Summary: It's May's birthday, the first one since she died, and Peter is not doing well.

Peter has never felt any measure of gratitude for the fact that he's slipped through the cracks of society after everyone was forced to forget who he was. At least not until today. Having no ID and no official record of his existence meant that he was basically disqualified from any job where his employer would file tax documents about him and his labor, and that meant a lot of odd jobs and freelance work that paid cash. But, it also meant that he could spend all day wallowing in bed without having to call out of work with a shit excuse or try to dodge worried texts from friends or coworkers.

And that's exactly what he planned to do.

As winter had melted into spring, Peter started pushing himself into patrolling harder and longer, trying to keep his mind off of things he used to do at this time of year. Before he became spiderman, before he was alone, he and May used to go on walks every afternoon after school during the spring. Aunt May used to wake up early in the afternoon, earlier than she needed to for the night shift she used to work at the hospital, and she would pick up from school. Then they'd walk around the park, making up silly stories about flocks of pigeons, giving them names and backstories and narrating the whole thing with silly voices, or they'd people-watch and try to determine random facts about total strangers, like what their favorite color was or if they liked pistachio ice cream.

Every year, come spring time, they would take afternoon walks, taking advantage of the lengthening days and slowly warming weather, taking the long way home to Uncle Ben, who would sometimes have successfully made dinner. Sometimes they came home to Uncle Ben frantically putting out stove fires, opening windows, and trying to waft the smoke from a ruined dinner away from the smoke detector (He cooked about as well as May, which meant that they ended up getting take-out at least three times a week). When Uncle Ben died, Aunt May started working more and Peter started sneaking out to be Spiderman. But they still went for their walks, though it usually happened on a weekend day instead of every afternoon after school, like when Peter had been little.

This year, come spring time, Peter slept during the day and did all his odd jobs and vigilante activities late at night or early into the morning. He would meet with Jameson early in the morning, first thing in the morning for JJJ and end of the night for Peter, and then crawl home and into bed. Spring afternoons did nothing but remind him of Aunt May, and he avoided them like the plague, especially as it got warmer and March and April gave way to the month of May.

Today in particular made him want to curl up and disappear. It was May 5th, Aunt May's birthday, and all of Peter's avoidance tactics fell short in light of today. He couldn't even pretend that the day had already come and gone— there had been a countdown clock in the back of his mind the second that the snow started to melt and the sun started staying up past four in the afternoon. He didn't even need to look at the lego themed calendar that Peter B. had given him for New Year's to know the date.

So, since he couldn't avoid it, he decided to lay under May's worn quilted blanket and try not to let his grief wash him away. He knew that time made grief easier to live with, more like a drizzling icy rain than a torrential hurricane. That had been the case with Uncle Ben. Though he still missed him, it was more bearable. Peter would sometimes get struck by the thought that Ben should've been there for something— a big event or just a Tuesday dinner where the extra chair round the table used to make their kitchen look empty. But he had had Aunt May to lean on then, someone who knew exactly what he was going through. They would help each other keep their heads above water, neither drowning in their grief because they had each other.

Now though, Peter could only lay under May's well-loved blanket with his own arms wrapped around his middle in his lumpy bed in his shitty cramped studio apartment and cry.

He wanted to sleep, or at least lay there unthinking and numb, but all he could do was think about how this would be May's forty-third birthday. If things hadn't gone to shit, if Peter hadn't let them go to shit, then they'd be having Pavlova from the fancy bakery in Manhattan and celebrating. Aunt May would protest every year that they didn't need to go through all the fuss of going so out of their way just because she didn't like cake. And every year Uncle Ben, and later Peter, would argue their way onto the subway, the whole little family dressed up and on the way to the bakery that had started expecting them every year in May. Then they would walk around, take their spring-time walk as a family, before getting back on the subway and going home with takeout from the Thai place just up the block from their apartment, who always gave them extra mango sticky rice for May's birthday.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself to stop remembering. Stop thinking. Just stop. He didn't want to think about this anymore, didn't want to feed the gaping black hole that had taken up residence in his chest after she'd died.

But, like the tears that forced themselves out from beneath his closed eyelids, the memories just kept coming. It was like he could see every one of May's birthdays at once.

He thought about when he was in kindergarden and had just come to live with Aunt May and Uncle Ben, when he'd taken the Mother's Day card that he was supposed to make at school and made it into a birthday card for May. He had shyly presented it when he got home, afraid that she wouldn't like it, but she had scooped him and the card up and hugged him tight while telling him that she loved his card. She put it on the fridge and it stayed up until the one he made the next year replaced it— not a scribbled over Mother's Day card print-out this time, but a piece of purple construction paper that Uncle Ben had helped him cut into a heart shape. It was illustrated with every ounce of Peter's six year old artistic talent, and May said she liked it even better than the last one.

