Nikolai watched Ferran in a sidelong glance, eyes hooded and face relaxed in an expression of gentle appreciation, his smile a subtle small thing. He never could quite conceal his admiration when it came to his friend. His hands busied themselves, finding the right brushes and pigments. You sound like the poet. I’m just a lowly painter. He brandished his newly-selected paintbrush for emphasis before dipping it in white paint.
Inching nearer to Ferran, pressed close to his side now, Niko paused to study the shape of his tree and laid out the snow in his mind, sketching the lines in his thoughts before committing them to skin. Paintbrush poised to sweep a long strip of white below the tree trunk, he found himself distracted, gaze lingering on the exposed skin. Nikolai’s thumb traced the curve of his spine horizontally, low on his back. What should have been quick efficient gesture became a slow languorous one, only barely decent in its adoration of his friend’s form. Clearing his throat, he quickly followed the touch of his hand with that of his brush and hoped that his small lapse in judgment could be explained away as a part of the painting process. Ideally one’s canvas should be free of dust, lint, or other particles, after all.
Reigning in his imagination and impulses, he quickly finished the layer of snow with professional accuracy, dabbing spots of grey to perfect the shading. Trading out his brush for one with a brown-green mix of paint on its bristles, he went to work extending the nearest branch farther up the other man’s back.