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The air around them is cool and damp, but still tinged with the day’s warmth, ruffling through the curtains and carrying in the scent of magnolias and hot earth. The pages of his book flutter, once, twice, as a particularly strong breeze is carried through the open window, and on his stomach, Tony exhales deeply, his tanned face pressed against Steve’s bare torso.
Outside, the night is doing that peculiar phenomenon that Steve has only seen in the South, where the sky turns a million different colors, in a way that seems to break every rule of color theory, but always ends up in the same shade of purple when the sun finally falls behind the horizon.
The world is so much quieter here. That is an ostensible fact, as they are a thousand miles from their Tower in New York City, where even ninety stories up, the sounds of honking and news helicopters and thrashing noise permeate the air. But, to Steve it is so much quieter in so many ways.
Firstly, the town they’re in is small, made up of antique stores and little restaurants with waitresses that call you honey, and mean it. The house they’re renting is small, too, a two bedroom with so much natural lighting and white wooden floors that get warm from all the sun. There’s even a little tin-roof garage in the back, where Tony has a Triumph Spitfire tucked away, that was almost too small to put their bags in.
The town is small and quiet, with people who either don’t recognize them or are too polite to make a scene. The only person who actively sought them out was the chief of police, who asked with deep concern if there was something going on.
“I’m sure there’s nothing going on, Captain,” the older man had drawled, voice rich and slow, his eyes a brown deeper than Tony’s, “But I’m just wanting to know if we needa be on the lookout for something.”
“I hope not,” Steve had smiled, “We’re just taking a breather from the city, no Avengers business, I swear.”
The chief, in his deep blue patrol uniform, raised an eyebrow, “Long way for a breather, huh?”
Steve had just waggled his head and shouldered his bag of produce a little higher, “We needed a big breather.”
He and Tony had been trying to keep a low profile still, even though they were sure the whole town knew who and where they were.
He and Tony sleep in, now, something that had never happened before. Of course, ‘sleep in’ is relative, because Steve’s body is biologically incapable of sleeping more than nine hours, and Tony’s brain is incapable of shutting off for more than eight. But they sleep in, and Steve still goes for a run in the morning, but it’s later and slower. And Tony wakes up around when Steve gets back to their little white-brick rented home, and meets him at the door with a kiss almost every time. If Steve’s extra lucky, there’s even a cup of coffee that has been spared.
Tony will kiss him, then wrinkle his nose and tug pointedly at the hem of his sweat-soaked shirt, because even in the morning time it’s hot here, and if Steve’s been a really good super soldier, Tony joins him in the shower that’s probably too small for two grown men.
Now though, Tony is wearing a pair of what look like linen lounge pants, his bare feet propped up on the dresser at the side of the bed. Steve tears his eyes away from his book and smiles at the little red dots covering Tony’s feet.
“I told you to wear shoes out here, Tony,” Steve said, applying little dots of hydrocortisone cream to the red and puffy bites.
Tony huffed, his arms crossed across his bare chest in a way that would normally distract Steve if it weren’t for the damaged feet in his lap. The sun bakes their backs as they sit on the little steps that lead into the back yard, the oak trees whispering with the breeze.
“How the hell was I supposed to know that the ants would bite?” Tony exclaimed, one hand reaching down to scratch at a higher bite on his ankle.
Steve tsked and batted Tony’s hand away, “Don’t scratch, that makes them scar over.”
Tony groaned, wiggling his toes, “What kind of benevolent God puts biting ants on the earth? That alone has to be an argument against religion.”
Steve bit the corner of his cheek in an attempt not to laugh, dabbing more cream across Tony’s feet.
“What kind of super genius steps in a fire ant hill?”
Tony kicked him.
“How’s the book, darling?” Now-Tony asks, his words softened, as though he didn’t want to break the little bubble the silence of the evening had formed around them.
The only sounds are the creaky ceiling fan and the cicadas in the trees outside, who seem to scream in five minute intervals.
