Leavings, Fragments, Balancing

Recipient: saklani2
Author: feelforfaith
Pairing: Viggo/Dom
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Viggo doesn't know if it's good or bad, doesn't know if it means he will want Dom less, or whether he will want him more. Tomorrow. When they go back to how they were before. Friends. Mates, as Dom says.
Story Notes: Merry Christmas, saklani2! Title taken from Viggo's poem "Home."

"I'm not going to regret it, if that's what you're thinking," Dom says.

"That's not what I'm thinking," Viggo lies.

He leans his head against the door he shut after letting Dom in not five minutes ago. Dom's standing two steps away from him, his hands in the pockets of his jacket he's still wearing after blurting out his request, right here, in the hallway, as if he was asking to borrow Viggo's car keys.

Kind of pointless right now to offer a beer and small talk.

"Why me? Why not Orlando?" he asks, and it must be that part of his brain talking, the one responsible for self-preservation behaviors. "I'm sure he would be glad to add another notch to his bed post. A virgin, at that."

"I don't want it to get all awkward," Dom says. "Tomorrow."

"And you don't think it'll get awkward between us?"


There's so much honesty in that one word, it twists Viggo's stomach in a knot. He doesn't know if it's good or bad, doesn't know if it means he will want Dom less, or whether he will want him more. Tomorrow. When they go back to how they were before. Friends. Mates, as Dom says.

He draws the air in, slow, deep, like something he craves and can't get enough of. The way Dom smells now is different than when he's wearing Merry's wig, or when droplets of salt water are drying on his skin, or when he's sweating on the dance floor. They are all different smells and Viggo collects each one.

The casual expression Dom has been trying to pull onto his face since Viggo opened the door doesn't fool him--the angles of Dom's jaw are harder than usual, his shoulders more squared.

Viggo takes a step closer and runs his finger along Dom's cheek. The barely-there stubble prickles and wakes his skin with a promise of what he can have. Is it worse to want something and not be able to have it, or to have something once and know there won't be a second time?

"Let's do it, then," he says, and brushes past Dom. He's halfway up the stairs when he stops. Dom is still standing in the same spot, facing the front door. "Are you coming?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm coming."

Dom's footsteps follow him all the way into his bedroom.

He stops at the foot of the bed to strip his shirt off. Dom is hovering near the door, just inside the room. Viggo drags his jeans and underwear down and steps out of them after they fall to his feet. He lies back on the bed, props himself on his elbows, his feet planted on the floor, and spreads his legs. Modesty doesn't enter the equation--if this is what Dom wants, then this is what he will get.

"Well?" he says.

Dom wipes his lower lip with his fist, watching him. He feels Dom's gaze on him like fingertips on his skin. Hesitant but daring, they brush his face, slide down his chest, linger below his belly and in between his legs. By the time Dom's gaze returns to his face, heat drags through Viggo's belly, slow and heavy.


"Sorry, I--" Dom scrunches his face, laughing, but his laughter is full of awkward angles. He scratches his cheek. "Shite, is it supposed to be this weird?"

"It's not supposed to be anything. Do you remember your first time with a girl? It's just like that, only a lot more awkward."

"Thanks. That helps a lot."

"Just get undressed and come here."

He watches the slow reveal of Dom's body as he strips out of his clothes: his stomach and shoulders, hipbones, the curve of his buttocks, his cock nestled between his thighs. Naked, Dom looks bigger, more muscular, as if the low-slung jeans and silly t-shirts he usually wears were hiding the real man inside them.

Dom takes a few steps toward him and Viggo spreads his legs wider in invitation. He sits up and reaches out with his hand, palm up. "Come on."

Two naked guys in the same room doesn't have to mean anything, doesn't have to lead to anything, as long as they keep their eyes off each other and stay out of each other's personal space. When Dom steps in between his legs, their eyes lock and the concept of personal space between them vanishes. Viggo closes his hands on Dom's hips. The skin there grows warm under his fingers.

