The next day North was more excited than he has ever been.

By the time Johan wandered into the bedroom, North had already transformed a corner of the room into a painter's den.

Drop cloths covered the majestic floor, two trays of paint and brushes of various sizes were lined up.

North, already dressed in old, soft sweatpants and a t-shirt he didn't mind ruining, was stirring the blue paint with intense concentration, his tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth.

Johan looked from the brush to the pristine wall, then to North's radiant, determined face.

He took a long, fortifying sip of coffee. "Love," he began, his tone carefully diplomatic. "We could hire professionals. They could have this done in a few hours, with no mess, no strain."

North gave him a side eye that was pure stubbornness. "No," he said, the single word brooking no argument.

"I don't want professionals. I want us to do it. I want our fingerprints in the paint. I want to remember us doing this." He stepped onto the small ladder he'd procured.

"Now, are you helping, or are you just going to stand there looking expensive and useless?"

A slow, reluctant smile spread across Johan's face.

He set his coffee down, rolled up the sleeves of his sweater and approached the wall with the cautious reverence of a man defusing a bomb.

He dipped the brush, wiped the excess and applied the first stroke of blue to the pristine white.

It was awkward, the line wobbling.

North hummed a tuneless, happy song under his breath, completely in his element, a world away from the flustered student of the day before.

An hour passed in a companionable silence broken only by the soft shush-shush of brushes and North's contented humming.

Johan's section progressed at a glacial pace, his movements stiff, his brow furrowed in concentration. A small smudge of blue on his cheekbone.

North, meanwhile, was becoming a piece of abstract art himself-streaks of blue on his arms, a dash of green on his neck, his hair dusted with a fine mist of paint.

He climbed down to assess their work, stepping back with his head tilted. The blue was breathtaking, exactly as he'd imagined -deep, calming, luminous. "This is so pretty," he awed, a smile of pure satisfaction gracing his lips.

Johan looked away from his own slightly blotchy section to North's face, to the joy shining there, brighter than the morning sun. "It is..." he agreed, his voice soft. But he wasn't looking at the wall.

North stretched, his back popping, and finally noticed the state of himself. "Oh. Do we have any spare clothes here? I want to take a bath. I'm covered in paint."

Johan nodded, gesturing vaguely towards the ensuite. "There should be robes and some things in the bathroom cabinet, love."

"Perfect!" North beamed.

He walked over to Johan, took his brush, and then pressed his own brush back into Johan's now-empty hand.

He pointed to a large, untouched section of the lower wall. "Cover this area too, okay? I want to see it all done when I come back."

He then skipped out of the room with the energy of a child released to the playground.

Johan stood alone, holding the brush, staring at the wall as if it were a hostile corporate takeover.

He sighed, a long-suffering sound, and dipped the brush again.

Twenty minutes later, North emerged from the bathroom. He was wrapped in a plush, white robe, his hair a damp, dark tumble of curls. He padded, barefoot, back into the bedroom.

Johan was exactly where he'd left him, though he had managed to add perhaps two square feet of uneven color. The rest of the section remained defiantly white.

North's shoulders slumped in an exaggerated sulk, a pout forming on his freshly scrubbed lips. "You barely colored it."

Johan turned, and the sight of North, clean and warm and swaddled in his robe, sent a predictable jolt of heat through him.

"I am sorry, love. I am... not built for manual artistry. My skill set lies elsewhere." His gaze traveled over North's damp hair. "You'll catch a chill. Let me dry your hair."

"It's fine," North mumbled, the pout still in place. "I'm actually a little hungry. I'm going to see what we can eat." He turned, the robe swishing, and disappeared down the hall, leaving Johan once more alone with his artistic failure.

The pristine stainless steel refrigerator hummed, nearly empty.

North opened it to find a carton of eggs, a stick of butter, and the package of frozen pancakes he'd impulsively brought this morning.

He moved around the kitchen and turned on the gas stove, the click-click-woosh of the flame a comforting, domestic sound.

