He comes to this pub nearly every night. I saw him with his friend at first. After that, he was in the company of a woman a few times. Now, he comes alone. He’s never once looked at me, though I stick out like a sore thumb in a place like this. I know it, because I can see the other patrons trying to guess who I am and where I came from, with my colourful clothes and my uncut hair. No one has come up to me and asked though.
I can sit and stare at him for ages, and he won’t notice. Of course, I’m seated in the darkest corner, so my staring isn’t all that obvious. But it’s as if he doesn’t realise that people could be looking at him. Maybe he thinks he’s just in this world in total isolation, and people will only see him once he’s engaged them in conversation. I wonder why he doesn’t make contact with others. He just sits there, drinks his pint, and reads.
I don’t simply stare at him, I draw him as well. From the second time I saw him in here, when he was still with his ‘mate’. At first, I sketched what I saw in front of me -- a young man wearing thick glasses that hide soft eyes, and drab, tweed suits that cover a slim but toned physique. But his image evolved. I’ve drawn him as a knight, a mobster, a roman senator, a punk rocker. He could be anyone, and the real image before me seems to fit this man less and less, as I continue to think up other roles for him to play.
The girl didn’t see him for who he is. She looked at him like she was deciding whether she should settle for this, for him. And in the end, I suppose she decided against it. Good riddance, he should never be someone’s consolation prize.
I wondered for a while what would happen next. Whether there would be another girl, or maybe the friend again. But he’s been coming here alone for nearly two weeks. I’ve been thinking about why he comes here at all, if it’s just to have a pint and a read. Is there something he’s trying to get away from at home?
I should probably make contact with him. It’s not out of character for me to observe for a length of time, before going up to someone. But this time, I feel edgy about it. Once I’ve approached him, I can never go back into my dark corner and observe. It feels akin to that unique moment before a first kiss -- even though what comes after is usually amazing, that anticipation before your lips have touched can be a wonderful sensation, and might be something you want to prolong.
I decide in the restroom that I will go up to him tonight. So when I get back in, I go to the bar to get two pints, and approach his table.
“Can I join you?” I ask, and offer him the pint.
He looks up from his book. He frowns, and it’s almost comical how he looks over his shoulder to see if I’m talking to someone else. “Yeah, sure.” He points to the chair opposite him and accepts the pint. “Ta, that’s very kind of you.” He smiles.
“My name is Viggo.” I hold out my hand.
He shakes it. “Steve.” He raises his glass and toasts with mine, then takes a sip.
“What are you reading?” I ask, and glance over to the book.
“Shakespeare, Richard III.” He picks up the book to show me. “Our students are performing it soon, and I’m their top critic. I was just doing some brushing up.” He puts the book to the side.
“You’re a teacher?”
“Yeah, history. Seventeenth century is my specialty.” When he says it, it sounds like he’s mocking himself. “What about you?” he asks. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Good catch,” I chuckle. He blushes, and I regret embarrassing him. “I’m from New York, originally. I had a small show in London, thought I’d take the opportunity to look around the country.” I don’t tell him I’ve been here much longer than I’d intended.
“A show? What kind of a show?” He looks very interested.
“Some of my paintings were at an exhibit.” I always downplay this information about myself.
“You’re an artist? What do you paint?”
“Abstracts mostly.” Though my sketchpad is full of portraits, but I probably shouldn’t mention that either.
“Abstract… I don’t know anything about that.” He acts like that means he lacks something essential.
“It’s really just doing what you feel,” I grin and give a small shrug.
In the next half hour, he curiously asks me about my life, hanging on my every word. The idea that I’ve left home without hesitation, and have been to so many countries, it impresses and amazes him.
“Can I get you another one?” He asks, pointing to my glass.
“Yes.” I smile at him.
He’s smiling as well, as he walks up to the bar. He gets back quickly, and hands me the fresh pint. “Cheers. To the end of term,” he toasts.
“Cheers. How long do you have left?”
“Two weeks.” He smiles wryly to himself. “I don’t know why I’d want to toast to it, really. It’s not like there’s anything else I’ve got going on. Well --” He cuts himself off.
“Well?” I prompt.
“Well. I do re-enactments, of the English Civil War. It’s a bit silly.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“Yeah, I do.” He pushes up his glasses. It’s like he’s waiting for a joke at his expense.
“How does it go?”
