just wilmon things

"Urgh," Felice groans. "You're as bad as the rest of them. Sara, you come here and do mine. Wille can do Simon's."

That isn't helpful. That is not helpful at all. But he's not like he can say, 'Oh actually, I'm going to find it even more difficult to paint down his chest than I would to paint between your boobs. Sorry'. Of course friends can paint other friend's chests. Right? Not weird at all. Definitely not. Sara seems to be completely fine with it. So he's just going to have to figure out a way to be fine with it too.

"What's this even for?" he grumbles as he sits down in front of Simon.

"I told you," Felice says as she moves her hair out of the way for Sara. "For choir."

"That doesn't explain anything," Wille mutters. And then forgets everything that's in his brain because Simon chooses that moment to whip his t-shirt off over his head, rendering Wille completely useless, dry mouth and all.

He's jolted out of his trance by a paintbrush being shoved into his hand and Simon raising an eyebrow at him.

Resigning himself to his fate, Wille sighs. "What do you want me to do to you?"

Simon tries to stifle a laugh and Wille looks up at him with a frown. "What?"

"Nothing," Simon says quickly, and if Wille isn't mistaken, his cheeks have gone a little pink. "I— Just the same as Felice. Along here and then down here."

Did it look this sensual when Felice traced her fingers across her torso? A little, Wille has to admit. And whilst it did make him feel a little hot under the collar, it's nothing to the absolute fire that's burning beneath his skin as he watches Simon's fingers dance down his sternum.

With Herculean effort, Wille tears his eyes away before they continue the path down Simon's stomach. "When did choir get so—"

"Wille!" Felice laughs, trying not to shake too much as Sara carefully paints the patterns across her collarbones. "You're such a prude! Let us have some fun!"

"I'm not a prude!" he cries. "And I am fun!"

"You kind of are," Simon says, tilting his head to the side.

"See! Simon agrees that I'm fun."

"No," Simon laughs. "A prude."

Wille turns to Simon with a gasp. "I am not."

Simon shrugs and smirks a little. It's very cute. Damnit. 

"I am not," Wille repeats with a little less conviction.

"Okay." Simon tilts his head to the side and Wille hears Felice snort behind him.

With more force than necessary, Wille dips the paintbrush into the water then swirls it around in the gold paint and leans forward. "Hold still."

He hears Simon's breath stutter a little as the cold brush touches his skin before Wille starts to make careful loops, just like Sara is doing on Felice. It actually doesn't take long for Wille to get into it. He's done Felice's face before for parties, and once Simon even let him do some dots by his eyes—that had been a revelatory moment—and this is much of the same.

The gold looks beautiful against Simon's skin and the brush glides so smoothy, leaving a shimmery trail in its wake. Wille almost forgets who he's painting—almost—as he leans forward, tongue between his teeth, and uses his free hand to steady Simon as he goes.

At one point Simon flinches and causes a streak of gold to splotch across his chest. "Sorry," he murmurs. And then, when Wille looks up and meets his eye, Simon swallows and adds, "Tickles," in an odd sort of voice.

Wille leans away and dips the corner of a cloth in some clean water and goes to wipe the smeared paint off Simon's chest.

"I'll do it," Simon says quickly, grabbing the rag and scrambling to his feet. "In, uh… the bathroom."

"Oh. Okay."

Without another word, Simon scurries away and Wille watches him go a little perplexed.

A scoff draws his attention. It must have come from Sara as she's currently shaking her head. Felice is just watching him a little carefully.

"What?" he says, half defensive, half bewildered. "What did I do?"

Felice tugs her bottom lip into her mouth and pinches it between her teeth.

"What?" Panic starts to swell in his chest. What if he did something wrong? What if—

"Oh for goodness' sake," Sara huffs.

"Don't," Felice warns. 

"What!" Wille cries. "What's going on?"

"I—" Felice worries her mouth once more, then sighs. "Sara… let's go and finish this in the common room."

"But I'm almost done! Can't I just—"

But Felice gently takes the paint brush out of Sara's hand and tugs on her sleeve. "Come on. Let's… give them a few minutes. And some space."

"Space?" Wille is thoroughly confused now. "Space for what? What did I—"

Felice pats him on the top of his head as she goes past. "You'll figure it out."