He melted butter in a pan, the sizzle a tiny symphony.

The frozen pancakes warmed, releasing a sweet, simple aroma that, mixed with the scent of brewing coffee and the faint, lingering smell of fresh paint, created an unmistakable air of home-messy, imperfect, and wonderfully real.

He was just sliding a golden pancake onto a plate, taking a small, experimental bite of a crispy edge, when he sensed a presence.

He looked up.

Johan was leaning against the kitchen doorway.

Shirtless.

North's fork froze halfway to his mouth.

The sight was..............

Johan's torso was a landscape of lean muscle and old, faint scars. A single, stray smudge of blue paint dripped like a teardrop from his collarbone down his sternum.

North's gaze followed its path, his cheeks flushing with a heat that rivaled the stove.

"What did you cook, love?" Johan's voice was a gentle, low rumble, softer than the hum of the appliances.

He pushed off the doorway and walked into the kitchen.

He came to stand beside North, so close the heat from his body radiated through the thin robe.

North finally remembered to swallow, looking steadfastly at his plate.

"Pancakes. From a box." His voice came out a little thin. "Wanna taste?" Without thinking, he speared a fluffy piece with his fork and held it up, arm extended, still refusing to look.

Johan's dark, amused eyes lingered on him for a moment.

Instead of leaning forward, Johan lifted a hand and gently cupped North's chin between his fingers, guiding his face up with quiet insistence.

He applied the lightest pressure, tilting North's face towards him and leaned in slowly, touching North lips with his.

Then, with infinite slowness, he parted it and swept his tongue in.

He licked the faint, sweet syrup from North's lips, then delved deeper, sharing the taste of the pancake, of coffee, of North.

He pulled back, just an inch, his breath mingling with North's.

His eyes, dark and bottomless, held North's captive. "It tastes..." he murmured, his own tongue tracing his lower lip in a slow, deliberate motion, "...really good."

A full, violent blush exploded across North's skin, from his chest to the roots of his hair.

He was molten.

With a weak, incoherent sound, he placed his hands flat against Johan's bare, paint-smeared chest and pushed. "Go away," he whined, the protest utterly undermined by his breathless, dazed state.

A dark, rich chuckle escaped Johan. "Why, love?"

He stepped forward, negating North's push, caging him against the kitchen counter.

The cold marble pressed into North's back through the robe.

"Why do you always do this?" North gasped, his eyes dropping to the mesmerizing shift of muscles in Johan's abdomen.

"You asked me to taste," Johan pointed out, his voice a low hum of amusement. He braced his hands on the counter on either side of North, leaning in closer.

"I meant the food!" North cried, his hands still resting uselessly on Johan's chest, now less of a barrier and more of an anchor.

"You never specified," Johan murmured, his lips now brushing the fluttering pulse point beneath North's ear. "And my hunger is rarely so simple."

North shivered violently. "And why are you shirtless?" he managed, raising an accusatory, trembling finger.

"Paint," Johan breathed against his skin, nuzzling his nose along the line of North's jaw. "It fell. I was about to shower, but the pancakes smell... it lured me here." He inhaled deeply, as if North's scent was the most intoxicating perfume. "Now I find I'm tired."

"You barely did a thing!" North protested, his head falling back, giving Johan greater access to his throat.

"Mmmh," Johan agreed his mouth now tracing the collar of the robe.

His hands left the counter and settled on North's hips, pulling him flush against him.

The contrast of the soft robe against bare, hard skin was electrifying. "What are you doing?" North whispered, his resolve crumbling.

"Breathing," Johan replied, the word a warm puff against his lips before he captured them again.

This kiss was deeper, slower, more devastatingly thorough.

North melted into it, a soft, helpless sound escaping him.

His hands, of their own volition, slid up from Johan's chest to curl around his neck, pulling him closer.

Johan made a sound of deep approval against his mouth.

