Superset
His mind moves around fridge magnets in his sleep. Tumbles over sorry and I love you and when the sun tumbles over my pillows in the morning, I wish it was you. They cast shadows on the backs of his eyes. Skip and keel over I wish I could stop dreaming of my fingers in your hair and My father my father, forgive me, my father-
“I’m not dumb,” Steve says, fingers on the table.
Tony blinks. Catches himself in thought and shifts in his seat. The peeling vinyl of the booths is as uncomfortable as ever.
“Obviously,” Tony replies
“But I don’t really understand infinity,” he says.
Soft daylight filters in, chasing away the glare of the blinking neon lights wishing them a tepid Welcome to the Infinite Diner! The wall is lined with mirrors, lamp light reflecting a hundred times over, kissing at each frame and bouncing off the sharp blue of Steve’s eyes.
“It’s not necessarily real,” Tony shrugs, and turns a page in the Daily News.
Steve’s fingers tug a bit at his hair. Tony’s mouth waters. He forces his eyes on the paper.
“This is what I mean,” he groans.
Steve rests his cheek on the cool laminate of the table. Summer seems uncertain about autumn, dry heat clinging distrustfully close to its heels. September peels away from them like the cleaved skin of an orange. Jarvis used to peel his in one long spiral, telling him stories about ouroboros.
‘See how it swallows its own tail? It’s not foolish, Tony. It’s forever. Infinite.’
He thinks of the frozen lake in Massachusetts. How he could skate the same figure eight over and over if he had the time; never catching on corners or needing to start over. Forever.
Steve picks at clementines with little finesse, digging his thumbs in with hungry abandon. Tony realizes he’s staring again, tries to focus on the crossword and not the pale tuft of hair clinging stubbornly to the back of Steve’s neck.
“They say some sets of infinity are smaller than others,” Tony sighs, thumbing at the crossword.
Six letter word for a flowering shrub.
“How can that be possible? I thought infinity was the highest number.”
“Infinity isn’t a number.”
The waitress sets down a cup of coffee, and Tony takes two greedy sips before blinking back at the paper. Why doesn’t he know any stupid shrubs?
“What is it then?”
Tony leverages the paper back under his eyeline. Steve sat pinching sugar packets and blinking up at him from across the booth.
“It’s more of a concept than a number. It’s not finite.”
“So then how can some infinity be smaller than others?”
His voice was soft, hinting at frustration. His brow scrunched in the middle, creasing at his temples. Daylight peered in through the window just to catch a glimpse of him, washed in gold. He was beautiful.
“There are as many fractions as there are whole numbers.”
Steve thunks his head back onto the table, grumbling about math and evil geniuses. Tony doesn't give in- Steve's right, he is smart.
“No, think about it,” Tony says, "The reason infinity exists is because numbers are supposed to go on forever.”
Steve nods, thumbs rubbing at the ceramic of his mug.
“In math, the kinds of numbers matter.”
Steve snorts.
“That’s dumb. That sounds like the kind of thing your dad would say.”
Tony’s breath catches in his throat for a second. He isn’t wrong. He just hates that the mirror Steve holds up to his shadow always looks like his father. He can’t tell if he needs to be bigger or smaller to outrun him. He turns in circles in his mind until the mirror’s facing his back. Usually what he can’t see can’t hurt him.
“Whether or not my dad would say it, it’s still true,” he mumbles as Kathy bustles towards them with breakfast.
Steve always eats like he’s not sure if he’ll do it again. This breakfast is no exception. Tony scrapes his hash browns around his plate, pushing and pulling at his meal. He isn’t as hungry as he was before.
“So, the numbers matter because…?”
Tony almost forgot about the infinite universe. Only Steve could unfurl all of space and time in front of him, and then collapse it with a breath.
“Because when you’re measuring a set, it’s the number of numbers that matters. And some numbers are more real than others.”
“I never understand a word you’re saying,” Steve whines.
“Do you need a tree metaphor?”
Oh, it was too cute how he perked up at the thought.
“Maybe,” Steve says, sheepish grin tugging at his cheeks as he eats.
“Okay, how many trees are there?”
Steve’s mouth is full, but he doesn’t wait.
“Like three trillion,” he says through breakfast.
It’s Tony’s turn to be shocked.
“What? No way. There’s like…max 400 billion stars in our galaxy.”
“It’s true,” Steve says adamantly, cheeks that pretty shade of rose beds.
How sweet. Tony almost expects him to extend his pinky and swear.
“Alright, fine, so there’s more trees on this shitty planet than there are stars in our galaxy. The point is that some numbers are tangible. One, two, three, etcetera. Now imagine a negative one. You know the concept is real, but it’s not the same.”
“You could have negative one tree if you chopped it down,” Steve says.
Tony wants to kiss him so bad the fork bends under his fist. He laughs, not snidely, a pretty thing that bubbles out his throat without warning. Steve smiles at him over his mug.
“There you go. But it’s not quite a tree anymore, right? It’s more the absence of a tree.”
“I guess,” Steve replies, wiping at his cheek where a bit of whipped cream sat.
Tony’s mouth waters again. He sips at his coffee and tries not to look too hard at where a bit of it still lingers- making an easy home of the corner of Steve’s mouth. The brush of jealousy Tony feels should be studied. Maybe he should call that campus number about free therapy.
“It’s like that, then. Depending on the types of numbers you have, and how real they are, some sets are bigger.”
“I guess,” he says shrugging, seemingly done with his inquisition, “I still don’t see how anything real can go on forever.”
Ouroboros dances in his mind. He imagines Steve’s fingers, wrapped around oranges.
‘Not foolish, Tony. Forever.’
“You’re probably right,” Tony says, hoarse, voice as soft as it’s ever been.
Tony thinks about it again later, alone in the refrigerator light. Pushes the magnets around until they look like figure eights. Gets drunk and leaves a voicemail with campus health- jokingly asks them if they do lobotomies. Wonders if he’ll feel this sorry for himself forever.
Steve texts him a picture the next morning of the finished crossword. His blue gel pen has lovingly filled in number 24 down.
‘You forgot the shrub! :)”
He finally falls asleep, dreaming of forever.