Thanks. The word was sent almost out of habit, not quite perfunctory but certainly absent-minded. The care he took with his friend’s arm, however, spoke of his gratitude. One hand supported Ferran’s arm, palm cupped under his elbow, as Nikolai leaned in close, only inches from his skin. The paintbrush flowed over his skin leaving the beginnings of the tree’s twining branches, a green line wrapped in a spiral around his upper arm. Green is a good color for you, he commented idly, as he began detailing the lines, giving them depth.
Once satisfied with his handiwork, he continued the image and stretched it down along the other man’s forearm, coiling the line in a cluster around his wrist, then across his palm, and up his pinky. Nikolai's left hand moved in concert with his right, holding his arm, then wrist, and eventually unfolding Ferran's fingers with his own. Following his previous pattern, Nikolai went back along the green trail of paint and added details, small leaves unfurling beneath his capable hands. Instead of leaning back when he finished, he stayed put and studied the lines, eyes following them up and stealing a glance at his friend. Another smile blossomed on his face, growing broader the longer he looked at Ferran. He couldn’t help himself, gaze refusing to wander, while he continued to hold Ferran’s arm, waiting for the paint to dry.