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“What are you even painting?” Steve questions, unable to keep himself from asking. Eddie hadn’t told him his plan when he’d first laid Steve out and gathered his brushes — just instructed Steve to stay still and let him paint, he’d see soon enough. But Steve is curious, and it’s been almost an hour now. Steve carefully tips his head to the side and presses his cheek against his folded arms, trying his best to catch a glimpse of Eddie where he sits atop the backs of Steve’s thighs, bent over his canvas in concentration. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth, like it always does when he’s focusing hard enough, and a piece of hair dangles against his cheek, escaping the bandana he’d tied it back with. “I’m painting an essence,” Eddie answers cryptically, and he draws the brush in a broad stroke, low on Steve’s back. “An essence?” Steve repeats. “An essence of what?” “An essence of you,” Eddie says simply. The brush dots Steve’s upper back now, light little taps. Steve doesn’t know what that means, but he’s looking forward to finding out.

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