"It's okay, Peter, it's alright. You don't have to hide it, we're alone now. Please, Peter. Let it all out."
Sniffle.
Clench.
Bow.
"…I'm sorry. I didn't— I'm sorry for being such a burden to, to the tour. I didn't mean to, I can leave—"
"Peter."
"I shouldn't have come—"
"Peter."
Blink.
Sigh.
"It's alright to feel things. And it's alright to cry. You don't have to pretend when you're with me… we're the same, you and I. Just. You're free to just feel."
It comes out more like a promise than a command and Peter doesn't speak for a while.
Harley takes this as his time to think.
He doesn't need to look to know that Peter is still in silent tears.
They are walking across the field, oppositethe other field.
It is hotter now, under the noon gaze.
But Harley just feels the cold drip of shame as he looks at this young boy.
He had been the one to activate it, the holograms, thinking it would help Peter. But he had been too hard, too callous, too unfair.
When Peter speaks, it is quiet and the wind almost carries it away.
"…what was that?" he starts, "In the, in the museum?"
They are nearing the lake now, by the dock with the gazebo.
Maybe if Harley could sit Peter down by the lake, he could give a little bit of Tony back to him.
Talk to each other like he and Tony used to.
Harley takes a chance to look at Peter as they sit on the bench under the shade of the gazebo.
Peter's eyes are red and subdued, tears loosely escaping but breath entirely calm.
He's expecting an answer, but doesn't mind waiting for a long time.
Harley gathers his thought.
"It was a tech Tony and I worked on. I found the controls when I was rummaging through his old things, and I thought a pair of shades won't just be shades if Tony owns it and… well, it was quite a discovery."
He appreciates the small ripples in the lake, taking to count every new circle. Peter's shoulder sags from beside him and he tries not to put his hand over it, knowing all too well that space might be what Peter needs right now.
"I thought… maybe it would help—"
Sharp inhale.
Whip—
And maybe he shouldn't have said that.
Because now, Peter is looking at him like he's angry, but trying so hard not to be.
Perhaps, it's because he is.
Harley never wanted this to be how they met.
But Harley also never expected they'd meet, at all. He certainly never thought it would be after Tony's passing either.
When Peter speaks, it is accusing but steady.
"Maybe, I didn't need your help— I don't understand why everyone keeps thinking they could just—it's—it's not that easy—"
"I'm not saying that it is. And… I'm sorry, really, really, sorry."
They aren't looking at each other.
Both of them possessed with emotions that comes with the knowledge that there is a piece of Tony in each of them that lives, a piece of Tony that both of them have never seen before and probably will only see through each other.
One is righteously angry, breath heavy and jaws clenched.
Another has his head hung in shame, all sorts of confidence gone, replaced by a deep fear of failing his mentor.
Both of them are grieving.
It doesn't matter that Harley isn't red-eyed and shaking. Everyone has their own way of mourning. For Harley, it is working and trying hard to help, trying to cover the large hole Tony left in everyone's lives.
It is ambitious and really just impossible.
But Harley chose it because it is.
It will take a long time before he succeeds.
(And he might not succeed at all.)
He is counting on it.
The time will be spent well, and the work will be useful in distracting him.
Harley looks at Peter, then, a lonely figure hugged by the shadows, and he thinks of Tony. How they sat here like this just a few years ago.
He had been hunched over just like Peter. He just told Tony about his younger sister, how much he hated himself, that he regrets not being there for her when she was still here. And now, he'd said over sobs, now she's gone and whenever I look at Morgan, it's her that I see. I'm sorry Tony, I'm sorry…!
In both cases, he is the one apologizing.
And he reckons that it's probably because he should be, because it is Harley who survived instead of his sister who had so much to see, and Tony, who had people who needed him.
One of them is right there beside him.
So, he gathers up his courage and tries, one more time.
"We used to talk every sunset; you know," Peter doesn't move a muscle, but he knows he's listening, "We talked about everything. The past few years, when we met… you."
A bird dives in the lake and then shoots back up.
"It would take me a few tries until I get him talking, but when he starts, he doesn't stop," Harley's voice fills a fondness that could only be brought by good memories. "He told me all about the Pitbull that was throwing up and said that he woke up in cold sweat thinking about the it. That it was better to wake up because of an overweight Pitbull than anything he'd… yeah."
A bee buzzes near their heads. Harley shifts.
"And he also told me that you were so talkative that he can hear your voice as his thoughts. Especially when he's being particularly… unkind with himself. It was your voice that told him otherwise."
At this, Peter turns to him.
Harley looks back, offering a soft smile.
"He said you showed him that he wasn't only bringing hate and hurt to the world. He said that it was you who made him realize that he was capable of bringing something beautiful in this world."
He could see how Peter is hanging onto his every word, drinking in everything Tony had said about him and looking for something in it that could help calm his noisy mind. Harley hopes this could help. He continues.
"And it was because of you that he believed he could have Morgan."
Peter's brow is furrowing—in confusion or in anger, Harley doesn't know. But this time he puts his hand on Peter's shoulder, hoping to make a little difference, add a little warmth.
"I didn't know… I'm, I'm glad, he— I—"
But Peter doesn't finish what he is saying because there is a thing hurtling toward them— more toward Harley— and the older man almost falls over the lake if it hadn't been for Peter holding him back.
It turns out, as it giggles, that it isn't a thing. It's a human—better yet, a child.
"HaRLEY!" It screams, still cackling like a mad imp.
Harley is chuckling as well, fondness enrapturing his face. Peter takes his time to look down, afraid of what he might see, but also incredibly curious.
And.
There she is.
Morgan Stark.
Tony's little girl.
And Peter feels something full occupy his chest, like he is about to discover the greatest creation there is. A being so profoundly part Tony that will never be surpassed by anything.
Tony Stark's greatest legacy.
He doesn't move to touch her at all, no matter how much he wants to feel if there really is part of Tony in there, somewhere beyond the brown hair and the way she looks like she's always on the verge of discovery.
Instead, Peter tries not to fear her too much. Her small hands holding what's left of his heart, the part that fears her rejection and desires her acceptance.
Because somehow, despite all logic, Peter thinks that Morgan is Tony, or, the second Tony—
And he knows, he knows that's just cruel— to look at someone and see someone else, to burden someone of the legacy of another, despite how much she resembles him.
He'll try not to make it too obvious, and he hopes others will too, because he doesn't want little Morgan to grow up chasing after a shadow, or worse yet, grow up resenting her father.
Before he could retreat completely though, Morgan has found his eyes and those brows furrow and her head tilts (–just like Tony used to do—), face brightening up, and she's pointing at him—
"I know you!" She exclaims, excited, "You're Petey! Little Spidey!"
And Peter,
Well.
He doesn't really know what to do.
And he's spared.
No.
Not really.
Because Morgan is barreling into him, unafraid of falling and so completely trusting. He's scurrying to catch her and Peter can feel Harley's eyes.
At first, he tries not to talk, so he could completely avoid looking more like a fool, arms over Tony's daughter like she's a fragile glass.
