Viggo
It is a bright, crisp morning in early Spring and I take the stairs down from my loft apartment and head out into the cobbled street on my way to get my coffee from my favourite Italian café.
I love early morning, when the city is just waking up and this area, near the river is one where working warehouses rub shoulders with gentrified houses, daffodils and crocuses waving hello from their window boxes, and the kind of expensive loft apartments I now live in. Ahead of me, a little old lady, bent almost in two over her stick, plods along on her way the market, pulling her shopping trolley behind her. She is one of only a few residents around here, most of the premises still being industrial.
I am an American exile in London, a city I love. As a pretty successful artist and photographer I am able to afford my apartment here and I find the contradictions and contrasts in this area stimulating and inspirational, which is why I moved in a couple of months ago.
As I approach a particular alleyway, I wonder whether he will be there this morning.
In the last few days, when passing to and fro, I couldn’t help but notice him.
The first time, I was drawn to the incredible cornflower blue of his sweatshirt, caught as a flash of colour against the greys and beiges of the alley wall and the wooden pallets. Then I noticed the guy inside the sweatshirt and felt an instant pull of attraction. Blue is certainly his colour !
Since then I’ve made a point of passing by as often as I can. He’s not always there, must just be when he takes his breaks. Sometimes there are others, also dressed in the blue. It must be the uniform in that warehouse, but on them it does nothing for me.
I glance across at the alley, feeling disappointment that he is not there today. Damn, my timing seems to be off ! Then I hear the sound of running feet and a sharp cry. My head snaps up and I see that two youths in hooded sweatshirts have run past me and are grappling with my little old lady.
One is holding her arms, while the other is trying to snatch her large and bulky handbag from her. She may be frail, but she is feisty and fighting back. I react instantly, knowing that in a moment, they are going to turn real vicious and she is going to get hurt.
Shouting loudly to distract them, I run over and throw myself at the guy trying to snatch her bag. I pull him off her and he starts flailing his arms, trying to punch me. I hit him hard right on his jaw and he falls over, but as I go to hit him again, a blow from behind strikes me behind the ear, making me feel sick and dizzy and I slump to my knees. His mate has let go of his prey and joined in, following with a sharp kick to the kidneys.
I yell in pain and twist, to see that his foot is raised to kick again. I grab it and yank it out from under him, depositing him on the cobbles, with a satisfying crack. The other kid is back on his feet now and comes at me again before I can get up, but suddenly I hear another shout and from the corner of my eye I see a blue arm come around and punch my attacker. This one knocks him out cold and this time he is not getting up.
Some of the warehouse guys have run out and are holding onto the other kid,, while a guy in a suit, who must be the manager is checking that my lady is ok.
A hand is extended to me and an attractive, deep voice says,
“You all right, mate ?”
Sean
I’ve glanced at the big clock hanging above the entrance more than once this morning. I started off early in the morning, it has been busy and I am in much need of a break. I drink my cup of lukewarm coffee standing and then use the backdoor to go outside.
Being trapped between four walls all day makes me want to catch a bit of fresh air whenever I get the chance. The other blokes working here come outside only to smoke, or in high summer. They usually prefer to stay inside, laughing and telling dirty jokes.
Originally from Yorkshire, I have lived in London now for more than twenty years, all those years working in this same warehouse. I’ve been in London too long to remember exactly what I expected to happen moving here, something spectacular probably, but it never happened.
It’s not very exciting, but it’s a good life mostly. The work is not bad, and the payment is rather good for someone without a proper schooling like me. I like most of the guys I work with, and sometimes we go to the pub after work and have a few pints together.
Most nights, I go straight home after work. I was lucky enough to buy a small but nice flat, just before the prices went sky high. Through the years I’ve managed to make it my home, working on it in my spare time, and I am quite proud of it.
When I step outside, I see the back of that new guy just passing the alley. He must be one of those artist blokes living here in one of those lofts. I can’t imagine him working in one of the warehouses here. He’s just not the type, he seems strangely out of place here.
I’ve seen him several times the last few weeks, probably getting some fresh air a few times a day like me. I can’t help wondering what he does for a living, is he a painter or a sculptor ? I was always interested in art.
My thoughts interrupted by shouting voices, I jump up and start running through the alley to see what’s happening. About 50 metres from me, old Betsy, who lives a few streets away stands frozen to the spot, clutching her handbag to her body.
Down on the street my artist is fighting off a young guy, yelling, a second one coming at him. Now I am shouting whilst running, grabbing the second hoodie at the arm. I punch him in the face, and flat down he goes.
