what’s up everybody

Peter gives his presentation on the benefits of animal crossing on the human brain and pushes through the panic. Before he knows it, he's back at his desk. He’s trying not to break down in his seat, but he can feel himself falling apart at the seams, rapidly unraveling. He tries to focus on his breathing instead of on the way his voice had trembled or the fact that there had been at least forty eyeballs trained on him not five minutes ago. It’s all too much, too much—

“That was so good!” Betty Brant whispers behind him. “You were so confident! I really liked that part with the scientific study? You know, with all those depressed adults? It so fascinating how…”

Peter isn’t even listening. He isn’t even there, really. He’s stuck behind his eyes. The only thing keeping him grounded is his persistent shaking, which he is trying to channel into a bouncing knee. (Bouncing is an understatement. If anyone else happened to look, they would say it was vibrating).

Peter smiles and mumbles out a distracted “thanks,” wanting to appear normal and at least responsive. He can’t do this for much longer. He stands up too quickly, knocking his pencil off the desk, and walks briskly to where Mr. Johnson is obnoxiously slurping coffee out of a mug. With every step, his heart hammers harder.

“Um, can I uh, go to the bathroom?” Peter asks unsteadily, jabbing an awkward thumb at the door and biting his lip.

“Sure, Peter. Just make sure you take the pass.” Peter nods curtly and hurries toward the exit in what he hopes looks like a controlled manner.

By the time he is outside, he is well and truly panicking.

Bathroom is all his brain can muster, and his body obeys. He walks quickly, stiffly. He is on a mission. He will not let himself fall apart unless it is from the privacy of a dark, grimy bathroom stall.

Peter shoves the men’s room door open and dives into one, locking the door with trembling fingers and collapsing back against it. He pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes, hard. He's swimming. He's sinking. He's spiraling. No, the world around him is spiraling, and he's being dragged to the center—down, down, down,downdown—

“Okay, Peter,” he says, high pitched and wobbly. “Just breathe.” He heaves air in through his nose and out through his mouth. He tries to, anyway. Mostly he's just wheezing. Breathing should not be this difficult. He slams his head back against the door, ignoring the way his teeth rattle. “God, Peter, g-get it together. C-come on!”

“Party in the bathroom and I wasn’t even invited? Rude.”

Peter’s breath hitches. He wills his body to stop all movement. His hammering heart, however, mercilessly pounds in his throat.

“You alright in there, Underoos?”

Mr. Stark? He wants to ask, but his tongue is heavy and dry in his mouth.

“I know you’re in there, kid. I can see your skechers under the door.”

Why is he even here? Peter wonders, but he is immediately provided with an answer, because apparently Tony Stark can read minds.

“Karen alerted me that your vitals were getting a little wonky, so I came down here to check on you. No big deal.” It was very much a big deal.

The Stark Phone, of course. Peter’s fingers absentmindedly ghost over the high-tech device in his pocket, plausibly worth more than his entire apartment building. And the one who made it has been standing outside of the bathroom stall for who knows how long, listening to him as he completely loses his mind. Fantastic. A restless sigh sounds from outside the stall, followed by the billionaire’s voice.

“You gotta give me somethin’, kid. I don’t have the balls to tell your unusually attractive aunt that you died in a school bathroom.”

Oh, right. I haven't actually said anything out loud yet. Figuring that he might as well accept his fate, Peter opens the door, and there is Tony Stark, tinted shades and all. There is something different about him though, something that humbles his appearance: There are lines of worry etched into his face. Lines of worry for...Peter.

“Hey, kid,” he says with a lopsided smile and eyes clouded with concern.

“Uh…” is all Peter can get out, studying the floor tiles like he can see every microscopic germ that lives there.

“How ya holdin’ up?”

“I uh, there was a presentation, and I did mine, but I just—I can’t, I—”

“It’s alright, Pete. I get you.” Mr.Stark hesitates at first, but eventually his hand ends up on Peter’s shoulder—secure, firm, grounding. “Are you here right now?”

Peter snaps his head up, startled by the question. His eyes dart around the poorly lit bathroom. “I uh, what?”

“Look at me. Hey.”

Peter looks, but not really, not fully. He just looks through. His gaze drifts to the mirror behind Mr. Stark, and he realizes how much of a mess he must appear to be: pale, blotchy face, distant, watery eyes, wild brown curls. That’s not him in that mirror, is it? Is that what he looks like? He can't remember. Maybe he's dreaming.

Mr. Stark’s voice gently tugs him towards reality. “You gotta come back to me, Pete. Here.” He holds out his tie and without thinking, Peter takes it in his unsteady hand. “How does that feel? Soft?”

Peter nods, still unfocused.

“How about the pattern? You like the pattern?” Peter nods again, latching on to the steady voice. His eyes are finally dragged downward to the material in his hand. Mr.Stark wears this tie a lot, but now that he’s closer, Peter realizes that there are little silver polka dots imprinted on the navy blue silk fabric. He runs his thumb over them.

“ ‘s a nice tie,” he mumbles, giving a shy smile.

Mr.Stark’s smile practically lights up the room. “Glad you like it, Underoos. One more thing. I need you to repeat after me.” Peter nods in agreement, albeit slightly confused.

Mr.Stark begins, “My name is Peter Parker.”

“My name is Peter Parker,” Peter Parker echoes.

“I live in Queens, New York.”

“I live in Queens, New York.”

“I go to Midtown School of Science, because I am insanely smart.”

Peter’s ears go red and he stutters as he repeats this.

“And I am Spider-Man,” Mr.Stark finishes, quieter, yet more determined.

Peter looks him in the eyes for this one, and the waver is gone from his voice when he repeats, “I am Spider-Man.” Then he does something unexpected. He leans his weight into Mr. Stark, and hugs him.

“Thank you...Tony.”

“Any time, kid.”