Super Rich Kids
His head is pounding, the three little white pills he'd dry-swallowed taking their time to disperse throughout his body. He thinks he might have slept last night, but he can't exactly remember; vaguely certain he spent the night toeing the line between euphoria and a blackness inexplicably different to the restful kind. Cold water splashes in his face as he tries in vain to wake himself up: the weekend is over, now his real performance starts.
Anthony Edward Stark is scrubbing fruitlessly at his tortured face in the bathroom. Tony Stark needs to walk out the door.
The world is spinning slightly, but he stabilises it well enough on his own. He's played this role countless times, rehearsing and repeating day in and out. All he needs is his backpack, packed and secured away Friday afternoon to keep it from prying eyes. So long as he keeps up his grades, submits his assignments and homework, Howard shouldn't have a reason to come bothering him about school, but it never hurts to be safe. It's all part of a meticulously structured persona that's ridiculously simple. Perform, perform, perform, that's all Tony has to do. Don't break character; talk is cheap, and it moves quickly.
Translucent sunglasses slide onto a subtly crooked nose, brushing through gelled brown hair. Tony is yet to decide whether or not he hates the gel, but Howard's been pushing it. It's professional, apparently. Sleek. It could be worse, he supposes. It's easy, it's not horrible. Though it does make the ends of his hair curl awkwardly. Thinking quickly, he slips the tub into his bag, along with the sticky comb he would usually rest atop the lid. The costuming is, after all, just as important as the acting. Slipping on a ludicrously expensive silver watch, the hands tick over to announce the curtain call.
Just before the ostentatious foyer, Jarvis stands waiting with a fresh cup of coffee in hand, as usual.
"Good morning," he greets.
Tony goes to grab the cup but is met with the butler's standard resistance. He grins good-naturedly, he knows this game well, fully aware of the caring place from which it comes. "Morning J. Can I have my coffee, please? Pretty please, even?" He's sure Jarvis can see his eyebrows wiggle even behind the useless, decorative sunglasses he wears.
His faux-father grins warmly, a glimpse of the kind of truth Tony is desperately deficient in. "Might I persuade you to take some actual food with you this morning, sir? I believe there should be some protein bars in the cupboard at the very least." The request is nothing new, one of the Stark household's few rituals Tony actually enjoys.
"Tempting, J, but I'm afraid I'll have to decline today. Besides, coffee counts as food; it's made from beans. And beans are one of the five food groups. You wouldn't want me to be deprived of vital nutrients, would you?" Though it's only a joke, Tony can almost see the wince his statement invokes. He grins wider, trying to brush it off, but can't help the tinge of guilt that floods to his cheeks. Yet another disappointed patriarch. It shouldn't hurt him anymore. He should know his lines off by heart, should have them down to a 'T'.
The only class he's never hacked.
In the car, the air conditioning is blasting at Tony's insistence. He could always stop wearing long sleeves when the sun glistened with a vengeance, but then again, he couldn't. The driver doesn't say a word, obeying only the stage instructions. He hasn't been given any lines. But it's fine, Tony doesn't have any for this scene either. Instead, he's busy rehearsing the next scene, touching up his costume.
It's probably why people tend to think of him as vain.
There's a topic test in chemistry, which shouldn't be too bad, and he's got a lab today as well. And his robotics project coming up. Which is fine, because he's started. He's on top of it. He's fine, he's fine, he's fine. He knows his lines. Knows the staging. He's going to walk through the doors and ace it. He's going to ace it, because he has to.
His grin is glued on, confidence flooding through him as the pills finally kick in. Anthony Edward Stark is safely tucked away at home. Tony Stark is walking towards the school gates and his crowd of adoring fans.
Well, adoring, should Howard be asking. If anyone from school was talking, however, the reviews would be mixed to say the least. It was somewhat truthful to call Tony popular, though only in the most fleeting of senses. Throw enough money, sex and booze at people and they tend to stick around without a whole lot of fuss. Given Howard's tendency to disappear for business at the drop of a hat, and Maria's tendency to follow blindly, the Stark mansion had seen its fair share of less than formal parties. Tony was eternally grateful for his easy charm; it meant that hushing the household staff was a simple matter of a few misplaced bills and a smile. He didn't want to admit that there might be other factors at play in their decision to remain silent about the copious levels of hedonism they'd watched Tony exhibit over the years. That it might not be the money, but some twisted sense of pity or protectiveness buying their silence instead.
