Tony closes his eyes. He keeps his arm loose around the other man’s waist, pressing his palms by the warmth of Steve’s skin where he can feel his heartbeat, steady and rhythmic like the back-and-forth of volleying shots. He tries not to think about how much he’d missed Steve at the party, how little it had all meant to him anyway, how he’d just wanted to crawl back here after the first drink.
Steve doesn’t say anything, but he relaxes slowly. He doesn’t look at Tony and keeps his eyes on the tv set, like he hasn’t been waiting here in the dark watching re-runs of old sitcoms, waiting for him. Steve’s body is so warm. Tony thinks this is good, but also, this is bad.
"Tony?" Steve says quietly, after a while, and it takes the warmth of his hands sliding into Tony’s to remind the older man that this is real. Tell me this will never happen again, tell me how we will never get over it.
Tony’s glad he’s sober, or mostly sober; he presses his mouth by the side of Steve’s jaw and breathes. Steve leans into him this time, tension bleeding away.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Steve says, soft, but under that it’s I’m not angry at you and all that adoration of you came back.
Tony fits the plane of his temple by Steve’s jaw and thinks tell me how to do this.
"No, I don’t," he says quietly, and he really doesn’t.