Chapter Text
“But Moooooom, art is boring!”
Across the room from the girl and her mother, Stiles couldn’t agree more. The canvas in front of him is a perfect example; it’s blank. No paint, no pictures, just emptiness. He leans forwards, as close as he can get without touching it, peers suspiciously at some artist’s attempt to express futility in a lonely world, or the absence of love, or a polar bear in a snowstorm.
“Have you guys seen this one? A total joke,” Stiles gestures towards the so-called “art”, but Scott and Allison aren’t even there. Stiles spots them in a corner of the room, admiring anything but the artwork. That is, they're making out. Gross.
Stiles, sick of third wheeling for the love birds, saunters off through the gallery to find better things to look at than his best friend with his tongue down his girlfriend’s throat. He wanders through rooms with sculptures, carvings, and photographs, until he enters the building’s final exhibit. The wall is covered in paintings, not unlike any of the other walls in the gallery, but at least the room is near empty, save for a couple of tourists and a gallery employee, who, from what Stiles can hear, is talking their ears off about brushstroke techniques in the 19th century.
Stiles steps up to the painting to his right, and though it’s a different style of painting, he knows that much about art, it’s just as ugly, if not uglier, than the other art on display. It’s a painting of boats in a harbour, the horizon stripes of blue and orange, with a brightly coloured sun reflecting off the water below. The artist, whoever they may be, doesn’t seem to have cared much about precision. The paint mixes colours in some places, and is so thick in others that it looks like a sad attempt at 3D. Stiles wonders how this guy even got his art taken seriously.
“Impression, Soleil Levant,” the voice comes from behind Stiles, “It’s, uh, one of Monet’s best pieces, if you ask me.”
Stiles whirls around, surprised, to come face to face with the employee he spotted as he entered the room. He’s tall, a good few inches taller than Stiles, blonde, and he looks down at Stiles with soft blue eyes.
“What?” He mumbles. Great going, Stilinski.
“The painting,” Tall Boy repeats, “It’s was made by Claude Monet in 1872, in France. It’s one of my favourite of his pieces.”
“Is it bad that I don’t really get it?” Stiles chuckles, turning back towards the painting, “I mean, it’s not even good!”
“It’s actually quite impressive,” Tall Boy says, getting defensive now, “This was the painting that gave name to the impressionist movement, and really solidified Monet’s position as a leading artist in history.”
“Hey, I’m sorry, okay?” Stiles puts his hands up, as if to surrender, “I’m only here because my friend made me, and I’m not really interested in a lecture from…” he peers at the name tag on Tall Boy’s chest, “Hello My Name Is Isaac.”
Stiles can feel Isaac getting ready for a rebuttal, but their argument is cut short by Scott’s voice ringing out from the entrance to the exhibit, “Stiles! We’re going to go grab some lunch, you coming?”
Though Stiles can think of almost nothing worse than sitting through yet another dinner with the lovebirds, watching Scott feed Allison from his plate and Allison wipe Scott’s mouth with a napkin, he’s relieved to get away from Isaac.
“Sorry, Isaac, that’s my cue!” With a trademark smirk and a mock salute, Stiles leaves Isaac glaring in front of Impression, Soleil Levant, whatever that means.