The skyline miles out from New York City erupts in tiny bursts of color. Greens, reds, and blues all painting the black firmament with celebration and resolution. A solid streak of gold propels into the air and then showers out in shimmering particles of all the things people hope for in the coming year. It should be a beautiful sight, a perfect one when atop one of the tallest buildings in the city so one is able to see it from the distance, but for Peter Parker it's a war zone.

It's all the things he cannot have igniting with all the things he still might want, and they all die out in the void between the lights. That's where he feels he is, where all those things cannot, or should not, reach him. He feels safe for the first time in a long time though, up and away from the things of the world that will hurt him.

With his legs dangling off the roof of Stark Tower where he sits, the winter wind dances with his clothes to brush up against his skin. The Spider-Man suit isn't there to deter it, long since been taken from him like everything else in life, and so he's left with a high thread count sweater one size too big and a case of gooseflesh.

The breeze pushes at his hair, an oily strand of it falling into his eyes. He runs his fingers through it, tucking it back in with the rest up under the headband of the headphones he has on. They were a Christmas gift from Mr. Stark, the only one he'd been given despite not wanting any. The older man had assured him that they hadn't cost him a penny, that he'd made them with materials he already had down in the workshop, hence the reason they weren't earbuds. "So you can't feel guilty about them," he'd said as he extended them out to Peter for inspection. Of course, it didn't stop him from feeling so, considering when he slipped them on his confusion as to why Mr. Stark made him headphones in the first place melted away along with everything else. The mechanical genius that is Tony Stark held up a sheet of paper that read: Spiderling-Senses Cancelling Headphones.

Peter had been so grateful for the first bit of true silence since Aunt May's death that he'd left them on until he was certain he wouldn't be able to fall asleep in them. His mind began to scream once he'd laid down on his bottom bunk bed that had arrived a couple of days prior as Mr. Stark had promised. As he reached up to take them off though, his finger ran over a button of some sort and noise from the city filtered through the headphones at the volume it usually had before he'd been bitten.

Minutes had ticked by at an unnoticed pace as he listened to the hustle and bustle of city life. He'd expected a generic loop of white noise and tried to pick out where it started back over, but one glance at the clock an hour into trying he gave up. He buried himself in his bedsheets while car horns beeped and air conditioning units kicked on and died out. Sleep had nearly claimed Peter when he heard a familiar and frail, feminine voice call for "Gypsy". He felt his knuckles crack as they tightened around his sheets and bit hard into his bottom lip when he heard the sound of a cat meowing in return alongside small pings of a bell against a collared tag.

Queens. From his old bedroom window.

He didn't know how he'd thank Mr. Stark for such a thing, but the next morning when the older man had woken him up with a gentle smirk and helped pry his tear stained face from his pillowcase without a word, he didn't think he needed to.

A new firework ruptures in the air bringing Peter out of his memories before they can turn sour. However, the sound of pyrotechnics might be nonexistent to him, but their smell of sulfur and charcoal swirling throughout the air collects under his nose and in the back of his throat. He stares out into the bright night selfishly wishing that's the last of them, that the rest of the city and all beyond doesn't put so much hope in the turning of a calendar page that they celebrate for more than five minutes, because he can't bring himself to.

It's how the fight had started after all, or maybe it started with the headphones.

Peter hadn't wanted to take the headphones off since he'd received them much to Mr. Stark's displeasure. The kid had voiced his confusion, explaining that he thought the older man would be relieved considering how nervous Tony looked when he'd given them.

"I love them, Mr. Stark."

"That's great, kid. I'm glad, but you can't wear them all the time. You gotta-…. live in the real world." Tony countered, tugging the headphones from around Peter's neck and fiddling with them.

"Are you taking those away, too? Is that your way of making sure I stay in the real world? Make sure everything gets taken away?" Desperation won out over anger in Peter's voice, but the kid clinched his fists all the same remembering all too well how the suit had been taken from him a few days after Aunt May died.

"I'm not taking anything from you, Peter, nor have I. I'm just-…trying to teach you me. It's a good skill to have."

Peter felt his eyes narrow, too focused on controlling his anger on the outside was he that he couldn't stop the words from tumbling out from the inside.

"I'm not so sure an alcoholic is the best choice to be teaching moderation."

