YELLOW [[klance]] [[COMPLETED]]

Lance.

The heat of the bath plumes up in steamy waves, condensation beading on the white linoleum walls, misting the mirror until it reveals only distorted shapes, colorful blobs. The steam clogs my pores and dampens my messy hair, and the quiet rush of the pounding water reminds me of a miniature waterfall, filling up the small square room with melodious sound. Wiping my hand over the fogged-up mirror in broad strokes, I blink my eyes, blueberry-colored and dim through the mist. Turning, I look at Keith, who looks up at me without a word.

Kneeling, I don't tear my eyes from his unreadable gaze, and I pull his sweater up and over his head. He lets me, and when I drop it to the floor, his hair falls over his bare shoulders. His ears blush with the lightest sprinkling of pink as he looks away. 

His body is beautiful. What else did I expect? Nothing. His skin porcelain white against my brown hands, his torso vaguely muscled but a little pudgy in a healthy way, his shoulders broad and sloping down to ropy arms. Scarred arms - hash marks marring the skin all the way up his upper arms. It hurts, but it doesn't repulse me. Not the way he obviously thinks it will, as he sucks on his lips and looks down nervously. I run my hands vaguely over his skin, saddened by what I feel there but shocked also by his beauty, nonetheless. I lean forward and kiss his neck as softly and sweetly as I can. With that, I let my hands drop to the buckle. I unclip it.

He's clearly flustered as I undress him, the rest of him, until he's ass-naked and red-faced. And lovely. Of course.

"You're still okay with this, right?" I say into his ear, as we're warm, skin-against-skin and him in my arms.

"Yea," he says. "I just want to get it over with."

I let my nose brush his jawline, then I pull his gaze to meet mine and let myself smile, a half-smile, and I want to nuzzle closer to him. "You know you're beautiful, right?"

He's disbelieving, gestering to his arms and thighs and ankles, which are all covered in the same purplish marks. "They aren't," he mutters.

"What they mean isn't," I reply, shaking my head. "But they're on you, and you're beautiful. You make them beautiful because nothing has the strength to ever make you not."

"You're a fucking poet, McClain."

"What can I say? I'm an artistic genius."

He laughs like he's just now letting himself do so. "Sure."

The water swallows him up, his head tilted back, the back of his neck in my hand but not so heavy as the water lifts him. He closes his eyes, waving blue lines dancing on his skin, long, inky eyelashes kissing his cheeks. His hair waves and billows in the water like jellyfish fronds, and his broadish chest rises and falls with the impact of his breathing.

I turn off the water, and he bobs and I sit and watch him, layed out like an angel in the wavering water.

He opens one eye. "Keep your eyes on my face."

I laugh, almost forgetting to keep a hand beneath him. "What? What are you insinuating, Mullet?"

He smirks, closing both eyes again. "Nothing."

"Get your mind out of the gutter, my good sir," I demand, feeling a smile sprawl across my face.

I rub lemony suds into his hair, massaging his scalp in my fingers and weaving oily black strands between my fingers like wet ribbons. I cup his forehead so as to keep the wash of water from trickling into his eyes, and rub soap into his skin. Feeling my own wriggle with want at the site of him.

"You're better at this then the nurses," he murmurs.

"I'd like to think so," I reply, brushing the bangs back from his forehead with the flat of my hand. "Do you like kissing me better then you like kissing the nurses?"