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Peter is fine, probably.
Except he hasn't gotten out of bed all day.
And his head’s full of static, full of sand, it is burying him. His very soul, too, has settled into a puddle, stagnant and stale, and there’s something horribly heavy weighing at the base of his spine, holding him to his bed. Mountains or the sky. It aches. It aches. All of him.
He isn’t sure he could get up even if he tried. Even if he wanted to.
But he’s fine. Because nothing’s wrong, really. He’s had a good week. He knows this, he knows this, he really does.
He just needs to stop feeling like this. He just needs things to be normal, with some aching desperation he can’t articulate.
God. God.
He rolls over, feels the blankets shift beneath him. Frustration curls in his chest, heavy and hot, some leftover ember of a brighter fire. He stuffs his face in his pillow. Screams a little. Wordlessly. Just to try and scrape out all the noise echoing around in his head and his throat.
It doesn’t work.
His phone buzzes. It’s a text from May.
Hey baby, just checking in. Hope ur doing ok! Larb u <33
She knows, somehow. Of course she does. May can read him like an open book, like she is the one who wrote it, penning out all his smudged words herself, even when she isn’t with him. It is a relief, a little, to remember this. To be reminded of it.
Thanks May. Love u too.
He presses send, then stares at the screen until it becomes soft and blurred. This is so stupid. This feeling. All of it. He doesn’t know how to make it go away.
So he pulls up contacts and types in Tony’s number. Presses call. Counts the rings.
One.
Two.
Three.
”Hello?”
“Tony?”
“The one and only. What’s up, kiddo?”
The answer rises up in Peter's throat. Stops at the back of his tongue and wobbles there, heavy and leaden. He wants to spit it out, to cough it into the unbearable silence, to not be loud- but, to be steady. “I-” he says. He trembles. “Can you- come over? Please?”
He can almost hear Tony softening, melting, like one of Morgan’s popsicles left in the sun, sticky with something akin to worry. “Yea, ‘course. I’ll be there as quick as I can. Are you- good? Not hurt?”
“No,” Peter says, trying to put some conviction in it, trying to not sound like a liar, because he isn’t hurt, not really. He’s fine, he’s been over this, there is nothing wrong except for his stupid brain and his stupid feelings and his stupid- heart.
“Thank God. Ok. Hang tight, I’ll see you soon, try not to go crazy before I get there.”
“Bye.” Peter says. Whispers.
The phone goes silent in his hands and he tries to pretend like he feels better instead of worse, like the buzzing in his skull has lessened instead of grown, like any of this makes sense and he knows how to fix it.
It’s not as if he isn't used to bad days. It’s not as if they aren’t familiar to him, haven’t grown up with him, haven’t hidden themselves under his fingernails and beneath his skin and in the marrow of his bones and stuck there like glue, like poison. But bad days are bad for a reason, they happen because something else happened first. They aren’t supposed to spring up on him like this, as if they’ve been hiding in the shadows under his bed and lulling him into false security. As if they’ve been making empty promises and he’s been lapping them up like the biggest fool in the world.
It’s ok. It’s fine.
Tony is coming, and Tony is good at freaking out, but he is also good at making things better, he is good with all of Peter’s shattered pieces and Peter trusts him to be gentle when he’s putting them back together, because he always has been. Peter trusts him.
He’s still in bed when Tony arrives. He can hear him coming down the hall, that sharp rhythm of his steps that’s become so familiar, he can hear him opening the door to the apartment, hear his unsteady ticker of a heart, hear him calling out Peter’s name.
He can’t quite muster a reply, not even when Tony appears in the doorway.
He looks rumpled. Tired. Streaked in lines of light, all decked out in jeans and an old tee-shirt Harley gave him. ‘World’s okayest dad'. Peter thinks he looks like an angel of some kind. Like he’s the saving grace and Peter is the one who needs rescuing.
And that’s the truth, isn’t it? Peter puts on a suit and acts like it means he isn't a kid anymore, like his hands don’t shake and he isn’t afraid of the dark or being alone, like the desperate, vulnerable want of being saved doesn’t sit at the core of him and make its home there.
Tony’s hand is on his wrist. Warm fingers pressing against the divots of his bones.
Peter blinks. He isn’t sure when Tony moved from the door to his bed.
“Hey,” says Tony. “You with me? Where’s that big head of yours?”
Peter shrugs. Rolls his shoulders like every bad thing in the world is resting on them. “I don’t know. I don’t-” his voice catches. “Tony. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Well,” says Tony, and his voice doesn’t just catch but breaks a little. It breaks. “I’ve got a whole list, just for you. First, you put milk before your cereal. Secondly, you tuck your pants into your socks. That’s weird. Nobody does that. Harley doesn’t do that.” He’s staring at Peter like he hates seeing him like this, like he can barely stand it, he’s trying to make light of this for Peter because that’s what he’s good at, and Peter loves him for it.
“You eat too much sugar. You eat so much sugar, it disgusts me, I get heart attacks just watching you pack it all away.” He’s trying not to look sad. Peter can still see it, tucked into the creases of his face as it is.
It sinks into his chest until he feels sad too, stone heavy and awful. He’s not sure if that’s worse than the static and the grit and the restless echoing.
“Tony,” he says again, and this time it sounds like a sob. “Tony.”
“Alright, come here. It’s ok. You’re ok.”
Peter drops his head against the sharp ridge of Tony’s collarbone. He’s crying now, hot tears dripping down the curve of his nose, breaths ragged and rattling around in his chest, but he still doesn’t know why, because there still isn’t anything wrong.
It’s driving him crazy, scrambling around in his brain and bouncing off the sides of his skull, and he’s almost angry about it now. Tony’s here and Peter’s here and they’re both safe and everyone made it out of the war alive, every single one of them did, they’re all so lucky, so he should be fine.
Tony’s hands come up around Peter’s back, one at the nape of his neck, one against the ratty old hoodie he has on, and tugs him closer, like he can make things better for him if he just holds him tight enough, if he just hugs him long enough.
Peter sags into it.
“Kid. Pete. Talk to me, please. Give me something to roll with. I’m here, ok? I’m here. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Peter bursts out, and there’s the conviction he was looking for, his spitfire, his steadiness, even when it’s awful. “Nothing, nothing’s wrong at all, and that’s the whole fucking thing. I can’t- I don’t- I just feel bad, I don’t know why, I feel gritty and tired, and I haven’t even gotten up, and everything is just- it’s all just stupid, Tony, and I’m fucking scared, I don’t know how to make it ok again.”
“Wanna hear a secret? Probably not, this one sucks, but I’m telling you anyways because you’re a big boy and I think we can handle it.” Peter is grateful for that. For Tony’s honesty, in all it’s bluntness and sharp edges. He can take it. “Some days are just bad. They just are, and I don’t know why and you don’t know why, but if you ever figure it out, please share, I will forever be in your debt. And, look- ok, here’s another one. It’s better, I promise, I promise it’s better.” Tony is slowing down now, losing traction but not sincerity, less the swell of a wave and more the foam of it. “Here’s another one. You’re not alone. None of us are. And we’ll- get through together, capiche?”
Peter sniffs, then nods, forehead and curls bumping against Tony’s shoulder. He understands. He understands.
“Alright. I’ve got you. We’re gonna be just fine.”