He thought about when he was twelve and just trying to learn how to cook, and he had given May a coupon for One Homemade Dinner, Courtesy of Peter Parker inside of his hand-drawn card. She had chosen spaghetti, which Peter had overcooked. He had also burned the frozen garlic bread and spilled tomato sauce on himself. His aunt and uncle had come into the kitchen from the living room, where he had made them wait because he could cook this all by himself, to find him panicking while the pasta water boiled over and smoke started to billow out of the oven. They had helped him clean up the mess, and then trapped him in a hug between the two of them when he started to cry over having messed up his gift for May. They had soothed him with steady hands, one belonging to each of them, rubbing his back. When he'd calmed down, they ordered a pizza and celebrated his induction into the Parkers Can't Cook Club, which they claimed had been co-founded by Ben and May shortly after they got married.

When the memory of May's first birthday after Uncle Ben died rose up in his mind, Peter's cries officially became sobs; he was crying so hard that he would be worried that he might throw up if he had actually had anything to eat that day. Aunt May had been determined not to do anything special that year, but Peter had insisted that Uncle Ben would have wanted her to celebrate and enjoy her special day. It had taken hours of convincing, but he had gotten her to the bakery just before they closed. And even though they had to skip their walk and eat their Pavlova at home, it felt right that they had some semblance of festivity.

That last memory just got him even more upset. Not only was he buried under the weight of his grief, but he couldn't even follow his own advice. Aunt May wouldn't have wanted him to lock himself away and wrap himself in grief and guilt. What a fucking hypocrite.

Before he could spiral any further, there was a knock at his window.

Peter didn't even rouse himself enough to see who it was, couldn't even think straight enough to panic. He just grabbed a web shooter from under his pillow and shot a web toward his window, not even caring to check and see if he succeeded in webbing his window closed or not.

Either he missed, or his visitor wasn't deterred by the webbing that should be holding the window shut, because Peter heard his window open a few moments later. His spidey sense wasn't screaming danger! at him, so Peter let himself stay wrapped up in his blanket burrito, face buried into his now wet pillow case, ignoring whoever it was that had come into his apartment.

His lack of response didn't seem to matter to whoever Peter could hear crossing the short space between the window and his bed, because they just walked up to him and pushed him, blanket cocoon and all, up a few inches on the bed.

They tried to scoot him further up, but the tangle of blankets made it difficult and Peter didn't care enough to do anything other than keep crying, let alone help.

"C'mon, Pete, work with me here."

Peter recognized the voice instantly. "Go away, B."

"Sorry, kid, no can do," Peter B. said as he gave up on trying to gently push Peter around on his mattress. Instead, he decided to pick the younger Peter up entirely, blankets and all, in order to put him back down where he wanted. Once Peter was sufficiently arranged, B sat down next to him, not touching but a solid presence next to him.

Peter wanted to get a handle on his tears, so he could stop crying long enough to get B to leave him alone, but all he could manage were choked off cries and hiccuping sobs that hurt his chest. Peter expected B to say something about the change in his crying, maybe offer some platitude or tell him to just let it all out in a pitying tone, but he didn't. He just sat there, silent and warm, not even looking at Peter.

So Peter kept crying— ugly heaving sobs, but at least the hiccups were starting to pass. But, unlike before, his crying didn't lead to a spiral. He couldn't seem to focus clearly on the memories of Aunt May with B just sitting there, all weird and silent. Instead of thinking about each of May's past birthdays, mentally flogging himself and constantly working himself back up over that fact that she was never going to have another one, Peter was forced to let the tears run their course instead. It took a long time, several long minutes or maybe even hours, for Peter to run out of tears. But B sat there quietly the whole time, just riding it out with Peter.

"What are you doing here, B?" Peter asked once he was sure he was done crying, his voice wrecked.

"I came to see you," B answered like it was obvious. Neither seemed to have anything else to say after that.

Peter rolled over onto his side, finally forcing his face to leave his pillow. He had to squint up at B (who hadn't bothered to close the curtains behind him when he came in through Peter's window apparently), and, once his sore eyes adjusted to the light, he could see that B's eyes were red-rimmed as well. His face wasn't puffy or tearstained like Peter's, but he had been crying recently. That's when Peter put the reason for B's visit together.

"You didn't want me to be alone after losing her." Peter had almost forgotten that he wasn't the only one who knew what it felt like to lose Aunt May.

"Not today," B agreed, his voice steady but sad. B's tone of voice carried a sadness that was old, but Peter could tell it was eating him up almost as much as his own was doing to him. The thought of B having to practice how to manage his grief over Aunt May without having someone who really understood it made him squirm around in his tangle of blankets, trying to sit up so he could have an actual conversation.

