Sam just wanted a decent lunch, man. Maybe try to help get the kid out of this awful, absentee state of mind if he can help — and lord, imagine his damn surprise when he'd learned this doe-faced high school student was the face behind the onesie that nearly took him and Bucky out in one swoop. He's not about to say he actually did, by the way; Redwing saved his ass and he was never caught by the kid, don't even come at him with that. His pride has to stay intact.

Anyway. Lunch, you know? He earned it, being dead as shit for two years.

Even if he can't remember anything about those two years.

(Which makes sense, being dead and all.)

And now here was Tony Stark, about to get his ass murdered in front of him.

"Cut the bullshit, Tony Stark, and tell me where my kid is!"

"May, just let me explain," Tony groans behind two hands, held over a bleeding lip.

This was the scene Sam Wilson had come back to: May Parker looking ready to lunge and slam Tony's head into something a couple times, and Tony looking, for once, incapable of using that mouth of his. Which may have to do with the bleeding lip part. Sam's thinking he should just turn around, make a run for it, and lunge back into Wanda's room for cover; she'd understand, if he explained there was a pissed off Italian woman in the hallway that may or may not be beating up Stark today. Dammit all if Sam's not a bleeding heart, though — not for Tony in this situation, nah, but he couldn't have Pepper dealing with a pummeled husband and a two year old.

(Which is harder to deal with? You be the judge.)

Wish him luck, he's going in.

"Whoa, whoa, hey!" he starts in, only to put his hands up and back away a few steps when May reels around and sends some damn pointy daggers through him; he's feeling like the sword-filled box in a magic act here, and though he's a brave man, he's not nearly that brave. He'll be the lion tamer from across the hall, thanks. "Let's just talk this through. I know he deserves a few good kicks to the head from time to time, but it's not gonna help anything right now. Also, you might hurt your hand on his skull, and he shouldn't get that point in his favor."

Tony has enough Stark left in him to roll his eyes, but he refocuses.

"May, I'm sorry. I should have told you, but you've got to understand, there's—"

She shoves past him with little care for what he has to say, a desperate "Peter!" on her lips, and Sam realizes far too quickly how much the old saying 'hell in a hand basket' might apply to this situation. She must have some aunt-related honing missiles in her arsenal or some shit, because she sniffs out the kitchen near immediately while Tony sags against the wall, tilting his head back and probably wishing for the sweet release of death. Dude's got a split lip that puts any other Sam's seen to shame.

Happy says breathlessly to Tony, "I'm sorry, boss, she strong-armed me."

Sam doesn't say anything to that as he follows after May's fiery footfalls, but he does clap the billionaire on the chest a few times as he passes. Translation? 'Hang in there, we'll work with this. Also, you deserved that punch.' He did, and Tony Stark'll be the first to say as much, so he's not gonna rub it in. Fact of the matter is, there's a woman who's about to have her heart broken.

Steve and Bucky are up and standing when Sam enters the kitchen just behind May, and the two fellow soldiers look at him in a panic like he's grown two heads. Even if they hadn't met May Parker yet, they've all at least heard enough about her to make the connection. Sam's not sure what he should do just yet (you have to know what kind of person you're dealing with, to treat the anxiety that sets in) — so he holds out a hand toward Bucky and Steve, bidding the other boys stand back and let whatever happens happen. It's gonna be a nightmare either way, and anyone who tries anything will get their arms ripped off and slapped with them by an emotionally messed-up adoptive mom.

So much for a quiet day; he can't catch a break this hour.

"Peter," May says. Sam can't see her face from where he approaches from the doorway, but he can hear the tears — a sound that wobbles in Peter's name, spoken so longingly and lovingly, Sam can't help but feel his heart restricting in his ribs. She grabs the kid's shoulders, but he doesn't turn willingly. And he doesn't say anything when she forcefully spins him to look at her. He can imagine the way her face falls into confusion, into alarm. Her voice is stuffy. "Peter? Peter, look at me, baby, it's me. It's May. I'm here to take you home..."

Steve looks at Sam helplessly, lips thinned behind a trimmed beard. The presence of Tony Stark hovers behind him as he unpockets a handkerchief for his bloody chin. Everyone's gone silent as May grips Peter's chin in her hands and strokes his face, cards her fingers through his hair. He only blinks when her fingers near the edge of his eyes, an impulsive action from his motor memory. It's like Tony all over again, when the Benatar landed, and Bucky looks away from the sight of it — May's disbelief and denial, at first, that will no doubt bubble into panic.

