#kittyswriting

Tony would be lying if he said he hasn’t been waiting for this moment. 

It had started with him making a pass at Stephen, more by instinct than anything else—though he isn’t ashamed to admit it was also by virtue of that gorgeous ass, of which is often tragically hidden behind that cloak of his—and he really hadn’t thought it’d get any kind of response out of the wizard at all. Maybe an eyeroll at most. But then Stephen had returned it with his own come-on, and one thing led to another… And so for the past however long, Tony and Stephen had been dancing this little dance of theirs; drawing into each other and pulling away just as quickly, knowing exactly where to push but never quite taking the leap. There sprouted a tension between them, the kind that is palpable to anyone who spends more than five minutes within their general vicinity. And while he loves the thrill of the chase, he knew inevitably it would lead to this one way or another—that it was just a matter of time before he fell in bed with Stephen Strange.

What he hadn’t been banking on, frankly, is just how spectacular it would turn out. It was, simply put, quite the climax, if Tony could say so himself. He was pretty beside himself for it—from the moment their lips connected, there had been a spark of a sort. Some inexplicable shock of electricity, like a circuit snapped to life. He hadn’t been able to pull away, the moment their skin made contact, and he gets the sense the same can be said about Stephen, if their mutually passionate tongue-fucking was any indication. It’s like some sort of magnetic force was keeping them from pulling apart. 

He hasn’t felt anything quite like it. For a moment he considered the possibility that it was simply because Stephen is magic, or some other bullshit he can’t immediately explain, but no, this is something else. Hard to describe the way it felt when they slotted perfectly together; it was like a feedback loop of endless pleasure. Things are conveyed when they kiss, made and unmade when their bodies join together. 

And the moment they reached their peak, bliss washing over Tony as he finally finishes inside of Stephen, spilling into the condom with a deep groan, he pulls out, ties the condom, tosses it successfully into the bin at the corner of the room, and flops over to the side and just lays there, panting. 

“Wow,” he says, blinking up at the ceiling. His breathing is wild and out of control, and much is the same for Stephen, who rolls over onto his back beside him. There is drying cum on the sheets and on Stephen’s stomach, but that can be dealt with later.

“Yeah,” Stephen says, a little hoarsely, and God does that particular timbre to his voice do things to Tony. 

“Please tell me this isn’t going to be a one ride pass,” Tony says, which earns him a delightful chuckle from the man. 

“You have my number,” Stephen tells him, and they turn to each other with near-identical smirks. 

They lay there in post-coital bliss, none of them in any rush to do much else. After a while Tony props his head on an arm and decides to look over at his bed partner. 

He doesn’t even attempt to conceal his appreciation at the sight before him at all. Their fucking was deliciously rough and quick, earlier, so he hadn’t had the time to properly admire the gorgeous specimen that is Stephen Strange. And boy, does he take his time raking his eyes over the gorgeous length of the man’s body. 

For the longest time he had been operating under the assumption that Stephen is on the lanky side of things; maybe some litheness to him, at best, which is hard not to gain what with his line of work, but apparently that is not the case at all. The robes Stephen wears have evidently concealed a great deal. Watching him bare before him now, it’s hard for Tony to ignore just how beefy Stephen is. There really isn’t any other word to describe it. It’s not all hard muscle, there is certainly some softness to it, but he is undeniably, deliciously big. 

He trails his eyes down from the red blooms on his neck, courtesy of yours truly, down those broad shoulders, the sizable swell of his chest—the slight glisten of them, less like he is sweating and more like he is glowing, which is very unfair of him—watching as it narrows to the dips of his waist, to the flare of those hips, stopping to stare at the pretty thing that is his soft cock, resting sated and happy between his legs. Those thighs could certainly crush his skull. He wouldn’t mind being suffocated between those thick biceps, either. Tony is sure he won’t be able to look at Stephen anymore without picturing him naked, after this. 

Stephen’s certainly worked for his build, which is a goddamn shame when you could hardly tell he has it at all under his standard robes. 

Already he feels the familiar stir of want deep in his gut. Gotta be a track record—he still gets around a lot, playboy and all, but age has certainly done some changes to his stamina and refractory period. But somehow the sight of this body is enough to defy that. 

He eyes that chest some more, drinking in the sight of its rise and fall, before he sits up and crawls his way between Stephen’s legs, who lifts his head to watch him with a raised brow. 

Tony shoots him back a smirk, spreading Stephen’s legs open to make space for himself. 

“You’re gonna have to give me a moment if we’re going for another round, Tony.” 

“Well, we have all the time in the world.” 

He means it; he’s going to take his time. He reaches up and runs his hands down Stephen’s sides, dragging downwards to squeeze the meaty parts of those thighs. He leans down to catch a nipple into his mouth, delighting in the little gasp and shiver he gets from above. It was pretty quickly into the whole thing that he discovered Stephen has sensitive nipples—a knowledge he intends to abuse in the coming future, assuming they would be falling into bed again with each other after this. 

