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"Whatever it is you're scared of doing, do it. Make your mistakes, next year and forever.” -Neil Gaiman
Owning and running one of the world's premiere resorts definitely has its upsides. It's not easy– not even a little, but Steve has always prided himself on making the most difficult tasks look like a breeze.
It's just… Winter.
Or more specifically, the holidays at the Nomad Resort. The holidays come with the added complications of being their busiest season—just over a month of inhabiting a Christmas village and shops, skiing (and the snow in general!), and the annual Ice Exhibition they host down at the skating rink on the property.
He doesn't just mean constructing the extra stands, welcoming in skaters of a world class caliber, and getting their lodging ready. He means that, every year, Olympic gold medalist Anthony Stark jumps at the chance to perform and arrives just after Thanksgiving to stay through the whole season.
It's not a bad thing. On the contrary, he's well-mannered, polite, just as talented as everyone thinks, and ridiculously gorgeous.
Steve may have a crush. Which is a problem.
You're not supposed to have a crush on someone you employ seasonally.
The rich and elite who winter at the resort look forward to watching the famous skater, and the families who travel hours to see the show as their tradition depend on Steve not messing up. The other skaters may be gifted, but Anthony Stark is the celebrity the patrons come to see.
Five years ago, the ice show ran only twice a season, but Stark increased the demand. They now run every day on the weekend, Friday through Sunday. Steve needs to keep Stark happy so he continues to come every year. Lord knows what Steve will do when Stark decides to retire and stop skating entirely. He's brought in so much business that they're booked through the next three Decembers. Sure, the resort is top-tier already, but if Steve wants to keep his rating, he can't lose the business he gets from Stark being their big act.
Which means he can't flirt. He can't let his feelings be known. He can't make Stark uncomfortable.
He's doing a damn good job so far. They've made it from Thanksgiving through Christmas with no issues. Stark has been pleasant, friendly, and energetic, and Steve has only stumbled over his words like maybe five times when talking to him. Stark’s knocked the crowd off their feet in every single show, showing his love of skating and performing with his infectious enthusiasm.
And Steve hasn't missed a single performance.
It's Friday, the 30th of January, and after this weekend, there's only one left until Stark leaves and Steve doesn't see him for another year. So Steve attends each show, committing the routines to memory. Stark's costumes, the way he effortlessly twirls in the air, one, two, three, four times. Brilliantly showing off exactly why he's the best and making everyone wonder why he chooses to perform at a resort each year instead of somewhere bigger, like Madison Square Garden.
Next to Steve, his general manager, Natasha, watches with him. They're leaning on the railing by the stands, not far from the hot chocolate booth, amazed as Stark skates to Where Are You, Christmas? by Faith Hill. He executes a perfect Quadruple Lutz at the crescendo of the song, and Steve, always taken aback by the sheer talent, quietly gasps as he lands gracefully.
Natasha nudges his arm. "Maybe it's time you finally open your big mouth and tell him."
"What?" Steve asks, eyes never leaving the beautiful figure on the ice. "Tell him what? Tell who what?"
She sighs and rolls her eyes. "Tony."
"Mr. Stark," Steve corrects, shooting her an annoyed look.
"Okay. Fine," she relents, clearly annoyed with him, "tell ' Mr. Stark' how you feel about him!"
"He doesn't need me drooling over him, thanks. He gets enough of that from the rest of the world."
"Ugh, Steve, you're impossible." Pushing back from the railing, she turns away. "I love you, but I can't watch you two pine over each other any longer."
"What the hell does that mean?" he snaps, twirling around to pin her with a demanding look, but she's already gone, slicing through the crowd and heading back to the front desk. His hand tightens on the railing, and he turns back around just in time for Stark to finish the song. This costume is a particular favorite of Steve’s—the top is silver and sparkly, but the bottoms are tight and black, accentuating Stark’s round, bubbly ass.
Steve swallows, his eyes following Stark as he leaves the ice to thunderous applause and a shower of roses.
"I love you, but I can't watch you two pine over each other any longer."
"You two?" he mutters under his breath. "Does she mean… Mr. Stark can't possibly…"
Trim Up the Tree from the classic Grinch cartoon starts, and Wanda Maximoff, a silver medalist from the previous Olympics, begins her routine. He watches her for a moment, appreciative of Stark bringing in another medalist. She's from Sokovia with zero ties to America but somehow struck up a friendship with an American skater from the men's solo division.
He's like that. Charming and friendly with enough sass to make him hilarious.
Steve is so gone over him.
Sighing, he leaves to wander, hands deep in his pockets to try and ward off the chill. He finds himself in the Christmas village. It's fairly empty while the show is going on, but once the finale starts, after Stark's final routine, the patrons will filter in, not just to buy trinkets and sit on Santa's lap, but to catch sight of and hopefully get a photograph with one of the skaters who likes to wander around and meet everyone.
Stark typically plants himself by Santa's workshop, usually wearing some ridiculous holiday sweater, and greets every fan like he's brand new and never experienced fame before. It's endearing and sweet.
Steve leaves before the final bow of the skaters.
❄❄❄
"Nomad Resort, happy holidays!" Front desk phone curled against his shoulder, Steve grins at another guest walking up to the counter. It's Scott Lang, a yearly regular who always seems to lose his room key. Steve has one ready before Scott even opens his mouth, handing it over, and pretending that Scott's face isn't beet red as he quietly takes it.
"I was wondering if you have any tickets left to the ice show tonight?"
Steve waves at Scott as he hurries away with the room key and turns away from the lobby, frowning. "I'm sorry, it's the New Year's Eve show. It's completely sold out."
On cue, a silly plastic top hat drops on his head. Steve glances over his shoulder at Clint, the front desk manager, and makes a face.
