"Do me a favor and flip through that stack of prints. I need a few more for the magazine and I can't decide." Viggo spoke from the sink, his back to Sean.

Seean picked up the pile nearest him and sifted through them. What he now recognized as America's Badlands scrolled by-this wasn't the right pile; Viggo was working on a piece about the mills and millworkers. Sean reached for the next pile even as he turned to the following Badlands photo. Only it wasn't the Badlands. The next shot was of a slightly younger Viggo, the focus a bit off, his edges blurred-no, their edges blurred. Because in the picture Viggo was kissing someone. His hand framed the other's jaw, a fringe of hair covering the other's eyes. Sean stared a moment, then glanced up guiltily.

But Viggo's back was still to him, his head obscured by the open icebox door.

"I don't need any ice," Sean said, stealing one last glance at the photo before sliding it into his back pocket. He wasn't sure why he wanted to keep it -- only for a little while, until he figured out why he wanted to look at it at all - but he didn't want to ask Viggo about it just yet.

"You won't want any ice. But you do need it." Viggo wrapped a palm-sized chunk in a towel and turned back to Sean. "Now tilt your head up."

Sean sighed and leaned back, offering up his blackened and swollen left eye to Viggo's care. It wasn't particularly impressive, as black eyes go. The punch hadn't been thrown well at all and it was only because Sean hadn't thought his opponent would even try from that angle that the hit had landed. He'd won last night's bout easily, sustaining only that black eye, but Viggo fussed over it. Actually, this morning he'd threatened to turn him out hard and alone until the swelling went down of its own accord if he wouldn't consent to the ice.

Viggo gently held the wrapped ice over Sean's eye while he traced the outline of Sean's several scars with a fingertip.

"It's not that bad, Vig," Sean mumbled through the long edge of the towel.

"Shut up. I'm being tender." Viggo smoothed a few stray hairs behind Sean's ear, then bent to deliver a light lick along its sensitive curve.

"You weren't worried about being tender right after it happened." Sean didn't know why he was grousing; the ice felt good, cool against the bruise, and each time Viggo had iced one of his boxing injuries before, they'd ended up with another unexpected and devious use for ice.

Viggo's lips closed around the thin gold hoop in Sean's ear, sucking gently. He murmured, "Right after it happened, we went for a beer and you dragged me into the bogs and demanded I fuck you over the sink." He swung his leg over Sean's lap and straddled him. "I didn't think that was really an invitation for tender." He bent his head to bite softly at the side of Sean's neck.

Sean wrapped his arms around Viggo's back, remembered the cold press of ceramic against his thighs, the fast burn of Viggo's fingers pressing in. He let out an unsteady breath as Viggo inched forward on his lap. Almost.

"No, you're right. That wasn't me asking for tender." But was this? Now? Did he want it to be? He'd nearly decided that yes, it was, like the picture hidden in his pocket, when Viggo's small white teeth closed a little harder on the side of his neck, scraping along his Adam's apple. Maybe later.

Sean slid a hand up Viggo's back to tangle in his strawberry blond hair and pulled Viggo's mouth away from his neck.

"What?" Mischief sparkled in Viggo's eyes.

"We're done with the ice." Sean eased Viggo's hand and the towel-wrapped ice away from his eye before pressing his mouth to Viggo's. They kissed, all wrestling tongues and clutching hands until Viggo finally pulled away.

"Are you sure we're done with the ice?"

"We are unless you want to get fucked with it this time." Sean slipped his hand into the back of Viggo's jeans, again wondering if he'd trade the way the denim hugged the perfect easy curve of Viggo's arse for the accessibility of looser trousers. Just getting Viggo out of these arse-hugging jeans faster was the better solution, he decided, and stood up, keeping Viggo's legs around his waist and his torso pressed close.

"Jesus!" Viggo wrapped his arms tighter around Sean and laughed into his neck until Sean dropped him onto the mattress in their bedroom. They shed their clothing as quickly as possible. Sean even managed to throw his into the corner that had become his; he'd moved in a week after that first night, a few days after Viggo had photographed him. And through there wasn't much in the tiny flat to signify Sean's presence at all, he spent the next hour showing Viggo exactly how present he was.

* * *

"I'm going to trip the photos off at the post and stop by to see if my developing solution has come in. Need anything while I'm out?" Viggo was gingerly pulling up his trousers, a huge grin on his face as he stood slowly. "Can I bring home more ice?"

