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One Wedding, Just One Wedding

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As hangovers went, it was a mild and friendly case, with no explosions or cave-ins, no buckets of sand in the eyes, and only slightly gross dead things in his mouth.

Good enough, really, for Viggo to risk rolling over and opening his eyes.

Interestingly, the other side of the bed was rumpled, the pillow creased and sheet tossed back. Viggo's vague recollection of having someone curled up beside him during the night had not been an alcohol-induced hallucination after all.

The light in the room had the gentle warmth of an English summer morning filtered by lace curtains. Muted bird song, the whir of a lawnmower in the distance? Somewhere pleasantly bucolic?

Definitely England, then.

Viggo could just see his passport on the far nightstand, and when he lifted his head cautiously, his tux was draped over a chair beside the bed.

For a formal event.

"Well, this is embarrassing," a voice said, across this room.

Oh yes, Viggo was in England, unless someone was exporting naked British men to California.

"You don't look embarrassed to me," Viggo said, propping himself up on his elbow, and checking out the ass on the young man who was standing at the window looking out through the gap in the genteelly lace curtains. "You look…"

The man turned his head and smiled charmingly over his shoulder at Viggo.

"The embarrassing part is that I have no idea what your name is," the man said.

"I don't know who you are, either," Viggo said. "But I'm guessing it was a good party last night."

The man laughed and turned, shifting brown curls back off his face with his hand, and revealing a long, lean body.

"Jesus," Viggo said, under his breath.

"Isabelle does throw a good knees-up," the man said.

"Isabelle…" Viggo said. "Okay, got it now. She hosted Claire and Geoff's wedding reception. It was all very Four Weddings and a Funeral. You were a groomsman, I remember you dancing with the bridesmaid with the startlingly pink hair."

"That's Rue, my cousin. She's a doll. And I'm guessing you're one of Geoff's university friends, so that makes you Andie MacDowell," the man said. "Don't marry the rich Scottish Laird, he won't make you happy."

"Indeed I do know Geoff from college, from the year he spent at SLU. Why are you not hungover?" Viggo pushed the sheet off himself and rolled off the bed, heading for the door that he sincerely hoped was the bathroom. British houses, even refurbished country estates, could have eccentric plumbing arrangements. And castles? He never wanted to stay in a castle again.

The door thankfully opened onto an en suite bathroom, avoiding any need to put clothes on and venture out of the room in search of a bathroom, or garderobe.

He relieved himself, and was spitting toothpaste into the basin when the man's reflection appeared in the mirror.

"I'm blessed with an iron liver, and the commonsense to drink enough water before passing out," the man said. "Anyway, I'm Orlando."

Viggo rinsed his mouth out from the faucet, and said, "I'm Viggo. Good to meet you and your commonsense, Orlando."

Orlando had slouched against the doorframe, so when Viggo turned around he was standing close enough that Viggo could catch the smell of newly laundered sheets clinging to his skin.

"If you're wondering, we didn't shag," Orlando said.

"It's something that'd occurred to me," Viggo said.

"Yeah," Orlando said, touching Viggo's shoulder, his fingers lingering over Viggo's collarbone. "No marks. I'm a biter, and you'd be carrying multiple sets of bruises if we'd gone for it."

"I'm relieved," Viggo said. "I'd hate to have lost that particular memory to the champagne."

"Serves us both right for drinking so much that we missed that opportunity," Orlando said. "Because, if I remember rightly, this is where Andie MacDowell rushes off to catch a plane."

"Evening flight," Viggo said. "Which I could always miss anyway. Guess I didn't read the script… What about you, Hugh?"

Orlando grinned, wide and warm. "Wish I really was Hugh Grant."

"I'm glad you're not. He's really boring. All he talks about is playing golf."

Orlando's fingers tangled in the hair at the back of Viggo's neck, tugging gently right where Viggo's head hurt. The skin over Orlando's hipbones was smooth under Viggo's fingertips. Orlando let himself be pulled closer, and Viggo's hands slid over the small of his back and down to his ass.

"Even at times like this?" Orlando asked, managing to sound dismayed and amused at the same time.

"I have no idea what Hugh Grant talks about at times like this," Viggo said. "Which is remiss of me, I know. I could ask around, if it really matters."

Orlando pressed against Viggo so they were belly to belly, pushing Viggo back against the basin, his arms wound around Viggo's neck.

"What do you talk about?" Orlando asked, his mouth murmuring against Viggo's.

