In The Desert

Author: Minervacat
Pairing: Viggo/Peter Krause
Rating: R
Summary: Viggo has splinters in his knees the next morning and Peter's neighbors are scandalized, but Peter just laughs, kisses him and picks the splinters from his skin.

and i wanna sleep with you in the desert tonight with a billion stars all around
'cause i gotta peaceful easy feeling and i know you won't let me down

Viggo takes Peter out to dinner and ends up blowing him in the front seat of his car afterwards. Peter hadn't even paid for dinner; Viggo is not sure how it happened this way, bent over in the front seat of his car. He paid for dinner; isn't it customary for the one who paid to receive the sexual favors?

He does not bother to think on this for long; there are other things to tend to.

Giving blowjobs is not an unfamiliar practice for Viggo, though, and he is also not unfamiliar with taking advantage of time and place, wherever they might be, even if the place is the front seat of his car. Or bent over the trunk. Orlando was fond of being bent of the boot of Viggo's car. When that thought, unbidden, floats to the front of Viggo's mind, he nearly chokes on Peter's cock and shoves the image of Orlando deep into his subconscious.

This is here and now, and Peter, not Orlando, makes entertaining conversation over dinner and knows how to order wine and when he comes like a shot at the back of Viggo's throat, there's no memory of Orlando that even compares.


There's a sort of sunlight native only to late October; when it's still warm enough to be outside but the light has already gone hazy and golden, like autumn. It coats the whole world in warmth, gilds every surface that it touches.

They are drinking beers on Peter's porch in the late afternoon, riding out the last of summer before Southern California gives up the ghost to autumn. The sunlight's filtering through the trees, warm on the back of Viggo's neck, catching the planes and angles of Peter's face and lighting the edges so they glow.

Peter is expounding on the virtues of an album by a man called Anders Osbourne, who Viggo has never heard of, and he looks young and old and immortal all at once, with the light on his face.

Viggo takes the half-full beer from his hands and fucks him against the stairs up to the porch, where he can see the sunlight glowing in Peter's hair. Viggo has splinters in his knees the next morning and Peter's neighbors are scandalized, but Peter just laughs, kisses him and picks the splinters from his skin.

"We should do that again in the spring," Peter tells him.


They drive Viggo's car out to the desert, out past the city where L.A. falls away and the stretch of untouched land between Los Angeles and Las Vegas begins. There's no reason for it except that they were sitting in traffic on a downtown overpass and Viggo said that he hated the crush of the city; he hated that he couldn't see the stars.

Peter said, "What's so great about the stars, then?"

Viggo yanked the car out of traffic and off the highway at the next ramp, and through back roads and twisting, rising hills until the city had faded behind them and the land stretched unbroken to the bottom of the sky. They leaned against the car, savoring the shade as the sun fell, and when the first stars broke through the canopy of rapidly darkening sky, Viggo pointed up. Peter's head tilts back and to the side, resting against Viggo's shoulder, and the flash of a shooting star tears through the stars.

As the pinpoints of light brighten, Viggo sinks to the ground with Peter, and over Peter's shoulder in the corner of his eye, another star blazes across the night sky and Viggo makes a wish.


It isn't comfortable, like when Dom hangs around Viggo's living room for hours, just being there, being quiet. It isn't charged and passionate, like with Orlando, the constant risk of fucking where they would be caught, the inability to stop touching each other.

Peter won't leave Viggo to his own devices and his solitary nature, but he won't burn him up from the inside, either.

Viggo is very much interested in balance; balance in his life, in his relationships, in the way the paring knife he left on the counter when Peter rang the doorbell is still clinging to the surface, perfectly steady where it lies, when he returns to the kitchen after answering the door.

They can shag 'til the cows come home but it's the fact that they've seen the sunrise more than once, talking straight through the night, that makes him think this will work.

The knife, balanced carefully beside a half-sliced chicken breast, is what he's looking for – a sharp edge when he needs it, a dull edge he can cling to.

A sense of balance amidst the chaos of the world. Peter across the table when he picks up the knife.

He doesn't need anything else.


feedback always welcome.