He watched Tony, more qualified to teach the art of deception, keep his face relaxed and unhurt. "Well, I'm a recovering alcoholic. So, I'm practically a professor now. But here." He tossed them back to Peter like they were burning his hands. "The first lesson of the course is that a person has to realize there's a problem to begin with. You're clearly incapable of that so keep them. All other lectures are cancelled until the student can manage the first."

That had been three days before the new year and they hadn't spoken since.

Pepper had dropped by the day after the argument, startling Peter - with headphones in place- by showing up at the kitchen island when he turned around from making toast. After he'd tossed out the nearly burnt bread which turned soggy after he dropped it in the wet sink when he jumped, he pulled the headphones from his ears. "H-hey Pepper, what brings you here? I mean… of course, you're here, you work with M-Mr. Stark, I just mean here as in this morning and now and when Mr. Stark isn't here, or at least I don't think he is-"

She smiled at him, offering a, "Hey, Peter," as she rounded the island and started to drop two fresh slices of bread in the toaster. "I had to bring by some files for Tony, thought I'd stop in and see how you were handling everything. Considering you still make toast yourself instead of having one of the bots to do it, I'd say Tony hasn't made you completely dependent yet."

The marbled island fell in an awkward place against his back when he tried to lean against it so he hopped up to sit on top of it instead while huffing out a bitter laugh. "Not for lack of trying."

Pepper tilted her head at him, strands of her long, strawberry blonde ponytail catching on the fuzz of her sweater as it swayed against her back. She pressed the button down and peered over into the toaster as if to make sure it was actually going to work before turning to fully face him. "Try not to be too hard him when he gets….persuasive. He's not trying to be controlling. It's just how he shows he cares."

"I thought you said you were stopping by to check on me," Peter said, giving a nervous arm gesture.

"And I thought we were talking about the use of bots to make breakfast. You changed the subject first," she pointed out with a knowing glance that had him hunching his shoulders. She moved over to the fridge, pulling out a half gallon of unopened orange juice Peter hadn't noticed was in there the day before. "So what he'd do? Take the suit? Shower you with things you don't need? Tell you what you should do, then make it things you have to do? Or my personal favorite, say something without any regards to your feelings?"

Peter blinked at her, surprised at how spot on she was even though he shouldn't and also at the way she seemed to know where everything in the kitchen was like the two glasses she started pouring juice into. "A-all of the above actually." She laughed softly at that and for a second it made Peter feel a tad guilty. "But….to be fair, I said some things, too."

"Good," she praised and handed him a glass. He curled his hands around it, but didn't bother to drink it. His stomach felt like it had enough acid in it already. She took a long sip from her own cup and went back over to the toaster to peer in. The bread wasn't done considering it hadn't sprung from the machine, but she grabbed a plate from a cupboard to set beside it for when it was. "It's the only way to remind him that his way doesn't always work."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, the real reason I'm here on my holiday is because Tony called me saying that the fifteen year old kid living under his roof probably hates him which means he stocked the kitchen and went on an impromptu business trip."

That explained the orange juice.

"You don't have to babysit me."

The toaster jerked causing neither of them to flinch. Pepper retrieved the golden bread with burnt edges and dropped it on the plate. She moved around the kitchen, accessorizing the toast more than Peter thought necessary, before handing it out to him. "No. Nuh-uh. I already babysit one emotionally constipated genius turned superhero. I'm not adding another. No. You, Peter Parker, are going to tell me things."

He took a bite of toast to try and hide the upturn of his mouth at her description of Mr. Stark. The honey and banana on top of it was surprisingly good. "What things?"

"Why'd he take the suit?"

His eyes widened a little and he was forced to take a sip of the acidic juice to quell his coughing fit. "Um….because-" he cut himself off before he could say something to prove her raised eyebrow look that expressed her anticipation of a typical teenage response. He sighed and tossed his toast on the plate, wiping the crumbs from his hands on his pant legs.

"He said I wasn't ready. To go patrolling, I guess. I wasn't focused enough with….with everything going on."

"Are you?"

"Patrolling helps me focus! It takes my mind off-" he stopped short and dropped his arms from their outstretched explanation attempts. "Off what happened."

She reached out and took a bite from the end he hadn't touched. Once she was done chewing she leaned sideways, hip resting against the counter a few inches from his leg. "So when you're out there patrolling not thinking about…it…you're in the middle of some fight, taking down a bad guy and all of sudden you're reminded of it. Just a tiny bit. The guy gets the upper hand on you when you're distracted. Maybe he hurts you and you heal quick. Maybe he hurts you and you don't. What then?"

