A Picture's Worth

by Pic

Rated: A, Slash

Pairing:Tom McLaren/Ryan Simms

Spoilers: Significant for Vertical Limit

Summary: Tom and Ryan deal with their relationship given the impetus of a "Sunbathing" picture in the Spring Challenge on the NickZone.

Disclaimer: Recognizable characters aren't mine.

Series: This is a sequel to No Regrets and Parisian Regrets. You don't have to have read those to delve into this story, but it would help. Thanks, as always, to Missy for making me think about the whys and wherefores of the whole thing. And I suppose I must also thank whoever selected the picture that inspired this.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Ryan Simms sipped his margarita, enjoying the way the tequila eased the ache of muscles pushed to the limit as much as he savored the view of Tom McLaren's ass in nicely fitting jeans bent over a pool table a few feet away. It wasn't that he'd decided not to be discreet about their relationship during the second phase of their training in Utah, as Tommy wanted; Ryan just seized the opportunity presented. Men watched other men play pool in bars every day. And it was eye opening in a pleasant way to see Tommy at ease with his climbing crowd.

A successful bank shot brought choruses of groans and cheers from the betting public. Tom's formal bow to his audience raised the noise level still higher and brought a delighted grin to Ryan's face.

"He's really something, isn't he?" The blonde, perfectly tanned woman in the team he and Tom had raced up a sheer rock face that morning appeared at Ryan's elbow, refilling her drink from the pitcher on his table. He was about to make some vague noise of agreement when he realized that she wasn't talking to him.

"He is perfection," her dark haired Italian climbing partner replied, licking gorgeous, full lips that were darkened with drunkenly reapplied lipstick.

Ryan tried to make himself small and unobtrusive, but La Principessa, as he'd heard her called, turned bright, not completely focused eyes on him. "Are you certain he is not your brother?"

"Very." The question didn't bother him; people asked it all the time in one way or another. What bothered Ryan was that the women were already back to watching Tommy, and they didn't have to be subtle about it.

"They have to be related," the Italian insisted, her petulance becoming a purr when Tom again addressed the cue ball.

"What business is it of ours?" the blonde asked.

You got that right.

When the three ball fell into the side pocket, the Italian was quick to comment. "Bravo."

McLaren shouted, "Thanks," without looking up from the table and Ryan hid a triumphant smile behind his drink.

Reaching for the pitcher again, the blonde smiled at Ryan and said, "I'm Liz. This is Francesca."

The Italian's attention remained occupied elsewhere. "I must have sex with that man," Francesca announced in a whisper that carried to Ryan, as she dramatically pointed at Tom with, Ryan was forced to admit, a deliciously fit arm.

"Go for it," Liz murmured while she refilled Francesca's drink, smiling in a 'You-see-what-I-have-to-put-up-with' way at Ryan.

"You think I will not?" Francesca challenged.

"Wouldn't dream of it, sweetie."

Nearly missing her mouth with her raised glass, Francesca warned, "You know better than to bet against me in an affair of passion."

I'll take that bet.

Another look at Francesca watching Tom eroded Ryan's confidence. One of these days I'm gonna lose him to a sexy bitch like her.

Liz held out her hand and Ryan absorbed her expectant stare, fighting back the impulse to be rude since she was at least trying for polite. "My name's Ryan."

"How long have you been climbing with Tom?" Liz asked. "You work well together."

"A good plan, Elizabetta," Francesca said, nodding to emphasize her approval. "You take little brother and leave Thomas to me. Por Dio, he has a beautiful body."

"Don't mind her," Liz cautioned, even as she smiled shyly at Ryan. "How long have you and Tom been a team?"

Her choice of words drew a reluctant smile. "Almost two years," Ryan replied, sneaking a peek at Francesca who appeared to be examining the exposed wood beams of the ceiling, rather than panting after his lover as he'd expected.

Sixteen and a half months isn't almost two years, Simms.

"Since his second Everest ascent?"

The other guy, Jim something, was shooting and Francesca was quietly contemplating trusses, so Ryan relaxed a little. "Yeah. We met on the mountain, so they say."

Liz giggled obligingly.