Instantly, he starts telling me how he’s one of the pikemen, who defends the musketeers from the enemy cavalry. He tells me how it excites him to experience that rush, even though it’s not real, at that moment when he knows he’s going to die and he has to let everything go. He speaks of the New Model Army, a first sort of professional army, adhering strongly to order and discipline. It’s a delight to listen to him speak so passionately, and in that gorgeous, warm voice.
“Listen to me, going on about history again.” He looks at his pint.
“You obviously care deeply about it. And I’d love to hear more, actually,” I encourage him.
“I should do something other than just talk about this.” He grimaces.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugs and frowns. I didn’t mean to make him think of something that’s difficult for him. The question had seemed so innocuous to me, but then I never have a problem picking up and going when I feel the need.
“How long are you here for?” He deflects the attention.
“I don’t know yet.” I give him a look that might be considered flirtatious. But I suspect he doesn’t notice.
“Maybe I could show you the field some time, where the Battle of Marston Moor took place? If you’re not leaving yet.”
“I’d like that,” I nod. “And I’d like to watch one of your re-enactments.”
“Yeah?” He smiles shyly.
“Yeah. I could make some sketches.” I casually brush my fingers against his hand when I reach for my glass. He looks at the hand, frozen. I continue quickly. “Do you have a pikeman’s uniform?”
“Ehm…. Yes, yes I do. I ehm…” He clears his throat. “It’s not a very good one. We, me and my mate, we became pikemen because the uniforms were cheap and it was all we could afford.”
“Still, I would like to see it. I imagine you look very handsome.” Okay, so I’m being very obvious. But it’s getting late, and I know he usually leaves earlier than it is now, so I have to put it out there.
He blushes and looks down again. But there’s a tiny smile curving his mouth. He really doesn’t know how beautiful he is. He looks at his watch and startles. “I should go.” He packs up his things and starts to get up, but then sits down again. “I’d like to see you again,” he says, his face fiery red.
“I’d like that too.” I smile. “I’ll be here tomorrow night.”
He nods.
“Sleep well, Steve.” I say softly, as he leaves.
--------
He’s late today. I can’t help but wonder if he’s changed his mind. Or if he’s not interested in anything beyond having someone to talk to, and he’s afraid that if he shows up now, he’ll send me the wrong message. I don’t feel anxiety a lot, but I feel it now. It’s an odd sensation; I don’t care for it very much.
I’m not at my dark corner table, I’m at the table he always sits at, drawing him in what I’ve researched to be a 17th century pikeman’s uniform. I hear the door open and close, and because I can’t see it from here, the view being blocked by a dividing wall, I put away my sketchpad just in case it’s him.
“Hiya,” he says with a big grin, two pints in his hands. He looks flushed, like he’s been hurrying. He sits down, putting the pints on the table. “Sorry I’m so late, my mum needed me to look at something.”
“That’s all right. Thanks.” I raise my glass and clink it with his.
“I live with my parents,” he says, rushing to get it out. “I mean, it’s why I come here so often -- it’s just to be on my own. My parents, they mean well. But my dad lost his job, and they go mad there together all day. I can’t bear to leave them.” He sighs “It’s difficult. My mum still likes to treat me like I’m five years old.”
“It must be stifling,” I mumble. I reach for his hand. He looks at it, but doesn’t pull away.
“It’s my own fault. There are lots of things I should change, but I can’t seem to do it.” He opens his hand, allowing more of my caress. I trace my index finger along the pad of his thumb. “I’m bringing it up because… I might like to invite you for a drink, but I can’t, you see.”
I grin. “Well, what if I invited you for a drink?”
He looks at me and swallows. I look at his throat.
“I’m staying at the inn.”
He nods. His thumb tentatively strokes the back of my hand. “I would say yes,” he says, very softly.
--------
Half an hour later, we are in my room. It’s large enough to have a sitting area, with a medium size couch, as well as a double bed. There’s also an en-suite bathroom, so I feel quite comfortable here. I pour us a drink and join Steve on the couch.
“This room is four times the size of mine,” he says, taking the proffered glass.
“It’s a good place to stay,” I nod.
He takes a sip, a rather large sip, and coughs. I chuckle and rub his back soothingly. He leans forward a little, waiting for his breathing to even out. “That was a little stronger than what I usually drink,” he explains.
I don’t mind, it gives me an excuse to touch him. I don’t think he minds either; he keeps on fake-coughing for a little bit, while I rub my hand in circles between his shoulder blades. Then I move my hands to his collar, and hook my fingers in it to take his jacket off. He lets me slide it off his arms, but he doesn’t face me. He’s still wearing a sweater vest, a shirt and a tie; if we were playing strip poker, I’d definitely be at a disadvantage.