"Are you sure? My daughter is Anthony Stark's biggest fan, and we just saved up enough to buy the tickets. It would mean the world–"
Steve feels something move inside of him. He gets a call like this as least twice a year. Someone whose kid is a fan of one of the skaters, usually Stark, and he just… he can't say no.
"I'll tell you what, give me your name and come to the front desk when you get here. We'll find a spot for you."
Something that sounds like a sob comes over the line. "Oh my god, thank you so much!"
Clint hands him a pen and pad and waits as Steve takes down the information. After he hangs up, Clint rips the page from the pad.
"You're a sentimental sucker."
Shrugging, Steve just smiles. "It's what the season's all about, isn't it?" He lifts his travel mug and tips his head back, practically inhaling a large gulp of coffee.
Clint grins at him. "Yeah, true. By the way, Stark was looking for you."
Steve doesn't choke on his coffee— he does not.
But Clint pounds his back anyway as Steve clears his airway. "He was?"
"Yeah. He went back to his cabin." Leaning forward, he peers knowingly at Steve. "You should go see what he wants."
Steve's face reddens. "Clint," he warns, taking the hat from his head and setting it on the counter, "I'm not going to his cabin."
"You can't miss it. The owner had ten identical ones constructed back toward the woods for the performers to stay in each year."
"I am the owner. I know where they are."
"Good! Then you'll have no problem finding them!" He places both hands on Steve's back and pushes him toward the exit. "Third from the right. Cabin eight."
Which is how Steve finds himself, fifteen minutes later, standing on the small porch of Anthony Stark's cabin, fist posed to knock but unable to actually complete the action. He bounces from one foot to the other, nervous.
It's probably something innocuous. Stark needing towels, or maybe needing to make a reservation at the resort's restaurant. Taking a deep breath, he knocks: three short raps on the door.
There's some rustling from inside and the door opens. Stark is fresh from his morning shower, wearing black lounge pants and a red hoodie with the Olympic symbol on the front. His hair, still wet, falls in soft ringlets over his forehead.
He's beautiful.
"Oh!" Stepping back, Stark gestures for Steve to come inside. "It's freezing out, please come in!"
Steve hesitates just for a moment. In the five years that Stark has performed, he's never been inside his cabin when the skater was present.
"Clint said you were looking for me?" He enters, looking around curiously.
The cabin is simple and small but spares no luxury. It's one room with a small kitchenette, a seating area in front of the fireplace, and a queen size bed. Stark has the place tidy: clothing in drawers or hung up, the bed made, and a few photos in varying frames on the mantle. His skates sit by the door, though Steve knows that they aren't his performing skates. Those are with his costumes at the rink. These are his personal ones, the ones he takes down to the pond on his days off, where he skates for hours, sometimes performing complicated moves and sometimes just going in circles, face serene as he enjoys the glide across the ice. Steve has seen him a few times—everyone has.
Stark’s love of the sport is massive and beautiful, and he never looks quite as happy as he does when he's skating.
"So, what's up?" Steve asks, shoving his hands into his pockets in an effort to find something to do with them that isn't grabbing Stark and kissing him silly.
Stark shuts the door and moves to the couch, bending and stroking the fire. "Have a seat, Mr. Rogers."
Steve swallows and sits on the other end of the couch, purposefully putting space in between them. "Is everything all right with the cabin? With the show?"
He receives a brilliant smile in answer. "Everything is perfect, as usual! The cabin is as wonderful as always, and you know how much I love doing the holiday exhibition. No, no, I was wondering if you were going to the New Year's party tonight?"
Blinking, Steve feels like the ground is tilting. "I think so, as long as everything is running smoothly at the resort, I don't see why not."
"I love you, but I can't watch you two pine over each other any longer."
"Oh, good! I was hoping you would say that."
"Mr. Stark–"
"Please, we've known each other for five years. You can call me Tony, you know."
Steve feels his heart jump. "Tony," the name tastes delightful, "you can call me Steve."
There's that brilliant smile again. "Sorry to have you come all the way out to the cabins. I think Clint misunderstood and thought it was an emergency. I probably should have caught you at the rink."
"The rink? I mean I don't always–"
"You've never missed a show, so I thought—well, I mean, I could be wrong, but…" Tony giggles nervously, something Steve isn't sure he's ever seen him to do. "Anyway," he clears his throat, "I'll see you tonight then? At the party?"
There could be a five-alarm emergency, but knowing that Tony wants him there, Steve would completely ignore it. "You can count on it."
Tony beams. "Great!"
Standing, Steve makes for the door. His face is burning; if he doesn't leave now, he's going to expose himself. And not in the fun way. "I'll… I'll see you tonight."
"Bye, Steve."
He risks one more look at Tony, holding back the urge to gulp when he sees those wide brown eyes sparkling with excitement. "Bye, Tony."
He's out the door in a hurry, his stomach doing a toe-loop as he does so.
❄❄❄
It's during the finale that things turn sideways. There are fifteen skaters on the ice, five solo skaters and five pairs. The routine is to showcase the various talents and let each take a bow before a meticulously choreographed ending with all of them finishes the show. Tony is in the air, spinning fast in a Triple Lutz, when Peter, a young skater who's the newest Olympic hopeful to come from the sport, overshoots his toe-loop.
They don't collide, thankfully, but Tony over-corrects, trying not to land on the teen. His skate lands crooked, and he falls, slamming his hip hard into the unforgiving ice. Wanda tries to catch him, but his fall is too quick. She waves the others who've noticed away, gesturing to keep skating, though Peter ignores her. His face is a mixture of remorse and worry, and together they help Tony up.
