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[FIC] RPF: half-life [3/3]
Part II
Part III
The sound of their teeth meeting echoed throughout the room. Viggo’s shoulders were warm, his lips dry and chapped beneath Sean’s mouth. But his body was tense, stiff underneath Sean’s bruising grasp. There was almost a spell, held together by the bare threads formed by touch of their joined lips-- then Viggo was shoving at him, pushing him away, tearing their mouths apart.
“What the fuck, Sean?” the words were growled out. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Fixing meself,” Sean said, his lips tingling and breath coming hard. He licked his lips, tasting nothing but alcohol.
“You’ve never been a two-beer queer,” Viggo said, and his accent flattened out the words, made them sound strange on his tongue. “So forgive me for feeling fucking confused right now.”
“It takes hell lot more than this ta make me drunk,” he replied, but he knew the answer was insufficient. Sean closed his eyes, took a step back, and hissed as the glass buried itself further into his skin.
“Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing to yourself,” Viggo said. It wasn’t even a question.
His eyes were fixed on the ground, on Sean’s legs. Sean looked down and there was blood on the floor, mixing with glass shards and the few remnants of alcohol. He wondered why he could barely feel the pain. The alcohol had long faded, its effects chased away by the sight of Viggo standing in his doorway.
Maybe Sean had finally managed to find a way to numb himself. Too little, too late.
Viggo practically dragged him towards the couch, holding him by the elbow and leading him in a big circle. Rough hands on Sean’s skin and yet this was the furthest thing from what Sean had fantasised of, the very last thing that he could ever want. There was such stifled pity in Viggo’s eyes that Sean felt that he should want to scream, to chase him out of the house.
He went anyway. “Thought you were leaving,” he said.
“I might be pissed at you, but I’m not going to let you bleed out or be crippled by your own idiocy,” Viggo replied tartly. “Do you even remember your job?”
He shoved Sean down to the couch, stepping back. “Look, do you even own a first aid kit?”
“I have kids,” Sean drawled. His feet were starting to hurt, and he rested them on the coffee table. Good thing it was made of glass; at least there wouldn’t be bloodstains on wood. Maybe he should break the table as well and cover the living room in glass. “It’s in the bathroom.”
“Stay here.”
A person, Sean mused, could get used to the sight of another’s back. Viggo was thinner now, his shoulders narrower and bonier. Or maybe he hadn’t changed at all and Sean was simply remembering him wrong. Either one was a possibility. He didn’t trust his memory anymore; it had proven him wrong far too many times.
“You want to tell me what the hell is up with you right now?”
Viggo dropped to his knees in front of him, the first aid box opened at the side of the couch. Sean couldn’t help but reach forward, thumb tracing the heavy crow’s feet, the visible sign of Viggo’s exhaustion that refused to be chased away no matter how bright his eyes shone. Viggo’s hand grabbed onto his wrist, and pulled it away.
“Sean.”
“You tell me,” Sean said, his voice soft. He sat up and pulled his foot towards himself. His finger grabbed hold of a single shard and yanked it out. Blood flowed over his skin and he stared at the red.
“Sean,” Viggo snapped out his name like a scolding father, grabbing both of his wrists and slamming them against the couch. Sean’s finger nearly trailed blood against his skin when he tried to cup his cheek, but Viggo pushed him down again, practically straddling him until he couldn’t move.
“I should call an ambulance for you, you stupid bastard,” Viggo said. “But I suspect that it wouldn’t go very well, and you don’t need more bad press.”
“I ain’t care ‘bout that.”
“What do you care about, Sean?”
“You,” Sean enunciated the word as much as he could, turning the consonants clear and sharp, ringing in the air around them. “Just you.” He took a shuddering breath. “That what you want ta hear?”
“There’s nothing you can tell me that will be what I want to hear,” Viggo sighed. “Because I would know that it’s a damn lie.”
“Try me.”
“Can you tell me truthfully that you’re alright and you’re not falling apart? That we’re still friends, and you don’t look at me differently than you had when we were shooting Rings, or even three years ago?”
Sean reached out, grabbing onto Viggo’s shoulders, pulling him so close their breaths touched. “I can’t say that, but neither can you.”
“No, but I’m not the idiot who has glass on his feet right now and is drinking himself into a stupor in the morning,” Viggo said. He took tweezers out of the kit, wielding it like he would a sword. Keeping the two of them apart.
“Nah, yer just exhausting yerself. That ain’t much better than what I’m doing.”
“At least I’m being productive. Hold still.”
Sean let him fix him. The hands of a King were the hands of a healer, but Viggo was no King and Sean was no Steward. Boromir wouldn't be destroying himself like this. Or maybe he would, if he had lived after Amon Hen. What did it matter?
He had a dream once -- or was it a memory -- of Viggo on his knees like this, his hands gentle on Sean’s skin. But the blood was new and jarring and the pain came from somewhere inside him instead of his skin, and Viggo wasn’t looking at him like this. He dreamt of kindness from those eyes and a sweet kiss that chased all of his demons away. He made believe that Viggo’s voice and scent would become his new addiction, chasing away the taste of alcohol that lingered so much on his tongue that he no longer tasted it.
“I need a drink,” Sean said. At the corner of his eyes he could see white bandages in Viggo’s hands, being slowly wrapped around his feet. Years, or months, ago, he read the stories of old Chinese women who had their feet bound so they could not run away.
“You want a drink,” Viggo corrected. He pulled the bandages tight around Sean’s feet. The white was fading away, replaced by the red of his blood, soaking through the cloth. Strange that he could still barely feel it. “You need the hospital, and stitches.”
