“Shut up,” Peter huffs, sticking his tongue out at you as you make fun of him carrying around his Walkman at a party for the umpteenth time. “It’s cool. You just don’t get it. You like all this… frat music crap. You’re gonna be jealous when I’m playing all the cool tracks.”

He slips the headphones over his ears, grinning as the sounds of No Sleep Till Brooklyn starts blaring in his ears. Truthfully, he’s not one for parties, but you really like them. He’d suffer them for you.

He doesn’t love you enough to leave his prized possession behind, though. He carries it everywhere with him. He’s convinced it’s totally badass (and, truthfully, he likes the feeling of ma following him around. Not that it negates the badassery, in his mind).

“Don’t be jealous,” he teases when he sees the roll of your eyes, slipping the Walkman into his jacket pocket as he takes hold of your hand. “I might let you listen to a song on this thing later, if you’re good.”

Peter would let you have just about anything, but he’s not good with all that mushy stuff. He thinks he’s got it good, despite everything. Sure, his dad’s a deadbeat, and he misses his mom more with every passing day. But his pops loves you, and you love him, and he really loves you.

He even got into college. College. He didn’t even think he’d be able to get a job sweeping the streets, but here he is.

Yeah, life is pretty sweet these days, he thinks as he drags you further into the party. He certainly doesn’t have any complaints.