A wave of affection washed over him and bled into his thoughts. Funny you should say that. I thought of snowdrifts piled around the base of the tree. Nikolai glanced over at his friend while he continued to wring the paint from his brush, pulling the bristles between his index and middle finger. The murky mix of water and acrylic dripped into the glass and ran down his hand, leaving a green-tinted brown trail across his palm and down the side of his hand. After a few more run-throughs, he dragged the brush over his own arm, satisfied when it didn’t leave a mess of paint behind. It is the only tree for miles, though.
See, it starts cold here. He indicated the entire width of the other man’s lower back with and absent sweep of his hand, only barely making contact with his skin. But the tree continues to bloom. His fingers walked up the length of his back, touches brief but firm, and settled his fingertips at the bases of a few vines he’d already painted on Ferran’s neck. And expand. To illustrate his point, his potential path, he traced Ferran’s arm to where it disappeared beneath his head. Not stopping the motion there, Niko stroked his cheek with the pad of his thumb, but quickly turned back to his brushes, stare intent on the inanimate objects. Memories floated through his mind. Of Ferran, of a time when he wouldn’t have hesitated to shift this away from painting, to take the other man’s face in his palms to steal kisses.
What do you think? His thoughts had a tentative quality to them.