(Peter knows better though, despite what his caution might suggest. Tony is the only one who could raise a fighter in the form of a beautiful, wonderful flower. Plus, her mother's Pepper.)
It's all useless though, because she's talking a mile per minute, bouncing excitedly in his lap, "You're finally HERE! Canyouswingmeupthattree? I waited to talk to you for so long—mommy said you were taking a break. Daddy always called you little but I think you're big. You're BIG spidey now! Oooh! Areyoudone—hiber, hiberni—"
"Hibernating," Harley supplies.
"—hibernating? Areyoucomingtoourhouse? Harley will be there!" she points at Harley while her eyes are on Peter's bewildered ones. She almost pokes Harley in the eye who was leaning forward, before scooting further away because her arms are wild and erratic and they can poke out more than just his eyes, "We're going to eat juice pops and cheeseburgers, cause' it's Friday and mommy let's us do that if I'm nice!"
And then she's hugging him, head on his chest, snuggling, and arms tight around his waist. She takes in a whiff of his shirt and then sighs, relaxing, "Daddy said you gave the best hugs, and that you're super strong, so my hugs won't hurt you."
She looks up, her voice suddenly laced with fear, "Are you hurt? Are you okay? Was my hug too strong? Why aren't you talking? …Spidey?"
Peter laughs, then.
And Harley is joining in, his chuckles reverberating along with Peters.
A certain lightness spreads throughout the forest in the bright morning.
Morgan is pouting, a little unsure and wholly upset at getting laughed at, "Mommy says its not good to laugh at people."
"It's," Peter starts, calming down, "We're not laughing at you, Mo- Morgan." The name is awkward in his mouth and he hates that he sounds so unsure when he should be reassuring the child. So, he gathers all his strength and says in a steady voice, "Its' just, you're everything I expected and more."
Peter sees the moment her eyes shine with elation. Its so easy just how it translates to him, as well. This small child, with all the power in the world.
Morgan puffs out her chest, proud, "Daddy always said I 'exceed expectations.' And mommy—"
"MORGAN!"
Her eyes widen comically and she goes rigid right as the old, plump woman is walking toward them, face red in exhaustion.
"You haven't finished your meal yet and I am not taking a smile for an answer! Come down from that poor man's lap young lady or your mother will allow me to confiscate your juice pops and cheese burgers!"
She is running toward the woman right at that second, pouting no doubt, but she looks back to Peter and smiles that charming way Starks do, "I'll eat my lunch for you big Spidey! I'll wait for you in my tent at home! You can sit in the pink chair; the blue is mine!"
Both Harley and Peter look on as Morgan walks away, stubborn but not quite stupid, knowing her priorities at an early age.
Which are: juice pops and cheese burgers with Harley (and hopefully Peter too!)
As Morgan and her nanny disappears into the tower, Peter takes a few calm minutes, looking up at the sun and relishing in its heat.
"She's grown into quite a firecracker the past year," he hears Harley observe into the silence.
He feels the warmth on his face, and lets his tears dry.
Something full occupies his chest, at the thought of Morgan's smiling face.
He's glad she's happy.
"Morgan," Peter starts, Harley paying full attention. His eyes are closed and he looks almost peaceful, "I've seen her before. In the… in the funeral. But you," and here Peter looks straight at Harley, brown eyes boring into surprised ones, "I didn't see you at all."
Harley could take it as accusatory, with how Peter mumbled it out, no inflection or any indication that it was mere curiosity. Maybe it is accusatory, but he could also hear something in it that tells him it's not just that.
Searching? Understanding?
"I was at the far back. As soon as I said- as soon as I said my goodbyes, I left the lake."
Peter is still staring at him, waiting for an answer. He takes that as his cue to tell his bit of vulnerability. Maybe then, they would be even.
"I… left home after that. I didn't even pack my stuff, just- I couldn't stay there after Tony… I didn't want Pepper to look at me and see this orphan charity case that Tony brought back from the wreckage. I didn't want to burden her anymore."
Harley messes with his hair, leaning back and catching the sun with Peter.
There is something in the way the lake smells under the heat of the blazing sun, and the way the wind brings in cool air despite the noontime warmth. It is a perfect balance of nature, Harley and Peter in the middle of it all.
Harley stumbles over his words a little but he gathers himself and manages to admit, "But Pepper found me right after I disappeared. I swear, I've never seen her so mad and relieved at the same time—at least not directed at me. When she saw me staying in that jacked-up shack that used to be our storage, she hugged me so tight, and then asked me to never leave her side again."
He leans forward and then proceeds to slump, brushing the tip of his nose. Peter could see a sense of youth in Harley at that moment, as if he's revealing a part of himself that he had kept hidden once he became Head of Technology, right hand man to Pepper Stark-Potts.
"I guess I found a mother in Pepper, since mine kind of went away sometime during the five years. I found a family in them, and it was Tony who really showed me the way."
They share a tentative silence.
Harley waiting for Peter's response and Peter looking for the right words.
His mind flashes to Morgan and how she will grow up with only the words of strangers, thanking her for something she didn't do, but something that Peter is sure she had a hand at causing. He doesn't need to imagine, because he knows.
He's lived it.
And when they congratulate and thank and look at you like they know you just because the think they knew your father, there is something bitter that simmers just deep inside.
Peter knew to hide it of course, and he's managed to forget about it because no one's done it since Ben.
It doesn't come to him again this time, (and it doesn't escape his mind that this has been something that always happened to him—it's him who doesn't escape it), because no one knew that he and Tony became something more than everything— they didn't see the way both of them are much more relaxed when together than apart, and how 'kid' has become a word that described love and how 'Tony' became the sweetest endearment.
His mind flashes to Morgan and he thinks of how she will never have that with her father. He feels that its unfair, that he got so much time with Tony and so, so many beautiful memories when Morgan could only remember a vague memory of something wonderful. And a whole life of chasing after something that will never come back.
A gust of wind caresses Peter's cheeks, his brown curls billowing.
"He's… he's really gone now... isn't he." It comes out broken. Like he's just realized it. His voice hitches. His eyes are hot and red, and something hurts.
Harley doesn't know what to do. But he's been there. Many times over.
So, he lets his experiences speak.
Harley gives Peter his most sincere smile.
"He's not gone. Not really. Not in the way that matters."
Peter gives him a look but then shakes his head anyway, holding the smile that comes to reciprocate sincerity.
"I guess," he mutters, then with more resolve, "Well at least they still got you."
"Well yeah. It'll be my way of repaying them. Now," he punches Peter's shoulder softly, "I could do it with you. We could do it together."
"I..." he avoids Harley's eyes, "I don't know about that..."
"I mean, I can wait. I'm not gonna pressure you into the business, or even force you to help, really. You just… have to be there."
Peter is bowing his head, staring at the patterns in the wood, choosing his words wisely, "Actually, I think they'd be safer if I wasn't here."
"Yeah—no. If Spider-Man was by my side, guiding a company with Pepper the Great, I think that's the safest place we'll ever make for Morgan."
Peter sighs.
"See, I'm not even surprised that you know."
Harley chuckles.
"I had my ways," he turns, "Think about it, Peter."
"But you're wrong though."
