Chance Meetings

by Vivi

The lunchtime rush was just abating, the tide of plaid and flannel-shirted men easing into only a few people still seated at the counter, the lazy rotation of the ceiling fan a distorted reflection in the chrome base of the stools. Two waitresses, limply dressed in blue dresses that seemed just out of the Depression era, were briskly clearing away dishes, occasionally humming along to a whatever snatch of tune they heard from the old jukebox in the corner.

Only one man sitting alone in a booth, his plate barely touched as he sipping his second cup of coffee in silence, leaning against the vinyl cushion that was exactly the same color as cherry cough drops. He surveyed the restaurant over the edge of his coffee cup, murmuring quiet gratitude when one waitress, the name Maude printed in careful black letters on her nametag, paused in their never-ending chore of cleaning to refill it.

The coffee had a boiled flavor to it, glowing bitterness on the back of his tongue but the pie wasn't bad. He simply didn't have any urge to eat it, preferring the taste of coal-black coffee to the sugared strawberries.

Sean had been to dozens of these places and it was fascinating in a way that they never changed. It was always the same people working, their faces lined with their weariness and brightened with false cheer, the patrons in the rough work clothes, shoveling in mouthfuls of food before they returned to their own never ending grind. They always smelled of food cooked in too much grease, thick hunks of meat and bread, fried in the dregs of fat and oil. Even back home there were places like this, where the men without wives came with their work-grimed hands for their only fairly decent meal of the day.

He pushed his hair back from his forehead again, absently tucking strands behind his ears. It was at that bloody annoying stage where it was always falling into his eyes. Drove him mad but he hadn't wanted to cut it off just yet. Just a touch too long, setting him apart from the few other people eating, one man at the counter with a hamburger dripping juice-thinned ketchup over his knuckles, the elderly couple who'd just sat at a booth on the other side, studying a stained and creased menu as though they hadn't seen it probably a hundred times before.

Sean hadn't needed a menu to know that this diner would have plenty of hot coffee and some sort of pie made freshly that morning. Some things never changed, no matter the name of the city you were in.

It was almost too warm, the greasy air bringing with it a trace of nausea whenever he inhaled and Sean debated on whether to step outside to wait, leaving a modest fold of bills on the table and pushing through the door with the low bellow of the cow's bell tied above it, to breathe in ice-chilled air and let it settle his stomach, his nerves the way a cigarette might have done for him once.

He might have even crashed one from the bloke at the counter if there hadn't been a gummed label stuck neatly to the door, the universal slashed out circle that declared there would be no smoking in their fine establishment. Probably just as well, if one drop of ash missed a tray, it would probably ignite the whole place.

The molded plastic that served as a seat was starting to make his bum ache, the pain sharpening up the line of his spine. It made him shift his weight, trying fruitlessly to find some way to be comfortable that just wasn't going to happen in this booth. Maude was swiping down the tables with a wet rag that had seen better days, catching the crumbs in the cup of her hand. She glanced at him once, the sour lines of her facing easing into a very slight smile and it didn't take years of experience to see the faint interest in her eyes shifting her from one generic role to another, shedding waitress to become a woman.

It was nothing more than simple appreciation of an attractive man, no recognition melting into her dark eyes and that was what was important. Sean lowered his gaze back to his cup and studied the oily residue like rainbows shimmering over the blackness of the coffee. He tightened his grip around the cup at the hoarse sound of the bell, the soft rush of cool when the door opened. Knuckles white around white ceramic that only eased at the footsteps that stopped next to his table.

Sean looked up automatically and the tired, soft affection on the familiar face made something rubber band tight in his chest ease. Waiting for this was maddening, as eye wateringly irritating as the hungry hum of a mosquito beside your ear and the pure rush of relief as it ended nearly made him lightheaded with giddiness.

He smiled instead, letting Viggo see his relief. "Hullo."

"Hey." Viggo had his hands tucked into his coat pockets and made no move to sit. It was more than enough of a hint to pull Sean to his feet, tossing a couple of bills on the table before he shrugged awkwardly into his own coat, following Viggo out to his car.

He let Viggo drive, leaving his own rental in the diner lot. They could tow the bloody thing for all he cared right now, his shaking hands barely managing to fasten the safety belt. A strong, warm hand closed over his own, soothing him, oddly soft against his own drier skin. Sean kept it, forcing Viggo to drive one handed and when they pulled out of the lot into the safely anonymous road he brought their twined fingers up to his mouth, sucking softly on the tip of Viggo's index finger until it curled ticklishly against his tongue.

