A/N: I hope the last chapter wasn't too long for ya'll. It was for me and I almost threw my laptop in frustration as I edited it because when will it end oh my god—
Because of that traumatic case of editing, I have decided to cut this chapter in half. I found a sweet spot to end this, so I hope you won't be too disappointed 😊
So, anyway. Please enjoy! And talk to me! Tell me what crosses your mind as you read—and perhaps point out what hurt the most! I try not to hurt Peter too much because baby but. It has to be done. There is hope, though. And there will be reprieve. But first, this chapter. The one that I have been waiting for, second only to the last chapter.
Please brace yourselves.
"and there are ghosts in my head around the walls that form my memories."
The students are scattered around the bonfire, coming back up a few minutes after the firework show ended. Chris is in the middle of it all, strumming his guitar in a more leisurely pace as compared to earlier, which was the pique of everyone's burning energy.
Now is their down-time, but it doesn't have to be a boring one.
And so, upon Chris' leadership (an official one, as Peter would find out through MJ that he's always been the one assigned to the bonfire, and had fought for the fireworks display to be included in all of it, God bless him), they begin telling their own stories.
The bonfire itself is lit, and shares a crisp, warm air around the perimeter, drying most of them up. A few dozen smaller fires are scattered about, apparently worked on by the teachers while they were down there.
It was unexpected, really. Principal Morita just started teaching the other teachers how to make the fires, when he saw that there were about a few dozen bags of wood unused for the bigger fire.
Despite the space amongst the students caused by the scattered campfires, their voices still unite as one, in assent or in humor, a placid harmony after the steady shadow of the past.
As Principal Morita looks around the field, and breathes in the smell of warmth, he can finally say that these children are sated souls.
Peter and the rest of the AcaDec sit closest to the bonfire, having been dragged by Ned. Together, they relish in the humanity that the stories offer.
It starts with Steve, who is shy but brave, and it is followed by a number of students who are touched by his strength. They share their lives since the Awakening, some telling of the Shadow period because they were one of those who are unlucky enough to live it.
"I was in fourth grade when it happened. I don't know. It's weird to see some of you as classmates. I'm almost the same age as my older sister and, while that sucks a bit, it is kind of amazing."
"My favorite memory after coming back was coming home and seeing my Bruno again— he was a little Pitbull before, and now he's a big-ass one, still adorable, but man, I love how excited he looked—he kept following me everywhere I went, wouldn't look away, wouldn't leave me alone. And when it took a toll on me, the realization ya'know, he was there to hold me. So, yeah. Get yourselves a dog."
"I was sleeping when everyone came back. And I had a dream, then. That I was laughing so hard, and my stomach hurt so bad. I was slapping the ground and I had tears in my eyes. By the end of it, I was wheezing, until I was laughing without a sound. I didn't know why I was laughing, and when I looked up to see who it was who made me laugh so much, I woke up. Apparently, I was laughing in my sleep as well, and the first thing that I saw was my brother. Who has come back from the dead." Chuckle. "A few weeks ago, he made a joke that decimated me. That was when I knew I had fulfilled something in me that will never be taken away by anyone or anything."
It went on, the stories.
A small, Korean girl who Peter thinks to be in twelfth grade promptly begins stand-up comedy that has everyone guffawing. Later, she admits, "Stand-up comedy became my coping mechanism."
Chris takes a chance to sing a few songs, or strum for someone else's voice.
It is the greatest surprise, when, after they sing the final lyrics to High Hopes, it is Principal Morita who steps forward.
"Can I tell you a story?"
There is easily silence, in respect to the Principal. But he doesn't need their obligations as students. Right now, he is not Principal and they are not students. They are human beings finding solace in the experiences of one another, comfort brought by each and every one of their presence.
And he says exactly that.
"Why the silence? Keep as you were doing. I am not your Principal tonight, but your friend. And, after all, the night is yours."
That eases them in an instant, comfortable enough to begin murmuring within one another.
"The stage is all yours Princ— err… Prince Morita, your royal highness."
Everyone chuckles at Chris' save, the Principal even smirking in approval.
He takes a log of wood from the side and then calls all of them to scoot closer, to leave the minimum space between each other. To feel the presence to a physical level.
He tells of the tales of the World War II, where his grandfather was part of the legendary Howling Commandos. He spoke of the soldiers who started out as individuals, who left with cocky smiles and visions of honor, and then came back with nothing but their broken bodies, shattered minds and visions of horror.