His feet were swathed in stark colours. Sean pushed himself down the couch, sliding to his knees until his eyes met Viggo’s. His breath ghosted against Viggo’s neck as he cupped his cheeks and leaned their foreheads together. He could see himself reflected in grey eyes but he looked away, instead focusing on thin lips, on the white scar.
“The couch’s here but you got everything else wrong,” he murmured, his voice barely loud enough to be heard. “Even the alcohol is wrong. Last time it was beer and you brought me ta yer house. It was in New Zealand and the weather was odd, cold, and you gave me a blanket.”
Viggo cocked his head slightly, trying to seek out Sean’s eyes with his own. Sean stared at the wall beyond his shoulder instead.
“That happened plenty of times, Sean,” Viggo’s breath was hot. “We both got drunk many times in New Zealand.”
“That ain’t what I’m talking ‘bout,” Sean said. “I remember blankets and yer hands on me face. I remember you kissing me, on the damn couch in yer old house.”
Viggo was frozen, his eyes wide, his lips parted. Sean darted his tongue out, feeling sweat and teeth at the tip of his tongue but tasting neither.
“Is that so? Is that why you’ve been avoiding me, Sean?” Sean’s sleeves were caught in rough hands, nails dragging against the skin of his arms. “Do I disgust you now?”
Sean shook his head. “I want you,” he said, knowing that his voice was trembling but he was beyond caring. “I want you so fuckng badly, Vig.” He took a deep breath. “It’s making me head spin, it is.”
“That would be the blood loss,” Viggo said brusquely. But his hands were gentle on Sean’s jaw, lifting his head up and forcing their eyes to meet.
“I’m bringing you to the hospital. Unless you don’t want me to touch you?”
Sean’s eyes flashed, and he shoved Viggo away, hissing as his soles hit the bottom of the couch as he scrambled away, trying to put as much distance between the two of them.
“Do you want me ta beg you?” His voice was like a whip, every enunciation a crack that split the air. “I gave you your damn answer, didn’t I?”
“What did you expect, Sean?” Viggo grabbed him by the collar, dragging him up and shoving him down to sit heavily on the couch. “That I would kiss you and tell you that I’ve loved you for the past twelve, thirteen years? That I’ve been waiting for you? I’ve moved on, Sean. Like normal people do when their friends didn’t show a goddamn hint of interest in them for over a fucking decade!”
“Fuck off, then. Leave the house and forget you’ve ever been here,” Sean hissed. He drew his legs up and hugged them to his chest, ignoring his injuries, ignoring the blood staining the bandages that Viggo’s hands had put on him.
“Jesus, I’m fucking surprised you haven’t choked yourself to death on your own self-pity.” Viggo dragged a hand over his hair. He stood up, looming over Sean. “I can’t fucking forget you because you’re a friend.”
“Go fuck yerself on yer own damn nobility,” Sean grabbed him by the collar, pulling him down until they were eye-level to each other again. “Either you fuck off and leave me alone, or you fuck me. You can’t have it any other way.”
Viggo looked at him for a long moment. His shoulders sagged, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft.
Sean had always liked the way Viggo could see through him. Viggo knew him well and always seemed to know the right thing to say.
“How long have you been using me as an excuse for your own self-destruction, Sean?”
At this moment, he hated him for that very reason. Hated him more than words could say. He refused to look at Viggo, staring at the front door, wanting Viggo to disappear from his sight, wanting him to walk out and never come back again. More than anything, he wished that Viggo would shut the fuck up and take his words and his too-piercing eyes with him.
He might be left with only illusions, but he knew now that reality was far more horrible.
“Alright, I’ll play your game,” Viggo’s voice was tight, and his calluses burned on Sean’s face as he shoved his head back to look at him. Sean’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to speak.
But Viggo was kissing him, smashing their lips together, their teeth knocking against each other.
“I’ll fuck you,” Viggo said, and his smile was sharper than the glass still littered around them. “But first, you’re going to the hospital, because damned if I’m going to let you blame me for bleeding to death as well.”
***
April in Vancouver was when it rained half the time and the parks were covered in spring blossoms. Spring was just coming in and the skies were full of white clouds on the days that the rains didn’t come.
In other words, it was like London, except less crowded. And brighter.
Sean only had a couple of weeks of filming to do, and within those weeks he only had a few days that he had to work, and it was a character that he had already explored before. Sometimes he had to laugh at how ridiculous his job was sometimes.
He walked along the streets with a cigarette in one hand and a beer on another. Canadians didn’t recognise him most of the time, and Sean was glad for that. He didn’t want to take his eyes off the sun that was setting off in the distance, disappearing behind the buildings, and he leaned against a tree and took a long drag. The red of the sun was almost like the fire at the end of the stub, red and burning bright.
Viggo would have taken a picture, Sean thought. He smiled to himself, and sipped at his beer.
--there’s a blanket drawn over his shoulders. It’s dark, too dark for it to be night. His eyes are closed. He almost remembers--
He blinked at the sudden memory, coming unbidden to the forefront of his mind. Vancouver wasn’t a place that he visited extensively before, so why--
-- hands, rough hands, smoothing over the side of his face, scraping against his beard stubble. His back is warm and he can’t move his arm much. Is that a couch?--
Sean breathed out. The cigarette fell from his hand. Almost blind, he found his way to a bench. The city slowly disappeared from his sight. The beer was cold, and he took a large gulp of it. He chased memories instead of sights.
-- the hand had moved into his hair, slowly stroking, the motions limited by the short strands. There is a thumb on his neck. The shift of cloth, his shirt being pulled away. The thumb strokes his shoulder. He knows those calluses. Roughness on the fingertips and the base.--
He wished he had opened his eyes. He took another swallow of the beer. It was almost gone, but he barely noticed it.
