Chapter Text
Before space, time, or matter, there existed a single omnipotent primordial entity. Their name has long since been lost on those who came after, but we know this being was far more than that—they were reality itself in a unified state.
Peter remembers being erased, it was different from dying, even though both are technically the same end result. But Peter feels the need to point out the differences.
When he was erased he'd been surrounded by strangers—a wizard, a talking raccoon, friendly(?) aliens—and Tony Stark, who wasn’t a stranger anymore but still felt impossibly far away. It was just after they’d lost the stone when Peter felt a small resigned hum in the back of his skull. Underneath his skin seemed to shift, his healing factor trying to heal something that wasn’t there and then he really felt it. The tearing sensation of his body unraveling piece by piece while his healing factor fought uselessly, only stretching the agony.
Consumed by loneliness, the entity chooses to collapse into themself. With their end marked as the dawn of the universe we know. The only evidence left of that primordial entity are six singularities made of the fractures from that being's very essence that were spread far and wide.
On the contrary, Peter's death had been a lot different. The gauntlet had ended up in Spider-Man’s hands during an insane game of keep-away. He’d slid it on for a better grip, the pain was immediate: raw, unfiltered fire raced up his arm, then detonated through his whole body like fireworks on the fourth of July. Staying conscious had felt like climbing a mountain he couldn’t see the top of. He’d fought his own consciousness after that. Numb fingers that wouldn’t listen, forcing him to beg his hand to move, to snap. His senses screamed, every nerve set ablaze, his healing factor scrambling to knit him together, all while the stones tore him apart faster.
So yeah. Peter thinks being erased and dying feels different. Being erased felt a lot worse than dying. There was no white light people love to talk about, no afterlife of any kind, there was nothing. One moment you were there, the next you were nothing. At least now that he’s died, he’s opening his eyes again.
They are, of course, naturally drawn to each other but not for the reason many assume. They do not wish to be ‘whole’ again. They wish to reunite, to be together and exist in one place at one time as individuals.
Granted the view he’s looking at isn’t all that exciting but his eyes are open again, and he has his consciousness, so he’ll count it as a win. Though he never imagined the after life to be so…red. The ground he stands on was a dark red, sort of like a garnet, meanwhile the sky was sort of a lighter ruby red.
Their wish is destined to be fulfilled.
Peter blinks and suddenly he’s not alone anymore. Well he’s alone in red, but now there were other colors with other people. It was like being inside one huge color wheel. His red bled into a girl's orange, which bled into a boy’s yellow, which bled into another boy’s green, and that bled into another boy’s blue, which bled into another girl’s purple, which bled into his red. It reminds Peter of a pie cut into sixth.
He couldn’t see their faces or really any distinguishable features. He just knew they were there, and that was it.
Since that is the will of N̶e̷m̴e̷s̶i̸s̴
Peter blinked, and suddenly he was no longer standing near the center of the circle with the others.
A hand had wrapped around his, cool and firm, guiding him away from the mingling colors and deeper into the red. Who was leading him was a question Peter couldn’t answer. The figure beside him looked like a woman—roughly, vaguely—but the resemblance felt borrowed, like a shape chosen for convenience rather than truth. The air around them warped subtly, as though reality itself hesitated in their presence.
They walked without speaking.
With every step, the red grew darker, thicker, until the sky and ground began to bleed together and fade into black. At the very edge of it, the figure stopped and released his hand.
Peter turned to look up at them.
They had skin. Arms. Hair. A body that suggested humanity. But where a face should have been, there was nothing—no eyes, no mouth, no features at all. Only a single gem sat embedded where their left eye ought to be, glowing faintly, watching him in a way that made his skin prickle.
The being said nothing.
Neither did Peter.
After a moment, he looked away from them and into the black ahead.
Understanding settled in quietly, heavily. This was as far as they would go. Whatever waited beyond the dark, he was meant to face it alone.
The realization twisted something in his chest.
Peter had never liked being alone. Not after his parents died. Not after Uncle Ben. Not after nights spent counting the seconds until May came home from long shifts, the apartment too quiet for a kid his age. Even as Spider-Man, he was never truly by himself—there was always a voice, a passerby, a heckler, a villain, the endless pulse of New York keeping him company.
Alone was unfamiliar.
Alone was terrifying.
Peter gathered himself with a deep breath, then closed his eyes, and took a step into the black.
It didn’t swallow him all at once.
It was quiet at first. Not the absence of sound, but the absence of expectation. The black pressed in around him like a held breath, dense and heavy, as though reality itself was pausing to see what he would do next. With every step forward, the red behind him faded—not vanishing, but thinning, like a memory that no longer belonged to him.
Then came the weight.
Peter’s body began to feel wrong. Not pain—not like the stones, not like dying—but a pulling sensation, as though something inside him was being anchored. His chest tightened. His limbs felt heavier, slower, as if gravity was remembering him for the first time.
And then he was falling.
There was no sky, no ground—just motion. Images tore through him in violent flashes: His childhood bedroom. May’s apartment at sunrise, the hum of the city at night, blood on his gloves, laughter over broken comms, the crack of bones knitting back together. His life didn’t play out in order. It fractured. Moments overlapped, collided, rewrote each other.
Something burned behind his left eye.
Not fire—pressure. Like a star being forced into a space too small to hold it.
Something settled there, anchoring him, rooting him to the fall like a nail driven through the center of his being. His vision split for a heartbeat—dark on one side, burning crimson on the other—and then the world slammed back together.
Peter hit the ground hard.
The impact knocked the air from his lungs in a sharp, painful wheeze. Asphalt scraped his knees and palms, the sting immediate and real. He curled in on himself on instinct, a now smaller body shaking as his senses caught up all at once.
Sounds rushed in first.
Sirens. Distant, overlapping. The low rumble of thunder. Somewhere nearby, glass shattered.
Smells followed—rain on concrete, smoke, something metallic and bitter.
Peter opened his eyes.
The world was wrong.
Half of what he saw looked normal; dark buildings stretching upward, crooked and looming, windows glowing dimly through the rain. The other half was soaked in red. Not blurry. Not blocked. Just… red. Every shape outlined in shades of crimson, deeper shadows bleeding into brighter ones like ink in water.
Peter squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again.
It didn’t go away.
Heart pounding, he lifted a shaking hand to his face and felt something hard and smooth where his left eye should have been. It didn’t hurt to touch, but the contact sent a strange echo through him, like tapping glass and feeling it ring in your bones.
“No,” he whispered, voice small and raw. “No, no, no—”
His breath hitched.
He scrambled upright, panic rising fast and sharp, and spotted a dark reflection in a puddle near the curb. He leaned closer despite himself.
His right eye stared back at him—wide, terrified, unmistakably his.
His left glowed red.
A stone sat in his eye socket where his eye should be, catching what little light there was and bending it into something that felt alive.
Peter stumbled blindly at his surroundings until his fingers brushed fabric. A torn scrap of black cloth—part of something that used to be a coat, maybe. He didn’t question it. He just tied it around his head with trembling hands, covering the stone and eye completely.
Out of sight.
Out of mind.