"I don't know."

"Ok. What happens when Tony, who warned you that it could happen, has to find you hurt….or worse? Hmm?"

"He'll get to say I told you so. I don't know," he shrugged his shoulders as his voice rose higher in defensiveness, but even as he said it, he knew it wasn't true. Okay maybe a little, but it wouldn't be the first thing Mr. Stark would do.

"Well, maybe until you do know," Pepper added while standing up straight and reaching for her purse she'd placed on the opposite end of the counter. "Or at least admit that you do, you can cut Tony some slack for taking the suit? A suggestion, but an encouraged one. As for the rest of it, is any of it anything that your Aunt May never did?"

In a stupor, he didn't react when she hugged him quick and told him to, "think about it". He didn't even hear her leave and the headphones were still on the counter.

More colors tint the black sky in the distance and a glance of his watch tells him that it's a good fourteen minutes into the new year and it doesn't feel any different. He considered that it might, thought that if he attempted to at least see the fireworks from the rural parts of New York atop the Stark Tower his mind would somehow be convinced into thinking things would change. It's why he'd forced himself outside a few minutes before midnight. He'd brought his headphones with him, the ones he hadn't had the nerve to put on since Pepper had left him feeling a bit unnerved. He'd hated the sound of fireworks ever since Uncle Ben, the sound always reminding him of things he should hate instead of the things he shouldn't.

Now it's sixteen minutes into the new year as he stalks the hands on his watch as they click forward in time and he's still that same lonely, uncertain kid Aunt May left behind in the hospital on November 29th.

He rips the headphones from his ears, pushing them down to rest around his neck and lets faint pops of pyrotechnics assault his ears. Uncle Ben, bleeding out in the street, flashes in between the streaks and sparks of celebration causing his stomach to twist. He rolls back away from the ledge and stumbles back into the tower before memories of Aunt May can find him, too.

Something else catches up with him, instead. Hands catch him around his biceps as he sinks to the floor with the wall of the hallway at his back and he can only bring himself to look up as far as the black scruff along the jawline of the person crouching above him before squeezing his eyes shut.

"Peter-what?"

He flinches, not because the voice is loud, but because in all the things running through his head it's the last thing he deserves and it hurts. Hurts like he always imagined it would if he'd been the one to have an arc reactor in his chest and for a minute it feels like he might and it's malfunctioning. He presses bony fingertips into his sternum trying to feel for the power core, and slams his head against the wall when they come up empty.

"Hey, woah! Easy, kid. This place has been remodeled enough," Mr. Stark says, his voice strained like maybe he too as the arc reactor back in his chest. Peter feels something a bit soft when he tries to drop his head against the wall again and when it moves just a bit he realizes it's Mr. Stark's hand. "And geez, you getting a concussion to match the dent in the wall the size of your head isn't going to help my case any if CPS or whoever the hell shows up about all of this. Relax, alright?"

But he can't, no matter how much he wants, too. His chest feels like it's going to combust with whatever is swirling around in there. He shakes his head, trying to say he can't where his words fail, but Mr. Stark doesn't understand, says, "You have to. Just calm down."

He shakes his head again, feels it bobble in the slight curve of the hand it's cradled in. He reaches up, quivering fingers curling around stiff, expensive material and pulling the arm it incases until the hand at the back of his head is on his chest. He finds Mr. Stark's face now, too scared not to look him in the eye anymore despite how mad they are at each other.

The man nods, eyes a little wide with something Peter is too out of it to notice. "I know. I know, Peter! It's panic, alright? It hurts, I get it. Christ I feel it, too! But it'll stop if you just take a couple of deep breaths. It'll all stop if you just calm down."

Peter blinks up at him, trying his best to do as he says, because as much as he feels the man has been wrong about in the last few days, he needs him to be right about this. It takes several attempts, but eventually the pain diminishes to a dull ache that flares a bit when he can hear faint crackles of fireworks.

He watches Mr. Stark fall back against the opposite wall, sinking down until his back is curved uncomfortably from where he's half laying on the floor. "Christ, kid. I think I'd prefer you to have caught your arm on fire with a sparkler or something. You know, like the hazards they put in small print on the back of the kiddie packs of fireworks?" He runs a hand down his face and when he's done he looks a tad bit older than he did before.

He can't bring himself to say anything, just breathes out into the quiet of the hallway until another chorus of thundering pyrotechnics wiggles the air around them. He shudders a bit, squeezing the ends of the long sleeves of the sweatshirt he's wearing.

