I'll Be Home for Christmas, If Only In My Dreams

Recipient: slashababy dropout
Author: princessofg
Pairing: Elijah/Viggo
Rating: NC 17
Notes: Written for the slashababy 2006 Lotrips Ficathon for a person who requested "Elijah with anyone, including the scary Ians! ... Seasonal niceness, romping good sex, like that."
Author's Notes: thank you to my generous and careful betas, greviousangel and slashfairy. Wow. I am so lucky.

Elijah spun the lighter where it lay on the end table while he talked. It was just getting dark outside in Venice Beach.

"No," he said, "I'm thinking of doing Christmas with Viggo this year."

"Ah," Billy said, from Scotland. They had already covered baby stuff and what Billy was doing up at this hour on a Sunday night/Monday morning. (The two topics were related.)


"No, I'm thinking of seeing if I could spend it with Viggo."

"Under three feet of snow in central Idaho? No, no, no, you're thinking sand. Rum. Ocean breezes."

"Very, very tempting. I'm wavering."

"You're wavering. You're getting very sandy, very Oahu-like. You're clicking on Expedia right now..."

"Ha! Well, it's a generous invitation--"

"Generous my left nut. Come on out. It's been too long."

"Yes. Too long. Definitely."


It was inherently rude and probably a bit passive-aggressive of Elijah to discuss his desire for a Viggo Christmas with Billy, Dom, Sean and Orlando before he even so much as thought about calling Viggo to ask for an invitation. Though, to be fair, he did get as far as thinking about it. The polite and appropriate thing to do would have been to get Viggo on the phone (sometimes a more involved process than it would seem) and simply say, "If it wouldn't be an upset to any plans you have, could I come and see you for Christmas this year?" That would have been the right way to do it.

But this way, Elijah's heart started to pound one morning, surprising him, when he was just leaving his agent's office, was halfway across the parking garage in the breezy darkness. His phone sang to him, and the blue glow showed him Viggo's number.

Before he could say hello, Viggo drawled, "I understand you need to be picked up at the airport for Christmas. You want to tell me which Christmas and which airport?"

"Hi, Viggo," Elijah said. He stood still, palms damp, mouth dry. He pressed his phone against his ear with his shoulder and pulled out his cigarettes. Even though it turned out to be quite a short conversation, he apparently needed a nicotine buzz to cope with it. How could Viggo still DO that to him? How?


"I suppose I could have rented a car," Elijah said. A dry landscape, scattered with sugary snow, stretched out on the other side of his moving window. Stark grey mountains made a towering horizon on two sides. Usually, before, he would visit Viggo at the California property, or in New York. Elijah was trying to remember if he'd been to the Idaho ranch twice before, or only once. He was pretty sure it was once. But there were so many photos of the land and the place, hung in corners, propped on bureaus, at Viggo's other houses, that Idaho seemed familiar. The land was all bones and hardly any skin. The sky was white.

"Nah. It's no trouble. Plus talking in the car is good."

"It is?"

"It is for me.... You can smoke if you want to. In fact, give me one."

That was new. Elijah looked sidelong as he pulled a red and white soft pack from his jean jacket and shook one loose, holding it where Viggo could see it.

"Not Marlboros...? I was hoping for a clove."

"Oh." Elijah put his own cigarette back in the half-empty pack, unbuckled his seat belt, and turned to wedge himself between the front buckets of the Land Rover. He reached for his bag and scrabbled in it, his jacket and T riding around his ribs. He put away the American cigarettes and dug out a fresh pack of cloves, pristine in clear plastic. "I was smoking those for Bobby," he apologized, "going back and forth."

"Cloves are kind of fun. Marlboros are just stinky."

"Whatever you say." Elijah lit one of the unfiltered cigarettes, tasting the lately unfamiliar sweetness, and handed it over. Viggo had cracked his window. He accepted the cigarette without looking up. Elijah lit another for himself. He, unlike Viggo, looked. He pretended that he was covering his examination of his companion with the convenient prop of the cigarette.

And Viggo looked ... good. His hair was long, though not as long as it had been the last time Elijah had seen him, which was at a book launch in New York. Gogol Bordello's schedule and Perceval's had coincided. The party, the entire evening, had been nice, though it had made him perhaps more uncomfortable than necessary that Pam and Viggo had spent all those hours together. Neither of them seemed to have minded, after all, at the time.

