"Those things will kill you, y'know."
Tony looked over at the boy again, but he was still staring straight ahead as if he hadn't acknowledged Tony's existence, let alone talked to him.
"Isn't that the point?"
÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷
Or, the...
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A/N: Just for reference, this is what they look like when they are young. Stephen's on top, and Tony's on the bottom ;-). Also, Trigger Warning for drug usage and a brief mention of abuse.
Tony was seventeen when he ran away with nothing but a small bag on his shoulder.
Obviously, he hadn't been gone for very long -- only a few hours, really -- but it was definitely one of the more prominent events in his life.
It was late at night, and he had gotten into a fight with his dad about something that he couldn't be bothered to remember later. The only important part was that he was mad enough to feel the need to leave and never look back.
The stinging on his right cheek was also rather significant, but he tried to ignore that part.
He had gone to a secluded park so that he wouldn't be recognized by anyone on the streets (one of the many downsides to being the son of the Howard Stark). He went to his usual bench, sat down, and wrapped himself with a blanket from his bag in an attempt to shield himself from the frigid air.
He lost himself in thought, watching as his breath turned into mist before him. He thought about the hatred in his father's eyes when he came home from work; his mother's blank face, uncaring in the face of her abused child; and he dreamed about what it would be like to have someone to care about him. Jarvis, his old butler, used to take care of him when he was young, and had been a sort of father figure to him, but he died years ago.
So, after saving just enough money (by which he meant stealing enough from Howard without drawing unwanted attention) to buy a crappy apartment across town, he'd decided to run away. He was admittedly terrified, having never braved New York City without having pedestrian citizens throwing their coats down so he could walk over the muddy concrete, but he would suffer such a drab life if it meant escaping his parents' wrath.
Eventually, when his thoughts became just a bit too much for him to handle, he slipped a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from the outside pocket of his trusty sack and set them on the bench. Just as he lifted a cigarette to his lips, a tall boy about two years older than him sat on the same bench. He didn't look at Tony, rather straight ahead at something that didn't seem to be there. Tony lowered his cigarette into his lap, unlit and fresh, and quietly observed the boy next to him.
