Work Text:
The brunette turned their head away from the grave stone, the heels of his hands coming up to dig into their eyelids, wiping aggressively at tears. His knees dug softly into the frost covered dirt, a foot or two away from the stone plaque looming in front of them like a selfish reminder of what could have been if a different choice was made. A shuddered breath escaped his lips as a hand slipped from his eyes, moving to tug the dangly bits of their beanie down more. The typical obnoxious bright red and yellow of most Iron Man themed merch items has faded from use over the past multiple winters since Tony Stark had made a sacrifice to the world. Peter knew it wasn't for the world. He knew it was for him, that's all Pepper, Happy, and May would tell them when faced with the topic.
Dragging his other hand down their face, Peter tilted his head back towards the grave in front of him. Small flakes of white fell onto the stonehenge, melting near immediately and only leaving a wet patch behind as a reminder of what once was. (Peter ignored the feeling of ironicness at the sentiment. They swore the irony wasn't lost on him.) The young adult shifted his sitting, adjusting so their legs were off to the side. using one of their hands to prop himself up against the ground. For a moment, he stared silently at the marker, trying to keep himself from glaring. But it was so hard not to, oddly. He would never have glared at Tony when he was alive. Not even when he was pissed, not even when the man had scolded him for doing something reckless. He’d respected him too much for that.
And yet, now?
Now, he felt something twisted inside his chest, an unfamiliar bitterness he hated himself for. And it took him a while to figure out why—why there was a tight, boiling frustration deep in his ribs, why he could barely think about his mentor without feeling the prickle of anger beneath the grief.
It took a while, but it eventually clicked. It slotted into his mind like a missing puzzle piece. The last piece of information needed to solve some sort of case. Suddenly, the subtle anger that boiled when he had thought about his beloved mentor since Peter had made the choice for everyone to forget about him all made sense. It wasn't like he was actually mad at Tony. It's at the idea of what could have been if Tony had just.. never shown up on his couch after school. If Tony had never decided to track him down, never decided that some scrawny kid from Queens was worth his time, worth his mentorship, worth his sacrifice.
“Out of everyone you could have chosen, why did you have to pick me?” The question escaped before he even fully processed it. His voice was quiet, nearly lost to the wind. But he needed to say it. He needed something —anything—to break the unbearable silence. He dug his bitten-down fingernails into the damp ground, ignoring how the moisture seeped into his skin, how the chill made his hands numb. His breath came out in small, uneven puffs of white against the frigid air. "It's not like I was the only vigilante around, y'know? Daredevil was out and about. Far longer than I was. I have no doubt you had him on your radar too. The great Tony Stark, not knowing about someone well known in a community? Crazy thoughts."
Peter sighed, eyes flicking down to the small bouquet he had managed to buy to replace the wilted one from their last pay day. A scoff bubbled up his throat, but it came out wobbly. A new wave of tears threatened him behind his eyes, and they swallowed roughly, taking a deep breath to steady themself. "What made you look at the videos you had of me and think, 'Yeah. That's the one I want to help me.' Huh? It just- it just doesn't make sense, Mr. Stark. Why'd you pick me? Gods, all this for me . I don't– I don't understand why, sir. And you can't even fucking tell me!"
His voice cracked at the end, and Peter clenched his jaw, breathing in through his nose sharply. A weak, stuttered laugh bubbled up his throat, but it sounded more like a choked sob. He tilted his head down, staring at the ground, watching as tiny snowflakes settled onto the dirt, melting into nothingness. He let the silence linger. Let the weight of it press onto his shoulders like a lead blanket. The cold bit into his fingers, but he didn’t move. He let himself sit there, let himself grieve, let himself miss Tony. Because no matter how much anger or confusion he carried in his chest, it didn’t change the truth. And the truth was that Tony Stark cared for him. He had sacrificed himself and everything he knew, for five damned minutes with some stupid kid from Queens. How dumb is that? (Peter knew it wasn't dumb; he was so grateful for Tony. But what made him so worth losing everything ?)
Even now, months later, Peter knew he could never forgive his mentor for that.
He was so beyond thankful for Mr. Stark. For the chances he gave the teen, and for the time he had given for Peter to be with May, for May's last idea of him was that he ran off on a school trip. But Tony had left everything. He had a wife, a daughter. He had a real, blood, perfectly amazing child. And he had so much more, he could have lived in content, maybe a bit of regret for the others, but he could have had it good. Yet he threw it all away for Peter. The kid didn't know how to process that, even now.
He looked up, shoving the small collection of flowers towards the grave. Their hand lingered, and he tried to ignore the shakes and random jolts in his fingers. Hesitantly, they reached up, softly tracing the lettering of the header on the stone. 'Anthony Edward Stark.' He swallowed thickly. He’d never really thought about Tony’s full name before. He’d only ever heard Pepper say it when she was pissed, marching into the lab to scold him for ignoring some important meeting.
God, Peter would kill to hear that again.
Dropping his hand from the stone, the boy shuffled to his feet. Snowflakes stuck to the fringe of his hair that poked out from the old beanie, wetting the curls. With a sigh, Peter looked around the area, frowning. He reached down, picking up his raggedy backpack, easily swinging it over his shoulder in a practiced motion.
"I've gotta go, May is waiting, I'm sure." He gave the stone a small, shaky smile. He turned on his heel, beginning to walk toward the exit, his boots crunching against the thin layer of snow.
Then, suddenly, he stopped.
Something in his chest tightened, and before he could stop himself, he twisted his head back, his gaze lingering on the grave like he had forgotten something.
"I miss you, Tony." His voice was so small, barely above a whisper. His throat burned as he forced the words out. "I love you. I'm sorry."
A subtle crack broke through his words, and before his emotions could swallow him whole, he turned away. One hand shoved itself deep into the pocket of his jacket, while the other reached up, wiping at the fresh tears trailing down his cheeks. They began walking away again, using the silence to try and forget how after going to May's grave, there wouldn't be anyone to truly go to.