Who is he kidding? Of course they will. He’ll have to make sure of it. He wouldn’t be able to walk away from this after he’s gotten a taste, not for the life of him. 

He feels the nipple harden in his mouth, reaching for the other and pinching it between his fingers. When a hint of teeth scrapes the tender skin, Stephen’s back arches. He catches himself midway through a whine, biting his lip to stifle it. Tony just laughs. 

“Gorgeous,” he mumbles into the skin. “So gorgeous.” 

Tony maps along the skin with his tongue, nipping and biting and licking, forming constellations with his scars, his moles, mumbling praises all the while. Despite Stephen’s protests, his cock seems to be chubbing up pretty quickly at the attention. Can he come from just having his nipples played with? He’ll have to find out—another time, maybe. 

He pulls back after he’s had his fill. Several bruises are starting to form where he applied more pressure with his teeth—Stephen’s skin bruises so damn easily—and he smiles satisfiedly at his work. When he looks up, Stephen has his head turned to the side, visibly red from the tip of his ears, spreading across the clean sharp cut of those cheekbones and down his neck and further down stilll—a full body blusher, then, which he isn’t going to be able to get out of his mind anytime soon, it seems—jaw clenched and eyes shut. 

“You’re embarrassed," Tony realises.

Stephen looks down at him. He seems a little baffled that Tony cares to point it out. “Hard not to be,” he mutters, almost bashfully.

And it’s then that it strikes Tony. 

“You don’t know,” Tony sits up. “You seriously don’t know.” 

Stephen blinks at him in apparent confusion. “What…? I mean…?” 

“You,” Tony cocks his head a little. He is in utter disbelief. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and all that, but there are beautiful people who know their worth. People like me, who are attractive and damn well aware of it. We’re a dime a dozen. But people like you, who are unaware? People who don’t know just how fucking beautiful they are?” He deliberately swipes his eyes down Stephen’s body again, hiding none of his hunger behind it. Stephen seems at a complete loss of words. “They’re one in a million.” 

And just like that he is surging back down, capturing Stephen’s lips before he can say anything more. 

He can’t help but be a little consumed by questions; how come? Has it never occurred to anyone to just worship this body, take it apart piece by piece and hear the way Stephen sings for it? Why? Is that why Stephen doesn’t know? 

The nightmares are another thing to factor in. Hal has had his own fair share from his rougher military days, so he knows what it’s like to lay in bed at night fearing the dark behind his eyelids, the horrors lurking in them, waiting to strike. He doesn’t doubt for a second that the kind of work Batman does—the kind of life Bruce leads, really—comes with it some ugly memories, some of their own terrible, unimaginable horrors. Not that Bruce ever feels inclined to talk about the half of it—but just knowing it, knowing the man behind the cowl and the precious fragility of his human heart and body, is a privilege in and of itself. Not a lot of people get the chance to know Bruce Wayne—not the mask that is his vacant-eyed gleaming smiles or the perpetual frown of his cowl, but the real man underneath, and all the complex overlaps. Hal is lucky to count himself as one of those few people, and he wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

He lets out a little grunt as he turns to his side, sleep clouding his half-awake mind. Sometimes his body would do this thing where it teeters him to slumber but never quite lets him fall into it. The tug of sleep would tease him at his mind’s edges as his brain runs and circulates through thoughts, a frustrating game of mental tug-of-war he rarely ever wins. He blindly and lethargically searches for Bruce with a hand, frowning at the empty, sleep-warm space beside him. He opens his eyes to find the crumpled sheets, trying to adjust to the dim lighting. Bruce is perched on the edge of the bed, backlit by moonlight. Hal stares at his scarred, beautiful bare back, then flicks his eyes to the slim gap between the curtains, the glow of a bat in the sky. 

“Go on,” Hal murmurs, “Looks like they need you. Go and beat up some bad guys.” 

“Alright,” he hears Bruce murmur back. “I’m sorry.” 

Hal lifts himself upright, stretching an arm out to turn Bruce to him by the shoulder, who allows it easily. He closes the distance between them, gently cradling Bruce’s nape as he kisses his lovely lips, caressing his lovely chest, cupping his lovely jaw to tilt his head just so, deepening their kiss. When they part, Hal whispers into his mouth, “Just promise you’ll come back to me.” 

Bruce nods incrementally, their lips brushing together. “I will,” he promises. “Always.” 

Hal closes his eyes and bumps their noses, presses lingering kisses, cherishes what he has before Bruce has to let go, and the city takes him away once again. 

—

He knows Bruce has returned when Hal hears the mattress springs creak as the bed dips under Bruce’s weight, the faint smell of antiseptic overlaying the cuprous odour trailing after. Hal turns to him with bleary eyes, blinking slowly back to full wakefulness. He’s been restless, unable to let himself sleep when Bruce is out there, probably dodging bullets and diving off of building ledges. 

