The restaurant Viggo has chosen for their dinner is a good one: not too exclusive or formal, but expensive and discreet enough, with good food and excellent wine. Besides, he and Sean have often come here in the past, and they are left alone without too much fuss.
Viggo can barely take his eyes off Sean tonight: he's wearing the fine, dark suit that Viggo chose for him as a present, with the silk tie that Viggo loves best, gray-green as Sean's eyes; Sean's hair is impeccable, his aftershave smells expensive and spicy. He looks gorgeous, manly, a ruggedly handsome British gentleman with refined taste in clothes, tobacco, rare leather-bound books and foreign cars... with a hard, tough edge to him that speaks of risks, of experience. Of passion. Dangerous things.
No Friday evenings drinking beer and telling rude jokes with his old mates in smoky pubs, no Saturday afternoons spent watching football matches, no Sunday mornings digging into the dirt to plant new saplings surface here: not if one doesn't know where to look -- or doesn't want to look for them.
Viggo catches sight of himself in one of the restaurant's windows, and can't help but smile: he too is wearing a damn fine suit, though of a less conventional design; the suit is light green, he's got no tie on, and the first two buttons of his shirt are open. His hair is still the Hidalgo hair, not too long but not short either, and its cut looks odd in a modern, civilized setting, with its blond and red highlights catching the light when he turns his head.
With his look and his stubble, Viggo looks almost disreputable next to Sean, a scruffy hippy trying to dress up with no real heart in it. The thought sends a spark of electricity, bright as laughter, through him, as he follows their waiter to their table, and when he catches Sean's eyes, he sees the same mischievous flicker in them, and knows that Sean knows exactly what he's thinking.
So, so good.
Once they're settled and have placed their order, Sean leans back in his chair, his eyes looking dark and amused at the same time. "You are daft," he says, his soft voice and soft, smiling eyes quickly turning amusement to a shiver down to Viggo's spine. So good, yes. Arousal is always only a step away whenever he hears Sean's voice, apparently. Especially these days -- these few, precious days they've managed to scrap together in-between their latest projects. But now filming for Hidalgo is over, and Troy is almost finished. Viggo already has a ticket for London booked to his name.
They've been parted too long, of late. Viggo is determined to do his best to catch up on lost time.
"You like me daft," he counters, keeping his own voice a quiet purr, knowing what sort of effect it has on Sean, as well. He smiles, showing his teeth, when he sees Sean's eyes darken further. "You'll like it even more once we're back home," he adds, though he's sure he doesn't need to remind Sean of the promise he's made.
Sean shifts in his seat, his cheeks flushing faintly; Viggo wishes he could lean over the table, touch Sean's face to feel that lovely heat under his fingers, but as discreet as the place is, it's still not the right place for them to touch that way. So he contents himself with leaning in, toying with the silver cutlery, and saying, in the tone he'd use to talk about the food, "Can't wait to make you blush like that all over."
As he'd known, his words make Sean's blush deepen; but Sean doesn't look away, keeps looking at him with a gaze so intense, so hungry, that Viggo is the one squirming in his chair now, blood rushing to parts of him other than just his face. And fuck, Sean looks very casual sitting there, one arm casually draped over the back of his chair, the other playing with a silver knife; but he licks his lips, and Viggo knows that brilliant gleam in his eyes, that intent, focused look.
"Can hardly wait, myself," Sean says, his voice rough and low, intended just for Viggo.
Some familiar, classical music is playing softly in the background, but Viggo can barely hear it. He's remembering waking up from their afternoon nap, Sean's mouth kissing him awake in the now pleasantly cool room, and Sean's hand stroking him lazily but surely until he'd spilled over, his cries muffled by Sean's mouth. He remembers Sean shaking his head, eyes bright, smiling happily when he had made to return the favor, Sean's lips hot against his ear. "Want to keep it for later, love." Then he'd taken Viggo's hand to his mouth, turning it and kissing the palm lovingly, reverently, a faint blush coloring his ears and neck -- as close as Sean ever got to asking him for it, even after all this time -- to thanking him for it.
Viggo remembers, swallows, can't reply. However the evening will end -- with him buried deep in Sean, Sean driving hard into him, or just holding each other in their bed -- he feels blessed just to be here. In a way, after so long a separation, it's almost as if they're getting to learn each other all over again, to reacquaint themselves with each other. It's like being back in that first rush, like falling in love all over again. If something better than this exists, Viggo doesn't know what it is, nor is he interested.
