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Tony Stark walked into Steve Rogers' coffee shop at nine a.m. on a Saturday morning.
Summer had begun to dip into fall, right there in Café au Lait, a little brick and mortar building tucked between a flower shop, and old Mr. Jones' bicycle store. It was the kind of place where time stood still, sticky fingers begging dollar and dimes, sweaty hands passing change around in search of caffeine. The morning was bright, sticky sunshine dripping warm onto the pavement, spilling onto coffee and slick-warm bodies. The air was thick with heat, the kind of warmth that felt parched, all sweat soaked strangers crammed toe to toe in subway stations and busy terminals.
To be fair, it wasn't Steve's coffee shop.
Peggy's mom owned the shop, and it seemed to sing, bright and warm as she was, covered in sun colored tiles and honeydew vinyl. It was the kind of place where everything and nothing seemed to happen, people passing through in search of better places, spilling into Café au Lait like the sun through the windows.
Steve Rogers was a rail of a boy, all skinny limbs and golden hair. Barely seventeen and desperate to climb, shake off a lifetime of 'too little, not enough, needs more.' There was a pull in his chest, a yearning, a need to scale and reach and complete. There was a fire in his heart, a flame that shook and rattled with the wind, and he couldn't seem to quit the way it burns in his chest. The way it aches.
And then he met Tony.
He was a spitfire thing, all shaking fingers and blinding smiles. He was brash, and bold, desperate and wanting, so full of this beautiful thing Steve couldn't seem to reach. He was all firecracker heart and nervous hands, and he seemed to shake, vibrate, rattle and roll to fill lonely silence.
He was Steve's.
He was beautiful.
For every end, there is a beginning. You cannot open where you close. Every story starts with a wish, a hope, a prayer for the finish. Every moment has a heart that bleeds for the quit.
This one begins with a star. An ocean of time, and a cold cup of coffee. Two boys, a bill, and a smile.
'No,' Steve would think, settling into vinyl that creaked and moaned,
'It began with him.'
And so it did.
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Tony Stark walked into Steve Rogers' coffee shop at nine a.m. on a Saturday morning, and Steve, stubborn and fierce and whole, promptly forgot how to speak.
"Can I, uh," Steve said, and his throat was dry, because there, standing behind the counter with a 20 dollar bill tucked neat between his fingers, was the prettiest boy he had ever seen.
He had an inky mop of hair, dark and beautiful, that curled and coiled around his temples. His cheeks were pink, wind whipped, and when he looked up from his cell phone, his eyes were the softest kind of blue Steve had ever seen, bright and lovely, and they seemed to catch on him with a hold that felt like friction.
The boy stared at him across the counter, fingers tightening their hold on the bill before he shook his head, blinking quick and saying,
"Just a large coffee. Black. Um, please?"
And then he was smiling at Steve, so pretty and lovely and, and, Steve can’t think up many other words for him, not when he's standing there and still smiling, so he nods.
"$3.87," he squeaks, reaching forward to take the twenty.
When he finishes, he hands the change back to the boy, sliding pennies into his palm and taking care not to touch. He smiles again, nods his head, and Steve has a moment to think what a lovely kind of perfect this all felt, and then he's off, gone, sliding down the que to meet his coffee.
He watches as he plucks a straw from the jar, and barely has a moment to think how odd that was, before someone is standing in his place, hand full of change and asking, 'Large mocha, please?"
When he closes that night, the tip jar is brimming, stuffed to the cusp with pennies and dimes and bills, big bills, and when Steve manages to catch all the change from spilling onto the tile, out falls a piece of paper.
He sets the money to the side, pools it into a pile on the counter, and when he bends down, he finds a star.
A small one, made of paper, all crisp white and tucked firm into edges, and he laughs.
A straw wrapper.
Hopefully this means he'll be back.
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He does come back.
It's a Tuesday this time, and he's wearing a sweater, crisp and cool in the new September chill.
"You haven't changed the sign," he says, stepping inside and kicking the dust from his heels.
Steve is pink cheeked just looking at him, and the chill that creeps up his spine as the breeze blows cold through the open door barely bothers him.
"I- sorry?"
"The sign. Outdoors? It still says 'August specials.'"
Steve's throat is doing the thing again, brimming and closing, and he doesn't know what to do with his hands suddenly.
"Oh?"
He tries folding them across the counter, but the boy looks at him funny, so he thinks he chose wrong. He lets them hang at his sides, odd and weirdly limp, and then the boy goes on talking.
"Yep. And I've got a great idea for the new one."
"Do tell," says Steve, and there he goes, those are words.
