While art is subjective, your hate for Stephen Vincent Strange was pure and simple. An arrogant, crude and tasteless man. One of close-minded thinking and a lack of creativity.
This was the type of person any artist like you would despise.
~~~
All...
Bar patrons scattered within booths and along stools. Drinks were rimmed with sugar to counter the bitter liquor whilst lime dripped on tongues after harsh intakes of salt and tequila. In such an untamed environment, you wondered why Stephen would take you here, of all places.
"Now, this is not your style," you slip into the rounded booth, bumping hips with Strange, who places down an odd-looking drink.
"This is the very first bar I went to when I turned 21," he stirs the thick syrup into the cheap alcohol, "the very first drink I ordered," and then he leans back, "not the same seat, though... that was the seat, but we're not interrupting them," he points towards a couple practically eating each other's faces off.
Your lips close in a grimace before sipping at the cocktail. "Oh god, that's awful," you cough and choke at the taste. As awful as it looked, it was hardly worth a dollar, let alone a solid fifteen.
"Yup, just as bad as I remember," he clears his throat, rubbing his chest with a hearty laugh, "got a napkin from the bar, too," once folded, it was slipped between pages in your sketchbook.
"How thoughtful," you needed to have him talk, ramble on, something to take focus away from your work. Though it shouldn't be hard, considering this was Stephen Strange. "So, cheap ramen, cheap booze, not a daddy's money type?"
"Family is not a good topic for me," his finger drags along the rim, unable to keep a pitiful smile from his face. "I'll need a few more shitty drinks before I even start to get into it,"
It was an earnest look of understanding from you that gave him comfort. "Of course," drops of water fall onto the page when you go to sip it again. "You bought this drink for me, and I'm not letting it go to waste,"
"You should. It isn't worth it," he pulls it away, eyes hooded with a smile turning increasingly rare. "I chose this place because it was the first place I saw, nothing special and nothing like places I enjoy," he stops a waitress and asks for two other drinks quickly before resuming his story, "but you wanted special, so special you get,"
~~~
From his cheekbones, down towards his broad shoulders, and further to his fingertips, not a single inch of him wasn't a reminder of the luck he received. The man was practically carved from marble by some group of gods.
You never knew what happened to the surgeon; the details of his accident were very vague and anything that happened to him was left with few words. Something about losing his practice due to the injuries, you expected it to have been something unethical, but instead, he lost his hands. A man you thought held no heart, possibly losing the one people assumed he had, now without his hands.
Such a confident man, you wondered how much was a facade. Just like the one everyone on the team had. They were all broken shards trying to piece themselves together without help and refusing such a thing.
"That's why I always wanted a dog... maybe a bloodhound or something," he finishes his story, seeing your head tilting up and down from the page to him. "Can I see?"
"No." you pull the sketchbook closer to yourself.
"Hey, come on, just a peek?" He didn't give up, instead scooting closer to try and peer. "I'll buy you another drink?"
The offer wasn't too awful, but you would need a little more, "a drink, then you explain why you have grey hair at this age," you counteroffer.
"Deal," he puts in the order, a tinge of urgency in his tone. He had no clue why he was so excited; it was a drawing, but all night, you had been looking at him with such focus and intent. He just had to know what was transferred onto tinted paper.
"You first," you close the book, head in your palm.
"You'll be disappointed by the story," he runs his fingers through one side, "stress of medical school and my PhD, I think I was 21? 22?"
"Maybe it was the awful drink," you mumble, the taste still lingering your tongue. "Do you ever feel insecure about it?"
"Woah, show me the drawings first," he stops your line of inquiry.
"Fine, here," the book opened to the first page, mainly of the drink, how water dripped down the glass, and the napkin lay in a puddle of alcohol. The next page was more of him, his hands gripping the glass, fingers securing around the straw, or placed firmly against the oak wood table. They were rough sketches but detailed enough to leave him clueless about what else needed to be added.
"I sometimes dye it, but that became a little tedious since the whole sorcerer thing," he then turns the page to see one detailing the flow of his hair. "I don't know how you did all this in the time we've been here,"
"If I have a good enough subject, I can fill one of these up in a week," you knock your knuckle on the page. "What do you think?"
"Well, you make my hair look much nicer than it is," he hands it back, "I can't wait to see the finished product,"
"Wow, no fawning? No, 'this is amazing'?" You slump back with a fake frown.
"Yeah, I'm not giving you that satisfaction," Stephen slid out of the booth and held his hand out, seeing you done with your drink, "drank enough?"
"I'm not drunk," you then stop and purse your lips, "I misunderstood; I swear I'm not drunk,"
"Mhm," he made sure you didn't stumble, pleasantly surprised when you easily walked to the exit.
"Where next?" You were cut short when a portal opened to a familiar building. A hospital with people flooding in and out of it. "Oh,"
~~~
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Found out I have a History Unit exam on my birthday... yay? Tbf it's my fave professor, so slay
