Her eyes glow like fire and gleam like silver in the dark. Twisting and writhing in shadow, shining under the disco ball curling around itself on the ceiling, glinting like the last drop at the bottom of the bottle. She tosses her mane, purrs like a cat, and he knows that she’s a predator, a hunter, and she’s got her sights set on—him?
“No, thank you,” Steve says, feeling the flush steal across his face. “Do you want to—” But he looks up and she’s gone, slipped into the murk of bodies and flashing cameras and a slow, dying beat, so Steve turns back to the bar, gleaming white from the counter up, and takes another shot of a drink that he wishes could have an effect on him.
The bartender eyes him suspiciously, polishing a martini glass that’s already gleaming. He looks like someone off a men’s underwear catalogue—dark, chiseled, and brimming over with a life that’s been stunted with women and fast cars. Somehow, Steve isn’t surprised. This is Tony Stark’s party, after all.
“That’s the sixth one you’ve turned down,” he says, raising his voice over the music thumping from the loudspeakers beside them—a song that’s smooth and hoarse, slow and sexy. It’s enough to make Steve’s bones ache for something simpler—Billie Holiday or Bing Crosby. Something that a person can actually dance to.
“Tell me about it,” Steve sighs.
“No, you tell me,” snaps the bartender. “That’s the girl from the new Victoria’s Secret spread, man. You just turned down a Victoria’s fucking secret chick.”
Steve narrows his eyes. “Who’s Victoria?”
The bartender’s eyebrows furrow with a kind of horrified confusion. He looks Steve up and down, eyeing the blue shirt that’s buttoned all the way up, the hair that’s combed over, the pants that are just a size too big. “Jesus, man, where have you been for the last century?”
Steve almost smiles. “Hey,” he says. “Do you have anything stronger than this?”
His eyes drop to the empty shot glasses sitting in a small pyramid around him, shivering as the beat drops a notch lower. “Maybe you’ve had enough to drink, man.”
Steve raises his eyebrows. “Do I look drunk to you?”
“You just rejected a lingerie model,” the bartender retorts. “I’d say you’re pretty fucking pissed.”
“Yeah, right.” Steve pushes the drained cups to the end of the counter. “Hey—give me something that’s really strong—something that’ll knock my socks off.” He glances up and grins. “Something Tony Stark would drink.”
“Tony Stark.” The bartender is not amused. “What are you, a fanboy? Sneak in through the back door? Iron Man scrap metal collector?”
“Just a friend,” Steve says.
“Mm-hm. Just a friend. Look around you, man.” He gestures to the throng that’s spread over the dance floor, the walls, draped over the stairs, milling in the rooms adjoining, flashing white teeth that gleam and clinking glasses that swish and swirl the candy-colored drinks inside. “These are Tony Stark’s friends.” He sighs and lets his eyes wander. “Take it from me—Tony Stark doesn’t have friends.”
Steve shrugs. “He’s my friend.”
The bartender shakes his head. “Whatever you say, man. I’m just here to do my job.” He turns around and reaches for a crystal bottle that’s high on the illuminated silver shelf. “Tell you what—come back in ten minutes and I’ll have something that Tony Stark would drink.”
Steve nods and gets to his feet. In the mass of grinding bodies and tittering laughter, there’s no Tony. He squirms through the crowd, keenly aware of the girls seeing it as an invitation to rub up against him—is this the fate of dancing? It’s enough to make a man cry; where is the music, the light?—and apologies stream pitifully from his mouth as he squeezes out of the crowd.
He finds himself in a labyrinth of pristinely decorated rooms overlooking the midnight beach outside. They’re populated by the recesses of society: young actresses with faces shot so full of Botox that they can hardly smile; photographers with oversized glasses, fast mouths, and Tony Stark-wannabe tousled hair. The corners are littered with passionate make-outs and cocaine. Steve pokes his head in each room as he travels down the hall, searching for a dark head of hair and a familiar blue glow.
“—no, no—The Avengers is nothing like that. It’s a lot harder than it looks—yeah, babe, it looks pretty goddamn hard in the first place. You should her the shit that bastard Fury was telling me the other day—“
Steve sweeps in without warning, taking the drink out of Tony’s hand and a joint out of his jacket pocket in one experienced move. He takes an inconspicuous sip of Tony’s drink—still nothing—and slaps the hello-America smile that he uses for photoshoots onto his face as three pairs of heavily-colored, false-lash adorned eyes look up at him.