-- lips. Chapped lips on his temple. Hand on his neck. He’s still. He can hear his own heartbeat, slow and soft, thrumming at the edge of his breathing.--
He knew those hands. He knew those lips. He didn’t know why his mind suddenly wanted him to remember this, only that it did and it was somehow important. Sean squeezed his eyes shut, his hand tightening against the neck of the bottle.
-- lips on his cheek. Lips on his lips.--
Sean exhaled. Tipped his head back, and drained his beer. He wanted another cigarette, but he could barely move.
“Goodnight, Sean. Sleep well.”
The sun had disappeared behind the buildings, the red darkened into black. It was dreadfully poetic. Sunsets symbolised endings, Sean was no poet or photographer, but he knew that well enough. The night was slowly growing darker even as the streetlamps turned on, and that was appropriate too. It was a little bit too cliché, and Sean wondered, for a small hysterical moment, if he was dreaming.
He pinched himself even though he knew he wasn’t. There was wind in his hair and he could taste the incoming rain on the tip of his tongue. Sean licked his lips.
There was no use blaming his mind for suddenly remembering.
“O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall,” he whispered to himself. “Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed.”
It was not the memory. Not merely it. It was the sudden tightening of his chest, a sudden knot in his stomach that he had not once noticed until now. A desperate longing to feel those hands and lips on his own, to see those eyes. Grey they were, a colour only defined by the light that fell upon them. The image of a man appeared behind his eyelids, so sharp as if it was tattooed there and he had blinded himself to it all these years.
Hopkins’s lines were more appropriate than he had ever thought they would be. A random utterance a character made that now applied to him, for he felt as if he was hanging on a precipice, the world spinning around him. In the distance, thunder rumbled, but Sean took no notice of it for the drums in his heart were far louder. Suddenly he wished for that peaceful beat he heard of himself in his memory, that steady one-two that he knew so well because it had always been with him.
The rain came while he sat on the bench. Water soaked into his hair but Sean was already cold. The beer was long gone but he wished there was more, much more, because now he had grasped onto the memory his mind was turning it over and over. Phantom hands ghosted across his neck, his collarbone, far stronger than the cold rain as it slowly dripped into his shirt, plastering cloth against his skin.
He must look like a madman, Sean realised, sitting on a bench in the rain, talking to himself. He felt like he was going mad, the Earth shifting beneath his feet and sending him tumbling, stumbling from the place that he had always known to be his. He knew that voice. He knew that hand, those lips. He even knew that couch, for once upon a time he had spent many nights upon it.
Over a decade had passed and only now then he remembered; years that had set more lines in his face and made his skin sag. His hair was dark now and so was his skin, darkened by time and cigarettes and alcohol. Sean’s hand nearly shook as he bowed his head, lighting up another fag. The burn of the first drag was sharp in his throat, but he wished it was harsher still. He wished he could inhale fire, so it could destroy what he had just regained.
The rain threatened to drown him. Water seeped into his hair and hung on his lashes, and when he blinked he knew they must look like tears. It was the strangest thing to cry when there was nothing to be lost.
There was a message in his email that Sean had yet to answer. He would delete it the first chance he had, he decided. He knew that voice, knew those words, and he could not help himself from wondering what those lips would look like when shaping those words. Would the scar stretch? What would be the colour of those eyes? Sean didn’t use to wonder about such things, yet now it lingered in his head.
It had been too long and there was too much dignity to lose to even think of mentioning this, much less reaching out a hand and placing his hope in a fire that had to have been drowned at least ten years ago. The rain continued, the drops soaking into his clothes as if to prove his point. Water drowned out the cigarette’s flame, and he let it fall to the ground. His metaphors were running together, getting confused. ‘Cliché’ didn’t half describe the situation now. Sean wanted to laugh, but he swallowed back the sound.
He needed another drink. The pubs must be opened by now.
***
“You’re damn heavy.”
“You could let me use me crutches,” Sean pointed out. His arm was slung over Viggo’s shoulders, his weight almost entirely placed upon the other man. Those very crutches were gripped tightly in his other hand.
“And have you tear open your stitches less than an hour after you come back from the hospital?” Viggo shot him a look. “No. I’d rather not have to drive you back again.”
Sean scowled as Viggo’s fingers pressed against his hip, digging into his pocket. “I ain’t a damn kid, you know that.”
“From what I’ve seen of you so far? I doubt it,” Viggo shot back. He took Sean’s keys and shoved it into the door, kicking it open.
They hobbled inside, avoiding the mess still left on the floor as much as they could.
“I need a drink.”
“Do you want me to fuck you or not?”
Sean froze and nearly dropped the crutches. Viggo nearly stumbled and he looked at him, his grey eyes like broken glass set deep within his face. His lips were pressed thin.
“You make it seem like a chore,” Sean said. It was a damn pathetic attempt at deflection.
Viggo shrugged, practically dragging him forward so they could move up the stairs to the bedroom. Sean couldn’t help the small exhale of relief when those eyes were turned away from him again.
“I keep my promises.”
“I thought you were joking.”
“Do you want me to be?”
Reality was nothing like the fantasies that he had held deep inside his mind, turning it over and over again. There were waking dreams that he had of Viggo kissing him, of the two of them falling into bed while the sun came through the windows. A brand new day, a brand new him, all of his previous faults erased and once they woke up from their fucking, Sean could look himself in the mirror again.
But the sky was dark from the approaching sunset and this was no fantasy. Viggo’s body was hot underneath his arm but so tense he felt like a carved statue than living flesh.
He wondered what was wrong with him, that he still held on to fairytales and ideal relationships even after four divorces. Viggo once told him that nothing was permanent except for parents and children, and not even those were perfect -- it had to be worked for.
Sean was so damn tired of working for it.
