Ferran leaned forward to lay flat on the floor and rested his cheek on his hand while Nikolai worked. His mind drifted idly, never truly focusing for long on any one thing, though the subject of each tangent was the same - Nikolai. Every small caress, every stroke of the brush brought back memories from their youth. There was longing in each touch, longing back to a time when those fingers were inquisitive, then insatiable.
Maybe it was selfish of him to hold onto those memories, but they made him happy. Was there so much harm in that? The images Nikolai projected replaced the ones Ferran was browsing from the past. He smiled. Sitting up, he glanced over his shoulder as if he'd be able to see the painting itself. His eyes lingered a moment on the other man as he cleaned his brush. There weren't words Ferran could think to use, so he gave an impression. It feels like a warm, sunny day with a slight breeze, in a meadow of tall grass and it's the only tree for miles.