There's applause as Tony claps Peter on his back to let him know it's all right and verbally thanks Wanda. He continues skating, picking up his place in the music, but Steve, whose knuckles are white on the railing, can see the grimacing.
He's hurt.
Tony forces his lips back into his performing smile, and what should be a Triple Axel is shortened to a double, a move Tony almost never does because of its simplicity. They finish, holding hands and bowing to both sides of the audience. He's moving slower as he exits the ice, and Steve races toward the little hut on the other side that houses the performers and their dressing rooms before he even knows what he's doing.
By the time he gets there, Tony is on the bench in the men's locker room, skates and costume off. He's in nothing but his dance belt, leaning on his side as his best friend and manager, James Rhodes, presses ice against a blossoming bruise along his hip and upper thigh.
They both look up as Steve enters, and what he's doing and why he's there is suddenly lost to Steve as he freezes in the doorway.
"Steve," Tony says, trading a look with Rhodes, "what are you doing here?"
"I came to see if you were all right." The words are out of his mouth before he can think of the consequences. He doesn't know Tony enough to be this concerned, and he can see Rhodes eyeing him warily. But he's already there, already showing his hand, so he steps further into the locker room. "You went down really hard– that… that looks bad."
Tony sends him a warm but guarded smile. "It looks worse than it really is. There's no show tomorrow because of the holiday, so I'll take some days to rest. I'll be right as rain by next Friday."
It strikes Steve at that moment that Tony is worried that Steve thinks he can't perform and as such can't bring in revenue to the resort. He feels his throat tighten. "If you can't skate, that's okay. The people will deal, and I'm sure the other skaters have at least one more routine they can skate to so the time isn't altered. Tony, I'm not… I'm not worried about that. I'm worried about you."
Rhodes smirks, leaning back to look at Tony. "See, Tones? Take it easy and don't worry about next week."
Tony scoffs. "I'm being paid to skate, Rhodey, not to sit on my ass because of a little bruise–"
"That's not just a little bruise!"
"He's right, Tony. That looks–" All at once, Steve realizes that he's looking at an almost naked Anthony Stark. Steve's eyes go wide and he flushes, abruptly turning around and squeaking. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, you're not—Holy shit."
He can practically hear Tony rolling his eyes. "The naughty bits are covered, Steve. I'm used to people seeing me in various stages of dress. Comes with the sport."
"It doesn't matter! I just barged in and… and you're not decent!" He didn't think it was possible, but Steve goes redder. "I mean you are decent! More than decent! You're perfect! I mean… shit! You're only in your underwear, I mean. I don't… oh my god!"
And that's Rhodes laughing.
"Rhodey," Tony warns, his voice low and still tinged with an undercurrent of pain.
"You're both so clueless."
"Rhodey!"
"Get dressed, dumbass, and keep that ice on!" Rhodey is up and next to Steve in the next instant, squeezing his shoulder as he walks by. "Come on, Rogers, Princess will be out in a minute, and then we can all go to that party."
Without being able to think of a reason to stay, Steve follows him. Just outside the door, Peter is pacing, his young face turned down into a deep frown. His head snaps up as they exit. "Is Mr. Stark–"
"Go on, Pete," Rhodey says, "he's okay."
Peter doesn't answer; he zooms into the locker room, and as the door closes, Steve can hear his apology. "Mr. Stark! I'm so sorry! I got caught up in the moment, and I wasn't paying attention–"
The door clicks shut.
"Just so you know," Rhodes says, stepping in front of Steve to stop him, "if you break his heart, I'll bury you under the ice."
"What–?" But Rhodes only smirks knowingly and walks away, leaving Steve a bit shell shocked. He couldn't possible be referring to–
But Nat's voice sounds in his head again.
"I love you, but I can't watch you two pine over each other any longer."
He cranes his head to look at the closed door, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Could it be?
Could Tony feel the same way?
❄❄❄
The annual New Year's Eve gala at the Nomad Resort is the only party that Steve uses outside catering to run. It's for his employees as much as it's for the guests. For as elite and ritzy as the resort can be, there's always been an earthy tone to it. Many of the guests come yearly, and they've become family with all the workers. Steve has worked tirelessly from the moment he bought the resort to cultivate a home away from home environment for everyone involved.
He was told it would never work, that the rich wanted to be pampered and spoiled. But what he's found is that for all the resorts that cater to that clientele, he's the only one that offers a home.
Sure, they get the guests who act like nothing matters but them. It happens often enough that even their regulars have started intervening when someone is nasty to an employee.
He's learned that, in the end, rich, poor, or middle class, everyone is human. They don't cater to the snooty rich, but they welcome with open arms those that are lonely, or those that want somewhere warm, both physically and emotionally.
He's aware of how lucky he is that it worked out in the resort's favor; it could have just as easily gone the other way. So, when the party comes near, he is no longer surprised to find a millionaire entertaining Clint's kids with a story, and the billionaire investor helping Natasha hang up decorations when he realized she was too short, even on a ladder.
It brings a smile to his face, knowing what he helped to create. The few brats are outweighed by those looking for familiarity and comfort.
It's what he sees as he walks into the largest banquet hall in the resort—Tony, seated on a comfortable armchair, surrounded by a few of the teenagers and younger guests of millionaires, chatting and smiling—that takes his breath away. Cassie, Scott's daughter, is running toward him, a fresh ice pack in her hands.
Steve smiles, his heart warmed. Not just by Cassie and her thoughtfulness but with how amazing Tony is with all the children.
Steve wants children. He's not sure how many, but he knows he wants them. It's not the easiest for a gay man to achieve, but he's determined. One of the hurdles is finding a partner who not only also wants to have kids but is good with them. Seeing Tony handle these children so well, how much fun he's having, how he listens to them, plays with them…
Steve feels his stomach flip.