He tried to unbury himself from May's quilt, but he couldn't manage it. "B, I think I'm stuck."

The bed moved in time to B's deep belly laugh, even as he leaned over to help Peter untangle himself.

Once he was free and sitting up next to B, Peter crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the other. "I can't believe you're laughing at me right now."

"I can't believe you got taken down by a quilt."

Peter did have to admit, it was kind of funny, and he cracked a small smile, even though his arms were still crossed.

"Thanks," Peter said once B's laughter had faded into the silence between them. "For coming to see me."

"Of course, Pete."

Peter wanted to argue against the matter-of-fact tone in B's voice, to try to convince the other man that he didn't have to be here. Try to convince himself that he couldn't accept the quiet comfort and solidarity that B offered by just being here— that he didn't deserve it. But since everything that had happened in the winter, all of the Peters were working on convincing each other that they could reach out when things were hard, that they should, so Peter stayed quiet. He was content to sit shoulder to shoulder with B, both floating in their own sea of grief but with their heads above the tide at least.

They passed the next hour or so this way before Peter's stomach decided to rumble, loudly protesting his lack of food.

"Geez, Pete, I even felt that one," B said, playfully nudging Peter's side with his elbow. "Guess we better get some food into you."

Peter nodded before remembering that all he had in his apartment right now in the way of food was one packet of original flavor ramen and three pieces of stale white bread, not exactly what he'd call a proper meal. And definitely not enough to satisfy one spidey metabolism, let alone two. He groaned and leaned on B's shoulder when he realized that this meant they'd have to go get something to eat.

"What? Not hungry? Because I think your stomach might disagree," B said, poking him in the side.

"No, I am. I just don't really have much of anything to eat around here," Peter said, sighing. Normally, he'd be all for going out and getting pizza with B or any of the other spider people who frequented his dimension now. But not today. Today, it just reminded him of what he should have been doing with May.

"So then let's go get something to eat," B said slowly, like Peter should have figured out the obvious solution to his problem.

Peter picked his head up off of B's shoulder and looked at him pleadingly. "Please don't make me go out." His voice was so small it surprised even himself, and B certainly didn't look like he was sure about what to do with the request.

"You gotta eat, Pete," B's voice had also gone quiet, matching the volume of Peter's plea.

"I know. I will. Just don't make me go out."

"Okay. I'll go get us something to eat and I'll be right back." B seemed to understand that Peter wasn't objecting to eating, just to leaving.

"Okay."

B studied him for a moment, and Peter could tell he was trying to convince himself to leave. After a moment, he seemed to have convinced himself, because he was hauling himself up off of Peter's bed and pulling his mask on, even though he wasn't in his suit— just sweatpants, a t-shirt, beat up sneakers, and the mask.

"I'll be back," B said before he opened Peter's window and crawled out.

After Peter watched B disappear out of his window, he wanted to collapse back onto his bed under the weight of his emotions. But there was something comforting about knowing that someone was going to come back to him, someone else who had his name and knew what it felt like to live his life but wasn't just him, that stopped him. Instead he closed his eyes and listened to the traffic outside of his still open window. He was determined to get out of his own head for a little bit, at least until B came back.

He opened them again just in time to see B stumbling through his open window, hands full of greasy fast food bags, as he tried not to trip over the window sill or run into Peter's desk. He managed to get in and close the window behind him in one piece, though he did catch the corner of the desk with his hip.

That didn't seem to deter him though, because he just turned to Peter and grinned, holding up the bags of food. "I got burgers!"

"Thanks," Peter said, taking a bag from B. He pulled the first burger out without moving from his spot on his bed, and B just plopped down next to him again and followed suit. Peter wasn't picky, but fast food like this wasn't usually his go-to, which made it perfect for today.

As they dug into their food, Peter couldn't help comparing today with all the May 5ths that had come before. It was so different— no Aunt May, and no fancy dessert or walk or homemade cards to celebrate her. It hurt, more than anything else ever had, but, as he watched B bite into an overstuffed burger and get ketchup and onions all down his front as a result, he didn't feel as crushed under the weight of today.

"If you make a mess all over my blankets, you're washing them before you leave," Peter said as he reached out to steal one of B's fries while the other was preoccupied with unwrapping his second burger.

"Yeah, yeah," B said dismissively before taking a huge bite that caused mustard to ooze out of the side of the burger and land right on Peter's quilt. Though he found that he wasn't mad at B over the mess, Peter glared at him until he promised to take it to the laundromat right after they finished eating.