Mistake, Simms. She's on the prowl, too. Just about a million times subtler about it than her friend.

"I heard it was rough on the way down."

"Thomas can be as rough as he wants," Francesca murmured, gripping Liz on the shoulder, nearly bouncing with enthusiastic excitement. "The bruises would declare to everyone how much I inspired him." T

oo bad, Francesca; Tommy's too careful for that. Ryan smiled at the thought, acutely aware of the fading mark on his collarbone, just low enough to be covered by a t-shirt.

Liz turned to her partner. "For God's sake, girl. Proposition him already."

"I must decide upon the correct approach," Francesca countered. "And my mind can only see that shirt in tatters." Her smile was knowing and lascivious, and Ryan's irritation matured to anger.

"Pay attention to the here and now, Francesca," Liz advised. "Keep your photograph memories to have something to fall back on if he foolishly refuses your generous offer of a lot of sex without strings of any kind."

Ryan looked for a way to escape overhearing any more of this plot to get in Tom McLaren's pants. He wasn't sure how much further he could trust himself to keep quiet and knew that he had lost whatever desire he might have possessed to let Liz down easy.

"What man has ever refused an offer of such caliber?" Francesca asked, indignant and teetering on heels that were too high for her level of liquor consumption.

Shamelessly, Ryan cheered for her to fall on her pretty face.

Liz softly said, "You're drunk, Francesca."

"Answer my question."

"No man I know would refuse to fuck you silly."

Proves you don't know me, sweetheart.

"Exactly, cara." Suddenly, Francesca's eyes settled on Ryan. His own widened as she regally seated herself next to him and placed a hand on his thigh. "You were not here then, were you? When the picture that makes our mouths water was taken?"

Don't you mean foam? "What picture?"

Ignoring Ryan's question, Francesca's face brightened as an inspiration struck. "You climb with him; you might know. Is he seeing anyone?"

Before Ryan could think of an answer, Francesca continued, "What am I thinking?" Her avid dark eyes shifted back to the pool table. "Thomas never brings his women to Utah."

"Unless they climb," Liz noted, beginning to sound irritated.

"La strega Elaine was the only one who climbed." Francesca's smile became predatory and she rose with more grace than she had any right to in her inebriated state. "So far."

Head beginning to hurt from the effort of remaining calm and civil, Ryan muttered, "I ask again, what picture?"

Blushing, Liz-and every man in the bar, including Ryan but for vastly different reasons-watched Francesca glide toward the pool table. "One Elaine took of Tom."

When Francesca's hand settled on Tom's back, Ryan felt as though he'd been kicked in the gut. Liz's words barely penetrated his pain and impotent rage.

"She was fooling around with her new camera when a bunch of us were trashed up here a few years ago. I don't remember much of the actual event, but I was standing next to Elaine when Tom got a look at the picture. I think even Elaine was a little afraid of him. He was angry, an ultra-cold angry. She handed it over without a word. He got the negatives, too. "

"Was it obscene?" Ryan asked, thinking that there was no better word to describe Francesca's increasing familiarity with Tom's person. He didn't want to think about what might appropriately describe the intensity of his jealousy.

She can do everything for him that I can. And she can touch him in public.

"Not that, Ryan," Liz replied. "The photo was blazing hot and well, sort of reasonably tasteful. But, damn, he did not like it."

The calm answer brought Ryan back to himself somewhat. Hold on, Simms, PDA is your issue; Tommy hates that as a matter of principle.

"I have to know," he muttered with a sharp, edgy laugh, angry at himself for looking anywhere but at Tommy and his groupie. "What passes for sort of reasonably tasteful?"

Smiling, Liz shrugged and followed the path previously taken by a drop of condensation on her glass with a fingertip. "Maybe I'm not the best judge, but it seemed to be unintentionally artistic." Once she'd gotten started, her voice became more sure and her smile more rueful. "You couldn't see Tom's face; Elaine was no photographer and she could barely stand at the time. But he's got a body you could lose sleep over, just in the hope that you'd dream about it."

