What Is Love To You, Tony Stark

"i told the stars about you."

—————

All these years of technological advancement,
 and you still don't own a phone?

I can't believe i had to resort to this

I hate you

All these years of technological advancement,
 and you still don't own a phone?

I can't believe i had to resort to this

I hate you

—————

It goes a little something like this:

There's a little clink as the cubes of ice within an abandoned whiskey glass rearrange themselves under the humid air of a packed town hall. This small sound goes largely unnoticed by all in attendance, after all, music blares and people talk in boisterous tones, simply enjoying every passing moment as it comes by. Another minute, another round of symphonies echoed by elated chatter, another clink as the ice shifts further. However, this time it's heard, noticed by a bartender who looks exhausted, bored and rather bedraggled. He sighs and there's a series of clinks as he whisks the glass away from where it had been sitting dormant for the past hour. 

It's gone, the glass. Much like the doctor who had originally purchased it. Leaving behind only a ring of moisture to indicate that it was ever even here at all. Beside it, a half empty glass of champagne awaits the same fate. When the disgruntled bartender comes back and sees it, he curses, snatches the glass, stuffs it under the counter and eloquently tells his colleague that he's done for the night before leaving without so much as a backward glance.

Now, the bar remains barren. No longer populated by the two glasses who bore witness to the private conversation between two utter douchebags. The flirtatious words will fortunately not live on in the minds of anyone but the two men who spoke them into existence, until a day in the distant future where even they will forget everything but a vague fondness surrounding a wildly bold first meeting. 

And so, during a seemingly endless slough of gala after gala, world famous billionaire, Tony Stark met with hotshot neurosurgeon, Stephen Strange and would escape stuffy halls and lukewarm brandy in search of a field eclipsed by bitter air that breathed freedom. 2007 promised them their biggest concern would be the next year's Olympics and an increasingly frustrated Pepper Potts. It promised that everything would be okay, if only for a little while.

The pair would meet at a bar, smirking, they'd order a drink knowing it would not be drunk and exchange smug words until the coast appeared to be clear. They'd hightail it right out the front door, hand in hand, and no one would be none the wiser. Anyone who heard their passing conversation would turn up their nose and walk away from them. Ill-mannered, exceedingly cocky and colloquially known as assholes - that's what everyone who had the displeasure of being in their vicinity considered them. Yet both got along like they were the product of destiny herself.

Could something be written into the stars if every night was so cloudy?

Backs to soft soil and billowing grass, just outside some fancy town hall, the weapons manufacturer and the neurosurgeon became Tony and Stephen, a unit, something cherished. Each time, Tony and Stephen would be out of the gala not even an hour in, stowed away on a nearby field and gazing at the sky. Always in silence despite the graciously venomous words imparted at the bar. It became routine.

On one such night, Tony had broken their unspoken rule, curling his body to face Stephen. "I'm not really getting all the rave about stargazing, Doc." Stephen did nothing more than drag his eyes away from the sky to briefly glance at Tony, as if to preserve that precious quiet. Airily, Tony had not quite managed to meet his gaze but still flashed a lopsided grin before flopping onto his back once more. "There's not even any stars to gaze at here."