“Who’s—oh, Steve!” The grin that explodes over Tony’s face is drunk and instant. “The very man I’ve been waiting to see!” He grabs Steve’s tie and pulls him in closer. “You know, girls, I call this guy Steve, but you probably know him as—“
“Ahahaha,” Steve hisses, forcing a warning look in his eyes that bypasses Tony completely. “You’re hilarious, Tony. Excuse us, ladies.” He pulls him away, grabbing Tony around the waist as he lurches forward, and drags him into a corner between a up-and-coming movie star vomiting into a potted plant and a gaggle of drunk computer-science college grads clustered around a plasma TV showing The Little Mermaid.
“Geez, Tony, look at yourself,” he says. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
“This is my home,” Tony says, trying and failing to gesture to the grandeur around them.
Steve hadn’t thought of that. “Maybe you should lie down.”
“Jesus, Steve, that was a lingerie model.” Tony leans against the wall, tips his mussed hair against the bloodred paint, and massages his temples. He’s wearing a pink shirt and five of the buttons have been opened. His tie hangs around his neck like a loosened noose. Steve resists the urge to tighten it, fix the button, clean Tony Stark up.
Instead, he says, “What’s the big deal with lingerie models?”
Tony opens his eyes and fixes them on Steve. “What the hell are you talking about?” He rests his gaze, and Steve can almost see the cogs turning behind his head, slowed with liquor—working too hard, working overtime trying to figure something out, and that something’s far away from here—and leads him away from the wall—one arm on his arm, another above his belt.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go to the bar.”
* * *
Tony jerks his head to the dance floor, the way he’s done a million times before—a million girls, sparkling eyes, warm skin, tinkling laughter—but this time, he already knows the answer. Steve smiles wistfully, like Tony’s a kid asking for a toy on the top of the shelf, and casts a halfhearted glance at the sea of glittering bodies.
“I don’t think anyone wants to see that,” he says. “I don’t know how to dance like—them.” He turns back to Tony and raises an eyebrow. “You know, I told the bartender to give me a drink that you’d like. I thought maybe I could get drunk. For once.”
Tony can’t help but crack a smile. Steve. Drunk. It’s so bizarre it’s terrifying—almost. He raises his eyebrow back at Steve’s, which takes some effort, considering that in the swirl of alcohol, he’s nearly forgotten where it is. “If you actually want to get plastered, take the stuff that Thor drinks. That Asgardian shit is crazy.” He turns to the bar and knocks on the counter. “Hey, AJ, let’s have some of that mulberry wine.”
The bartender raises his eyebrow, too—this time, at both of them.
“Aren’t you the guy that turned down the—“
“Enough with lingerie models,” Steve groans.
Tony sits up a little straighter. “What? Did he—you turned down a lingerie model?”
“Victoria’s Secret,” the bartender says knowingly, shaking his head.
“Jesus,” Tony says. Steve rolls his eyes.
“Here’s your poison,” he says, slapping a goblet full of misting purple wine on the table. Steve takes it in hand and lifts it to his nose; his face crinkles.
“Smells like—smells like cologne,” he says. Tony snickers. Steve glares at him before lowering it to his lips, staring dubiously at the shapes that appear in the haze rising from the cup: bodies, animals, weapons—and then he leans his head back, raises the glass, and takes a swig.
—and immediately explodes into a fit of coughing. “Christ,” he gasps, pounding on the table. “That—that—“
“Was fucking awesome?” Tony interrupts. “Burst your mind? Blew you away? Changed your view on life altogether?” He plants a hand on Steve’s shoulder and pulls him back from his perch, leaning dangerous far back from his bar stool—wheezing, red in the face. “Jesus, Steve, are you okay?”
Steve shakes his head frantically and alarm rips through Tony’s chest, mingled with what the hell did I just do and what the hell do I do now, until he heaves forward and takes a breath of air. “No, no, I—Christ—haven’t had something like that in a—“ –he coughs—“in a while.” He blinks rapidly and shakes his head again. Steve’s mouth forms a perfect o. “…Wow.”
The grin tears across Tony’s face before he can stop it. He slaps his palm against the bar and raises a fist. “This drink—he likes it! Another!”
Steve opens his mouth, like he’s going to say something—no, I don’t like it, no, I don’t want another, no, no, I’ve changed my mind—but then all he does is smile and avoid Tony’s gaze as the bartender sends another goblet sliding across the bar, lighting up neon squares as it hits his hand. Tony watches him swallow this one down with considerably more skill, Adam’s apple bobbing once, blue eyes gleaming as he slams it down against the counter and asks for another.