Ryan's face felt as though it would crack if he shifted expressions too quickly. "That's a pretty glowing endorsement," he admitted, not wanting to witness the woman's obvious discomfort but sympathetic to her plight. Tommy was a fine figure of a man, but Ryan hadn't ever considered whether his lover was photogenic in anything other than a disposable camera, casual, personal photo journal way.

"Yeah, too bad that picture is the most I ever saw of it."

Damn good thing or I'd have to kill you, too.

Ryan gulped at his margarita and tried to talk some sense to his internal Neanderthal. Listen to yourself, Simms. You sound like a shrew. No one wants a shrew. Not when they can have Ryan winced but forced himself to complete the thought. Not when they can have La Principessa without strings of any kind. The one small part of his mind screaming, "But Tommy likes strings," was overwhelmed by the view of all six feet of Francesca in heels, leather miniskirt and discreetly unbuttoned blouse standing close enough to Tom that her artfully tousled hair brushed his face as she murmured intimately in his ear. Given Tom's demand for privacy, Ryan had no easy outlet for his anger at the scheming women or himself for not being able to handle the situation or make it so Tommy could be comfortable with avoiding it.

Before Ryan sunk completely into a mire of his own making, Francesca shouted, "That simply cannot be, Thomas. I will not hear of it."

Ryan and Liz looked up in time to see Tom smile gently, leaning on his pool cue, and say, "I'm sorry."

Don't apologize to that groping bitch! Christ, Simms, get a grip, will you? Yeah, get a fucking grip on Tommy's arm and haul him the hell away from her!

"How could you do it, Thomas?"

It? What's this 'it?'"

Chuckling and shaking his head, Tom soothed, "It just happened. I didn't do anything in particular. Not really." Shrugging, Tom looked over Francesca's shoulder, gazing out the window at the waning sunset. "Life's like that sometimes."

Is that silence the happy sound of Francesca striking out?

Turning her back to Tom, Francesca made her declaration to the room at large. "He has fallen in love with someone else. And," she added, indignant, "he intends to be faithful."

Oh my God! Strike fucking three! Out number 27. Game over! Ryan could barely contain his elation, but basking in the knowledge that victory was his was suddenly enough.

"All right," the pool opponent said, clapping Tom on the shoulder. "About time you took the plunge."

"You still owe me twenty bucks," Tom retorted. "Per game."

"So you beat me three of three," the other man noted, reaching for his wallet. "I'll just skimp on your wedding present and let you buy the drinks."

Ryan smirked when Tom didn't even blink at the "W" word.

"I'm buying," said an older mountaineer, William Montague, who was seated in the corner alone with a pitcher of beer. "It's nice to get some good news. There's been too much of the other kind lately."

"Thanks, Bill," Tom acknowledged with a wave, as he steered Francesca back to their table and seated her in the chair furthest from Ryan. Turning back, he shouted, "I still owe you a bottle of what was it Maker's Mark, don't I?"

Catching Ryan's eye with a twinkle in his, Bill grinned at the memory. "We shared it a few months ago." Bill laughed at Tom's puzzled frown and added, "After you and mosquito boy Simms got back from the jungle." Still laughing, he raised his glass to Tom's blank look. "Trust me. Shared that and more. Don't bother trying to remember; we did all of that that was necessary then."

Ryan saw the shadow of Elaine's death on K2 move across Tom's face and was relieved when it almost vanished nearly as rapidly as it had come.

"Congratulations, Tom," Liz said, accepting a backhand slap on the arm from Francesca without rancor. "You deserve to be happy."

"I'm not sure what I deserve, but I know what I need and that's sleep." Despite the hint of sadness lingering in his eyes, Tom smiled at both women with enough wattage to pull Francesca out of her overblown funk. "I'm out of here. You done, Ryan?"

"Sure," he replied, not caring if they heard a bit of relief in his voice. Draining the remainder of his drink, Ryan stood and focused his eyes on the only place that was safe-the newly refilled pitcher of alcohol. "Ladies, enjoy the margaritas."

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

"Francesca was determined," Ryan observed from the bedroom in a voice loud enough to be heard over the water running for tooth brushing purposes in the bathroom.

"She always is."

The light, casual tone grated on Ryan's nerves but he did his level best to match it. "You ever give in to the inevitable?"

