Sempiternal
Smoke curls in his lungs like a long-lost friend. The air is thick with it, heady and warm. Bodies wade through the crowd, hands circling wrists like a lifeline. Something shitty plays too loud from the speakers; He can feel the bass under his fingers where they wrap around the banister. A pretty brunette presses into him, smelling like spice and unfamiliarity. She looks nothing like Steve. Tony tries to want her.
Heat chews at Tony’s collar. Sweat beads at the nape of his neck. It’s too crowded in here. The girl’s cheeks are pale as she shouts something he can’t hear over the noise. He shakes his head, mouthing his confusion at her. She just smiles, tugs at his palm with manicured fingers and drags him into the bathroom.
The door shuts with too much effort, catching unevenly on the doorframe. She laughs, so he does too. She’s wearing lipstick, something red enough it’ll stain. Tony closes his eyes as she nips behind his ears.
“It’s so hot that I’m making out with a Stark,” she breathes into his ear, warm breath smelling of alcohol as she kisses at his skin.
He feels sick all of a sudden. Wants to say something, and then realizes he doesn’t know her name.
“I’m gonna get another drink,” he says, pushing off the tub where he was perching.
She blinks, looking confused.
“Okay, I could go for another drink.”
He tugs at the door, feels the wood whine before it gives way. Steps out covered in lipstick and indecision, the girl with the wine-stained mouth trailing behind him. Only Steve is standing there, face pale and flickering like candle flame. Tony blinks a few times, shocked. His eyes are whiskey blurred and uncertain. He has the funniest urge to rub them and see if he disappears. This isn’t exactly Steve’s sort of place.
He’s just standing there, glancing between Tony and the girl. Slowly every inch of his skin is as dark as the rouge across Tony’s jaw. Tony blinks back at him in awe. He gets the urge to peel Steve’s polo off until he sees where the color ends. Finally, he moves. Frozen limbs jerk, turning around, his body as stiff as a marionette. Tony doesn’t hesitate, just trails after him like a shadow.
“Steve?”
He’s shouting over the music, smile chewing its way across his cheeks. He’s the happiest he’s been all night. Steve doesn’t turn.
“Hey, wait! Slow down, buddy, it’s packed in here.”
Steve keeps walking, edging his way towards the door. Tony’s nervous all of a sudden, skittish as a racehorse.
“Steve?”
The cold air bites at him as he follows Steve out the door. He keeps walking, so Tony does too. He hears the shuffling of heels behind him and turns to see the girl still following him.
“Oh my god, is that like your boyfriend?” She says, shocked.
“What?”
“I’m so sorry,” she says to Steve, “I swear I didn’t know!”
What the fuck. She heartwarmingly titters on as Tony stands baffled, talking with her hands about how she’s a girl’s girl-
“-well, guy’s girl in this case, and I’m like soooo sorry because you seem like such a sweet guy, and I would never sleep with someone’s boyfriend!”
Steve’s face drains of color at the mention of sex, sour like lemons. He blinks fast, eyes fluttering and soft under the streetlights. Tony’s just staring at him, drinking him in like another glass of whiskey. Steve must be appalled at the thought of being Tony’s boyfriend, because he looks as sick as Tony feels. That or he’s unreasonably worried for her virtue.
“You slept together? Not that- I mean, it’s fine, none of my business. Good for you, really,” he says, watery smile dripping off his face, “I shouldn’t have come, I- this just isn’t really my thing, you know?”
He won’t meet Tony’s eyes. He hates it when he does this- wants to shake him, beg him, prod at him till he’s cherry red and pissed off and looking at him, goddamnit.
She’s still apologizing, hands clasped and tattering on about how sweet Steve is. In another world Tony might have liked this girl. In this one, she’s standing a little close to him.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” he hisses through his teeth.
She puts her hands up, an uncomfortable glimmer of sobriety forming in her eyes. She passes Steve a sheepish smile and finally decides to toddle back into the house. They stand in weary silence until her platform wedges make their unsteady way up the frat steps, and she slips back inside.
“Sorry. That was weird,” Tony says, still confused, hands in his pockets.
“You had sex with that girl in a frat bathroom?”
Steve’s looking at him now. His eyes are narrow, damp blue burning with brimstone. He looks pissed. Maybe he does have a thing for that girl.
“Of course not. I mean, almost- “Steve looks sucker punched, “-but she seemed into you, I’m sure I could talk you up.”
Jealousy gnaws at his stomach. There’s a sick echo of mine, mine clanging like church bells against his skull. Steve doesn’t look all that excited either. What was Tony thinking- Steve’s too sweet to want someone’s sloppy seconds.
“Unless she’s not your type. I mean, I don’t know, maybe you’re into blondes.”
“I’m not into blondes,” Steve says quickly, soft as a song in the dim light of sorority row.
Tony can hear whooping somewhere down the street, and it blends like malt liquor into the music still shaking the sidewalk outside of the frat house.
“I thought- “but Steve never finishes, just swallows, and Tony’s eyes linger on the pale column of his throat.
He’s entranced. Steve’s hair is as pale as dandelions under the lamplight. Tony, drunk idiot that he is, reaches for it. Rakes his fingers through the front where it’s getting long enough to spill over his eyes and pushes it back for him. Steve hates it this length, keeps whining about how he needs it cut.
Tony’s mouth waters, so he licks his lips to quiet the need. He’s close enough to see the specks in Steve’s eyes. He wonders what Steve sees. Worries his affection is as plain on his face as he thinks it is.
“What do you want?” Steve whispers.
What a sick question. Tony wants everything, with the greedy heart of a lonely child. He wants all of him: morning coffee, burnt toast, clementines. He wants to peel all of Steve’s oranges in one long go, to connect both ends like ouroboros and tell him about forever.
He wants Steve, always, infinitely. He wants it so bad he could cry; lump in his throat he chases away like lemons after whiskey. He wants fridge magnets that say I love you and Steve’s hair on his pillow when he can’t sleep. A better question is what Tony doesn’t want.
“I want a milkshake,” he sighs, eyes closed, unable to look at him.
They go to the diner and sit on the same side of the booth. The warmth of their thighs press hip to hip. Steve doesn’t look at him, and Tony doesn’t touch the crossword puzzle. He just sits there and tries not to think about want- the four-letter word for fucking everything up.