“Hey,” he croaks out, eyes cataloguing the bandages singlehandedly holding Bruce’s torso together. Blood is already seeping through, maroon speckles contrasting clean white, nearly black in the dim light. His chest constricts a little. At least Bruce is here, he reminds himself. At least Bruce came back to him like he promised. “Rough night, baby?” 

Bruce lets out a grunt, which is technically a response but conveys as much meaning as a brick. One look at Bruce’s exhausted face, however, tells him everything Hal needs to know. 

“Come ‘ere,” Hal beckons, shuffling further into his side of the bed to make space for Bruce, who carefully stretches his body over the expanse of it. His muscles are still taut with tension, stiff as though it hasn’t gotten the memo that there isn’t anymore danger within vicinity—or at least not with Hal around. Or maybe he’s just in severe pain. 

Bruce shifts a little, presumably in an attempt to find a better position, and Hal is near enough to hear the sharp intake of breath. Pain, then. Classic Bruce; he’s always pushing the bounds of his physical limitations—and despite the ways in which he tries to convince others of otherwise, is absolutely something that he has—like a wild rottweiler against a chain link fence, but he never seems to understand that whatever he does, the fence will always win. Not that Hal’s any better about that, but still. Not the greatest lifestyle Bruce has elected for himself. 

Hal reaches for the drawer in the nightstand, retrieving the painkillers stocked in there in abundance, the tall glass of water set under the table lamp. He shakes out a couple pills, hands it to Bruce with the water, thinks bitterly; how’s that for a lifestyle.

Bruce swallows them down obediently, muttering a “Thank you.” Hal squeezes an unbandaged shoulder, smiling wryly. He takes the empty glass and returns it to its rightful place. They settle back down on the bed, and though it takes a while, Bruce’s body begins to steadily relax, each muscle loosening as the medication slowly takes effect. Hal watches him as it happens, the deepening of his breath, the rise and fall of his chest, the vulnerable curve of his open face, unguarded in the safety of their bedroom. 

These are the memories that drift in his feverish mind that moment, the cool tiles underneath him a grounding anchor to reality. It takes a while for his sluggish brain to remember he’s in the bathroom, sitting on the floor, back against the tub. He’s not so sure how he got here, just that he feels too weak to move anywhere else. He drifts there for a moment, not really knowing how long—he’s been experiencing intermittent waves of hot and cold all afternoon, but they seem to wash over him continuously now; chills going up and down his spine, all through his aching muscles. There are spikes penetrating his brain, pain pulsing in his temples. He tries in vain to will together some strength to stand, at the very least, but finds that he cannot. 

After a while he realises someone else is in the bathroom with him, a palm pressing against his forehead. 

“Jesus, baby,” says a familiar voice, “You’re burning up.” Both palms are cradling his cheeks now, and he makes a soft noise at that. “Wong told me to come over.” 

It takes a while to find his voice, to push it through the surprising dryness. “Traitor,” he mutters, “I told him I’m… fine,” he manages. 

A snort. “Sure you are.” 

“He needs to tend to his duties.” 

“Yeah. That’s why I’m here. To babysit your sick ass.” 

Stephen scowls at that, but he doesn’t exactly have full faculties of his facial muscles at the moment, so for all he knows it might just be a slight twitch of his face. The hand is feeling along his cheeks, which must be more than a little warm. 

“Let’s get you up and into bed, baby.” 

“Can’t,” Stephen says. Another chill goes through him, and he shudders at it. 

“I know,” says the voice understandingly, “Me and Red are gonna help you up, ‘kay? Come on.”

His arm is slung over broad shoulders, and that, along with the cloak supporting his weight, manages to lift him off the floor, before he is being led out the doorway. 

“You should’ve told me,” the voice—Tony, he remembers now—says, “I would’ve come.” 

“I don’t need any help,” he protests. 

“Sure. You’re doing just fine back there, sitting miserably on the bathroom floor.” 

“I was,” he counters, somehow managing to open his eyes to slits, peering up at the man through his bangs. “Doing fine,” he clarifies. The look on Tony’s face betrays his tone; there’s an obvious crease of worry digging between those brows, and this time Stephen does manage a successful scowl. Tony just searches his eyes, and the soft sincerity there makes Stephen look away. 

Slowly they make their way to the bed, and Stephen has no choice but to let Tony tuck him in. The cloak bundles him up, a little too tightly. It doesn’t budge despite his noise of protest. 

“Wong told me you’re a flight risk, but considering your state I doubt you’d even be able to walk on your own. But just in case,” Tony says, “Cloak here is putting you in blanket jail. Isn’t that right, Red?” 

The cloak tightens around him in response. 

“You’re suffocating me.” 

“That’s just your clogged nose.” 

“This is murder.” 

