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The world is plenty loud at all times, but right now and to Peter, it seems exceptionally quiet.
Only the cabinet lights are on in the kitchen, making everything feel half filled in with warmth, while the rest for the picture is out of focus. Peter hasn’t slept in—well, he doesn’t know. It’s been at least a day, but all nighters are common. It’s just that this one feels...heavy. Weighted, like it matters more.
And he guesses it does. There’s a difference between studying for a chemistry test and waiting. For Tony.
He shakes his head, pushing himself up onto the island, cold underneath him. Four in the morning, and it’s still deceptively dark outside, not like morning at all. Until seven in the winter, it feels like the day will never come.
He tucks his feet underneath him, opening a package of tortilla chips as quietly as he can, which isn’t accomplished that well. Chip bags are certifiably one of the loudest things known to man, maybe even louder than Tony’s thrusters. Hah.
The dishwasher beeps once, then twice, having been started at one. If Peter’s going to be up, he’s at least going to be useful . The dishes are washed, the counters wiped, the floor swept. His room is completely clean, all his clothes hung up or in drawers, all of his books on the shelf and his Lego sets in their designated spots. The bathroom is sparkling (not right now, but when the lights are on) and the shower bleached.
Everything is—clean. Waiting. For Tony to come home and say, “Good job, kiddo! You’ve kept this place nice while I’ve been away!” And everything is muffled, right now, even Peter’s automatic chewing, because his hearing will crack back open when he hears Tony’s voice again.
That's how it works. Tony is away. Tony comes home. Everything is alright again.
Peter scoops out salsa—extra hot—with the chips, swallowing more than he does any chewing. It doesn’t feel right, going down. His hands don’t feel right on his body, either.
There's shuffling down the corner, the sound of a new heartbeat joining Peter's quieter one, and then Steve pokes his head around the corner. His hair is mussed, but not enough that it looks like he was actually sleeping. He’s in his pajamas, but his socks are on, which he never wears to bed, so Peter deduces that he was just sitting in his room.
”Hi, Pete” Steve whispers, but against everything, it sounds like cymbals clashing right next to Peter's ear, and he winces. Shakes himself. Nods a hello and shovels more salsa in his mouth. Sweet sweet capcacin.
Steve shuffles forwards, beaten down like slackened cardboard, wet and now crumpled. His mouth is flat and cracked open at the edges like he’s been picking at his lips, and there are dark circles under his eyes. Peter reckons he doesn’t look much better—a little empty, still waiting. Like a dog with a dead owner and no food to be seen. Bandages wrapped around both his arms, like a mummy someone forgot to finish.
The faucet turns on. The sounds of a glass getting filled, although Peter’s turned away. Hands holding the cup but not actually taking a sip. Quiet contemplation is extraordinarily loud, like static that’s been turned up all the way.
”Couldn’t sleep?” Steve offers, and Peter wants to snap. Finish his chips and then pace until the sun rises, retreating back to his room so it looks like he slept, and then duck into the kitchen at nine to greet the rest of the team. Tony’s team, though. He’s the tagalong, sidekick, whatever. Steve ambled in and Peter knows they’re all allowed this space, but it was his time.
Peter shrugs and chooses not to mention that he didn’t even try. He’s waiting, and that’s more important than a functioning body.
Steve hums softly, finally taking a small gulp of his water. It sounds like an ending, more like punctuation than an actual action. Signifying Peter's turn in the conversation.
Peter doesn’t take it, the interaction hanging flat between them, like the two branches that don’t quite meet. Peter’s hunched form, spine extending out to form a shaky bridge that won’t support any weight. And Steve’s, like stepping stones too slick to traverse, so both are stranded.
”I know it’s been.” He chews his words, kisses his teeth while Peter resolutely ignores him, all the politeness forced into him by aunt May gone. “Hard.” Steve finishes, lamely, going back to rest tiredly on the counter. What’s a hero without a little bit of fatigue, right?
(Peter feels like a shell, but not one of the sturdy curved ones at the beach. Like geckos shed skin, ready to be consumed for nutrients.)
Peter snorts, hollow. The sound echoes around the room, again and again until it sounds like the buzzing fridge.
”Understatement.” He replies, because he doesn’t know how else to respond. How to say, ‘every day I don’t feel like dying, but it feels close. Like if I shuffle a little more forwards I’ll tip over the edge.’
Google search: how to explain that everything feels wrong?
Google search: how much potassium is in a banana?
Google search: what are the likelihood’s of dying every day?
”Yeah, I know.” And at least there’s some solidarity there, although it isn’t the same. They’re two fruits scraped out, but different kinds. Steve, a watermelon, fleshy parts gone and now just rotting outside. And Peter, a grapefruit, completely bitter.
