as soon as beck is back on his feet, tony practically longs for that feeling of him growing heavy in his lap, the way that his breath had started to even out. something is wrong and that much he knows; it’s more than just the absence of medication. this isn’t something that tony is allowed to be apart of anymore though; there’s a fraction dividing them, has been for some time now. something worse than the snap, and he doesn’t fully think that that’s possible. fingers shake against his thighs, watching the way that beck fights anything remotely resembling sleep. it falls in shatters around them and makes him breathe in sharply through his nose. everything that he had ever wanted is lying broken and he doesn’t know how to repair it. he’s a genius, has inherited a multi-million dollar company, and yet there’s just something about the two of them that he can’t super glue back together.
tony’s never been good with piecing them back together, has never been good with pulling back and pushing together from a fight. heart hammers in an aching chest; how many times have they fought now and not been able to find their way back? both of them are stubborn, horrible, twisted into broken pieces that they can’t fully articulate. tony wanted the technology for therapeutic purposes, sees the good in the tech while beck sees the opportunity for illusions, to make everyone see what he wants them to. even back then he knew that something was wrong, that he couldn’t let beck actually get his hands on the tech in that manner, but his heart had let him. because tony would do anything for him.
everyone thinks that tony is incapable of love, that he was this gigantic playboy just because the tabloids reported it. but the truth of the matter was, was that behind closed doors, his heart was in the hands of one quentin beck, no matter how many times he seen a giant bunny or how many times they fought one another, tooth and nail. he loves him, full heartedly, and he has never recovered from their break up. because when you put everything on the line, hold your hand out and hope that he’ll take it and he never does —— it scars you. it makes you pull away from other people, because you start to think that maybe it’s you. maybe everything you touch is meant to break and fall. if you can’t keep the one thing that you so desperately want, are you really meant to have it?
so no, tony’s never been good at pulling the threads closer so that they’re stitched back together. beck’s always been just out of his touch, that figment of an illusion that his hand will go though if he truly tries. but that doesn’t mean that tony’s ever moved on, or that tony’s ever even found his footing once it’s fallen to pieces and he’s tumbled from the cliff.
it’s easier to project and be what the tabloids want, because then he knows what everyone will expect of him. he knows they’ll get close for the fame and their photos together. and that’s okay —— mindless sex is better than being alone.
however, there’s a small fraction of hope, a small opening that quentin is providing him with. that’s more than he ever thought he would get from him. entire body has been poised to walk back out that door, ready to be kicked out and told to never return. it wouldn’t be the first time that he’s found himself out on his ass when it comes to quentin beck, and he doubts that those moments will be the last. but right now, there’s an olive branch dangling in front of him, and he pulls in a careful breath. hope is a dangerous thing to have, but he allows himself the moment. he’s selfish and he indulges, nodding his head as he watches the interaction between the dog who so obviously loves his former lover.
“i could go for breakfast. haven’t exactly had anything to eat yet today.” a small shrug of his shoulders; they’re both notorious for getting too wrapped up in their work to grab something. it’s almost a familiar tip toe into the past: if he closes his eyes, he can pretend that they’re back in the lab, that quentin is nudging his nose into his shoulder and kissing it before telling him it’s time for a break. that’s dangerous though.
he dismisses the thought almost right away.
“as long as it’s french toast. i make a mean stuffed french toast if you’ve got the ingredients.” another olive branch, and tony’s aware of how fast his heart is beating, how every inch of him wants to back him against the counter and wipe whipped cream across his lips like he used to.
the dog nudges against him, nudges him out of that dangerous thought, and he sends beck a small smile. it’s okay to hope and remember —— but this is about beck, not him, and he refuses to be selfish any further.
𝐈𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊, 𝐀 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃. the walls of his house melt before his very eyes, reshaping into something new, somewhere familiar. they’re back in tony’s house, the mirrors of his hallway now drip down to form the giant waterfall by the stairs. the white walls, the spiral staircase, the large open windows to the beach. those were sights that allowed a certain spread of warmth to settle over quentin’s chest, the familiarity beckoning him forward to live in this moment. he remembers this, it’s the morning after tony had gotten a proper night’s sleep since his return from afghanistan. quentin had made them breakfast that morning, nothing special but something nonetheless just to celebrate the little things. this was the one night that he had witnessed tony triumph over the demons that plagued his dreams, a newfound praise for the man swelled in quentin’s chest.
tony was beside him, donning that familiar velvety red robe that matched the color of his couches, the folds parted just enough to reveal that soft blue glow at the center of his chest. take care of it, will you ? i need the man attached to it. quentin had said, although his mouth did not move, his voice still carried the words. it was an odd experience, simultaneously reliving the memory yet being unable to move within it. tony turned towards him, his face full of youth and hair with less flecks of grey, that same small smile perched on his lips. tony then told him not to break it, his reactor, his heart. to which quentin had replied with don’t break mine first.
and just like that, the scene shatters around him. the warm memory of what might have been the last time that they had breakfast together, a shared moment of pure domesticity, falls. he attempts to grab at the shards of the memory now fading before his very fingertips, but it’s no use. his body remains frozen in place, eyes only staring straight forward as if the second he were to look away, he too would fall victim to shattering.
he’s plunged into darkness, nothing but a hallway that seems to get smaller and smaller the more he were to walk down. at the end stands that all too familiar menacing face. eyes a pupil less white, teeth jutting out from the bottom of its obscure snout, and lengthy ears that bent in ways that only added to its intimidating height.
not now, not in front of tony. wherever he was.
the bunny’s head tilted in such a way that made its teeth appear as if it were grinning. as if it knew that there was no other way out of this situation that to walk towards him, join him for whatever sick pleasures he commanded. quentin felt nauseous, a certain sway in his step that almost sent him tumbling backwards. he attempted to regain his balance, but that pull backwards was sharper this time, making his head jerk backwards away from frank’s beckoning grin.
he blinks and everything returns back to normal. he’s in his lit hallway, the ones with the newspaper taped mirrors, and tony the dog looking up at him expectantly with his tail wagging, and a living breathing tony stark besides him. a warmth blossoms in his hand, pale eyes breaking from tony’s searching ones to focus on the fact that his hand was clasped around tony’s own. the breath he had been holding now freely escapes his lungs, the wave of nausea passing. a smile flickers on his lips for a moment before he turns to whatever was before him. the tape from one of the mirrors had gotten unstuck, allowing for the newspaper to fall and reveal the glassy reflection underneath.
“ sorry, ” quentin whispers, bending down to pick up the paper and tack it back into place. “ i daydreamed again. ” typically it would be something that he would laugh about, an activity he would undertake during long lab hours and not enough sleep. but nowadays, the daydreams were just as terrifying as nightmares. nightmares tampered with his subconscious, him nothing more than a puppet on strings. but daydreams mocked him, played memories before his eyes while he remained motionless, unable to interact, only to be yanked away by frank in another attempt of getting to him. if tony had not pulled his hand, quentin had no idea what would have happened.
quentin was about to brush it off, carry on walking back towards the kitchen like nothing happened, but he hesitates. “ do you remember that one morning we had breakfast together, the one after you had finally slept through the night after afghanistan ? ” a smile finds its way back to his lips, a single shard of that memory had been tucked safely into his pocket. “ i had attempted to make stuffed french toast for you. you pretended to like it but distracted me so you could make a fresh batch. ” laughing, he shakes his head, hand not close to losing its grip with tony’s. “ i got better at it, i’ll show you. ”
