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Tony Stark was not the most responsible of people; he left that sort of thing to Steve who seemed to really get off on it. And hey, who was he to say what Steve could or could not get off on. It was all good. Except that he still wasn’t big on Steve’s thing with Howard.
That was creepy and wrong. Seriously, seriously wrong on, like, a subatomic level.
God, he needed to stop thinking about it now. Now, now, now, now, any time now!
Where was he? Oh, right, Tony was not responsible, so how he wound up being the designated driver while Steve, *Steve* boozed it up and practically sexed guy after guy on the dance floor was beyond him.
And it wasn’t even his idea!
No, Steve just showed up on his doorstep, not that he had a doorstep, but that’s beside the point. Anyway, Steve showed up at his doorstep, with a fake smile, and a semi-genuine “Happy birthday, Tony! I still got my fake ID, let’s get drunk!” Well, what was he supposed to say? He was always telling Steve to live a little.
Only, now that Steve was living a little, it was… It wasn’t right. Steve wasn’t right. He was self-destructing, right before Tony’s eyes. Oh, and Tony knew self-destruction, he was a master of self-destruction. It scared him because Steve was his best friend.
Because he needed Steve to be his rock. Because… because he loved Steve and he wanted Steve to be happy. He needed Steve to be happy. Even if that meant Steve slept with Howard and did the happily ever after thing. Not that Tony believed that Howard could *do* happily ever after.
Anyway, Tony was not responsible, but when Steve sucked down another vodka tonic, that was it. That was *enough.* Tony slipped into the bathroom, pulled out his cellphone, and hit number two on his speed dial.
“Tony?” Howard said. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day. Steve—“
“I know,” he replied. “He’s here. Dad, he’s here. And he’s not okay.”