Viggo's hair was only longish now (and not a professional cut), and his summer tan had faded, and he had shaved today. Elijah scratched his sparse beard and thought maybe he would, too, before the vacation was over. Viggo looked rested and somehow eager, though he drove in a relaxed way, slouching in the seat, his left hand holding the cigarette at the window, his right hand low on the wheel. He was wearing jeans and boots and a flannel shirt under his driver's jacket. His hat, tossed into the back seat near Elijah's small bag, was leather, too, like his coat, and it looked real and used. Kind of like Viggo himself.

Elijah had known for certain it would make him happy, down to his bones, to be here, to have this reunion. He knew, he had anticipated with total authenticity, how he'd have a sense of casting his cares away, of having a rock to lean on in a weary land. Feeling all that in his body again was so, so good. Too good, perhaps. He slouched in his seat, an unconscious copy of his friend's posture, and took another drag. He cracked his own window. It was sharply cold out there, cold like New York, but not damp. It felt healthy. Energizing.

"Put your belt back on," Viggo said. Elijah smiled, and did.

They drove in silence for a long time. Elijah thought of digging in his bag again for his iPod, but realized he didn't want to. Surprising. He watched the hills stalk along beside the interstate, and thought about nothing.

"Where's your ring?" Viggo said. His voice seemed loud, but only because he was speaking into silence. He wasn't loud. His voice was soft at the edges, low and growly. Not his professional voice. Elijah was honestly confused for a few seconds. Was Viggo making some kind of historical joke? He looked at him, seeking direction, and was startled by the directness of Viggo's gaze.

"What, my Ring of Power?"

"No, your ring. Your 'If not now, when?' ring."

"Oh." Reality. Not cinema. Good. "Pam has it."

"Pam has it." It was a question.

"Yeah, Pam has it... You think that's weird."

Viggo spoke slowly, like he was thinking of other things, but Elijah had always been able to see that was not true. It was just that Viggo seemed to consciously process a lot of stuff that most people were content to leave as background operations. "Because Franka gave it to you? No. It's just. Symbolic?"

"Yeah, it is, actually." Now they would get to it. Talk about it. Talking in the car, Viggo had said. Oh, shit. Elijah squirmed. He wanted to talk about it; it, Pam, the future. It was why he'd wangled this trip in the first place, wasn't it? But now that they were together it would be very hard. He didn't know if he was up for it after all, the conversation, the entire week, even, although it had been his idea. He waited, braced for the impact of Viggo's next words, but Viggo said nothing else until they pulled into the long private gravel road that led to his house, up an easy slope through stands of ragged cedar.

"Welcome back," Viggo said, and smiled at him, and, with the familiarity of long practice, pulled smoothly, quickly, into the narrow, too-small garage, which had not been built for 21st century vehicles.

There was classical music playing in the house, through extremely high quality speakers mounted high in the corners of each room. It made Elijah look around for a housekeeper, or other company. But there was no one. Viggo had shown him in from garage to kitchen and then disappeared without a word, and Elijah paced through the generous, sparely furnished rooms in bright slanting sunlight, figuring Viggo either had gone to the toilet or to the barn, and when he didn't come back right away, he knew the second guess was correct.

Elijah allowed himself a wander through the house, squashing the feeling of intrusion. It was made of logs, an old house, often added-on-to, long and rambling and low. There were no curtains on any of the windows, and the light was white and clear. He studied Viggo's painting studio, guided there by the smell of turpentine. He lingered in the bedroom, looking at the wide coppery planks of the floor, at the huge white bed, the doorless, neat closet. He poked into the master bath, parked his bag there, arranged his hair, took off his jacket. He carried it back into the bedroom and after a moment's thought, hung it on the desk chair. Viggo's screensaver was a photo of himself and Exene and baby Henry. It was a casual photo, not artistic in the least. It made Elijah wrinkle his forehead.

He went back along the hall and through the kitchen and out to the stoop to smoke again, a Marlboro this time. There was no breeze, and the sunlight was warm on his face, cutting through the cold air. He watched Viggo come from the barn, slapping a well-worn pair of gloves against his thigh as he walked, as if in time to music. The gloves were yellow and scuffed, like the gravel path.

