The wooden screen door squeaks when I pull it open and step into the quiet cottage. The living space, nicely decorated but just as messy, rings conspicuously quiet. I let the door swing shut behind me, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness. A dim light flickers over the kitchen counter, near the opened window, but the rest of the cottage is dark, as though it had been caught unprepared by twilight. I smile and turn on a lamp by the couch, bathing the living room in soft dimmed light. The rug is covered with books and the bookshelf is empty, victim of a short-lived attempt at reorganising its content. The dining table is strewn with papers, and more books are stashed precariously on the chairs. I shake my head, chuckling to myself. Someone was clearly bored today.

"Viggo?" I try, standing in the middle of the mess he can't live without (and I thought hobbits were unkempt). I am met with obstinate silence, and I finally clue in. Just to be sure, I look inside his bedroom on my way down the hall, but the bed, its sheets twisted and, of course, also covered with papers and photographs, is empty.

My raised fist hovers for a moment against the black surface, then lowers. I slide the rounded partition of the door aside and step in, momentarily blinded until the door opens again, streaming in dim red light. And there he is, his back to me, hunched slightly over something that is holding his entire attention.

I watch him wordlessly for a moment, hands in pockets, admiring the familiar scene. His dark shirt hangs a bit too loosely on him, the sleeves rolled up on his forearms. The ragged cuffs of his oldest pair of jeans pool slightly on his bare feet. He hasn't heard me come in, and he won't notice me standing here until I say something.

I smile and say his name. "Viggo."

He turns, a little unsettled as he is brought back to this reality. "Ian. Hi."

"Can I come in?"

"Hm? Oh. Yeah, come in. Sorry." He wipes his hands on his jeans, smiling lightly at me. "What are you doing here?"

I chuckle. "We were supposed to meet for dinner at eight."

"Oh." Still a little disoriented, he looks at the timer on the wall next to him, which doesn't tell him much. He looks back at me. "What time is it?"

"Eleven."

His eyes widen. "Oh."

I cannot hide my amusement any longer. "Viggo, Viggo, it's okay. I figured where you were. I had dinner with the hobbits instead. Quite the chatty bunch."

"Yeah." But he looks distressed. "I'm sorry, I... I lost track of time."

"I figured as much. What have you been working on?" I approach his workspace, peering over his shoulder as he turns his attention back to it.

His strong hands push at a mess of negatives and rejected prints, to reveal the black and white 8x10 he'd been staring at. Elijah stared back at us in deep shades of black and grey, lips parted in surprise and eyes wide from under the dark wisps of hair that belonged to him alone.

I rest my chin on Viggo's shoulder, studying the beautiful face so well captured in time I feel like reaching out. "Mmm, pretty boy."

"I can't stop taking his picture."

I look at the wall before us, where several more prints hang, mostly featuring the young ones, Elijah always more prominently. There is something in the way he just stands, in the way he looks at you, genuinely, that just makes the collection breath-taking.

"He likes it, Viggo," I point out, omitting to mention how much I think *he* enjoys it also. The photographs clearly show it, feeling almost like they are reaching out to touch their subject. Ah, yes, repression. Always the artist's friend.

I watch him look at his work, his mind in them and barely here. His stubbled skin glows warmly in the red light. I reach up to push his hair aside, and kiss him in the neck, then behind his ear, lingering there. He breathes in shakily, half there and here now, and his eyes flutter shut as I slip my free arm around his waist, taking him against me. My thumb caresses the back of his neck.

"You like pretty things," I state gravely against his ear, making him shiver. He nods distractedly, his fingers closing on my arms around his waist.

I nuzzle the warm nook, his hair soft against my cheek. He tastes so young, so good. All the things he loves seem to cling to him for me to sample more intimately than he knows. I can taste his words, his thoughts, the images that float through his mind, the fierce desires that animate him. I can taste his passion for everything he touches, the intensity with which he adores things, including this little blue-eyed boy. I know him, I know his whims are rarely contained, I feel like I can reach out and pick his fantasies like fruit from a tree. Our desires are similar; beauty in things, absolute devotions to our crafts, a single-minded love for what touches us.

He turns around against me and our mouths meet hotly, his fingers curling around the lapels of my dinner jacket. He kisses like he does everything else, with graceful heat, with all-encompassing fervour, and, dear boy, sloppily. He tugs at my lip with his teeth and I smile against his own grin.

"You owe me dinner, Viggo."

"I'm not an expert in retributions between lovers, but it seems to me like I owe you more than dinner."

"Hm. Touché."

And of course I could extrapolate about his hands-on skills, but I am, after all, a gentleman.