"Nothing is inevitable."

"Really?"

Stepping into the bedroom, Tom leaned back against the doorframe, looking cool and comfortable in a silk robe that deepened his eyes to jade. "Francesca isn't my style."

"That was my first thought," Ryan muttered, roaming eyes enjoying the way that Tom's broad shoulders tapered into slim hips that segued into long lean legs. "But I had some serious illusions shattered when she and Liz discussed The Picture."

Tom laughed. "That sounds ominous, Ryan. What movie did they recommend?"

"There had better not be one, Tommy. I don't think I could take that."

Undoubtedly hearing the edge in Ryan's voice, Tom assumed "that" look, the expression Ryan privately thought of as the "I'm the adult in this partnership" face. Giving Ryan a relatively wide berth, he walked around to his side of the bed. Sitting and leaning against the headboard, Tom sighed and closed his eyes. "What are you talking about, then?"

"A photograph," Ryan replied, looking over his shoulder at the older man. "A picture of you in a a tattered shirt."

"Tattered, huh? That sounds like Francesca."

"Don't change the subject, Tommy."

Green eyes a shade or two different from his own fastened on Ryan. "I'm not."

Swallowing was both difficult and necessary. "I want to see it. The Picture."

"What makes you think I have it?"

Ryan knew Tom was annoyed but wasn't sure why it wasn't appropriate to be curious about the photo when he was about nearly everything else that even obliquely concerned Tom. "There were rumors of confiscation."

"I was drunk off my ass. Elaine took advantage."

"She did that a lot." The words were out before Ryan's habitually lazy internal editor even thought about the possibility of censorship.

Tom didn't move, but Ryan felt his increased tension. "I let her."

Fortunately, Ryan thought, the challenging, "Did you?" remained inside his head. Not so pleasant was his sinking feeling that Tommy could view his interest in the photo as equally manipulative. It wasn't; Ryan wasn't manipulative by nature, just curious, but serious, potentially relationship-ending misunderstandings had been predicated on less. Helpless to contain himself, Ryan hesitantly ventured, "If you have it, I'd like to see you in all your tattered shirt glory, Tommy."

After a long silence, Tom answered, "If I do, it's in that box on my desk."

Unable to understand Tom's attitude of aggressive indifference, Ryan strolled, naked as the day he was born, to fetch the mother of pearl inlaid, darkly stained wooden box. Instead of looking through it in the study, Ryan brought the box back into the bedroom and held it out to Tom. His grin of surprise told Ryan that he'd scored points by not disturbing the precious contents.

Ryan was still congratulating himself on his restraint when Tom handed him a photograph, picture side down. Staring into Tom's eyes, Ryan couldn't fathom anything beyond a hint of mildly harassed boredom. With a sudden reversal, Ryan felt reluctant to look. This photograph belonged to Tom and Elaine; Ryan was entitled to nothing having to do with it. And yet, Tom had handed it over without fanfare or censure. That meant something, somehow, but Ryan's thoughts offered him no meaningful interpretation.

"Ryan? Something wrong?"

Christ, yes. I'm fucking afraid to see what you let her do. I don't want to compete with a dead woman and lose, not when I just won at least a moral victory over a live, extremely horny one. This might tell me what I don't fucking want to know-is this discretion shit you, or just you being ashamed of me?

He hadn't noticed Tom move, but the arms that came around his waist were as familiar as they were tense.

"It's just a stupid picture, Ryan," murmured a soft voice in his ear. God, Tommy, I hope so! I'd pray if I believed in anything enough.

"There's no reason for Jesus Christ, Simms, you're shaking." Tom's arms tightened around Ryan and his voice wasn't quite steady when he demanded, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Ryan handed the picture back to Tom, still face down. "I I'm sorry."

"For what?" Something in Ryan's face must've clued Tom in to how exasperated he'd sounded, because he instantly became more solicitous. "You aren't making sense, and you didn't have that many margaritas, so what's going on?"

"That has nothing to do with me."

Glancing down at the picture in his hand, Tom smiled. "Well, there's certainly nothing here you haven't seen before."

"I'm a bastard, Tom. A selfish bastard. Why do you put up with me?"

