What he wanted

The studio was nearly empty, cloaked in that kind of late-night stillness that felt both sacred and intrusive. The only source of light came from an old desk lamp clinging desperately to life, its yellow glow throwing jagged shadows along the paint-streaked floor and cracked walls. Sculpting tools lay scattered around like forgotten bones, and Night stood hunched over his latest piece. An abstract form with rough, uneven edges, still damp and half-born. He wasn’t even sure what it was yet. All he knew was that it ached to be finished. It felt personal in a way that irritated him.

His hands were clay-dusted, his jaw tense. He hadn’t slept. Not really. Maybe it was the caffeine. Or maybe it was the quiet hum under his skin, the kind that only ever surfaced when the door creaked.

And Night’s heart stuttered.

Footsteps, slow and deliberate. A figure stepping into the yellow wash of the desk lamp. Familiar shoulders. Familiar silence.

North.

Of course it was North.

He said nothing as he entered, just crossed the room like he belonged there, like Night wasn’t a person breathing too hard now, but merely part of the backdrop. He sat on the edge of a battered table opposite Night, the legs of the stool squeaking slightly as he adjusted his weight. Then: the sketchbook. That same goddamn sketchbook he always carried, worn around the edges, thick with half-drawn portraits and secrets.

North flipped it open without a word. Pencil already in hand.

Night stared for a moment too long. His breath caught in his throat and sat there, unmoving. He turned back to his sculpture, forcing his fingers to move, to mold, to pretend that North’s presence wasn’t already rewiring the air around him.

But he could feel it. Could feel him.

That gaze. That quiet, unblinking attention that never announced itself but always smothered everything else.

Finally, Night’s patience fractured. “See something you like?” he snapped, his voice rough from disuse and frustration.

No answer.

North tilted his head, just slightly, tapping the edge of his pencil against the page like a fucking metronome.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“God, do you ever say anything first?” Night said, louder now, turning fully to face him. “Or do you just show up, stare at people like you’re cataloguing them for later, and disappear?”

Still nothing.

That silence—it wasn’t passive. It was powerful. Infuriating. It got under Night’s skin the way compliments never could. And it made him reckless.

So he stepped closer, crossed the paint-splattered floor, dust trailing his steps.

“You know,” Night started, his voice already carrying that too-sharp edge, half-performative, half-defensive, the kind of tone he used when he was backed into a corner and had no idea what the hell to do with all the feeling beneath his skin, “if you’re gonna keep playing that little ‘not yet’ game, you could at least tell me the damn rules.”

North looked up slowly. Finally. And that was the worst part, how calm he looked. Like he wasn’t the reason Night’s chest felt like it was caving in.

“You don’t get to just… do that,” Night kept going, stepping closer, hands gesturing, voice rising, cracking just slightly around the edges. “You don’t get to stare at me like you meant it, like I meant something… and then vanish. And then watch me again. Like this.”

He laughed, bitter. “Northy, do you even realize how you look at people? You study them like they’re already yours. Like you’re bored of them before they even open their mouths. But with me? You look at me like I’m a fucking puzzle. Like I’m something you’re gonna crack wide open just to see if there’s anything inside.”

His voice dropped, suddenly softer. Almost breaking. “That day, outside the cafe, do you remember that?”

He shook his head, breath shallow. “You leaned in. You said if you wanted to kiss me, you would’ve. And then you didn’t. You didn’t. You chose not to. And I’ve been stuck in that moment ever since, like a goddamn painting that never dries.”

North didn’t move. Not a word. Not a twitch.

Night’s throat tightened. “You act like you don’t care, but you show up. You’re here. You sit across from me like you’re waiting for me to say the wrong thing just so you can sketch it. And the worst part?” He exhaled, short and sharp. “You haven’t even touched me, and I feel like you’ve already taken something.”

He laughed again, but this time it wasn’t bitter. It was almost desperate. “You want to know what I hate the most, North? It’s not that you’re quiet. It’s that your silence hurts. Like it’s tailored. Like it’s for me.”

And then he stopped.

