Work Text:
Lincoln’s the one who introduced her to the Blakes.
He’s apologized for it more than once.
Like when Octavia barges into their shared apartment at 2 AM on a Thursday night proclaiming that she has no Friday classes and it’s Thirsty Thursday, bitches! Or whenever Bellamy comes over.
Lincoln has been her best friend since she’d defied her mother’s wishes and expectations by moving to New York City and enrolling in art school. They’d met on the first day at orientation - he’d been the strong, silent type and she’d been way too antsy, fingers drumming against her thigh as she stared at some of the work former students had displayed around the school. She’d never admit it out loud, but she was intimidated, didn’t know if she was capable of making anything so advanced. Lincoln probably sensed it somehow because he’d come up to her and made a joke about a particularly phallic looking sculpture.
They were paired together in a first-year drawing class and she’d learned a lot from him. Where she was all soft lines, subtle differences and gradual gradients of color, he was sharp lines, hard edges and pronounced angles somehow forming something beautiful. They’d butted heads sometimes, arguing over the best way to approach a collaborative piece, but it was all constructive. They’re better artists because of it.
Sophomore year meant they were kicked out of university housing. Something about how New York didn’t exactly have much room for an abundance of dorms and it was time to branch out. She had other friends - the talented, yet terrifying potter Lincoln had introduced her to named Anya and the enigmatic graffiti artist she sat next to on the subway who’d introduced herself as Lexa - but living with Lincoln just made sense. They got along well, they were both passionate about the same things, they respected boundaries and had the same attitudes concerning cleanliness.
Shared spaces have to be tidy, but bedrooms are fair game. If a project is due, the living room is usually trashed, paintbrushes and charcoal and canvas scattered everywhere. It’s an organized form of chaos.
They’ve developed a knack for working together.
Never in a million years did Clarke ever think she’d be making art with someone, but Lincoln complements her in a way no other artist has. They challenge each other, force each other out of their respective comfort zones. She pushes him to be more gentle with his lines, to use more color. He somehow cuts right to her core, persuading her to explore darker pieces, to allow herself to think things and create things that are more morbid than she ever has before.
He forces her to be honest.
He’s the best friend she’s ever had.
And Octavia somehow comes as part of the package - a surprisingly perfect two-for-one deal. Clarke and Lincoln had been living together for six months when he’d come home from his kickboxing class with a black eye, the corners of his lips turned upward and his head in the clouds. She’d never seen anything like it - usually the only marks on Lincoln after kickboxing were on his knuckles. She’d pushed for details and gotten one word: Octavia. He’d never admit it out loud (until much, much later), but he was instantly smitten.
He didn’t bring her home for a month, but they saw each other twice a week at the gym and went out on dates on the weekends. Clarke had to practically put him in a headlock to get him to invite her over for dinner.
She brought her brother.
The moment Clarke had opened the door, her politest smile on her lips, she’d nearly been knocked on her ass. Something about his face instantly made her wanna draw it. It was the sharp line of his jaw, the high cheekbones, the smattering of freckles across his cheeks, the way his lips turned up into a cocky smirk right away, the depth and darkness hidden in his eyes, the disheveled curls he pushed off his forehead. His long eyelashes and pronounced cupid’s bow, the dimple in his chin.
She probably would have been smitten, had he not opened his mouth.
He’d somehow had all these preconceived notions about who she was supposed to be - rich, spoiled, living off her parents’ money, entitled, princess - and he’d refused to consider anything to the contrary. They butted heads all night and Clarke had been genuinely afraid that she’d ruined any chance at a friendship with Octavia. She was clearly important to Lincoln and Lincoln was undeniably important to Clarke, so she’d been intent on making it work.
Thankfully, Octavia has a soft spot for people who put her brother in his place and Clarke’s been consistently good at it.
Nevermind the fact that she’d sat down and drawn him the second he’d left, that she never showed anyone the sketch and kept it hidden at the bottom of her sock drawer so not even Lincoln would find it. He’d tease her relentlessly and she just. She knew it was stupid. He was an ass and there were plenty of other pretty faces out there to be inspired by.
But there was something about Bellamy’s that just spoke to her.
Now, two years later, it’s their senior year of art school. Lincoln and Clarke are on the cusp of graduation, freaking out about what the hell they’re gonna do with a degree in art, how they’re gonna get jobs and make money. They have one final piece to work on for the senior showcase and they’ve decided to work together. They’re both talented individually, but they started their college careers together and it only feels right to end them together as well.
