Sun's orphans, an avengers fanfic

We have in our hands the shining

And the fire in our hearts of a star

This is celebrating life: the view of the city and the ocean.

That's what Tony tells Steve about a month after Steve has moved in and they meet randomly in the vast space of the penthouse, Tony going from workshop to his bedroom to get some sleep – it's seven a.m. – and Steve coming back from his morning run and going to the kitchen to get a post-workout shake. Clint has taught him how to make the best ones ever and it made Steve understand Tony's love for liquid food a bit more.

'You know. The view of the city and the ocean. I've always wanted that,' Tony actually says and Steve gets the rest that goes unspoken. Tony's Mansion has the view of the city but it wasn't enough. Malibu house has the view of the ocean, but it wasn't enough either.

Stark Tower has both and it seems useless because Tony spends most of his time in workshop and not admiring the views, but Steve has noticed that when he does watch the view, he does it with such an amazing intensity as everything else.

He is a force that keeps the world spinning. Steve is sure that without Tony Stark, the news would be half of their current length because the world would be just too boring.

'You are right,' Steve tells him. 'The view is the best I've ever seen.'

Tony smiles as if someone has told him the best compliment ever, curling his bottom lip a bit in his usual way. His smiles are so radiant even then they are fake.

'I try,' Tony offers and disappears.

'Of course you do,' Steve says into the empty space. 'And you always succeed.'

People think that life is about to many things, especially the high society – Steve probably had all the unfortunate encounters, but really, most of these people were idiots and he is not ashamed to call them that because it's only fitting – and Steve has expected the same of Tony. A chef, a horde of assistants, private masseur, etc. Maybe a portrait of himself by one of the modern masters in the living room.

There is nothing like that, though; Tony cooks himself, he handles all his affairs sharing them with Pepper only, he works out alone or with his brilliant bodyguard. There is only an Obama-style – Natasha filled Steve in on that – portrait of Iron Man in Tony's workshop.

And all the cleaning is done by robots what is very futuristic, in Steve's opinion, and a bit scary when they get into the must clean mode. They are painfully efficient though, so he forgives them.

Pepper tells him one time Tony has made them all from scratch and named them because he didn't want any unfamiliar beings around the house. She also tells Steve that the palladium poisoning lowered Tony's immune system's responses and he's prone to allergies so the cute furry cats that he's always wanted to have will never happen. There are robots instead and Steve learns to pet them and play with them just the same.

Tony doesn't know because he is like one of Peter Pan's lost boys and he lives in a different reality most of the time.

Steve wishes he could get into Tony's head to understand how all that unspeakable magic is happening, but no one has invented that kind of device yet so he has to be satisfied with his thoughts – endless thoughts, too many thoughts, he has so much free time – and doodles he does in his little sketching journal.

The most frequent object of his study is the dusting robot and Steve has accepted that the way he has accepted everything else around: Tony makes it all as obvious as the fact that there is 21% of oxygen in Earth's atmosphere.

See, Steve is learning everything: from history through pop culture to Tony.

This is celebrating life: a late May sunset with windows open somewhere the way that the whole penthouse smells like wind and like dusk and like lilacs.

Tony is by the bar, sipping a drink of cognac and something that Steve doesn't recognize; it's one of those few moments when he stays in the space that has been his before the Avengers – and has been called common after the Avengers. They encourage him to come by more often, but he is always busy with something.

Pepper and Rhodey assure them it's perfectly normal and that the whole lone gunslinger act is something Tony has always been doing. They give up after the first few weeks, but every time Tony does join them, they welcome him with their arms open.

Steve usually sits in the back, watches Tony's chest glow and tries to draw him to preserve those rare moments on paper for later. There is something that that he can't quite pinpoint to the man, though, and all his sketches are lacking something. He starts one after another, one after another, and never finishes them because his sixth sense tells him that they will be wrong. They will feel wrong, and the feeling is the most important part of an art piece.

Tony seems to know that unconsciously.

When he comes into the room where Steve is setting the table for a team diner, he says this:

'It's nice here.'

Steve understands the rest of the sentence in the way Tony moves, the way he looks around, the way he acts. He seems to take in the slight breeze of the remote wind with every single cell of his skin and it happens just as he stands, casually observing Steve putting plates on the table.

Steve always puts one for Tony, even when he is not likely to come and eat.

'So I am your all-year unexpected guest, hmm?' Tony asks, taking a few steps ahead.

