People have mixed reactions to e e cummings – they either think he’s a genius or a bit of a plank. I love him, with all his bizarre punctuation and his inability to use capitals. The title of the fic is from one of his odd, wonderful poems. The verse that makes the title of this fic so apt is:

"and love is a deeper season

than reason;

my sweet one

(and april’s where we’re)

And before you ask, the rest of the poem is as weird as that!

A Deeper Season

When Viggo returned home from New York, he drove the truck around the back of the house out of sight of the casual observer, and when he entered the house he locked it up tight so that nobody could get in. He had already called Lizzie and told her that he was staying in New York for another day, and had laughingly offered to by her a dress with a designer label. She had sworn at him, and accepted what he had said. He knew that he should feel worse than he did about lying to her, but he wanted to be alone, wanted to think.

He had barely been in the house thirty minutes when the phone rang. He ignored it, of course, letting the machine get it.

"I know you’re not home," Lizzie’s clear voice filled the room, "but I forgot to tell you that you have another sitting on Friday – day after tomorrow. Well, tomorrow if you’re getting this when you get home which will be tomorrow. Fuck. I’ve lost the point of this completely. Call me when you get in, gayboy. You better have brought me something fantastic from New York. A footballer called Rock would do, except of course that you would have fucked him on the plane and I would have second-hand goods on my hands. Christ I hate these things. Call me when you get in."

Viggo smiled and shook his head, leaving the light on the machine flashing as he made his way to the darkroom, ignoring the fact that he was hungry and tired. He had to develop the latest set of shots he had taken.

Impatient for the first time in his life with the process of developing, he had to physically stop himself from trying to hurry everything up, knowing that he would just ruin the film, but it seemed to him that it was taking a deliberately long time to develop.

Finally, there they were, and he carefully hung them around the room to dry, wanting to touch them, wanting to take them into the light to study them properly, but still having to hang onto his patience.

Elijah. Asleep in the early morning, the harsh light casting deep shadows on his face, making him look unearthly and distant. Then more shots of him awake and laughing into the camera, hands moving up in a blur to cover his face as he realised what was happening. Viggo paused as he looked at one particular photograph, almost touching it before dragging himself back at the last second.

He had been standing astride Elijah’s thighs when he had taken this, and it showed the pale length of his body, his cock half-hard in its nest of dark pubic hair. The contrast between his hair and his skin was shocking in its perfection, and Viggo heard himself draw in a breath.

Still more shots, verging on the pornographic; of Elijah touching himself, his eyes wide open as he gazed into the camera, and the final shot, of fingers, Viggo’s own fingers, snaking into Elijah’s partly open mouth, his eyes tightly closed. How Elijah looked when he came.

"Promise me," Elijah had said afterwards, his hands and his mouth roaming Viggo’s body. "Promise me you won’t show these to anybody. Don’t make me into a whore for your work."

"I promise," Viggo had answered. "These are for me."

"What will you do with them? Will you jerk off to them?" Elijah had pushed himself upright, straddling Viggo’s body. "Is that how you’ll think of me?" He had looked almost frightened then, and Viggo had pulled him down, kissing him hungrily.

"I’ll think of you naked on the bed," he had answered. "My cock inside you. That’s how I’ll think of you. The most perfect fucking thing I have ever seen." He had laughed. "Don’t think I’ll need to fantasise or jerk off; I think just picturing this will make me come in my pants."

"Nice." Elijah had laughed then, slightly more confident. "It was an amazing night, Viggo, really fucking amazing. Will you come see me again when you’re in New York?"

"Try stopping me." Viggo had pulled him close then, kissing him before touching him, gripping his cock and making him plead, because he didn’t want to think about goodbyes and "next times" and "remember when". He didn’t want to put this night in the past and realise it would never happen again, that this incredible boy would never be pliant and willing underneath him again, because, in the end, how could it ever be the same?

