At age fifteen, Steve Rogers had been in love with Tony Stark.

By age twenty, he’d (mostly) gotten over it. And then he promptly became Tony Stark's fuck buddy.

Steve breaks up with Tony because he's in love with Iron Man. That's when things start to get complicated.

"I’m trying to like you, Tony. You’re just making it very hard."

He’s been given a room back at the tower—large enough for a single bed, a nightstand, a desk, a chest of drawers. Just off it, in what Steve thinks is a bout of sheer extravagance, he has his own private washroom, which has a constant supply of hot water that he doesn’t have to heat for himself. The first time Tony Stark sees it, he sniffs, turns up his nose, loudly asks what the hell Fury was thinking in assigning Captain America a glorified dorm room, he could get much better quarters for him—but Steve refuses to move out. It might not be the kind of Vanderbilt-living that a Stark is used to, but it’s more than Steve’s ever had before, and it’s his.

“I can hear you,” Steve blurts, “in the shower. In the mornings. I’m sorry, I should have told you sooner, I just didn’t want to...and then you...and there were always...um. Sorry.”

Tony is the only one who can defend Steve's virtue. Tony hates his life.

The most he'd ever cared about anything remotely related was his uniform, which, beyond the stylistic, was pretty necessary. But now his suit comes from a lab far more advanced than the basement of a Brooklyn antique shop, and the only decision he really gets to make is if his pants are too tight. (They were, but he doesn't really think they changed them. He doesn't know why, but he thinks that might have been on purpose.) That being said, he doesn't know what he's done to deserve the double take Tony gives him as he walks in the room.