Kid, tell me what happened: The Sequel

Taking it One Day at a Time

Peter Stark-Rogers lived a happy, memorable life. At least that’s what he would tell his Dads as the teenager tried to blink back tears as a doctor forced a needle through his arm. 

His Dads blamed themselves for the pain and tears that their son didn’t deserve. Peter would always argue with an exhausted look and a strained voice that it wasn’t their fault that he was here. It wasn’t their fault that his thick locks of curly hair was falling out, or that his skin became disgustingly pale and veiny, and that his clock was ticking to an inevitable fate. It wasn’t their fault that cancer claimed him, and made it it’s duty to put him through hell and back. 

Because Peter was terrified, out of his very mind. He didn’t want to go. Yes, he was scared of dying, but if he was gone, who’d take care of his Dads?

Tony and Steve were all he had left. They were the ones that were always there. They were the ones who gently scooped him up from the dark alley he was abandoned in. They were the ones who held him close as they soothed his cries and dried his tears. They were the ones who went out of their way to keep him safe and sound. They were the ones who dried his tears, knelt beside him when he was sick, and cuddled with him after a panic attack. They were the ones who pulled him close and told him how much they loved him as they tried no to cry when Peter was sobbing because he was diagnosed with stage four brain cancer and would probably die before he could turn sixteen. He had exactly a year to live, but that was pushing it. Tony and Steve were the ones who kept him calm through chemotherapy, when his body felt like it was being drained and burned at the same time. It hurt. Hurts. So much.

If he was gone, then who would be left to live for?

Death is what gives life meaning, to know that you’re days are numbered. But not like this, never, like this. 

Peter let out a quiet sniffle as he slowly leaned back against the overly large pillows. He clenched his eyes shut and sighed sharply. Two pained tears began to race each other across pale, veiny cream-colored skin. He didn’t want to go, He wasn’t ready. 

Then again, no one truly is. 

Peter sucked in a breath and shakily exhaled, releasing raw sobs that wrenched through thin, dry, cracked lips. He didn’t hear the soft click of his door and his Dads returning from their latest mission of getting some lunch. But what he did hear was the gentle sound of a tray being set followed by the gentle voice of Tony Stark that was almost always laced with concern, “Petey, what’s wrong?” The last few months were hard no doubt, but Tony never felt his heart break more than at the frustrated sight of Peter sobbing in front of him. It wasn’t right. The genius carefully sat in front of his weeping son and rubbed patterns over Peter’s knee, concern etched over his face. 

The exhausted teenager only shook his head as more tears spilled down his greyed skin. He felt embarrassed that his Dads had seen him like this. He was supposed to be strong, his parents were probably scared shitless, and his breakdown wasn’t helping the cancer that only increased through his small, fragile frame. He shakily whispered, “It’s nothing. I’m okay.” He hated that he sounded weak, lifeless. Was this all that was left of him?

Tony pulled Peter onto his lap and spoke softly, “Bambino, it’s okay. Let it out, it’s okay not to be okay.” Peter remained quiet as he clenched his eyes shut and pressed his face against Tony’s chest, begging for this to be a horrible dream where he would wake up in a world where his days weren’t numbered, and he would be able to graduate high school, get a diploma, run Stark Industries, ask someone, preferably MJ out, grow old and have kids. But reality was a harsh, unforgiving place. 

He cried some more.

This time the soft voice of Steve Rogers spoke as he rubbed soft circles on his son’s trembling back, “Pete, it’s okay to be scared.” 

Peter only cried harder into his Dad’s arc, wishing he didn’t feel a wave of nostalgia hit him. 

He was no more than three years old when he first saw that blue light. And now, he was counting down how many days he got to see it. The blue light was the only thing that was able to soothe his cries after nightmares and pains, and it always did it’s job. Peter’s cries blended into sniffles as his Papa wrapped his strong and warm arms around him, grounding him back to reality. Steve ran his digits through the remainder of Peter’s curls, making sure not to tug too hard as he asked softly, “Talk to us bear, we’ll make it better.” 

Peter shook his head and fought the urge to cry again, “Can’t.”

Tony shook his head and planted a firm kiss on the top of Peter’s head, “None of that Petey. It’s going to be okay.” 

Peter couldn’t hold the whimper that escaped his quivering lips. He admitted, “I’m scared. I, I don’t want to go. I, d,don’t want to die!” He didn’t mean to say the last sentence, but he needed to tell someone. If he kept it inside, he might never get the chance to say it, ever. 

Steve and Tony shared sad looks, unsure of what to fill in the silence besides the muffled sounds of sobbing. Tony cupped Peter’s cheeks, rubbing them with his index finger at chocolate colored irises that once shone with life refuse to meet his. Tony hated the defeat and heartbreak that filled Peter’s eyes. It wasn’t fair. There wasn’t anything the genius could say to reassure Peter, his husband who constantly looked on the verge of crying, or even himself. Because this was the ugly truth that never ceased from his intellectual head. His boy was the one that he stayed up with all night, tucked him into bed at night, cuddled with, and everything else wouldn’t live to turn sixteen years old. Peter should be getting ready to live his life, not be preparing to die. But what could he say? Nothing, but one thing. 

Tony breathed out softly, “Petey, please look at me?” Tomy watched as overflowing chocolate colored irises met his own. Tony softly stroked Peter, “Bud, I know you’re scared. You have every right to be. I know, bud, we know. We’re just as scared as you are, but we’re going to pull through, together. One day at a time.” 

Peter echoed waterily, “One day at a time?” His thoughts ran at miles per minutes, not a day went by where he didn’t imagine himself dying in the future. He couldn’t focus on the present, only the blurs of grey before and after it. 

Steve took over, “Yeah bud. We always pull through in the end. But you, you’re stronger than everyone I know.” He kissed Peter’s cheek softly and pulled him onto his warm chest, “You’re the strongest. And we’re going to be okay. We’ll just take it one day at a time, yeah? How’s that sound?” 

Peter nodded tightly as he curled himself up in Steve’s arms. He laid his weary head on Steve’s thighs, and hugged himself over his Papa’s lap. Tony carefully draped a warm blanket over his son’s delicate frame, hating how small he looked. It was something that Tony used to find adorable, but now everything was darker, sadder, and quite frankly, out of control. 

His son was dying, and there was nothing within his human and inhuman power to do that, the only thing he could do was to take it all one day at a time. 

And he’d do just that. 

A/N: Yeah that was moody. Since its ya girl's winter break expect more oneshots. Also do sis a favor and hype her Insta. Literally anything, like, comment, msg, whatever. I'm pretty sure y'all know it by now lol but it's @the_scarlet_witcher tyyyyyy. Also, anyone have any good tips for memorizing Spanish cause this multilingual person sucks at Spanish but can somehow ace Chinese but that's me.