"The caterers are here."
Jumping slightly and turning to face Bucky, who's snuck up on him, Steve nods, pretending he wasn't just pining away over Tony.
"Great, tell them whatever they need, we have it."
Bucky, his childhood best friend and head of housekeeping, narrows his eyes at him.
"What?" Steve snaps, feeling irritated even though Bucky hasn't done anything to warrant it. Yet. He knows his friend, and Bucky is gearing up for something. If Natasha and Clint are anything to go by, Bucky has just as much to say on the subject of his crush as they do.
"Don't 'what' me, mister. You know exactly what."
Steve can't help it; he whines. "Bucky! Not you too!"
"Ha!" Bucky points at him, his face in triumphant glee. "See? You do know exactly what!"
People are starting to look, including Tony. "Kitchen, Buck. Now."
Bucky shrugs but follows his lead, hopping up onto one of the counters as soon as the door swings shut. "He likes you too, you know."
Steve ignores him. "Bucky, that's unsanitary. I thought I hired you as head of housekeeping because of your cleanliness."
"You hired me because of nepotism. And because I know how to get blood out of antique lace curtains."
A few of the catering staff look over, alarmed. Steve is a little too exasperated to give a professional response, and instead tiredly says, "Relax. This isn't The Overlook. I cut my hand trying to fix the molding in one of the rooms."
Holding up three fingers, Bucky grins impishly. "Three times in three different rooms."
"Will you just get down?"
Bucky cackles, jumping down from the counter. "All work and no play makes Steve a dull boy."
"For Christ's sake, Buck–"
"Chill. Just to show that your nepotism worked out—" He reaches under the adjacent counter, plucking a Clorox wipe from the container settled there, and wipes the counter down where his dumb butt had been. "See? All better. Now, back to the topic at hand—"
"There's no topic, Bucky."
"There is. You're in your thirties, you're lonely. You're an amazing catch who hasn’t found the right guy, but he's here, and he feels the same, Stevie. I'm telling you this bluntly to get it through your stupid , thick head, punk." Tossing the used wipe into the trash, Bucky turns back to face Steve, crossing his arms. "I worry about you."
"Well, don't! I'm fine! I'm not lonely; I've got all of you as my family, and that's amazing, Buck. Can't you see that?" He throws his arms out, indicating the whole resort. He's got an incredible staff, awesome guests, and a restaurant with the highest Zagat rating you can get.
"There are different types of loneliness, Stevie."
Steve doesn't really have anything to say to that. He stares blankly at Bucky, his arms dropping to his sides in defeat. "He's a world-class athlete, Bucky."
"And? You're a world-class resort owner."
It's not the same, Steve knows it. But he can't help but long for the beautiful skater. He can't help but feel like they're an absolutely perfect match.
He just doesn't think Tony would want him too.
"Just talk to him, Stevie," Bucky pleads. "I want to see you happy, just like how I am with Sam. I want to be the best man in your wedding, like you were in mine, so I can make some embarrassing toast for you, like you did to me, and know that when I'm not with you, someone is taking care of you. You're a pain in the ass, but you're a good pain in the ass. And you deserve to be happy."
"I am happy," Steve tries, but there's not much conviction left in his voice. "I don't want you to think that you and everyone else isn't enough—"
"No one thinks that, punk. Not a single one of us." Squeezing Steve's shoulder, Bucky moves to the door. "He'd fit right in; he already does. Everyone adores him. And everyone knows that you two would work. Just go talk to him."
His piece said, Bucky leaves, the swinging doors of the kitchen waving back and forth from his exit, affording Steve quick glances into the banquet hall, where Tony is still seated with the children.
Steve feels a little hazy watching him, a little warm.
Bucky had said that Tony likes him too… Natasha said it as well. If they were right…?
Well.
Scratching the back of his head, Steve contemplates what to do. If what they said is right, if Tony really did return Steve's feelings for him, then he was running out of time to do something about it. Tony would be leaving the morning after the last show on the eighth, not to return for another year.
He simply can't wait another year. Not when he may have wasted the last five already.
Stepping through the kitchen doors, he's just in time for the lights to be dimmed and the uplighting from the DJ to be turned on. He feels his lips lift into a smile. It's beautiful in the hall– pretty purples and blues, accented with silver, coordinating chair covers and tablecloths, bright, sparkly centerpieces…
It's a gorgeous setting for the end of one year and the birth of a new one.
The music begins as the rest of the guests pour in. Waitstaff come from the kitchen with little hors d'oeuvres on silver platters, bottles of champagne and wine are popped, and Steve realizes that he still hasn't changed into his tux.
"Crap."
He tears his eyes away from the party and skirts along the wall, making his escape to his office where his tuxedo is waiting for him. It takes about twenty minutes to dress and fix his hair into something he hopes is subtle and sexy. He wants to look his best, especially if he's going to ask Tony out.
There's a silly thought tumbling in his head as he returns to the party—of Tony in the middle of the dance floor, lit up by a spotlight, waiting for Steve to ask him to dance. He visualizes it like a movie, like he's in one of those Hallmark rom-coms that Natasha secretly watches. It's a beautiful scene, perfectly plotted out so that he can sweep Tony into his arms and kiss him under the lights.
But when Steve enters back into the ballroom, Tony is nowhere to be seen. Steve’s shoulders drop, the wind in his sails gone. He scans the room, but there's no sight of Tony anywhere.
Tony said he'd be there. He had asked Steve to be there! Did he come to his senses? Realize that Steve isn't worth the trouble and leave before either of them could make a fool of themselves?
"He just went to the bathroom, Steve. Breathe."