The first time had been after New Zealand, at his flat in London with traces of his stage makeup still clinging to his face, bland bitterness to catch on their tongues while they sprawled together on his sheets and he'd been fucking terrified, shaking with it, something too thick to be tears heavy at the back of his throat and if Viggo had hesitated even once, pulled away with only a touch of uncertainty it never would have happened. Sean would have been able to shuffle him into the other room and would have determinedly fallen asleep, and he would never have been arched under Viggo's weight, shamed at his own whimpers while Viggo's sure hands touched him, wordlessly reassuring him over and over, the whole night long.

He certainly wouldn't be here now, and it was like a distorted reflection, déjà vu hiding in the taste of his own fear but he knew too much now, knew that he couldn't leave. Not when he found himself in a hotel that was only a moderate step up from the diner in that it had private rooms instead of booths. No pause to check in, only a brief jaunt up the open mezzanine to their room and Viggo let him go in first, his eyes adjusting to the cool, darkened room. The air was fresh enough inside, no staleness to wrinkle the nose and that would be Viggo again. Willing to fuck in a hotel room but not before he'd opened all the windows to air it out and replaced the sheets with a set of his own. No wonder the bastard had been so late.

Sometimes he wanted to say something before they touched, to let some words fill the space between them but he'd never figured out what.

Viggo's mouth was always cooler than the rest of him, the damp flicker of his tongue over Sean's lips, and he was already trembling, shivering with too much knowledge. Warm hands on his shoulders kept him still, sliding his coat off to land heavily on the floor. His shirt was easier still, just a simple jumper and Viggo pulled it upward, his chilled hands skimming over warm muscles as they pushed the fabric before them. Over his head, his hair crackling with static as it followed the same path his coat had taken.

Always Viggo would step back then, blue eyes matching his hands as he slowly touched. Fingertips skated over Sean's collarbone, lower to circle his nipples, already hardened in cool room and Sean closed his eyes, unable to look at the appreciation shining in Viggo's. It was enough to know Viggo wanted him, to listen as he stripped off his own clothes before stepping in again, his bare chest pressed to Sean's.

There was a huff of breath against the crook of his neck and shoulder, almost laughter. "You always smell so good," Viggo murmured into his skin, "I always want to taste you to see if it's anywhere near as good as you smell." He silenced himself as he suited action to words, pressing his teeth into Sean's skin hard enough to leave small dents, busying himself with testing his theory up Sean's neck and chin.

It wasn't that Sean didn't want to touch, only that it was easier to let Viggo's hand curl gently around his own, to pull it forward and press it against the heaviness of Viggo's cock, so hard behind the zipper of his jeans. He squeezed on his own, felt the soft gasp against the damp skin of his earlobe as he fumbled open the fly, sliding clumsily to his knees and pulling the jeans with him. Viggo wore nothing beneath them, the hard line of his cock painting a damp line across Sean's cheek and he turned blindly towards it, opening his mouth. It was probably a bloody miracle that Sean managed to wrap his lips around it without accidentally castrating him, hobbled by his own uncertainty, and he knew he wasn't good at this and never would be, too awkward and messy, spit trailing down his chin, slicking his hand where he had it wrapped around the base of the shaft.

Maybe his cocksucking technique would never win him an Oscar but the weight of Viggo's hand at the back of his head made it worth it, long fingers knotting too-tightly into his hair, forcing him to take more without an ounce of apology.

"Oh, you fucker," Viggo groaned, and Sean managed to glance up, trying to run his tongue under the edge of the head, just to feel Viggo's thighs shudder beneath his hands. If Viggo was ever beautiful in his life, it was now, his mouth open and the tip of his tongue resting on his upper teeth, eyes tightly closed and the soft shine of sweat on his face. Sexy as all fucking hell, and Sean tongued the slit as hard as he could, watched Viggo's face tighten in a wince.

He would have kept at him, trying to find a rhythm between his drenched hand and his face until the wet rush of come splattered his tongue if Viggo hadn't pushed him off, physically shoving him backwards and catching him painfully under the armpits to yank him up on the bed.

"God, you're so..." Viggo cutting off his own words with his mouth on Sean's, messy kisses as he kicked his jeans off and struggled with the fly of Sean's trousers. Four hands were worse than one, fighting a clumsy battle with button and zipper until finally Sean could breathe, his pants and shorts pushed down together to his ankles and Viggo his fisting his cock, dry and brutal and Sean hissed and jerked upward into it.