"Why isn't he looking at me? Tony, what's wrong with him? Someone say something!"

"There were complications," Steve says, when no one else can. It's a little shameful. They're all soldiers, aren't they? Even Stark. Maybe even especially Stark, at this point. Sam knows way too much about the war zone in that guy's head, nowadays.

May stares at Steve, a shaky hand slowly leaving Peter's hair. Her face pales. "What — what, what does that mean?"

Specks of blood blurring on his dress shirt collar, Tony answers her with the God's honest truth of the situation: plainly, honestly, apologetically.

Sam catches the woman as she faints.

To be fair to her, he'd have probably done the same thing.


Peter and Gamora were themselves again. Or about as close to what they were as they had ever been. Peter wasn't really sure how much time had passed in that little pocket of the soul stone world — or whatever you could have called it, anyway. Peter honestly had a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that trillions of lives were not only snapped out of existence, but all then resided there all around their little oasis, forever churning in a pitch-black world of chaotic energy. The strange facsimile of Gamora's home world had not been a normal occurrence; if anything, it had been intrinsically tied to Thanos, built by his power over the stone. He had wanted to preserve the Gamora he loved, maybe. Which was, pardon Peter's language, fucked up — it had been clear he did nothing but lead her to suffering, and to cling to the child version of her had left an even more uncomfortable taste in his mouth.

So, there they were. There was no reason to hide behind their childhoods anymore. Thanos was dead, and Gamora didn't need to mask her pain behind the innocent little girl Thanos stole away from her world. Peter... he had perhaps realized he was hiding behind his younger self, too. When he'd been drifting through the dark void toward any semblance of light, it had been so much easier to go back to those days when he was little — when he had posters of cartoon characters on his walls, a full belly of Aunt May's cooking, and Uncle Ben chiding him on not tying his shoes. He'd freaked Peter out for weeks once, when he warned him about escalators eating his shoelaces; he had taken the stairs for a straight year after that—

"It seems like a logical fear to me," Gamora told him, as they basked in the sun. Sometimes it was hard to tell when he was speaking out loud or keeping his thoughts to himself; when you were technically not a brain in a body, everything was wishy-washy and difficult to parse.

"What, death by shoelace in an escalator? I guess so..."

Time was strange, in this other world they had inhabited; neither Gamora nor Peter himself could say with confidence how long they had been keeping each other company as children before, and then after they had still been completely in the dark about the passage of hours, days, months. For all Peter knew, they had been there long enough that everyone they cared about could have died from old age — barring Thor, anyway, special flower that he was. Peter was still sour that he hadn't gotten a chance to meet the guy. But he did at least get to meet Peter Quill and Gamora's other friends, and he told Gamora at length about what had happened on Titan.

She took it... well enough, though her eyes had a darkness that passed through them throughout the tale. He couldn't imagine what it must've felt like, knowing her friends had been looking for her, even after she had died. When she told him about the mountain on Vormir and how Thanos had thrown her down into its pit as a sacrifice, Peter could only think of when he was struggling to rip the gauntlet off Thanos' hand... and how he had looked over in desperation to Peter Quill, who was struggling with a surge of emotion that had ultimately won out over logic. He had been so mad at the other Peter in that moment; he'd been trying so hard, putting every muscle into getting that glorified Power Glove off, and then Quill had just... lost it.

But the anger had passed as quickly as it had come. There was nobody to blame for the snap except Thanos, and he was dead now.

Gamora rested on her back for a while, but eventually rose up to sit. She seemed uncertain if she wanted to say something, so Peter closed his eyes and pretended he hadn't noticed anything it all, in case that was, like, peer pressure to say it. "Peter?"

"Mm?" His head whipped maybe a little too fast to look at her.

Gamora almost seemed humored when she looked at him, with his honest, over-eager stare.

"Thank you for your company." His cheeks reddened a little. Really, he wanted to tell her that it was just as much for him as it was for her — he couldn't bear the thought of venturing back out into that never-ending expanse just beyond the bubble built here. Gamora continued curiously, "How did you find this place?"

"Oh! I heard my name."

Her pronounced brow furrowed. "Your name?"