Coming up with an idea is the hardest part.
They’re paging through their old sketchbooks from throughout the years, taking note of things that work and scrapping the things that don’t. Clarke grins, nudges Lincoln with her elbow. “You’ve got quite a few drawings of Octavia in there,” she teases.
He doesn’t hesitate, just snorts. “Not as many as you have of Bellamy.”
She sputters. “Excuse me?” He quirks an eyebrow, his gaze cutting through all the bullshit in that way only Lincoln can do, and she sighs. “He’s just got one of those faces.”
“Right.” He doesn’t believe her and they both know it. Octavia and Lincoln have been not-so-subtly pushing Bellamy and Clarke together for at least a year. They think they’re sly, but it’s painfully obvious what they’re trying to do; arranging for the foursome to have dinner and then coming up with vague, last-minute excuses so it’s just the two of them happens more often than Clarke would like. She and Bellamy have relaxed a bit, can have a conversation without getting in a fight, but they’re not exactly close.
Octavia constantly pesters Clarke to just sleep with him already to get rid of the latent sexual tension. Clarke just points out how weird it is that Octavia’s trying to get her brother laid.
Neither of them need to know that she’s had more than her fair share of dreams featuring Bellamy as the main attraction, his demeanor much softer but his movements just as rough around the edges if not more so. She’s woken up more times than she can count with her thighs pressed together and a thin layer of sweat covering her skin.
It hits her all of a sudden.
“Why don’t we use them?”
“For what?”
“Our piece for the showcase. You can paint Octavia and I’ll paint Bellamy. We can both show off our individual styles but work together to form a cohesive piece. We both know Octavia’s gonna come to the showcase and she’ll freak.” She’s gaining steam, her own idea sounding better and better the more she talks about it. Lincoln doesn’t tell her to slow down and she takes it as a good sign.
“You know Bellamy’s probably gonna be there, too.”
She shrugs. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”
They come to the proverbial bridge much sooner than she expects.
Octavia and Bellamy are both banned from the apartment while they work on the piece, only allowed to see the finished product when it’s shown at the showcase. It’s a whirlwind of a process, staying up all night to get the constellations right and then sleeping through the next day, living off coffee and Hot Pockets until Octavia coerces Lincoln into a real meal outside the apartment, not brushing her hair for 4 days because she’s frantic about the deadline that’s quickly approaching.
They finish with a day and a half to spare. The Blakes insist on drinks to celebrate. The apartment is still a no-go zone until the (giant) canvas is brought to the university gallery, so they go out for drinks.
After not changing out of paint-splattered overalls and a baggy t-shirt for a week and a half, Clarke decides to get dressed up. The dress she wears hugs her in all the right places, the navy blue a stark contrast to her pale skin while simultaneously making her eyes pop. She makes her eyes smoky and puts on the nude pumps she’d bought on a whim because they were on sale and they make her ass look fantastic.
Lincoln lets out a low whistle when she emerges from her room, curls cascading down her back, her father’s wedding ring hanging from a chain around her neck. She does a little spin, smoothing her dress over her thighs. “You don’t think it’s too much?”
He kisses her cheek and takes her hand, leading her to the door. “You look beautiful, Clarke.” His gaze lingers on her face and she tilts her head.
“Spit it out.”
“I’m gonna miss you when this is all over.”
“Shut up.” He huffs out a laugh. “If you start talking about how we’re gonna be moving out of this apartment in a few weeks so you can live with Octavia and I can find my own place, I’m gonna start crying. I did not spend twenty minutes on my makeup just to mess it all up before we even get to the club.”
He holds up his hands in mock surrender, ushering her out the door and into a cab. They meet Bellamy and Octavia there, ordering drinks and quickly finding a table.
“How does it feel to be done?” Octavia asks, positively giddy that she has her boyfriend to herself again. Lincoln tends to get caught up in the creative process, only really emerging when the piece is complete.
Bellamy just stares at her, his eyes darker than she remembers them ever being (she’s drawn them enough times to know what they usually look like). It’s unsettling, but she decides not to comment on it - this is a celebration and she really doesn’t feel like fighting with him tonight. So she just sighs, stirring her vodka cranberry and grinning at nobody in particular. “Bittersweet.”
They’re all sufficiently tipsy when Octavia manages to drag Lincoln onto the dance floor. The way Lincoln will do anything for Octavia - even the stuff that’s bound to be embarrassing, like dancing to a painfully old Soulja Boy song - never ceases to amaze Clarke.
