Work Text:
It’s odd, the short span of time in which your perception of a person can change entirely; one moment, they seem kind, or supportive, or thoughtful, and then…
And then.
Sometimes, the lines in the sand seem entirely arbitrary - changing with the tides on a near-daily basis - and overstepping them leads to disastrous consequences, leads to you floundering for breath under the waves.
Peter is drowning.
He’s never felt so untethered, so lost at sea, so completely and utterly hopeless before.
He’s sitting on the roof of an apartment complex, only ten minutes away from the Queens apartment he’s called home for the past ten years, and he’s never felt further from it.
The sky is dark, gray clouds gathering far above, and thunder rumbles in the distance.
He’s waiting to be washed away.
He tucks his head between his knees, hugging his backpack close to his chest - all his worldly possessions in one small, battered school bag.
He wishes things had gone differently.
He wishes May hadn’t-
No.
He wishes he’d never said anything.
If he could turn back time - just once, just for a bit - he’d go back to precisely two hours and forty-seven minutes ago, when he uttered two simple, damning words.
He’d change course, back out of the conversation he’d wanted to have with his Aunt, step back into his comfort zone and stay there.
Because, sometimes, taking a leap of faith doesn’t end with flying into the sunset; sometimes, it ends with a 15-year-old crashing headfirst into the waves, oil burning his back like Icarus himself.
But he hadn’t been trying to fly, or touch the sun, he’d just wanted to cast away the chains holding him to the ground and walk. Breathe. Live.
The first drop of rain soaks into his hoodie and he whimpers quietly.
It’s pathetic, and stupid, and childish, and he’s fifteen for god’s sake, he shouldn’t be whimpering and heaving panicked, tearless sobs.
But he can’t help it.
Because he’s scared.
Because he’s tired.
Because he doesn’t want to wash away.
The thought sobers him, and he lifts his head, pulling out his phone and rubbing at the faint dampness on his cheeks. There’ll be time to wallow later, but he doesn’t have that luxury right now - not if he wants to make it through this.
He scrolls through his contacts, wincing at the bright screen, barely hesitating before clicking his first option.
It rings once, twice, three times, and then…
“Hey, man,” Ned greets, chipper as ever - if a little tired, “what’s up?”
“Hi,” he says, and then winces at the rough, strained quality of his voice - he last drank water a few hours before… the conversation, and it’s audible.
Ned, of course, picks up on it immediately. “Peter? What’s wrong?”
He can hear shifting fabrics, can practically imagine Ned shooting straight up in bed- wait, bed? He pulls the phone away from his ear, and glances at the screen; it’s half past one in the morning on a Sunday, and Ned has to be up in less than six hours. “Shit, dude, sorry, were you asleep?”
“Don’t turn this on me, I can hear something’s off.”
Peter hesitates, but then… well. This is Ned, his best friend, his Guy in the Chair. He sighs.
“Y’know how I was gonna tell May?” He asks, slowly, quietly, “About the, uh, the thing?”
“Yeah,” Ned draws out the word, a little confused, “what-” a sharp intake of breath. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Peter echoes dully, “‘oh’.”
“How’d she take it?”
“Uh, well,” he glances around himself - at the cold concrete and his hastily packed bag - then up at the growling skies. A couple more raindrops hit him. “I’m kinda, um, homeless.”
Silence.
“What?” Ned sounds incredulous, “May kicked you out?” Peter flinches at the wording. “Fuck, man, I…” a beat. “I’m so sorry, that’s- that’s horrible.”
“Yeah,” Peter replies, quietly. “So can I, uh, stay at yours? Just for a bit, until I figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do.”
A beat.
Peter’s heart drops.
“Look, dude, I wish I could say yes, I really, really do, but…” he trails off, and the regret is palpable, “my parents are crazy conservative, you know that, and, well...”
Peter swallows harshly. His throat is so damn dry. “Yeah,” he says, again - it’s all he seems capable of saying. “Yeah, I get it. Don’t worry, man, I’ll find somewhere.”
“Okay,” Ned says, quiet and resigned, because he’s fifteen and not equipped for this, for comforting his friend who’s just lost all sense of security and- “Okay,” he repeats, seemingly to himself, “if- if you can’t find anywhere, call me and I’ll- I’ll figure something out. We can, I dunno, hide you under my bed.”
Peter can’t help but snort, laughing wetly. It reminds him of the days when he’d be at Ned’s house when they were younger, and May would come to pick him up, and he’d hide under the bed to try and stay for a little longer.
Back when they were young, and innocent, and Peter was-
Well. Not Peter.
“Okay,” Peter repeats back, because he’s fifteen too and so lost but his friend accepts him and that’s- it’s something. It’s comfort. “I- uh, will do, man. Thanks.”
The clouds finally open up, and a light drizzle showers over him. He shivers harshly, and glances at his bag. Maybe he could…
No. Not an option.
“Talk to you later, man,” he says, going to hang up and move on to his next option.
“Wait-” he hesitates as Ned speaks up, “can’t you call… y’know who?”
Peter stiffens. “No.” There’s no hesitation, no pause. He- he can’t.
“Peter, come on-”
“Gotta go, bye Ned,” he hangs up
Silence rings loudly in his ears, deafening and all-consuming.
For a moment he wants to lie back and let the silence wash over him, sink into the brickwork and wait until the rain turns into a storm that fills up the roof and covers him - until he’s nothing but another mark on the battered concrete.