He slides his hands around Dom until they meet in the small of Dom's back and pulls him closer. The muscles on Dom's belly jump and he tenses. He's watching Viggo, cocking his head and biting his lower lip.

"Stop thinking so hard about it," Viggo says.

"I'm not thinking about it."

"I can hear the wheels turning in your head."

Dom hesitates and rests his hands on Viggo's shoulders, which brings them another inch closer together. He flashes his teeth in a smile. "For a poet, you use too many clichˇs."

Viggo pulls Dom to him all the way, until his chin touches Dom's belly and he looks up. "And you are remarkably cheeky for a straight guy who is about to get fucked in the ass."

Still looking up, he kisses Dom's stomach, trails little close-mouthed kisses around Dom's belly button and feels rewarded when Dom lets out a soft sigh.

He crawls backwards up the bed; Dom follows him walking on his knees and trying not to lose his balance, because Viggo has his hand wrapped around his wrist. Viggo rolls onto his side, rests his head on his folded arm and pats the pillow next to him.

"Right here."

Dom lies down next to him, but then lifts his head and props himself on his elbows. He pulls his legs up, stretches them out, pulls them up again, and bounces his body against the bed a few times, as if testing the mattress. "So, what's the plan?"

Viggo rests his hand on Dom's hip. "Are you done yet?"

"Aren't you supposed to say something like 'Don't worry, baby, I'll make it good for you'?"

He leans over Dom. "You must've been watching the wrong kind of porn."

Before Dom has a chance to respond, Viggo presses his open mouth to Dom's. Dom jolts and clasps Viggo's arms as if his first instinct was to push him away, but Viggo holds on to Dom's mouth, forces it open wider, forces Dom to accept him. He pins Dom down with his body and it's skin and muscles and bones and more skin, all warm and shifting under him. He pushes Dom's head deeper into the pillow and Dom groans. Their teeth clash, and maybe it's too much, maybe he should pull away, but Dom grips Viggo's head in both hands and kisses him back.

Dom has kissed him before--goodbye snogs Dom offers to anybody who is willing and some who aren't--but that's nothing, nothing at all compared to Dom pushing his tongue into Viggo's mouth, sucking his lip, biting him to get more.

"Not bad," Viggo says, when they break apart. "Not bad at all, for a straight guy."

"Will you bloody stop with that straight guy thing?"

"So what should I call you? Bi-curious?"

"Don't call me anything. Just fuck me." Dom's still breathing hard, his mouth still open, his eyes shining like he's feverish.

For a second Viggo considers the wisdom of going ahead with it, considers the chances of screwing things up for himself, for Dom, for everybody, but Dom is naked in his bed and it's too late now to worry about screwing things up.

He leans over the edge of the bed, shoves a pile of magazines and loose papers spilling from the bottom shelf of the nightstand out of the way, and finds the bottle of lube.

"Get on your side," he says, coating his fingers and rubbing them together.

Dom rolls over, glancing at Viggo above his shoulder.

"It'll be easier this way," Viggo answers the unasked question.

"Easier for who?"

"For both of us. Pull your knees up." He guides Dom's legs with the heel of his hand. "That's good."

Dom folds his arm and rests his cheek on his open palm. He clutches his other arm to his chest, like he's hugging himself.

Viggo reaches down, past Dom's hip, past the curve of his buttocks. "Now relax, all right? Just relax."

"I know," Dom says, and then: "Fuck" when Viggo slips his fingertip inside him and adds a second one right after.

"Breathe. And relax."

Dom clenches around Viggo's fingers. "Stop fucking telling me to relax," he says into the pillow.

"Keep breathing."

He holds his fingers inside Dom, twists them gently until Dom's body gives and they slip in deeper almost without resistance. He pulls out and adds more lube, grips his cock, slides its tip along the crease between Dom's buttocks until it's right . . . right there. All he has to do is push. "Ready?"