Steve notices that he is barefoot.

'Huh?' he asks intelligently, moving to get the glasses from the cabinet.

'There is this tradition in some eastern European countries, for Christmas Eve supper they leave one empty plate for an unexpected guest, just in case, and if someone comes, they are obliged to take them in, whoever they are.'

'That's a great tradition,' Steve decides, giving Tony a long look. His gray t-shirt looks violet in this light. 'But no. This is just for you.'

'How sweet of you, Cap,' Tony laughs, throwing his head back a bit. Steve seriously has to stop himself from dropping the glasses onto the marble floor and running to get his sketch-journal.

'You like Shepherd's pie?'

'I think I like Shepherd's pie,' Tony admits. 'Did you make it?'

'Clint did – but it's edible. No worries. We have made a test one before and it disappeared in three minutes.'

'I will risk then,' Tony says seriously and moves another two steps ahead to take the cutlery out from one of the drawers, but Steve grabs his hand delicately and pushes it away.

'You sit down,' he tells them man. 'I will do it. You've been working all night, I know –'

'Setting down cutlery won't kill me –'

'– just please? Let me?'

Tony laughs again, but moves away and sits down on the thick rug by the window, directly in the place where the last rays of the orange-red sunlight fall, like a cat. Here, there is a thing with Tony and cats, Steve has to admit.

He sits cross-legged and observes as Steve prepares the napkins and wine glasses and makes everything look all nice and fancy. He feels Tony's eyes on him when he sets the bowl filled with lilacs in the middle of the table, and then adds candles.

'Is it always this fancy?' Tony asks quietly, words a bit slurred, stretching his legs so that his feet catch the last rays of the sun before they dissolve into nothing more than a colorful glow over the city.

'The common meals are important,' Steve reminds Tony instead of answering the question directly. Tony will know it means yes, he attended them a few times before. Always that fancy because Steve loves when everything is done with care and heart if that is possible.

It is ten more minutes before everyone comes to the penthouse; they are always perfectly on time. Clint goes straight to the kitchen to get the pie out of the oven, Bruce goes with him to bring the salad and water.

'Why is Tony sleeping on the floor?' Natasha asks quietly when she climbs onto her favorite chair. It might seem exactly the same as the others to everyone, but she claims it is special.

'Slee– ah,' Steve turns his head away from where he is preparing the dessert, trifles, perfectly layered in Tony's fancy alcohol glasses, and laughs soundlessly. 'I was just talking with him two minutes ago.'

Tony is indeed sleeping, with is mouth half-opened and his eyes shut tight like baby's, with his fists curled and one arm under his head, the other instinctively protecting the reactor in his chest. His bare feet, not fitting on the carpet, are resting on the cold marble floor.

That arm is going to be asleep soon and his feet are going to get chilled and voila, a cold guaranteed, especially since Tony prone to illness, because of the after-effects of palladium poisoning, even if he keeps denying that.

'Friend Tony is not going to wake up,' Thor states, observing the small-looing figure on the carpet. Thor is whispering and making as little noise as possible, Steve appreciates that a lot.

'No, he is not,' Steve admits. That is the thing with Tony: if he falls asleep, he stays asleep unless something really drastic is happening – or unless he has a nightmare. He denies that, too, but Steve has long ago learned not to listen to him.

Steve moves Tony's legs delicately to put them on the carpet and covers him with a warm woolen quilt. Clint giggles as he sees Steve tucking the genius in on the floor, but his eyes are shining. Everyone who knows Tony is charmed like that: there is no protection from that spell.

The team eats more silently than ever before, probably; all the talks by the table are hushed whispers and everyone takes special care not to make a piece of cutlery fall onto a plate or to hit their glasses on the table.

Steve, as everyone else, keeps glancing at Tony's figure on the floor and no one manages to keep amused and tender smiles off their lips.

III

This is celebrating life: a midnight milkshake, homemade and delicious.

They come back from a mission late in the evening; it was two days of trying to get one very persistent man, so there has hardly been any time to stop and eat. They are all more tired than hungry, though, so everyone just goes to their rooms for the night.

Steve can't fall asleep so he takes the sketch-journal and starts to tip-toe across the corridor and up the staircase to go up to the roof and watch the city by night.