Sean smiled and landed a quick slap on Viggo's arse. "Go right ahead. And then I can get you back for last time." He still wasn't sure how one body part could be so hot and so mind-numbingly cold at the same time. He fastened the buttons on his own trousers.

"Maybe next time." Viggo kissed him, nipping playfully at Sean's lips.

"Get on with you." Sean shoved him toward the door. He put his hands in his back pockets and leaned into the wall, while Viggo shuffled through the photos on the table one last time.

"Take the one where the camera's looking through the gate at The Lane," Sean said.

Viggo rummaged in the appropriate stack. "I was thinking about that one, too. So that one," he pulled it from the pile, "and now two more . . ."

Sean let him sift in silence, his fingertips ghosting over the slick photo paper in his pocket. He didn't want Viggo to go, but he wanted time to think. To know why he'd even picked up the picture in the first place.

So, when Viggo left, Sean kissed him, carefully and softly, like the first night, when they'd finally kissed. And Viggo let him, not darting out his tongue to lick at Sean's lips nor biting at Sean's mouth as he usually did. He looked a bit strangely at Sean when he left, but he said nothing, only brushed the hair back from Sean's puffy eye and left.

Sean waited until he heard the stairwell door close, then lay down on the mattress again, put the picture on the pillow in front of him, and stared.

It wasn't jealousy. At least, not the jealousy of Viggo having kissed someone else. They'd both had other lovers - in truth, they'd both rather whored around - and if the looks Viggo and Dave had been throwing each other and him were any indication, they might do a bit more slagging about together. That he'd negotiate later. Now he still wasn't sure what about the blurry, generally uninformative photo caught him so.

He got up, took a beer from the pantry, and looked harder. The photo wasn't particularly artistically interesting. Sean didn't know much about art, but he knew what he liked and why he liked it, and this had none of the same qualities as those things. No sharp play of light and dark, no quick movement across the paper. Even aesthetically, as a picture of the man he always wanted, it wasn't very good. The focus, or lack thereof, obscured the dimpled chin and blurred the delicious scar above his lip, and his eyes were closed. But the curve of his hand around the other's cheek - Sean couldn't even tell if it was a man or woman - it didn't matter - held something. Something Sean wanted to show to or give to Viggo. He took a long drink of his beer, still looking at, through, the photo. It was a gift he didn't know if Viggo would accept, or if Sean could even give. Himself. Softly. Without a struggle, even in play. He put the beer on the floor, folded his arms, rested his chin on his hands, and looked harder at the photo.

Sean stood and returned to the kitchen, intent of getting another beer. On the counter lay the towel, still damp from the melted ice. He knew what he had to do.

* * *

"Sean." Karl smiled and opened the door wide. "Didn't expect you today, mate." As Sean stepped into the flat, Karl clapped him on the back. "Tidy fight there last night. Good on ya, mate."

"Thanks." Sean dug his hands harder into his pockets. "About that - I was hoping you could help me with sommat. Have a bit to knock me around?"

Karl laughed, a full and cheerful sound. When Sean had started fighting for money regularly, Karl had offered himself as a sparring partner on the odd occasion. It was only his cheekily embraced laziness that kept him out of the same rings as Sean, and for that, Sean was grateful. Karl was far more muscular, taller, broader, and facing him in a real fight was not something he ever wanted to do. This would be punishment enough.

"Now? You've already got a shiner." Karl sat on the edge of a chair and yawned.

"Yeah, and, ah, that's why I wanted your help." Sean leaned into the wall, tried hard to look Karl in the eye while he lied. "I got a bit lazy, you know? Wasn't blocking clean. Were hoping you'd take a couple shots so I can practice."

"Don't you want to give it a day or so?"

"Can't. Got another fight tonight." Sean could feel his cheeks flush.

"With who? At the ring?" Karl grinned. "I'll be there. I could stand winning another fiver on you."

"Ah, no, it's," Sean swallowed, "more personal."

Karl laughed again and stood. "Right, mate. Whatever you say." He shrugged on his jacket. "You Yorkshire boys sure scrap a lot. Thought it was the Yanks were supposed to be the hotheads."

Sean shoved Karl back into the tenement's hallway. "Says the arsehole who beats on a bloke half his size for a lark."

