| Title: Sunkissed Author: Jo Series: Boys On Film, part 3 Pairing: Harry Sinclair/Karl Urban Rating: PG13 Summary: Sun kisses caught on film. Disclaimer: This so never happened. Well, it might have, but they didn't see fit to tell me about it. Or show me the video. Which is a shame, really. Author's Notes: Written for the contrelamontre challenge - Write a story from the point of view of someone who's neither part of the pairing, nor in love with one or more parts of the pairing. Time limit of 60 minutes. Finished in 34 minutes. And before anyone else asks, no. The camera man is *not* Viggo.
Harry looks over and asks if you're comfortable. You don't answer, choosing to just nod your head in reply. Words from you might destroy the magic, and you don't want that. Never that. Karl catches your nod and flashes you a quick, easy grin. It's infectious, that grin, and you can't help but return it. And then...yes, then Harry touches him. And you're glad that you thought to start the camera recording before Harry ever spoke to you. If not, you would have missed this. And that would be a shame bordering on tragic. Their long, lanky bodies are sprawled on a large chaise, just barely touching, chests bare to the sun, legs encased in faded denim on Harry's part and tattered, cotton pajama trousers on Karl's part. And somehow, that seems fitting. You wonder if those articles of clothing will remain on them through the end of this video. You think they might. Something - some unspoken thing - tells you that this video will catch a very different facet of their relationship. And you like that idea. You like the fact that they've chosen to share this with you. The viewfinder compresses the scene, frames it, limiting what you can see to a tiny square pressed against your eye. That's also fitting. To look directly at them would be wrong, somehow. You wouldn't understand. But, through the camera, you think you might understand them. You aren't sure. You never are. And you don't mind. This is your art form, this camera in your hand. And they are your more than willing subjects. What the three of you create, together, surpasses the bounds of art. It's more than art, yet less than at the same time. It just is. You smile a little as Harry leans in to Karl, chests barely brushing, lips finally touching. Your smile widens a little as Karl's lips part under Harry's kiss. And...yes. There. A flash of pink tongue, joined by another. And you wonder, in the abstract manner of a true artist, what Karl tastes like. You think that, maybe, he tastes like chocolate. A rich, dark, decadent, imported chocolate. And cream. With just the slightest touch of cinnamon. You think that he just might taste like that because you know Harry adores chocolate. And cream. And cinnamon. The kiss continues, deep and slow and wet, and everything else around you fades. It always does. Fades until there is just you and the camera and them. More flashes of pink tongues, tangling and sliding together. Tiny kisses meant to tease, followed by deep kisses meant to enflame. And you know they do by the way one faintly sun-bronzed hand has come up to tangle in Karl's hair. You like that contrast - Karl's fall of midnight silk hair wrapped around Harry's tanned fingers. It looks good in the viewfinder. And you know it will look exquisite on the actual video. But then, they always do. Another deep kiss, and then Karl is pulling back just a little, letting his lips trail over Harry's cheek, down Harry's throat. Then you wonder what Harry tastes like. Perhaps he tastes like lemon and basil. No. That's not right. You continue to watch as Karl's lips trail back up Harry's throat to capture swollen lips damp with previous kisses. And then you know. Harry tastes of honey - clover honey - and apples. And the sun. Time loses all meaning as you sit there, filming kiss after kiss, your legs growing stiff against the hard wood beneath you. The light on them changes, going from brilliant gold to a deeper, richer copper, as the sun shifts, dropping in the sky. You worry briefly about losing the light, but you know you have nothing to fear. There will be enough light to catch all this, to catch all the rich kisses, to catch all the light, loving touches of fingers on bare skin. Enough light to catch Harry's finger lightly circling a puckered, dusky rose colored nipple as his lips trace a path along Karl's collarbone. Enough light to catch Karl's long, elegant fingers cradling the back of Harry's skull as his back arches, pressing his chest against Harry's. And the camera catches it all. It always does. You've long since forgotten how many videos you've made for them, each different, each unique. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that they're happy with them. You know they are, even though the three of you never discuss this. They must be happy. Because, each time, they call you back, invite you to witness the perfection. And it makes you feel good that they've allowed you in, allowed you to share a little of their world. You think it makes them feel good, too. But you won't ask. To ask would be to destroy the symbiosis that the three of you have developed over the months of filming. Then, just as you think you might have to pull back, think you might have to tell them that the light is finally fading too much, they stop. Or, rather, they don't. As you watch, camera still running in the purple twilight, Harry stands. His hand catches Karl's, pulls him up off the chaise. And Karl just smiles, leans in for another kiss before curling his fingers around Harry's. The camera captures every movement as Karl tugs gently, pulling Harry into the house. You don't follow. Not at first. You don't have to, because you know this video is finished. What happens next, there in the privacy of their bedroom, is not something they want to share this time. And that's okay. It amazes you enough that they're as comfortable as they are with your camera. Comfortable enough to share these oh so private moments of their life with you. Camera cradled in your lap, you watch as the last of the day's light fades, stars twinkling softly overhead. Then you stand and quietly slip into the house. Minutes later, you're letting yourself out the front door, latching it behind you. The video sits on the coffee table, like always. The label carries today's date, written in your neat handwriting. You wonder if they'll watch it later tonight, over shared glasses of wine. You think they will. And they'll like it. Of course they will. They always do.
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