"Good," Peter said with a hint of humor in his voice, pulling the quilt away from B, and therefore the potential for further mess, so he could study the yellow stain B had accidentally created. "I hope this doesn't stain. It was Aunt May's," Peter continued softly, the sadness seeping back into his voice.

"I know how to get it out— Aunt May's special recipe of water, dish soap, and vinegar. I'll teach you," B said through his last mouthful of food. He threw the wrappers back in the bag, which he placed on the floor, then he got up, pulling the quilt with him. Peter followed him over to the kitchen area curiously, and watched as B rummaged through his cupboards for a bowl. When he found one that would work, he waved Peter over to the counter where he had set the blanket down.

"Okay, so first you add some water, about half of this bowl full," B explained, filling the small dish with tap water. "Make sure it's warm, and then add a little bit of dish soap." B added the soap just like he'd said, but then he paused.

"What now? Vinegar, right?" Pete asked after a moment of watching B just stare at the soapy water in his hands.

"Yes, vinegar, mhm," B said, snapping out of whatever he'd been thinking about.

Peter nodded and moved to open the cupboard right next to where B had gotten the bowl from. He handed him the small bottle of vinegar that he pulled from the back of the shelf, and they now stood shoulder to shoulder.

"Okay, so now you add just a little splash of vinegar," B explained as he did just that.

"What happens if you add too much?" Peter asked, pretty sure that that was exactly what would happen if he tried to recreate this in the future.

"It still works, but it smells a lot worse before you wash it," B said with a small laugh. He put the cap back on the vinegar bottle and handed it to Peter. "And now we swirl it around until it's all combined, then pour it onto the stain and rub it in." B picked up the fabric around the stained part and used that to gently work the solution into the material until the little puddle had all been absorbed. "Now just bundle it up so it doesn't get all over everything on the way to the laundromat. Then we'll wash it and it'll be good as new." Peter took the bundle from B and put it into his laundry bag.

When he finished, B was still in the kitchen, washing out the bowl with much more attention than it needed. He walked back over to his spot next to the older Peter, and took the bowl from him, drying it and putting it away. Even though everything was put away, neither of them moved.

"One year, when I was maybe 14, we went out to a play for Aunt May's birthday. It wasn't super fancy, not something on Broadway or anything, but Aunt May insisted that everyone dress up for dinner and the show. After what ended up being the worst production we'd ever seen, we got Italian at this little place not far from our house. Our waiter was, at the time, the prettiest girl I had ever seen, and she'd overheard us talking and asked us if the show had been any good when she came to check on us. I was so flustered that instead of actually answering I just sort of spluttered and did some kind of hand gestures that were supposed to mean something other than 'uhhh' and I ended up spilling my drink all over my nice white shirt," B said, voice softer than Peter had ever heard it, though he did give a small chuckle. "I was so embarrassed, but Aunt May and Uncle Ben just laughed it off. When we got home, Aunt May steered me right into the kitchen and had me take off my ruined shirt and lay it out on the counter. Then she taught me her stain remover recipe, and my shirt came out just fine."

Peter wanted to say something, felt like he should, but found that he had nothing. So he stepped closer to B's side and engulfed him in a hug. After a moment, B hugged him back tightly. They just stood there, hugging in Peter's cramped kitchen, until they both felt like they weren't about to fall apart.

"Does it ever get better?" Peter asked once they'd pulled apart.

"Not better," B sighed softly. "Just easier."

"When?"

"It used to hurt to see her everywhere— in strangers helping each other cross the street, in the bakery store window when her favorite pastries were on sale, or in the little old lady across the hall who used to knock on my door asking for the recipe when I was cooking something that apparently smelled amazing. But then I started seeing her in the mirror sometimes, in myself, and it wasn't as hard. Most people balk when they realize they're becoming just like their parents, but Aunt May would've been so proud, so I don't hate it," B explained, voice breaking a bit.

"I try to do what she would want me to— dig my heels in and do the right thing. It keeps me going, but sometimes it hurts," Peter said, and his own voice was just as soft and pained as B's.

"I know, but they're proud of us." B sounded so sure when he said it. "Not just for doing the right thing as Spider-Man either, but for continuing to be Peter Parker too, even when it's hard."

Peter knew that B was right, but he couldn't keep himself from starting to cry again. B didn't say anything, he just moved to hug Peter again.

Peter mourned for Aunt May on her forty-third birthday, but at least he had someone to keep his head above the waves of his grief. It may take a long time to feel any kind of okay again, but at least Peter had people who weren't willing to leave him alone, and he knew Aunt May would be proud of him for letting them in.

Author's Note: I wrote this under the influence of probably too much whiskey and some grief of my own, so hopefully it isn't too heavy and depressing.