But-
The rain is constant now, though still light, and he pulls his threadbare hoodie closer around himself. He thinks about the woollen sweater May was wearing when-
He wonders if she’ll have the money to buy herself new clothes now that she doesn’t have to pay for him and his clothes and his medical bills from when he was a sickly kid and his enhanced appetite that she doesn’t even know about-
Didn’t know about. Will never know about.
Peter shivers against the rain, sighs and lifts up his phone. The rain hits his screen and activates random apps, scrolling and clicking and-
He wipes it on the inside of his hoodie and opens the contacts app, clicking on his next best option.
It rings four times before it’s sent to voicemail.
He lets out a wet sob of frustration and pulls the phone from his ear, hanging up and navigating back to the right contact as the rain hits his screen and sends it haywire and clicks on all the wrong things.
Finally, finally, he manages to click it again.
It rings once.
Twice.
And-
It connects with a faint click.
“H-hey, MJ,” he says, suddenly unsure of what to say.
There’s a shuffling on the other end of the line and he thinks about how she was definitely at home in bed asleep and how he wants to be at home, not on the rooftop of some random building while the rain gets harder and-
And suddenly it all comes spilling out.
“Can I, uh, stay at yours tonight? It’s just that, um, May k-kinda kicked me out? And I called Ned but y’know how his parents are and it’s really cold and it’s sorta starting to rain and I- I don’t have anywhere to go.” His voice drops to nearly a whisper at the end.
There’s silence on the other end.
Peter bites his lip nervously.
“M-MJ?”
He pulls the phone from his ear to check it connected and then-
“What the hell, kid?”
The name Mr Stark (!!) is blaring at him on his screen and the voice on the line is definitely not MJ.
Peter chokes on air. How-
The rain.
He stares up at the sky and glares.
“Kid? What’s going on? You said your Aunt kicked you out?”
And then Peter remembers that Mr Stark is on the other end of the line and-
“Um.” He fumbles for words, but he seems to have forgotten the entire English language. “April Fools?” He sounds uncertain even to his own ears, and he winces at the high-pitched lilt of his voice.
…which reminds him of why he’s sitting in the rain on a random rooftop, and-
“It’s October.” Tony says, voice flat and unimpressed. “Kid-”
“Uh, well-”
-all he can see is her woollen sweater and the light of the TV and-
-all he can hear is the disappointment, the pain, the-
“Kid,” Tony repeats, his voice pitched low and gentle, “do you need a place to stay?
“I-” he ducks his head down to his chest and draws his knees closer to his chest, glancing over at his bag - the one containing all his earthly possessions - and his eyes catch on a bright blue spot of color.
It’s a keychain from three years ago, when May had been having a hard time getting shifts at the hospital and Peter’s various ailments had been having an untimely surge, leaving them scrambling for purchase atop the mountain of bills and expenses.
Then, one day, Peter (though he hadn’t been Peter, back then) had spilled a little of his guilt over his strain on the finances, and talked about pet-sitting and apprenticeships and the minimum ages for jobs, and May…
She’d taken him to the harbor, to a shitty, pop-up amusement park, and scraped together enough pennies to play one of the clearly rigged rubber duck games, until she’d won that stupid little knock-off Sonic keychain and pressed it into his hand, kneeling down and saying-
“Yeah,” he says, voice high-pitched in a way that makes him cringe and choke down another sob, “y-yes, please.”
“I’ve got you, kiddo,” Tony says, gentle and kind and- “Where are you?”
“On- on a, um,” he glances around, sniffling pitifully, and wipes angrily at his face, glaring at his sleeve, almost glad the rain has soaked his hoodie enough to hide the wetness, “rooftop, in Queens.”
There's a quiet curse on the other end of the line, and then, "Twenty minutes."
And then there's a click and then silence.
Peter swallows hard and leans backwards, shoving his phone into his pocket as the rain hits his face and he shakes with full-body shudders.
As if on cue, the rain picks up yet again, and if he wasn't already soaked, he is now. He sighs heavily and closes his eyes, letting the noise pour over him in rivulets that drip down his nose and turn his clothes into a swamp.
It's just over fifteen minutes before he hears a car break to a stop on the road beneath him, headlights cutting through the darkness and the sheets of rain; he glances over the edge and, sure enough, it's one of Tony's favourite (though more inconspicuous) cars: dark red and sleek.
With a glance around, he pulls his hood over his head and half-climbs half-slides down the wet brick and concrete of the building, making his way to the car with only a slight falter to his step.
And if he takes a bit longer than strictly necessary to get there, well... that's between him and the storm.
He slides into the backseat of the car and pulls the door shut quickly behind him, wincing as he immediately begins to drip onto the seats - though it's a losing battle, he pulls in on himself until he's as small as he can be.
"So, kid," Tony begins, as he pulls out onto the road. The dim lighting of the car dashboard barely illuminates the man's face, even with Peter's enhanced vision, and his tone betrays nothing of his emotions.
Peter fidgets in place, turning his head to stare out the window into the dark as raindrops hit the glass and race to the bottom where rubber meets metal, watching as a world of gray and black streaks by with the orange-yellow glow of street lamps.
He shivers.
He sees Tony's eyes flick over to him in the mirror and the car begins to heat from warm to hot, sending another - grateful - shiver down Peter's spine.