Harley raises a brow in question.
"I'm not Spider-Man," skeptical look, "Not anymore." Peter shrugs at Harley's incredulous look.
"Look, I quit playing hero. I don't think I'm cut out for it after all." He's thought about this, a lot of times— all the time. "I'll do other stuff though. Help as Peter Parker. Not everyone has to be super to become a hero."
And he wishes Tony knew that.
"But—you can't—"
"I can, though. That's why I'm here."
The way he says it with such finality stops Harley from his obvious protests, so instead he croaks out.
"…to say goodbye?"
One melancholic smile.
"…yeah."
"Then— then make sure Pepper doesn't find out because she might burst into your room as well, all red faced and angry."
"Hey! Don't tell her!"
"I wouldn't."
Grin.
"…not intentionally. I might let it slip."
Peter pushes him lightly after that.
They share a few blissful moments of silence, the trees swaying at the guidance of the wind, before Peter mutters loud enough for Harley to hear, "Please… don't try to stop me."
It comes out as pleading and tearful, and everything Peter hopes to avoid, but he continues, "I've tried, really, to find something else, but I can't— I can't lose anyone anymore. Spider-Man is the last." He takes a deep breath and concludes, "This is how it's going to end for me, and I want it to be on my terms."
The gazebo draws a shadow on Peter's face, the wind hot and Harley's skin clammy from the now warm air. They should really be eating now, but he's not hungry and he's betting Peter isn't, too. This is something he's never told anyone before, Harley thinks, as he watches Peter struggle between saying more and waiting for him to concede. It's like a secret that he's hidden for too long. He's seen it before, in Tony, when he spoke of the guilt—
He lets out a long, drawn out sigh then, bowing and side-eyeing Peter under his bangs, "Alright," he says. Peter breathes. "Big Spidey."
Peter glares at the ridiculous nickname, something that should never come out of anyone's mouth other than a five-year old's and Harley howls in laughter at the face he makes.
They spend the rest of the morning reconciling, talking about Tony, but without too much of the overbearing shadow that it usually casts. They reflect the bright day and the calm lake, laughing about Tony's first-time changing Morgan's diaper, and his other sleep-deprived antics.
The stories they exchange are the stories that will keep Tony's memory alive, and until the two of them breathe their last breath, and the world as they know it fades away, Tony will never truly be gone.
Not in the way that matters.
When Harley's phone rings and the intern who replaced him informs him that the tour's done, they're at the Lunchroom, eating, Peter takes it as a sign to stand up.
Harley follows, and together they walk to the brown building.
The moment Peter enters the hall, it is immediately silent. A beat later, as if they remember something, they all come back to the usual chatter.
He wades his way around the tables and some curious students, leaving Harley who goes to the opposite direction, and finds MJ and Ned sitting along with the rest of AcaDec.
"Dude! Remember my huge dilemma with the bracelet and the super computer? Well, turns out there wasn't a dilemma at all, because we came to this cool all-super computer lab, and I had enough time to hack this gem," Ned brandishes the bracelet in his hand, "and now I can do this!"
With a click, a video from YouTube sticks out like a small hologram, and when Ned touches it, it immediately pauses, mimicking what Shuri's tech did in the special lab in Medbay, only, smaller.
Their fellow AcaDec members roll their eyes, but are quietly fascinated by the tech. Peter guesses Ned has been talking about nothing but the bracelet.
"I also found a whole array of functions for this one—I swear, if I can choose one object to be stuck with while stranded on an island, I'll—"
"—choose this bracelet over my phone," everyone around the table recited, leaving Ned sputtering and yelling an indignant, "Hey!"
"You have been talking nonstop about this Ned. But not enough about the fact that you cursed at the princess and got a price in return!" Abe exclaims.
Charles nodding along, "You think the princess is into you or something?"
Ned backtracks, holding his hand to his chest, "Hey, you know I have Betty." Sally and Cindy Aw's, "Plus, if I were to choose between the two of them, it'd still be Betty."
"Brother, we've lost a comrade to the hibi-jibies! Romance, underway, but went completely over us."
Sally throws crumpled up tissue paper at the two boys, the rest howling as it ends up in Abe's mouth.
MJ bores her eyes into Peter, sliding her apple toward him, "Eat."
If she looks at him like that all the time, he probably would've followed every word. He'd probably be healthier.
Peter takes a bite off the fruit, its juice dribbling down his chin.
MJ turns her attention toward the rest of the team, "I know some of you have your other clubs," her eyes find Ned, who is sweating, "But I still need your cooperation during the preparation later this afternoon. We'll be holding a trivia booth, containing facts on anything and everything Stark. I already sent you the documents for those, so let's hope you at least downloaded them."
Everyone shudders at that, dreading the upcoming cramming session.
"Ned, Peter, you gotta take some time off Robotics to man the booth. We'll all be taking turns. On the chair. To be dropped to the water."
What.
"Oh, I didn't tell you? Principal Morita approved the water-dunker trivia booth that I jokingly passed. If you fail to correctly answer whatever the guests throw at you, you'll be meeting Ariel halfway."
The groans of the unfortunate teens could have rumbled the whole compound, and MJ's scheming smirk could have contested even Loki himself.
Loki, the God of Mischief.
MJ, the Goddess of Abuse and suffering and—
"Charles shut up or you'll be on a two-hour shift."
From the middle of the room, Harley announces, "Free ice-cream, everyone!"
And everyone cheers.
Peter thinks this might just be alright.
The two floors designated as their sleeping area is promptly transformed into the Fair Area. Students and teachers all preparing for the next day, either following up on their booth or assisting the whole organization of the event.
MJ has already done her part with helping in the organization and is working on their Water Dunker booth.
Ned manages to work the mechanism, Abe, Charles and Sally working on the stand itself. Cindy is assigned to put out the sign and Peter is carrying and moving things to where they should be.
He passes by Shuri who cheerily waves at him before running off into the other direction, muttering about her troublesome intern.
Flash is subdued when he talks to MJ, asking for an assignment, "Look, I know I messed up. But, but I'm still part of the AcaDec. At least give me something to do."
Well, more subdued than he usually is.
Peter walks past him trying to get the glass planes back to Abe's group and he can feel Flash's eyes, his heart beat erratically, and his frustrated dismissal of, "Ugh, nevermind."
MJ is grabbing him by the back of his collar though and points him toward Cindy who's struggling with the sign.
"Be nice," she says, looking him in the eye in challenge but a little more trust than before.
"I will."
Peter hides behind the carton, because he feels the stretch of his smile and the swell of something akin to pride as he watches Flash be a little bit better than he used to, try a little bit harder than he did.
That's enough.
That's good.
The two floors are divided into different sections. The first is for the Science Fair itself. Or, as they dubbed it, the 'Stark Science'. Peter expects it to be a smaller scale Stark Expo. Sparkly, science-y and full of starry-eyed wonder.
The upper floor, the girl's oversized room, is where the tribute section will be held. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, like it doesn't belong there. Because a tribute is something that doesn't align with everything right now.
Although…
Peter guesses, if Pepper is the one to allow this to happen, then there is no one else better to make that call.
