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[FIC] RPF: cartographies of silence [3/9]
Procrastinating on finishing editing my essays by editing fic. Yeah.
cartographies of silence
- PART 3/9: 14 February 2009
Characters/Pairing: Sean Bean/Viggo Mortensen
Rating: PG
Words: 1536
Disclaimer: None of this happened. Product of my imagination!
Summary:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
31_days, 16 April: She is going as the Transparent lady and all her nerves will be visible. Sean Bean has been invited to present the Empire Icon Award to Viggo Mortensen on 29 March 2009.
part 2: 28 July 2008
His agent had called him during the beginning of the year. It was a perfunctory call because he was obliged to ask, but Sean was pretty much expected to turn down this particular offer. The man was in Saxony-Anhalt, Somewhere, Not Really Germany, at the time, and he couldn’t possibly just run down to London again in order to present an award. He wasn’t even going to win it, but only present it. To Viggo Mortensen, didn’t he mention that?
It took Sean a few breaths to agree to it. The first one had gotten stuck in his throat, and with the second his hand was trembling. It was pathetic, it really was, but he hadn’t seen Viggo in what seemed like years. That didn’t matter. Shouldn’t matter. He was married now, and she didn’t deserve this. Even though he had broken his vows three times now, he still took them seriously. He had to; there was no reason otherwise to take them again.
But Sean couldn’t help it. Even now, he looked around him at the desolate landscape, the castles, the skies, and all he wanted was for Viggo to be here. He would be able to see the poetry in the buildings and in the dull brilliance of the light far better than Sean would ever be able to Sean tried to capture the castles and the trees with scratches of charcoal and paper, but his lines were crooked and uneven, because he had abandoned his art materials for years. Instead he looked into the box that he had brought here, to the middle of nowhere, flipping through pictures with colour, pictures with shades of grey and black and white, and he wondered what kind of pictures Viggo would take. He wondered what cameras he would’ve brought, here; he wondered when that had started mattering to him.
(Should he blame his agent? Should he blame Empire? He hadn’t thought about Viggo for a month now, at least. That was an improvement. It had to be.
He hadn’t thought of Georgina since he had arrived in Germany, but that was something he didn’t even want to start considering.)
The next day, Sean politely asked the boy who was assigned to be his assistant to find him a Polaroid camera, with plenty of film. He didn’t care about how good the quality was; that wasn’t the point. The camera he got was crap quality, but it was black and white for some reason, and that was perfect. He took pictures of the castle; of the skies at sunset; at the trees with raindrops hovering at their tips, oily black against the grey skies after a thunderstorm. Behind each photograph, Sean started writing. Little bits and pieces; words that he could have never said to Viggo because his mouth ran dry and his head emptied itself whenever he laid eyes on that man.
Here, standing in a place where he knew Viggo would love and appreciate, the words came to him. Slow and stuttering they came; he wrote them all down each day after he cast Ulric’s skin off and revealed his own.
But Sean didn’t know where Viggo lived, nowadays. Would he still be in Idaho? Was he at location? There was no telling where he might be now. Hell, he might even be in Iceland, wandering around, taking photographs. He told himself that this was the only reason why he didn’t send any of the photographs.
Maybe he would show Viggo them instead, when he flew in for the Empire Awards. Sean could only hope that he wouldn’t laugh.
***
Viggo didn’t much like prizes, or award ceremonies. You couldn’t qualify art, he once said; art couldn’t be judged and given prizes as it they were commodities. Art was subjective; despite all of Kant’s pontificating and justifications, it was impossible to rationalise the artistic impulse or aesthetic judgment. There were so many different possibilities and tastes and Viggo had long given up on pandering to everyone, or even to specific people. That wasn’t what he made art for. It wasn’t what art should be made for.
But he was grateful, nonetheless—
“What? Can you say that again?”
“I said that Empire just told me Sean Bean will be presenting the award to you .You know Sean Bean, right? Your buddy on Lord of the Rings?”