Only that when he goes three levels up – with three more to go – he notices that there is a light turned on in the penthouse. JARVIS controls all the electronics in the tower so it can't be accidental. Steve wraps the long sleeves of his hoodie around his hands, wraps his hands on his chest and walks soundlessly to find the source of the light.

He has half-expected it to be Thor, since the god doesn't need sleep or rest like everyone else, but it's Tony. That isn't so surprising either.

He is trying to lift a cup filled with something to his lips, but there is too much liquid and he doesn't seem to be able to do that without spilling half of the drink onto the counter before the cup is set back with a thud. His hands are shaking, Steve notices, still standing in the shade.

'You okay?' he asks after taking a few louder steps to announce his presence. He walks up to Tony, grabbing a kitchen towel on his way, and cleans up mug, the counter; then he finds a set of wet wipes in a cupboard and wipes Tony's hands clean. It's vanilla soy milk, Steve notes. Tony loves soy milk.

All this time, Tony sits without moving with his eyes shut. Steve has learned by now that it's normal for Tony to not tell anyone about his injuries unless you really force him to admit something is wrong. It repeats every single time; the first few, Steve was annoyed, but he learned to accept it after a few more.

It takes Steve two minutes to discover a giant bruise covering all of Tony's right shoulder and a big chunk of his back. The suit was dented, come to think of it, but it's always difficult to say how much damage was done just by judging from outside.

Steve gets the bruise salve as Tony takes his t-shirt off without prompting what is the ultimate sign that he is in pain; he surely would tend to himself if only it wasn't such an awkward and difficult-to-reach place.

'It will hurt – but you know it,' Steve says anyway, putting some of the salve on his hands and starting to slowly rub it on Tony's back. He can feel the tender and knotted muscles under his fingers; there isn't anything much more to be done at the moment other than the salve; the bruise it too big and too fresh for any other treatment.

Tony doesn't even wince, he never does: that's how much of a romantic hero he is.

'Do you want me to –' Steve starts when he is done, putting the salve back into the cupboard, but Tony interrupts before he can finish the question.

'I don't want to go to sleep – I don't think I will fall asleep,' he admits, closing his eyes again.

'Okay,' Steve agrees. He doesn't really need sleep yet, he could go on for a few more days before he would be too tired to function. 'I'll make us something,' he adds and starts to dance around the kitchen, taking out ingredients and throwing them gracefully and efficiently into the blender: vanilla bean ice cream, chocolate syrup, soy milk, a few strawberries and a small splash of mint syrup. JARVIS takes care of blending everything as Steve puts the packages back into their respective places.

The whole process doesn't take more than three minutes. Steve pours the milkshakes into two nice tall glasses, adds those big straws that he loves, and places one of them in front of Tony and the other in front of himself as he seats down.

'Enjoy,' he says and waits for Tony to try first.

'Really good, Cap,' Tony decides after two or three sips. 'I'll remember mint is the secret ingredient.'

'Or rose and cinnamon, if you want to go Middle Eastern, sans the chocolate,' Steve muses, starting to sip his drink. Tony smiles and Steve has to return the smile; it's just a compulsion. It's addictive, the glimmer in Tony's eyes. You fall for that pretty fast.

Tony is like a wild animal; sometimes you believe he is just like everyone else, but he always proves you wrong. He is untamed and maladjusted, he is raw and painfully true, and people shield themselves from him instinctively because being around him hurts, people shield themselves from him as if wrapping their heads with loose threads of ignorance and blissful unawareness.

At first Steve felt strange about feeling these things and putting them into words like that, but then he understood that Tony has the effect of everybody and it's unavoidable.

'Tell me a story,' Steve asks, finishing his drink before Tony is even half done.

Tony takes a moment before he starts speaking and Steve drowns in his harsh melodic voice.

This is celebrating life: flying.

Steve has spent decades of his life without that, always dreaming with the rest of the world, always hoping that one day they will be able to just fly, freely.

He isn't at all surprised when he learns that, besides a certain god, the first person to figure out a way to fly is Howard Stark's son; it makes even more sense when Steve gets to meet Tony in person and learns more and more and more about him; there is always something more to learn. Always. Endlessly. Steve adores it.

At the beginning, it was only during missions that Tony gave Steve a lift, Stark style, like he calls it. Steve was more than satisfied with it, even it if could be a bit distracting during a battle, suddenly appearing far from you were a minute before, but he got used to that.

Now, they have known each other for a few long months and Tony asks him if he wants to go flying – just like that.

