Peter Parker felt it.
He closed his eyes and felt every atom in his body split, flakes of his very being dissipate into the wind of the cruel planet he had started to call his own personal hell.
He stumbled into the arms of a man that reminded him of home.
Comfort.
Love.
He clutched desperately to Tony Stark, Iron Man. Though right now, in his mind, his only thought was hurt, hurt, hurt. So he sought the only comforting presence on this god-forsaken planet. He held onto his father figure, the one person other than his aunt who made him feel truly safe.
Peter Parker, Spider-Man, was dying.
His senses were screaming dangerdangerdanger and his healing was struggling to pull his body back together, to stop the inevitable.
But looking into his mentor's eyes, dismal with pain, he knew there was nothing either of them could do, as much as they yearned to.
So Peter stopped fighting.
He barely registered falling backwards and crashing into the hard rock beneath him, or the feel of his mentor's warm arms around him. He could only look into Tony's face (when had he become Tony?) and see the inevitable mirrored back at him in those dull eyes.
As he let go, he whispered his last words, the ones he wished could ease the pain in his father figure's heart but knew they wouldn't. He wished he could say so much more.
I'm sorry.
And then his body disintegrated into the wind and his words followed, chasing after his remains and echoing mournfully around the dusty red planet.
I'm sorry.
And Tony sat up, a single tear rolling down his cheek.
Because the kid had died, and it was on him.