Green Dark by shegollum -- Part 19/?
Dec. 6th, 2005 06:59 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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rugbytackleTHIS IS A DARK RIDE -- Shegollum
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Title: Green Dark by shegollum -- Part 19/?
Author: shegollum
Pairing: Viggo/Bean; includes Orlando, too.
Rating: R - NC17
Summary: Morning after the night before...where are they in this strange new space?
Warnings: Angst; mental cruelty/instability; possibly non-con; cutting; substance abuse -- you name it...we've probably got it.
Disclaimer: No truth in it at all.
Archive: Viggo-Cursive and rugbytackle eventually
Previous parts at: http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=shegollum&keyword=Green+Dark&filter=all
A/N: Not beta'd. All errors are completely mine and mine alone.
I ♥ feedback. :-D
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Banner by the wonderful Amanda (![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
legomyarrow). :-)
Days passed quickly, a veil of seemingly normal friendship draped over the messier truths that emerged at night. Talking about work or books or their children became easier and they could once again feel comfortable even in each other’s silences. But Viggo’s dreams continued and a night where one or both were not awakened by unconscious mutterings or flailing limbs was something they both longed for.
Sean had learned not to touch or try to soothe, to let wakefulness re-emerge and Viggo shake free of the demons on his own. It had been so difficult to learn this – the helplessness a feeling he wasn’t accustomed to and knew at once he didn’t like. But he could grudgingly allow that what he was learning and gaining was worth it. Even less willingly, he accepted that it was not his choice and that Viggo would not have stood for anything he construed as coddling or a reinforcement of what he believed to be his own weaknesses.
Shaking in the dark – sometimes from tears and sometimes from anger – or bolting across the room to concentrate on slowing his breaths while staring stonily out the window were the ways Viggo woke. His focused attention to regain control stolen from him by sleep and fear was ritualistic – a routine that had to be played through before he was willing to allow Sean in. Viggo didn’t speak until he was ready, nor did Sean.
But what had changed for them was that he did talk. Viggo’s salvation was not always to be found in the studio, or in the yard staring at the night sky and quietly smoking cigarette after cigarette. Sometimes now, it came from Sean.
It had been such a tentative thing at first, Viggo speaking so hesitantly, sounding like someone exploring a foreign language as he’d tried to express feelings so long restricted. His words were measured and Sean felt waves of self-loathing, rage and shame all alternating through them. He held back from the consoling words and gentle touches he wanted to give and had no choice but to accept that the struggle was not his own. He could only be there for whatever was to come and he tried to subtly make Viggo understand that he would be there.
The cutting hadn’t ended and they had agreed somehow, silently, to not discuss it. Sean knew that he’d done it at least once more since the incident in the studio. He’d seen the cuts purely by accident. Following yet another nightmare, Viggo had moved into the light from the window and Sean had seen bloodstains on his white t-shirt. He’d reacted quickly and out of instinct, not understanding what injury had occurred until Viggo saw his staring and brushed aside his concern side with a muttered, “I did it.” It was said in such a matter of fact fashion that Sean’s brain couldn’t quite understand it and Viggo softly said, “I just opened up some cuts with my thrashing. It’s okay.”
For that, Sean had had no response at all and he sat, quieted by stunned concern until the American had slipped away into the shower, the shirt never seen again.
Just the previous night, Sean had been awakened by sounds of fear and anger from the man beside him and he’d silently slid up the bed, leaning against the headboard and waiting, listening. This newfound routine hurt him, the sounds tore at him, the tortured breaths became almost his own, the tight constriction of rigid and tense muscles mimicked in his own anxious limbs. But he sat still and waited for the wakefulness that always came abruptly, as though Viggo were bursting free of deep dark water to reclaim air and light.
With an agonized groan, Viggo sat up, a measure of control even in his panic that spoke of years of practiced hiding. Sean waited, hearing the breaths even out, a forceful sigh finally signaling a completion, a temporary truce.
“Viggo,” he murmured.
“Yeah… ’m okay Sorry.”
“Can I help?”
“Nah… no… Just the same old stuff. Same old shit.”
“Mmmm.”
“Got to fucking get over it.”
“Why are you so hard on yourself, Vig?” Sean’s voice was soft and full of worry. “You’re dreaming about it because it was horrific. It had to be hell.”
“I’m dreaming about it because I’m weak.”
“Vig—“
“How long was it?”
