Chapter Text
It's raining. It's a soft drizzle that drifts lazily out of the sky, beading on the trampled grass and soaking deep into the mourning finery.
Tony stands there, quiet and numb, lilies clasped in his hand. He is only seventeen, and he has just lost his parents. To his right, Obie is a comforting warmth, and presence. To his left is a representative from the funeral home. She is stern and cold, but Tony appreciates her silence. It's a large crowd here. Employees of Stark Industries have gathered to pay their respects, and Tony sees a few business rivals mixed in. Family and friends are clustered together, watching the two coffins being lowered into the earth. Still no tears fall.
“No one will think you weak if you cry, Tony,” Obie says, but Tony knows they will. From now on, his life is in the spotlight and every word, every move will be scrutinised.
He hates it.
Eventually the coffins are down, farewells and condolences have been spoken, and Tony is mostly alone. Obie has gone back to press the flesh and make sure that SI won't suffer. Only the quiet representative remains, alone with a man standing under the shelter of a spreading beach tree.
“I've never been good with consoling the grieving,” the woman breaks the silence. “But you need to remember that you don't have to be like everyone else. Cry or not, its your choice.”
Tony chuckles, its the first sound that has left his throat since the funeral began.
“I don't think I remember how to,” he half jokes, turning slightly to see her better.
She's studying him like he's a particularly interesting specimen, or perhaps like a teacher trying to spot an untruth. There is no pity in her eyes, only a brusque sympathy.
“You are allowed to be angry,” she says. “Rant and rave at the universe if you want.”
“Will it do any good?”
NO, BUT YOU MAY FEEL BETTER FOR IT.
The man has left the shade of his tree to join the conversation. Despite being wrapped up against the rain, his voice is clear.
I AM TOLD IT ALSO HELPS TO REMEMBER THE GOOD TIMES.
“I don't know what to feel,” Tony admits, feeling vulnerable for doing so.
“Most don't,” is the matter of fact answer.
There is silence again as Tony watches the raindrops on the marble headstone. He wishes he could be angry with Howard, wishes he could cry for his mother, but the rain seems to have stolen all his tears. He turns to invite the two back to warm up, but finds them gone. He simply shrugs it off, and goes on.
That night, when the whole world is asleep with Obie's snores rattling the windowpanes, Tony sneaks up to the attic. By wan torchlight he pages through old photographs, family moment captured and tied down.
Good times to remember.
He still does not cry.