“Oh, stop it, you big baby. Just rest, alright?” Tony drags a nearby chair beside the bed. “I’ll just be right here.” 

Stephen huffs as a last attempt at saving his dignity, digging further into the bed despite himself. The combination of fatigue and—he is loathe to admit—the comforting weight of the cloak lulls him into an obliterating, all-consuming, full sleep.

—

He grapples back into consciousness with some struggle. He must have dreamt of something, and it comes back to him in hazy sense-memories: gentle fingers, the heat of steam rising from a bowl of broth, the waft of scent; a blend of something warm and salty and herbaceous. Absently he registers several sensations; the damp, lukewarm cloth over his forehead, the blankets over him, the soreness of his throat. The cloth lifts, is dipped into what he assumes is a bowl of water. He hears it drip as it’s being wrung, feels when it returns, gently draped over his forehead. 

Something here feels familiar. He puzzles over this, trying to put his finger on it.

“Ma?” he croaks out. 

“What was that, baby?” mumbles a voice that doesn’t sound like Ma, but it can’t be anyone else. Stephen doesn’t remember anyone else having ever spoken to him quite so softly. 

“Ma,” he rasps again, and there are blessedly cool, callused fingers sweeping across his cheeks now, up along his cheekbones, higher still to brush away his bangs. Stephen is sure of it now. That hand couldn’t belong to anyone else; it is so gentle. 

The tears come completely unbidden. He tries to open his eyes, but is too weak, they are sealed shut, too heavy to lift open. There's a gentle shushing noise above him, whispering little reassuring words. 

“Shh, it’s okay, baby. Shh, I’m right here.” 

“‘M sorry,” he murmurs, “‘M so sorry.”

That hand smooths over his heated face, his tear-streaked cheeks, soothing away the tears. "Nothing to be sorry for,” the gentle voice says. 

“No,” he murmurs, because that isn’t true, he has everything to be sorry for. So many words he meant to say, so many apologies he owes. He’s a burden, he’s a failure, he’s failed her, he’s failed everyone, he could’ve saved her, it was his fault, and he’s sorry, he’s so so sorry, is all he can feel. He doesn’t know if he says part of that aloud, or if he says anything at all. He’s not quite aware of what’s leaving his mouth.

“Are you sure—” 

“Ritsu,” Shigeo interrupts him, not unkindly, and Ritsu clicks his jaw shut. “I said I know a place. I said you could trust me. I’ve been here several times now, to—wind down, mostly. I know where I’m going.” That explains the empty patches on the ground. The random craters. Signs of destruction. Like the wind somehow managed to knock down sections of the forest, sweeping trees off the ground and pulling them out from the roots in its sheer wrath. “And besides,” Shigeo shrugs, “If we get lost, I have you. You always figure out the way back home.” 

And then Shigeo’s moving again, searching for something past the branches and leaves and trailing after it. Ritsu only gets a moment to be stunned—a warm curl of nostalgia in his chest—at the words before his feet pick up after him, catching up to his older brother. 

His profile is cast in the pale light reflecting off of a nearby stream. Ritsu is struck, not for the first time, by the knowledge of how much his brother has grown. He stands a few feet taller than he used to, the soft curve of his jaw cut into a sharp edge. His features are sharper, too, the last clinging baby fat on his cheeks carved into something frighteningly mature. 

“Remember when we were children,” Shigeo says conversationally, and that’s another new thing; Shigeo being conversational, “and we got lost in the forest that one time?” 

Ritsu can recall the memory vividly. “Yeah.” 

“And you got us back home.” 

Ritsu hums. “I did.” 

“You followed the moss, because—” 

“They always grow on the north side, where the sun won’t hit them directly.” 

Shigeo passes him a sidelong look, lips half-quirked up. Ritsu returns it with a small, crooked smile of his own. He stops to help heft Ritsu’s weight up a fallen tree trunk with a firm hand, joining him back down to the ground and steadying him. The Body Improvement Club has definitely done its job well. 

“I’m not worried about getting lost, is what I’m saying,” Shigeo tells him. 

“Well, we have our phones now,” Ritsu shrugs, “Doesn’t Reigen have a tracker on yours?” 

Shigeo doesn’t say anything to that, but Ritsu thinks he isn’t imagining the amusement in his face. His growth shines in moments like this, subtle as they are. 

I want to take my emotions more seriously, he remembers Shigeo confessing, and it hadn’t been a fruitless endeavour. 

Before long, Shigeo stops in front of a structure—an abandoned greenhouse, Ritsu guesses, with wide clouded glass walls and questionable integrity. 

“Is this the place?” Ritsu says, taking in his surroundings. Shigeo nods at him, and there’s a hint of delight in his eyes. Ritsu hasn’t seen that look in a while, rare as it is, but he hasn’t seen Shigeo in a while after he’s gone to college, anyway. 

