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Tony is retracing his steps.
It takes him a while to realize that’s what he’s doing. Some of it is the hectic schedule of the conference, some is the lack of sleep. He is no stranger to wild weekends, but this one comes at the end of an already busy month and he quickly finds himself struggling with the endless parade of faces. Most of them he has known for years, even if their relationship never went beyond nodding a greeting across crowded rooms. Others are completely new, enigmas in business casual attire, whose names slip away five seconds after they introduce themselves. Their projects stick in Tony’s memory much better, a cavalcade of new alloys, solar sails and gravity engines. Their enthusiastic explanations inevitably turn breathless when recognition dawns upon them. That is also when their eyes start periodically darting towards his chest, searching for any hint of the arc reactor.
Tony cannot bring himself to care. He hasn’t been to a conference in ages and it feels good to flex old, stiffened muscles. Half the time, he finds the torrent of new information too exhilarating to feel like a circus attraction.
What truly does him in are the insufferably formal events in the evenings. After a long day of talking shop, all he wants to do is blow off some steam downtown. Unfortunately, networking is a muscle he has not flexed in a while so, when the stars grow red and night descends over Budapest, he finds himself on an old-fashioned steamboat, drifting down the Danube to the sweeping notes of Vivaldi. The enchantment only lasts until his well of clever conversation runs dry. Then time seems to dilate, stretching every second like taffy. At times, he is convinced that the ornamented clock hanging above the champagne tower is ticking in the wrong direction.
He never expected aerospace engineering to be this fancy. In his experience, only the military could afford to blow so much money on something so thoroughly useless.
He suffered through the first night alone, purely to keep up appearances. Today, as he was fiddling with his tie in the bathroom mirror, he decided to call in reinforcements.
Said reinforcements arrived shortly afterwards and highly exceeded expectations. So much that when Tony walked onto the ship with company, he was strongly aware of a hush coming over the deck as the string quartet stumbled over their notes. It took unspeakable willpower to hide his satisfaction, even though he wasn’t sure what he was feeling so smug about. Attendees were very much encouraged to bring guests to these events. And for once, Tony had found someone who would take some attention away from him.
The only downside is that, every ten minutes, someone steals his guest away for an autograph or a picture. By the fifth time it happens, he seizes the opportunity to slip outside.
The upper weather deck is pleasantly cool compared to the rest of the ship. It is lit by LED garlands that creep along the mast like alien vines, while all around him, city lights shimmer upon the dark canvas of the Danube. Tony rests his elbows on the wooden rail and lets the river breeze wash over his flushed face. A champagne flute, his first and only this evening, hangs empty from his fingers, golden rim pointed towards the hull. He can hear distant conversation on the shore, but its meaning would escape him even if he spoke the language. The only thing that arrives with distinct clarity is the sharp scent of garlic and paprika drifting through the chilly September air.
His stomach grumbles its impatience for the hundredth’s time this evening. The minuscule hors d'oeuvres they serve at these events always feel like torture. It does not help that he hasn’t had anything since breakfast save for a sickeningly sweet latte. That is probably why most of the day feels like a blur and now that the sugar is fading from his system, time flows at the speed of molasses.
Explosive laughter echoes behind him, a stark contrast with yesterday's milktoast atmosphere. The first notes of Autumn trickle over creaking door hinges and are muffled again when they creak shut. Thor settles beside him, nursing a narrow glass of syrupy red wine. It’s the first time Tony has seen him drink anything that isn’t beer or liquor. From how full the glass still is, he can tell it will be the last.
Blue eyes catch his in the golden light. “Are you alright? I turned around and you were gone.”
“Yeah, I just needed some air. They really overheat these rooms.” Tony drums his fingers on the rail and studies the shadows behind the mullioned glazed door. “So, how do you like my new crowd?”
He knows a diplomatic silence when he hears one. He is then surprised to see a subtle smile tug at the corners of Thor’s mouth. “You have a curious idea of what hell on Earth means.”
“We’ve only been here for an hour, Sunshine. It’s a frog in a pot kind of deal.” He turns back to the water, casting a long, appreciative glance at the Asgardian ceremonial attire. “Gotta say, you clean up extremely well.”
