I glare up the front of your house, but behind none of the big windows shines a light. That doesn't have to mean you're not at home, I tell myself, you could very well sit on the carpet of the living room in the dark, listening to psychedelic rock music and getting caned. Or you could simply be asleep in your bed.
I set my suitcase onto your doormatt and bang the door with my fist. Yea, I could use the bell, but I'm tired and jaded, taking it out on the door. Sue me.
You don't open, which means you're either stoned in the living room, asleep in your bed or not at home. 2:1 chance for me.
I eye the disastrously ugly and huge flower pot next to your door under which you hide the spare key in case you shut yourself out again. The number of times this has happened to you since you live here is so ridiculously high that you should get your key on a ribbon and bound round your neck like they do it with little kids. I don't know how you manage to lift that piece of crap anyway, bloody heavy it is. Lucky me that I have the spare-spare-key in the pocket of my pants. The metal is warm for I have fumbled with it the entire ride from the airport to your house and I let myself in.
With a loud thump my luggage falls to the floor and I call your name through the dark hall. You don't answer. Bugger.
I turn the lights on and search the living room anyway. No luck. I call your name again and still you don't reply. I grunt in disappointment. Only because you didn't know that I was coming doesn't mean that you're allowed to be gone when I arrive. Yea, I could have called before I took the plane to here instead of Britain, but that'd have ruined the romantic surprise, wouldn't it. And besides, it was either to make that call or to watch the crucial last minutes of that football match they had on the huge screen in the airport.
I chant your name silently as I make for the kitchen as if you'd appear if only I summoned you often enough. My mood lightens up when I find a bottle of my favourite beer in your fridge. The momentary high lasts until I drink and - amazing effect cold beer has on my brain activity - remember you told me this morning that you had a meeting this evening. Which is now. Bugger.
I take me and my beer back to the living room and try the 'memory' button on your answering machine. Just in case you left a message to yourself, reminding you to be home early for phonesex with your boyfriend. No message and the machine automatically switches to the last calls and I get to listen to sappy boyfriend talk. God, I do sound pathetic when I've just woken up alone, don't I?
I switch on the telly and once again learn that twohundred channels are no guarantee that even only one decent programm is on. Your DVD player tells me I can chose between "Finding Nemo" and "Sharpe's rifles". You're a nutter. When are you coming home so I can tell you?I want to tell you how my week was, how neat it is to work with the southern softie again and how nice a chap Eric is. Cause at least one sentence small talk before I throw you onto the couch and fuck you senseless counts as a polite gesture, right?
I'm tired and lonely and you're not here to make it better. After a minute of pitying myself I grow restless and take a tour though the house. All the doors are wide open - I wonder why you have any at all - except for the one with a poster of some rock band plastered onto it. I know Henry told me their name several times, but I just can't bring myself to remember. I find myself staring at the stupid poster for a while already and decide that time could be better spend with staring at your art, so I climb the stairs up to your gallery.
Oh, look, you've finished the giant blueish one, didn't you? I stop right in front of it and as I look it up and down I scratch my chin in best I-get-dragged-to-art-museums-and-pretend-I-actually-get-it manner, even though nobody is in the room with me.
I still think it looks like two greyhounds chasing the Blob, but I won't be so foolish to tell you so again. I guess it's just my subconscious pouting anyway, since you want to hang it onto the bedroom wall and for that turned down my two brilliant decoration suggestions (a ubersized picture of you naked or a huge mirror. - Though I kinda get your point when you said that not even you were self-involved enough to wank to giant pin up versions of yourself).
Thinking of wanking automatically leads me to remembering that I should be taking a shower. Because I smell of a long day.
How long exactly this day was tells the fact that I - once under the spray - don't even jack off but try to find out if that new shower gel you bought blends with my favourite shampoo.
Just as I get out of the shower and leave wet puddles on the greyblue tiles, I hear the distant sound of my mobile ringing. I curse and go to get it, the large amount of time I recently spent in hotels causes me to automatically wrap a towel round my waist as I stumble down the stairs. My phone's in my jacket, my jacket is on the kitchen table and I'm out of breath when I reach it.
"Yea?", I answer breathlessly.
"What took you so long? And why are you panting? Don't tell me you started wanking without me on the other end of the line?", you say in a rush, the obvious exhaustion from the meeting overshadowed by enthusiasm.
"I wouldn't dare.", I assure you with a smile, "Just got out of the shower."
I hear you honking at some poor driver, who had the bad luck of being in your way, before you say: "Oh, good. - Are you naked then?"
I chuckle. "Isn't it illegal in the US,", I investigate, "to wank while driving a car?"
"Well, fuck.", is your reaction.
"How long until you're home?"
"Two minutes."
"How was your meeting then?"
You sigh overly dramatic but still obviously tired. "I'm currently busy with erasing all memory of it from my brain. - Are you still wet or did you towel yourself?"
Picking up that idea, I use my towel to actually dry myself as I leave the kitchen and head for the bedroom. "In the process of toweling."
"I should do that for you.", you say with so much open need in your voice that it makes me shiver and I start to get hard.
"Among other things.", I agree and let myself fall back onto our king sized bed.
"You're in bed already.", you state, hearing it creak. "Are you touching yourself?"
I smile and hum affirmatively. "You should do that." I add when I hear your car pulling into the drive.
"I'd prefer fucking your wits out,", you turn off the engine. "But simply touching would be nice, too."
"You know, I rather like the idea with the fucking." I say with a smirk and hear your keys turning in the keyhole.
"Now, in that case -" you stumble over my suitcase in the hall and I can hear your Danish cursing in two voices, over the phone and through the door.
A second later the swearing stops and you call my name in wonderment.
I click my mobile shut and answer.
Summary: I glare up the front of your house, but behind none of the big windows shines a light.
Rated: R
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 1326 Read: 753
Published: 29 Jul 2009 Updated: 29 Jul 2009