"Yep. 'Java successfully installed.' Get it? Coffee joke."
He swung his arms out, a wide gesture, and Steve's breath hitched in his throat again. Fuck.
"No? How about 'Soup of the day: mocha.'"
And it's the dumbest thing, but he doesn’t need living brain cells to laugh, so his head's tipping back, and then his breath's a stutter in his throat, sharp bursts of air that huff in his cheeks and slip through his teeth.
And then the boy's laughing too, a lilting kind of thing, a chuckle that rings out like birdsong. And it's cold outside, a crisp autumn hum that seeps through the windows, but this thing between them is warm, filling up their bellies with coffee and sunshine.
"I'm Tony," the boy says, and it’s every song he never heard on the radio all at once.
Tony.
Tony, Tony, Tony.
"Aren't you going to take my order?"
'Always,' he wants to say, 'always and forever and then some more.'
"Sure," he says.
When he takes the tips out that night, there's forty dollars in bills, and two paper stars at the bottom of the jar. He tucks them into his pocket.
The next time Tony stops by, the sign reads, 'Java successfully installed. Now loading: mocha.'
He gets a kick out of it.
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They seem to fall into each other, as summer melts to autumn, ridges and bones catching dry on each other throats. The pieces of Steve seem to settle into cracks, fit to mold beside Tony's rib, and it's simple, easy as breathing. There is empty air next to Steve that belongs to Tony. A heartbeat that thumps by his own. There is a rib he doesn't remember sitting next to his heart, and he swears Tony must have left it there.
There is a hope in Steve's chest. There is a wish that rattles in his lungs. It catches and drags on Tony's hips, expands with each breath they share. Tony is an endless sky, big and dark and beautiful, a prayer for the stars.
Tony builds him hope out of paper, cuts edges and creases corners, fits and folds and makes.
"Make a wish," Tony says, soft in the coffee shop, Steve's heart tucked between careful fingers, "Make a wish. Any wish."
He is every wish Steve never thought to make.
Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, Steve will close his eyes, and imagine the sky. The kind of endless air that stretches between them.
'Make a wish,' Steve thinks, soft and lonely and sad, 'Made a wish, and it's you.'
Steve's never been fond of the impossible. There are some things too big, too wide for Steve's hands to grasp. There are some oceans you can't cross by foot.
Tony tell him to make a wish, and Steve wants to say,
"No point. There is nothing more impossible than you."
He says nothing at all.
---------------------------------
"What do you think about this? 'Sex sells. Unfortunately we sell coffee.'"
"Little risqué, I think, for a family business," Steve says, crooked grin as Tony marches into the shop.
"Not for mine," Tony jokes, and he's leering, eyebrows downturned, staring at him with the stupidest grin on his face, but Steve is struck by just how beautiful he is.
Winter's fallen onto the city with a thud, all snow covered building and icy doorsteps, and Tony shakes the snow from his boots as he steps inside. When he reaches the counter, his hand spills into his pocket, shaking out handfuls of tiny paper stars.
"I may have gotten a little carried away," he smiles, sheepish, "I don't think those will fit in the jar."
"You can just hand them to me," Steve laughs, reaching his hand out.
"I damn well will not. There's something to be said about tradition, Rogers."
And then the stars are spilling into the tip jar, hundreds of them, and Steve feels that too familiar bubble in his chest, the one that aches whenever Tony's near.
The light is coming through the windows, stretching across Tony's jacket and painting his face in cool blue. He looks phosphorescent, glowing dim in the low light of the coffee shop. Steve yearns, aches, feels that urge to touch and tangle, bury itself in layers and layers of Tony Stark and never let go.
"Steve," says Tony, and the smile is sliding off his face, the longer he stands in the quiet.
Steve just smiles, and smiles, and smiles.
"Can I take your order?"
Always, forever, etc.
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Winter tumbles into spring, shaking the snow off the earth and spilling color into the sky. The ground softens, all wet earth, and Steve feels like he's blooming.
"'Absolutely no jorts allowed," Tony christens the sign this week, 'no exceptions' scrawled across the bottom.
When Steve sees it he just laughs, full bellied and loud, and Tony mocks insult.
"Honestly, Steven, this is no laughing matter. Jorts. Jorts!"
They do their homework together, tucked into the vinyl between shifts, bumping elbows and sharing smiles.
That thing in Steve's chest still aches, rattles and rolls in the empty space, but it seemed fit to fill most days, pouring in on itself, sinking and drowning in this love.
Steve is no fool. There is no universe where this thing works out okay. There are no shooting stars for boys like Steve. He is all bony arms and wobbly knees, hollow cheeks and orphan grit, but these moments fill him up for lifetimes. There are hundreds of stars left for wishing on, and Steve likes to think he could make just one of them count.
