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It’s cold outside. Peter wishes he had a hoodie to pull over his head, but the occasion mandated formal attire, so he came dressed in his best clothes. The suit smells of mothballs and the discount rack from where it was purchased, last worn for his inauguration onto the team post his high school graduation. Nothing a generous dose of cologne couldn’t hide, or so he thought. He pulls the ill fitting jacket tight around him and draws his knees up higher, tucking his chin behind them. It doesn’t do much for the cold but the smaller he feels the better.
There’s not much to see in the darkness. The compound is isolated from the sprawling New Jersey suburbs, so he casts his eyes to the sky; an endless realm of lights. He had always looked to space in wonderment, had imagined the possibilities and the worlds undiscovered, but tonight he’s devoid of any such curiosity. Instead he bleeds. A chronic wound had long festered in secret, oozing and repugnant, and he’s struggling to keep it concealed.
He sniffles and presses his face against his knees. It’s consuming him. Mourning the loss of something he never had, was never entitled to. Peter removes a lifeline from his pocket, jamming the earbuds in and opening his emergency playlist to select a song. The melancholic eighties synth numbed his ears but not his heart, but it was enough to block out the commotion inside. Although the lyrics served to remind him of all he desired, of what he would never have, it somehow soothed him.
As the tune faded, Peter tapped the back tab and selected the repeat option. He lets himself go and is immersed in the melody and the lyrics, and starts to find some semblance of calm. He’s lost count of how many times the song plays, and he doesn’t care. He needs this before he can face.
He buries his face into the crook of his arm, fortifying his barriers until he can pronounce himself able to withstand the event inside.
Peter starts, neck prickling at the presence of an intruder into his crafted bubble. He shouldn’t be surprised to find the silhouette of Tony Stark standing at his side. He’s looking at Peter inquisitively, his absence and current state no doubt in question. How long he had been there, Peter can’t guess, but it’s unnerving, and the barriers he had started to erect waver at the impending interaction.
His jaw muscle ticks and reluctantly he removes one earbud, inviting the older man to talk.
“What’s up, kid? The parties inside.” Mr. Stark asks.
Peter clears his throat in an effort to ease the tightness “Nothing,” he replies. “Just got a lot on my mind.”
“Pst. Tell me about it.” Mr. Stark leans against the bannister and Peter tenses at their proximity. “I’ll spare you the monotonous details but a two hour lecture from Ross would be less painful than choosing icing flavours.”
Mr. Stark’s woes are strangely domestic although dramatised for Peter’s entertainment and mock sympathy, but he can’t muster a response. He’s afraid he might burst if he does, his hand curling into a fist. The billionaire continues without losing a beat. If he notices Peter’s sullen mood, he doesn’t make it apparent. It’s only a matter of seconds before Peter snaps.
“Not to be rude, sir, but I’m not in the mood to hear about your wedding dilemmas.”
The older man's eyebrows shoot upward, surprised yet mildly amused.
“I dunno, Parker, I’d say that was kinda rude. Honest. But rude.”
A flush of embarrassment crawls up Peter’s neck and he looks away to glare at nothing. He won’t apologise, he thinks defiantly.
“I just- I just want to be alone.” Weak - He ends the brief conversation by refitting the earbud only for it to be plucked from his fingers.
Peter watches in suspense as Mr. Stark inserts the device and listens intently. He reasons that he has nothing to hide as his heart races. It’s just a stupid song with generic lyrics and ordinary romantic overtures but, it meant everything to him. He had imprinted his anguish and desires and hope into the very words.
He could stop the music, has ample time to, but he’s captivated by the sight of Tony Stark. Always had been. There’s a part of him that doesn’t want him to go. Out here he has him all to himself. He just wants him to belong to Peter for a few precious seconds, but at the expense of his secret?
Tony then looks at him, impassive at first and Peter if he betrays something he’s not sure - Mr. Stark had commented before that he’s an open book, that he’s a terrible liar on the few occasions he had tried to hide something from him - but then he sees what he’s dreaded.
The air is expelled from his lungs. He can’t breathe. Peter recognises disappointment, something he’s all too familiar with, and there’s sympathy but something else also. With sickening realisation, as the chorus word for word spills his secret,
Neither speaks and Peter so wishes Mr. Stark would tease him or just pretend everything was okay, anything was better than this pathetic scene and this agony. He wants to cower away, escape those dark eyes that bore into him. So he flees.
Peter leaps off the bannister and makes for the door, his heart thundering. He almost makes it, but then again, he hadn’t anticipated his escape being intervened. An iron hand and a beseeching ‘Peter’ stop him.
They are motionless, waiting on the other to make the first move. In the end, Peter gives in as he always does. Always for him. He presses his lips together to save his bottom lip from quivering and turns around. He refuses to meet Mr. Stark’s eyes; cannot bear to see everything he fears reflected in them.
“What is it, Mr. Stark?”
Tony does not reply immediately. Peter watches as the polished dress shoes fidget. It is subtle, the nervous curl of Mr. Stark’s toes. It’s one of the many mannerisms of Tony Stark he has categorised over the years.
