Chapter Text
The workshop always smelled faintly of iron dust and wet clay.
It was early November, the kind of morning that carried a muted chill through the half-open window. The city outside was still half-asleep — mist clinging to the sidewalks, streetlights dimming reluctantly as dawn scraped its pale light across the horizon.
Norton Campbell was hunched over his latest sculpture, brow furrowed, gloves dusted gray with the fine residue of stone. His hands had gone numb an hour ago, but he kept working — grinding, shaping, coaxing rough texture into form. The small radio on the shelf murmured something about “Pocky Day,” whatever that was, but he barely registered it.
By the time the soft knock sounded against the doorframe, he’d forgotten the world existed beyond his workshop.
“Norton?”
The voice was light, gentle, almost out of place among the scraping of metal and the hum of tools. Norton turned, blinking away fatigue.
Eli Clark stood at the door, scarf looped neatly around his neck, his dark hair slightly tousled by the morning wind. A small paper bag hung from his hand.
“Oh,” Norton muttered, setting down his chisel. “It’s you.”
“Good morning to you too,” Eli said mildly, stepping inside. “You’ve been here all night again.”
“I was working,” Norton replied, rubbing at his sore eyes. “It’s called dedication.”
“It’s called insomnia,” Eli countered, moving toward the small worktable in the corner. He began clearing away brushes and stray scraps of paper with quiet familiarity. “You forget to eat when you get like this.”
“I’m fine.”
Eli gave him a look. “You said that before collapsing last time.”
“That was one time.”
“Two, actually.”
Norton scowled, but Eli’s calm tone left little room for argument. He sank onto the stool, exhaling. His chest ached faintly — not from exhaustion, but from how easily Eli always slipped into his space, like he’d been part of it from the beginning.
Eli placed the paper bag on the table and took something out — a small red box with bold white letters.
“…Pocky?” Norton blinked.
Eli smiled, eyes soft. “You’ve heard of it?”
“Only on the radio. What is it? Some kind of cookie?”
“More or less. November 11th — today — people give these to friends. Or someone they like.” He said it with such casual ease that Norton nearly dropped his mug.
“Someone they—”
“Like,” Eli repeated, then opened the box as if he hadn’t just detonated a small bomb between them.
“You’re impossible,” Norton muttered under his breath, but Eli only chuckled, passing him a stick.
The first bite was unassuming — chocolate melting against biscuit, sweet and simple. But somehow, the gesture behind it made his chest feel heavier than the steel molds in the corner of the room.
They ate in silence for a while. Outside, the wind brushed against the windows, and the faint hum of traffic began to wake the city.
Eli broke the quiet first. “You’ve been sculpting all night, haven’t you?”
Norton nodded.
“Show me?”
There was something about the way Eli asked — no pressure, no command, just quiet curiosity — that made Norton relent. He motioned to the piece on the pedestal: an unfinished shape, all rough edges and intention, something still caught between thought and form.
Eli leaned closer, studying it with that patient intensity that always made Norton uneasy and seen at the same time.
“It’s beautiful,” he said finally.
“It’s not done.”
“Still,” Eli murmured, tracing the air near the figure’s curve, careful not to touch. “It feels alive. Like it’s trying to breathe.”
Norton looked away. Compliments didn’t sit well with him — they stuck in his throat, too warm, too heavy. But when Eli spoke them, they didn’t sound like flattery. They sounded like quiet truth.
He busied himself by reaching for another Pocky stick. “You’re weird, you know that?”
“I’ve been told.” Eli’s lips twitched. “But so are you.”
“That’s different.”
“Of course,” Eli said with mock solemnity, “you’re the kind of weird that forgets what sunlight looks like.”
“Are you implying I’m a vampire?”
“I’m implying you could use fresh air.”
“I’d rather not. Air’s overrated.”
“Mm. So’s sleep, apparently.”
Despite himself, Norton laughed — short, reluctant, but genuine. Eli’s smile deepened, satisfied.
They spent the rest of the morning like that: Norton tinkering with tools while Eli sketched idly beside him, the radio murmuring softly in the background. Occasionally, Norton would glance up, catching the way Eli’s pencil moved — light, precise, almost reverent — and find his throat tightening for no good reason.
