Chapter Text
The sun rose lazily over the quiet Long Island neighborhood, tinging the streets with gold. The clatter of bicycles and the smell of fresh bread from the bakeries heralded the start of another day. Tony Stark pedaled briskly, his messy hair flying in the wind, as he tried to balance the backpack on his back and the wrapped lunch his mother had insisted he take.
"Hurry up, Stephen!" he shouted, turning his head over his shoulder. "We're going to be late again!"
Behind him, Stephen ran as fast as he could, clutching his books to his chest. Unlike Tony, he looked like he'd stepped out of an etiquette magazine—his uniform impeccable, his hair neatly combed.
"Tony, your shoelace!" Stephen shouted, his voice heavy with an anxiety too big for an eight-year-old. He hated untied things. Loose things caused accidents. "You're going to fall!"
"No way! It's aerodynamics!" Tony retorted, but almost stepped onto the sidewalk as he was distracted by a barking dog.
Stephen sighed, quickening his pace. He needed to be close. If Tony fell, someone needed to know how to clean the wound to prevent infection. Donna, his little sister, always said he seemed like a "mother hen," but Stephen didn't care.
"If you hadn't been trying to set your lunch on fire with that 'invention,' we wouldn't be late!" Stephen complained, panting, dodging a puddle of mud.
Tony laughed loudly, braking the bicycle suddenly. The rear tire skidded, kicking up dust. Stephen took a step back, wrinkling his nose and waving his hand in the air to brush away the particles of dirt. "Hey, it wasn't supposed to set on fire! It was just supposed to warm up. It worked… for about three seconds. The problem was the toaster's fuse." Tony spoke quickly, stumbling over his words, his hands gesturing frantically as he let go of the handlebars.
Stephen rolled his eyes, but a small smile escaped him. It was always like this—Tony made a mess, Stephen complained, and in the end, he ended up laughing too.
When they arrived at school, the bell was about to ring. The teacher, Mrs. Whitaker, greeted them with that look that mixed patience and exasperation.
"Messrs. Stark and Strange... punctual as always," he said ironically.
They went inside. Stephen went straight to his desk. Before sitting down, he discreetly ran his hand over the seat to make sure there were no crumbs, aligned his notebook exactly parallel to the edge of the desk, and arranged his three pencils in order of size. Tony, on the other hand, threw himself into the chair next to him. In less than thirty seconds, he was already tapping his foot on the floor in a frantic rhythm. Tap-tap-tap-tap.
During class, Tony couldn't sit still. He drew robots in his notebook, imagining what it would be like to create something that could think for itself. Stephen, on the other hand, wrote with perfect handwriting, engrossed in his science books. Every now and then, he would look at Tony and shake his head, not understanding how someone could be so brilliant and so distracted at the same time.
At recess, Tony dragged Stephen to the farthest corner of the yard, near the old fence, where the grass was tall and dirty. Stephen hesitated, looking at the dirt on his clean boots. "Tony, it's dirty here."
"It's a secret!" Tony retorted, crouching down without caring about his expensive tailored trousers. He unearthed a small metal box. "Ta-da!" he said.
Stephen frowned, keeping his hands in his pockets. The box was full of dirt. "What's this?"
"My new project! A radio that talks by itself." Tony opened the lid with his already bitten fingernails.
"That's an old tape recorder, Tony. And it's rusty. Did you get a tetanus shot?" Stephen asked, genuinely concerned. "And I doubt it'll work."
Tony ignored the concern, too focused on seeking validation. He wanted Stephen to see it. To think it was amazing. He pressed a button with excessive force. A metallic, hissing voice came from the box: “Tony Stark is the smartest kid in the world. And his father is going to have to admit it.”
The last part of the sentence came out lower, almost an embarrassed whisper on the recording, revealing more than Tony intended. He tried to cough loudly to disguise it, his face turning red. "That part was supposed to be cut," Tony murmured, looking away.
Stephen didn't laugh at the comment about his father. He understood. Instead, he focused on the first part to break the ice. "The smartest?" Stephen raised an eyebrow, a slight smile appearing. "Doubtful."
Tony relaxed, the tension in his shoulder easing. " Oh, really? "
"Yes. But..." Stephen took his hand out of his pocket and, ignoring the dust and rust, touched the metal case with his fingertip, validating his friend's effort. "The internal wiring was done well."
Tony flashed a radiant smile, the kind he rarely showed at home. "Wait, there's one more thing." Tony pressed the fast-forward button.
The metallic voice returned: “And Stephen… Stephen is the only one who understands what I’m saying. Even though he’s a stickler for cleanliness.”
Stephen felt his ears heat up. He glanced at Tony, who was already looking the other way, feigning interest in an ant. Stephen let out a genuine laugh, shaking his head. "You're impossible, Stark."
" I'm a genius, Strange. Accept it."
_________
The afternoon sun streamed through the enormous windows of the Stark house, but the heat seemed to stop at the glass. Inside, the air conditioning kept everything at a cold, sterile temperature. The marble floor shone so brightly it looked like a reflecting pool, mirroring the ceiling which was far too high for a child to feel comfortable.
The front door burst open. Tony Stark entered not walking, but gliding in his socks down the polished hallway, his arms outstretched like an airplane. "We're here!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the empty walls. He kicked his shoes away without even looking where they landed—one landed near the sideboard, the other spun onto the Persian rug.
Stephen followed right behind, closing the door carefully so as not to make a sound. He stopped, looked at Tony's shoes scattered chaotically, and felt a tingling in his hands. He couldn't let it go like this. While Tony ran around in circles, Stephen walked over to the shoes, picked one up, then the other, and placed them perfectly aligned, side by side, against the wall. "Tony, your mother is going to trip," Stephen murmured, his voice low.
