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The thing Stephen really loved about magic was, it could be very soothing to his senses.
Especially Earth’s natural eldritch fields that he could sense all the time, no matter where he was on the planet. It had become a new constant in his life, one that he greatly enjoyed, like listening to the constant hum of rain against the window — soft, steady, and endlessly reassuring.
And when he wielded that magic, allowed it to flow through his veins, it was like a cat idly brushing its warm fur against his offered fingertips, neither too demanding of his attention, nor overwhelming him with its own.
At the cost of sounding doltish, magic felt, well, magical.
More often than not, when he did not have any other duties, he could be found meditating by the Window of the World, lost in the rhythmic ebbs and flows of the magic as he allowed himself to be a conduit to. Nothing quite managed to calm his senses as effectively as listening to the light hum of magic did.
But the thing Stephen really hated about magic was, it could be very, very abrasive to his senses.
More specifically, the magic outside of Earth. The unique magic fields of the endless number of dimensions connected to Earth. They weren’t excruciatingly unpleasant, per say — except for a rare few that literally seemed dead set on trying to burn Stephen’s insides for simply standing within their dimension’s bounds — in fact, the magic and atmosphere of most dimensions was rather tolerable. It was the fact that he had to visit them often, for one reason or the other, that made it a lot more unpleasant.
And he had to visit them very often. Maybe to banish some extradimensional creature back to its home. Maybe to hunt some ingredient or a long-lost relic. Maybe for god-forsaken diplomatic negotiations which he really, really wasn’t cut out for.
Like this one.
Sitting at the dining table with Ataraxia Dimension’s Royals as they discussed the renewal of their alliance pact with Earth, Stephen internally cursed Wong for delegating him, of all people, for this task.
The dimension’s foreign magic constantly prickled at his skin, like the scratchy seams of a particularly elaborate outfit. The smell of their food was some odd mix of freshly gutted fish, petroleum jelly, and acrylic paint; entirely unappetizing, even if he knew, factually, that everything here was edible for his consumption. The agender heir of the Queens unabashedly flirted with him, hovering near his seat every chance they could get and leaving lingering touches on his arms and shoulders, the unprompted contant making him want to flinch and squirm away.
Oh, and the cherry on top: Ataraxians naturally had a very sharp, trill voice.
Everything felt too much. He was at the cusp of losing his sanity.
“Master Strange, won’t you feast? Is the food not to your liking?” One of the Queens asked, having noticed that he hadn’t even touched the contents on his platter. Her voice was shrill — as was every Ataraxian’s — as she spoke in her native language.
Language that Stephen had to translate with the use of a spell.
Spell that needed to be powered with magic.
Magic that circulated through the air around him, foreign and chafing, chilling him to his core, making him want to shiver every time he drew upon it.
And he drew upon it. Again and again and again.
Too much.
“Ah, no, it is perfectly fine,” he told the royals. It’s perfectly fine, he told himself.
The words tasted bitter as a lie, the thoughts pungent as rotting flesh.
“I was simply wondering if I could have some wine to accompany this fine feast?” he added, making up the lie on-the-spot. Well, perhaps not entirely a lie, as he had had their equivalent of ‘wine’ before, and had in fact quite liked it.
By any luck, they would serve him the same thing Wong had once treated him, and this entire dinner would be a little less unbearable.
Not that luck was ever known to favor him very much.
“Of course,” the other Queen intoned, and gestured at one of the servants. The servant in question had barely taken two steps when the Princex perked up.
“Ah, allow me,” they chirped with an extra cheery voice, which really only sounded extra shrill to Stephen’s ears, and he dug his nails into palm to stop his hands from flying to his ears. The agony that shot up his damaged nerves was a way better source of pain than branding crescent marks into his palm could ever be.
Too much.
The Princex flicked their blue hand in the direction of Stephen’s glass. Stephen barely suppressed a flinch as he felt the magic weave so goddamn close to him, filling the glass up with a rich, violet colored liquid with a fruity scent.
Stephen closed his eyes, clenching his fist tighter.
By the Vishanti.
Wrong color. Wrong scent.
What he’d had with Wong one exhausting night in the Sanctum kitchen had been a different shade of violet — a hint more of blue in it. It had smelled less like an ester from a chemistry lab and more like sliced pineapples draped with jasmines.
Too much.
He opened his eyes, staring down at his drink.
