i only wanted
"i didn't want any flowers, i only wanted
to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
how free it is, you have no idea how free."
- sylvia plath, ariel
14.
Outside, they've cleared all the snow off the brick fire pit and brought out marshmallows, graham crackers, and Hershey's chocolate bars. Steve, being ever so pragmatic, makes sure to bring two brand-new tissue boxes as a precaution for their sticky fingers and mouths. There'd been some earlier worries about keeping the fire going, but luckily, the snow has cooled off a bit since this morning.
Clint whoops with eagerness, stooping to light the fire, while Thor swings his stick around and gaily impales the air. "Tradition," Bruce tells Tony softly as he watches Thor, and Tony can see the fondness, the lightness, in his eyes. He's glad that Bruce is so happy, because honestly the guy is kind of scrawny and twitchy and probably needs more love in his life.
"Here," Romanoff says, handing a stick and a marshmallow to Bruce, and then to Tony. "Knock yourselves out."
"Thanks," Tony mumbles, reaching out to take both items. He's grateful that they've decided to include him, but it still doesn't help the overwhelming fact that he is one hundred percent not their friends. He isn't even sure whether he actually likes them, or if he just likes their dynamic and comfortable familiarity and the easy, kind way they treat and protect one another.
"You've made s'mores before, right Tony?" Bruce asks, the firelight glinting off his frames. They clear snow off one of the logs nearby and place sheets over it before they sit down.
Tony swallows. "No," he says eventually, and looks hard at his marshmallow so he won't have to see the judgement and surprise. "No, I haven't."
"Really? Oh, I assumed - "
"Yeah, I know. It's fine. It's just one of those essential childhood experiences I never got around to, I guess." It comes out more bitter than intended.
Something flickers in Bruce's expression, the way he looks when there's a difficult physics problem he hasn't quite got yet, and he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with an index finger. "Ah."
They turn back to the fire, more silent now, and stick their marshmallows into the flames.
"So," Bruce says after a while, once everyone's settled down and is chatting with each other. "Some people like to burn their marshmallows, where they basically set their marshmallows on fire and wait a bit before blowing it out. That's mostly Clint and Bucky, though. I like to keep it above the fire for awhile until it turns more of a golden color."
Tony smiles a little. "I know how to make s'mores, I've just never done it before."
Bruce flushes. "Ah," he repeats.
Tony leans forward to get better access to the heat, but makes sure not to set his marshmallow on fire. The very thought makes him a little ill - like the fire could spread down the candy and onto the stick, and lick all the way up his fingers and wrists and elbows and -
Nope. Nopety nope. Not going there.
"Is it nice, living in Malibu?" Bruce says, a touch of wistfulness to his voice. "What's it like, not having snow?"
"It's, it's okay." Tony shrugs his shoulders and straightens up when he realizes he's hunching in on himself. "It's fine, I guess."
"Seems nice, it being warm all the time," Bruce comments. "New York has nice summers, but I get cold easily."
Tony nods. He isn't sure where this conversation is heading, and painfully he recognizes that it's only Bruce trying to set up some small talk.
"I've never asked you this before," Bruce says suddenly, and he looks shy in the firelight. "What's it like, getting to travel to so many places? I've never been out of the country before. It seems nice, you know, just flying all over the world to see things. I would, but I just don't have...well, the means."
Tony's thinking about how to answer this when Barnes, on the log beside him, reaches forward with his stick. The marshmallow stuck to the tip immediately catches fire as Barnes dips it far into the pit, and he's bringing his hand back up to blow it out when Barton - from across the fire - says, "Hey, Barnes, watch this."
Tony turns to look at Barton, who's juggling marshmallows in the air, and Barnes turns too - which means that his stick swings to the side, right in front of Tony. Well, in actuality, the flaming marshmallow is at least a foot away from his chest. But in the moment, that's not what it looks like.
