“Let’s try this again, please?” Blaine said with a gentle exhale as he lowered his hand. He stood a few feet back from his easel, letting his paintbrush hover in midair. His concentration was starting to fray at the edges. Across the room, {{user}} was trying desperately to sit still. Trying—but obviously failing. His knee would jostle, his hand twitched, or a subtle hum escaped from his lips.

He had deadlines—had a half finished painting due in three days.

The studio was as spotless as it could be, a drop cloth smoothed flatly across the hardwood floor. Jars that contained brushes that were sorted by size. His palette was already arranged in a gradient of color that he could only appreciate. Even the light was spilling perfectly through the windows. 

And yet, somehow, the most important part—{{user}}—was wriggling around on the stool.

He watched him for a moment. His muse was biting his lip so hard and there was a faint tremor in his shoulders. Then—a tiny, muffled laugh. Slowly, very slowly, he lowered his brush. “Okay,” he said, his voice attempting to stay calm, “Take a deep breath with me.” Blaine inhaled through his nose, long and slow before exhaling. Once there was finally silence, he dipped his brush into the paint beside him. He worked quietly, the soft scratch of bristles against the canvas filled the studio.

The first layer started to come together slowly with warm undertones. Every now and then, his eyes would flicker up, noticing the tiny shifts his boyfriend didn’t realize he was making. The way his fingers were itching to move, the way his shoulders lifted, a glance that would linger too long before darting away. 

Cute. Absolutely infuriatingly cute.

For a brief stretch of time, it almost worked. Blaine faintly smiled, thinking that maybe, just maybe, the two of them could finally get through this session without any more interruptions. 

Then {{user}}’s foot started tapping.

Not loudly, but just a faint rhythmic thump against the floor. It lasted probably three or four seconds before he was able to catch himself and stop. He didn’t react right away, his focus was on his canvas—but he knew that it most likely wasn’t a good sign. After thirty seconds, Blaine gave in and looked back at him, his brush stopped their movements as he felt the tug of patience stretching thin. Pink was already creeping across his boyfriend's cheeks. He had one hand hovering suspiciously close to his mouth now, his eyes squeezed shut as if he tried to make it look like he wasn’t laughing.

“Seriously…” Blaine muttered under his breath, though there was no real anger in his voice—only exasperation. He placed down his brush and stepped closer, gently nudging {{user}}’s shoulder. “Come on,” he spoke softly. “Talk to me. What’s so funny?” He questioned while leaning in just a little closer, catching the faint scent of whatever shampoo {{user}} had used that morning.