"They would all be gathered together in fields, just like you are now. My grandfather told me how in each troupe that came back, after every first battle, the crowds in the field became much closer. More relaxed when together. There is, what he said, a sense of brotherhood that formed between all of them."
Most of them are fascinated because they have never heard the Principal speak of the war. His grandfather, yes. But only as an icon, a figure far away from their grasps, only to be looked upon.
Now, he is speaking of the late Morita as his grandfather, someone they can all relate to.
Principal Morita's voice is filled with pride, and his eyes urge them all to understand, "You, my students, are also soldiers. For you have fought one great battle, even though some of you might not remember most of it. But do know, that when the soldier sleeps, there are also battles waiting to be vanquished. You are but sleeping soldiers, then. And these students beside you, your friends, they are the ones who will help you wake up from that horrible nightmare. And possibly overcome it.
Because you have seen death and lived to tell the tale. And you have seen death upon your loved ones, and held long enough to welcome them back into life. And so, it is you who will have the strength to move further, and prosper. I believe in all of you."
The field is filled with applause. Never before have they heard speech that was really, truly for them—that their Principal believes in them, when most people doesn't, when even they don't… it's… astonishing.
Principal Morita makes way for more stories, calling for the other teachers to share their own tales when he shouts, "Harrison! Warren! What are you doing there in the dark? Join us."
It is instantaneous. The moment they all just know they found their ship. Some boys from the side whistle and another shouts, "Warrington! Warrington!"
Mr. Harrington rushes into the light, clothes askew and glasses falling down his nose. This causes more of the cheering and invites another wave of teases. Ms. Warren follows suit, but more calmly.
"What were you doing back there?" Principal Jim asks, amused.
"I was telling— I was—"
"I was telling him about the chemistry disasters in my class, and he about the time he lost a student during a trip," Ms. Warren explains smoothly.
But the children are given license to be children, and so they tease and cheer.
"Oooh, Mr. Harrington laying it down!"
"I think, Principal Jim, that it isn't us you should be worried about," a seventh grader says slyly.
"Children—YOU—"
"Now, it's alright Harrington, Warren. There is nothing to be so flustered over. I guess it will be easier to call you Harrington now, rather than having the trouble of calling you by each name— I think these kids are onto something with their… ship names."
Everyone goes mad at the Principal choosing their side— some boys howling and clapping Mr. Harrington in the back, the girls gushing and giggling, suggesting names and genders.
Mr. Harrington is red in the face, furious— but not as much as Peter would expect. He's more embarrassed than angry, really. Ms. Warren is taking it all calmly, but he can hear her heartbeat and the small looks she is giving Mr. Harrington.
In the night by the fire, surrounded by friends and the echo of laughter, Peter sighs in relief.
Mr. Harrington trudges all the way into the compound, the others watching in mirth.
All is in good humor.
And all is as they should be.
Yes.
All is well.
They are heading back to the compound at twelve, following after Mr. Harrington.
Peter walks back with everyone feeling tired through his bones.
Running around the field is nothing.
What wears him down is running into every memory for the whole day, and having to deal with the consequences of each one.
He knew this was going to be somewhat like that. And he also knew it was going to be difficult. He just didn't know how much he could handle.
Anyway, tomorrow will be the last of it and he will be rid of it all.
(Hopefully.)
Ned is whistling a tune that he knows, but can't quite put a finger on it. He tries to think about it because it pulls something that is familiar and forward, like he should know it. Plus, it is harmless, remembering a song.
The grass on his feet is a cold caress, and the chatter is a persistent glow of warmth.
"I'm so excited for tomorrow man," Ned gushes to Charles, "The robot that I made—I'm gonna have to code some new things there so I could integrate this cool bracelet! I have so much to do and so little time! I should have brought my hat; it'll help me move faster."
Peter squints his eyes and he is fidgeting, the song a frustrating presence that refuses to be named. So instead, he offers, "I can help you."
"Thanks, dude!" Ned beams, "You're the best."
No, Peter thinks, you're the best.
"Hey, I haven't seen your tribute yet, Peter," Charles pipes up.
"Now that I think about it, I haven't even heard you talk about a tribute," Abe adds.
Ned is quick to supply an answer, "We worked on the bot together so we're just gonna offer it as tribute as a pair."
Peter nods, hoping this will be the end of it.
And it is.
