Best Bet

“THAT WAS THE LAST GALA. Whoa.” Time had flown by in what seemed like a moment. It only felt like yesterday that Tony was asking Steve if he could tutor him. Their first tutoring session in the library when he was late, their first charity gala together, the first time they went out for ice cream. 

Steve was being shockingly quiet. “Steve?” The brunet asked.

“Right. The last one. I mean, thank God it was.”

“Yeah, they were pretty boring,” Tony agreed.

“And finally we can be rid of each other.”

Tony felt his heart beating faster in his chest, his breathing getting faster. “What?”

“End of the semester is coming, my finals are in a week and a half, and that was the last gala. We’re done.”

“Yeah, but--”

“We’ve both used each other out.”

“Used?” His lips parted, before pressing them together in a thin line. Tears were brimming on the edge of his eyes. Steve had been using him this entire time? He didn’t want to believe it. Steve Rogers was a good guy.

Or at least he had thought so. 

“You didn’t think that we were… friends or something, right?” He questioned, laughing. 

Tony remembered in a flash all they had been through. The damn football jersey, the flirting, the late night talks. He knew in some way that the Steve Rogers he was talking to now wasn’t the one he was with last week. Unless he was a great actor, and in that case, Tony had just been played.

The player getting played. How cliche. 

“I… No. No. No, I didn’t.”

“Tony, I… good. Because we’re far from friends. I got what I needed, your dad saw you with an impressive guy… so we’re done.”

“Right,” Tony nodded, turning around.

What a complete and utter waste of time. What a waste of his own feelings, of his own thoughts.

“Tony, wait--” Steve called out.

“We’re done, Rogers. Jarvis will be waiting to take you home. Bye.”

Tony walked off that day, tears falling shamelessly down his cheeks. He didn’t know it, but Steve was crying too.

☆

TWO WEEKS LATER

The days that Steve spent without Tony were long, the nights induced with sob sessions and Bucky trying his best to comfort his best friend. He had lost someone he cared about -- that he still would continue to care about. And for what? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Steve would get beer from the older players on his team, drinking the bottles one by one at night to help him fall asleep. He was only twenty years old, which doing this meant going against all of the morals in his head. But if it helped, it helped. Sleep was better than soaking Bucky’s shirts with tears.

Bucky was more than worried. He had always been inclined to being worried about Steve, but now it was becoming more and more evident. His best friend, obviously heart broken, who never drank was now starting to drink out of nowhere? He wasn’t having it.

He started to hide the beer bottles around their dorm to the best of his own abilities. In the floorboards, in the ceiling, between his mattress and the sheets. But Steve would grow to be cranky, begging Bucky to give him just one. Just one to help with the night.

The brown haired boy kept his stance. Steve would not become an alcoholic on his watch. That same day threw the beers away, only for the blond to come home with another six pack of it that night. 

Had separating with Tony really thrown him that far off the deep end? 

“I passed with a high A,” Steve told him,, staring up at the ceiling absentmindedly. Tears brimmed on the edge of his eyes, but the blond wiped them away. 

“Statistics?” Bucky asked. 

“Yep.”

“Wow. And you let him go?”

“Shut up, Buck—“

It was a touchy subject. It had always been touchy. But Bucky didn’t know any other way that he could get Steve to come back to his own damn senses. 

“I’m just saying, Steve, he’s a rich genius. He could’ve helped you get out of your financial situation, football or not. It’s not like you enjoy playing anyways,” the brown haired boy explained, shrugging his shoulders innocently. 

It was all true. And if Tony did like Steve — which Bucky knew he was right about — he would’ve helped the blond regardless. 

“I promised Mom before she died that I would graduate. I’m not gonna take Tony’s charity to help me pass, and this is… this is better for him anyway.” 

“And who’s saying that?” Bucky questioned, raising an eyebrow. “You,” he pointed a finger at Steve, “or the old bastard who ruined your relationship?”

Steve stayed silent. 

“Just make sure you made the right choice,” Bucky told him, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen you happier than when you’re talking about him.” 

☆

“Mrs. Carter, could I talk to you?” Steve asked the woman early the next morning, picking up his abstract painting from the counter. It had dried ages ago, but he never felt the need to come and pick it up. Too many memories were attached to this one canvas. 

She walked over to him immediately, a smile on her red lips. “Of course, sweetheart. Is everything okay?” 

“Yes,” the blond lied. He ran his thumb over part of the canvas, feeling the texture of the paint. 

Mrs. Carter shook her head, “I know when you’re lying to me, Steve. Would you like to talk about it?” 

No, not really, he thought. But he wanted to cry about it, and needed to cry about it. 

He sniffled, “Sure.” 

The woman pulled out two chairs for them at the nearest table, sitting down in one of them. “Sit here with me for a moment.” 

Steve nodded, sitting down without a fight. He put his painting down carefully on the table, but Mrs. Carter picked it right back up. Her eyes inspected the painting, not in judgement, but in awe. 

“And who might this painting be about?” Mrs. Carter asked him. She didn’t even have to ask to know the meaning behind his brush strokes. 

“Someone— someone special.” 

“What about this certain someone was special to you, Mr. Rogers?” 

“Everything. Absolutely everything. They were a mess, but undoubtedly beautiful. They were always there for me. There for me when I was acting dumb, there for me when I needed it most.” He spilled it out without thinking, but didn’t have any regrets. Mrs. Carter was someone to trust. “Maybe I loved them. I will never know for sure.” 

He did love Tony. Maybe he had always loved Tony. 

“Did they let you go? Or were you the one to let go first?” 

“It was me,” he admitted shamelessly, looking down at the table in embarrassment. 

“Go and tell them.” 

“What?”

“Go and tell them. Talk to them. Say everything that’s on your mind that you’ve been wanting to say before.” 

“And what if I’m too late?”

“Oh, Mr. Rogers, you can always be too late. But would you rather know the truth, or live with the fact that you never knew how they felt about you?” 

“But it’s not that easy.” 

“Nothing is that easy. But you, Mr. Rogers,” she poked his chest with her finger, “are the judge of what happens next. No one else is responsible for how this story ends.” 

“What if—“ 

“No what if’s here. You go tell them and you mean it.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Carter.”

“Always.”