He can tell his mentor wants him to talk, can feel it in the slowly warming air and the vibrations of the car and see it in the dark of his eyes and smell it in the air of half-asleep and sweat.
He stays silent.
Tony sighs. "We'll talk when we get back to the apartment, Pete." Then, after a brief pause of consideration, "And one you've had a shower and some food. You look like a drowned kitten."
Peter nods, mumbling something that aren't quite words, and they fall back into silence.
It's not comfortable, and it's not awkward, it's just silence - the liminal space between where he was and where he will be, where Tony knows everything and nothing, and Peter can feel both the chill in the bones and the pain from the new warmth blooming in his hands.
The air feels strange and timeless, and the cool glass is harsh against his forehead when he leans it against the dark, as though he might blend into the monochromatic world it separates him from - so close yet so disconnected.
His eyelids droop as they become heavier and harder to keep open, lulled into the dark by the pattering of rain and the sweeping of the windscreen wipers and the steady beating of his mentor's heart.
And, in the dark, a spark of trademarked blue catches his eye, hanging off the bag he clings to his chest, and words drip down his mind like raindrops falling down a windshield, and it sounds a little like-
“You are never a burden, sweetheart, and I don’t want you trying to fix this. Just be a kid for a little longer, okay? Let me deal with the rest.”
And then sleep sweeps his mind clear.
--
He awakens groggily to the harsh, artificial lighting of the parking garage as Tony slows and pulls into his parking spot, and the first thing he notices - other than the assault on his eyes - is the chill in his bones, though lessened, still aching deep inside.
There's silence until the car parks and the engine cuts out - a quiet thing, but a sudden shift in mood as the warm air stops blasting and a harsh cold descends.
Tony turns around his seat, opens his mouth, then seems to reconsider and gets out of the car, opening the door for Peter from the outside. "C'mon, kid," he says, quiet and gentle, "let's get you that shower."
Peter just smiles tightly and nods, following him into the elevator of the apartment complex and keeping his eyes half-closed at the bright lighting, arms curled tightly around his bag with nothing but the quiet whirr of machinery and the occasional pitter patter of water droplets hitting the metal floor.
Then again, Tony probably can't exactly hear any of that, so most likely it's just awkwardly silent.
Peter steals a glance sideways, only to see his usually suit-clad (or at least suit-trouser-clad, seeing as the jacket usually got tossed aside after ten minutes of tinkering and he routinely wore t-shirts with his suits) mentor wearing a worn-out band shirt and jogging bottoms as he taps away on his crazy-thin phone.
Which means, of course, that Peter had interrupted one of Tony's rare nights of decent rest, and probably woken up Pepper in the process.
He flushes red, ducking his head to his chest and clutching his bag tighter, pretending he doesn't notice a set of eyes on him not a moment later.
Tony clears his throat like he's going to say something, and Peter grits his teeth.
Then the elevator dings and the doors slide open, and he's saved.
He darts out and into the foyer of Tony's apartment, keeping his head down as his mentor sighs behind him and strolls out to join him.
Peter, of course, does the mature thing in this situation- and averts his eyes as Tony flounders for what to say, looking anywhere but those piercing eyes, because he feels pretty certain he'll crack if he makes eye contact, and everything will come rushing out like water flooding from a broken dam.
The apartment is a penthouse - of course - fairly high up with beautiful views of the cityscape, and it's about as fancy as you'd expect from a billionaire, not that it's new to Peter, who's been visiting (though mostly to the workshop) for the better part of a year.
Tony bought it after he sold Avengers' Tower, citing the need for a place in the city, and Peter was glad he didn't need to make hours-long drives up to the so-called Avengers' Compound or any other of his mentor's properties in order to make simple repairs or tinker on new tech once in a while.
Or, you know, crash after being rejected and unceremoniously kicked-out by his last living family in the middle of the night. That too.
"You know where the guest room is, kid," Tony says, seeming to finally decide how to begin this painfully stilted interaction between a couple of the most emotionally-repressed people to ever live.
Peter nods, because he fell asleep in the workshop once, after a particularly long and tiring day that included (but was not limited to): harassment from Flash, a surprise pop quiz in class, and a house fire where he barely managed to save a poor, terrified six-year-old.
He'd woken up, surprisingly, in a bed and not being shaken awake to trudge back to his home in Queens. Apparently, Tony had noticed his exhaustion and opted to ask his Aunt if he could stay the night, and then proceeded to carry Peter to the guest room.
Yeah. He was never not going to find that embarrassing
"Alright. Go have a shower and change out of those soaked clothes," his tone is perfunctory and factual - most people would say heartless, but Peter is not most people.
He can hear the slight tone underlying his mentor's usual voice: a tremble that betrays his fear and deep concern. He recognizes Tony's anxious ticks as he fidgets with his phone and goatee. He doesn't take the man's inability to express emotion personally, it's not his fault.
"Okay," Peter says quietly, turning and heading to the guest room, bag still clutched to his chest. Then, before he enters the hallway, he pauses and glances backwards. "Thanks you." He says quickly, and then scuttles off.
The guest room is bland but pretty, with a generic color palette and tasteful pops of gentle blues on the bedspread and various paintings that probably cost more than the entire apartment he grew up in.
He keeps his bag clutched close as he enters the ensuite, and cringes at his wide-eyed reflection - he looks terrible: dark bags line his eyes, mingled with clear tear tracks, and he is, to put it bluntly, soaked to the bone.
