Peter Parker was a genius. Actually, he probably was; though the spider-obsessed teenager laid pretty low when it came to socializing and was involved in few school activities beside yearbook, Tony had seen a few of his projects in their shared Physics class last year, and Peter had had the second best catapult in the class (Tony's being the first; he launched his crumpled paper ball ammo clear out the door, thank you very much). With an eye for invention and a keen sense of observation, the kid was going places, Tony had no doubt. But if his scientific career ever failed, he'd also make an excellent pimp.

After that night at the party, Tony was getting offers left and right for pretend conquests. It seemed the school had divided into three groups: those who thought Tony was sleeping with everyone, those who knew he was sleeping with no one and wanted in on the pretend action in their quest for popularity, and Tony—stuck in the middle of it all with no incentive to say yes, and yet no reason to say no. Several potential "clients" had offered to pay him, but as Tony had more money than God, it hardly mattered. In the end, Tony said yes simply because he was bored—because any press was good press and because he was tired of being invisible. He spent his days at home walking the empty halls, yelling at the top of his lungs just to listen to his own voice echo off the walls; he didn't need a repeat at school. As long as he said yes, he had someone to talk to, someone who needed him, someone who cared even if their affections only lasted several imaginary minutes at best.

On Tuesday, Tony agreed to hypothetically give a blowjob to an overweight and highly unpopular kid behind the bleachers. On Wednesday, he pretended to take a girl's virginity in his car, and then her best friend's later that night. On Thursday, after his impromptu party with Robert Downey Jr. that he was 99% sure never happened but heard all about in homeroom, he slept with the president of Mathletes, and then a good half of the debate team. On Friday, he developed Chlamydia. All in all, his imaginary week was endlessly full, while his literal week considered of little more than dirty looks form the Celibacy club, and afternoons spent tinkering on his new bot.

By next Monday, his fake but still very annoying Chlamydia had apparently disappeared, and he spent the morning not in English class where he was supposed to be, but in Dr. Banner's office, tapping away at the arms of his chair and fidgeting as he waited for the axe to come down. Tony had seen many sides of Dr. Banner, even been witness to his legendary 'freak out's on several occasions, but he'd yet to be the source of one; Tony had never considered himself much of a teacher's pet (more like a teacher's worst nightmare, or at least the sort of pet that peed in your sock drawer and then chewed up all your socks), but he'd really hoped to stay in Banner's good books a while longer. The doctor was one of the few people that actually saw Tony when he walked down the hall—not dollar signs in his eyes or popularity on his ass (teachers, luckily, tended only to see the first).

"What can I do for you, teach? Or should I call you professor? Or doctor? Captain? Oh, Captain, my Captain—" Tony began, his tongue taking over where his brain lagged—a groomed defense mechanism he'd developed over the years when it came to social interactions.

Bruce did not even try to hide the obvious roll of his eyes. "I've heard some rumors. What's going on? You haven't turned in you robot for the competition."

Tony frowned. Right. That.

The robot competition was held locally every year—kids in the district who came together to race or compete with their hand crafted robots. Most were matchboxes on wheels or poorly altered toy cars, but the best went on to the statewide competition, and then nationals. Tony had won (not to mention qualified for) the senior division since he was in the sixth grade.

His beer snatching, pizza serving, soda spilling robot who he'd recently dubbed Dum-E would easily qualify—easily win, if he was being honest, and, really, it was a tragedy that such a waste of space and technology could be better than all the other inventions of his generation. But Dum-E was also explicitly his, and the idea of sending him off to arm—rather claw—wrestle with an inferior hunk of metal made Tony cringe. Anyway, he'd been far too busy with his booming fake-sex business to think twice about the competition.

Sitting before Bruce now, Tony weighed the growing disappointment in his teacher's eyes with the hope that had lingered there just weeks before. Tony had been the subject of many stares in his life—those of anger, lust, and frustration, especially frustration (just ask Pepper)—but there was none he was more accustomed to than that patented look of disappointment that his father wore so well, a look he'd hope to never see upon Dr. Banner's face. He shrugged, slouching back in his chair so as to say, with his posture alone, I don't give a damn, what competition, who cares if I've let you down, you're not my father, I don't need you, please, please don't give up on me yet. "I'm working on it. Since when is it your job to check up on me? I thought teachers were supposed to stay out of high school drama."

Bruce shrugged. "Teachers have ears too. I can't help what I hear in the halls. Just be careful, alright? Make sure you know what you're doing."

Tony saluted him, grinned—I don't want this, I don't know what I'm doing, please, please help me, please see through this mask because I don't know how to take it off and I can't do this anymore—then jumped to his feet. "Can I go?"

