Crosspost from AO3, written to Burial - Miike Snow.

The silence between them stretched long and unforgiving as the hot asphalt beneath the Mercedes' tires. The early October sunshine beat down brisk and hot onto the Mercedes' black exterior and spilled across Tony's lap, stretching fingers along the inseam of Steve's faded jeans. Steve's mouth was a tight line, and he held the steering wheel rigidly, his knuckles tensing white occasionally. Tony opened his mouth a few times before closing it abruptly, swallowing back his words, his casual conversation, his confused apologies.

The rest of their time in Atlanta had been spent avoiding each other. And Tony had tried, really he had, leaving Steve little sticky notes on his bedroom door handle inviting him to go to a museum, to go to the Fox Theatre and catch a Broadway show, but his messages always went unanswered and Steve walked by in stony silence, his expression grim and determined, as if he wanted nothing to do with Tony past the bare minimum the job required. Steve didn't spend his days in the hotel, and Tony wondered where he was going, what he was doing, if he was at least enjoying himself a little bit.

He knew he wasn't, that was for sure, the guilt racing up his spine and wrapping itself around his heart with cold squeezes that had him sitting up in the middle of the night and rushing to Steve's bedroom, his fingers curling around the cold knob, ready to fling open the door to make sure Steve was still there. He stopped himself each time, forcing his fingers to uncurl, to release the doorknob, convinced himself that Steve was still there without seeing. As Tony stepped back into the shadows of the suite living room, staring at the panels of the white wood, he began to wonder if this was what religion felt like.

The gods are cruel, he thought to himself as he stared forlornly at Steve's bedroom door, praying, hoping, dreading the moment Steve would open the door. They always are, no matter what language the book is written in.

Steve had been driving for seven hours straight, gritting his teeth and squeezing his fingers around the wheel occasionally. The sun bouncing off the highway created heat haze in the air amidst the green and brown patchwork fields along the road to Chicago. Beside him in the passenger seat, Tony looked out the window and sighed. The billionaire's fingers curled absentmindedly in the grey twill of his pants, bunching the fabric up around his thighs every once in a while.

Steve squinted, scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of one hand while he steered the vehicle with the other. He was incredibly bored, he realised, and if Tony had decided to say anything then, he wouldn't have minded. Truthfully, he was feeling rather guilty about snapping at Tony; the billionaire's life choices were his own, his money was his own, and if he wanted to spend it on expensive cigars and illegal drugs and call girls, that was his own decision. Steve didn't agree with any of that, and couldn't imagine spending that sort of money on useless, pretty things.

But Tony didn't say anything, and Steve found it difficult to fill the void between them with a simple sentence, so he didn't.

Eleven hours, three gas stops, and two bathroom breaks later, the Mercedes rolled into the Chicago city limit. The Chicago skyline broke over the horizon, its buildings shooting straight and true into the air in glitters of steel and glass and concrete. The cars in the distance were tiny, sparkly beetles skittering across the winding ribbon of avenue, curving down to kiss the lake shore with tiny blinks of headlights. The purples and blues of twilight were dripping down the sky, and Steve had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from falling asleep at the wheel. The tiny pinpricks of pain and the sweet metal tang of blood in his mouth from a particularly hard chew had him sitting up straight and squirming in his seat.

Beside him, Tony leaned against the window, his breath slightly fogging up the glass, his chest rising and falling evenly. His fingers were limp against his thighs, but the twill already had creases and wrinkles in it that would have to be ironed out.

At a red light surrounded by skyscrapers, Steve reached out and placed a hand on Tony's leg. The warmth and strong corded muscle beneath the fabric surprised Steve; clearly Tony wasn't one of those lazy billionaires, and he most certainly didn't skip leg day.

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, before shaking Tony awake. Tony jumped and Steve could feel the muscles in his thighs clenching and contracting as he woke up with a gasp. Tony's dark eyes were unfocused behind his glasses as he turned to look at Steve.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice clouded and slurred with sleep. "Are we here already?"

"Yeah," Steve said, sitting back and letting go of Tony's knee. If the billionaire minded, he didn't say anything. "Yeah. We're here."

Soft, fat snowflakes had started to drift down from the sky by the time Steve pulled into a spot at the curb by the Hilton Regency. He fed the greedy grey meter with silvery quarters that seemed to stick to his fingers, and he shivered as little flurries of snow kicked up from the cars passing down the street. Tony had already gone on ahead with the bags, and Steve found himself staring at the strong line of his shoulders as he left.

Once the meter beeped, a proclamation that it was full, Steve looked up into the sky. His breath came out in frosty little puffs that rose up from his mouth like smoke, white roses against a rapidly deepening sky. The snowflakes floated gently down and hooked themselves into his eyelashes, eyebrows, threading icy fingers through his hair.

Steve wasn't a stranger to snow; he'd seen it many times during Brooklyn winters, had always been delighted when school would have to be cancelled because the snow drifts were too high for the snow plows to push to the side and no one could get to school. His mother would bundle him up in three layers of wool coats that would all get soaked through within minutes, would wrap his tiny hands in mittens, and would push him out the front door to make snow angels and snowmen.