Now he looked at the photographs, of Elijah naked and open to the camera – to him – and he felt something in his chest that was almost anger, but mainly regret and sadness. There was one shot – just one – that he would keep on show. Elijah, sitting up in bed, wearing just his jeans as he scrabbled about looking for a pair of socks. Viggo had said his name, and Elijah had looked up and for just that brief second the reality of the boy in front of him had merged with the boy who had mysteriously appeared in the photographs and Viggo had felt as though he had been looking down some kind of corridor to a non-existent time when the two boys had been one.

He shook his head, snorting at his own romantic nature, and with a backward glance, let himself out of the darkroom.

Straight into Lizzie.

"Fuck me, woman!" He took a huge step backwards and almost collided with a coffee table. "How did you get in? Why are you just standing there like a zombie? Fuck me!"

"I have keys, retard," she said, holding them up as evidence. "And not actually being blind, I could see you truck around the back of the house, because you know, that’s really well hidden. Next time, maybe you should put branches on it and maybe a dead animal so that it looks like part of the woodland. Oh, except you live in the middle of a fucking dustbowl, and if you actually wanted to hide it, you would have to drive it about a hundred miles in any direction." She paused and took a deep breath. "Retard."

"Fuck me," Viggo said again, sitting on the coffee table instead of falling over it.

"Is that some kind of request?" Lizzie asked. "You decided to go straight? Or is it more just guilt because you lied to me and then tried to hide in your own house? The house to which I have keys. The house to which I always come the day before you get back so that you have food. Do you know what you are?"

"I’d make a guess at retard," Viggo said, beginning to smile.

"Moron." Lizzie smiled as well and moved to sit next to him, nudging him with her hip until he made room on the table. "So why did you lie?"

"I didn’t lie… oh, okay, I did." Viggo looked down at his hands. "I’m sorry, Liz. I just wanted … I had some shit to think about."

"You could actually just have told me," Lizzie said. "Then I wouldn’t have left that message on your machine. Have you listened to it yet? I sound like someone who would willingly marry their own brother."

"No," Viggo lied gamely, wincing when she slapped his leg with the house keys. "Yes," he amended, "and could I just say that I’ve seen your brother, remember? Nobody would willingly marry him."

"Good point," Lizzie said. "But stop changing the subject. Why did you lie? What happened in New York?"

"The weirdest thing," Viggo replied, not hesitating about telling Lizzie. Telling her wasn’t like telling other people. He always told her everything.

"What?" Lizzie stood up. "Walk and talk. I need coffee, and I imagine you need to eat."

Viggo followed her towards the kitchen, sitting on one of the chairs as he watched her move around, preparing coffee and slicing bread.

"How did the shoot go?" she asked, her back to him.

"Terrible," he said. "The guy was a grade A …" He smiled. "Asshole. He thought he was the best thing ever, just some nothing little actor who thought he was better than us."

"Who’s us?" Lizzie moved over to the table and put a mug of coffee in front of him before sitting opposite him, cradling her own slightly smaller cup. She smiled then, her eyes lighting. "Oh Viggo, you met someone!"

"Elijah," Viggo said, relishing the way the name sounded on his tongue. "The assistant who had been assigned to me. He was – is – the most amazing creature I’ve ever seen."

"Go on." Lizzie didn’t laugh at him, which surprised Viggo. She was very good at stopping him if he began to wax a little too lyrical.

"You know what he looks like," he continued, wrapping his hands around the mug of coffee, seeking its warmth as he was suddenly chilled at the thought of what he was about to say. "You’ve seen him."

"Have I? Where?"

Viggo stood up and went over to his bag, digging through it until he found the photographs he had shown Elijah and then placed them in front of Lizzie, who put her own cup down and picked up the shots.

"What?" She looked up, confused. "I’ve seen these, you know I have. What does this have to do with the mysterious and amazing Elijah?"

Viggo reached out and tapped the photographs one by one – the first from the Cemetière du Père Lachaise, the second showing the fat, lonely Miss Halloran and her pony, and the third showing Viggo himself, sweaty and proud in tool belt and jeans as he showed off his handiwork.