Dom tenses like he's made of unbendable plastic, not of muscles and flesh, and drags a loud breath through his nose.


Another swishing breath.

"Dom, please . . ." Viggo says with his open lips against the skin on Dom's back. He caresses Dom's cheek. Please, I want it.

He kisses Dom between his shoulder blades, kisses his shoulder, kisses the back of Dom's neck, kisses his jaw, kisses his shoulder again. Dom's skin is hot under his mouth, and it tastes of sweat.

"You want it and you fight it," he whispers. "Don't fight it. Or stop wanting it." He tightens his arm around Dom and pushes his cock inside. Dom winces, but his body gives again.

Viggo's barely in, but he is inside Dom, and hot and tight doesn't start to describe what that feels like.

"You okay?"


He rocks his hips, a little movement that aligns their bodies tighter together, chest to back, thighs to thighs, skin to skin. They breathe together: in when Viggo pulls out, and out when he thrusts back in.

The smell of his sheets, overdue for washing, soaked with his own familiarity, clashes and mixes with the new, unfamiliar smell of Dom's sweat.

Dom closes his fist around his cock and moves with Viggo. Viggo pulls Dom's leg up, hooks Dom's foot behind his own thigh and thrusts in deeper. Dom grunts, trapped between his hand and Viggo's cock. Sweat drips down Viggo's neck. He shakes his hair out of his face. Dom squeezes his eyes shut, bares his teeth.

He wants to crawl inside Dom, under his skin, into his head, and be welcome.

Stop wanting it so much.

He pries Dom's fingers off his cock and curls his own hand around it.

Dom digs his heel into the back of Viggo's thigh, shoves himself into Viggo's fist--"Fuck. Oh, fuck."--and comes. Viggo squeezes his eyes shut and there's not enough air. He thrusts into Dom one more time and shakes when the muscles in his thighs and belly overheat and spasm.

For a long moment he stays with his head pressed into the pillow, because it's too much effort to move and because Dom's not moving either. The sweaty, sticky heat between them feels right, like something that should always be there.

He pulls out carefully, wipes his hand on the sheet and brushes strands of hair from Dom's forehead. "Are you okay?"

Dom wiggles and turns onto his back, next to Viggo. "I'm all right." He gives Viggo a sideways look. "For a straight guy who just got buggered in the arse."

They are staring at each other suspended in a delicate balance between "everything's okay" and "we fucked things up really bad." But the balance tips when Dom winces and says, "My arse is sore," and then snorts and laughs, and Viggo is laughing with him, as if it's the funniest thing in the world.

He rolls onto his back when he can catch his breath again, and they are lying side by side, their legs touching.

"You're a piece of work, you know that?" Viggo says.

"So they tell me. But you can't know if you like something or not until you try it, yeah?"

It seems like a natural progression of the conversation for Viggo to ask, "And did you like it?"

"Wasn't too bad. I've had worse." Dom turns his head to Viggo. "And you?"

"Well . . . I've had better."

Viggo's studiously serious expression breaks into a grin when Dom whacks him with a pillow. "You wanker."

"Hey, you walked into that one." And even though what he said is partially true, it's also a total and complete lie, and he accepts the contradiction without question.

Dom sits up, smoothing out the pillow in his lap. "So, now what?"

"What do you mean?"

"Should I go?" Dom asks.

"Do you want to stay?"

"Do you want me to stay?"

They could carry it on like a ping-pong match; Viggo's too old for that. "Yes."

"I'll stay. Let me just . . ." Dom waves toward the bathroom and swings his legs off the bed. "Have you got a spare toothbrush I could borrow?"

"I might. Check in the top drawer."

"Thanks, mate."

Dom closes the bathroom door.

