And there was an appealing idea. So long as Nikolai was the one putting his artwork there. Not that he truly believed any of his art deserved to color his friend’s skin forever. Still, a pleasant thought. Nikolai noted, with a vague sense of guilty pleasure, that Ferran still held his shirt rather than wearing it. Against his better judgment, he allowed his eyes to wander, skipping from the acrylic-laden arm to his chest, studying the graceful line of his collarbone and suppressing the wistful sigh that threatened. It was attention that he hoped would go unnoticed. Really, he should have extended one of the vines up and across his collarbones, they were practically made for it, but it was too late for that now.
Hmm, and what’s wrong with that? His gaze stopped wandering as Nikolai glanced back up to Ferran's face. Much safer territory, one would think, but after making eye contact with the other man, his gaze shifted and lingered on his lips. Safer still were his brushes and paints, so he turned his attention to them, carefully transferring the brushes to an old paint-stained towel and lining them up, biggest to smallest.