the Whole Story

Avengers Fanfic.

Tony's taken over the family business as a pianist. He's world-famous, miserable as fuck, and almost friendless except for his managers, pepper and rhodey. He goes home every night to an empty house, but hey, he grew up like this, so he's used to it. He smiles for the cameras and gets his smile lines that way. But the newspapers don't tell the whole story, do they? Slash!

Credits to theappleppielifestyle @ tumblr for prompt!


2. One-Shot

Dumping his keys on the table, Tony kicks shut the door on his way in. Flicking the light switch, he’s greeted with the usual sight – an empty house. Even though it was mid-spring and the weather had not been too chilly lately, he felt coldness in the room he was in. It was missing the warmth a house would usually have. But hey, he grew up like this, so he’s used to it.


Dragging his feet, he walks over to the kitchen and opens up the refrigerator. Nothing, no surprises there. Sighing at the fact that he’d either have to go out for dinner or order in some crappy food, he shuts the door. On the reflective surface, he sees his reflection. He has smile lines on his face, which was beginning to show his aging through his prime. Tracing their paths he tries to remember the last time he had smiled that wasn’t for the cameras. He doesn’t remember – and blames it on his bad memory at his age. Inside, he knows he’s lying to himself. He can remember hundreds of piano pieces by memory; yet couldn’t remember the last time he smiled? Yeah right.


He plunks down on the smooth leather couch in the adjoining living room. To the side, a sleek and shiny black grand piano sits proudly on an elevated platform. At the moment, the top is closed and manuscript paper, along with other sheet music, littered the surface. Tony’s eyes drift to the piano, then scan the empty house altogether. Next moment, he’s leaning forward, hands running through his hair in exasperation, before he pushes off the couch, grabs his keys, and leaves again.


He walks to the building a block from his home – his own personal concert theatre hall. It was built by his parents and is one area of the building that made up his family’s studio and offices. Most of the time, it was used by his parents when they decided to hold solo performances. Sometimes during the Stark Music Expo, musicians, bands and orchestras from around the world would pay to perform there during the expo. Others times, it was somewhere he would go just to have some silence away from the rest of the world. He swipes his access card and goes into the hall; that doesn’t look so grand without all its lights, decorations and effects. When he reaches the stage, he nimbly leaps up the steps to the grand piano situated in the centre, its top open and ready. Along the way, he flicks on a light but turns the knob to a dimmer glow that shines directly onto the piano.


As he takes a seat, he breathes in deeply, running his fingers over the clean cover and flipping it open. His fingertips trace the rise and fall of each note and black key. The place hadn’t been open since Sunday, and he’d come here last time too, so there was a couple piece of blank manuscript left inside the seat and  scattered on a table beside him. He doesn’t bother with them at first, just closes his eyes and lets his mind take control of his fingers – playing songs that just came naturally to him. The first piece starts off slow and quiet, easy notes that flow. It morphs into a complete masterpiece of keys in succession and Tony loses himself to the music, his body swaying and his brows furrowing as the emotion practically rolls off him in tidal waves.


Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears the click of the heavy metal door as someone steps into the hall. He is so immersed in the song and clouded in the music that he doesn’t really pay attention; not that he really cares at that point anyway. So he keeps playing, and is only half-aware of the guy sitting down in one of the chairs like he always does. The song begins to slow down, keeping its tune but a deeper feeling seeps in as the notes travel further down, giving it a deep baritone. The last few bars carries his hands back up, slowing down until the last note drags on into the silence.  He keeps his foot on the pedal and merely leans back to listen as the key fades.


When the note has fully died out, his eyes glance over and Tony sees a figure sitting on the front row – same seat as always. He recognises the guy, he’s seen him around – some art student from the university in the area. The reason he hadn’t really worried all that much that someone had intruded into his very private theatre when it wasn’t for a concert was that the man had been here practically every evening for the past three months. Or at least, every evening Tony was here too, he’d seen him. Sometimes he’d catch a glimpse of the man from where he stood on the stage when he had his monthly performances. At first, he had been tempted to throw the man out. But gradually he decided that it hardly mattered. Not like he was giving a free performance or anything anyway.


As he fiddles and pulls over some manuscript sheets to work on that new piece he had drafted up, his hand reaches into his shirt pocket. He pulls out his ‘one year sober’ poker chip that he keeps on him all the time and smoothes it between his fingers as he thinks. He sets it down with a clear click and places his fingers over the keys in position. Looking up at the notes he’d drawn on the previous days, he begins to play.


In many senses it was a complete contradiction of the song earlier. It’s fast, and the notes keep almost every finger of both his hands busy. The pattern is familiar yet different, and they carry on in quick succession. It is the kind of piece that people consider his ‘trademark’; something rich, moving, and completely dangerous to attempt. Its notes make up the deeply moving piece, but any skilled musician would be able to tell that one slip-up would ruin the emotion of the song. As he reaches the part which is missing, he begins to slow down; making it seem like the song is ending. There, his mind takes over for a moment and a few more notes squeeze out before his fingers need to repeat notes to find the suitable keys. He stops and scribbles on the manuscript – notes, accents, slurs, speed, softness, everything.


Tony picks up the deep maroon-red poker chip with golden lining and inscriptions once again, fiddling with it as he stares at the keys on the piano. Some notes jump out at him and he leans forward to test them out. Satisfied, he balances the chip between his fingers precariously as he picks up his pen and scribbles again. When he’s almost finished, he drops the poker chip. Leaping straight into action, he scrabbles for it, but it rolls and drops of the table, jumps between the keys of the piano, down unto the waxed floor and continues off the stage.


Tony’s out of his chair before it had even hit the ground, but the other guy’s faster. He bends forwards and picks the sneaky thing off the plush carpet. When he comes up from under the lights that spill off the stage, Tony finally gets a good look at him. Blonde, blue-eyed and beautiful in a way that means he’s probably straighter than anyone Tony’s ever met. The guy holds the chip between his fingers, examining it, and says, “this yours?” And Tony knows that he’s seen the stamp on it. The one that commends him for staying sober. But he smiles all big, like always, and says, “yep, thanks.”


The guy doesn’t give him the same pitiful look that Pepper and Rhodey had given him at times. He merely nods and holds it out towards him. “I’m Steve,” he says. Tony arches an eyebrow and says, “do I need to introduce myself?” The guy – Steve – smiles; and it’s stupidly gorgeous and Tony finds himself rethinking back to his last muse. He’s called back from inside his thoughts when Steve says something else.


“Something tells me the newspapers don’t tell the whole story.” Tony stares for a moment, and he thinks he gapes a bit too, and says, “uh. Do you want to hear the whole story?” Steve’s smile stretches into a wide grin and Tony feels the breath punched out of him – because of this beautiful boy standing under the bright lights with careful hands and light in his eyes, falling through his golden hair, his fingers, his shirt. Tony can’t breathe and the music in his ears is drowning him. It’s coming in waves and torrents and fucking tsunamis. Steve looks at him, at him, and says, “yes.”




First song:

Second song:

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