A back, glimpsed. He yearns. He pushes through the crowd, his heart suddenly sounding like a motorway pileup, incoherent noises indicating panic, louder than the crying in his head.
Outta the way, wimmen! ... "Yeah, I'll sign," Shaking hand wields a thrust-out felt pen and a wild SB~~¬ scrawls across a menu. The hand shoves the pen into other hands, and a frozen face flicks a smile somewhere in the vicinity of the teeth, his stomach curdling whilst thinking, 'It was! It was! He'll have gone!'
Brain signals eyes to seek far into the darker corners, peer beyond the crowds, into the clumps and clusters. His mouth is dry as alum powder, and if he could taste it would be tongue-curling bitter. Fear is pushing sweat to coat the palms and backs of his hands.
'Why do I hurt when I think of him, when I see him? When I think I see him the pain is sharper, wilder, deeper... Why do I HURT so?'
His self answers, 'My face wants his skin, my hands to stroke and hold his cheeks, his jaw. My chest, oh, this being gripped by enormous black hands darkening ... My belly is nauseous, sickness ready to spill when the disappointment strikes again, knifing me from my crown to my fork.'
'My cock hangs limp, screwed into itself with the passion of adrenalin, and my balls have searched safe haven within myself; but my arse, my muscle of decency is loose, quivering, burning, demanding, begging already to open in submission. My arse aches for him. My knees are trembling beneath my shaking thigh muscles. My legs really are so weak, like frail spider legs. '
He stumbles, his feet clipping lintels and missing steps.
Doors. Locked, despite fists thudding. A handle found, pulled - shrieks of women in hairpatting mode gape widemouthed as the glare-eyed drunk stares wildly around, the noise pushing him out of the door that thumps hard into his back. Another door, a sign, 'Mens'Toilets.' 'He must be... it's the only place left...'
Dark door crashed wide by a footsole raised high. A flailing arm seeks to find a doorframe to hold upright the staggering man. The door rebounds and smacks into an upheld forearm, then rests ajar. The frantic eyes stare, their focus on the two figures standing heads bowed in seeming prayer. 'Oh lord, now lettest thou thy servant piss in peace.' One head lifts as the drunk steps forward, away from the upholding doorframe. The hands move, the body hitches,
"Oh, Hi, Sean, you looking for Vigs? He's in there." The dark round head smiles and nods at a closed cubicle.
Sean's body stops. He feels it stop utterly. His blood sets in ice, his heart halts in half beat. His hands are fluttering like butterflies inside their bones, but they are helpless. His brain has suffocated in the airbag of shock.
Viggo's voice from inside the stall. "Thought I saw you, Bean, but some things hafta come first."
Sean stumbled to the next cubicle and bent. He threw the whole of his insides in four gushing gasps into the white porcelain, then he collapsed to kneel, his arms enfolding the curve of the toilet bowl, his forehead pressing on the cold rim. One hand feebly raised, felt its way to the handle, and pulled weakly down. The rush of air bringing tiny sprinkles of clean water while the bowl roared and gushed in liquid hurry cleared Sean's mind, cleansing his foggy sight.
He leant back against the cracked white tiles, one leg crushed beneath him, his dress suit smeared and wet. He didn't care, didn't know, but just felt that he might be partially alive again with the sound of the voice, hoping he would be fully alive, truly alive again if...
"Yeah, this vodka goes bad with stale blinis. Whaddya doin' in Moscow, Vigs?"
A rustle of paper cleaning a desired place, the shuffling of those bony feet. "Art! You know me and Art. Exhibition of New Art isn't it? She's put it on..." The doorbolt chattered back against the rush of water, and a gasp of cloth against the frame followed.
The voice was close. "Thought you'd be here, Bean." Sean pushed himself up against the wall, and wiped his sleeve across his face, alive on the close sound of the husky vowels he'd missed so much, a lifetime, a thousand days, a million years...
He marched from the stall, pasting a smile in place. Afraid.
Viggo leant against the onyx washstand, his hair longer, greyer, matching his eyes.
Sean held his breath again, his chest began hurting, those dark hands were screwing tight...
Viggo moved. One ... two ... steps. Then a third.
Sean was complete again. Because. There was the perfume of the hair, the skin, tears and breath; the heat of a nose pressed deep into his neck, and his own into another neck where the pulse leapt and thudded, thudded, fast, erratically.
Arms held as strongly as male arms can hold, while hands gripped, stroked, felt, patted, clung, gripped again.
Bodies shifted closer, ground together, hip to hip, knee to knee, belt buckle to belt buckle. Fitted, as breaths joined, lips touched and caressed, then bullied. Tears fell in passion, in effort, in relief. The noses bent, stifled; ears pulled, bitten, and then faces went back to mouths, throats....
The door banged open again.
Karl's voice clanged vaguely as if from a mountain top. "She's looking for you, Bean, they're closing up soon."
Summary: Sean and Viggo in Moscow
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 921 Read: 502
Published: 10 Nov 2012 Updated: 10 Nov 2012