When Christian got the email saying Viggo was going to be stopping in Berlin on his November filming break, he grinned quietly to himself. It had been a while--not quite five years, but still, a while--and there was never a bad time to see Viggo.
It occurred to Christian, much later, that November was when Sean was going to arrive for filming. That perhaps there was a reason Viggo was coming to Berlin apart from wanting to see the city, and perhaps there was a reason he'd be staying near the Equilibrium set.
And he kept pondering that idea for a few weeks, until Sean finally showed up. Once that happened, the theory disappeared like so much dust, because good holy God, there'd never been a man as straight as Sean Bean. Sean hit on makeup girls. He argued football at every opportunity. Most damning of all, he completely missed Christian's subtle attempts at feeling out his potential interest, and Christian's drunken-pub less-subtle attempts were laughed off in a friendly, "how flattering, but I'm not into that" sort of manner.
Fine. So Sean was straight, and Christian was going to go quietly insane. On the bright side, Viggo would be arriving any minute, and at least then he'd have someone to get his mind off the pounding he wasn't getting from Sean.
Christian had voicemail when he came off the set. Viggo's low drawl was, of course, unmistakeable, despite the fact that he didn't bother identifying himself. He left the name of his hotel and his room number, and said to come on up as soon as filming was done for the day.
So he came up, and stood outside the door, shifting uncomfortably and cursing at how tight his pants had gotten. He'd just raised his hand to knock when he heard voices. Nothing he could make out, really, other than the fierceness of their tones and the volley of words going back and forth; the slight pauses that indicated damage done, the sharp tone of replies that indicated striking back.
And then a surprised, muffled grunt, and silence.
A few moments later, harsh, ragged groans; the sound of furniture rocking, a table, maybe. One voice that was absolutely desperate and becoming steadily moreso; the other growling and angry and forceful.
Christian resisted the urge to put his ear against the door. He stood outside, spellbound, as the rocking sounds grew louder and faster. The desperate voice descended into loud, ragged moans. The growling voice turned to pleading noises of its own, and then there was a cry--two cries--and more silence.
Almost three minutes passed before Christian decided to knock on the door. He stuck his hands in his pockets, a desperate attempt at camoflauge, and waited.
The door swung open; Viggo answered, looking tired and a bit sweaty, but with the traces of a grin all over him. "Christian," he murmured. "How are you?"
"I'm... good. And you?"
"Fine. Come in?"
Christian walked into Viggo's hotel room. He took in the wooden desk with the papers scattered on the floor next to it, the smell of sweat and sex, and when his eyes lit on the man sitting on the sofa, he was somehow, God knew how, not surprised at all.
"Sean, good to see you. Good work on set today."
Sean ran a hand through his hair, brushing sweat away from his forehead, and smiled a bit. He shifted back on the couch, and Christian caught the grinning little wince before Sean could cover it. "Thanks," Sean said. "You, too."