"She's in Monaco," Tony replied, already throwing himself onto the white leather sofa with his backpack still on his back. "Jarvis! We're starving!"
The butler materialized in the room as if he had emerged from the shadows, impeccable. "Good afternoon, Mr. Stark." Jarvis glanced at the shoes lined up by the door and then at Stephen, offering a small smile of approval. "Mr. Strange. I see school was... intense."
Stephen adjusted the collar of his uniform, feeling small in that giant room. "Good afternoon, Mr. Jarvis."
"I prepared sandwiches. They're in the kitchen. Crustless, cut into isosceles triangles, just as Mr. Strange prefers."
Stephen's eyes lit up. "Thank you, Jarvis."
"You're the best, Jarvis!" Tony said, already sprinting down the hallway. Stephen just laughed, shaking his head and following behind.
In the kitchen, the tray awaited. Tony sat down—or rather, perched himself on the chair, with one knee bent against his chest. He grabbed two sandwiches at once. “See? Jarvis is like a kitchen wizard,” Tony said, speaking while chewing, crumbs flying dangerously.
Stephen sat down, picked up his sandwich by the ends, careful not to get his fingers dirty. "Tony, don't talk with your mouth full. My sister said you could choke and die." His tone was warning. "And you're making a mess on the table."
"Jarvis will clean it up." Tony shrugged, but swallowed before speaking again. He looked down the empty hallway. "My dad's not here," Tony blurted out without anyone asking, as if he needed to justify the vacuum. "He's in the underground lab. Red light on. Means 'do not enter unless the house is on fire'."
Stephen stopped his sandwich halfway there. He looked at his friend. Tony was trying to look cool, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his expensive shirt, but there was something sad in the way he stared at the closed office door. "He doesn't mind you bringing people over?" Stephen asked quietly.
Tony laughed, but the sound was weak. “He doesn’t even know what day it is, Steph. He’s building the future, or something.” Tony grabbed a cookie, crumbling it eagerly in his hand. “It’s better this way. Just me and Jarvis. No yelling about ‘proper behavior.’ Relax. Jarvis is in charge of everything.”
The butler, who was still nearby, merely raised an eyebrow and replied calmly, "Should I take that as a compliment, sir?"
Tony laughed. "Of course."
Stephen looked around. Expensive paintings, cold metal objects, no children's drawings on the refrigerator. At Stephen's house, the refrigerator was covered in magnets and clutter. Here, everything was perfect and lonely.
"Do you actually live here?" Stephen asked. "Like... in all this silence?"
“Yeah. It’s kind of boring sometimes. Just me and Jarvis.” Tony took a bite of his cookie. “But now that you come all the time, it’s less boring.”
Stephen smiled slightly, taking a sip of his juice. "So it's a combination."
Tony raised his glass of juice in a toast. "Deal."
The butler sighed, a sound almost inaudible, but relieved. "Looks like I'll have more mouths to feed," Jarvis murmured to himself, picking up a cloth to wipe up the crumbs Tony would inevitably drop. "And, thankfully, someone to watch over him."
>>
The Stark's garden resembled a small park—neatly manicured grass, a few tall trees, and a small artificial pond that reflected the clear afternoon sky. After they ate.
Tony appeared with a smile that Stephen instantly recognized as a warning sign of trouble. Two brightly colored water pistols were hidden behind his back, and Tony was tapping his foot incessantly, ready to burst into action.
Stephen, who was sitting on the porch step, looked at him suspiciously. "Tony... what are you hiding there? And don't touch me if your hands are dirty."
Tony put on a dramatic little show, displaying the toy guns as if they were rare relics. "Ladies and gentlemen, I present: the Long Island Water War! Prepare to lose, Mr. Strange."
Stephen raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. The idea of getting wet and having his clothes cling to him was deeply unpleasant. "You know I'm better at this."
“I doubt it!” Tony shouted impulsively, and without warning, pulled the trigger. A precise jet struck Stephen in the chest, right on his perfectly cinched tie.
“Hey!” Stephen jumped back, his expression of momentary disgust turning into a challenge. He felt the damp, clinging fabric and shuddered, but Tony was already laughing. The disgust gave way to adrenaline. “Oh, so you want war, Stark?” Stephen grabbed the other pistol.
In seconds, the garden turned into a battlefield — the two ran between the trees, laughing, slipping on the wet grass. Tony hid behind an iron chair, and Stephen took advantage of any distraction to attack.
"You're cheating!" Tony yelled, after taking a jet of water to the back.
"I'm not! It's a tactic! You get distracted by everything!" Stephen replied, laughing.
“You’ll see!” Tony sprinted forward, trying to corner his friend. Stephen ran off in the other direction, but Tony was faster—and the two ended up falling together on the grass, soaked to the bone, laughing uncontrollably.
"I won!" Tony gasped, coughing from laughing so hard.
"You didn't win anything, you gave me an illegal shove!" Stephen retorted, but his smile was huge, uncontrollable.
Jarvis appeared in the doorway with a towel in his hands and a resigned look on his face. "Gentlemen... may I assume the bath will be before dinner this time?"
Tony lifted his head, still laughing. "Jarvis, we won the war!"
Stephen coughed with laughter. "You didn't win anything, you lost!"
“A technical draw,” Jarvis declared patiently. “Now, a bath. For both of you.”
Tony and Stephen looked at each other, still lying on the grass, and said at the same time: "Yes, Jarvis."