Tony wasn't far off when he said Peter looked like a drowned kitten (though, personally, he'd say he looks more like a drowned rat - one that just crawled out of the deepest, darkest hole and then proceeded to get washed down the gutter).
But that isn't the worst of it - that would be, well...
Slowly, begrudgingly, he places his bag to this side and screws up his face as his wet hoodie clings to his body, accentuating his curves in the worst way possible.
He can feel the loose fabric tape rubbing at his shirt, the stickiness where it's come loose and attached itself to everything it possibly could.
He can see the effect that's had.
Peter shakes his head harshly and looks away from the pitiful thing in the mirror, looking for the light switch and grimacing - of course nothing could go right for him, so no dimmer switch. It would be stupidly dangerous to shower in the dark in his state.
Then again, a perk of spider-stickiness is being unable to slip and hurt himself in the shower, so...
He clicks the light off and reluctantly strips as fast as he can, stepping into the shower, turning it on, and shivering with gratitude at the heat permeating his skin - it feels like the storm, but hot and comfortable, even as his extremities burn with the temperature change.
He closes his eyes, turning his head to the showerhead. He can feel the tape losing its adhesive properties and loosening by the second, but he's determined not to pay attention to it.
Soon, he adjusts to the heat and it's suddenly no longer enough to drown out the thoughts swirling in his mind - the constant cacophony of screams and accusatory voices and judging comments and badly-concealed whispers and years of the wrong name, wrong words, wrong wrong wrong-
He reaches out blindly, turning the shower knob sharply and hissing as the too-hot water hits his shoulders with intense force, feeling like a thousand tiny needles hitting him relentlessly. It hurts it hurts it hurts- but his head is quiet.
He relishes in the silence, in the echoing sounds of the storm he's created in the small space as mist rises and fills the room, cloying his lungs with the sweet scent of cleaning products and unfamiliar bodywash.
He feels like he's melting, like he is Icarus and the sun is setting him alight with fire and smoke, sending burning rivulets of hot wax down his skin as he plummets to the waves far below, and soon he will wash away with the tides and disappear into the depths, forgotten.
And, if he is Icarus, then Tony is his Daedalus - the man who gave him the confidence, even if he didn't know it, to reach for more than he had.
Still, he can't blame his mentor for this. In the end, it was Icarus' choice to reach beyond what he was warned.
May was his sun, and he flew too close.
His wax wings burned and he fell.
Now, he belongs to the waves.
--
His skin burns with the echoes of heat as he gets out of the shower, and promptly realizes his only clothes are currently in a puddle of water on the bathroom floor. So, towel wrapped around him, he leaves the room and prays he grabbed clothes in the five minutes he had before he was kicked onto the streets.
(He knows he didn't. He knows the contents of that bag like they're seared onto his skin, even though he'd packed it in a daze, with tears blurring his vision and venomous words ringing in his ears.)
It's a relief (and a surprise) when he finds a bundle of clothes set by the door, like someone had reached inside and placed them there before quickly retreating. They're basically pyjamas, so he pulls the trousers on without preamble, but pauses at the sight of the top.
It's big - both parts of the outfit are, and he's had to fasten the trousers tightly - but not big enough to conceal what he needs it to, not when his tape is loose and basically useless.
So, with a harsh sigh, he clenches his teeth and begins to pull. The first few aren't so bad, and then he gets to the ones that have been holding his chest flat for the better part of three, and, despite the rounded edges, he can see ugly blisters have formed at some of the edges.
His already pink skin is even pinker where he pulls the wet fabric tape off, and it stings like hell, leaving residue and marks all over.
When, finally, he's managed to get it all off, it's both a relief and a great disappointment all at once; he keeps cringing every time his eyes dart downward, and he can feel sticky residue clinging to various parts of his chest uncomfortably.
He only sits on the floor for about eight minutes before he steels his resolve and grabs the strips of tape in his bag, haphazardly cut into various lengths and rounded jerkily, in the privacy of his room, under the cover of night.
He covers the blisters with band-aids to protect them from the tape, and then moves on to the main task.
As he applies the strips, he hisses through his teeth as the sharp stings of protest from his still red-raw skin, feeling like a thousand ants biting at his skin insistently - still, he pushes through and, when he shoves the paper backs into the bin in the bathroom and pulls the shirt on, he can see himself in the mirror.
And that's worth the pain, ten times over.
--
When Peter heads back out into the kitchen area to chase a hunch, he's not at all surprised to see Tony sitting at the breakfast bar, working on something on his StarkPad. He watches, for a few seconds, and can quickly see the tension lining his mentor's body, the exhaustion hiding behind his shadowed eyes.
The guilt in his gut rolls over and doubles.
Clearing his throat, he enters the space properly, arms wrapped around himself even though he's way too hot with the long pyjamas and the only somewhat damp hoodie from his bag.
Tony turns to him and gives him a tired smile. "Hey there kiddo, have a nice soak?"
Peter shrugs, then feels rude and tries to return the smile, though he thinks it comes out as more of a grimace. "Yeah, thanks. Really needed that."
"No prob, Pete," he waves it off, and pauses. Peter can tell he wants to talk about. Well. Everything. But he stares for a few moments more and seems to reconsider. "Well, you should probably get some rest. Been a long night."
Peter can't help the grimace that brings, and he ducks his head in an attempt to hide it.
"Peter?"