His older brother’s slowly growing into himself, showing more parts of him and his emotions than Ritsu ever thinks he has, and he wishes they aren’t so far apart these days so he can see how it all develops. He wishes the universe would stop putting this distance between them. Not when they’ve only just begun to rekindle. Not when they’ve only just let all that was repressed flood out and run their course, when they’ve only just gone through the rockiest parts of their diverging roads and wind back down into a singular path. Not when Ritsu has only just started picking up and putting together whatever they had left of what they were before. 

It always feels like time is never on their side. It’s a fragile thing, this thing they have between them. Shigeo is and always has been his brother, and Ritsu knows that’s what ties them tightly together despite it all, but he also knows they—their shared camaraderie, their bond, the brotherly affection shared in the quiet moments, hesitant and delicate but genuine all the same—have changed, over time. Perhaps it’s selfish to think things could stay the same. Perhaps it’s selfish to wish growing up didn’t mean changing. 

Shigeo tries the door, lop-sided on its hinges and scraping unpleasantly against the ground as he drags it open just enough for them to slip inside one after the other. The moon has risen this time around, and it brightens the clear sky and streams moonlight down through the aging glass, streaked with dust and debris and unkempt foliage.

He thinks, as Shigeo squints up at the low glass ceiling, that they can make this work. That things haven’t changed much, after all. That, even if they had, then perhaps that’s okay, too. 

“Through there,” Shigeo suddenly points upwards, and Ritsu’s eyes follow the direction. There’s a skylight. 

“Nii-san,” Ritsu frowns. “You want to get on top of this thing?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You’re serious?” 

“Yes, Ritsu.” 

“What if we—it might collapse, and—we might—”

“Do you trust me?” 

Ritsu blinks at him. 

“I don’t trust this whole place not to come down,” Ritsu says instead. 

“It won’t,” Shigeo tells him, “You said you wanted to go stargazing. We’re going stargazing.” 

“Up there?” 

“Yes.” 

“But the whole place might colla—” 

“Ritsu,” Shigeo levels him a gaze. It isn’t serious, really, but there’s a weight to it that stops Ritsu in his tracks. “You trust me, right?” 

Despite better judgement, Ritsu doesn’t hesitate. “I do.” With my life, he wants to say, knowing that hasn’t always been the case. Not with this much certainty, at least. 

Shigeo nods resolutely. “Then we’re going up there.” 

Shigeo looks around, spotting a small, plastic stepping stool. He drags it over and plants a foot on it, shaking unsteadily as he climbs his way up. Ritsu isn’t sure what to do at first, but jumps into action as the thing tips precariously to the side, Shigeo wobbling above, and lands on his knees just in time to hold it still. 

“Jesus, Nii-san,” he mutters. His jeans are ruined. He’s going to have a hard time scrubbing away the dirt. 

Shigeo ignores him, instead using the newly acquired height to give the skylight a good few shoves. The old coppery latch finally gives way and the skylight swings open with a pop, hinges squealing, thumping onto the other side and sending dust and leaves and bits of dry soil raining down.  

Shigeo gets on his tip toes, reaching up with strong arms on either side of the roof—again, Body Improvement Club has definitely done its damn wonders—and lifting his weight up to climb up and out. Ritsu hears him huff out a breath or two before a hand stretches down in offering. When Ritsu doesn’t take it, Shigeo’s head pops into view with a questioning look. 

“This is crazy, Nii-san,” Ritsu says. Shigeo just stares at him expectantly. 

With a sigh, he eventually steps up the stepping stool, muttering prayers under his breath as he wobbles, and grabs at his brother’s hand who lifts him up with some struggle. 

Once they settle down, and so has his anxiety, Ritsu has to admit—it’s a breathtaking sight. The sky is clear, the moon is bright, and they’re far out enough that the city’s light pollution doesn’t reach them to drown out the few specks of glittering stars. Ritsu admires the view with open awe. 

“So,” Shigeo says after a moment of this, their elbows meeting in a light nudge, and Ritsu looks at him with a raised brow. “Worth it?” 

Incredulous. 

“You’re unbelievable, Nii-san,” Ritsu says, but he’s smiling, and so is Shigeo, and now they’re laughing and Ritsu thinks, yes, this is how things always are. This is how things always will be between them, despite it all. 

“Wizard?” He frowns. “Something the matter?” 

“I’m fine,” is Strange’s immediate, tight reply. “I just— I might’ve taken a hit. It’s not a big deal.” 

“Jesus,” Tony mutters, making his way over. He hadn’t noticed with how dark it is here, and the cloak having concealed practically Strange’s entire torso, but Strange seems to slump at an angle, favouring one side. All of a sudden his refusal to do anything but sit there completely immobile seems a lot less like apathy, and a lot more like something else. He crouches beside the sorcerer to get a better look. “Let me see,” he asks. Reluctantly, the cloak pulls back, and Tony gently places a hand against his side. It comes off warm and wet. “Jesus,” he mutters again, sharper. 

