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They’re gone. Just… Gone. Turned to dust and caught on the wind. Turned to ash and fallen away. And Peter doesn’t feel all that close to them, but he can feel himself starting to panic anyway.
He doesn’t know how to explain how he’s feeling. It’s just… Nothing. Absolute nothing, a complete absence of everything. He can’t feel. He can’t even feel the suit against his skin. It makes his heart race, it makes it hard to breathe. He’s sure his chest is collapsing and it’s making his breaths all shallow.
“Mr Stark? I don’t feel so good.” His voice breaks as he speaks, as much as he tries to steel it. He wants to sound like he’s keeping it together, just like he’s heard Tony keep it together, but God dammit, he’s panicking so hard that he can’t manage it.
The worry flares in Tony’s chest as he sees Peter’s face. Everything from the furrow of his eyebrows to the trembling of his lips screams panic.
“You’re alright.” Who is Tony trying to convince?
Peter steps forwards, and he feels his throat tighten. He can barely breathe, and his hands are shaking so bad.
His voice wavers as he speaks again, “I don’t- I don’t know what’s happening.”
Tony feels the pain in his chest twist harshly.
Peter stumbles forwards, reaching out, and he grabs onto Tony’s shoulders, and that’s when the tears spill.
“Save me, save me.” He didn’t even consider his words, it was a reflex, borne completely out of desperation.
And it breaks Tony’s heart.
God, he wants to save Peter. He wants to take him far away from this fucking wasteland, drop him back off in New York, send him off on that field trip. He can’t let himself think about that, or he’s going to drown in guilt and Peter needs him. He’s not going to stand there and weep, he’s going to be strong up until… He doesn’t want to finish that thought, because it threatens to break his resolve all over again.
Tony wraps his arms around Peter’s middle, and Peter’s hands scrabble for purchase on the suit. Peter needs to hold onto something, something that’ll keep him anchored. He doesn’t want to disappear.
“I don’t want to go,” Peter’s voice is thick with tears, “I don’t want to go.”
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Tony knows it’s his fault, and he can’t fix it. All he can do is hold Peter until the inevitable, give him the support he needs before… Before. Just before. Because somehow, it’s not going to happen. The kid’ll defy the odds again, he has to. He has to, because Tony will never forgive himself otherwise.
Peter can feel his legs give out and it just makes him all that desperate to speak, “Mr Stark, please. Please, I don’t want to go.” He repeats that over and over, his voice getting weaker and weaker each time he says it.
Tony swallows around the lump in his throat, and he lays a hand on the nape of Peter’s neck to lay him down. It doesn’t feel right, laying him to rest on this wreck of a planet, so far away from where he should be.
Tony wants to speak, he wants to offer every word of comfort he can, but seeing Peter like that, weak and almost broken makes it impossible to speak. He’s holding onto his hand like it means the world to him, like he’ll die if he lets go.
Peter’s mouth half-forms words, trying hard to speak properly, but nothing’s coming out. That feeling of nothing is creeping up his throat. He doesn’t know what’s going on in his head. Panic? There’s some of that, yeah. But he’s trying to bury it. He’s trying to be strong, he’s trying to be the hero Tony’s encouraged him to be. It’s so damn hard. All he wants to do is curl up and beg to go home, but he can’t do that.
His grip on Tony’s hand tightens - only fractionally, he can’t muster much more strength - and he looks the man in the eye properly. Tony doesn’t flinch, he meets Peter’s gaze, and he prays to any god out there listening that this won’t be the last time he sees light in Peter’s eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
Tony just about catches the sob trying to throw itself out of his mouth. Peter’s hold on him weakens, until it vanishes altogether. Tony can only watch, eyes blurring with tears as Peter turns to dust.
It doesn’t take long, only about half a minute. And then Tony is left alone, with only the ghost of Peter’s hand against his wrist.
“There’s nothing for you to be sorry for.” He manages to whisper, letting his head drop forwards, giving up on holding his tears back, “I’m so proud of you, kid.”
He knows he needs to prepare for when the guilt hits, but all he can think of is the look of resignation on Peter’s face, the look of someone pretending to be strong. He knows that look too well. How many times had he seen it on his own face?
And the realisation that Peter was trying to emulate him brings the guilt so much faster.