His mouth was mobile and gentle under Viggo's, kissing back, then Viggo said, "I'm, uh, pretty much pre-verbal."

"So you grunt, and I bite. This is going to be messy and loud," Orlando said. "And good."

Viggo walked Orlando backward, out of the bathroom, with only minor collisions with furniture and doorframes, until they both stumbled on to the bed.

"It is," Viggo agreed, pushing enough sheet out of the way that he could get his hands under Orlando, and their bodies jammed together with sufficient contact to make him groan.

The tips of Orlando's fingernails dug into Viggo's shoulders, and his teeth caught at Viggo's bottom lip, before scraping over Viggo's jaw and down his neck.

"C'mon," Orlando said, his voice muffled, then he sucked at the skin of Viggo's shoulder, sending sharp ripples of heat through Viggo's body.

The heat kept on, spreading on the sweat between their bellies. Viggo hitched Orlando higher, sliding fingers across the curve of his ass, and rubbing his thigh across Orlando's cock.

"Andie, darling," Orlando said. "Is there something you haven't told me?"

"Bite me," Viggo said, getting a finger slick with sweat down the crack of Orlando's ass.

Orlando was a delicious mixture of sucking lips, grazing teeth, sweat-slick flawless skin and twisting hips, thrashing around on the rumpled bedding underneath Viggo, one of Viggo's fingers worked into his ass and Viggo's other hand clamped around his cock. The bed creaked alarmingly, something structural colliding with the wall, solid thuds resonating through the plaster. Viggo could hear himself, over the bed, guttural moans being dragged out of him by Orlando's hands and teeth.

A roll and an arch, and Orlando said, "Say something dirty about golf," then dissolved in a long, slow shiver, come seeping between Viggo's fingers on each upstroke.

Viggo lifted his weight off Orlando, rolling partly off him to wipe his hand on the sheet.

Orlando shook himself, like he was rearranging his skin, and opened his eyes again. "Your turn," he said, licking his palm and reaching for Viggo's cock. "Make some noise for me, darling."

It felt so good that it hurt, burning right through Viggo, and he was not quiet.

In the bathroom afterward, Orlando showered and Viggo wiped the condensation from the mirror, turning to inspect his bite marks.

"High neck sweaters," Orlando called out from behind the curtain. "Or scarves, unless you have some decent concealer and foundation with you."

"Shirt and tie," Viggo said, poking at a bruise on his shoulder. "Jacket and scarf. Thank you for not biting my face."

"Pleasure, dearest," Orlando said, and Viggo tossed one of the decorative guest soaps from the counter over into the shower.

Downstairs, Viggo followed the smell of good coffee and better bacon to the breakfast room. Isabelle, ever the gracious hostess, stood up and held out her hands as Viggo approached.

"Darling," Isabelle said, when Viggo took her hands. "You look rested. I can see you slept well."

"I've never felt better," Viggo said. "I've woken up starving."

"That's the fresh country air," Isabelle said. "Do help yourself to the breakfast sideboard." Isabelle patted his shoulder. "Thank you so much for letting Orlando bunk in with you last night. We were a little crowded, and the poor lad would have had to sleep on the floor if you hadn't offered to share with him."

"Um," Viggo said. "It was no imposition at all. He doesn't snore."

Isabelle beamed at Viggo. "And here he is, the sweetie."

"Hello, Auntie Belle," Orlando said, walking into the breakfast room and up to Isabelle, and kissing her cheeks. "Smashing wedding, best ever."

"Glad you enjoyed. Could you be a darling and help me out by running Viggo to the station when he's had breakfast? It's pandemonium here," Isabelle said.

"Love to, Auntie," Orlando said. Viggo looked around the breakfast room with its orderly and well-stocked buffet, which opened out on to a patio on which one elderly gentleman was seated reading a newspaper. The garden beyond was an empty vista of rolling green lawns apart from a small child playing with an even smaller dog.

"Pandemonium," Orlando agreed. "More than happy to help out."

At the train station, Orlando opened the trunk of the car and Viggo lifted out his overnight bag and garment bag.

"Next wedding I see you at, you'll be engaged to someone gorgeous," Orlando said. "Ditch them, run off with me?"

"Sure," Viggo said. "Happy to."

"I hope all my drunken strangers are as gorgeous as you," Orlando said, wrapping his arms around Viggo's neck and hugging him.

"Until next time," Viggo said, returning the hug. "Hugh."

Orlando made a biting noise with his teeth, and said, "Until then, Andie."