“No,” he said softly. He stared down at his feet. “I don’t want you ta be joking.”
But he had to try.
“Alright,” Viggo said, business-like. “Bedroom, then.”
Viggo’s hands were still gentle on him even as he pushed the door open. Sean placed the crutches next to the bed, lowering himself down. He looked up to Viggo and he laughed to himself, a half-swallowed chuckle. Months of alcohol-fogged fantasies and nearly thirteen years of knowing each other (could they still call what they have friendship after this?) and this was all that could come of this.
“Do you want me to help you strip?” Viggo asked. His hands were at the hem of his own shirt, starting to pull it off.
“I ain’t that helpless.”
Sean still had some pride, though he didn’t know what use it was to him right now. He pulled off his shirt and pants, toed off his shoes and socks. He hooked his fingers beneath his boxers, but his eyes were fixed on Viggo’s skin as it was revealed to him, slowly.
“You got a new tattoo,” he said.
“Yeah. Months ago,” Viggo shrugged. “I told you about it in an email, but I guess you didn’t read it.”
“No.” Sean pushed himself up the bed, fully naked now. His cock was limp against his thigh and so was Viggo’s. “I didn’t.”
Viggo draped himself over him. His leg was warm between Sean’s. His scar was stark against his tanned skin, and Sean opened his mouth, pressed their lips together. They kissed. It was, Sean thought, like one of the kisses he shared with countless women in front of cameras, except that he didn’t have another name and another life to hide behind.
He slipped his hand downwards. Viggo’s leg was rough against his hand, but his cock was smooth. His nails caught against rough pubic hair as he stroked, and the hitch of Viggo’s breath against his skin was nothing like he had ever imagined. The slow filling of Viggo’s cock between his finger reminded him of dirty floors and filthy mouths, and Sean closed his eyes.
“Do you have condoms? Lube?”
“Nightstand.” He bought them both months ago in an airport in Canada, before he returned to London. Both were still unused.
Strange that he would not feel Viggo’s skin when he had tasted so many so many varieties of come. It was, he thought, better this way. Cleaner.
Viggo’s hands pulled his legs apart. The mattress shifted under his weight and Sean drew his legs up. The bandages were stark white against Viggo’s skin, and Sean focused on the contrast even as he felt a finger press inside him. He arched. His blood pounded in his ears, rushing downwards, filling his cock. He felt it all, detached, his nerves telling his brain what was happening to him but there was a haze inside his head and he could barely feel it.
This was like a story, something happening to someone else.
“Probably a stupid question,” Viggo said. His eyes were fixed on Sean’s hip, and his finger slid in and out, stretching him, fucking him. “But have you ever done this before?”
Sean squeezed his eyes shut. Arched his back. Buried his fingers into Viggo’s hair.
“No,” he said, the word tumbling from his lip. He wanted to take it back, to suck it between his teeth.
“Damn you,” Viggo breathed. His lips traced the edge of Sean’s hip, against the pelvic bone that was still visible from beneath skin and muscles. “Damn you to hell, Sean.”
He wanted to laugh. There was no use to damn him so when he was already there. His lips parted as if to say it, but Viggo was taking his only half-hard cock into his mouth. Heat and wet and the softest scrape of tongue against the head, and Sean gasped, body jerking, air rushing into his lungs so fast and sharp that it cut against the inside of his throat.
“Those are me words ta say,” Sean whispered. He pulled his legs apart even more. He could feel himself getting hard, and he wondered why the sight of Viggo’s naked body hadn’t done the job.
The answer was already there, at the edge of his mind, but Viggo pulled out his finger and shoved in two more. His mouth was so hot, the suction perfect. Sean’s fingers dug into the mattress, scoring temporary lines down the cloth cover. Viggo’s fingers curled, touching something within him, and Sean jerked again. Like a marionette on strings, played perfectly, and the pleasure that flooded his mind chased the comparison away as quickly as it had come.
“Vig,” he whispered instead. The name was mangled by his accent. Viggo’s mouth pulled away. Three fingers now and Sean flinched, less at the stretch than at the expectation of the pain that didn’t come. But Viggo seemed not to notice, because he pressed a kiss against the inside of a thigh, his teeth barely scraping skin.
“I’m going to fuck you,” Viggo said. His fingers were pulling away, grabbing Sean’s legs and pulling them up and hooking them over his shoulders. Sean was wide open, exposed.
He heard the sound of silver foil ripping. He opened his eyes and pushed himself up, taking the condom out of Viggo’s hands. Their eyes did not meet. But it was not Viggo’s eyes that he wanted, was it? His cock was hard enough, rising from thick, dark curls, and Sean slid the condom down the shaft, his fingers stumbling from the unfamiliarity.
“Lie down.”
He did. Lay down while Viggo pushed into him, fucked him-- or perhaps he should use the word ‘have sex’ because this was nothing more than going through the motions. But it was good, the burn of his ass pressing on the edges of his mind, Viggo’s weight shoving him down, squeezing the breath out of him. Sean kept his eyes closed and he raised his arms, covering his face.
There was only heat when they came. Heat on the outside, his come splashing against his own skin, Viggo’s heat inside him, his single pant wet against Sean’s skin.
Nothing like what he thought it would be.
Viggo pulled out and dropped down next to him. Their breaths were coming just slightly faster than before. Sean let his legs fall back down to the bed, straightening them. He didn’t shift his arm from his face. Their bodies were inches from each other, and he could feel the heat of Viggo’s skin. They lay there like that for long moments. Sean didn’t know how long it was; he would count the time by his heartbeat, but he could not hear that.
Slowly, Viggo shifted, sitting up on the bed. Sean felt the mattress move and heard the slight squeak of latex being removed, and the flush of the toilet. He didn’t open his eyes even as Viggo started to dress.