“It’s fine,” Strange snaps. Tony presses against it again, getting the smallest of flinches, feeling something else underneath; a rhythmic tremor in the muscle, subtle but unmistakable. 

“You’re going into shock,” Tony realises. Stephen’s eyes shut tightly, breath audibly ragged, now that Tony’s close enough to hear it. 

“I’m—fine.” 

“No you’re not, for fuck’s sake. And you call yourself a doctor.” Tony tries to take a closer look at the wound with the dim light from the arc reactor. Not good. “Okay, I’m gonna need to move you. It’s going to help, but it’s also going to hurt, so tell me if it gets too much, okay?” 

“Okay,” Strange rasps, actually complying. 

Slowly, Tony shifts him to lay down. Strange seems to be trying very hard not to make any noise—he’s pretty sure the average person would be screaming and writhing in pain by now. He makes sure to position Strange in a way that slightly elevates his legs, while ensuring his injured side isn’t too aggravated. Strange’s hands are clenching painfully. 

“Little help here, Red,” he says once settled, hastily grabbing the edge of the cloak. It bundles itself up as he presses against the dark gash, hard. Strange bites his lip to stifle a groan, and something about that makes Tony’s insides clench. The man hardly ever shows any outward signs of pain—to see him actually hurt like this makes Tony want to fly back out there and rip out the heads of those purple-blooded creatures. He allows himself a brief mental image of himself tearing through its flesh, down to the bones and ligaments as it screeches and writhes in pain underneath him. 

“Okay, there. We’re going to try and stop the bleeding—hey, no, stay with me now. Strange, you can’t fall asleep. You need to stay conscious, okay? At least until the others find us. Strange, hey, come on.” 

Strange nods his head incrementally, just a jerk of the chin. “Fuck,” he pants. 

“Yeah,” Tony says, breathless all of a sudden. He’s pleased to note that the tremor in Stephen’s body is slowly subsiding. “They’re going to find us, okay? Wong is out there, and I’m pretty sure he’d tear through hell and back just to get to you.” 

“He’s… I don’t know if they saw where—we were cut off,” Strange says, “Tony, I don’t know if…”

“Hey, no, come on. Stay with me. They’re going to find us, okay? They will.” He tries to calculate how much time Strange has left: rate of blood loss against time since they’ve been trapped. The rest have about a half hour window here to find them—surely they’ll make it in time? 

“Tony.” 

“Yes?” 

“Tony?”

“I’m here, right here. You gotta stay conscious, Gandalf, come on.” 

“I’m… trying.” 

“I know. Look, you’re coming to the party this Friday, right, remember? My birthday. Everyone’s coming. You could do your magic tricks. Balloon animals, and shit.” 

“I can’t actually make those. Balloon animals.”

“Sure you can.” 

“No,” he says, smiling weakly. Tony smiles back. “Listen,” Strange is saying, and his voice is frayed. Tony shuffles closer, pressing against the wound. Strange lets out a small wince at it. “Listen,” he says again, “I might not make it out, Tony.” 

“You can’t say that.” 

“I can. I’m not afraid of death, Tony, I’ve—always known the risks, going in,” he says, “I estimate twenty minutes.”

“I was going for half an hour.” 

“Well, one of us is a little less optimistic and a little more pragmatic.” 

Despite it all, Tony snorts. “Always gotta be an asshole,” he says, shaking his head, “even half an hour to death’s door.” 

Strange tries a laugh, but ends up wincing in pain. “Twenty minutes,” he repeats, “I… lost quite a lot of blood.” 

“You should’ve fucking said something.” 

“Yeah. I… might not have realised how bad… until it was too late,” Strange replies, and there’s a sleepy slur in his voice that jolts Tony. 

“Hey, hey, come on, no, you gotta stay awake. Let’s just—let’s talk about shit, okay? I oughta say something stupid soon, you are gonna want to be awake to hear it.” 

“You’re not.” 

“What?” 

“You’re not stupid. You’re one of the most brilliant men I know.”  

“Jesus, you really are dying, huh?” 

Strange laughs again, and at first Tony thought it was a choke or some sort of convulsive cough or something far more concerning. But his laugh, strained with pain as it is, sounded… warm. 

“Yeah, no, I’m brilliant and I know it. Genius, playboy, billionaire, philanthropist, remember? Part of the package.” 

“Yes,” Strange slurs. 

“Hey, stay awake. You wanna know a story? I can talk about that one birthday party where I got completely obliterated because I ran a bet with this guy, told him I can drink him under the table, right? Now at this point I’ve built up quite the tolerance, that’s kind of what getting yourself sloshed every other night does to you, so I was pretty confident. But here’s the thing about trying to drink a literal viking under the table, you fucking can’t. Pretty sure this guy can hold his liquor better than even Thor.” He laughs. “I woke up in the morning under a table with various articles of clothing around me. It’s not as bad as some of the other guys in the party, all of us were just draped against various furniture in various states of undress—pretty sure one guy was literally half naked and fell asleep hugging a houseplant—but I still had to be in a board meeting that morning, so I showed up late looking predictably like something the cat dragged in, and then immediately tried to bury, sporting the hangover of the goddamn century.”