No, Tony didn't need pity. He played his part well and received the applause he was entitled to. Even if he did slip up occasionally, the director hadn't fired him. Tony was lucky he had his role to begin with, apparently.
Aside from the faceless mass of peers who floated through his house semi-regularly, Tony did have those he called friends and meant it. It didn't matter that they were far and few between; he was exclusive, as a Stark should be. He couldn't just bless anyone with the miracle of his existence. At least, that was what he'd written down on paper. In case of emergency, he'd given himself an exit.
Hidden away in the library Tony is one of his selected few, hunched over a spread of chemical equations and formulas.
"Ready for our test, Brucie?" By the glare shone at Tony, he guessed that no, Bruce did not feel ready, despite the ridiculousness of the idea. "Bullshit. Look at all this," Tony gestured to the copious notes scattered across the table, "you're going to do fine. I'm not worried, so you definitely shouldn't be."
Bruce pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose, frowning slightly. "Tony, you not being worried doesn't mean anything to me. Did you even bother studying for this?"
Gasping in mock offence, Tony sits himself down beside his friend, skimming over the flawless lines of equations. "Brucie! I'm hurt. 'Course I studied; I'm not getting emancipated over a topic test."
Tony recognises the look on Bruce's face at his quip, the small eye-roll and soft shake of his head. He's not sure exactly what Bruce thinks about his perpetually travelling parents, but he doesn't think his opinion is particularly high. Not that Tony's rushing to defend them, but he'd rather the opinion didn't get too informed. Habitually, Tony grabs the notes before him and starts quizzing, reaffirming various laws and exceptions in both his and Bruce's minds. They shouldn't struggle with the test, it's only a revision of last week's content to consolidate their understanding. Most likely, it won't even go towards his grade, won't get sent home in any shape or form. But Tony's been cocky before, and it's never ended well. Confidence and arrogance are separated by a thin veil, and Tony is only just learning to distinguish between the two. Having spent the entirety of his childhood being taught they ought to be one simultaneous state of mind makes defining either individually a rather difficult endeavour.
His relationship with Bruce is in its own way sacred. He's Tony's intellectual friend, the guy he can turn to for any manner of complicated scientific or mathematical discussion. Socially speaking, Bruce is incredibly sheltered and shy, but Tony's well-endowed in that regard, so he makes up for Bruce there. And Bruce's calm, rational demeanour keeps Tony grounded, reasonable, and alive. Quite likely, Tony would have made many a life-ending stupid and impulsive decision without Bruce's steadying friendship. He was the self-control Tony had been born without. Together, they almost form a functioning person.
Almost, but not quite.
When the bell rings, they're so invested in their revision they almost miss it, papers still strewn across their table. It's a mad rush to collect the notes and dash across the campus, sprinkled with curses and the occasional shove by Tony. Dr Cho might be an incredible scientist, but she was one with a distinct lack of patience her students learned quickly to avoid triggering. Slightly flustered and breathing heavily, the two slide into their unofficial seats, smiling at one another in silent relief. Glancing down at the paper placed on his desk ahead of time, Tony's shoulders slump and he exhales in relief. His pencil begins filling out the paper in earnest, eager to relieve himself of the burden entirely. After the test, they've been promised a practical in the lab, explosions guaranteed. A perfect start to an otherwise dull and conventional Monday morning. He's sure there's been some misstep over the weekend Bruce needs to reprimand him over. And if there's not? Tony Stark wouldn't be Tony Stark unless he needlessly provoked an irritated outburst from his friend before first break.
He breathes out deeply, letting an incomplete catharsis wash over him. Everything as it should be.