“Stay,” he said, his voice barely loud enough to be heard.
Viggo’s shoes made a soft thud on the floor as he stopped. Sean heard his footsteps as he walked back to the bed.
“Look at me, Sean,” Viggo’s hands were rough on his skin.
Sean let his arms drop back to his side. He opened his eyes and caught Viggo’s gaze again. His lips quirked in an attempt to smile, a deflated, defeated little thing.
“I’m not what you want,” Viggo said.
“No,” Sean closed his eyes again, turning his head away. He laughed, a high, hysterical little sound that rang around the room. He had to laugh because if he did not, he knew he would start to cry, and he looked pathetic enough already, with come still on his skin and his hair ruffled and bandages on his feet. His dignity was stripped to pieces without needing to be further destroyed by tears.
“No, you’re not.”
He laughed again. Viggo’s fingers carded gently through his hair just once.
The sound of the front door closing echoed in his ears. Perhaps it was only his imagination, for the sound couldn’t reach to the bedroom, no matter how silent the house. But it rang nonetheless, over and over, the sound of a closing door.
Sean tried to count his heartbeats as he lay on the bed, curled up to his side.
The sun was rising when he stood up from the bed. He limped to the bathroom and wiped himself off, barely resisting the urge to flinch at the dried come on his skin.
His phone was downstairs. The crutches were beside the bed. He took them and took the stairs one at a time.
End
There are two endings to this. Either it ends here, or you read the epilogue. If you feel as if the story's fine as it is, don't click on the link. If you want at least a hint of hope, click ahead.
Epilogue
“You really shouldn’t have drunk that beer.”
Sean lifted his head from the sink, meeting Viggo’s eyes in the mirror. It was the first time he looked at Viggo since arriving in New Zealand for the impromptu reunion. Downstairs, the hobbits and Orlando -- who were all in their thirties at least now, but still behaved like they were twelve when with each other -- continued to make a ruckus.
“Can’t let me reputation go down the drain, can it?”
Viggo snorted, shaking his head. But there was a glass of cold water in his hand, spiked with only lemon, and he dropped a wet cloth on Sean’s face.
“Idiot.”
Sean wiped his face and took a long drink. He took another gulp, swirling it all over his mouth before he spat into the sink. Bile was disgusting.
“Aye,” he said. There was no use denying it, not to this man.
But Viggo only gave him a flickering smile. “Come on,” he said, and his hand was warm on Sean’s sweaty arm. He dropped the toilet lid down and Sean sat down on it.
“Drugs?”
Sean made an affirmative sound. He tipped his head up to look at Viggo, and he noticed that the lines seemed to have set even deeper around his eyes. He looked like he had aged at least a few years since the last time Sean had seen him. Sean looked away.
“Sorry.”
“It’s alright.”
“Yer going ta choke on yer nobility one day,” Sean said, but there was no anger behind his words, only a heavy resignation. “I used you worse than the damn condom, and I’m damn sorry ‘bout it.”
“Guilt isn’t as bad a look on you as self-pity,” Viggo shot back. He dropped down to sit on the still-dry bathroom floor, folding his legs underneath him. “How are your feet?”
“Not as bad as they looked the last time you saw them.”
They looked at each other and Sean licked his lips. He didn’t look away.
“You look better,” Viggo said. He reached out and took the cloth from Sean’s hand, leaning forward and gently wiping the sweat on his neck, down to the hollow of his throat. Sean tensed at the first touch, but he let the breath out, letting it ease out between his teeth.
“Why did you kiss me, Vig?” his voice was whisper-loud.
Viggo gave him one of his half-smiles, and he shrugged again. “I don’t know.” He paused, and sighed. “I wanted to.”
Do you still want to, Sean wanted to ask, but he didn’t. He wouldn’t know how to deal with the answer, no matter what it was.
“Alright,” he said instead. He finished the water and sat it down on the ground.
“Are we still friends?” Viggo asked, the question seeming to burst out of him.
Were they? Could they be? Sean didn’t know. He stared at his feet.
“I want us ta be,” he replied, and he knew it wasn’t an answer at all. But he was alright with that.
It was the truth, and that was better than chasing dreams.
End
Christ, that was depressing. I hope you like it still, Noa! And... uh, anyone else who actually read this.
Part III
London, November 2012
The sound of their teeth meeting echoed throughout the room. Viggo’s shoulders were warm, his lips dry and chapped beneath Sean’s mouth. But his body was tense, stiff underneath Sean’s bruising grasp. There was almost a spell, held together by the bare threads formed by touch of their joined lips-- then Viggo was shoving at him, pushing him away, tearing their mouths apart.
“What the fuck, Sean?” the words were growled out. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Fixing meself,” Sean said, his lips tingling and breath coming hard. He licked his lips, tasting nothing but alcohol.
“You’ve never been a two-beer queer,” Viggo said, and his accent flattened out the words, made them sound strange on his tongue. “So forgive me for feeling fucking confused right now.”
“It takes hell lot more than this ta make me drunk,” he replied, but he knew the answer was insufficient. Sean closed his eyes, took a step back, and hissed as the glass buried itself further into his skin.
“Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing to yourself,” Viggo said. It wasn’t even a question.
His eyes were fixed on the ground, on Sean’s legs. Sean looked down and there was blood on the floor, mixing with glass shards and the few remnants of alcohol. He wondered why he could barely feel the pain. The alcohol had long faded, its effects chased away by the sight of Viggo standing in his doorway.
Maybe Sean had finally managed to find a way to numb himself. Too little, too late.