It would almost be enough, dry humping each other with only the residue of his spit easing it until the hot splash of semen smoothed the way, maybe Viggo first and Sean could glide through the slickness on Viggo's belly until he came too.

The pressure of Viggo's hand behind his knee told another story, inexorably forcing it upward until he could curve it around his waist. It made him want to protest, to whisper no, not like this, not when I can see you, but he couldn't move, trapped beneath Viggo's body and the heat, the fucking need of it.

The sudden, slick pressure of Viggo's fingers behind his balls made him gasp, and of course the bastard would have tucked some kind of lube beneath the pillows. Just in case he could get Sean like this, sprawled between his legs and pushing one finger smoothly inside him. He didn't even try to hide his cry, lurching upward and already wanting it deeper, wanted the deep burn of Viggo's cock inside him, stretching him painfully in all the best ways, the taste of his own sweat in his mouth like a curse.

He couldn't help trying to follow Viggo's finger when he pulled it out, a hungry shift of the hips that pleaded wordlessly. More cool slickness swiped against him, Viggo's hands damp and shaking on his hips as he positioned himself, pressed the head of his cock against Sean's arse.

"Ah!" It came out more like a wail, no breath left for anything else, not even the burn of humiliation and there was always pain at first, deep and hot enough to steal his breath, the unrelenting pressure of Viggo's cock sliding into him, and God, there's nothing else like this in the fucking world, the slap of Viggo's hips against his arse, grinding pleasure so deep inside.

"Jesus--" Viggo choked out above him and Sean forced his eyes open to look at him. So gorgeous, face reddened, his hair spiky and damp and God, yes, fuck, yes, he could never get enough of seeing him like that. Viggo's cock stabbing into him, his arse clenching around it automatically as though reluctant to let it go, and Christ, nothing should feel like this, so desperately out of his control and the sudden pressure of Viggo's hands around his wrists made him snarl. He was struggling now, had no leverage with his knees bent over Viggo's shoulders, and yes, he mouthed against the salt-slick curve of his own arm, muffling his shouts into his skin, to keep himself from saying it aloud. Yes, do it, make me want it.

Yes.

Viggo stiffened suddenly above him, the rocking slap of his hips hesitating, and that hesitation, the slightest rub of the shaft inside him just a little too much, and Sean came hard, white and blue strobing behind his eyelids and he sank his teeth into his own arm, tasted the heat of coppery red throbbing just beneath the surface. One last, brutal thrust rocked him, limpness seeping into his limbs as Viggo sagged above him, his breath coming in hot blurts against the wet skin of Sean's chest.

He gave a little pained moan as Viggo shifted, easing his legs back down on the bed. They felt loose and rubbery in his hip sockets, the hot stretch of muscle not nearly distracting enough for him not to feel Viggo's softening cock slip out of him, the sweet aching pain something he wished he could keep forever, tucked into a box under his bed where he could take it out and feel it again, and again.

They drowsed together for a moment, slowly cooling, until Viggo finally snagged the edge of the blanket and tugged it over them. He propped his head on his hands, resting his elbows on Sean's chest and ignored his pained grunt.

"Hi," he said softly, warm contentment in his eyes and Sean caught his breath, swallowed in a color that was as blue as his dreams. He bit the tip of his tongue on the swell of panic in chest, trying not to let Viggo see it.

"We don't have to do it like this," Viggo had told him once. Sean could see it in his eyes again, not a plea or even a demand, only plain, vanilla-pure honestly. If he asked, gave any hint that he would allow it, Viggo would wrap his life around Sean and hold him close, and damn whatever eyes might see them. He knew, he'd seen it time and again that Viggo's level of give-a-fuck was on another level than his own, in a different fucking universe even. Not quite even a question, more of a promise and it was cushioned only with the soft shine of love.

"I know," Sean murmured, and it felt feeble and useless, a pathetic answer and he said it anyway. "But this is the only way I know how to be."

Viggo smiled, a faint sadness lurking at the edges. It ached to see, made Sean wonder how many times he'd hurt Viggo and he knew he'd do it again, just like he knew Viggo would let him, let Sean slide free and wander back into his own life where Viggo wasn't allowed to follow.

Words clogged in his throat, choking him, and Sean thought he might gag on all the things he couldn't say. Instead, he could only look back at Viggo helplessly, until he shifted and sighed, resting his head over Sean's heart. Sean rested a hand on the back of Viggo's head, the curve of his skull a comfortable fit in his palm, and wished Viggo could hear things inside him that he couldn't speak.

Maybe he did.
 

-finis-

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