Work Text:
"Uh ...'True patriot love in all thy sons ... in all thy son ...' " Adam dissolves into helpless giggles. "Oh my God, Rans, this song is so freakin' filthy!"
"Shut up, Holster. You are a disgrace to your adopted homeland. Also you need to hold still or your maple leaf is going to come out crooked." Ransom is straddling Adam’s hips, leaning over him on the cheap hotel bedspread with brushes of red and white body paint and a stencil of the Canadian flag. They’re getting ready to celebrate American independence the way they have for the past three years … by being aggressively Canadian.
Never mind that Adam isn’t even a dual citizen yet.
"What do you wanna bet Jack makes Bitty learn it in French?" Adam asks, to distract himself while Ransom works. The will-they-won’t-they reality TV extravaganza that was the Jack and Bitty of their Junior year has wandered into pure narrative fantasy during the hiatus between “seasons.” He and Ransom are in agreement that the unresolved sexual tension at the end of Season 2 will surely lead to drama and hopefully a satisfying resolution in Season 3 -- but in the meantime, they’ve fallen into the habit of talking as if their OTP is already canon.
"...’Ton histoire est une épopée / Des plus brillants exploits’ ...?" Ransom smirks as he fills in the last point of the maple leaf red, then twists to his right, stretching toward the bedside table where the pots of paint sit open and swapping the red brush for the white. Adam feels the control in Ransom’s movements, the tension in his quads as he lifts and stretches without jostling Adam’s body sprawled and pinned beneath his own.
As he turns back, brush in hand, he catches Adam looking, unguarded. This: the assurance of belonging between them is still new enough that Adam's cheeks flush at the way Justin sees. He looks away, up at the ceiling, and steadies his breath as Rans turns back to his work. He concentrates on holding his abdomen still beneath the cold, greasy tickle of Ransom’s brush as he switches to white paint and fills in the stripes across Adam’s nipples down to just below his belly button.
Adam closes his eyes and feels the caress of Rans’ deft brushstrokes across his skin. He lets his mind wander to the easy familiarity of their hips and thighs clad only in jean shorts and briefs. Justin knows what this does to him, the proximity of Justin Ransom Rans always right where Adam needs him, wants him, has him. Justin might be focused on the task at hand, but the flare of his nostrils and the way his tongue darts out to wet slightly-parted lips tells Adam that he’s also paying attention to the way Adam’s body is responding to his touch. Justin knows how much it turns Adam on to watch him lose himself in his work, to let Adam bear witness … knows how much more it turns Adam on when the subject of his focus and labor is Adam himself.
"You know damn well my ‘past exploits’ were epic and brilliant,” Adam laughs, softly, trying not to disturb the artist at work. “You’ve been there for most of them." Even if it’s taken them an embarrassingly long time to admit that it wasn’t simply a game, a college experiment.
"Wouldn't have missed it." Ransom lifts his paintbrush out of the way at the end of the final brushstroke and leans over Adam's red and white torso so he can reach Adam’s mouth.
"Mmm," Adam murmurs approvingly against Ransom's lips, lifting his head into the kiss. He holds his torso carefully immobile and rolls his hips beneath the spread of Justin’s thighs, taking satisfaction in the way Justin’s breath catches in response.
“Hold still, asshole,” he chides, nipping at Adam’s lip. “You’re drying.”
“Make me.” Adam repeats the motion. Ransom leans back to drop the paintbrush into the pot on the bedside table, then stretches back over Adam on hands and knees, sliding his hands with their long, clever fingers up the curve of Adam’s biceps. Adam’s arms are resting, wrists loosely crossed, above his head to keep them out of the way while Justin works, and now he feels Justin’s hands slide firmly up from the ticklish flesh of Adam's underarms to the divot of Adam’s elbow to the bones of Adam’s wrist where he stops and curls his fingers inward, holding fast.
“ ‘Je protégera mes foyers et mes droits,’ mon bien-aimé,” Justin whispers against Adam’s mouth as they rock together, carefully avoiding the paint as it dries.
“That’s cheating,” Adam whispers back, not bothering to cover the desire he knows Justin will hear in his voice no matter what he’s saying or how he’s saying it.
“And you’re letting me get away with it,” Justin whispers back.
“I always let you get away with it,” Adam says, because it’s the truth. “Always have and always will.”