While the working-class patrons around them swilled ale or the odd whiskey and played billiards, Viggo sat serenely in a corner booth with Sean, one bare foot tucked under the other leg, sipping his snifter of Courvoisier VS like some freshly-landed New Bohemian. Which, Sean supposed, Viggo was -- he'd only arrived in New Zealand a couple of weeks ago, and hell, the guy was walking around barefoot. In a pub. Clearly not your average movie star. It was strangely endearing.

They'd been talking shop most of the evening, dissecting the day's scenes and sketching them out on bar napkins. Sean's crude stick figures totally belied his art-school training; Viggo's doodling wasn't much better, thanks to exhaustion, and the booze certainly hadn't helped. Laughter flowed as easily and freely as the drinks.

A few times their knees bumped under the table, accidentally, and a hand brushed an arm (perhaps not so accidentally). It was all very comfortable and very right, somehow. Even the cheap cognac -- Sean wasn't quite sure where or how that particular bit fit in. It just did.

"Early call tomorrow," Viggo said eventually, stuffing his feet into battered shoes. "We should go."

Sean nodded, reluctantly.

--

They stumbled out into the night, the half-grass, half-gravel of the parking lot going crunch-crunch beneath their feet. Feet that automatically pointed towards Viggo's car without them even thinking about it.

Sean suddenly clued in to the obvious as Viggo moved to unlock the door. "Hey, you can't drive! You're drunk."

"Am not," scoffed Viggo. He swatted a fly away from his head, nearly cracking Sean across the face in the process.

"Nice. A most convincing display. C'mon, I'll drive you home."

Blue eyes rolled in perfect time with the drawl. "Please. I'm fine. Only had two cognacs."

"And two whiskeys after that," Sean grinned. "Look, give us your keys now..."

"Well, you can't drive, eh?"

"Me, pissed? On three pints?" He spat out all the indignation he could muster. "I'm from Yorkshire!"

"Is that supposed to impress me?"

"I could down five in an hour and you wouldn't even know it."

"What, from your walk or your breath?" snorted Viggo.

"Real funny. Ha ha."

Then Viggo drew close, and the laughter died in Sean's throat. "You just saw how straight I can walk, Sean; now try to smell the booze on me."

"What am I, a breathalyzer machine?" He stared, fascinated, at the little puffs of steam that hung between them as warm breath met cold air, and he felt Viggo's body heat pulling him in, tugging like a magnet to metal. Distraction, Sean thought. Must find suitable distraction. He gnawed on the inside of his lip.

But there was nowhere else to look, really. Nowhere that didn't fascinate or excite him in some way. The mere sight of Viggo leaning back against the doorframe, caressing it, the tip of his thumb teasing the crack of painted steel -- well, it was just too much, and it couldn't possibly be as innocent as it seemed. Nobody who drinks cognac could be that un-worldly, after all. Sean's breath hitched as he felt the familiar gears shift in his groin. He tore his eyes away, kicking uselessly at a piece of gravel.

"Look, I'm okay to drive. If you're not convinced, go ahead and sniff." Viggo sounded amused.

Sean shrugged, tried real hard to appear nonchalant, and took a step forward.

--

He wasn't sure how long he'd been staring at Viggo's moist, parted lips, but he was certain it was long enough to have made things very awkward indeed. Especially since Viggo was watching him brazenly, eyes wide and a bit mocking and... dark. The unpredictable kind of dark.

"So? What's the verdict?" Viggo's rasp was rougher than the ground they were standing on.

"Ummm." That mouth was so achingly near; he didn't trust himself to do anything other than stand there. Rooted to the spot. Sean's fingernails pierced his palms in self-restraint as he floundered for words, scrambled for a coherent thought. "Couldn't, errr, tell, really..."

Cognac Man suddenly grinned, looking one tooth short of wolfish. "That's because you're not leaning in close enough."

And when Viggo's fingers slid through Sean's hair to cup the back of his head and pull him forward, he had no coherent response to that either.

--

He was so lost in the bruising kiss that he hadn't even noticed Viggo shuffling them around. Sean found himself pressed up against the car, utterly pinned to it, the door handle poking him somewhere vaguely inappropriate as his ass wriggled about. Viggo was clutching and grabbing and taking, and trying to mentally follow the path of those fierce hands made Sean hopelessly dizzy. One moment his shoulder was being kneaded; the next second, his back; then fingernails scratched Sean's scalp as Viggo raked his fingers through the short hair.

The only constant was the crush of their mouths. And the callused heel of Viggo's other hand palming Sean's cock through his jeans, sliding forcefully up and down without pause.

If anyone had seen them at that moment, the impression would've been of a sculptor gleefully having a field day with a mass of putty -- putty that was alive, panting, emitting little needy whimpering sounds, and incredibly turned on.

Sean couldn't remember the last time he'd been kissed so thoroughly. So demandingly. So bloody well. But then again, he couldn't really think of anything, save for the delicious pressure welling up in his body, the hot come that would be spurting from his cock a few moments from now, the slick slide of Viggo's tongue in his mouth... and the taste of Courvoisier.

Bold, a tad rough, and slightly fruity...