Apparently, an unsuccessful attempt, going by the concern lacing Tony's voice.
He mumbles something about "it" being "nothing", he's not even sure himself, and generally looks anywhere but at the man speaking to him.
"Kid."
Reluctantly, he looks up, bringing a hoodie-d hand up to cover his mouth. "I..."
His voice cracks, and he cringes at the high-pitched tone, falling silent once again; the silence feels heavy, weighing him down as he flounders for words.
"I'm... not tired?" It comes out as a question, and Peter himself knows it's a terrible excuse - he's exhausted, and he looks the part, too.
He wants nothing more than to surrender to sleep and awaken to find it had all been a horrific nightmare, and to be in his bed back in Queens, listening to his aunt mumble to herself as she tries, and fails, to make pancakes after a long shift at work-
Tony raises an eyebrow. He looks thoroughly unimpressed, and about the same as when he first cornered Spider-Man on one of his patrols and Peter tried to use homework as an excuse - not his best moment, he knows.
Peter flushes even more and soon buckles under Tony's stare. "I... don't wanna be alone," he mutters, quiet and quick and practically unintelligible.
"C'mon, kid," Tony groans, faux-annoyed, "you know I'm not superpowered, I'm a normal 30-year-old guy, you've gotta speak up."
"Mr Stark, you've forty-six."
He waves a hand dismissively. "Potato, high-powered propulsion laser-"
"-what even-"
"-those are semantics. What'd you say, Pete?" He doesn't look like he's going to be able to be persuaded otherwise, so Peter sighs and looks away.
"I said. I just-" he sighs again, harshly this time, like he's mad at himself, and takes a deep breath. "I don't really wanna be on my own, right now."
Silence.
Stretching just long enough to make Peter regret saying anything at all and then-
"Alright, kid," Tony says, and Peter looks up to see a small, unsteady smile on his mentor's face. "How about some movies?"
Peter perks up, and the embarrassment washes away as they set up on the couch, turning the lights down and settling on The Little Mermaid.
He begins sitting a few feet from Tony, but over time he drifts, and the last thing he remembers is Ariel singing about wanting to be a human and being tired of living under the ocean; the last thing he wonders, before sleep claims him, is why?
He's not someone who demands the world adjusts for him and his experiences - he'd never insist a friend value shitty family just because his is all gone or no longer speaking to him - but Ariel ignores the beauty of the deep in favor of far-flung dreams of what could be.
And then he thinks of the older versions of the story - the only ones his Aunt could afford when he was little, with torn covers and hundred-year-old tellings of now-adapted Disney movies.
He thinks about how, in older versions, the Little Mermaid had not purely sought a prince to marry, but a way to obtain a soul and live forever in bliss, and he then he understands.
Because perhaps the Little Mermaid was not merely desperate for love, or smitten with Prince Charming's good looks, but was clinging to the promise of eternity.
In those versions, she sees how happy the prince is to marry the girl he'd fallen in love with all those years ago, and she chooses to throw herself to the waves rather than harm him to gain her immortality in the afterlife.
And she turns to seafoam.
Peter doesn't want her ending.
He doesn't want to wash away into the tides and disappear.
He mumbles something like, "I don't wanna be seafoam."
And he thinks he might hear a reply that goes a little like a pause, a gentle chuckle, and then, "Don't worry, kiddo. Get some sleep, I'll look out for you."
And then he slips into the darkness and disappears beneath its ebb and flow.
--
A room, and it's not his living room because it's a mile wide and ten meters tall, but he knows it's his living room, back in Queens, anyway.*
There are no windows but he knows it's night, and May is staring right at him, sitting on the other side of the room with piercing eyes. He can hear the rain outside, and it's loud like a heartbeat in his ears.*
He goes to speak, but his mouth is glued shut as though with taffy, and he tries to scream but the room eats the sound.*
And then May opens her mouth, and she's so far away, yet he can hear her as though she were right next to him. Except she sounds like a broken radio or a needle jumping tracks, static and fractured.*
"-you'll never be a-"
"How could you do this to me-"
And Peter is crying and his cheeks are wet and it's raining it's raining it's raining.
"Listen to me, honey, you're young, you can't know-"
"-are you even sure-"
The room is filling with water, and May's still sitting so far away, voice loud and static-ridden even as the water covers her and Peter panics, reaching for her and failing as the water sweeps him away and he struggles to stay above air.
-you know how I was raised, these things are just... hard for me." "I don't want to hurt you but-" "-don't you-" "why won't you-" "just try it out-" "-therapy-" "-you're so pretty-"
Her voice is overlapping with itself over and over and over and Peter is struggling against the tides and-
You'll always be $%(?!@ to me-
And then he's falling beneath the waves, and water fills his lungs until he chokes and chokes and-
--
Peter wakes with a sharp gasp and the sense of suffocating heat encasing him.
It takes a moment for him to reorient, and a few moments after that to calm his racing heart; he can hear his blood rushing in his ears, and his sweat feels like the water from his dream, but he manages to ground himself.
He's in the guest room, not the living room anymore, and that adds to the confusion, but soon he lays back into the bed from where he'd started upwards, and sighs heavily, squeezing his eyes shut tight as echoes of the nightmare play in his mind.
"It's okay," he says into the dark, insistent, "it was just..."
Except it wasn't just a bad dream, it's his reality, and that...