The quiz is over mercifully quickly, leaving plenty of time for Tony and Bruce to mess around at their lab bench. They're meant to be producing some redox reaction, modelling and recording it, but Tony can't be bothered and Bruce isn't willing to argue a moot point. Instead, they spend the remainder of their period with Tony mixing a completely experimental chemical concoction and Bruce quietly surrendering his close-guarded mind to his partner. Every now and then, when Bruce's soft mumblings die off, Tony bites in, taking a precious break from his chaotic cauldron of wonders for his friend.
"So, Bruce. Brucie. Who's your eye on?" It's been about a week since Tony first noticed Bruce's wandering eye, distracted focus and occupied mind. Someone has caught Bruce's devout attention, and Tony has resolved to know them.
His partner's head ducks subtly, eyes moving to diligently monitor the unchanging volume of their mystery potion. Tony chokes on a swallowed bark of laughter, vindication flowing through him.
"You couldn't have seriously thought I wouldn't notice? You've been off all week, and not in the usual, traumatised way." It's cute, really, Tony's happy for his friend. Bruce deserves a shot at normalcy, the full - or closest possible quantity of the - teenage experience. He should really get Bruce out to a party one day soon, really hash in all the mandatory clichés. If anyone deserves a night off, it's him. Maybe next weekend he could host something, just for shits and giggles. Anthony can wait an extra night. Bruce takes priority, always.
"'S no one." Bruce mumbles the words so quietly, Tony has to strain his ears to catch it.
Dr Cho stands at the front of the class, dictating the arduous task of packing up. Despite Bruce's insistence that cleaning up would be significantly easier should Tony bother to follow along with the actual classwork, Tony routinely creates chemical abominations that consistently drag the process into first break.
"I'm not eyeing anyone - don't tip that down the sink!" A last-second hand snatches out to grab Tony's wrist, preventing the hazardous mix from entering the school's pipes. "Go put your poison in the liquid waste. And leave your matchmaker fantasies with it."
Mouth split from ear to ear, Tony walks off to the disposal bins at the front of the class, leaving Bruce to simmer in silence. The name will come eventually, even if it requires some detective work on Tony's behalf. He makes sure his obnoxious grin is still plastered across his face when he returns, knowing how badly it will grate his friend.
"Right-o, Romeo. Good to go?" Efficient as ever, Bruce has cleared their bench, leaving Tony to lag as usual. Papers shoved hastily into his bag, he steers Bruce towards the exit. He receives an eye roll for the nickname, but nothing more; it's part of the Tony Stark friendship experience. "Don't tell me it's one of the Agents. I don't know if I could stay friends with you after that. It better not be Natasha. That would be a monumental disaster; I don't think even I could survive her." One wayward comment could be the key to solving it all, and Tony's not willing to let a chance like that slide. No matter how much he doubts Bruce is interested in the unnerving ballerina, it's imperative he rules out all possible options.
All around them, the hallway is jammed with loitering students clinging desperately to every moment of their freedom before the bell imprisons them once more. "It's not Natasha. Would you drop it?"
Success. The bait has been bitten; all there is left for Tony to do is reel in the catch. "Aha! So you admit there is a someone?" His sunglasses come off, allowing him to meet Bruce properly eye to eye. They've paused beside a random locker, sheltering from the jostling crowd.
A deep groan from Bruce. "Leave me alone, Tony."
Looping his arm through Bruce's, Tony pulls them both back into the hallway's bumper-to-bumper traffic. "Ah, that would be too easy. And way less fun. I'm having a party this Saturday; I want you to come." Already his mind whirs with plans, ticking away at all the tedious preparations he will need to make.
"Since when?"
Sunglasses back on, he's exposed in the hallway once more. "Since you decided to become infatuated with some anonymous face within this fine establishment." He takes the turn towards robotics, eager to continue with his latest project. "Come on, Bruce. Let me get you laid." It's just the thing he needs, really. It does wonders for Tony's anxiety at the least, being too blissed out and stimulated to think. Move. Breathe.
"Tony -"
"It's a date!"
Bruce isn't getting out of it. No way in hell.
Robotics is where they split; Bruce has biology instead, situated way back near their chemistry room. Tony's never been able to tell if Bruce walks the extra stretch to robotics with him out of obligation or friendship. Is Bruce tagging along because he's lonely, or is it the other way around?
