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"Okay so, like, is it one, two, go on three? Or, like, one, two, three go?" Bruce looks from the bike to Tony, back to the bike.
"Dude, it doesn't even matter because we're going to be holding your funeral in five fucking seconds if you do this."
"No, it's cool, I can totally make it." Bruce grins and straps on the helmet.
"These were made for ten year olds on skateboards. Not super-seniors on their dad's beach cruiser."
Bruce rolls his eyes. "It's, like, a baby ramp. Nothing is going to happen."
"Or you're going to end up in one of those Oprah tragedy specials and I'll be crying on the couch about how I tried to stop you."
"You wouldn't cry," Bruce mutters, backing up the bike.
"No," Tony agrees. "I wouldn't."
The worst thing that's ever happened was the cracked skull incident of sophomore year. That was when Tony had been less dedicated to preventing Bruce from doing stupid things to his body -- that was also the year they started smoking weed and drinking in Tony's massive walk-in closet from the airplane bottles Howard Stark brought home and left in the unlocked liquor cabinet in the pantry. That was the year Bruce practically razed the chem lab because that was the year his mother died.
The worst thing that's ever happened was sophomore year. They don't really talk about sophomore year.
"You need stitches," Tony announces, bandaging up Bruce's arm as best he can.
"I'm not getting stitches."
"I didn't fucking say get stitches. I just said that you need them. Ugh that's gross, man, you're bleeding all over the sink."
Bruce rolls his eyes and splashes water on white porcelain, putting more pressure on his arm. Tony is always telling him he needs stitches, needs a wrap for his ankle, needs to see a shrink, needs to stop calling their English teacher a cunt when she might hear them, needs to go to a college close to him or Tony will lose his fucking mind. Tony has a laundry list of things Bruce needs to do, but they mostly involve personal growth and development issues that Tony isn't qualified to make judgements calls on because he has a therapist on call and takes a bizarre cocktail of pills for his ADHD and his heart. He's a veritable pharmacy and tried to sue the people who run WebMD last year just because he can.
Bruce drops down onto Tony's floor and spreads out, makes angels in the carpet before sitting up again. "Let's order a pizza. I'll buy."
"Yeah, you better," Tony mutters, but he smiles through it, picking up his phone and dialing Papa Johns down the street. Bruce rummages in his bag and pulls out his bong and a bag of weed and Tony starts flailing his arms, jerking them toward the window as he orders. Bruce rolls his eyes and pushes the window open with his good arm and sits back down. Tony hangs up and drops down next to him. "We can only do a little. My mom'll be home from her book club in a couple hours."
"S'good," Bruce says, packing the bowl and lighting it. He smokes too much, Tony thinks, but he's so pliant and kind when he's stoned that Tony doesn't have it in him to stop it from happening. Bruce is always kind, really -- his mother was gentle and he got that from her -- but he's rough around the edges, and it's always poking out, just a bit, just enough to cut and Tony sort of likes him better when he's muted and melted like this. The doorbell rings after they're pretty baked and Tony goes down with some cash from Bruce's wallet and pays. They inhale half of it before laying across one another and doing French corrections. Bruce hauls out his laptop and shows Tony a weird Austrailian porno his cousin in Sydney sent him last week and they watch with the kind of fascination saved for watching porn while high.
Tony mutters, "Her legs shouldn't be able to do that." Bruce laughs. "What?"
"I can do that."
"Bullshit."
"I totally, one-hundred percent can do that. I will do it for you right now."
"I am not fucking you," Tony says. Bruce blinks. "I mean. I didn't--"
Bruce shrugs. "Whatever. That's not what I meant. Do you know how to conjugate this?"
Tony spends an inordinate amount of time thinking about not a lot of things. He thinks about his heart, the way it’s sort of open and makes him dizzy and keeps him on these stupid pills. He thinks a lot about Bruce, how much he wants Bruce, how bad of an idea that is. He thinks about college and going somewhere near Bruce.
That's pretty much it.
Homework is mindless, it's easy and makes Tony feel like he never gets anything done, even after he's turned it in. Bruce always pretends to have trouble with chemistry, to give Tony something else to do, but he's never really good at pretending to suck at something, and it always ends up with Bruce re-explaining it because Tony's gotten distracted watching him wet his lips over and over again.