Viggo was hatless and his cheeks were pink, with the cold or with the exertion of pulling down hay; Elijah wasn't sure. He smelled of the hay, and the horses. He stopped one step below where Elijah was standing, which brought them to exactly equal height. He tilted his head and looked at Elijah -- really looked at him, searching his eyes, cataloguing whatever changes he saw. It had been well over two years since they'd spent a significant amount of time together. Elijah felt himself come into focus under that gaze, as if reality arranged itself more coherently because Viggo's eyes were composing it, composing him. He smiled, and Viggo smiled back. He let the gloves drop, and he put his hands on Elijah's shoulders. When they leaned, they leaned together, and their mouths fit easily, comfortably, as if no time had passed at all.

Viggo's mouth had a sharp, springlike taste, as if he'd been chewing a sprig of hay. Elijah slid his arms around Viggo's middle and shifted his weight, knowing the larger man would take it and hold him up. Elijah opened his mouth and the kiss unfolded, dampened, lingered. Viggo's mouth was warm and big, his lips softer than in Elijah's memories. They finished in a series of smaller kisses. They were both still smiling. Viggo put his head on Elijah's shoulder and held him tight, rocking back and forth a little. His hands were big, catching on a shoulder blade, on the shelf of a hipbone. After a while, Viggo stood up straight, but neither of them let go.

"It's really good to see you," Viggo said.

"You, too," Elijah said, and slid a hand down to find one of Viggo's. Slowly, they went across the porch and into the kitchen.

"Are you ready to cook, or would you like a drink?"

"Beer first, if you've got it, thanks," Elijah said, and beer there was. They sat on bar stools and talked about the drought, the winter, the horses, the place. Then, family, Billy's baby, Debbie. Not about ... anything else. Or work. Not yet.

After finishing his beer, still in the flow of catching up, Viggo rose and began pulling out packages of meat wrapped in white paper, and various fresh vegetables. Elijah deduced that supper was going to involve chicken and sauteing, and, still talking, too, he found a knife and a cutting board and a garlic press, and helped.

Night fell as they cooked and ate. They sat at the kitchen table, dark windows on two sides. Over dinner they turned, with a certain relief and enthusiasm, Elijah felt, to talking about work. The discussion grew impassioned, hilarious, theoretical. They moved from craft to directors to locations. The wine was gone. Viggo fell silent, turning his empty stem, looking down. A lock of his hair fell across his cheek. They'd been talking about the Czech Republic, about places Elijah'd visited relatively recently, comparing them with Viggo's memories of a college backpacking trip.

He shaved today, Elijah thought. Elijah was suddenly aware of an intense desire for a smoke, aware of the house around them, its music silenced, of the cold night outside, of the possibility (who was he kidding -- inevitability) that had hung over dinner, giving it a spice as sharp as the oak notes in the Australian chardonnay Viggo had presented him with, acting the part of pretentious sommelier. Elijah stood, picked up his napkin, wiped his lips, his hands.

"Come on," he said, and without looking back he walked off toward the bedroom. Arousal sparkled in his thighs as he heard the scrape of Viggo's chair on the wood floor and then his light tread, following. It was dark in this part of the house. He stopped near the bed, navigating by the faraway light from the end of the hall. He bent to unlace his boots, and then Viggo switched on the desk lamp and the room came into focus. The furniture, the white lines of the wide bed, seemed softer than they had in the harsh afternoon sunlight. Then, a touch. Elijah almost jerked, he was so wired with anticipation, but he stopped himself in time. It was Viggo's firm hand on his butt, just a quick, open-palmed stroke through his jeans, but it was the end of any self-inflicted uncertainty Elijah had felt. His dick twitched and started to fill, at that touch.

He stood, and kicked out of his boots. Viggo was sitting on the edge of the bed, already shirtless, and their eyes met. Elijah's smile widened; he couldn't stop it. Suddenly he was boundlessly delighted with simply everything, the meal, the wine, the conversation, the flesh-and-blood man before him, the present, the past, the future. Viggo smiled, too, but it was a thoughtful smile. He got up and came around the bed, his gaze resting on Elijah's neck as Elijah looked up to track him. Elijah admired the wide shoulders, the sparse dark hair, the lean solidity of Viggo's body. He simply waited, hard now, ready for anything, yet content to see if Viggo was going to kiss him, or hug him, or get it started in a direct way, or something else entirely.

