"Oh, you shouldn't have," is what Feuilly says when he sees the canvas, sketchbook, and paints. But his eyes are hungry, and his fingers twitch, reaching for pencils, brushes, watercolors, oils, ink.
"Of course I should have," Courfeyrac replies. "I'd just waste the money."
"You are far too good to me." Feuilly kisses him, fingers still twitching.
"Never."
Feuilly repays him with black ink and a fine brush, drawing lust and adoration and beauty on his skin until Courfeyrac swears he must make love or go mad. And Feuilly is decadent and gentle at once, aflame and simple, artlessly inspired.
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