#byclair fic

“Yes, corny,” Will says, exasperated, as he turns his back on his reflection to face Lucas, who has switched knees to work on his other shoe. He opens his mouth to say something else, but all that comes out is an annoyed exhale as his eyes drop to Lucas’ hands tying his second knot. “I still don’t get how you do that,” he mumbles, tapping the toe of Lucas’ shoe with his own.

“I still don’t get what you don’t get about it,” Lucas replies, standing up. Will crosses his arms, scowling as Lucas takes a step towards him, crowding into his space. “What nineteen year old doesn’t know how to tie his shoes?”

“I’m not nineteen for another two weeks,” Will points out. “And I know how to tie my shoes.”

“Right,” Lucas says, nodding seriously as he lifts one arm and leans against his wardrobe, his other hand on his hip. Will watches him do it, and Lucas watches Will’s eyes flit to his bicep, distracted. “You still use bunny ears,” he continues, biting back a smile, “and you’re worried that wearing my letterman jacket is what’s corny.”

Will shoves at his chest, but not hard enough to make Lucas budge, even a little. “Shut up,” he says over Lucas’ laugh, twisting his hands into Lucas’ shirt and using it as leverage to try and shake him. Even though Will’s not using enough force to actually move him, Lucas lets himself be jostled a little, back and forth and back and forth until Will’s had his fill of it, until he’s laughing, too. “You’re so annoying.”

“And you look good in my jacket,” Lucas says. The hand that he’s got propped on his own hip migrates towards Will — as it so often does, these days — and he hooks his pointer finger into one of Will’s belt loops, tugging him closer. “I don’t think that it’s corny at all.”

“I think you’re biased,” Will tells him with an eye roll. All the same, his hands slide up Lucas’ chest and up to his neck, where his fingers link together at his nape.

“I think you were the one who said you were cold,” Lucas says slowly, “and you were the one who asked me for a jacket,” he continues, tugging on the hem of the aforementioned jacket pointedly before he’s slipping his hand past it, coming to settle on the dip in the small of Will’s back. “I also think it was very generous of me to give you one.”

Will hums in agreement. “I think that you have other jackets.”

“This is true,” Lucas says, “considering you’ve already stolen half of them.” Will does not deny the accusation, because it’s completely true, and Will doesn’t lie unless he’s playing a board game, in which case he very much lies. They’re not playing a board game, though, so he doesn’t say anything and lets Lucas continue instead. “But I also think that when you asked, that’s the one you wanted.”

Will has had a flush in his cheeks since the moment Lucas first stepped into his space, but now he turns bright red, which means Lucas is right on the money. “Shut up,” he says again, but he’s smiling, tugging on Lucas’ neck and bringing him closer. “It’s still corny.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lucas says, and as much as he likes looking at Will in his jacket, seeing his own name embroidered right over Will’s heart, he likes kissing Will even more — so he does. Will sighs into his mouth the moment their lips touch, a happy, content noise, and Lucas lets the arm holding him up against the closet door fall so that he can have both of his hands on Will’s waist, use them to pull Will closer. Will lets him, both arms coming up to rest on Lucas’ shoulders and drape over his back, and this is his favorite part — he likes that Will’s a little taller than him, that he goes a little boneless when Lucas is kissing him, that he falls into Lucas and trusts that Lucas will keep him from hitting the ground. He likes that he knows these things, that they get to do this, that they have been for a few months, now, ever since Will showed up at his dorm on their first day back from winter break with a 2-litre bottle of Coke in one hand and a pint of rum poorly concealed beneath his sweater in the other, courtesy of Jonathan. They’d each managed to mix two half-assed drinks before they abandoned the soda entirely and just started passing the pint back and forth, drinking it straight and making faces after every sip. Lucas remembers how fixated he’d become on Will’s mouth every time he had brought the bottle to his lips, how he’d been hyperaware of it still when he’d take his own drink once Will had finished, how he’d pretended that the spit they shared on the rim was almost like kissing until they were kissing and he didn’t need to pretend anymore.

Not pretending has been awesome. Not pretending means he’s had a lot of practice, practice means he knows what Will likes and what Will doesn’t like, and Lucas also knows that he likes the sound Will makes any time Lucas slips his hands into his back pockets, which means he does it as much as possible.

Like right now.

“Okay,” Will breathes out after humming into Lucas’ mouth, and his lips are still buzzing with the vibration of it, even as Will breaks the kiss, pressing their foreheads together. “Okay, okay, okay,” Will says again, then his lips are right back where they were — messily, this time. Eager. “Maybe we should just skip dinner,” he suggests when they part again, kissing Lucas a third time the second the last syllable falls from his lips. “Maybe we stay here instead?”

“You can stay here,” Lucas tells him, dodging Will’s attempt to kiss him again by turning his face, letting it land on his cheek instead. He does the same back when he pulls his hands from Will’s pockets and starts gently pushing him away, feeling a little bad once they’re apart enough for him to see the look on Will’s face at the separation. He pats Will’s hip apologetically, hoping it suffices. “I will be participating in pasta bar night at the dining hall.”

It does not suffice. “Oh, come on,” Will complains, making a face. He tries to turn them around, switch places and back Lucas into the mirror, but before he can pin him there Lucas is spinning out of his reach easily, stepping away from Will entirely and towards the door instead. Will stares at him, clearly not amused. “Dude,” he says, and it’s a testament to just how miffed he is that that’s the word he landed on, because Lucas doesn’t think he’s ever heard Will say dude in the entire time he’s known him.

“Pasta bar night, Will,” he repeats sagely. “I have a game tomorrow — I need the carbs.”

Will stares at him some more. When Lucas does not say gotcha! or sike! and continues to stand by the door, still out of his reach and evidently serious about this whole pasta bar thing — which Will should have known, since Lucas has always made it very clear, even prior to becoming an athlete, that pasta takes priority to almost anything— he frowns harder. “You’re so annoying,” he tries, but it’s clear he knows he’s not going to win this one.

“And you already said that,” Lucas points out with a shrug. He grabs his keyring from its spot on his desk and opens the door, turning towards Will expectantly. “Come on,” he says, gesturing through the doorway. “I know you want buttered noodles.”

Will huffs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his borrowed, corny jacket. “I do want buttered noodles,” he grumbles, pushing past Lucas and out the door. Lucas claps him on the shoulder as he passes by, the same way he might do if it was one of his teammates.

“Atta boy,” Lucas says.

“Corny,” Will calls out as he trudges ahead down the hallway, not looking back.

Lucas rolls his eyes, laughing as he pulls the door shut and locks it behind him. “Give it back, then,” he replies loudly, trailing after him at a leisurely pace.

The jacket’s a little big on Will — an oversized fit by design, and probably a size bigger than he would order if he were buying it for himself — so the sleeves are longer on him than they are on Lucas, the cuff covering half of his hand. It’s kind of cute, Lucas thinks, even if it is corny. He likes seeing Will in his clothes, that the inch he has on Lucas doesn’t make up for the broadness Lucas has on him, that, unless Will starts hitting the gym, it’s always going to be that way.

The jacket’s a little big, and the sleeves are a little long, but not so long that they conceal the middle finger Will is throwing back at him, clear as day.

“No,” Will says, as if the bird wasn’t enough.