Work Text:
Art had never really been Steve’s thing.
Especially not modern art.
He didn’t really get it.
And he didn’t really want to get it, if he was being honest with himself.
And ‘himself’ was the only person he’d be honest with about this subject.
The last time he tried to express such feelings, he felt like he was about to be on the bad end of a witch hunt.
Too many artists and art appreciators had scoffed or pitied him as if he was an idiot for not getting the deep and meaningful message of a pile of trash pulled from a junkyard sitting in the middle of an empty room with the meaning of: consumerism, bad.
Like, yeah thanks, he didn’t need to go see a pile of junk in a room to realise consumerism was bad. A pile of junk, by the way, he had to pay to go see because his ex just had to examine it up close.
He needed to stop dating people from Robin’s art college.
Steve was well aware he wasn’t exactly cerebral like that, and while it had taken a long, long time for him to become comfortable with it, other people saw it as a soul deep flaw.
So forgive him for enjoying an evening at a bar with his friends or watching a game more than standing around and nodding while some dick with his head shoved up his own ass delivered a speech about the broken department store mannequin he had spent five minutes spray painting, meant to represent the futility of the beauty industry or whatever the fuck, while he waved a manicured hand around and arched a microbladed brow at those who looked sufficiently guilty in light of his irrefutable morals.
So yeah, art wasn’t really his thing.
But this was Robin’s art.
So at the very least, for this showing, he would force his brain into making an effort.
He was actually very surprised at how little he had to force.
It was immediately clear to Steve that this showing was different from the others.
For one, there was music.
And not that hoity-toity classical string quartet nonsense that people like Steve’s parents pretended to enjoy because it was what was expected of them. It was like…
There was no other way to describe it other than cool or even young and Steve immediately wanted to go dunk his head in the sink because even to himself he sounded like a youth pastor desperately trying to connect with the young’uns.
But it was some kind of instrumental rock or whatever, playing at a volume that wasn’t obtrusive but still filled the silence enough to allow people to feel comfortable talking and not whispering to each other.
The gallery itself was a deep dark red colour, dimly lit with various spotlights shining on the artwork, which itself was a mish-mash of different types.
Steve wasn’t exactly sure if that was the right word, different mediums maybe?
Costume pieces and sculptures, paintings and photography.
Robin was practically abuzz, excitedly talking to anyone who asked about her inspiration for her own piece, and whereas in other gallery showings Steve would have expected to find people being overly stuffy and formal, everyone here seemed to take things much more casually.
Robin sent him a wild and panicked look as another artist at the show, a cute little blonde woman who’s piece involved an old highschool cheer costume on a skeleton, batted her eyelashes at Robin as she stuttered over her words.
Steve sent her a two fingered salute and stepped back and away from her, smiling as she glared at him.
He could wander on his own for a little bit, surely he could find something to entertain himself.
It was almost by mistake he came upon the painting.
And that seemed to be the point.
Hidden away by a dark corner, lit up by only one single spotlight, was a traditional looking portrait, the type that royals and aristocrats had painted of themselves in centuries past.
The man in the portrait was dressed in old-timey formals, gold epaulettes on his shoulders, medals and badges on his chest, a yellow sash over his blue military jacket. His chestnut hair lay in an artful swoop over his head, his face adorned with moles and beauty marks, his hazel eyes looking out of the portrait with a mix of exasperation, a little bit of irritation, but mostly a deep and unmoveable fondness that Steve could just about feel down in his bones.
“There’s something about him, isn’t there?”
Steve turned to the man who had appeared nearly silently at his side. The man turned to look at him with an almost lovelorn grin.
Steve’s eyes did a sweep of him, wild curly dark hair, deep dark eyes, the hint of dimples appearing at his cheeks, black inky tattoos along his wiry arms.
Beautiful.
Steve smiled back, almost finding himself blushing, though he couldn’t fathom the reason.
“Is this one of yours?” He asked, assuming this man was one of the artists here, showing off his work, though he’d never seen him around Robin’s college.
“Me?” The man asked, a mischievous lilt in his voice. “Unfortunately not. But he is a part of my collection and I couldn’t bear to pack him away in storage. He’s just too beautiful.”
“Oh.”
Steve looked back up at the portrait above him.
He couldn’t deny there was something about the painting that was pulling him in, but he wouldn’t exactly say it was the subject that was doing it for him.
There was something about the care and almost reverence that seemed to come from the painting itself.
Like the artist had meticulously made sure everything was perfect.
Like he had left a part of his soul in the canvas.
“You look like him, actually.”
Steve turned again, the man was still looking at him, that same yearning smile in place.
“Do you think so?”
Steve himself didn’t really see the resemblance but he wasn’t going to deny an attractive man telling him he looked similar to a painting he had called beautiful.
“I do.” He looked upon Steve like he was an artwork in himself, his gaze magnetic and inescapable. “The man who painted this… There was a rumour they were lovers. The painter and the subject, that is.”
Steve grinned a little sadly to himself.
“Historians will call them roommates.” He quipped, a resigned type of defeat making its way into his tone against his will.
The man hummed next to him, turning fully to face him now.
“Probably.” He raised a finger to tap lightly at the pride flag pin on Steve’s collar. “History hasn’t ever really been kind to our people, after all.”
“What else do you know of them…?” Steve left a gap at the end of his sentence, hoping, praying that this man would bless him with his name.
“Eddie.”
Eddie.
It fit.
It fit so absurdly well that Steve had wondered how he hadn’t just been able to guess it. The person in front of him had always been the type of person Steve had imagined whenever he had thought of the name Eddie, as strange as that sounded.
“Steve.” Steve gave back in turn.
Eddie smiled at him again, appearing to share the sentiment of a name fitting perfectly to a person.
“That’s right.” He said, less of a confirmation and more of an acknowledgment of a puzzle piece slotting into place.
Eddie heaved a heavy sigh, a moment of overdone drama that set Steve’s heart fluttering and had him leaning in just a little more, desperate to be closer.
“Their tale is a tragic one, I’m afraid. The man in the painting perished in a fire not long after it was completed. This was the last piece the artist ever completed. He disappeared after the fire, never to be seen again. I think…” Eddie hesitated, swallowing. “I think he followed his lover not long after.”
Steve looked back up at the careful brushstrokes and meticulous detail, his heart plummeting down deep and his eyes welling up against his will, unable to stop thinking of the despair the painter must have felt, the despair Steve himself felt that the painter thought there was no way forward after such a loss.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Eddie whispered to him, gently thumbing away at the tears on Steve’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Steve shook his head, eyes down and tried his best to fight off the urge to throw himself into the arms of this stranger who he had just met, this man who he felt an inexplicable and borderline compulsive need to be closer to, to hold tight to him and be assured that he was alive and well.
He only managed a second of hesitation before he gave in, rocketing forward and colliding with such a force into Eddie that he was forced to take a step back to steady himself, but steady himself he did, arms immediately coming up to encase Steve with a warmth and a surety that a stranger should not have, but never in his life had Steve ever felt as at home as he did right now.
“Let me make it up to you?” Eddie asked, low and comforting, slowly running a hand up and down Steve’s back.
Steve sniffed to himself, a small smile curling over his face as he nestled in deeper to Eddie’s hold, a contented sigh escaping from his lungs as everything in the world felt right again.
So right, and he hadn’t even known it had been wrong.
“Okay.” He muttered into Eddie’s skin, relishing the shiver he received in return. “Give me your number?”
Eddie squeezed him, just a little pulse, tighter then loose again, but never once letting go.
“You’ve got a deal, sweet thing.”