While art is subjective, your hate for Stephen Vincent Strange was pure and simple. An arrogant, crude and tasteless man. One of close-minded thinking and a lack of creativity.
This was the type of person any artist like you would despise.
~~~
All...
The doors flung open, crowds moving into the venue. From art dealers to gallery scouts, private collectors or just simple fans, each 'room' was flocked to, with looks of wonder on their faces.
A single sign introduced the title of the collection:
The Hall: Memories in a Box
"I think you all can figure out what room is yours," you gesture for them to explore, Stephen deciding to stay by your side, "did you just want me to show you yours?"
"I know it takes the fun out of it but I'd rather have you there," he links your hands. He wasn't lying about wanting you there, but he would also be lying if he wasn't terrified. All that had been talked about and revealed, it was things he had kept pent up for so long.
"If there's anything you want me to take down then tell me," you whispers just as you turn to his room. "I do hope you like it,"
It was warm, comforting and everything he felt around you. He felt safe. Stepping on the wooden floors, he noticed the full sage green wallpaper was like the same peeling decor in his old cabin room when he was a child. A velvet maroon couch was centred in front of a deep oak coffee table.
Books were piled on, either opened or stacked while the old tv played videos in VHS form; the videos were nothing truly old, instead videos taken by multiple team members and even himself from time to time.
Parties and functions to plain idiotic videos of daily life, it was like reliving his favourite memories from a different perspective. What you both didn't plan was extra videos playing, taken by Wong for the most part but Natasha and Wanda had obviously caught these moments on tape.
You cuddled up against Stephen, kissing his knuckles while he read his spell book. The sorcerer kisses your temple with a gentle smile, "did you want to watch a movie? Because I'm over this," his muffled voice was heard through the old speakers.
"Oh, can we watch Clone wars?" You sit up and look down to him.
He laughs, admiring your excitement, "yes, yes," he cups your face lovingly.
Then another:
You sat down on a little picnic blanket, sketching while leant against a plush pile of pillows. The sketch book was rested on your upright knees, pencils scattered next to a few other strewn sketches and an open laptop. "Alright, I got it," Stephen places down a tray of food he had ordered from a nice restaurant down the street.
"Wow, my own private chef," you sit up and place the sketchbook to the side.
"Oh yeah, took me forever to put this all into bowls," he jokes, kissing you gently. "So, what did you decide on?"
"I like this one," you show him a sketch of the daisies planted on the sanctum balcony, "your favourite,"
"Your favourite," he corrects before seeing you frown, "and I guess mine too,"
"Who..." you watch the clips skim by, turning to see Tony giving a subtle wink your way. "Of course..."
"I think it's cute," he gives your hand a gentle squeeze, looking around and spotting the subtlest nods to memories. From the vase of daisies in the corner of the room next to a clock stuck on midnight to the flyers and business cards of the many restaurants you both went to.
Those were scattered around, some near to artworks capturing moments in time. Like the small droplet on an iced glass to the steam from that very bowl of ramen.
What final piece broke him was the scattered photos. Hyper realistic paintings was what they actually were, but the detail made hardly a difference. There was Donna and him, the girl silently shouting for him at the edge of snowy woods. Then his mother in the kitchen cooking her comforting soup, walking over to pour it in a bowl.
They moved like memories, all eventually spotting the real Stephen and waving. This caused him break a tear, the waterworks flowing across his skin.
"I tried to get the best memories. I know it's a touchy topic, and I know you also said it was fine to paint them but... if you want-" that's when you spot each freckle of sadness dampening the now red tinge of his face. "Stephen? Oh god, I'm so sorry, I'll take them down right now," you wipe his tears away.
"No, no," he sniffles, leaning against your forehead, "no, it's perfect, I love it," he closes his eyes, taking in the feeling of weight off his chest. "And I... You're perfect." He couldn't just say it like that, could he? Especially here.
"I'm glad you love it," worry washed off your mind as your heart warmed, "that's all I wanted,"
~~~
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Sorry for the month break! Hope you liked the update :))
