"The paint's supposed to go where?"

Clarke huffed. "Bellamy, you said you'd help me out with this."

He put his hands on his hips, mimicking a motion often contrived by his sister. While this action could have been derived as a bit feminine, the muscles twitching in Bellamy's arms distracted her from even coming to that conclusion. "Clarke," he taunted in her same whiny tone, "You didn't say paint would be on me. And in unmentionable places, nonetheless."

She blew some hair out of her face, trying to distract from the growing blush forming on her cheekbones. "It's art," Clarke gestured vaguely. "You do the unthinkable. Press boundaries."

"This certainly is unthinkable," groaned Bellamy. "And what will O say?"

"We don't have to tell her."

He gave her the side eye. "We don't?"

She stepped closer, and hesitated as Bellamy stood nearly naked in front of her. All for the sake of art, of course, she reminded herself. If she acted uneasy and unsure, he would feel the same way. Putting away her doubts (and fantasies), Clarke reached out to touch his arm, making sure to look at his face- and only his face. "We don't."

Seeming placated, Bellamy let his tense shoulders drop a bit. Clarke swore internally at the fact he wasn't bothered at all by the situation, but only what his sister would think- and who she would tell.

"Anyway," Clarke soldiered on. "It's for a class project. It's not for a gallery or anything. No one needs to know."

"No one needs to know," he repeated slowly, as if taking it in himself.

She nodded curtly.

Bellamy sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. "Alright, where do we begin?"

To be truthful, while Clarke had thought ahead about her project, having Bellamy in front of her, ready to be painted, was an entirely different reality. Tensions were higher, and although she was very sure of her skill, him watching her while she worked just made it worse.

She placed him in front of the white backdrop, on a chair. "You're gonna want to sit down," she chuckled. "This might take a while."

Bellamy rolled his eyes, but did as she said. "Sure thing, princess."

Clarke knelt in front of him, mixing her palette. "Princesses don't get art degrees." She didn't make eye contact, dropping her daze to her work.

"What do princesses do, then?"

"Princesses go to Ivy League schools and study pre-med."

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Octavia did tell me you originally were going to be pre-med."

"I was."

"Why aren't you? Surely you'd make more money that way. Job security, the like."

Clarke stopped mixing. "There's more to life than money, you know?" At his disbelieving look, she soldiered on. "It was all I knew growing up. You know this. We were old money. But my mom never really loved my dad. We may have had more money than we ever needed, but it didn't buy a happy family," she smiled humorlessly. "It was miserable. When my mom said she wanted me to go pre-med, I thought, "Why not?" As you said yourself, job security.

"But I knew I would just become my mom. And I want to live for something. And be passionate about something. Even if it makes me destitute," she shook her head. "That's probably more of my personal life than you were asking for," she said drily. "Sorry."

Bellamy met her eyes. "And all this time, I thought you were just an rich kid artist wannabe." His teasing was light, but she knew from his gaze he understood and felt for her. For all the years she had known him- all three of them- he was the one who had understood her best since Wells. He knew when to push and when to pull back. She was always afraid he would tug a little too hard on her heartstrings, and she'd be in a conundrum. It hadn't happened yet, but the emotional tension at least broke some of the sexual tension Clarke was feeling.

She had been around dozens and dozens of nude male models, and felt nothing. Bellamy wasn't even naked, just wearing shorts. Maybe it was the heat of the San Francisco day just getting to her, but part of her wanted this studio session to be over right this instant, and part of her wanted it to never end.

Clarke thwacked him with her paintbrush. "I'm not a wannabe. Just wait until this project is finished." She held up her hands as if to frame Bellamy's face. "You're going to be a masterpiece."

"What're you gonna do, connect-the-freckles?" he chuckled. "You have many to work with."

She tapped her chin, as if to consider it. "That might work…"

"Really?"

"No."

Bellamy sighed loudly. "Where is my input? I didn't sign up for this."

She laughed. "First off, Bell, you're a model, not a diva. Second, you totally , now hold still." Clarke gripped her palette in her left hand, and paintbrush in the other. "This might be cold."

He winced a little as the paintbrush touched his skin, but relaxed as he got used to the cool temperature of the paint. "What even are you painting on me?"

"Do you not want it to be a surprise?" she teased.

"I've never liked surprises," he said in a low voice. "And I am generally curious. I do feel you owe that to me."

She sighed exagerratedly. "Fine." His mouth quirked up at the corner, hiding a smile.

"It's not what I'm painting on you," Clarke explained, "It's that I'm painting you. It's not patterns or some scenery, but…."

"You're painting me. On me."

"Yeah," she agreed, relieved at not having to again describe the ridiculous concept. Some things truly did work better as art and not as words. "And I'll pose you and take some pictures and use those for my project."

"Wow," Bellamy said in an awed voice. "I never would have thought of that."

"The tuition I'm paying forces me to think like that."

He chuckled. "You know, Clarke…"

"What?"

"I know I teased you earlier, about being a wannabe, but I know you're very talented."

She smiled slightly, concentrating on painting his chest, not wanting him to see her red face. "Oh, do you now?"

"Octavia talks about it all the time. And she's come home with doodles of yours. There's an assortment of your post-it notes on your wall. And," he continued slowly. "I may have seen I popped up a few times."

Clarke froze, only barely pulling the paintbrush away before it managed to drip on the already painted portion of his chest. Her chest felt constricted. What had he seen? Surely he hadn't seen anything in her sketchbook. She hadn't even let Octavia peek in there. "Oh?"

"Yeah, in the doodles. I play the role of a grumpy older brother well, dontcha think?" Catching her slightly relieved exhale, he narrowed his eyes. "Have you drawn me other than that, Clarke?"

"Maybe," she said defensively. "But I draw everyone."

"You still got embarrassed when I mentioned your drawings of me, and you wouldn't have done when I mentioned your drawings of O." His lips drew up into a sly grin. "What are you hiding, Griffin?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I would, actually."

"I may have drawn you a few times," she admitted. "But it's not weird. It's mean of you to tease me about this when we're in this compromising position."

"Compromising position, huh? Do I make you nervous?"

"Yeah, that I might stab you in the eye with my paintbrush if you don't stop."

"Okay, okay," he said amiably. "I bow to the princess."

"I'm not a princess," Clarke grumbled.

"Clarke?"

"Yeah?"

"If I could paint, I'd paint you as a princess. Crown and getup and all."

"Shut up and hold still."