Because Abe is nodding and Charles is saying 'Oh' like it all makes sense now.
And the only thing that makes sense to Peter is how horribly cowardly he is that he can't even gather the courage to honor his mento— father, and he's letting Ned do all the lying because apparently, even that he can't do well enough.
He has to be better.
It takes all of them an hour and a half of waiting in the bathroom to fully change into pyjamas, and fixing their sleeping bags. When the last student lay to sleep on his back, the lights in the room dims down until it is black. Peter is smudged between Ned and a senior robotics club member, close to the side of the window panes.
Friday has installed it in night mode, the glass tinting, but not too dark, saving a little opening for the stars to blink at them from outside.
Peter blinks back.
And back.
And back.
And—Oh God—
Peter just wants to sleep.
He wants to sleep so bad.
But he can't.
Of course, he can't.
Parker luck dictates that he should find it the hardest to find rest, because that's how life is to him. His mind is a constant buzzing ball of anxiety, melding somewhere between the tribute, how he should be giving his own, and then thinking it won't help.
He banishes his mind into other things, what he thinks is a lesser of this evil.
And because he is muddled and tired and had been worn down by the trials of today, his thoughts cast into the forest, where Clint speaks to him right to his core, understanding him in a way that shouldn't be legal.
Clint is right though, in many ways that hurts.
But it also gives him a sense of relief, a small one—a fleeting, leaping thing— the only thing Peter will allow himself to feel.
"It's alright to feel better."
Clint had said then.
So, he does, just a bit.
"It's alright to feel."
That, Peter doesn't understand. Not in the way that he thinks he should. He doesn't get what he means by that. In the fullest sense, what does 'feeling' entail? Is it the burning in his lungs after screaming too hard, the ringing in his ears after blanking out? Is it the tremors of his fingers after suppressing a few tears, or the shaky breaths that he exhales?
Or is it numbness? The feeling of everything that all of it turns into nothing, when his hands couldn't carry it any longer and his feet are surrendering to the weight of it all?
His head aches from all these thoughts.
In the end, Peter doesn't know what to do. But that's hardly new.
Because everything he's learned up till' this point clashes with everything everyone is telling him.
They say, "Open your heart."
But from his parents' last breath to Tony's last smile, Peter knows that opening one's heart makes it vulnerable. It makes it weak. It makes it hurt.
They say, "It is okay to feel."
But what if feeling is the one that destroy you? Doesn't that make it not okay?
They say, "Little steps. You will be better tomorrow."
But Peter wakes up every day, every 'tomorrow', feeling like he would rather not wake up.
Peter knows, then, that he shouldn't listen to everyone out there. None of them could ever understand where he is. In this torture purgatory of existence and death. And no one can really give him the answer, no one but himself.
(What is the question again?)
There is someone else, though, who Peter trusts would know. Because she's always known everything, every answer under the sun, and beyond the wide expanse of the galaxy.
It is a unanimous decision, his mind, his body and his heart moving toward the bathroom, grabbing a bit of cloth from his bag on the way.
He meanders through the bodies on the floor, careful and noiseless to avoid waking anyone up. They are snoring, some shuffling, and a lot of peaceful, rested boys.
Peter finds himself easily in the bathroom.
It is something to thank, then, that he has the compound memorized.
Because from a stall in the loo, he can access a secret door that will lead to the tower. From there, he can hopefully escape this limbo.
He presses his finger on the screen and smoothly passes to the other room, where another one leads down into a tunnel that lightens up as soon as he enters.
It is a long walk, but a much needed one to soothe his aching mind. When he arrives in the tower, it is as deserted as he feels and he turns around the corner, where he continues his trek.
It is more a reflex, a part of his muscles that could never forget the feeling of roaming these walls.
It is home away from home.
(And it is not because his home is in Queens, and he is Upstate right now. He thinks he has lost a large portion of his home the moment Tony lost his li—)
Peter shakes his head and slaps his cheeks. He cannot think of those things. He can only handle so much before he would have to give in. It wouldn't help that every second is screeching to him that Tony is d-dead. He's dead. MJ- Ned- May—they will all die too and I will be alone because I deserve it—
Slap.
SLAP.
SLAP!
Nobody hears his pain.
He is far into the tower now. Darkness enveloping his eyes, making him feel as if he is floating in black water.
The sting of his slap awakens him from his lousy mind and he becomes mindful to every step he takes.