Viggo's face settled and grew serious. He stood still, cupping Elijah's cheek. His hand was rough and startlingly warm. Then he slid both hands along Elijah's jaw, splitting his fingers around Elijah's ears, holding him firmly, making Elijah's breath come faster and start to trip over itself. Elijah closed his eyes, and his lips parted and seemed to swell, another involuntary side effect of his arousal, which was getting intense now to the point of pain. He needed out of his jeans. Viggo kissed him, once, twice, carefully, with attention to detail, all lips, like he was tasting the wine and the white sauce left from dinner. Then Elijah felt his breath, withdrawing, the heat of him receding, and those big warm hands vanished from Elijah's head. He felt a little floaty, a little dizzy, but he was able to keep his balance, just barely. He wanted to feel all this, slow time down, make the next hour last all night. Forever.

He squeezed his eyes further shut. He pulled in a big breath and waited. He wanted this, wanted Viggo, wanted, urgently, to return, right now, to the safe obliteration he'd experienced the first times they had done this, years ago. He was still, just listening, riding the wave of feeling and sensation. Viggo's fingers were at the hem of his T-shirt now, pulling it up. Elijah raised his arms and the T plowed along them and disappeared. Fingers at his fly, buttons coming loose, boxers and jeans pushed down. A hand at his chest, pushing gently, and Elijah sat, blindly trusting that the bed was right behind him. His eyes were still closed, and he spread his arms, feeling the expensive, warm duvet, smooth as a sheet under his arms. It reminded him of the hotel linens in Prague -- smooth and warm and lush even in their functional simplicity.

He waited, resisting the urge to curl as his jeans were pulled off, vanishing along with his socks. He forced himself to contemplate how exposed he was now, sprawled in a symmetrical, self-conscious pose on Viggo's bed, making an artist's model of himself, eyes still resolutely closed. He imagined Viggo looking at him, and it gave him goose bumps and brought his cock off his stomach. His erection felt hot, his fingertips and feet cold by comparison. He bit his lower lip to keep from moaning.

The next touch was Viggo's tongue, gliding slowly, carefully, at the tip of his cock. He did moan then, moaned and gave up his pretense of being simply an object. He tangled his fingers in Viggo's hair.

"Oh, man, oh, baby, oh yeah, oh yeah." Nonsense syllables poured out of him, and he bent his knees and wormed himself into Viggo's arms and interfered with the way he was leaning, still trying to get his mouth back to Elijah's dick, and Elijah grabbed and twitched and squirmed until Viggo had to pin one of his knees and lean on him, hard, to get him to keep still. Because apparently Viggo fully intended to continue to lick him. Which was exactly what Elijah was craving. He could feel Viggo smiling as he got reacquainted with Elijah's dick. Exploratory licks and glides became kisses, became sucking. Somehow Elijah could feel Viggo's restrained appetite for him building, strong and fast and voracious. Viggo had himself reined in, as Elijah had long ago seen him rein in a horse that was ready to run. It was glorious, knowing Viggo felt that way.

Viggo's turn to moan, and he sealed his mouth around Elijah's shaft and began pushing, making Elijah fuck his mouth without Elijah having to move at all. He tensed and lay there a minute, letting it happen to him, but then it was too delicious, too perfect to feel without participating. He rested his palms and fingertips in Viggo's hair again, and let go, pushing up with his hips, trying to match Viggo's rhythm even though one hip was still pinned to the bed. He strained against Viggo's weight, against his hand. Just when Elijah could feel the spangle of orgasm start to focus in his balls, Viggo broke the rhythm and let go of him, pulled up and away, slowly, excruciatingly slowly. He was panting, smiling, like Elijah was.

Then he lowered his mouth to Elijah's skin again and whispered, "You can come just like this, sweetheart, I know you can, but wouldn't you rather save it and come from the fucking? I really think you would...."

Viggo was talking against his head, lips teasing and tickling the sensitive V. Elijah yelped and giggled, and saved himself from hiccupping only by opening his mouth and relaxing his throat and breathing carefully. Jesus, he'd forgotten how Viggo could talk to him. How could he have forgotten that?

