Ferran was suddenly bashful at Nikolai's compliment and admiration. It's just like Fantasia, he relayed in a hesitant way that did nothing to hide his sheepishness. Like Nikolai with his paintings, Ferran rarely shared things like that with anyone. Performances were different. He could play in front of a crowd with no problems. Music was his grounding and anchor. It was the most familiar thing in his life and unlike most things, never failed him. His imagination was more intimate. It was mainly a product of watching countless dreams over the years along with his own desire to stay away from reality as much as possible. The combination of the two was where he felt most safe and comfortable.
The other man's soothing both calmed and stirred him further. It was increasingly difficult not to grab Nikolai's face in his hands and kiss him stupid. Ferran reminded himself to focus on the brush again. The sweeping motions worked to distract him from his thoughts. Sensing a change, Ferran opened his eyes and peeked over his shoulder at his friend. How is it?