Steve feels a bit like tearing up, but only a little bit. He says yes and he is sure Tony notices how tight with excitement and happiness the words is; Tony always notices everything. Nothing escapes his scrutiny if he pays attention. He doesn't always pay attention: there are so many things that he simply doesn't care about. Little things. Tony forgets dates and hours, he forgets reasons and questions, he forgets food and drink and personal hygiene, quite amusing sometimes; he forgets

Tony never forgets the little secrets that people share with him, though, he never forgets those little things that make them all human. Because somehow, everyone ends up talking to him at some point, from Bruce to Thor and Natasha – even Coulson – and they don't care if he is welding or typing or tightening screws; he can do multitasking perfectly. He always listens when someone needs it and never offers any advice.

It's a burden, Steve is aware, but Tony seems to like to bear all those stories on his shoulders. He knows how to smile and how to act whenever someone needs a simple signal.

Steve watches and tries to grasp it, but it's impossible. It's like Fra Angelico's veils: transparent but obvious, perfect but impossible to grasp and to hold. Always slipping out of your hands, you think you've got it – and it's gone again. Tony is just that.

One June day he asks Steve if he'd like to go for a trip, Stark style, and Steve knows straight away that he is being proposed what he has always dreamed of. He grins so much his cheeks hurt and says yes. Tony tells Steve to wear whatever he wants and be ready at ten p.m.

When Steve comes up to the roof he finds Tony in the armor, but without the helmet.

'I won't go high or fast enough to need it, no worries, Capsicle – why are you wearing your suit?' he speaks without a single tiniest break.

'It seemed fitting, since you are in your superhero gear, too.'

'I will never understand you, soldier,' Tony sighs. 'But, don't think I will ever forget that you have called your spandex comfortable,' he adds, grabs Steve's waist and suddenly, they are up in the air. Steve doesn't even have a second to feel scared. Or to feel anything but surprised.

It's exhilarating.

The night sky is dark and full of stars, something rather surprising in New York – just as he thinks that, Steve realizes what has been going on for the last few weeks. Tony has been behaving a little unusually, it would be normal for any other human being, but for Tony appearing in the common space every day is not normal. He likes to joke that he is from a different planet. Clint always asks him if he is not a Chitauri shape shifter, by any chance, and Tony sticks his tongue at the archer and runs away, biting into whatever fruit he's grabbed on his way – he always does that.

So he's been trying to check out is Steve is there and if the weather is nice enough for them to see the city in its full splendor.

That's so… unlike Tony. Or maybe that's the Tony Steve doesn't know yet, another piece of the puzzle.

He laughs; laughing feels strange with two metal arms around his waist but he can't stop himself. Tony doesn't look at him, his face is turned to his left and he is staring at something above the ocean – his eyes fixed, face a bit guarded and attentive, but relaxed – that Steve can't figure out. Maybe just a star; there is nothing special there.

That's what Tony tells Steve:

'I like flying.'

This is what Steve hears: flying is being a world away from everyone else and it's the level of freedom and excitement that you can't imagine unless you try it and it never gets old, it's child's dreams coming out true and there is not much more in the world that can be better than that; you're dancing in the air, following the wind, following the sun and the stars and the moon and there is nothing to stop you and you don't want to ever go back to earth.

Suddenly Tony moves, leaving Steve almost suspended in the air for a fraction of a second, and then his arms are wrapped securely around Steve's back and his own hand somehow find their way to Tony's – the suits – lower back, they are hovering in the air in a perfect hug.

Steve is tempted to rest his head on Tony's shoulder but he doesn't. Not yet. He doesn't say anything either, just breathes. The suits makes it impossible for him to feel Tony's body and vice versa, but he is fine with that. It's enough that he can tilt his head back a tiny bit and see all the city lights reflected in Tony's glossy eyes. Steve stares more that would be socially acceptable, knowing perfectly that he would never be able to draw-paint-immortalize all that. Tony, being Tony, doesn't even notice.

This is celebrating life: offering someone a hand, giving them all you have, and seeing them raising up.

Maybe a week after the flight, Steve asks Tony out for a dinner.

Tony says no and Steve isn't that much surprised, even if it hurts a bit.

He says please and Tony takes off his sunglasses and gives him this one look with his glorious tired eyes. It says Steve please don't make me do this because we will both regret it. Steve insists. Tony says no again. Steve says okay after one more try. He doesn't ask Tony why he doesn't want to have a moment of relax, a moment away from his job, a moment away with a friend. Or something.

