While the working-class patrons around them swilled ale or the odd whiskey and played billiards, Viggo sat serenely in a corner booth with Sean, one bare foot tucked under the other leg, sipping his snifter of Courvoisier VS like some freshly-landed New Bohemian. Which, Sean supposed, Viggo was -- he'd only arrived in New Zealand a couple of weeks ago, and hell, the guy was walking around barefoot. In a pub. Clearly not your average movie star. It was strangely endearing.

They'd been talking shop most of the evening, dissecting the day's scenes and sketching them out on bar napkins. Sean's crude stick figures totally belied his art-school training; Viggo's doodling wasn't much better, thanks to exhaustion, and the booze certainly hadn't helped. Laughter flowed as easily and freely as the drinks.

A few times their knees bumped under the table, accidentally, and a hand brushed an arm (perhaps not so accidentally). It was all very comfortable and very right, somehow. Even the cheap cognac -- Sean wasn't quite sure where or how that particular bit fit in. It just did.

"Early call tomorrow," Viggo said eventually, stuffing his feet into battered shoes. "We should go."

Sean nodded, reluctantly.

--

They stumbled out into the night, the half-grass, half-gravel of the parking lot going crunch-crunch beneath their feet. Feet that automatically pointed towards Viggo's car without them even thinking about it.

Sean suddenly clued in to the obvious as Viggo moved to unlock the door. "Hey, you can't drive! You're drunk."

"Am not," scoffed Viggo. He swatted a fly away from his head, nearly cracking Sean across the face in the process.

"Nice. A most convincing display. C'mon, I'll drive you home."

Blue eyes rolled in perfect time with the drawl. "Please. I'm fine. Only had two cognacs."

"And two whiskeys after that," Sean grinned. "Look, give us your keys now..."

"Well, you can't drive, eh?"

"Me, pissed? On three pints?" He spat out all the indignation he could muster. "I'm from Yorkshire!"

"Is that supposed to impress me?"

"I could down five in an hour and you wouldn't even know it."

"What, from your walk or your breath?" snorted Viggo.

"Real funny. Ha ha."

Then Viggo drew close, and the laughter died in Sean's throat. "You just saw how straight I can walk, Sean; now try to smell the booze on me."

"What am I, a breathalyzer machine?" He stared, fascinated, at the little puffs of steam that hung between them as warm breath met cold air, and he felt Viggo's body heat pulling him in, tugging like a magnet to metal. Distraction, Sean thought. Must find suitable distraction. He gnawed on the inside of his lip.

But there was nowhere else to look, really. Nowhere that didn't fascinate or excite him in some way. The mere sight of Viggo leaning back against the doorframe, caressing it, the tip of his thumb teasing the crack of painted steel -- well, it was just too much, and it couldn't possibly be as innocent as it seemed. Nobody who drinks cognac could be that un-worldly, after all. Sean's breath hitched as he felt the familiar gears shift in his groin. He tore his eyes away, kicking uselessly at a piece of gravel.

"Look, I'm okay to drive. If you're not convinced, go ahead and sniff." Viggo sounded amused.

Sean shrugged, tried real hard to appear nonchalant, and took a step forward.

--

He wasn't sure how long he'd been staring at Viggo's moist, parted lips, but he was certain it was long enough to have made things very awkward indeed. Especially since Viggo was watching him brazenly, eyes wide and a bit mocking and... dark. The unpredictable kind of dark.

"So? What's the verdict?" Viggo's rasp was rougher than the ground they were standing on.

"Ummm." That mouth was so achingly near; he didn't trust himself to do anything other than stand there. Rooted to the spot. Sean's fingernails pierced his palms in self-restraint as he floundered for words, scrambled for a coherent thought. "Couldn't, errr, tell, really..."

Cognac Man suddenly grinned, looking one tooth short of wolfish. "That's because you're not leaning in close enough."

And when Viggo's fingers slid through Sean's hair to cup the back of his head and pull him forward, he had no coherent response to that either.

--

He was so lost in the bruising kiss that he hadn't even noticed Viggo shuffling them around. Sean found himself pressed up against the car, utterly pinned to it, the door handle poking him somewhere vaguely inappropriate as his ass wriggled about. Viggo was clutching and grabbing and taking, and trying to mentally follow the path of those fierce hands made Sean hopelessly dizzy. One moment his shoulder was being kneaded; the next second, his back; then fingernails scratched Sean's scalp as Viggo raked his fingers through the short hair.