Gently, he took North's wrists and guided them down, placing North's palms flat against the naked skin of his waist, just above the waistband of his low-slung trousers.

The feel of hot, smooth skin under his hands, the subtle flex of muscle, made North whimper in protest, but the sound was swallowed by Johan's relentless, exploring mouth.

Johan sucked North's lower lip gently into his mouth, nipped it with careful teeth, then soothed it with his tongue.

He was mapping him, memorizing him in this new, domestic context.

When he finally pulled back, North was panting, his lips swollen and glistening, his eyes glazed.

"Is your concept of breathing," North gasped, his voice weak and thready, "involves making me breathless?"

Johan's smile was a slow, dangerous curve. "I don't know," he mused, his thumbs stroking circles on North's hips through the robe. "How about we find out?" He began to lean in again, his intent clear.

This time, North managed to lift a shaky, wobbly hand and place his palm over Johan's descending lips. "No," he breathed.

He took another shuddering gulp of air. "Go. And. Shower. You're... sticky. With paint."

Johan's eves danced with mischief.

He kissed North's palm slowly, before straightening up and finally putting a few inches of space between them.

The loss of his heat was a physical ache.

"As my lord commands," Johan murmured, the title a tender, teasing endearment.

He turned to leave.

And that's when North saw it.

As Johan turned, There, spanning his right shoulder blade, was a tattoo.

It was a stylized, fearsome dragon coiled protectively around a single, perfect Nordic rune.

The artistry was stunning, the dragon both menacing and majestic, the lines sharp and clean even after what must have been years.

Johan paused, glancing over his shoulder.

He saw where North's awestruck gaze was locked.

A subtle, knowing tug pulled at the corner of his mouth.

"Do you like it?" he asked, his voice casual, but his eyes watching North's reaction with an intensity that belied the simple question.

The blush on North's face deepened, a mixture of lingering heat and wonder.

That subtle smile on Johan's face widened a fraction before he turned and finally walked away.
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North sat perched on the edge of the vast bed, the plush white duvet crinkling under his palms.

He'd spent the last twenty minutes cleaning the untidy bedroom.

The silence of the house was profound, broken only by the distant, soothing rush of water from the ensuite bathroom.

His stomach chose that moment to let out a long, low, deeply treasonous grumble.

He clasped a hand over it, as if he could silence the evidence of his hunger.

Then, the water stopped.

A few moments later, the bathroom door opened, and steam billowed out in a fragrant cloud, carrying the scent of Johan. He emerged, and North's breath vanished.

A towel was slung low around his hips, the white fabric a stark contrast against his damp, golden skin.

Water droplets clung to his body. He looked like a statue of some forgotten god of desire.

North's lips parted, and he quickly bit down on the lower one, a sulky expression settling over his features.

This wasn't fair.

This man was definitively teasing him, weaponizing his own perfection.

"I am hungry..." North murmured.

Johan turned, his movements fluid. "We can go out to eat," he said, his voice a little rough from the steam.

He walked to the built-in cabinet, opening it to pull out a hairdryer.

He glanced over at North, who was still sitting rigidly.

A soft, knowing glint appeared in Johan's eye.

He held out the dryer. "Love?" he asked, his tone deceptively light. "Can you dry my hair for me?"

North's lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

The request was so domestic, so strangely vulnerable, and yet so transparently manipulative.

With a sigh that was more surrender than protest, North slowly slid across the expanse of the bed until he was close.

He took the dryer from Johan's hand, his fingers brushing against the other man's, a jolt of simple static electricity that felt anything but simple.

Johan sat on the very corner of the bed, his back to North, presenting the broad canvas of his shoulders and tattoo and the damp hair.

North knelt up behind him, switched the dryer on, and began.

The roar of the dryer filled the room.

North's fingers, tentative at first, sank into Johan's thick hair, lifting sections to let the warm air flow through.

The strands were surprisingly soft.

He worked in silence, his focus narrowing to the task.