Behind me I hear running footsteps and I realize I must have yelled hard enough to alert my co-workers and even my boss is here. The other youngster is kept in place, my boss concerns himself with old Betsy, so I just help up my artist, who looks a bit ruffled, but not really damaged.
“You all right, mate ?” I ask him.
He shakes himself, seemingly checking for injuries, but then he grins.
“Yes, I am fine, “ he says and the soft drawl gets my full attention. He is clearly American, which makes him even more exotic to my eyes.
“Thanks for coming to my aid, “ he says, extending his hand. “I am Viggo, Viggo Mortensen.”
“Thank you for helping Betsy here,” I say, “I am Sean, Sean Bean.”
My boss who’s quite a nice bloke, takes Betsy in to the warehouse to give her a cup of coffee while we wait for the police and Viggo comes with us. My boss offers Viggo and me coffee too, and I wander off outside to drink it.
Strangely enough I am not surprised at all when Viggo comes outside to sit next to me on the pallets to sip his – this time fresh and hot –coffee. He raises his cup in a mocking salute.
“Nice to meet you, Sean !”
Viggo
My old lady doesn’t seem hurt and is taken into the warehouse, along with the hoodies, to wait for the police.
Sean’s boss gives us coffee and I go outside and join him sitting on the pallets, raising my Styrofoam cup to him in a toast.
Sean ! It suits him and it is good to put a name to him at last. It is also good to finally have some contact with him, however brief and fleeting. The hand that grasped mine and pulled me up was strong and firm. Now that I look closely, I see that his fingers are long and elegant, more appropriate to a pianist than a fork-lift truck driver, which he tells me he is.
The coffee is fresh and hot, but that’s about all that can be said for it ! Sean laughs at the grimace I pull on tasting it ! His laugh lights up his face and we sit together in companionable silence, until he has to return to work.
He takes the cup from me and comments that I clearly wasn’t impressed by the company coffee. I tell him that I know a place, where the coffee is out of this world and actually tastes as good as it smells. He says he’d like to taste that and then he turns and I watch him walk back into the warehouse. He certainly has a fine ass under those jeans, if I am any judge and I have never been wrong yet.
The police arrive and I give them my statement, then return to my loft and try to paint. Everything I work on seems to be dominated by a particular shade of blue, with hints of green and I reflect that it is a long time since anybody had this effect on me. I wonder if he is straight, has a girlfriend, is married even.
I decide that I very much want to find out and have an idea. I write a note in readiness, keeping the tone light and teasing.
When I go to bed, I find I can’t get to sleep for thinking about him and I indulge in a nice fantasy, imagining those long, flexible fingers wrapped around my cock instead of my own familiar hand.
Next morning, I leave for the café a little earlier than usual and get two of their incomparable coffees. I hurry back to the alley and leave one on the pallets for Sean, with my note underneath. He should be coming out for his break any time now and although I want to see him again, I force myself to hurry away, back to my lair.
I try to work, but find I can’t concentrate. At midday, I take my camera and leave the loft, intending to go down to the river, but my feet automatically turn right instead of left and I find myself heading for the alley again.
As I reach it, I automatically glance in with a sense of anticipation and excitement.
I am rewarded with a dazzling smile and a wave,
“Thanks mate ! You were right about that coffee !”
Sean
The way his face scrunches up when he tastes the coffee makes me laugh. He seems very much at ease sitting here on those pallets next to me and I like him. Viggo ! I’ve never heard that name before.
When asked I tell him I am a fork-lift truck driver, which isn’t very impressive I guess, but he seems genuinely interested. I would like to ask him about his work too, but I have to get back inside, there’s a job to be done. Sitting in the sun and talking to Americans isn’t part of it.
I take his cup from him, to dispose of it inside the warehouse and make a remark on his obvious dislike of our coffee. He tells me of this place where you can have great coffee, coffee like it’s meant to be and I say I would like to taste that.
I go back inside, leaving him on the pallets, waiting for the police to arrive. It’s a busy day, a lot of work to be done, but I like working hard. Now and then I think about that bloke, Viggo, and wonder what he’s doing now,
There was something interesting about him and I hope we’ll meet again and have another talk, I am curious about him. I would like to know why he lives here, far from his country.
But it won’t go much farther then greetings probably, why would a bloke like that be interested in a working man like me ? And why do I care all of a sudden ? I shrug and go on with my work, finally managing to forget the events of this morning.