Whipping around, Steve comes face to face with Natasha. "I wasn't—" Cheeks flushing, Steve gestures to himself. "I just got here. I'm not looking for anyone. In particular."
"Right."
"I'm not!"
"He saved you a seat next to him at table nine."
Steve's heart leaps in his chest, and he can't help the way his face lights up. "He did?"
She's looking a little too smug. Brat. "He did."
"Thanks, Nat! Gotta go!" Taking time enough to kiss her cheek, Steve scurries away, an excited bounce in his step.
At table nine, there are only two chairs empty, one with a drink in front of it. Steve takes the other, sitting down and beaming at the other occupants. It's mostly figure skaters, Wanda and Peter included, with Rhodes on the other side of Tony's seat. Across from Rhodes is one of the regular guests, Thor Odinson, a Norwegian housing developer who's spent the last eight holidays at the resort with his wife and children.
Thor's friendly and philanthropic, always involved in multiple charities and building programs. This is the first year without his kids–his twins have started college–and even though he looks a little sad that they choose to stay behind, Thor and his wife Jane are in good humor, toasting Steve as he sits.
"May you have as abundant a life as we!" Thor says, lifting his glass, his eyes darting to the empty seat next to Steve.
"Did everyone know?" Steve chokes out, his eyes wide and disbelieving.
"We knew from the moment you first saw him." Jane, a petite expat, grins at him. "I'm glad you're both finally doing something about it."
Thor clears his throat, his eyes flickering to the doorway. "And here he comes."
Turning, Steve catches Tony's eyes almost right away. He looks… Well. He looks perfect.
"Tom Ford," Jane whispers, though Steve doesn't understand what she means at first. "His tux—that's a Tom Ford."
The brand doesn't matter to Steve, just that it's perfectly tailored, black on black, with satin trim and gold cufflinks. It hugs the slender, athletic body under it, accentuating the curves of Tony's body.
He really wants to see it from the back.
"He looks incredible," Steve breathes, still drinking in the sight of him.
"He is limping." Thor's brows furrow. "I did not know he was so injured from his fall."
"The bruise looked bad—"
"It's a contusion." Three heads whip around to see Rhodes, settling in his seat. "It's painful, but he'll be all right."
"Well, thank God for that," Jane says, taking a sip of wine. "I saw him icing it earlier."
"He's got a lidocaine patch on," Rhodes tells her, "and I gave him Motrin earlier. As long as he takes it easy—" Rhodes switches from looking at Jane to staring Steve down, "he'll be fine to dance and have a kiss at midnight."
Flushing, Steve busies himself by chugging the entire glass of water in front of him.
"For fuck’s sake, Steve! Ask him to dance already!" Rhodes scoffs, throwing his hands in the air, his annoyance prevalent and blunt. "What are you waiting for? Another year to go by?"
Which is a good point. Steve's spent the better part of the day mulling over all the times he's been told that Tony likes him back. It's taken some metaphorical bumps on the head, but he gets it. They both like each other; they both want each other, and tonight is the perfect night to make a move. It's New Year's Eve—a celebration of endings… and of beginnings.
Standing, Steve smiles politely at Thor and Jane, excusing himself, and makes his way across the dance floor, meeting Tony halfway.
Tony looks up at him as Steve approaches, his lips curving into a soft smile. "Hi."
"Hi," Steve says, his palms a little sweaty. He wipes them on his pants. "May I have this dance?"
It's a soothing, sweet melody that is playing, though Steve doesn't recognize it, but the tempo is akin to a waltz, and it's as good as any to have their first dance to. That is, if Tony says yes.
Tony holds his hand out in acceptance, his eyes twinkling. "Why, Mr. Rogers, I thought you'd never ask," he says in an honestly horrendous southern accent, but it helps to break the tension, and Steve chuckles.
"If I was wearing a hat, I'd tip it." He pulls Tony close, laying his left hand on his tiny waist. He licks his lips, stepping to the music, relieved that Tony is letting him lead, despite Steve not being the one with dancing experience.
Tony's laugh is sweet and indulging. "I saw a plastic abomination on Clint's head earlier; I'll happily steal it for you."
"Oh God," Steve laughs, caught off guard by Tony's mischievousness, "he tried to put that on me earlier. No, thank you. You'll just have to live without a hat-tipping."
"Is that like cow tipping?"
Steve snorts. "Probably."
They dance through the song, the awkwardness fading with each twirl and with each second that passes. As the song comes to an end and an upbeat one begins, Tony nods towards their table. "Not sure I'm up to boogying down to Lady Gaga at the moment."
"Oh! Right. Of course." He doesn't let go of Tony's hand as they cross the dance floor and take their seats. They're alone at the table, everyone else rushing to dance now that the mushy slow song is out of the way.
"So," Tony says, sitting and angling his body so he's facing Steve, "come here often?"
It's a lame joke, but Steve laughs anyway. "I know the owner."
"Oh! Nice. He's a hottie."
Heat blooms up Steve's face. "Listen, Tony, I was wondering–"
"Yes."
"You don't even know what I was going to ask."
Tony shrugs. "The answer is still yes."
"What if I was asking if you wanted to take over the world with me?"
Tony's grin turns adorably wicked, which is not something Steve has ever thought possible. "Then the answer is absolutely yes!"
He's so cute. It steals Steve's breath, and he takes a moment to get his heart under control before continuing. "I wanted to know if you wouldn't mind being my date. For tonight. And maybe… hopefully… other nights as well."
"Are you going to kiss me at midnight?"
"Do you want me to?"
Tony's head tilts. He studies Steve, his oval eyes taking in every detail he can. It strikes Steve that Tony is intelligent. He has to be—figure skating is as much about physics as it is about athleticism, Tony has said so himself in interviews.