Steve takes the book in his right hand and curls his left over Tony’s waist, thumb brushing the soft, warm skin there. Tony sighs a little at the touch, a hint of a smile making the little crinkles around his eyes more prominent, and Steve aches with the need to kiss him, but he waits.
“Oh, it’s good,” he returns, just as soft, “a little sadder than I anticipated, I guess.”
Tony doesn’t open his eyes, which had drifted shut an hour ago, when Steve had begun to play with the soft curls of Tony’s hair, but he does make an inquisitive sort of sound.
“Read me a little of it,” Tony asks, eyes still shut, “Tell me why it’s sad.”
Steve feels his throat constrict for a reason unknown and gives into the need to kiss Tony, brushing the faintest kiss to Tony’s lips and tastes sweet tea.
Lazily, like a house cat, Tony opens his eyes and cocks a brow, “Is that a no?”
Steve laughs, and feels the breeze pick up again and cool the light sheen of sweat that had gathered at his brow with the night’s warmth, “No, sweetheart, not a no, I’ll read some for you.”
Tony perks up and curls further into Steve, his eyes saying, go on.
“‘Keep the habit, help the habit; lay out the coffee and poetry; keep the silence; smile when he walked sulkily out of his office to the bathroom. Take nothing personally. And did you sometimes leave an art book around with a thought that it would be the key to his mind?’” Steve cleared his throat , eyes glancing down at Tony, whose eyes had slipped back shut, but who was obviously listening. “‘And did you sometimes put on music that might unlock the doubt and fear? Did you love it, the rain dance everyday? Only when it rained.’”
Steve brushes his hand across Tony’s side again, enjoying the warmth of the muscle and the feeling of him at his side.
“I think it’s sad,” he began, but stopped. It wasn’t sad, the book he was reading wasn’t sad, but it was a little tragic at parts. “I think it’s tragic,” Steve amended, after a moment.
Tony nodded once, an invitation for him to continue.
“I think it’s tragic, because the main character, Less, doesn’t see the genius of himself. And I think it’s tragic to love someone so much and not get to keep them, even if you sacrifice yourself to have them.”
Tony opens his eyes and considers this, “That is a tragedy.”
Tony presses the side of his face against Steve and removes his ant-bitten feet from the rattan dresser, curling up. Steve watches the man at his side, the man with startling amounts of genius, like Less’s own Robert. But Steve’s genius, his husband, is different. Tony’s soft and sweet, and sure he can be an ass, but never when it really counts.
“I’m not that far in, though, so maybe it won’t be a tragedy,” Steve says, watching Tony’s big brown eyes as he blinks and yawns.
“Time for bed?” Steve asks, even though he’s not that tired.
Tony ponders this for a moment, and hums, eyes staring up at the tall, white ceiling.
“I’m just a little drowsy,” he finally says, eyes having slipped back closed. “I’m never this lazy back in New York.”
Steve finds himself laughing, softly, because that was the whole point of this little breather.
“I like you sleepy and lazy,” Steve says, voice going low. And it’s true, he loves seeing Tony all soft with sleep, freckles coming out in full force from the heat of the sun. The light from the lamp on the bedside table turns him golden, a sculpture cast in bronze, and Steve itches for some paints.
“I like you relaxed.”
Hands made rough by decades of hard work and battles pull Steve down, against Egyptian cotton sheets that Steve thinks Tony brought, against warm skin and soft laughter, and into someone Steve thinks he’s spent his whole life searching for.
The cicadas outside their walls pick up their shrill cry again, thousands of little voices in the night. And it is quieter than it is in New York, with people who talk slower and smile wider and cicadas and fire ants and magnolias.
They’re slow that night, as they take each other apart and then rebuild. Tony’s voice, desperate and gasping at once, teasing and playful the next, can almost certainly be heard outside, in the loamy night.
Steve’s voice is louder.