Still, when I walk home that night I think about him again and hope he will pass by again tomorrow. I am a bit restless tonight and my flat seems a bit empty. Perhaps I should go out a bit more, meet more people.
‘Meet a nice girl,’ a mocking voice in my head tells me. Or maybe not a nice girl, but just meet a girl and get laid, my body tells me. Yes, too long since any other hand but my own hand touched me.
But I don’t get out, I just watch a boring movie and then take a shower, music banging from the speakers I’ve hung in the bathroom. Rhythmically wanking to the beat of the drum, my soapy hand fisting my cock, until my eyes squeeze tight and I cry out. God, I needed that.
The next morning things are back to normal again, and I am wrapped up at work until it’s time for my morning coffee. The cup in my hand makes me think about the American again, wondering if he will be there this morning.
I walk outside and the first thing I see is a big cup of coffee, standing on the pallets, with a piece of paper underneath it. I read the words written on it and I smile. I carefully take the lid off the cup and sniff. It smells delicious and I take a first careful sip.
He must have been here only minutes before, because the coffee is pretty hot and damned good. He is right, this is what coffee should be like, but seldom is. I sit in the sun, thoroughly enjoying the taste and I feel great. It’s a very nice thing to do and it strikes me that he made the effort of getting it and bringing it here for me. He must be a very special person.
Later I head outside with my sandwiches, sitting back on the pallets again, the sun has warmed up nicely and I relax. The moment I see Viggo, I am aware I’ve been waiting for him unconsciously and I smile and wave. He smiles back and I call out to him :
“Thanks mate ! You were right about that coffee !”
Viggo
An opening ! I choose to take it as an invitation and join him on a pallet.
I tell him the name of the café and he admits he knows it, but he always thought it would be expensive and “poncey”.
“They do a pretty mean sandwich there, you know, Sean.”
He chuckles and answers in that accent and voice that are so seductive,
“They may do crayfish and rocket, mate, but ah bet they don’t do a nice greasy bacon butty !”
All too soon, his break is over, we have smoked a cigarette together and he stands up to go back into work, nodding at my camera,
“Professional, or just for fun ?”
“I am professional, a photographer and artist and a poet too ! But the photography is something I have done since I was a teenager and it’s fun too.”
“And you earn your living like that ? Sorry, that sounds rude, ah mean you can make a living selling your art and such ?”
I nod and smile at him,
“Not proper work, eh ?”
He blushes to the roots of his dirty blonde hair.
“Sorry, ah didn’t mean to imply……..!”
“Hey, I know, it’s ok, really ! “
I raise my camera on a whim and snap off a few pictures of him. He stands and lets me do it, not exactly smiling or looking comfortable, but not asking me to stop either.
“Look, I have to go. What did yer want to go an’ do that for. Anyway ?”
“Just local colour, Sean ! I like that blue !”
“So ah see ! It’s under yer fingernails an’ splashed all down yer jeans ! See yer !”
And again I am treated to that smile and his retreating ass.
But he has given me another idea and next morning I head for the café early again and ask Tony if he can do a bacon butty ! He rolls his eyes, but says that for me he will make one, then lectures me about healthy eating and asks me why I don’t want any of his nice tomato and mozzarella salad or melon and proschutio.
Assuring him that I love his food, but I have a friend with a craving for bacon butties, I beg him to indulge me and, nice guy that he is, he hands one to me. I must admit that it does smell pretty good !
I hurry back to the alley to beat Sean and leave the bacon butty in its wrapping ready for his break. Hearing voices I practically run away and feel childishly excited, anticipating his reaction.
I try to throw myself into my work, but I am really hyperactive, anxious to see him at lunch time and get his reaction.
This reminds me of being in the eighth grade and trying to attract the attention of that hot girl on the swimming team, before I realized that I was actually more interested in the hot guys.
She wasn’t overly impressed by my little gifts and went off with a football player anyway !
I wonder if Sean will be impressed ?
Sean
He comes and sit down beside me and he tells me the name of the café where he’s bought that coffee. I know where it is, but it’s a bit too posh and expensive for me so I’ve never been there.
I believe him about the sandwiches, but I am quite happy with my bacon butty Pete right round the corner sells, and I bet this place doesn’t, I tell him.
I have to get back to work, but before I leave I pick up the courage to ask about the camera he carries with him. He tells me he’s a photographer, an artist and a poet too. I can’t help asking if he really earns a living with that, and he chuckles while answering me. I never meant to imply it’s not a proper job, and I feel quite embarrassed for suggesting that. I guess it beats being a fork-lift truck driver.