He wonders briefly is the right thing to do—an event miraculous, due to the amount of liquor he’s consumed—if it’s the right thing to do, filling Captain America up with alien wine the night before the big press conference, before the day he’s supposed to go up there, stand in front of a million people and talk and talk and smile and smile.
He decides it’s not the right thing to do. But then again, the man hasn’t gotten blasted since ever, not drank a genuine drop since the forties—and it’s so much fun, watching Steve drink, that he can’t… not.
Two, and the smile can’t be erased from his face, burning bright through the party’s dim light. Three, and color flushes red in his cheeks, in his nose. Four, and he’s glowing. Five, and Steve is burning pink and he's grinning like an idiot, flashing a helpless smile at every word that comes out Tony’s mouth. He leans forward and wraps a warm hand around Tony’s shoulder, nearly knocking him off his stool, and laughs.
“Oh my God,” Tony says, not even bothering to hold back his grin; “Steve, you’re so drunk.”
“No, I’m not,” he says. The light in his eyes won’t stay still. “Come on, Tony, let’s go somewhere. Let’s go—let’s go to the basement. Let’s go!”
“I think the only place you should be going is home,” Tony says, and it feels strange being the sober one for once—relatively, though, so does it really count? He doesn’t even try to drain the amusement out of his voice. Steve can’t hear it, anyway.
“No, no. Come on—come on,” Steve says, staggering to his feet and blinking dazedly as Tony lurches forward to keep him from toppling over. He hoists him up from beneath his elbow. His eyes trip across the room, not seeing a thing—blank but full of life—and he turns to Tony, bright again.
“Steady,” Tony says.
“I’m fine, I’m fine, Christ, I’m fine,” Steve stammers. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“Bedroom?—I mean basement. Let’s go.”
* * *
The basement is dark and smells like gasoline. Tony’s let go of Steve as he walks in, almost protective in the way he runs his fingers over everything, taps a few buttons, knocks on the glass and nods his head at the iron suits mounted in cases along the walls. Steve follows, breathing warm against Tony’s neck, close behind.
Captain America’s drunk. He can literally not think of anything better than this—better than Steve tripping around, lurching around corners, heaving against doors, laughing at everything, grinning at the screws on the table and the cans of grease on the shelves like they’re the best friends he could ever have.
“Those are wonderful cars,” he says, pressing a hip against a worktable and drumming his fingers over the cool metal. “What—what kind are they?”
“Different kinds.” Tony glances at them. They were wonderful to him, too, once—once when everything was wonderful and he was a genius, when the girls sprawled over his arms and glitter and champagne rained from the sky, when he made guns and sold them too and people died because of him, for him—those cars were wonderful then because they weren’t cars. They were Tony Stark’s cars.
Now they’re just cars, but still they’re kind of wonderful. Because Steve Rogers is looking at them.
Tony follows his gaze. “You like—that one?”
Steve bites his lip. “It looks awfully familiar,” he murmurs.
“This year’s Ferrari? I doubt it,” Tony says. It’s red—sleek, narrow-eyed, gleaming in the basement-light, muscled like a cat. “They—yeah, they had Ferraris in the forties. Not as nice as this, but—” He picks up a wrench, twirls it in his fingers, and points it at the car—“still pretty damn nice, I’m sure.”
Tony’s eyes land on Steve, who’s rubbing one hand over the back of his neck and leaning against the table, fingering a bottle lying absentmindedly on its metal surface, and gazing at the Ferrari like some kind of ridiculous cologne model. A cologne model with tasseled loafers, that is. He can feel his eyes on Steve, almost like a physical thing, and then realizes the words that have just come out of his mouth.
“Show me,” Steve says immediately. He turns around. “Come on, Tony, show me how nice the car is. Is it as fast as it looks?”
Tony doesn’t know what to think. He can feel the confusion spilling over his face. “Okay. Do you want to—”
“Let’s drive it,” Steve says.
“I don’t think—”
“No,” he breathes. “You drive. Let’s go somewhere.”
Tony doesn’t ask where. Somewhere, anywhere—lost, that’s where.
* * *
Steve smells so much like alcohol when he kisses him that it almost feels like he’s taking another drink. He sinks into it, lets Steve press him down, head tilted against the window as his tongue rubs against Tony’s, slick and wet and warm. He slides it over his teeth and then seals his mouth over Tony’s, making a muffled drowning sound. Tony lets him, doesn’t stop him, because he’s drunk and drunk makeouts are fun, especially when it’s Captain America.