Tony avoids him for the next few days. Steve might be just imagining that, because Tony is almost always hiding away somewhere in the tower, in the city or in a random place around the globe, maybe working, maybe just being by himself. But it feels like avoiding: the two times that Steve manages to see Tony, the man leaves the room a moment later, using whichever great sarcastic excuse he's made up this time.

In the end Steve finds Tony in one of the unused rooms of his personal floor – JARVIS has granted him access, saying that sir won't answer if you call him and there is an important things Steve has to ask asap.

Tony is crying and it's the last thing he would have expected Tony to do, so he finds himself with a tabula rasa in his head, all of sudden, instead of the carefully constructed image of Tony that he has been working on for months, adding data, correcting himself, erasing mistakes, putting new layers of paint on the others when something changed.

Tony stops as soon as he notices that someone is around and pulls himself together in an honestly record time. One blink later Steve would have never noticed anything – if he didn't know.

There are a few moments of thick silence before Steve speaks up, not moving towards Tony. He knows better than to try to approach him; Tony would run, that's what he does, every single time: he runs.

Suddenly it doesn't matter what Steve was supposed to ask.

He is Captain America and he knows what is important and what is more important and he doesn't listen to anyone if he feels they are wrong.

'Tony,' he says. The man freezes and doesn't start saying any of his usual nonsense that inevitably leads to a retreat. That's something. Steve doesn't know exactly what it is supposed to mean, since at the moment he isn't sure about anything.

'Steve,' Tony replies in the same tone, giving Steve a blank look.

'Stay there,' Steve says, frowning. Tony blinks and cocks his head but doesn't take his eyes off Steve.

'Stay there? What am I, some kind of a movie thief? You should do this stance, stretch one arm and let your legs work, Cap, grabbing your cell with the other hand and calling NYPD at the same time –'

Steve shakes his head slightly and just when he does that he realizes that it's something he's picked up from Pepper; she does that when Tony is being too much of himself. Tony furrows his brows in confusion, but before he manages to come up with a retort, Steve takes a few long leaps and stops just in front of Tony. It makes the shorter man look up and tense a bit, but he doesn't move.

'I don't know what to tell you,' Steve admits after another pregnant pause; he can hear both of their heartbeats clearly, blood rushing through his veins and making him hear the low hum in his ears, as if he was putting a shell to his ear and trying to listen to the sea. It's all inside their bodies, the magic.

'What the hell are you doing, Steve?' Tony questions, raising one eyebrow, still standing in the same place. 'Why are you here at all? I though I turned you down enough times to make you stop trying and move on to hating me –'

'You can do that endlessly,' Steve tells him quietly. 'I will keep asking.'

'Why?'

'Because you are worth it,' Steve replies, keeping his voice firm and in check, but it's a difficult game. 'I don't know what to tell you not to make you run again. Is there any way to get something through that thick skull of yours?'

'Ha ha,' Tony says drily, but his eyes are glistening. Almost unnoticeably, almost like an illusion, Steve almost thinks it's just a play of light, but it isn't. 'You know I am an honest bastard, Steve, Capsicle. I always tell you the truth –'

'Or you say nothing and disappear,' Steve supplies, putting his hands into his pockets not to wrap them around Tony who is such a dear disillusioned being, he makes you want to hug him or shake him back to his senses, to force all the pieces of him together to make him one.

'– okay, so sometimes I do say nothing and disappear, but I am a busy man and you know it, I've got endless things to do and Pepper can attest to that –'

'I know,' Steve cuts in. 'Do you want honesty? Because I do honesty, too, and you know it, too. I'd like to go out for a dinner with you. There. As true as it gets.'

Tony bites his lip so hard that it might just starts bleeding but Steve still manages to keep himself in place.

'I know,' Tony admits. 'I can't,' he adds.

Just then Steve notices that Tony is not only in pieces in Steve's head; he just is in pieces. Like a broken sculpture. Like a broken forgotten ancient sculpture that you find in parts buried deep under fertile soil of a sun-smothered land.

'Why?' it's Steve's time to ask that.

Tony takes a step back and this time Steve can't help wrapping hid hands around Tony's forearms; he seems to fragile. A porcelain-skinned hero.