"I will," he starts to say, then has to stop because their dinner arrives. He catches Sean's faint smirk while the waiters set their plates down, and hides his own smile.
"I will make it so good for you," he can finally promise, once they're alone again. And sees Sean close his eyes for a moment, draw a shaky breath in.
It still amazes Viggo, and pleases him, how much Sean's grown to like this, how important it feels to have Sean, so beautiful and hard and strong, lie of his own will over Viggo's lap and let himself in Viggo's hands, to receive pain and pleasure and yes, shame -- trusting Viggo with so much of himself.
It amazes him, and pleases him; and just thinking of the feeling of Sean's ass growing red and hot under his palm, of the soft little cries that escape Sean's lips, of the way Sean's cheeks clench hard under the first slaps, before abandoning every last trace of tension... the hot, sticky feeling of Sean's hard cock grinding into Viggo's thigh... Just thinking of it makes Viggo hard, and he lets out a long, trembling sigh.
"Viggo," Sean growls when he reopens his eyes, "I'm going to throw you down and fuck you right here, if you keep this up."
And by the way his eyes glow, Viggo can almost believe him.
"I wish," he says, the longing in his voice clear enough that Sean reaches over, after all: it's just a casual gesture, as though he meant to check Viggo's watch for the time; but Viggo's not wearing a watch, and Sean's fingers close warm and familiar around his wrist. And it's nothing, really: just a casual touch; but it's done with intent, it's done to tell Viggo something -- I'm here, I want you, I know -- and that simple, casual contact has Viggo's breathing hitch, his stomach flutter.
So good.
The dinner is good, too, and it's the best thing in the world to be here with Sean, still tingling from his touch, already anticipating what'll come next. There's no rush in it, no hurry: they have time, at last, and anticipation is something to be savored and cherished as much as the actual event.
They talk about everything and nothing while they eat. There's a poetry reading Viggo wants to attend to tomorrow; Sean needs to call his agent about a meeting that's been rescheduled. A soft drizzle begins to fall outside, glowing in the streetlights' halos. When they finally leave, the night is cool and shiny; their faces get quickly damp, and it's a pleasant feeling to walk so close, as though they need to stay like this to ward off the rain.
Viggo's car is parked a few paces ahead; they walk toward it, an alley opening just on their left, dark and unwatched. Viggo thinks he shouldn't be so surprised, when Sean pushes him toward the unlit street.
"Going crazy," Sean mutters, and Viggo's backed against a damp, crumbling brick wall. Sean's mouth is soft against his, but his kiss is hard, and Viggo moans into it, kissing back with all he has, pulling Sean closer.
"Christ, Vig," Sean pants, his hips rocking against Viggo's, so that Viggo can feel how hot and hard he already is.
Viggo gasps, fingers closing tightly around Sean's shoulders, his forehead coming to rest in the crook of Sean's neck. Sean's thigh between his own, rubbing against his balls while the heel of Sean's hand massages his trapped erection, Sean's hips grinding against him... Oh, Christ. He can still feel the small aches from having had Sean fuck him hard and rough that morning -- faint, but very much there -- and if only they weren't here, in some fucking street, he'd just push Sean down and tear his pants off and shove into him hard and fast and rough, hands digging into his chest, giving it to him the way Sean likes best, pinning him down, making him whimper and beg for it, until they lose it from the sheer intensity of it all...
"Fuck," he pants through clenched teeth, lips drawn back over them. Sean's smell, his heat... Sean's lips bruising his neck, sucking... Fuck.
"Close," he manages to mutter, and shit, that makes Sean stop at once. Or, not so at once: his hand is still over Viggo's cock, but it's not moving anymore. Sean breathes heavily against Viggo's neck, panting a little, and at last draws back. His other hand comes up, running lightly through Viggo's hair, trying to comb it back into some sort of order.
Viggo's glad of the reprieve. Walking to the car's going to be difficult, but that's good. He's going to need the discomfort, the time to cool off, or he won't last long enough to give Sean what he promised. And he wants to -- oh God, how he wants to.
"Fuck," Sean says, eyes wild, wide, dark. His fingers briefly close around two fistfuls of Viggo's hair, then slide down, hot on Viggo's neck, his chest. "Fuck."
Viggo nods. "Home," he says, and his hand taking Sean's, not letting go, is just another promise.