"Little steps. You will be better tomorrow."
Peter lets out a laugh. No matter that it is derisive and at his expense. (Because he knows he won't be better tomorrow. In fact, he will be worse. But he has to keep on trying. People are watching. People are depending on him to.) He takes it, though, for it is all he can have.
It is a matter of minutes, Peter barely tired from all the walking, and one long ride from the elevator, when he reaches the place.
Here.
Here is the place of his dreams. And here is the place that is replaced by nightmares.
Hollow, cold, uncaring.
Here Peter stands, in the shadow of the night, in this place that once held everything, in the room where they once shared laughter.
He wonders, why does everything have to be so dark now? His room, this floor, the world—
Light, Peter finds out, is impossible now. Whether it is the metaphorical light in the end of the tunnel, or a lightness that can only come from a soul that is pure and untouched.
Because when the battle ceased, and the dust settled, Peter saw his father fall. And along with that, his love for this life falls too.
Peter's mind supplies in a snarky manner, What, is it lose one, lose em' all?
(No. It replies. You lose Tony, you lose everything, because Tony is everything—)
The edges of the ceiling lights up and Peter jumps in surprise.
"Welcome, Peter." Friday. "It has been a long time, indeed." It has, hasn't it. "Boss is waiting for you."
Lub-lub-lub-lubdub lubdub lubdublubdublubdub—
Peter is standing frozen in the middle of the floor, his eyes moving across it, looking, searching—
hoping.
Because Friday has never been wrong, and he wished, he hoped, that this wasn't any different.
But he has scoured every corner, strained for every piece of evidence that she might be right, and there is still nothing.
Oh, yes, of course. The only time that he dared hope, and she chooses it to be the time to become fallible. Stupidfuckingidiot—
Peter's stomach drops and he feels drained of everything, every shred of fantasy he ever entertained dissolving in his mind, making way for a slow, simmering anger. How can he be such a fool to think that Tony might just have been hiding—that he could have—that he could have been alive—
Alive.
Life.
Death.
Dead.
Tony was alive. It wasn't all just a sick dream; he isn't in a coma. Tony was alive, and for a few years he got to share that life with him, breathe in the same goddamn space he breathed in, and he heard his heart beating, sometimes calm, usually fast, and then—
"We won. Mr. Stark." Lub… dub. No. "We won Mr. Stark…!" Lub… "We won— we did it, s-sir, wedidit—"
Gone.
It is a vivid dream in the nights Peter gets a few hours of sleep. So intensely clear in fact, that he can still feel the gashes on his body, the metallic tang of blood in his mouth, and the deep sense of denial and desperation that comes when he hears it first, the heart that has always been the strongest—and then sees it, second, the light that has always shone the strongest in Peter's eyes.
Gone, gone, gone.
Tony was alive. But now—
Now he is dead.
Peter repeats that for a few more times in his head, focusing on the spot in front of him and muttering it until he feels a clawing in his throat, and he realizes he is almost shouting now. He stops.
He starts again, but now, whispering.
It is like a prayer, not because of the way he repeats the truth over and over and over, every night, every time he feels scared, but because no one hears him, and no one is coming.
He whispers, he prays to the void, because sometimes the dreams are too real and he has a hard time distinguishing which is which.
(Does it matter? It all feels the same.)
He has already mourned Ned, when he was never dead.
He has already cried for MJ, too caught in the image in his head.
He has already bled and tore and hurt, fighting off ghosts, invisible men in his head, thinking they had May.
And earlier, just a few hours ago, in the beautiful morning dew, he gave in to hope and went for that hug because Tony is alive and he is here right now—
When he had not been.
And he will never be here anymore.
The scream reverberates across the room, him hunched over himself, breathing through his mouth—exhale, exhale, exhale— and his eyes burn just a bit. Peter takes his time to calm his breath.
He notices the tremors in his hand, and feeling annoyed, closes it in his fist. With nothing else to do, he stays there, and watches. His hand struggle to hold, and the pain is fresh and familiar. His knuckles soon give away to color and he feels blood draw.
It drips on the flush carpet.
And he is aware that he is standing in their home.
(Or. What was home.)
His eyes are swift and direct and Peter begins to catalogue everything. It is something to do to help him wind down. It usually helps.
A lot of the things are left just as they are. The couch that is always a few inches too far from the table, the curtains that draw only halfway up, and the bunny slippers Tony gifted him as a joke, that he always wore here, always left just outside his room—
"Boss is waiting."
