For @lavender-lotion to cheer you up. Sorry your weekend was not good, darling. This is...not as fluffy as I wanted but here we go. <3
The sheets have been kicked to the end of the bed.
Tony stretches his toes, searching for them and--there. Right where he thought.
The bedroom is warm, and quiet, and beyond his closed door--the mansion is quiet. He can feel the brightness against his eyelids, and he smiles.
He could open his eyes, and there would be sunlight filling up the room.
For just a moment, his heart aches.
Then he twists, and looks.
Peter is there, just like always. He’s curled up in a ball, and Tony frowns.
Peter never sleeps curled in a ball. He sprawls, stretching out in the most uncomfortable ways imaginable, taking up more space than Tony can actually fathom.
It’s why the sheets always end up at the end of the bed.
They’re kicked there, when he wakes, screaming.
Because he’s had this dream before.
The one where he isn’t alone. Where he wakes up in his bed, and Peter is next to him. Sometimes, the sun is shining like it is now, bathing him in warmth. Tony likes his hair, when it’s brightened by the warm sunlight, likes the way it makes the chestnut brown seem almost gold.
He’s woken up to Peter in the rain, raindrops on the windows casting shadow tears on his pale cheeks.
He’s woken up to Peter curled against his chest, and sprawled across their bed, woken to him naked and love-bitten, woken to him in Tony’s shirts and the suit, and low riding boxers, and--once--a pair of red and gold panties.
He’s woken up to Peter a million times in a million ways, since that day on Titan.
He stares at Peter, and he knows it’s not real. That if he moves--if he reaches out to touch--it’ll shatter. The dream will vanish and he’ll be alone in his empty tower, with his empty bed, and ghosts for companions.
He barely breathes, watches Peter sleeping next to him, curled up tight and a bruise on his pale cheek.
He doesn’t want to wake up.
He doesn’t want this to be a dream.
The sun keeps rising, and he keeps watching the boy sleeping in his bed, and he whispers, softly, “I’m so sorry, kid.”
He reaches out, finally, when watching hurts too much, the need to touch overwhelming the fear of the dream shattering.
Peter blinks up at him, sleepily.
Tony can feel his hair--soft and thick between his fingers, and see his eyes, impossibly warm and trusting, and he chokes.
“Mr. Stark?” Peter says, his voice achingly familiar. Tony scrambles backwards, falling off the bed and Peter shouts.
He can’t breathe. He can feel the ghost of Peter’s hair under his fingers, and his voice is still filling the air and--
Hot hands pull up his face, and worried brown eyes peer up at him.
He’s shaking and it comes flooding back, suddenly.
The Avengers and the fight, and Loki, and--
“Peter,” he gaps, and Peter swims in his vision as tears flood his vision. He throws himself at the boy, and Peter catches him, holds him as Tony loses it, shakes and sobs against him, and the sun rises.
“Shh,” Peter soothes, and pets his hair, and he thinks, distantly, that he should be calming Peter. This is backwards. “Shh, Mr. Stark. It’s ok. It’s real.”
Tony holds on, bony hips digging into his palm, face pressed to his too thin chest, and listens.
He holds onto his boy, the way he never could hold onto dreams, and clings to those two words.