Strange attempts what could’ve been a soft snort of sorts, but instead only manages a short gust of breath. “Idiot.” 

“I thought we’ve established that I am in fact a genius.” 

“Those two things can coexist. You are brilliant, but you can also be so…” Strange trails off.

“Hey, no, stay with me now. Stephen. Come on.” 

“Yes. ‘M awake. I… What’s happening?” 

“I was telling you a story about that time I tried to drink a viking under the table.” 

“Mm. Viking. Interesting.” 

“Yep. Now you tell me a story about a wild birthday party. You ever got one of those?” 

“Not really.” 

“Come on, never partied so hard you woke up on the floor in just your underwear?” 

“Not on my birthday, no.” 

“Fair enough.” 

“I never celebrated my birthdays,” Strange admits. “Never did since I was little. Eugene thought they were frivolous.” 

Tony just watches him. Is he just imagining it, or is Strange getting paler and paler by the minute? His face is stretched white across his cheekbones. Fuck, they’ve got to find them soon. Any time now. “Who’s Eugene?” 

“Eugene is… nobody. Forget it,” he says, “Tell me… another story.” 

“Right, okay,” Tony says, racking his brain. “Another story. Uh. Well.” 

“I… don’t think I can… stay conscious for long…” 

“No, hey, come on, don’t sleep on me now. Come on, Stephen.” 

“I… can’t. I can’t.”

“Yes you can.” 

“Tony,” Strange is saying, “Tony, I… I need to tell you. Before it’s too late, I need…” 

“Tell me what? Come on, what is it?” 

“I’ve always thought… Always thought you…” 

“That I what? Always thought I had a nice ass? Come on, I know you check me out from time to time. Admit it, you’ve got the hots for me, wizard.” 

“No,” he says, voice fading a little. “No, it’s… more than that. I’ve always thought you were… were…” 

“Stephen,” Tony says, desperate. 

“I’ve always thought you were beautiful…” 

His eyelids finally flutter close, and his head can’t stay upright anymore, lolling to the side and rolling over his shoulder. 

“Stephen? Fuck! Stephen, don’t do this, don’t fucking do this to me, fuck—” He grabs ahold of Strange’s shoulders and shakes them, who cares if it hurts, and he realises he is shouting in panic but also in rage and frustration, because why now? He thought they had all the time in the world, why now? “No! Stephen, come on! No, no no no! Fuck you! You didn’t just fucking—” 

He tries desperately to feel for a pulse, where is it, why can’t he find it, and he presses close to feel his breath, but there is nothing but stillness. There is a distant roar, some hoarse animal cry, and he realises it is his own scream, wrenched out of his throat, crashing against the walls around them, crumbling the rocks and shaking the foundations of the cave, only then he realises there is light, blessed bright light as the ceiling suddenly tears off above them, familiar faces hovering near and nearer. They’ve been found, but it’s too late, it’s no use— 

He is slicing through the sky at breakneck speed not a second later, using whatever reserves of power is left of the suit, Stephen’s body clutched tight against his chest and the cloak a flurry of red around them both. 

—

Stephen had been patched up in the Medbay after the battle, and he hadn’t been lying about the blood loss, and the wound was a horrible thing that tore through his flesh and would surely scar, but he came out alive and that is all that really matters. He also attended the mission debrief they had about two days later, Wong at his side, even though he’s pretty sure Stephen shouldn’t even be out of bed and not resting. 

And the debrief went like always, Steve droning on about incredibly boring, do-gooding shit he only keeps half an ear on and both sorcerers chiming in on how best to deal with future interdimensional breaches, then the occasional input from other members. Tony said his part and tried not to stare, he really did, but then suddenly his eyes strayed to the side against his will, and they had met Stephen’s, and he realised Stephen had been watching him, too, and it was that look. He couldn't unknow that look. They were the same watchful eyes as the ones that looked straight at him in that cave, the same ones that he looked at as Stephen spoke those gently rasped words. 

I’ve always thought you were beautiful. 

And somebody must’ve called Stephen’s name, then, because the man turned his head away and never looked back. 

So that was that. Whatever had happened, whatever things Stephen meant to say to him, they were left in that cave with the rocks and the dark. They never brought it up again, and suddenly everything went back to the way they were before, and really, what had he even been expecting? What had he thought would happen, afterwards? 

But then Friday comes, and it’s his birthday, and every year he wonders how it is that he’s still alive after a lifetime of constantly working against that. Well, he’s not the only one actively knocking at death’s door, apparently. 