The only constant was the crush of their mouths. And the callused heel of Viggo's other hand palming Sean's cock through his jeans, sliding forcefully up and down without pause.

If anyone had seen them at that moment, the impression would've been of a sculptor gleefully having a field day with a mass of putty -- putty that was alive, panting, emitting little needy whimpering sounds, and incredibly turned on.

Sean couldn't remember the last time he'd been kissed so thoroughly. So demandingly. So bloody well. But then again, he couldn't really think of anything, save for the delicious pressure welling up in his body, the hot come that would be spurting from his cock a few moments from now, the slick slide of Viggo's tongue in his mouth... and the taste of Courvoisier.

Bold, a tad rough, and slightly fruity...

Not to mention slightly impolite -- the guy'd had the gall to use Sean's shirt as a towel for his come-splashed hand before Sean could wheeze out a protest. But then Viggo had grinned, kindly, and the weight of his body became a support rather than a crush. And the smile stayed when Sean's arms curled tightly around his lower back to hold him close.

They leaned against the car.

--

When he finally recovered his breath, his bearings, and enough coherency, Sean played back his tape recorder and filled in the blanks. "Umm. So, was that supposed to convince me that you're sober? Or that you're quite drunk?"

"Which would you prefer?" Viggo whispered enigmatically into his hair.

The vibrations sent a shiver down Sean's spine. Or, maybe that was just the cold, considering they'd been standing there awhile and his thin layer of sweat was rapidly evaporating. His body had regained consciousness now and he was acutely aware of Viggo's cock -- hmmm, make that hard cock -- molding into the curve of his hip, squishing sticky clothes against his skin. He also noticed they were almost the same height. Might come in handy someday, that.

In one lightning-quick movement he un-snaked his arms and dug four fingers (and one thumb) firmly into the flesh of Viggo's ass cheeks; his other hand groped that hard cock. He bit back a laugh at Viggo's expression of total surprise. Who's the worldly one now, eh?

In the not-too-far-off distance, the pub door slammed shut. Laughter floated through the air.

"Not here," muttered Viggo, grinding himself roughly against Sean's hand anyway. "Get in the car."

"Driver's seat or passenger's?" asked Sean in a voice that absolutely dripped innocence.

"Doesn't matter," Viggo growled, tearing himself out of Sean's grip. "We're not going anywhere for a while anyway."

With that, he unlocked the door of the car and unceremoniously shoved Sean into the back seat.

--

"You drive around with your sword in the car?" Sean couldn't believe it. He'd worked with lots of Method actors before, but this was certainly a new one.

Viggo sighed, twisting himself around the back of the front seat to pop the keys into the ignition, wondering if he should switch the heater on. He hadn't at all been prepared for how cold New Zealand nights could get. "Yes, I do. Just put it on the floor, okay? Carefully."

There was a loud clink as Sean gingerly tried to stuff Anduril under the front seat. "What the hell was that?" He bent down and groped about in the dark, coming up a few seconds later with -- surprise, surprise -- a nearly-full bottle of Ra33;my Martin Extra.

"You drive around with cognac in your car, too?" So much for Method acting; this was just plain nuts. Not to mention probably illegal. "Shouldn't you be sitting on a street corner, drinking this out of a paper bag or something?"

Forget the heater. Settling back, Viggo grabbed the bottle, pulled the cork, and calmly poured a rich amber rivulet into Sean's hand as if dousing one's friend with cognac was the most natural thing in the world.

--

"Oi! Are you mad?" The thick, sweet smell was everywhere; it burned Sean's nostrils as if he'd just tossed back an entire snifter in one go. His senses were so overwhelmed that it took a few seconds to register that Viggo was drinking the cognac out of his palm, suckling and lapping like an eager kitty. Oh. That was nice.

Sean noticed much of the cognac had splashed over his clothes. Not so nice. Would be a bitch to get out in the wash tomorrow, for sure...

God, that tickled like hell. He curled his palm, offering up his fingers instead and Viggo acquiesced, licking them one by one, ever so slowly. Swirling his tongue around each knuckle, each tip, tracing the shape of the nails, now and then blowing lightly to transform the alcohol's heat into chill. Then dipping into the spaces between Sean's fingers before the cognac could finish seeping, burning, stinging in the sword-practice cracks and cuts.

