Brown Moth Bleeding

It’s been a year since Tony Stark died.A year.Peter knows it has, has written it down about a million times to make sure he didn’t forget-despite having a pretty brilliant memory-Tony’s words, not his-scribbled the anniversary on every calendar he could get his hands on; on his arms, when that oh-so-familiar bolt of anxiety would reach deep into his chest and there wasn’t paper in sight. His memory has been…worse, since the wars, and he’s been scrambling to keep every important thing held close to his chest.But he knows it’s Tony’s death anniversary. He checks his forearm again, just to be sure, but it is, written in bold black sharpie. October 2nd. He looks at the calendar just behind the coffee pot, runs a finger along the days of the week, and-yep, it’s October 2nd. It should relieve the buzzing under his skin. Should clear the fogginess in his head, let his suddenly tight throat loosen up, and yet. And yet.Somehow, someway, Tony Stark is standing in the lab under the garage, looking confused as all hell.