Bruce nodded and gestured toward the door.

Out in the hall, Tony was greeted with what had become his new ritual. His day, which had changed monumentally in the last couple of weeks, now went like this: he arrived at school in his newly restored car and, as he stepped out, some jackass made humping motions at him from across the parking lot and another came whispering in his ear, voice dripping with hateful sarcasm and distain: "When's my turn? Don't I get a ride too, Stark?" until Tony punched him in the gut and found himself ten seconds away from getting the shit beat out of him until someone broke up the fight (and someone—Steve often—always did); then, in the halls, he was approached by several different people on the lower levels of the teenage social hierarchy who promised him good parking spots and gift cards and perks at the local ice-cream payroll (whoop-de-doo) if he pretended to sleep with them; and, finally, he endured several more hours of wolf whistles, crude gestures, and just enough awe, respect, and requests for never-ending friendship that it made all the rest somehow worth it.

But that Monday, something funny happened to stir up his usual routine. Justin Hammer, a greasy, generally pretty sleazy guy from Tony's third period, approached him with a wide grin and an outstretched hand. The handshake lasted ten seconds, at least, too long, but Hammer never stopped smiling the entire time, and though it was a bit creepy, Tony had to give him credit for his enthusiasm. "How you doing?" he asked.

"I'm good. I'm really good, actually. Last night, I slept on a bed of money. Literally. I sewed it together myself with hundred dollar bills, and this morning, I brushed my teeth with a gold toothbrush and then slept with the entire cast of Full House. Was it a little kinky and sort of weird? Sure. But who doesn't want to do Uncle Jesse?" Tony shrugged and Justin—bless him—actually nodded in some attempt at agreement. Maybe he'd never learned the graceful art of sarcasm, or, perhaps, Tony was finally blurring the lines between fantasy and reality a little more than he'd realized if he could now make a rumor so ridiculous actually sound plausible (then again, half the school thought he was sleeping with Hollywood's A list one name at a time, and that was far harder to believe).

"Do you want to go out with me?" Justin asked.

With his tongue, Tony poked at the inside of his cheek and looked his fellow student up and down—clearly expensive clothes poorly matched and pieced together with dirty dress shirts, thick rimmed glasses that Tony would have bet his fortune were not prescription, and hair slicker than his smile. "What'd you have in mind?" he asked.

Justin paused, seeming to consider his options before he said, finally, "Dinner at the lobster shack?"

"Make it the shawarma joint next door, and you got a deal."

Shawarma was not extremely popular in high school. More often than not, the little joint that sat two blocks from campus was empty but for one old lady who ate there every afternoon, and at least two couples. Tony had picked this particular restaurant because it was safe—no lingering eyes, no watching audience.

That night, Tony and Justin made up half of the 'couple' cliental, though Tony was still weary about this title, and even wearier of bumping into someone they knew. All during the drive over, he had tried to decipher why exactly he'd said yes. Justin was not his type—clearly—but in the last couple of weeks, Tony's classmates had worked harder trying to get into his hypothetical pants than to actually sleep with him, and he was beginning to feel a bit diseased.

The dinner wasn't fantastic—Justin talked a lot about his plans for the future and some technological projects that Tony found himself correcting at every turn (he never had known how to keep his mouth shut)—but at least he hadn't asked Tony to tell the world they'd slept together.

After Tony paid the bill, the two walked back to Justin's car in a one sided silence—Tony talking non stop as per usual, and Justin fidgeting with his keys until finally he decided to shut Tony up by grabbing him by the back of the neck and tugging him into for a rough teeth-clattering kiss. Tony shoved Justin back with both hands against the boy's chest.

"Oh come on. I know how the night ends," Justin said, his fingers finding their way to Tony's hips and sliding under his shirt. His hands were cold and clammy. He backed Tony up against the side of his car and, ignoring Tony's attempts to bat him away, started to palm at his crotch.

"Get off," Tony hissed, finding some leverage against Justin's sides and pushing him until the boy staggered backwards. "The only way this night ends is with you alone with your hand. Fuck." He wiped his hand across his mouth, trying and failing to erase the touch of Hammer's lips, but he could feel it lingering like super glue. Talk about feeling diseased.

He set off across the parking lot with no destination except 'away' while Justin called behind him, "What the hell, Stark? This was supposed to be a sure thing! You know it doesn't matter what you do! I can still tell everyone that it happened!"

In his determination to escape, Tony failed to see where he was going and, yet again, bumped straight into Steve's firm, unyielding chest. "Fuck!" Tony exclaimed, taking a step back. "Why are you always here every fucking time?"

Steve frowned. "Every time what?" he asked.

