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Yawning, Feliks rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand and reaching for a grape with the other. Francis, his billowy white shirt hanging off his shoulder, gently brushed a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “More wine?” he asked.
Feliks shook his head; Francis shrugged before pouring himself another glass, and the two lapsed back into comfortable silence, lounging on the old blanket Francis had brought with.
The Mediterranean stretched out before them, glittering like a sapphire, the horizon obscured by midday haze. Barely perceptible waves lapped at the brilliant white sand, their murmuring the only sound other than the occasional breeze, hardly strong enough to lift their hair. Pale cliffs sheltered the beach from the rest of the world; earlier, they’d provided shade, too, but the sun was almost directly overhead now, and the only shade offered came from a sun-faded parasol propped up behind them. Feliks didn’t mind; the warmth of the sun on his skin was more than welcome after so many months stuck in the cold, or indoors….
It had been Francis’s idea to head south for a bit, and it had been his suggestion that morning to spend the day at the beach. “You need to rest,” he’d said, “and the warm air will your lungs good.” Feliks hadn’t complained—he was sick of Paris, and the warm air did make it much easier to breathe…he’d missed the sea, too.
It’s the wrong sea, though, he thought. It was such a brilliant blue he still wasn’t quite sure he wasn’t hallucinating it, and Francis had brought the sweetest wine he’d ever tasted, grapes and berries and a melon all so ripe they were practically bursting, it was just the two of them…and yet. Vivid memories of searching for shells and amber when he was younger, alongside….
No, it was pointless to dwell on that.
Absentmindedly, he reached for another grape.
“Is something wrong, chère?” Francis asked, brushing his thumb across Feliks’ cheek.
“I—no,” he answered. “I was just thinking that I should have brought a book, is all.”
Francis chuckled at that. “I brought some paper and pastels, if you’d like to draw.”
He made a face at that; creating art of any kind wasn’t something he’d ever been especially good at. “I’ll watch you draw, though, if you’d like.”
“Maybe in a bit,” Francis replied with a smile. “In the meantime….” He leaned down to kiss him, fingertips trailing down the side of his neck; despite the heat, Feliks shivered under his touch. Before he knew it, he was lying on his back, Francis straddling his waist as they kissed, neither of them caring at all about the temperature in their desire to be close. Feliks tangled his fingers in Francis’ hair as Francis slipped a hand under his shirt; Francis moved to kiss his neck, drawing a quiet gasp from Feliks when he felt teeth lightly scrape against skin. It was the two of them and the sea, and the midday sun warming Feliks’ skin. He felt more alive than he had in years—maybe even decades. For once, it seemed, there was absolutely nothing to worry about.
Francis paused to tug his shirt off, tossing it to the edge of the blanket; Feliks couldn’t help staring up at him, face flushed. Beautiful had to be the only word there was to describe him. He reached out to run his hand up and down his bare chest; Francis chuckled briefly before returning to kiss him.
His kisses were even sweeter than the wine, his hands gentle as he worked on pulling Feliks’ shirt off. They were in no hurry—the beach was theirs, there was no one back at the little villa they were staying at who would be looking for them—they had all the time in the world….
Their kisses grew deeper, as Feliks’ breath grew shallower—oh. There was a familiar burn in his chest; gently, he pushed at Francis’ shoulders, wriggling out from under him just before the coughing fit started.
He was vaguely aware of Francis sitting beside him, rubbing his hand up and down his back, but the fire in his lungs occupied most of his attention. Every time he thought he might finally have relief, the coughing would start again, until his eyes were watering, and his chest felt as though it had been placed in a vice. Finally—he had no idea how long it had been—the coughing faded and did not come back.
He was curled up, shaking with exhaustion, on the corner of the blanket, his hair almost in the sand. Stupid thing to be worried about, right now. Francis was gently running his fingers through his hair.
“Are you alright, chère?”
Weakly, Feliks shook his head. “I—I will be, though.” I hope.
Francis helped him to sit up, and he leaned his head against his shoulder—at some point, he’d put his shirt back on, and the cotton was soft against Feliks’ cheek.
“Here, drink,” Francis murmured, holding a water flask to his lips. It was warm and stale from sitting in the sun, but Feliks had never tasted anything half so good; it took all of his self-control to sip it rather than try to drink it all at once.
He cleared his throat and took a longer drink. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“What? There’s nothing for you to be sorry about, Feliks.”
He blushed, trying to stammer out a response, but Francis hushed him.
“Listen, chère, you should rest now. We’ll have plenty of time for everything else later.”
Feliks made a face at that, as though he didn’t need to lean on Francis in order to remain even somewhat upright.
“You can watch me draw, if you’d like.”
He sighed. “Alright.”
Francis kissed the top of his head, then moved to grab Feliks’s shirt and hand it to him; Feliks pulled it on as he set up his easel and paper, then sat cross-legged on the edge of the blanket facing the water.
Feliks lay next to him, resting his head on his thigh.
Francis laughed at that, brushing Feliks’ hair out of his face, before lightly rubbing a blue pastel across most of the paper. “I like to establish a background color, and build on top of it,” he said softly. “It lends a certain character to the piece, I think. Well, and in this instance, the sky and the water are both blue, anyway.”
Feliks nodded along.
“But you see those clouds over there,” he went on, gesturing in the direction he meant Feliks to look. “They look white, at first glance, but they have depth, the shadows are bluish. And even the white, it doesn’t really look like a true white, so laying the blue down as the first layer, it will help them look more accurate once I go back in with the white pastel. Also, it’s not as though I have a pastel that’s the exact shade of blue as the sky, or the sea—they both have layers, too. It’s easier to build up an accurate sense of all the shades of blue there if I have the colored layer first…I can add a green layer somewhere that looks greener, and then a darker blue where that’s needed, but it looks better if there are layers….”
Feliks was only half-listening by that point, content to listen to his advice but secure in the knowledge that he’d probably never attempt to follow it. Still, his voice was soothing, and Feliks soon felt his eyelids grow heavy, weighted down by the heat. A little nap won’t hurt…
When he woke, the sky was no longer blue; the sun was a brilliant red hovering just above the horizon, and the sky around it seemed ablaze. The clouds streaking the sky where a deep bruise-purple, though some were highlighted with a pink so bright it didn’t look real. Francis was in the process of sketching the new scene as he sat up.
“Why’d you let me sleep so long?” he grumbled, stretching. “I won’t be able to sleep tonight.”
Francis turned to him and grinned, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure we can find something else to do instead.”
He couldn’t help blushing at that, though he still tried to mutter some form of complaint before Francis leaned over and kissed him.
“Hush,” he murmured, caressing Feliks’ face. “You can sleep as late as you want tomorrow, and the day after that, and then the day after…we came here so you can rest, remember? Let yourself relax. You’ve got nothing to worry about now.”
Gently, Feliks took one of his hands and pulled it over to his lips, kissing his palm to let him know he understood. It was true, of course; there was absolutely nothing he needed to worry about anymore.