He tries not to make it bother him too much and just stay in the moment.
Peter watches as Betty runs around, directing the other journalists what to do and he sees in her a leader with great passion.
He sees Abe take a seventh grader under his arm, cheering them up until the tearful girl laughs again, and he sees someone who surrounds himself with happiness because he knows that's what he, and everyone, deserves.
Cindy is shaking her head and MJ is looking on, Ned gesturing wildly at the wonders of technology and he sees in him a friend so loyal to him and to life, someone who is brave enough to look forward to every day and expect something good to happen, even though Peter doubts he would ever have one unless he leaves Spider-Man.
He watches as MJ talks to Flash on her own volition, without insults or any bite in her tone, intentions as good as they can be. And he sees the way Flash fidgets under her softer gaze, not used to this kind of treatment, and especially without his usual bravado to act as a shield.
He turns around and smells progress and innovation as Sally had enthused, and something even better— the future? Tomorrow?
Hope?
Peter shakes his head and dismisses himself of these silly notions. He can't give it to himself that easily. Because then he'd be more prone to losing, more fragile, more of an obvious victim to faith pulling its cruel fingers, moving him like a mindless puppet in this game called life.
"Hey!" MJ shouts to him at the right moment, he turns back, "Can you get this to he Tribute Room right now?"
She's pointing at a large box with a sign declaring it is Fragile: Return box if seal is opened, and Peter rushes to get to it.
He is careful when hoisting it up, giving more effort into acting like it is heavy for him than the actual lifting. Flash looks like he is offering to help, and Peter is almost surprised to drop it, but MJ stops him midway with another order.
They are in the middle of the wide room, so Peter takes time, swerving running students and other easily distracted ones as well, all busy with finishing this because of the other, more exciting event tonight— the bonfire.
Peter can't say he'sexcited. He thinks he shouldn't be there. At all.
He doesn't even want to be there.
But May said little steps, a nudge and its enough. So, he tries.
To be there.
To just.
Be there.
He's putting down the box, careful as he is because there's no knowing to the real weight of this object.
This is when someone passes by him— almost trips over the box and doesn't even stop to apologize. Peter stands to maybe tell the person off, when he sees the same intern who blew up Shuri's lab, trying to 'fix Friday.'
As Peter listens hard enough, he can hear the erratic heart-beat, the wild mutterings and the crazed look in his eyes and he feels off—
But he might just be running away from Shuri again, so he doesn't think about it anymore.
There are fewer groups of students here, but is still filled with them, arranging some chairs and the Artisans club going hand in hand with the Drama club in setting up the stage to be grand and impressive. Naturally, it is red and gold.
From the middle is a circular platform, connected to the stage up front.
Peter overhears Principal Morita declining the chair by the circular platform, where the tributes will apparently be presented. He says, "These are for the students; therefore, it is the students who should stand by the closest." Upon further insistence by an anxious student, he says, "I'll be here, watching you all from the back with Pepper. We're fine."
Peter scans the room and he feels the dormant energy, all rushing in—the AC buzzes a comforting hum, a few students are giggling and a teacher is talking to someone from the back—
So.
This is it.
This is where it's happening.
The culmination of months of work, speculation and excitement. This is how it's going to end. This is where he'll say goodbye.
Peter doesn't cry.
Today, he will start being better.
Even if he has to fake it until it comes true.
This sacrifice is nothing.
(If Tony asked him to wear the gauntlet, he would have. He wished Tony had asked him instead—)
Suddenly, he isn't alone in his own little bubble.
Flash is here.
He's standing right in front of him, looking so unsure but trying not to be.
He puts down the box he is carrying and his eyes flickers everywhere but Peter.
Peter waits for him to speak, afraid of starting just to be shut down again.
But it is minutes in with him expecting, and Flash not doing anything so he takes initiative, "It's alright Flash. You don't have to do it, or anything. Just. Be kind to yourself, or something."
And so, he leaves.
The preparations in the Avenger's Compound slowly gets settled, and the students start trickling out into the lake, across the one with the gazebo, by the forest, moving on to help with the bonfire that night.
Peter tries to ignore the implications of the event later and he knows he can't leave without any of his friends noticing—MJ has eyes like a hawk's and Ned checks up on him every minute.
It's inconvenient, for him. But he also thinks it's what keeps him alive.
"Peter, you can go gather up some wood there. Abe and Charles, you go with Cindy. Sally and Ned are already busy. We need to hurry up and gather as much wood as we can because the sun's about to set in two hours," MJ commands.
As Peter leaves the field to get to the woods, he can hear one of the juniors strumming the guitar, following with a melodic tune. Combined with the bustling students, of murmurs and occasional yells, Peter finds that this is the most at-home he's felt since he came here.
Peter finds himself deep in the woods, but isn't too afraid.
He's been here before.
A lot of times.
Before.
The shrubbery is thick and the woods provide leaf-patterned shades on the ground, the air a little cooler and the silence a comforting kind of deafening. Birds chirp from afar, and on occasion, there is rustling.
He doesn't let himself get too spooked.
Even though he's not Spider-Man anymore, he would still rely on his sensitivity and heightened senses, if only to protect himself. Otherwise, he would be avoiding fights from anywhere.
Tony came here once, when he hid from him and he thought he's gone deep enough and "he won't find me, he might not even look for me, I screwed up—bad—"
It was one of the few moments when Peter felt Tony got really mad at him, and it was apparently because "You have no regard for your personal safety as if you DYING won't matter!" he had replied, then, with something like, "Well it won't because if I die, then that means I've failed the people—that means—that means I deserved to die—"
Tony didn't slap him.
But he slapped the table so hard that it had collapsed under his hand and the sound almost made Peter jump straight to the ceiling.
There had been a few heavy breathing, both exhausted from yelling too much, screaming at each other when they should have been doing the opposite, because both of them had been stupid— Peter just then by thinking he could die and get away with it, and Tony by having thought of the same things before and being so goddamn selfish and he just doesn't want Peter to make the same mistakes, to think that all his worth is summed up in a blue and red onesie, a title and a few set of skills.
Peter takes a seat by the log, decaying but beautiful. Old, but useful. He feels its different curves, rough and entrancing, and tries to see the story that it held. Perhaps this has been once the house of a squirrel, or the resting place of a nest by a blue hummingbird. Or this could have been once so grand and majestic, the heart of the forest, perhaps, before God decided it had become too powerful and struck it down with its harsh lightning.
The old pathway is surrounded by both life and death— the rotting wood, the trotting squirrel and the breath of the wind.
In this forest, he doesn't feel too alone.
Peter looks across, where a rock that is big enough to be sat on stands firmly.
There, he sees himself.
He knows this place— there, by the larger tree, and the bush with the berries— that's the spot where Tony found him.
All scared and stupid and shaking.
He hadn't been wearing his suit and was therefore susceptible to the harsh coldness of a night in the forest.
Today is warm though, a friendly sort of heat that is slowly approaching a tolerable coolness.
