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"Oh my god, he's gonna hear you—"
"So what? He used to be proud of it, man, he was so cool—"
"He grew up, you should try it sometime."
"Just cause he's not a celebrity anymore doesn't mean he's not still Tony Stark. You're delusional if you think they aren't fucking."
"So, uh." Steve turned to Tony, blocking out the students as best he could, trying to remember he wasn't actually supposed to be able to hear them. "Catapults?"
Thankfully, that was all it took to get Tony to start talking again, and Steve let his happy science babble drown out the still gossiping kids. At least, until Tony mentioned the part where they stood up front and let the students pelt them with paint balls.
"Why on earth would I—"
"Come on, they've been psyched about this for days, they could barely wait until you got back—"
"Why paint—"
"So we can judge the winner, obviously—"
"Winner of what?"
"Weren't you listening to me?" Tony huffed. "It's a competition, Steve, whoever lands the most shots wins twenty points extra credit. That's why it's paint, so we can tell from the different colors who shot what."
"Tony, I really don't think you've thought this through."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means has it not occurred to you that they will be pelting us with paint balls?"
"Oh, relax, I modified them, it's not going to hurt."
"You're insane." Steve tried and failed not to smile in fond amusement as he said it.
"Maybe." Tony was grinning back in a way that meant he'd totally noticed. "But you know you love it."
Steve opened his mouth, on the edge blurting out more than you know, when one of the girls' ringers went off.
Shine bright like a diam—
It cut off almost immediately, but Tony was already whipping around.
"I swear to god, Maisy, learn to turn your cell phone off or I will personally call Rihanna and launch into an explanation about how diamonds don't shine, they reflect, and when she asks why I called I'll tell her it's all Maisy Ericson's fault for driving me up the wall with that inane song."
The students were laughing, and Steve watched in amusement. He let the almost-confession slip to the back of his mind, trying his best to remind himself it was better this way. Telling Tony would only hurt them both.
"Don't you laugh! I'll do it, you don't think I can get Rihanna's number? Try me, you brats—"
"Tony?" Steve put a hand on Tony's arm to calm him. "Shouting at the people who're about to shoot paint balls at you is probably not your best idea."
"Did I say brats? I meant loving, mature, forgiving young adults…"
An hour later, covered head to toe in paint—he would find a way to get Downey back for that crotch shot or he would die trying—Tony knocked impatiently on the faculty bathroom door.
"I have paint in my junk and ten minutes until next period, could you maybe speed it up in there?" he called impatiently.
"I'm decent," Steve called back.
Tony opened the door, and promptly stopped dead as all his blood rushed south.
"What?" The greek god in front of him blinked at Tony quizzically. "Do I still have paint in my hair?"
Tony made an embarrassing noise somewhere between a squeak and a croak. He coughed, attempting to clear his throat, but it was a little hard.
There were a number of things a little hard at the moment.
Steve apparently felt that 'shirtless' counted as 'decent', whereas Tony would classify it somewhere closer to 'coma-inducing'. Could he get brain damage from this? Steve's hair was wet and slicked messily back, probably an attempt to get the paint out, and some of the water in his hair had dripped down his neck and onto his shoulders. It glistened a bit, and Tony couldn't help thinking Steve looked better with a couple flicks of water than anyone else would if they'd been oiled up like a porn star.
Tony had already been relatively sure that Mr. I-work-out-when-I'm stressed Robinson didn't have an ounce of fat on him, but this only confirmed it. Confirmed it gloriously. Tony couldn't have stopped his roaming eyes if he'd tried, and to be perfectly honest, he really didn't bother. He greedily drank in the sight of Steve's bare chest, the curves of his abdominal muscles, the slope of his stomach, the faint trial of blonde hair that dipped under his waistband…
Everything was stunningly gorgeous, really, and yes, Tony had dreamed about this, had fantasized about it more times than he could count, got off on the idea more times than was probably decent, but the actual image was still almost a bodily shock.
Those old man polo shirts didn't do Steve justice, but then, a skintight leather suit wouldn't do a body like that justice. Steve should just be naked. Like, always. Always sounded good. He couldn't go to school like that of course, but then, maybe he should just quit, maybe they should both just quit and go be naked in Tony's apartment, like, right now—
"Tony, are you alright?" Steve, lovely, concerned Steve, was now moving forward like he was going to put his hand on Tony's forehead.
If Steve touched him right now, Tony was going to climb him like a tree.
"Uh, um." Tony stepped back, clearing his throat again forcefully. Christ, get it together, Stark. "Fine. Just, got a headache suddenly, I hate those, don't you hate those? Everyone hates headaches, what am I saying? I have class, I think, don't you have class? We both have class, everyone has class, we're teachers, let's go do. Teaching. Things."
"Are you sure you're alright? You look warm."
No surprise there, he sure as hell felt warm. Well, to be more accurate, he felt like the spark of desire that had been humming around inside him since the moment he'd meet Steve had been set on fire and was now trying to burn its way out through his dick, but hey, sure, warm.
"I probably am, I don't feel well—" Lies, total lies, he felt fantastic, he felt so aroused it was painful but it was such good pain— "—I'm just going to head to the nurses', that's probably a good idea, yup, nurse, bye!"
"Tony?" Steve called after him, but Tony ducked away and dashed out the door before Steve could see anything.
Fuck, he had four minutes until class and he was harder than he'd ever been in his life.
Not to mention he was at a school, so it wasn't like he could find some corner and jack off. Well, theoretically he could, but if he got caught he'd not only lose his job but he'd be labeled a pedophile, so yeah, that option was out.
Nasty things, ugly things, sad things, fuck why couldn't he think of anything? Oh, probably because he had Steve-Robinson-tit-o-vision at the moment but—bad train of thought, don't think about Steve's tits. Or his abs. Or that wispy trail of fine blonde hair leading to his—fuck dead kittens, crying puppies, crying Steve—fucking hell that should not be a turn on what was wrong with him—mangled corpses and, oh, fuck, dead soldiers and the ratatat of gunfire and the hot sting of sand in his throat as the Humvee behind him is attacked and the sleek bomb less than a foot from him proclaims StarkIndustries before it explodes and buries itself in his chest and there's blood there's so much blood—
"—t's okay, Tony, it's okay. That's it, deep breath, there you go—"
"What?" Tony startled back into awareness, jerking forward.
Steve was crouched in front of him, anchoring him to reality with a solid, steady hand on each shoulder. When had he gotten on the ground? He didn't remember sitting down. But he was, clearly, because he was curled up with his back to a wall, and his hands were gripping his hair so hard he thought he might yank it out.