It was the same thing he’d had before. He knew it was. It just had a slightly different recipe or manufacturing. Which, of course, was to be expected.
It didn’t help. Because he knew it would taste different, howsoever insignificant the difference.
But he didn’t have a choice, did he?
He swallowed, trying to ignore the twisting feeling in his gut, and thanked the Princex. He picked up the glass of wine, and looked up at the two Queens.
They were staring expectantly at him, likely waiting for him to begin.
He took a deep breath, suppressing a wince as the slightly off-set scent invaded his nostrils. It’s fine, he told himself. Maybe if he told himself enough times, he’d start to believe it.
It’s just one dinner.
One dinner in exchange for another century of peaceful relations. He could manage that much, for his world.
He closed his eyes and took a sip of the wine.
And nearly choked as the thick, cool liquid slid down his throat; the consistency off, the taste off.
Wrong Wrong Wrong—
He quickly separated the glass from his mouth. Some liquid escaped his lips, trickling down his neck before he could’ve gotten his hands on a tissue, making him hyper-aware of the cold, damp trail it left on his skin.
Too much Too much Too much—
The sound of shattering glass was near-deafening to his ears, his now empty hand shaking violently midair. More voices immediately echoed through the hall, sharp and piercing. Stephen couldn’t make out what words were being said, if any. He had let go of the translation spell. He doubted he would’ve comprehended the words even with the spell.
He stood up, feet staggering. His heart thundered loudly in its cage. Everything was too bright, too loud. The smell of the banquet stabbed into his nose, the magic left scorching blisters against his skin, the taste in his mouth a sickly sweet.
Stop, stop, stop, make it stop—
One last time, he drew upon magic, and called forth the path that would lead him home.
Between one moment and another, the feel of Ataraxian magic against his skin was replaced with Earth’s natural eldritch magic. Magic that was familiar, gentle, soothing—
Except, it wasn’t.
It burned. God, it burned.
Like the raw feel of touch against a freshly acquired wound. Like torching a skin that had already been abused with fire.
And his ears. His ears hurt. It was too much noise, and his ears hurt. Why was it still noisy? He had left that place behind to come back home, hadn’t he?
Then why did everything still hurt?
Stephen let his knees crash to the harsh, cold floor, and screamed.
He couldn’t be sure how long the agony lasted. It certainly felt like forever.
It was drowning and barely making it to the surface, allowed to take one life-saving gulp of air, before being pulled down again. It was spiders and ants and centipedes crawling on every inch of skin, feeling every individual appendage of the crawlers as they touched blazing nerves.
And when he finally felt like himself again, when his head was finally above the water and was allowed to breathe normally again, the magic around him was no longer overwhelming. It ebbed and flowed, in that pattern he was oh so familiar with, and he focused himself on it, drew stability from it.
He blinked, no longer staring blankly into the dimly-lit surrounding, but taking it all in, letting the familiarity, the safety of it all wash over him. The space around him so silent that he could hear his own breaths. It felt a little unnatural. This space was neither supposed to be so silent, nor so devoid of light.
His face was mushy and sticky from tears, his eyes unpleasantly puffy. The skin at his neck burned, as did his hands; he must have tried to (literally) peel his skin off again.
He was wrapped up snugly in something heavy and warm. At first he had figured it must be the cloak — they had, since choosing him, learned how to help him in such scenarios — but as he looked down at himself, he found himself wrapped in a nice, large blanket. The cloak was still underneath it, wrapped snug against Stephen, letting him trace his fingers over their velvety folds to distract himself from the ache of his damaged fingers.
And he was no longer on the cold floor, but a cushiony couch — the couch that Tony always kept around in his workshop.
Speaking of the man himself...
Very slowly, he turned his head down, to where Tony was kneeling by the couch on the cold floor, his eyes glued to Stephen with rapt attention.
He had sat there the entire time.
God, he’d witnessed the entire thing.
Stephen’s muscles tensed as a wave of embarrassment crashed into him.
Of course he had. Stephen had been the one to stumble into his workshop through a hastily drawn portal, only to be even more overwhelmed by AC/DC playing on full blast. And now he’d watched Stephen breakdown like.. like that.
Stephen’s heart raced as he tried to figure out, how much did Tony know? How much had he figured out?
What did he think of Stephen, now, having seen him break down so pathetically?
