Work Text:
It wasn’t planned.
Nothing about it ever was with Artful — not the feelings, not the moments, certainly not the timing.
You were both alone in the studio after hours. The show had gone well. Not spectacular, not disastrous. Just… good. The kind of evening that left Artful buzzing with restless energy rather than pride.
He paced.
You watched.
You always did.
He stopped abruptly, turning toward you with the kind of seriousness that usually preceded either a tantrum or a confession he would later deny ever happening.
“…You’re quiet,” he said.
You tilted your head slightly. “I usually am.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand through his hair. “You’re… quieter than usual.”
You didn’t respond. You waited.
He hated that you did that — waited, calm and patient, like you already knew what he was about to say.
Artful swallowed.
“…I’ve been thinking,” he muttered.
That alone was dangerous.
You shifted your weight, giving him your full attention. “About?”
He hesitated. Long enough that the silence grew heavy. His fingers curled at his side, then relaxed, then curled again.
“…About us,” he finally said.
Your chest warmed, but you didn’t move.
“You don’t have to—” you began, instinctively gentle.
“No.” He cut himself off just as quickly, eyes sharp with determination and fear in equal measure. “I do. If I don’t say it now, I won’t say it at all.”
That was honest.
That was rare.
He took a step closer.
Not enough to crowd you. Just enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the nervous energy crackling beneath his skin.
“…I don’t understand you,” he said quietly. “You stay when you shouldn’t. You’re patient when I’m unbearable. And you look at me like I’m not… too much.”
You softened, but said nothing.
“And I—” His voice faltered. He cleared his throat. “I find myself wanting things I have no right to want.”
Your breath slowed.
He met your eyes.
“…May I kiss you?”
The question landed between you like a held breath.
Consent. Clear. Earnest.
You didn’t answer right away.
Not because you were unsure.
Because you wanted him to sit in the moment — to feel the anticipation, the vulnerability, the risk.
Artful panicked instantly.
“I— I mean, it’s fine if not— this was a mistake— forget I asked—”
You stepped forward.
One step.
That was all it took to completely shut him down.
Your hand rose, fingers brushing his jaw, thumb resting just beneath his cheekbone. He went utterly still, eyes wide, breath stuttering like his body forgot how to function.
You leaned in.
Slow.
Deliberate.
And pressed your lips to his.
Artful made a small, startled sound — barely audible — before freezing entirely. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure they were allowed to exist anymore.
The kiss was gentle at first.
Soft.
Testing.
You pulled back just a fraction.
“…You asked,” you murmured.
That was his undoing.
Something snapped — or maybe loosened — because the next moment, he leaned in again, tentative, clumsy, desperate in a way he’d never allow himself to be on stage.
His lips brushed yours, then pressed more firmly.
Still careful.
Still uncertain.
Still Artful.
And you let him have exactly three seconds of control before you decided you were done waiting.
You kissed him back.
Fully.
Confidently.
Your hand slid into his hair. Your other hand caught the front of his coat, pulling him closer. Your mouth opened, and suddenly the kiss was all warmth and intent and certainty.
Artful gasped.
Audibly.
His entire body locked.
You felt it — the moment his thoughts completely shut off.
When you nipped lightly at his lower lip, he made a sound that absolutely did not belong to a man who claimed to be composed.
You deepened the kiss just enough to make your point.
Tongue. Heat. A slow, deliberate claiming.
Artful’s knees nearly gave out.
He clutched at you reflexively, fingers digging into your sleeves like a lifeline. His mind was gone. Evaporated. Reduced to static and sensation and the undeniable truth that you were kissing him like you meant it.
When you finally pulled back, he stood there utterly wrecked.
Eyes blown wide.
Lips swollen.
Breathing like he’d just run a marathon.
He stared at you.
Then, very faintly, he whispered:
“…I—”
Nothing came out.
You tilted your head, studying him.
“Artful?”
He swallowed. Hard.
“I… I need—” He gestured vaguely to the air. “A moment. Several moments. Possibly a medical professional.”
You smiled.
Just a little.
“You okay?”
He nodded too quickly. “Yes. No. I don’t know. You— you kissed me like you were certain.”
“I was.”
That was it.
That single word obliterated whatever fragile defenses he had left.
He turned away abruptly, hands covering his face.
“That was— that was highly unfair,” he muttered. “You let me think I was… leading.”
“You asked.”
“Yes, and then you devoured me!”
You shrugged lightly. “You didn’t stop me.”
He peeked at you through his fingers.
“…I couldn’t.”
The admission was quiet. Honest. Unfiltered.
You stepped closer again, but didn’t touch him this time.
“Then we’re on the same page.”
Artful lowered his hands slowly, looking at you like you were something precious and terrifying all at once.
“…I’m in trouble,” he murmured.
You smiled warmly. “You’ll survive.”
He huffed a weak laugh.
“…I don’t think I want to.”
And for the first time, Artful didn’t run from the feeling.
He stood there — flustered, undone, heart wide open — and let himself want you back.