There’s a sharp gnawing pain in his chest, something that wraps its long snaky tendrils around his lungs and squeezes, hard.
His beloved Cloak flutters around slightly before nestling on his shoulders and giving a half-heartedly dramatic swish. Forcing the swirling mass of stormy air he was keeping at bay to dissipate, he makes his way slowly, slowly, to where he sees the silhouette of Mrs Potts - or is it Mrs Stark now?- crumpled on the floor next to a couple of others.
Though his legs feel weighted, heavier than they’ve ever felt before, he makes his way to them. His entire body is fatigued, and the distance is considerable, but he keeps trudging onwards. The idea of using a portal or simply flying there is highly tempting, yet he dismisses it with a light touch to his cheekbone. The skin is wet; it could be a foe’s blood, his blood or neither. He shrugs, ignoring the headache that prompts him to just use Levi. Considering he just brought a man to his untimely demise, he owes him that much. A little pain isn’t that bad.
Surprisingly, it’s only a little hard to maintain a stoic expression as he exhales and gathers the motivation to walk at a faster pace. Around him, there are pained howls and desperately relieved shouts throughout the rubble-littered battleground. It keeps his mind busy, taking it off of the inevitable truth that he’s near to confirming.
The Eye of Agamotto seems to be getting heavier, and he pushes it sideways before realising it’s just the sinking feeling in his stomach. A few more steps is all it takes for- oh. Oh.
His lips part involuntarily into a small, silent scream as he finally sees the hero’s body.
Stifling the undignified wail of despair sure to burst out of him any moment now, he chokes out, “No, Tony, oh God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
The notion to carry Tony in his arms and flee, away from all the pain and sadness layered thickly in the very air, fleets through his brain. Doesn’t he deserve something more peaceful? Would he have preferred to... return to the blankness like this, the selfish yet selfless reluctant hero? He has no idea, and it frustrates him to not know what the changed Tony Stark would have wanted. How different would he have become, given time?
Doctor Stephen Strange briefly entertains the question of whether thoughts of him flashed behind Stark’s eyelids as he inhaled a final ragged breath. He shakes his head to clear it, because even if that was so, it would all be for the wrong reasons. Such selfishness, he chastises himself, but even that is without much conviction. He simply sees without seeing, hovering around the edge of Peter’s peripheral vision, his faithful Cloak limp and almost lifeless.
He wishes, more than anything, that he could have had a chance to explain.
Explain that it had been the one in 14 million chance, the message he had tried to convey as he silently raised one finger, maintaining agonizing eye contact with Tony Stark. Explain that Tony had done such a good job in playing his part, the role he had been pressured into taking though the script was unclear. Explain the way he had felt about the other, in full detail, even if it meant fending off otherworldly monsters with one hand while clutching a small velvet box that would have set a metal detector off in the other.
Explain that it began with Tony Stark, billionaire, womanizer, flirt, cocky, genius, lonely, hero- and thus it would end with Tony Stark, father, friend, lover, genius, loved, hero.
He feels the knot of fury that five damn years were ripped away from him. Even if he knew that he was going to be one of the many decimated by the Snap, he been unable to see past his own death, just like the Ancient One had told him. Past that particular flow of time where his body ceased to exist, he had had no knowledge, having the briefest of moments to check the past while doing relatively mundane jobs such as wrapping up a column of water and making a dramatic entrance slash exit out of a portal.
During those five years, Tony would have grieved, shaken and traumatized by the firsthand experience of seeing Peter crumble to nothingness. (Yes, he knows that he’s inflicted a similar level of pain upon Tony, but he chooses to, needs to, ignore it.) He’d have had to pick up the pieces with only half the Avengers in the room and be reminded of everything that had happened, suffering etched into passerby’s faces.
Stephen can imagine Tony becoming closed-off, bursting at the probably nanotech seams with pent up anger and resentment. Anger aimed at him, anger aimed at the others, anger aimed at himself. The image brings a small, bitter smile to his face. It quickly contorts into a scowl.
He wonders how long Tony spent agonizing over the possibilities. One in fourteen million. Wondering how that would happen, overanalyzing every letter that left Stephen’s mouth, maybe even hoping for a clue in a particular wrinkle of the Cloak or a specific carving in the Eye of Agamotto. Another bitter smile shows on his expression as he pictures Tony alone, head in hands, slumped against a wall.
There’s regret for Tony, but also a selfish regret for himself. Regret that he hadn’t been the one to be beside Tony, instead leaving that blank space to be filled by the (lovely, kind, reliable) Pepper and (sweet, smart, just-like-her-father) Morgan. How on earth can he resent them, though? For having what he doesn’t? It’s not like that’s new to him.
But there is resentment.
A slimy, repulsive, abhorrent thing that preys on his own insecurities and regrets, trying to pass on the blame to others. The spawn of envy and wrath.
Just when Stephen and Tony had been gravitating towards each other, on the edge of a slowly turning knife, trading glances that turned to gazes and gazes that turned to stares, exchanging pats on the back which became hugs which became a tentative, hesitant kiss?
When it had escalated, slowly but steadily, when their hands were more often intertwined than not, when the bed protested with the density of their overflowing warmth?
Of course it had happened then.