"Yeah... I was drifting because it was all kind of too much? So I just... wanted to get away from the other souls for a while." He was thinking maybe it had to do with his little radioactive spider problem. After all, that had probably been the reason dying had been so viciously painful, like his whole body had been tortured with rusted needles all at once. The input, it had too much. Dialed up to fifteen. And because of that, he had wanted to hurry away from everything that had been twinkling and screaming for help in the darkness. He had wanted to escape, and part of him was ashamed of that. He was Spider-Man, an Avenger, but...

Gamora was patient and serious as a sin, perched on her elbow and looking at him as he bit his lip and struggled with the memory of it all. He breathed out and continued, "And then I heard my name... And this light — I could make out this light, as I floated up, and... I don't know. I just ended up here." And Quill and Strange and everyone else had been calling out to him. He thought, anyway. He wasn't sure. He could have just been 'tripping serious balls', as Ned would've said... He missed Ned a lot.

Gamora managed a slight smile, looking down. "I suppose I did get some manner of Peter."

He smiled sheepishly, hands behind his head were he lay. "Sorry I was the wrong one."

"There's no reason to apologize." Her voice suddenly went frustrated, in that way that seemed to be overflowing with sass and attitude; he liked that about Gamora, that she had been so serious and yet secretly storing away so much snark. "My Peter is an idiot who would have driven me crazy most of the time, if he had managed to make it here."

"You are his girlfriend—"

"Do you have to use that term?"

"—and that's what boyfriends usually do. They annoy the heck outta' their girlfriends." He turned over to rest on his side and mirrored her pose, his palm pressed to his face and picasso-ing his cheek a little while he daydreamed about home. "I have a girl I like, too... Her name's MJ. She's... she's kind of weird. Kind of super-duper weird, actually, but I think I really, really like weird."

"Good. I'm not sure what a duper is, but weird is the best way to be, Peter."

Peter couldn't help but completely agree, and his timid grin said as much.

Normal was overrated.

He opened his mouth to tell her all about Michelle Jones, master artist, professional feminist, questionable dresser — but as he had started to talk, the ground beneath them trembled with enough force to rock them sideways onto both elbows. Gamora's hand shot out to grab Peter's shoulder and gripped fiercely as she kept them both steady. Meanwhile up above, the orange sky groaned like a great metal beast caving in on itself, and Peter looked up with wide eyes to see puncture wounds in the atmosphere, where familiar blackness trickled in.

"What is that?" Gamora asked, and Peter didn't really have an answer. What he did know was that he felt a familiar and awful sensation of queasiness, followed by the agony of needles being pin-cushioned through him. Like — like he was a butterfly being put in a frame, but he wasn't dead enough yet, with wings flapping desperately against the air. It didn't make sense, because he didn't have a body to lose anymore, and yet it was so terrible an agony that he cried out where he'd been huddling next to Gamora.

"Peter? What's wrong? Hey!"

He grabbed her wrist hard enough to draw a pained sound from her, and he really wanted to apologize for that, but everything was hurting so bad. It was exactly what he felt when he had been dying in Mr. Stark's arms. What did it mean? He choked for the right words, tears in his eyes. Gamora looked down on him with wide, helpless eyes as the edges of his arm began to crumble into particles, glowing with fragments of Peter's soul. "S-Something's pulling me... I can't... I can't —"

I can't hang on.

He was pulled away from the orange world so violently, he couldn't even say when Gamora's hand had been ripped away from him. Everything was speeding around him so fast that he felt like a small boy scrabbling for safety in rabid waters, churning over and over and not finding any purchase on the riverbanks. And it was dark, all dark, and he knew — he knew he had been forcefully ejected from the place he and Gamora had huddled for safety together in. But why? Why? It was so hard to think. Everything hurt. He could hear Gamora's voice fading further and further away.

"Peter...! Pe... ter...! e... t... r!"

"Peter, focus! It's over! We're going back, now!"

That was Dr. Strange.

"What the fu— hey, kid!"

That was Big Pete.

Peter felt like he was being quartered, like every part of his non-corporeal was fighting the pull of wherever he was being sucked into. The darkness became overwhelmingly bright and bled into every part of him like fire. He couldn't see, he could only hear, and everything he heard was like gunfire in a metal room. It bounced and scraped and screeched and — and — make it stop!

