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Tony stepped into the room and quietly shut the door as if someone was in there. Hope fluttered in his chest that maybe, by some miracle his apprentice would be asleep on the ceiling or somewhere weird like that.
When did Tony Stark ever actually get lucky?
Tony made sure the door was locked as he laid down in the bed and shoved the boy's pillow in his face. God, it smelled like teenage boy and not the good kind. There was a suspicious hint of apple and granola that was rotting, like it'd been there for weeks.
It probably had been, Tony hadn't been in here long enough not to cry.
He couldn't look at a picture of Peter without a lump forming in his throat and having to excuse himself.
"Peter, Peter!" Tony screamed, emerging immediately from the Iron Man suit. "Eyes open, buddy, please."
Tony's knees hit the pavement next to motionless Spider-Man, he was kneeling in a puddle of blood. The heroes blood, blood coming out of bullet holes in his chest. Three bullet holes, one right under where his heart was supposed to be pumping. Tony couldn't help but put his hands over it to stop some of the bleeding, stop some of his pain.
It didn't matter because Peter's chest wasn't rising and his eyes were shut and his heart wasn't beating.
"Kid, I told you to keep your eyes open." He said, taking his bloody hands away to rip off the mask. He gagged at the tear-stained cheeks as he cupped the boy's face. "I know you don't like listening, Pete, but when I say keep your eyes open, you keep 'em open."
The teenager didn't stir like Tony half-expected him to. He didn't flash a big dopey smile and apologize, he didn't scoff and say 'I'm fine, Mr. Stark!' Instead, he laid there with his eyes closed and sickeningly pale face. He didn't sit up and knock Tony's head, didn't giggle and try to push Tony's prodding hands away from ruffling his hair.
"Open your eyes, kid." Tony sobbed, letting his tears drip onto the child's chest in agony. “Open…”
Tony stepped onto the balcony and shivered at the wind whistling around him. The sun was setting and the sky was painted with beautiful hues of pink and orange. The sunsets in New York were beautiful, exceptionally so. Every night was seemingly a different array of colors.
They weren’t the same. The sunsets didn’t hold the same charm that they used to. They were dull and lifeless without the presence of the kid that made Tony watch them with him ( “C’mon, Mr. Stark, please?”). Beauty was in the eyes of the beholder, and that person was gone. Tony didn’t appreciate them, he couldn’t.
He might not have seen the glamour or liked their inpredictability but Tony made sure he watched at least one a week. He’d bring blankets onto Peter’s balcony and sit there until the stars came out.
Wherever Peter was, Tony always hoped his eyes were open and watching the sky, like he was.