“Mm,” he hums, sliding a hand roughly over Steve’s neck and pulling him closer. “God, Steve, you’re so—Christ, wow, you want—okay,” Tony murmurs, as Steve eases down his neck, kissing until he gets a little braver and starts licking, wet and tickling and God he’s new to this, shouldn’t he know that he’s driving Tony absolutely insane with that stupid tongue—
Maybe that’s the goal, Tony wonders, as he weaves his fingers over Steve’s scalp. The comb-over is mussed forever, or at least for the rest of the night, and his golden hair just looks so much better when it’s sticking up at all helpless angles. It's almost blue in the moonlight as he presses desperately against Tony, elbows around his chest, sleeves rolled up, breathing hard as he licks under Tony’s jawline.
“Tony,” Steve moans.
“Bite me,” Tony whispers, pulling Steve’s head down, and he does—uncertainly at first, but then harder, nipping at Tony’s flesh, gaining confidence as Tony makes sounds that he hopes no one can hear in the abandoned parking lot. Tony tilts his head back toward the window, giving Steve more space to bite. Light skitters over the waves that rock gently over the ocean, and Tony Stark doesn’t have strong feelings about New York, but he’s starting to like it better now—the big buildings, the empty alleys, the way the buildings all gleam in the distance—and yes, Steve sucks on the flesh right under his ear and just yes—
“What,” Steve pants, pulling half an inch away, so Tony can still feel his wet breath against his face, “Do I do now?”
Tony smirks up at him. The moon casts odd angles over the contours of his face. His chest heaves. That blue shirt really is awful, especially when it’s buttoned up all the way like that. He pushes past Steve’s arms, those impossibly wide shoulders, and seizes the first button that’s hovering just below his chin.
“Get rid of this.” His fingers go slowly down the shirt, drugged with drink and dance and Steve, who, speak of the devil, is getting impatient. He leans in and nuzzles Tony’s wet kiss-stained skin, brushes against all of the burning hickeys that are going to be really hard to explain tomorrow morning, and before he knows it his hands are somewhere else and Steve’s on his mouth again, trying to swallow him whole or maybe just drive him insane.
“I thought you—fuck, Steve—I thought you wanted to see the car.”
Steve grunts against Tony’s neck as he bites and then sucks again. “I am seeing the car,” he murmurs, and then leans his weight against Tony, head against his shoulder as he struggles to unbutton the silky magenta shirt that’s stretched tight over Tony’s chest. “It’s a nice car.” Tony’s about to help him when he loses all patience, slips his fingers in between and tears the shirt apart—and Tony doesn’t do anything but moan because he’s Tony fucking Stark and he can buy another one, but he can’t buy another Steve who’s all over him, sliding his warm hands over his chest, fingers clicking against the arc reactor that’s bright, too bright, illuminating Steve’s face with that cold blue glow. He should make it change colors, mood lighting or something like that—but Steve doesn’t look like he cares as he drags his mouth along Tony’s chest, stopping just above the arc reactor.
“I like the leather,” Steve rasps. “It smells—it smells like you.”
And then he licks it, tongue streaked blue as it slides over the glass. The words ready on his tongue scramble and Tony can only groan obscenely, like an animal, howl, as Steve’s tongue slips, wet and hot, around the pulsating piece in Tony’s chest, skimming the edge where it meets his skin. Being with Steve like this is good, and Steve knows right from wrong, but not now, not here; here he’s so drunk that he’d probably let Tony fuck him right here in the backseat—
Steve moans and it hits Tony right the front of his tight black pants. He can feel himself get hard as Steve’s red mouth presses kisses against the arc reactor. Tony tries to get some friction against Steve’s thigh, but he’s pinned with his back against the window glass, helpless under Steve’s rippling body.
He’s right, Tony knows—Steve would let him take him right there. He can imagine it, too, the liquor wiping his mind clean of everything but desire. Steve would let him push him down, tear his pants away—he would open himself up for him, spread himself out for him, moan and gasp and beg for him as he fucked him, hovering just above his heaving chest as he took every ounce of Steve. Steve would lean up into it. He would ask him to go faster, harder, Tony, God, please, yes, just like that, fuck me, Tony, and Tony would give it to him. Steve wants it and he doesn’t even know it, but the drink knows it—the drink, that blurry haze in the corners of his vision.
The drink knows it.