There is no universe where Tony Stark ends up with Steve Rogers, but there's got to be one where this love doesn’t flicker and fade. Where knocking elbows and creaking vinyl doesn’t end in heartbreak.
'Make a wish.'
Steve just doesn’t want this to end.
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Days pass, shuffling into each other, turning like pages, sinking and drifting into the next. Summer steals into spring, burning up moments and dewy wet earth, and settles on a heat that scorches. Cotton presses tight to skin-soaked bodies, clinging to backs in the July heat.
It's Steve and Tony, soft and warm, backs to the sun and baking in the heat. The air conditioner is on, but warm wind blows steady over the nape of their necks, drifting through the door as people filter in and out of Café au Lait.
The radio is playing, something low and lovely, and Tony is humming, soft under his breath. Dust filters through the light, drifting and floating, sinking to the linoleum and settling along the tiles. Tony's hair is long, curling at the base of his neck, sticky from the sunshine. And Steve is taking it all in. Memorizing the lines of this beautiful moment, the curl of Tony's lip, the lilt of his voice. There is static in his heart, buzzing and blurring, and Steve can feel the possibility, the steady hum of excitement that lingers under the summer sun.
Tony is scratching at some equation, busy mind scattered neat across lined paper, and Steve is on break, tracing the lines of his body with a careful eye.
There are moments, Steve thinks, breathing in the air from the other boy's lungs, where everything is soft, and nothing hurts. There are moments where the rap of his heart against his ribs is only a thump, a dizzy drumline, that tugs and pulls at the strings of his chest. There are days where there is nothing but them, Steve and Tony, warm in the silence, where everything is heard and nothing is said. There are moments when the days are long, and his heart is full, and he thinks there must be nothing better than being in love with Tony Stark.
'Make a wish.'
Why bother. Everything is perfect.
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There is ice down his back. There is ice down his back and ice does not belong there.
"Tony Stark, I will strangle you with this snake of a faucet."
"I think it's called a hand sprayer," Tony says, inches from his back still, and didn't Steve just make death threats about this?
Tony reaches back into the freezer, but before he can grab the ice, Steve is turning on the tap, water bubbling through the spout and pouring out through the tube, covering him in water.
He just blinks, eyes wide, dripping onto the linoleum for a moment, and then he's smiling, wicked and dirty, pulling it out of Steve's hands and drenching him.
And then they're slipping, tripping over their own feet to grab hold of the sprayer. Steve reaches it first, tugging the spout free from the tile, coiled around the mop and still spewing water. The floor is slick, smooth, and is that soap?
Tony, dripping and manic and desperate not to lose, steps back, slipping on the puddle at his feet, and catching hold of the sink. He turns on the tap, filling up his hands with fistfuls of water, and then he's flinging them at Steve's face.
"You idiot, that's the dumbest thing I've ever seen!"
"You're still wet, aren’t you?"
When Mrs. Carter comes downstairs, not a dish has been washed, but she doesn’t seem to mind. There, in the kitchen, stands two boys, shaking and wet, and more in love than she's ever seen.
The two hours they spend mopping up the water? Totally worth it.
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Sometimes, there is a glimmer in the way Tony will look at him. A twitch in his jaw, a jump in his throat. There is a heart-thump of a moment where Steve begins to wonder, 'maybe, what if, if only.'
It only ever lasts a second, and then it's gone, sliding down the drain and landing at his feet, and Steve thinks maybe it hurts more to have hope.
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Moments grow longer, and the days grow colder, but Steve and Tony stay the same. They are the echo of maybe, a hurtling sigh, the steady hum of a near collision. They share secrets and silence, whispers in the dark, trading breaths from each other's lungs. They are two steps too close, and three steps too far, a shadow in the song of quiet. They are the infinite lilt of the way Steve does not kiss him, will not kiss him, aches to kiss him.
There is Tony, and there is Steve, and then there are all the things they don't say.
They are almost, nearly, elastic hearts and empty bellies. Full hands and soft hearts, 'love me maybe and kiss me quick'. They are paper strung skies and origami kisses, folded and lovely and new. They are 'wish on me, wish on us, craft me the sky and I'll build you the moon'. They are two boys, thighs pressed tight in the quiet of a coffee shop, wishing for skies they'll never reach.
Steve doesn't tell Tony that he's in love with him.
Tony doesn’t tell him it's okay.
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"You know, the coffee isn't the only thing hot in here."
"Allow me to turn on the AC," says Steve, fixing Tony with a dry look, and making to reach for the thermostat.