“Yeah.” He took a breath. Another one, slowly, through his teeth. “Yeah, I know Sean.”
“Alright, I’ll email you the schedule when I get it. Please check your email. And Viggo?”
“…mm?” He stopped listening. His agent was telling him something about not wearing anything too embarrassing—just the same thing he said every single time Viggo had a public appearance to make; he had started to ignore the man by now, to tune him out. When he stopped talking, Viggo made another small noise and hung up the phone.
There was a grand piano on his Idaho ranch now, a beauty made out of hardwood painted black as night. He stroked his fingers against the length of it, moving downwards, dancing across the ivory-and-black keys. It was a recent buy; bought for the very simple reason that he had been haunted for years now by a simple imagery and a simpler song. The sight danced at the back of his eyes—Sean’s throat, his head dropped backwards and his shoulders loose, fingers pressing against the white keys. His fingers splayed out starkly, his entire body bold splashes of colour on the black-and-white canvas of the piano. There was a cigarette lingering on his lips, its smoke softening the lines of Sean’s face.
When Viggo heard him play, they were in a bed-and-breakfast hotel halfway down to the South island. The grand piano there was an old and beat-up, with its two of its three pedals were broken. Even at on its best day it couldn’t be considered a beauty at all. Despite all that, Sean had touched it with such reverence that Viggo’s eyes were caught. He stood there played an irreverent melody, something that would come out of Saturday morning cartoons or nursery rhymes, and he had shot Viggo a guilty, childlike grin before dropping onto the bench and changing the melody Grieg’s The Hall of the Mountain King.
“It ain’t right,” Sean told him later, the two of them sitting on the porch, smoking and looking out into the magnificent New Zealand sunset. The night was cold but Sean’s body was warm beside his, and Viggo could deal with that. “Playin’ Bach or Mozart or Beethoven in a place like this, I mean. Those make me think of England, Europe; maybe even big ballrooms and people in stuffy wigs and coats.” He shrugged. “Place like this, it’s either wild or sweet, there’s no in-between.”
“What was the first one?”
“Gossec. He ain’t much famous nowadays, but that’s the first piece I’ve ever learned, his Gavotte. ‘Course, the real one’s ain’t nothin’ like what I just played you. I’ve forgotten most of it, so it was just me fuckin’ ‘round.” He rocked back onto his heels, standing up and tossing his cigarette to the ground, grinding it underneath his heel.
Viggo looked up at him for a long moment, watching the way the sunlight played on Sean’s hair. There were so many shades of gold. One of them stuck to his mind; years later, he would mix paints for that colour, and name it gold-burnt-by-candlelight.
“I’m going ta bed,” Sean said, turning around. He stopped right before opening the door, turning back and giving Viggo a small, half-shy smile. “And if you ain’t tired of it by tomorrow, I’ll play you some more Grieg.”
The next morning, Sean played him Morning Mood before tea and mate. Viggo went back to sleep against the piano bench, and only woke up when Sean wafted mate underneath his nose.
It was impossible to capture music in painting; impossible to try to recapture long-lost memories and half-faded sensations. Viggo didn’t try. Instead he bought a grand piano, found himself a teacher to teach him the sounds, and composed his spoken words according to it. There had been so many pieces that he had created; CDs filled with this piano’s music, listened to people who were (hopefully) all over the world.
But they were all failures in his eyes. Interesting failures, maybe. Failures that could stand on their own rights; failures that were successes in other ways, but failures nonetheless when it came to his goal. There was nothing in anything he could compose that could capture the simplicity of Sean at the piano, his fingers dancing across the keys, and smoke curling around his cheeks. Nothing that could capture that one jaunty little tune he had played with his fingers free and careless across bone-white keys, his lips pulled back into a small smile.
He would try again. After he saw Sean, he would try again. Maybe Sean would play for him again. Or perhaps he would try another experiment: to see if the piano could capture the cadence and liveliness of Sean’s voice.
