Work Text:
Monday
“I enjoy Mondays,” Viggo pronounces. The city stretches out beyond his knuckles and the railing he rests them on; the sun is rising. Dawn sheds light on the sins of the streets. Wispy clouds. The smoke of his cigarette. One gunshot, distant. “They are so…full of potential.”
A deck chair and his lawyer groan behind him.
“You’re welcome to ‘em.”
“A new week is virgin territory. Unsullied by the filth of the week before, innocent of the future. Perfect.”
“Sure. Hey, this espresso’s a triple shot, you want half?”
“Perfect,” Viggo repeats, and goes to help Avi drink his coffee.
Tuesday
Avi leans over Viggo’s shoulder to drop the release papers onto his desk. “Nice rap sheet your kid’s building.” He tugs his suit jacket aside, hip resting against Viggo’s shoulder.
Viggo looks down at the paperwork covering his unfinished crossword. “Theft?”
“Shanked a guy in a bar.”
“Oh.”
“I’m handling it.”
“Yes,” Viggo says, nudging the paperwork aside and adjusting his reading glasses. “They hired a new crossword writer. This one is difficult. Six letters; ‘guiding light’?”
“Therapy?”
“That’s seven letters.”
“I meant for the kid.”
“I’m sure you know best, Avi,” Viggo says, patting his thigh. “You always do.”
Wednesday
Gunshots cut through the screams of casino attendants; someone shouts Viggo’s name. Get out here and settle this like a man. Avi blinks at the accent.
“Albanians,” he comments. His back presses up against the overturned office desk, and his side presses against Viggo’s. “That’s twenty bucks you owe me.”
Cigarette between his lips, Viggo shakes his lighter. It’s not working. Silently, he hands it to Avi, who digs into a pocket and swaps it for new. “Kirill?”
“Coming.”
“Have a cigarette.”
“No thanks, I quit- ah, fuck it.”
They smoke companionably in their office hideout until the reinforcements show.
Thursday
“It’s done.”
Viggo blinks, coming back to himself as the tattoo gun is set aside and the spider on his hand bleeds tiny rubies between lines of black ink. He contemplates the splay of its legs. The nearby tap of laptop keys comes to a halt.
“Mister Tarasov?” says the artist. “Is it good?”
Viggo doesn’t answer. He lifts his hand, reaching out to lay it on the laptop Avi’s just closed.
“What do you think?” he asks.
Ignorant of bratva symbolism, Avi gives it a wry glance and smiles.
“Nice spider?” he offers.
“Yes,” Viggo agrees fondly. “It is.”
Friday
A mid-ranked soldier sells them out and Viggo almost dies. Avi doesn’t brush as close to the reaper, but his bullet graze stings the way he imagines a scythe would.
“Fuck me,” he mutters, slugging vodka from the bottle. In front of him: a chair, a shivering man, and Viggo with his bleeding, broken knuckles.
“Your turn, my friend,” Viggo says. “There’s not much left of him, I apologise.”
“Goddammit.” Avi swallows vodka. He doesn’t do these things. He’s above them. Just an observer.
Viggo almost fucking died.
“Got a lighter?” Avi says, and empties his bottle on the traitor.
Saturday
“Iosef says I don’t know how to have fun anymore,” Viggo informs the bedroom ceiling. “He said it in anger, but his words still stung.”
Avi shifts under him, nudging Viggo’s head into a more comfortable position on his bare chest. He makes a laudable pillow. “Iosef thinks strip clubs are high society.”
“I should have taught him better.”
“Probably.”
“Are we getting old?”
“Viggo.” Avi’s arm drapes over his ribcage. “It’s a Saturday night. We’re already in bed. Yeah, we’re getting old.”
“I thought so.”
“We have fun, though.”
“Yes,” Viggo agrees. His hand finds Avi’s. “We always do.”
Sunday
“Wake up,” Avi hears. It’s Viggo’s voice, but Viggo’s tone is playful, so he opts to disobey the order. Sun can’t be up yet. He’d have heard the guard shift change at dawn.
“Avi,” Viggo says. His beard tickles Avi’s earlobe. “I know you’re listening.”
“I’m not,” Avi says. “Dammit, Viggo, it’s early.”
He ignores Viggo’s laughter, rough with sleep, and the pointed kisses dropped strategically under his earlobe. Muttered endearments that don’t count until they’re said in English, Viggo. An arm reaching over his side, finding his cock and squeezing.
“You’re awake.”
“Fine,” Avi says, and rolls over.