He petted Viggo's hair and looked at him. He was excessive, voluptuous, half-naked like this, against the caramel and white backdrop of the sparsely furnished bedroom. It was shocking and beautiful -- the sprawl of brown skin and muscle, the fall of hair like a lion's mane, that wide mouth, now devoting itself to his flesh. It was all too good to be true, too real. Viggo was watching him, too, waiting for him to respond. Elijah tried to focus. It was hard to make his lips work.

"Of course that's what I want. Please." Elijah slid his hand down and stroked Viggo's cheek. Elijah frowned a little, hoping he was getting, finally, to unguarded, down to real, to himself, his real self. He always wanted to give that to Viggo, but sometimes his real self was a little hard to find. "Please," he said again.

Viggo smiled, and turned his head and licked him some more, kind of on general principles. Then he got up, patting Elijah's thigh on the way to vertical. He stood by the bed and studied Elijah as he unzipped his own jeans and skinned out of them.

Elijah was conscious of the room expanding around him, of a sense bordering on vertigo as he felt himself at the center of the snow globe that was this place, the house, the trees, the land, the sky. He breathed, feeling smooth cotton under his back, the warmth of his skin, the blood pounding in his lips, his ass, in the big veins in his thighs. He watched Viggo strip, and tried to calm down.

Naked, Viggo walked around the bed and went to rummage in a bedside drawer. When he found nothing, he grimaced and slapped the drawer shut, went over to a maple bureau across the room, trying again, with success. When he turned back to the bed, Elijah turned over, burying his face in one of the feather pillows and getting some of his weight onto a knee. He thought Viggo gasped, which made him smile. Gratifying, to know the sight of him did that to Viggo, still.

"You are so beautiful. Just too beautiful to put into words."

"I can't feel you. Where are you," Elijah said, hoping it didn't sound plaintive.

Warm hand on his ass, then, and the bed shifting, and the familiar sounds of tearing foil and the snick of plastic on plastic.

"I want you so much," Elijah said, low and urgent.

"Shh," Viggo said, and edged close, nudging Elijah's knees. He pushed a slick, cool finger into him, gently but without hesitation. Elijah groaned, short and sharp and surprised, and pushed into it, bracing with his knee and bearing down.

"Jesus," Viggo said, still forbearing, still careful, but the gentleness was burning away. Elijah knew, remembered and loved his urgency; wanted that back, wanted it bad, wanted to make Viggo lose it.

"Yeah, oh yeah," Elijah said. Viggo worked on him, careful and thorough about opening him up, but Elijah wouldn't need much, would need less than Viggo thought he did. Because this was so wanted, so welcome, and it was so easy to relax and push, to show Viggo in an extremely direct way precisely how ready he was.

"Talk to me, tell me," Viggo murmured as he leaned against Elijah, thighs under thighs, pushing, nudging, hesitating. The slippery head of Viggo's cock found the opening, and Elijah pushed back, right through the first, inevitable burn, exhaling hard, remembering so exactly what this was. How to do this.

"Good, it's good; come on," Elijah said, clearly, giving Viggo the words he wanted, making himself speak out, through the heat rising in his cheeks, through the stretch in his thighs and his ass, through a sense of elemental fusion that made it hard to remember what words were for, or that they even existed. "Come on, more, it's good."

And Viggo believed him, pushing in, pushing harder. He was trusting him to know what he was doing and what he wanted. He pushed smoothly, still careful, but Elijah could feel his strength. It was like riding a tiger. Elijah smiled into the pillow, and pushed back, until Viggo was inside him all the way, huge and impossible and so good. Viggo was panting, his chest moving against Elijah's back as he leaned his own weight mostly on his arms, and he was starting to sweat.

It was always so much more than Elijah remembered; always right on the edge of too much. Elijah panted, and when the shocking intensity of being nailed like this had receded just enough, he got onto his elbows, inviting Viggo to fuck him. Just as Viggo had said.

They rocked together, and it became faster, harder, accelerating slowly and steadily. Elijah felt it when Viggo was satisfied that he was relaxed enough, open enough, when Viggo could tell that they were back in synch and that Viggo couldn't hurt him. Then Viggo fucked him, hard. Elijah took it gladly. They were both moaning and lost in it, sweating, reckless, all body, and, like the zen masters have it, no mind at all. Elijah came in a blur of yelling laughter, his body seizing and shaking, pure joy.