Steve refills his cup, even though it’s only half empty. The symbolism is lost on Peter, because he recognizes it as a nervous, broken action. Going through the motions of everything when the older ones haven’t yet been lost.
(He still clicks the button for floor ninety one, and then has to remind himself to step out of the elevator. There’s nothing left there. Nothing he’s ready to see, at least.)
”I’ll see you in a few hours. Or not. Okay?” Steve gets out, his hands not quite clenched but close. Trying to hold onto something neither of them can see.
”You don’t have to...leave.” Peter struggles out. Both of them inhabit this space, like a cold blue bowl. Peter’s not the only scoop of ice cream in town.
(God he wants to go to bed. But he’s waiting.)
Steve peers at him, although Peter doesn’t see it, just feels his gaze, calculating.
The man finally smooths out, like a piece of paper. Still obviously crumpled and bent, but closer to what it was before. His hands are slacker as he grips his elbows, sharper than they were a month ago.
“Do you want to talk? Or be quiet? I’m not great at this whole...discussion thing.” Peter smiles, shoulders rising up in the impression of a ‘hah, me too’ and also ‘I don’t know’ and also ‘I feel like I’m swimming in oil slick, like I’m sick and drowning at the same time, but not even completely submerged.’
“There isn’t really much to say.” Except there’s really too much to say, actually, so many words that when Peter opens his mouth, all his thoughts jam up his throat so nothing comes out.
And for everything that Steve has been through, it’s never been handling his own emotions while trying to connect with a wayward teenager. But at least he’s trying, Peter supposes.
”I’m here—all the team is here—if you need us. We aren’t going to—you have people.” And there it is. They’re getting closer to the reason why Peter and Steve are alone together in the tower's kitchen at four in the morning. Closer to why they both look like dulled versions of themselves, why Peter can’t make his way any farther down the hall past his own door.
”I know.” I won’t be going to you, though, Peter thinks. He screws the lid back on the salsa and untucks his legs from under him, shifting so he’s facing Steve.
”But I don’t want to exchange memories or whatever. It’s just—too hard. Too final. To understand that what we have left is all we’re ever going to have left.” Peter’s voice is quiet, even to himself, but Steve raises his eyebrows and adopts a pained look. Fingers white over his arms, eyes narrowed in thought and understanding. Posture stiffer now, like a corpse reaching the stage of rigor mortis.
(A body pliant underneath his hands, or at least he assumes so. Everything feels numb or like metal.)
”I get that. He would want you to make new memories, though.” Peter frowns, the breath knocked out of him, heart beating exceptionally fast.
”Did Aunt May send you?” Because he’s been spending too much time at the tower, and the five years his aunt mourned him don’t feel so big when Peter can’t remember them. Not when he can barely muster up any emotion except apathy or the hope of waiting. Of denial.
Steve looks slightly chagrined, head ducking a few centimeters. His stance is defiant and caught red handed and completely in agreement. Steve shrugs, and there are many things he is, but a good liar isn’t one of them.
”She’s worried and just—wants to make sure that you’re okay.” His words sound rehearsed, if anything, like he practiced for this exact confrontation. Peter’s anger surges up, and then the fight leaves him at being so predictable.
”Yeah, well. I’m alive, aren’t I? That says a lot.” And Steve knows it’s true, it has to. That after—after the Snap and after Thanos and after their entire line of work, being alive means so much more than it usually does.
”Mhm.” He nods, and to Peter it sounds like Steve is just humoring him. Saying yes but also ‘I’m not going to fight with you. You're too fragile for that.’ He feels the familiar flightiness rise back up, the urge to run back to his room, curl up on his bed and know that he is triumphing over sleep. That he is tired but he is still fighting and still alive and that has to mean something.
”You can tell her I’m fine!” He hisses, fists clenched and chip bag abandoned. He feels like a spring, wound up and close to breaking from tension.
”If you want.” And Peter knows he’s being baited. He knows it. There’s literally nothing else that could be happening right now, a confrontation within a confrontation. One with his Aunt, with Steve, with himself.
”I am alive and that means I’m fine, Steve.” The soldier tilts his head, nods it slightly. Looks Peter in the eye, or maybe a little to the left.
”If you say so.” Peter doesn’t know what it is. The fact that he hasn’t really cried, the fact that he’s still waiting, holding out hope. The fact that everything seems so big because he’s just exhausted. The fact that Steve is just so—immovable, even though it’s obvious he’s hurting in his own way too.
”I am! I fucking am! Tony is gone and I’m still here and that means I’m doing pretty good! It doesn’t matter if I don’t—don’t sleep or eat or— or whatever, because he isn’t here to see it, is he?” Peter breaks off, biting his lip. Trying so desperately hard to not break all over the counter in a sticky, sappy mess. “He’s gone, Steve. He’s gone, and I’m here, and he’s never going to see that.”