"And if I said yes? Will you kiss me at midnight?"
"Could I kiss you right now?" Steve's fingers curl into his palm; he's nervous– like a school boy with a crush, which he essentially is.
Tony's face shifts, a flash of anxiety dulling the sparkle in his eyes, and Steve's heart drops. "Steve–"
"Tony, I'm sorry," Steve interrupts, "that was way too forward of me and—"
"No! No, it wasn't. It was sweet and perfect. It's just that I haven't been in a relationship in a long time. Most men don't like that I get so much attention. I'm… I'm out of practice." Face coloring, Tony's eyes dart away from Steve's. He runs his palms up and down his thighs, nervous. "I've been skating since I was little. Home schooled since I was nine, and I didn't partake in any other sport or activity, you know?"
Steve nods, even though he really isn't fully grasping what Tony's getting at, and by the look on Tony's face, he knows it.
"The thing is," he continues, "being an elite skater doesn't really leave time for much else. I had to make a choice: be a normal teen, or devote my life to skating. I chose skating." He shrugs, as if it's no big deal that he had to trade his life for his dream, and Steve feels a little piece of him crack. How much has Tony missed out on?
Tony's hands still on his lap. "I've only had two boyfriends." He rubs the back of his neck. "One when I was sixteen, and that didn't last long. My dad found out and blew a gasket, and not because he found out I was gay, but because I wasn't fully concentrating on skating when I was with him."
"But what about—I don't know—friends? Social interaction?" Steve tries, concerned and not happy to hear that Tony's first relationship went so badly because of his father. There's been far too many rumors over the years about Howard Stark being the equivalent of a pageant mom; Steve isn't happy to hear that those rumors may be true.
"I had friends!" Tony corrects, holding a hand up to placate Steve. "They were just all skaters as well. But don't feel bad for me! I wanted this. Skating was— is— my favorite thing in the whole world. He was right to be mad! I just threw myself into it after, and didn't have another boyfriend until after I won my second gold. That one ended because he was jealous that I was famous. And… that was eight years ago."
Steve, who was sipping on his drink, choked and sputtered. "You haven't been with anyone in eight years?"
Tony shook his head. "I'm not the most decorated figure skater in Olympic history because I dated, Steve." He blushes, looking down again. "I thought maybe it wasn't for me. That is… until I met you."
A warmth travels up Steve's body, and he can't help the grin that spreads across his face. "It's the same. For me."
"Yeah?"
"I mean, I'm not a famous figure skater, but I didn't think I was ever going to find anyone either. I mean, I dated. A lot. Maybe too much—" Abruptly, he cuts himself off, his eyes going wide. "Not that I'm a serial dater afraid of commitment—"
Tony giggles, amused. "I didn't think you were, Steve."
"Sorry," Steve says, "I just realized how incredibly awkward I am."
That causes Tony to bark out a startled laugh. "Oh my God, me too!"
"Well, at least you have a good reason for it!"
It's strange to think that this beautiful man isn't all that experienced. Tony’s so gorgeous, Steve would have thought that people would be throwing themselves at his feet. Now that he's paying attention, Steve can see an underlying innocence and naivety in him. It's sweet.
"Don't get me wrong, I love my life. I love skating! It's… it's wonderful. But when I met you, I swear, the world stopped moving. And I've spent the better part of five years hopelessly in love with you."
Steve's heart flutters. "Is that why you come back every year?"
"Yeah," Tony says, embarrassed. "I've gotten offers for New York, Chicago, London, Paris… but I don't want to be anywhere but here."
Without thinking, Steve reaches out and cups Tony's face. "I look forward to this crazy season every year because of you." His thumb moves slowly, stroking across Tony's cheek.
He leans into Steve's hand, his warm brown eyes shining. "I'm apprehensive," he confesses. "I haven't kissed anyone in a long time."
"We'll take it as slow as you want."
"I'd like that." He's beaming that bright, beautiful smile Steve has only seen when Tony is skating on the pond. "Take my number, and call me from your phone so I have yours."
Steve does just that.
❄❄❄
As it nears midnight, the guests gather on the dance floor. They're covered in glowsticks, plastic hats, sunglasses with the year on it, and holding noise makers and poppers. Steve has his arm around Tony's waist, watching along with everyone else as the ball starts to drop. The large flat screen on full volume as the announcer begins the countdown.
"10…9…8…!"
The whole room joins in, champagne flutes in the air.
"7…6…5…4…!"
Tony's steps closer to Steve's side, he's warm and solid. Steve breaths in his cologne.
"3…2…1! Happy New Year!"
As Auld Lang Syne begins to play, couples around them are kissing. Steve bends down and kisses Tony's cheek, smiling widely at him. There's relief in Tony's eyes, and Steve is glad that he made the right choice. He pulls Tony into a hug, reveling the feeling of the smaller man in his arms.
They dance. They eat. They drink. They spend the first hours of the new year in each other's company, partying with those they love, and celebrating. And when they part for the night, this time it's Tony who leans up on his tippy toes and kisses Steve's cheek.
Steve's face is still red when he gets home.
❄❄❄
The sun is just starting to crest over the horizon when Steve is startled awake by his ringtone. He fumbles around his nightstand until he finds it, yanking it hard enough that the charging cable is ripped out. There's a split second where he becomes aware of how not good that is for his phone, but Steve moves on, rolling over and answering with a groggy and mumbled "Hello?".
Tony's fast-paced and panicked voice comes over the line. "Rhodey-Bear, I know it's too early, and I shouldn't even be awake right now, but I need you to come over because it hurts really fucking bad." His voice breaks, and Steve is snapped fully awake, sitting up in bed and clicking the lamp on. "You've got the lidocaine patches, and I just… I know I said I didn't need them, but I do. I fell asleep on that side and when I woke up—I just don't want to be alone."
