Peter Parker wasn't sure if he would rather be on the Earth or out in space.

On one hand, Earth was his home. He knew where most of the US states were, wasn't totally sure about the geography of Europe, only had a general idea about Asia, and if anyone asked him to identify a country in Africa, he would be totally lost. But at least he'd know what he could expect. He knew the chemical makeup of the air, the exact speed of gravity, and when and where the sun rose and set, and he understood the time zones. He knew that at any given time, Antarctica would be south, New York would be better than Boston, the subway would be three minutes late, and people wouldn't spontaneously turn into dust.

If he had been given some form of heads up that he, Peter Parker, was most certainly going to disintegrate, he would have rather done so at home, or outside a bodega in Queens, or at a park in Europe, or on a street in Africa, or really anywhere on planet Earth. Instead, he had died an alien death on an alien planet and now some part of him felt stuck there and utterly disconnected from his pale blue home. And although he knew it happened on Earth too, he wasn't here to see it. Although he knew that people on Earth —half of them, in fact— had experienced it, he was the one who woke up light years away from anywhere familiar, choking on ash and tears and terror.

By the time he finally returned home, life had been resurrected and restored, just the same as he had left it. He could turn on the television to see talking heads, he could drive down the highway and keep driving and driving and know that there would always be another exit, another turn if he wanted. Or if he wanted, he could stay along the constant yellow streak of paint and drive on forever.

On the other hand, he wondered if he would rather deal with whatever you would call what he was dealing with right now back on Titan. To keep it all there. Because on Earth, where most things are normal and familiar, things that were once normal and familiar became ardent and attacking and alien. It wasn't the actual things, per se. Rather, it was the sensations that flooded his already-heightened senses, like how feet sinking into the sand on the beach jarred him back to when he faded away, feet first. Or like the smell of fire, which makes ash.

Which was why Peter Parker ended up leaning against a tree, facing away from a massive, smoky bonfire that celebrated the end of the school year. He stood facing the darkness of the surrounding area, wanting to walk away and walk on his own while simultaneously not wanting to be alone. He was right on the edge where no one noticed, but where he was close enough to notice the others. He listened to the sounds of laughter and chatter and bottles clinking and tried to focus on people being alive and not dying and not dying and not dying as he stared at the ground, kicking his right shoe against his left.

"Not your thing either?"

Peter glanced up at a girl standing near him in the dark at the edge. He vaguely knew her from school but had never learned her name.

"Probably won't be our thing for a while," she mused.

"Hunh?" Peter feigned confusion, but he was pretty sure he knew what she meant. He looked up to take her life in. Looked at her eyes move and her body shift with breath. Ironically, he hated that she had analyzed him, that she could just tell from his general demeanor that he was one of the ones who...

"Bonfires and smoke," she drew out the point. "...and ash."

"Hunh." Peter grimaced and turned his head down. And although this affirmed her intuition, he was not now, not ever, going to be in the mood to have this discussion.

"Sucks," the girl chuckled humorlessly, "for us, I mean. 'Cause the whole bonfire thing was a bit of a summer rite of passage. Like lighting one up on the beach. Not exactly going to be doing that anymore, am I?"

Peter met her with silence, absolutely unwilling to host some nostalgic what-he-had-before kind of conversation, though it was a mental dialogue he had with himself constantly.

"I used to be excited for this season," she continued. "Feels like a movie, like some Stand By Me bonding typa shit."

"Good film."

"Better song."

"Debatable," Peter shot back. Then he buried his face in his sweatshirt collar and groaned, both because it actually was a better movie and because the wind had shifted and smoke from the fire now drove towards them.

When he looked up again, the girl was standing straighter, suddenly looking stoned. His eyes followed her as she walked back to the campfire and motioned to a friend, who handed over a water bottle that wasn't filled with water. The girl stood chokingly closing to the smoky fire. She took one swig and then another. Peter shivered all over, turned from her and the fire, and walked away.

Peter Parker wasn't sure if his spidey sense told him that a panic attack was coming, or if his spidey sense caused the panic attack in the first place.

The thing about having a panic attack when you're Spider-Man is that all senses are dialed up to eleven. So when his heart started to pump harder and harder for what felt like the eighteenth time this week, Peter looked around and over his shoulder, then over his shoulder again, trying to convince himself that his heart was just thumping because it wanted to, not because there was a threat.

But what if I'm wrong and I'm trying to tell me something, like on Titan? Like how I just knew, I just knew, even before it happened.

No, no, Peter, Peter calm down. Get your heart to slow the fuck down.

But what if I'm just telling myself that because I'm naive?

Or, what if I'm telling myself that because panicking is counterproductive 'cause it makes my heart beat even more, anyway?

Despite all attempts to calm his heartbeat, blood pulsed behind his ears faster and louder. Peter reached out to the nearest solid thing, the edge of a building, anything, to help him catch his breath. With the other hand, he grabbed at his chest where it visibly moved up and down under two layers of clothing proof of life I'm alive right now I'm good . But his hands started to tremble and he couldn't catch his breath and his heart pounded even faster, even harder. Peter closed his eyes tight and tried to focus on taking a deep breath but he couldn't; his gasps were sharp and shallow and restricted.

There's something wrong here.

Then he started coughing. Nothing came out but he couldn't take a breath because something was blocking his airway.

There's something in your lungs.

The trembling traveled down into his arms and legs and left him unsteady on his feet. He leaned more heavily on the wall but when he opened his eyes, his vision was tinted in black.

See! You're turning to ash, you're fading to dust.

Peter was disoriented and fell back, hitting his head on whatever was around him. He couldn't see clearly and that scared him even more so he screwed his eyes shut, but that didn't help either because behind his eyes he saw stars and stars like a kaleidosco pe that crumples and fades away on the edge and oh God, oh God. God, it's happening you're dying, this is what death feels like, and you're going to die alone and blind and in so much fucking pain you're going to die alone with your body shredding and throat burning on ash and dust and—

"Kid?!"

Tony.

Peter let the world go black.