"Um let's see ," Tom made a show of giving the matter very serious thought. "It must be your insightful commentary on fellow climbers."

"Tommy." The single word was a warning that McLaren disregarded.

"No, I spoke too soon. Before I thought it through, if you get my meaning. I've really got to remember to exercise my brain cells more."

Ryan hated stalling even more than the fundamental fears that battered against logic and the strength of Tom's embrace. "Tommy? Spit it out, already."

"It's definitely the way you look at me when you want to be fucked through the wall."

Not quite completely taken with the thought of tabling fear, self-flagellation and the damn photo for hard, hot sex, Ryan sort of kept on target. But Tom talking about sex in that husky voice couldn't be completely denied his due. "God damn you, Tommy."

"I rate fire and brimstone now?"

"You're trying to distract me."

"Is it working?" Tom's laughter shook the bed and the lightheartedness that it represented got under Ryan's skin.

Nearly growling, he demanded, "Why do you put up with me?"

"Ok, Ryan," Tom soothed, shifted, and tugged.

Ryan allowed himself to be settled between Tom's legs and against his chest. The light touches that brushed along his thighs and chest, he accepted with a sigh.

"Since you won't take the dare, I guess it's truth-telling time."

"We've beaten around this bush, Tommy." Ryan forced himself to keep still under the teasing hands that wrongfully ignored his already aching cock.

"I'm not going to touch that!"

"Touch this, then." Breaking, Ryan moved Tom's hand between his legs, then caught his breath on a strangled cry as Tom slapped the hard, sensitive flesh once, twice, a third time. Playful enough that he didn't come with embarrassing speed, but with the edge to remind Ryan that Tom was in control and recall some of the intense places that Tom had driven him.

"I thought you had a burning question, Mr. Simms." Tom's voice brought Ryan's spiraling fantasies back to reality.

"Am I going to get an answer sometime this decade?"

"Are you sure you want one?" Tom stroked Ryan's cock, hard and fast, and Ryan couldn't resist the demanding hand.

"Yes," he moaned, but even Ryan didn't know whether he was answering Tom's question or begging for more.

"Are you listening, Ry?" Tom breathed the words directly into his ear. The vibrations rippled along his spine and it took him a moment to realize that the helping hand was still, just cradling his hardened flesh.

"I can listen while you do me, Tommy. Don't stop."

"Not this time," Tom murmured, squeezing, releasing, smiling at Ryan's mumbled protests.

Feeling lightheaded and docile, Ryan permitted Tom to turn his head so that they could look each other in the eye. At this moment, whatever it signified, Ryan knew he was young, inexperienced and overmatched.

When Ryan's breathing evened out, Tom whispered, "I put up with you because I love you more than I ever thought possible."

"Me?"

The weak question garnered a full-bellied laugh from Tom that Ryan felt from the top of his head to his hips. A sharp nip at the base of his throat sent a whole set of vastly different signals. "You," Tom whispered, punctuating his one word sentence with another bite of tender, unprotected flesh. "Who did you think I was talking about with Francesca? Skip Taylor?"

"I didn't-you weren't-," Ryan stuttered in confusion. "Why would you-?"

"Love you?" Tom grinned at Ryan's solemn, nearly reverent nod. "Because I can be myself with you. You " Tom faltered, took a deep breath and lowered his eyes. "I don't need to change into someone I don't like very much to prove that I care. You don't need handcuffs or tuxedos. Or pictures."

"I wouldn't mind them, though."

Shaking his head, Tom muttered, "Lions and tigers and bears."

"Oh my." Grinning, Ryan said, "Bring on those tigers in tuxedos."

"You are not a well man, Ry." He bent his head to lick along Ryan's throat.

Crazy thoughts about the healing power of saliva flew through Ryan's brain as he tried to assimilate all that had just occurred. "I'm getting better, though." The truth of his statement stunned Ryan with its obviousness. Confident now, he said, "Show me."

"Huh?" Tom seemed distracted by Ryan's neck.

"The Picture, McLaren," Ryan hissed, expressing both his wish and his pleasure at Tom's determined ministrations.

"I did, Master Ryan; you tossed it back at me."