"Only because you ask so nicely, cunt."

* * *

The ring at the boxing club was empty, and Sean stripped off his shirt in the echoing silence. Here he did about half of his fights, the "friendlies," really, with other blokes from the mills and mines looking for something to do besides work. Those were good for a couple of quid, good to keep in shape for the other half of his fights. The other were the kind that had bought him his Vincent, that gave him the thin scar under his eyebrow and the long scar on his thigh. Those fights seemed easy in his mind compared to what he was going to do in a few hours.

"Right, then." Karl startled him out of his thoughts. "What are we going for?"

"Just come at me from the unexpected angles. And don't pull your punches." Sean rolled his neck and bounced a few times on the balls of his feet. "Got to get this right," he muttered.

"Not pull? At all? Are you fucking barmy?" Karl's eyes went wide for a moment.

"Just hit me, you great girl's blouse."

Karl shrugged. "Your funeral, mate."

They dodged around each other for a while, Karl warming up his muscles and looking for the best openings while Sean wondered how he was going to manage at least the appearance of blocking. On Karl's first swing, a sidearmed left hook that came in under his elbow, Sean had to fight the reflex to drop his arm and wheel left, deflecting and dodging in one easy roll. Instead, he turned right, into the hooking fist, and dropped his right wrist over Karl's. His heavy fist thudded hollowly against Sean's ribs.

Karll pulled back, cocked an eyebrow at Sean. "You do fucking need work on your blocking. What the fuck was that?"

Sean didn't reply. He tucked his arms close to his sides and waited for the next punch. Christ. He hadn't taken a hit that cleanly in a long time, even longer since he'd taken one he'd felt so clearly. Pain came after a bout, not during. During there was only the whirring of blood in his veins and a strange, furious joy. This was different, though. This was no fight. This was a plan of attack, an attempt at rationalization. But as Karl's right glanced off his jaw and then the left connected solidly with his stomach, Sean knew there was nothing rational about it.

After three more blows to his ribs, Karl grabbed his shoulders and hauled him upright. "Are you even trying? Get your fists down, up, wherever the hell they need to be. You did better than this last night."

"I'm getting there." Sean inhaled shakily. Breathing was starting to hurt.

"You take another one like that and we're through. Practice isn't supposed to kill you."

Sean only nodded. Got to try to make it seem like it's not hitting so hard. The next flurry of blows came, and they weren't hitting so hard. "Karl, you bastard, don't you fucking pull these. I'm fine."

"Fucking wanker."

The next blows, to his biceps, stomach, shoulder blades, and even to his thighs, were nearly full strength. And it was all Sean could do to stay upright. So goddamn happy he doesn't compete.

When Karl's knuckles managed a mostly-clean landing against Sean's mouth, Sean was glad that he couldn't quite keep himself from trying to block it. He'd gotten enough of his own fist in the way that he wouldn't be spitting out teeth. He'd still be bleeding, though.

After one more blow sneaked in under his elbows and Sean could feel blood trickling down his chin, Karl stopped. "That's it, mate. You're done." He stepped back, leaned against the corner post. "You're going to get your arse beat tonight. You know that."

"Aye, I know," Sean said, holding the edge of his shirt to a bleeding lip.

"So what the fuck are you playing at here? Getting beat bloody before you even start?" The usual half-grin was gone from Karl's face. His dark brows were drawn together, and his eyes narrowed.

"I needed it, Karl." He pulled the shirt away, wincing when the material tore away from the cut. Viggo was much better at this than he was. Viggo. "Thanks, Karl. I really do appreciate this." He smiled as best he could, teeth more red than white.

Karl shook his head. "Don't thank me yet. You're fucking up to something, and I'm not going to ask what, but be careful tonight. Don't get yourself into anything you can't handle, yeah?"

Sean almost laughed. "Don't worry. I'll survive." There is something deeply fucking wrong with me.


The ride home was excruciating. His knuckles weren't bleeding like they were the night he first took Viggo home, but everything else hurt. His torso was already a mottled canvas of reds and purples, and most of those would be edged green and black by morning. His black eye throbbed, and the cheek under the other one stung. Karl had deliberately avoided hitting his face for the most part, but he'd landed a few just so Sean wouldn't accuse him of protecting him. Sean did laugh at that. Barking at a mate for trying not to kill him. Brilliant. He just hoped Viggo wouldn't kill him for coming home like this. He understood why Sean fought, though he didn't exactly like it, but this . . . Christ, what would Viggo make of this?

