Long past caring about paint and dirt, Viggo slid his arms around Sean's neck, leaning against him as they kiss. When he moved away, he pulled him close again, brushing their lips together as if he was afraid that if Sean left for too long, Viggo would start forgetting what he tasted like. What he smelled like. What he felt like. It was a foolish fear, because he knew for a fact that it would never happen - everything about Sean was written indelibly onto his own skin - and most of the time, he was just using it as an excuse to himself to touch him again anyway.
But he had to stop to consider the question, turning to look at the sun. It was still early in mid-afternoon, and it wasn't going to move that much for the next hour or so. Besides, Viggo would need to set up the camera and possibly clear away his paints and canvas... and to find a long black cloth to use as a blindfold. He probably would have to cut up one of his old shirts or something, but he didn't exactly care about that at the moment.
He gave Sean a flickering smile. "No, that's fine. I'll have to hunt down some of my stuff anyway." There was a pause, and his hand cupped against Sean's cheek, rubbing slightly at the drying blue paint there. "Though, you always look better like this, decorated all over by my colours."
That was a cheeky smirk and he was already moving away, heading up to the darkroom where he kept his camera equipment and, of course, the tools he needed for developing the photographs. He knew that most people nowadays would rather take digital photographs - the better to look at immediately, and easy to print and develop anywhere and at any time. It was also clearer, sharper, whatever. But Viggo hated it, clinging onto his films like a tenacity that had everything to do with artistic vision - digital photographs all seemed to be soulless. There was no real touch of the artist behind the shutter, all of the blurring and focus and the optimal light capture done by the machine itself. It wasn't art - it was just a photograph. The kind printed in tabloids.
Or perhaps he just detested change. He was less than five years away from sixty, after all. God, he was old. Not that old by this century's standards, but plenty old enough- though he didn't feel it. He never did, around Sean. And Hollywood seemed to still be enamoured enough with them to keep throwing roles at them, and they still received scripts by the handfuls, so that was okay too. That probably was an improvement, something that meant something else - something big - but Viggo's head was planted firmly in art and angles and colours. He would think about politics later.
The camera was in its usual place, along with his series of lenses. Viggo picked up the ones that could give him the effects he wanted, and a couple more that would possibly be useful in change he changed his mind. Then he was back at the studio again, setting up the tripod a distance away from exactly where Sean was standing, going to the blinds and the curtains and pulling them all up and to the side so they wouldn't impede the sunlight. There was still a complete mess of his paints on the ground- and Viggo finally realised that he touched the equipment with paint still on his hands. It was a really good thing that the paint had all dried, and instead of smears of wet watercolours on the camera equipment that might have ruined it, it was just flecks of paint-dust. He rubbed his fingers together, sighed quietly, and nudged the colours away from his spot with a foot as he moved the easel by hand.
He should probably wash his hands sometime today. And find a black cloth- probably more of that. The image of Sean in his head suddenly had his hands bound, and Viggo paused, one foot down the flight of stairs to the kitchen, and he nearly tripped over himself. Hah. Hah... Now that was unexpected. He lingered over the image, turning it over and over in his mind as he washed his hands and stole a couple of black t-shirts and cut them into strips before he headed back to the studio to wait for Sean.
no subject
But he had to stop to consider the question, turning to look at the sun. It was still early in mid-afternoon, and it wasn't going to move that much for the next hour or so. Besides, Viggo would need to set up the camera and possibly clear away his paints and canvas... and to find a long black cloth to use as a blindfold. He probably would have to cut up one of his old shirts or something, but he didn't exactly care about that at the moment.
He gave Sean a flickering smile. "No, that's fine. I'll have to hunt down some of my stuff anyway." There was a pause, and his hand cupped against Sean's cheek, rubbing slightly at the drying blue paint there. "Though, you always look better like this, decorated all over by my colours."
That was a cheeky smirk and he was already moving away, heading up to the darkroom where he kept his camera equipment and, of course, the tools he needed for developing the photographs. He knew that most people nowadays would rather take digital photographs - the better to look at immediately, and easy to print and develop anywhere and at any time. It was also clearer, sharper, whatever. But Viggo hated it, clinging onto his films like a tenacity that had everything to do with artistic vision - digital photographs all seemed to be soulless. There was no real touch of the artist behind the shutter, all of the blurring and focus and the optimal light capture done by the machine itself. It wasn't art - it was just a photograph. The kind printed in tabloids.
Or perhaps he just detested change. He was less than five years away from sixty, after all. God, he was old. Not that old by this century's standards, but plenty old enough- though he didn't feel it. He never did, around Sean. And Hollywood seemed to still be enamoured enough with them to keep throwing roles at them, and they still received scripts by the handfuls, so that was okay too. That probably was an improvement, something that meant something else - something big - but Viggo's head was planted firmly in art and angles and colours. He would think about politics later.
The camera was in its usual place, along with his series of lenses. Viggo picked up the ones that could give him the effects he wanted, and a couple more that would possibly be useful in change he changed his mind. Then he was back at the studio again, setting up the tripod a distance away from exactly where Sean was standing, going to the blinds and the curtains and pulling them all up and to the side so they wouldn't impede the sunlight. There was still a complete mess of his paints on the ground- and Viggo finally realised that he touched the equipment with paint still on his hands. It was a really good thing that the paint had all dried, and instead of smears of wet watercolours on the camera equipment that might have ruined it, it was just flecks of paint-dust. He rubbed his fingers together, sighed quietly, and nudged the colours away from his spot with a foot as he moved the easel by hand.
He should probably wash his hands sometime today. And find a black cloth- probably more of that. The image of Sean in his head suddenly had his hands bound, and Viggo paused, one foot down the flight of stairs to the kitchen, and he nearly tripped over himself. Hah. Hah... Now that was unexpected. He lingered over the image, turning it over and over in his mind as he washed his hands and stole a couple of black t-shirts and cut them into strips before he headed back to the studio to wait for Sean.