The end of Peter's mouth moves to frown, he is not in control. He has never been in control. His hands that hold his blood wipe itself on the side of his trousers, and his feet walk him toward his room.
Friday might be wrong, and she might not understand life or death, she is an A.I. after all, she might know everything, but she doesn't know the feeling—
But she is a friend.
Yes.
She is a friend, and he trusts that she will remain so, even after what he is going to do.
Turn, avoid the counter, grey carpet, smooth, and then wooden floors, and, turn again—he has it memorized, like the song that he knows only the melody and not its name.
It is something dull, but only by force, because he cannot handle yet to see it in its true brilliance. He might just crack.
Turn, knob, here.
Breathe in.
And smell the feeling of yesterday.
And then feel it slipping away.
What an old, familiar friend, his room. It is like a video paused, frozen in sweet melancholy, as if he is still the innocent and believing Peter.
It is a reminder of his own nonchalant mess, which has always been a part of who he is. Posters, post-it notes and clothes hang like murals of the old Peter, who he thinks has died a long, long time ago.
All that is left is a hollow doll, demanding its right to live in the only way he knows how.
By coming back, and wishing that perhaps now he could break freely.
In this empty floor drinking in darkness and basking in a little bit of sobering, orange light, he feels that there is nothing but this room, and all the memories that flow with it.
Peter lets himself be dragged by the current, and flows along.
His eyes catch sight of the tempescope he had made to impress Tony, and he begins to miss his youthful enthusiasm. What a child Peter had been then.
The free laughter. The moments where the burden of his uncle's death, and the guilt of forgetting his parents' voices, were overcome by a deep surge of affection and pure, unadulterated love.
All that is gone, and he could only weep for its absence.
Maybe hold his hand out there as well, feeling the empty air.
His feet drag a little, and he hesitates, the fabric heavy in his hand.
It is warmer here than it is downstairs, and the bed is inviting him. But he mustn't get distracted. He must do it. Now.
And so, he does.
Peter breaks into a flurry of movements. Starting with his shirt, and then his trousers, he strips them all until he is left as bare as he feels.
He then pulls on the fabric—there, again, the hesitance, and he feels wretched but determined. With a small whimper that escapes him, truly, he pulls through.
Because if this is goodbye, then this is goodbye.
He will have to make it firm and final.
No hesitation.
Not anymore.
He will wear it.
He will wear the suit, and become Spider-Man.
One last time.
Say goodbye to Karen.
Say goodbye to Spider-Man.
Say goodbye to the last physical thing he has of Tony.
(Say goodbye to… Tony?)
Peter shakes his head, no, no.
He doesn't approach that particular subject, and instead hones in on the suit—its fibers and scratches a clear resolution in his head.
He pulls the suit on.
Huh.
It hugs him well, but it does not escape him that the suit clings a bit more differently than before.
The standing mirror is looking at him just as he turns, the red and blue a dull kind of prominent in the dim lights.
Hazy.
But the lines are bold and unafraid, the colors demanding attention, and the suit itself a presence to behold. The person inside, though, is subdued, his shoulder lax and posture too unsure.
Peter notices what is wrong, what is different.
He is thinner now. Grotesquely does this suit hug his figure, the ghost of old muscles, worn out and feeble.
He looks weak.
And tired.
He looks pathetic.
Peter fidgets with the mask, not yet ready but gathering what's left of his courage. He looks at himself in the mirror and relishes in a self-hatred that he has come so accustomed to, in the longest year of his life.
It is interesting, then, that at one point in this night he had felt like he could fly and start over again, like he could walk past this, screaming not in cowardice but in challenge. In that field surrounded by light, and the guidance of every man and woman's one voice, he felt like he could do it. He felt like he could live again.
And yet look at him now.
Pathetic Penis Parker.
Flash is right.
He is pathetic in more ways than one, weaker than any man he knows.
But who could blame him, when all the love he's ever known is always continuously coldly snatched from his shaking hands? When he dared to hope, and he was rewarded only with hurt and heart break.
Because Tony is the fourth person to go, and he is waiting for the fifth, thinking, if there is anyone let it be him, instead.
Because every night, when he screams or so much as struggle in his bed, and May is waking him up, eyes wide in worry, he thinks he cannot mourn, because then May would be sad.
