Work Text:
It's not too late when Robbe gets home, just a little past 8 pm.
He had known it would be a long day of lectures and project work, and told Sander not to wait up for him. He's so tired he can feel it in his bones; it takes a few tries to get the key in the right place and unlock the front door, but he manages. Stepping inside, he is immediately hit with the smell of coffee, paint fumes, and Sander's famous carbonara. The place is dark, lit only by the dim hallway light that Robbe knows Sander left on for him. He had gotten out of class early, and evidently picked up some groceries if the state of the fridge is anything to go by. There is a container of food left for Robbe on the shelf, but he can't quite bring himself to eat until he's seen Sander first so he just swigs a glass of water and shrugs off his jacket.
There is music coming from down the hallway and Robbe wants to laugh, his boyfriend is so predictable. He tosses his jacket onto the hallway chair without really looking, and passes their bedroom on the way towards the music. He goes slowly, trailing his fingers along the wall softly, not wanting to make a sound. He loves seeing Sander in his element and tonight is no different as he rests his temple against the doorway and inches it around the edge until he can peek at what Sander is doing.
The music comes from the corner at the very back, a vintage turntable because Sander is that much of a pretentious ass-hole and Robbe loves him. It doesn't take long to recognise the song, mainly because Sander rarely plays anything else, but also because how could he forget the song that played that day they first met?
Rebel, rebel, how could they know?
The room is messy, sheets draped over the walls, a wooden ladder set up against it. When Robbe had offered they set up the extra bedroom as a studio, he had no idea it would look like this. There is no area not splattered with paint. The table is a cluttered mess, one only a whirlwind like Sander can accomplish; jars of paint brushes, boxes of stencils and sponges, remade milk cartons full of pencils and charcoals, and stacks upon stacks of all kinds of paper. To the side, crates are propped against the wall, filled with spray cans and paint bottles in every colour.
Sander already had a lot of this stuff from before, some of what he was gifted by his classmates and other stuff he had simply snagged. Robbe knows they never could have afforded this much otherwise. Art supplies aren't cheap, that's for damn sure. He learnt that the hard way trying to buy Sander Christmas presents.
Posters and photographs taken by Sander in all shapes and sizes are taped to the wall next to the window, just below a small shelf packed with potted plants (a gift from Robbe's mum). And in the midst of all the mess is Sander. Leaning back on a stool in front of his easel, facing away from Robbe, overalls tied around his waist, head bopping along to Bowie, smudging at the paint with his fingers when the brush just isn't cutting it, he has all of Robbe's heart. Every fucking piece of it.
Robbe never stood a chance.
It is way too easy to zone out like this, and Sander knows him too well. The man, his man, reaches behind him and beckons him closer with a sound that Robbe is all too familiar with, meaning "get the fuck over here". Robbe complies way too easily, peeling himself away from the doorway. His hands reach Sander first, curving over his shoulders and fisting in his t-shirt as he plants a kiss to his neck. He doesn't pull back immediately, but keeps his chin tucked there into his favourite place where Sander is soft and skin-warm. Sander leans back into him as a reflex, eyes still focused on his painting. "Left food for you in the fridge. If you're hungry."
Robbe hums. "It's a bit late. Might just have a sandwich."
A slight pause, a light graze of Sander's chin against Robbe's forearm when he tilts his head to the right. "What time is it?"
Sensing where this is going, Robbe responds, dimples twitching, "Half-past nine." Sander's lips part, and he lets his hands drop from his work slowly. Robbe pulls back, amused. "How long have you been in here?"
The awkward answering look and sheepish eyes tell Robbe all he needs to know. It's not like he's surprised. Sander pouts, scratches the side of his head, and laughs a little at himself, prompting Robbe to push their foreheads together along with a soft kiss. Sander makes a muffled sound against his mouth, something like "wait" and Robbe watches patiently as he dumps his paint brush in water and wipes his palms on a paint-stained cloth. His eyes are tired but bright as he pulls Robbe in between his knees, hands rising to rub at his sides. "How was your day?" Like this, with Sander propped against the stool, they are almost the same height and Robbe uses it to rest his arms comfortably on Sander's shoulders.
"Tough. Uni sucks."
"Your group still being idiots?"
Robbe groans. "If I didn't have Yasmina there, I'd have smashed a test tube over someone's head a long time ago."
"Be sure to mention her in your graduation speech."
"If I actually get to graduation." Robbe fiddles with the hem of Sander's shirt as a distraction.
"You will. I know you will." The look in his eyes changes, now light with mischief. "My space cowboy." There is a smile in Sander's voice and Robbe protests, pushing him away without really pushing him away. He turns his head to avoid those green eyes, but Sander pulls him right back in.
"Let it go, I passed the advanced test, didn't I?"
"Yeah, because you bribed the teacher."
"As far as I remember, he wasn't complaining."
Robbe has knows Sander long enough, been with him for long enough, to recognise the change in his eyes, that one-eyebrow raise that drives him fucking wild. He had seen it outside the cabin where they first met, surrounded by empty bottle and rubbish bins, had seen it the night of their first kiss, opening up cans of booze and getting high on the city lights, had even seen it when they first spent the day in Robbe's bed, soft touches and nervous glances when Robbe had suddenly swung a leg over Sander's hips. He saw it the day they first moved into this apartment, when everyone had left and the door was closed, Sander's eyes intense and hot on his. And he sees it now as Sander's warm hands move from his ribs down to his hip bones, pulling him closer between his legs.