Viggo practically dragged him towards the couch, holding him by the elbow and leading him in a big circle. Rough hands on Sean’s skin and yet this was the furthest thing from what Sean had fantasised of, the very last thing that he could ever want. There was such stifled pity in Viggo’s eyes that Sean felt that he should want to scream, to chase him out of the house.
He went anyway. “Thought you were leaving,” he said.
“I might be pissed at you, but I’m not going to let you bleed out or be crippled by your own idiocy,” Viggo replied tartly. “Do you even remember your job?”
He shoved Sean down to the couch, stepping back. “Look, do you even own a first aid kit?”
“I have kids,” Sean drawled. His feet were starting to hurt, and he rested them on the coffee table. Good thing it was made of glass; at least there wouldn’t be bloodstains on wood. Maybe he should break the table as well and cover the living room in glass. “It’s in the bathroom.”
“Stay here.”
A person, Sean mused, could get used to the sight of another’s back. Viggo was thinner now, his shoulders narrower and bonier. Or maybe he hadn’t changed at all and Sean was simply remembering him wrong. Either one was a possibility. He didn’t trust his memory anymore; it had proven him wrong far too many times.
“You want to tell me what the hell is up with you right now?”
Viggo dropped to his knees in front of him, the first aid box opened at the side of the couch. Sean couldn’t help but reach forward, thumb tracing the heavy crow’s feet, the visible sign of Viggo’s exhaustion that refused to be chased away no matter how bright his eyes shone. Viggo’s hand grabbed onto his wrist, and pulled it away.
“Sean.”
“You tell me,” Sean said, his voice soft. He sat up and pulled his foot towards himself. His finger grabbed hold of a single shard and yanked it out. Blood flowed over his skin and he stared at the red.
“Sean,” Viggo snapped out his name like a scolding father, grabbing both of his wrists and slamming them against the couch. Sean’s finger nearly trailed blood against his skin when he tried to cup his cheek, but Viggo pushed him down again, practically straddling him until he couldn’t move.
“I should call an ambulance for you, you stupid bastard,” Viggo said. “But I suspect that it wouldn’t go very well, and you don’t need more bad press.”
“I ain’t care ‘bout that.”
“What do you care about, Sean?”
“You,” Sean enunciated the word as much as he could, turning the consonants clear and sharp, ringing in the air around them. “Just you.” He took a shuddering breath. “That what you want ta hear?”
“There’s nothing you can tell me that will be what I want to hear,” Viggo sighed. “Because I would know that it’s a damn lie.”
“Try me.”
“Can you tell me truthfully that you’re alright and you’re not falling apart? That we’re still friends, and you don’t look at me differently than you had when we were shooting Rings, or even three years ago?”
Sean reached out, grabbing onto Viggo’s shoulders, pulling him so close their breaths touched. “I can’t say that, but neither can you.”
“No, but I’m not the idiot who has glass on his feet right now and is drinking himself into a stupor in the morning,” Viggo said. He took tweezers out of the kit, wielding it like he would a sword. Keeping the two of them apart.
“Nah, yer just exhausting yerself. That ain’t much better than what I’m doing.”
“At least I’m being productive. Hold still.”
Sean let him fix him. The hands of a King were the hands of a healer, but Viggo was no King and Sean was no Steward. Boromir wouldn't be destroying himself like this. Or maybe he would, if he had lived after Amon Hen. What did it matter?
He had a dream once -- or was it a memory -- of Viggo on his knees like this, his hands gentle on Sean’s skin. But the blood was new and jarring and the pain came from somewhere inside him instead of his skin, and Viggo wasn’t looking at him like this. He dreamt of kindness from those eyes and a sweet kiss that chased all of his demons away. He made believe that Viggo’s voice and scent would become his new addiction, chasing away the taste of alcohol that lingered so much on his tongue that he no longer tasted it.
“I need a drink,” Sean said. At the corner of his eyes he could see white bandages in Viggo’s hands, being slowly wrapped around his feet. Years, or months, ago, he read the stories of old Chinese women who had their feet bound so they could not run away.
“You want a drink,” Viggo corrected. He pulled the bandages tight around Sean’s feet. The white was fading away, replaced by the red of his blood, soaking through the cloth. Strange that he could still barely feel it. “You need the hospital, and stitches.”
His feet were swathed in stark colours. Sean pushed himself down the couch, sliding to his knees until his eyes met Viggo’s. His breath ghosted against Viggo’s neck as he cupped his cheeks and leaned their foreheads together. He could see himself reflected in grey eyes but he looked away, instead focusing on thin lips, on the white scar.
“The couch’s here but you got everything else wrong,” he murmured, his voice barely loud enough to be heard. “Even the alcohol is wrong. Last time it was beer and you brought me ta yer house. It was in New Zealand and the weather was odd, cold, and you gave me a blanket.”
Viggo cocked his head slightly, trying to seek out Sean’s eyes with his own. Sean stared at the wall beyond his shoulder instead.
“That happened plenty of times, Sean,” Viggo’s breath was hot. “We both got drunk many times in New Zealand.”
“That ain’t what I’m talking ‘bout,” Sean said. “I remember blankets and yer hands on me face. I remember you kissing me, on the damn couch in yer old house.”
Viggo was frozen, his eyes wide, his lips parted. Sean darted his tongue out, feeling sweat and teeth at the tip of his tongue but tasting neither.
“Is that so? Is that why you’ve been avoiding me, Sean?” Sean’s sleeves were caught in rough hands, nails dragging against the skin of his arms. “Do I disgust you now?”
Sean shook his head. “I want you,” he said, knowing that his voice was trembling but he was beyond caring. “I want you so fuckng badly, Vig.” He took a deep breath. “It’s making me head spin, it is.”
“That would be the blood loss,” Viggo said brusquely. But his hands were gentle on Sean’s jaw, lifting his head up and forcing their eyes to meet.
