Sean's hair is dark now, a glossy brown. He has put on weight. If Viggo is a man for beauty, he would prefer him as he was ten years ago, when his teeth were white, his hair gold and there were not quite so many lines around his eyes.

"Hi," Sean says. Viggo starts, for he had forgotten Sean's voice. Like rough molasses cooked too long; burnt and a little imperfect.

"Hey," he says, and smiles. "Come in."

Viggo puts the kettle on. Raises the camera. There's a dirty bandage on Sean's finger.

He always finds his own perfection.