"You're clearly over-reacting, I –"
"I'm the one over-reacting? How about you were in the middle of a panic attack –"
"Yes, you're over-reacting and –"
"Even if I've barely suggested we –"
"You caught me by surprise and –"
"Are you ashamed of me?"
She stops in the middle of her sentence, eyes widening and mouth opening in surprise at his words. She wants to tell him to fuck off, she wants to laugh at his face because – because this is the most ridiculous shit she's ever heard and – fuck.
"Are you for real?"
The words come out way more bitter than she wanted them, but she's past caring at that point because they've been screaming at each other for what feels like hours and she's tired, fuck, she's so very tired.
"Are you ashamed of going out with me, Clarke?" he repeats, eyes darkened by anger and jaw clenching. She's never seen him that upset before, not even that one time some guy groped her in a bar and it ended in a fight and them being banished from said bar.
Like, seriously upset.
It leaves her speechless.
"Because I swear to god if I'm just some guy you keep around because he's pretty and let you see him naked for hours – I swear to god…"
"What the fuck is wrong with you."
She doesn't make it sound like a question.
She elbows him in the ribs to move past him, and busies herself by grabbing a handful of brushes she still needs to clean because – hell, she can't look at him right now. She's fuming, like, cartoon-smoke-coming-out-of-her-ears fuming, and she can't look at him or else she'll explode and do something she'll regret immediately.
The fuck is wrong with him, seriously.
But of course he won't leave her alone, because he wouldn't be Bellamy if he wasn't as stubborn as she is, and of course he grabs her but the arm before she can reach the sink. She faces him and she's still fuming, and there's something gratifying about seeing him in the exact same state.
"Why don't you fucking want me to meet your mother?"
"Because!"
And she yells it, that one word, as she throws her arms up in the air with what can only be described as defeat, in that kind of theatrical, over-the-top sigh.
While still holding her brushes.
And she watches in terror the stain of paint she leaves on him – one almost perfect line of blue paint, from chest to forehead. His eyes widen too as he looks down at his shirt, then back up at her – she doesn't imagine the way he fights against a smile, his lips twitching even so slightly, because now is not the time and…
"Bitch."
It comes off as a laugh, really, and he surges forwards before she can stop him, snatching the brushes from her and pressing them to her cheek. It's cold and gooey, and she gasps in outrage even if she appreciates the small reprieve in their fight.
That is, until it turns into another fight altogether because – of course it does. Of course she retaliates by running to her tubes of gouache, and soon he finds himself with green on his neck and red in his hair. They're wrestling over the tube of yellow like children, screaming and laughing and biting every patch of skin coming close to their teeth.
They fall on her bed in a tangled of colourful limbs, breathless and panting. Still she adds some more paint to his face, for good measure, pressing her fingers to his cheeks and his hair.
But the air is still charged between them, still heavy with things unsaid, and she sighs, knowing this is a conversation they need to have. "Yes, I don't want you to meet her," she says, "because you're too good for her and I don't want her to judge you, and I know it's stupid but –"
He stops her with a kiss, his lips tasting like paint – when she sighs, it's for a different reason altogether, fingers wandering beneath his shirt as she grabs his waist and puts him closer to her. She moans at the feeling of him between her legs, putting enough pressure there for warmth to pool in her lower belly, for a shiver of lust to run down her spine.
She wants him, the adrenaline of their fights (both of them) begging for some make-up sex. She wants him so much, tugging at the hem of his shirt for him to get the message. And he does, getting rid of it in a couple of seconds before his mouth is back against hers, hands roaming and hips thrusting.
He brands 'I love you' and 'I'm sorry' into her skin and when she comes undone, it's with his tongue pressed to her clit and smudges of paint on her thighs.