Cocktails and Consequences
Peter can't think of many times when he was less comfortable than this. Only being trapped under several tons of rubble and taking a nonconsensual impromptu dive in his suit compared, and even those were only questionably worse at this point.
Tony wanted him to learn more about—in Tony's own words—"the real world," which apparently consisted of stuffy parties where a bunch of fifty-year-olds in expensive suits tried to convince each other to invest in their companies. It doesn't seem much like his future, but it made Tony happy when he agreed to come, and it would only last four hours, give or take.
Tony stayed with him for the first half hour while he got acclimated, but when he admitted he was comfortable enough, Tony was on his way around the room to socialize or listen to propositions or whatever it was he came to do. Peter is left tugging uncomfortably at his suit and biding his time until it's over, trying to stay out of the way of the adults. He wonders what Tony expected him to learn from this, but nothing really comes to mind. Maybe he just didn't want Peter home alone.
When some kind of waiter comes around the room with a tray of drinks, he grabs indiscriminately, looking for something to occupy his hands, anything to distract him from fidgeting. No one stops him even though he in no way passes for twenty-one yet, so he relaxes and doesn't question what he's drinking. It tastes kind of gross—the sweetness is almost overpowered by something more bitter—but he assumes that's a rich people or middle-aged people thing and lets it go.
He's not thinking about that assumption an hour and four—or was it five?—drinks later. The last of his trepidation faded away at some point, though the exact time is a little fuzzy. Now he's relaxed enough to drop his guard, pulling out his phone to keep an eye on his notifications and play some games instead of watching out for people approaching him.
It catches him by surprise when a text from Ned makes him laugh out loud, like actually laugh out loud, but his mind doesn't raise any real alarms. He vaguely recognizes that he'd normally be a little embarrassed by laughing alone in the corner of a place like this, but he just… doesn't care. It's not a big deal. It's weird that he cares about that kind of thing any other time, actually. He's probably just finally growing out of a bad mindset. Yay for progress.
He catches Tony looking his way to check in and can't help the dorky grin that spreads across his face. It's worth it when Tony smiles back, though. He doesn't come any closer, but Peter doesn't mind much. This is Tony's night, so he can do what he needs to without Peter interfering. He's happy and warm and having fun alone with his game anyway, even if it's hard to beat his high score.
Time passes weirdly. He looks up from his game and another half hour has slipped by. He does it again, and the party's close to ending now. People are milling around the exits, not saying their goodbyes, but not appearing eager to stay either.
He blinks and realizes he's started feeling different… not good anymore. Phrasing it like that rings childishly in his mind, but it's not a lie. He doesn't feel good, and that's the most accurate way his brain can seem to describe it.
The random lightheartedness and inclination to smile at everything are gone, replaced by a reeling in his gut and a dizziness he can't shake. The room is blurry, like when he used to forget his glasses and desperately needed them. Something about his hearing is wrong too. It almost feels like it did before the bite, like he can't hear anything outside of his general vicinity anymore. He's inexplicably anxious, more than he thinks he should be over just feeling weird, and it's making sweat pour off him.
He doesn't want to be around everyone else anymore, not when something's telling him he might puke at a moment's notice. He needs to escape if just for a few minutes, but his legs don't cooperate. They feel sluggish, clumsy, like they're sort of getting the signal from his brain but it's muddled somewhere down the line. The best he can do is stumble his way to the nearest wall and lean against it before sliding down to the floor.
The dizziness comes and goes, but never leaves completely, and he's pretty sure he can't stand up or take more than a few steps away without falling face first into the expensive stony tile. He closes his eyes and tries to focus on his breathing. It feels too slow, not right. He can't remember ever coming down with something so fast before. This isn't how the night was supposed to go. Tony's going to be disappointed in him for ruining the party.
Someone grabs under his armpits and lifts him until he hesitantly regains his footing. His vision is blurred beyond any hope of seeing who it is, but he smells the workshop and that fancy coffee scent that's permanently seared into Tony's clothes. He relaxes into the touch and lets hopefully-Tony take over for him. Hell, even if it's not Tony, that's fine by him at this point. Whoever wants to get him out of this room before he suffocates on the stuffy atmosphere or embarrasses himself with the doubtless unavoidable puke fest is more than welcome to.
They make it away from the gathering, but his stomach is protesting too much with the movement to make it any further than that. He doubles over with a gag in an otherwise deserted hallway. He can taste the drinks—much more bitter the second time around—enough so that the mutated taste alone makes him gag again.
Dear-God-please-be-Tony is trying to drag him by the waist and one arm, but he has no hope of gathering any semblance of coordination with the room spinning and his stomach in his throat. He stumbles and one knee slams into the floor, soon followed by the other. It stings, but that pain doesn't register much over the ache in his stomach.
Tony's panicked urging to keep moving stops when he brings up what feels like most of the night's entirely liquid diet on the floor. He can't help but be grateful for that despite the situation. The idea of moving any further was entirely unappealing, not when he already escaped all the people he doesn't know.
He has a short break to catch his breath and brace himself before he's retching again, and the process drags on far too long to be comfortable. It quickly becomes predictable: throw up, gasp until he can breathe normally again, ignore Tony's suggestions to move somewhere more convenient, and repeat. He loses track of time in his misery.
Slowly but surely, his stomach settles and he becomes more aware of the uncomfortable nerve-deep tingling from supporting himself for so long in the same position on his hands and knees.
"I'm sorry," is the first thing he gets out when he's confident he can produce words instead of vomit and they've gained some distance from the mess. It sounds slow and warped through uncooperative lips, but he thinks it's understandable.
"No, this is on me," Tony says like he knows exactly what he's talking about, which he clearly doesn't because he thinks whatever happened to Peter is his fault. "I should've seen the signs that you weren't ready for this. You weren't comfortable with the idea when I brought it up, and it's too soon. No wonder you wanted to relax with a drink. God, I should've been watching you tonight!"
He's frustrated. Even through the fuzzy brain haze, Peter can see that, but he can't hope to comprehend why.
"Mr. Stark," he starts, and it sounds wrong. It takes a moment to place why.
"Tony," he amends. "It's not… not your fault…"
That's not right either. His words feel like they stick on his tongue longer than they're supposed to. He trails off because he can feel his words blur together too, just like his vision, but no, he has to finish that thought. It's important. Why's it important?
"Oh! I didn't, uh, didn't drink anything, Mr… Tony!" Right! That's what he needs to explain. Tony didn't do anything wrong. "Just some weird, um… juice or something that the waiter guys had! They didn't ask for ID or… or anything!"
Tony flinches, so he lowers his voice, but it's harder to control the volume than it has any right to be and he scowls at himself. He shakes his head to try to clear it and chase away the aggressive sleepiness creeping in, but that gives the nausea a chance to edge its way back into his stomach and leaves him scrambling to his knees in fear of a round two that never comes.
"I'm just… sick?" he finishes even though he's not so sure anymore. He's never tried alcohol, but tonight suspiciously matches up with a lot of movies' party scenes now that he thinks about it and... "Oh no… Oh no! I'm sorry, Mr. Stark! I'm so… so sorry!"
Tony doesn't look convinced that it's not his fault, but he doesn't argue either. From what Peter can catch, he looks like he's given up. He's quietly grateful for that. He's much happier drifting off while the radio plays almost-muted classic rock and making his best attempt at forgetting the night ever happened on the drive to the tower.