Instead of dwelling on it, he pulls Peter up to his feet, lets the teen sob into his suddenly docile ‘cape’ and wishes to meet Tony Stark in another life. One where he isn’t fated for a lifetime of danger and heroics. Maybe one where they only briefly interact, so he’s lucky enough to have known him but not unlucky enough to have loved him. Not unlucky enough to have to feel the inevitable, piercing ache in his very core when the other is torn away from him. When the world is goddamn robbed of Tony Stark, Merchant of Death, Dad, Boss… Pharus.
Pharus, meaning ‘lighthouse’ or ‘beacon’ in Latin, had seemed to sum up Tony perfectly well. Bright, unwavering, sometimes turning the light away to others. Someone who had pretty much been a blinding ray of light in Stephen’s dark sea, someone who he could trust to bring him safely to land. Without that radiance to guide him, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t be steered off-course and into the rocks.
He’d murmured it softly under his breath at first, not really liking how it rolled off his tongue (Pharus, honestly, could it sound any more like a combination between Pharynx and Uranus?), and had experimented with things like ‘ignis’ for fire, ‘solis’ for sun, ‘lumen’ for light and whatnot. Frustratingly, they didn’t really explain how he felt. Fire was too short-lived, violent and consuming everything in its path, and Stephen was quite certain that he wasn’t the water to help control the flames (he would probably be kindling, blazing alongside the spark). The sun never went out, always shining (though it did help Tony’s lovely tan). While that was true of Tony in Stephen’s eyes, it was highly romanticized, because Tony definitely had his dark moments. They all did, and Stephen wasn’t an idiot. Of course, though Tony was his light, the word lumen had an even worse ring to it.
So pharus it had been.
He had experienced a tingle of thrill when he’d turned his head to look at Tony and the other had been gazing straight back at him, sunlight streaming through the thin curtains. Something that was called the golden hour had looked so ethereal as it basked Tony in a literally golden light, amplifying the enchanting shade halfway between mahogany and chocolate that was captured in Tony’s irises. The tender but quizzical set in the line of his pretty mouth and the cautious way he ran a hand through his hair had displayed his confusion as Stephen dragged the silence on for one minute, two minutes, never blinking.
Alright, so maybe even the almighty Sorcerer Supreme had ended up blinking, but the seriousness of the situation wasn’t lost. Stephen suddenly straightened up with a half-grin on his face, gray eyes lighting up in something fairly close to excitement.
“How about pharus?” he had asked, turning the swivel chair he was sitting on to face Tony completely and then changing his mind to doing a full 360º. He had arched an eyebrow in amusement, but he recalled his heart beating slightly faster, seeking approval.
“Lighthouse? Why? Do I light up your world like nobody else? The way that I flip my hair gets you overwhelmed?”
Stephen had stared blankly at him until Tony shrugged sheepishly, mumbling something about what sounded suspiciously like One Direction and how Strange, holed up in his Sanctum, couldn’t begin to comprehend social media.
“Yes, yes, I know those teenagers. I’ve seen enough black posters with white font on them. So what about it?” Stephen had waved a hand almost anxiously, letting his eyes flutter close with a grunt when he didn’t get a response. He didn’t get a response until he was slowly slipping into dreamland, pressed against the plush back of the chair. Keeping his face still to produce an illusion of him sleeping, he reaped his reward when he heard Tony standing up and crouching somewhere in front of him.
There had been a quiet exhale, and then a whisper: “You’re so precious.”
The feeling of warm lips suddenly pressed against his forehead had made him tense up instinctively, and his eyes flew open in surprise. He had managed to catch a glimpse of Tony stepping back hurriedly, the palest of pinks dusting against his bronzed cheeks.
“Jesus, Tony. I know you’re thirsty for me but consent is important.” Stephen remembered how he had smirked, enjoying the older’s flustered expression as he stepped closer to Tony.
Tony had blinked rapidly, retreating backwards, eventually hitting his back on the wall. “Yeah, yeah, Jesus Christ. I thought you were sleeping. Uh, sorry.”
“Taking advantage of me? Scandalous,” Stephen knew he had murmured, but there was a teasing smile on his lips as he finally closed the distance between them and leaned down. “At least do it properly. If I may?”
“Ever the gentleman,” Tony had chirruped, tilting his head to avoid their noses clashing uncomfortably before wrapping his arms around Stephen’s neck and bringing him closer, closer until he was kissing him uncharacteristically sweetly. Sweet was not the antonym of breathless, though.
It was a lovely kiss, and when they finally pulled away in totally synchronized movements like in the movies, Stephen had regained his cheeky half-smile. “So, pharus?”
“Nothing else. Though I do accept more sexual-”
“To quote one of those phrases floating around on the internet… begone, thot.” Chuckles had resonated in the rosy, glowing room.
As the last remnants of laughter trickle away from his memories, Stephen feels tears trickling down his dusty face, down the length of his nose. The evanescence of the fleeting euphoria seems to weigh him down, someone coming down from a high. He lifts a severely shaking hand to cover his mouth, gasping between quiet sobs. It hurts, a lot. So much. Too much.
Getting killed more than three thousand times while making a deal with Dormammu was probably preferable to the burning sensation setting his senses on fire. His shoulders shake to the unsteady rhythm of Peter’s whimpering, but not because of it; they shake with his own grief. Clearing his throat, he tries to form words yet keeps failing to speak them.
Finally, he breathes to nobody, "There was no other way."