“I’m bringing you to the hospital. Unless you don’t want me to touch you?”
Sean’s eyes flashed, and he shoved Viggo away, hissing as his soles hit the bottom of the couch as he scrambled away, trying to put as much distance between the two of them.
“Do you want me ta beg you?” His voice was like a whip, every enunciation a crack that split the air. “I gave you your damn answer, didn’t I?”
“What did you expect, Sean?” Viggo grabbed him by the collar, dragging him up and shoving him down to sit heavily on the couch. “That I would kiss you and tell you that I’ve loved you for the past twelve, thirteen years? That I’ve been waiting for you? I’ve moved on, Sean. Like normal people do when their friends didn’t show a goddamn hint of interest in them for over a fucking decade!”
“Fuck off, then. Leave the house and forget you’ve ever been here,” Sean hissed. He drew his legs up and hugged them to his chest, ignoring his injuries, ignoring the blood staining the bandages that Viggo’s hands had put on him.
“Jesus, I’m fucking surprised you haven’t choked yourself to death on your own self-pity.” Viggo dragged a hand over his hair. He stood up, looming over Sean. “I can’t fucking forget you because you’re a friend.”
“Go fuck yerself on yer own damn nobility,” Sean grabbed him by the collar, pulling him down until they were eye-level to each other again. “Either you fuck off and leave me alone, or you fuck me. You can’t have it any other way.”
Viggo looked at him for a long moment. His shoulders sagged, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft.
Sean had always liked the way Viggo could see through him. Viggo knew him well and always seemed to know the right thing to say.
“How long have you been using me as an excuse for your own self-destruction, Sean?”
At this moment, he hated him for that very reason. Hated him more than words could say. He refused to look at Viggo, staring at the front door, wanting Viggo to disappear from his sight, wanting him to walk out and never come back again. More than anything, he wished that Viggo would shut the fuck up and take his words and his too-piercing eyes with him.
He might be left with only illusions, but he knew now that reality was far more horrible.
“Alright, I’ll play your game,” Viggo’s voice was tight, and his calluses burned on Sean’s face as he shoved his head back to look at him. Sean’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to speak.
But Viggo was kissing him, smashing their lips together, their teeth knocking against each other.
“I’ll fuck you,” Viggo said, and his smile was sharper than the glass still littered around them. “But first, you’re going to the hospital, because damned if I’m going to let you blame me for bleeding to death as well.”
***
Vancouver, April 2012
April in Vancouver was when it rained half the time and the parks were covered in spring blossoms. Spring was just coming in and the skies were full of white clouds on the days that the rains didn’t come.
In other words, it was like London, except less crowded. And brighter.
Sean only had a couple of weeks of filming to do, and within those weeks he only had a few days that he had to work, and it was a character that he had already explored before. Sometimes he had to laugh at how ridiculous his job was sometimes.
He walked along the streets with a cigarette in one hand and a beer on another. Canadians didn’t recognise him most of the time, and Sean was glad for that. He didn’t want to take his eyes off the sun that was setting off in the distance, disappearing behind the buildings, and he leaned against a tree and took a long drag. The red of the sun was almost like the fire at the end of the stub, red and burning bright.
Viggo would have taken a picture, Sean thought. He smiled to himself, and sipped at his beer.
--there’s a blanket drawn over his shoulders. It’s dark, too dark for it to be night. His eyes are closed. He almost remembers--
He blinked at the sudden memory, coming unbidden to the forefront of his mind. Vancouver wasn’t a place that he visited extensively before, so why--
-- hands, rough hands, smoothing over the side of his face, scraping against his beard stubble. His back is warm and he can’t move his arm much. Is that a couch?--
Sean breathed out. The cigarette fell from his hand. Almost blind, he found his way to a bench. The city slowly disappeared from his sight. The beer was cold, and he took a large gulp of it. He chased memories instead of sights.
-- the hand had moved into his hair, slowly stroking, the motions limited by the short strands. There is a thumb on his neck. The shift of cloth, his shirt being pulled away. The thumb strokes his shoulder. He knows those calluses. Roughness on the fingertips and the base.--
He wished he had opened his eyes. He took another swallow of the beer. It was almost gone, but he barely noticed it.
-- lips. Chapped lips on his temple. Hand on his neck. He’s still. He can hear his own heartbeat, slow and soft, thrumming at the edge of his breathing.--
He knew those hands. He knew those lips. He didn’t know why his mind suddenly wanted him to remember this, only that it did and it was somehow important. Sean squeezed his eyes shut, his hand tightening against the neck of the bottle.
-- lips on his cheek. Lips on his lips.--
Sean exhaled. Tipped his head back, and drained his beer. He wanted another cigarette, but he could barely move.
“Goodnight, Sean. Sleep well.”
The sun had disappeared behind the buildings, the red darkened into black. It was dreadfully poetic. Sunsets symbolised endings, Sean was no poet or photographer, but he knew that well enough. The night was slowly growing darker even as the streetlamps turned on, and that was appropriate too. It was a little bit too cliché, and Sean wondered, for a small hysterical moment, if he was dreaming.
He pinched himself even though he knew he wasn’t. There was wind in his hair and he could taste the incoming rain on the tip of his tongue. Sean licked his lips.
There was no use blaming his mind for suddenly remembering.
“O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall,” he whispered to himself. “Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed.”
It was not the memory. Not merely it. It was the sudden tightening of his chest, a sudden knot in his stomach that he had not once noticed until now. A desperate longing to feel those hands and lips on his own, to see those eyes. Grey they were, a colour only defined by the light that fell upon them. The image of a man appeared behind his eyelids, so sharp as if it was tattooed there and he had blinded himself to it all these years.
