It was 6:15 and Bruce still wasn't ready. The only party he'd ever been to was in the second grade and Bruce was only invited because the entire class was. Bruce knew a hell of a lot but when it came to the topic of high school parties, he had to admit his knowledge was scarce.
Bruce only owned one tennis shirt. It was yellow and a bit scruffy looking but it would have to do. As for pants, he decided to wear the same jeans he wore to school earlier—they were jeans, who would notice? Also he didn't have another clean pair.
Bruce stood in the bathroom, appraising himself resentfully in the mirror. He combed his hair (with his fingers because using a hairbrush would make his thick curls frizzy), brushed his teeth, and popped the collar of his shirt like all the other kids did. Bruce thought he looked dumb.
Bruce did not like the way he looked one bit. The shirt was too loose and whereas the majority of the other boys would be wearing gold chains, his only accessory was his plastic wristwatch. But, Bruce had learned at a young age that it was better to blend in than to stick out.
Bruce didn't know when his aunt would arrive home but he knew it would probably be late—she was working overtime to pay the overdue bills. Once, Bruce had casually brought up the idea of him getting a job to help pay for their living expenses, but Aunt Susan had shot down that idea as soon as he'd mentioned it.
"The only thing you should have to focus on is school, Bruce," she had told him in a final but fraught tone. Bruce tried to reason with her but she only became more irritated. After that, he let the subject go.
Bruce sighed, flicking off the flashlight he was using as a primary light source to see his way around the darkening house. He left, leaving the light by the doorway for his aunt and carefully locking the door on his way out.
According to the address on the crumbled piece of paper Tony had given Bruce, Stark Mansion was located in Manhattan and a pretty far walk from Bruce's home, so he decided it smart to take the subway. Bruce had to admit he was excited to be going to the very place where Howard Stark resided. However, he doubted Tony would dare throw a party if Howard were home. Stark wasn't that bold.
He showed up a little after eight, fashionably late. The exterior (built from brick and marble) of the vast mansion was elegant and its beautiful landscaping layout was enough to make one forget they were still inside the grimy city. Not a peep could be heard coming from inside the house but maybe the celebration was being held in a special hall or something, the place was totally enough.
Looking up at the mansion, Bruce was stricken with a sudden sense of belittlement. The magnificent estate made Bruce feel small and tatty, even more than usual. He was apprehensive about entering, his throat swelling with familiar anxiety. He considered calling the whole thing off and instead booking it home where he could peacefully sleep without the worry of being judged or picked on. But his empty stomach rumbled and he needed to pee. Bruce took a deep breath, ignoring the tightening sensation in his throat, and marched along the winding stone pathway alongside the manicured lawn and trimmed bushes (which were a healthy green despite it being March) to the heavy-looking oak front doors.
He would only stay for an hour, swipe some food (for now and later), and make sure Stark caught sight of him at least once to ensure that he had indeed attended. The last thing he needed was for Stark to tease him for chickening out.
He pushed the doors open (they were heavy) and was instantly hit with the sound of loud rock 'n' roll music which he hadn't been able to hear outside. Interesting, he thought, the walls must be soundproof. Guys and girls danced coolly or nodded heads to the beat, talking and laughing, each person holding either a can or a bottle of alcohol.
"Name," an automated voice came from his immediate right. Bruce turned and saw—to his amazement—a robot. It stood about four feet high and was a cross between C3PO and the red robot from the movie The Black Hole. "Name." It repeated itself.
"Um, Bruce Banner," he told it awkwardly. The robot made a horrible grinding noise and its metal hand snatched Bruce's the front of shirt, not letting go. As the grinding noise got louder, Bruce's cheeks got brighter. He attempted to free himself, tugging on his shirt as hard as he could without tearing it, but the hand refused to budge. People were beginning to stare. Bruce was beginning to panic. Had Bruce broken it? Some guy pointed at him. He was literally trapped.
The crowd separated for Stark who made his way lazily toward the screeching robot, a satisfied smirk on his face.
"I have to say I'm surprised you showed up," Stark alleged. He punched in a security code on the robot's back which opened a hatch. The robot released its grip on Bruce, so abruptly that Bruce fell to the floor. Tony ignored this, reading from a paper that had printed from the machine. "Um is not a name, Robert."
"How the hell was I supposed to know how to talk to a robot?" Bruce was angry. He stood and adjusted his shirt, his hands curling into tight fists. The only good thing was since the screeching had ceased, the nosy bystanders had gone back to their music and drinking and were no longer interested in what was happening.
"I programmed it to recognize the first and last names of every student so I would have a checklist. I scanned the data from the school's personal files and copied it to the hard drive. All you had to do was state your name. It isn't that complicated," Stark replied, cocky.
Bruce scowled, anger and embarrassment brewing dangerously inside of him. "My name isn't Robert."