Immediately Tony drops his stick and scrambles backward off the log, his breath coming in short sharp gasps. All he can see is the fire, feel the fire on his skin, men moving around him hands on him searing pain licking up his chest. Vaguely, he's aware that everyone is staring at him, that Bruce is looking at him and asking concernedly, "Tony? What's going on?" but he can't think, he can't, he can't, he's thirteen years old and back in a stupid fucking abandoned building getting held for ransom by some dumbass group with a stupid name that doesn't understand his father won't pay, will never pay, not for worthless fuckups like him -
You will pay for your father's refusal.
A beat.
I will enjoy watching you scream.
A beat.
Ah, Anthony Stark. Family can be a terrible thing.
A beat...
Fuck, fuck, he can't, he can't breathe, he can't do this. He's not, he's in the snow, he's , he's, where am I, where is he -
He's burning up again
Raza's holding the lighter to his chest again
He's
H e ' s
s c r ea m i ng
cr y i n g
be g g i ng
p l e a d i n g just like a l i ttle g ir l
No, not again, please, p-please I - he'll pay, just give him time
Hands, scrabbling at his scalp, forcing his head underwater. "Do it again," a voice commands, and Tony almost blacks out from lack of air. The sensation of drowning is all around him, filling his throat, filming his eyes, clogging his ears. "Do it again."
I'm Anthony Stark, age thirteen, Italian, can I go home, I'm going home, I'm going to be home, I'm Anthony Stark, age thirteen, Italian, I'm going home, I'm going home, I'm going home
Fire
Fire
Fire
Fire and
the breath getting torn out of him, his chest bleeding back into his ribs
The hard seat cramping his ass, the restraints around his wrists, the metallic, sweat-odored tinge to the air
Raza's clothes, black shirt and black jacket and jeans, too casual, so casual
A pain so fucking awful he doesn't even have enough soul left to scream -
Tony comes dimly out of his panic and realizes he's curled up next to the log, shoulders heaving. His face feels wet; he touches his cheeks and figures he's probably crying. His heart is shuddering in his chest, and he's still half-stuck in an endless loop of remembering. He hasn't had a PTSD flashback like this in awhile, and he thought - he thought he was finally over it. Obviously not though. So weak, Tony. Why are you so weak?
He realizes that he's lying in the snow, and something's on his shoulder. The snow feels so blessedly cool, and he sob-sighs and turns his face into the ground, breathing in the chill. It's snow, that's it, not the Ten Rings, not fire, not heat. His body feels like it's dissipating into the earth, weak and trembling and hot-cold, and the insides of his eyelids are blue-black and starry and he can almost see the heavens in them.
He can almost see God waiting, watching impassively, in them.
"Tony?" a voice says, soft.
Tony jerks and realizes the pressure on his shoulder is a hand, which is connected to Bruce, and...everyone is surrounding him. In various degrees of concern, and all looking very confused.
Shit.
Tony scrambles up immediately, pressing his back up against the log. "Oh, God," he says, and his voice sounds thin and breakable, even to his own ears. "I'm sorry, I'm s-sorry, I…" His hands aren't working right in his lap; they're twitching and fluttering, like moths, and they aren't listening to his commands to still them.
"What was that?" Steve says, but he sounds almost kind now, and fuck, Tony doesn't want pity. Especially not from these people, who have already been so fucking generous with him.
"I - I don't…." Tony trails off. Everyone looks like cardboard cutouts in the night, like the darkness is seeping around the edges of them all and they're not really there, just hallucinations. Honestly, Tony really isn't sure if he is just dreaming up all of this or not. Everything feels unsteady and loose and heady, like a dream, except his heart is having arrhythmia again and it's a painful pounding throb and he knows somewhere deep inside that it's real. It's hard to focus on everything, and it feels so truly like he is going to die. Like his chest is going to crack through, brittle like eggshells, crumbling hard bits into his heart and sucking the oxygen from his lungs and hurting, hurting, hurting...