And there’s some quote about how you can’t hold back the River.
And although he thinks he’s strong—he isn’t. Not against the tidal flow of pure emotion against his skin, welling up like a tsunami in his eyes, closing like a swamp in his throat.
Peter hunches forwards, the tears coming hot and fast. Running over his lips, down his throat. Landing on the counter and his hands, held tight together. He’s shaking, violently. Sobbing loudly no matter how quiet he’s trying to be.
Fuck this. Fuck Tony’s death. Fuck the plot of land that gets to have him while Peter doesn’t.
This whole thing—Tony being gone, his dad being gone, and Peter an orphan practically three times over. Pepper, a widow. The team unmoored and a world mourning for someone they barely knew. This whole idea of Peter having to wake up and eat, get himself hydrated, make himself move and interact with other people when he can barely look at himself without feeling sick.
Steve's arms wrap around his shoulders, although not tightly. With enough room to move away and push him back.
Peter waits, feeling unmoored. Feeling like he’s lost his tether or anchor or something.
And then he’s grabbing onto Steve, holding on desperately. His face in the man's chest, sobbing violently, shivering and trembling and wishing Tony were here. He recognizes that Steve is, he does, and he’s grateful. But it doesn’t stop the cold pit that’s been eating away at him for an entire month while he steadfastly ignores it.
Tony gone. His dad gone. And he feels scraped out but also too filled up with emotion. Like any moment he’ll snap or break or something and—
Steve clutches him back, both of them on the worst side of desperate. With barely enough room to breathe between the two of them just—
Promise me you’re alive. Promise me you are solid. Together we can make another day, trying to remember and get past the things that happened yesterday. The sunset we leave behind.
Peter's spine hurts, and it’s strange that he feels it, because nothing really compares to how much his chest aches. But his fingers are stiff and a month and a half full of days spilling out of his mouth, unstitched and now loose, practically screaming into Steve’s chest. Screaming for everything they have all lost. Screaming because god—what does it mean that he’s alive? Why does it even matter anymore?
Something comes back to him: his Aunt and Uncle looking at a Facebook post, a recent passing. “We’re too young to have our friends dying” May had said, Ben nodding solemly with all the wisdom of a man who recognizes that death is closer than it was yesterday. And Peter thinks yes, I’m too young to have all my loved ones dead. I’m too young to be hesitant to make friends. I’m too young. Tony was too young.
Parents should never have to bury their children. And children should never have to bury their parents. The whole thing is unfair, because unless they all die in one horrific accident or planned suicide, a part of a family will bury another part of the family.
Steve picks him up, and Peter wraps his arms tighter around Steve’s shoulders. His lips are wet with spit and his face feels raw, like it’s been sewn back up after surgery. His teeth and whole mouth feel numb and still—
Steve is holding him like he’s a child, settling onto the couch and rocking him. Not saying anything, just holding him as he shrivels up and wails about the unfairness of it all, two clumps of Steve’s shirt in his hands. The boughs of his arms shaking in the wind, the over story of his body trembling under a storm only he can feel.
His eyes are tight and Tony is gone. Gone. In the ground, covered in dirt. Surrounded by eulogies and wilting flowers and fuck, what is Peter to do but shake against the force of his grief?
going, going, gone.
Left without meaning to, except he did mean to go, and Peter can’t even be hurt by it. Tony wanted a different way out, he knows it. Wanted to come home that evening and hold Peter tightly and talk about everything he had missed, get started on new trips and new projects after they had each slept for a good week. Kissed pepper, held her tight.
Tony had promised he wouldn’t leave. And Peter understands that promises are broken all the time, he just hadn’t expected it to be so soon.
The world is tilting, and all the shadows in the room look like Tony’s arms, his eyes, his sweatpants covered in grease. Everything looks like Tony and also his abscences and Peter’s crying harder now, if possible. Steve has the back of his head cradled in a hand, the other rubbing his back, and Peter is so tired.
He feels wrung out. Snapped in half. Breathing which is unfair, heart beating and he should be guilty about it, but he’s just terrified.
This. What they have been given. What they will eventually lose.
What they have right now.
Peter feels like a child, and he is. Sixteen is nothing, not against the couple of seconds he got with Tony. The times they looked at each other and thought home and there was no worry of–of ruin and some days it felt like they were so alive, they would never die. Not in any way that mattered.
But it mattered. Matters. Peter bites his tongue and feels like Antony, mourning and angry and so fucking scared.
Steve shifts, Peter’s hair becoming damp from the man's own tears, and theres the sound of the washing machine shaking to a stop. A light burns out somewhere down the hall. The faucet dripping every few seconds.
The clock ticking to five in the morning, still smothering dark outside, but the morning promising to come.