Work Text:
The fluorescent lights hummed faintly in the empty art room, their cold glow spilling over jars of paint, scattered brushes, and a large, half-finished mural that stretched across the wall. A radio in the corner played faint strains of rock-and-roll, but its volume was so low it was almost drowned out by the steady tapping of rain against the tall windows. Outside, the sky was overcast, the gray clouds heavy with promise of more rain to come. The room smelled of turpentine, old wood, and the faintest hint of cigarette smoke.
Ben Brookes sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the mural, a palette balanced precariously on one knee and a paintbrush poised in his hand. He wore brown slacks and a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing his wiry arms. His suspenders hung loose at his sides. Strands of chestnut hair fell into his face as he worked, the middle part slightly disheveled. His expression was one of deep concentration, though his lips pressed into a frown, a habit that made him look more annoyed than he actually was.
The mural was a riot of colors, greens, blues, and vibrant yellows, depicting a serene countryside. But near the bottom right corner, a glaring black streak marred the work, the result of a careless hand. Ben’s hand tightened around the brush as he worked to undo the damage. It was nothing compared to the damage a certain someone had done only a few days before, causing him to completely scrap his work and move onto his next idea so his grade doesn’t plummet completely.
He didn’t hear the door open behind him.
“Hey, Brookie.”
The voice was unmistakable. That Boston drawl, smooth as whiskey, laced with a smirk you could hear without seeing. Ben’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t turn around.
“What do you want?” he asked, his tone clipped.
“Easy, tiger. Just saw the light on and figured I’d drop by.” The door clicked shut, and footsteps echoed against the tile floor as Ricky approached. “You’re still workin’ on that, huh? Looks good.”
Ben finally glanced over his shoulder. Ricky stood there, all leather and swagger, his black jacket slung over one shoulder and a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. His dark hair was slicked back, though a few rebellious strands fell across his forehead. He looked like trouble, and he knew it. The way he leaned casually against a desk, one hand in his pocket, screamed confidence, but Ben was hardly envious of that as it came with an unbelievably arrogant and obnoxious personality.
“Didn’t think you’d care about art,” Ben muttered, turning back to the mural.
“I care,” Ricky said. He flicked the cigarette to the floor, crushing it under his boot. “'Least when it’s got your name on it.” he says with a wink.
Ben froze, the brush hovering above the palette. His pulse quickened, but he kept his voice steady. “What do you actually want?”
“Just wanted to say sorry. Y’know, for that mess the other day.” Ricky’s voice softened, losing some of its usual cockiness. “Didn’t mean for it to happen.”
Ben sighed, his shoulders slumping. “It’s fine. You don’t have to—”
“Lemme help,” Ricky interrupted.
Ben looked up, incredulous. “Help? You don’t even know how to hold a paintbrush.”
“I can hold stuff,” Ricky shot back, his smirk returning. “C’mon, Brookie, gimme somethin’ to do.”
“You could leave.” Ben suggests with a mocking smile. Ricky rolls his eyes, hands on his hips with no sign of moving from his spot.
“Whatever.” Ben muttered, but he relented, handing Ricky the palette. Their fingers brushed briefly, and Ben pulled back quickly, focusing on the mural to hide the heat rising to his cheeks.
For a while, they worked in silence. Ricky leaned against a stool, holding the palette steady as Ben mixed colors and applied them to the wall. The tension in the room was palpable, but neither of them addressed it. Ricky’s gaze kept wandering to Ben, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his lips parted slightly as he worked. He caught himself staring and quickly looked away, a smirk tugging at his lips to cover his unease.
“So,” Ricky began, breaking the silence, “about what I said the other day… to the guys…”
Ben didn’t respond, but his grip on the brush tightened.
“Didn’t mean it,” Ricky continued, his voice quieter now. “Just… y’know, tryin’ to keep the peace with those knuckleheads.”
“It’s fine,” Ben said shortly, though his tone suggested otherwise.
Ricky studied him for a moment, his smirk fading. “Y’sure? You don’t look fine.”
Ben glanced at him, his pale features flushed. “What do you care?”
“I care,” Ricky said simply, his eyes earnest for once.
Ben looked away quickly, his cheeks turning even redder. Ricky’s smirk returned as he leaned closer. “Like what you see, Brookie?”
Ben’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “You ruin everything…” he remarks under his breath.
“You were starin’,” Ricky teased, his voice low and playful. “Didn’t know I was such a masterpiece.”
Ben’s ears turned bright red, and he muttered something unintelligible, turning back to his work. Ricky chuckled softly, pleased with himself. But as he watched Ben’s hands move deftly over the mural, a softness crept into his expression.
“Cute,” he murmured under his breath.
Ben froze, his brush hovering in midair. “What did you just say?”
“Nothin’,” Ricky said quickly, setting the palette down on a nearby stool. He wandered over to the stack of books by Ben’s bag, picking one up casually. “What’s this?”
“Put that down,” Ben said sharply, but Ricky ignored him, flipping through the sketchbook with interest. His eyebrows raised as he came across a page filled with portraits.
One in particular caught his eye.
“Hey,” he said, a grin spreading across his face. “This looks a bit like…”
Ben’s heart dropped as he realized what Ricky was looking at. He shot to his feet, paintbrushes clattering to the floor. “Give me that!”
Ricky held the sketchbook above his head, laughing as Ben tried to snatch it. “Oh, what’s this, Brookie? Been drawin’ me, huh?”
“No!” Ben’s voice was high-pitched, his face burning. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ricky leaned in closer, still holding the sketchbook out of reach. “Have you been drawin’ me, pretty boy?” he reiterates, his tone teasing but his eyes searching.
Ben finally managed to snatch the sketchbook back, clutching it to his chest. “Shut up,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.
Ricky’s smirk softened as he noticed a small smudge of paint on Ben’s cheek. Without thinking, he reached out, his fingers brushing against Ben’s skin to wipe it away.
Ben froze, his breath catching as their faces were suddenly inches apart. He could feel Ricky’s warm breath against his skin, could see the dimple in his cheek, the sharp lines of his jaw. His eyes darted between Ricky’s piercing gaze and the soft curve of his lips. Guilt and longing warred within him, his thoughts a chaotic jumble.
“They’re good,” Ricky said quietly, “The drawings.” he finishes.
Ben could barely process the words. His heart pounded as Ricky leaned closer, their noses almost touching. For a moment, everything else fell away, the rain, the mural, the world outside. And then, their lips met.
The kiss was desperate at first, a collision of pent-up emotions and unspoken words. Ricky’s arm wrapped around Ben’s waist, pulling him closer, while Ben’s hands clutched at Ricky’s jacket. Gradually, the urgency faded, replaced by something softer, more deliberate. Time seemed to stretch as they lost themselves in each other.
When they finally pulled away, both were breathless. Ben’s wide eyes searched Ricky’s face, the reality of what had just happened crashing down on him. Ricky’s smirk was gone, replaced by an expression of uncertainty.
“I…” Ben stammered, stepping back. His hand went to his bag, fumbling with the straps. “I have to go.”
“Ben, wait—”
But Ben was already halfway to the door, his shirt wrinkled and his hair a mess. He didn’t look back as he disappeared into the hallway, leaving Ricky standing alone in the art room, the faint strains of rock-and-roll still playing in the background.