"Yeah," the older man agrees softly to something Peter must have missed. "I get that, too. C'mere." Despite him commanding that of Peter, Mr. Stark drags himself across the short distance of the hallway separating them and reaches towards the headphones around Peter's neck. He stiffens a bit defensively, but the genius doesn't give any mind to it. Instead, he places the headphones back over Peter's ears.

Mr. Stark topples back once more to the opposite wall and pulls out his phone, taping away at the buttons until he glances back up at Peter expectantly. The boy blinks at him, unsure of what he's supposed to do until he feels a slight vibration in his pocket. He hesitates before retrieving his own phone. When the screen lights up he has two texts from Ned and one from Mr. Stark.

He feels nervous to open it, but taps it all the same. He swallows before reading: Fireworks use to get to me, too. The whole Afghanistan thing. Don't take those off until it's daylight out.

He finds the courage to find Mr. Stark's gaze again and feels relieved when he's offered a small smile. He returns it, before burying himself in the silence again. Only this time, it lasts for a couple of minutes before Peter nudges the older man's leg with his foot. "I'm looking forward to the second lecture of Moderation by Professor Stark."

If he yells it just a bit too loud, Mr. Stark doesn't seem to mind.

Not at all.

He made it through the new year without Ned, Pepper, or Mr. Stark actually wishing him a "Happy New Year" and after the fact he thinks that may have been what he was dreading the most about the holiday which had been why he was so determined to spend it alone.

It's two weeks later and things with Mr. Stark seem to have evened out. He's made sure to limit his time using the Christmas gift the billionaire gave him and he's yet to see Tony with even a finger of drink swirling at the bottom of a glass. They don't mention the fight, nor do they apologize, but not for Peter's lack of trying. Mr. Stark had all the right things to say or do when Peter brought it up so many times that eventually the kid took the hint and tried to let it go. Tried.

School is starting back for everyone else tomorrow and last night Peter decided he wanted to join them despite having been given the all clear to stay out for as long as he needed as long as he kept up with the course material at home, or Stark Tower rather. He's afraid to bring it up to Mr. Stark, nervous of him overreacting or not reacting at all. He hasn't decided which would be worse by the time he finds him down in the workshop at half past four in the afternoon.

"Mr. Stark?"

The man looks up from the Iron Man suit he's working on, grease smudged all over his face and hair pointed in all directions and grins. "Hey, Pete."

Peter falters a bit at the shortened version of his name, a bit unsettled how the drop of one letter makes his name sound so different, but attempts to bounce into the room like he did way back when they were just mentor and slightly considered student. "Mr. Stark, hey, yeah, I was wondering….well, I wanted to ask you if-" he fumbles through his words, thinking that the older man will cut him off with a quip, but he doesn't. He just fiddles with the parts in his hands until Peter gets an actual sentence out he can respond to. "I want to go back to school tomorrow."

Mr. Stark looks up at him from across the worktable, face slack and serious and not the least bit surprised….or at least not showing it. "Okay, if you're sure that's what you want. Give me…" he trails off glancing around for a clock until he seems to remember that he has a watch on. "Give me an hour to finish up here and take a quick shower and we'll go get your supplies. Whatever you need. Do they still give you a list for that or what?"

Peter's jaw comes a little unhinged. "Uh…no. I mean, yes they do. I-I have it, but I don't need- We don't need to go out and get the stuff now. I mean I decided last minute, I don't think any of my teachers will mind on the first day-"

"It doesn't look good for a billionaire to send a kid to school without a few pencils and some paper and I feel I have some responsibility to prevent what I am sure you feel like is a terrible burden to ask a fellow classmate for some. Therefore, we're going to get you some supplies and a few dozen backpacks unless you'd like me to design one that follows you around so you don't lose it."

"No! No, I'll meet you upstairs at 6."

"Are you sure about this?"

"Are you sure about this?"

"Get out of my car."

"I think this is the part where you're supposed to remember to give me lunch money and tell me not to let the bullies take it."

"No, this is the part where I know you'd let the bullies take it because you feel bad for them, so I bypassed all of that by giving the money to the school directly so you always have the option to eat. Hey, even feed the bullies if you want to go about it that way."

"Huh." Peter says, pulling his backpack out from between his feet from the floorboard and putting it on his back. "I should've known your advice to prevent bullying is bribery."

