[ A little flourish of thrill, delighted by the easy way Silco fills his space, claims his chest, nestles in. It distracts him for a moment, winewarm, tucking his head to burrow his nose into his hair, fond and unafraid of it in their shared new context.

Hand at his waist, stroking the backs of his fingers idly up over the shape of Silco's ribcage and back again, Stephen fortifies himself with closeness and draws in a deep breath.

Right. Going on. ]

Ghost of Christmas past. Tony Stark.

[ A name seems like a good place to start. But how to go on? When so much of it he's barely figured out himself. ]

He's a colleague, from home. Billionaire asshole turned billionaire hero type, habit of saving the world.

[ A beat, and he tucks his chin again, voice low as he enquires: ] —This one's kind of a downer. War stories. You want something cosier?

[ There may not actually be anything cosier, but he can offer. ]