by P. R. Zed

Rain lashed the windscreen, obscuring the road in spite of the wipers' best efforts. Sean squinted, trying vainly to make out the lines of the road. He hit a corner too fast and the car fishtailed, the steering wheel pulling in his hands like a live thing. He downshifted viciously, grimacing as the gears ground in complaint.

It was a miserable fucking day and he was in a miserable fucking mood, so at least it was appropriate. For once, he didn't feel like moaning about Wellington's abysmal weather. It kept his mind off other things. Things he didn't want to think about. People he didn't want to think about. Person, really. Singular.

Very singular. Fuck.

He was fucked, completely and absolutely. All because he wanted someone he shouldn't want, someone he couldn't have. A man. A friend. Viggo.

It might have been okay if he'd kept his desire hidden, if he'd never revealed his want, his need. But he hadn't managed to do that.

Viggo knew.

They'd been in the trailer they shared. Viggo was already in his street clothes and Sean had been stripping out of the interminable layers of Boromir's costume.

It had been a bloody awful day on the set. The weather had made everyone's nerves raw, and there'd been more than a few tears shed. Sean had personally had to calm down the script girl when she'd been driven to distraction by overly rambunctious Hobbits.

He was knackered and his defences were down or he'd never have done it. Wouldn't have leaned into the touch when Viggo laid a friendly hand on his stomach. Wouldn't have arched his back with the pleasure of the simple caress. Wouldn't have let an animal moan of satisfaction escape his throat.

A few seconds of forgetfulness was all it had taken. A few seconds and he saw Viggo's eyes widen with shock. With knowledge. And he'd remembered. Remembered why this wasn't allowed. Why he'd avoided thinking about his feelings, his desires. An ice crystal had formed deep in his gut and he had pulled abruptly away.

"Sean," Viggo had said, his voice husky with what must have been confusion. But he hadn't been able to respond. Hadn't even been able to look at Viggo. Had just thrown on his clothes and toed on his trainers and run out of the trailer. Hadn't cared that his costume was lying in a heap that would have wardrobe screaming at him in the morning. Hadn't cared that his jacket was back in the trailer. Had only wanted to escape.

He pulled in front of his rented house and made a crap job of parking. Running to the porch, he only vaguely registered the rain running down his collar and the wet leaking into his shoes. It took him longer than usual to open the door with slightly shaking hands. Once inside, he threw the lock back on, as if he was barricading out the hosts of Mordor. He leaned against the door and tried to calm his breathing, wiped the rain out of his eyes. He didn't even notice the puddle forming on the floor around him.

"You fucking stupid twat, Sean Bean," he said to himself. For long moments he couldn't move, head bowed, frozen in frustration and shame. But even with his world crumbling around him, he could only stand dripping wet in the hall for so long. He had to move, to get on with living. Viggo might hate him and he might be stuck on the film shoot, in this country, for nearly six more months, but life had to go on.

He wandered into the bathroom and stripped out of his wet clothes. He found his oldest, most comfortable sweatpants and a tatty old t-shirt to change into, and ten minutes later he was sitting in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a mug of tea, an Englishman's best defence against emotional upset.

It was then, when his heart had finally resumed it's slow, regular beat and he'd calmed his breathing down almost to normal, that there was a knock at the door.

He decided to ignore it. Maybe whoever it was would go away.

The knocking resumed, louder than before.

"Open up, Sean," Viggo said. "I know you're in there. Your car's out front."

Somewhere in his mind, both Boromir and Richard Sharpe laughed at him. After all, what sort of a hero hid in his kitchen from a wiry Yank.

"C'mon, Sean. I'm getting soaked."

There was a long pause, during which he hoped his unwanted visitor had taken the hint and buggered off.

No such luck.

"If you don't open up, I'll make sure I draw blood during our next practice with Bob."

