It's all the same
The funeral was no more or less impressive than the last one he’d been to. Peter wouldn’t say he was the type to compare, but it was sort of a human impulse; to try and place meaning or context from one space to the next. May said he always used to categorize things, to put them into one box or another, to make them make sense (at least, to him). On a scale of ten, he would say Tony Stark’s funeral was a nine. Ben’s was a seven. His parents were somewhere just past the middle, though he hardly remembered much from back then. He couldn’t exactly place what had kept this particular event away from the highest category.
He cried, quietly, and stood next to his Aunt. The service itself took place at the lake house his mentor had apparently retired to, and it was a peaceful kind of atmosphere. Most of the greatest heroes in the world were present, standing around him, mourning in their own right. Pepper spoke about him, and there was even a projection—some foreseen memo that Tony had created long before he’d even stepped back into the whole Avenger’s business. He was like that, though, always three steps ahead.
Nine out of ten. Peter counted down from ten, then back up again from one. Nine felt right. He wasn’t sure if anything could be a ten in such circumstances. May excused herself to get a tissue, and he felt an absence at his side, looking out over the water from a safe distance. He was standing just in front of the trunk of a big tree, a tire swing hanging just to his left, the shade of the leaves just shy of autumn shielding him from the partially cloudy sky. Maybe it wasn’t a ten because it hadn’t rained. Maybe his scale was broken.
He looked back towards the house, around the trunk, and watched idly as people spoke in hushed tones and lounged about the porch and lawn. He’d seen Happy briefly, but the older man was far more occupied with people he’d been around for the past five years, so Peter didn’t bother inserting himself. He wasn’t sure if he’d even want to see him, there were far more interesting people here who didn’t spend a good portion of their relationship annoying the other with peppy voicemails.
He’d seen Pepper, and she’d hugged him, and he couldn’t quite recall what she’d whispered to him before heading inside. Maybe it was ‘it’s good to see you’, or ‘let’s talk more in a little bit’, or maybe ‘I think your shoe is untied’. He looked down, just to check that the tight laces of his dress shoes were done up properly, still, and when they were, he sort of frowned. That probably wasn’t what she said.
“Are you going to use the swing?” A voice called from just behind him, and Peter wasn’t sure who it belonged to. It was a boy, probably the same age if not younger, with curly blond hair and bags under his eyes. He was wearing a black suit, just the same as half of the people in the crowd, and the jacket was unbuttoned. He looked friendly, if not sad, and Peter figured he wanted to use the tire swing far more than he did. So he smiled politely, shook his head ‘no’, and walked a respectable distance away.
May caught him when he was wandering closer to the docks, squinting at the sun and shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Hey, sweetheart,” She linked her arm with his, her cheeks a little red, and he took one of his hands out so she could take his elbow easier. She studied his face for a long moment, and he felt like he should probably say something back. “Did you get cold in the shade?” She asked, looking back briefly towards the tree, then replacing her gaze back to him.
“No,” He shook his head, his voice coming out a little thick. He turned back towards the lake, and May took out a tissue, dabbing at his cheek. “Thanks,” He added, when she took the tissue away, and his face was kind of sticky but dry.
“Do you want to go find something to drink?” May was always one to ask questions, he knew, when she didn’t have anything particularly comforting to say. He didn’t feel like he needed to be comforted at the moment, so he figured it was a good balance.
“No,” He told her, and when he blinked he realized he was still crying, just a little.
She was back with the tissue, and he let her scrub at his face. “Do you want to find Happy? Or Pepper? Or Rhodey?”
“No,” He said, and when he knew there would only be more questions if he didn’t fill the silence, he continued, “The sun feels nice. I was missing out on it in the shade. And I didn’t want to use the tire swing.”
May rubbed her thumb under his eye, then pulled him in to hug around his shoulder, tucking the top of his head under her chin. “Okay,” Her voice was a little wobbly. “We should talk to someone soon, though. Then we can leave and get ice cream, and feel good about coming. Because we talked to someone and then gave an Irish goodbye.”
“We can talk to Pepper,” Peter offered. “Then we would have spoken to someone and it wouldn’t be an Irish goodbye, technically. Just a regular one.”
“Hm,” May pressed a kiss to his forehead. “You’re right. I’m not sure what the etiquette on funerals is for leaving, anyway. Good plan, team.”
He looked at her, and smiled, and made sure his eyes crinkled so she would return the gesture. The tight ball in his chest eased a little, but he was still a little watery-eyed and sniffling. They turned back to the house after a while, and when Peter looked to the tree, he didn’t see the boy there. He hoped he had a good time on the swing, though.