Thor shrugs as he fiddles with the silver clasp of his cape. Tony tries not to think about the way it falls over his shoulders in the nascent moonlight. “I grew up in a palace,” he says. “It comes with the territory.”
Tony returns a light nod. By now, he is aware that he’s staring, just like every attendee whose mouth dropped open when they saw them walk in. He forces himself to focus on the shore but keeps getting caught in the gravity of claret velvet and soft leather, exquisitely crafted into a tapestry over Thor’s tall frame. Copper rings gleam over his fingers, etched with runes he can’t ever hope to read. And then, there are the thin lattice braids that run along the sides of his head and vanish seamlessly into a golden waterfall. The last time Tony saw something so intricate was on a poster for some fantasy movie he cannot remember.
He has never been a fantasy guy. Science fiction was his first love and, in his teenage years, he devoured the works of Asimov, Clark and Heinlein. And yet, ever since Thor has taken residence at the tower, it’s like his life has become the background for a high fantasy epic. One that has managed to thoroughly fascinate him, despite his lifelong resistance to the genre. He wonders if this is what happened to those who became obsessed with Game of Thrones.
Except it isn’t and he knows the answer before the question has time to formulate. The people behind the glazed door, they are fascinated. What he feels is something else entirely. A very frustrating something that makes him waver between speechless awe and a five-year-old in a playpen, throwing colorful blocks at the kid he can’t get out of his head.
Despite his best efforts, the five-year-old wins this round as he performs a mocking bow. “I keep forgetting I’m in the presence of royalty,” he says. “Space royalty, no less. Where did you leave that hammer of yours?”
“At the hotel cloak-room.” Thor flashes a grin at Tony’s raised eyebrow. “Come on, who is going to take it?”
“Life finds a way.” Thor does not reply and in his mind, Tony reaches for another block. “You’re very confident about the whole ‘not worthy’ thing. Are you sure it’s not just biometrics?”
“It’s sorcery, Stark. It’s much simpler than that.”
“Of course.” A snicker escapes Tony’s chest as he passes the empty champagne flute from hand to hand. “Hey, do you want to get out of here? I saw something I can’t pronounce in the Old Quarter but the smell blew my socks off. Also, I have to find out what a Pálinka is before we leave town.”
Thor seems to consider his proposal before gingerly giving the wine another taste. His nose wrinkles right away and he sets the glass aside for good. “What about your new crowd? Won’t they miss you?”
“So what if they do? I can’t drag you all the way to Europe and then stick you on an old boat with a bunch of nerds. What kind of friend would I be?”
“The same one who called me out of nowhere and said that it was life or death. I was getting ready for battle until you explained.”
Tony rolls his eyes when he hears Liszt replace Vivaldi in the background. “Alright, that part was a bit much. But the general vibe was absolutely true.”
“I’ve dealt with my fair share of catty nobles back on Asgard. These people seem perfectly nice in comparison.”
“That’s because you aren’t competing with them to build the swankiest rover.” Tony leans away from the rail and curses as the flute slips from his grasp into the inky water. “Also, you didn’t bring up Star Trek.”
Tony is retracing his steps.
He knows that now. The puzzle pieces slot into place one by one as the autumn chill lifts the drunken haze from his mind. It is a strange sensation, like revisiting an old dream where every detail has been carefully preserved in amber. The night is as crisp as he remembers, the street lights cast the same streaks of quivering gold upon the river. Even the pavement glistens from the same rain that has missed them by mere minutes. Its scent lingers in the moist air, mixing with the bitter smell of tobacco on his clothes. The country’s new ordinance about smoking indoors seems to be more of a matter of preference.
Same goes for the ordinance about noise levels after midnight. Despite the vigorous training in his youth, Tony’s ears ring from the screaming guitars at the bar they stumbled out of about an hour ago. It was the last one to close and the first one where nobody in the crowd recognized them. Tony had left it, finally learning what Pálinka was and the kind of punch it could pack if you downed three shots in a row. Thor had left with a new favorite band, not to mention a newfound appreciation for leather vests.