'I am no good,' Tony says finally staring somewhere behind Steve's head. 'I am no good, Steve, I am not a good man, I am not a nice man, I am an asshole and a lost cause,' he explains quickly, one word after another without any break, without hesitation. 'You think I am so fucking strong, but I am not. You think I am so many things and I am neither of them and you know what people do when they learn that? They leave because they are disappointed,' the last word is stressed and heavier and Tony looks away.

Steve can hear the change is his voice anyway.

'You shouldn't have to deal with the mess I am, I have always been – but the mess I am now is more, and I've been trying to make it right but –' Tony cuts off and takes a small step back, Steve's hands not stopping him from doing so.

'I don't know what to tell you,' Steve repeats trying to meet Tony's gaze, but it's impossible. 'But – don't run away. I am here now. You don't have to run. And if you run, I will go after you. I've been wrong about all of this. I should have never let you go.'

Tony slides down to the floor, just like that, sitting awkwardly with his legs folded underneath his body; Steve lets go of his hands. He sits down, too, on the cool dark brown wooden floor, and cradles Tony is his arms. He's done that so many times with his soldiers when they couldn't sleep, woken up by nightmares or screams or noises, when they needed comfort and help that no one else was able to give them and somehow, Steve managed to: it was his responsibility as a commander, yes, but also as a human being.

It is the same with Tony.

Tony doesn't really cry and doesn't say anything at all – it's the longest period of time that Steve has seen him silent – but he stays and doesn't wriggle away from Steve's protective embrace. The afternoon turns into the evening that turns into the night and finally, Tony falls asleep in Steve's lap. Steve doesn't move.

At some point, Tony mumbles one word.

'Thanks.'

What it means to Steve is this: spending time with someone's head in your lap, holding them as they try to pull themselves together, giving them time, time and more time; being a part of destruction and creation, finding strengths in weaknesses, letting someone in.

This is celebrating life: breathing.

It seems too obvious to be worth mentioning, Steve used to think. But it is hot late August morning, with dark clouds meaning thunderstorm on the horizon and wind so strong that it seems to make the bridges sway; with the yellow glow and the sweet mellow thickness of the air that can't be dispersed; with the whole world in anticipation, hesitant, anxious, pregnant, breathtaking – and the only thing Steve can think of is one breath after another next to him, almost inaudible, and he decides that it does mean enough.

Tony doesn't say anything. He can't and he doesn't have to. His breaths are too shallow, to ragged, monitored by several professional machines, but they say more than billion words would.

They were supposed to go out the next day, for the first time together.

It's okay. Steve doesn't have any problem with waiting.

VII

This is celebrating life: waking up in a sun-filled room, with pink and blue dawn sky outside, waking up to tangled white sheets on the other half of the bed, still warm to touch.

Everything looks exactly like Steve would imagine in a dream.

Tony may or may not know that: he makes the world around himself feel that way without thinking, it's an instinct, it's unconscious and beautiful. Steve could follow the man all around the world and draw him endlessly, trying to catch the radiance or the nostalgia that seem to be interchangeable in Tony; he could do that endlessly because Tony defies all definitions and Steve would never manage to capture everything that Tony is.

There was no date in the end, and no dinner. As soon as Tony was feeling good enough to come home, Steve started to be around all the time because Tony is a genius, but sometimes he has little regard to his own person.

Tony didn't protest when Steve started to visit him more and more. He didn't protest when Steve started sleeping in his kind size bed. Some nights, Tony still wakes up suddenly, trying to catch breath, trying to shake the memories or nightmares, gasping for air and clutching his chest.

Steve is there to help him wake up and then go back to sleep.

At first, it's just Steve calling Tony's name from distance. Then it is shaking his shoulder delicately to help Tony snap out of whatever he is dreaming about. Then it is helping Tony sit up and wrapping an arm around his back. Then it is having Tony bury his face in Steve's chest and stay like that for hours.

Then it is Steve crawling across the bed and laying down next to Tony, their bodies touching comfortably and reassuringly, it is letting Tony nestle into Steve's warm form.

It is like trying to pick the right words to write a story, a poem: the first line is easy and fluent and the next few come naturally, but you have to be careful while choosing the right words. Next you try to adjust the pace and the wording, you take a step back and a step ahead, you write a line and then erase it if it doesn't work, you check out what you can do, how far you can go, how will your choices work out. When you arrive at the end, you feel at peace with everything that you have created.