Viggo gathers the covers from the end of the bed and pulls them over himself. The humming of the shower cuts into the silence and he wishes he had enough courage to go after Dom. It's not a long stretch of imagination to take the memory of Dom pressed against him in bed and turn it into the feeling of Dom pressed against him in the shower.

The only thing stopping him is some misguided, stupid trust Dom has placed in him.

He takes a deep breath and considers putting on boxers and a t-shirt, and maybe offering a pair to Dom. But he doesn't move a muscle, and when the water stops and Dom comes out naked, rubbing with a towel at his dripping hair, Viggo's gaze shamelessly follows droplets escaping down Dom's chest and into the hairs on his lower belly.

Dom tosses the towel on the floor and crawls under the covers on the other side of the bed.

"Do you want the light off?" Viggo asks.


He flips the switch on the bedside lamp and there's darkness between them and cotton sheets. No man's land. Viggo wishes he weren't so trustworthy.

He can't fall asleep on his back, but he doesn't want to turn away from Dom. He doesn't want to face him either, so he stays on his back and listens to Dom's breathing.

"Orlando said that you hog the covers in bed. Do you hog the covers, Viggo?"

Viggo closes his eyes, but in the darkness of the room it doesn't make any difference.

"Orlando has a big mouth," he says with a great deal of affection, although right now he could strangle him with pleasure. He's also trying not to remember what Orlando's big mouth feels like.

"Not going to argue about that," Dom says.

Dom doesn't press for an answer to his question, maybe because an answer is not what he was after. Viggo hates the darkness because he can't see Dom's face.

The bed is warm with the kind of warmth you get from another human being, and it's luring Viggo, but it would be a waste of time to sleep. He wants to capture the time between now and the morning, hour by hour, and lock it away in his memory for later.

The sheets rustle when Dom rolls over and pulls the covers with him.

Viggo falls asleep without saying good night.

* * *

Three . . . four . . . five should be enough. Viggo's not hungry. For good measure, he cracks another egg into the pan and stirs. He gets the juice from the fridge, sets it on the table and takes another sip of his coffee.

When he woke up half an hour ago, Dom was still sleeping, buried under the covers with only the top of his head and one foot sticking out. He rubbed Dom's foot and let him sleep.

The morning has a way of changing perspective on things. Perhaps it's the matter of different lighting or different angles, but whatever happened last night, now, in the light of the morning, can be confined to the part of Viggo's mind where it won't interfere with friendship.

He shuts off the burner under the pan and takes two plates out of the cupboard. He should go wake up Dom or the eggs will get cold, but he's reluctant to go back to his bedroom with its warm sheets and the smell of sleep. He rearranges the plates on the table and is saved when Dom wanders barefoot into the kitchen, with an "I'm awake, but barely" look on his face.

"Mornin'." Dom yawns and rubs his hands over his face to cover the yawn. He runs his fingers through his hair, which only messes it up more.

"Look who woke up," Viggo says. "And just in time--the eggs are ready."

"Smells great." Dom stretches, yawns again, and his gaze stops on the pot of coffee. He pours himself a cup and sits down as Viggo is putting the steaming pan on the table.

They split the Sunday paper--Dom snatches the entertainment and sports sections, and Viggo gets the front page--and eat their eggs and drink their coffee, and say, "Salt, please" and "More coffee for you?" and it's only sometimes, when Dom smiles at him over the edge of the paper, that the sharp smell of Dom's sweat and the heat of his skin flash through Viggo's memory, curling his toes. He drops his head then and pretends to take great interest in the local news.

"What are you doing today?" he asks, depositing the dirty dishes in the sink.

Dom is finishing his second cup. "Orli wanted to go check out Breaker Bay. He thinks he's ready to surf there." Dom's tone of voice says that he doesn't quite agree with Orli's assessment of his own skills. "What time is it?" He squints at the clock on the microwave. "I'd better be going."

"Okay," Viggo says. "And don't let him do something . . ." Viggo waves his hand in an attempt to cover any trouble Orlando might get himself into.

