Title: Cars (Little Wonders Arc)
Pairings/Warnings: Tony/Bruce, high school AU, underage smoking, underage drinking, language, friendship
The night was crisp and cool, the cigarette between Bruce's lips burning brighter than the stars. Sparks flew away behind them as the wind ripped at their hair, the top down on Tony's BMW, power rippling under Bruce's fingers as he shifted gears and hit the gas, shooting down the highway at twenty over with Tony giggling in the passenger seat.
Tony was sucking on a little bottle of hard liquor he had snitched from his dad and Bruce didn't have more than a permit Tony had taken him to get in a fit of compassion for the sixteen year old without a license so if the cops pulled them over now they were totally fucked – but Bruce liked to hear Tony laugh and Tony liked the speed.
His palms didn't get sweaty any more, his heart didn't race, he didn't have any of that stupid butterfly shit when Tony looked at him, when Tony laughed – instead it was just a cold, hard ache that took up residence in his gut and spread everywhere so that he couldn't move without feeling it, couldn't even breathe because of the icy weight on his chest.
Tonight, though? Tonight his grin was easy – the pain wasn't so bad. School just let out and Tony had a blessed two weeks between finals and summer varsity practice and Bruce had prepared himself to be blown off for pool parties and Mister Stark's endless supply of cash and distractions. But there he was, throwing rocks at Bruce's window and sniggering while Bruce offered a litany of prayers that his father wouldn't wake up while simultaneously muttering that he was going to ring Tony's neck for not just texting him. But Tony chose him.
Tony chose him.
The speedometer climbed as he slid around a minivan and Tony licked his lips as he tried to repress another giggle. The music was too loud – that pounding techno bullshit Tony liked because he could "feel" it – and it fucked with his head, had to focus hard on the road, fingers tight on the wheel.
He didn't start out with any destination in mind but there was a shitty little diner outside the city off 42 called the Squirrel's Nest where only locals hung out after dark and the waitresses still remembered his mother and no one would give him shit for smoking cigarettes underage. Maybe it wasn't hot tubs and girls in bikinis but Bruce thought – hoped – it would be okay.
"Are you taking me on a date?"
Tony had turned down the music with a flick of his fingers as they pulled into the parking lot but the sudden absence made Bruce's brain feel like cotton and he looked over to make sure he heard him correctly. And fuck – Tony was facing him in those plush bucket seats, his wide eyes full of drunken amusement Bruce desperately wanted to pretend was genuine affection, lips wide and grinning around the beginning of a laugh.
"Yeah – good thing you're a cheap date," Bruce finally managed though his throat was tight as he forced out each word and the smile he returned was lopsided and strange. "Come on." He flicked the cigarette butt away from the car to force himself to turn away. "You need some pancakes to soak up that liquor."
Tony pocketed the little bottle and Bruce tried to swallow down the way he wanted to kiss him. It always lingered too long, strangling him from the inside as insidious, disgusting desire tried to claw its way out from his chest.
The Squirrel's Nest was the very definition of a dive – from the hard brown laminate bench seats that were just a curve on either side of a shitty laminate table to the sticky syrup containers on every table to the janky jukebox on the far side of the narrow dining area. Tony giggled again as they took a seat and Bruce ran his hand through the front of his hair a few times nervously.
There was only one waitress in at this hour and the only other patrons were a couple old guys at a table bitching about their wives but probably on the wagon since they weren't at a bar and a trucker at the counter, looking like he might faceplant into his eggs any minute. The waitress gave them a suspicious look as Bruce tapped out a cigarette and they ordered two sodas but she didn't say anything. She even managed to overlook Tony pouring liquor into his drink.
Bruce took the liberty of ordering for them, which amused Tony to no end, and he rolled the cigarette in his fingers, trying not to flush as Tony teased him. As much as he craved Tony's presence, being in it was torture. And yet – so was being away. He couldn't even tell which was worse anymore. It all fucking hurt.
"Where'd you find this place?" Tony asked, eyes sparkling as Bruce looked away, drawing in deep on the cigarette.
He wasn't going to tell Tony about how his mother worked here as a girl – when it was more popular, when it was the only stop between towns – trying to scrape together enough money to pay for her college courses. Wasn't going to tell Tony about how it was here where she met his father, where they had their first date, where she decided to drop out of college and get married. Wasn't going to tell Tony about how sometimes he dreamed of the day he had his own car and could drive up here with a bucket of kerosene and light the whole damn place up.