Meeting Tom's eyes, Ryan admitted, "I think I'm ready now."

With a shrug, Tom handed the evidence over to the prosecution. Ryan turned the photograph over and froze. "If she wasn't falling down drunk when she took this, Elaine was a fucking genius."

"Excuse me."

"Nothing, not even sleeping with you on a regular basis, could've prepared me for this." Ryan stared at the photograph. "This is a fucking wet dream. Tommy," Ryan murmured, leaning back into McLaren, "you don't even look real."

"What are you talking about?"

"Look at this!" Ryan exclaimed, holding the picture up where Tom could see it, unwilling to accede any credibility to his lover's question. "I want to lick along this single thread so badly that I think I'll die if I don't."

"Melodrama doesn't suit you, Simms."

"False modesty doesn't do much for you either, Tommy." Ryan traced a photographed sinewy thigh with a reverent fingertip. "Where was this pool?" When Tom just laughed and gestured vaguely, Ryan demanded, "Where, Tommy?"

"Here," Tom replied softly. "The hotel pool."

"We're going down there," Ryan announced, pulling against Tom's arms.

"No, Ryan. There's nothing there for us."

"Are you kidding? I've got a white T-shirt you can shred."

Closing his eyes, Tom took a deep breath and held on to Ryan tightly, leaning his head against the younger man's shoulder. "I'd rather wear the robe you bought me, Ry." Tom moved his body so that the heavy silk rubbed lightly along Ryan's back and arms.

Ryan shivered in reaction and his neglected cock clamored for renewed attention.

"You were right about something earlier, Simms."

Unconsciously emulating his cock, Ryan sat up straighter. "An admission of my correctness by Thomas Evan McLaren? I'm all ears."

Craning his neck to glare at Ryan without any real heat, Tom muttered, "This picture isn't about us. We we're past it."

"Past? Hello, Earth to Tom McLaren. I'm so not past worshiping that body."

"That body isn't what it used to be."

The negative emotions whirling around that statement shocked Ryan, but his sense of humor didn't fail him. "Good thing I love you for your mind."

Laughter resounded in the bedroom before a sure hand on Ryan's hard cock drew a gasp instead of a chuckle. Uncertain, he said, "Tommy?"

Positioning Ryan's hand to hold the photograph where both of them could see it, Tom murmured, "Look at me, Ryan." When the younger man wiggled to turn his body to more comfortably look behind him, Tom clarified, "Look at me as I was."

Unable to resist his lover's compelling intensity, Ryan settled in Tom's arms and gazed at the photo, comparing in an almost itemized fashion what he saw with what he felt against his body and the detailed mental picture he'd made during their time together.

"Tell me what you see."

Ryan could no more have refused the softly uttered command than he could have torn himself away from the body that surrounded him. "The the arms haven't changed much," he gasped. The one shown in the picture looked as strong, steady, warm and safe as the ones that held him now.

"What else?"

"I wish I could see your fingers." Ryan's voice cracked as a single live finger moved along the length of his cock, far more gently than he wanted.

"My fingers?" Sounding amused, Tom curled all ten of them around Ryan's cock in an almost lazy caress that promised to drive him insane.

"Yeah. The way your hand ends in shadow is so fucking hot," Ryan panted. Tom's unvoiced laughter hummed against his back. "I like your hands, asshole." They were working him wickedly now, flicking quickly across the head of his cock, spiraling down the length, cradling and rolling his balls, dipping lower to brush nerve endings screaming for attention.

Whimpering softly, Ryan forced his eyes back to the picture. "The legs have maybe a little less definition now, but I nearly collapsed following you up that rock today so I know damn well that you haven't lost any strength or flexibility." Falling silent, Ryan noted that he'd been wrong in thinking that Tom had made his peace with the progression of his washboard stomach to the tiny belly that was only apparent when naked.

"You like what you see."

The low, rumbling whisper wasn't really a question. "Ye yeah, Tommy, I do."

Hand tightening around Ryan in exactly the way the younger man liked it, Tom murmured, "But not better than what you get?" Ryan moaned, helpless in the grip of Tom's voice as well as his hand. "Open your eyes, Ryan, and look at who I used to be."