"What?" Lizzie said again. "Viggo, speak in words. What?"

"That’s Elijah," Viggo said simply. "The photographer’s assistant was Elijah. This boy."

Lizzie looked down at the photographs and then back at Viggo.

"Are you on drugs?" she asked in a perfectly calm tone of voice.

"Not at the moment," Viggo snapped. "But I may be in a second if you don’t stop with that voice. It’s him, I’m telling you. His name’s Elijah, he lives in New York. We went back to his apartment last night and fucked like rabbits."

"You do realise that you’ve lost it completely?" Lizzie sat back, her fingers still brushing the photographs. "Viggo, I don’t know where this boy appeared from, have no idea how he made it into your shots when all we should be seeing is a cemetery, a fat girl and you, but that doesn’t mean he’s real. He’s just some – I don’t know, figment of your imagination."

"Well who did I fuck last night?" Viggo asked. "Who fucked me?"

"Some kid who you think looks like this little whore," Lizzie replied. "Any one of a number of kids in their jeans and their leather jacket. They’re indistinguishable from each other."

"No, you’re wrong," Viggo said. "This was him. This was Elijah." He stood up. "Wait."

He went to the darkroom, picking up the shot of Elijah on the bed, morphing into the boy from the cemetery, and took it back to the kitchen, laying it carefully in front of Lizzie.

"Don’t touch it," he warned. "Look at him, Lizzie."

Lizzie did as she was told, and was silent for long minutes, long enough for Viggo to start fidgeting, reaching for his mug of cooling coffee and then pulling away without touching it.

"Well?" he said finally, unable to wait any longer.

"You can’t see his face in the other shots," she said, somewhat defensively. "Just because this kid has dark hair doesn’t mean it’s the same one."

"You know it is," said Viggo. "You know it’s him. Look at him, Lizzie, really look at him." Viggo paused. "He’s exquisite."

"And he fucks like a rabbit?" Lizzie looked up and smiled, although her eyes were slightly hooded. "This is creepy." She paused, looking at the photographs again. "He’s a beauty, I admit, but a bit pretty for me." She looked back at Viggo. "Did you bring me my football player?"

"Yes, he’s in my bag," Viggo answered absently. "I couldn’t fit him all in, so I brought you the bit you’d want the most."

"His brain?" Lizzie asked brightly, and Viggo laughed. "No," she amended. "That probably wouldn’t take up too much room. Bet his dick would. What was Elijah’s dick like?"

"Lizzie!" Viggo laughed. "Very nice, thank you for asking."

"How did it happen?" she asked. "How did he get into your photographs?"

"I don’t know," Viggo replied honestly. "I don’t have an explanation; I don’t think there is an explanation, or at least not one that wouldn’t make us both candidates for locking up. But there he is, and last night, I was in that boy’s bed, fucking him until he begged for mercy." He put his hands over his face. "Lizzie … the photographs don’t do him justice."

Lizzie sat back, and Viggo could see that she was uneasy.

"So what now?" she asked. "What are you going to do? Give up your life here? Go and be romantic in New York with him? You would hate it."

"No, nothing like that," Viggo said. "I don’t know. I may never see him again, and maybe this will take on the air of some ridiculous dream, a fantasy that never really happened." He reached out and touched the photograph again. "I don’t know. I’d like to see him again, like to touch him again."

"What about him?"

"I don’t know," Viggo said again. "We didn’t talk much. I don’t know much about him."

"Like his age?" Lizzie sat forward. "He’s very young."

"Old enough," Viggo retorted. He sat back. "I don’t know what else to say. I met him, I showed him these …" he gestured to the photographs …"and we went to bed. He offered himself before I even realised what was happening." He shrugged. "Maybe he does that with everybody, but I don’t think so."

"That would make him a whore," Lizzie said.