"Too stupid? Don't worry. I'll keep an eye on him." Dom stands, sets his mug on the table. "Thanks for breakfast. I'll see you tomorrow?"


He closes the front door behind Dom and leans against it, like he did last night when Dom was standing in front of him saying he didn't want things to get awkward. It already seems like it never happened.

* * *

It's another of those weeks that drag on and on, days on the set, evenings in cast meetings, and all Viggo wants tonight is to fall into bed and sleep. He's unlocking his car when Dom calls him from across the studio's parking lot.

"Hey," Dom says, coming up to Viggo. If Viggo tried very hard, he could call the expression on his face a smile.


"Can you give me a lift?"

"Sure. Get in."

They climb in and Dom slumps in the passenger seat and closes his eyes. Without the makeup, the darker circles under his eyes draw attention to themselves, even in the dim lights of the parking lot. The last few days haven't spared anybody.

"Home?" Viggo asks, starting the car.

Dom nods. And adds, "Your place."

Viggo's hand freezes on the gearshift with the inevitable memory of the last time Dom was at his house. "You want to come over?"

Without opening his eyes, Dom says, "If that's okay with you?"

"Yes. Yes, of course."

It's not like Dom has never invited himself over before--or invited the whole gang over to Viggo's place, not quite with Viggo's consent--but that was before. He is unprepared for how his brain translates Dom's words into something more than having a beer and watching the evening news together. He is unprepared for the stir in his belly it causes.

"That was a long day," he says, pulling out onto the main road.


It's past the rush hour, and there's little traffic. The streetlights illuminate the inside of the car passing over them in waves of light and shadows.

"Are you hungry?" Viggo asks. "We could grab something at this Mexican place near--" Dom shakes his head and Viggo doesn't finish the sentence.

The car clock ticks off minute after minute during which Viggo can't find a comfortable position for his hands on the steering wheel.

Dom turns to him, tucks his feet under himself on the seat and presses his cheek to the back of the seat, watching Viggo.

Viggo glances away from the road. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine." And: "I could use a drink."

Viggo gives up attempts at conversation and they spend the rest of the drive in silence. He unlocks the door to his house, holds it open for Dom and goes straight for the bottle of Absolut in the freezer, leftover from some party. He hasn't gotten around yet to buying shot glasses, so he sets two whiskey tumblers on the kitchen table and splashes vodka into them. Hands one to Dom.


Dom accepts, and they both wince when they swallow. Viggo pours another round, more generous this time.

"Do you want to get me pissed?" Dom asks.

"What if I do?"

"You don't need to. I'm easy anyway."

"Drink it up."

Dom's elbow knocks Viggo's when he swigs and coughs. He wipes his mouth, puts the glass back on the table and turns. Half a step closer and Dom is so close that their thighs touch. Dom slips his hand under the hem of Viggo's shirt. His fingers rub little circles of warmth across Viggo's belly, not teasing or demanding, just . . . there. Like an offering.

Viggo covers Dom's hand, trapping it under the fabric. "Dom, why are you here?"

"What answer do you want to hear?"

"How about the truth?"

Dom slides his hand from under Viggo's and this time Viggo doesn't stop him when his fingertips resume their exploration. Dom's hand is warm and solid, and it doesn't feel like the touch of a stranger.

"Are you still sleeping with Orlando?" Dom asks when his left hand finds its way under Viggo's shirt and joins his right one on Viggo's belly.

"Why didn't you ask him?"

"I wanted to ask you. So, are you?"

"No," Viggo says.

"Why not?" Dom pulls his hands from under Viggo's shirt and walks backward, dragging his t-shirt over his head, until his feet hit the edge of the sofa. He drops the t-shirt to the floor and sinks into the cushions. "Why not?"

Viggo follows him. Slowly, he kneels between Dom's legs. He reaches under the pants legs, pushes the tops of Dom's socks down and rubs his bare ankles.

