Work Text:
you know from the moment you enter his room that artem is going to kiss you. you don’t know when. just that he will.
you see it in the way he looks at you as you flop onto his couch as if you’ve always lived there, in the way he jerkily loosens his tie, can’t meet your eyes. he’s so endearingly awkward. you want him to kiss you.
artem’s room is as neat as you would expect. books line the shelves on the wall, organized by genre. there’s more fiction than you probably would’ve guessed. artem at work is no-nonsense, does not entertain impossibilities. you fall a little in love with this minute difference between work-artem and home-artem. the glass coffee table spreads out in front of you. his bed is made and his desk, aside from the files stacked at its upper right corner, is mostly empty. there’s a little potted cactus on the windowsill that you distinctly remember getting him last month.
“did you give it a name?” you ask, gesturing to the plant.
“the cactus?” artem’s lips pull into a slight frown. you know him well enough to know it’s one of slight confusion. “no. should i?”
“naming things helps you feel more attached,” you say, grinning. “plus, it’ll help you feel like there’s someone to come home to.”
“in that case…” artem trails off, his blazer half off, pooling at his elbows. you try not to stare. he gnaws at his lower lip, like he does when he’s conflicted or thinking too deeply. “i’ll name it rosa.”
“what!” you sit up and pull the angriest face you can muster. “that’s my name! you can’t just steal it!”
“i’ll have to check the records for a copyright on your name,” artem deadpans. you almost break out into hysterics, but choose instead to let out a sharp breath of a laugh.
“you’re quite the comedian, mr. wing,” you say. “maybe you could pursue it in your off time.”
“i’m quite content with my current hobbies,” artem says, finally looking directly at you. your face flushes. his eyes are so warm. he throws his blazer over the couch next to you and sits, bracing his elbows against his knees. his legs are so long.
“you are,” you breathe. it’s half the question you meant it to be. the side of artem’s mouth quirks, but that’s it.
“so,” he finally says. “you’ve seen my room. any deductions?”
“you’re too neat,” you say, “so you’re already protecting against any assumptions someone might make about it. do you have people in here often?”
“never,” says artem. the earnest affection in his voice almost bowls you over. “perhaps i just enjoy cleanliness.”
“cleanliness and neatness are two different things,” you protest.
“not necessarily,” says artem.
“sure, but sometimes.”
he leans closer to you, and you think he’s going to kiss you. he doesn’t, though; you watch his eyes flicker down to your mouth and you watch the wheels spinning in his head.
“you look tired,” he finally says. he pulls away, just a little bit. close enough that if you wanted to do something, you could. “have you been sleeping well?”
you sigh. “it’s my own fault,” you lament. “i don’t really get time during the day, but kiki was telling me about this college drama, and i really wanted to watch it…”
even the way artem exhales then is gentle, is loving. your heart lurches. he lifts his hand like he’s going to touch you, but thinks better of it, presses the tip of his index finger to the space between his eyes. “let’s watch it together, then,” he says. “so we can keep each other in check.”
“you want to hang out at night, too?” you tease. “you’re very bold, mr. wing.”
artem flushes, but he does not deny it. you melt, just a little bit.
“have you also been sleeping late?” you ask.
“a bit,” artem says. “i’ve just had something on my mind.”
you wonder if he’s also found himself lying awake at night, thinking about if the several times the two of you have gotten dinner or watched movies together count as dates. you wonder if he agonizes over it like you do. if his thoughts get away from him and he dreams about all the different directions any of those sort-of dates could’ve gone.
but you don’t say any of that. instead, you say, “something?”
he doesn’t answer, only looks at you sideways with that look in his eyes that makes you feel like a collapsing star. makes you feel alive. makes your entire body hum.
“you don’t have to call me mr. wing when it’s just us,” artem says.
you blink at him. “was i?”
“you were.”
you hardly even realized you were doing it. half of the time, you’re not sure if you’re calling him mr. wing out of humor or habit. you test out his name. “artem.” it tastes cool, tastes natural, tastes strange. you could say it a million times, not to mention revel in the blush that once again threatens to tear itself from artem’s face. “like that?”
“yes,” he says, covering his face with his hand.
you rest your back against the armrest, unable to contain the wide grin pulling at your mouth. artem catches your eye and quickly looks away again; he groans into his hand. you almost don’t hear it.
“are you okay?” you ask cheekily.
“peachy,” artem mumbles. you want to kiss him.
“artem,” you say, softly, prying his hand away from his face. god, he’s so red. god, his eyes are so blue. god, you love him. it takes one look at his mouth to know what’s about to happen.
artem kisses you. he kisses you desperately, like you’re air, like you’re everything he has ever wanted. it doesn’t even occur to you to think about what he tastes like, what this means — not when he’s nipping at your bottom lip like a starving man in need of salvation. you open your mouth by a breath to let him in, so he can lick at the emotions welling up in you. and when he takes a moment to breathe, you look at him, eyes half-lidded, just to look at him. what he looks like, kissed half to death and yearning.
he looks beautiful.
“is this okay?” he breathes. you feel it against your lips.
“yes,” you say. there is nothing else you could think to say.
artem kisses you again, and again, and again. soft. demanding. loving. he says your name and you drown in it. you love him, you love him, you love him.
he kisses you breathless, and you love him.