It'd be stupid if it was the latter, because Tony Stark doesn't get lonely. If anything, he's overcrowded.
He strolls into robotics and takes his usual seat in the back corner, feeling the walls lock in around him. From the side of the classroom, he withdraws his tray, stealing away to the back with it. To safety. His robotics project is, above all else, private. Definitively his.
For the entire period, he works with his head down, as usual. Robotics is the only class he can hold such a constant stream of in; usually he is plagued by a relentless desire to interrupt, provoke and excite, a fact which had not endeared him to the majority of his teachers. But his unfathomable dedication to robotics had at least earned him the respect of Dr Yinsen, which had developed into a quiet yet companionable friendship.
It was in robotics that Tony's leash on Anthony was the loosest, and perhaps that was the reason it was the subject he most enjoyed.
In the cafeteria, another two pills sit loosely in Tony's palm, a brushing hand over his dirtied costume. His head is pounding, vision shaking and hand itching for something, something, something. Just a few more hours, and he could be home. There was a knocking at the front of his mind, tendrils of anxiety and obsessiveness bleeding through his facade.
The metal of his flask clinks quietly amongst the copious chatter of the room. Just a sip. With the pills. To get him home.
Across from him, Bruce eyes Tony's flask disapprovingly, but doesn't say a word. Tony can't be bothered to care, he's too busy trying to find where Bruce's attention has wandered off to. Saturday has to be perfect, he's decided, promised.
Glazed eyes lead Tony to the crowded table on the cafeteria's far left, a crude mix, an assortment of rugged brawny athletes tossing footballs and insults amicably. "Oh Brucie. What have you gotten yourself into?"
It's not that the table's occupants are particularly awful, crass, or obnoxious individuals. Tony has experienced almost everyone of them at their lowest, hurling into a porcelain bowl at three in the morning, sobbing hysterically over a broken heart, half-naked and ditching a drunken one-night stand. They're only human, just a vastly different kind. Likely they were all cursed with irreversible brain trauma as a consequence of their sporting endeavours: no one could naturally be that devoid of tact, wit, and spatial awareness. Any run in with them held the distinct risk of running hard and fast, right into a concrete wall.
That being said, Tony was a man of his word, and had a party to plan.
"Who's the lucky bastard? It's not going to take me long to guess now. Tell me it's not Spangles, just please, give me that." Anyone but the school's golden boy. Perhaps Tony's resentment towards him was unprovoked, but it was also irreversible. His irritation towards the football captain was an itch he could never quite scratch.
Wiping his glasses on his ridiculous, chequered button-up, Bruce's volume drops below even his usual murmur. "It's not Steve. Happy?'
Though Tony will admit the statement brings him some relief, he is still far from satisfied. "I need a name. For their invite."
Despite the deafening volume of the glass-walled room, a boisterous, deep, and genuine laugh sounds clearly across the sea of chattering students. Bruce's head instantly perks up, turning straight towards its source.
Bingo.
Bruce's choice is unexpected, to say the least. Thor Odinson was an intermediate, the kind of endearing that charmed masses to his will and gave him extraordinary social mobility within the school - the Tony had only managed to buy. Thor was a stranger to no one, a must for every guest list, an enemy to none. He dallied with the athletes because he was one but maintained a tight circle beyond that as well. He had made his way through several cheerleaders, somehow even charmed the elusive Agents. So, Tony supposed he could see the appeal: charisma, indisputable attractiveness, sincerity. Never would he have picked him for Bruce, however. He knew opposites attracted were supposed to attract, but damn. Bruce could pick 'em alright.
A harsh squeak, plastic on linoleum pushing backwards. "Right. Be back in a tick."
And Tony plunges into the sea. It is a familiar sea, he finds himself free-diving through it almost weekly, but the initial cold still shakes him every time. Relentless fingers brush through the thick rivets of gel holding his hair meticulously in place, warming him up just so.
"Thor! Buddy! Just the man I was looking for! Tell me, are you doing anything this Saturday?" The pills had kicked in, he was back on script, performance flawless.
