Tony think he might have liked painting, once. It's like engineering, isn't it? The brush of the paintbrush like the sweep of a welding torch, motor oil and oil paint, the canvas like a circuit board that you build off.

Edwin Jarvis used to paint, Tony remembers, he had a whole room in the little house he shared with Ana, canvases lined up on the wall like blank little soldiers awaiting instruction, shelves stacked high with jars and easels, paint in every shade he you can dream in.

Jarvis would stand in there, sit on the little stool, and stare at the wall.

Once, Tony had asked why. He wasn't sure how old he was, maybe 5? 6? Doesn't matter.

"I'm waiting, Tony," Edwin had said simply, and returned his heavy gaze onto the wall. Ana bustled around in the kitchen behind them.

"For what?" Tony had asked again, feeling dumb for a such a question.

"Inspiration."

"Ah," Tony had said like he understood, when really, he didn't. Not at all.

And even if he didn't, he sat next to him on one of the chairs that were still too high, and stared at the empty wall, blank and wood-panelled.

He stared and stared, and nothing popped into his head. Evidently, something did into Jarvis', though.

He got up in one fluid moment, and whisked a set of carefully placed paints from the small side-table where they had been resting. Quickly, and without a word, he started to paint with long, deft strokes, brilliant colors flowing from his paintbrush — wand, Tony had thought reverently. He makes a sunset, shiny, wonderful red and gold, like the most brilliant of crowns, the brightest of fires.

Tony stopped and stared, because his father had let him in the workshop a few times, and this is like that, only better, because while his father can fiddle around with wires all he wants, this is changing right in front of his eyes, this is shaping up and growing, and he does not have to wait to plug it in to see if it works.

From that day, Tony thinks he must have spent more time in that little room than his own bedroom.

Soon, he started painting himself, hesitant at first, then with laughter, casting spells of color without reprieve.

Howard noticed, eventually, of course he did.

When he found out he was painting...he was... not too pleased.

He got whisked away from it, stuffed into workshops and labs so fast his head spins and he burns his hands. He mourns the loss of it, because, as much as he liked engineering, it doesn't quite feel right. He is used to wood in his hand, not metal, and his fingers flew around the wrench.

He flies, of course, he is his father's son and a genius, after all, but when he can — in between press conferences and business meeting that his father parades him around at, or galas and actions that his mother does, — he slips away, to the little room inside the Jarvis' house, and paints and paints and paints.

He sits in the lounge late into the evening, watching the flames crackle and munching on whatever Ana's baked up.

There, he loves and grows and has a home more than he ever did in that lonely house.

"Hi, are you James?" Tony asks, tucking a paintbrush behind his ear, crossing the room to where his new, dark-skinned roommate is waiting, holding his luggage awkwardly.

"Yeah," his new roommate greets, smiling warmly and shifting his bags to shake his hand "I'm James."

"Nice to meet you," Tony says, retreating back into his corner. He's got a stack of canvases that Jarvis snuck out for him, as well as a fold-able table that his paints are balanced on. He was sketching out a brief outline before he entered, a mechanical-organic piece, with flowers winding through a car engine.

"Wow, you're unpacked," James says, slinging his backpack onto the other bed. Everything about him is warm, friendly without a cause, it makes Tony feel weird, like he doesn't deserve it. James is that neighbourly dog that runs up to you, no matter what.

"Yeah. I got here a day early."

"Damn, that's prepared," he smiles. Tony is about to reply cuttingly, when he notices the smile is real and kind. Oh. He's not making fun.

"Uh, yeah," he stutters, caught off guard. "I — I wanted to get out of the house."

James just snorts, ignoring the implications, "14 and moving out, huh? Crazy."

Tony smiles, "I'm not exactly a normal 14-year-old."

"That's true," James agrees. He takes the time to look around the room, eyes catching on his corner. "Painting, huh? I thought you were an engineering major?"

"I am," Tony says cryptically, starting to draw more petals. "But I like painting."

"l can tell," James laughs. "It's cool."

"You think?" Tony asks seriously.

"Oh, yeah. It's awesome," he reassures.

"I'm still experimenting with styles and things," he blushes.

"It looks good so far," he compliments, looking over Tony's shoulder. "Then again, I'm not an art major."

"Oh, I'll educate you."

"Hopefully I don't have to pay for this too," he jokes.

"Eh, I'll give you a scholarship, you can't afford me."

James laughs and throws a spare paintbrush at him.

"Where did you learn?" he asks, "I thought you were also painting."

"Doing some research?" Tony laughs.

"Of course," James says without embarrassment, "I wanted to know about the 14-year-old genius that I'm bunking with."

"Oh, I don't blame you," Tony says airily, an exact impersonation of Ana's dry wit.

James laughs. "Seriously. You got some skills."

Tony smiles, chewing on the end of his pencil. "Jarvis taught me."

"Who is Jarvis?"

"He's..." Tony hesitates, trying to find the word. "A butler, I suppose. He's great. He's... well, the best."

"He sounds nice," James smiles, unpacking his bag."

"He is," Tony bites his lip to stop himself smiling like a loon. There is a swell of happy, light emotion bubbling in his chest, and with every passing second it grows bigger and bigger until he thinks it might pop.

Tony is happy.