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He’s kind of sitting on top of Bahorel, their legs tangled in the way that cannot be comfortable at all. He can feel an arm tightly wrapped around his waist, keeping him in place, because as far as he doesn’t feel like it he looks like he could fall apart any moment. One of his own hands is on the back of Bahorel’s neck, clenching short black hair there between freckled fingers, while the other rests loosely right beneath the brawler’s collarbone. His eyes are still closed and he knows he will keep them this way as long as the arm is keeping him steady and he can feel a warm breath ghosting over his slightly open, swallowed lips along with the heath of other person so close to his face.
And Bahorel knows he won’t pull back from Feuilly, because the ginger looks so damn beautiful right now. His cheeks are flushed from kissing, making all freckles stand out even more. Bahorel for once can carelessly and lazily analyze the constellation that lasts right above his lover’s left eyebrow without being told to fuck off. It starts with two bigger spots, so close to each other they can be mistaken for one, on the edge of the curve of his brow, which makes it looks like it is permanently slightly raised if you look from afar, and then goes on in a line spot by spot, each one a little bit tinier than the one before until it reaches a long, thin scar on Feuilly’s temple, where freckles decide to follow the line until they disappear where the hair starts. He can admire the way Feuilly’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows loudly, trying to catch a breath at the same time and bruises in different states of healing running down from Feuilly’s throat to be hidden under the hem of his shirt.
Bahorel moves his free hand from where it’s lying on the floor to gently grab ginger’s jaw. Feuilly’s eyes stay close as he feels familiar fingers brushing his skin and he obeys, when Bahorel tries to open his mouth wider by pressing a thumb to his chin mildly. Then there is a tongue moving slowly across his bottom lip and Feuilly shudders, straightening his back and bringing himself closer to his lover if it is even possible. He expects said tongue to be put inside his mouth and he doesn’t get disappointed. Bahorel runs his tongue across Feuilly’s palate, until he can’t reach any further without crashing their lips and decides to quickly draw it back and moves teasingly across the inside of his lower lip. Just when it runs through Feuilly’s mind that he could pull closer to properly be kissed by the brawler the man pushes away. It’s not even an inch, he still can feel the warmth of Bahorel’s breath, so he doesn’t open his eyes. Not yet.
Bahorel smirks to himself, letting his hand rests on the top of his lover’s freckled palm right above his heart and thinking about how much he enjoys watching him in moments like this. He doesn’t move his gaze from Feuilly’s face as he feels long, slim fingers entwining with his own dark, scarred ones. He tightens the grip, earning the softest smile he’s ever seen on the painter’s face.