Work Text:
The first thing people notice about Artful is how much space he takes up.
The second is how easily he fills yours.
He doesn’t ask.
That’s the first problem.
Not for anything important, at least.
Props, schedules, cues—he’ll toss those questions out carelessly, half-listening to your answers.
But you?
Your time. Your space. Your attention.
He takes those like they were already his.
The first thing Artful notices is your smile.
Not when it’s directed at him.
Those are rare.
Too rare.
No—he notices the others.
The small ones.
The ones you give away so easily.
A passing crew member. A stagehand. Someone who says something barely worth responding to.
You smile.
Soft. Brief. Effortless.
And it doesn’t belong to him.
It should.
He doesn’t hide it well.
That’s the thing about Artful—brilliant, observant, meticulous on stage—
But off stage?
He feels everything too loudly.
Too quickly.
Too much.
“Who was that?” he asks once, too casual to be convincing.
You glance up from your notes. “Hm?”
“The one you were talking to.”
“Oh. Just someone from lighting.”
You go back to writing.
Like it doesn’t matter.
Like they don’t matter.
Like he doesn’t—
Artful laughs.
Sharp.
“Seemed like more than that.”
You don’t respond.
Because there’s nothing to respond to.
He hates that.
People talk to you.
Of course they do.
You’re easy to approach.
Calm. Capable. Always there.
They linger.
They joke.
They try.
They stop.
Eventually.
A missed call.
A sudden schedule change.
A reason they can’t quite explain why they’re needed somewhere else—somewhere far from you.
Sometimes they forget mid-sentence what they were saying.
Sometimes they just… don’t come back.
Coincidences.
Small corrections.
Artful doesn’t think of it as anything else.
You don’t notice.
Why would you?
You’re busy.
You always are.
He doesn’t need a key.
That’s the funny part.
He could take one.
You’re careful, but not impossible to reach.
Still—
Why bother?
The first time he steps into your apartment, it’s not through the door.
It’s easier than that.
A shift. A flicker. Space bending just enough to let him through.
He doesn’t rush.
He never does, when it comes to you.
Your place is… exactly what he expected.
Clean.
Organized.
Everything where it should be.
Everything in control.
It makes something tight twist in his chest.
He touches things immediately.
Of course he does.
Runs his fingers along surfaces. Picks things up. Puts them back—not quite where they were.
Just enough to know he’s been there.
Just enough to leave a trace you won’t question.
He moves through your space like he belongs.
Because, in his mind—
He does.
Your bedroom door is closed.
He opens it.
You’re not there.
Of course you’re not.
You’re out for errands.
He had memorized your schedule.
Too many times
He laughs under his breath.
Soft.
Delighted.
Later, when you return, nothing feels wrong.
It never does.
At work, he’s worse.
Closer.
Always closer.
“Hold still,” he says, fingers already at your collar before you can respond.
Adjusting something that doesn’t need adjusting.
Lingering longer than necessary.
You don’t react.
You never do.
His hand brushes yours.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Not accidental.
Never accidental.
You continue what you’re doing.
“Is that all?”
You ask it like it’s a task.
Like he’s just another thing to manage.
Something inside him spikes.
Sharp.
Hot.
“No,” he says.
Too quick.
Then softer, “Stay a second.”
You do.
Because it’s easier than arguing.
Because it seems to matter to him.
Even if you don’t understand why.
He watches your face.
Waits.
For something.
Anything.
You don’t give it.
At night, your apartment is quiet again.
He doesn’t knock.
He doesn’t need to.
The space folds for him like it always does.
Welcoming.
Yielding.
You’re already asleep this time.
Artful stands in the doorway.
Not hesitant.
Never hesitant.
But—
Still.
For a moment.
You look… different.
Not smaller.
Not softer.
Just—
untouchable in a way that makes his chest ache.
He crosses the room anyway.
Of course he does.
Sits at the edge of your bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Like he’s done it a hundred times.
His hand hovers.
Just above yours.
Then—
touches.
Light.
Careful.
Nothing like the way he is anywhere else.
You don’t wake.
He exhales, something shaky slipping through.
A quiet, almost-laugh.
“There you are,” he murmurs.
Like you were missing.
Like you were gone.
His fingers tighten slightly.
Not enough to wake you.
Just enough to feel.
You smile in your sleep.
Faint.
Unthinking.
It hits him all at once.
Sharp.
Bright.
Painful.
“Is that for me?” he asks softly.
You don’t answer.
Of course you don’t.
His grip tightens.
Just for a second.
Just enough for something ugly to flicker through.
Then he lets go.
Immediately.
Like he burned himself.
“…It should be.”
You shift.
Breathe.
Unaware.
He stays longer than he should.
Watching.
Always watching.
Because no matter where you go—
No matter who you smile at—
No matter how little you notice—
He will always find his way back.
Inside your space.
Inside your reach.
Closer.
Closer.
Closer—
Until one day—
You might finally look at him—
and smile like it matters.