Ryan giggled. When Tom's hand froze, Ryan whispered, "Old joke to to the new guy in town ask asking for directions. Well, you turn where the billboard or drugstore or whatever used to be." The deep, full-throated laughter tickled Ryan's ear and drew a wordless plea for mercy and more from his lips.

Drawing on Ryan's tortured flesh with light pressure from short fingernails, Tom asked, "Are you sure that it wasn't 'You can't get there from here?'"

"Oh, God, Tommy. No. No, it was wasn't that." Application of greater friction was too rapidly becoming a memory. "Please."

"What does the picture say to you, Ryan?"

"Fuck me."

"Is that the picture talking or you?" Tom laughed.

"Both," Ryan groaned, finally recovering enough of his senses to shift his ass meaningfully against Tom. The moan from the older man emboldened him. "I'm caught between the fantasy and the reality, the then and the now."

"Sounds painful."

"It damn well is." Ryan's irritation and concentration on turning the tables of seduction shattered when Tom nibbled at his neck at the same time as he stroked his balls. "That's so good, Tommy," he sighed.

"You know what that picture says to me, Ryan?"

Ryan tilted his head to meet Tom's eyes. "Tell me."

"It screams 'Look at the body, no smoke, not one mirror, just one hundred percent, genuine Tom McLaren.' And it's loud, isn't it? Obvious." A deep breath later, he added, "It had to be, I guess, since there were so many doubts to shout down." Almost absently, Tom's hand returned to Ryan's cock, moving with fiendish precision to polish the slick head with his palm until Ryan could barely hear over the roar of pounding blood and gasping breath.

"Was I good enough for Everest, much less K2, or was I going to be stuck with the second tier peaks? Was I good enough to be liked, never mind loved for what I was, rather than what other people wanted me to be? Would I ever be able to explain why I needed to climb mountains to my parents or was I actually doing it to avoid 'getting a real job' like they both thought? Why wasn't being with Elaine enough? Why hadn't being with Katarina, Ellen or Susan been enough? Was I fated to die alone? Was-?"

Ryan's cock was throbbing with the need to come. "God, fuck, Tommy, stop!"

"No." Tom's mouth covered Ryan's, soft, sweet, sexy, pulling Ryan toward the edge as surely as his clever hand was.

Nearly sobbing, Ryan pleaded, "I oh, Jesus, I'm trying to to hear you."

Smiling into Ryan's frantic face, Tom said, "You already have." His hand moved with perfect speed and pressure, drawing Ryan inexorably toward climax, until he came explosively, screaming Tom's name.

Resting limply in his lover's arms a few moments later, Ryan whispered, "You're not alone."

"I know."

Hoping that a small sojourn into humor would be appreciated, Ryan asked, "You don't regret that, do you, Tommy?"

Drawing a mountain in the semen covering Ryan's stomach, Tom retorted, "What do you think?"

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Tom McLaren rolled over and came immediately awake to the now strange and disconcerting feeling of being alone in bed. The dislocation was all the more striking given the pleasant aches Tom had in all the right muscles. Ryan was nothing if not creative in bed, and Elaine's picture had definitely inspired him.

"Now where the hell is he?" Tom sat up and squinted at the bedside clock. Grumbling about the air-conditioned chill in the room, he stood and donned his robe to make the trek to wrest Ryan away from his electronic toys. Before he reached the door, Tom saw the dim light of the screen saver on Ryan's laptop computer and stopped to turn it off before the battery died.

As soon as he touched the mouse, his name leapt off the screen. Tom stared for a moment, uncomprehending, before the second line of text caught his attention and he sat down to obey.

Tommy,

(Yes. Read this.)

Wow. Liz and Francesca had described The Picture (as if mere words could do it justice), but I must admit that the real thing took my breath away. God, Tommy, what on earth possessed you? How the hell was my staid, dependable, no nonsense mountaineer persuaded to pose, actually pose, for something like that? Who helped you get your shirt into that state? Who decided how wet it should be and what it should cover (or what it shouldn't?) Why the hell wasn't it me?

