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splixTitle: The Need of Comrades
Author: Alex
Fandom: VigBean
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: No profit made, no harm intended.
Notes: Title courtesy of Walt Whitman. Thanks to the following for alpha-and-beta reading this story for me and giving really swell advice:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite, govi20, yaoichick, mooms, honscot, hominysnark, and lauramcewan. Thank you all.
Summary: In 1906, two young men from very different backgrounds meet and form a friendship.
Note: I started posting this about midway through my chemotherapy treatments in order to be engaged with fandom again and as a kind of personal therapy, reminding myself that I wasn't completely useless even though I was really sick. I'm almost done with chemo and feeling a lot better, and am really, really grateful to everyone who took the time to read and leave a comment. It means more than I can possibly say. Thank you so much.
*
Harry huddled in his overcoat, watching well-dressed crowds emerging from the Auditorium Theatre. His hands, even in fur-lined gloves, were chilled; he plunged them into his pockets. A couple passed him, the man in an astrakhan coat, the woman in sables and a long dress bedewed with pearls. They nodded at him, thinking him one of their own. An easy enough mistake, he supposed. He was turned out as well as any theatre patron. He returned the nod and touched the brim of his high beaver hat to the lady.
Chicago was too much for him. The clatter of streetcars and delivery wagons and automobiles, the noise and stink of the crowded factories, the shrieking of hucksters, the jostling throngs of the lowest forms of humanity on the face of God's green earth – it all left him overwhelmed and oddly diminished. And Illinois in November was as bad as any Yorkshire February – bleak and grey and cold, with an icy lake wind that whipped round the tall buildings and froze a man's blood.
Still, it had its advantages. Its size swallowed him up beyond any trace of discovery, and there was an endless supply of entertainment to be found, if he was careful. He'd been in the city for less than three weeks, and already he was feeling the unmistakable tugging of want, the stealthy and insatiable need to fulfill himself.
He was still chafing at having to leave Sean Bean alive, and worse, young Viggo Mortensen. Sean had never held much allure for Harry – too hard and suspicious – but Viggo, like Freddy Watkins, was his favorite sort of young man: handsome, rich, confident. Young Mr. Mortensen was sweeter than Freddy, though, not nearly as cynical – almost an innocent. It would have been pure bliss to have had his way with him, to watch those clear grey eyes shift from bewilderment, to horror and pain, to pleading, but not quite to despair. Avoiding the last was the thing; Harry liked to keep hope alive to the last possible moment. Once a man lost hope, once the begging ceased and the eyes grew dull and faraway, there was no point in continuing. Best to end it quickly.
Maybe he'd make it back to Pennsylvania one day. He had a score to settle with tattle-tale Tommy Gwynnett, and Sean Bean. Viggo Mortensen's pretty face and body would be the plum in the pudding, and it would be a challenge to grab him a second time, something to plan in loving detail. Right now, he had to make do with what he could.
He drifted closer to the theatre and stood beneath a gaslight, letting his gaze rove over the crowds. He made a show of searching his pockets and came up with a silver cigarette box.
"Excuse me, sir. Could I have one of those?"
Said the fly to the spider.
Harry turned to the young man who had addressed him. "Why not?" He opened the box and held it out. "Have you got a match?"
"Sure I do." The young man – slim, with dark curling hair and wide brown eyes – extracted a book of Diamond matches from his pocket, took two cigarettes from the box, and plugged them into his mouth. He hunched sideways against the wind and lit both, then passed one to Harry with an air of utter nonchalance.
Harry looked the young man up and down frankly, so there would be no mistake. The young man exhaled a plume of smoke and smiled. He pushed his derby toward the back of his head, giving Harry a better view of his finely modeled face. Color bloomed in his cheeks; he'd been outside for quite a while, it seemed, waiting for a likely prospect. "Were you at the theatre tonight, lad?" Harry asked.
"Me? No, just having a stroll. It's a fine night, don't you think?"
It was bitterly cold, and sullen clouds hung over the city, purplish-red with factory smoke in the darkness. "Oh, yes. Remarkably fine. I suppose you haven't anywhere in particular to go, if you were just having a stroll?"
The young man's smile widened. "Are you English?"
"Right you are, my boy."
"I wasn't going anywhere in particular." The boy's coat fell open, revealing a tightly tailored suit. "Have you got plans?"
Harry enjoyed the dance, a prelude to the main event. "I wouldn't mind spending the evening in the company of a congenial young man like yourself. Unless I'd be taking you away from friends?" He raised his eyebrows politely.
"Oh, I'm not with friends tonight."
"Good." Very good.
"And I wouldn't mind that myself. If you're new to the city, I'll show you a grand time. It'll cost you a bit, but I bet you could afford it."
"Not too expensive, I hope." Harry made a show of parsimony. Wouldn't do to have them get too confident.
"Let's say three dollars, and we'll make a night of it."
Harry delved into his vest pocket, then pressed ten dollars into the young man's hand. "What say I give you ten now, and another ten when the night is through, if I'm satisfied?"
The young man gaped at the money. "Sure. Sure. Do you have somewhere to go?"
Harry kept a smile of satisfaction from stretching his mouth upwards. "I'd suggest my hotel, but we ought to be discreet, don't you think?"
"Whatever you want. You're the boss."
You've got that right, pretty boy, Harry thought. "I've a business at Peoria Street, near the stockyards. It's not the handsomest place on earth, but there's a bedroom, and a bath, and it's clean. What do you say?"
"Sure."
Harry gave him the address. "Sixth floor, top of the stairs. I'll leave first. You wait ten or fifteen minutes, then follow me. Just to be on the safe side, you understand – I'd rather people didn't see us together. What's your name, lad?"
"Billy."
"Billy. Well. I'll see you shortly, then, Billy." Harry tipped his hat and walked away.
There was a chance the young man would simply flee with the ten dollars. It was a princely sum for a whore, and it wouldn't be the first time it had happened. But Harry had a feeling about this one. Pure greed, and maybe even a taste for well-dressed foreigners, would draw him in. Harry wasn't so bad to look at, after all, even if he was getting a bit grey round the temples.
Harry reached the building on Peoria Street and quickly climbed the five flights of stairs to the top. It was a former perfume factory, and the present owner had rented it to Harry for a song. It was too close to the stockyards; the perfumers, two brothers from Belgium who'd rented the place sight unseen, complained that the stench of blood and shit and entrails leached into the scent. They'd gone broke and abandoned shop, and the place had stood empty for a year. Harry minded the stink of the yards less than the lingering traces of rose and lily and lilac. The cloying flowery sweetness gave him a headache. But on the sixth floor, the smells were indiscernible, and as it had been originally furnished as living quarters for the tenants, there was heat, running water, and plenty of room for Harry to do what he pleased.
Inside, he lit the lamps, hastily undressed and got into a pair of rough woolen trousers, stout boots, and a dark shirt. He drew what he needed from the kitchen cabinet: a length of cord, several clean rags, a rubber apron, two knives, an awl, a pair of pliers, and a small brown bottle of chloroform. He spread everything out on the little table in the kitchen and regarded it with some regret. Pity it wasn't young Mr. Mortensen tonight. That longing pricked at him incessantly, and he wondered if he'd have to return to Pennsylvania sooner rather than later.
He was hard already. It was going to be a grand night, even if he couldn't make it last longer than dawn.
A hesitant tap sounded at the door. Harry moved toward it slowly, savoring the moment, anticipating the eagerness on young Billy's face. He swung the door open wide.
"Evening, Harry."
Harry stumbled back as Thomas McClure and Angus Hart stood in the threshold. His heart hammered wildly in his chest. "Well, hello, lads." He took two more cautious paces backward, closer to the kitchen. The awl was no more than fifteen feet away. Seven steps at most.
"You look surprised to see us." McClure strolled into the room, away from the kitchen. Good.
"I am, and that's a fact."
"Were expecting young Billy Dowling, I reckon."
"I'm not sure what you mean." The treacherous little molly. He'd find the fucking little bastard again if it took weeks.
McClure smiled and moved nonchalantly about the place, absorbing it with the smug, easy familiarity of policemen everywhere. "Took some time to find you, Harry."
"I didn't realize you were looking." Harry took another step back toward the kitchen. He watched Hart, who stood by the door, blocking his exit.
"Come on, now, Harry. Viggo Mortensen and Gavin Rowe. Add them to Freddy Watkins. It's quite a list."
Cold sweat beaded on Harry's brow and trickled down his temples. "You have proof, I suppose?"
"We have Mr. Mortensen's word. And Tom Gwynnett's. Not to mention Sean Bean – he tried to tell us from the very start that it was you. Pity we didn't listen. Gavin Rowe might still be alive."
He should have finished Viggo. He should have done it all on his own. He hadn't needed Tommy.
"That was a clever move at the train station, Harry. How'd you manage it?"
Harry took another step backward. "I studied the timetables and pinpointed the busiest part of the day. Not so clever."
"No, maybe not," McClure allowed. "Especially as you left a young fellow dead in Pittsburgh. And Cleveland. And Indianapolis. Getting a bit careless there, Harry."
Another step. "You lads have it all worked out, don't you?"
"Aye, most of it. Your name's not even Harry Slater, is it? Harry Slater's somewhere in a Shoreditch sewer, I reckon, or weighted down in the Thames. Another handsome fellow, that one. Left a wife and two kids behind, he did." McClure clucked sympathetically and continued his circuit, moving closer to Harry.
"My word. You've been thorough. But Harry's good enough, believe me." Another step. Harry bumped into the wall partition, and he slid sideways. Almost in the kitchen. Would he be able to grab the awl and finish McClure before Hart rushed him? He could, if he were quick. Then he'd have to dispose of them, but that was what the stockyards were for: dead meat. "So did Mr. Mortensen send you here, or was it Mr. Watkins? I know you greedy buggers wouldn't come if you weren't well paid."
McClure smiled. "Well now. Mr. Watkins did promise a handsome sum, I'll admit. And Mr. Mortensen promised a fifth of the ransom if we retrieved it. That's good money, that is. And then there's whatever you took from Freddy before you left. All in all, it's not a bad bargain in the least."
Two more steps and he'd have the comforting weight of the awl in his hand. "Well, it was worth every moment, lads. I'm only sorry I didn't get to stay with young Viggo. You ever fuck a young fellow who's pinned down like a butterfly and begging you to let him go? It's sheer, sweet heaven."
McClure was no longer smiling. "When you go to prison, I'm going to make sure the same thing happens to you before you hang. Depend upon it."
"Good bloody luck." Harry reached behind him and felt for the awl.
"No, no. Stop moving, Harry." McClure took his hand from his pocket, revealing the dull gleam of a revolver. "Don't touch it, unless you want a bullet between your eyes."