If Thor is puzzled by Tony's entirely unprecedented appearance, he doesn't show it, a bright grin stuck across his face. "Tony, it is truly good to see you again. Why should you need me to be free on Saturday?" The smile turns knowing, Tony's reputation preceding him.
"Well, you know, folks are out this weekend, thought I might invite a couple of friends over." A couple of dozen, couple of hundred. "And what kind of party would it be without you? You absolutely have to be there." Tony made sure his tone was joking, disguising the inexplicable need he had for this matchmaking to succeed.
"But of course! I wouldn't dare miss one of your parties for the world. Saturday, you said?"
The scene was ending, the lights dimming. "Yup. I'll see you there, yes?" He had to, he just had to. Bruce needed this.
Thor nods in mock seriousness, but Tony can't quite appreciate the joke, not when it so closely mirrors his actual sentiment on the matter.
For the rest of the day, Tony retreats into his head. All of his concentration is put into his latest, his rigid determination to help his friend. The party would need to be carefully cultivated, planned well enough any hint of Anthony locked securely away for the entire night.
Tony Stark was the connoisseur of good times. What good was the title if he couldn't provide for his best friend?
The trip home again is, as usual, silent.
"J! Howard still out this weekend?" Same as ever, Jarvis waits for him at the front door, a smoothie crammed with calories in hand.
"This weekend, yes, Mr Stark will be away for a business conference. And, before you ask, yes; Mrs Stark will be joining." Jarvis speaks with exhaustion in his words, face, and body. Tony knows he hasn't been an easy child to raise single-handedly. "But I must caution you, your Father is currently in his office on a business call - he made it very clear that he was to be left undisturbed."
His spirits drop instantly, energy fading in a heartbeat. The combination of Howard and business was an inherently nasty one. If negotiations and trade went well, celebratory drinks would ensue. If deals fell through, consolation drinks would ensue. Neither ended particularly well for anyone; no matter the cause of Howard's inebriation, Howard Stark was a consistently mean drunk.
Nodding at the warning, Tony creeps up to his room with Jarvis' smoothie in hand to placate the older man's anxieties. Out of sight, out of mind. To his best understanding, he hadn't done anything recently to warrant Howard's attention, so if he was lucky, he had a chance at slipping his radar entirely.
At his overly cluttered desk, Tony's robotics projects reclaims his undivided attention, stealing an hour of concentration from the extremely important matter of Bruce's crush. The coding is heavily experimental, and Tony lived for it. Pushing boundaries, of all kinds, was his speciality in life; had he been even remotely religious he might have called it a purpose, a destiny. However, he had absolutely no faith in a higher power, so he went with genius instead.
Exactly four doors down, a single raised voice cried out into the mansion's quiet. The words themselves are incomprehensible, but the ire emulating from them carries their meaning well enough. With a splash of iced water to his face, Anthony Edward Stark tentatively stands up from his desk and turns the lock on his door.
When he finally drags himself to bed, his sleep is consistently interrupted by his pulse, driving him to check the lock again and again and again.
By Wednesday, Tony had amassed a considerable number of guests for his impromptu gathering. On its own, the list of official guests was extensive enough, but Tony has learnt to anticipate at least double the RSVP number. Plus-ones, gate crashers, complete strangers. He couldn't honestly care less, so long as Thor and Bruce were both there; he certainly has room to accommodate them all. And besides, the more the merrier. And all the better for his reputation too.
On Thursday, he approves a ballsy group of sophomores, who have the guts to request an invitation from him during the middle of their second break. He's not even sure he's seen before, but he respects them for their sheer audacity.
Friday comes with trepidation, a slight tinge in every one of Tony's movements. Sitting outside the library before the first bell rings, he tries to insight the same excitement within Bruce for the weekend ahead.
"So, I've triple-checked, and Thor is definitely coming. He asked for like, five plus-ones, but he's coming." Bruce seems to be looking anywhere else, the bench's splintering wood holding his attention in a headlock. "Don't worry though, I asked around - he's not bringing a date."
Bruce mutters vaguely in acknowledgement of the fact Tony is speaking, without appearing to register any of the actual words. "That's nice, Tony."