"According to the file, your name is Robert," Stark affirmed smugly. "Good thing I checked. I had no idea who the fuck you were."
"Whatever." Bruce who couldn't stand to be in Stark's presence for another second without actually exploding, pushed through the crowd, heading in the total opposite direction.
Bruce grabbed a bottle of beer, not intending on drinking it and took a seat in the empty corner of a fancy room that was not the kitchen but was abundant with delicious food. He'd never had a sip of alcohol in his life and seeing what the way it had made his father act, he had no desire. So, he would just hold it and pretend to drink. He would blend in.
About twenty minutes later, a group of drunk kids intruded, all gathering around the lengthy table in a loose circle. Maybe they're going to perform some sort of satanic ritual, Bruce thought. Satanic worship was common these days and although Bruce had never actually come in contact with the stuff, he suspected some of his fellow classmates most likely did it to be cool. Bruce scooted closer, curious. To his disappointment nothing interesting was happening, it was only an empty bottle. Bruce had never played spin the bottle, nor did he plan on playing it tonight.
Bruce snatched handfuls of cookies (they were really good) and stuffed them in the pockets of his baggy jeans where they crumbled unnoticed by anyone but himself. He slowly started toward the exit, intending to find a bathroom on the way out—he'd held his urine long enough. Plus, Stark had entered the room, requesting to be next.
The bottle spun and landed on none other than Bruce Banner who had been standing quietly in the shadow of the doorway, just about to slip out. Bruce froze dead in his path, gripping his untouched bottle of beer by the neck as everybody turned to stare at the usually-invisible Bruce. The staring made Bruce highly uncomfortable, causing all normal coloring to immediately drain from Bruce's anxious face, leaving him as white as the wall beside him. Meanwhile, the girls who were clustered tightly around the mahogany table in hopes of being propitiously matched with Tony Stark let out a collective sigh of disappointment.
Stark glanced across the bottle at Bruce and snickered saying, "I'm not making out with a guy—especially not that guy!" which adorned the laughter of every female in the room. It was phrased as a crafty insult, but Bruce appreciated the comment. Good, Bruce had no aspiration to kiss Stark whatsoever.
"C'mon, Stark!" Jake Hawthorne taunted, egging Tony on. "Stop being such a pussy!"
"I prefer the female genitalia," Stark wiggled his fingers playfully and threw a wink in Addison Hale's direction. She nearly fainted. Ridiculous.
"You ain't touchin' his dinkydo!" Jake's words were slurred and loud. It was evident that he was completely wasted. "All ya gotta do is kiss him, Stark!" he howled.
Stark let out an overly exaggerated sigh, lifting and dropping his shoulders for extra effect. "Fine."
Bruce had been too uneasy with all the attention to speak up or make a run for it. And he was still frozen when Stark swaggered his way over to him saying, "Come here, beautiful!" Bruce glared, hoping to ward Stark off.
Stark seized Bruce roughly by the waist, pulling him closer. Everyone hooted with laughter. This was the closest Bruce had been with another person since his mother had died and he did not like the uncomfortable feeling it gave him. He hated physical contact with people and Aunt Susan respected that. He knew Stark was doing it for the laughs and that aggravated him even more. His entire body was on edge.
Bruce glowered at Stark, his eyes like piercing daggers. "Watch it, Stark," he hissed in a low undertone, clenching his jaw.
But Stark, who seemed to find this hilarious, held Bruce tighter, chuckling. Their hips were in contact and the scent of alcohol from Stark's breath and the musk of his cologne combined, claiming the fresh air as their own. Bruce wrinkled his nose, tugging away. Then, Stark unexpectedly smashed his lips sloppily to Bruce's.
Bruce was in shock—he had not actually anticipated for Stark to full-throttle make out with him. And Bruce hated Stark, hated his guts, but as their lips met, a warmness—a foreign feeling that Bruce had never before felt—came over him like a trance and he lost himself in the roughness of the kiss. The crowd cheered as Bruce and Tony carried on.
Tony finally comprehended what he was doing and pulled abruptly away from Bruce, shoving him slightly. For a split second, astonishment was written all over his face, then he averted his eyes and composed himself. Only Bruce seemed to notice his reaction.
Bruce escaped, retreating as quickly as he could as far away from the clatter of bottles as possible, weaving through long hallways and twisted staircases until he found himself in a secluded bathroom in an empty area of the Stark household. Flicking on the lights, Bruce saw black tiles, black countertops, and a—you guessed it—black shower curtain. The room was gloomy and looked like something you would find in a catalog, unrealistically expensive and immaculately clean. However, the color scheme of this room did not follow the design of the lightly shaded mansion.
