. Peter knows that because he checked, by the way. Because at some point over the past several months since he decided to either get over it or get serious about it, he sat himself down and asked himself an uncomfortable question: do I only actually want this man because he's filthy rich — and hot, and smart, and a hero, and the only one who gets me… what was it about? Oh, yeah… — and capitalism conditioned me to think that expensive means good and wealthy means happy? The short answer was no, obviously. But he still made himself think about it, as weird as it was trying to look at Tony in such a two-dimensional perspective.
It even crossed his mind to hack — with Ned's help — into SI's financial reports and check exactly where the money goes, but the thought was brief and he dismissed it almost immediately. Peter didn't need to know any of it, he already knew that Tony was a good man who worked hard to make the world a better place. As far as Peter was concerned, the world already became a better place because of him. Like, multiple times, so... Is Tony a privileged billionaire, business shark, capitalistic overlord, all that? Sure, probably.
Is he also a genius way ahead of his time, who gave the world clean energy and pretty much reversed the climate change, and then a literal hero in the meantime, not to mention the best fucking person Peter has ever met, heard of or could possibly imagine? Yes, very much so.
Peter still looked through some of Stark Industries' documents, open to publicity, just to check it off the list in his head mentally titled something like: Things I should consider before making a move on the most powerful man on the Western Hemisphere, or like, the whole planet. So he looked, checked it off the list, and moved on with his day, with nothing to stop his hopeless crush from not-so-slowly but surely taking front stage.
Which is why he's here now, thinking about SI salaries and party clean-ups, anything will do, really, if it means he can avoid thinking about how ridiculously attractive Tony looks, staring at Peter with comical seriousness when he says:
"You do understand what being rich means, right?" And then, without a beat, "What you could help me with, though, is sampling the desserts. I never got a chance."
"The night is young," Peter says, going for smooth. And then, as if he's not shaking inside, he makes a show of looking at the time on his phone and adds, "Well, younger than forty, at least."
Tony snorts a genuine laugh.
"Alright, Mr. Forever Young, when you turn forty, I will drink half the open bar and scream at the youngest person present that I knew you when you were their age, and we'll see who's gonna laugh then, how about that?"
But Tony's smiling when he says that, so Peter knows he's not actually offended. He probably doesn't really care, either. Peter suspects he's all too aware of how well he wears his age. Peter couldn't agree more, together with about a billion people thirsting over him online. Not that Peter knows much about it or frequently checks any accounts with such content. Not at all.
(If a fan-video of Tony’s recent red carpet appearance edited in slow motion to “Harleys in Hawaii” by Katy Perry made Peter cry that one time, that’s between him and his TikTok algorithm.)
They take a tray filled with leftover desserts to the balcony and start sampling, looking over the city lights.
“Who was that guy, anyway?” Peter asks, popping something tiny and elaborate-looking into his mouth. It’s delicious. Tastes flowery, kind of like the smell of May’s shower gel he used to steal.
“Who?” Tony blinks. “Oh, the I knew you when you were young guy? No idea. Probably some investor who worked with my father, or something. Here, try that one. It tastes like carrot. If carrots tasted good.”
Peter watches closely to see if Tony gets the slightly haunted tint to his eyes like he does sometimes, speaking of his father. Not that it happened often, maybe a couple of times. But Tony’s gaze is clear and present so Peter takes the offered carrot-thingy.
“Oh my god,” Peter gasps. “That’s like, the best way to describe it. Carrot but make it good.”
Tony grins, throwing his eyebrows up and nodding in a I told you expression.
The conversation flows easily, from reviewing all the Triple A situations that happened tonight to gossiping about some of the Avengers who showed up. That leads to gossip about Peter's college friends, which Tony of course knows about, because it's one of the regular topics of their chit-chat when they tinker together in the lab.
Peter takes a moment to refer to his brain, as if to ask, got anything to say here? All he gets is a metaphorical brain-shrug in a confirmation that yeah, alright, they talk about college kids with their dorm dramas the same way they do about multi-billionaires with their global trade dramas. And then world-saving superheroes with their very relatable to both of them dramas in between. Even the seemingly harsh contrast of their daily surroundings fails to put much of a difference between them, try as it may.
At some point Tony undoes his tie, in a gesture that honestly has no reason being so suave and captivating. That’s to be expected. Most things Tony does are suave and captivating. Peter wonders if Tony’s always been like this or if it’s something he’d had to learn.
Peter takes a deep breath and mentally nods to himself to confirm one last time — tonight is the night.
They end up abandoning the desserts. There’s too many of them, anyway. Peter doesn’t need a sugar rush added to all the emotions boiling in his chest. He feels his skin buzz with it. They stand up, leaning on the railing. They fall silent. Neither of them is afraid of heights, of course, quite the opposite. Another thing that they share — they both can fly. Well, Peter can’t actually fly, but here in the city he’s as close as it gets.
The night isn't so young anymore, but the thrill of the cool breeze all around and the city lying below, pulsating with life even at a late hour, is invigorating.