Tony struggles to resurface from the fantasy that’s playing out in his head. Steve’s dripping all kinds of things on top of him, red in the face and hard, pressing hard against Tony’s leg. He screws his eyes shut and his mouth falls open, lips pink and swollen and damp with kisses past as he rubs against Tony’s throbbing crotch.
“Jesus,” he says, running his eyes over the length of Steve’s body, all of which is still clothed. His buttons are open—all of them, except the ones on his pants, which Tony reaches over and runs his fingers over. Cold and metal, but his fingers brush something warm underneath.
“Tony.” Steve’s keening.
“Tell me what you want,” he says, and he’s almost afraid of the answer. He doesn’t want to do this, doesn’t want to take advantage of Steve, because a drunk makeout is one thing and drunk sex is another, and he knows he usually wouldn’t give a shit but this is Steve, his friend, Captain America, who has standards, morals, who would lie on the wire and let people crawl across him just because he can. And he doesn’t know what he’s doing—Steve’s so drunk he probably can hardly see straight and Jesus how did Tony unbuckle his belt so fast—
“F—” Steve struggles with the word. “Fuck me,” he says, and it rushes out like he’s trying to pretend it never happened. “Fuck me, Tony, I want you to fuck me.” He writhes against Tony’s hand, but Tony’s frozen because what the fuck does he do now? The obvious answer, no doubt, is Steve, because he’s too far gone for kisses anymore and he wants it, but Tony’s not sure that’s what he really needs it.
“I should take you home,” he whispers, running his fingers across Steve’s face, hoping that just maybe Steve will say yes, you should, please do—because it would be so much easier that way. But more than that, he’s hoping that Steve will say no, no, Tony, no, I want you, need you, I’m not drunk, fuck me. Wouldn’t that be perfect?
“I’m going to take you home,” he says. “We’re going back to your apartment and you’re going to sleep.”
“What?” Steve asks, eyes blinking open. “My—my apartment? What are you talking about?”
“You’re drunk,” he says desperately.
“Tony, no.” Steve presses his chin into Tony’s shoulder and unzips his pants slowly, reaching in and brushing his fingers against Tony’s cock, Jesus yes—
Tony pulls Steve’s fingers out of his pants, which has probably been the worst decision of his life so far. “Christ, Steve, stop—”
“What?” He sounds—hurt, almost. “You—you don’t want me?”
“Then fuck me.” He slides two fingers under the elastic pant of his underwear and tugs, sinks his fingers deeper past the fabric until it’s all the way down and his pants are bunched at his ankles like he’s a horny teenager getting off to a lingerie advertisement. Tony can feel how close he is already, lingering on the edge, and it’s hard enough to resist, considering it’s Steve panting on top of him, running his fingers over him like he’s been waiting for this a long, long time.
“You’re wet,” he murmurs. “Already.”
“Shut up,” Tony hisses. “Fuck it, Steve. I’m taking you home. Get—“
Steve grasps his cock and Tony melts, turns to putty; a thousand thoughts all along the lines of he’s your friend and what will Pepper say race through his mind, but it doesn’t matter anymore because Steve’s giving him a handjob and his palm is rough as it moves up and down his cock and the look in his eyes is like he’s the one getting jerked off and it’s so good—
“I can’t go home,” Steve whispers. “Not ever.”
“I can take you home,” Tony gasps, feeling the first few strains of euphoria run through his cracking mind. He rocks with Steve’s hand, grinds against his palm like a whore, opens his mouth and moans like he’s never going to see the light of day again. “Steve, stop, I want to—I don’t want to come yet.”
“Yeah,” Steve groans, and releases Tony. “Help me—“ but Tony’s hands are already on the zipper of his jeans and he rises up, kneels, helps Tony yank them down, past his knees. It would probably be better to take his shoes off and then take the pants off, too, but Steve lets them hang over his shins and straddles Tony’s lap, pressing the bulge in his white underwear against Tony’s bare skin. The cloth is warm and wet and he can hardly keep his mind from exploding then and there—Christ, he can hardly see, and it’s not just the drink.
“I—“ The words don’t want to come out of his mouth. Steve looks at him helplessly, resting against his chest. “I—what do I do?”
“First, take this off.” Tony tugs at the underwear and it follows the jeans. Steve’s cock is—well, it’s self-explanatory. He’s seen too many people up this close to count, but now it’s different, now it’s not just a one-night stand but a person, Steve, thick and hard and slick, rosy at the tip, hot to the touch, and so close to his mouth that he has to remind himself that this is probably a completely new and overwhelming experience for the man on top. New and overwhelming for him, too, but for completely different reasons.
