Ficlet: wet
Jan. 14th, 2009 11:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Wet
Pairing: VigBean
Rating: R
Author: Alex
Warning: AU
Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
seans_50 challenge.
Beta: the most excellent![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite.
Disclaimer: Utterly untrue.
Note: The idea behind this series of fics is that Sean and Viggo are members of a fictional ballet company in New York City beginning in the late 70s, a period when ballet was still a fairly popular cultural attraction. This way I can also stay true to their actual ages. It will generally be linear, and will range in rating from G to NC-17. Hope you enjoy.
Prompt: Wet
*
The newspaper and mail had been stopped. The instructions and emergency numbers for the cleaning lady were in the kitchen. The dog and cat had been kenneled. They were packed, ready to go. Sean was packed, anyway. Viggo’s clothes draped haphazardly over chairs and dressers and the sinuously curving sculpture in the corner of the bedroom. Sean picked up a pair of high-waisted brown tweed trousers that had fallen to the floor and slung them onto the bed. They were a little too fashion-y for him, but Viggo loved them.
“Have you seen my brush?”
Sean strolled into the bathroom. “What brush?”
Viggo was on his knees, rooting around in the vanity. “The shaving brush that was in my travel kit. It’s gone.”
“It was mangy. I ordered you a new one.” Sean opened the second drawer and handed it down.
“I liked that brush,” Viggo muttered.
Sean plucked a toothbrush from his glass. “It was foul.”
Viggo, still on the floor, sorted out the rest of his travel kit, then stuffed an assortment of items back into the open drawer. Ten to one he’d wind up borrowing half of Sean’s things, anyway. He could be methodical when it suited him, but would have laughed at the idea of a packing checklist. “Who was on the phone?”
“Tulle. She wanted to know if you were planning to stop by when we get to Denmark.”
“She didn’t want to talk to me?” Viggo frowned up at Sean.
Sean shrugged and spat, then rinsed his mouth. “No. She said you were a miserable bastard and a terrible nephew and she’d tell you all that personally if you bothered to come round.”
“No she didn’t.” Viggo paused. “Did she?”
“Of course she didn’t, you arse. She was on her way out and she said to call her when you got to London.”
“Did you tell her I would?”
“No. I said you were a miserable bastard and a terrible –“
“Yeah, yeah.” Viggo rose to his feet, shucked his jeans and t-shirt, opened the shower door, and turned on the water. Steam billowed up. He paused by the door and gazed at Sean in the mirror. “Hey, Sean....”
For a week, Sean had been averting his eyes, changing subjects, acting the fool to distract Viggo from asking questions that were too pointed. Now he was tired, and his defenses were down. He looked back at Viggo without turning toward him. “What?”
“Are you ever going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I need to wait until the storm blows over, or what?”
The mirror fogged over. Sean bowed his head again, damning his cowardice.
“I mean, if you need space, take it, but it’s been a week now and I’m getting a little worried.”
“It’s the tour, I told you.” Unwilling to stay, but unable to walk out, Sean busied himself at the sink, needlessly tidying.
There was a pause, six beats. “You’re a piss-poor liar,” Viggo said softly, and stepped into the shower, closing the door behind him.
Sean’s fists clenched and unclenched. He stared at the shower door, at Viggo’s clothes on the mat. Carefully, he picked them up and folded them – idiotic, since they were headed for the laundry. Then he stripped off his bathrobe and opened the shower door. “Listen,” he began, glancing at Viggo, who had a head full of shampoo. Then he stepped into the shower and pulled the door closed, and slipped his arms around Viggo’s warm, wet body. “I’ve got to sort it out.” A lie, but as close as he could come to the truth.
Viggo fumbled for a facecloth and wiped suds from his eyes. “You don’t want to talk about it?”
“Not yet,” Sean begged. “Give me a bit of time. I just...I need a little time.” He buried his face in Viggo’s wet shoulder.
“Hey. Hey, okay...it’s okay.” Viggo smoothed Sean’s hair and rubbed slow, gentle circles over his back. His lips brushed gently over Sean’s collarbone. He hadn’t shaved yet; his cheeks and chin were prickly with a day-old beard, and the sensation never failed to drive Sean to distraction.
They slid to the floor, the hot water streaming over their naked bodies.
