Robin drags Steve to a local art exhibit on a goddamn weeknight. This is not his scene at all.
Pretentious douchebags in scarves discussing if that splatter of paint represents socioeconomic downfall? Nah, this shit is not for him.
Robin ditches him halfway through the exhibit to talk to some sculptor that she’s got a thing for. Honestly, Steve would’ve done the same thing if it were him. But still, Steve is five minutes away from leaving her ass and taking a cab home.
He’s sitting on metal bench, centered a few feet away from the oversized canvas of scattered colors.
It looks like such a mess. Scribbled strokes of paint and lines that bump into curves. Everything intersecting. Someone would probably try to convince him that it represents the artist’s troubled past or fucked up childhood.
To Steve, it’s just a mess.
“What do you think?” A voice asks, joining Steve on the bench.
He looks to be about Steve’s age. Bold features, bolder hairstyle. All black clothes with chunky red combat boots. Elaborate tattoos creeping over the collar of his shirt.
Steve shrugs. “Truthfully? I don’t get it.”
“It’s art. What don’t you get about it?” The guy looks stunned.
Is Steve really about to argue with a complete stranger over lines and colors?
“There’s nothing but lost movements.”
Steve observes the nameplate next to the canvas and goes off.
“Like this Eddie Munson guy held up a paintbrush and went, ‘fuck it, they’ll never know this is bullshit.’ Honestly, this whole place is a facade for people to masquerade around, pretending to be in tune to artistic expression, but they’re not.”
“No.” Steve answers immediately, a little defensive. “Nobody here gives a shit about what the artist is trying to convey, and this artist…”
Steve points at the artwork.
“This Munson guy knew that. Knew he could fool every rich asshole in this place.”
The guy looks at the painting and laughs. He’s got a nice smile, Steve thinks. Wide and genuine. Not too perfect. Not overly rehearsed. Like he doesn’t give out smiles to just anyone.
“Eddie Munson couldn’t fool you though, could he?” He finally says, looking directly at Steve.
The intense eye contact makes Steve a bit fidgety. Nervous. “I guess not, no.”
“That you refuse to see what everyone else sees.” The guy turns away, releasing Steve from the gaze. “Even if that would be easier.”
It almost sounded like he was trying to say he likes Steve. Not that Steve would complain if that were true. This guy is not his type, but that doesn’t mean he’s unwilling to expand his definition of type for someone that’s interested in him.
“What do you think about it?” Steve tilts his head towards the canvas.
The guy twists the ring on his thumb, processing an answer. He crosses his legs, then un-crosses them. Twists the ring counterclockwise now.
“I think the painter abandoned their originality to meet their growing audience’s expectations of them as an artist.” He finally says.
Steve scoffs. “How did you draw up a conclusion like that?”
The guy hums and abruptly changes the topic. “What did you say your name was?”
“Right.” He gets up and gestures toward a ‘staff only’ door. “Up for a little field trip, Steve Harrington?”
This is dumb. Breaking laws is something Steve left behind in his angst-filled teen years.
But this guy is bad-boy hot and Steve is painfully bored, so he follows the stranger despite his better judgement.
They enter the door and are instantly greeted by a trail of empty paint buckets. There’s dirty tarps covering the floors and countless canvases laid out across the wide room.
Right away, Steve can tell this is what art is all about. The chaos. The urgency to create as soon inspiration strikes.
And these paintings look nothing like the one hanging in the gallery. These paintings are full narratives told through shapes and pigments.
These paintings could be an autobiography on the topic of someone who experiences life deeply. Passionately.
These are the untold masterpieces.
“Wow.” Is all Steve finally comes up with.
“To answer your question,” the stranger gestures grandly to the entirety of the room. “This is how I drew up that conclusion.”
“This was the originality. It’s stuck behind these four walls, but it’s where everything started. It’s where everything should have stayed.”
Steve carefully watches the man explore all the different works of art. Bending down to touch some. Smiling playfully at others. Steve is stupidly captivated by his ability to shine amongst literal art.
“What did you say your name was?”
The guy chuckles and walks back over to Steve. “I didn’t.”
“Right. Are you gonna tell me?”
“Depends on if you’ll still kiss me after I tell you.”
They’re standing close, Steve hadn’t realized it until now. Maybe it was him closing the distance. Maybe it was the stranger. Maybe it was gravity growing tired of their mediocre foreplay.
But they’re close now. So close that Steve can see the lightening bolt tattoo below the stranger’s left ear. A thought runs rampant in Steve’s slutty mind that he could see every single neck tattoo if he were to start unbuttoning this guy’s shirt.
He’s close enough to do it.
“I’ll still kiss you afterwards,” Steve agrees dreamily. Getting high off of paint fumes and close proximity.
The stranger lets his hand wander up the back of Steve’s neck, breaths getting caught in Steve’s throat at the contact.
“I’m that Eddie Munson guy.” He says in a low whisper. “The same one who held up a paintbrush and went, ‘fuck it, they’ll never know this is bullshit.’”
Every word he utters is cautious now. Like Steve might change his mind about kissing him.
Steve doesn’t change his mind.
He pulls hard at Eddie’s collar, lets their lips collide dizzily fast. Eddie’s mouth pushes against his to lead the kiss, Steve is more than happy to let him do so.
It’s a noisy kiss. Sounds escaping out of the corners of their mouths. Airy gasps and rustling clothes filling the open space.
Steve breaks the kiss to speak, inhaling as much oxygen as he can get. “I’m guessing you bring lots of guys back here and woo them with your secretly amazing art.”
Eddie had transitioned to kissing Steve’s neck while he was talking, but stops as soon as Steve says that.
“You’ve got it all wrong, sweetheart.” Eddie cradles Steve’s flushed cheeks with both hands. “I only bring pretty boys who refuse to see what everyone else sees back here.”
Steve moves Eddie’s hands and wraps them around his own neck. “Even if that would be easier.”
He goes back to sucking on Steve’s neck, like he was rudely interrupted before, and Steve starts to feel as chaotic as the art surrounding them. Eddie marks him with a fresh bruise, just below his right ear. Mirroring the exact spot where Eddie’s lightening tattoo is located.
Eddie licks over it. Swirling his tongue in sweltering circles, making Steve pant wow as he finishes the creation he was designing solely with his mouth.
He exhales a single laugh into their kiss.
“Why are you laughing?” Steve asks.
“I really like doing things that make you say wow like that, Steve Harrington.”
Steve kisses Eddie’s cheek. “I really like that too.”
Eddie kisses him thoroughly slow once more, then nibbles over Steve’s ear as he whispers:
“Kinda curious to find out what else I can make you say.”
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