Picture Perfect

by Vivi

Viggo has seen pictures of Sean. Publicity shots with false smiles with calculated seductiveness designed to send a thrill through the hearts of anyone who wanted to pretend it was for them. Candid shots that he'd taken himself and these had real smiles that crinkled the corners of Sean's eyes, revealing the age so carefully airbrushed away in the professional shots.

Amazing how different a person could look from picture to picture. The natural reddish hue of Sean's skin edited away, any blemish or wrinkle that didn't meet the photographer's approval was cut away and tossed in the trash bin. It bothered him in a way he couldn't express. He hated the idea of any part of a person that didn't meet some level of aesthetic approval being cut away like it was a cancerous growth.

Which was why he never used retouched photos in the collage he was making. No matter how off-center or blurred or how much someone moaned about how unflattering some picture was, that their hair was strange or they weren't wearing makeup or, -damn, I was so drunk how could you take a picture of that-; he left all the pictures as they were because a photo doesn't have to be flattering or pleasing to be good.

He was reminded of that ideal strongly as he looked at the picture on Sean's nightstand.

His bladder was protesting impatiently at his hesitation, the pressure of half a dozen beers stirring uncomfortably in his abdomen. The bathroom closest to the living room was being repainted due to some kind of experiment done with Coca Cola and sardines by Orlando and the hobbits the last time everyone was over, Sean had explained dryly, and he'd thought it would kinder of him to have it redone himself rather than leave it for the poor landlord to deal with.

So Viggo'd had to walk through to the one off the master bedroom, staggering a little more than he liked to admit from only six beers but the only thing Sean had had in his pantry was a package of stale pretzels and a bag of salt and vinegar 'crisps', as Sean put it, and Viggo wasn't hungry or drunk enough yet to try either.

The bed was unmade, blankets and sheet crumbled at the foot but the rest of the room was neat enough. A suitcase was open on the floor against one wall, the bottom lined with tee shirts and it was jarring to see even though it shouldn't have been. Sean'd be leaving at the end of the week, why wouldn't he start gathering up his things?

Jarring, but it doesn't stick, the emotion sliding away with his urgency to piss and he made his way around the bed, almost to the bathroom on the other side when his eyes catch on the picture on the nightstand.

It's not a good picture, obviously taken with some cheap camera. Maybe one of those disposable jobs. He can't tell exactly where it was taken but he knows it's not New Zealand because Sean's ex-wife is in it and his daughter, and none of them are looking at the camera. They're in a park somewhere sitting on a blanket spread on the ground, all of them laughing, cheeks flushed and wind-tousled.

His bladder is starting to scream in little pulses of agony but the picture has caught his eye and he can't look away just yet. Sean will be going back to that next week, to picnics in the park and Viggo isn't sure if he's jealous or regretful that Sean is leaving. There is some emotion gnawing at his gut though, competing desperately with the growing need to piss and he can do something about one of those, anyway.

He fumbled for the light switch, unzipped, and actually sighed in sweet relief as he pissed away what felt like every single one of those six beers. His bladder just wasn't made to take that kind of pressure, not anymore, anyway. Unfortunately, without the raving protests of his overextended bladder, he could go back to thinking about that picture uninterrupted. It was like picking at a scab, feeling the hurt but unable to stop poking at it.

More than anyone else Sean had been there for him during this shoot and now he was leaving, and Viggo would have to deal with the rest on his own. He wasn't sure why that had suddenly become unacceptable, even painful, to consider.

For fuck's sake, he wasn't drunk enough to be this maudlin. A quick shake and he zipped back up, shuffling back towards the living room and Sean. He deliberately didn't look at the photo or the suitcase, eyes forward, soldier, and he made it all the way to the hallway before it dropped on him again like a stack of books off a balcony.

Sean was sprawled on the sofa, one arm draped over his stomach and the other trailing down to the floor, his hand wrapped loosely around a beer bottle. His feet were bare and propped against the arm of the sofa, and earlier Viggo had been teasing him about it, something about Sean's tendency to always wear shoes, even inside, while Viggo was happier barefoot anytime. An old argument, tinged with fondness, and it made him think of sepia tones and other times of trying to persuade Sean out of his shoes.

Bare feet were more sensuous, Viggo thought he might have said once, and as he stood there, watching Sean's bare foot rubbing lightly against the sofa arm as if testing the fabric, he realized he'd been right. Sensuous, sexy, but it wasn't just the bare feet, it was something else and Christ, he probably had a thousand pictures of Sean, developed and sitting in haphazard piles all over his apartment. Waiting in little surprise bursts on rolls of film, waiting to be discovered, black and white and color, and why hadn't he noticed before how many pictures he'd taken of him? Slices of Sean, tainted with the smell of chemicals, flat and untouchable as his own face in the mirror, and how fucking blind was he?

The real thing, 3-D version, live and in color, had been sitting in front of him this whole time and he'd been hiding behind his camera lens and the feeling in his gut had nothing to do with needing to piss now, though it was pointed in the same direction. Sean was drowsing, lightly stroking the lip of the beer bottle with one fingertip and at that moment Viggo wanted to fuck him so badly he thought his dick might leap from his pants and go after Sean on its own.

He wondered what Sean would do if he did try something. Something subtle, maybe, a hand on the knee, on the back of the neck...but then they did that all the time and none of them had resulted in them climbing between the sheets together.

More obvious then, a kiss, slow and wet and maybe Sean would respond. Maybe, just maybe, when he pushed Sean would give, and they'd end up together on that sofa, their feet not the only bare parts on them, and God, he could have Sean on his knees, his face buried into the sofa cushions while Viggo fucked him, and Sean would be shaking and sweating and moaning, begging, no demanding more, and instead of sepia tones they could go for something more vibrant, more alive, tingeing them in real color.

Pretty dream, but just a dream. If there was one thing Viggo had discovered it was that pushing Sean meant you'd get pushed back, but maybe Viggo wouldn't mind being the one kneeling for Sean. No, and realization made him sweat, his stomach churning in strange, sweet nausea that he would do it for Sean, just to see his face, clean, masculine lines, just freshly shaved and making him look naked and surreal. He'd do it to keep the picture image behind his eyes, utterly safe, and he'd never forget Sean's expression when he came, surging into Viggo hard enough to make him whimper but worth it, so worth it to see those closed eyes tighten with the wonder of it all, the fucking perfection of it, and hell yes, he'd do it. He would.

"You all right, mate?"

Viggo flinched so hard it actually hurt. He blinked away the false film negatives of his thoughts and smiled weakly at his friend, who was watching him with sleepy, friendly bemusement. His friend. Who was leaving in a few days and they'd probably never be this close ever again.

"Fine." Viggo managed to walk over to the sofa, flopping down next to it before confiscating Sean's beer. Over laughing protests, Viggo finished the bottle and rested the cold glass against his forehead. "Sorry. I was just going out of my mind for a minute there."

"Short trip for you."

Viggo laughed gamely along with his friend, half-drunken amusement being better than the flip side of the coin any day. "You have no idea," he murmured, rolling to his feet and making for the kitchen, and Viggo had every intention of drinking a lot more beer tonight. "No idea at all."

-finis-

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