Tony's answer was a heavy exhale, clearly overcome with the way things had turned out without even the time for riposte-- the final bars of the song faded and drifted to an end. He kept his hold on Steve as he got his breath back, listening to the traffic outside and the honking horns, bass beats and hum of power through the city, settling against him with the slow determination of a poured mould. He smelled like sugar, cut grass and sweat from the carnival, but mostly with each breath Tony tasted the heat of him, which wasn't really a flavour but felt heavy on his tongue like he thought blood might, or exhaust, like the power in him.
In the distance, he heard pop, pa-pa-pop, pa-pop, and he muttered, "Shit." Drowsily, Tony straightened, hand flat on Steve's chest, and said, "Fireworks," looking up at the skylights like he might be able to see them fly straight above them. Which wasn't such a bad idea. He turned his head back, eying the bed over his shoulder, and the window above it. "Those open, right?" he asked, like Steve would know, already moving to find out.