"Do you really want to talk about Orlando?" he asks.

"I don't want to talk at all."

"I should take you home," he says. He's trying to convince himself as much as he's trying to convince Dom, but he's not doing a very good job of it when his hands are sliding up Dom's legs, over his knees, along the insides of his thighs, rubbing and kneading, until they meet on the fly of Dom's jeans.

"You don't want to take me home."

Viggo hold's Dom's gaze and shakes his head. "No."

It's like a puzzle without a picture on the cover. He can't see yet what it's supposed to be, but the pieces he's holding in his hand stand apart from the others, with their vivid colors and distinctive lines, and if only he can figure out where and how they fit, all the rest will fall into place.

He strokes Dom through his jeans, and the knot of heat underneath grows and spreads to his own belly. He reaches up with one hand, presses the pad of his thumb to Dom's lips, and Dom rubs his tongue against it, sucks it into his mouth all the way, until his teeth bite the soft web of skin between Viggo's thumb and index finger.

With his other hand Viggo unbuttons Dom's jeans. "Lift up."

Dom leans up on his hands to bring his hips off the sofa. Viggo tugs his jeans down. He closes his mouth around Dom and a thick and raunchy taste of him rolls over his tongue.

Dom struggles against Viggo's hands holding him down, against Viggo's mouth, but goes pliant when he comes, loose-limbed and open, like he has nothing more to give, because he has given Viggo everything.

The memory of Dom shuddering under his hands ripples through Viggo's body and it feels a little like his own orgasm.

He runs his hands along Dom's thighs in long, smooth strokes meant to sooth, not to excite.

"Are you cold?" he asks.

With his eyes still closed, Dom first shakes his head, then nods. "Tired."

"Let's go to bed," Viggo says.

"You can fuck me here."

"I meant, to sleep."

"Here's good." The words are barely coming out of Dom's mouth. He toes off his sneakers clumsily, at the same time kicking at his jeans bunched up around his ankles. Viggo takes his feet one at a time and frees them from the tangled fabric. Dom pulls his legs up onto the sofa and lies down, burying his face in the cushion. "Just fuck me here . . ."

By the time Viggo fetches a blanket from the closet, Dom is breathing steady with his arms curled around himself. Viggo covers him, tucks the sides of the blanket around him, and sits on the edge of the sofa.

He strokes Dom's cheek with the back of his hand. "Dom?"


"What time to you need to get up tomorrow?

"A quarter of five."

"I'll set the alarm clock and wake you up, all right?"

Dom nods.

Viggo reads in bed for hours, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the book, to turn page after page, hoping it will distract him from thinking about Dom. It doesn't work.

* * *

He wakes when Dom slips under the covers, letting colder air in. He rubs his arm he must have slept on because it's gone numb.

"What time is it?" he asks in a voice rough from sleep and dried-out throat.

"Almost three. Your couch is shite for sleeping."

"You never complained before."

"I was always too drunk to complain before."

"I knew I should've gotten you drunk earlier."

Dom laughs and pats around the bed. "Have you got another pillow?" His hand brushes Viggo's shoulder in the dark and stays there for a few moments.

"Yeah, somewhere . . ." Viggo pulls the other pillow from where it's tucked under his side. "Here."

"Thanks." Dom fluffs it and finally settles down. "Did you set the alarm clock?"


"You don't need to get up with me. I'll let myself out."

"And I was about to suggest breakfast in bed."

"I'll take a rain check on that."

"Just don't say I never offered."

Viggo shifts under the covers and rolls onto his side. Dom turns almost at the same time too, and they are facing each other. He can make out only vague contours of Dom's body--the line of his shoulder, his cheek, his hair darker against the pillow.

Tonight, he doesn't hate the darkness.

* * *

Viggo is rolling up the sleeping bags he borrowed from Peter when his phone rings. It's Orlando sneezing down the line and saying that he's coming down with a cold or something, and would they mind terribly if he didn't go.