By noon, the sunlight had grown stronger, cutting through the window in long golden bands. Dust floated lazily through the air.
Eli packed away his sketchbook and stood. “Lunch?”
“I’m not hungry,” Norton said automatically.
Eli raised an eyebrow. “You just ate chocolate for breakfast.”
“It’s efficient.”
“Unhealthy.”
“Efficient,” Norton repeated.
Eli sighed, amused. “Fine. Then I’ll eat while you pretend you don’t want to.”
They ended up walking down the street together anyway, Eli somehow coaxing Norton out into the open air. The sky was pale blue, dotted with thin clouds; the kind of day that made the world feel like it had softened around the edges.
They stopped by a small café — the same one they always did. Norton took his usual seat by the window, where the light hit his hands just enough to make the faint scars on his knuckles gleam. Eli ordered tea and a sandwich, sliding a second Pocky box across the table when he returned.
“You brought two?”
“Just in case,” Eli said, unbothered.
“In case what?”
“In case the first one got eaten before I gave it to you.”
“That’s not—” Norton paused. “That’s absurdly specific.”
Eli smiled into his cup. “Maybe.”
Norton looked out the window, trying not to grin. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet you’re smiling.”
“Am not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“Then stop smiling.”
“I’m not smiling!”
“Then why are you blushing?”
“I’m not—!”
Eli laughed softly, the sound bright enough to melt away the afternoon chill. Norton groaned, shoving half a Pocky into his mouth just to have something to do. The stick crunched between his teeth, sweet and brittle — so much easier to deal with than the warmth creeping up his neck.
They stayed there longer than planned — talking about nothing and everything. Eli spoke about his latest photography project, about the sparrows nesting near his window, about how he wanted to visit the countryside again when spring came. Norton listened quietly, responding in his usual curt way, but Eli never seemed to mind. He just smiled, as if every fragment of conversation mattered.
When the sun dipped lower, painting the streets gold, they walked back toward the workshop. The air smelled faintly of smoke and roasted chestnuts. People passed by carrying shopping bags, laughter spilling between the noise of traffic.
Eli slowed his pace, glancing sideways. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“Quieter than usual.”
“Must be the weather.”
“Or the company.”
Norton huffed. “You’re fishing for compliments again.”
“Maybe. Did it work?”
“Not a chance.”
Eli chuckled, looking ahead. “Still. Today’s nice.”
Norton looked at him, at the way the sunlight caught in his hair, turning the strands into soft gold. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “It is.”
When they reached the workshop, the light had dimmed. Norton unlocked the door, but before stepping inside, he turned slightly.
Eli was still standing outside, hands in his coat pockets, eyes lifted toward the sky. His expression was thoughtful, almost distant — like he was listening to something only he could hear.
The wind ruffled his hair. A small feather drifted from somewhere, catching on his sleeve before fluttering to the ground.
Without thinking, Norton reached down, picked it up, and handed it back.
Eli blinked. “You didn’t have to—”
“I know,” Norton interrupted, shoving his hands into his pockets. “But you’d just lose it again.”
Eli’s lips curved into that quiet, knowing smile. “Maybe.”
They stood there for a few seconds — neither speaking, the air filled only with the faint hum of the city and the rustle of leaves. Then Eli stepped forward, holding out the second box of Pocky.
“Keep it,” he said simply. “For later.”
Norton took it, thumb brushing against Eli’s fingers by accident. The touch was brief but enough to make both of them pause.
Something flickered in Eli’s eyes — something soft and unspoken — but he said nothing. He just smiled again, the same small curve of lips that felt like it held the whole world.
“Goodnight, Norton.”
Norton swallowed. “Yeah. Night.”
Eli turned to leave, scarf fluttering as he walked down the quiet street. Norton stood in the doorway long after he was gone, the unopened box of Pocky still warm in his hand.
When he finally looked down, he noticed something written on the side — a small doodle in pen, almost hidden near the barcode. A tiny feather, drawn in neat, careful lines.
He stared at it for a long time, then, without really thinking, smiled to himself.
Later that night, as he sat at his workbench again, he opened the box and ate one of the sticks — slow, thoughtful, a little dazed.
The sweetness lingered on his tongue, faint and fleeting.
So did the warmth of Eli’s hand.