AN: Hey pals! Welcome to my first Marvel fanfic and first post! For this story, I'd recommend listening to "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men. Enjoy!
The diner on the corner of the street was packed with tourists and residents alike, the stereo blasting 80s music — much to the annoyance of some people — throughout the establishment. The yellow walls added a hint of sunlight to the room, and the establishment glowed from the inside thanks to the lights inside. All the guests were loud and chirpy, chattering about the latest office drama or how some girl broke her heels and tripped while walking towards the mall. Couples shared milkshakes and friends gathered after school to complain about teachers and spread the latest high school gossip. But there was one booth in the back that was the loudest of them all.
"So- how did you get your metal arm? Did you just lose your human one due to an injure and someone got you the metal one, or was the other one forcefully removed? Did it hurt? What does it feel like to have a metal arm every day ?" the young teen asked, surveying the older males now golden metal arm. As long as he could remember, Peter was always the curious type. He was an ask questions, get answers kind of guy, even when, at times, he was warned not to. The teen lived in a dangerous world, that much was obvious, and danger always followed those who were brave enough to question it. "Honestly, kid, I don't remember losing it or getting the original one. It doesn't feel like I lost an arm, just feels like it got stronger." The war veteran replied, clenching and unclenching his fist to demonstrate how the arm worked.
And so, Peter continued into the night asking questions no one else, outside their circle, dared to. Most of them were answered, but some just lead to more and more questions, and he had to be home before curfew (10 pm) or he wouldn't be able to participate in another one of these gatherings in a long while, so he didn't have time to ask more questions than necessary. And, honestly, he cherished these moments. Moments where all the stress he had accumulated the previous days vanished into thin air, replaced by the delightful smell of milkshakes and french fries. Where he didn't have to worry about fitting in, because in this group, in this booth, he would always have a place where he could be himself and not care about what others thought of him.
Parker stared down at the photograph of him, Mr. Stark, and other Avengers, his tears staining the picture. It had been months since some of them were cruelly taken away from this world, months since he failed to save them from Thanos' murderous clutches. The boy hadn't dared look at any pictures, anything containing one of the many dead heroes after the war. As long as he lived, the memory would always sting, would always tear at his heart as if it were nothing but paper. The boy wiped his tears away with the back of his sleeve. He would not spend his days mourning them, mourning the loss of his mentor and newly found friends. He would instead spend the rest of his web-slinging days remembering them, honouring their memory by protecting this world and not letting the same thing happen twice. So Peter put on his mask, hid the photograph in his pocket, and disappeared into the night to save this city from danger
and honour the fallen.