Chapter Text
He did not like the air. It fooled him with the illusion of presence. It had been there for him since he was born, allowing him to run, play, and live. But it abandoned him at his worst. It was inconstant. The moment his anxiety got the better of him it would suck itself out of his lungs leaving him to grasp at his throat with blue lips and a tortured mind.
He liked the color orange. It was constant. It was like sun. He knew it would rise and set every day, and he knew he could see it from his patio or from the top of the empire state building. It was like the little bottle of pills he kept rolled up in a sock in his nightstand. A pill bottle was constant. It could not abandon him on his weakest nights, leaving him alone and confused. It did anything but, actually, often coaxing him nearer and nearer to it when he was broken, offering him a hug and a promise of peace.
Peter was a man of science. He did not know what it was like to feel confused. He knew what he did not like, and what he liked. What worked and what didn’t. Or, at least, he liked to know. He did not know if he liked Tony Stark. Mr. Stark was always there for him, in the end. He was a stable thing, not willing to crumble on him like the building Vulture threw on him. But, when he knew nobody wanted him there or the orange little bottle was looking just a bit too appealing, he was not present to assure him that he was needed. Wanted.
As he sat on a roof with his phone in one hand and the bottle in the other and the air anywhere but his lungs, Tony Stark was not there. He was not constant. But, he was not absent, either. He was inconsistent. Inconsistent data was confusing. He could not pull enough proof from any side of the data to prove or disprove his hypothesis. So he had no answer.
Peter was a man of science.
He would not go without the answers.
Tony had given Peter his personal number after Germany. He said Peter could call him if he ever needed him. He promised presence. Constant. But Peter had never called him. He was too afraid of Tony being too busy. Too important. Tony had never initiated the contact, either. Never checked on ‘his’ kid. Confusing.
It is not as though Tony couldn’t know. Karen kept logs on everything about Peter. Mr. Stark would have known that Peter malnourished because he could not find it within himself to eat more than a bit of celery when the world became spotty and his knees became as weak as the rest of him. He would have known that his undernourishment dulled his enhanced healing, so the mysterious lacerations on his thighs and wrists were not disappearing. He should have known. Could have if he cared. (He did care. One might think it was about Peter, but the kid knew the truth. Tony Stark could not afford to lose the multi-million dollar suit.)
He supposes he was a bit inconsistent now. Peter of two years ago would have never waited months before beginning to entertain the idea of calling Tony Stark on his personal number. He would have had his phone in his hand minutes after he had received the number, texting to check that he had not been pranked. But Peter was gone. Or, he would be once he had answers.
His right hand fumbled to press call while his left thumb stroked the cap of the pill bottle reassuringly.
And he waited.
And waited.
And tears stung his eyes as he realized he had been tricked. Why would Tony Stark give a teenager his personal number? (Even though he had seemed so genuinely protective of Peter, he could see through it. Inconstant.) He was not there to give him answers. He had been so stupid. But, he was always stupid. That was a constant.
“Hello?” The voice did not sound tired. He must’ve been working on a suit.
He was there now. Confusing.
“Kid, it’s two in the morning. Go to bed.”
He had forgotten how much he had liked Mr. Stark’s voice. It was always warm and relaxed with an air of sarcasm and worry. It was constant.
“You’re awake.” His tone did not give a clue as to whether the teenager was calling him a hypocrite or if it was pure relief.
“Yep. What’s up?”
Peter did not like to avoid the inevitable. Too many things could happen in the time wasted. Confusing.
“If I told you I’m about to overdose and jump off of a building, what would you do?”
There was a rustle on the line. It sounded like a tool clattered to the ground and Tony let out an elegant, “What the fuck-”