Tête-à-tête
Recipient: empy
Author: nessa_t
Pairing: Marton/Sean Bean, Viggo
Rating: R
Author's Note: For Empy. I hope I had done justice to this interesting pairing. Happy Christmas!
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It was just another typical weekend at the job in Club 40 Below. The crowd came and went like the tide; sometimes flowing gradually in and sometimes overwhelming me with their sheer strength in numbers as they jostled to make their orders at the bar.
Amidst the thundering beat of the music and the flashing of the neon lights, I saw a man sitting in the most secluded corner of the room with his head bent over a piece of paper. Every once in a while, the dark head lifted and his eyes flickered towards my direction before darting back towards the parchment before him. Such actions could have, indeed, incurred the wrath of any man - especially so if they were straight (like I was) no doubt. Nevertheless, I had long since gotten used to Marton's propensity to sketch pictures of me as I worked, so I ignored it as best as I could.
"Why do you keep doing that though?" I remembered asking him as we were standing in the deserted alleyway outside the Club after closing time.
"Doing what?" he shot back as best as he could with a stick of cigarette clamped securely between his lips while attempting to light it up. He cupped his hands around the end of his match, trying in vain to shield the flame from the brisk wind. I watched him for a while, just a little amused by the dexterous display before there was a short exclamation of triumph and the ensuing aroma of a freshly rolled cigarette wafting in the air.
He took a long drag then, watching me as my eyes were drawn towards the hot glow that burned upon the end of the stick and later, the slow, sensuous curl of smoke as he exhaled into the cool night air.
"You know what I mean," I said, after the last haze of smoke had dissipated into nothingness. I gave a meaningful glance towards the paper in his hand. "You come here - night after night - just to draw pictures of me. Why?"
Marton paused and cocked his head, as if reflecting on some secret thoughts before breaking into a slow, devious smile.
"I like drawing pictures of you, love," he said, his voice tuned low as he lifted both arms with every intention of pulling me into his embrace. I laughed, trying to evade him - he with that damned twinkle in his eye and that smoking flint sticking out from the corner of his lips, chasing me around for a bit. He caught me then, his heavy frame pressing onto my back and gave me a quick squeeze before releasing me, stepping back quickly to avoid my flailing arms.
We lapsed into several minutes of companionable silence for a while, wordlessly sharing the cigarette as I was turned towards the sky, studying the inky darkness above while Marton - Marton was, as usual, studying me with some degree of intensity.
"Tell me what you see," I murmured, slanting him a look as I languidly held the cigarette between my fingers. An odd look passed over the man's face before it disappeared and was replaced with a small smile.
"You," he answered, and I could tell from the look on his face that he was in earnest. He kept silent until I took my final puff, proceeding to put out the butt with the heel of my shoe before he spoke again.
"I'd like to sketch a picture of you," he continued, those dark eyes still watching me intently. I gave an incredulous laugh.
"I would have thought you'd have enough of my pictures to start a library," I replied, still chuckling. The wind picked up and I shivered.
"Those are just for practice," Marton joked before becoming completely serious. "There's this sketch I started years ago. It isn't completed. I'd like to finish it tonight," he explained, still studying me carefully as I raised an eyebrow at him in surprise.
"Well?" he persisted, "what do you say?"
"Good Lord, man," I finally exclaimed, "If you had wanted me to model for your picture, why didn't you bloody well say so? After all that staring, I was starting to think that you might have had some dishonorable intentions towards me."
He grinned then, shaking his head a little at the growing look of amusement upon my face.
"It's not easy trying to get men to take their clothes off without them getting the wrong ideas, you know what I mean?"
I paused.
"You draw pictures of them naked?" I asked, curiosity getting the better of me as I studied him carefully.
"Yeah," came the answer, "Artistic nudes. I did a lot of those in Paris, but only with women models. It didn't turn out well with the other male model, see?"
"Hmm, what happened to him?"
"He fell in love with me."
This time, I left the silence unbroken, lapsing into deep thought at this newly revealed piece of information.
"If you like, I'll pay you for your time," Marton murmured, those eyes never leaving my face.
I shook myself out of my reverie and mustered up a smile.
"Got any beer?" I asked.
"Vodka."
"Even better. Let's go then," I said with steely resolve - and so we did.
*******
I realized, as we were walking up the steps to Marton's house, that I hadn't really known what I had gotten myself into. If Marton had noticed the strange silence that I held, he seemed to give no indication of paying it any heed, giving me instead one of his usual sideward glances before unlocking the door and motioned for me to proceed.
As I stepped into the living room, I noticed that the house was tidy - too tidy. There were none of the scattered books and articles of clothing that were so typical of Viggo's apartment (although it must be admitted that I had contributed to most of the organized mess at our place), or the sense that the house was occupied for long. In fact, I decided that this was just that - a house; a place where Marton stayed for a while but hadn't really been around long enough for it to be a home. After all, there was no indication of any form of presence in this lonesome little place other than the slabs of canvas arranged neatly in the corner of the room.