"Little Pete, hey! Peter! Take my hand!" Peter peeled open his eyes and saw the faintest outline of Star Lord, struggling against the astral tide and extending his hand out to try and reach the boy. But Peter wasn't sure he could peel his fingers away from his arms, hugging himself as tight as possible to try and not explode apart. Souls were shooting by like comets, and they were warm against him when they brushed by. It was orange, everything was orange like Titan; he looked down and swore he saw his own body staring, dead-eyed, back at him. No no no, it hurts, it hurts—

He didn't want to go back if it would feel like this. He looked at Quill and choked on his words. "I can't, I can't, it hurts, I can't do this...!"

Quill couldn't fight the stampede of souls for long, and he drifted further and further away.

The man's offered hand had burst into particles and swirled down, down down...

And Peter?

Peter had not followed.

It had hurt too much.

So... he stayed behind.


Of course, the Star Lord remembers some of the soul realm, or whatever it was called.

He remembers Peter Parker's terrified face, remembers reaching out and offering his hand with the hope that Peter would take it. But it seemed like the kid had been too overwhelmed and in pain to try and go any further. Against all rhyme and reason, it reminded him terribly of his mother's death; yeah, it was a teenaged boy, not a mother with cancer, but they had — y'know. They had the same look in their eyes. Desperation that maybe, just maybe, the suffering would end, or that maybe they didn't have to be alone. The longer Quill lives and breathes, the more he can visualize it all again.

He'd offered his hand, prayed Peter would take it.

Little Pete isn't the one who pleaded for his hand. Quill called for the kid's hand.

So this is what it's like, he had thought. Maybe that's why the teenager is a little under his skin here. The Guardians had agreed to help with the efforts in keeping earth's skies clear, and to aid in some of the humanitarian work, but time was ticking and Quill had other places to be. Still, he made it a priority when he was at the Avengers facility for the last few days to check up on Little Pete. He finds what he expects to find: a catatonic kid who still hasn't shown any signs of improvement.

What he doesn't expect to find is Stark looking like he went a round with a toaster that got lobbed at his chin.

"Holy shit," Quill snort-laughs, because if there's anything to raise the spirits, it's Tony Stark looking pissy with a boxer's lip as they meet halfway in the break room, which is way too big to be a real breakroom, Jesus H. Christ. "You look awful, oh man."

"Yeah, yeah," Tony grumbles.

"Seriously, though — who decided you needed the make-over?"

"Peter's aunt. She found the kid and it was a little much for her, so she's... 'sleeping' it off blissfully in the medical ward."

The smile is wiped right off his face, and his lips part just enough for a thoughtful 'ah'. Quill knows he has family somewhere in Missouri — it's not like it's been a lifetime since he'd left, or even half of one, so there are definitely Quills west of New York who still have no clue what became of him. Honestly — and maybe it's shitty to think this way now — he isn't jumping at the opportunity to revisit that part of his life. His family is the Guardians, and (as fucked up as they were) the Ravagers... Yondu. He was a total stranger to those normal, good folks in the Midwest, and if they knew the shit he'd pulled in space, who knows if they'd have even welcomed him to the doorstep.

But he knows the pain of losing family. Oh, he knows.

Peter hasn't been able to talk about Gamora, not even with Rocket or Drax, who have prodded him about it in the hopes that he'll unfurl like a clam. He had even snapped at Mantis once — and had to instantly apologize for it, too, because damn if he's gonna be an asshole to the people in his life who are suffering from the same loss as him. Nebula and him have been on great terms, though, because she is equally terrible at addressing the elephant in the room. What they do talk about is how much juice they're gonna need to get the Benatar back to Vormir and try—

"Listen," Tony says, waving his hand. "I know I told you that the soul stone's all yours, gift-wrapped and bowed, but... I need a little longer."

Ah, he worried about this kind of road bump. He narrows his eyes suspiciously. "... How much longer are we talking?"

Tony is uncharacteristically quiet for a spell, walking around what is probably the only wooden thing in his whole goddamn chromefest. It's a nice table. The billionaire looks like he's trying to tread on fine eggshells here, which is both offensive and wholly necessary all at once. "I don't know. I just — need to run more numbers. Strange is heading to the London Sanctum in the hopes there's more there about whatever the hell happened to Parker, and if that soul stone is a way to get him out of this..."