“They’re so cute, it’s almost sickening.”
Clarke only laughs, glancing over at Bellamy. She likes him like this, when he’s had a couple drinks and he manages to relax. It’s like he puts on a front and she has no idea if he does it with everyone or if it’s only reserved for her. Something makes him wanna be the tough guy, the guy who never cracks a smile, the guy who never fails to come up with something to say that pushes every single one of Clarke’s buttons. The smiles come easier and he even jokes around with her.
His hand had somehow ended up on her thigh just below the hem of her dress one night when they’d had a few too many. She’d never forgotten the way her skin had felt exceptionally hot in that exact spot for the rest of the night. And maybe her dreams that night featured his hands and the way she imagined he would use them.
“I think it’s nice. I’ve never seen him so happy.”
Bellamy nods. “Yeah. I’ve never seen O stay with the same guy for so long.”
“He really loves her.”
“I know.” He’s stopped looking at the happy couple and has started to look at her. She can feel the way his eyes roam her face, lingering on her lips, but she keeps her gaze trained on Lincoln. “Ten bucks says they’re engaged in a year.”
She turns to face him, eyes narrowed as she considers the bet. Finally, she holds out her hand. “Six months.”
He grins, taking her hand in his and giving it a firm shake. She tries not to get caught up in the way his hand is so much larger than hers, the tanned skin and callused fingertips making her pale, lithe fingers look tiny. “You’ve got yourself a bet.”
It’s an impulse decision, but she’s feeling confident. They’ve been getting along well, her piece is finished, and the liquid courage certainly doesn’t hurt. She downs the rest of her drink and slides off the bar stool, holding a hand out for Bellamy to follow. He glances at her outstretched hand, her face, and back again, an incredulous expression on his face. “What are you doing?”
“We are dancing.”
“We are, are we?”
She nods, the corners of her mouth turned upward. Her cheeks are flushed, she’s sure of it, but she’s not gonna back down. “It’s a celebration and I feel like dancing.”
“I’m sure you could find any number of willing partners in this place. That girl by the bar has been checking you out for the last 15 minutes.”
She shrugs, inching forward and wrapping her hand around his, tugging. “I wanna dance with you.”
The expression on his face is amused, but he goes with it. “Why?”
“Because you’re being nice to me. And you look handsome. And we finished our showcase piece and you’re in it.” She might be a little drunker than she thought.
He gets out of his seat and lets her lead him to the dance floor. “Clarke Griffin thinks I’m handsome.”
“Shut up.”
They don’t so much dance together as they dance across from each other. Someone shoves her from behind and she bumps into him, his hands automatically finding her hips to steady her. She doesn’t move. He doesn’t either.
“Can I tell you something?” This is a bad idea. She’s gonna say it anyway.
“‘Course.”
“I think you’re my muse.” He presses his lips together and she can tell he’s trying not to laugh. “I’m serious.”
“No, you’re drunk.” She pouts and he laughs, fingers flexing on her hips. “You’re lucky you’re a cute drunk.”
“Bellamy Blake thinks I’m cute.” He rolls his eyes, but it’s surprisingly fond.
“C’mon, let’s get you home.”
He tells Octavia and Lincoln they’re leaving before getting her a cab. She rests her head against his shoulder while they drive, her eyes closed and her lips mouthing the words to the song that plays on the cab’s radio. His hand is on her knee.
She makes him close his eyes when he passes the canvas, poking him in the chest when she tells him he’s not allowed to see until tomorrow.
He shakes his head at her in a way that she knows means he thinks she’s being ridiculous, but he complies anyway.
When Clarke wakes up the next day - the day of the showcase - she’s got a headache and it feels like she swallowed a handful of cotton balls. But there’s a glass of water and a bottle of Aspirin next to her bed, so at least she doesn’t have to move for the next couple of hours. She makes a mental note to thank Bellamy later tonight.
Lincoln asks her if she had a rough night when she shuffles into the kitchen in search of sustenance. She just flips him off, shoves a granola bar in her mouth, and takes the longest, hottest shower of her life. The nerves are starting to flutter in her tummy - this is her final showing. This is the piece that is supposed to represent four years of study, four years of honing her skills and learning technique, four years of maturing as an artist. And Bellamy’s in it. And he’s gonna see it.
“Oh, God,” she sighs, pressing her forehead against the cool tile of the wall. She doesn’t even allow herself to think about the fact that she’d drunkenly told him he was her muse. If he mentions it, she’ll chalk it up to drunken nostalgia. He’ll never let her live it down, but it’s better than admitting that it might be the truth.