This was an even more recent development, this curiosity on Viggo’s part about his actions as he slept.
“Not sure. Four, maybe five minutes that I knew of.”
“Did I say anything?”
“Not really. You were trying to, I think, but it was as though your jaws were wired shut. You sounded like you were screaming with your mouth closed.”
“Lovely.”
Ah, there it was. The self-deprecating humor that almost invariably surfaced when Viggo heard Sean’s report of his actions. The Englishman scrunched closer on the bed, ignoring rumpled sheets that sought to impede him. He laid a hand on Viggo’s forearm and the other man looked up quietly and calmly. For just a moment, both men were struck by how unusual it was to touch without alarm or fear or guarding.
Dropping his gaze to Sean’s gentle grip, Viggo felt shame and sadness at the trails of cuts under the other man’s fingertips and he placed his own hand over them, his fingers grazing Sean’s rough knuckles. He didn’t look up until Sean’s other hand nudged him under his chin, pushing his head gently upward. Wondering blue eyes met calm, sure green ones and then Sean’s mouth brushed softly against his own. The Englishman’s hand caressed his jaw and then moved in and through Viggo’s cool hair, pulling him closer, somehow asking for permission as he lingered for a long time-stopping moment. But then Sean pulled back and rose from the bed all in one uninterrupted motion. Viggo looked up at him, seeing only his retreating back as he moved away toward the moonlit window.
“Sean”? The question was asked softly but in a voice full of resignation and somehow, resolution.
There was a tense silence before Sean replied brusquely.
“I’m sorry, Viggo. I had no right. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“No,” the almost whispered reply finally made Sean turn from the window. The other man was facing in his direction but no longer looking at him. His gaze was distant and the word had been spoken as faintly as though meant only for himself. Watching him, Sean could feel him retreating, pulling away from him, and he swallowed hard, sudden fear leaving him dry-mouthed.
“It’s okay, Vig. I’m just sorry. That’s all it is.”
“I understand.” Resignation was intertwined with every word.
“No. I don’t think you do, Viggo. I want you. It took me so long… but I know now. You have to know how much I feel for you… but I shouldn’t push like that. Not like that.”
Sean looked hard at the other man’s face, wanting to understand Viggo’s perceptions before they were stored away as fact. Ignoring his gaze, the American got up and headed silently toward the hallway door.
“Don ‘t go, Viggo.”
The other man slipped out the door and was gone.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
For a long and agonizing moment, Sean watched the door, hoping against hope that the man would come back. Finally, in utter frustration, he stormed out the door and downstairs.
Confronted by the closed door of the studio, Sean’s anger was immediate. Not really sure what he was doing, he spun around and headed to the kitchen, going straight to the bottle of scotch he’d secreted behind the mop bucket in the broom closet.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
He didn’t knock on the white door. He barged into the studio, scotch bottle in one hand, his face a mask of anger. Viggo was seated on the floor, long legs stretched out in front of him as he rolled a cigarette. He looked up, startled, and for just a moment, Sean saw him pulling back -- again, always, still -- eyes shuttering against him. Then Viggo caught sight of the liquor.
“Sean!”
“What?”
“You can’t do that. Give it to—“
“Fuck off, Viggo. It’s what I do, okay?”
Viggo’s eyes narrowed at the comment, concern and anger both displayed on his face.
“You know what, Viggo? You need to have a drink with me. If you’re going to be an asshole, let’s at least be assholes together.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you. About us. You go through what you go through every single night. Every fucking night, Vig! And for how long? If I ever saw that fucking bastard, I’d kill him. I would – with me bare hands – and I’d never regret a second of it. But all we have is his ghost. That all we can fight – and I’ll be fucked if I know what to do about it! But he’s here and he’s haunting you, Viggo.”
Sean paused, catching his breath and wiping roughly at his eyes before he continued.
“But then finally – finally! – we’ve started talking. You can sometimes really talk to me again, Viggo. Like old times.”
The other man shuffled up to his feet, sliding up the wall from his position on the floor and standing, still leaning solidly back against it. His forehead was crinkled with confusion and frustration but his eyes never left the scotch still held in Sean’s hand. Still sealed. Still safe.
“But you keep telling yourself to not let go, Vig. To not trust me. Or us. You think I pulled away up there for some reason that I don’t understand. I pulled away only out of concern for you. Do you understand that?”
Viggo’s eyes met his own, but the man didn’t utter a word.