“Cheesecakes? How do you feel?” Tony asked in the quietest voice, as though afraid of startling Stephen into fleeing. He reached out a hand, gently resting it over the thick blanket covering Stephen.
Stephen fixed his eyes on that calloused hand. He needed to move his hands, or pace, or something. But the blanket was.. he didn’t want to leave it. So he settled for running his fingers over the Cloak.
Ignoring Tony’s question, he instead asked in a partially hoarse voice, “How did you.. know the blanket would help?”
Tony shrugged. “Peter gets overstimulated too often. These help, got them specifically for him. I keep one on every part of the compound, just in case.”
An uneasy feeling twisted in his stomach. He hadn’t known that Peter had sensory overloads. He really should’ve figured that out himself. ‘Too often’. Vishanti, how bad was it?
He would need to talk with Peter, later. Offer his help to the kid.
Tony slowly rose from his place on the floor and took a seat right beside Stephen.
Stephen looked away. He didn’t want to look at Tony’s face, too afraid of what he would find there. He had done it, he had made an irreparable mistake. Yet again. This had to be a new record, how to ruin personal and professional relationship as quickly as possible.
What a fool, he thought to himself. Just one dinner. Couldn’t sit through one god-forsaken dinner.
Centuries of peaceful relations and allianceship, and he had managed to single-handedly flushed that all down the drain and make their planet an enemy of Ataraxia. And now he had opened the can of worms that was his issues, to Tony. It was only a matter of time before he, too, would flee, realizing that he couldn’t put up with Stephen and his issues.
Some sorcerer he was.
Some boyfriend he was.
“—phen, Stephen!”
The call shook him out of his head, and he found his wrists held hostage by strong but careful hands, close to his neck where he had tried to peel his skin off again. Fresh tear marks streaked his face, trickling down his neck to soak his robe. The blanked was half unraveled.
“You’re spiraling again, Sweetcakes,” Tony whispered.
Stephen tried to hold back a whimper, couldn’t help but lean into Tony’s gentle touch. He didn’t know how Tony did it. He had never quite liked being touched, but with Tony he couldn’t help but crave that touch, that always reminded him of home and safety.
Would he lose that tender touch forever, now?
“Shh, hey, Sweetie, talk to me. What happened?”
Stephen choked on another sob, unable to look Tony in the eyes as he so carefully maneuvered Stephen’s hands down, his calloused touch gently massaging Stephen’s fingers. What could he even say anymore? Everything had already fallen apart. So he said the only thing that made sense.
“I messed up.”
“Okay,” Tony said. An electronic whine echoed behind them, and Stephen looked around to find Butterfingers hovering behind the couch with a glass of water — when had she arrived here? — which Tony took from her claws, and brought closer to Stephen’s lips, just gently holding it close, not yet forcing the cool glass against his mouth. “How about you hydrate yourself first, and then we’ll talk about what is it so that we can figure out how to fix it?”
Stephen’s eyes flitted to Tony’s face, those honey-gold eyes still fixated on him; then to the hand that still held on to Stephen’s, massaging back and forth in an easy rhythm, then back to the offering of water inches away from his mouth.
It was so hard to decipher what was written on Tony’s face. It shouldn’t be. It really, really shouldn’t be. They’d been together for nearly a year now, why hadn’t Stephen learned it all yet?
Emotion lodged in his throat, threatening a new wave of tears to fall from his eyes. He screwed them shut, squeezing a few tears out anyway.
Tony wasn’t even going to ask him what all of that had been? Why Stephen had acted half insane just a while ago? Tony had to have realized that it was nothing like a normal sensory overload, right?
Does he even know..? Stephen swallowed thickly. He had to, right? He must, he wasn’t a genius for nothing.
But..
Stephen opened his eyes, taking in the man sitting with him, still holding the glass of water ever so patiently, his attention single-mindedly focused on Stephen and only Stephen, as though nothing and no one else existed in this world.
But even if he knows, he doesn’t see me any differently.
The glass of water forgotten, Stephen threw off the thick blanket and threw himself on Tony, wrapping his arms around his genius. Tony set the glass down to wrap his own arms around Stephen, warm and strong, feeling like home and safety.
Stephen chose to believe that the emotion in Tony’s face was love.
TheOppositeOfWar Sat 28 Dec 2024 01:23AM UTC
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writteninwaves Sat 28 Dec 2024 03:48AM UTC
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