"Well, well." Harry shifted to one side. He flicked a glance at the awl.
McClure stared at the kitchen table in disgust. "You have quite a scheme, don't you?"
"You've seen worse, haven't you? In your line of work." Harry smiled tightly, then dove for the awl. A roaring sounded in his ears, and a terrible agony flared through his hand. He lifted it unbelievingly, gaping at the torn, reddened shreds of his fingers. "Oh Christ…oh…."
"It's over, Harry."
Harry staggered a step, against the cold glass of the window. Its rattling ceased as he leaned against it, clutching his hand, moaning in agony. Despite the pain, his thoughts were clear and sharp. It was over. There was no doubt about it. He looked at McClure, and then at Hart, who had moved into the kitchen. They were waiting in grim expectation, anticipating his surrender as surely as Harry had anticipated Billy's, and Freddy's, and all those nameless young men.
Shakily, he nodded, and took two steps toward the kitchen doorway. Then he wheeled, ran, and propelled himself forward, driving his body through the glass.
Blind, bleeding, his hand in agony, he sailed down five floors. As he hit the ground, anguish flared through his body, and darkness, hungry and cold with greed, swallowed him whole.
*
"Shall I gift-wrap it for you, sir?"
Sean glanced up from the array of dress gloves spread across a length of artfully draped black satin. "Aye, please do."
"Very good, sir." The compact clerk nodded approvingly, as if Sean had avoided some appalling social gaffe by choosing to have his purchase gift-wrapped. He set the links into a cotton-wool stuffed box with painstaking care, and moved to the rear counter, where he began pulling ribbons and shears and string from wooden bins.
The man was slower than treacle flowing uphill. Sean turned and idly watched the shoppers good-naturedly jostling their way through the luxurious expanse of Simon Long's department store. Everyone seemed cheerful, as well they might; it was Saturday, December twenty-second, three days before Christmas, and a holiday gaiety pervaded the air. Sean had never seen a store so dazzling, ablaze with lights, holly twining round the elegant fluted columns, a glittering tree in the entrance. Every store window had its display of Christmas toys and treats. The main thoroughfares of Wilkes-Barre had been bedecked with pine boughs and red ribbon, sleigh bells tinkled from every carriage, and even the weather had obliged with the season, supplying a heavy blanket of snow that turned the trees and streets into a fairyland.
The convivial atmosphere had worked its charm on Sean enough for him to dash into Long's and pick out the cufflinks in a spirit of foolish optimism. Christmas, in all likelihood, would be as discouraging and sad as the last few months had proved. Mr. Halloran planned to visit a lady friend in Glen Summit for the holidays, and would be staying until after the New Year. "I'd marry her, lad, but like as not we'd kill each other within the month," he'd said with a scoundrel's wink. The servants were scattering to their families' homes for Christmas, and Sean would be left alone in the house. Even the cat, Phoebe, was accompanying Mr. Halloran to the lady's home. Sean had been invited to Glen Summit at the lady's behest, but he knew he'd be in the way. Instead, he'd decided to go to Philadelphia. Viggo would be home for Christmas. He had to be. Even the iron-spined Mortensens couldn't exile their son at Christmastime, surely?
He'd searched for Viggo since August, to no avail. The letters he'd written had been returned unopened, the telephone calls he'd made, in a disguised voice, had been received with curt negation. The two visits he'd made to the Mortensen house had been fruitless – an armed guard had stopped him at the foot of the drive, and had ordered him off in no uncertain terms, refusing to answer questions about Viggo's whereabouts. Viggo hadn't been at the Mortensen offices in Philadelphia, and even his inquiries in Wilkes-Barre, on the few occasions he'd visited, had come up dry. The new manager – Nathaniel King had been replaced by a squat, jolly man named Reg Podlaski – had shaken his head at the mention of Viggo's name. He didn't know the family, he'd claimed, apart from Mr. Mortensen, who seemed an all-right sort.
Sean hadn't given up searching even after those obstacles, but deep in his secret heart, his resolve was beginning to crumble. Either Viggo's family had hidden him well and truly beyond discovery, or Viggo himself had chosen to avoid Sean's letters. Both possibilities were too wrenching to contemplate for long, but he felt their stealthy, insinuating ugliness creeping in despite his determination.
He turned back to watch the clerk finish wrapping the cufflinks. The links were mother-of-pearl, surrounded by intricately chased silver. The shifting colors of the mother-of-pearl reminded Sean of Viggo's changeable eyes. It was a silly, sentimental thing, but he'd have liked to watch Viggo put them on, to admire them, and him. Perhaps he'd end up wearing them himself.
The clerk slid the box onto the counter. It was prettily wrapped in silver paper, tied with a red ribbon, and topped with a tiny sprig of holly. "Let me put that in a sack for you, sir. I believe it's going to start snowing again. I shouldn't like for it to get wet." He nodded toward the huge plate windows. Sure enough, the afternoon sky was leaden, and a few errant flakes blew against the glass.
"That's lovely, thanks very much indeed." Such a lot of trouble for a package he'd likely open himself, but the clerk had seemed so happy to do it.
"Can I show you anything else, sir? Some gloves? A fine assortment of kids arrived only this week. Or we have a beautiful selection of pearl and gold stock pins, perfect for any well-dressed gentleman's evening attire."
"Nay, I don't need owt else," Sean said. It wasn't as if he would attend any parties. He took the paper-wrapped parcel, and shifted his other packages to his free arm. He'd procured a bottle of excellent whiskey for Mr. Halloran, a silly little flowered and feathered confection of a hat for Elsie, the maid, and a woolen plaid muffler for himself. He'd give money to the other servants. There was no one else to buy for. "Thanks. Merry Christmas."
"And a delightful Christmas to you as well, sir."
Sean walked through the store, taking his time, peering now and then at the array of items for sale. He stopped when he saw something that might have pleased Viggo, or his parents. He wondered what they'd have thought of him, dressing in such finery and strolling through fancy department stores like a born gentleman. They wouldn't have approved of Viggo any more than Viggo's parents approved of Sean. The four of them would have been united in condemnation.
A deep sigh worked its way out of Sean's chest. The young woman behind the perfume counter gazed at him curiously. "Is there something you'd like to see, sir?"
"Nay. Thanks." Blushing, he hurried toward the double doors, shouldering his way through the crowds, and pushed one open. He clapped his hat on his head, an awkward procedure with his arms full of packages, and accidentally bumped his elbow against a man entering the store. "Sorry," he mumbled, and moved into the street, shivering a little against the cold. It was a short walk to the Hotel Redington, and then he would eat his dinner and read until bedtime. He had a morning appointment, delivering Halloran's latest will revisions to his lawyer, Samuel Boland. Tomorrow afternoon he would take the train back to Hazleton and ready himself for another ineffectual trip to Philadelphia.
"Sean!"
Sean froze.
"Sean!"
He breathed hard, watching a gust of icy air billowing in front of him. Slowly, terrified, he pivoted on his heel and saw the man he'd unintentionally jostled. "Oh, Christ," he whispered. "Can't be."
Viggo stood not ten feet away, staring in utter shock. The crowd of shoppers wove itself round him, obscuring and then revealing him again. He was wrapped in a heavy overcoat, and a derby sat carelessly on the back of his head. His cheeks were gaunt, his longish curls replaced by two middle-parted wings of hair pomaded down with ruthless severity, and he wore a mustache. His face was white, and his grey eyes wide.
Sean took a step closer, then another step.
Through the hurrying tide of humanity, Viggo moved toward him until they were close enough to touch. He stood still, clutching the ends of his muffler with gloved hands. "They told me you'd been deported," he said in a strangled voice.
"Nay." Sean's answer was no more than a croak. He coughed and tried again. "Nay."
"You never went back to England?"
Sean shook his head. "I – I were looking for you all the while."
"I've been…here, mostly. Saving for a ticket to England."
"Saving?"
"Yes. I've got a job." Viggo waved his hand in the direction of Public Square. "I'm a teller at First National Bank."
Sean blinked. A job? Viggo, a bank teller? This conversation was reaching the upper heights of madness. "I thought you didn't want to see me. Or that your mam and dad had locked you up, or sommat."
"They did, for a while." Viggo's face was still terribly white. "Sean…."
"I'm working for Peter Halloran now," Sean plunged on. "Tidying his books and so on. I thought…I…." Sean wet his lips. His vision blurred. He wasn't going to start blubbering like a bairn in front of half of Wilkes-Barre, was he? "I didn't think I'd see you again." A gulping, undignified sob caught in his throat, and his composure crumbled as Viggo closed the distance between them, sweeping him into a ferocious embrace. He let the packages fall, and clung to Viggo tightly.
The crowds flowed around them, not paying much mind. Two old friends, no doubt, exchanging Christmas cheer.
"I have so much to tell you." The bristled brush of Viggo's mustache tickled Sean's ear. "You can't know how much I've missed you. I've been writing for months, trying to locate you."
"Aye, me too." Sean pulled back to gaze at Viggo's face. "You cut your hair. And grew a mustache."
"Do you like it?"
Sean pondered for a moment and shook his head.
Viggo threw his head back and roared laughter. "I'll shave it off. How's that?"
"Good." Sean wanted to kiss him, but even holiday cheer had its limits. He crouched to pick up his fallen packages from the sidewalk, where a fresh dusting of snow was beginning to cover the cleared spaces. He checked to make certain that the whiskey bottle hadn't broken, and then took Viggo's measure again. He didn't look altogether well – too thin and far too pale, and the mustache was unbecoming, to put it kindly. It didn't matter a sixpence, though. He was the same lovely Viggo, gentle and sweet and affectionate. "I still love you," he said, too softly to be heard by anyone else.
"And I love you. I've always loved you." Viggo lightly kissed the tip of one finger and touched it to Sean's cheek, wiping away an errant tear.
Sean sniffed and rubbed at his eyes. "I'm nithered to death out here."
"Yes, you are, poor man. So am I. Would you like to come to my flat? It's not much to look at, but there's plenty of heat, and I'll make a sandwich for you. We'll splurge on a cab."
This was the most unexpected reversal of fortune. There was sure to be a story behind it. "Nay. My hotel's just round the block. I'll buy you dinner."
Viggo pulled his hat low, linked his arm through Sean's, and neatly relieved him of one of the packages. "Lead on, my good man. Lead on."
*
The Hotel Redington's lobby was cozy, wood-paneled, burgundy-carpeted. A fire blazed merrily away across from the curving desk. Sean glanced toward the dining room, bereft of activity. "It's a bit early for dinner." His face grew warm. He'd bloody well known it was too early for dinner, hadn't he? Of course he had. "I've got to put these parcels away, anyroad."