It had been dark when Bruce had walked inside because he did not want anyone to catch sight of where he was, but by the all too familiar smell of sweet cologne and the ticking golden watch lying abandoned by the sink, Bruce realized that it must have been Tony's room he had unknowingly passed through.
Which meant that this was Stark's bathroom.
Bruce briefly considered shoving all seven of Stark's shiny toothbrushes—yes, he literally had seven perfectly new toothbrushes lined up beside his floss and mint-flavored mouthwash—up his ass, just to spite Tony. It would be the perfect payback for Stark being a total douche and embarrassing him in front of everybody. But, Bruce did not want to take the chance of Howard Stark somehow getting his hands on one of the brushes and unsuspectingly scrubbing Bruce's entire anal region all over the inside of his mouth. Bruce shuddered at the very thought. He may not like Tony but he was fond of Howard and his many impressive works.
Bruce took a piss, instant relief washing over him. With all that was going on, he hadn't realized the extent of how much he needed to release himself.
He decided to take a peek around the bedroom, purely curious, using the open bathroom door and a lamp as the source of light. Tony's room was spotless, just like the rest of the home. His silky blankets were folded neatly and tucked in at all the right places. The tan carpet that felt like what Bruce imagined walking on a cloud—if that were possible—would feel like had recently been vacuumed. And what Bruce thought most impressive: every surface of the room would past the finger-dust test.
The only indications that it was indeed Tony's would be the smell, of course, and the desk where his spare metallic parts and a few tools were placed along with the schoolbag that Bruce recognized as Stark's.
For the duration of the party, Bruce laid eyes on Stark only twice more. Once while he and Addison Young had their faces smashed together as they moved into an empty room, Tony's wandering hand making its way up her polka-dotted skirt as the other hand groped at her chest in an animalistic way. The second time when Tony emerged alone from the same room, tucking his shirt in and smoothing his hair neatly back into its proper place. When he had noticed Bruce watching him, he disappeared into the crowd and did not resurface for the rest of the evening.
Bruce was not entirely sure as to why he had been invited to this party. It wasn't like anybody had made the effort to speak to him, or even notice him for that matter—not that he had really wanted them to. It was a meaningless experience that consisted of Bruce standing off to the side and pretending to sip the same beer for three and a half hours.
Bruce, sleepy and fed up with being near gangs of flamboyant drunk people, decided it was time to head home. He was able to leave without drawing any attention, leaving his untouched bottle of beer on a table.
He walked through his front door at twelve after eleven, much later than he had formerly hypothesized. Nevertheless, Aunt Susan was not there. Bruce left the flashlight by the doorway, not bothering to use a light as he headed up the creaking stairs to his bedroom at the end of the hall. He kicked off his sneakers and laid on top of his blankets, staring up at the ceiling, thinking.
The truth was, Bruce hated himself. He knew that he was nothing of importance, a mere speck in a vast universe. It wasn't just the fact that he had come to believe what Brian had spouted about him for years, or that he was socially awkward and never truly fit in because he had a hard time relating to others and expressing his emotions in an outward way. No, it wasn't just that. Bruce despised himself because he was insecure in his own skin. On top of that, his mind was in constant conflict with itself and his temper only grew worse the more he matured. Bruce knew it was far from healthy, but he bottled all of his emotions in a desperate attempt to keep the people around him safe, especially his aunt who cared too much for her own good. The way he dealt with his issues had caused an even bigger problem: the creation of the Hulk, Bruce's alter ego whom he raged internal battles against on a daily basis. Bruce knew it was crazy and so he never told anyone. He would be sent to an asylum or possibly something much worse where scientists would run test on him, disregarding his human rights.
The Hulk had been invented by Bruce's subconscious, the memories and feelings that he had pushed so far from himself that he had been left with nothing but a buzzing numbness. It was a defense mechanism, forming after his mother had been murdered and his father sent away. When Bruce had refused therapy, not speaking for almost an entire year, the Hulk fed on his quiet vengefulness, evolving into something much stronger, making things much worse. The Hulk became not only an enemy that knew all of his strengths and weaknesses, but also an inseparable part of him, something he knew he would never be able to permanently part with. And so, he dealt with it as best he could because Bruce Banner's biggest fear was losing control. Bruce Banner's biggest fear was turning into his father.
This was also the reason he envied Stark with so much hatred. Tony Stark who everybody loved and adored. Tony Stark who was confident to the point of cockiness, who had absolutely no problems, who led a perfect fairytale life, who was considered normal. Bruce didn't know what had happened earlier that night but he could not deny he'd felt something irrevocably good while kissing Tony. He did not have much to compare it to—he had only kissed one girl his entire life and that was when he was a child. Still, nothing Bruce had ever felt compared to that euphoric sensation. Confused and drained, Bruce rolled over still fully clothed and fell into a deep sleep, concluding that Tony Stark couldn't be all that bad.
