Poet, he accused playfully, the thought quiet but firm. Ferran's words generated a sense of warmth, a kind of subdued but unsettled excitement that Nikolai had never bothered to explore, happy to just feel. The quiet assurance that Ferran knew him so well, appreciated this side of him, made him smile in contentment. His mind grew silent, not offering anything else in response, but mulling over his words. He blended the branches closest to him up into the vines, phasing the brown into a brown-green and eventually into the dark green dominating the expanse of his friend’s neck. Another brush-swap and he held a paintbrush doused in forest-hued paint, intending to expand the tangle of his tree. Their tree, really, he thought to himself before pushing it aside, holding back a self-deprecating chuckle at his sentimentality. A few drops of acrylic splattered against the other man’s skin while he dawdled.
I do think I prefer being here, covered in paint. Living up to his statement, Nikolai brought his free hand over, nail scratching away the stray paint on Ferran’s shoulderblade, a deep green staining his finger. He crawled forward and nudged his friend’s arm. The gesture itself was a question. May I?