"I can wait here in the lobby," Viggo offered. "The fire's splendid."
"You don't have to," Sean murmured.
It was difficult to tell if Viggo was smiling beneath his terrible mustache. "Shall I come up?"
"Aye. Come up."
They rode the elevator up six floors in a weighted silence broken only by the smoothly oiled hum of machinery. Sean pressed against the warm wood paneling, pretending not to notice when Viggo's sleeve brushed against his gloved hand. When the pressure finally became too much to bear, he peeked timidly at Viggo's face, saw in his eyes the joyful anticipation that had preceded a dozen bouts of blissful shagging, and broke into a grin of his own. The fulfillment of an unspoken agreement seemed imminent, and his yearning was too powerful to stop it.
The elevator slid to a wheezing stop. "Top floor, gentlemen," said the elevator man, an elderly party in a navy blue tunic and trousers.
"Thanks." Sean tipped the man a quarter with shaking hands. "Merry Christmas." He led Viggo to his suite, fumbled with the key, and finally swung the door open. He ushered Viggo into a handsomely appointed sitting room, turned on the light, and dropped his packages on a bronze-colored brocade sofa.
Viggo set down the package he'd been carrying and walked to the window. "Quite a view."
"Aye. You can see most of the city from the roof, I expect." He pulled off his gloves and rubbed his hands together in an effort to stop their trembling. "Nice and warm in here. Lovely." Now that they were here, paralysis seized him and made him clumsy and thick-tongued. "Do you want a drink?"
"Not just yet." Viggo peeled off his gloves, shrugged off his coat and laid it lining-out over a chair. He set his hat atop the coat, plunged his hands into his pockets, and smiled; this time the smile was discernible. "I just want to look at you. And marvel."
"Oh." Sean took off his coat and hung it on the tree near the door. There seemed to be nothing to say, no way to properly encompass the moment. All the time and effort he'd spent searching, all the aching he'd suppressed so brutally – it dwindled to a faint ember, winking to insignificance in the face of Viggo's presence. He'd been right about the cufflinks, their colors. "I got you a Christmas gift."
"You did? My word –"
"It's there," Sean pointed to the smallest parcel on the sofa. "You needn't open it now."
"But may I, if I wish?"
"Aye. If you want."
Viggo sat on the sofa and drew the paper parcel close. "I'm touched, Sean, really I am."
"It's nowt," Sean mumbled. "Just a wee thing, is all." He moved closer to the sofa, glad for the distraction. "Your hands seem better."
"Oh, yes. Quite well enough to handle cash, too. I don't think I'll ever have full strength in them, but I manage passably." Viggo removed the little box from the paper wrapping and admired it. "It's almost too pretty to open. I wish I had a tree to put it under for a few days."
"Go on, then," Sean said in a spasm of boyish anticipation. "Open it."
Viggo beamed and pulled at the bow, then neatly folded back the paper. He opened the little box. "Oh, Sean. How beautiful they are." He held one up to the light. "Look how it shines."
"You like them?"
"Yes. Yes, very much. Thank you – they're absolutely splendid." Viggo set the box down on the little table in front of the sofa and peered up at Sean. "I'm sorry I didn't get you anything. I didn't anticipate seeing you until springtime."
A glow settled in Sean's chest. "You were really going to come looking for me?"
"Did you think I'd forgotten you?"
"Nay, I just…." Sean shrugged, and then stilled as Viggo's hand touched his. He sank to his knees and grasped Viggo's hand. "I missed you." He hardly dared to glance up; the distance of months had made him shy and awkward again.
"Sean –" Viggo drew him close and kissed him.
It was the same delightful contours of Viggo's mouth, the same sweetness and strength in his kiss. How long they remained there pressed together Sean had no idea, but when he felt able to pull away, the light in the sky had waned to dull slate.
"It's getting dark."
Sean stood and offered his hand. "Come on." He led Viggo into the bedroom and turned on the feeble sconce beside the door. It was dim enough for modesty. He shut the door, closing them into a small space apart from the rest of the world. How long had it been since they'd been alone together and safe? Surely not as much as half a year?
Viggo leaned against the door. "Kiss me again."
Complying was no hardship. Sean kissed him lightly, then firmly, demanding and receiving more of Viggo's mouth with each passing moment. At first he was content to stroke Viggo's face, run his hands up and down the length of his body, but Viggo pulled him close and rubbed his lower half against Sean's. He was hard, wonderfully hard.
"I believe you promised you'd go ankles-up, my dear fellow," Viggo whispered in his ear, then let the tip of his tongue trail down Sean's earlobe. He bit gently.
"Aye, I reckon I did." Sean's knees shook, and his prick was so stiff it hurt. He tugged at Viggo's jacket and stepped back, panting. He hung the jacket on the door hook.
Viggo laughed. "So tidy!"
"We've got to eat later."
"I'd rather eat now."
"Christ, you're wicked," Sean said, and moaned as Viggo's hand found its way to his prick.
Strong fingers – plenty strong enough – moved up and down over the wool of Sean's trousers, then unbuttoned them. "I don't want to rumple you." Viggo's eyes gleamed with mischief.
"Cheeky bugger. Get those clothes off." Sean stepped back and took off his jacket, then knelt to untie his shoes. He worked them off his feet, stepped out of his trousers, and unbuttoned his waistcoat. Impatiently, he fumbled with his cufflinks and tossed them on the bureau. His tie followed, then his stockings, then his shirt. He unbuttoned his underwear rapidly and stepped out of it, nearly tripping over one leg since he couldn't tear his eyes away from Viggo.
Viggo took off his clothes with far more grace than Sean and stood naked. Even in the soft light, it was apparent that he'd lost weight. "What a lot of clothes we wear." He went to the bed and drew down the covers.
"Bloody silly."
"But necessary in the cold." Viggo climbed into the bed.
"Oh aye, I suppose so." Sean glanced down and saw his prick beginning to wilt. "Bit nippy. I'm getting chilled."
"So I see. Why don't you come over here and warm up, then?"
No further invitation was needed. Sean plucked the little tin of Woods' Pomade from the bureau top and moved to the bed. He slipped beneath the covers and drew Viggo close. They lay together, kissing and caressing. How gloriously familiar Viggo's body was. He remembered every plane, curve, and angle from months before, and from many dreams since. His backside was still tight, his shoulders strong, and his prick – Sean slipped his fingers round its hard length and fondled. Oh yes – just the same.
"Oh, God," Viggo groaned. The pressure of his tongue and fingers grew insistent. "I can't wait. Please, Sean, I need to – would you let me –"
Sean suppressed a smile. Viggo was still incapable of the slightest vulgarity, it seemed. He kissed Viggo lingeringly, easing the grasp of his fingers, and then turned onto his belly. Spreading his legs apart, he waited, motionless, as Viggo knelt and drew back the bedclothes.
"You're beautiful." Viggo skated the tips of his fingers down Sean's spine and spread his hand over the lower curve of his backside. "I'll drink you in slowly, I promise, but you don't know how long –" He reached over Sean's body and retrieved the pomade. "Thoughtful of you. Listen to me – I haven't been with anyone else since you. I think I've forgotten how to do all this."
Sean laughed, his voice muffled by the pillow. "I think it'll come back to you."
"I suppose so." Gingerly, Viggo opened the tin and dipped two fingers into the pomade. "Greasy stuff."
"That's the idea." Sean ground against the softness of the bed. It wasn't enough, not nearly. He half-rose to his knees and rested his head on one arm. He curled his free hand around his prick. He could hardly bear the separation of their bodies, however momentary. "Come on."
Viggo moved behind Sean and held his hips, then slid in with a single motion. "Oh, God."
"See that?" Sean croaked. "You've not forgot a bit – Christ." All his reserve and timidity had burned away. Viggo's prick was fully inside him, strong and thick. He tugged harder on his own prick as one slick hand skimmed up his back and came to rest on his shoulder, urging him backward. He felt himself beginning to move in a languid rhythm, heard a low keening he belatedly realized was his own voice.
"Sean –" Viggo thrust himself forward, his fingers digging into Sean's hip. He pulled back and thrust forward again, faster and faster, until they were both groaning, and Sean's hands were locked around the brass rails of the bed, pulling desperately to keep it from banging against the wall. Viggo thrust with ever increasing urgency, burying himself deep, until finally he let out a guttural groan, shuddered, and stilled. He leaned forward, resting his forehead on Sean's back.
Sean eased the pressure of his hand, panting.
"You –" Viggo's voice was a rasp. "You didn't finish. Oh, Sean, I'm sorry."
"Nay – it's nowt."
"Turn over." Viggo grasped his hips again and gently forced Sean onto his back. "Spread your legs." His face was flushed, his stern coiffure awry. He slid to his belly and took Sean's prick in his hand, then lowered his head until his mouth enveloped the still-hard length.
Sean whimpered and grasped the brass rails again. He lifted his head and watched the slow, teasing motions of Viggo's flicking tongue as it trailed up and down his prick. His hips ground forward of their own accord. His back arched, and the muscles in his calves ached as he curled his toes. Viggo moved with maddening languor, sliding his tongue from root to tip and down again. Again he opened his mouth and took in the whole length. He gagged slightly as he struggled to accommodate all of it, firing Sean's excitement. Finally, the wet warmth and suction pushed Sean over the precipice. He gasped and let go in Viggo's mouth.
The slate sky had deepened to fathomless black. They lay together, flushed and warm, pressed belly to back. Viggo's lips moved against Sean's shoulder. "I'm so happy," he said softly. "I love you."
Sean closed his eyes. "I love you." He wished that they could stay locked together in that moment forever.
*
The tub was narrow, but quite deep and almost long enough to lie stretched out. Sean read the long-winded instructions and chivied the heating mechanism until hot water trickled out of the taps. "There we are," he said in satisfaction. "That's lovely." He turned to Viggo, who leaned with perfect nonchalance against the door. "Hot bath in a moment." He regarded the slow trickle dubiously. "Maybe a few moments."
"Wonderful."
Sean frowned. "Please, for Christ's sake, shave those bloody whiskers off."
"Nobody likes my mustache," Viggo complained. "Really, Sean, it's all the fashion."
"Not with me. Want me to do it?"
"If you like."
"Right." Sean got a towel and ran the hot water in the sink. He took his shaving kit, lathered his brush, and pointed at the commode. "Sit."
"Yes, sir." Viggo sat obediently, with a twinkle in his eye.
"Hold still." Sean snipped at the offending bristles with his little scissors, then wet and lathered Viggo's face. He shaved him carefully, turning his face this way and that, sliding the blade over the taut skin, down the smooth column of his neck, taking care not to nick the dimple in Viggo's chin. It was almost too much to meet Viggo's eyes, to see the clear adoration in them. For him?