I am glad he doesn’t seem to be insulted though, and he even gets his camera and takes a few pictures of me. I am very surprised that he does, and I am not sure how to react. But about to leave, I still ask him why.
He likes blue he says, well that’s obvious, his jeans and hands are caked with it and there are blue rims under his fingernails, and I make a comment about that before I turn around and get back inside.
I go back to work, I don’t know why but this little meeting has cheered me up and I catch myself even singing now and then.
The next morning I watch the clock more often than usual, I can’t help wondering if I’ll see him again today. I am not sure why I even want to, it’s probably because he’s so different to most people I meet, and he seems really nice. I wouldn’t mind seeing some of his photographs too, or that blue painting he has obviously been working on.
Finally time for my break I go outside, and there it is, a wrapped package on top of the pallets. I don’t for a minute ask myself who put it there, because I know without any doubt. I do wonder what it is though and when I’ve unwrapped it and the delicious smell comes free I do wonder why it’s here too.
What is this, just a joke, because of my remark yesterday ? Seems a bit strange since we hardly know each other. The American equivalent for “let me buy you a beer, mate” ?
I don’t know, but the bacon butty smells enticing and I take a big bite. I must give it to him, if they made this at that poncey café of his, they are good, much better than Pete. But probably twice as expensive too.
There’s no note this time, or I accidentally ate it, but I don’t think so. He doesn’t show up, for which I am grateful, because I wouldn’t know what to say right now, but perhaps he will in my next break and I will be able to thank him.
Perhaps he’s lonesome and trying to make a friend I tell myself. That sounds like a reasonable explanation.
Viggo
At midday, I hurry down again to the alley, slowing and attempting to appear casual as I approach. Just hope that Sean got to his bacon butty before any marauding dogs or cats. We even get very bold urban foxes raking through the bins here, though not usually in broad daylight.
When I reach the pallets he is already there and my stomach flips at the idea he is waiting for me. What I would really like to do, is ask him for a drink, but I don’t want to push too hard and scare him off.
His smile is warm and he thanks me for the bacon butty, grudgingly admitting that it was good.
“Good ? Only good, Sean ?”
“OK, it was the best I ever tasted, only yer probably had ter re-mortgage yer poncey artist’s loft ter pay for it !”
“Don’t you know. Sean, that we artists traditionally starve in garrets ? How do you know I have a poncey loft ?”
“ Well, yer dress like a starvin’ artist and you don’t seem very good at getting’ the paint stains off. Have yer never heard of turps ? But yer did assure me that yer make a living at this and there are these expensive tastes in evidence. Any road, the only people livin’ round here now and not just comin’ to work are the up-market, gentrified lot, or the remnants of the original people, real old folks, like Betsy.”
I ask him if he has heard how she is and he tells me that she is none the worst for her ordeal and enjoyed the attention from his workmates and the police. Apparently she said that she hadn’t had so many nice young men dancing attention on her since the War and asked them to make sure and thank that nice American, who put her in mind of the GI’s she had known.
“She kind of glazed over at that point with a reminiscent smile. Ah reckon she were quite a girl,”
“I love your accent, Sean, North of England, right ?”
“Yeah, Sheffield. Funny really, ah’ve been down here twenty year and never lost it. Never stopped following me football team either. Once a Blade, always a blade. Proper football, yer know, not that strange game you lot call football.”
“Well I like your football, Sean. I was brought up in Argentina until I was eleven years old and I have a team too ! I still support them, although I am so far away.”
“Well, look, mate, to show I appreciate the coffee an’ the butty, an’ the way you went to Betsy’s rescue, how about I buy you a drink and we watch some footy in the pub together ? There’s an International on tomorrow night .”
My surprise makes me bold and I tease him for the pleasure of seeing him blush.
“Why, Sean, are you asking me on a date ?
I am rewarded by that cute rush of blood and he seems to get embarrassed for a minute, then his eyes snap up and he is scanning my face to make sure I am joking. I laugh to reassure him.
“Git !” he says, had me goin’ there for a minute ! You artists are always bent ! Compulsory ah reckon ! Thought yer were after me lily white arse ! ”
Oh, Sean, little do you know ! I feel you are going to be a challenge !
Summary: Sean is a fork-lift driver and Viggo an artist, their life changes when they meet.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: AUChallenges:
Series: A Kiss from a RoseChapters: 5 Completed: Yes
Word count: 23829 Read: 7740
Published: 04 Aug 2009 Updated: 04 Aug 2009