"Alright, what's the name of this one then?" He sets his mouth over Robbe's chin, working his way up to his jaw.
Robbe doesn't think he'll ever get over this. The way Sander knows him so well, knows exactly what to do to make Robbe melt for him, knows exactly which parts of him to treat gently and which ones he can rough up. It's like he has mapped all of him, with his hands, his teeth, his lips.
"Easy." He has to clear his throat twice to get the words out properly. "Moonage daydream."
Sander hovers at the corner of his mouth, smile smug, a fist in his hair, and Robbe is used to this. Sander has done this since the very beginning: pulling back and watching him with some kind of satisfaction as Robbe gets overwhelmed, eyes closed in anticipation, lips parted. Gentle thumbs drag over his cheekbones. Sander is close enough that their mouths just graze before the touch disappears completely and Robbe blinks his eyes open slowly, confused. He almost has to close them again because of the way Sander is staring at him.
"Wanna paint you," Sander's voice has gotten lower, deeper, and Robbe lets his head fall to the other's shoulder in defeat.
"You do that all the time." There is a space on the wall solely dedicated to sketches, photographs and paintings of Robbe to prove it.
But Sander shakes his head. "Wanna paint on you." The intonation of his voice takes Robbe back to that first afternoon in his bed in the flatshare. Before you. He pulls back, hands steadying on Sander's thighs. The blond seems to see the question in his eyes, and his fingers slip under the hem of his jumper, touching bare skin.
"Trust me?" It is less of a question because he knows Robbe will give him everything, let him do anything, but he asks anyways. Despite his wandering hands already halfway up his torso.
Robbe still murmurs "always", and raises his arms so Sander can slip the jumper all the way off. His hair is definitely messy now but he can't bring himself to care when Sander is hooking two fingers in the front of his jeans to keep him in place as he quickly bends to the side for a brush and his paints. Robbe's hips twitch and he knows Sander noticed if the smirk on his face is anything to go by. He pinches the nape of his neck in retaliation, where the dark roots are starting to show against the platinum blond and Sander chuckles. He spends a couple of minutes picking out more colours, squeezing them onto a palette and Sander can probably tell Robbe is getting restless because the younger's hands never stop moving. Down his neck, into his hair, over his shoulder and arm, passing over his rib cage and the rolled-up edge of his painting overalls and down across his thighs. Something jumps in Robbe's chest when he sees the old hand shape printed across the fabric of Sander's overalls in burnt orange, that's his hand print, a piece of him always there.
Sander hums, to say "give me a minute". He stops to think a little before holding up a paint brush for Robbe to take. Balancing the palette high in his left hand, he reaches to the other side of Robbe, and platinum blond hair tickles his ribs as Sander rolls a supply cart closer to rest his palette on. On the way back, he presses a swift kiss to Robbe's side, almost unthinkingly. It has just become an automatic response to kiss whatever part of him is closest. Robbe loves when Sander kisses him, but it is the small, tender ones that get him all warm.
Finally, Sander looks up at him and Robbe raises an eyebrow. "All set up?" he asks, not without a smile.
The painter answers by dipping his thumb in forest green and smearing it across Robbe's cheek, grin playful and eyes so wicked.
Pushing at the other's chest, Robbe shouts laughingly, "You dick, this better wash off." Robbe knows that Sander loves the colour green on him, always says it complements the warmth in his eyes and the caramel tone of his hair.
"Though you trusted me?" Sander takes the hand that had been resting on his shoulder, removes the paint brush from his grip and presses a kiss to the inside of his wrist, leaves his lips there and traces them up to the fleshy part of Robbe's thumb. There is always a level of teasing with Sander. He doesn't do it with anyone else, never did it with Britt either, but he seems to get some sort of kick out of putting a flush on Robbe's face.
Without noticing, the songs have changed a couple of times, but this one is new, not anything Robbe is used to hearing on the painter's playlist.
Sunlight, sunlight, sunlight.
It makes him relax even more into Sander's touch, not paying attention to anything but the music filling the room and Sander's lips on him. Until he remembers that they were having a conversation.
"Of course I trust you." Robbe's breath catches only two words in, but he continues. "I've got a presentation in two days though, so keep the paintings PG, okay?" Sander's laugh is low in his throat, and Robbe realises there is going to be nothing PG about this.
When he feels teeth set against his wrist, his eyes fall shut because only Sander could make something so simple of a touch like that so effortlessly intense. A touch of a cold thumb wet with paint skims his other cheek, and only when Robbe feels just the backs of Sander's fingers against his jaw does he dare a glance at his boyfriend.
Sander's expression is so, so soft; Robbe never wants him to stop looking at him like this. "Brings out your cheekbones." His hands drops to rest in the hallow of Robbe's throat, one of his favourite places, where he can set his pointer finger right next to his Adam's apple, feel his pulse beating extra fast just for him. "You're a fucking piece of art, Robbe Ijzermans. You know that right?"
Robbe never knows what to say back so he just touches their foreheads together, fingers gently curling in his hair.
Your love is sunlight.
He clears his throat, squeezing the spot between Sander's shoulder and neck. "Thought you were going to paint me. So paint."
Sander smacks the side of his hip for that comment, but balances it with a tender kiss to the middle of his sternum.
"Okay," and with fond, fond eyes, "prepare to be mind-blown."