There was probably still cake in the carpet. That was what had Tony chuckling, thinking about the chair he knocked over and the bruise he still had, and the strange ashy crumbs that had ended up in his hair and smear of icing all across Steve's hands and on his throat. By the time he had contained himself, he had forgotten about the hour he'd spent fretting how awkward this meeting would be and had turned to face the birthday boy, straight and solid and ready to defend his honour if Steve thought he could possibly take him down again. "When you're that beautiful," he informed Steve, as was his duty, "you don't need to know how to bake. People will still force your horrible tar cake onto even their best friends, damn the consequences."
Which, conveniently, brought them around to the real point. Not that Steve would know that, but, still grinning, Tony started chewing contemplatively on his thumbnail, studying Steve expectantly like he might give Tony a proper sign as to how to put this. He didn't have much experience admitting premeditated care for someone. It was an uncomfortably revealing thing. Steve didn't really expect it of him anyway, he could probably just forget-- "I got you a present." There.