There wasn't a chance he was imagining it, and his breath caught in his throat as Viggo reached out, tracing the air in front of him as though memorising the angles of his face by almost touching. Swallowing as the other man's hand retreated, he leaned a little closer to listen to him, and found himself unable to hide the surprise in his expression as a result. He'd named the colours in his hair? Some of them didn't sound so romantic, but that was art, wasn't it? He remembered Viggo in New Zealand, always the guy with a camera in his pocket, never able to leave a piece of paper blank. His scripts seemed to have suffered the most.

And there was no doubt in his mind now--Viggo was lovesick. He was fucking head over heels, because Sean wasn't stupid, he knew what it was like to have a crush, knew the way you focused on the little details - like the colours in his hair - knew how you couldn't get it out of your head even if you wanted to. His lips were dry, and he was biting one of them, and leaning back he licked it, raised his hand to push back his hair.

"Gray and silver. Sure know how to compliment a guy, don't you?"

His eyes flicked down, as though checking Viggo out too; a long look, as though he'd never seen him before, and then he looked back up and leant forward, reaching out with one hand to Viggo's tie and wrapping it about his own fist. When he'd wound it all the way down to the Oxford knot, he pulled him forward, half across the bar, almost nose to nose, his eyes steely and unshaking.

"I don't think your friend's coming," he purred, and his voice sunk back into Sheffield, and he moved his mouth so close his breath tickled across Viggo's lips, and when he leant back it was only so the other man could see his smile.

"This is where you invite me back to your place, and tell me it's not far."