"Tony," Steve says, alarmed that Tony is in enough pain that he didn't realize who he was calling, "I'll be right there."
There's a pause, and then a squeak. "Steve?"
"Don't worry about it. I have some Icy Hot patches. They might not be as good, but I'm coming."
"Shit, Steve! I'm so sorry, I—"
"Or I can wake up Rhodey for you?" He doesn't want to intrude, doesn't want to step over boundaries they haven't even discussed yet.
"I'm not usually this much of a baby."
Tony is trying to do damage control, like Steve would ever judge him for being in pain and needing someone there with him. "You went down hard, Tony. Don't forget I saw it. That you danced your ass off last night and barely showed your pain is remarkable. I also saw the size of that bruise." And his sculpted chest and thick, strong, figure-skating thighs. But Tony doesn't need to hear that.
There's a heavy sigh. "It hurts. It's throbbing. I'll take anything."
"I'll be there in a half, at the most."
"Thank you." The admission is quiet but full of emotion.
Steve regrettably tells him to hang tight and hangs up. He's out the door within five minutes, pulling on his boots and not changing from the sweats he wore to bed.
He lives about ten minutes from the resort. The roads are icy but not awful, and he takes a chance by driving a bit too fast to get there. If Tony is in pain, he doesn't want to prolong it any more than absolutely necessary.
Carol is manning the front desk when he arrives, half asleep since her shift just started. He waves hello, but doesn't stop to chat like he normally would. Instead, he rushes into the kitchen where Bruce is starting the morning preparations for breakfast.
"I'm pilfering, sorry!" he exclaims, zipping through the room and shoving pastries and other breakfast items into hastily packed go-bags.
"Steve? Everything okay?" Bruce asks, pausing over a large skillet filled with eggs. His hand is frozen in the air where he is reaching for the salt.
"Just peachy," Steve lies, grabbing a carafe and filling it with coffee. Bruce watches cautiously, but otherwise goes back to his cooking. They're all used to Steve sometimes being a little… eccentric.
"Are those eggs ready?" Steve asks, opening a go-bag and holding it out to Bruce.
"Not these," Bruce replies. "Those are, though." He points to a tray with eggs already scrambled and cooked.
"Thanks!" As fast as he can without making a mess, Steve scoops some of the eggs into the styrofoam container. It's a bit much to juggle with the bag he's brought from home and the coffee, but he manages it, leaving the kitchen as quickly as he came.
He encounters no one else as he makes his way through the resort and out the backdoors. The path to the cabins is long and winding, and he keeps his head down to brace against the wind.
It's strange to be jumping to help someone he's barely seeing, but Steve and Tony have been dancing around each other for five years. Steve knows he's gone over Tony, and, if last night was any indication, Tony feels the exact same way. If anything, the previous years have been one long first date. They've gotten to know each other slowly, and now that it's out in the open, Steve knows he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but helping Tony.
So maybe it's strange, but it's really not. He's sure if the situations were switched, Tony would do the exact same thing.
And isn't that just a little nugget of gold?
Somehow, he makes it to the cabin with a few minutes to spare, and knocks. The wind is picking up, and he hugs the carafe close to his chest, hoping to keep it hot. Tony loves coffee—he's rarely seen without his travel mug or a Starbucks cup. This may be even more important than the Icy Hot patches.
"It's open!" he hears from inside, though Tony's voice doesn't sound like he's doing much better than he was on the phone.
He pushes the door open, moving slowly just in case, and steps into the warmth to find Tony laying on the bed. The covers are down, pooled at the end of the bed, and he's in nothing but a pair of red briefs. His legs are curled up just a little, and he's hugging the pillow that's under his head.
The bruise looks so much worse than when Steve saw it the day before. It's blossomed along the entire side of Tony's hip, dark and purple and nasty.
Steve winces at the sight of it. "Holy shit, Tony."
"It's very Jackson Pollock, isn't it?" Tony's eyes have a tinge of red to them, and Steve's heart lurches. He was crying, and at the sight of that bruise, Steve understands completely.
He sets the carafe down on the coffee table, along with the bag of food. "That's an understatement," he responds, his eyes unable to leave the ugly and mottled discoloration. The other bag, filled with Icy Hot and compresses, he keeps until he's approached the bed. "Are you cold?" He puts it down at the foot of the mattress, moving to lift the blankets.
"A little."
Nodding, Steve brings them up to Tony's thighs. It's something at least.
"Then let's get you set up so we can get you warm again." It's a weird dichotomy that Tony is shy about kissing, but not about his mostly nude body. Though, he supposes, it must be the nature of the sport. Sheltered from normal experiences, but brought up to change in front of others and not be ashamed of his body.
He pulls the package of Icy Hot from the bag, and opens it. "Okay?" Tony nods, and Steve is careful as he adheres it to his hip.
"I'm sorry," he says when Tony hisses in pain. "Let me get some coffee, and you can take some pain pills with it." He's sure a doctor would scoff at that, but Tony loves coffee, and since the drink is warm, it'll help make him comfortable. That's all Steve's after at the moment anyway.
Tony looks over to where Steve prepares a mug, his eyebrows raised. "You had time to make coffee? That's impressive."
"I stole it from the resort." He adds cream and sugar, aware of how Tony likes his coffee. It's part and parcel of owning a resort; Tony's isn't the only coffee he knows by heart. Thor, for instance, takes only cream. Jane likes skim milk and one package of Splenda. "Bruce had most of this done already."
"How's the owner feeling about that?"
"He'll deal." Steve grins, walking the mug over to the bed. He helps Tony sit up and tucks the blankets around his shoulders. "Where's the Motrin?"