'I love you, more than anything.' Gamora's terrified face fills his mind, and he thinks about the last words she'd ever told him — thinks about the failure of ending her pain then and there as she stood in Thanos' clutches. She's not dead, she can't be dead, that was his mantra for the last four or five days since springing back to life, and he's dead-set on proving as much, against all common sense that says it's true.

Quill holds his hands up and tries not to be an asshole about it, because he doesn't want to be. "Look, I get it. I want the kid to get out of this, too, but — we need to put that stone back. You can't just keep it here forever and hope that it does something."

"You think I don't know that? I just need long enough to know it won't do us any good."

"And that could be forever—"

Tony cuts in sharply, stepping forward, "Another week. Give me one week. Your crew can take a couple of rooms here, do whatever in the meantime. Rocket's already got a room, probably full of trash bins to dig around in for cold pizza."

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose, trying not to let the image of Peter Parker's pleading expression drown out everything he'd planned to do out there. He's honest about it — or, well, half-honest — when he says, "We're hauling ass back to Vormir with the thing and casting it into the Mordor fires, before this place gets attacked by Thanos-worshipping idiots who want that kind of juice—"

"Is that all you're doing?" the other man asks, so fucking stone-faced.

Peter draws his hand back, voice taut. "What?"

"C'mon, Quill. I know why you're so dead-set on getting that stone." Tony walks over, and despite everything that's happened, he's still doing fabulously at throwing his weight around and trying to seem taller than he actually is; those shoes are definitely adding some height, buddy, you're not fooling anyone. Peter looks down at him with a threatening frown, and Tony says, utterly confident, "You're holding onto any sliver of hope that it'll fix what happened to this Gamora chick—"

Peter grabs the man's suit lapels, face jutting close to Tony's and teeth gritting. The Guardians can talk about Gamora.

Mr. Iron Man? No.

"Shut it, Stark."

He knows Gamora would be more than unhappy with his now commonplace emotional outbursts when it came to her. He can practically hear her in his head, just before she'd sock him in the back of it: Will you stop with the dramatics, Peter? This isn't what I wanted. And hell, every time he's done lashing out, it's always followed immediately by guilt and shame, so why the fuck can't he stop himself? Despite this, Tony doesn't fight back on this. He looks tired, and — understanding.

"... I know how you feel. I'm holding onto any sliver of hope I can get my grimy hands on, too." Quill's hands relax at the raw honesty in Stark's voice, leaving wrinkles in the fabric of his expensive outfit. "I want you to undo what the purple people eater did, too. I want you to take the damn stone and do whatever the hell you want with it, because if I have to look at any of them one more time I'm gonna hurl. But... I need this. And if Peter needs this and I don't have what he needs, I'm never gonna forgive myself. So please. Just a week. A week's the least Pete deserves here."

What would Gamora say? Peter blows out a breath.

"... Alright. Alright, Stark. A week."

He licks his lips, and adds:

"Guardians of the Galaxy, right? Little Pete's a part of the galaxy, so... a week."


After Quill had vanished into nothingness and Peter was alone again in the soul realm, he had pin-balled back into the abyss and floated, again, for the hundredth time. He was honestly been getting really damn sick of traveling through it; the New York subway system was a masterpiece compared to the icy darkness within the soul stone world. He had slept, or whatever it was anymore, and tried not to think of the awful events of just moments beforehand — dreamed about May and Ben, and then quietly thought about how nice Michelle's hair looked when she had it up in a messy bun. He missed MJ a lot.

"... If only there was a way to bring him back to himself," Peter thought he heard someone say, from all around him, distant but encompassing like Uncle Ben's voice had been in the void what felt like forever ago. He must've been imagining things, though, because there were no more twinkling souls left in this place. They had all funneled out, and he was alone, utterly alone. But the longer he strained to listen, the more there was no doubt about it. Was that Drax the Whatchacallit? "... Would he react if I suplexed him?"

"You are not suplexing anybody!"

"I am just trying to help! He's very durable!"

"You're not suplexing a catatonic teenager."

"Guys?" Peter murmured, but there was nothing but the dark.

He drifted, but he could hear Peter Quill's kind voice — it was so close, it was practically in front of him.

"... These guys, am I right? I bet you're sick of this whole trip by now."

What is this? What's happening?

Cutting through the empty nothingness and filling his ears: music, muffled like a heartbeat wrapped in soft cotton.

Sun is shining in the sky, there ain't a cloud in sight, it's stopped raining, everybody's in the lane...