Viggo caught his eye and winked. Of course for you, the wink said.
Sean's eyes stung, and he turned away to wipe off the blade. How was it possible to feel so invincible and helpless at the same time? "There you are. Now you look like your old self again."
"My old self." Viggo stood and wiped a clear swath through the steam on the mirror. He examined his clean-shaven face, his rumpled hair. "You're right. Better." He laid a hand on Sean's shoulder. "I'm not sure either of us are our old selves, though. Are you?"
"Nay. I reckon not." Sean turned to face Viggo. Viggo looked different, it was true. Sadder, maybe. He wondered if his own face had changed to reflect the months they'd spent apart. "I can't do owt to change the way things happened, Viggo. I wish I could."
"Neither of us can. And never mind changing it." Viggo's lips thinned in a grim smile. "I'd like to forget it. But I can't. I have nightmares. They're…they're quite bad now and then."
Sean folded Viggo into his arms. "I'm sorry for it."
Viggo clung to him and shuddered once. "Oh, so am I." He sounded tired. "I'm sorry I brought it up."
"Nay – you can tell me about it, if it helps you feel better."
"It won't. Don't worry. I daresay they'll dissolve, given time."
Sean kissed the tiny, enchanting scatter of pale freckles on Viggo's shoulder. "Maybe they will." He kissed Viggo's sleek throat down to the hollow between his collarbones, then bent to suckle one nipple.
Viggo groaned. "Who's wicked now, I ask you?"
Sean laughed and pulled away to turn off the taps. "Look at that – half full. Think it would spill if we both got in?"
"Both of us? You shock me."
"Good. Thought I'd forgot how." He grasped Viggo's wrist and drew him toward the tub.
They took two baths that evening.
*
"Don't sleep quite yet," Viggo implored. "Talk to me."
"All right." Sean shifted, nestling closer. They lay pressed belly to back, watching a new snowfall blanketing the nearby rooftops. "Why in Christ's name are you working in a bloody bank? And as a teller, no less?"
"Ah." Viggo tightened his arms a bit. "Well, you see…I've not spoken to my parents since August."
"August! Jesus, Viggo."
"I know. But I couldn't –" He heaved an impatient sigh. "I couldn't abide their treachery. Yes, that's what it was. I would have been shut up in that damned drafty asylum for years if they thought you were still in the United States. How did you manage to avoid deportation, by the way?"
"Well, that were Mr. Halloran who fixed things," Sean replied. "They served me with papers, and he bribed the right people, I suppose. I owe him a lot."
"So do I. At any rate, that's the only reason my parents arranged for me to leave. And they sent Grace to do their dirty work, too. So I took the train to Wilkes-Barre and haven't talked to them since. And I've been doing just fine without their money. I have a two-room flat not too far from here, and I dress myself and feed myself without the aid of servants, just like I did five years ago."
"You've not been feeding yourself much," Sean observed quietly.
Viggo was silent for a moment. "I've not been very hungry lately."
"Oh aye, is that right? You wolfed down dinner fast enough."
"I had to save for the ticket to England."
"You –" Sean pulled away and sat up. "You've been starving yourself for a bloody ticket?"
"Seeing you was more important."
"I'm not hearing this! You'll get sick, for Christ's sake."
"Not any longer. I promise to eat three square meals a day, and tea, too."
"Good." Only slightly mollified, Sean lay down again. Viggo's arms around him were tense. "What is it?"
"Well. I've decided to speak to my parents. I have some money of my own, you see, but my parents took my bankbook when they sent me to the asylum."
Sean bristled at this new indignity. "They've been keeping it from you?"
"Not really. I get two or three tearful letters a month, begging me to come home, and they dangle the bankbook as further incentive, I suppose. It would be easy enough for Father to transfer the money here, but they're holding it hostage. As such."
"Oh, aye, I get it." Sean shook his head and sighed. "So you were going to speak to them after all?"
"They asked me to come for Christmas, even if it was just for a few days. They're –" Viggo's voice broke. "I don't want to forgive them, but Grace will be there, and Michael – they even arranged a transfer for him back to Philadelphia, did you know that? Gave a bundle to the diocese of Philadelphia, I imagine. Said Wilkes-Barre wasn't safe. Michael was fit to be tied."
"Ah. I tried to see him some weeks ago and all they said was that he'd gone for a time."
"Yes. He's in Norristown, but he's campaigning to come back here. He liked his parishioners, and they liked him."
"You're going home for Christmas, then?" A small barb of misery and loneliness pierced Sean's spirit.
"For a few days, yes. To collect my money."
"It's your family. There's nowt for it sometimes. And they love you, don't they? Even if they've got a bloody queer way of showing it." Sean sighed again. "What your mam said, Viggo, when you were in hospital – you remember it?"
"Oh, yes." Viggo's voice brimmed with anger. "I haven't forgotten one moment of that particular day."
"She only said that because she didn't want you to be unhappy. And who knows, maybe she weren't wrong, either."
"I don't believe that. Do you?" Viggo shook his arm a little. "Look at me. Are you saying you don't want to be with me?"
Sean turned over and raised himself to one elbow. "I'm not saying owt like – like we should never see each other again. I couldn't bear that. But –" He shook his head. "Take Freddy. He were married, with a kid, and now – now he's dead, thanks to Harry."
"Harry got what he deserved," Viggo said softly.
"He got better than he deserved. But what I mean about Freddy is – he never got to live the way he'd have liked. If you don't lie, Viggo, you're done for. You want to spend your whole life lying? I see what your mam was trying to tell me."
Viggo reached out to touch Sean's rumpled hair. "And what kind of truth would I be living if I were to spend the rest of my life without you?"
Sean shook his head, struggling with speech. All those months of searching, when he'd lost his bearings, Viggo's absence weighing heavily on his heart, he'd never given a single thought to what might happen if they were to meet again. A gossamer daydream of love and bliss was so much pleasanter than harsh reality. "You miss your family. And if you spent your life with me, they'd ignore you. Or make your life a misery. All your brothers and sisters, your fine house, your money, your automobile…."
"I've been roughing it rather well, I think. Besides, I love you. I want to be with you always. Whether it's here or Philadelphia or some other place – out West, or wherever we find ourselves – I don't ever want to be without you again."
"I can't ask you to give it all up." The words were torn from Sean's throat, raw and quivering.
Viggo held him close. "I've missed your scent. Listen to me. I'm not going to belabor you to make a decision. We have time. For now, I couldn't ask for a greater happiness. I leave tomorrow. I'll be back by Friday at the latest, and we can see the New Year in. Think about it, at least."
"Aye." Sean tried to keep the trembling from his voice. "I'll think about it."
*
Sean stomped the snow from his shoes and opened the front door, grateful for the thick heat that blasted him from the register. Mr. Halloran hated the cold and always turned the heat up to near-excruciating levels, so that Sean was obliged to work in his shirtsleeves in the dead of winter. Now, however, it felt wonderful. He reached down and scratched beneath the chin of the huge orange-marmalade cat. "How are you, lass? Where's your dad, then?"
"That you, Sean?" Halloran bellowed from the parlor. "Come in here!"
Sean carefully wiped his shoes on the carpet and went into the parlor. "Snowing something dreadful out there, sir."
"Oh, aye, I can see that. Sit you down."
Sean sat and stretched out his legs. A fire roared behind the screen. The little table-top Christmas tree was wilting in the heat, its browning needles whispering from the branches constantly despite the maid's vigilant watering.
"And how was dear Samuel?"
"Fine, sir." Sean didn't reply that Samuel Boland was a cranky, difficult man who complained the entire time that Sean was in his office, and several times during his reading looked up abruptly, fixing him with a cold, suspicious stare, as if Sean were about to steal something while his attention was diverted.
"Rubbish. He's an old misery boot. Did he wish you a happy Christmas?"
"No, sir."
"Might as well call him Scrooge. He's no different, I tell you that. Well now." Halloran's rheumy eyes narrowed. "You look different."
Sean kept a straight face. There might have been a reason or two for that. "I saw Viggo Mortensen, sir."
"Did you? Finally reappeared, did he?"
"It seems he's been working as a bank teller at First National."
"Oh, aye. I know the trustees there. Not gossips, those lads." Halloran tilted his head to one side. "So. After all these months of looking for the lad, you've found him, and right under your nose. Now what?"
"Don't know, sir." Sean blushed furiously. They'd only spoken of Viggo in the most oblique terms.
"Well. Plenty of time to decide, I reckon." Halloran rose to his feet with a groan and shuffled toward the door. "I'd best get some sleep. I'll be off in the early morning. Won't wake you, lad, so sleep in as late as you like."
Sean wondered if he was able to accommodate his lady friend, then decided the old man was spryer than he looked. "I hope you'll have a safe journey, sir."
"Oh, it's nowt but a hop, skip, and a jump to Glen Summit, lad. No worries." He turned and held out his hand. "I'll say Merry Christmas to you now."
"Merry Christmas, sir." Sean took Halloran's hand gingerly, mindful of the rheumatism that bulged it into knotted claws.
Halloran patted Sean's cheek. "Good lad. Right, off you go. Tell Elsie to get your supper. I won't join you – too tired. Good night, Sean. Merry Christmas."
*
He woke in the early hours of morning on Christmas Eve, blinking and yawning. It was too early to get up, and he had nothing pressing to do; it would be nice to have a lie-in, and think about Viggo's offer. He didn't have to come to an immediate decision. He only had to think about it, turn it over in his mind.
The fire had burnt down to red embers that glowed comfortingly in the grate. He'd turned off the register in his room and opened the window a crack. A few flurries sailed into the window and disappeared. His nose and ears were cold, but the rest of his body was as warm as toast. He burrowed beneath the covers, turned over on his side, and frowned in puzzlement.
An envelope with his name written in Halloran's shaky, old-fashioned penmanship sat on the bedside table. He sat up, shivering a little, and lit the lamp. Carefully, he opened the envelope. Two pieces of paper fluttered out. He picked up the first one, a note in the same wavering script.
The thought was there before Mr. Mortensen returned.
Merry Christmas, good luck, and God bless.
P. Halloran.
Sean picked up the other piece of paper.
It was a check for two thousand dollars.
*
Continue to Part 2
Author: Alex
Fandom: VigBean
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: No profit made, no harm intended.
Notes: Title courtesy of Walt Whitman. Thanks to the following for alpha-and-beta reading this story for me and giving really swell advice:
kimberlite, govi20, yaoichick, mooms, honscot, hominysnark, and lauramcewan. Thank you all.Summary: In 1906, two young men from very different backgrounds meet and form a friendship.
