Title: My Kind of Yellow
Author: Elandae
Pairing: Viggo Mortensen/Sean Bean
Disclaimer: Don’t know them; don’t make any claims to their actual lives, preferences, etc. You know the drill.
Author’s Notes: Given a pairing and one sentence (Sean’s first line of dialogue), and this is the result.
Viggo wearily eyed the painting. It still just wasn’t quite right; the finishing touch seemed to be eluding him. Despite the fact that he hadn’t slept in, well longer than his sleep deprived brain could calculate, he just couldn’t bear to tear himself away from this painting before it was finished, before he could pinpoint those final brush strokes that would make it complete. Try as he might, he simply could not get his brain and his fingers to cooperate and say what he wanted them to say. He wasn’t even quite sure he knew what he wanted to add here, what final thought needed to be worked in until he could stand back and look at it, and see the message clear in every brush stroke.
He blinked, his eyelids grainy, his vision blurring slightly. Viggo swayed slightly where he stood, so involved in his thoughts, in the painting, that he wasn’t even aware of this. The more he stared at that canvas, the more he pushed his mind to pin down that one detail, the more fuzzy it all became, as his eyes blurred and his mind floundered. It was if someone had trailed their fingers across the canvas, smearing the still wet paint until it was garbled, changed. Viggo felt like someone had done the same thing with his brain, creating a blurred effect that no amount of squinting could make clear. He was so focused on the glistening surface before him; he didn’t even hear Sean shuffle into the room, his hair mussed from sleep, squinting in the bright light. Sean studied the man before him for a moment, noting the tired slump of Viggo’s shoulders, the various splotches of paint marking his hands. He walked up behind Viggo, a soft smile crossing Sean’s face as he placed warm hands on Viggo’s arms. Viggo turned, looking at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, before relaxing into soft caresses. Sean could feel the exhaustion coming off Viggo in waves, could read in the slightly unfocused gaze, the furrow in his brow the other man’s frustration.
‘I don’t care what you need to do, I am putting you to bed, whether you like it or not,’ Sean stated softly, but firmly.
Viggo looked at him, ready to protest, needing to finish this, but he knew it was no use as strong hands guided him to the nearby table, gently releasing his tenacious grip on the smooth wood of the paintbrush. Then those hands were guiding him from the room, catching him as Viggo stumbled, his lack of sleep throwing his balance off, but those hands were always there. And then he was in the cool darkness of the bedroom, those wonderful, patient hands pulling his shirt over his head. Viggo knew he should be able to do this himself, but somehow his arms seemed unable to function on their own. Crisp sheets being pulled back before steady hands were at his waistband, letting his pants slide to the floor. A cool, firm pillow beneath his head, and the soothing heat of a familiar body against his back quickly ushered him to sleep.
Sean lay cocooned against Viggo, listening to the slow cadence of his breath, feeling the slight push against his chest as Viggo inhaled, the soft murmurs he made in sleep the only sound in the otherwise silent room. And finally, after his previously restless night, tossing and turning, unsettled by the empty place in the bed, by the lack of weight pressing the mattress down just the right amount, finally, Sean fell asleep, his forehead just barely touching the back of Viggo’s head. Just barely, but there all the same.
* * * * *
When Viggo awoke, he was alone in bed in the sunlight filled room. He rolled over, searching for even a lingering trace of the warmth of Sean’s body. Having no luck with this, Viggo slid out of bed, stretching out his languid muscles.
Sean was in the kitchen, sitting at the table reading the paper when Viggo came in, tousled from sleep. The sunlight streamed through the window behind him, catching all the dust motes dancing through the air, highlighting this golden man, making his skin glow, his blond hair shimmer.
‘Good morning,’ a smooth accent floating through the golden room. ‘Feeling better?’
Viggo smiled at Sean, not needing any words, just crossed the kitchen, grabbing the mug waiting on the counter. Just the exact right amount left in the coffee pot to full his cup. Viggo settled himself across the table from Sean, who set his paper aside, his green eyes focusing in on Viggo, a warm smile touching his face as he noticed the lock of Viggo’s hair standing out at a right angle to his head. Sean leaned across the table, those hands smoothing the hair down, sliding along the curve of Viggo’s jaw. Always those hands.
It was just as Sean settled himself back into his seat, outlined once more by the golden rays streaming through the window that it hit Viggo. He jumped up from the table, hurrying down the hall into what functioned as his studio. He picked up a new paintbrush; quickly rummaging around until he found what he was looking for. Viggo loaded the brush up with paint, adding a bold dash of yellow across the canvas. A vivid color, vibrant, but not harsh. Comforting in its solidarity, its unwavering faith. Viggo stood back and studied that painting, and finally, it said what he wanted it to say. It had just needed yellow to finish it off. Yellow like those hands that knew just when to reach out for him, yellow like the warmth that lulled him to sleep, soothing him. Yellow like the sunshine that danced across him, yellow like Sean. All that had been missing was Sean.
The End.
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