Because every time he walks past the train rails, or the busy New York streets, he thinks that perhaps it would be a way to go, just to stand there with his eyes closed, meeting tranquility in the midst of chaos.
Because every day that he seeks solace, he is met with one Ned Leeds who won't go away (thank God because he might not have moved out of the yellow cab's way if it weren't for him—) and a suspicious MJ who won't let go of his hand while they're in the street for a few weeks after that.
He is weak, but in truth he wants to be weaker— he wants to be selfish tonight, and, just.
Feel.
Weep.
Just fucking cry and cry and cry and cry and no one to stop him—
Mourn?
Yeah.
Definitely.
So, he does.
Say goodbye, Spider-Man.
In this cool, quiet night, a single boy lay awake. It begins to rain.
"Peter, I've missed you."
It is Karen, and her voice is fond and melancholic.
It's like she knows what's going to happen.
Karen in his phone is but texts and codes running. She isn't a whole person like she is in the suit. And that's what Peter is going to lose.
Another friend.
And he knows he doesn't want to. He needs Karen because she is a friend and he loves each and every one of his friends.
But she is a friend that was created by Tony Stark, therefore, a friend that will always be tied to that. And he will forever be tethered to that connection if he doesn't move to break it.
"H-Hi there, Karen," Peter starts shakily, voice scratching in his throat.
Karen's voice is a comfort in his head, and the mask that covers it tingles with the melodious sound. Every vibration, every fluctuation, as if she is a human being.
"You came back here, then."
Peter nods, and then he offers a reply in a faint, shy voice, "Yeah— yes."
"Are we 'back at it', Peter?"
"Back at—no, no, I'm sorry Karen. I won't be back… never again."
She hesitates, as if she is not a bunch of codes, but the with blood flowing in her veins, and a voice that tells of feelings. He almost buys it.
"Is there anything I could do?"
Peter shakes his head, his shoulders sagging from the weight of it all, "No," the exhaustion is clear in his voice and it is a deeper octave, "I'm sorry Karen."
"Nothing to apologize for, Peter," she says softly, "You know Peter, it will be alright."
And his heart breaks.
"The light will shine on you again, Peter. No matter how long the night, the sun is destined to rise." It is a promise that Peter wants to hold on to but is wise not to. She sighs, "I really like that quote," she says, somber, "I wish you will remember that of me."
And when she speaks next, it is more human than anything Peter has heard, a sense of finality, a little bit of sorrow, and perhaps acceptance—something he wishes to learn someday.
"Peter. Spider-Man, my good friend…"
"Good-bye."
She shuts down.
A sudden darkness envelops the mask, making him feel more alone than ever.
Peter is looking around him, the mask obscuring everything from view, with only the dimmest light shining through the eyes of his mask.
It isn't enough and the darkness clamps onto him fast.
She didn't even—she didn't even wait for him—
No, no.
She waited. She waited for more than a year. Only for him to abandon her, like he has been abandoned so many times.
Peter throws his mask off in a frantic sort of daze, it is suffocating and dangerous and terrifying—to see something that was once so filled with light, only be drenched in shadows. To see hope, and feel it fade away into a void of dark sorrows.
The screams that reach Peter's ears are ones that do not seem to belong to a human. It is far too much on the side of wailing, like an old cub losing its mother, or the bellow of a tired lion baring its teeth as a final act of defiance.
He is falling, crouching on the floor, because he has been standing for far too long. And his feet are sore and hurting, among many, many others.
His hands cover his face and he screams into it more, a raging, thunderous howl from deep inside his chest that has always been there, just waiting to let go.
His voice is hoarse, already tired from the shouting he did earlier. Throat burning in vile bile, and tears hot and scalding in his cheeks. His eyes are fire, a volcanic eruption of pyroclastic emotions and he is a fool to think it will be gone when the tears come.
His body is lead, heavy and deadweight. And he could just fall.
Peter rocks himself, forward and back, like a sweet child in the arms of a soothing mother. Only, there is no mother, and there is no soothing. It is only him tonight, and darkness, his old lover. And his hands don't hold strong enough, so he rocks forward only to fall on his knees.
His eyes meet the mirror's and he hate the way he looks. This boy, Peter scoffs,thinking he could save the world—thinking he could change it for the better, what a joke.
It is his destiny, then, Peter surmises, to always look for sunlight in a room with no windows. And, Peter thinks, since this room has no windows, or mothers or friends or anything else, really, he just bursts—
Like a dam that has been holding on more than it can handle.