And don't you know, it's a beautiful new day? He—ey!

He could have swore he felt something moving over his ears — but that wasn't possible, because this place had nothing left in it. And yet Quill's voice kept speaking, soothing, hopeful. "Hang in there, kid... It's gonna be a kinda long ride to Earth, and between you and me, space can get kind of boring the more you float through it. Especially on a road trip."

The song grew louder and louder, flooding his senses. Something warm and protective wrapped around him. It had felt different than his hallucinations of his uncle. It felt like something was tugging on his sleeve, trying to beckon him back. But there was nothing there and nowhere to beckon anymore. There was just the dark... The dark...

Mr. Blue Sky, please tell us why you had to hide away for so long — so long...!

After the third, fourth, fifth song, all from different old singers, Peter drifted to sleep against every instinct to stay awake. He was admittedly not very good at picking apart classic music and knowing where it came from, but he knew some of it — from Ben, mainly. He loved this stuff, couldn't get enough of it... The thought drew a smile across Peter's face. "I love you, Pete," Ben had said. He had hugged Peter tightly on his thirteenth birthday, voice rough and fond. "I love you, kiddo..."

Sleep was a kindness for once.

Sleep was full of things that made his stomach flutter, warm and hopeful, until the next voice stirred his soul awake where it hovered.

"... Pete, kid, c'mon," Tony said, and he felt hands — hands on his face... he swears, he felt hands on his face, calloused from working in a lab. From fighting the battles no one else will. The shaking hands traveled down to grab his shoulders, the grip so tight it would have bruised. They weren't really there (couldn't have been, he's dead), but he swore he could feel them.

Mr. Stark...?

"Say something," Mr. Stark said in the dark. "If you don't say something I'm gonna seriously lose it here. Don't fucking do this."

The hands shook him. Hard.

He felt like the bits of his soul were animal bones in an old soda can, rattled around. He felt it, he swore he did. It was gone as fast as it happened, and time came and went at speeds Peter couldn't for the life and death of him know. He could hear little snippets of sound, sent through some kind of spiritual wood-chipper so that he couldn't really piece things together that well, but some things came in clearer than others.

He could hear Dr. Banner, with heaviness in his voice, just to his left: "He's not a typical case, either. His metabolism is too high to do anything different, Tony, I'm sorry. He's already losing way too much weight for just being a few days back, and IV drips are only gonna get us so far. Even if he's not mentally there right now, it's not humane to—"

"I know, alright? I know!" Mr. Stark yelled.

There was a slamming noise, a fist on metal. Peter flinched, waiting with bated breath.

Waiting for the words he dreaded to hear from his idol. Something like — I wanted you to be better.

"You're a fucking pain in the ass, Pete," Mr. Stark sighed instead, which was close enough.

I know. I'm sorry, Mr. Stark. I'm so sorry.

Hopeless. Why was he entertaining the idea that this wasn't all just another hallucination in his whacked out head? But as he thought that, something warm and alive touched his arm. Someone. They didn't let go, and he could hear Dr. Banner as he said kindly, "Hey kid, you're pretty good at this whole meditation thing; I'm a pro at it, myself. We should go out and get some air, maybe practice on the lawn. You could use some sunlight before you turn into a lab hermit like the rest of us old men."

Footfalls echoed, slow and drawn out, like a dream. Sunlight flooded his eyes, drowning out the inky soul realm in an instant.

When the light bled away, he found himself on his back, looking up at Gamora's worried face, basked in an orange glow.

"What happened? You were gone for a while."

Back here again...?

She seemed relieved to have him back, though, and her hand shook his shoulders like Mr. Stark must've, before.

"Peter? Peter, talk to me—"

He licked his lips (not real), blinked his eyes (against sunlight), listened to Gamora, listened to Dr. Banner (chattering about periodic tables, about meditation, about how it kept him sane). That song, the one that had played the loudest in his ears, it had been so familiar... Uncle Ben liked it. He liked that band. What was it called? ELO? Peter had never figured out what it actually stood for, and now he wished he did; he wished he went to the concerts with Ben and listened more jovially to those old vinyl records.

Peter cleared his throat and sang to test the sound, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion from his trip, "... He—ey, you with the pretty face... Welcome to the human race... a celebration, Mr. Blue Sky's up there waiting..."

The grass under him was itchy.

Was it from this world, or the next?