Standing here, Viggo knew even now that he would fail, but he was optimistic enough to try anyway.
part 4: 29 March 2009
cartographies of silence
- PART 3/9: 14 February 2009
Characters/Pairing: Sean Bean/Viggo Mortensen
Rating: PG
Words: 1536
Disclaimer: None of this happened. Product of my imagination!
Summary:
31_days, 16 April: She is going as the Transparent lady and all her nerves will be visible. Sean Bean has been invited to present the Empire Icon Award to Viggo Mortensen on 29 March 2009.part 2: 28 July 2008
His agent had called him during the beginning of the year. It was a perfunctory call because he was obliged to ask, but Sean was pretty much expected to turn down this particular offer. The man was in Saxony-Anhalt, Somewhere, Not Really Germany, at the time, and he couldn’t possibly just run down to London again in order to present an award. He wasn’t even going to win it, but only present it. To Viggo Mortensen, didn’t he mention that?
It took Sean a few breaths to agree to it. The first one had gotten stuck in his throat, and with the second his hand was trembling. It was pathetic, it really was, but he hadn’t seen Viggo in what seemed like years. That didn’t matter. Shouldn’t matter. He was married now, and she didn’t deserve this. Even though he had broken his vows three times now, he still took them seriously. He had to; there was no reason otherwise to take them again.
But Sean couldn’t help it. Even now, he looked around him at the desolate landscape, the castles, the skies, and all he wanted was for Viggo to be here. He would be able to see the poetry in the buildings and in the dull brilliance of the light far better than Sean would ever be able to Sean tried to capture the castles and the trees with scratches of charcoal and paper, but his lines were crooked and uneven, because he had abandoned his art materials for years. Instead he looked into the box that he had brought here, to the middle of nowhere, flipping through pictures with colour, pictures with shades of grey and black and white, and he wondered what kind of pictures Viggo would take. He wondered what cameras he would’ve brought, here; he wondered when that had started mattering to him.
(Should he blame his agent? Should he blame Empire? He hadn’t thought about Viggo for a month now, at least. That was an improvement. It had to be.
He hadn’t thought of Georgina since he had arrived in Germany, but that was something he didn’t even want to start considering.)
The next day, Sean politely asked the boy who was assigned to be his assistant to find him a Polaroid camera, with plenty of film. He didn’t care about how good the quality was; that wasn’t the point. The camera he got was crap quality, but it was black and white for some reason, and that was perfect. He took pictures of the castle; of the skies at sunset; at the trees with raindrops hovering at their tips, oily black against the grey skies after a thunderstorm. Behind each photograph, Sean started writing. Little bits and pieces; words that he could have never said to Viggo because his mouth ran dry and his head emptied itself whenever he laid eyes on that man.
Here, standing in a place where he knew Viggo would love and appreciate, the words came to him. Slow and stuttering they came; he wrote them all down each day after he cast Ulric’s skin off and revealed his own.
But Sean didn’t know where Viggo lived, nowadays. Would he still be in Idaho? Was he at location? There was no telling where he might be now. Hell, he might even be in Iceland, wandering around, taking photographs. He told himself that this was the only reason why he didn’t send any of the photographs.
Maybe he would show Viggo them instead, when he flew in for the Empire Awards. Sean could only hope that he wouldn’t laugh.
***
Viggo didn’t much like prizes, or award ceremonies. You couldn’t qualify art, he once said; art couldn’t be judged and given prizes as it they were commodities. Art was subjective; despite all of Kant’s pontificating and justifications, it was impossible to rationalise the artistic impulse or aesthetic judgment. There were so many different possibilities and tastes and Viggo had long given up on pandering to everyone, or even to specific people. That wasn’t what he made art for. It wasn’t what art should be made for.
But he was grateful, nonetheless—
“What? Can you say that again?”
“I said that Empire just told me Sean Bean will be presenting the award to you .You know Sean Bean, right? Your buddy on Lord of the Rings?”
“Yeah.” He took a breath. Another one, slowly, through his teeth. “Yeah, I know Sean.”
