Work Text:
it’s three am and allen’s sitting on the bed next to lucien, clutching a marker in his hand, still seething over lucien’s comments about jack.
"i’ll show you a million fucking words."
lucien’s fast asleep, unable to be roused but for a good shake or yell in the ear. he’s facing away from allen, curled on his side. his tank top reveals the pale bare skin of his shoulder, which sparks in allen a peculiar idea. lucien’s words echo over and over in his mind - a real writer - and fill him with a burning desire to prove his worth. he is not going to be outshone. he is not going to be replaced.
leaning over lucien’s sleeping form, he begins to write.
words flow from his mind onto lucien’s skin, curl over the curve of his shoulderblade, bloom like bruises in the hollow of his throat. allen spreads his poetry across lucien’s body, claiming every bit of exposed canvas. lucien is warm but the marker is cold, leaving goosebumps in its wake as it glides over his wrists and scribbles on his stomach where the edge of his shirt rides up. the words allen writes are not his own; they are inspired by lucien himself, by the gentle swell of his ribs as he breathes, the golden hair spread across the pillow, turned to silver by moonlight. allen writes until he runs out of room and then falls asleep, dizzy with the thrill of what he’s just done.
the next morning lucien wakes and allen jolts up to the sound of his choked gasp.
"ginsy, what did you -"
lucien stumbles out of the bed, eyes glued to the words curled over his forearms. he walks to the mirror and looks into it, mouth agape, thoughts unreadable. allen watches warily from the bed, and thanks his lucky stars he didn’t let the marker touch lucien’s face, lest he now lose an eye.
"ginsy," lucien says again, expression pure shock as he scans his reflection, touching his inked skin here and there, as if trying to determine if he is just imagining it. after some inspection he turns to allen and together they trail their eyes up and down lucien’s inked body, from the free-form on his calves to the cramped writing on his collarbones. their gazes then meet, and lucien breaks out one of his signature devilish grins.
"you’re brilliant."
"really?" allen breathes, relieved and amazed and exhilarated all at once.
in response, lucien crosses the room and leans into allen, bringing their faces just a little too close, looking straight into his eyes.
"you’ll have to read it to me. all of it."
—-
lucien refuses to scrub the words off, insists on leaving them be all day until his late-night shower washes them away. he wears a scarf and long sleeves to hide the words but his bare hands betray his secret, and when bill quirks an eyebrow at him during class he just smirks and winks in allen’s direction. this causes a blush to creep up allen’s cheeks, much to lucien’s amusement.
it becomes a thing for them, then. in the weeks that follow, while he’s tipsy and over-affectionate, lucien will often fling an arm out at allen and order, “write me something beautiful.”