She wears a fancy dress to the showcase and manages to use a million bobby pins to get her hair in a fancy updo, a couple tendrils framing her face. Lincoln wears a suit. She makes sure to tell him how handsome he looks.
People from the university came early in the morning to take the canvas to the gallery so all they really have to do is show up and stand next to it, answering questions and explaining their inspiration. Easier said than done when the two people who inspired it are right there.
He holds her hand when the first round of people file in, knows her well enough to know that it’s shaking and that she’s chewing on her bottom lip so much it’s gonna be chapped by the end of the night.
Octavia and Bellamy walk in and it takes all she has not to keel over right then and there. He’s wearing a suit and she’s wearing a white dress that compliments her skin tone and it’s just. It’s perfect, the four of them.
Lincoln squeezes her hand and she exhales slowly, nodding to him.
She watches their faces and knows the exact moment they both see the painting. There are tears in Octavia’s eyes, but Clarke can’t really decipher Bellamy’s facial expression. It’s disconcerting.
The painting is huge, taller than Clarke but a couple inches shorter than Lincoln. It’s wider than the both of them standing next to each other, too. There’s a forest and a night sky, the moon shining bright and constellations smattered across the canvas. Lincoln’s Octavia is staring up at the sky, the stars reflected in her eyes, an expression of joy and awe on her face. She’s pointing at a particular constellation - you can’t tell which one - and she’s leaning toward Bellamy to show him. Clarke’s Bellamy is looking at Octavia, the stars forgotten as he stares at the most important, most awe-inspiring thing in his life. The look on his face can only be described as proud, the corners of his lips quirked upward, his hand reaching for his sister’s. There’s so much love and fondness in the painting, it almost makes Clarke wanna cry. She’s so, so proud of this.
There are tear tracks on Octavia’s face when she finally gets to them. She smacks Lincoln in the shoulder and he lets go of Clarke’s hand so he can wrap his arms around her, lifting her onto her tip toes. “I can’t believe you made me cry when I spent so long getting my eyeliner symmetrical.” He chuckles, rubbing a hand up and down her back soothingly. Clarke hears her whisper a quick it’s beautiful and feels another surge of pride, a small smile on her lips.
And then she looks up at Bellamy, the smile fading from her face instantly.
He’s staring at the painting, a crinkle in his brow. She moves to stand next to him, trying to see what it is that he sees. “Which part did you do?” he finally asks, his gaze unwavering.
“You.” There’s a frown on his face when he finally turns to face her and a sinking feeling finds its way into Clarke’s gut. “You hate it.”
“No! No, I don’t hate it. I just - ” She’s afraid of whatever it is that he’s going to say next. “I didn’t know you saw me that way.”
“I pretty much always have.” She makes herself look at the painting instead of at him. “Even when you were a close-minded ass.”
He laughs, bumping her with his elbow. “I guess I really am your muse.”
“Oh my God, you’re insufferable. I swear - ” She’s about to launch into a whole speech about how she was drunk and it was a slip of the tongue, but he cuts her off by pressing his lips to hers.
There’s a brief moment where she doesn’t respond, but it’s only because she’s surprised. Her hands go to his chest immediately - she’s spent way too much time wondering what it would feel like under her hands and now she finally gets to find out. He deepens the kiss, his arms wrapping around her waist, and she clenches the fabric in her fists, barely registering the fact that she’s wrinkling his shirt. (She’s pretty sure Octavia even made him iron it for tonight.)
“It’s about damn time!” The sound of Octavia’s voice has him pulling away, but he doesn’t go far, buries his face in her neck. She laughs. He presses a soft kiss to her pulse point. Lincoln smirks, asks if she wants some alone time with Bellamy in the apartment tonight if she knows what he means.
This time it’s Bellamy laughing as she tells the both of them to shut up, her face hot. They finally wander away to look at some of the other pieces on display, leaving her alone with Bellamy. He works his way up her jawline, featherlight kisses that are barely anything, just enough to take her breath away. “I’ve wanted to do this for a very long time.” His voice dips into a lower register and makes a shiver run down her spine.
“Me too.”
He pulls away, turns to look at the painting again. “I make a damn good muse.”
She smacks him in the stomach with the back of her hand. “You’re never gonna let me live that down are you?”
He just grins, shaking his head as he slings an arm around her shoulders and presses a kiss to her temple. “Nope.”