It is so different from the cold tips on his fingers, and the fear of saying goodbye—of rejection because of mistakes, and abandonment because he wasn't enough. But if Peter is being honest, and he tries to be, to himself, he could admit that that night of momentary loneliness and extreme fear, magnified by the howling owls and the darkness of the forest—all of it was better than the forest that welcomes him now.
Because in that unforgiving, lonely night, Tony was there. And all the coldness in the world was replaced with an irreplaceable warmth, upon the realization that he is here—and he came for me—and he'll always be here—
Under the shadows of the forest stands a lone teen, and a short shaky breath is drawn.
Peter keeps walking, after that, leaving his collection of fire wood in place where he could easily access it again. He just doesn't think he could come back there, when he is already being forced to spend an entire night out, celebrating something that shouldn't be celebrated. He passes by thick leaves and brushes it all off and then—
…wow.
Peter sits down on the ground, a slate of rock that is smooth but lined with its years. He brushes his hand along it, and feels its bumps and planes. He stretches his left foot, folding the other and resting his chin on his arm.
The clouds are moving slowly, a gradual kind of graceful that perfectly encapsulates the light shining around the sun.
Its rays form a halo around the glowing orb, the sky a shade darker each and every second and watching it transform is mesmerizing.
It is a burning glory, the sun. Its heat hugs Peter's body and the trees dance to the music of the wind.
There is no one but Peter who exists in this realm of beauty.
It is an ugly taste in his tongue, then. Because he isn't supposed to be alone right now. This was something he hoped he could share with Tony.
And he almost had the chance to. He already asked him. After tirelessly counting the possibilities of being "I don't know, Karen, rejected? Maybe he's too busy—"
It was supposed to happen the next Wednesday. But it was Friday before that week when Thanos attacked, inconsiderate and destructive, unblinking in the eye of death and Peter feels a flash of searing anger—
He wants to cut Thanos—take his head for himself, and hurt him the way he's hurting right now— every breath, every blink, every second he's not here— scream and yell at him because "YOU DON'T GET TO DECIDE WHEN SOMEBODY LIVES OR DIES—YOU— You don't get to take him away from me—I'm going to make you pay—you—"
Crrckkk—
Peter feels the trickle of blood from his hands, the ground beside him shattered and in pieces. He lets the blood flow, forgoing to wipe or clean it with his shirt because he knows MJ will see and Ned will ask questions.
He sits in a silence that only come when everything is too loud.
There is stillness, there is no peace.
And then—
"You know you should get that cleaned. Super-healing or not, you're still going to get an infection and it's still going to hurt."
Peter tries not to show his surprise too much, but he guesses the jerk of his body indicated that already, as Clint is chuckling and sitting beside him.
Clint keeps on talking, "I heard what happened, earlier. The kids weren't really too quiet about it," he views the sun as if it is not the sun, and something else, "Harley meant well, but we all have it quite different, don't we?"
They watch a flock of birds glide through, a wonderful unity in a pack up in the sky.
He gestures to his chest, "This pain," he starts, "It's rooted from the same source, from the same 'category', as you would say it. But. It's all different."
Peter leans forward, words muffled by his sleeve, "I'm alright, Mister—"
"Clint, remember?"
"…Clint. I'm fine, really. I just thought the sunset would be nice today."
"Is that why you wandered across the forest listlessly for about an hour?"
"Wha— you've been following me? How—"
"I'm still a spy, Peter. Plus, you were distracted. I purposely tried to make you hear me. Those rustling and twitches? Not squirrels."
Peter sighs. This is getting ridiculous, even for him. He should have known.
"How did you know this place? It's super hidden, and I didn't think someone like you would have the time to wander off into the forest."
"Well, I kind of live here now. Not— not in the forest, but in the area."
Peter looks at him with curious eyes, too shy to prod but also not above doing so wordlessly.
Clint sighs deeply, as if what he is going to say is something that needs a little preparation to do so. Peter watches as Clint organizes his thoughts, and sees in his eyes the moment it is settled.
"The things that I did… during the Shadow period… they weren't good. In fact, they were bad—horrible and inhumane. I became somewhat of an assassin. It's not 'cool', as I've heard some say. I know you won't think that though," he tilts his head upward, "So we live here, my family and I. To protect them from my own stupid actions. Thinking back to it, if it weren't for Natasha, I would never have remembered that there was something like hope."
The sun is going down fast now, the whole area drenching in darkness. Peter doesn't mind. And so does Clint.
"It sucks, it does, but you have to—"
"Please don't tell me to move on—"
"I'm not," Blink. And then Clint chuckles, shaking his head, "They do like to say that don't they?"
His smile is something Peter doesn't understand, so he doesn't return it.
There is something in the solace of the forest, the blanket of protection that only he would find in here, where he is lost floating above the world, that allows him to admit something he never could say to anyone.
Maybe it has to do with the fact that Clint isn't family or Tony's protégé, or someone he feels the need to protect from the burden of his pain, that makes it easy to confess, in a tiny, tight voice, "I just—I don't think I could move on. I try, but I don't really want to. I do it for May and MJ and Ned. I— I don't— it just, feels like I'm abandoning him and this pain is all that I have of him—"
"Peter. Listen to yourself. You don't believe that. You can't believe that. That all Tony's left for you is pain— what about the memories? The good times, the days in the tower—"
"Pain," Peter whispers.
Clin closes his eyes, because he knows how it feels. Of course, he knows. If there was anyone else, it would be him who would know.
He just has to show it to him, prove something to the child, to help ease his ache.
"You're still young, Peter. You make mistakes, and you learn something new every day. And I hope today you learn that Tony left you the greatest gift there is."
"And what is that?" Peter asks, stubborn and prepared to protest.
Clint looks far into the sky. The stars are winking at them, shining among the mass, filling the dark void of space. His chest heaves deep and then he exhales heavily.
When Clint speaks, it is as if he is talking to himself, excavating something from within his own self that has been buried deep in the trenches of his mind, and something that he thinks Peter might find peace with.
It is quiet, when it comes out, but whole and strong in Peter's ear, as he looks up toward the man beside him.
He says, "Tony, he—he wasn't always someone I'd call noble or heroic. But he was the one who gave you this, right here." Clint turns right to him, and he is confronted full on with the melancholic surrender in his eyes, and something a bit more hopeful. Clint smiles, "He gave you a second chance to live."
The stars blink, and Peter feels a sort of cosmic wonder. He watches the stars, beyond Clint's head, surrounding the very place they sit on, and he accepts this not as a curse but as a blessing.
He is suddenly aware of his breath. In, out, in out, in, out—every breath, every second in this existence, every minute detail in this thing called life—
"It's hard. Oh my god, it is." Clint laughs shakily, ruffling his hair and hands resting on his nape as he contemplates, watching the ground, a sniffle, "Because I get to live every day, thinking it should have been me, instead of Nat. Because I did all the things that I did, and she was good in the last years of her life. She didn't deserve it. When I—" Clint stops, as if he realizes that he is saying too much, and composes himself, "The thing is," he starts, tear drops reflected by the stars above, "Nat was my best, most loyal friend, and I- I couldn't have asked for anyone better. The pain—it's there, it's always there, and time is rarely the factor to healing."
