Chapter Text
And so, the fight was barely fought. And they lost.
Breathing heavily, Peter Parker looked down at his hands, unseeing. His stickiness had betrayed him. Too deep in the loss, Peter did not see the barest of shines of various colours glinting in Titan's sun, nor did he feel the splinters that had sliced through the nanosuits fingers. There was a lot that Peter did not notice.
All he could feel was the screech of his senses- his Tingle, according to Aunt May- telling him RunLeaveaescapePainPainPainPain
Then Realist began to disintegrate into ashes. The green lined ashes began at his legs, and Peter turns towards Iron Man, to Tony Stark. Space that was between them went from a short jog to touching fingers in an instant, and Tony was now holding Peter, who now couldn't stand.
Peter held onto Tony's armoured arms with no thought to his own strength, and under the deafening sounds of his senses the metal whined. But Tony is holding back.
Mind turns to a memory - If anything happened to you, then that'd be on me - and words started falling out of Peter's mouth.
"I'm so sorry, Mr Stark. I'm sorry, I'm sorry," and his words are becoming breathless as the flakes takes away his chest. "I don't want to leave."
He can't hear the attempts of soothing from Tony, who isn't aware that he's crying Peter notes, but he also can't hear - though he can feel it - the people around him also dusting. They're quicker, he'll notice later, less painful if in pain at all. For Peter, Power is trying to hold it back for him, trying to stop the ash.
I wish I could have saved them all and his Soul hums.
Apologies have been silenced as Peter's heart is gone. And Time stopped.
_____
The whole place is orange, and the space is infinite. And yet, the place has too many people.
There are wails of grief, or of confusion, and names are being yelled with responses or lack of. Slight shimmers of orange are huddled together in sorrow - or familiarity? - but Peter Parker sits alone. Every sound is the loudest it could possibly be, yet barely the whisper of a wind at the same time.
Down on the floor that isn't a floor, and breathing air that isn't air, Peter thinks. This is death.
No
The word was felt, like a gentle caress of a hand on his face, but it sounded in his head like Uncle Ben. Like he was telling a young Peter, no, you can't have a cookie before dinner. No malice, but a gentle correction.
Peter stands on the not floor. Then it gave way, and Peter fell.
____
Fingers burn, sharp then dull, and he can't open his eyes. Opening his mouth to yell only led to thick liquid rushing in, bringing in the taste of rot. Peter clenches his fingers into fists and, in panic, flails. Touching glass in front of him, Peter musters his strength and punches.
Again.
The water is too much, and it has flooded his lungs. Darkness overcomes Peter, and he's limp again.