"Hey, Whit," Tony greets offhandedly typing code with one hand. He's in MIT again, and he has to admit, the change is welcome. Here, sure, he gains 'Tony Stark,' rich prodigy kid, but he gets Rhodey as well, they are friends in a different way than the Council, and he can't describe it. The Council is held together by money, revenge, not love, not inside-jokes (though there are plenty of those) Rhodey is warm, and comfortable, like an old T-shirt. The others are raised not to be, rather than a worn lazy-boy, they are a suit or terrifyingly-tall high heels; they look good, you feel good, but they hurt.
"Hiya, Tony. Did you hear about that gala in the weekend?"
"The one for cancer?"
"Mmhmm," she confirms, her hum static over the phone.
"Are you going?"
"Of course. You?"
"Eh, I might, if the others are."
"I'm pretty sure Sun's going, not too sure about the others."
"If you're going, I will too."
He can hear her smiling over the phone, "cool. We'll meet there?"
"Yeah. I'll get a flight out of Boston this Friday."
"Okay," Whitney says, "awesome. Oh, uh, I gotta go. See you Saturday?"
"Yeah. See ya."
"Bye, Tones."
With a click, she's gone.
Tony grabs a helicopter ride with another rich student going to New York for the weekend, and turns up, bleary-eyed, at 11pm to Whit's hotel room.
"Hi!" she greets, opening the door to let him shuffle through. "I'm gonna go to bed, you should get some sleep too."
Tony mumbles an, "okay," and then she's kissing him quick but on the lips and disappearing off to the bedroom. He drops his bags in the lounge and stares out the window. It's dark, and the only stars you can see are thousands of window-lights. A sudden sweep of sadness, a kind of nostalgia comes over him, and he feels like curling into himself and sobbing. It's a kind of ache deep in his heart, and he can't quite find it's cause.
For a moment he considers crawling into Whitney's bed, telling her all about it, maybe doing something more.
He doesn't.
Sunset meets them a few minutes into the gala, already holding a glass and passing one to Tony. "You'll need it," she whispers, winking.
She looks truly fabulous, her hair pinned on top her head, in a strappy sweetheart neckline dress, she looks a bit like a swan with her creamy skin and black-lined eyes. Tony you look good," he tells her, doing a once over.
She laughs and winks, "don't make Whit jealous."
Tony throws back his head and laughs, "I wouldn't worry about that," he says cryptically. Just then, Whitney starts her grand entrance into the hall.
She's wearing a long, black, slitted dress up to her thigh. Her hair's wavy and loose, a few strands weaving around the silver circlet on her head. Her eyelids are aflame with stardust, cheeks highlighted.
She looks absolutely stunning , a celestial body, with everyone rotating around her.
Sunset smiles, "you're right."
Whitney smirks, stalking towards them.
Tony laughs, taking a swig of champagne. He swishes it around in his mouth, bubbles fizzing to the top of his mouth like soda.
After the excitement of Whitney's entrance, things calm down again, and they are introduced to the hellish truth of these things: It's boring. All the galas are, Tony forgot how mind-numbing they can be.
He sighs, snatching another glass of champagne and turning to persuade the surrounding area. Really, anyone other than his mother's...friends and his father's business partners. "Ooh, is that Hope Van Dyne?" Sunset asks, sidling up to him.
Tony takes a long sip of the champagne he's not allowed to have but drinks anyway, and answers. "Yep."
"Would she be good for the council, you think?" Sunset asks, batting her eyelashes at him.
He rolls his eyes. "Sun, the girl hates me."
"How do you know that?"
"Her father's Hank Pym. My father's Howard Stark ."
She considers for a moment, then nods. "Right. Well, I'm gonna go smooze. Duty calls."
She slips away and Tony waves with a cocked hand.
That Hope girl is is the corner, tapping on her phone and trying not to look too bored. Tony knows the feeling.
He might just go and talk to her. He's seen her around, of course, but never approached. The Pym-Stark rivalry is too large a bridge to cross. That, and he's been given strict instructions never to talk to her by his father.
Then again, Tony isn't feeling particularly abiding to his father at the moment.
Shrugging, he sits across the ballroom, coming to a rest infront of Hope. She looks up, expertly hiding her phone with a flick of her wrist. "Tony Stark?" she looks confused.
"Hope Van Dyne," he toasts, lifting his glass. "Nice to meet you."