"No. The one thing he asked me was that I don’t make him into a whore." Viggo gathered the photographs close and put them face down on the table, suddenly finding that he didn’t want to discuss it any further. "Enough, Lizzie. Tell me about this appointment I have next week."

Lizzie took the hint and let Viggo change the subject.

~~**~~

It was late at night, when Lizzie had gone and Viggo had been sitting for a long time thinking of nothing, that the shrilling of his cellphone disturbed him. Lizzie had obviously been at it again, since the ringtone now appeared to be "The A Team".

Glancing at the display, Viggo didn’t recognise the number and so when he spoke he was professional and businesslike.

"Hi, is that Viggo?"

He recognised the voice immediately, and his heart pounded painfully in his chest before settling to a fast rhythm.

"Yes, yes it is. Hi, Elijah."

"Hi." There was an awkward silence before Elijah spoke again. "I wanted to call, wanted to say hi, see how you are."

"I’m fine," Viggo said, wanting to put the boy at ease. "I enjoyed myself last night, very much."

"So did I. Er, did the photographs come out okay?"

"Oh yes! Tell me, would you like copies?"

"Oh, I don’t know about that." Elijah laughed, the sound breathy and nervous. "It may look kinda weird, y’know? Porno shots of me all around the apartment."

"They’re not porn," Viggo said. "They’re beautiful. You’re beautiful."

"For a photographer you have no eye for beauty," Elijah said disparagingly. "I’m anything but beautiful."

"Why do you say that?" Viggo asked. "I think you’re exquisite."

"I’m from Iowa, did I tell you?" Elijah asked, seemingly changing the subject. "Men are men out there, you know. I was an awful disappointment to my dad when I turned out like this, bug-eyed and weird. He wanted a big, handsome son he could go to the bar with. If I ever went to a bar with him, he would apologise for me." He laughed, but Viggo could hear the effort behind it. "Used to kick seven shades out of me whenever he’d had too much to drink."

"No." Viggo leaned forward, curling around the phone, as if trying to protect Elijah. "Nobody has any right to do that to another person."

"Ah well, he thought he did, and he was my dad." Elijah paused. "I’m sorry, I don’t know why I told you that. It’s not like I expect you to care."

"I do care," Viggo said, almost surprising himself. "Tell me, is that why you moved to New York? To get away from him? To meet like-minded people?"

Elijah laughed again, still strained. "I guess. But mainly I got sick of dad’s drunken friends saying that I look like a girl. Telling me to put a dress on and sit on their knee. It stops being funny real quick."

"Ignorant fuckers," Viggo breathed, his fingers curling as if touching dark hair. "Do you ever go home?"

"God, no. If dad found out I was gay he’d rip my innards out and hang me up for the birds," Elijah said. "Funny, ‘cos if he knew about his buddy Sheldon – Sheldon! What sort of fucking name is that – he’d maybe not judge so fast."

"What did Sheldon like to do?" Viggo asked.

"Stuff." Elijah paused. "You wanna know? Why?"

"Because I want to know about you," Viggo said. "I don’t know when I’ll get to New York again, don’t know when I’ll see you again, but I want to picture you, want to know about you. Tell me about your dad’s buddy."

"Okay." Elijah paused and Viggo closed his eyes to try and hear his breathing, judge how he felt, but there was silence.

"Okay," Elijah said again. "Sheldon was the recipient of my first ever blow job. Caught me jerking off one Sunday afternoon and threatened to tell dad."

"Would that have been so bad?" asked Viggo.

"Christ, yes! Dad was god-fearing, bible-bashing, you name it. If he could have made me, I would have had to take a piss without touching my dick. He would have – well, he wouldn’t have been too happy with me, y’know?"

"So your dad’s buddy made him blow you?"

"He promised not to tell," Elijah said, and his voice was quiet and young. "It wasn’t so bad. Just kind of hypocritical. I left as soon as I could, left Iowa, left everything, came here." He paused. "What do you think now? Am I still exquisite?"

"Yes," Viggo said immediately.