"It's okay," he repeats, instead of lying, and it feels like he's trying to convince the nightmare that it hadn't rattled him.
He lays there for a minute, then looks over at the curtained-windows and fights the urge to move.
A minute later, he's sitting on the floor, hoodie off, and leaning against the cool glass as he stares out at the cityscape.
He thinks of the life just past that pane of glass; of the children and the elderly and the cats and the pigeons and the cars and the oil lamps and the fluorescent signs. He can practically hear it all, can feel it like a heartbeat far greater than his own.
It seems like everything is out there. There are kind people and selfish people, dead and alive, supportive and... well.
He stares at the view, and the pulse of the city lulls him back to sleep.
--
Peter awakens to the light of dawn, the smell of breakfast, the quiet sound of laughter, and aching joints.
He really shouldn't have slept curled up on the floor.
He stretches out like a cat, and then pauses as a certain realization washes over him - he'd fallen asleep on the couch, and woken up to his nightmare in the guest room, which means...
If he could see himself, Peter's pretty sure he'd be beet red.
He'd been too tired to think on it last night, but... did Tony Stark really carry him to bed? Again?
As the embarrassment slowly fades, a fresh wave of breakfast-smell washes into the room, and all else is forgotten as his stomach growls loudly.
First things first: breakfast. Then he can deal with... everything else.
Pulling his hoodie back on despite the discomfort of the heat, he heads out to the kitchen, and pauses in the doorway as he spots Tony and Pepper making waffles.
He stands and watches for a while, feeling awkward and, frankly, like an intruder, until the clatter of a pan startles him, and Pepper catches his eye.
She smiles kindly, gentle and soft, and it looks so much like May's that it makes his heart ache in his chest. "Good morning, Peter," she greets, not too loudly, "did you sleep well?"
"Uh." He pauses, mentally cycles through his rest, and then opts not to divulge the details. He shrugs. "It was sleep," he offers lamely, with a poor excuse of a smile.
She grimaces slightly, and he's not surprised that she sees through his bullshit - not after years seeing through Tony's.
"Good..." he glances at his watch, "morning, kid. Just about made it."
Peter raises an eyebrow, searches his pockets for his phone, and sees it's 11:57am. He also sees a distinct lack of messages, missed calls, and any evidence of attempted communication from his aunt.
He chews on his lip and tries to ignore the gaping chasm in his chest as he shoves the phone back into his pocket and forces a smile.
"It smells nice," he comments, "so I'm guessing Mr Stark didn't cook."
Tony puts on an exaggerated expression of hurt, and Pepper just laughs.
"How dare you- I'll have you know I make an excellent alfredo."
Pepper leans over and says, in a stage-whisper, "I put him on silverware duty." She winks, and Peter chuckles.
It almost feels like a normal morning - like he didn't spend a good chunk of last night sitting on a random rooftop in Queens in a rainstorm, even though he definitely could've found cover.
(That's a new thought, and it makes him think - did he want to drown, or not?)
"So," Pepper says, cheerily enough, "breakfast?"
Peter isn't all that hungry, but he also knows he should be starving, so. "Yeah," he says, smile faltering only slightly, "yeah, thank you, Ms Potts."
"Pepper," she admonishes, gentle and teasing but firm, and in a tone that accepts no argument. May has a tone like that.
"Pepper," he relents, and ducks his head as she rewards him with a smile and a plate of waffles placed in front of him, piled high and activating his appetite.
"Hey!" Tony whines, "I make you a suit and let you in my workshop and I'm still 'Mr Stark', but Pep just says the word and suddenly she's 'Pepper'?"
She steps over to him and kisses his cheek, looking at him with fond exasperation. "I'm not sure why you're confused, sweetie," she says, like it's entirely obvious. Tony just pouts dramatically and she chuckles. "I'm off to a meeting, I'll be home for dinner."
Pepper sends Peter a smile as she leaves, which he returns shakily, and then it's just him and Tony once more.
"Lucky you, kid," Tony smirks, ruffling Peter's hair while ignoring his half-hearted protests, "Pepper rarely ever makes breakfast. She's a busy woman."
"Well, yeah," Peter replies, swatting away Tony's hand and cutting into the waffles, "she's, like, the most successful CEO in the world. She runs Stark Industries."
Tony starts grumbling something about it being his business, but Peter can tell he doesn't mean it - he caught the proud glint in his eye a moment earlier, and it makes Peter wonder if May ever used to look like that when she told people how well he was doing in school.
Or, well-
"Earth to Spider-Kid?"
Peter jumps, startled, and then flushes furiously, shoving some waffles into his mouth to hide it.
"You're a real space cadet, huh?"
Peter shrugs, and eats more waffle. They're really good.
"Hmm." He doesn't seem entirely appeased, but he drops it, so Peter counts it as a win. "Oh, right." Tilting his head in question, Peter watches as Tony grabs a large vase of flowers and moves it to the center of the breakfast bar. "Pepper's been getting into flower arranging, what d'you think, kid?"
He glances over it - Peter's not exactly a pro at flower arranging, but he thinks it looks nice, and he says so. That seems to be the right answer, because Tony puffs up like a pigeon.
And then his eyes catch on the lilacs, and he swallows the bite of waffles through the lump in his throat.
They're amid the bouquet of other flowers and perfectly innocuous, if not for the way the smell reminds him of warm hugs and loving smiles, of late night hot chocolate and light-hearted scoldings.