"Too severe to be a panic attack," Natasha says lowly, looking at him. Her expression is once again indecipherable, but Tony doesn't pretend to think that that momentary flicker of sympathy is genuine. "And he's definitely not faking it. Post traumatic stress disorder, probably."
"Stark," Rogers says, like he doesn't even want to think about it, like he still half doesn't believe what he's about to ask. "Do you...do you have PTSD?" He reaches forward, maybe to touch Tony's other shoulder.
It's probably because of how high strung he is, but in that moment Tony does the stupidest thing possible - he flinches.
"Hey," Bruce murmurs tentatively as Steve draws back, looking agitated. He kneels down slowly next to Tony. "We can go inside, okay?"
"Didn't know a pretty rich boy like Stark could have PTSD," Barton snarks, but this time the jab is lackluster and even Barnes looks warningly at him to shut up.
"What triggered it?" Bruce is saying, softly. "Can you tell us? Is that okay?"
Tony wraps his arms around himself and shakes his head tightly. He just wants to crawl into his bed at SHIELD and go to sleep and forget everything that's happened tonight. He'd be surprised if the Rogers didn't just kick him out, after this, for causing so much drama and trouble. "I'm sorry," he whispers. He can't even muster up the strength to put on a facade of being okay right now; all he can manage to do is apologize. "I thought...I thought I was okay. I mean, I am okay. It won't happen again. I'm sorry. I promise."
"It's okay," Bruce says, still kneeling. "I think we're done here with making s'mores. You guys want to go in and finish up Harry Potter? We've still got the last movie to go."
"Sounds like a good idea," Rogers says after a pause. His brows are furrowed and his mouth contorted, like he isn't exactly sure how to comfort a guy he hates that just broke down in front of him. "Come on, everyone."
"I can stay outside with Tony for a bit," Bruce offers. He glances down at Tony, who's clenching his jaw but not indicating any displeasure at the proposal. Tony notices that Thor is watching him with a look that seems far too intimate and sorrowful for the stranger-relationship they have, and shudders a little.
"Okay," Rogers says firmly. "We'll all go inside. Bruce, you can come in with Stark when he's feeling better."
Everyone hesitates a little, glancing at Tony once more before leaving. Romanoff's expression, while still placid, is no longer stony. Barton just looks uncomfortable and confused as fuck. Steve kind of looks like a very shocked and lost puppy, and Thor's eyes are old and sad. Barnes, however, Barnes is the real surprise. He looks...guilty, and regretful, almost, even though Tony has no idea why Barnes might feel that way. He could be reading the other boy's emotions completely wrong, of course. Hell, Barnes might even be feeling extremely satisfied right now and Tony wouldn't know for sure.
"Tony," Bruce says softly, and Tony realizes his science buddy is still next to him in the snow. The snow's still falling lightly, and white powder peppers Bruce's curly, unruly locks. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not really," Tony says stiffly, looking away. "Bruce, I don't want your pity. You don't have to give it. I understand." He's still struggling to catch his breath.
"It's not pity," Bruce says, more fiercely than Tony would expect. "Tony, you just had a - what was it, a PTSD flashback? Triggered by Clint, or something. This is serious."
"I've had PTSD since I was thirteen," Tony snaps back, equally fierce now. "Don't decide to care just because you saw me break down like a little girl."
Bruce's eyes soften. "There's nothing wrong with letting your emotions out, you know."
"I didn't say there was." Tony digs his fingers into the snow, relishes in the cold burn.
"We all have issues," Bruce says, settling down on his butt next to Tony and resting his back against the log. "Me, Nat, Clint, Bucky, everyone. More than most, honestly. We might not have experienced the same thing as you, but we've been through a lot."
My parents got shot in the middle of December, and then a month later I got into a car accident, Tony thinks. A metal arm, painted with a red star, flashes in his mind.
He shrugs. "I don't have anything to complain about. I'm Tony Stark. Rich, genius, famous, popular, and occasional slut, remember?" He lifts his chin stubbornly, and almost decides to add that he's fine, but then remembers the dried tears on his cheeks and figures he's already shown he's weak and there's no point in trying to prove otherwise.
