Capture
Title: Capture
Pairing: Elijah/Viggo
Rating: R
Disclaimer: No I don't own them. Yes this is made up.
Feedback: As always, any would be welcome, including CC.
Notes: AU - Viggo is an art teacher with a class of adult students. Thanks to cara_dee for the prompt 'Captured! Elijah'...it didn't turn out what I was expecting but I hope you enjoy it anyway, and it definately helped get rid of the writer's block. :)
Capture
Elijah gives a light knock on the weather-worn front door and waits on the step, shivering slightly in the cool evening air.
The door swings open. “Ah, Elijah. Hello.” Viggo stand in the hallway, wearing faded, paint-spattered jeans and his ‘painting shirt’, an ancient garment with holes in the sleeves and an uneven hem. Elijah always suspected Viggo had made it himself in a fit of defiance against fashion, or even against practicality and comfort.
“Hi,” he says, following Viggo in.
“Thanks for doing this,” Viggo says quietly, leading Elijah upstairs. “I really appreciate it.”
Elijah waves the thanks aside, a lot more easily than he feels. “It’s fine. Don’t mention it.”
Viggo smiles, showing Elijah into an empty bedroom on the second floor that Elijah’s never been in before. “There. Get yourself ready. We’re in the room just opposite you.”
“Thanks,” Elijah says, as Viggo leaves, shutting the door with a barely-audible click.
He starts with his jacket, taking it off and laying it on the bed, and then moves onto his shoes and socks. Once they’ve been stashed under the bed - Elijah’s never really been a neat-freak, but it seems bad manners to throw is clothes all over someone else’s room, even though he’s technically done even worse than that in Viggo’s house before - he moves on to his shirt, turning his back to the full-length mirror.
The shirt comes off much too quickly - even with a conscious effort to slow his fingers, the buttons come open easily and Elijah slips out of the sleeves. The air in the room is warm and slightly scented - lavender, maybe.
Elijah tries not to look down at himself while he unbuttons his jeans and then slides them down his legs, feeling the rough scrape of denim on skin. Then he fumbles on the elastic of his boxers, and brings them down into a soft pool round his ankles, stepping out of them and leaving the safety of the fabric behind.
“I’m ready,” he calls to Viggo, folding his jeans absently and adding them to the pile on the bed. He heads for the door, and fails in avoiding his reflection in the mirror. He stops for a moment. His skin looks ridiculously pallid, he’s got no muscles to his arms or legs, and his ribs stick out slightly while his belly looks plump. Elijah shakes his head slightly and turns his back on the mirror again, running a hand through his hair nervously and, taking a deep breath, going out onto the landing and crossing the hall.
He taps on the door, and lets himself in.
The first thing he sees is Viggo, standing in the middle of a circle of easels. Elijah can only see about half of Viggo’s art students - the others are hidden behind huge canvases.
“Elijah, just here, please,” Viggo says, touching the antique wooden chair in the middle. Elijah approaches warily. Viggo turns the chair round and guides Elijah into it, with one cool, large hand on his hip, so he’s sitting backwards on it.
Viggo gently positions his legs (widespread) and arms (folded on the back of the chair).
“There,” he whispers. “Just relax.” He straightens up and clears his throat. “Ok, class, you have 2 hours to complete a nude study using oils. You may begin.”
Elijah tries not to meet anyone’s eyes, but curious faces come out from behind the canvases and easels and stare at him so often that he can’t help it. The student directly in front of him catches his eyes - he’s got large ears and odd hair of a sort of off-blonde colour.
About half an hour in, Elijah’s thighs begin to ache with the position he’s sitting in. Around twenty minutes after that, his neck muscles start to burn. It seems like an eternity before Viggo calls, “Ok. Time’s up.” Elijah hears the clatter of paintbrushes and palettes and gets up, stretching - no longer self-conscious. After all, everyone’s seen him now.
“Thanks,” Viggo says again, coming back into the centre. “Do you want to see the paintings?”
“Ermm....” Elijah hesitates. He’s not sure - does he really want that reflection from earlier shown to him twenty times?
The class begins to file out, leaving Elijah and Viggo alone. Viggo stalks round the room, looking over the canvases.
“They’re all quite good,” he says. “Have a look.”
Elijah’s curiosity gets the better of him. He follows in Viggo’s footsteps and peers at the canvases. The oil paint is still wet, and it’s apparent even to Elijah, who knows nothing about art, that all of Viggo’s students have an individual style just from the way the paint lies - on some canvases it is in rough peaks, on others it is soothed carefully over the canvas. The paintings themselves also demonstrate stylistic variety - some are very arty, sketchy and hazy, while some are unbelievable realistic. They all look like him.
“They’re good,” he agrees hesitantly.
Viggo smiles. “So are you. Thank you for sitting for them.”
Elijah returns the smile. Then he catches sight of the smallest canvas, near the door. This one hasn’t even attempted to show Elijah’s body - it simply focuses on one side of his face; a bright blue eye daubed on, the bridge of his nose suggested by a contrast in light and shadow.
“That one’s the best,” he says, touching the easel the canvas is standing on.
Viggo stand behind him, slips his arms round Elijah’s slender waist, rests his hands on Elijah’s hip bones.
“I did that one,” he says.
“You did?” Now Elijah knows, he can see Viggo’s touch in it.
Viggo answers him with a kiss. When they break apart, he whispers against Elijah’s warm lips, “Mine should be the best, shouldn’t it? Seeing as I know you best.”
Elijah nods, pressing his face into Viggo’s shoulder. As he blinks, he feels his eyelashes brush against the rough cotton of Viggo’s painting shirt.
He feels Viggo’s lips planting another kiss to his hairline. Then Viggo’s arms leave him and he raises his head, to watch Viggo unbutton his Jackson Pollock-style trousers.
“I captured you best,” he says, sitting on the chair and beckoning Elijah over. He’s not wearing underwear and the hard line of his arousal casts shadows over his thighs. “The key to painting a good portrait - or any picture, in fact - is to know your subject.”
Elijah sits in Viggo’s lap, eyes closing for a second with the pleasure of the sensation of their erections rubbing against each other. “And you know me extremely well,” he comments, a hint of a smile in his voice as he rocks back and forth slowly and deliberately, feeling an electric heat in his balls that spreads to the tip of his cock and then, almost lazily, to settle in the depths of his heart.