Eleven (слэш)

Peter was on his knees, his head of brown curls bowed and pressed against the chest of another boy as he sobbed. The boy’s pale slender hands carded through Peter’s hair, silently soothing him, his bright green eyes downcast, face taut with unconcealed pain. His raven hair fell to below his shoulders, sticking to the blood on his face in places, matted and tangled, so unlike his usual refined elegant self. And the worst part wasn’t the blood, or the mess, or his obvious pain. The worst part was the way his lips had been crudely stitched shut with thread, tugging on the skin whenever he tried to open his mouth to breath better, blood dripping from the gashes.
Peter asks Tony for help, but is Tony willing to put the past behind him and do what is right?