Pete and Pete
That's just the thing though, isn't it? There's so much to go back for - but also so much to run from. Here, Tony's not dead. He doesn't have to go to a funeral, or see what's left of his home in Queens, after five years away. How many of his friends are grown, now? Did May still have any of his stuff, or did she eventually go through all of it, like they did with Ben's? Or had May dusted, and...what, it was all thrown away? All their picture albums, all of Ben's old records, that ugly couch May had bought at a flea market and made them carry up eight flights because the elevator was busted - gone, just gone in the blink of an eye?
So it's better, here, but it's not, at the same time.
"But they are!" He doesn't mean to yell, and he lowers his voice, ducking his head in case anyone turns his way. "They are gone. Dead and gone. So they're here in town - what about it? They're still dead. They're not really them, you know? They're not. They're different, they're other versions. It's not the same, don't tell me it's the same, it isn't, okay?"
Peter takes a deep breath to steady himself after the rush of words. He hadn't meant to get heated, but he stands by it. He looks at Tony, and it's both a lungful of air when he feels like he's drowning, and a stab in the stomach. Because it isn't his Tony. His Tony is dead, light gone out, burned by the power of the universe. That's just how it is.
"That doesn't make it right, you know. Your choices. Our choices." Peter knows that older!Peter must know this, too. You can't fool yourself, really, but they're just in different places. Maybe, over time, Peter will come to know what this other Peter has already come to terms with...or maybe not. Maybe they're different, who knows? But Peter feels the guilt of his decisions, some times more than others - and this is one of those times.
"Don't talk about Ben." The anger is palpable, and Peter can't help the way his eyes narrow into a glare at the other Peter. For him, it's barely been three years, and it still hurts like an open wound. It still makes him bleed, and to be honest, he's been bleeding just about everywhere else too, recently; he doesn't need to add that to the list. "Don't."
The problem isn't that he wants to cry - he wants to, and he has been, for like two days now (three? Shit, he doesn't even know anymore). The problem is he wants to scream, wants to burst out of his skin and howl like he's a shitty, B-Movie werewolf. How can this be just another loss on the chalkboard when he feels so shattered, from the inside out? It's not just Tony - though that is, of course, the natural focal point of his grief - but it's everything. He died. And then he came back. But it's not really that simple, is it?
"I don't need the 'it gets better' pep talk. I need it to be better." The words echo in his memory (how could they not?) and something hot and sore aches in the base of his throat, but it's not tears. He's moving to the anger stage of his Kübler-Ross, thanks. "Because I get up, and I move forward, and it continues to suck. Harder and harder, every time."