Every time I fuck up. Every time it'd be impossible to impress you. "Never mind," Tony said aloud. "What are you even doing here?"

"I work here." Steve pointed behind them at the now closing Shawarma joint. Most of the lights had been turned off by then, and the few employees it hosted were coming out one by one.

"Of course you do." Tony another step back, needing to get away—to run—more than he'd ever needed anything in his life. He didn't care that he hadn't brought his car, or that he'd have to walk several blocks to get back home, or that it was freezing out and he was already shivering. All he knew was that he couldn't be here, couldn't stay in this parking lot with Justin's yells echoing in his ears, couldn't bear to hear the same from Steve. He could handle all the horny idiots in the world, but he wasn't sure he could handle being propositioned by Steve Rogers—not tonight, possibly not ever. Not like this anyway. He'd dreamed about being with Steve for years, fantasized what it would be like to kiss him—to touch him—but not for a good story, not because Steve thought he was easy or a 'sure thing.'

Before he'd had time to do any more than side step around him, Steve reached out and grabbed Tony's wrist, stopping him in his tracks. Steve's touch was gentle and just loose enough that Tony could easily have slipped out of it if he'd wanted to. He didn't. But the option was nice. He looked up at Steve—at those big blue eyes, open as a book; Tony could see the worry and confusion mixing around in his gaze, and Tony's own anger and panic all began to ebb away. "Let me drive you home," Steve said, and Tony nodded without hesitation.

Maybe it was because Steve knew better than to ask what was wrong, or because there was no ounce of pity in his gaze, let alone anything worse like the lust or hatred or manipulation that Tony was growing so used to seeing in his classmates, or simply because Steve was Steve—the kid that doodled on the corners of all his papers and only kissed Tony's cheek during Seven Minutes in Heaven, and brought soup to his house when Tony was sick last year (and not with Chlamydia, seriously)—but the second Tony slid into Steve's beat up old van of a car, he found himself spilling the whole damn story, from the fake date, to Peter, to everything he'd pretended to have done ever sense.

"I know," Steve said simply once he had finished.

Tony narrowed his eyebrows and squinted at Steve through the darkness of the car. "Who told you?" Damn Peter Parker and his big mouth.

"No one told me." Steve glanced at Tony then—ever the good driver—looked back at the road. "Once upon a time, there was scared dorky little kid who wasn't ready for his first kiss, and an amazing boy who told everyone it happened anyway so the dorky little kid who wouldn't feel like such a well, dork. You know, sometimes I pretend that was really my first kiss." Steve's cheeks turned a bright shade of pink and he stared out at the road with more focus and determination than ever.

"Yeah?" Tony said, grinning slightly. He watched Steve's profile light up under the glow of a street lamp and imagined tracing his fingers over the jaw he'd wanted to kiss since the eighth grade.

Steve nodded. "Yeah."

"And did you come to this realization before or after I started sleeping with the Kardashians, Rogers?" Tony asked, now struggling to keep a straight face.

"Definitely before." Steve pulled up outside of Tony's house (or mansion, more accurately), and stopped the car. "My mom always taught me that it's better to be known—to really, really truly be known—by a few trusted friends or…lover, than to be known by name by the whole world."

"Smart woman, your mother. Where were you two weeks ago?"

"In your corner. I always have been." Steve's lips parted briefly then closed again as his eyes raked over Tony's face, the smallest smile gracing his lips. "Can I kiss you? I promise not to call up the paparazzi after and make it front page news."

Tony laughed. He thought of Hammer's tongue forced down his throat and all the requests that had been made of him over the last couple of weeks, thought of his classmates' laughter and Doctor Banner's disappointing stare. He then focused on the curve of Steve's mouth and the bright almost hopeful glow in his too-blue eyes, how soft his fingers had rested on Tony's wrist. "Yeah," Tony said finally. "Okay."

Steve undid his seatbelt and leaned in close, one hand rising to trace along the side of Tony's face. His touch was feather light, his hands firm and warm, fingers calloused from years of sketching and drawing, no doubt. Slowly, his lips parted—just barely—and it was his eyes, first, that found Tony's lips, before he finally filled the distance between them and pressed his mouth softly against Tony's own.

Four years waiting, and the kiss did not disappoint. Gentle at first then growing increasingly heated as the moment wore on, it was everything Tony had ever dreamed about, and it was over far too quickly. Steve's eyes were still closed as he pulled away, his smile goofy and lopsided, and Tony wanted nothing more than to kiss it all over again.

Instead, he pushed open the passenger door and slid out of the car. "Goodnight Steve," he said.

Steve didn't stop smiling for a second. "Goodnight Tony."