Tony wasn’t going to come out of the suit. Phoenix should have guessed that as soon as he put it on. It was his security blanket. His persona. His mask. Whatever else you wanted to call it. Godot would probably have a field day with that thing.
But now they were back to how things were before Tony just stopped talking to him. Fine. Good. Have it your way. There was no reconciliation. It was Tony being angry and Phoenix being dejected. He didn’t want to do this anymore.
Maybe it was stupid, but he didn’t care.
He pulled Tony back in, getting that hug he wanted. If the man was going to disappear again, the least he could do was get some contact. Actions spoke louder than words, right? Wouldn’t this say that he wanted Tony back? That he was sorry? That he forgave him?
Whatever. Phoenix had always been overly sentimental anyway.
Tony was readying himself to leave. His head was spinning from the punch and he knew that he needed the bitter taste of the finest bourbon to stop his head from thinking about what had just happened. At least the booze would keep him company.
Then he was hugged again. The foreign feeling of being pulled into an embrace. But Tony knew how painful it was for those very hands that held him to be used against him, as was the case with everyone. That’s why hugs were painful. That’s why Tony had that no touching rule that he would pin on his designer clothing being too expensive to be scuffed.
“What do you want from me? I have places to go.” By that he meant a bar. Probably.
His face plate slid back and he looked down with his deep blue eyes, trying to mask the conflict and inner turmoil and of course, the pain. He was good at that. Those constant photoshoots with the magazines taught him how to look good for the press even if he felt rotten and in this case, even with a cut lip.
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