“What do you hear when I speak?” Sean pressed. “Do you rewrite my words in your mind so that there is just more pain? More shame? Why—“
“Sean—“ Viggo’s voice was a harsh bark, strident and definitive, but Sean didn’t stop. When he spoke again, his voice was only a whisper but his words fought back for him, carrying meaning and thought to the American who stood so rigidly in front of him.
“Do you not know that I want you still? There, Viggo. It’s out there between us now. What we did that night – you see that the wrong way. You do, mate. That was love. And sex. Desire and need. It manifested itself the way things between us do – passionate and messy and fierce – but never wrong. Why can’t you see that?”
Viggo was watching him, listening intently yet when he spoke it was in a cold, almost condescending tone that sounded foreign on his lips.
“Can we drop this? I have no idea what you’re so wound up about but I do hear the things you say. Maybe I just don’t always agree with you!”
“Don’t always agree with what, Viggo? What do you take exception to? That you weren’t at fault when that bastard did what he did? That you try to turn everything I say into another way to cut and tear at yourself? Or that I say I love you? What are the things I say that you disagree with? Tell me!”
Shaking his head slowly, Viggo started to walk away, brushing past the other man.
“No you don’t, Viggo. No running away. Not between us. Never again.” With those words, Sean reached out to stop him, his strong hand clenching around the other man’s bicep.
“Leave me alone, Sean,” said Viggo, his voice low and strained.
“I won’t do it, Viggo! You need to hear this again. From me. Again and again. I love you. You’re worth loving. You’re everything to me.”
Sean released him then, freeing his arm while his eyes pinned him completely.
“Do you hear me, Viggo? What was done to you was evil. And I don’t know how I would have coped had it happened to me. And I know even less what to do to help you. But I’m here. And that’s worth something. That has to be worth something.”
Viggo looked for all the world like a trapped animal, eyes focused anywhere but on Sean, body tensed.
“I appreciate what you’ve done, Sean,” he finally said, stonily, dismissively. He moved away again.
“Viggo… ” Sean whispered. “Listen to me. Hear me. Please.”
Viggo stopped, fists clenched at his side, head down. Eyes studied the floor and he did not speak or look up as Sean moved closer. The Englishman stopped short of touching him, but his desire to do so was evident in his unhappy countenance and in the restless of a hand that reached and then clumsily segued into nothing.
Sean’s eyelids flickered as his gaze swept over Viggo’s form, green eyes hungrily taking in so many details. The bowed head and tense shoulders. The rumpled t-shirt and boxers that somehow made him look so young and vulnerable. Fading cuts and pale scars laddered down his arms to tightly knotted hands.
Suddenly realizing that he held the scotch even still, Sean raised his arm, abruptly shoving the bottle forward to the American.
“Here. Take it,” he said quickly and bitterly. Viggo looked up in surprise but he took it, holding it and looking at it for a long interval before setting it on the work table behind him.
“Are you okay?” he asked, eyes full of concern.
“Yeah,” said Sean, breathing out forcefully. “I’ll be all right.”
Viggo looked at him helplessly. Understanding.
“I’m so sorry, Sean.”
Sean suddenly bent over at the waist, his body shaking. Viggo stared at his trembling form for a moment, worried and confused until he recognized the unmistakable sound of the Englishman’s deep laugh. Sean straightened up with an even louder snicker that trailed off into a ridiculously rakish smile.
“Oh God, Viggo, we are quite the pair. Quite the fucking pair. We’d better stay together, mate, because no one else is going to want us!”
Viggo looked at him in disbelief and then slowly the humor caught up with him, sparking a welcome light in his eyes and finally a grin on his face. It took another moment, but Sean’s continued chuckles finally made Viggo laugh out loud, his cackling doing Sean’s heart and soul more good than any amount of alcohol ever had.
Before he could stop himself, Sean wrapped his arms around Viggo, pulling him into a warm hug full of light laughter from both of them. But after a long moment, the chuckling faded away and left just the delicate comfort of the embrace. Fearing that he had overstepped some boundary yet again, Sean began to gently move away. The hand that caught at the waistband of his shorts startled him, but the warm, soft mouth that pressed suddenly and insistently against his own surprised him even more.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Title: Green Dark by shegollum -- Part 19/?
Author: shegollum
Pairing: Viggo/Bean; includes Orlando, too.
Rating: R - NC17
Summary: Morning after the night before...where are they in this strange new space?