Nevertheless, Tony touches it. Slowly. His mouth is watering and he feels distinctly like the worst kind of slut, but this time he forgives himself.
“This your first time?”
Steve groans and nods his head as Tony rubs his thumb over the head. “Stop,” he chokes. “Not—not now. I want something else.”
He doesn’t let go, but loosens his grasp. “You mean—“
Steve nods again.
“No,” Tony says immediately. “No, if this is your first time, then—then you can’t do it in a car, Jesus, Steve, you probably shouldn’t do it when you’re completely plastered. And you probably shouldn’t do it with me—”
“I don't care,” Steve groans. “Tony—“ And he reaches his fingers back between his legs, spreads them slightly, and his eyes fall open and a gasp escapes his mouth as his fingers find purchase. He swallows thickly and presses again, this time squeezing his eyes shut and emitting a sound not unlike a whimper. “Tony—“
“Glove compartment,” Tony says immediately, and the waits as Steve leans forward, acrobatic, and clicks the door to the glove compartment open, naked muscle twisting under the moonlight, finally pulling back with a bottle of lube. He bites his lip and dips a finger hesitantly in. Tony takes his hand and coats two fingers with the stuff, so they gleam, and can’t keep the lust out of his eyes as he watches Steve rock back and finger himself again. This time, his fingers slide in—all the way in, deeper, slowly at first—until it’s rapid, desperate, needy, ready, and other words that he can’t remember right now.
“Fuck.” Steve spits the word out like it’s poison. His hips move steadily over Tony’s. “Wow.”
“Fuck me,” Tony says dazedly, absorbed in Steve’s ministrations. “I want you to fuck me—no, ride me, Steve, I want you to use me. Do whatever you—fuck, do whatever you want, get on my cock and come all over me. Take me,” he says, and he can’t keep the edge out of his voice until Steve pulls his fingers out and pushes them into Tony’s mouth. He sucks, runs his tongue between them and nips at the all the wet skin, until Steve pulls out. Something definite burns in his eyes.
Steve mounts Tony, sinking onto his cock, and stars flicker in front of his eyes. He can’t tell if it’s Steve whimpering or him, but he can’t keep his eyes open as Steve starts to rock, rises up and falls back on him, and Tony leans up into it every time Steve slams down. Someone’s swearing, begging, and it just might be him—fuck, it probably is—take him, all the way, make him feel it the next morning, God, he’s so hot, he needs it, fuck him, take him, use him, let him get all the way inside, let him fill him up—strings of obscenities flutter out like they’re nothing and Steve gasps every time he hits him. It’s wrong, but it feels good, and that’s a cliché but he doesn’t care now, God, Steve’s so wet, so slick—
“Jesus,” Tony hisses as he comes. His cock burns familiarly as he looks up at Steve, and he reaches his hand to the super soldier and gives him a few solid pumps—enough to make him follow, coming over his chest, over the arc reactor. And then he pulls away and presses Tony down into the seat as he snuggles beside him in a way that is completely, inappropriately chaste in comparison to their recent activities.
“What did you say about going home?” Tony murmurs into Steve’s hair. The moon hangs, full and white, in the sky above, so close that he can see the dark patches scattered across it. “You can never go home?” He glances down at Steve, who is awake but silent. His shirt is still on, hanging loose at his elbows, and he looks just like he did at the bar—out of place, innocent, young. “Steve?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says finally. “I don’t need to go home.”
“Right.” Tony bites his lip uncertainly. He’s not used to talking after sex, and he’s too drunk to think of something witty, or even remotely nice. “Who needs home, right? I’ve never been home. I mean—I have a home, but it’s not really—it’s just a house. My father was home. My mother was home. But they’re gone. They’ve been gone.” No, no, no—what is he saying? Wrong time, wrong time.
“So where are you?” Steve asks.
“Lost,” Tony replies. “I’m lost.”
“Hmm.” Steve looks up. His eyes are bluer than they should be—a different shade altogether than the one Tony remembers. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”
“It is a good thing. I’m free.”
“Well, if this is lost—“ Steve stretches over Tony’s chest—“Then I guess I don’t mind it.” He meets Tony’s gaze. “It’s okay, you know. Being lost with you. Maybe it is a good thing. Maybe it’s the right thing, to let go.”
“Maybe.” Tony smiles at him, and then gets an idea. “Come on—get your clothes on. We’re lost, but this is a Ferrari, for God’s sake. Let’s go for a ride.”