Note: I started posting this about midway through my chemotherapy treatments in order to be engaged with fandom again and as a kind of personal therapy, reminding myself that I wasn't completely useless even though I was really sick. I'm almost done with chemo and feeling a lot better, and am really, really grateful to everyone who took the time to read and leave a comment. It means more than I can possibly say. Thank you so much.
*
Harry huddled in his overcoat, watching well-dressed crowds emerging from the Auditorium Theatre. His hands, even in fur-lined gloves, were chilled; he plunged them into his pockets. A couple passed him, the man in an astrakhan coat, the woman in sables and a long dress bedewed with pearls. They nodded at him, thinking him one of their own. An easy enough mistake, he supposed. He was turned out as well as any theatre patron. He returned the nod and touched the brim of his high beaver hat to the lady.
Chicago was too much for him. The clatter of streetcars and delivery wagons and automobiles, the noise and stink of the crowded factories, the shrieking of hucksters, the jostling throngs of the lowest forms of humanity on the face of God's green earth – it all left him overwhelmed and oddly diminished. And Illinois in November was as bad as any Yorkshire February – bleak and grey and cold, with an icy lake wind that whipped round the tall buildings and froze a man's blood.
Still, it had its advantages. Its size swallowed him up beyond any trace of discovery, and there was an endless supply of entertainment to be found, if he was careful. He'd been in the city for less than three weeks, and already he was feeling the unmistakable tugging of want, the stealthy and insatiable need to fulfill himself.
He was still chafing at having to leave Sean Bean alive, and worse, young Viggo Mortensen. Sean had never held much allure for Harry – too hard and suspicious – but Viggo, like Freddy Watkins, was his favorite sort of young man: handsome, rich, confident. Young Mr. Mortensen was sweeter than Freddy, though, not nearly as cynical – almost an innocent. It would have been pure bliss to have had his way with him, to watch those clear grey eyes shift from bewilderment, to horror and pain, to pleading, but not quite to despair. Avoiding the last was the thing; Harry liked to keep hope alive to the last possible moment. Once a man lost hope, once the begging ceased and the eyes grew dull and faraway, there was no point in continuing. Best to end it quickly.
Maybe he'd make it back to Pennsylvania one day. He had a score to settle with tattle-tale Tommy Gwynnett, and Sean Bean. Viggo Mortensen's pretty face and body would be the plum in the pudding, and it would be a challenge to grab him a second time, something to plan in loving detail. Right now, he had to make do with what he could.
He drifted closer to the theatre and stood beneath a gaslight, letting his gaze rove over the crowds. He made a show of searching his pockets and came up with a silver cigarette box.
"Excuse me, sir. Could I have one of those?"
Said the fly to the spider.
Harry turned to the young man who had addressed him. "Why not?" He opened the box and held it out. "Have you got a match?"
"Sure I do." The young man – slim, with dark curling hair and wide brown eyes – extracted a book of Diamond matches from his pocket, took two cigarettes from the box, and plugged them into his mouth. He hunched sideways against the wind and lit both, then passed one to Harry with an air of utter nonchalance.
Harry looked the young man up and down frankly, so there would be no mistake. The young man exhaled a plume of smoke and smiled. He pushed his derby toward the back of his head, giving Harry a better view of his finely modeled face. Color bloomed in his cheeks; he'd been outside for quite a while, it seemed, waiting for a likely prospect. "Were you at the theatre tonight, lad?" Harry asked.
"Me? No, just having a stroll. It's a fine night, don't you think?"
It was bitterly cold, and sullen clouds hung over the city, purplish-red with factory smoke in the darkness. "Oh, yes. Remarkably fine. I suppose you haven't anywhere in particular to go, if you were just having a stroll?"
The young man's smile widened. "Are you English?"
"Right you are, my boy."
"I wasn't going anywhere in particular." The boy's coat fell open, revealing a tightly tailored suit. "Have you got plans?"
Harry enjoyed the dance, a prelude to the main event. "I wouldn't mind spending the evening in the company of a congenial young man like yourself. Unless I'd be taking you away from friends?" He raised his eyebrows politely.
"Oh, I'm not with friends tonight."
"Good." Very good.
"And I wouldn't mind that myself. If you're new to the city, I'll show you a grand time. It'll cost you a bit, but I bet you could afford it."
"Not too expensive, I hope." Harry made a show of parsimony. Wouldn't do to have them get too confident.
"Let's say three dollars, and we'll make a night of it."
Harry delved into his vest pocket, then pressed ten dollars into the young man's hand. "What say I give you ten now, and another ten when the night is through, if I'm satisfied?"
The young man gaped at the money. "Sure. Sure. Do you have somewhere to go?"
Harry kept a smile of satisfaction from stretching his mouth upwards. "I'd suggest my hotel, but we ought to be discreet, don't you think?"
"Whatever you want. You're the boss."
You've got that right, pretty boy, Harry thought. "I've a business at Peoria Street, near the stockyards. It's not the handsomest place on earth, but there's a bedroom, and a bath, and it's clean. What do you say?"
"Sure."
Harry gave him the address. "Sixth floor, top of the stairs. I'll leave first. You wait ten or fifteen minutes, then follow me. Just to be on the safe side, you understand – I'd rather people didn't see us together. What's your name, lad?"
"Billy."
"Billy. Well. I'll see you shortly, then, Billy." Harry tipped his hat and walked away.
There was a chance the young man would simply flee with the ten dollars. It was a princely sum for a whore, and it wouldn't be the first time it had happened. But Harry had a feeling about this one. Pure greed, and maybe even a taste for well-dressed foreigners, would draw him in. Harry wasn't so bad to look at, after all, even if he was getting a bit grey round the temples.
Harry reached the building on Peoria Street and quickly climbed the five flights of stairs to the top. It was a former perfume factory, and the present owner had rented it to Harry for a song. It was too close to the stockyards; the perfumers, two brothers from Belgium who'd rented the place sight unseen, complained that the stench of blood and shit and entrails leached into the scent. They'd gone broke and abandoned shop, and the place had stood empty for a year. Harry minded the stink of the yards less than the lingering traces of rose and lily and lilac. The cloying flowery sweetness gave him a headache. But on the sixth floor, the smells were indiscernible, and as it had been originally furnished as living quarters for the tenants, there was heat, running water, and plenty of room for Harry to do what he pleased.
Inside, he lit the lamps, hastily undressed and got into a pair of rough woolen trousers, stout boots, and a dark shirt. He drew what he needed from the kitchen cabinet: a length of cord, several clean rags, a rubber apron, two knives, an awl, a pair of pliers, and a small brown bottle of chloroform. He spread everything out on the little table in the kitchen and regarded it with some regret. Pity it wasn't young Mr. Mortensen tonight. That longing pricked at him incessantly, and he wondered if he'd have to return to Pennsylvania sooner rather than later.
He was hard already. It was going to be a grand night, even if he couldn't make it last longer than dawn.
A hesitant tap sounded at the door. Harry moved toward it slowly, savoring the moment, anticipating the eagerness on young Billy's face. He swung the door open wide.
"Evening, Harry."
Harry stumbled back as Thomas McClure and Angus Hart stood in the threshold. His heart hammered wildly in his chest. "Well, hello, lads." He took two more cautious paces backward, closer to the kitchen. The awl was no more than fifteen feet away. Seven steps at most.
"You look surprised to see us." McClure strolled into the room, away from the kitchen. Good.
"I am, and that's a fact."
"Were expecting young Billy Dowling, I reckon."
"I'm not sure what you mean." The treacherous little molly. He'd find the fucking little bastard again if it took weeks.
McClure smiled and moved nonchalantly about the place, absorbing it with the smug, easy familiarity of policemen everywhere. "Took some time to find you, Harry."
"I didn't realize you were looking." Harry took another step back toward the kitchen. He watched Hart, who stood by the door, blocking his exit.
"Come on, now, Harry. Viggo Mortensen and Gavin Rowe. Add them to Freddy Watkins. It's quite a list."
Cold sweat beaded on Harry's brow and trickled down his temples. "You have proof, I suppose?"
"We have Mr. Mortensen's word. And Tom Gwynnett's. Not to mention Sean Bean – he tried to tell us from the very start that it was you. Pity we didn't listen. Gavin Rowe might still be alive."
He should have finished Viggo. He should have done it all on his own. He hadn't needed Tommy.
"That was a clever move at the train station, Harry. How'd you manage it?"
Harry took another step backward. "I studied the timetables and pinpointed the busiest part of the day. Not so clever."
"No, maybe not," McClure allowed. "Especially as you left a young fellow dead in Pittsburgh. And Cleveland. And Indianapolis. Getting a bit careless there, Harry."
Another step. "You lads have it all worked out, don't you?"
"Aye, most of it. Your name's not even Harry Slater, is it? Harry Slater's somewhere in a Shoreditch sewer, I reckon, or weighted down in the Thames. Another handsome fellow, that one. Left a wife and two kids behind, he did." McClure clucked sympathetically and continued his circuit, moving closer to Harry.
"My word. You've been thorough. But Harry's good enough, believe me." Another step. Harry bumped into the wall partition, and he slid sideways. Almost in the kitchen. Would he be able to grab the awl and finish McClure before Hart rushed him? He could, if he were quick. Then he'd have to dispose of them, but that was what the stockyards were for: dead meat. "So did Mr. Mortensen send you here, or was it Mr. Watkins? I know you greedy buggers wouldn't come if you weren't well paid."
McClure smiled. "Well now. Mr. Watkins did promise a handsome sum, I'll admit. And Mr. Mortensen promised a fifth of the ransom if we retrieved it. That's good money, that is. And then there's whatever you took from Freddy before you left. All in all, it's not a bad bargain in the least."
Two more steps and he'd have the comforting weight of the awl in his hand. "Well, it was worth every moment, lads. I'm only sorry I didn't get to stay with young Viggo. You ever fuck a young fellow who's pinned down like a butterfly and begging you to let him go? It's sheer, sweet heaven."
McClure was no longer smiling. "When you go to prison, I'm going to make sure the same thing happens to you before you hang. Depend upon it."
"Good bloody luck." Harry reached behind him and felt for the awl.
"No, no. Stop moving, Harry." McClure took his hand from his pocket, revealing the dull gleam of a revolver. "Don't touch it, unless you want a bullet between your eyes."
"Well, well." Harry shifted to one side. He flicked a glance at the awl.
McClure stared at the kitchen table in disgust. "You have quite a scheme, don't you?"
"You've seen worse, haven't you? In your line of work." Harry smiled tightly, then dove for the awl. A roaring sounded in his ears, and a terrible agony flared through his hand. He lifted it unbelievingly, gaping at the torn, reddened shreds of his fingers. "Oh Christ…oh…."