Warnings: Angst; mental cruelty/instability; possibly non-con; cutting; substance abuse -- you name it...we've probably got it.
Disclaimer: No truth in it at all.
Archive: Viggo-Cursive and rugbytackle eventually
Previous parts at: http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=shegollum&keyword=Green+Dark&filter=all
A/N: Not beta'd. All errors are completely mine and mine alone.
I ♥ feedback. :-D
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
legomyarrow). :-) Days passed quickly, a veil of seemingly normal friendship draped over the messier truths that emerged at night. Talking about work or books or their children became easier and they could once again feel comfortable even in each other’s silences. But Viggo’s dreams continued and a night where one or both were not awakened by unconscious mutterings or flailing limbs was something they both longed for.
Sean had learned not to touch or try to soothe, to let wakefulness re-emerge and Viggo shake free of the demons on his own. It had been so difficult to learn this – the helplessness a feeling he wasn’t accustomed to and knew at once he didn’t like. But he could grudgingly allow that what he was learning and gaining was worth it. Even less willingly, he accepted that it was not his choice and that Viggo would not have stood for anything he construed as coddling or a reinforcement of what he believed to be his own weaknesses.
Shaking in the dark – sometimes from tears and sometimes from anger – or bolting across the room to concentrate on slowing his breaths while staring stonily out the window were the ways Viggo woke. His focused attention to regain control stolen from him by sleep and fear was ritualistic – a routine that had to be played through before he was willing to allow Sean in. Viggo didn’t speak until he was ready, nor did Sean.
But what had changed for them was that he did talk. Viggo’s salvation was not always to be found in the studio, or in the yard staring at the night sky and quietly smoking cigarette after cigarette. Sometimes now, it came from Sean.
It had been such a tentative thing at first, Viggo speaking so hesitantly, sounding like someone exploring a foreign language as he’d tried to express feelings so long restricted. His words were measured and Sean felt waves of self-loathing, rage and shame all alternating through them. He held back from the consoling words and gentle touches he wanted to give and had no choice but to accept that the struggle was not his own. He could only be there for whatever was to come and he tried to subtly make Viggo understand that he would be there.
The cutting hadn’t ended and they had agreed somehow, silently, to not discuss it. Sean knew that he’d done it at least once more since the incident in the studio. He’d seen the cuts purely by accident. Following yet another nightmare, Viggo had moved into the light from the window and Sean had seen bloodstains on his white t-shirt. He’d reacted quickly and out of instinct, not understanding what injury had occurred until Viggo saw his staring and brushed aside his concern side with a muttered, “I did it.” It was said in such a matter of fact fashion that Sean’s brain couldn’t quite understand it and Viggo softly said, “I just opened up some cuts with my thrashing. It’s okay.”
For that, Sean had had no response at all and he sat, quieted by stunned concern until the American had slipped away into the shower, the shirt never seen again.
Just the previous night, Sean had been awakened by sounds of fear and anger from the man beside him and he’d silently slid up the bed, leaning against the headboard and waiting, listening. This newfound routine hurt him, the sounds tore at him, the tortured breaths became almost his own, the tight constriction of rigid and tense muscles mimicked in his own anxious limbs. But he sat still and waited for the wakefulness that always came abruptly, as though Viggo were bursting free of deep dark water to reclaim air and light.
With an agonized groan, Viggo sat up, a measure of control even in his panic that spoke of years of practiced hiding. Sean waited, hearing the breaths even out, a forceful sigh finally signaling a completion, a temporary truce.
“Viggo,” he murmured.
“Yeah… ’m okay Sorry.”
“Can I help?”
“Nah… no… Just the same old stuff. Same old shit.”
“Mmmm.”
“Got to fucking get over it.”
“Why are you so hard on yourself, Vig?” Sean’s voice was soft and full of worry. “You’re dreaming about it because it was horrific. It had to be hell.”
“I’m dreaming about it because I’m weak.”
“Vig—“
“How long was it?”
This was an even more recent development, this curiosity on Viggo’s part about his actions as he slept.
“Not sure. Four, maybe five minutes that I knew of.”
“Did I say anything?”
“Not really. You were trying to, I think, but it was as though your jaws were wired shut. You sounded like you were screaming with your mouth closed.”
“Lovely.”