Tony thinks a lot about how much he wants Bruce, in more ways than what he gets
It's raining that afternoon he gets home from his cardiologist's office. Howard and Maria are going to the ballet with a senator and his wife/girlfriend/ex-wife/someone and won't be home until four. They don't tell Tony this, but Jarvis lets him know at dinner where everyone's gone off to and lets his hand linger a second longer on Tony's shoulder. It’s the closest thing he's gotten to a hug since his sixth birthday.
He's half asleep at eight when Bruce falls onto his balcony, soaking wet, and knocks on the glass.
"Jesus Christ!" Tony opens the door and hauls him in. "What the hell--"
"I got my letter," Bruce says excited, shoving something soggy that was probably once an envelope into Tony's hands. "From Culver. I got my letter from Culver!"
Tony swallows. Culver is in Virginia. Culver is Bruce's dream school. Culver is all he's talked about for weeks.
"Dude." Bruce takes the envelope back. "I haven't opened it yet. Pay attention, I wanted to open it with you."
"Oh." Tony nods and sits on his bed while Bruce strips out of his wet clothes. "You can't just, like, come over. Like that."
"Yeah," Bruce says, sounding like he's officially fed up with this argument. "I definitely can." He comes back in, wearing some of the clothes he's left at Tony's, and looks at the letter. "So? Wanna open it with me?"
"Well you risked fucking pneumonia and sepsis to get over here with so, yeah, I fucking guess so." Bruce frowns, for a millisecond, then beams, tearing at the letter with eager, fumbling hands. Tony's stomach drops, but only because he felt how thick the letter was. Thick letters mean one thing. It isn't surprising, of course, that Bruce is getting into Culver. He rolls on the floor with the letter in his hand, thanking God and whoever else and looking so fucking happy Tony might puke for him.
"Tony. I'm going to Culver. I have fucking wet dreams about Culver."
"I know." I have wet dreams about you.
"Tony." Bruce sits up, puts the letter down. "Hey."
Tony can feel his heart starting to race, his vision fogging up. He's having a panic attack or something. He's getting worked up for no good reason and he can feel his stomach turning and his chest tightening and suddenly Bruce is tugging him down, into his lap, and Tony is breathing through it, eyes closed, feeling Bruce's cold hands on the back of his neck and under his shirt.
"You're okay," he says quietly. "It's okay. Where's your monitor?" Tony reaches under the bed and pulls it out. "Check yourself. I'll go get some water." Tony watches his heart rate go down and feels less nauseous. Bruce brings a glass of water. "Here. Culver's not that far from Boston," he murmurs, pressing a wet rag over Tony's skin. "I'll come see you. I'd never leave you out there alone."
"I can handle being alone," Tony snaps. He's alone all the time.
"You know," Bruce corrects. "Without me."
I'm without you all the time, Tony doesn't say.
"Let's go to sleep," Bruce murmurs, and for the millionth time in their friendship, maybe more, Bruce helps Tony get undressed and puts him to bed. Bruce curls against his back, and presses his mouth to Tony's neck. "It's gonna be fine. You're gonna be okay. I love you. I love you so much."
"What do you call a jazz singer without a girlfriend?" Howard asks.
Bruce answers, "Homeless, sir," and Howard laughs and laughs and laughs until he reaches out and puts a gentle hand on Bruce's shoulder.
"Good man, Banner. Good man." It's the second time Howard's asked Tony specifically to have Bruce over for dinner. Tony'd be jealous of the way his father coos over Bruce and calls him a genius if he didn't know this was all for his own benefit, not Howard's. Howard adores Bruce and pities him, thinks he's the best thing for Tony, but knows he's damaged goods.
Tony suspects that Howard sees a little bit of himself in Bruce, because Howard didn't really have a father who loved him, either. Tony sometimes knows the feeling.
"So Culver," Howard says, finishing his wine. "Tony told me. That's good, Bruce. That's really good."
"Thank you, sir. But MIT. That's pretty amazing." Bruce shoots Tony a grin and is rewarded with a I don't need you to be impressed for me look, which Bruce frowns at. "Anyway."
"Tony deserves MIT," Howard agrees. "Tony will run MIT, if he has his way."
