Firelord
Peter didn't want to run -- he wasn't a coward and he never really backed down from a fight. That kind of stuff just wasn't in his nature, not even a little bit.
But it was a little hard to argue when his brain wasn't working right, when everything felt like a fog and he couldn't quite make words come out right.
And everything was hot, so fucking hot, and St. John's fire was only getting bigger, brighter. It hurt to look at, let alone be around. So he kind of had to, didn't he? He had to get out of the line of literal fire in order to let his (probably best) friend work. Or else he'd just be in the way. He'd make it worse.
"Damnit!" He shouted finally, getting himself up to his feet again, and he was scrambling, the earth beneath his hands, digging in underneath his nails. "You'd fucking better, John!" He wanted to make a joke, to make it seem less final, but his brain wasn't there yet -- but his feet were, going one after the other until he was finally out of the fucking way and the fire was more an idea behind him than it was a reality.