"Move your arms up a bit for me, yeah?"
Liam frowns, his arms aching and he's terribly knackered. He's part nude and his hair's a mess; he's not even quite sure how he agreed with Niall to do this.
"My arms feel heavy," he complains, even though he's gotten quite used to it all by now; the itch on his nose (that only appears when he can't scratch it, of course), the ache in his arms and his legs, the burn in his calves and the cramp in his neck— he's more than used to it. "Niall, please can we take a real quick break?"
Niall glances up from where he's sitting — sitting, Liam wishes he could sit too — and shifts the palette on the balance of his left palm, thin brush in his right. "Repeat the last pose," he says, eyes locked on Liam, and Liam follows his order, groaning. "Tilt your chin up a little," and Liam does, "look at me."
Liam looks, and Niall's standing up from his stool, lips curled and crooked, feet slow as he moves towards him. Liam follows Niall's eyes as he gets closer, blinking, his muscles tensing. Niall raises his hand, thumb splattered with red—
There's a familiar moisture spreading on the width of his right cheek, liquid and rough. The pad Niall's thumb gently slides along the soft of his skin, tracing lines, and he bites his lip as he feels it run down his face, and Niall wipes it from his chin.
Niall smiles, and Liam fancies the way his cheeks go rosy when he smiles. He says "you've got red paint all over your cheek, mate," to Liam softly like it's a secret, like it's a forbidden secret and Liam has to figure out what it means. "Keep the pose for another five, babe, is that good?" he leans in and kisses Liam softly on the forehead, then on both eyelids when Liam shuts them. "And then we can take a quick break, yeah?"
Except that's not the answer Liam wants. his stomach clenches, jumping— and it isn't because he wants that break desperately, he just wants Niall, Niall's attention; wants him to stop thinking about art art art and think of Liam instead. so, alright, maybe he's quite selfish, but they've been going at it for the whole week and they've got no time to themselves— Niall wanted to paint Liam and he agreed but his now regretting it because Liam wants his lover back. (He keeps the pose, arms outstretched, legs crossed, head tilted. The paint drying on his cheek gets a little uncomfortable, hardening on his skin.)
but Liam's spoiled; every time Niall's at work, he gets to see the furrow in his brows when he's concentrated, that quirk of his lips when he gets something right, that dark look in his eyes, focused yet wild, fixed on Liam when he watches the way his muscles jump under his gaze. quite embarrassingly, Liam can't say he's not at least half hard when their sessions are over.
and that's it. Liam's spoiled. he's so spoiled and he just wants Niall.
he counts underneath his breath: one, two, three...
he steps off the podium, and Niall frowns, his mouth forming a "Liam" that never gets past his lips.
Liam steps close, cheeks red — quite literally as well — and his chest tight and bursting. there's a bit of paint left on his cheek, still wet, and he dabs at it with his forefinger, reaching out and pokes Niall's nose.
he smiles, pointing to his own nose, "you've got a little something here, mate," and Niall's looking at him with half shut eyelids as if to say: i can't believe i like you, you miserable twat, and Liam just feels as if he's bursting at the seams and he wants to say i love you a lot.
Niall shakes his head, but he's hiding a smile and he grabs Liam's hips and laughs into his collarbone, soft and tickling; Liam wants to keep it like that.
Liam's not sure if Niall knows what he does to him. Niall's perfect— makes Liam feel perfect, too, and makes him feel like he's special and worth it, worth this; and that's baloney, definitely. Niall's talented and good — great, unbelievable — at art and he loves Liam which makes Liam's insides curl and his blood pump in rhythm with his heart; telling him to just breathe, slowly, calmly, and that this, this is real.
when he looks over to the canvas though, he thinks, maybe he's too spoiled.
because Niall loves painting him — "the shade of your skin and the colour in your eyes; the light of your hair and the dips of your bones, li; you're you, and you're beautiful"
"there's a secret to art," Niall told Liam one day, his eyes focused and hair gleaming under the bright of the window: "sunlight."
Liam remembers that day clearly. they were alone in the art room at Niall's house. Liam asked Niall what's so important, special, about sunlight.
Niall's eyes are like the ocean, blue, clear and Liam squirms under his gaze. he watched as Niall opens his mouth, hesitating, staring deep at his face like there was more to it; more to Liam that he saw and Liam didn't know about.
"you." Niall said, quiet even in the silence of the room. "you're my sun."
Liam still can't believe he fell for those words.
Niall loves how he can hold Liam's hips in his hands, leaving various patterns of dotted paint on the pale of Liam's skin, loves the way their mates ask why when they are sat in Niall's living room and Liam flushes red (just the perfect shade of red, which has possibly become Niall's most favourite colour).
he also loves when they can be alone in the space of the art room (his second home), loves painting Liam and painting Liam, loves pushing Liam against the glass of the windows and letting the sun cast shadows and contrasts across the bare of Liam's skin; loves how he can paint Liam's expression after a quick snog.
art is his world. his heart. but Liam's his soul.