"And you?" she says, looking around to make sure nobody sees them. She leans in close, lowering her voice, "look, I don't know why you're here, but I'm gonna get in trouble."
He shrugs. "Me too. That's why we should go somewhere more… private."
She lifts an eyebrow, "are you propositioning me?"
He shakes his head. "No. I'm dating Whitney. Speaking of, she should come."
Hope's face goes slack with confusion, but then she straights out and nods.
Tony grins and waves Whitney over, who excuses herself from a group of middle-aged housewives; and the three disappear into the large house belonging to whoever's hoisting this.
Tony runs down a long corridor, the taste of freedom on his tongue along with the sweetness of champagne, and arms out wide, catching the wind like an aeroplane.
He throws back his head and whoops, letting the sound echo and echo , bounce around the high ceilings that look the same as any house he's ever been in.
Whitney and Hope are giggling, their laughter lubricated by the bottle Tony nicked from a server. The girls are already fast friends.
He skids past an empty room, the door ajar. Something catches his eye, a grand piano, splendid, glossy lines curving in a conundrum of artistry, begging to be touched, to be played.
"Oh my god," he sighs, stepping inside.
Whit and Hope catch up, lurching behind hm..
"What? " Hope asks, "it's a piano?"
Whitney understands, of course she does, "oh, Tony, play ."
He moves forward robotically, sitting at the bench.
Hope and Whitney scurry forward, trying not to disrupt him, or what's about to happen.
His hands still over the keys, and for one paralysing moment, all is still.
Then, his fingers are on fire, and music is flowing like alcohol at a bar, gushing, exploding. Like a match thrown onto a alcohol-soaked rag, in flames, higher and higher until this entire room is on fire, then the entire house, the heat crawling thought he ballroom where the women still dance and the men still drink, only they do not feel the flames, hear the music, and it is a shame, because this kind of splendor is a rare thing.
Tony closes his eyes, practically lets the piano play him . Whitney laughs, throws out her arms and dances, twirling around and around. Hope stays in the corner, watching, entranced, engrossed bewitched by the great power in his fingers. That tends to happen when people first hear Tony play.
"Tony?" Comes a willow-weak voice at the door. Whitney stops in her spinning and laughing, and Tony's hands die off their rapid crescendo.
His mother is standing in the doorway, clutching the glass stem of a champagne flute.
His mother.
"Mama?" he gapes.
"You still play?" she asks, stepping forward. Her dress rustles, a ruby red color, like wine.
He swallows, "of course."
In that moment, Hope shifts, and Maria's eyes dart to her.
"Hope Van Dyne," she says, a little shakily, but impressively composed. "Hello."
"Mrs. Stark," Hope says cordially, her mouth tight. If Maria tells either of their fathers, there is no telling for what will happen.
"How is your father's new business deal going?" Maria asks, eyes glassy. She drifts across the squeaky wooden floorboards without any noise at all, like a ghost.
Hope's brow furrowed in confusion, "my father doesn't—"
"Mama! How is Jarvis? " Tony interrupts, distracting brilliantly, shooting looks that say, I'll explain later to Hope. His mother sometimes forgets time, it's not so bad now but she still has her slip-ups. This is one of them.
"How long has it been, Anthony?" she says instead.
He blinks, "a few months, at least. Since term started."
"Huh," she says, and then her gaze turns to Whitney. "Whitney Frost. I hear you've been… networking."
She hesitates, cheeks flushed from dancing, drinking and laughing. Her dark hair is mussed and her magnificent outfit now looks...small. Like a child caught playing in their mother's wardrobe. "Yes, I suppose," she says politely. She's never met Maria before this, even dating her son.
"Don't," Maria whispers, face pale, lips red, hair dark, she looks just like a more deranged version of Snow White. "Get out, girl.. I was like you. I was like you and now—" she cuts off with a half choked laugh, "now I'm mad. "
"Mama," Tony's says urgently, getting up. He catches her arm and she jolts, flying down to Earth. "Let's get you to the party, huh?" He steers her from the room, plucking the glass out of her hand, leaving Hope and Whitney to bask in the trail of a ghost.
Down the hallway, past the white walls and the wooden floors where they had run, shrieking, happy just minutes before, Maria turns to her son.
"You would have been a brilliant composer," she tells him, dark eyes sorrowful. Tony closes his eyes and hands her the glass again, still full with sparkling liquid.