Viggo's tongue was like a tiny pointed sponge, sopping up everything in its vicinity -- sweat, dirt, possibly even some mildly-toxic lead from the pencils they'd been sketching with a couple of hours ago. Too bad it was practically dark in the car; Sean had a feeling Viggo's eyes were on him while he licked, searching for everything and missing nothing. And all this attention being lavished on his hand was making him dizzy. Twisting his free hand through a length of soft hair, he pulled up and back -- just as he'd thought, those eyes were on him -- and he licked the length of Viggo's bared throat in one firm upwards swipe. The reply he got was a bizarre mix of breathy moan and satisfied cackle, but it sounded pretty damn good. He licked again, and got the same response.

"Yeah. Do it again." Slightly pleading; Sean couldn't refuse.

"Again." Demanding this time.

"You forgot to say please," he teased, but when Viggo twisted out of the hold and kissed Sean so hard his head smacked the back of the upholstered seat, he realized he might be out of his league here.

--

There was something about the way Viggo kissed that loosened Sean's grip on reality. Once again he'd totally zoned out for a minute, lost in some kind of swirly brain-fog, and hadn't even noticed Viggo unzipping his own jeans and placing Sean's sticky hand firmly over his cock.

Sean may have had a few pints on board, but he still knew how to take a hint.

He started stroking, trying to take the time to explore and gauge Viggo's reactions. Difficult, though, with that now-familiar tongue (and a slightly-different taste) filling his mouth, obliterating just about every other sense and sensation and sensibility he had.

"So what does this one taste like?" Viggo asked, his tongue finally sliding out to explore Sean's jawline.

"What?"

"Ra33;my Martin's different than that cheaper stuff, isn't it? Stronger wood notes." Christ, the man was practically... conversational about it. How the hell did he keep such control? "Did you know cognac is actually distilled from grapes, not fruit?"

"Errrr.... no.... ahhh..." Sean squirmed under the power of that tongue, which was now leisurely -- lazily -- checking out the inner contours of his ear in between rough nips of teeth, and he sighed blissfully. "Don't care, really...."

Viggo pulled back abruptly, leaving Sean panting and confused. And no longer blissful. "Don't care? That's a shame, Sean. A fine cognac is one of life's pleasures."

"Like this, you mean?" Sean purred, swooping down and swallowing Viggo's cock in one deft, smooth motion.

--

He swirled his tongue around the head like a connoisseur swishing liqueur around a delicately-curved glass; he lightly squeezed Viggo's balls as if they were swollen, ripe grapes; and the traces of cognac left on his palm (and on his tongue) created a burning friction that, from the way Viggo was groaning and bucking his hips, must be a lot more enjoyable than he would've thought. He dragged the flat surface of his teeth over the ridge, teasing and testing, and got a kick in the leg for his trouble. A kick with a bare foot.

Whatever the hell this barefoot thing was about, Sean had to admit he found it pretty damn sexy. Especially if all New Bohemians made the kinds of unabashed growling sounds this one was currently making. And it was because of him -- well, what a kick that was.

He glanced up, confidently sought out Viggo's eyes in the near-dark, and watched the glaze spread through them as he sped up his rhythm, trilled his tongue, licked and sucked and hummed and did everything with his mouth that he figured Viggo would enjoy.

After all that warm-up -- literally, what with the way the cognac cooled then heated the skin, like menthol -- it didn't take long for Viggo's shuddering to get crazier and his moans louder. Then he gulped and came hard, in hot viscous spurts that slid down Sean's throat like cream.

The last spurt didn't quite make it down the gullet, though; a couple drops slipped out the corner of Sean's mouth, sliding down to his chin in a slick drizzle. He wiped it off with the back of his hand, smiled innocently, and this time Viggo's shirt acted as the towel.

--

Despite his slumped-over position, it was Sean's turn to be the quiet rock of support. He certainly couldn't complain about that. Especially not with Viggo panting and sighing. And especially not with Viggo's hand lazily brushing his hair and ghosting over his shoulders, petting him like a cat. He could get used to that sort of thing.

Nuzzling his head against Viggo's thigh, Sean congratulated himself. That'd definitely put an end to Viggo's waxing lyrical about his bloody cognac. And what a tasty triumph it was, too.

Musky, a tad bitter, and... well, slightly fruity.