Ah, there it was. The self-deprecating humor that almost invariably surfaced when Viggo heard Sean’s report of his actions. The Englishman scrunched closer on the bed, ignoring rumpled sheets that sought to impede him. He laid a hand on Viggo’s forearm and the other man looked up quietly and calmly. For just a moment, both men were struck by how unusual it was to touch without alarm or fear or guarding.
Dropping his gaze to Sean’s gentle grip, Viggo felt shame and sadness at the trails of cuts under the other man’s fingertips and he placed his own hand over them, his fingers grazing Sean’s rough knuckles. He didn’t look up until Sean’s other hand nudged him under his chin, pushing his head gently upward. Wondering blue eyes met calm, sure green ones and then Sean’s mouth brushed softly against his own. The Englishman’s hand caressed his jaw and then moved in and through Viggo’s cool hair, pulling him closer, somehow asking for permission as he lingered for a long time-stopping moment. But then Sean pulled back and rose from the bed all in one uninterrupted motion. Viggo looked up at him, seeing only his retreating back as he moved away toward the moonlit window.
“Sean”? The question was asked softly but in a voice full of resignation and somehow, resolution.
There was a tense silence before Sean replied brusquely.
“I’m sorry, Viggo. I had no right. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“No,” the almost whispered reply finally made Sean turn from the window. The other man was facing in his direction but no longer looking at him. His gaze was distant and the word had been spoken as faintly as though meant only for himself. Watching him, Sean could feel him retreating, pulling away from him, and he swallowed hard, sudden fear leaving him dry-mouthed.
“It’s okay, Vig. I’m just sorry. That’s all it is.”
“I understand.” Resignation was intertwined with every word.
“No. I don’t think you do, Viggo. I want you. It took me so long… but I know now. You have to know how much I feel for you… but I shouldn’t push like that. Not like that.”
Sean looked hard at the other man’s face, wanting to understand Viggo’s perceptions before they were stored away as fact. Ignoring his gaze, the American got up and headed silently toward the hallway door.
“Don ‘t go, Viggo.”
The other man slipped out the door and was gone.
For a long and agonizing moment, Sean watched the door, hoping against hope that the man would come back. Finally, in utter frustration, he stormed out the door and downstairs.
Confronted by the closed door of the studio, Sean’s anger was immediate. Not really sure what he was doing, he spun around and headed to the kitchen, going straight to the bottle of scotch he’d secreted behind the mop bucket in the broom closet.
He didn’t knock on the white door. He barged into the studio, scotch bottle in one hand, his face a mask of anger. Viggo was seated on the floor, long legs stretched out in front of him as he rolled a cigarette. He looked up, startled, and for just a moment, Sean saw him pulling back -- again, always, still -- eyes shuttering against him. Then Viggo caught sight of the liquor.
“Sean!”
“What?”
“You can’t do that. Give it to—“
“Fuck off, Viggo. It’s what I do, okay?”
Viggo’s eyes narrowed at the comment, concern and anger both displayed on his face.
“You know what, Viggo? You need to have a drink with me. If you’re going to be an asshole, let’s at least be assholes together.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you. About us. You go through what you go through every single night. Every fucking night, Vig! And for how long? If I ever saw that fucking bastard, I’d kill him. I would – with me bare hands – and I’d never regret a second of it. But all we have is his ghost. That all we can fight – and I’ll be fucked if I know what to do about it! But he’s here and he’s haunting you, Viggo.”
Sean paused, catching his breath and wiping roughly at his eyes before he continued.
“But then finally – finally! – we’ve started talking. You can sometimes really talk to me again, Viggo. Like old times.”
The other man shuffled up to his feet, sliding up the wall from his position on the floor and standing, still leaning solidly back against it. His forehead was crinkled with confusion and frustration but his eyes never left the scotch still held in Sean’s hand. Still sealed. Still safe.
“But you keep telling yourself to not let go, Vig. To not trust me. Or us. You think I pulled away up there for some reason that I don’t understand. I pulled away only out of concern for you. Do you understand that?”
Viggo’s eyes met his own, but the man didn’t utter a word.
“What do you hear when I speak?” Sean pressed. “Do you rewrite my words in your mind so that there is just more pain? More shame? Why—“
“Sean—“ Viggo’s voice was a harsh bark, strident and definitive, but Sean didn’t stop. When he spoke again, his voice was only a whisper but his words fought back for him, carrying meaning and thought to the American who stood so rigidly in front of him.