The older man shoves him as he opens the car door with feigned annoyance and a mantra of, "Out, out, out." Peter leans back down to look through the window once the door is shut to give him a less than enthusiastic wave from someone who had the nerve to tease him a moment ago. "Hey, if …if it's too much. That's okay. Just call, alright?"

Peter nods and then turns to make his way into the school a bit less tense, but not by much.

School is….normal.

It's honestly the most normal he's felt since it happened. He still seems to be nonexistent to everyone but the few people he's friends with and of course, Flash Thompson.

At first, he thought it was going to be weird. Flash had approached their lockers as Ned and Peter switched out their books and just stared at them, mostly Peter. "Flash?" Peter had asked. "Are you okay?" The boy's eyebrows twitched and he huffed out a laugh. "Yeah, I've just been waiting a long time to do this," Flash replied and reached out to knock Peter's books in the floor. " So I wanted to take the time to enjoy it. See you around, Penis Parker."

Why had he ever thought he missed that?

MJ had been her laid back self and Ned was as animated as ever. The teachers were extremely nice to him, but not as pitying as he thought they'd be considering how his former teachers reacted after Uncle Ben had died. He has a brief thought that maybe when Mr. Stark paid his lunch money he also did a little bit more, but it's lost on him when the bell rings to start the last class of the day.

He spends the next forty five minutes in dread, because after feeling normal all day like he can ignore the fact that he doesn't have a home to go to in Queens or pretend that if he suddenly got sick the nurse would call Aunt May to come get him, it's almost time to leave.

When he's at his locker, he's moving at a snail's pace to put his books up where they belong. He places them in order by his schedule, but then by their alphabetical title. Ned appears beside him with a relieved "Yes! First day back and no homework! What about you?"

"No, none. But you know, I might start on some of the stuff anyway to get ahead," Peter replies, once again putting his books back in order by his schedule.

"Right! For when Mr. Stark gives you your suit back so you don't fall behind. You know when that'll be?"

"I don't know, now isn't a really good time to ask him."

"Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to bring it up," Ned offers while gently shutting his locker. "Hey! Wanna come over and play some video games?"

"Yes!" Peter blurts, desperately grateful for something to prolong the inevitable. "S-sorry. I mean yeah. Sure. Cool."

"Right on!"

He had sent Tony a brief text about being at Ned's. Then an even briefer one when the man had sent one back asking how school was. Mr. Stark seemed to get the hint or was busy, because he didn't reply until it was nearly nine o'clock.

Ned, his mother, and Peter are gathered around the small table in the kitchen long since having eaten dinner talking about anything and everything. It reminds Peter of Aunt May, but somehow it doesn't hurt. He wants to stay here forever.

His phone vibrates against the table and he glances at it.

From Mr. Stark

F.R.I.D.A.Y. has a couple of glitches right now. Won't tell me when you get back. You got an ETA?

It's not direct, but Peter knows what he is asking.

"Hey, Mom. Can Peter spend the night? Promise we'll be on time for school."

"Sure. Peter, I think you have some spare clothes from the last time you slept over. Ned knows where they are. Honey," she then directs at her son, "help me clean up while he squares it with Ma- um, Mr. Stark, okay?"

Peter tries not to let all of it bother him, but he feels like his illusion is unravelling and quick. He shoots a quick text back at letting him know he's spending the night at Ned's and that he'll see him tomorrow before shoving his phone in his backpack and helping with the dishes.

They played video games on into the night after Ned's mom left for a second shift only turning it off when they have about four hours until they have to be up for school. Once he's laid down on the air mattress by his friend's bed does he remember his headphones. The ones he's slept with every night since receiving them. He tries to go to sleep, but then thinks better of it and forces himself to stay awake instead.

But then he hears Ned's mother come in, hears her drop the keys by the door, shuffle out of her coat, and hiss a curse when she trips on Ned's backpack in the floor. For a minute he let's himself believe it's Aunt May, that she'll open his bedroom door and tiptoe over to kiss his forehead and smooth out the covers despite the fact that he's in high school.

The door opens and his heart soars. Except Ned's mother is short and round where Aunt May was a bit taller and lanky and she only opens the door to turn off the TV they had left on from before. She must hear him bite a sob into the pillow under his head because she lets out a pitying, "Oh, dear," before rushing over to him. She pushes her hand through his hair the wrong way and whispers all the wrong things.