Sometimes, like today, Tony disappears in the morning and goes to his workshop because the world cannot wait until he is all right. Tony doesn't even let the world know he isn't all right. Steve worries soundlessly but he doesn't mind Tony going: it's obvious. It's a constant. It's something that makes Tony who he is.

Steve is happy. He is in the best place he could ever dream of and it feels he is doing the only thing that he's ever wanted to do: saving lives. Saving a life. Saving Tony because Tony is too selfless to save himself and too selfless to let anyone know how much of himself he is sacrificing every single day.

VIII

This is celebrating life: being free, feeling free.

Tony says:

'Let's go. I don't care what they say.'

Steve hears: we gained this right so we can do anything, be anywhere, we can make any choices we want, the only thing that stops us is our conscience, exactly like it should be.

This is celebrating life: walking through a pine tree forest, beautifully scented and painfully green, getting feet and calves scratched by dry plants, and listening to the wind.

Tony says he likes it here.

Steve hears it as an epic poem because when he was a young boy he used to imagine that all epic poems took place somewhere similar to this forest, somewhere in Greece or another piece of the world as mysterious as a lone island in the middle of a sea, covered with unfamiliar flora where people speak strange language, where it's always warm and sun makes the sand burning hot and people's skin brown. It was such a remote image in American city from Steve's times that it could as well be from a different universe; remote in both space and time. A perfect thing to dream of: existing somewhere, yet unreachable.

And now Steve is here with Tony, Tony is mostly silent and shuffles his feet as if he was asking for a teasel or something as unpleasant to hurt his feet. The plants rustle. The air is moving in soft thick waves, so hot after whole day of strong sun that it makes the view undulate and blur.

Cicadas are sleeping, but soon it will be evening and they will come out and sing, sing, sing deafeningly, the whole world will be their scene.

'Where are we going again?' Tony asks, looking at Steve suddenly as if he didn't know where he was. He does that a lot when he is thinking.

'To get figs straight from the trees. Our landlady told us there is a great place where we can do that on the hill,' Steve reminds Tony with a small smile. It's third time within last hour but Steve doesn't mind the game.

Tony can be the Byronic hero. Steve himself can be… well. Anyone. As long as he can be around and see the hero triumphing, to see the world being changed.

'Couldn't we just buy some?' Tony asks, panting slightly. Steve knows he is just teasing. A few months ago he would not know that and he would be slightly offended by such ungratefulness. Tony is playing with him the same way he is playing with the whole world.

'I am sure you will enjoy these,' Steve replies patiently.

He is all sweaty and hot but it doesn't matter. It feels so right to be here, amidst the bright light and the crazy colours. Steve is quite sure he will smell like resin for days now; his fingers are sticky with it: he's holding a small branch in his hand, twirling it and playing. It tastes sweet and bitter at the same time.

When they finally get to the top of the hill they easily find the trees. The branches are leaning towards the ground, heavy with fruit and big meaty leaves. Up here the air is a bit lighter and the sun stronger. Tony's reactor doesn't seem to be shining at all, given the brightness all around. The blues of the sea and the sky are spotted with white patches of boats' sails and wisps of clouds respectively. Everything is glimmering. The droplets of sweat on Tony's body are glistening, too.

The figs are ripe and sweet, pinkish white inside and yellow-green on the outside. Steve can't remember eating anything as amazing. Tony doesn't say anything but he is happy, smiling and licking the sweet juice off his lips – and then off Steve's.

The don't linger at the top for too long because it might end up in sunstroke. Instead, Steve takes Tony hand and leads him to the seashore. Tony's hand is moist and slips out of Steve's all the time and he must mind the rocky surface for both of them.

Their hands and lips and chins are sticky with half-dried sugary juice by the time they get to the shore, they are lucky all the bees and wasps are asleep. It's hard to believe that anyone and anything but the two of them might be awake.

Cleaned faces with seawater mean they are covered with salt a few minutes later.

Steve loves it. The scent of pines and hot soil becomes stronger as the sun moves lower and the wind stops. The pines gain another shade of green, darker and deeper and perfect. Tony keeps smiling as they walk among low shadows, sneaking through the forest back to the town as if they were lovers from an ancient myth.

This probably is celebrating life: saying I love you, hearing I love you.

This is what celebrating life is for Steve and Tony: not saying I love you, not hearing I love you; simply loving.

A/N: The quote comes from Swinburne's 'The halt before Rome'.

Thanks for reading. Please let me know if you liked it :)