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    Summary

    It was not until he’d been naked for around an hour and a half, barely covered by a too white to not be new sheet and reclining in a purposefully ridiculous sofa, that Yesod allowed himself to ask the question he’d been meaning to since the beginning.
    “Wasn’t there… anyone else who’d let you paint them?”
    “Hm, probably.” Netzach shrugged.
    “I was your last option?” Yesod asked, looking up at the wooden beams running through the ceiling of The Floor of Art.
    “… In a manner of speaking.” Netzach’s response was weirdly nonchalant, though Yesod wasn’t going to question him unnecessarily about it.

    Language:
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