"No, of course not. You take care of yourself, all right?" Viggo says and hangs up. Then he opens the drawer of his nightstand and adds the bottle of lube to the pile of things to pack.

They drive north, stopping at any place Dom deems appropriate for a photograph. Dom makes silly faces for the camera, but Viggo takes most pictures when Dom's attention is focused somewhere else--Dom spreading a road map on the hood of the car, Dom shading his eyes from the sun, watching something in the distance, Dom's hands cradling a plastic cup of coffee. In the car, Dom props his bare feet on the dashboard and sings along with Abbey Road, wiggling his toes to the rhythm. The drive takes longer than the guidebook claims, but Viggo doesn't mind, just slips another roll of film into the camera.

A sunny day drifts into a cloudy evening, and Viggo gives up the idea of becoming one with nature and sleeping under the stars, so they pitch the tent Orlando insisted on bringing.

At night they bake potatoes in the coals of the campfire and Dom keeps digging them out every ten minutes to check if they are ready yet.

"Don't be so impatient. You have to give them enough time," Viggo says and hands Dom a beer.

Dom pokes the fire with a stick, sending a trail of sparks into the night sky, and wrinkles his nose. "How much longer?"

"As much as they need."

Viggo reclines on the sleeping bag they set out by the fire, looking up into darkness above. "I wish we could see the stars. I wish we could do this every night," he adds.

"Then it wouldn't be special."

"You're right, it wouldn't."

Another half an hour later Viggo declares the potatoes ready. Using Dom's stick he digs one out and tosses it to Dom. "Watch out, it's hot."

Dom shifts it from hand to hand, but he can't wait any longer. He tears with his teeth into the potato skin and hisses when it burns his lip.

"Good, huh?" Viggo passes him butter. He grabs a potato for himself and cuts through the crispy, charred skin.

Dom chomps off another piece, dragging air through his teeth, and answers with his mouth full, "Bloody fantastic. Worth all the wait."

When it starts raining, they crawl into the tent and move the sleeping bags around, bumping into the sides of the tent and into each other, until they are settled down.

Viggo lies on his back with one hand under his head on a makeshift pillow made of his sweatshirt. The "sleeps four" tent is big enough for them to be comfortably away from each other, but they are pressed shoulder to shoulder in the middle of it. The silence between them doesn't feel unwelcome these days, and Viggo is glad to just be here and listen to the rain drumming against the tent.

Some time later Dom slips his hand inside Viggo's sleeping bag and under his shirt, and Viggo reaches out to Dom in the dark, finds his shoulder, wraps his arm around Dom's neck and pulls him close.

Dom's breath tickles Viggo's ear when he says, "I want to be on top."

The rain is coming down stronger now. Dom's fingers are warm on Viggo's skin.

"All right."

Unbuttoning his shirt, he digs through his bag to get to the inside pocket. Dom is yanking his sweats off and unzipping his sleeping bag at the same time.

Night chill seeping through the half-zipped entrance prickles his skin with goose bumps, but it doesn't stand a chance against their combined body heat.

The nylon of the sleeping bags is slick and slippery under his naked back when he lies down on it. He grasps Dom's hand and pulls him in between his open legs. "Like this."

"Yeah, like this," Dom says when Viggo presses the bottle of lube into his hand.

They fuck face to face, sweating into each other and into the borrowed sleeping bags, and when Viggo comes, Dom kisses him and his mouth tastes of wood smoke and melted butter.

* * *

"I can't tonight." Dom switches his cell phone to the other ear when they walk inside and hands the grocery bags over to Viggo, who puts them on the kitchen counter. "No, but Viggo's here and I promised him I would cook." He drops his keys on the table and toes off his sneakers, laughing. "Oh, shut it, you wanker. Yeah, and you need to get wasted properly. I'll call you tomorrow, yeah?" He clicks the phone off.