"It's over, Harry."
Harry staggered a step, against the cold glass of the window. Its rattling ceased as he leaned against it, clutching his hand, moaning in agony. Despite the pain, his thoughts were clear and sharp. It was over. There was no doubt about it. He looked at McClure, and then at Hart, who had moved into the kitchen. They were waiting in grim expectation, anticipating his surrender as surely as Harry had anticipated Billy's, and Freddy's, and all those nameless young men.
Shakily, he nodded, and took two steps toward the kitchen doorway. Then he wheeled, ran, and propelled himself forward, driving his body through the glass.
Blind, bleeding, his hand in agony, he sailed down five floors. As he hit the ground, anguish flared through his body, and darkness, hungry and cold with greed, swallowed him whole.
*
"Shall I gift-wrap it for you, sir?"
Sean glanced up from the array of dress gloves spread across a length of artfully draped black satin. "Aye, please do."
"Very good, sir." The compact clerk nodded approvingly, as if Sean had avoided some appalling social gaffe by choosing to have his purchase gift-wrapped. He set the links into a cotton-wool stuffed box with painstaking care, and moved to the rear counter, where he began pulling ribbons and shears and string from wooden bins.
The man was slower than treacle flowing uphill. Sean turned and idly watched the shoppers good-naturedly jostling their way through the luxurious expanse of Simon Long's department store. Everyone seemed cheerful, as well they might; it was Saturday, December twenty-second, three days before Christmas, and a holiday gaiety pervaded the air. Sean had never seen a store so dazzling, ablaze with lights, holly twining round the elegant fluted columns, a glittering tree in the entrance. Every store window had its display of Christmas toys and treats. The main thoroughfares of Wilkes-Barre had been bedecked with pine boughs and red ribbon, sleigh bells tinkled from every carriage, and even the weather had obliged with the season, supplying a heavy blanket of snow that turned the trees and streets into a fairyland.
The convivial atmosphere had worked its charm on Sean enough for him to dash into Long's and pick out the cufflinks in a spirit of foolish optimism. Christmas, in all likelihood, would be as discouraging and sad as the last few months had proved. Mr. Halloran planned to visit a lady friend in Glen Summit for the holidays, and would be staying until after the New Year. "I'd marry her, lad, but like as not we'd kill each other within the month," he'd said with a scoundrel's wink. The servants were scattering to their families' homes for Christmas, and Sean would be left alone in the house. Even the cat, Phoebe, was accompanying Mr. Halloran to the lady's home. Sean had been invited to Glen Summit at the lady's behest, but he knew he'd be in the way. Instead, he'd decided to go to Philadelphia. Viggo would be home for Christmas. He had to be. Even the iron-spined Mortensens couldn't exile their son at Christmastime, surely?
He'd searched for Viggo since August, to no avail. The letters he'd written had been returned unopened, the telephone calls he'd made, in a disguised voice, had been received with curt negation. The two visits he'd made to the Mortensen house had been fruitless – an armed guard had stopped him at the foot of the drive, and had ordered him off in no uncertain terms, refusing to answer questions about Viggo's whereabouts. Viggo hadn't been at the Mortensen offices in Philadelphia, and even his inquiries in Wilkes-Barre, on the few occasions he'd visited, had come up dry. The new manager – Nathaniel King had been replaced by a squat, jolly man named Reg Podlaski – had shaken his head at the mention of Viggo's name. He didn't know the family, he'd claimed, apart from Mr. Mortensen, who seemed an all-right sort.
Sean hadn't given up searching even after those obstacles, but deep in his secret heart, his resolve was beginning to crumble. Either Viggo's family had hidden him well and truly beyond discovery, or Viggo himself had chosen to avoid Sean's letters. Both possibilities were too wrenching to contemplate for long, but he felt their stealthy, insinuating ugliness creeping in despite his determination.
He turned back to watch the clerk finish wrapping the cufflinks. The links were mother-of-pearl, surrounded by intricately chased silver. The shifting colors of the mother-of-pearl reminded Sean of Viggo's changeable eyes. It was a silly, sentimental thing, but he'd have liked to watch Viggo put them on, to admire them, and him. Perhaps he'd end up wearing them himself.
The clerk slid the box onto the counter. It was prettily wrapped in silver paper, tied with a red ribbon, and topped with a tiny sprig of holly. "Let me put that in a sack for you, sir. I believe it's going to start snowing again. I shouldn't like for it to get wet." He nodded toward the huge plate windows. Sure enough, the afternoon sky was leaden, and a few errant flakes blew against the glass.
"That's lovely, thanks very much indeed." Such a lot of trouble for a package he'd likely open himself, but the clerk had seemed so happy to do it.
"Can I show you anything else, sir? Some gloves? A fine assortment of kids arrived only this week. Or we have a beautiful selection of pearl and gold stock pins, perfect for any well-dressed gentleman's evening attire."
"Nay, I don't need owt else," Sean said. It wasn't as if he would attend any parties. He took the paper-wrapped parcel, and shifted his other packages to his free arm. He'd procured a bottle of excellent whiskey for Mr. Halloran, a silly little flowered and feathered confection of a hat for Elsie, the maid, and a woolen plaid muffler for himself. He'd give money to the other servants. There was no one else to buy for. "Thanks. Merry Christmas."
"And a delightful Christmas to you as well, sir."
Sean walked through the store, taking his time, peering now and then at the array of items for sale. He stopped when he saw something that might have pleased Viggo, or his parents. He wondered what they'd have thought of him, dressing in such finery and strolling through fancy department stores like a born gentleman. They wouldn't have approved of Viggo any more than Viggo's parents approved of Sean. The four of them would have been united in condemnation.
A deep sigh worked its way out of Sean's chest. The young woman behind the perfume counter gazed at him curiously. "Is there something you'd like to see, sir?"
"Nay. Thanks." Blushing, he hurried toward the double doors, shouldering his way through the crowds, and pushed one open. He clapped his hat on his head, an awkward procedure with his arms full of packages, and accidentally bumped his elbow against a man entering the store. "Sorry," he mumbled, and moved into the street, shivering a little against the cold. It was a short walk to the Hotel Redington, and then he would eat his dinner and read until bedtime. He had a morning appointment, delivering Halloran's latest will revisions to his lawyer, Samuel Boland. Tomorrow afternoon he would take the train back to Hazleton and ready himself for another ineffectual trip to Philadelphia.
"Sean!"
Sean froze.
"Sean!"
He breathed hard, watching a gust of icy air billowing in front of him. Slowly, terrified, he pivoted on his heel and saw the man he'd unintentionally jostled. "Oh, Christ," he whispered. "Can't be."
Viggo stood not ten feet away, staring in utter shock. The crowd of shoppers wove itself round him, obscuring and then revealing him again. He was wrapped in a heavy overcoat, and a derby sat carelessly on the back of his head. His cheeks were gaunt, his longish curls replaced by two middle-parted wings of hair pomaded down with ruthless severity, and he wore a mustache. His face was white, and his grey eyes wide.
Sean took a step closer, then another step.
Through the hurrying tide of humanity, Viggo moved toward him until they were close enough to touch. He stood still, clutching the ends of his muffler with gloved hands. "They told me you'd been deported," he said in a strangled voice.
"Nay." Sean's answer was no more than a croak. He coughed and tried again. "Nay."
"You never went back to England?"
Sean shook his head. "I – I were looking for you all the while."
"I've been…here, mostly. Saving for a ticket to England."
"Saving?"
"Yes. I've got a job." Viggo waved his hand in the direction of Public Square. "I'm a teller at First National Bank."
Sean blinked. A job? Viggo, a bank teller? This conversation was reaching the upper heights of madness. "I thought you didn't want to see me. Or that your mam and dad had locked you up, or sommat."
"They did, for a while." Viggo's face was still terribly white. "Sean…."
"I'm working for Peter Halloran now," Sean plunged on. "Tidying his books and so on. I thought…I…." Sean wet his lips. His vision blurred. He wasn't going to start blubbering like a bairn in front of half of Wilkes-Barre, was he? "I didn't think I'd see you again." A gulping, undignified sob caught in his throat, and his composure crumbled as Viggo closed the distance between them, sweeping him into a ferocious embrace. He let the packages fall, and clung to Viggo tightly.
The crowds flowed around them, not paying much mind. Two old friends, no doubt, exchanging Christmas cheer.
"I have so much to tell you." The bristled brush of Viggo's mustache tickled Sean's ear. "You can't know how much I've missed you. I've been writing for months, trying to locate you."
"Aye, me too." Sean pulled back to gaze at Viggo's face. "You cut your hair. And grew a mustache."
"Do you like it?"
Sean pondered for a moment and shook his head.
Viggo threw his head back and roared laughter. "I'll shave it off. How's that?"
"Good." Sean wanted to kiss him, but even holiday cheer had its limits. He crouched to pick up his fallen packages from the sidewalk, where a fresh dusting of snow was beginning to cover the cleared spaces. He checked to make certain that the whiskey bottle hadn't broken, and then took Viggo's measure again. He didn't look altogether well – too thin and far too pale, and the mustache was unbecoming, to put it kindly. It didn't matter a sixpence, though. He was the same lovely Viggo, gentle and sweet and affectionate. "I still love you," he said, too softly to be heard by anyone else.
"And I love you. I've always loved you." Viggo lightly kissed the tip of one finger and touched it to Sean's cheek, wiping away an errant tear.
Sean sniffed and rubbed at his eyes. "I'm nithered to death out here."
"Yes, you are, poor man. So am I. Would you like to come to my flat? It's not much to look at, but there's plenty of heat, and I'll make a sandwich for you. We'll splurge on a cab."
This was the most unexpected reversal of fortune. There was sure to be a story behind it. "Nay. My hotel's just round the block. I'll buy you dinner."
Viggo pulled his hat low, linked his arm through Sean's, and neatly relieved him of one of the packages. "Lead on, my good man. Lead on."
*
The Hotel Redington's lobby was cozy, wood-paneled, burgundy-carpeted. A fire blazed merrily away across from the curving desk. Sean glanced toward the dining room, bereft of activity. "It's a bit early for dinner." His face grew warm. He'd bloody well known it was too early for dinner, hadn't he? Of course he had. "I've got to put these parcels away, anyroad."
"I can wait here in the lobby," Viggo offered. "The fire's splendid."
"You don't have to," Sean murmured.
It was difficult to tell if Viggo was smiling beneath his terrible mustache. "Shall I come up?"
"Aye. Come up."