“Do you not know that I want you still? There, Viggo. It’s out there between us now. What we did that night – you see that the wrong way. You do, mate. That was love. And sex. Desire and need. It manifested itself the way things between us do – passionate and messy and fierce – but never wrong. Why can’t you see that?”
Viggo was watching him, listening intently yet when he spoke it was in a cold, almost condescending tone that sounded foreign on his lips.
“Can we drop this? I have no idea what you’re so wound up about but I do hear the things you say. Maybe I just don’t always agree with you!”
“Don’t always agree with what, Viggo? What do you take exception to? That you weren’t at fault when that bastard did what he did? That you try to turn everything I say into another way to cut and tear at yourself? Or that I say I love you? What are the things I say that you disagree with? Tell me!”
Shaking his head slowly, Viggo started to walk away, brushing past the other man.
“No you don’t, Viggo. No running away. Not between us. Never again.” With those words, Sean reached out to stop him, his strong hand clenching around the other man’s bicep.
“Leave me alone, Sean,” said Viggo, his voice low and strained.
“I won’t do it, Viggo! You need to hear this again. From me. Again and again. I love you. You’re worth loving. You’re everything to me.”
Sean released him then, freeing his arm while his eyes pinned him completely.
“Do you hear me, Viggo? What was done to you was evil. And I don’t know how I would have coped had it happened to me. And I know even less what to do to help you. But I’m here. And that’s worth something. That has to be worth something.”
Viggo looked for all the world like a trapped animal, eyes focused anywhere but on Sean, body tensed.
“I appreciate what you’ve done, Sean,” he finally said, stonily, dismissively. He moved away again.
“Viggo… ” Sean whispered. “Listen to me. Hear me. Please.”
Viggo stopped, fists clenched at his side, head down. Eyes studied the floor and he did not speak or look up as Sean moved closer. The Englishman stopped short of touching him, but his desire to do so was evident in his unhappy countenance and in the restless of a hand that reached and then clumsily segued into nothing.
Sean’s eyelids flickered as his gaze swept over Viggo’s form, green eyes hungrily taking in so many details. The bowed head and tense shoulders. The rumpled t-shirt and boxers that somehow made him look so young and vulnerable. Fading cuts and pale scars laddered down his arms to tightly knotted hands.
Suddenly realizing that he held the scotch even still, Sean raised his arm, abruptly shoving the bottle forward to the American.
“Here. Take it,” he said quickly and bitterly. Viggo looked up in surprise but he took it, holding it and looking at it for a long interval before setting it on the work table behind him.
“Are you okay?” he asked, eyes full of concern.
“Yeah,” said Sean, breathing out forcefully. “I’ll be all right.”
Viggo looked at him helplessly. Understanding.
“I’m so sorry, Sean.”
Sean suddenly bent over at the waist, his body shaking. Viggo stared at his trembling form for a moment, worried and confused until he recognized the unmistakable sound of the Englishman’s deep laugh. Sean straightened up with an even louder snicker that trailed off into a ridiculously rakish smile.
“Oh God, Viggo, we are quite the pair. Quite the fucking pair. We’d better stay together, mate, because no one else is going to want us!”
Viggo looked at him in disbelief and then slowly the humor caught up with him, sparking a welcome light in his eyes and finally a grin on his face. It took another moment, but Sean’s continued chuckles finally made Viggo laugh out loud, his cackling doing Sean’s heart and soul more good than any amount of alcohol ever had.
Before he could stop himself, Sean wrapped his arms around Viggo, pulling him into a warm hug full of light laughter from both of them. But after a long moment, the chuckling faded away and left just the delicate comfort of the embrace. Fearing that he had overstepped some boundary yet again, Sean began to gently move away. The hand that caught at the waistband of his shorts startled him, but the warm, soft mouth that pressed suddenly and insistently against his own surprised him even more.
no subject
Date: 2005-12-07 01:28 am (UTC)I really like how they're both so stubborn, but so obviously good for each other, if you know what I mean. *sigh* Nothing I'm saying is coming out right tonight, but I do love this story and can't wait to read more :)
no subject
Date: 2005-12-07 01:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-12-07 06:43 am (UTC)I love your story and am hoping for more soon.
no subject
Date: 2005-12-08 12:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-12-07 10:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-12-08 12:19 am (UTC)sorry...got carried away! LOL!
thank you, sweets!
no subject
Date: 2005-12-07 04:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-12-08 12:20 am (UTC)thank you so much for supporting me. it means a ton.