"I don’t know why I’m telling you this," Elijah said again. "I only met you yesterday. Why am I telling you this?" He paused. "I liked last night, you know? Enjoyed it. Felt … safe."

"Good." Viggo stood up. "Shall I tell you about the shots? About how the light reflects off your skin. You’re hard to look at straight on; it feels easier to look at you from the corner of the eye sometimes."

"What?" Elijah laughed and Viggo smiled, relieved.

"It’s late," Elijah said after a silence. "Maybe I should go."

"No!" Viggo’s response was immediate and heartfelt. "I didn’t realise it was so late, but I’d like to talk to you for a while longer. Where are you?"

"At home. In bed." Elijah’s voice was soft. "It’s taken me all day to dare to make this call." He paused. "The bed still smells of you. I didn’t change the sheets." He laughed. "Where are you?"

"In the dark room, looking at the shots of you," Viggo replied. "It’s dark outside, the moon’s not out tonight. Quiet."

"It’s never quiet here. Tell me about where you live."

"It’s a little town, narrow-minded I suppose, but the people here have known me all my life and so they tolerate me. I’d like you to meet my friend Lizzie one day. She’s mad and very good for me. Called me a retard three times in once sentence earlier today."

"Really? Sounds like my kind of woman." Elijah was silent again.

"What?" Viggo asked.

"Do you think we’ll be friends? I know that sounds really pathetic and needy, but … I don’t usually mind one-night stands, y’know? A good fuck and no embarrassing exchanging of phone numbers. But … well, let’s just say I had to charm the receptionist so that I could get your number. I wanted your number, but didn’t know how to ask."

"How about, ‘Viggo, could I have your number?’" Viggo laughed, pleased more than he could say.

"Okay. Viggo, could I have your number?"

"No, you’ve already got it, you stalking fucker." Viggo smiled as Elijah laughed uproariously.

"How do you think I got into those other photographs?" Elijah asked eventually. "That’s really creepy."

"Maybe you were lonely," Viggo answered thoughtfully, closing the door to the dark room and making for his own bedroom. "Maybe you were just looking for me."

"You’re weird," Elijah said, his voice muffled slightly as he yawned. "Man, I’m tired. You really put me through it last night."

"I loved every second of it," said Viggo. "Talking to you, laughing with you, drinking with you…. fucking you."

"God, I loved it." Elijah’s voice was barely more than a whisper. "I can still taste you, still feel you." His voice was chocolate-dark, and Viggo’s body tingled with remembered pleasure. He slid into bed, closing his eyes as he listened to Elijah’s breathing.

"What are you doing?" he asked softly.

"Nothing," Elijah said. "Lying here, thinking about last night, wondering how I can persuade you to come see me real soon. What about you?"

"The same," Viggo said. "In bed, thinking about you."

"Fancy a bit of telephone sex?" Elijah asked. "I’m not very good at it, I’m telling you now."

"No," Viggo said. "I don’t. I’m not very good either. I tend to stop listening and then I’m not sure where the other person’s at." He paused again. "Are you tired?"

"Yeah." Elijah’s breathing was deeper now, steadier. "Viggo? Do you think … would you be willing to give this a chance?"

Viggo closed his eyes, drawing his knees up to his chest, listening to Elijah’s silence.

"Viggo?" His voice was soft.

"Yes," Viggo said. "Yes, I would. You caught me, Elijah. I don’t know how you did it, don’t know how you got into my mind, into my camera, for fuck’s sake."

"I remember that I got into you as well last night," Elijah said, laughing softly. "Fucking excellent. In every sense of the word."

Viggo echoed Elijah’s laugh, and they both fell silent.

"Are you asleep?" Viggo asked at last, the only reply being a breathy grunt. "Hang up the phone then, if you can. I’ve got your number now. I’ll call you tomorrow."

"Tell me all about you," Elijah muttered, clearly almost asleep.

"I will." Viggo paused again, listening to the steady breathing at the other end of the phone. "Goodnight, Elijah."

TBC

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