When Viggo came, a little later, a little more quietly, he let himself collapse onto Elijah's back. He slid to one side so that Elijah could breathe, and Elijah let it all ebb around him like an ocean, carrying him toward sleep on its warm waves.


Elijah woke alone in a bed smelling of Viggo, the morning light warm and red on his eyelids. Oops. He had passed out so hard that he'd been incapable of summoning a plan for even something as simple and necessary as an after-sex shower. He'd slept all night, apparently. He opened his eyes. It felt early. Well, early by his standards, not his host's.

He smelled coffee. It was almost more tempting than cleaning up, but not quite. His own gooey state, and the prospect of the first hug of the day, combined to get him out of the bed with a dispatch that neither Dom nor Pam would have believed.

The room was cold. So was the bathroom. He showered quickly, catching a flash of himself in the big rectangular mirror. His dark hair was a patch of shadow in this bright place, the bathroom also white, white as the sheets. It was modern, all shiny aluminum and snowy tile. He dried quickly, threw on some sweats and went in search of coffee, and Viggo's arms.


Days passed like that -- a blur of simple meals, long walks, painting, reading, riding, naps, fucking. Christmas morning came, and Elijah dug out the gift-wrapped book of McIntosh designs he'd had Billy find for him, and Viggo opened it over their coffee and eggs. Viggo had chosen, for him, a hard-to-find boxed set of Kurosawa's early work.

But other than the exchange of presents, Christmas looked and felt like the rest of the week. That night, counting up the days, Elijah felt his departure looming, and he still hadn't really said what he'd wanted to say, or planned what he'd intended to plan, with or to this man, this friend. He'd watched Viggo cooking, feeding the fire, shoving his hat harder onto his head as their horses crested a hill and met the gusty north wind. But he had so few words to describe what he wanted to ask, and fewer for what he wanted to hear.


The last night, they somehow didn't get around to fucking, going from naked intertwined kissing to idle caresses, never building past the kissing to anything resembling sex. It was comfortable, and sweet. The moon was up, and it made the bedroom bright enough for them to see each other. They sprawled together, Elijah's head on Viggo's chest, Viggo gently petting his ass.

"How does Pam do that for you?" Viggo asked, out of nowhere. Elijah's face got hot at the blunt question. It was a hell of a way to address the topic Elijah had been resolutely ignoring: By crashing right into it. But he would answer. He would talk about Pam. That, after all, was the point.

"She does. You know -- toys, fingers."


The syllable left a big space around it that Elijah knew he was expected to fill with elaboration, explanation, everything he hadn't yet said. Elijah knew exactly what Viggo was doing, and how much of a favor it really was, but he was surprised to feel relieved, manipulated, grateful and resentful all at the same time. Well, that was his baggage, now wasn't it? All spread out in Technicolor on the white covers, illumined by the moon. He laughed, wondering how far Viggo had followed this progression of his thoughts. Quite a bit, or entirely, he was sure. This week they had gotten back to the part where they would bring up the same subject, answer each other's unspoken sentences, finish each other's thoughts, like an old married couple. It made Elijah vastly relieved to be able to pick up the text of their friendship like this.

And so, Pam.

He offered, "It's good with her. All of it. My stuff, what I like.... It's all okay about sex, you know. There's no weird symbolism. She does what I like; I do what she likes. It's easy."

Viggo went back to kissing him then, and eventually fell asleep with his head on Elijah's thigh, and they never got around to coming at all. Viggo dozed, and Elijah listened to him breathing, and for the first time since he'd arrived in Idaho, Elijah let himself think about Pam instead of pushing the image, the very outline, of her away. He'd told her he was coming, of course, and she knew, and he knew, exactly what kind of juncture this was, and she hadn't argued with him about starting it up again with Viggo, or anything about the trip at all.

She didn't argue with him over the phone anyway, ever. She always saved up whatever bones she had to pick with him for when they met in person. It had been hard to get used to -- her way of hitting him with the saved-up crap right away, often in the car on the way from their airport reunions, but he had learned to handle it because it did, as she insisted, get it all out of the way up front, clear the air each time, so that the rest of their face time could be happy, every time, every visit. They were both about the happy, he and Pam. Carefully, even methodically, constructing happiness out of the random events life pitched to them, obscure, outrageous, weird or lucky as they were, by turns. But he didn't think there would be any issues this time, at their next meeting. Because that was the whole point of this last pilgrimage he'd made, wasn't it? To clear the decks. Settle all scores.