“Alright, I’ll email you the schedule when I get it. Please check your email. And Viggo?”
“…mm?” He stopped listening. His agent was telling him something about not wearing anything too embarrassing—just the same thing he said every single time Viggo had a public appearance to make; he had started to ignore the man by now, to tune him out. When he stopped talking, Viggo made another small noise and hung up the phone.
There was a grand piano on his Idaho ranch now, a beauty made out of hardwood painted black as night. He stroked his fingers against the length of it, moving downwards, dancing across the ivory-and-black keys. It was a recent buy; bought for the very simple reason that he had been haunted for years now by a simple imagery and a simpler song. The sight danced at the back of his eyes—Sean’s throat, his head dropped backwards and his shoulders loose, fingers pressing against the white keys. His fingers splayed out starkly, his entire body bold splashes of colour on the black-and-white canvas of the piano. There was a cigarette lingering on his lips, its smoke softening the lines of Sean’s face.
When Viggo heard him play, they were in a bed-and-breakfast hotel halfway down to the South island. The grand piano there was an old and beat-up, with its two of its three pedals were broken. Even at on its best day it couldn’t be considered a beauty at all. Despite all that, Sean had touched it with such reverence that Viggo’s eyes were caught. He stood there played an irreverent melody, something that would come out of Saturday morning cartoons or nursery rhymes, and he had shot Viggo a guilty, childlike grin before dropping onto the bench and changing the melody Grieg’s The Hall of the Mountain King.
“It ain’t right,” Sean told him later, the two of them sitting on the porch, smoking and looking out into the magnificent New Zealand sunset. The night was cold but Sean’s body was warm beside his, and Viggo could deal with that. “Playin’ Bach or Mozart or Beethoven in a place like this, I mean. Those make me think of England, Europe; maybe even big ballrooms and people in stuffy wigs and coats.” He shrugged. “Place like this, it’s either wild or sweet, there’s no in-between.”
“What was the first one?”
“Gossec. He ain’t much famous nowadays, but that’s the first piece I’ve ever learned, his Gavotte. ‘Course, the real one’s ain’t nothin’ like what I just played you. I’ve forgotten most of it, so it was just me fuckin’ ‘round.” He rocked back onto his heels, standing up and tossing his cigarette to the ground, grinding it underneath his heel.
Viggo looked up at him for a long moment, watching the way the sunlight played on Sean’s hair. There were so many shades of gold. One of them stuck to his mind; years later, he would mix paints for that colour, and name it gold-burnt-by-candlelight.
“I’m going ta bed,” Sean said, turning around. He stopped right before opening the door, turning back and giving Viggo a small, half-shy smile. “And if you ain’t tired of it by tomorrow, I’ll play you some more Grieg.”
The next morning, Sean played him Morning Mood before tea and mate. Viggo went back to sleep against the piano bench, and only woke up when Sean wafted mate underneath his nose.
It was impossible to capture music in painting; impossible to try to recapture long-lost memories and half-faded sensations. Viggo didn’t try. Instead he bought a grand piano, found himself a teacher to teach him the sounds, and composed his spoken words according to it. There had been so many pieces that he had created; CDs filled with this piano’s music, listened to people who were (hopefully) all over the world.
But they were all failures in his eyes. Interesting failures, maybe. Failures that could stand on their own rights; failures that were successes in other ways, but failures nonetheless when it came to his goal. There was nothing in anything he could compose that could capture the simplicity of Sean at the piano, his fingers dancing across the keys, and smoke curling around his cheeks. Nothing that could capture that one jaunty little tune he had played with his fingers free and careless across bone-white keys, his lips pulled back into a small smile.
He would try again. After he saw Sean, he would try again. Maybe Sean would play for him again. Or perhaps he would try another experiment: to see if the piano could capture the cadence and liveliness of Sean’s voice.
