Viggo is like molasses in January. Dom thinks he’s perpetually stuck in slow-motion, always stopping to smell the flowers. He’s like slowly melting ice, no matter how hard Dom tries to understand him, there’s another layer to see and explore. Like the New Year, every day with Viggo brings something new. He is like fire and cup of cocoa after a day out boarding with Orlando, warming Dom from his ears to his toes.

Dom’s eyes remind Viggo of the stormy winter clouds, heavy with snow. They’re full of anticipation, like he’s always waiting for something. He has potential, like a cloud. Will he be a snow flurry today, or a torrential downpour or maybe a light sprinkle?

February:

Viggo thinks Dom is like Cupid. Mischievous little puck, a shameless flirt, always ready to spread a little love. He gives Viggo a heart shaped box of chocolates the size of his head and a silly card full of love.

Viggo is the refined lover. He buys the finest wines at restaurants and goes on moonlit walks. He’s the one who blindfolds Dom, drives up to a reclusive meadow, and has a candle lit picnic for his lover.

March:

March comes in like a lion, goes out like a lamb. Viggo, when he’s upset or feels passionate about something, is a lion. He’ll fight to the death over someone—or something he values and isn’t afraid to show it. But he has that calm, sweeter side, the loving side that takes care of Dom when he’s sick or in desperate need of comfort. Dom loves both sides and every side in between.

If Dom were a mythical creature, he would be either a boggart or a leprechaun. Silly stick out ears and a large nose and a love of fun. Viggo always had to laugh at the tricks the hobbit would play on the men and elves, like throwing a fake spider on Orlando and causing him to scream in the girliest way. He could even put up with being called a Smelly Man because he knows full well that Dom doesn’t mean Aragorn at all.

August:

Viggo is like the last of the summer wine. There’s always something poetic about sipping a glass of wine in the evening during the summer. That’s what Viggo is to Dom, poetic. Living poetry. Dom can’t put into words how Viggo lives, breathes, embodies everything creative and artistic. Instead, under the stars, the summer wine forgotten, Dom shows him.

Dom is summer. His hair looks sun kissed and he has a natural glow to him. He’s full of boyish fun, trips to the beach, and sweet lemonade. He’s sunbathing on the sand and running through the waves. Viggo loves to watch him in the water and paint him, and show Dom just how he reminds him of summer.

December:

Dom loves Christmas. Always had, since he was a wee lad. He tells Viggo running down the stairs a million miles an hour to check if Santa ate his cookies (homemade, by his grandmum) and what kind of presents he's been left. Viggo imagines a six year old Dom, sitting in the middle of a flurry of wrapping paper, glowing with the joy only a child has and smiles. Dom, it seems, never lost that childish glee. Dom looks at Viggo and asks him what he's smiling at. Viggo kisses his lover and sighs. "The best gift," he tells Dom, "doesn't ever come wrapped up or on Christmas." Dom smiles, mods, and hands Viggo another gift.

Slashababy 2004 Stories