Peter take to lie his foot beside Clint's, a gesture he hopes would help. And the way the older man sends a quick smile calms Peter down a bit.
"See, it's more… perspective. The only thing time did is help us gather our wits. It gives us time to reflect, and remember and feel. What time gave me was the realization, that every day, I go home to my wife and get to listen to my kid's stories, get to watch them dream of tomorrow, because of Nat, because of Tony. And it's the reason why you and I are sitting here right now. Breathing. Living… trying, I guess.
So, I think, when they say you have to move on, it's not to forget his memory or this, excruciating pain. But to look back instead, say thank you and then keep walking, keep living. If not for yourself, but for them. Because they're the reason we're here right now and I think we owe it to them to live."
Clint looks straight at Peter, whose fingers are clenched and jaws tight, "I'm not telling you how to do that, Peter. I'm just asking you to try."
"How about Morgan?" He asks, a little bit accusing and all the more heated. He doesn't mean it, but he can't help it. He lets it flow. "Why should I deserve to try, when Morgan— she only has the vaguest memories of her father, and a, and a crowd who thinks they know everything—?"
"Morgan… well, it is going to be hard for her. And her pain, too, will be different. Her father won't be there to guide her as he did with you, but." And here Clint puts out his fist and softly nudges Peter's knees, a fatherly gesture that scares Peter, "You will be."
"See, the best thing we can do when she realizes these things, is to be with her when it happens. To- to make sure that she knows she's not alone."
Peter doesn't really want to say anything, feeling the guilt for even coming here, because he came here to say goodbye.
And he doesn't know what to do, because first they said he had to move on, and the only way he can is to say goodbye, but now they're telling him to stay—so he's so fucking confused and—
"You're not alone, too, you know."
"…I know."
"Talk to me?"
"…it's just. I just. Hate it."
"I do too, Peter. I do, too—"
"No. I hate it, when they're, when they're telling me to move on, to move forward, like it's just so easy. They say it's been 'a year', but is a lifetime of mourning even going to be enough? Its not. Its never going to be enough. And I hate it. I hate their little tributes and their little murals because they act like it will be enough, when it's not! And they say, they say it's for their legacy, or some crap reason, but they're only doing it so they can feel good about themselves. They're only doing it for themselves."
"But is it really that bad though?"
Peter looks at him like Clint didn't listen to anything that he said. Clint clarifies.
"Feeling good about themselves," he waves his hand in the air, "I mean, when all everyone felt about themselves was bad, then doesn't that mean that everyone is miserable?"
"I guess so…?"
"How about you? How do you feel now? Do you feel as if its lighter, this thing you've been carrying since…?"
Peter covers his face in his arms, resting on his now folded knees. He is retreating onto himself, trying to avoid having to answer Clint's question. The older man is persistent either way.
"Peter?" he nudges.
"I…" the words are traitors to how he's thinking, and he feels like a big hypocrite, but he says it anyway because Clint has told him things he's never heard before, and he knows these will help, somehow, someday, "I feel a bit… I feel a bit better."
Clint grins at him and nudges him with his shoulder this time, nodding as he speaks, "And that's good! That's good." He turns to Peter, serious this time, looking at him like he wants Peter to understand, "Peter, it's alright to feel better. You're not doing anything bad when you feel a bit better about things. This is good. It's okay."
Peter lets out a small smile that accidentally stretches too far. And Clint's grin also widens. The stars are watching them, and the forest a place of reprieve.
Beat.
"You said you weren't going to tell me to move on."
Accusing.
Turn.
"I didn't."
Smirk.
"I showed you how."
Peter walks back with Clint twenty minutes later, the latter disappearing into the shadows as soon as the lights reach the end of the forest.
MJ is fuming, but accepts the three bags of wood wordlessly.
Ned is right by his side immediately, and Peter is almost tempted to tell him he's alright. But as it is, he just reassures him with an easy smile.
It is one that is rooted in a little bit of truth, and the power of practice.
The light from the fire flickers over their faces, lending plenty of red and yellow, and a lot of comforting warmth.
It is a chilly night, and some who has the foresight to bring jackets begin to share. There are drinks being passed around, a large cooler on the side, and the junior from earlier humming a ballad for the moon.
The bonfire is set in the middle of a large clearing, the lake overlooking their fun. Teachers take to roaming the side of the lake but it is really all for extra precaution, and to calm their minds. Pepper had security put all over the perimeter, so not even the couple could go to the forest unscathed.
With no mischief around, there is only a free, and open atmosphere, a bunch of hopeful nerds and the heart of the fire in the middle of it all.
MJ, Peter and Ned find a seat a few meters from the fire, a safe enough distance that provides the perfect balance of warmth and cold. Plus, MJ and Ned both have their jackets, and Peter's been used to the cold for a long time now.
Betty sits by Ned and the rest of the Acadec follows.
"Whattup, Peter!" Abe claps his back, and then whispers, "Look man, I know you and the Keener dude are solid, can you, uh, convince him to give us some the nano-tech and a tub of ice cream? The ice-cream was really good—"
"I'll try, Abe, I'll… try."
"Cool bro!" Abe grins.
From two meters behind him, Cindy sighs, "He is dreamy though. I wonder where he is. This place is too romantic to be wasted."
"I won't push it, Cinds, the guy's too old."
Cindy whips her head toward Sally, "Excuse me, my youngest crush last month was 38 years old—"
"Yeah, but that's Tom Hiddleston. He's like, hot hot. Mr. Keener's a type, but not mine."
"You make him sound like an old science teacher," Peter muses from his spot, surprising the girls and the others.
MJ raises her brows, interested. The singing in the background grows louder. But she has to watch this unfold.
"Wow, Peter, been a long time talking!"
Peter sputters, face red and hands flailing, "I-I didn't mean to—"
"Nah!" Cindy slaps his shoulder, "Don't worry 'bout that. It's just," she shares a look with Sally, "it's been a long time since you've really talked to us."
"Yeah," Sally adds, holding out her hand for Peter to shake. He does, (he's forced to)— "Welcome back, Peter boy."
The bonfire starts a little slow, friends trickling in, taking seats, getting drinks and joking about. Tomorrow isn't even scary for them, no pressure, nothing to prove. Just. Something to show, something to do, something to contribute.
It is wonderous and exciting— like a huge step toward something big and something amazing.
And as Principal Morita looks into the eyes of these students, all sparkling and giddy and alive— so, so alive that it transforms into a beautiful energy, a youthful atmosphere into a place so harrowed, a wonderful vitality encapsulates their being— he lets out one blinding smile.
Because here is the future, in the laughing children around the bonfire, to create a tomorrow worth living for, and to give meaning to this thing they all call life.
"It's a thing of the stars, isn't it?" Jim asks Pepper, who stands by the lake with wine in her hand.
"It is. I didn't know this place could have been like this," she gestures smoothly to the children, "It's like paradise if I've seen one. A peaceful, blissful haven."
"And it's all thanks to—"
"No, Jim. It's you who I have to thank. For bringing them all together like this. Giving them a second chance."