He pulls away from her, and is surprised to find that it's not because she isn't Aunt May, but because she isn't Mr. Stark. "I-I…have to go home!"

He nearly chokes on the word because he's never called the tower that. Ever. It scares him and makes him sick, but it also makes him feel like the unraveling of the world around him will somehow stop if only he can get there before it reaches an end.

He doesn't know what he's going to do when the elevator doors open, but when he stumbles out into the living room in the tower he finds that he doesn't have to decide. Mr. Stark is standing there looking like he's never went to bed tonight, or any night in the month of January, and tugs him forward to hold him at arm's length. "Peter- Ned's mom called. She…she said-"

Peter squirms at Mr. Stark's stumbling speech, because the man is never this unsure of what to say and it kills him, because he needs somebody to be sure of how to deal with everything that's caving in on him.

"Here, come here," the older man says, pulling him along through parts of the tower collecting a couple of things before guiding him back to the elevator. Peter is so desperate that he doesn't even question it.

It's a few minutes later when they're both standing on top of Stark Tower, the biting winter cold blowing against them and turning their exposed skin red, that Mr. Stark pushes an empty scotch tumbler into Peter's underage hand.

"Um…" Peter says, trying to give the glass back.

"No." Mr. Stark says, nudging the arm back in place and uncapping a bottle of what is sure to be expensive scotch. He pours a little bit in Peter's, double that in his own and caps it back before setting it to the side on the ledge. He clinks their glasses together before bringing it up to his mouth, but stops short when glancing back at Peter. "Look, I'm not- I don't know how….. I don't know how to do this," he says and gestures between them. "Be a pare- be what you need. But I'm going to figure it out. We're going to figure it out. Just as soon as I screw it up a few more hundred times. The first of which me being letting you drink scotch at fifteen."

Peter blinks at him then hurriedly taps his glass against Mr. Stark's before the man can take the drink back and downing the drink in one go. He gags as he swallows and coughs over the older man's snickers.

"But then, it should persuade you not to want to do it again."

"God, why do you drink that stuff?! It's disgusting!"

"Maybe. It's an acquired taste really. Some of the effects of it are fun. All in moderation mind you. That's important to note."

"I…I don't think I can get drunk, Mr. Stark. Not! Not that I've tried, but it makes sense with everything else about the…about the bite. You know?"

Mr. Stark takes the empty glass back and sets it on the ledge, downing the rest of his own drink and placing that glass there, too. "Yes, I know. I'm never letting you find out either. Well, at least not now. Maybe when you're older, much older. Anyway, that part was just for me, really. Sorry," he apologizes, but Peter doesn't think he really means it considering he's still laughing quietly.

"This," he continues, pulling the headphones he made for Peter from seemingly out of nowhere and placing them on his own ears, "is for you."

Peter stares at him, unsure of what he means. "Mr. Stark, wha-" he yells, as the man takes the headphones off. "Oh, sorry, but what-"

"Right, nearly forgot. See I'm going to put these on and you're going to stand here and scream." At Peter's horrified look, he laughs again. "Relax, think of it as a…..stress reducing exercise. I've tried it a few times and I swear by it." Mr. Stark holds his hand up in a swearing gesture before placing the headphones back over his ears. "Go on, Spiderling. Scream away."

And he does. He tilts his head back and screams up into the sky. Just one gut wrenching sound that he's glad that Mr. Stark can't hear. He does it again and again, until his face is red from effort instead of the cold. He only stops when his voice catches because of the frigid air rushing in through his windpipe when he drags in deep breaths. He turns to Mr. Stark, shocked to see the headphones laying by the scotch rather than over his ears, thinks he should probably feel guilty about the saddened look on the older man's face, but finds that he feels….. good.

Mr. Starks comes to stand shoulder to shoulder with him and for a few seconds they just stand there. Peter thinks he should say something, explain everything he's felt the past few days, weeks, but suddenly Mr. Stark tilts his head back and yells out into the air the way Peter had done.

He only does it once before glancing back at Peter. He smiles at him, genuine and understanding of all the things they still haven't said, patient for all the things they probably won't. Peter smiles back, pliant when Mr. Stark's arm drops around his shoulders, and eager to join him in screaming into the night once again.

It's there on the roof, sixteen days into the new year, that Peter realizes maybe it isn't so much about celebrating hope for new beginnings as it is learning how to make them.

And for the first time in a long time, he thinks maybe, just maybe, he and Mr. Stark have started to figure it out.