He tossed the soft sided bag into the back seat of the taxi then threw himself after it. In a soft monotone drawl and a voice stretched thin with weariness he muttered an address at the driver before slumping back into the seat.

The driver eyed the passenger in the rear view mirror. A medium tall man with light, almost blonde, hair growing out of a short cut, and a well proportioned body without being overly muscled. He was wearing faded blue jeans and a loose checkered shirt over a t-shirt. He looked rumpled and crumpled like so many fares picked up outside the international airport.

"Long trip?" the driver asked as he pulled into the almost continuous stream of traffic.

"Yeah," Viggo answered without elaboration. Hundreds of people passed into and out of his life, thousands even. They did not need details.

"Visiting or coming home?" the driver continued.

"Home," was all Viggo could mutter while hoping that this was not going to be a chatty driver. He was tired, exhausted. All he wanted to do was rest. And get home. Home to where he felt comfortable; to where the love of his life was waiting. Unconsciously his fingers raked through the straggly hair leaving furrows in their wake.

The driver noticed the action and only nodded, knowing that if passengers had not started chatting by then that there was no point pushing any further.

Viggo sighed as he rested back against the cool vinyl. Why did he do this to himself? Why did he let other people talk him into it? His manager, his business partner, even on occasion his son; they all said it would be good for him, good for the movie. Two weeks, no, three counting all the travel, of meeting people, talking, smiling, shaking hands and watching the movie over and over again. It was a good movie and he was pleased with it but he really preferred to not watch himself on the screen and definitely not more than once.

He felt as if his brain had turned to mush. He needed to sleep. All that zipping about Europe had played havoc with his body and his mind. He had a sinking feeling inside whenever he thought about it. A certain dread that welled up and swamped him. The sigh was more like a groan; the pain these jaunts caused him was almost physical.

Then his thoughts turned to home. At home there would be no more living out of a suitcase, no more rushing to be here or dashing to get there; peace. At home he would be surrounded by all of his things; the niceties that he had gathered about him, his coffee, chocolate, cigarettes, even the mess that others despaired about but best of all, privacy. At home he could relax and allow his creativity to take over, his music, his writing, his painting, his passions.

Maybe he dozed a little. He could not be sure. Eventually the taxi pulled up outside his home. He stumbled out, dragging the heavy bag with him. He pulled out his wallet.

"Say, aren't you." the driver began to say.

"Probably not," Viggo answered with a wry smile as he put several notes into the driver's hand.

He paused at the gate and took a deep breath, breathing in the serenity and comfort that he knew waited beyond the closed door. A new vitality coursed through him, awakening his senses, enlivening his thoughts, putting a spring into his step. He hurried inside.

His love was waiting there, just as if he had left only yesterday. A casual glance from the hallway confirmed it. He wanted to drop everything and rush straight in but he forced himself to take his time. He had to unload his dirty clothes or they would stay in the bag for ages until he remembered. He should get himself a coffee and have a cigarette to settle in to being at home, not to mention the lack of both after the long flight.

Impatiently he did all the things he felt he should do; his eyes kept straying to the door. He changed his shirt and pulled off his shoes and socks, put the washing in the laundry, put the papers he would have to hand to his manager in a neat pile, had a cup of his favourite coffee and managed a few puffs of a cigarette before his passion got the better of him.

Standing in the doorway he surveyed the room. With a sigh of satisfaction, it was just as he had left it. Picking up a brush he felt the smoothness of the handle as it rotated in the palm of his hand. He let the bristles slide into the paint. With a broad arc the brush stroked the canvass trailing colour behind the sweep.

He stepped back. He looked at the colour splashed across the canvas. He smiled. This was the love that filled his life. He was satisfied. He was home.