Compared to the slow combustion of every atom in his body (burning agony. One. By. One), the remanifestation of himself was nothing. In one moment nothing was tangible, a complete absence of all senses and thought, then,
he was floating.
It seemed odd to him, but for a while he was content to just… be. But when the question of why he was floating and what the implications of floating were, air exploded from lungs he didn't know he had. Everything was red, blood? Was he bleeding? It was everywhere. Surely he was going to drown in a sea of it. His throat was tight as his limbs struggled for purchase in the unknown liquid. Initially, progress was slow, but pure desperation drove him, clawing, swiping forwards. Up, down, left, or right, he didn't know what direction he was moving, all he knew was he needed OUT.
Peter's head broke the surface, gasping, he reached madly and found something solid, pulling himself onto it. He lay there for a long time, blinking the stinging liquid out of his eyes. It took him awhile to catch his breath, and even longer to remember Titan. He got up quickly after that.
His feet were braced against something dark orange, yet fluid. It was like standing on water, something impossible according to the laws of physics, but Peter took it over the burning nothingness from before. Somehow he'd gotten from below to above the surface, but even as he stomped on the liquid with his foot, it didn't give. Strange. His eyes followed the orange water, where it blended nearly seamlessly with the yellow sky.
Well, it certainly looked like he was alone… wherever this was. He tried all the same, "Mr. Stark!?" He shouted, then after a few echoes, "May!?" If anything was possible in this place, maybe she was here. Nothing. "Tony?" He asked the horizon tentatively. No response from it, or from anyone else for that matter.
Fine. He would find someone, maybe he could finally meet the Hulk or Thor, he had hoped to meet them after all, before everything went sideways. Not choosing any direction in particular, Peter set off, as unknown constellations swirled faintly above his head.
ooo
He didn't know how long he had been walking, running, you name it, he'd done it. All he knew was that if he kept moving, surely something would change. May would set a plate of pancakes in front of him and tell him to be home before 11, "Remember, Peter. Stay. Safe.". Tony wouldn't laugh at Peter's antics exactly, but from his smirk, Peter could tell he was amused, "Alright, kid, good luck out there.". Ned would stare openmouthed at Peter doing something spider-y in amazement and say something along the lines of, "That is just so cool… what? Please don't ever fire me as the guy in the chair, I don't think I can ever go back to normal life after this."
Peter didn't think so either, after this, after this unrelenting boredom and burning horizon. God, how he wished any of them were here. "Loser." What he wouldn't give to hear Michelle tell him that. But he would keep going, what else could he do after all? He would keep going even if it meant the odds of his situation changing only increased by 0.0000001% (he could almost hear Han Solo then, "Never tell me the odds!").
He kept going, even as he imagined literal years passing. With each year, a foot became heavier (never the same foot, they always alternated), his lungs tightened painfully (sometimes he wondered if anything would change if they just stopped entirely, his stomach certainly didn't seem to function the same), and his head drooped just a little more (sky, horizon, orange water, toes).
Until one day he was staring at his feet and wondering why he bothered anymore. Why would anything change now if it hadn't already? He tried, halfheartedly, to drag another heel forward, but it was just too heavy. Another thought struck him, unbidden, unwelcome.
"Ben?" His voice was a whisper, mute from minutesdaysyearsdecades of disuse. He was dead, wasn't he. Just like Ben. No one answered. Of course, Ben must be in a better place, because Ben hadn't gotten his uncle shot. Ben hadn't let down freaking Iron Man. Peter was dead, so there was no point calling out for May, Ned, or Mr. Stark, and he never would have to, because surely, surely, even though ashes had flown through the air, Mr. Stark had saved the people on Earth.
Peter was dead.
His knees buckled as tears finally spilled. May's face swam above him, "Honey, it's okay, so what if you lost the internship. You are so smart, you are gonna go out there and show him what a wonderful talent he's missing- Hey, shhhhh, don't cry. Things may look bad right now, but you are so bright and optimistic, you just never give up Peter, and I doubt that this will hold you down for long."
I'm sorry May, Peter thought, as the solid liquid below him gave way.
He liked being in the liquid a lot more. He didn't have to think or feel as he sunk deeper and deeper, as orange gave way to red, and red eventually to black. Yes, he drifted in the black, this was a lot more like how he'd imagined death. He floated far longer than he had walked.
Whoops, that one got a bit dark, I am planning on making a part 2, please let me know what you think!