He looks at the phone what feels like a thousand times a day. Just a slim little piece of technoglass with just about every connection he's got built right in. Something so small and he can't look away, can't reach out when he knows he should.
Tony looks at the phone and wills Steve to call because he doesn't have the emotional vocabulary to say the walls are closing in, I need you.
He thinks about calling Tony, his Tony (as ridiculous a phrase as there ever was) because there was no one who would understand that clawing descent more than him. But in the end, he won't risk making things worse for the man.
Tony looks at the phone and silently begs for a call from Phil. Just one call that isn't distant and guarded. Two minutes. A laugh. Something. Some crack in the facade to help ease the paranoia that it was all in his head.
A call from Erik, even if it is just the sound of the piano in the background. Just to know he was safe and well.
Wally's laugh. Bruce's exasperated sigh. Lanna's warmth. Peter's energetic babble. Things Tony has forfeited in his swath of self destruction. He looks at the phone and he hopes against hope that maybe one of them will slip through.
And sometimes when he's deep in the bottle and staring out at the stars, he'll even pick up the phone. Let it warm in his hand. But he never makes the call.
