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It felt simultaneously like only a fraction of a second had passed and all of eternity. It had been four hundred and seventy one years, truthfully. He wasn’t sure if it was fortunate or unfortunate that five hundred to six hundred years was the average. He was ancient yet there was still a part of him that was not ready. He had been forty-one when me met Tony. Now he was five hundred and thirty seven years old. If he had known what would happen then, he would never have gone to Kamar-Taj. He didn’t realize it, even when he became the Sorcerer Supreme. He hadn’t realized that he would live so long. It had been four hundred and seventy one years since there was any light left in his life. Because four hundred and seventy one years ago that day Tony Stark had died.
He sat there at the grave. Tony had been seventy-seven, or maybe seventy-eight. Tony had always been older than him, sure, but Stephen didn’t think that he would out live Tony so much. Maybe ten years, and that would be it. He didn’t even realize it then, because he was still aging. He remembered that day.
Stephen and Tony had been together for years. They had a routine. They got up together, they ate together, they worked together, they called Peter at four, they ate dinner together, and then they went to sleep, together. That day was like any other. They slept together, Tony laying across his chest. The only problem came when Tony didn’t wake up that morning. It had been awful. He called an ambulance, he used every spell and charm and healing rune he knew, all in vain to fix the only other thing from his hands that he still couldn’t fix. Death. The grief was so deep, so intense that he thought he was going to die right there with him. At times he wished he had. He cried until he felt he didn’t have any tears left and then cried some more. He cried until he was dehydrated and the tears stop flowing but the sobs carried on. The funeral wasn’t much better. It was a few months after. Peter and his kids were there, for grandpa Tony. The other Avengers were all there too, for Iron man. Wong was there to comfort Stephen. And all that time he knew. Wong knew.
Time started to blur after that, because nothing much matter. He was there for Peter, his son, and Peter’s kids. He was there for too long. He was one hundred and twelve when Peter died. He shouldn’t be that old. He shouldn’t be there. He should be dead. He only cared about it once he started to worry he’d outlive his grandchildren. Which he did. He asked Wong after Peter’s death if he knew any reason why it was happening. And Wong told him. It was because he was Sorcerer Supreme. He was going to have a life span similar to that of the Ancient One. And because of whatever attachment Wong had to Stephen- Stephen couldn’t remember anymore- He would too. Stephen was so angry with him for never telling him that he didn’t say a word to Wong for a hundred years. Literally. The next time they had spoken was on that day. At Tony’s grave. Stephen visited it every year. Like a ghost. Wong knew that too.
“I’m sorry,” he said. Stephen ignored him. “I would have told you but I thought that…” There was a long pause. “I thought you knew.”
“You thought I knew?” Stephen asked. He wished he could muster the malice he had felt so long ago but there was nothing. There was nothing left in him.
“The way you two acted… The way you loved him I thought that you knew… It felt like you knew. Each moment between you seemed… precious.” Stephen paused, pressing a shaky hand to Tony’s headstone.
“It was.” There was a long silence again. Stephen knew what he wondered. He wanted to know if Stephen was still mad at him. “Not anymore,” he said, nearly a whisper.
“What?” asked Wong.
“I’m not mad at you anymore,” Stephen said. “I tried to be but I just.. I can’t.” Wong sat next to him.
“I’m sorry.”
“You already said that.”
“I’m sorry for many things,” Wong said. “I’m sorry that you had to lose him, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, and I’m sorry that this isn’t over yet.” Wong sat down next to him. They were both only around two hundred, yet they both looked over a thousand. He sighed. Wong had been in Kamar-Taj for years. He was tired. He missed having someone else around, someone who wasn’t going to die off the way every other person he had ever cared about would. Wong would live the length he would. He thought he had read somewhere that Wong would die of old age when he did. It could have been a dream. Everything had felt like a dream. Yet the pain was still wildly sharp, stabbing into him. He couldn’t stand to be alone anymore.
“Would you… Would you please come back to the Sanctum with me?” asked Stephen. “I’m tired of pushing you away and I’m tired of being alone.” Wong put a hand on his shoulder.
“Gladly,” Wong said.
That had been a few hundred years ago. Now Wong went with him, on the anniversary of Tony’s death. They sat there together. They were over five hundred years old. It couldn’t last much longer. They couldn’t last much long. Wong and Stephen sat there shoulder to shoulder, supporting each other. Stephen never knew what it felt like to be old the way the rest of humanity did. He had always felt the same. Everything was the same. He didn’t even know what it was like to be alive like they did anymore. He was tired. He had an apprentice, who would become the next Sorcerer Supreme- he had to. But he warned the young one that they would be trapped like he had been. They sat there for a long time. He and Tony had been on different paths, they always had been. But for a brief moment they walked side by side. Though it was morbid, he couldn’t wait until they walked side by side again.