"Bedroom's that way. Get comfortable. I'll go get my stuff," Marton said, turning on the lights as he made his way to the bedroom. I followed him, watching him as he busied himself with 'stuff', feeling just a little self-conscious and uncomfortable.
The bedroom, I thought, was just as neat as the living room, if not neater.
"Do you even sleep here at all?" I asked, observing the perfectly made bed and the smell of detergent that still lingered upon the sheets. Marton looked over his shoulder, his hand clutching some papers and pencils before following my line of vision.
"The cleaning lady takes care of things when I'm out," he answered distractedly before surveying the room with a critical eye. He proceeded to adjust the intensity of the lighting, dimming the lights, arranging and rearranging pieces of furniture that were next to the bed. I just stood there and didn't say a word.
After a while, he paused, giving the room one last study before turning to me, smiling as he did.
"You alright? You need that drink now?" he asked, once more looking at me closely.
"Nah, it's alright. Shall I take my clothes off?" I answered, clearing my throat a little. This was ridiculously harder than I thought it would be.
"I told you it'll seem weird asking another man to pose for me," he said with a laugh, "but don't worry. I just need you to take your shirt off. I've already completed the... erm... more important bits."
Here he winked and I flushed an unbecoming red before quickly following his instructions. He turned away from me then (for that I was eternally thankful for) and once more busied himself with his equipments.
I approached the bed, paused for a moment, before deciding to take off my pants as well, leaving only my boxers on. Marton watched me silently from where he stood, holding onto a piece of paper as I settled on his bed, endeavoring to look unruffled.
He approached me then, entreated me to get under the covers before giving me further instructions on how to position myself. I obediently did as I was told and tried to get comfortable. Marton leaned close to me, making the final arrangements before smiling down into my face.
"Now relax," he whispered, "this won't take long." He gave me another small smile before retreating to the corner of the room, settling himself upon a chair with an easel before him and went to work.
Several long minutes passed with no other movements than Marton's keen eyes flicking back and forth between me and his art as well as the soft whisper of pencil scratching against paper. I watched him from where I was lying - noticing how the shadows fall upon that face of his, putting the angles on his face into sharp relief. Occasionally, my eyes would meet his and Marton would give a quick smile before his brows would furrow once more and his attention narrowed to a point at the task presented before him.
Minutes turned to hours - but perhaps I might have exaggerated a little. It was a common trait anyway to have one's mind wander given such circumstances and I started to think about how late it must have been and how tired I was. I drifted in and out of slumber, I think. I could not remember much of what transpired in that few hours or so but I did remember being jolted awake, suddenly aware of how the room would have been in total darkness if not for that pale stretch of the awakening dawn just outside the window.
I struggled up, wincing a little at the cramps in my body (the result of having being forced to hold one position for too long, no doubt) before stopping abruptly when I heard a sudden rustle coming from the corner of the room.
"Hello?" I called out, disoriented, trying to think around the buzzing in my head.
"Shh, it's just me," came the voice. A light clicked on in that corner of the room and I squinted at the tall figure before me.
"What time is it?" I mumbled, wanting desperately to go back to sleep.
"Early," Marton answered, his voice coming a little closer before I felt a cool hand brushed my hair away from my face. I flopped back against the pillows, the hours of work the night before finally taking its toll upon me, leaving me thoroughly exhausted.
"I don't want to get up just yet," I groaned, trying to cover my face with a pillow to block out the inevitable arrival of the morning.
"Then don't. Stay," he whispered back, the smile apparent even in his voice.
I felt the weight of his gaze upon my face, noticing the even rise and fall of his breath and the warmth that he emitted as he came forward to settle down next to me upon the edge of the bed.
"Is the picture done?" I demanded with my voice muffled into the pillow.
"Yeah. It's perfect," he answered, playfully tugging at the covers and attempted to pry away the pillow from my face.
"Not surprising, given the subject matter you were given," I said jokingly, before rearing up to shove him off the bed.
There was a yelp of pain and a laugh, followed closely by frantic struggles when Marton charged at me, striving to pin me down upon the mattress with his weight while I, in turn, fought hard against him.
There was no contest to be honest - Marton was easily a head taller than I was; hence very much heavier... and very much awake. I was at a disadvantage from the start, so I gave up quickly enough, panting heavily as I grinned up at him and demanded for my release.
Marton kept silent, those unfathomable eyes staring down at me as he was wont to do. There was no other sound besides our mingling breaths, and slowly I began to feel uncomfortable once again.
It wasn't until Marton made a queer movement with his hips that I realized
why I felt the
way I did. Viggo and I had joked about it plenty of times; how I would wake
up in the
morning with an erection just because there was something almost sensual with
the
contrast of the cool morning air and the warmth of the sheets against
my skin that I
seemed to respond to - like now for instance.
"C'mon, man. Let me up," I said again, the smile falling away from
my face as I tried to
squirm away. Marton ignored me, those hands of his holding fast on to mine,
pinning
them at the sides of my head while his hips began to move in a strange rhythmic
manner
again.