*
My table is here
Pairing: VigBean
Rating: R
Author: Alex
Warning: AU
Written for the
seans_50 challenge.Beta: the most excellent
kimberlite.Disclaimer: Utterly untrue.
Note: The idea behind this series of fics is that Sean and Viggo are members of a fictional ballet company in New York City beginning in the late 70s, a period when ballet was still a fairly popular cultural attraction. This way I can also stay true to their actual ages. It will generally be linear, and will range in rating from G to NC-17. Hope you enjoy.
Prompt: Wet
*
The newspaper and mail had been stopped. The instructions and emergency numbers for the cleaning lady were in the kitchen. The dog and cat had been kenneled. They were packed, ready to go. Sean was packed, anyway. Viggo’s clothes draped haphazardly over chairs and dressers and the sinuously curving sculpture in the corner of the bedroom. Sean picked up a pair of high-waisted brown tweed trousers that had fallen to the floor and slung them onto the bed. They were a little too fashion-y for him, but Viggo loved them.
“Have you seen my brush?”
Sean strolled into the bathroom. “What brush?”
Viggo was on his knees, rooting around in the vanity. “The shaving brush that was in my travel kit. It’s gone.”
“It was mangy. I ordered you a new one.” Sean opened the second drawer and handed it down.
“I liked that brush,” Viggo muttered.
Sean plucked a toothbrush from his glass. “It was foul.”
Viggo, still on the floor, sorted out the rest of his travel kit, then stuffed an assortment of items back into the open drawer. Ten to one he’d wind up borrowing half of Sean’s things, anyway. He could be methodical when it suited him, but would have laughed at the idea of a packing checklist. “Who was on the phone?”
“Tulle. She wanted to know if you were planning to stop by when we get to Denmark.”
“She didn’t want to talk to me?” Viggo frowned up at Sean.
Sean shrugged and spat, then rinsed his mouth. “No. She said you were a miserable bastard and a terrible nephew and she’d tell you all that personally if you bothered to come round.”
“No she didn’t.” Viggo paused. “Did she?”
“Of course she didn’t, you arse. She was on her way out and she said to call her when you got to London.”
“Did you tell her I would?”
“No. I said you were a miserable bastard and a terrible –“
“Yeah, yeah.” Viggo rose to his feet, shucked his jeans and t-shirt, opened the shower door, and turned on the water. Steam billowed up. He paused by the door and gazed at Sean in the mirror. “Hey, Sean....”
For a week, Sean had been averting his eyes, changing subjects, acting the fool to distract Viggo from asking questions that were too pointed. Now he was tired, and his defenses were down. He looked back at Viggo without turning toward him. “What?”
“Are you ever going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I need to wait until the storm blows over, or what?”
The mirror fogged over. Sean bowed his head again, damning his cowardice.
“I mean, if you need space, take it, but it’s been a week now and I’m getting a little worried.”
“It’s the tour, I told you.” Unwilling to stay, but unable to walk out, Sean busied himself at the sink, needlessly tidying.
There was a pause, six beats. “You’re a piss-poor liar,” Viggo said softly, and stepped into the shower, closing the door behind him.
Sean’s fists clenched and unclenched. He stared at the shower door, at Viggo’s clothes on the mat. Carefully, he picked them up and folded them – idiotic, since they were headed for the laundry. Then he stripped off his bathrobe and opened the shower door. “Listen,” he began, glancing at Viggo, who had a head full of shampoo. Then he stepped into the shower and pulled the door closed, and slipped his arms around Viggo’s warm, wet body. “I’ve got to sort it out.” A lie, but as close as he could come to the truth.
Viggo fumbled for a facecloth and wiped suds from his eyes. “You don’t want to talk about it?”
“Not yet,” Sean begged. “Give me a bit of time. I just...I need a little time.” He buried his face in Viggo’s wet shoulder.
“Hey. Hey, okay...it’s okay.” Viggo smoothed Sean’s hair and rubbed slow, gentle circles over his back. His lips brushed gently over Sean’s collarbone. He hadn’t shaved yet; his cheeks and chin were prickly with a day-old beard, and the sensation never failed to drive Sean to distraction.
They slid to the floor, the hot water streaming over their naked bodies.
*
My table is here