He now walks beside Tony with a distant expression and the ghost of a smile on his lips. Their lively, disjointed conversation has faded into an easy silence but Tony can still hear him singing along to a Blind Guardian track, head thrown back in joyful abandon, blue eyes glittering under the purple hue of the lamps. He can never get enough of that sound. It reminds him of a feeling long forgotten, buried under layers of detached cynicism. It reminds him of sincerity, of the exhilaration of discovery, of looking at the world with fresh, hungry eyes. Such must be the blessing of Asgardian longevity. Centuries on your hands to experience the many wonders of the universe, to be born anew over and over again.
Suddenly, he feels old. Too old to be walking back to a hotel room at five in the morning with a budding hangover. The fourth decade of his life, looming over the hill in less than three months, weighs upon his shoulders like never before. He had never dreaded the passage of time until he met someone to whom a decade was a cosmic blink.
They are on the Chain Bridge now. It has another name that always ties Tony’s tongue into a knot. He is in the middle of recalling it when Thor breaks the silence with a wide yawn. “You’re clean too,” he says. “Just so you know.”
Tony looks up in surprise. The elusive Hungarian name of the bridge glides across the surface of his mind and disappears for good. “What?”
“I mean, you clean up well too.”
Tony snorts as he holds up a sleeve covered in some unidentifiable black grime. “It doesn’t last, as you can see. Plus, I only learned how to tie a tie last week. I used to just wear clip-ons.
“That’s why we wear these.” Thor nods towards the cape now slung over his shoulder like a velvet scarf the color of ripe plums. “What happened to it, by the way?”
Tony runs a hand over his exposed neck to find the expensive strip of scarlet silk gone. “Crap,” he mutters, “I think I lost it at the dance club.”
“Should we come back for it?”
“No point. That tomato stain is never coming out.”
“That’s a shame. I thought it looked fetching.”
Thor does not look at him when he says it. His eyes are fixed upon the golden streams in the river but there’s a muted glow in them that makes Tony wonder if he likes science fiction. That jittering, restless feeling comes over him again, like too much caffeine after a sleepless night. By this point, the dance club downtown is a fuzzy memory, nothing but formless music and a sea of neon lights. And yet, in a flash of crystal clarity, he remembers his hands on soft leather and Thor’s fingers brushing against his face. He remembers drawing Thor closer and it being easy, despite his tall, muscular frame. He remembers their breaths mingling in the strobing dark.
And then the song changed, the moment was over and he does not know how they broke apart. Does not remember who let go first and what words had the deafening music drowned. He had tried not to think about it for the rest of the night and just when denial had distilled into chagrin, those words had stirred up his soul all over again. This time, there is no pleasant, floating sensation to cushion the blow. He has never been more sober in his entire life.
The unsupervised five-year-old in his mind balances another colorful block in his palm. “Fetching?” He lets out a theatrical groan. “Seriously? Do you hear yourself sometimes?
Thor casually switches his cape to his left shoulder. “I hear myself all the time,” he replies without missing a beat. “Must be an Asgardian thing.”
“Must be.”
That is all Tony can say as he catches the roguish glint across the blue eyes. For a brief moment, longing and utter madness mingle in his veins in a flash of heat, drowning out all logical thought. Part of him hates how unmoored he feels, hates to admit that this is alien territory, in more ways than one. His two college flings had an expiration date stamped on them from the start. The endless string of one-night stands were just mindless fun. The flame between him and Pepper had been fueled by long companionship and knowing each other a bit too well. This was something else entirely. This was the primordial man staring at the infinite beauty of the storm and knowing, deep within, that though he was never meant to have it, no force in the universe could stop him from trying.
His racing thoughts trip over one another. He fights to settle them by focusing on the naked girders, gleaming softly under the yellow gaze of the street lamps. “Huh,” he muses, “there used to be padlocks all over those. Guess bridge inspectors don’t appreciate romance.”
“You’ve been here before?”