Figure what out? Wille is just about to scramble after Felice and demand that she tell him what she means when the door to the bathroom creaks open and Simon steps back into the room looking sheepish with half his chest painted with beautifully intricate swirls, which, in a different moment, Wille might be proud of.

But right now, he's too hyped up, too worried, too panicky, too… hopeful.

"Hi," Wille says.

"Hi." Simon taps his fingers on the side of his thigh. "Sorry. I, uhm… I fixed it." He gestures vaguely to his chest, but Wille isn't looking at his artwork. He's looking at Simon's face.

"Is everything okay?"

Simon's lips quirk into a smile. "I, uhm… yeah. Sorry. I, uh, I just wanted to, uhm, to use the bathroom."

"Oh. Okay."

They look at each other for a moment before Simon pads over and lowers himself back down in front of Wille.

"Do you want me to… keep going?" Having Simon this close again makes Wille's tongue feel too big for his mouth, but he just about manages to get the words out.

Simon nods and Wille picks up the brush, dips it in the water once more, and swirls it into the paint. For a while, neither of them speak. Wille's pulse throbs in his ears and he can almost hear his blood rushing through his veins. The air feels thick and Wille vaguely wonders if the heat has been turned up because he can feel a bead of sweat drip down between his shoulder blades.

He tries to focus on the paint, on the sweeping lines and looping curls—mirroring the image on the other side of Simon's chest. The result is very effective, and Wille can kind of see why they've chosen to do it.

But he also knows that he's biased. There is nothing that Wille think is more beautiful than Simon. So of course it stands to reason that he thinks Simon's chest is the most beautiful chest in the world. Even without the stunning gold paint.

Once he's finished the last stroke, Wille sits back on his haunches and smiles at his handiwork. Beautiful is definitely the word for it.

"There," Wille says, lifting his eyes to Simon's with a smile. "I'm done—"

Wille barely gets the words out before there are warm hands on his cheeks and Simon tugs him forward, placing his lips over Wille's. A small sound of surprise slips out of Wille's lips, muffled by Simon's. Simon's lips are soft and warm, but there's barely any time to enjoy the kiss—and Wille is really enjoying it—before Simon pulls back.

Luckily, he doesn't go far. Just far enough that, when Wille blinks his eyes open, he can see Simon watching him carefully, his dark eyes wide and unreadable.

Words get stuck on the way up Wille's throat. He isn't even sure what they would have been. The only thought running through his head is: kiss me again.

But then he realises that he has control of that. So without any further hesitation, he lets the paintbrush clatter to the floor, splattering gold paint everywhere, and reaches forward to place his hands on the dip in Simon's waist—like he's been dreaming for months—and pulls him forward.

Wille should probably be thinking more about this—about what it means, and about why now—but he can't. He can't do anything except revel in the way Simon's body feels under his hands, the way his lips feel moving against Wille's own, the way he makes a small noise when Wille dares to brush his tongue along Simon's bottom lip. 

For a moment, Simon draws back, a strange look on his face, and Wille has a momentary panic that he's gone too far. But then Simon's mouth splits into a grin and he launches forward again, practically clambering into Wille's lap. And Wille wouldn't say no to that, wouldn't say not to anything Simon is offering.

Because this is Simon. And he's kissing Wille like he's wanted to for… well… maybe as long as Wille has wanted him to.

Wille's hands skim up Simon's bare back, up to the nape of his neck, momentarily plunging into his hair before making their way back down. Simon's arms are looped over Wille's shoulders holding him close as if Wille has any desire to ever be anywhere else.

It's just getting good when there's a tentative knock at the door.

"Er…" Simon hastily scrambles backwards, climbing off Wille and standing upright. "Come in!"

Wille is just getting to his own feet as Sara and Felice re-enter the room. "Hey," he says, trying to sound casual.

"Oh!" Felice says, looking at Simon in dismay. "What happened to your paint?"

And just at the same time Sara frowns and says, "Why's your shirt covered in gold?"

In horror, Wille and Simon look at each other, then down at their own chests, then back up at the girls, who are currently sharing a knowing look.

"I can explain—" Simon starts, just as Felice says, "That's not where the paint's supposed to go, Wille."