He could look at Sehun forever.
Marvel at the absolute symmetry of his face. The depth of his eyes, the color of his lips. Luhan has a sudden flash, an urge so random it doesn’t even come as a surprise. He wants to make art out of Sehun, a decadent painting, painted in oil, on canvas like an artist of the 16th century. Paint Sehun in the nude, his glorious body, resting, sleeping. Catching all of his curves, the curve of his chin, the curve of his ass. He wants to slide his finger over his nose, his shoulders – the lines of his mouth, the lines of his eyebrows. He traces along them with his eyes and feels the desire to follow them with his tongue. Luhan wonders if anyone sees Sehun he the way he does. If he could ever understand all of him, all of his beauty or if he could only ever portrait him fragmented, just the fragments of his body. All perfection on their own but a cacophony of shapes and figures.
Disconnected, forever unable to capture perfection.