Breathing hard, lips parted, chest rising and falling like he’d sprinted through a storm.

He waited.

Begged silently, for a reaction, a flinch, something. But North just sat there. Calm as ever. Unreadable.

Then, slowly, the faintest curl of his mouth. A smirk that barely touched his eyes. And with a voice like a knife, smooth and low, he said:

“You talk too much.”

Before Night could summon a retort, before he could reach for another sharp quip to throw like a shield, North moved.

It was fast. Fluid. Too confident to be anything but premeditated.

One second they were breathing the same tense, electric air. The next, North had closed the space like it had never been there, as if the universe had snapped and rewired itself around his momentum. His hand came up, unhurried but unwavering, fingers curling around Night’s jaw with a pressure that wasn’t violent, but impossible to ignore. Like the grip of gravity itself.

He tilted Night’s face up, gently, possessively, his thumb brushing the edge of Night’s cheekbone like he was studying him. Like he wasn’t just seeing him but assessing, calibrating, committing this angle to memory. Not the way an artist studies his muse, but the way a storm studies the sky right before it breaks.

Night’s pulse skittered like static under skin.

His lips parted on instinct. His breath hitched.

And then, North kissed him.

The first contact wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It didn’t ask. It took.

It was a kiss made of every unsaid thing between them. Every look that lasted too long, every breath that caught in their throats, every time one of them walked away when they shouldn’t have. It was weeks, months of tension detonating all at once. Teeth. Lips. Tongues clashing. No hesitation.

Night stumbled back under the force of it, shoulder blades slamming into the paint-streaked wall, his gasp swallowed instantly by North’s mouth. But North didn’t stop— fuck no, he just followed. Pressed closer. Crowded him completely. His body molded against Night’s like they were meant to lock into place like this.

And then, fuck, his hands.

One palm slid down to Night’s hip, gripping tight, anchoring him there. The other snaked up, fingers threading into his hair, tugging. Not cruel, but firm, dominant, sending sparks straight down Night’s spine. He arched involuntarily, mouth parting wider, a half-broken sound escaping into the heat between them.

Night had kissed a lot of people. He knew the game, knew the rhythm. He knew how to take control, how to lead. But this? This was different.

North kissed like a slow burn with no mercy.

Every movement was deliberate. Every drag of his mouth, every shift of his weight, every way he backed Night harder into the wall until Night could feel nothing but him. His breath. His body. His intent.

Night tried to respond with equal heat, but he was unraveling, fast. His fingers, once curled defensively at his sides, now found their way to North’s shirt, clutching, pulling. Needing. He hated how much he needed this. Hated how it felt like drowning and breathing all at once.

And North, fuck, North wasn’t giving him a second to think.

He tilted Night’s head again, deepening the kiss, tongue sliding against his with a low sound that sent molten heat down Night’s spine. Their mouths moved like they’d done this a hundred times in dreams and were just now realizing it was better in real life.

Night moaned. Quiet, helpless. North growled in response, deep in his throat, like he liked the sound. Like he needed more of it.

Then his hands were on Night’s wrists, lifting them, pinning them above his head against the wall. A breathless laugh slipped out of Night’s mouth but was quickly devoured by North’s again, and this time, this time, there was no space left. No barriers. Just friction, fire, and the hum of two bodies locked in a storm they’d both tried to pretend didn’t exist.

Night let go. Just let go.

Let North kiss him senseless. Let the world fall away. Let himself feel the way his body melted into North’s grip, the way the kiss kept pulling and pulling like it might never end.

And maybe he didn’t want it to.

Finally, after what felt like forever but also nowhere near enough, North pulled back. Only just. Lips red, breath shaky, eyes locked on Night like he wasn’t done, not even close.

Night’s head hit the wall behind him, dazed and wanting. His pulse throbbed in his neck, his wrists still pinned. His mouth was parted like he was about to say something, but couldn’t find the words.

And North? North looked at him like he’d finally started carving into the real masterpiece.

Then, voice low, rough, dangerous, he whispered.

“This what you wanted?”

Night didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

He just leaned forward again.

And North met him halfway.