He’s embarrassed to admit he spends the first few hours of the evening watching the front door, waiting for a familiar dark head with streaks of grey. Will he even come? Tony had invited him, but the sorcerers aren’t really the type to hang around with them much. Stephen hardly ever shows up at team gatherings, even if he had been invited. But still, there is a part of Tony that holds out hope that he’ll show up. 

And he does. 

Bringing balloon animals with him. 

It is cradled in a pile in his arms, little dogs and cats and horses and snakes, squeaking as they slide against each other. Tony can’t help it, he laughs, hard and long, because god if that isn’t such a ridiculous sight, and Stephen is balancing them all precariously with a pleased look on his face, he must have involved some magic or something, and Wong’s face, oh god Wong’s face, he’s looking at Stephen like he’s resigned to this fate of being publicly embarrassed every time he brings Stephen out to literally anywhere, and Tony just can’t stop laughing, he is in tears by the end of it.

The balloon animals are shared evenly to everyone in the party, and finally Stephen presents Tony with a little red dog. “Happy birthday,” he says. Tony grins as he accepts it, and Stephen grins back. 

Then the evening goes on, and Tony plays his part as the host, laughing and talking and sipping occasionally at his drink. At some point he loses sight of Stephen, excuses himself and extracts from his group, and finds the man standing out in the balcony. 

“There you are,” he says as he slides the balcony door shut. “Thought you left. Was quite the entrance you made there. Thought you said balloon animals aren’t your specialty.” 

“I may have learnt a spell or two.” 

“Yeah, you must know a heckton of weird spells. Hey, I’ve got some magic tricks up my own sleeve. Ever opened a bra one-handed? Enough practice from sneaking in the back of movie theaters.” 

Stephen snorts. 

“So anyway,” Tony says, leaning on the railing with him. He considers the man. Lowers his voice. “You remember it all, then?” 

Stephen turns to look at him, then, and those eyes. Tony can’t help but be a little mystified by them, sometimes. They’d catch against the light, and the colours would shift, and nothing in the world is quite like them. He searches them, and Stephen’s face is open, and there is something in that look, something he wants to believe, and he’s sure he’s got the same look all over his own face. 

“In the cave,” Tony says, then stops. He could say a million things here. He could say, what did you mean? Or even, I can’t look at you the same way after that, I couldn’t unsee the look in your eyes, couldn’t forget them. Or maybe, did you mean it? You called me beautiful. I don’t know why. You called me beautiful, even though you are the most beautiful person I’ve ever laid my eyes on. But instead he says, “You said you’ve always known the risks, going in. What did you mean?” 

“What did I…” Stephen frowns, appearing to have a hard time remembering. And then, “Oh,” he says. “Well, I just meant that…” He tilts his head a little in thought, seems to be considering his words. “When I learned the Mystic Arts, I did it with the expectation of… fixing myself. But I was faced with a choice, which was that I either get my life back, or I fight to defend our reality, and become a sorcerer of Kamar Taj. And I knew choosing the latter would be putting myself in the line of defense against reality’s worst enemies. That’s what I meant. It’s not so different from you putting on the suit.” 

“Yeah, well.” And he doesn’t really know what else to say. “Maybe. I mean, it’ll get us all eventually, anyway.” 

“Death, you mean?” 

“Yeah. Pretty dark conversation we’re having here, about death and all. Considering it’s my birthday party. We should go back to balloon animals.” 

Stephen chuckles a little, and it is this rumbling, soft sound that makes something seize in Tony’s chest a little. He is reminded of the cave again, Stephen’s weak attempts at a laugh, remembers how it sounded… warm. It sounds warm. 

“Death is…” Stephen says, and now those eyes look far away. “...not unfamiliar to me.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“Well, it gets boring after the first or second time.” 

“Do I even want to know?” 

“Nope. You’re right, let’s go back to the balloon animals.”  

Tony’s the one to laugh this time, and Stephen watches him. There is a crinkle at the edges of those eyes, a wry tilt of his lip, and Tony is struck with the sudden need to kiss it, because all he can think of is how beautiful Stephen looks, like this. How beautiful this man is. 

I’ve always thought you were beautiful. 

“Fuck it,” he murmurs, and dives forward. He kisses Stephen hard and inelegantly, and Stephen makes this soft noise in the back of his throat that sends a jolt of something down his spine, and lower still. Stephen is kissing back. Tony twines his fingers into the hair at the back of his head, tilting it just so, and Stephen seems to like that, seems to kiss him deeper—

“Hey, when can we slice the cake? Come on, Tones, everyone’s— Jesus,” Rhodey says as the balcony door slides open. 

“Fucking hell, Rhodey,” Tony whips his head to him. 

“Woah, sorry. I mean, about time, anyway, right?” Rhodey smirks, hands up in surrender. He winks. “Go get ‘em, tiger.” And then he disappears behind the door, sliding it firmly shut. They both stare at it, silent. 

“Well.”