It is a relief.
And it is a terrible awakening.
It starts as a silent scream, his face frozen into anguish. A split second later, it breaks into a roar, one of an ancient dinosaur's who knows it will die in a few merciful minutes. And when a sob escapes, as it always does, his hands clamp onto his mouth.
It is a reflex he has maintained for May's sake, even though it does nothing.
His shoulders shake and his hands grip tightly onto his stomach, hugging himself in a frantic move to hold something. His knees dig on the floor, like he is praying, when he is only begging.
Peter's teeth find his palms and he bites into it, scream muffled but all the more potent, the tang of blood melding with his tears and his snot, in one confusing mess.
His spit trickles down his chin and it forms an ugly dew with the blood from his hands.
And the only thing that registers in his mind is that everything that happened today— from the bus ride with the bug dying, to the hologram, to Clint in the forest and to the bonfire in relative lightness—it all led to this.
Bright shine, fake peace, tranquility, but only for a second, only for a moment— "He's not gone. Not really. Not in the way that matters."
But he is GONE—really, really gone—as in, DEAD—
Tony's dead and that matters—
That matters so much because now I—now I want to die too but I CAN'T—
Wheeze in, wheeze out, a high inhale, and he thinks he might be having an asthma attack with how his lungs feel like its bursting, and then closing. Shutting down. Dying.
He screams at everything, his spit spewing everywhere and his body is trembling in so much suppressed energy desperate to escape this hell hole.
Then, the scratching begins.
It comes when the sensation on his chest is too magnified, too electric, that it riddles him helpless— it is an itch that he can never appease, but he keeps on trying to, anyways.
His fingers fidget, and then embeds itself deep into his chest through the suit. It does not tear, for it is more resilient than Peter ever will be.
It becomes a cycle:
Rock, front, back, shudder—
When his thoughts enter dangerous territory:
SLAP!
Shake, snot, wheeze,
Repeat.
It comes so fast, collapsing onto him like a loaded truck losing control. Peter doesn't know how to react. And if he does, the only thing he can do is to accept it full on.
Peter would find out that tears are never just tears.
There are different kinds, that tells of the human who bears it.
The first few months, it had been soft tears. An easy, loose slip from his eyes. They start with burning and they end with coldness.
A few months after that, it was just a dry kind of crying—a rasp that can never be quenched, a desert in arid loneliness. It is exhaustion and knowing how it goes and how it would end. Because he has cried too much not to know it by the script. So, he just sits there and watches it happen from afar.
(Sometimes it is not quite easy, to separate himself. He sometimes ends up writhing in his sheets, clawing at his chest for an itch that refuses to leave.)
But now...
Now, it is quite more than that.
Now, it is a desperate unravelling— he has no one to think of when he screams because he is alone in the whole expanse of this reality.
He is screaming his throat raw, bleeding from the inside and out, and it is all dirty. The snot, the dying voice— and then he forgets why he even started crying in the first place.
From Spider-Man to Tony, to thoughts of death and of life, and a deep sense of yearning. It is a physical thing he could touch—but only for a few seconds before it breaks away—and he is screaming, or whispering, whatever he can do at the moment, "I wish—I wish you were here—I wish I could touch you. I wish I could hug you. I wish I could laugh with you again, just one more day, one more second, if, if only I could—" He struggles to speak with the way his mouth trembles, but he bites it out, every word, every letter in those thoughts.
Then, the question, "Why—why did it have to be you?"
He is yelling and screaming and crying and asking for help— a deep searing ache that refuses to go away— hollow in his chest, heavy on his stomach and heaving on his throat. Peter is doubled over himself now, attempting to hug and carry what cannot be hugged, what cannot be carried by anyone else but him.
He scratches at his chest again, this hollow thing that used to hold his heart. He is screaming at the void, his tears hot and salty in his mouth. Peter cries for help, for the impossible, for Tony to— "COME BACK— PLEASE…! I promise I'll be better—Please… Just— come back…"
And he is wheezing, and he is losing his voice, losing himself slowly to the darkness. His suit is a little bit torn apart, and he is completely torn apart.
Peter struggles to hold himself together so he doesn't.
His tears recede only to fall back in large amounts like waves on the shore crashing with the moon's pull.