“Ah- you forgot this.”
The earbud is slipped into his breast pocket. Peter stares down at where those fingers brushed against the fabric of his threadbare jacket. He feels his resolve wavering, tears welling and threatening to fall. His bottom lip gave out. He can’t - no, he won’t. No infront of him. At least allow him his one dignity, he please silently.
However, even now, Mr. Stark continues to hold on. His touch is scolding, marking Peter through his jacket, and Peter is glad for this. God, he wants something to remember him by. Even just a touch. But it can’t last forever. He must be the one to debride this wound.
“You need to let me go, Mr. Stark.” He says. “Please.”
“Peter…” Mr. Stark frowns.
“It’s the only way,” there’s no point hiding it now, he thinks, “I can hope to get over you.”
He smiles bitterly. How pathetic he must sound, but what else was there for him to lose? He had already lost. No. There had never been a competition to win Tony Stark’s heart in the first place. He had imagined it all.
It’s then he braves to look into the older man's eyes, evoke a silent apology and goodbye.
“I won’t bother you ever again. I promise.” He pulls against Mr. Stark’s grip, expecting to be let go, only to be yanked forward, stumbling into a hard chest, and pivoted around. Mr. Stark’s back is to the door, shielding them both from any prying eyes inside.
Peter’s breath stutters. His senses were overwhelmed; by Mr. Stark’s cologne, the hard, warm panel of his body, the rabbit beat rhythm of his heart. Why was it so fast?
“Shh. Shh. Just breath, Pete. Come on. There you go. There you go. Good boy.”
Peter’s lungs remember how to function, choking on an inhale of air, or was that because Mr. Stark’s hand is curling at the base of his neck. Reassuring. Encouraging. Peter wants to cry. He does.
Tony holds him, never flinching even as Peter sniffles and wets his dress shirt. Peter’s hands grasps for handfuls of whatever part of Mr. Stark he can take purchase, and still the billionaire is not dissuaded. All the while Mr. Stark, Tony, murmurs sweet things to him. That it’s okay, that they will be okay, and Peter foolishly believes every sweetened word.
Reality is a cruel thing. For a moment Peter had forgotten the pain and was instead given a glimpse of what could be. How it might feel. He doesn’t know how long they remain embraced, and he never wants it to end. Tony is his in this moment. He’s selfish like that, he thinks.
“Pete?”
Peter bit down a sigh. He loves that nickname, but only when he says it.
“M’sorry,” he mumbles against Mr. Stark’s chest.
“I told you. Nothing to be sorry ‘bout. You hear me?” Peter nods, his unruly curls brushing the underside of that meticulously groomed jaw. He knows he has to pull away, but Mr. Stark isn’t inviting it. His arms cage Peter’s lithe frame. In the end he initiates it.
He steps back and those arms follow him, hands taking hold of his upper arms. He wipes his face on the back of his sleeve, a flush of embarrassment colouring his cheeks.
“I got your shirt wet. Sorry,” he says.
“Hopefully the dry cleaners can get it out.” The joke is perfectly timed, and Peter doesn’t believe that even Tony is alleviated by it, his voice tight and strained.
Peter meets his eyes and Tony acknowledges him.
“We OK?” Mr. Stark asks.
“I - well, yeah.” He mumbles. “But… I need time.”
“Time?” Mr. Stark parrotts. “Jesus, Parker, this isn’t a Hallmark.”
Peter frowns and steps back and away from Tony’s reach whose hands hover for a moment before falling to his sides. “What… you think I’m being dramatic?”
“Kid. Pete. It’s a crush-”
“I’m in love with you!” Peter shouts, the confession reverberating between them. He’s crying again, but he doesn’t care, the tears hot upon his cheeks. “There! Now you know my dirty little secret. Peter Parker. In love with Tony Stark!”
For a brief moment, Tony appears admonished before masking it with neutrality and making an impromptu reply.
“It hasn’t exactly been a-” He stops himself short and curses.
Peter looks at him aghast, a tsunami of shame washing over him. He wonders if he’s been the joke of all who knew him. Had he been so transparent this entire time?
“You can be such an asshole sometimes.” He retorts, but it lacks venom.
“Yeah? Well, all the more reason why I don’t make great boyfriend material.”
“But you’re marrying her.” He argues, sounding like a petulant child
Tony's face hardens and he says sharply, “Don’t bring her into this.”
Peter flinches and looks away. As quick as his anger rose does it subside with the cautionary warning. His chest burns with anger, with shame, and with longing.
“I’m sorry.”
Stark sighs. “Yeah. I know.”
More silence stretches between them.
Mr. Stark clears his throat looking awkward. “Look. You should get away from here for a bit. It’ll be good for you. Visit your Aunt and see your friends. Do some good old fashion patrolling. Then after we’ll get stuck into the lab. Runs some drills. You know, all of that Avengers stuff that thrills you so much.”