They rode the elevator up six floors in a weighted silence broken only by the smoothly oiled hum of machinery. Sean pressed against the warm wood paneling, pretending not to notice when Viggo's sleeve brushed against his gloved hand. When the pressure finally became too much to bear, he peeked timidly at Viggo's face, saw in his eyes the joyful anticipation that had preceded a dozen bouts of blissful shagging, and broke into a grin of his own. The fulfillment of an unspoken agreement seemed imminent, and his yearning was too powerful to stop it.
The elevator slid to a wheezing stop. "Top floor, gentlemen," said the elevator man, an elderly party in a navy blue tunic and trousers.
"Thanks." Sean tipped the man a quarter with shaking hands. "Merry Christmas." He led Viggo to his suite, fumbled with the key, and finally swung the door open. He ushered Viggo into a handsomely appointed sitting room, turned on the light, and dropped his packages on a bronze-colored brocade sofa.
Viggo set down the package he'd been carrying and walked to the window. "Quite a view."
"Aye. You can see most of the city from the roof, I expect." He pulled off his gloves and rubbed his hands together in an effort to stop their trembling. "Nice and warm in here. Lovely." Now that they were here, paralysis seized him and made him clumsy and thick-tongued. "Do you want a drink?"
"Not just yet." Viggo peeled off his gloves, shrugged off his coat and laid it lining-out over a chair. He set his hat atop the coat, plunged his hands into his pockets, and smiled; this time the smile was discernible. "I just want to look at you. And marvel."
"Oh." Sean took off his coat and hung it on the tree near the door. There seemed to be nothing to say, no way to properly encompass the moment. All the time and effort he'd spent searching, all the aching he'd suppressed so brutally – it dwindled to a faint ember, winking to insignificance in the face of Viggo's presence. He'd been right about the cufflinks, their colors. "I got you a Christmas gift."
"You did? My word –"
"It's there," Sean pointed to the smallest parcel on the sofa. "You needn't open it now."
"But may I, if I wish?"
"Aye. If you want."
Viggo sat on the sofa and drew the paper parcel close. "I'm touched, Sean, really I am."
"It's nowt," Sean mumbled. "Just a wee thing, is all." He moved closer to the sofa, glad for the distraction. "Your hands seem better."
"Oh, yes. Quite well enough to handle cash, too. I don't think I'll ever have full strength in them, but I manage passably." Viggo removed the little box from the paper wrapping and admired it. "It's almost too pretty to open. I wish I had a tree to put it under for a few days."
"Go on, then," Sean said in a spasm of boyish anticipation. "Open it."
Viggo beamed and pulled at the bow, then neatly folded back the paper. He opened the little box. "Oh, Sean. How beautiful they are." He held one up to the light. "Look how it shines."
"You like them?"
"Yes. Yes, very much. Thank you – they're absolutely splendid." Viggo set the box down on the little table in front of the sofa and peered up at Sean. "I'm sorry I didn't get you anything. I didn't anticipate seeing you until springtime."
A glow settled in Sean's chest. "You were really going to come looking for me?"
"Did you think I'd forgotten you?"
"Nay, I just…." Sean shrugged, and then stilled as Viggo's hand touched his. He sank to his knees and grasped Viggo's hand. "I missed you." He hardly dared to glance up; the distance of months had made him shy and awkward again.
"Sean –" Viggo drew him close and kissed him.
It was the same delightful contours of Viggo's mouth, the same sweetness and strength in his kiss. How long they remained there pressed together Sean had no idea, but when he felt able to pull away, the light in the sky had waned to dull slate.
"It's getting dark."
Sean stood and offered his hand. "Come on." He led Viggo into the bedroom and turned on the feeble sconce beside the door. It was dim enough for modesty. He shut the door, closing them into a small space apart from the rest of the world. How long had it been since they'd been alone together and safe? Surely not as much as half a year?
Viggo leaned against the door. "Kiss me again."
Complying was no hardship. Sean kissed him lightly, then firmly, demanding and receiving more of Viggo's mouth with each passing moment. At first he was content to stroke Viggo's face, run his hands up and down the length of his body, but Viggo pulled him close and rubbed his lower half against Sean's. He was hard, wonderfully hard.
"I believe you promised you'd go ankles-up, my dear fellow," Viggo whispered in his ear, then let the tip of his tongue trail down Sean's earlobe. He bit gently.
"Aye, I reckon I did." Sean's knees shook, and his prick was so stiff it hurt. He tugged at Viggo's jacket and stepped back, panting. He hung the jacket on the door hook.
Viggo laughed. "So tidy!"
"We've got to eat later."
"I'd rather eat now."
"Christ, you're wicked," Sean said, and moaned as Viggo's hand found its way to his prick.
Strong fingers – plenty strong enough – moved up and down over the wool of Sean's trousers, then unbuttoned them. "I don't want to rumple you." Viggo's eyes gleamed with mischief.
"Cheeky bugger. Get those clothes off." Sean stepped back and took off his jacket, then knelt to untie his shoes. He worked them off his feet, stepped out of his trousers, and unbuttoned his waistcoat. Impatiently, he fumbled with his cufflinks and tossed them on the bureau. His tie followed, then his stockings, then his shirt. He unbuttoned his underwear rapidly and stepped out of it, nearly tripping over one leg since he couldn't tear his eyes away from Viggo.
Viggo took off his clothes with far more grace than Sean and stood naked. Even in the soft light, it was apparent that he'd lost weight. "What a lot of clothes we wear." He went to the bed and drew down the covers.
"Bloody silly."
"But necessary in the cold." Viggo climbed into the bed.
"Oh aye, I suppose so." Sean glanced down and saw his prick beginning to wilt. "Bit nippy. I'm getting chilled."
"So I see. Why don't you come over here and warm up, then?"
No further invitation was needed. Sean plucked the little tin of Woods' Pomade from the bureau top and moved to the bed. He slipped beneath the covers and drew Viggo close. They lay together, kissing and caressing. How gloriously familiar Viggo's body was. He remembered every plane, curve, and angle from months before, and from many dreams since. His backside was still tight, his shoulders strong, and his prick – Sean slipped his fingers round its hard length and fondled. Oh yes – just the same.
"Oh, God," Viggo groaned. The pressure of his tongue and fingers grew insistent. "I can't wait. Please, Sean, I need to – would you let me –"
Sean suppressed a smile. Viggo was still incapable of the slightest vulgarity, it seemed. He kissed Viggo lingeringly, easing the grasp of his fingers, and then turned onto his belly. Spreading his legs apart, he waited, motionless, as Viggo knelt and drew back the bedclothes.
"You're beautiful." Viggo skated the tips of his fingers down Sean's spine and spread his hand over the lower curve of his backside. "I'll drink you in slowly, I promise, but you don't know how long –" He reached over Sean's body and retrieved the pomade. "Thoughtful of you. Listen to me – I haven't been with anyone else since you. I think I've forgotten how to do all this."
Sean laughed, his voice muffled by the pillow. "I think it'll come back to you."
"I suppose so." Gingerly, Viggo opened the tin and dipped two fingers into the pomade. "Greasy stuff."
"That's the idea." Sean ground against the softness of the bed. It wasn't enough, not nearly. He half-rose to his knees and rested his head on one arm. He curled his free hand around his prick. He could hardly bear the separation of their bodies, however momentary. "Come on."
Viggo moved behind Sean and held his hips, then slid in with a single motion. "Oh, God."
"See that?" Sean croaked. "You've not forgot a bit – Christ." All his reserve and timidity had burned away. Viggo's prick was fully inside him, strong and thick. He tugged harder on his own prick as one slick hand skimmed up his back and came to rest on his shoulder, urging him backward. He felt himself beginning to move in a languid rhythm, heard a low keening he belatedly realized was his own voice.
"Sean –" Viggo thrust himself forward, his fingers digging into Sean's hip. He pulled back and thrust forward again, faster and faster, until they were both groaning, and Sean's hands were locked around the brass rails of the bed, pulling desperately to keep it from banging against the wall. Viggo thrust with ever increasing urgency, burying himself deep, until finally he let out a guttural groan, shuddered, and stilled. He leaned forward, resting his forehead on Sean's back.
Sean eased the pressure of his hand, panting.
"You –" Viggo's voice was a rasp. "You didn't finish. Oh, Sean, I'm sorry."
"Nay – it's nowt."
"Turn over." Viggo grasped his hips again and gently forced Sean onto his back. "Spread your legs." His face was flushed, his stern coiffure awry. He slid to his belly and took Sean's prick in his hand, then lowered his head until his mouth enveloped the still-hard length.
Sean whimpered and grasped the brass rails again. He lifted his head and watched the slow, teasing motions of Viggo's flicking tongue as it trailed up and down his prick. His hips ground forward of their own accord. His back arched, and the muscles in his calves ached as he curled his toes. Viggo moved with maddening languor, sliding his tongue from root to tip and down again. Again he opened his mouth and took in the whole length. He gagged slightly as he struggled to accommodate all of it, firing Sean's excitement. Finally, the wet warmth and suction pushed Sean over the precipice. He gasped and let go in Viggo's mouth.
The slate sky had deepened to fathomless black. They lay together, flushed and warm, pressed belly to back. Viggo's lips moved against Sean's shoulder. "I'm so happy," he said softly. "I love you."
Sean closed his eyes. "I love you." He wished that they could stay locked together in that moment forever.
*
The tub was narrow, but quite deep and almost long enough to lie stretched out. Sean read the long-winded instructions and chivied the heating mechanism until hot water trickled out of the taps. "There we are," he said in satisfaction. "That's lovely." He turned to Viggo, who leaned with perfect nonchalance against the door. "Hot bath in a moment." He regarded the slow trickle dubiously. "Maybe a few moments."
"Wonderful."
Sean frowned. "Please, for Christ's sake, shave those bloody whiskers off."
"Nobody likes my mustache," Viggo complained. "Really, Sean, it's all the fashion."
"Not with me. Want me to do it?"
"If you like."
"Right." Sean got a towel and ran the hot water in the sink. He took his shaving kit, lathered his brush, and pointed at the commode. "Sit."
"Yes, sir." Viggo sat obediently, with a twinkle in his eye.
"Hold still." Sean snipped at the offending bristles with his little scissors, then wet and lathered Viggo's face. He shaved him carefully, turning his face this way and that, sliding the blade over the taut skin, down the smooth column of his neck, taking care not to nick the dimple in Viggo's chin. It was almost too much to meet Viggo's eyes, to see the clear adoration in them. For him?
Viggo caught his eye and winked. Of course for you, the wink said.
Sean's eyes stung, and he turned away to wipe off the blade. How was it possible to feel so invincible and helpless at the same time? "There you are. Now you look like your old self again."