"On the counter," Tony says, motioning to the kitchenette. He takes the mug from Steve's hands and wraps both of his around it, taking a deep sip. "Thank you, Steve."
Shaking out two pills from the bottle he retrieves, Steve flushes and looks down. "I care about you. A lot."
"We wasted plenty of time, didn't we?" Tony takes the proffered pills, dropping them into his mouth and swallowing them down with the coffee. "Five years."
"Yeah. We're idiots."
That makes Tony laugh. "What else you got in those bags?"
Steve pours his own mug of coffee, keeping it black; he's cold from the walk over. "Some breakfast, including Bruce's danishes."
Tony's eyes light up. "Cheese and raspberry?"
"Yup!" Grabbing two plates from the drying rack in that kitchenette, Steve serves them both, but he's unsure of where to sit until Tony pats the bed next to him. Sitting, he blushes again. He's on Tony's bed, even if it's nothing sexual, it certainly feels intimate.
Tony's long lashes flutter against his cheeks. "You're cute when you go all red."
Steve ignores the compliment, instead choosing to study Tony's face for pain. "How do you feel?"
"It hurts like a bitch, honestly."
"I'm sorry. I hope Peter doesn't feel too bad," Steve frowns. "He's so young and talented, and he seems like a sweet kid."
"He is!" Tony agrees. "I set him straight. It was an accident. We're gonna work on spatial awareness as soon as I'm healed."
It hits Steve that Tony is leaving in a week, and his heart drops. "Will you guys be together for another show?" He knows that Peter's family is fairly local, but Tony lives in Manhattan. It's a thought that hurts, especially considering that they've only just begun.
"Oh, didn't Natasha tell you? I've decided to rent the cabin for another month while I find a place out here." He takes a bite of danish, chewing and looking devious. He knows that Steve has no idea, the little brat, and it makes Steve feel so high. The teasing and flirting comes so naturally between them.
"You're gonna be trouble, aren't you?" The words are said in jest, punctuated with his own mischievous grin; he's elated by the news. Tony is staying! They don't have to rush, they don't have to say goodbye or put anything on hold; they have all the time in the world now. Something inside Steve settles, and his brain goes peaceful and quiet.
Like Tony is the missing piece to Steve's puzzle. He's whole now.
Tony lifts his chin, showing just how much trouble he is. It's precious and adorable, and Steve can't wait to see how much trouble Tony really is. "You know it."
"I'm so…" Pausing, Steve fights for the right words to say. "I'm really happy that you're staying."
"I can base myself here just as easily as the city. You've got a beautiful rink to practice in, and the nearest indoor one is only 40 minutes away." He shrugs, looking a little bashful as he divulges just how much thought he's put into this. "I have a competition in three months, and the next Olympics are coming up. I think I got at least one more in me. After that? Aside from doing some exhibition shows, I'll have plenty of time to spend with you."
Steve gasps, guilt flaring up in his chest. "You're retiring? Because of me?"
"I'm in my thirties, Steve. I'm one of the oldest skaters in the sport—"
"But you're still the best one out there!"
"And I'll retire on top of my game." Setting his mug on the nightstand, Tony takes Steve's hand and squeezes. "I've never had a reason to stop before. You've given me a reason to settle down, Steve. You've given me a chance to finally experience some of that normal everyone is always going on about."
Steve feels his face heat. Again. This man makes him feel some kinda way, and it's incredible. "I don't want to hold you back."
"You're not. You'll come with me? To the next Olympics?"
"Of course."
Tony's face breaks into a huge, bright smile. "I can't wait. My coach isn't going to be happy about the relocation, but she'll live. Pepper has been trying to get me to settle down for years. And Rhodey loves it here. It wouldn't surprise me if he sets up permanent residence at the resort."
"You make it all seem so simple."
"Because it is. I'm excited, Steve. Excited to get to know you better, to start our relationship. Maybe I'll coach? Maybe I'll just do exhibition shows. Who knows! I just know that right now, I'm where I'm meant to be."
The warmth Steve feels has nothing to do with the fireplace, or from being embarrassed. He's not– he's so exceptionally happy, so full of love for this man. He feels good, whole, and excited for the new prospects between them. "Happy New Year, Tony," he says softly, putting all of his emotions into those words. He hopes it's clear.
Tony moves, sliding closer to Steve until their shoulders are pressed together. The way he looks up at Steve makes it evident that he got the message. "Happy New Year, Steve. It's crazy that it was only yesterday that I was asking if you were going to be at the party."
"Pshh," Steve chuckles, "that was last year!"
Tony snorts. "Oh my God, that was so lame. Is this what I have to look forward to?"
"I don't know what you're talking about; I'm hilarious!"
Tony cracks up. His laugh is full and open and beautiful. "I can't wait for you to try and prove that!" He's so gorgeous, especially when he laughs. Steve takes a chance and wraps an arm around him. Without hesitating, Tony leans into it.
They're quiet as they finish up their breakfast. The sun has fully risen, and outside, the show reflects the light onto the curtains. It plays beautifully on Tony's dark hair, and Steve can't help but lean down and kiss the curls laying there.
Tony looks up at him, face open and honest. It's stunning to see. "This is a great way to start a new year." He blinks, smiles, and reaches an arm around Steve, pulling him down to kiss him. It's quick, chaste, but Tony's lips are soft and lovely.
Steve cups his face, silently asking for permission. With a nod, Tony lifts himself just enough to close the distance.
This time, the kiss is deeper, more exploratory. Steve likes the taste of danish and sweet coffee on his tongue. When they pull back for air, Steve rests his forehead against Tony's, unable to stop smiling.
He can't wait to start every new year with a kiss from Tony.