Beginning
All he ever wanted was someone to come home to.
Sebastian Stan’s job was fun, but never easy. It was rewarding—with all the love he gets from the people who support him—but exhausting. He’s never in the same place these days—always on a plane off to another beautiful yet unfamiliar place; most of the time in a panel in front of a crowd where microphones and lights and cameras surrounded him, it was almost blinding—and despite the fun of it all, it gets lonely sometimes.
His place in New York has been the same one since he moved seven years ago, and a lot has happened in all those years. The apartment has witnessed the shittiest and best years of his life. It has seen a couple of girlfriends cry during the end of the line; almost a dozen of women on his bed at night, only to leave in the morning while he slept; so many phone calls with his agent about auditions; literally just everything that’s happened in the past seven years. He never thought of moving, even after the drastic fame he got because of Marvel, for the sole reason that his place was his home.
He travelled so much that he wanted to come home to the same place over and over to remind him of where we started.
It was only when he started getting bigger roles when he felt it got lonely. From small, temporary, almost insignificant characters from low-budget films to award-winning movies and a nine-picture contract with Marvel, his job got more challenging. He trains and films for almost half a year, gets another role after it, then travels for press tour, shoots another film, and does it all over again, making it almost impossible to find time to find love and all its beauty.
His ex-girlfriend, Margo, used to live in his apartment when they were together. But when the inevitable came, she moved out, leaving his home and heart empty. He couldn’t blame her for leaving though. He wasn’t home most of the months in a year, and even when Margo had her own job, she still managed to be home thrice as much as he was. She didn’t want to be the woman who waited three months just to touch him again, and he didn’t want her to be just that.
Don’t get him wrong, though. He would never intentionally make a woman wait for him that long. It was just that he had no choice.
He had been waiting for his big break since he was twenty-three, and now that it’s come, he couldn’t just drop it, especially when it’s offered to him in silver platter.
So he let her go, because again, he had no choice.
And then he met you.
You were the kind of person he never expected to fall in love with. But then, he figured, falling in love was often unexpected.
You weren’t an actress like most of his past lovers. Living in a small apartment near his and working six days a week, you did everything to get by. You were normal, in the sense that your life wasn’t as crazy as his but a little crazy nonetheless. And if he could only string all the words in the world and combine them to describe why he loves you so much, he would. But at this point—when he’s in too deep, he couldn’t get out even if he wanted to—you are the only thing he would ever beg for, the only person he would chase until the ends of the earth.
He met you on one of the loneliest years of his life despite all the success, and he knew—God, he knew—that he shouldn’t be building houses out of people but, God, help him: he would do everything to keep you in his life.