I get up to put his jacket on a hanger. When I turn back to him, he’s standing and looking at me very determined. He takes off his sweater vest. I approach him and run my fingers through his hair. His eyes close and he leans into the touch. I want to kiss him, and so I do, gently. I brush my lips over his; kiss the corner of his mouth. I nip his bottom lip, then his upper lip, and then I pull back. His mouth remains open, the way I left it, and he stands motionless, waiting. I smile and tug on his tie.
He puts his palms on my chest. The hands move up to the first button on my shirt, and he starts unbuttoning. I stop him after a few buttons, and simply pull the shirt over my head. He stares at me while he slowly loosens his tie and lets it drop to the floor. Now, I know I’m pretty, but I’d like to get him out of those clothes a little more quickly than this. I move forward and stand against him, leaning my upper body back a little to open his buttons.
I grin in surprise when I uncover his undershirt, but I should have known. He blushes, though it doesn’t diminish the hard column I can feel against my leg. I kiss him again, and he kisses back with much more force. And then finally, I can have a look at him without all that cloth.
“You’re gorgeous,” I whisper, and I hook my finger in the belt loop of his pants, pulling him with me in the direction of the bed. I’m not lying; he is hot as hell, even though he looks a little uncomfortable with his partial nudity. I lie him down on his back and sit down next to him. He’s breathing quickly, as I leisurely explore features I’ve been trying to draw for weeks. I run my hand over his bicep, his shoulder, and then I have to taste his neck, licking a line up to his ear while my fingernail circles his nipple.
He squirms and clutches my head to him; he moves like he can’t decide whether he wants more, or less of my kisses as I dip lower to his chest. He moans when I suck his nipple into my mouth, and because I like the sound, I do more of it, until he tells me to stop.
“Stop… no, wait,” he says, forcing my head up. He kisses me, pushes his tongue in my mouth and slides it against mine.
I groan. And a mere kiss doesn’t usually make me groan. He drags me over him and his hands move down my back until they grab my ass and pull me closer. Oh, this sudden forwardness is wonderful, and the feeling is heightened by the friction we create while I grind against him.
I move back, and ignore his protests, because these pants have to be off, like now. He watches me, while I busy myself getting us fully naked. And then when we are, I look at him. I can tell he wants to cover himself, but he allows me to look. I follow long, lean legs to a flat stomach, where his beautifully swollen cock rests. His chest moves up and down quickly, and sweat is gathering at the dip between his clavicles. I look up into his eyes, still covered by his glasses.
I crawl back next to him and take them off. He blinks several times. I put the glasses on the nightstand, and open the drawer. His eyes close, and I kiss them softly.
He’s never done this before. I take my time, opening him up while kissing his mouth, his neck, until he urges me to “Bloody well hurry up”. When I push inside him, he tenses and squeezes my arms. I wait, and nip his earlobe, until he starts to relax. I can’t stop looking at all the expressions that play across his face as we move together, how his mouth opens in a quiet ‘ah’, when I brush against that sensitive gland inside him.
I need to remember him the way he looks now; I need to put it on paper so I will never forget the beauty of it. He clasps the back of my neck, pulls me close and kisses me hard, inhaling my breath. I’m suddenly shockingly close, and I grasp his cock, stroking firmly, hoping to last until he comes. And I only just make it, exploding when his muscles flutter and squeeze around me.
He’s lying in my arms, sweaty and sated. Every now and then, he looks at me, smiles, and kisses me; but we don’t talk for quite awhile.
“I should go home,” he finally says.
“What would happen if you don’t?”
“I’d go batty from the questions. And my mum would want to meet my girlfriend, so she can rate her.”
I laugh. “And how would I rate?”
“I don’t even want to think about that.” He pushes his nose against my shoulder.
I don’t blame him.
“Can I see you again?” he mumbles.
“I’d like that.”
--------
I will leave four weeks later. I will have gone to see his field and his performance as a pikeman; I will have made love with him every chance I get, and will have drawn how he actually looks underneath his clothes. And then I will go. I won’t be able to stay in this town, and he will understand. I will give him my new address, and will send him postcards with every new location’s address. And when he’s ready to move on, he will join me.
And maybe I will be able to settle down.
Summary: Viggo is a colourful stranger, who is intrigued by Steve. Contrary to Viggo, who goes where he likes for as long as he likes, Steve has a hard time making changes.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Crossovers Pairing: Steve/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 3076 Read: 871
Published: 20 Aug 2009 Updated: 20 Aug 2009