The walk up the three flights of stairs to the flat tugged at the bruises on his thighs. Karl had known what he was doing, there. Sean's legs felt nearly numb, unsteady, and he wouldn't want to have to rely on them to dodge in earnest in a fight. He'd give that a go next time he had a bout.

When he opened the door, Viggo was sitting at the table, his back to Sean, surrounded by more photos. Shit. He'd left the picture on the mattress.

"Hey you. I brought back some more beer and a couple of sandwiches. On the counter if you want any. You want to --" he spoke as he turned to face Sean. "Holy fuck, what happened to you?"

"I, ah, went down to the club to practice a bit." Sean looked steadily at his feet.

"Practice? You've never been beat like that in a real --" Viggo was rummaging in the icebox and a drawer at the same time. "Sit. Shirt off. You're getting blood on it."

He waited while Sean grasped the hem of his shirt and moved to pull it off.

Sean started to stretch his arms upward, then gasped as the muscles contracted, spiky with pain and tension. "Fuck."

Viggo was kneeling by his side in an instant, easing the shirt up and over Sean's head himself. "Jesus Christ, Sean." The pale skin of Sean's torso was a kaleidoscope of bruises, and Sean even grimaced as he could actually see the imprint of three of Karl's knuckles on the right side of his ribcage. Viggo's fingers skimmed over the hot flesh, pressing gently, feeling for grating bone or hard swelling.

Sean sucked in his breath. Even Viggo's careful probing hurt.

"Who the fuck were you practicing with? I'll kill him." Viggo's voice was calm, even, as he wrapped another piece of ice in a towel.

"Wasn't his fault. My blocking is shite." The cold ice made him contract his stomach muscles, and he winced again. "That's cold." He tried to laugh.

"It's ice." Viggo wasn't laughing. "You're a stubborn, stupid bastard, you know that?"

"Aye." Sean reached out, ran his hand through Viggo's hair. "Can we go lay down? It hurts sitting up." He hoped it wasn't too much - he never admitted anything hurt. But I've never looked this hurt before. Sean hoped that was enough.

Viggo narrowed his eyes, looked up at Sean. "Okay. But if you think I'm fucking you like this, you got another thing coming. Even your arms are black and blue." The corners of his mouth twitched upward. "How would I get any leverage?"

Sean's face went hot, then icy. He turned quickly and shuffled into the bedroom. He kicked the photograph under the mattress, then lay down gingerly. Viggo followed more slowly, balancing ice, more clean towels, and a small bowl of water.

He wet a corner of one of the clean towels and wiped the blood from Sean's chin and neck. He turned the cloth and wet another corner. "Here. Hold this on that cut while I ice some of these."

Sean took the cloth and leaned his head back onto their shared pillow. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the warmth of Viggo's hands and the coolness of the ice instead of the ache in his body and the fear in his chest. The ice came to rest on the knuckle-bruise, and Viggo's fingers eased into the waistband of Sean's jeans.

"Lift up a bit."

Sean raised his hips while Viggo worked the trousers down and off.

"Christ, even your legs?"

Sean craned his neck to look down. Sure enough, a few dark spots were forming along the line of his femur.

Viggo dipped another rag in water, squeezed it dry, and spun it in the air to cool it more, like he did that first night. His wet hands skimmed over Sean's hips, and he draped the cool rag over the discoloured skin.

Sean felt his body responding to Viggo's touch, and he inched closer to Viggo.

"Vig -- "

"No, Sean. I'm not going to add more bruises to this mess, even for sex." He rested his hand against Sean's cheek. "You crazy horny bugger. You're the only person I know who wants to get hurt after you're already hurt." He kissed the side of Sean's mouth not covered with the towel.

Sean shut his eyes again, ran his hand through his hair. Say it. Viggo's hands rubbed light, soothing circles on his neck. "Vig -- "

"I don't want to hurt you. Some of these are pretty bad already." Viggo stretched out beside Sean, propped his head on one hand.

"I don't want --" Sean sighed and took the cloth away from his lip. "I --"

"What?"

