Work Text:
Stiles Stilinski honestly hates art shows. Or at least the ones he attends – they’re usually filled with sophisticated people with their long dresses and fancy tuxes, a glass of wine in one hand and sometimes, if the universe really hates him, they discuss the paintings before them and how fantastic they look when in reality, Stiles knows that they probably studied the art works before arriving at the event. It all just sounds too fake, or maybe the comments he gets about his paintings are always too nice that he can’t tell if they’re being genuinely kind or just pretentious.
The irony in his situation is laughable: an artist who despises art shows. Perhaps if he weren’t so goddamn recognizable by some people then he wouldn’t abhor being in them too much. And it’s not like he can decline their offers either. Some of his works are part, and well, he admits he likes seeing the creations of other fellow artists.
A sigh comes from him as he brings his hand to fix his glasses, the other hand remains tucked in the pocket of his slacks so that he doesn’t have to awkwardly wave it around when someone greets him. Overall, the whole scene is, as always, predictable.
Or so he thought.
Standing before one of his paintings that holds a lot of emotions is a strawberry blonde girl. He can’t see her face, all he sees is the way her hair falls down to her waist and how the short length of her green dress (skirt?) makes her legs look long, especially with those shoes. The image looks picturesque: a lone girl standing in front of a painting while the light shines on them perfectly. If he were a photographer, he would’ve taken a shot of it but he’s not. So in an act of boredom and a decision based on his impulsiveness, he walks towards her and stands right beside her.
The look she sent him nearly caused him to stutter an apology for being in the same radius as she is.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time staring at this painting.” He sucks up the fear and decides to initiate a conversation. Besides, there’s a 50-50 chance that she knows him but just chooses to ignore his existence.
She takes her eyes off the painting, and raises a brow at him. “Have you been watching me?”
“What? No! No, it’s just – “ And out comes the hand from his pocket as he starts making hand motions. “You’re the only person who’s stuck in this area while the others are already in different parts of the room. I guess I just assumed that you’ve been standing here for so long when maybe you could’ve just arrived at the spot you’re standing on like a few seconds ago and -“
“I was kidding,” she interrupts his rambling, an amused (yet small) smile plastered on her face. “I just don’t get it.” She looks back at his artwork.
“Get what?” He inquires, brows furrowed. It’s only then that he takes in her look – she’s beautiful, the kind of beauty that probably has boys line up to ask her out. And god the dress (it’s a dress, not a skirt) only flatters the curve of her body.
“This painting.” She sounds so frustrated, or annoyed, either way she’s not happy about the artwork. “It’s just so… so stupid.”
In another time, with another person, perhaps Stiles would’ve gotten mad or sad. The image before him has a deep explanation after all. Instead, he laughs at her honesty – and he’s certain that she does not know him at all. So this will be fun. “Why do you say so?”
The girl gives him a look of disbelief, as if he just answered 3 to a 1+1 equation. “It’s just so easy. It’s a big, black, scribbly, mess of a sphere. I can do something better than that. This looks like a child made it. And if so, it shouldn’t be displayed in this exhibit.”
Suddenly, the night isn’t as predictable and things are no longer as boring. “You think a child made it?”
“Probably. It feels like the child was coloring a circle but couldn’t do it right.” The look of confusion is clearly etched on her face. Stiles finds it rather cute. “I don’t know. I don’t understand why or how this painting is here. God even the artist’s name sounds ridiculous, Stiles Stilinski? Who names their kid that?”
He’s unable to formulate a proper response as he’s too busy laughing, it’s refreshing to meet someone whose words are so genuine, so true. Stiles opens his mouth to speak when he feels a tap on his shoulder.
“Pardon me but I just want to commend your splendid works, Mr. Stilinski. I hope to see more of your paintings in the future.” Stiles could only shake the man’s hand and utter a quick thank you before the guest leaves him back to his conversation with the redhead. Except her expression no longer holds irritation in them but the blush in her cheeks and the shock in her green eyes says that she finally knows who she’s talking to.
“Oh my god, I didn’t know you were the artist I’m so – “
“Sorry? Nah, don’t be.” He waves off her apology, and his eyes sparkle with amusement. “It’s actually nice to hear someone be honest. You wouldn’t believe how rare it is to find someone diss your work in exhibits like this.”
She presses her lips together, embarrassment still slightly present in her appearance. “Perhaps it was refreshing to you but had I known you were the artist I would’ve… been more polite.”
He scoffs. “Or you would’ve showered me with praises like other people do. It’s fine, really. And honestly I don’t know why they included that painting for this exhibit either. It’s more personal than the others.” His eyes flit to his artwork and he can see her from his peripheral vision staring at him.
“Personal? How so?” This time her arms are crossed over her chest as she tries to make sense of his painting for the nth time.
“I was emotional when I made that. I was frustrated and wasn’t feeling very creative.” He remembers the date he created it, or why he was painting in the first place. It was his mother’s death anniversary and Stiles wanted to make something beautiful in her honor. “Initially it was just my frustration that let me stroke the brush in a circular motion.” The frustration of being a failure, of being unable to give his mother something that she could be proud of. “But later on it got more intense. I entered a state of catharsis.” And he remembers the tears that were trickling down his face as he paints the black hole the death of his mother had created, as he pours out how much he misses her.
He looks down at his feet briefly, smiling to himself to hide the pain beneath his canvas. After a short pause, he shrugs. “This is the result.”
When Stiles stares back at her, her eyes are fixed on the painting, and she’s frozen. He was about to ask her if she’s okay, when she breaks the silence around them.
“I – I finally understand.” She swallows down the sudden nerves, her eyes wide and bright as she stares at him with awe. “I can’t say it, can’t express it in words properly but after hearing you explain it’s like – I felt it.”
He’s speechless, lips slightly parted as he watches this girl before him stare at his painting with such magnificence. He doesn’t know which is better: that he’s the one that made her understand, or that her opinion on his work feels so sincere.
Maybe he’s been hypnotized by her looks but really, at this point, he doesn’t even care anymore.
“Listen, I’d really be glad if you’d go out to this other art exhibit with me?” She drops the question out of nowhere and Stiles is no longer sure if he’s dreaming or if he’s hearing the words right. He’s probably got a stupid look on his face. “I mean, I need to make up for my rudeness earlier. And it might help if you’re there to explain things for me. ” She flashes him a smile that makes him weak, and wow, did he say he hates art shows? Because nope, he definitely loves them now. Thank God for Art Exhibits.
“Only if you tell me your honest opinion before I explain things to you.” He responds, grateful that he’s able to speak without stuttering or saying something stupid.
“Deal.” She beams at him, extends an arm out and waits for him to shake her hand.
All he could do is grin as he takes her hand and squeezes it lightly. “I’m Stiles, by the way.”
She doesn’t let go of his hand, neither does he. At least not yet.
“I’m Lydia.”