"Well." Jim looks out toward the burning fire, and sees the same burning passion in these children who have seen so much, and his eyes find one Peter Parker, surrounded by friends and by laughter, and he says, "everyone deserves a second chance."
When the field is as filled as it can be, hundreds of students in one place, the junior with the guitar, Chris, as Peter would later learn, takes the mic by the center, sits on the wood and strums his guitar.
As he does so, with a friend holding his microphone by his side, he speaks to it, "So, I asked them what we're gonna do with the tribute n' all cause I was a curious lil' shit—" he looks around for the teachers who don't even try to restrain his language, Principal Morita raising an amused brow, he gives them all a thumbs up, "And it turns out we can do anything we want during this thing. And since I asked, they kinda made me in charge now—"
"No—"
"'Kinda'."
Ms. Warren sighs.
"So, who wants to go up here and do sumthin'?"
At first no one says anything.
The twelfth and eleventh graders sweat at the fear of being coerced, no one really prepared to do anything.
Everyone is looking at each other, trying to convince the other to take one for the team, the peer pressure radiating and the immediate dislike to be in front of a crowd without any preparation.
Peter feels more than hears everyone's heart beating in synchronized panic.
He sure as hell knows he won't be the one to go forward.
One does.
And it is someone they least expect.
Steps forward is an impressionable, scrawny seventh grader. Braces still on, and glasses thick and oversized. He looked like the typical movie nerd, susceptible to bullies. He is shaking, his nerves obvious and shared by the countless students.
Together, they breath a sigh of relief. And together, as well, they pray and anticipate that this go well. For the kid and for all of them.
"Here," smiles Chris, hand outstretched for the kid to take the mic and blue eyes welcoming, "what are you going to do?"
"I-I'm gonna, um, say something," stutters the seventh grader.
"And your name?"
"I'm St-Steve."
"Hey! Like the Captain!"
A murmur breaks, and then Chris gestures to the young boy, "Well, go on. The mic's yours."
His hands quiver as they hold the mic, and his voice is fragile when he attempts to start. Chris coaxes him from behind, muttering it's alright, take it easy so only the kid (and Peter) could here.
After a few seconds, and the eyes of the crowd boring into one brave seventh grader, Steve clears his throat, and begins.
"Five years a, ago, I was dusted, along with everyone."
Oh. It is this kind of message.
Everyone is listening intently, curious as to what a boy as young as Steve, a child, vulnerable and still growing, could say about the experience.
They don't really talk about it as openly. It is more something that comes up whenever one of them has had too much, for far too long, and had to break a little, let out a little tear, scream a little, just to avoid falling apart altogether.
It is something that they don't like to think is real until it bled in front of them.
So, when Steve came up, all fragile bones and brave little heart, the students of Midtown High listens to what he says.
"And not, not more than two years ago, I came back with all of you. I got to hug my mama, and I got to finish my robot Bartholomew, or, Barth-Vader with my brother," a couple of chuckles at the ridiculous name. Steve smiles quickly, before talking again, "And I don't know, but, I think I'm really lucky to learn at such a young age that our time in this world is so limited, and the life that I have is precious. I don't know."
He shrugs, "When some of the bullies came back, and cornered me and told me I was worthless, and asked me why I came back because, it wouldn't have matter anyway if I was gone forever, the only thing that I thought of was how tight my mama hugged me, and," breathe in, "and how my father who never told me he loved me, who left us before the Shadow period, came back just to hold me again, and I. And I never felt so wanted, so missed, when he kissed my cheeks—he was crying, he never cried—" his voice catches and he says, firm, "and told me he loved me."
Chris is strumming a note from his guitar that makes it easier for some of the students to let out a few tears. Others couldn't hold their sniffles, and someone is humming to the melody.
Peter sees this boy, and he sees himself. But better than that, he sees someone more than he could ever be.
He sees this brave boy, and he sees the struggle he's experienced in his still early life. He doesn't just see it, he can touch it, feel the memories as if it is his own.
He sees this boy named Steve, a name that was owned by a man he idolized, called a hero, and then a dear friend, and he sees in this small child a constant aura of something powerful emanating steadily, despite the shaky hands and nervous smiles. Because this boy named Steve has something Peter knows he can never have.
Peace.
"And it is in this place that made it all possible." He is no longer stuttering, and his voice is not shaking because of nerve, but of uninhibited passion, "In this place, where our future was threatened, fought for, and won. And I know that countless of people have said this, better than I could ever, but I think I have to say this. Not for myself, but for everyone here right now. This is why we are here after all."
Steve takes a deep breath, and he looks straight at Peter.
Peter doesn't breathe.
"To the people who have fought for our lives, and especially for those who gave their lives for us," Chris is not just strumming softly now, he's matched the height of Steve's words and hits a crescendo as the younger kid speaks his words, "To Natasha Romanov, for having a soul so pure, and for Tony Stark— for having the heart of a hero, for bringing me my family back. Thank you."
Peter can't avoid Steve's eye, and the smile that follows blinds him. Before he could maybe run away, or duck or I don't know—I just want to get out of here—
Pepper speaks from behind him, walking toward the young boy, "Thank you, as well, Steve."
This time, Peter lets out a huge sigh of relief—he thought, for one second there, that Steve was looking right at him—that he was talking to him, that he knew he was in there, fighting as well.
Because then he'd know that he shouldn't thank them, or, Peter, specifically, because he didn't do anything. If he did, Tony wouldn't have had to—
Peter hates this. He hates this so much and he wants to leave. He has to leave—
"This night, is a night for the dreamers. Tony never did sleep during the night. He'd much rather work on the next Iron Man. And while I advise you to sleep during the night, I do recognize the beauty that it has. The moon, for one. This time, Midtown High, the night belongs to you. Have a wonderful night."
At that, Chris takes the mic from Steve, who is glowing from Pepper's pat on his head. He stands up, puts the mic on the stand, and in follows three more with instruments in their hands. One girl with a guitar, a boy with a keyboard and another with a beatbox and cymbals.
And he's singing, eyes closed tight, "When you try your best but you don't succeed…"
Oh.
Oh.
That was the melody he hummed.
Others whoop and yelp in recognition of the song, cheers going all the way from the far back of the crowd.
It doesn't take long for the others to follow, because this is a song embedded in their bones.
"When you get what you want but not what you need," Cindy sings from beside Sally. Their bodies begin to sway, shoulder to shoulder, "When you feel so tired but you can't sleep… stuck in reve-he-herse."
Peter feels the ends of his mouth frown, but tries to correct it. His face struggling between what is and what should be. He could hold it in, he's been holding it in for a year now. He can't— not now.
"When the tears come streaming down your face… 'cause you lose something you can't replace." Ned is singing along, he throws his hand upward, feeding from the beauty of the night. Betty looks up at him, from his side, smiling fondly.
"When you love someone but it goes to waste, what could be worse?"
By this point everyone is singing along, the magic of the night too strong a pull to ignore, they feel, and sing in a unity that can only be brought by music, and the shared experience of their past.
Peter can feel the vibrations in the wind, MJ's voice beside him melting with the collective heartbeat of the students. The beat of the box, pounding with their hearts. The strum of the guitar guiding their one melody. And the voice in front, leading it all.
