Work Text:
He didn't want to photograph Richard, didn't want the barrier of the lens, the static distance in an exposure. What he wants are blended colors on fabric, brushstrokes delineating shadow and light. When he asks, careful but direct - would Richard consider sitting for him? - he's half expecting a gentle, self-deprecating refusal. Instead the acceptance is quiet, slightly hesitant, yet straight-forward and undeniably certain. It surprises him, agreement given without the need for persuasion or argument. He can't be sure but he thinks something passes between them, cool and tungsten-dipped, the pooling of silk on skin, and he pulls himself up, straightens to his full height, eyes intent on Richard's, searching but not yet finding answers.
Days before the appointed time, he sets up the canvas, new and stretched taut in the frame, light from the bedroom window pale and clear across the surface. He collects his paints, cleans an assortment of brushes and knives, readies a palette and assembles lighting. There will be few props, only one or two that are essential, and he moves them into the drawer of his bedside table, won't let them get lost in the chaos of daily life. Mostly he sits with the image of the painting living in his mind, breathing through him until he's flush with it, like new life in his veins, its texture and depth prickling his fingers.
It's late when Richard arrives, filming done for the week, shorn of Thorin's locks but still hidden behind the thickness of his beard. In Dean's mind, the face in the painting is clean-shaven but it doesn't matter tonight. Those features will be obscured, blended into the shadows. They exchange few words, their manner almost formal. He doesn't offer Richard anything more than a bottle of water, doesn't provide any preambles or preliminaries. If Richard finds the atmosphere strange he doesn't say. He seems neither nervous nor at ease, and Dean trails a hand across the back of his shoulders, an odd tension keeping the muscles alert and responsive. He smiles up into Richard's face, see's openness and trust, the hint of something that quietly settles in Dean's gut, twining and twisting until he can feel the burn deep in his belly.
After a minute he leads him upstairs, directs him to remove his clothes. Richard's eyes momentarily dart around the room, looking for the costume that doesn't exist. Finally he focuses on Dean, more intrigued than questioning, and slowly unzips his sweatshirt, elegant fingers arcing over the soft cotton. Unconsciously, he looks down as he pulls his arms free and when he looks up Dean is directly in front of him, already taking hold of one dangling sleeve. Richard lets him take it, licks already moistened lips, then yanks his t-shirt over his head and off, pressing it into Dean's outstretched hand.
Dean wants to look away from Richard's eyes, let his gaze pour over the sculpted form before him, but there will be time for that later, so much time he must be careful not to get drunk from an overindulgence in heated skin. So he merely takes a step back, carefully folding the shirts over his arm, eyes briefly flickering down to Richard's still-jean-clad legs before returning to the saturated warmth of his eyes. He hears a belt being unbuckled, a zipper opening, and then Richard's bending over, folding and flexing to shove sneakers and socks off with each pant leg.
He stands upright again, jeans held roughly in one hand, and pauses, unsure whether the plan is for him to continue. Dean feels drawn toward the elastic of the boxers, a pull to take hold and draw them down until they're pooled around Richard's ankles, but all he does is stand and wait, his face passive but his eyes revealing a carefully harbored flame. Richard drops his jeans, then slides his shorts down until they fall from his fingers, takes one confident step forward to free himself from the last of his clothing. He is tall and straight and strong, and Dean swallows, forces himself to take two steadying breaths before he steps aside and motions toward the bed.
As Richard sits on the edge, Dean picks up the rest of his clothes and moves to drape them on the back of a chair, deliberately scraping his knuckles across the rough nub of the upholstery. He pauses a moment, allows the image of the finished painting to flood his mind, before turning back and directing Richard into position. Richard responds to instruction with eerie accuracy, finding the angles and lines with only Dean's voice to guide him. But it's only now that Dean realizes how much he'd wanted the opportunity to touch, to shape Richard's long form into the vision in his head. So he pretends there's need for adjustment, gently coaxes limbs another fraction of an inch as Richard's eyes bore through him, lighting small kindling fires beneath his skin.
He'd intended to have Richard looking away, the neck elongated, the head almost lost in darkness. But now that he's here, Dean wants to look at his features, see the play of thoughts and emotions that cross his face. So he cups Richard's cheek and nudges slightly down, a more relaxed angle that has him looking directly at the easel, the edge of a pillow hopefully providing enough support. For a second he wishes he'd changed the sheets, let Richard ease into the crisp coolness of a freshly-made bed. But Richard's eyes darken slightly as he breathes in Dean's unmasked, un-perfumed scent, and Dean can't look away for a minute, feels slightly dizzy with want, before he clears his throat and reaches into the bedside table, pulling out a chain of dog tags and a long swath of camouflage material.
He carefully wraps the fabric around one thigh, carefully draping the remainder down the length of his leg. He thinks about giving Richard the dog tags to put on himself, but even as the thought enters his mind Dean's already kneeling up on the bed, cradling the back of Richard's neck, helping him to ease up slightly before pulling the chain over his head. Richard sinks back against the sheet while Dean positions the tags against his chest, allowing the pads of his fingers to linger, to mark his thirst upon Richard's skin. He stands by the side of the bed, observing his creation through an artist's eyes veiled by hunger. He makes the mistake of catching Richard's gaze, raw and unguarded, expectant yet restrained and so completely fucking sure, and he has to wrestle with himself to focus on the task at hand. Now he moves around the room, adjusting lights and reflector panels, until there's nothing but perfection before him. He cranks up the heat in the room, doing his best to make Richard comfortable, then on a whim strips out of his own shirt before stepping behind the easel, picking up the first brush.
He's been painting for hours but he knows he's done all he can for one night, the constant flow of creativity better than any energy drink, but he's glad the weekend is upon them with no need for coherency the rest of the day. He's fairly certain Richard's fallen asleep, by some miracle not moving even in rest, and he drops the brush in water and simply watches him breathe. It's slightly mesmerizing, his body unconsciously matching the rhythm in the rise and fall of Richard's breath. There's a steady pulse in the room, bending the air around them into new and vibrant shapes Dean thinks he can almost see. He takes one last look at the progress of the painting, is pleased with its subtlety and form, and decides it's time for sleep, leave Richard here and crash on the sofa downstairs.
The duvet is shoved down at the foot of the bed, and he starts to bend to pull it over Richard, hoping the feel of the fabric won't wake him but will still signal to his brain that it's okay to relinquish the pose. But then Richard's eyes lazily open, slow and sultry and impossibly alert, a long and demanding appraisal freezing Dean where he stands. There's a silent command there, powerful and undeniable, one that draws Dean toward the bed, pushes him to kick off his sandals, yank down his jeans and briefs, and crawl in beside Richard, pulling the duvet over them both as he settles.
The first drops of sun begin to peek through the drawn curtains, and Richard turns slightly toward him, only a small groan of complaint in moving long-still muscles, and urges Dean closer. Once more Dean carefully positions him, coaxing and massaging until Richard is on his side. The clink of the dog tags is barely audible, but something in the sound sends pleasant shivers through Dean's spine. He presses gently against Richard's back, curling tired arms around his waist, pulling him close. He hears a contented sigh of breath and responds with a low hum of approval and happiness then closes his eyes, buries himself in the nape of Richard's neck, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as he drifts into sleep.