May loves them. For the past six years, nearly every day, she's worn a gentle lilac fragrance she buys from a friend of a friend who makes homemade perfumes. For that very reason, it's one of Peter's favourite smells.
Or, rather, it was.
Before, the scent reminded him of home and comfort and a bone-deep sense of safety that he never thought could fade or falter.
Now, he just feels sick.
He looks down at the waffles, and his throat closes up.
The ever-present guilt increases even as he feels sick at the thought of eating, and that - alongside the knowledge that he needs to eat more than even the average teenager - is enough to convince himself to at least try.
So he cuts up another bite and puts it in his mouth, reminding himself how much he likes it, but the waffle feels doughy and thick, clogging up his throat, and the sauce is sweet and cloying, sneaking up into his nose until he feels utterly ill.
With a swig of water and a rough gulp, he manages to swallow it down, and it drags like razorblades down his throat and settles like rocks in his stomach.
He pushes his plate away, and tugs at the collar of his hoodie, feeling horribly sweaty and overwhelmed.
Tony looks over at him, brows furrowed, and tilts his head. "Looking a little rough around the edges, kid. You sure you're not overheating on me?"
Peter hunches protectively, replying perhaps a bit too snappy with a short, "I'm fine."
Raising an eyebrow and raising his hands in a placating motion, Tony leans back a tad. "Got it, kid. You're a-okay, no teenage angst to be seen."
"Sorry," he mumbles, cheeks flushing as he ducks his head, hiding his face in his hoodie and altogether feeling like an ungrateful brat. Tony was being way nicer than he had to be - driving out to pick him up in the early hours of the morning, letting him stay in the penthouse, even making him breakfast...
Tony rolls his eyes, reaching over and ruffling Peter's curls into more of a mess than they already were. "Don't sweat it, kid. You've had a long night." A pause. "Speaking of..."
Peter tenses. Water trickles into his lungs like blood, and he swears he can taste both in his mouth.
"Can we... not?" He asks, quietly, looking up at his mentor from beneath his eyelashes, and instantly feels a hundred different types of pathetic.
But Tony doesn't get angry, or annoyed, or demand answers - he just lets out a deep breath and looks deep into Peter's soul with those deep, whiskey-brown eyes, and a look that he thinks just might be concern. "Sure," he says, instead of the hundred things he could - should - say. "Hey, how d'you feel about some lab time?"
He has to bite his lip to contain a smile as he breathes out a shaky sigh of relief, hands quivering where he's hidden them under the table, and the fluid drains from his throat to clear his airways.
"Sounds like a plan," he agrees, and only gives one last, regretful glance back towards his unfinished breakfast before he jumps up from his seat and tries not to think about the threat lurking on the horizon - or, rather, just under it, threatening to drag him down into the watery depths and hold him there until he rots.
Running away is usually a good strategy for problems in life, right?
--
He didn't mean to get all personal with Tony, he swears he didn't, but it just sort of... happens.
They're tinkering for a long while, working on a variety of different projects, and the conversation ebbs and flows steadily, drifting from one topic to another, until they reach school - which would be great, if they were talking about the classes.
But Tony tells a story about one of his many stupid drunken mistakes as a teen, and, then, well.
"I had a bit of a rough time as a kid," Tony admits, "I mean, I was a rich little prick, but I went to MIT way too early and I had no idea how to interact with any of the other kids."
Peter nods - he can understand that. "I, uh," he hesitates, but he's so tired of filtering everything he says in fear of giving something away, "I haven't always had the, uh, easiest time, either."
Tony snorts. "Oh, really? I can't imagine why, Mr 'Science-Pun-Shirts-Are-Cool'."
"Hey! They're not meant to be cool, they're funny."
"Uh huh," he drags out the words and glances up from his project to give his best look of disbelief. Peter rolls his eyes.
"It's not really that, anyway," Peter half-mumbles, stabbing half-heartedly at the circuitry in front of him with a screwdriver.
Sure, it didn't exactly help, but he goes to a nerd school, where good grades and nerdy interests are basically the norm. And, despite being a fancy nerd school, Midtown has strict scholarly requirements that tend to worm out the odd students who manage to get in based on money alone.
"Oh? Do enlighten me, then."
Peter is quickly coming to regret this topic of conversation. "Nothing," he says, and grabs a pair of wire cutters to trim the excess on his project.
But, of course, Tony is like a dog with a bone, and he lets nothing go.
"Come on, kid," Tony wheedles, "if it's not the nerd-shtick you've got going on, and it's definitely not a bad attitude, then what is it? I know kids can be pricks, but they usually have some sort of reason, even if it's a really bad one that only makes sense in their tiny teen brains."
Peter huffs, cracking a smile against his will, and Tony latches onto that with a victorious grin and expectant eyes.
"You're worse than the gossip-hungry kids at school, Mr Stark."
"I'm Tony Stark, I'm Mr Gossip-Hungry." He pauses, frowning, as Peter stares at him, unimpressed, with raised eyebrows. "Nevermind. Forget that. That's a shi- uh, bad title."
Peter just rolls his eyes and turns back to his work.
"Come on, kid, I've shared mine, give me something."
Penis Parker!
You're pathetic, $%(?!@.
Peter smiles tightly and doesn't look up. He sees Tony's smile falter in his peripheral vision as the older man picks up on his discomfort, and the air feels thick and heavy around him, like syrup.
