Home isn't just a place

Chapter Fifteen

TW: introspective thoughts of death

Peter ignored Bruce after that.

He didn't mean to---well, he sort of did. (He definitely did)---he just didn't want to sit around and listen to him attempt to guilt him into telling his parents. It wasn't hard to convince Bruce to keep his mouth shut. All he had to do was bring up doctor-patient confidentiality, flash a few tears and a well-timed, 'I'm dying Bruce. Let me process this first, please.' and the kind-hearted doctor pledged his silence.

Afterwards, he trekked up to the roof, sitting comfortably on the roof's edge and looked up at the stars.

It's funny, to be honest. Hysterical, really. He's dying. He's going to die after he just started to live. Ironic, isn't it?

It was so funny it made him laugh to himself under the blanket of stars.

It's fascinating, really.

The light from the stars are actually lies. The light isn't real. Not really. It takes eight minutes and twenty seconds for the light from the Sun to hit Earth and be registered in your eyes. Stars that are farther from the Earth than the sun take even longer. The light you see is nothing more than a projection of the past.

The likelihood that the star you're looking at is still there is next to none. So every time you look up at the stars, there is nothing but a sky full of ghosts. They're there but not really. They're nothing more than the projected image of a star's dying power. A last wish. A last ditch effort to show the world that the star existed.

A sky full of ghosts.

Beautiful and morbid.

"Is that me?" Peter mused, a single tear sliding down his face. "Am I a ghost too, now?"

Peter sat there in the cold, not noticing when his hands began to go numb. He couldn't tell the difference between the physical numbness and the mental one. Perhaps this would be a good thing to write in his feelings journal?

Not like it matters, anyway. He's going to die anyway, so what's the point in trying to fix him?

"Guess you were right, Dad," Peter said, choking on a sob. (Or was it a laugh?) "I'm not broken."

And he wasn't. Peter wasn't broken. He was shattered.

There had to be something of him left to be broken, and he was going to die. There wasn't going to be anything left soon.

And wasn't that a depressing thought?

"Hey."

Peter did not react to the sudden voice behind him. Did not acknowledge the man, even when he sat down next to him. He merely stared up into the sky of ghosts, blinking at the bright lights and morbid thoughts circling inside his head.

Wolf didn't say anything else, and Peter was grateful. And together they sat in silence, enjoying each other's company for a few minutes.

What finally broke the silence was Peter's stomach growling loudly. Peter blinked, the spell-bound lethargy breaking and he looked down at his stomach with a chuckle. "I guess I'm hungry," he said, looking up at Wolf with a smile. "Is dinner ready?"

Peter didn't know what his face looked like, but it seemed to upset Wolf because he paused for a second before answering. "Yes." he said gruffly. "I was sent to come and get you."

"Cool," Peter said, standing up and brushing himself off. "Let's go eat then." Peter began walking inside. He made it all the way to the door before Wolf spoke once more.