Viggo sets out the vegetables for tonight on the counter. "What did Billy say?"

"Nothing. He and Orlando are going out tonight and wanted me to come with them."

"So why are your ears red?"

"They are not."

"Want a mirror?"

"He said . . ." Dom pauses and turns away from Viggo to get a cutting board from the cabinet. "He said that you'd better shag me properly tonight so it's worth a missed night out with them."

Viggo is busy with the empty bags: flatten, fold in half, repeat.

"You told Billy?" he asks, and doesn't add "about us," because "us" makes it sound like there is a "them," and so far they've been avoiding any mentions of "them."

"Yes." Dom gathers peppers, tomatoes, and zucchinis, and moves them to the sink. "He's my best friend," he adds, and it sounds like he's explaining himself.

Viggo pushes the folded bags away and leans against the sink next to Dom. "Dom, it's okay. I don't mind." It's a stupid thing to say, inadequate, but he doesn't know how to say all these other things that have been growing inside him, suspiciously close to his heart. They are good at talking, they just aren't any good at talking about them.

"I know that. I just . . ." Dom shrugs and turns the faucet on. "I'll wash these, and you can go, start the grill." He points to the cabinet in the corner. "The charcoal is on the bottom shelf."

Viggo is about to walk out on the patio armed with a bag of charcoal, lighter fluid, and matches, but he stops next to Dom, who is transforming the vegetables into red wedges, green stripes, and yellow slices. Dom's bare feet stick out from under the fringed jeans bottoms; dampness gathers under his armpits; his wrist flexes in rhythm of the staccato of the knife against the cutting board.

Viggo sets the stuff he's holding on the counter and wraps his arms around Dom from behind. Dom stills; the knife clicks softly against the board. Viggo kisses the back of his neck.

He's been mapping out the places on Dom's body that make Dom close his eyes and say Viggo's name in a raspy, drugged voice when Viggo kisses them. He intends to find them all. He wants to know how to read Dom with his fingers, in the dark, even when they are both asleep.

Dom slides his hands up Viggo's thighs and turns around. His lips are hard and chapped, and so sure of themselves when he presses them to Viggo's mouth.

Viggo touches his forehead to Dom's and whispers, like it's some kind of a secret message, "We can stop now and have dinner, or . . ."

"Do you want to stop?" Dom slips his hand down Viggo's back and into the waistband of his jeans.

"Not if you keep doing what you're doing."

"Then let's keep doing that instead."

"What about dinner?"

"I say, fuck dinner."

"Admit it, you just don't want to cook."

"Yes." Dom is walking him backward toward the bedroom, unbuttoning Viggo's shirt. "I'll do anything to get out of cooking."



"Then fuck dinner."

* * *

Dom rolls over stretching like a satisfied cat when Viggo slips from under his arm and gets up to go to the bathroom. He blinks in the fluorescent light flooding the bathroom. Cold tiles under his feet make him want to go right back to bed, which is warm and full of Dom.

He's washing his hands when his gaze wanders to the drinking cup where Dom keeps his toothbrush--except that there are two toothbrushes there now. And one of them is bright pink and has Viggo written on it in a black marker.

"I think I found my new toothbrush," he calls out through the open door. "It's very . . . subtle."

Dom laughs from the bedroom. "I knew you would appreciate it."

Viggo slips back under the covers, spoons behind Dom and wraps his arm over his chest. "I appreciate it very much."

"You'd better," Dom says. "I had to lie to the girl at the register and say that it was for my niece."

They are pressed together full-length, as if they've come out of one mold.

"I like this," Dom says after a while, rubbing his big toe along the instep of Viggo's foot. "I like having this with you."

Viggo presses his face into Dom's hair. "I like it too."

They could fall asleep like this.

Some time later, they do.


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Concept created by Megolas in 2002
Fabulous artwork ©2002 by Hope.
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