And don't think the questions stopped there, because they didn't. Was there anyone else watching? What were you thinking when she was snapping away like a Playgirl photographer? What was she thinking? Did the two of you have sex afterwards? Did you even make it back to your room? Did Elaine ever get herself off looking at that picture? Did anyone else? How many copies were made and who got them? What does this picture mean to those who've seen it? What did the eyes of those beholders say about the beauty that's immortalized on that small bit of film?

I have the questions. And I want the answers. Inquiring minds definitely want to know. But, then again, there are a lot of things that I've wanted (and still want) from you. Unexpectedly, last night, I received so many of them, so fast, that I could barely catch my breath. I was too stunned by the unexpected riches; I didn't say what was uppermost on my mind.

Thanks, Tommy.

I get it now. I really do. I know that I'm dense and immature and a whole lot of not so perfect things sometimes. Well, most of the time. So, ok, fine, maybe nearly all the time. BUT (one T, not two, smart ass) sometimes a message can sneak past all of my denseness and immaturity and fear and smack me upside the head (or on the two t butt).

You need your privacy, and I respect that. I do. But that need made it impossible for me to shout from the top of whatever we climbed, "Tom McLaren is taken. He's mine. All mine." Before I met you, I never thought I'd want to do anything like that, much less need it. But I do. Or at least I did. Need it.

Whenever other people around us appreciated you for the fine (and sexy) man that you are, I felt like well, this is harder to admit than I thought I felt like I imagine that a mistress must feel. Cheap. Shabby. Isolated. And completely and utterly unworthy of the man who had chosen to share their bed. More twisted and dangerous than that, I'd convinced myself that your reticence was false. I believed that you were ashamed of the lifestyle we were leading and, by extension, of me. It was only a matter of time before I went the way of aging mistresses and you returned with your whole heart and body to the straight world.

I could accept that the mountains you climb were your primary passion, in the way that true sailors love the sea. But I had a harder time with the flesh and blood women that bounced into your orbit with annoying frequency. I took your politeness for flirtation. My fevered brain (I've always wanted to use that term, who knows why?) transformed your refusal to shoot them down where they stood into my failure. If I had only been more understanding, less demanding, less of a brat, better in bed, different in some nameless, faceless way, you would have nothing to do with anyone else. Or so my logic ran.

Francesca was just the latest in the line of women who wanted McLaren for herself. I hated her for drooling over your body, and I hated myself for it. I don't use the word "hate" lightly, Tommy; I mean it. I think she was that proverbial straw. She was every woman who could do in the open all the things that I couldn't. Watching her walk up to the pool table to flirt with you and touch you broke something inside of me, and I didn't think I could ever find all the pieces, much less put them together.

And then you did it. In one fell swoop, you gave me back everything I thought I'd lost. You filled the gaping hole that had just been exposed. To my eyes, anyway (see above for the discussion of my denseness or is that density?) You answered Francesca and everything in my world was put right. When I stopped to think about it, I could hear your voice, soft and low, telling her what she didn't want to hear and me what I needed to know. Love and fidelity had entered your lexicon in a deeply personal way. They weren't abstract concepts or filtered through your other relationships anymore. The words were real and they were for me, Ryan Simms, brat of brats.

It took me longer to put the rest together. I guess I needed sex to clear my mind of the clutter. You didn't tell Francesca who the object of your affection and loyalty was and yet you had spoken to me from your soul. While I let the former stick in my craw, it occurred to me that you didn't have to specify who you were spending your time with. Everyone who matters knows. You're training me for K2, but that doesn't explain the shared condominium-I really do love the study; I can feel the McLaren karma in there-the meals we eat together, the trip to the jungle, the sojourn in Paris or the way I look at you when I can't play the "just buddies" game anymore. Anyone with eyes can see that you're training me for other things, too. I want to learn, Tommy. I do.

And I'm counting on you to teach me.

I love you, Tommy.

R

When Tom finally looked away from the note, he noticed the now infamous picture laying next to the computer. An idea leapt immediately to mind. It was sappy and a little stupid but there was nothing to do but test it.

"What do you know," Tom murmured a few moments later, aware of the silly smile that he couldn't seem to wipe off of his face. "That damn thing was worth exactly one thousand words."

End

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