Physics notes in hand, Tony reaches over and smacks them across his friend's leg. "Pay attention! This is important, dammit!" He's only joking, but he's gone too far.
"Piss off, Tony."
"Bruce -" Tony cuts himself off, biting down hard on his tongue. Having had Bruce as a legitimate friend since the beginning of high school, he had become well acquainted with his more fragile emotions.
"I don't care about your stupid party." Bruce doesn't mean it; Tony knows that deep down. But the perfectionist within him, Anthony, can't get past the irritation in Bruce's voice.
Let it go, Tony.
"Hey! My 'stupid party' is for you!"
Just let it fucking go.
Bruce's hands are fisted tightly around one of his textbooks - chemistry, most likely - knuckles threatening to break through skin. "It's not like I asked for you to throw it!"
A few passing students turn at the outburst, but a glare from Tony keeps them walking. In the uneasy silence between the two, Tony reaches for his flask - anything to keep his mouth from running itself into further trouble. The shrill cry of the bell sets them automatically towards their respective classrooms. Thick, obnoxious sunglasses slide themselves into place.
Bruce is the first to give, Tony's not dense enough to spoil the entire day like that.
"I'm sorry," he says.
"Ross?" Tony asks, because it was always Bruce’s foster father. At least it was ever since it stopped being his actual father.
Pausing out the front of his calculus room, Bruce leans against the closest wall, brushing a falling poster to the side. "Yeah. Something about his ex-wife."
"You can crash at mine tonight, if you want. My parents should be gone around five, they're away the whole weekend. On business," Tony adds in quickly, giving his words an uncomfortable hint of untruth, even though Tony really isn't lying. Howard really does have a conference, as far as he knows.
The classroom is beginning to fill up, Tony can see Bruce's anxious glances increasing with every second. "I don't want to intrude, Tony."
"Nonsense. I'm taking my robotics project home; you can be the first person to meet him." He'd been incredibly hesitant to bring his creation home, but seeing as Howard was gone for the weekend, he felt confident he could sneak it back to school by Monday without discovery.
"Him?" Bruce's confusion sends a thrill through Tony, the reminder of his success intoxicating. The halls had emptied, leaving an eerie silence to the school. As Bruce slowly shuffles into class, Tony turns away from the door.
"You'll see."
With some light persuading during their second break, Bruce is coaxed back to the Stark residence for the evening. Unfortunately, they arrive around four, meaning they get to endure an hour sheltering in Tony's bedroom as Howard and Maria relentlessly bicker over two days worth of travel plans. They pass without a problem, but the seconds in which their voices hover directly outside Tony's door have both boys holding their breath.
Once the coast is clear - the front door slammed tellingly - he and Bruce immediately drop their shoulders and exhale. It's no easier for Bruce to be around Tony's parents than it is for him, so appreciates his friend's resilience.
Taking Bruce's hand, he grabs his friend to his desk and sits him in the leather roller chair. "Brucie! I would like to give you the honour of being the first person to officially meet JARVIS!" With the exact amount of panache his creation deserves, Tony reveals a small, black box containing a single computer chip. 'Ta da!"
Bruce smiles kindly, but confusion is written all over his face. "Tony, I don't think I'm quite understanding the situation here. Is 'Jarvis' the computer chip? Jarvis, like your butler?"
An eager twitch builds in Tony's fingers, and before he knows, Anthony has stolen his presentation and is ecstatically explaining the design in depth. "Exactly! But he's so much more than that, JARVIS - the computer chip, that is - is special. He's not just a program you can download onto your computer, he's a learning AI; or, he's going to be one. He's my robotics project, but he's not quite finished. I'd give it about a month before I have him up and running on my computer and phone - I could put him on your phone too, if you'd like."
Brown eyes wide, Bruce closely examines JARVIS' 'body'. "A learning AI? Tony, that's incredible! How on earth - does Howard know?"
Hand slamming against the white wall, Tony's breath catches in his throat and sticks. It refuses to move, not until Bruce realises the situation and knocks it forcefully from his windpipe with a moderately aggressive pat to the back.