Everyone flows with the music of it all, a magnetic incantation into a night of great wonder. Peter feels it in his fingers, an electric possession in the air, an immediate unitedness in a few words that they all understand so well.
Peter catches Ned's eyes, shimmering with tears, and MJ's hands clasping his, and Peter—Peter is helpless.
There is nothing else to do, in a presence as powerful as this. And so, Peter surrenders himself into the magic, and sings.
"Lights will guide you home, and ignite your bones," They are swaying, and they are one. "And I will try to fix you."
A crowd of cheers ring from the back and waves forward, Peter feeling his voice in his throat and wondering when it felt so good to scream.
The tunes from the keyboard resonate across the night, and Chris takes the seconds off of his guitar, and walks around the students, "But high up above or down below. When you are too in love to let it sho-oh," the crowd echoes.
Chris passes by Peter and his friends, Abe touching his hand that was outstretched, "Oh, but if you never try you'll never know—" a boy across him nodding vigorously, and a girl on the left red from emotions.
"—Just what you're wooo-rth—"
At this, Chris locks eyes with Peter, he grins. His hand with the red ring is up in the air, flicking it, and everybody follows. The instruments in the background melding in perfect harmony.
He makes a quick countdown, clenching his hand.
It is tight, when Peter clenches his on his side. Everyone else's is reaching the sky with clenched fists, a ready promise and a stubborn hold.
One.
Two.
THREE.
"Lights will guide you home,"
And all the lights from their hands ignite. A bright, beautiful spectacle.
The night is theirs.
"And ignite your bones,"
And all their hearts are one.
And all their feelings burn in the night.
And it is a promise, an oath, an assurance, that they will be alright.
"And I will try to fix you."
If anyone would look at the ground, from high up above, perhaps a place called heaven, whatever that may be, it would look as if the stars are waving, one smooth flow, and an effervescent miracle.
All at once, it is raining down on them—soft wisps of water that comes from all around. The fire is dying, but the burning stays strong and willful in their chest.
The only thing that's left are the lights in their hands, the power that they hold. And a hundred of hopeful souls.
Peter sees them all—with their eyes shut tight in too much feeling, or open in wide wonder, arms outstretched and holding, their mouths wide eager to be heard.
The tears in their faces meet with the rain, and the fire is no longer there—the lady on the guitar playing the song of her life, and the drummer beating for all of them— they are jumping and swaying and screaming and crying—unsurmountable energy flowing, barely contained—
bursting.
And Chris is running in the pathway, the crowd parting in surprise, and then, in a sense of realization, comes running after him—
And the kids are kids again.
The night is young and kind.
They are running,
And not away from their problems,
But toward it.
In challenge.
In defiance.
In laughter.
A crowd forms as Chris passes by, he leads the army of souls that demand for their right to be happy— the band playing from the bonfire, screams echo in joy and they are running—
It is Abe who follows without hesitation, Cindy who holds Charles' hands, Sally who holds it back, MJ to pull him forward and Ned to pat him in the back.
And just like that, Peter is running along with them.
Carried by the surge of freedom, and the potential of a better tomorrow—even if it's just for tonight—
Peter screams—
"WHOOOOOHOHOHOOO!"
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Ned follows. Because he is Ned and he will always follow Peter, as Peter will Ned.
Cindy is laughing in the air, her hand punching the air, Sally jumping along.
They feel the wet dews that formed around the grass, and they relish in the coldness of it all. All the warmth they need is all here, in the hand that they hold, and the hands that hold them.
Chris is turning back and the surge of students following also swerve, both of his hands flying in the air, and when he reaches the top of the hill, with all the students still down below, he jumps and—
Wow.
The fireworks light the sky, and they feel the explosion in their chests.
They stop where they stand, their chest heaving from all the running, and their eyes glued to the sky, hands holding onto each other or clasped into their hearts.
It is red and gold and blue and yellow.
It is a pattern of colors that tell a story of before, and echoes in them the courage for tomorrow.
Chris conducts the sky and all the colors it beholds for them.
And if they feel tonight, they feel and they feel and they feel—and
Flash collapses from the corner of Peter's eyes and he moves to stand beside him.
He is yelling something into the grass, holding it back a bit, a strangled mewl escaping his lips—and he's not the only one.
One by one, soul by soul, they let it all out.
Slowly at first, and then all at once.
And Chris is singing, "Tears come streaming down your face, when you lose something you cannot replace."
MJ is the first to walk toward Flash, who is kneeling and clutching at the grass.
"Oh, and tears come streaming down your face,"
It doesn't take long before the others find their spots around Flash, everything making sense for them, and they cry along with their brother.
Because tonight, they come out not as mere acquaintances, or simple friends— in the magic of this moment, in the infinity that they share, they come out as family—as brothers and sisters who have overcome the harsh trials of life.
"And I-aha-ahahaha—"
Flash tries to hide it, but MJ holds his hand down, and he clutches at her in a desperate, needing manner—like a child so desperate to be held that once he gets it, he might not understand it—
Sally follows, Abe and Charles leaning forward. Peter sits beside MJ, and gently puts a hand on Flash' hand, hoping he wouldn't know so the spell will keep going. Ned sits as well.
"Tears streaming down your face," the crowd cries, "I promise you I will learn from all my mistakes."
Chris walks down closer to where the crowd of students found themselves, and he lies on the grass, his hands reaching for the stars, meeting its light halfway with the one on his hand, "Oh and the tears streaming down your face, and I—ahahhahahay,"
The others follow, the smoke from the fireworks fading, opening for the vast space, a night sky full of stars.
They feel it closer than before.
They feel closer than ever.
They feel that they will remember this forever.
Chris is strumming the guitar his friend gave him, and their voices are the only sound that envelops the world.
"Lights will guide you home," they reach for the star and meet each blink with a sway of their hand, steady and firm.
"And ignite your bones,"
Flash has calmed down a bit, the tears salty in his mouth, and his breathing short. MJ lies on the wet grass in this starry, starry night, and she turns her head to the side where she sees Cindy holding Sally's head, Abe and Charles who are roaring into the sky. She looks far back and catches Ned's eyes, who points his chin toward Peter.
MJ can't quite describe the feeling when she laid her eyes on Peter.
The crinkles in his eyes are sincere, and the laughter in his chest is genuine.
But there is a certain curve in his eyebrows that seem to be holding back, like a whisper in the back of his head that refuses to be quieted.
And the last crescendo of music falls into a hush. There is only the darkness and the individual spots that make up such a sight on the fields that once watched war unfold.
And the history is overcome.
And they sing, as an anthem and a cure.
"And I will try to fix you."
It is then, in the second it takes for Peter to feel her eyes, seek it and connect with it, that yes—
He is laughing but—
But.
He is still in pain.
The kid here is the same kid who saw Captain America in the museum when he visited there. The one with the kinda big head and the glasses I think? Also brown?
And the Chris here is the Chris from Coldplay, hehe. (I mainly used the concert from Sao Paulo as inspiration, and some others)
Anyway, please tell me what you think! You can tell me which part made you feel a little bit of something! Thank you!