Then I noticed the softening in the expression of his face; his lips breaking into a small smile and his eyes harboring such gentleness in them that I became absolutely terrified by it.
"Marton," I gasped, my heart racing in my chest, trying to twist away from the intimate pressure of his body upon mine.
"Christ, man. I'm not gay!" I tried again. Marton chuckled in reply, the sound vibrating deep in his chest and down the length of his entire body before he bent his head towards mine and stuck his tongue in my ear. I froze.
"Neither am I, love. Neither am I," he whispered back, his breath warm and soothing against the shell of my ear before giving me another of those slow, languid rolls of his hips, bringing the hard ridge of his pants into contact with mine.
I've always maintained, even now, that it was too early to get thoroughly annoyed by the liberties he imposed upon me or too tired to care about the slide of his tongue against my neck. Yet, whatever my excuses might have been (even Viggo wasn't convinced with my explanations if truth be told), I knew for a fact that an errant thought must have crossed my mind, telling me that no one would have to know about the way Marton moved his body against mine. Or the pleasing manner in which he pressed his palm against the tent in my boxers. Or the slither of his tongue upon my nipples. So, I gave up struggling and gave in to him.
It wasn't as bad as I had though it would be, to be honest. As long as I kept my eyes closed, I thought, it wouldn't have mattered even in such awkward situation as this. Amidst the haze of arousal, I heard him whisper again, his breath hot against my neck as he tugged my boxers down to my knees before taking my cock in his hand.
It seemed so surreal, yet I responded to his touch (albeit with eyes closed), keenly feeling the calloused hand working up and down my shaft and the wet trail that his tongue left upon my chest. That tongue darted into my navel, flickering for a few moments over my hip bone before it was replaced by soft lips that gently covered the head of my penis.
And still I had my eyes closed. It wouldn't matter, I remembered thinking, if I had felt the scrap of masculine stubble upon my inner thighs - it wouldn't matter because I had my eyes closed, and everyone knew that it wouldn't count against you if you refused to look at the way your hips lifted and fell restlessly upon the mattress in response to that tall, very male, frame lying between your legs.
He made love to me with his mouth then: slowly, surely and thoroughly, with the same precision and attention as he would bestow upon any of his art pieces. I felt, rather than saw, the rhythmic rise and fall of his head upon my shaft; sometimes slow and sometimes speeding up, sometimes drawing me in deeply and sometimes pausing only to lave his tongue over the crest of my penis. It did not take long, of course, before I became completely lost in contrasts of hot and cool - that hot mouth suckling upon my cock and cool air that rushed over my flesh when he drew back to breathe in air.
I started to think then, that it was becoming too much to bear - that I was going to climax - before strong hands quickly replaced lips. There was the last, searing heat in my groin before the final release - and even then, orgasm came as a surprise for me. I must have cried out at one point because when the fog in my mind had cleared somewhat, I realized that Marton had leaned forward to whisper soft, calming words upon my brow, pressing equally soft kisses upon my face and down the length of my neck.
It took me a few moments to calm down the erratic beatings of my heart, but soon I was breathing easily again. I could not say for sure what Marton must have thought at that moment (and I don't pretend to care one way or another), but I, for one, found his very presence slowly becoming strangely unsettling for me as seconds ticked by.
Finally, with jerky motions, I pushed him away from me, the growing panic giving me strength and clarity of thought.
'I need a bath,' I remembered thinking, (surely the first coherent thought of the day) pointedly ignoring Marton when he called out my name and tried not to look at the surprise that I knew must have registered upon his face.
My hands shook as I grabbed at and put on the discarded articles of clothes, all the time thinking of having a hot shower to rinse off the stain of my climax and the scent of an unfamiliar musk upon my skin.
"I need to get out of here," I stuttered out, my head bent low and a red flush creeping up my neck as I felt his eyes upon me.
"Sean? Hey, look at me," he began to say but I paid him no heed. From the corner of my eye, I saw that he looked distinctively upset and kept trying to reach out to me. I evaded him as best as I could, tearing down the length of the living room, desperate to get away from the sound of footsteps behind me and made a grab at the door knob down the hall way. The door opened a glorious inch before a determined arm flashed out, slamming it shut.
"Look at me, dammit," Marton said, his voice steely with suppressed anger.
I pivoted sharply to face him then, my eyes staring right into his, well aware of the answering look of fury that showed itself upon my face. I didn't know where this anger came from, to be sure. Still, anger had its uses back then, especially when it managed to blot out the feelings of shame that had started to creep in uninvited around the edges of my consciousness.
"Fuck. Off," I snarled.
Marton balked but heaved a long sigh of resignation before he removed his arm from the door, allowing me to pass.
"We'll have to talk about this. You know that, don't you?" he said, his face devoid of any emotions.
"Don't count on it," was my reply and with that, I strode briskly away from the house before breaking into a jog and then into an all-out sprint without ever once looking back.