As he drifted off, warmed by Viggo's heat, Elijah felt light, feathery, clean and pure as the moonlight, like he would never have any problems, ever again.

They got around to fucking in the morning.

After, Elijah stumbled across the chilly floor and got a towel and put it under the hot water and squeezed it out and cleaned them up and climbed back in bed and wrapped himself around Viggo again. He put his face in Viggo's armpit and sniffed him, absorbing him into his body again. Then he tilted his head up and asked, "Why do I persist in feeling like you're a father figure even though I've been sleeping with you all this time?"

"Because you're a sick and twisted pervert."

Elijah barked with laughter. Viggo's stubbly face was perfectly calm in the blue morning light, but Elijah knew him well enough to hear the joke. The flat, matter-of-fact delivery identified it, as well as the way his hand kept moving across Elijah's skin. "It was a serious question."

"I know." Elijah shifted so that he could snuggle against Viggo's side. He pressed his lips to the tattoo that matched his own, and smiled at the memories that stirred. But really, he wanted to listen, because Viggo was still talking, choosing his words carefully, as always. "I know what you're doing, and you know what you're doing. You've gotten what you want from this. What you need from this. It's not about what you think I can teach you or what you missed by not having your dad there. Not any more, anyway."

Elijah was full now, full of thoughts, full of the trailing edge of this trip, full of the immense excitement of being about to fall off the edge of a new cliff in his life. Since the first night he'd led Viggo back to this bed, he had been trying to get empty, and apparently it had happened while he was sleeping, sometime, unnoticed, during these days, because he'd crossed whatever line he'd set for himself. He felt full, now. Buzzing with thoughts, with himself, with his life, and it was good to be full.

He smiled, insisting and contrary. "But you did teach me a lot, about acting and about--" he ran his hand along Viggo's thigh, ending with it cupped over Viggo's dick and balls, now at rest -- "other things." Viggo covered Elijah's hand with his own. Elijah turned his, interlaced their fingers.

Viggo answered, "Did I teach them, or did you learn them?"


When it was time to go, Viggo drove him back to the airport. Same highway, same hills, same horizon. It was weird. In a way, Elijah felt he had never left the Land Rover -- had spent the whole Christmas holiday sitting there, watching Idaho roll by. But his body, used and pummeled and exercised, knew better. Elijah smiled at the (mostly invisible) reminders he would be taking home. In addition to the movie collection.

At the small airport, pulled up at the sidewalk by the "Departures" sign, Elijah turned in his seat. He didn't feel like saying goodbye. Instead, he said, "How come I'm letting go of this and you're not? What are you doing, anyway?"

He realized that in all the time he'd known Viggo, been Viggo's lover, he'd never asked that. He wondered if it was because until now, he didn't really want to know.

Viggo was quiet for a long time. He looked at his hands on the steering wheel, and then he reached over and put one hand on Elijah's thigh and looked down at it. When he had the words, he met Elijah's eyes. "I don't have to let go of it. I was never holding on to it in the first place."

"Even though you love me."

Viggo's hand came up to his cheek, and Viggo smiled at him, warm and feral and fearless. "Even though."

Elijah nodded, and wondered why he wasn't crying. He looked at Viggo, memorizing him, the snowy day through the window behind him, the red flannel collar peeking out above the shearling lapels of his old jacket, his hands, the nails stained a bit with blue oil paint from yesterday. He took a breath, and leaned over and hugged Viggo, very hard. Then he got out of the truck and walked around to the back. There was muddy snow clinging to the wheel wells. Viggo popped the latch for him, and he got his bag out of the back, and slammed the tailgate, and stood there and watched Viggo pull away.

Viggo didn't wave, and he didn't look back, but Elijah didn't mind. He pulled out his sunglasses, his cigarettes, and his iPod, for one more little break, here in the cold sunlight, before he started his foray through the airport to his gate.

Some things, he thought, can last forever, even if they never happen again.


Comment on this story
Read Comments on this story


Concept created by Megolas in 2002
Fabulous artwork ©2002 by Hope.
Moderated since 2004 by MSilverstar and yueni.
Site revised ©2006 by yueni