"Start off be relandscaping that shithole," he mutters. Howard makes a noise of agreement. When dinner is cleared away Howard gets a conference call in one of the libraries and Tony and Bruce sneak another bottle of wine when his back is turned and steal up the stairs.
Tony shouldn't drink the way he does with his meds. It makes his head fuzzier than it should and his heart speed up, but sometimes he thinks that it's Bruce who makes his heart race. They lay stretched out next to one another, Bruce's index finger slowly tracing the vein in Tony's neck, measuring his pulse.
"Hey," Bruce murmurs. "I'm going to kiss you. Is that okay? Can I--" Tony nods fervently and Bruce smiles, slides their lips together. His tongue is in Tony's mouth and he's cradling Tony's face in his hands, kissing him slow and gentle, trying to keep their shared pulses calm. But Tony can feel it thrumming now, not so fast, but fast enough to excite him, make him dizzy. He wants Bruce to never stop, never ever stop. "We should put fireworks on the roof of the english building," Bruce decides, pulling back, and Tony laughs and laughs until Bruce kisses him again to shut him up.
The fireworks display that goes off during fourth hour is magnificent, and Tony only gets one suspicious look in the hall from Principal Fury, who knows it's Tony and Bruce up to this shit.
It's just that everyone knows Bruce is fucked up, that his dad won't do anything about it, so no one calls home. Nothing's on fire and no one's dead -- they're off the hook for a while longer.
Bruce and Tony have moved up to a quiet boyfriend status in the halls, and Tony lets Bruce hook a finger in the belt loop of his jeans and kiss him before he goes to calc class.
No one calls Bruce a faggot for three weeks, until Thor Odinson's punk kid brother tries to say something from the safety of his greasy hideout behind the Discount Tires sign next to the softball field and Bruce puts him in the hospital. Fury has to bring him in -- Loki's father is calling for blood and when Brian Banner shows up to the school at noon, he's hungover, half-way to being drunk, and not really in the mood to be told what his son did. Tony catches sight of Bruce being dragged by his shirt collar to the station wagon and shoved roughly inside. He knows where Bruce will be later tonight, already anticipating the stinging cuts and bruises he'll nurse and press his lips to.
But Bruce doesn't come.
Tony waits and waits and thinks he hears him some time around four, but still, Bruce isn't there.
He's in the school the next day. No limp. No black eye. He hooks his finger in Tony's belt loop and kisses him outside of calc class.
"Hold your breath," he murmurs. Tony isn't sure why.
Tony only tries to make Bruce go to graduation once. He pitches his voice a little higher and promises blowjobs and handjobs and facejobs and whatever other kind of job Bruce wants, but he doesn't budge.
"Is it the gown?"
"Stop treating me like a charity case," Bruce snaps and plops down onto Tony's floor to bookmark fetish porn on Tony's laptop. "Can I change your desktop background to this picture of an anime chick having sex with an octopus?"
"No. And I don't treat you like a charity case."
"Did you take your meds?" Bruce asks. He closes the computer. "I don't need your help, Tony. I'm not going because I don't want to. Clint's not going either. We're smoking at his brother's house--"
"Great, because you need to be doing more of that."
Bruce scowls. "Stop doing that."
"What?" Tony asks.
"That. I'm a standard-issue fuck up, not a headcase, Tony. I don't need you to babysit me."
Tony says, "I love you," and immediately regrets it. Because he means it differently, this time. Bruce balks and pulls on his jacket. "Bruce--"
"I need to make dinner. Dad's sober tonight, he'll want stew."
"Bruce."
"I'll call you," he says.
He doesn't. Tony's not surprised.
Turns out Tony doesn't make it to graduation either. He wakes up in the middle of the night, chest aching and lungs on fire. He spends graduation night in the hospital, listening to the melodic beep of the heart monitor, scowling at the candy stripers and flicking jell-o at the walls.
"Classy," Bruce says from the doorway. "Jarvis busted your secret wide open." He's carrying a graduation gown in his hand. "I went, you know. You weren't there. I was mad for like, five seconds, but I knew. Jarvis told me when I called." He pulls up a chair by Tony's bed. "I'm sorry I got mad and didn't call."
"I'm sorry I almost went into cardiac arrest."
"Call it even?" Bruce asks, and Tony kisses him. "I love you, too, by the way. Fucking moron."
"Yeah," Tony says. "I know."