Deadlines

The air in the basement felt like it had been chewed on. Heavy, wet, and smelling of old newsprint and that specific, metallic tang of an overheated server tower.

Simon hated it. He hated the deadline, he hated that the AC unit had rattled its last breath two hours ago, and mostly, he hated that he could hear Ren breathing.

It wasn’t loud. Just… there. A hitch, a release. A hitch, a release. It was distracting in a way that made Simon want to snap his red pen in half. He stared at the proof sheet in front of him, the text blurring into gray columns.

"You’re doing it again," Simon said. He didn't look up.

From the floor, where Ren was sprawled amidst a chaotic sea of contact sheets and negatives, the shifting stopped. "Doing what?"

"Vibrating. You’re shaking the floorboards. It’s messing with my eyes."

"It’s the thunder, Si. Not me."

"It’s you." Simon finally turned his swivel chair. The leather squeaked, a sharp sound in the muffled room.

Ren was a mess. That was the only word for it. His bleach-blond hair was sticking to his forehead with sweat, his oversized 'Chronicle' t-shirt hanging off one shoulder. He looked like he’d been fighting a losing war with the filing cabinet. He was currently sorting through the negatives from the protest last week, holding a strip up to the singular, flickering fluorescent light that remained on the emergency circuit.

"We need the shot of the dean," Simon said, voice flat. He was the editor. He had to be the wall. "The one where he looks scared. You said you had it."

Ren lowered his arm. His skin was flushed, a blotchy pink that started at his collarbones and disappeared under the gray cotton. "I have it. It’s just… mixed in. My labeling system is..."

"Non-existent?" substance.

"Organic," Ren corrected, though his voice cracked. He scrambled up, knees knocking together as he tried to find purchase on the slick linoleum. He wiped his hands on his jeans. "I think it’s in the batch I developed yesterday. The ones on the desk."

Simon turned back to the desk. It was a disaster zone. Coffee cups from three different shifts, a half-eaten bagel, and stacks of glossy 8x10s curling in the humidity. He started sifting through the pile Ren had dumped there earlier.

"This isn't it," Simon muttered, flipping past a blurry shot of a police horse. "Garbage. Out of focus. Ren, focus is not a suggestion."

"It’s artistic style, you philistine," Ren murmured, moving closer. He smelled like developer fluid—that sharp, vinegary chemical scent—and rain. He was standing too close. Simon could feel the heat radiating off him.

Simon’s hand paused on a stack near the back, half-hidden under a criminology textbook. These weren’t on the digital drive. These were physical prints, black and white, high contrast.

He flipped the first one over.

It wasn’t the dean.

It was Simon.

Simon sleeping in the library, face pressed against a textbook. The lighting was soft, intimate. It looked… tender.

Simon felt a cold hook in his gut. He flipped to the next one.

Simon smoking outside the union, smoke curling from his lips, looking exhausted and unguarded.

The next. Simon’s hands, just his hands, holding a coffee cup. The focus was razor-sharp on the veins, the calluses.

"Wait—" Ren’s voice was high, panicked. A hand scrambled over Simon’s shoulder, snatching at the photos. "Those aren’t—wrong pile. Those are the wrong pile."

Simon didn’t let go. He slammed his hand down on the photos, pinning them to the desk. He didn’t look at the photos anymore. He looked at the reflection in the dark window. Ren was hovering behind him, frozen, his chest heaving.

"Ren," Simon said. The name tasted like iron.

"Give them back," Ren breathed. He reached again, fingers brushing Simon’s wrist. The contact was electric—a static shock that had nothing to do with the storm outside. Simon felt the jolt travel up his arm, settling heavy and hot in his chest.

Simon caught Ren’s wrist. He didn’t squeeze hard, just enough to stop him. He spun the chair around, dragging Ren’s arm down so the boy stumbled, catching himself with his free hand on the armrest of Simon’s chair. They were tangled now, knees bumping, faces inches apart.

"These aren’t for the paper," Simon said, his voice dropping an octave. He wasn’t angry. He should be angry. Invasion of privacy. Unprofessional. But he wasn’t. He felt… seen. He felt devoured.

Ren’s eyes were wide, pupils blown so black they swallowed the iris. He tried to pull his wrist back, but Simon held firm. "I was just… testing the lighting. For class. Portraiture study. It’s not… it’s not weird."

"You took a photo of my hands," Simon said softly. He let his gaze drop to Ren’s mouth, which was trembling. "That’s not portraiture, Ren. That’s obsession."

"Fuck you," Ren whispered, but there was no heat in it. Only panic. "Let me go."

"No." Simon leaned forward. The space between them collapsed. The air in the room felt solid, pressurized. "Why these? Why me? You have the whole campus."

Ren swallowed. The movement of his throat was mesmerizing. "Because you never look," Ren blurted out, the words tumbling over each other. "You never look up. You’re always looking at the work. At the screen. At the next story. You never just… exist. Except when you think no one is watching."

"And you were watching," Simon said.

"I’m always watching," Ren confessed, the fight draining out of him. He slumped slightly, his weight resting more heavily against Simon’s chair. His knee pressed firmly between Simon’s legs now, an accidental intimacy that neither of them moved to correct.

Simon felt a pulse in his jaw. He released Ren’s wrist, but instead of pushing him away, his hand drifted up. He grazed his knuckles against the inside of Ren’s forearm, feeling the fine hair, the damp skin. Ren flinched, a sharp intake of breath, his eyes fluttering shut.

"Open your eyes," Simon commanded. Low. Rough.

Ren obeyed. The fear was gone, replaced by something glassy and desperate.

"You got the shot," Simon murmured, his thumb pressing into the soft skin of Ren’s inner wrist, feeling the frantic, rabbit-fast pulse beneath. "But you missed the best part."

"What?" Ren breathed.

"The part where I look back."

Thunder cracked directly overhead, shaking the building, rattling the filing cabinets like loose teeth. The lights flickered and died completely, plunging them into absolute darkness.

In the dark, the sound of their breathing was deafening.

Simon didn’t move. He didn’t need to see to know exactly where Ren was. He could feel the heat of him. He could smell the rain and the chemicals. He leaned in, guided by instinct, until his breath ghosted over Ren’s cheek.

"Don't move," Simon whispered into the black.