The auditions had been hard, the interviews harder, but he'd persevered and got the news he was hoping for, and damned if he was going to let weeknights and the early morning starts of a bunch of killjoys ruin this moment.
Sean clutched the letter to his chest and laughed as the rain spattered his coat, hair, face upturned as it was to the bright streetlight above. He'd rung up his mates, tossers all, and received uniform 'no's, first at the prospect of getting their arses out of warm beds and hauling 'em all the way to London, then at the suggestion they do it now. Fuck 'em. Sean grinned. He could celebrate just as well all on his own.
The pub was full to the brim, heavy coats, hips, arms, elbows, breasts brushing, jostling against him, filling him up with warmth that rivalled the slow burn of the first few pints going down. He drank in contented silence, the hubbub of patrons washing over him, bright smile at the ready for anyone who looked his way. Now, if only the bloke in the corner with the unbelievable biceps and shaggy black hair would catch his eye and come over, Sean would be well on his way to ending a fantastic night with a nice bit of shagging.
The minutes turned to hours, and the pints to shots; the pub started to empty, leaving Sean cooling more than his heels, and despite the increased elbow room, the clearing floor, the goddamn kitty-cornered bastard moved no closer. In fact, he seemed to be doing his best to ignore Sean's not-so-subtle glances, preferring to bore a hole in the wall to his right with a dark gaze that should have been busily sizing Sean up.
Eventually, Sean growled and thumped his last shot down on the bar; if this poof thought he could do better'n what was being offered, he'd leave him to it. There were easier pickings in the great, wide world, and anyway, the bastard's teeth were crooked. You could see it plain as day, and in retrospect, that was a wince-worthy remembrance. No slick-smooth blowjob there, not from Snaggletooth himself. Nah, he wasn't really interested in the beggar in the first place, Sean thought as he wobbled across the floor and out into the almost-empty street. He had his letter in hand and a couple pints in him, and really, what more could he need?
A flash of blond and blue realigned his priorities as he lurched to a stop. One denim-clad knee crooked, boot against the wall, body curving against immovable brick; Sean was suddenly grateful the pub prat had passed him over, for here was the sort of man who'd walked straight out of Sean's dirtiest wet dreams. He blinked, licked his lips as the man struck a match on the mortar, raised the flickering flame to the end of the fag in his mouth.
A cigarette would be a fine thing just now, offered the larger muddled, alcohol-soaked part of Sean's brain. He found himself inhaling and exhaling in time with the rise and fall of the man's chest until Sean felt the flicker of eyes over his body. His breath caught in his throat, hooked by the edges of a small proffered smile. Sean's feet moved of their own volition, closing the distance between them until he could smell aftershave that wasn't his own -- something cheap but spicy, cinnamon and astringent -- and it took every remaining sober brain cell to stop Sean from simply leaning over and letting his tongue trace over jawline and stubble. "You looking for someone?" The words could not have screamed "cliché" any louder, and inwardly, the sober parts winced, waiting for the inevitable brush off.
One shoulder raised, lowered, and the blue eyes studying Sean crinkled slightly in amusement. "Maybe. Are you?" He chuckled. "Seems a shame for someone like you to be wandering the streets alone. Maybe you need some company?"
Oh. Oh. It wasn't the first time Sean'd seen rentboys hanging about the place; he couldn't exactly afford the best of lodgings, and his flat was at the edge of prime real estate for less-than-legal industries. Still, this one was a bit on the old side to be pounding the pavement. No, not too old, Sean corrected himself, sizing the man up as near his own age, more like not used enough. He looked clean, rested, fed, and held himself with a quiet sort of authority Sean wouldn't have expected from someone in his line of work. Still, he had a strange, flat accent Sean couldn't place, and that made it all too easy to fall into the belief that here was an upper level university student, fresh over from somewhere or other, scraping the bottom of the barrel and finding no more pocket change in with the cushions. It wasn't so farfetched. Yet the fantasy spun out: he'd run out of choices, and now, in a last ditch effort to keep himself in coin enough to finance his study in the Queen's country, he'd taken to the streets, selling what he had so clearly carefully crafted and kept.