Tony glances up to meet the watchful stare of a lion statue. “Me and a bunch of friends came here for spring break in our junior year. We wanted to be sophisticated but we just partied all week. On our last night, I came here with a girl to watch a fireworks show.” He pauses at the memory and leans against the stone rail. “That was the intention, anyway. We made out through most of it.”
A smile floats over Thor’s mouth. “Was she pretty?”
Dark hair, a turned-up nose and a million freckles bubble up in Tony’s mind along with the sweet scent of peach perfume. “She was,” he admits. “Pretty and smart. So much that she dumped me in a month. You’re not planning to leave the team, are you?”
“Not in a million years.” Thor tosses a pebble from the rail into the dark water below. “So what I’m hearing is, you have a proven strategy?”
Again, his eyes are far away, tracking the direction of the pebble as it disappears into the sloshing waves. Taut silence stretches between them, a vibrating string seeking the right note and Tony can feel it thrumming deep in his blood. For the first time in a while, he is at a loss for words, even though his mind is a beehive. He is the fabled alchemist, set to catch the wild lightning in the sky, who is only now wondering if he is up to the task.
He eyes the thin sliver of the moon that hangs over the river like a ceremonial sickle. “I wouldn’t call it a strategy,” he says eventually. “It’s more of a hypothesis. A long-shot, if anything.”
He expects Thor to laugh. He doesn’t. Instead, Tony senses his tall frame move almost imperceptibly closer until their elbows touch on the cold stone. “Would it really be that unlikely?” he asks in a low tone. “Midgardians can be odd about these things. I never know how... well...”
He trails off and breathes a self-conscious sigh. For a moment, he looks just as lost and unsure as Tony feels. Still, he doesn’t pull away when Tony reaches out his hand to slowly trace the intricate patterns on the copper rings. “Is it different on Asgard?,” he asks. “I don’t really know myself.”
“It’s not as strict. Or as neatly ordered.” Thor lets a pause hang in the air before shaking his head with a sheepish smile. “Except if you’re the crown prince. Then it’s unthinkable. You need a blood heir after all.”
Tony suppresses a groan rising in his throat. He’s been on the wrong end of that conversation many times with reporters who harbored a particular obsession with the Stark legacy. There are times when he wonders if that is why his father chose to have kids at all. If starry-eyed dreams of some modern-day dynasty are the only reason he is standing here, beneath the pale moonlight in a foreign country, closing the distance between him and an alien god. If that is the case, then there is at least one thing he can thank the old man for.
“Well,” he snickers, “heirs are definitely not happening here. Everything else is still an option, though.”
He speaks the words before he can process how corny they sound. Before he can mentally kick himself, he watches a playful spark burn in Thor’s eyes. “You should think twice before saying that to an Asgardian. We can think of a lot of options.”
A triumphant grin blooms over Tony’s face. His hands move tentatively at first, then with newfound confidence as they travel over copper, velvet and leather. “There you go.” he says with mock disappointment. “Underestimating humans again. For shame, Sunshine. What do they teach you on that flat rock?”
“Clearly not enough.”
His voice is a whisper of rain over fallen leaves. It washes away all that remains of Tony’s wit as he draws Thor into his arms. “Oh well,” he murmurs. “You have all the time in the world to learn.”
Their hands are on each other’s shoulders now, their bodies leaning closer until their foreheads touch. Loosened braids drift across Tony’s face and bring with them the scent of petrichor, ozone and wildflowers. He feels his breath catch against his will as his fingers tiptoe over the intricacies of the Asgardian attire, cursing how tightly it hugs him for the first time tonight. When he cups his face, beneath the blond mane, it is warm, so impossibly warm despite the cold September wind. When he captures his lips, they taste like lightning fracturing the night sky before coming undone under its own power. And when they kiss him back with that insatiable hunger of centuries, he can almost feel the same lightning pierce his heart beneath the arc reactor.
He knows now that he will miss his flight back home. He also knows that it will be worth it.
The living storm in his arms shivers when their kiss breaks. Callused hands find Tony’s face and sink into his hair. “Stark," he breathes. “I...”
Tony chuckles as he gently presses a finger against Thor’s parted lips. “Ground rules first,” he says. “Anyone who kisses me like that has to use my first name.”