Once recovered from his coughing attack, Tony leans back against the wall, overwhelmed by an old tiredness. "Thanks." The word is soft, a heavy sigh of relief, and grounding.
Besides him, Bruce fiddles awkwardly with his t-shirt.
"I'm sorry -"
"I'm sorry -"
The apologies come simultaneously, a mark of their converging anxieties. Tony's hand is raking through his hair repeatedly, vainly attempting to brush the same strand from across his face over and over again. "Howard doesn't know. I've been careful."
Bruce nods. "I know you would have been."
With his performance utterly ruined, Tony rummages through his desk drawers to retrieve a half-emptied vodka bottle.
"Bottoms up."
Later that night, Tony is completely lost to himself, the world a cheerful blur of friendship and freedom. Though the party isn't until the next day, Tony lets Bruce - who even with Tony's best attempts at persuasion remains sober - check over the playlist he's arranged for the night. He's not really seeing Bruce's changes, but has an inherent trust in his friend's tastes. And besides, it's really Bruce's party, so it goes without saying that it should cater to his taste in music.
As per Tony's instructions, the house has been stocked full of party essentials; mixers, obscenely unhealthy snack foods, and stacks upon stacks of red solo cups. The illicit supplies are set to begin trickling in around five, brought in through Tony's extensive network of connections. The household staff have been evicted for the night, and have gratefully fled the scene, likely dreading the house they will return to tomorrow. Tony almost has the heart to feel guilty about it. But Bruce deserves this party, needs it. Consequences be damned.
By eight, the speakers are blaring, a steady stream of pop and rock pumping throughout the house. An equally steady stream of bodies file through the door, pushing and shoving to get their hits. Addicts, the lot of them. Not that Tony can judge; as much as he likes to think he's in control, he's just as vulnerable to the vices he has strewn out across the mansion as anyone else. The flask in his bag, the pills in his pocket, the numbers saved anonymously in his phone. And tonight, he plans to indulge.
According to a blurry glance at his watch, it's approximately nine-fifteen when Tony first lays eyes on Thor, who is chattering energetically to a group of who Tony assumes are his plus-fives. Four of them are known to Tony, already vetted as guaranteed friends of Thor, and friends only - even the chic. There was no way any of the other boy's well-established inner-circle were going to be competition for Bruce. Hell, Tony was pretty sure at least of them were cousins, or some other mid-tier relations. But even though Tony's sources had assured him Thor had no romantic intentions towards anyone at the present moment, he has to be certain before he brings Bruce over.
"Thor! Hey buddy, good to see you here!" Drink in hand, he is ready to perform. "Who've you brought tonight?"
Overhead, strobe lights flicker at insane speeds, and if Tony wasn't already somewhat high, they might have made him slightly nauseous. The dance floor - his repurposed living room - is completely packed, the bass channelling itself through the faceless mass. Thor envelopes him in a surprisingly warm hug, complete with a very jock-esque pat on the back.
"It is good to see you as well, Tony! I must thank you for allowing me to bring so many companions tonight - truly, I appreciate it." Given that he probably couldn't name half of the people swarming his house sober, Tony has to stop himself scoffing at Thor's needless gratitude. "Meet Fandral, Volstagg, Hogun, and Sif, my oldest and closest friends."
Unbidden, Tony's feet tap urgently against the hardwood floor, distantly aware that he already knows these people. God, he wants to scream at Thor to hurry up, dammit, because his pupils are dilated, and his heart is racing, and he wants - needs to - move. But he can't be rude, because this isn't about him.
He forces himself to slow.
"And of course, my brother Loki."
Tony can't help his relieved sigh. It's his brother. The complete opposite of competition.
However, the relief is short-lived, as he looks up to meet Thor's brother only to be met with a puff of smoke blown into his face. Black-painted nails hold a joint to thin, tightly pressed lips. Hollow cheeks inhale and green eyes, dulled and presumably by marijuana, sweep over Tony and meet his eyes straight-on.
"So, you're the fucker who let Thor drag me here."
And just like, Tony's mission finds itself in mortal danger.