And happily enough, Sean, flush with newfound success, was in the market to buy.
"I--" Seized by the sudden urge to impress before bedding, Sean felt his mouth working independently of the last properly firing parts of his mind. "I've been accepted into RADA."
"Oh?" The look on the man's face was the same one reserved for puppies when they've mastered a new trick. "Congratulations. You must be pleased."
Sean nodded. Pleased didn't begin to cover it. "Mmhm. Found out this afternoon." He sidled closer, giving in to the impulse to touch dark blond hair, soft and silky under his fingertips. His cock twitched, not quite under the sway of the evening's soak of alcohol. "You make me hard."
"I do, do I?"
"Mm. How much?" Eagerly, Sean tugged his wallet free of his jeans, unfolding, opening it to peer inside. Expensive, probably, but he wasn't going to let an opportunity like this slide. He barely listened to the list of prices and options rattled off as he pulled out a wad of folding money and waved it in the man's direction. "How much for the lot?"
What followed was a burst of noise, a blur of activity and light. Sean saw blue, darker than the man's eyes; heard voices growling, snapping orders, all missing that essential smoky tone. His arms were pulled behind him, cold metal clicking home around his wrists, and as Sean was bundled blindly into the van, he wondered if he'd have to pay extra for the kink.
Dammit. Clink, no kink. Fine way to end the evening, stretched out on a pallet, staring at pockmarked cement as sobriety crept fully back in, mortified and hurriedly making promises to never, ever touch a drink again. He'd almost made it the whole night without using the lav, too, but his bladder turned traitor in the wee smalls, and finally he found himself pissing into the bowl like a fucking racehorse, not caring if the creepy bastard with the yellowing teeth and a stink that could peel paint watched him from his perch in the adjoining cell. All he wanted was for the cramping that was threatening to do him in to damn well stop.
He sighed, his spine straightening as the last remains of the night gurgled down the pipes. Tucked away and zipped up, he returned to the pallet to get at least a few winks before morning.
Morning, unfortunately, came early to the police station, but it did have the small advantage of getting Sean back on the streets, directive to appear in court crumpled in his fist. He hunched his shoulders as he slunk towards the station doors, eyes on the floor. What would his mum say if she found out her boy was picked up as a kerb crawler? Even better would be when she realized he wasn't bright enough to pick up someone who was actually on the game. "Christ," he muttered under his breath, a split second before a solid weight thudded into his shoulder, painfully twisting his upper body.
His head jerked up, a sharp word ready on his tongue, but he was stunned into silence by familiar blue eyes and a cool smile that most certainly shouldn't belong to a police officer. Police were supposed to be gruff and grim, stuffed full of law and order, not something so much more sinful. Sean licked his lips, throat working around words that wouldn't come, phrases that would mark him as more suave and certain than drunken mutterings and carelessly wielded cash would make him out to be.
"Sorry," the soft voice drawled as the man slipped by, but not before a folded square was pressed into the palm of Sean's empty hand. Then he was away, disappearing into whatever rooms held back the overflow of official starch and steel.
Sean waited until he was on the building steps, out in the crisp air, to unfold the little square, each side and corner precisely, sharply pressed into edge and point. Inside, the sprawling handwriting read: Viggo, 020-7946-0562. Ring me.
For the briefest of moments, he was convinced he was still pissed to the gills.
Ring me.
Sean grinned. First RADA, now Viggo -- he rolled the name around on his tongue, making a mental note to ask where it was from -- it'd been a fantastic evening after all. His knees wobbled a little as his feet hit pavement, but then he was up and away, shouting his good fortune to the streets.
"His name's Viggo," he hollered at the pigeons, scattering them and scaring the first of the old ladies frequenting the park, "and he's free."
Free. Free. And dammitall, so was Sean.
Summary: Sean decides to top off a good day with a grand evening out.
Rated: R
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: AUChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 1647 Read: 818
Published: 18 Aug 2009 Updated: 18 Aug 2009