He was so concentrated on the angle of the dryer, on ensuring he didn't burn Johan's scalp, that he almost missed the question murmured back to him.

"What do you want to eat?" Johan asked, his voice barely audible over the dryer's whine.

"Anything," North replied, his own voice thin.

"Hmm," Johan hummed, a low, resonant sound that North felt more than heard.

Johan turned, just a little, a subtle rotation of his torso that brought his profile into North's view.

"I am hungry too," Johan said, and the words were a soft, deep rumble, a promise and a warning.

Before North's brain could even begin to process the statement, the world tilted.

Johan moved with a predator's grace and speed, his hands firm on North's shoulders, his body a warm weight as he pressed North back into the mattress.

A startled, breathy yelp escaped North as the hair dryer tumbled from the bed, hitting the floor with a decisive thud.

The sudd silence it left behind was deafening. filled only with the frantic drum of North's own heartbeat in his ears.

He lay pinned, looking up with wide, astonished eyes.

Johan loomed above him, a vision of damp skin and intent, his own eyes dark pools of focus.

The cool, wet ends of his hair dripped onto North's cheeks and throat, each drop a tiny, shocking brand.

"What are you doing?" North whispered, the question already useless, his body already answering, warming, awakening beneath the solid press of Johan's.

Instead of answering with words, Johan lowered his head.

He nuzzled into the junction of North's throat, a slow, seeking drag of his nose and lips across the sensitive skin.

North's breath hitched, his toes curled involuntarily against the sensation.

A soft, helpless whimper leaked from his lips overwhelmed by sensation.

"I am really," Johan murmured, his voice vibrating against North's pulse point.

He lifted his head, his gaze capturing North's, holding him as effectively as his hands.

"Really hungry, love." And then he closed the final inch, his lips claiming North's.

It was not a gentle meeting.

It was a claiming.

Johan's mouth moved over his with a hunger that was centuries deep, his tongue tracing the seam of North's lips until they parted on a gasp, and then delving inside.

The kiss was all-consuming that stole the air from North's lungs and the strength from his bones.

North's hands, which had flown up in surprise, now clung to Johan's shoulders, his fingers digging into the hard muscle there.

Johan tasted of mint and something inherently, uniquely Johan-a taste North was addictively familiar with, yet one that always managed to feel new and devastating.

Minutes stretched, measured only by the slowing, shared breaths and the slick, intimate sounds of their kiss.

When Johan finally pulled back, it was only far enough to trail his lips, now swollen and warm, along the line of North's jaw, down the column of his throat.

He settled beside North's ear, his lips closing over the delicate skin there, and began to suck, gently at first, then with a building pressure that had North arching off the bed.

A sharp, sweet sound escaped him, a moan tangled with a plea.

Johan worked diligently, his mouth a brand, until a constellation of deep, red marks bloomed against North's skin.

Johan lifted his head again, his own breathing slightly ragged.

North gazed up at him through glazed, glossy eyes, his lips parted and rosy.

"I am in pain, love," Johan confessed, his voice a rough scrape.

"Pain?" North whispered, the word breathless, confused. His mind, fogged with pleasure, couldn't comprehend it.

"Yes." Johan's eyes never left his.

With exquisite slowness, he took North's limp hand guiding his palm down.

He dragged it over the damp, cool skin of his own torso, over the defined ridges of his abdomen.

North's fingers trembled under his guidance.

Johan didn't stop until North's palm was pressed, not against the towel, but against the heated evidence of Johan's own need straining blatantly against the towel barrier.

The so called pain of him, even through the fabric, made North's eyes widen impossibly further.

"Here," Johan said, the single word loaded with a universe of meaning.

A hot, dizzying rush flooded North, making his head spin and his already hard length twitch against his own robe.

"Won't you help me, love?" Johan asked, and the question was velvet-wrapped steel, a request that was also a command, offered with a tenderness that made North's heart clench even as his body burned.