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There was something about slowly dying that made somebody feel incredibly… maudlin. When Tony realized the very thing keeping him alive was also killing him (and not even in a cool way, which was both ironic and disappointing), the trajectory of his life changed.
Well, “changed” was an understatement. A change would have been a turn to veganism or, like, making a New Year’s resolution that he kept for more than a month. Finding out that he was going to be snuffed out from blood poisoning, and that there was nothing known to mankind that could fix it, had quite literally started Tony on a downward spiral.
Maybe that was why his house was filled with people whose names he didn’t know, whose faces he didn’t recognize. He could blame it on that. If it was going to be his final trip around the sun before he died, at least he wouldn’t be alone.
But Tony sure felt lonely.
He hoped that distracting himself with some of his old vices would miraculously make him feel better, but none of it did. Halfway through the party, he snuck up to the second floor of his mansion for a breather. The bass in the music was bumping so loud from downstairs that even the walls of his master bedroom were shaking. He felt the vibrations under him, heard the rhythmic pulsing in his ears, as he watched the surface of his whiskey in its decanter tremor. It sat just beside his wardrobe, almost taunting in the way all liquor seemed to when Tony was feeling so low.
His fingertips had barely grazed the cool glass of the decanter when a row of knocks sounded on his door, so light he almost missed them. Tony didn’t bother turning to see who it was, knowing his personal assistant was the only one who probably noted his brief absence. Even then, he couldn’t help his eyes from flickering to the mirror in front of him to catch the man step into the room.
James stood at the door frame, long hair tucked behind his ears, avoiding Tony’s eye by playing with the ostentatious conch shell sitting on the nearby dresser. His fingers traced the dips and rough edges, entranced. With amusement lacing his voice, he asked, “Did you know one of your little influencer pals is shotgunning out by the pool?”
Tony’s hand fell to his side as he angled his head over his shoulder. Stashing the thought of drinking the rest of his night away, he fully turned to his assistant. “Downing beer by the can is known to be a collegiate pastime, yes.”
“The other shotgunning,” he replied, earning a curious tilt of the head from Tony. “Hitting a blunt before letting someone else breathe it into their lungs. It was weirdly hot—if you were into that sort of thing.” A small grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.
That Tony saw a flash behind his eyes just then, an image of James crowding into his personal space with his lips only centimeters from his own as he blew dank smoke into his lungs, meant nothing. (Because if it meant something, Tony felt that he was one complaint away from HR, and for that Pepper would have his head.)
Tony’s silence must have sent alarms ringing in James’s head, though, because a look of concern suddenly fell across his features. “You’re crashing, aren’t you?”
Tony blinked once. “What?”
James waved a hand, trying to find the words. “Like… your social battery is draining.”
“No. Maybe. It’s been…” Tony sighed, acquiescing. He reached up to unbutton the top of his shirt, cool air hitting his throat. (And if James tracked his movement with intent, he didn’t mention it.) “I don’t want to go back down there. I should’ve canceled the party, huh?”
“Probably.” James shrugged, walking forward to reach for Tony’s arm, leading him to the corner recliner. His hand was warm, fingers curling comfortably in the crook of Tony’s elbow.
“Right.” Tony let himself be pulled, the phantom tightness in his chest loosening a bit at the firm touch. “After the press fiasco, it’s, um…”
“Ill-timed,” James offered, nodding.
“Yeah, sends the wrong message.”
“Mhm. Inappropriate.”
Tony leaned into the seat cushion as he sat, conscious of the fact that he was looking up at James. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence that blanketed them, at least Tony didn’t think so, but he did tense up when James reached across him to get to the side table, picking up an empty glass before stepping away.
Tony didn’t mean to breathe.
Well—okay—breathing was normal and automatic and necessary for survival and blah, blah, blah—but he didn’t mean to breathe him in. James smelled of aftershave and cologne and… something that Tony couldn’t quite put his finger on.
He wasn’t sure, either, what prompted him to speak, but the words were flying out of his mouth before he could stop them: “Can I ask you a question, hypothetically?”
James huffed out a laugh, replacing the glass on Tony’s wardrobe, before pivoting on his heel. “It depends on what it is.”
“It’s a bit odd,” Tony revealed. He watched as the brows rose on James’s forehead. “If this had been the last birthday party you were ever going to have, how would you have celebrated?”
James turned stoic, eyes shifting from Tony’s gaze, lowering. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the dark veins on Tony’s neck were visible now that he wasn’t really trying to hide them. There was quick moment of hesitancy where Tony expected his assistant to give him a playful answer, to let the tension of the question dissipate, but he didn’t. Instead, James walked back to Tony, eyes never leaving his face, and placed both of his hands on the chair’s armrest.
“I would’ve done whatever I wanted to do,” he said quietly. James let his tongue dart out, dragging across his bottom lip, and Tony’s eyes followed. “With whoever I wanted to do it with.”
“What if the person I wanted… um… didn’t want to?” Tony surprised himself with the vulnerability in his inquiry; surprised himself even more when he met James’s gaze—the stormy blue-grey of his eyes that Tony wanted to drown in—and refused to look away.
James didn’t hesitate with his next reply, breath warm against Tony’s skin. “Trust me. He wants to.”
Tony’s fingers were in James’s hair before he could think, leaving light scratches on his scalp before he tugged on the long strands. A choked moan escaped James’s mouth, a deep flush painting his cheeks as Tony pulled him into a rough kiss. He groaned, shifting to pull James closer without breaking contact.
James settled himself between the V of Tony’s legs, kneeling to the floor as his broad hands braced Tony’s hips. Every breath they exchanged, Tony inhaling at James’s every exhale; with each swipe of his tongue, Tony worked to name the spicy-sweet taste of James’s mouthwash.
Cinnamon. The thought flitted through Tony’s brain like a fluttering moth to a flame, suddenly disappearing when James bit at his lip, moving to leave a trail of wet kisses down his chin, his jaw, his neck. Tony felt warm fingers tuck under his collar, fingertips tracing the angry lines poking out from his shirt.
Instinctively, Tony wrapped a hand around James’s wrist, making them both pause. They looked at each other, pupils as black as pitch and lips kissed cherry red. James twisted his hand to grasp Tony’s, dipping his head to place featherlight kisses to his palm. To the pads of each individual finger.
James nipped at Tony’s thumb, lips soft against his skin. He closed his mouth around the digit, sucking once before muttering, “Let me take care of you, sir.”
And just like that, Tony was done for.