Tony’s gaze is sliding over the shimmering horizon. He looks so beautiful, unreachable.
Peter is trembling inside, desperate and excited and scared all at once.
"Can I call you Tony?" he blurts out into the tranquil silence, casually, like it doesn't take an effort comparable to lifting a building, he should know. Oh, dear god. He’s faking it so, so hard.
Tony, who seemed relaxed and content a second ago, brings his full focus to Peter’s face with the intensity that almost makes Peter gasp, if only he could breathe. Tony narrows his eyes slightly and looks at Peter like he's a line of code on the screen that just did something unexpected. The good kind of unexpected, Peter hopes.
The left corner of Tony’s mouth crawls up into his iconic smirk. Peter might faint.
"Sure, kid. That is my name,” Tony says slowly, with a note of amusement underneath the surprise. “I never asked you to call me anything else, actually. I just figured, whatever makes you more comfortable to deal with me crashing into your life — I'm okay with."
Peter chuckles, nervously. He never realized that. Never really thought about it that way until now. He always referred to him as Tony in his head but always only Mr. Stark out loud. Thinking back now, it's just another piece that falls into place.
"I guess that's true, kind of?” Peter admits. “I was. More comfortable calling you, like, formal and all that, I mean. It kind of made sense, you know?"
And Tony, because he's Tony, because he knows just what to say. Because, maybe, he already knows everything. He tilts his head curiously to the side and asks:
"What changed?"
Oh, fuck.
Peter is so scared. He's terrified. A part of him wants to run away and hide, a part of him screams: what if it's the wrong thing to do? What if you ruin it all? What if he never speaks to you again? You stupid little idiot, enjoy what you have while you have it, who the hell are you to ask for anything more?
The other part, though, says fuck it all, just do it. And he's nothing if not stupidly stubborn to the core, so he does just that.
He steps into Tony's space and kisses him.
Time stops.
It feels like…
Falling.
It feels like climbing over the railing they're leaning on and jumping down, not bothering to check if his web shooters are on and working, but doing it anyway because he has to, needs to, because it's either this or forever wondering what the outcome would be.
For a second, it's quiet except for the sound of his heart beating so violently loud it almost makes him self-conscious. And then, before Peter can try to turn this desperate gesture into something resembling an actual kiss, Tony puts his hand on Peter's chest and gently pushes him away.
Well, this is what hitting the ground full speed must feel like. Except, the way Tony is looking at him doesn't translate into rejection, or disgust, or pity, or whatever else Peter could imagine on the bad side of the possible ways this little life-altering moment could go. The way Tony looks at him makes everything freeze mid-freefall, just above the ground.
"Kid, we can't," Tony says, quiet and gentle.
It takes Peter no time at all to figure out that it's not a no , it's not a don't , certainly not a I don't want to , so he can't really fight the smile.
"Sure we can, look," is all the warning he gives before kissing Tony again. This time, Tony's hand slides up to his neck and pulls him closer, catching him, just like that.
This time, Tony slides his tongue into Peter's mouth with a low sound in the back of his throat and whatever shaky grasp Peter had on reality is abruptly gone. His brain shuts off. The smell of Tony's cologne this close up is intoxicating, sharp and fresh and complicated. Peter wants to breathe it in and lick it off his neck, oh god... Tony's arm around Peter's waist feels like the only thing keeping him upright at all, because the floor and the building and everything else becomes a distant concept.
Tony kisses like he does everything — somehow effortless but powerful all at once.
It occurs to Peter that this, right now, is what pure happiness must feel like. He's also pretty sure he's in shock, but mostly he feels like it's the best moment of his goddamn life, comparable only to testing out on the Spider-Man suit Tony made for him for the first time. Somewhere in the back of his mind Peter realizes his heightened senses probably have something to do with how vivid, how euphoric it feels — Tony's hand warm on his neck, holding him close, the scratch of his beard sending a shiver down Peter's spine, so fucking good, and their mouths fitting together, falling in a rhythm, moving in sync. It's perfect and amazing and Peter grins, stupid, too happy to care how childish it is to be this excited over a little kiss. He's kissing Tony Stark, okay? He's allowed to be excited out of his mind.
"Was that your first kiss?" Tony teases, but he's breathless and flushed, too, eyes heavy and wow, Peter did that.
"It was the first one that mattered," Peter shrugs, catching his breath. Tony is looking at his lips. Peter takes a mental picture of that image to keep in his head forever, and slides his arms around Tony's neck, getting closer, feeling bold and wild and like he's allowed to act on it, itching to see what else is he allowed to do, is he allowed to kiss Tony's neck where the top buttons of his dress-shirt are undone? Ask for a date? Be with him forever?
For now, he settles on nodding his chin slightly up when he asks, challenging, sincere, "Keep 'em coming?"
Tony straight up giggles, shaking off the thoughtful shadow that had just touched his expression — yeah, Peter already knows they'll have to talk later. Not now, though.
This time around Tony is the one to pull Peter in.
"Come here, baby."
I can get used to this, Peter thinks, delighted, and melts into his arms.