Viago's pretty sure his heart would have ceased beating in this moment even if it hadn't been still for centuries. Because Anton has just arrived. Has sauntered into the bar somehow looking like the most tempting fruit in the garden in a flannel shirt, jeans and his work boots. He's chatting away, greeting his pack with warm smiles and tamiliar touches and Viago tries to quell the twisting in his stomach. Isn't sure if it's jealousy, or nerves for the inevitable moment Anton's eyes find him in the crowd.
He's not breathing, he realises. Not that he needs to, but he likes to keep up the pretence.
Makes him feel less monstrous, and less likely to draw attention from the humans around them. He takes a steady breath, filling lungs that don't need it, oxygen going nowhere. But it helps somehow. Some of the wriggling worms in his stomach seem to leave him with the exhale that follows.
Anton spots him. Offers a friendly wave like it's nothing, an easy smile that floods warmth through Viago's insides like spilt candlewax. And then he's gone again, turned back to one of his wolves like it's that simple. Like he's not haunted in the way Viago is. Because Viago is haunted. Lies awake, day in and day out, recalling the warmth of Anton's skin against his own. The coarse hair on his lower belly scuffing against Viago. The thunderous rhythm of his heart, so loud Viago felt it beating in his own body. The sound Anton had released as he'd spilled in silver streaks so hot Viago's convinced could have steamed against his cool chest.
Viago is lost. He doesn't know what to do with this... this knowledge of Anton. Why was it so good?
How? Because Viago is nearly 400 years old and he has never... It's never been like that. Never made him feel so alive. More alive than he ever felt when
his heart was still beating.
And a sneaky (very rough) peek at some #vianton.