"That's a nice mug you got."
"We use paper cups here," and he's trying to make a double shot iced vanilla latte, but Tony is insistent, following him down the cue.
"Are you from Starbucks? Because I like you a latte."
"You know where we are, Anthony."
He huffs, brow furrowing, knitting together, and his face shouldn't look this cute scrunched up.
Coffee, Steve. Focus on the coffee.
"Bean mine?"
And it's silly, but these sound an awful lot like pick-up lines, and his heart is fluttering, cruel churn of anxiety rising in his stomach.
"Are you flirting with me?" He says, and his voice only barely shakes.
The look that flits through Tony's face makes Steve feel sick.
"Are you fucking kidding me."
And Steve knows it's dumb, but hope sat warm in his chest, and now it's cooling, the longer Tony just sits there, drawn and pale and shaken.
"I'm sorry-"
"A year and a half, and you don’t even know I've been flirting with you the entire goddamn time."
Steve thinks his ears are buzzing, water slipping and sloshing between his eyes, because Tony is speaking and speaking and Steve is just staring.
"Did you even read them?"
And Steve should speak, he should, but the words have claws, catching sharp in his throat, fingers like knives and torches that meld his teeth together with a click.
"The what?"
"The stars, Steve."
A year and a half, and a million wishes he never knew were made.
A year and a half, and a thousand secrets he never thought to read.
A year and a half, and a love letter that takes up half the damn sky, and he didn’t even know it.
'Make a wish,' Steve thinks, and his eyes are drifting closed, slow as honey, unfolding every moment he never knew existed, every piece of them that got tucked into paper corners and hidden away.
"Just read them," Tony says, and he's so quiet Steve can hardly be sure he heard anything at all.
'Make a wish.'
When Steve opens his eyes again, Tony is gone.
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Stars spill into his shoes, tumbling off counters and out of jars, and Tony's words are playing in his ears, drowning out his own damn heartbeat. He's reaching into bins and tubs with shaking fingers, plucking them out by the fistfuls and unwrapping them with nervous hands. Hundreds and hundreds of thin white lines of chicken scratch stare back at him.
'This coffee's hot, but it doesn't hold a candle to you.'
'We don’t need coffee to make it steamy in here.'
'I wanna kiss you a latte.'
'No, really, I want to kiss you.'
'Dear god, do I want to kiss you.'
'I think I'm going mad.'
'You're so beautiful I might be losing my mind.'
'You make me think I deserve something good.'
'The way you look at me makes me think this just might work.'
'You're the only thing I think about when I close my eyes.'
'I love you.'
'I love you.'
'Dear god, do I love you.'
And he's crying, thick wet tears that roll down his face, and when he reaches the end of the tub, there's a single star left at the bottom.
Crips white paper. Firm tucked edges. Lonely and small and made out a straw wrapper. He opens it.
'Date? Call me!'
Tony doesn't pick up the phone. He calls, and calls, and there's Tony, laughing as he tells you he'll call you back, provided you're Steve, and not to bother leaving a message.
He calls, and calls, and there's nothing but a memory of a boy dancing around the coffee shop and telling him,
'Make a wish.'
He just wants Tony to come back.
He goes to sleep. Tony never answers the phone.
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He comes back into the coffee shop after close, late on a Friday.
'Aren't you going to take my order?' He says, quiet, smiling, a stretch of lips that is all too thin to be Tony.
And he's there, standing in the doorway, all ink drop hair and watery smiles, and all Steve can think is that a year and a half is quite enough waiting for him.
"Come here,"
"Are you going to hit me? Because I probably deserve it, but I at least want to be prepared."
Steve just laughs.
"Come here so I can kiss you, Tony Stark."
And the look on Tony's face fills his belly with stars. He doesn't know who moves first, pushing past chairs and clearing the countertop, but before he can blink Tony's spilling into his space, bright and good and soft. There is a moment of silence, and then Tony is laughing, choking back a sob as he presses his thumbs to his neck, into the hollow at the end of his jaw. Steve is all hands and motion, letting out a sigh as he pressed forward, leaning into Tony till they're breathing the same air. They stay like that, drawing in the hush of the others lungs, until Tony stops crying, and then Steve kisses him.
It's the kind of dizzy that only happens at the tip of the sky, a thousand feet above the grass, two boys with nothing between them but the stretch of darkness.
"Make a wish," Tony says, hours or minutes later, when their breath has run ragged and their cheeks had gone pink.
And he's still dizzy, all hands and lungs and heaving chest, but Steve can't do anything but smile.
"I think mine just came true."
Tony kisses him again.