"It was here," he finally replied with a noncommittal shrug, blowing a line of smoke from the corner of his mouth.
Tony rolled his eyes as he took another chug of liquor and coke and he kicked him under the booth – hard. Bruce's eyes widened with pain, staring at Tony in disbelief as he cracked up and in anger Bruce kicked him back. Although he connected, Bruce's foot slid off of Tony's leg at an ineffective angle and Tony just laughed harder, retaliating until they were both laughing so hard Bruce could hardly breathe.
The waitress scowled as she dropped off their pancakes and bacon and Bruce coughed as he tried to regain his composure while Tony wiped at his eyes. He was pretty sure no one had laughed in this little hell hole since his mother worked here but as he watched Tony cut into his pancakes it kinda made him feel good – like in a weird way they were honoring her memory.
He stubbed out his cigarette in the tray and grinned at Tony as he poured syrup on his own pancakes. She used to make them for him on Sunday morning – little silver dollars, the perfect size for a five year old – and he would pour out just enough to cover the top one in a thin layer and he would eat them that way, one by one, as she sat across from him with a cup of tea and smiled.
"You're weird," Tony said through a mouthful of pancakes, watching as he smoothed syrup with his fork.
Bruce glared and kicked him again and Tony covered his mouth with one hand, trying not to spit pancakes as he laughed.
"I'm precise," Bruce replied simply, remembering how his mother would always say that, dreamy smile peeking over the rim of her special mug with the fading picture of Mickey Mouse on the side.
'My little engineer – you're so precise. So handsome and so smart – just like your father.'
Bruce used to think he was going to be an engineer, live out his mother's dream for her – all that fantastic nonsense an abandoned little boy wanted to believe. Now though he set his sights a little lower – mechanic, like his father. Because now he understood the truth. The truth that she had seen but he hadn't wanted to believe. He was his father. Maybe he had her eyes but everything else was his. Why else would she have left him? Why else? Why else?
Suddenly the diner seemed suffocating, painful, and he choked down a pancake that was too dry in his mouth before lighting up another cigarette between shaking fingers he tried to hold steady so he didn't tip Tony off. But Tony just happily stole his plate, slathering syrup over the pancakes before devouring them.
They both flipped some bills on the table and Tony took a piss before meeting him at the car. Bruce could feel the weight of the keys in his pocket as he let the nicotine and the cool night air soothe his nerves.
"You okay to drive?" Tony asked as he swaggered up, that self-confident little thing he'd slowly adopted over the last year that Bruce found stupidly attractive and he nodded as he took the cigarette from his mouth, breathing smoke, staring at the stars.
Sometimes he liked to think she was up there, looking down at him. Sometimes it made him feel good. Sometimes he wanted to scream at the sky and tell her to fuck off. Usually he knew it was just suns and space dust and it didn't matter. She was gone – he'd gone to school and when he came back, she was gone. No one's lives really mattered here.
Sucked that it had to hurt so bad, though.
Bruce threw the cigarette away without snuffing it. If it burned the place down, so be it. He slid into the driver's seat, turning the keys in the ignition. Tony chugged back the rest of the liquor.
"You okay?" Tony asked and Bruce could feel his eyes on him and he frowned as he shifted the car into reverse.
"I said I was fine to drive," he muttered but Tony stopped him with a hand on his wrist.
"No I mean – are you okay?" Tony asked again and it was like it was before – fuck.
Bruce's heart was pounding, his pulse was racing, his palms were sweaty, and Tony's hand was on his skin, branding his fingers around his wrist, and he just wanted to peel out of that shitty lot, spitting gravel, and drive as far as he could to get the hell away so he didn't have to feel like this but – it was Tony's car and he couldn't move no matter how badly he wanted to.
"I'm good," Bruce replied thinly, amazed he could get anything out around the lump in his throat and he wasn't going to cry – shit. Boys don't cry. Well – at least not in front of other boys.
"Okay," Tony said, releasing his wrist slowly, like he didn't really believe him. "Just – you can talk to me, yanno?"
Bruce tried to chuckle as he pushed the gear shift into second, sparing him a glance and a half-cocked smirk. "I'd rather drive."
"Then drive!" Tony laughed as he spun the dial up on the pulsing music and pushed himself back in his seat, throwing his hands behind his head and his feet up on the dash as Bruce ripped out of the parking on and onto the freeway.
Bruce could still feel his eyes on him, watching him, big and beautiful, could still hear him laughing over the pounding bass – could still feel his fingers on his wrist – but it felt good again. It felt good.