He is falling further on the floor, his knees giving way, and it feels cold on his warm skin, bitter on his flesh. This is the kind of crying Peter had only been able to do once. Just after he closed his eyes, marching down back to where they started. It is pleading for the impossible and clawing for what can never be there anymore, it is desperate and stupid and tormenting— he had been holding this in for a year now. And every day, every minute, every second that he held his tears back or pushed down that lump in his throat comes escaping now—
Hiccups and whines and pleading— the suit sticks on his skin in a way that it never did before—
This type of crying that is wet and loud and magnified. There are not only tears, but blood—the wounds that only half-healed and ended up as scars, they open again and they bleed again.
This is the marriage of tears and blood, of salty and thick, of feeling and feeling.
Peter digs deep in the well in his chest, his nails dulled but his desperation making up more than half of it. He will have scratch marks tomorrow, but nobody will see that so it is alright.
He is scratching, tearing, clawing and when he screams, it is not as an accusation, but as a reply to all the things around this room that show him Tony as if he is still alive.
Why- why did he come here—?
To say good-bye?
Yes, that is what he has been saying the whole time.
But that's not quite it.
He might have hoped, then, for a bit, that Tony was coming to get him.
Instead, there is Peter, and Peter alone.
In the dead of the night, with everyone in peaceful slumber, and an expanse of a field separating him from them all, no one is there to stop him from breaking.
He is a puddle of tears on the floor, curled up into himself by the end of the bed. His nose is blocked, and if he could, he would have used that as a reason why he stopped breathing.
But because there is May, he opens his mouth to the air.
Thoughts fill with Spider-Man.
If he is to be completely honest, he doesn't know what it could mean for him when he says goodbye to Spider-Man. Will it break him? Or relieve him? Will it strip him of all his purpose and value? Or will he find a new purpose and find value in himself, as Peter?
He is scared, deathly afraid of the dark vacuum ahead. It is a blank space that he fears he cannot fill.
Although.
He does know one thing.
It is that he will lose the part of himself that he has always loved unconditionally.
Perhaps it is that, then. A punishment he serves for himself, for the price of freedom. Like losing his legs and arms, and the one identity that mattered.
He will lose the only love that he gives himself.
And Peter…
He is alright with that.
Because he knows, and the world and the universe conspire to tell him, that if it is Peter Parker, then it is a boy who doesn't deserve the privilege of love.
Peter's palms cease to bleed, but his heart doesn't seem to stop.
It continues to tell him things—things like death and what is easier.
Death, Peter concluded before, is easiest for the one leaving. And hardest for the one left behind. So, no matter how much he just wants to let go, and just slip from the tallest building, he just can't do it to May and MJ and Ned—
He sees their faces clear as if he can touch them, when they attend his imaginary funeral. And he knows it is something he will never want to see ever again.
Death is out of the answer. Death for Peter, that is.
To Spider-man, death is the only answer.
And so, following death, there is mourning.
Peter feels the trickle of hot tears in his cheeks again, but his hands are limp and chest hollow.
He does not move, and every breath that enters his body enflames the fire in his throat. Every whine, every grunt, every exhale, they all scald his throat and remind him of a few moments ago, when he thought he was being burned alive.
His shoulders begin to shake again, involuntary images presenting themselves with more vigor—and even though some of them are vague, the feelings stay the same.
He would never admit it, but in his quest to avoid everything Tony Stark, he ended up forgetting.
His eyes, and his smile and his laugh—they are all memories dulled by the trials of time and worn out by these tiring emotions. He still knows how it feels though, the love that permeates in every interaction—the lightness, the happiness. But it will always be followed by an added weight.
Tainted.
And all that's left is this room, this undeniable wretchedness, and—
"Peter. I'm sorry for making you wait. It took me a long time."
Peter jumps horribly that his back cracks, the sound reverberating through his body. He has forgotten Friday and how much her voice resounds in his room. He shakes his head, now only feeling anger. But she couldn't have known better— damage by the infinity stones are permanent, Peter would know.
But she isn't finished talking, because there is a deep pause, and the sound of whirring machines, and in every area of the room, from the walls, to where Peter sits, flashes a blue light.
When it is finished, it is nothing but a big blue orb. Peter drinks in the color—
And then.
"Boss is here."
A/N: The one thing fails me is the liberty to go crazy on spaces. If you want space privelage, and I abuse that shit, go to ao3.
BTW, if you have a tumblr, we can talk there, too. I am Spiderman-Spoilerman there.
(hehe, see what I did there?)