More often than not, the snow would already have piled up during the night into drifts waist high. The snow was usually already dirty and slushy with dirt and grit from the road, but Steve laughed and pretended that he was a space explorer - it was cold in space, his daddy had said so. And his daddy was super smart, so he was always right. Joseph Rogers always had an answer for everything, but he'd left so many questions unanswered when he just dropped dead of a heart attack all those years ago.

Steve sighed, a cloud of steam billowing from his chest. He made icy footprints in brand new snow as he turned his footsteps to follow Tony.

Once their bags were safely ensconced in their room, Steve was ready to flop down on the bed and go directly to sleep, but Tony seemed to have other ideas. He wriggled his toes in the carpet, looking up at Steve when he thought Steve wasn't looking; Tony opened his mouth unsurely a few times only to shut it abruptly; he looked from side to side of the hotel room, eyes tracing the gold filigree that ran through the fibre of the walls, until finally Steve sighed.

"What is it?" Steve asked. Tony froze in his tracks and looked for all the world like a deer caught in the steady stare of high beams. "You can talk to me, you know."

"I was going to ask you if you wouldn't mind coming to get a cup of hot chocolate with me?" Tony asked, his eyebrows knitting and his mouth pursing, like he was ready for Steve to yell at him again. "If you're not too tired? I'd...like to discuss what happened in Atlanta."

Steve frowned. What was there to discuss, he wondered. Was he considering firing Steve? That thought sent a spike of adrenaline surging through his bloodstream, and he fervently prayed to God that that wouldn't be the case. He needed the money, his mother needed the money, she was getting worse and worse every day...When he'd called a few weeks ago, she'd shrieked at him that he was only a devil impersonating her beloved boy and was trying to tempt her into sin. The live-in nurse he'd hired had had to wrest the telephone receiver away from his mother and had shouted to her that Sarah was fine, she was eating well, she really did like walks in the park, before slamming down the phone and Steve was left with the persistent drone of a dial tone in his ear.

No. No. If Tony had wanted to fire him, he would have just done it in Atlanta, Steve convinced himself. Or at any point before here, he thought.

But that nagging voice in his ear whispered that Tony had probably wanted to fire him in Chicago so that he'd have an airport to fly him back. Easy disposal, the voice breathed. He could murder you here, that's what eccentric billionaires with time on their hands do, and Chicago has high murder rates, no one would miss you...

He shook his head to clear the voice from his mind, and turned back to Tony with a forced smile on his face.

"Sure. That's fine. Let's go have some hot chocolate."

The Ghirardelli chocolate shoppe was hot and stuffy, and the air was sweetened with the heavy scent of chocolate and caramel. The store was brightly lit, and the fluorescent yellow lamps overhead sparkled off the bright pinks, blues, and greens of chocolate wrappers. Plastic cellophane bags of candies crinkled as children gripped them in their hands and shook them at their parents. Sundaes and milkshakes traveled around the room, carried by smiling waitresses in old-school white-and-black-striped dresses with cinched-in waists.

Tony ordered two hot chocolates swirled with caramel and cinnamon, and when their cups came, steaming hot, handed one to Steve. Steve blew through the tiny mouth hole of the lid, blowing the fragrant steam away before taking a tentative sip.

The chocolate flooded his mouth thickly, coating his teeth and tongue and throat with sweetness. Tony wasn't drinking his hot chocolate, Steve noted, only cupping it in his hands as he dragged Steve outside into the softly snowing night.

Their feet crunched in the new film of snow outside the shoppe, and steam curled from their mouths and cups as they walked.

Tony led them to Hyde Park, the trees dark and their black branches covered with thin blankets of frost. By the giant fountain in the park, Tony turned to Steve.

He opened his mouth to talk, but right as he began to speak, a woman shuffled past them, her head down, her feet kicking up small swirls of snow and ice as she clutched her ragged blanket closer around her shoulders. She was young, maybe early twenties or late teens, and her cheekbones were harshly pronounced, her lips and skin blue with cold.

Steve watched as Tony turned to the woman, handed her his hot chocolate. "For you," Tony said. "You look like you could use it."

The woman looked at him suspiciously, but accepted the paper cup gratefully. Tony rolled his jacket off one arm, then the other, and handed her his coat.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, still clutching the cup of chocolate like she was afraid he was going to take it back.

Tony shrugged. "It's cold tonight."

A flake landed on the tip of her nose. "Yes, it is," she agreed. "Winter's coming in." She clutched the coat tight around her shoulders. "Thank you."

Tony smiled, nodded as he tightened the coat around her, keeping her warm.

Steve watched, sipped his hot chocolate, and as the woman shuffled away with soft crunchy sounds and Tony turned back to him, decided that whatever Tony wanted to say about Atlanta wasn't worth hearing. He'd already forgiven him that.

He took Tony by the hand - his palms were freezing, Steve noticed - and led him back to the hotel. He sighed, his breath coming out in a swirl of hot steam, and he wondered if his father would have an answer for the tightening he felt in his chest.