"Tony." Bruce sighs. "We've kind of been assholes."
"I deserved it," Tony says softly. The stars twinkle in front of him and imprint themselves on the insides of his eyelids.
"What you did was wrong, but what Bucky did was wrong too," Bruce says after a moment, and wipes the lens of his glasses on his shirt. "He shouldn't have called your friend a slut."
"Yeah, he shouldn't have," Tony agrees, startling an uncertain laugh out of his science partner. "But I don't belong here, Bruce. You know that. I should start booking flights soon. All the random blizzards that have been happening will die down in a day or two."
"Maybe you aren't friends with most of us," Bruce begins, and Tony is grateful for the "most," that Bruce seems to consider him a friend (even if only out of pity). "But I think we should all start over. I can talk to everyone else. Get them to forgive you. You should stay here."
"Forgive me?" Tony laughs bitterly. "That'll never happen. And if they do, it's only going to be because they pity me, and nothing else. I don't want that. I'd rather have you all back to hating me again." The stars look softer now that it's nearing nine pm, like drops of melting ice cream. It is so beautiful, and it is almost enough to ease the ache drenching his insides.
"We don't hate - it's not pity." Bruce closes his eyes briefly before glancing up at Tony; his face is sad. "I think we all just forgot that you aren't the cause of all our problems. And no one knows you made the arm either; for all they know, you're just the guy who hurt our friend and then decided to come stay with us over break. But I know that's no excuse, and I know we took you as the mascot for all our pain because of Bucky's arm and ran with it.... And that part is solely our fault, not yours."
Tony shakes his head. "If it wasn't pity, you wouldn't have chosen to forgive me now, after you - after you saw me break down." In the corner of his eye the stars are melting down the sky, they're falling and falling, and Tony wants to help them back into their places high above the heads of the trees and earth, but he doesn't know what to do. So instead, he watches them fall, so delicate and graceful even in the arch of their descent.
"Tony," Bruce says, and it's so evident in his voice that he doesn't know what to do. "You need help. We're here for you. You don't have to do this alone, if you're having problems, you know that, right?"
"Bullshit," Tony says softly, and stands up to brush the snow off his pants. "You guys don't care; it's my fault. I don't...I don't need to be taken care of."
"Tony," Bruce says again. He seems at a loss for words, and it gives Tony some sick sort of satisfaction, to see his science seatmate rendered speechless.
"Stark men are made of iron," Tony says, tired now. The snow looks brittle, thousands and thousands and thousands of flurries grouped together, indistinct, all the same. He envies that sameness, in a way - borne from the sky, landing on earth the same as all the others before and after it. Snow cones. Sledding. Double diamonds. Winter. That's what snow was supposed to be, that was what it was supposed to represent.
Maybe it's him, but he thinks it's started to snow harder.
"I'm sorry," Bruce says, quiet, and Tony wonders if Bruce knows what he's apologizing for.
"Don't be." Tony quirks a humorless smile and sticks his hands in his pockets. "I'm always okay. Always."
He waits a beat. There's just the whistling wind and the silence; Bruce doesn't seem to be able to say anything else. "Good night, Brucie." He turns, after one long pause filled with his name and a "wait" stuttered from the other boy's mouth, and he walks across the yard and goes into the house. He makes his way all the way upstairs, passing the living room where everyone seems to be talking quietly in front of the tv, and heads straight into the bedroom.
He's so very tired, when he crawls under his blanket.
Thinks, for some time, about the shuddering humiliation, and it hurts a little when he realizes there are no footsteps, that Bruce hasn't followed him.
It's only when it gets hard to breathe that he realizes he's crying (hard) again, and when he finally sleeps - struggling through the thickness in his airway - snow and fire blend into one, choking him in his dreams.
I'm Anthony Stark, I'm age sixteen, please, I want to find home.