He rattles on, hands gesticulating, and Peter just shakes his head. It’s no use. He wants to wrap his arms around himself, or better yet, those arms that so willingly embraced him before.
“Stop. Just stop!” Peter interrupts. “There’s no quick fix. A weekend away isn’t going to cure me. This-” Peter clutches his shirt, his heart, “is years of want, longing… which is why I need to leave.” Peter smiles sadly, but he knows within himself this is the right thing to do.
“Peter-”
“No, ” he says, holding himself a little taller. “I have to do this, Mr. Stark. I need your support if this is to ever… if I’m ever to get over you.”
“Look, Pete. We can social distance. If that’s what you need? I won’t always be at the compound, and Rogers can make sure we’re not partnered on missions-”
“What part of this don’t you understand? I can’t be near you. I can’t see you. I can’t be reminded…” He hiccups, tears glossing his eyes.
Mr. Stark makes a step toward him, an act of consolation, but Peter steps out of reach.
“Why won’t you let me do this?!” Peter pleads.
Stark stops himself and then takes a step back, emotions dancing over his face too quickly for Peter to recognise.
“Fuck,” Mr. Stark mutters and rubs a hand over his face. “No. No. You’re right. Fuck. I’m sorry.”
It’s the first apology that he’s voiced all night, and Peter wills himself to not resent it.
“This is what you need,” Mr. Stark reiterates, almost to himself, but Peter hates the very words. He wishes it hadn’t come to this, but he nods.
“Thank you.”
Stark chuckles, mirthlessly. “You shouldn’t. I’m not a good man, Peter.”
Peter doesn’t understand why Mr. Stark would think that. He’s a hero! Loyal and self-sacrificing. And not just that; he’s generous. So generous. The countless things he’s done for Peter alone, and Peter wants nothing more than to tell him. To show him his gratitude. Yet he swallows the desire to around the lump in his throat.
“You’re the best I know.” Peter croaks.
Mr. Stark looks pained by the admission, and perhaps for that reason he doesn’t acknowledge it.
“You better head back. Someone might be wondering where you are.”
“Yeah.” But Peter does not attempt to leave and remains standing there, and so, too, does Mr. Stark. It’s like he’s waiting for Peter to make a move, and when he doesn’t, Mr. Stark can’t help himself.
“You know I’d give you anything, Peter. Whatever you wanted.”
Peter swallows a bubble of hysteria. Those words alone are a painful reminder that he will never have what he wants, despite Tony’s gratuitous offer.
“I only want one thing.”
“I know.” Tony almost sounds like he understands. “But you know I can’t—“ he stops abruptly.
An interlude of suspense falls over them, all the while Peter’s mind races, analysing each word and comes to a terrifying conclusion.
“But—“ and Peter licks his lips, acutely aware of how Tony’s gaze flickers to them, “— but if you could…?”
“ Peter. ” Tony warns.
Any other time Peter would concede at the older man's command, but not tonight. He walks calmly over to Tony, and although he stands his ground, Peter knows Tony is anticipating a fight. But with the right incentive, Peter is tenacious.
He looks up into his eyes,
“But if you could?” Peter asks again, his voice wavers. “Mr. Stark?”
Tony's expression crumbles and Peter wants nothing more than to never see him reduced to this. He bows his head, shielding himself from the truth, from Peter. When the young man touches his face, Tony flinches but under Peter's guiding hand lifts his chin. He looks at Peter, vulnerable, honest, and whispers, "God, I'm so fucked up.
He just needs a moment, Peter internalises, just a moment to--
“Tony?”
Simultaneously, their attention jumps to the door. Pepper Potts, elegantly tapered in a midnight blue dress, looks between her fiance and the young avenger, assessing the scene. Tony uses the moment to pull free of Peter’s hands and swiftly slides in beside his soon-to-be wife. His arm wraps around her waist, and though she smiles up at him, when she looks at Peter, her knowing gaze unnerves him.
“It’s time for the toast,” she says, still fixated on the young man.
Peter swallows and breaks contact, his attention naturally seeking out the man beside her, but Tony's eyes refuse to meet him.
“Lead the way then, Ms. Potts.” She smiles, a fondness reaching her eyes, and guilt erodes Peter’s insides.
“I’ll see you shortly.” She says with a subtle note for Tony to conclude his business with Peter, and then unfurls from Tony’s arm and glides inside to their waiting guests.
The glass door shuts, and they’re alone together once more. Peter motions toward him but a raised hand makes him pause.
“We can’t, Peter.” It was final. Tony won’t allow him another moment to protest. “I’ve said too much.”
No.
“You’ve said enough.” Determination alight in Peter's eyes.
Without another word Tony leaves and Peter doesn’t stop him. The scene inside erupts with cheer at Mr. Stark's return. Peter can’t do it. He won’t go back inside. So he turns his back on the merriment and makes his exit over the balcony.
He knows Tony will make excuses for him should anyone ask, but the truth is he doesn’t care. Right now he needs to leave. Distance himself from this place, but most importantly, think. Because for the very first time since these feelings first manifested, he has hope.