"You used to paint."

"Gave it up years ago."

"Why?"

"It happens. People do things in their youth they won't do anymore when they grow up. You know." Then Sean laughs, because there's a new painting drying in Viggo's trailer. "Or maybe, you don't."

"I didn't," Viggo says, quietly, "use to paint in my youth."

The smell of oil paint and turpentine is heady, made of bright colors.

"What," Sean breathes, "did you use to do?"

Long fingers, stained gold and blue, find their way in Sean's hair.

"Women," Viggo says – leans closer – can feel Sean's smile against his own.