"Will you," Sean screwed his eyes shut, ignoring the burn in the bruised flesh, "make . . ."

Viggo's hand curved around Sean's cheek, turned them face to face. "What are you asking, Sean?"

All of the resistance left Sean's body, replaced by a strange numbness. "Will you make love to me?" He hadn't even the energy to look up.

"Now?"

The back of Sean's throat prickled. He nodded. His eyes drifted shut again.

Viggo's lips touched the side of Sean's mouth again, and he felt the mattress shift. Viggo was getting up. He rolled over on his side, facing the wall, and pressed his burning cheek in the pillow. Cocked that right up, didn't I?

Then the mattress shifted again, and the warm softness of Viggo's lips touched his shoulder. "Don't want to hurt you tonight," he whispered.

"You don't have to." Sean stretched his arm back, reaching for Viggo, and his hand touched the bare skin of Viggo's hip. In a moment, Viggo was pressed close to Sean's back, his left hand skimming lightly over Sean's side, careful of the bruising, and his right curved under Sean's neck to rest on Sean's chest.

Sean held Viggo's hand close, then brought it to his lips, kissing it softly before drawing two of Viggo's fingers into his mouth. He sucked gently, fighting down the urge to bite, to push back against the hard cock nestled against his arse.

Viggo cupped the back of Sean's thigh and eased his leg upward and forward. Even this slow, this carefully, Sean's battered body protested, but he held himself still, forced his breathing to be steady. Even so, Sean felt Viggo pull away for a moment, and, afraid that Viggo had changed his mind, turned to pull him back.

"Don't -- "

"Shh, I'm not." Viggo was rubbing oil on his fingers. "I said I wasn't going to hurt you." He kissed Sean. "And the way you thrash when I rim you, I think you'd hurt yourself. So we're going to do this the way people usually do it." He grinned, then lay back down and slid one finger carefully into Sean.

Sean moaned and returned Viggo's fingers to his mouth.

"That's it. Nice and easy." Viggo added another finger and scissored them slowly.

"More, please," Sean gasped, and wriggled back against Viggo.

"Be patient." Viggo lay open-mouthed kisses on the back of Sean's neck as he slid in a third finger. He smiled into Sean's shoulder. "I'm being tender."

"Being tender's supposed to mean being nice." Sean clutched at Viggo's leg, trying to pull him closer.

"Isn't this nice?" Viggo pressed his fingers against Sean's prostate, rubbing slyly.

"It's bloody fucking torture and you know it." Sean turned his head, seeking Viggo's mouth.

As they kissed, Viggo withdrew his fingers, and rested his cock against Sean's entrance.

"Please, Viggo. Please." Sean drew his leg higher and arched his back, every muscle vibrating with the stretch.

"All you ever had to do was ask." Viggo slid in slowly, and, wrapping his arm around Sean's shoulders, began to thrust gently. With his left hand, he stroked Sean's cock, just as slowly.

Sean buried his face in the pillow, trying not to beg even more. He'd wanted slow, gentle, and now that he had it, he felt as though he was flying to pieces. Viggo's even grip on his cock was maddening, the smooth glide of Viggo inside him terrifyingly wonderful. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, and tightened his fingers on Viggo's leg.

"God, Vig."

Viggo murmured soft noises into his hair and canted his hips. Sean felt Viggo's breath hitch even as he moaned himself. "I'm close. Come with me."

Viggo nodded and his strokes sped up, just slightly. Sean rocked back into Viggo, against his cock and up into his fist. And in what felt like the longest orgasm of his life, he spilled over Viggo's fingers, felt Viggo's body tighten against his, and heard the stuttered exhale of breath as Viggo came.

Viggo reached for one of the towels and wiped them both clean. Sean rolled over onto his back and sighed.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." Viggo touched his lips to the bruise under Sean's eye. "All you had to do was ask." He dug for a pack of cigarettes; they usually kept a pack by the bed.

Sean could see the moment Viggo's hand touched the glossy photo paper, but Viggo didn't hold up the picture. He only lit a cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. He passed it to Sean, and, looking up at the water-spotted ceiling, said, "Tomorrow, I'm going to kick Karl's ass."

Sean laughed. "Can I watch?"

"And as soon as those bruises heal up some, I'm going to kick your ass for this stunt."

Sean bit lightly at Viggo's shoulder. "I can't wait."