Standing here, Viggo knew even now that he would fail, but he was optimistic enough to try anyway.
part 4: 29 March 2009
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Especially surrounding Sean this chapter, you have made so many vivid pictures. Funny that that's what he was doing, too.
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Thank you!
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Sometimes artistic things don't come out just the way you want them to, but they are artistic and interesting in their own way. :3 I just see Viggo to be thinking like that.
Thank you!
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The slow pace and rhythm of this is perfect. Although each chapter can stand alone, there is a feeling of them moving towards an ultimate consummation. (I hope.) :D
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They are inspired by each other, even when they are apart. :3 Thank you!
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Thank you!
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Thank you!
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The sight danced at the back of his eyes—Sean’s throat, his head dropped backwards and his shoulders loose, fingers pressing against the white keys. His fingers splayed out starkly, his entire body bold splashes of colour on the black-and-white canvas of the piano. There was a cigarette lingering on his lips, its smoke softening the lines of Sean’s face. .
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(Your icon is stunning, as usual.)
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Loving it. Hope they soon meet and looking forward to it.
The build up is nice and I like their memories, going in such different directions.
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Adore how this is phrased. So set in his ways, so very much accepting the conventions and feeling restricted by them, yes, but even more secured by them. If that makes sense.
Behind each photograph, Sean started writing. Little bits and pieces; words that he could have never said to Viggo because his mouth ran dry and his head emptied itself whenever he laid eyes on that man.
Painfully beautiful phrasing.
Viggo didn’t much like prizes, or award ceremonies. You couldn’t qualify art, he once said; art couldn’t be judged and given prizes as it they were commodities.
This made me smile. Viggo quoting himself in his own thoughts. And how his view once again starts so clear and simple and then becomes a bit muddled again, when he goes on and on.
The sight danced at the back of his eyes—Sean’s throat, his head dropped backwards and his shoulders loose, fingers pressing against the white keys. His fingers splayed out starkly, his entire body bold splashes of colour on the black-and-white canvas of the piano. There was a cigarette lingering on his lips, its smoke softening the lines of Sean’s face.
I love how visual this is again. And not only because Sean is just so very handsome :).
“I’m going ta bed,” Sean said, turning around. He stopped right before opening the door, turning back and giving Viggo a small, half-shy smile. “And if you ain’t tired of it by tomorrow, I’ll play you some more Grieg.”
I love this entire conversation, and maybe this ending bit most of all. This lack of segue everywhere, like they are so used to each other’s company that even when they are lost in thought, they still carry on a conversation and trade bits and pieces of themselves.
It was impossible to capture music in painting; impossible to try to recapture long-lost memories and half-faded sensations. Viggo didn’t try.
Yeah, he does. He just doesn’t want to admit it.
(I gotta take a break from reading now, but I’ll be back tomorrow or the day after. Man, your writing. Makes me want to sit down and write and write and write myself, and at the same time I never want to pick up a pen again because I’m afraid I’ll fall short. Damn you <3)
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YES. EXACTLY. It's paradoxical, contradictory, but that's exactly it. /screeches at you.
And how his view once again starts so clear and simple and then becomes a bit muddled again, when he goes on and on.
HAHAHA yes it's one of my favourite bits about Viggo, in which he starts off so clear and straightforward, and then when he continues talking he meanders off to talk about something that's related but only kind-of-sort-of-tangentially. It's adorable. And frustrating. And I need transcripts of his video interviews goddamnit.
This lack of segue everywhere, like they are so used to each other’s company that even when they are lost in thought, they still carry on a conversation and trade bits and pieces of themselves.
What can I say? I think this fic is the most romantic thing I have ever written.
Man, your writing. Makes me want to sit down and write and write and write myself, and at the same time I never want to pick up a pen again because I’m afraid I’ll fall short. Damn you <3
PFFFT WHAT DO YOU MEAN FALL SHORT. X( X( X( YOU WRITE AWESOMELY AND I WANT TO SEE EVERYTHING YOU EVER EVER WRITE OKAY. /shakes hard
I love you darling. ♥!!!