"You know they're idiots, right kid?" His voice is softer now, and it cuts right through all Peter's ironclad defences.
The skin on his chest stings like sunburn.
The heat of his hoodie makes sweat gather at the nape of his neck and pool uncomfortably.
When Tony speaks again, it's hesitant. "Does it have anything to do with why May-"
"Part of it is money," he spits out, but all he can focus on is how high-pitched and wrong his voice is, how much effort it takes to keep it low, "their parents all paid their ways to Midtown, and I'm the scholarship kid with thrift-store hoodies and duct-tape sneakers."
Tony's gaze darts down to Peter's feet for a moment, and he pulls them under his chair, an embarrassed flush rising high on his cheeks. He waits for Tony to make an excuse and change topics, or push him to talk about May, or tell him other people have it harder or-
"That's shitty, kid, I'm sorry."
Peter's head darts up and he looks over at Tony's earnest expression and-
He laughs. Loud, and long, and hard enough to be painful.
Tony just stares, concern evident. Peter laughs harder, and he's still not sure why.
"Yeah," he says, eventually, breath still too-fast, "yeah, it's real shit. But that's life, right?"
"Maybe," Tony concedes, slowly, "or maybe that's high-school."
*Everyone's invited! Except Parker, of course.
Piss off, weirdo.
Please don't do this to me, $%(?!@. You know I love you but-
"Yeah." Peter says, again. "Maybe."
There's a long silence, and it feels like nothing. It's not long, or syrupy, or awkward, or thick, or quick, or any other poetic bullshit.
It's just silence.
"You know, Pete... I'd like to help out. Just-" he cuts off as Peter opens his mouth to protest, "hear me out." Peter frowns, but nods. "I.. care about you, kid, and I don't like seeing you struggle when I know I can help out. So, maybe I could, I don't know, help your Aunt out with bills once in a while."
The silence turns frigid and sharp.
He feels like he's breathing through ice.
I... can't accept this, $%(?!@.
Get out! You ungrateful freak, you stole my niece from me-
"-the essentials, at least. I have the ability to help, and I want to, kid." A pause. Peter's not sure for how long, because he's not listening. "Let me help you, Peter."
*I'll always love you-
You have five minutes to leave before I-
Penis Parker dropped her dick-
Hey look, it's the tr-
"I'm trans," he blurts, shocked even as the words pass his teeth. He doesn't dare look up as the world turns ice-cold and silent around him, just nibbles at his bottom lip, stares at the floor, and tries not to feel like he's drowning. Then, "That's... that's why. May, she... she's really religious, a-and she just..."
He trails off, because there are no words to describe, to justify it. He knows that, and still...
"So, yeah. Can't live with her a-anymore. S-so don't worry about. That. Stuff. Um."
He takes a shuddery breath as the silence stretches - for what feels like an eternity, but he knows is more like five seconds - and it feels like he's drawing water into his lungs with each inhalation.
No, not water- oil.
There's motor oil seeping into his lungs and it feels worse than drowning because it's drowning and suffocating at the same time, and he didn't know it could get any worse than that-
And then, all of a sudden, there are warm, tentative arms around him, and he becomes abruptly aware of the sound that refuses to filter down to him, on the ocean floor as he is.
He closes his eyes, and drinks in the warmth and the smell of coffee and the feel of arms holding him close.
"That's it, buddy," a gentle voice says, slightly shaky, as though unused to such soft tones, "breathe slowly, alright? Everything's okay."
The voice is so certain, and kind, but Peter knows deep down that it's not okay, and it doesn't feel like it ever will be again.
But he takes another breath, and then another, and each one feels a little more like air, until the oil has drained from his lungs and the water from his ears, and he can hear Tony more clearly.
"Don't worry, Peter," he says, "I've got you."
"I'm sorry," Peter chokes out. For getting snot on his shirt, for calling him late at night, for having to deal with the mess that he is, for-
Tony shushes him gently. "No, kiddo. Don't."
"I'm sorry," he says again, clinging to them like a lifeline. "Mr Stark I- I'm sorry. 'M sorry. I- I can fix it-" -fix me- "I can- I'm sorry-"
"Look at me, Peter."
It takes about a minute of quiet pushing until Peter pulls back enough to look up at the whiskey-brown eyes above him.
"You have absolutely nothing to apologize for, okay? Nothing at all. All you have to do now is one thing, alright? Can you do one thing for me?"
Slowly, Peter nods.
"Just let me help you, kid."
There's a long, silent pause.
The water has receded but it's still there, it's always there, and he's been holding onto this lifeline for so long, afraid it'll break, but it's still here.
Maybe Icarus wasn't foolish to reach for the sun - maybe it's only human to crave the light on your back after a lifetime in the dark.
Maybe the waves were gentle when they claimed him into their embrace, and turned him into seafoam so he might float safely forevermore.
Maybe his father dived and caught Icarus before he could hit the water, and his wings were strong enough to carry them both.
Maybe none of that matters, because Peter isn't Icarus and it isn't hubris to fly too close to the sun when the sun is your Aunt and all you want is to feel her love, unimpeded by layers of wax and carefully constructed deception.
"Okay." Peter says it quietly, like he's afraid the word will shatter the dream-state he's ended up in, if he dare speak any louder, claim any more space than he is allotted.
Tony pulls Peter's head to his chest, and his heart beats steady beyond metal casing.
And then he's treading water.