But Viggo had already drawn blood. Sean looked down at the thin scar across his hand. That stripe of slick skin marked the first time he'd been distracted by Vig's fluid grace. Caught off guard by an unsuspected longing that flooded his limbs, he'd delayed parrying a thrust until it was too late and a line of scarlet had been drawn against the white of his knuckles. Viggo had been apologetic and helped him bandage the cut.

The pounding on the door disrupted his reverie.

"Open up or I'll get the Hobbits over here."

That did it. The threat of Hobbits was too dire to risk. That lot'd drink him out of house and home. Not to mention the general piss-taking that would happen if they found out why Vig was here in the first place.

He strode down the hall, shoulders hunched unconsciously in a defensive posture, and threw open the door. He watched passively as a wet Viggo entered the hall.

"Do you want a cuppa? I've got a pot brewing."

"No, I don't want a cup of fucking tea. I want you to talk to me." Apparently pretending that nothing had happened wasn't on. But Sean wasn't up for the direct approach quite yet.

"Isn't that what we're doing? Talking?" Sean hoped the warmth he felt in his cheeks wasn't visible in the gloom of the hall.

"No it's not. I'm talking. You're..." Viggo stopped in exasperation, casting about for the right word. Sean could see it in his eyes when he found it. "...evading." A predatory smile appeared on Vig's face, showing more gums than teeth.

"And what do we need to talk about?" Sean was still hoping that he could brazen this out.

"This," Viggo said, drawing out the 's' into a sibilant hiss as he moved into Sean's space, placing a warm, wet hand on Sean's belly.

His body betrayed him for the second time that day. His breath caught sharply in his chest and his neck arched back of its own accord, exposing his throat to the man before him.

"Why are you afraid?" Viggo asked, his voice so low it was barely audible.

Sean could only shake his head, not sure anymore if it was fear that was motivating him, or lust, or something more.

"Relax," Viggo said, then he moved in closer. Viggo licked the hollow at the base of his neck, then gently bit his chin. The simple sensation of tongue and teeth on skin overwhelmed him. Sean opened his mouth to gasp, only to find Viggo's lips taking his. The heat of Viggo's mouth was a revelation and suddenly he found his passivity broken. He pulled Viggo closer, shuddering as the damp from Viggo's clothes soaked into his own. Their mouths clashed, teeth meeting flesh with a force that might have been painful in another place, another time.

Without breaking contact, Viggo began to urge him down the hall, toward the bedroom. Sean was pushed on the bed, keened with want as Viggo skinned out of his sodden jeans and sweater, moaned with desire as Viggo straddled him, cock straining forward, hair dripping with water. With exquisite care, Viggo placed his hands under Sean's shirt and slowly moved them up his torso, forcing the garment out of the way as he did so until he finally pulled it off over Sean's head. The process was repeated with his sweatpants and then they were both naked, clothed only in skin and sweat and rain.

Reaching up, Sean pulled Viggo down toward him till their chests and legs and cocks met and Sean could no longer tell whose voice he could hear, whose hand he felt. His hips bucked as Viggo reached between them and stroked both their cocks in a firm grip, the sensations of merged velvet skin releasing a liquid glow that flowed to his fingers, his toes, his eyelashes.

Viggo kissed the side of his neck, nipped at his shoulder and then used a rough tongue and gentle teeth on his nipple. Sean bit his own lip until it bled, pain mingling with pleasure in a maelstrom that took him high, so high that there was no more air, nothing to breath, only Viggo. Viggo, touching him, cherishing him, breathing for him.

A final gasp, and he came, his seed coating Viggo's hand, their cocks, their bellies. Viggo only lasted a few seconds longer, then he too came, a wordless bellow sounding from deep within him.

Spent, they collapsed into each other's arms, Viggo resting his cheek on Sean's chest. Sean let his hand idly play down Vig's side, smiling when the light touch earned a delicious shiver.

"Why did you fight this so hard?" Viggo finally asked.

Sean leaned his chin on Viggo's head and gave a sad smile.

"Thought you'd hate me guts if you knew."

"Never," Viggo said. "Never that."

Outside, the storm continued; inside, clouds began to yield to sun.


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