"My old self." Viggo stood and wiped a clear swath through the steam on the mirror. He examined his clean-shaven face, his rumpled hair. "You're right. Better." He laid a hand on Sean's shoulder. "I'm not sure either of us are our old selves, though. Are you?"
"Nay. I reckon not." Sean turned to face Viggo. Viggo looked different, it was true. Sadder, maybe. He wondered if his own face had changed to reflect the months they'd spent apart. "I can't do owt to change the way things happened, Viggo. I wish I could."
"Neither of us can. And never mind changing it." Viggo's lips thinned in a grim smile. "I'd like to forget it. But I can't. I have nightmares. They're…they're quite bad now and then."
Sean folded Viggo into his arms. "I'm sorry for it."
Viggo clung to him and shuddered once. "Oh, so am I." He sounded tired. "I'm sorry I brought it up."
"Nay – you can tell me about it, if it helps you feel better."
"It won't. Don't worry. I daresay they'll dissolve, given time."
Sean kissed the tiny, enchanting scatter of pale freckles on Viggo's shoulder. "Maybe they will." He kissed Viggo's sleek throat down to the hollow between his collarbones, then bent to suckle one nipple.
Viggo groaned. "Who's wicked now, I ask you?"
Sean laughed and pulled away to turn off the taps. "Look at that – half full. Think it would spill if we both got in?"
"Both of us? You shock me."
"Good. Thought I'd forgot how." He grasped Viggo's wrist and drew him toward the tub.
They took two baths that evening.
*
"Don't sleep quite yet," Viggo implored. "Talk to me."
"All right." Sean shifted, nestling closer. They lay pressed belly to back, watching a new snowfall blanketing the nearby rooftops. "Why in Christ's name are you working in a bloody bank? And as a teller, no less?"
"Ah." Viggo tightened his arms a bit. "Well, you see…I've not spoken to my parents since August."
"August! Jesus, Viggo."
"I know. But I couldn't –" He heaved an impatient sigh. "I couldn't abide their treachery. Yes, that's what it was. I would have been shut up in that damned drafty asylum for years if they thought you were still in the United States. How did you manage to avoid deportation, by the way?"
"Well, that were Mr. Halloran who fixed things," Sean replied. "They served me with papers, and he bribed the right people, I suppose. I owe him a lot."
"So do I. At any rate, that's the only reason my parents arranged for me to leave. And they sent Grace to do their dirty work, too. So I took the train to Wilkes-Barre and haven't talked to them since. And I've been doing just fine without their money. I have a two-room flat not too far from here, and I dress myself and feed myself without the aid of servants, just like I did five years ago."
"You've not been feeding yourself much," Sean observed quietly.
Viggo was silent for a moment. "I've not been very hungry lately."
"Oh aye, is that right? You wolfed down dinner fast enough."
"I had to save for the ticket to England."
"You –" Sean pulled away and sat up. "You've been starving yourself for a bloody ticket?"
"Seeing you was more important."
"I'm not hearing this! You'll get sick, for Christ's sake."
"Not any longer. I promise to eat three square meals a day, and tea, too."
"Good." Only slightly mollified, Sean lay down again. Viggo's arms around him were tense. "What is it?"
"Well. I've decided to speak to my parents. I have some money of my own, you see, but my parents took my bankbook when they sent me to the asylum."
Sean bristled at this new indignity. "They've been keeping it from you?"
"Not really. I get two or three tearful letters a month, begging me to come home, and they dangle the bankbook as further incentive, I suppose. It would be easy enough for Father to transfer the money here, but they're holding it hostage. As such."
"Oh, aye, I get it." Sean shook his head and sighed. "So you were going to speak to them after all?"
"They asked me to come for Christmas, even if it was just for a few days. They're –" Viggo's voice broke. "I don't want to forgive them, but Grace will be there, and Michael – they even arranged a transfer for him back to Philadelphia, did you know that? Gave a bundle to the diocese of Philadelphia, I imagine. Said Wilkes-Barre wasn't safe. Michael was fit to be tied."
"Ah. I tried to see him some weeks ago and all they said was that he'd gone for a time."
"Yes. He's in Norristown, but he's campaigning to come back here. He liked his parishioners, and they liked him."
"You're going home for Christmas, then?" A small barb of misery and loneliness pierced Sean's spirit.
"For a few days, yes. To collect my money."
"It's your family. There's nowt for it sometimes. And they love you, don't they? Even if they've got a bloody queer way of showing it." Sean sighed again. "What your mam said, Viggo, when you were in hospital – you remember it?"
"Oh, yes." Viggo's voice brimmed with anger. "I haven't forgotten one moment of that particular day."
"She only said that because she didn't want you to be unhappy. And who knows, maybe she weren't wrong, either."
"I don't believe that. Do you?" Viggo shook his arm a little. "Look at me. Are you saying you don't want to be with me?"
Sean turned over and raised himself to one elbow. "I'm not saying owt like – like we should never see each other again. I couldn't bear that. But –" He shook his head. "Take Freddy. He were married, with a kid, and now – now he's dead, thanks to Harry."
"Harry got what he deserved," Viggo said softly.
"He got better than he deserved. But what I mean about Freddy is – he never got to live the way he'd have liked. If you don't lie, Viggo, you're done for. You want to spend your whole life lying? I see what your mam was trying to tell me."
Viggo reached out to touch Sean's rumpled hair. "And what kind of truth would I be living if I were to spend the rest of my life without you?"
Sean shook his head, struggling with speech. All those months of searching, when he'd lost his bearings, Viggo's absence weighing heavily on his heart, he'd never given a single thought to what might happen if they were to meet again. A gossamer daydream of love and bliss was so much pleasanter than harsh reality. "You miss your family. And if you spent your life with me, they'd ignore you. Or make your life a misery. All your brothers and sisters, your fine house, your money, your automobile…."
"I've been roughing it rather well, I think. Besides, I love you. I want to be with you always. Whether it's here or Philadelphia or some other place – out West, or wherever we find ourselves – I don't ever want to be without you again."
"I can't ask you to give it all up." The words were torn from Sean's throat, raw and quivering.
Viggo held him close. "I've missed your scent. Listen to me. I'm not going to belabor you to make a decision. We have time. For now, I couldn't ask for a greater happiness. I leave tomorrow. I'll be back by Friday at the latest, and we can see the New Year in. Think about it, at least."
"Aye." Sean tried to keep the trembling from his voice. "I'll think about it."
*
Sean stomped the snow from his shoes and opened the front door, grateful for the thick heat that blasted him from the register. Mr. Halloran hated the cold and always turned the heat up to near-excruciating levels, so that Sean was obliged to work in his shirtsleeves in the dead of winter. Now, however, it felt wonderful. He reached down and scratched beneath the chin of the huge orange-marmalade cat. "How are you, lass? Where's your dad, then?"
"That you, Sean?" Halloran bellowed from the parlor. "Come in here!"
Sean carefully wiped his shoes on the carpet and went into the parlor. "Snowing something dreadful out there, sir."
"Oh, aye, I can see that. Sit you down."
Sean sat and stretched out his legs. A fire roared behind the screen. The little table-top Christmas tree was wilting in the heat, its browning needles whispering from the branches constantly despite the maid's vigilant watering.
"And how was dear Samuel?"
"Fine, sir." Sean didn't reply that Samuel Boland was a cranky, difficult man who complained the entire time that Sean was in his office, and several times during his reading looked up abruptly, fixing him with a cold, suspicious stare, as if Sean were about to steal something while his attention was diverted.
"Rubbish. He's an old misery boot. Did he wish you a happy Christmas?"
"No, sir."
"Might as well call him Scrooge. He's no different, I tell you that. Well now." Halloran's rheumy eyes narrowed. "You look different."
Sean kept a straight face. There might have been a reason or two for that. "I saw Viggo Mortensen, sir."
"Did you? Finally reappeared, did he?"
"It seems he's been working as a bank teller at First National."
"Oh, aye. I know the trustees there. Not gossips, those lads." Halloran tilted his head to one side. "So. After all these months of looking for the lad, you've found him, and right under your nose. Now what?"
"Don't know, sir." Sean blushed furiously. They'd only spoken of Viggo in the most oblique terms.
"Well. Plenty of time to decide, I reckon." Halloran rose to his feet with a groan and shuffled toward the door. "I'd best get some sleep. I'll be off in the early morning. Won't wake you, lad, so sleep in as late as you like."
Sean wondered if he was able to accommodate his lady friend, then decided the old man was spryer than he looked. "I hope you'll have a safe journey, sir."
"Oh, it's nowt but a hop, skip, and a jump to Glen Summit, lad. No worries." He turned and held out his hand. "I'll say Merry Christmas to you now."
"Merry Christmas, sir." Sean took Halloran's hand gingerly, mindful of the rheumatism that bulged it into knotted claws.
Halloran patted Sean's cheek. "Good lad. Right, off you go. Tell Elsie to get your supper. I won't join you – too tired. Good night, Sean. Merry Christmas."
*
He woke in the early hours of morning on Christmas Eve, blinking and yawning. It was too early to get up, and he had nothing pressing to do; it would be nice to have a lie-in, and think about Viggo's offer. He didn't have to come to an immediate decision. He only had to think about it, turn it over in his mind.
The fire had burnt down to red embers that glowed comfortingly in the grate. He'd turned off the register in his room and opened the window a crack. A few flurries sailed into the window and disappeared. His nose and ears were cold, but the rest of his body was as warm as toast. He burrowed beneath the covers, turned over on his side, and frowned in puzzlement.
An envelope with his name written in Halloran's shaky, old-fashioned penmanship sat on the bedside table. He sat up, shivering a little, and lit the lamp. Carefully, he opened the envelope. Two pieces of paper fluttered out. He picked up the first one, a note in the same wavering script.
The thought was there before Mr. Mortensen returned.
Merry Christmas, good luck, and God bless.
P. Halloran.
Sean picked up the other piece of paper.
It was a check for two thousand dollars.
*
Continue to Part 2
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-05-17 07:23 pm (UTC)Oh what a splendid reunion! And Christmas and the New Year don’t look to stark now, either!
Loved the small details you gave of their surroundings, the people in the shops and Sean shaving around Viggo's dimple!
(Thank you for letting us know about your chemotherapy; how wonderful of you to have written this story while undergoing something so unpleasant. I’m glad to know you’re doing well now – I hope that remains and continues. Now I’m even more impressed at your story telling abilities!).
*on to next part*
no subject
Date: 2013-05-17 10:36 pm (UTC)The story's been written for a while, I was sitting on it and figured it was a good time to post. I only *just* started writing again - a Sherlock story. But it felt really good to interact with fandom again. :)
no subject
Date: 2013-05-30 06:49 am (UTC)