Hopkins’s lines were more appropriate than he had ever thought they would be. A random utterance a character made that now applied to him, for he felt as if he was hanging on a precipice, the world spinning around him. In the distance, thunder rumbled, but Sean took no notice of it for the drums in his heart were far louder. Suddenly he wished for that peaceful beat he heard of himself in his memory, that steady one-two that he knew so well because it had always been with him.
The rain came while he sat on the bench. Water soaked into his hair but Sean was already cold. The beer was long gone but he wished there was more, much more, because now he had grasped onto the memory his mind was turning it over and over. Phantom hands ghosted across his neck, his collarbone, far stronger than the cold rain as it slowly dripped into his shirt, plastering cloth against his skin.
He must look like a madman, Sean realised, sitting on a bench in the rain, talking to himself. He felt like he was going mad, the Earth shifting beneath his feet and sending him tumbling, stumbling from the place that he had always known to be his. He knew that voice. He knew that hand, those lips. He even knew that couch, for once upon a time he had spent many nights upon it.
Over a decade had passed and only now then he remembered; years that had set more lines in his face and made his skin sag. His hair was dark now and so was his skin, darkened by time and cigarettes and alcohol. Sean’s hand nearly shook as he bowed his head, lighting up another fag. The burn of the first drag was sharp in his throat, but he wished it was harsher still. He wished he could inhale fire, so it could destroy what he had just regained.
The rain threatened to drown him. Water seeped into his hair and hung on his lashes, and when he blinked he knew they must look like tears. It was the strangest thing to cry when there was nothing to be lost.
There was a message in his email that Sean had yet to answer. He would delete it the first chance he had, he decided. He knew that voice, knew those words, and he could not help himself from wondering what those lips would look like when shaping those words. Would the scar stretch? What would be the colour of those eyes? Sean didn’t use to wonder about such things, yet now it lingered in his head.
It had been too long and there was too much dignity to lose to even think of mentioning this, much less reaching out a hand and placing his hope in a fire that had to have been drowned at least ten years ago. The rain continued, the drops soaking into his clothes as if to prove his point. Water drowned out the cigarette’s flame, and he let it fall to the ground. His metaphors were running together, getting confused. ‘Cliché’ didn’t half describe the situation now. Sean wanted to laugh, but he swallowed back the sound.
He needed another drink. The pubs must be opened by now.
***
London, November 2012
“You’re damn heavy.”
“You could let me use me crutches,” Sean pointed out. His arm was slung over Viggo’s shoulders, his weight almost entirely placed upon the other man. Those very crutches were gripped tightly in his other hand.
“And have you tear open your stitches less than an hour after you come back from the hospital?” Viggo shot him a look. “No. I’d rather not have to drive you back again.”
Sean scowled as Viggo’s fingers pressed against his hip, digging into his pocket. “I ain’t a damn kid, you know that.”
“From what I’ve seen of you so far? I doubt it,” Viggo shot back. He took Sean’s keys and shoved it into the door, kicking it open.
They hobbled inside, avoiding the mess still left on the floor as much as they could.
“I need a drink.”
“Do you want me to fuck you or not?”
Sean froze and nearly dropped the crutches. Viggo nearly stumbled and he looked at him, his grey eyes like broken glass set deep within his face. His lips were pressed thin.
“You make it seem like a chore,” Sean said. It was a damn pathetic attempt at deflection.
Viggo shrugged, practically dragging him forward so they could move up the stairs to the bedroom. Sean couldn’t help the small exhale of relief when those eyes were turned away from him again.
“I keep my promises.”
“I thought you were joking.”
“Do you want me to be?”
Reality was nothing like the fantasies that he had held deep inside his mind, turning it over and over again. There were waking dreams that he had of Viggo kissing him, of the two of them falling into bed while the sun came through the windows. A brand new day, a brand new him, all of his previous faults erased and once they woke up from their fucking, Sean could look himself in the mirror again.
But the sky was dark from the approaching sunset and this was no fantasy. Viggo’s body was hot underneath his arm but so tense he felt like a carved statue than living flesh.
He wondered what was wrong with him, that he still held on to fairytales and ideal relationships even after four divorces. Viggo once told him that nothing was permanent except for parents and children, and not even those were perfect -- it had to be worked for.
Sean was so damn tired of working for it.
“No,” he said softly. He stared down at his feet. “I don’t want you ta be joking.”
But he had to try.
“Alright,” Viggo said, business-like. “Bedroom, then.”
Viggo’s hands were still gentle on him even as he pushed the door open. Sean placed the crutches next to the bed, lowering himself down. He looked up to Viggo and he laughed to himself, a half-swallowed chuckle. Months of alcohol-fogged fantasies and nearly thirteen years of knowing each other (could they still call what they have friendship after this?) and this was all that could come of this.
“Do you want me to help you strip?” Viggo asked. His hands were at the hem of his own shirt, starting to pull it off.
“I ain’t that helpless.”
Sean still had some pride, though he didn’t know what use it was to him right now. He pulled off his shirt and pants, toed off his shoes and socks. He hooked his fingers beneath his boxers, but his eyes were fixed on Viggo’s skin as it was revealed to him, slowly.
“You got a new tattoo,” he said.
“Yeah. Months ago,” Viggo shrugged. “I told you about it in an email, but I guess you didn’t read it.”
“No.” Sean pushed himself up the bed, fully naked now. His cock was limp against his thigh and so was Viggo’s. “I didn’t.”
Viggo draped himself over him. His leg was warm between Sean’s. His scar was stark against his tanned skin, and Sean opened his mouth, pressed their lips together. They kissed. It was, Sean thought, like one of the kisses he shared with countless women in front of cameras, except that he didn’t have another name and another life to hide behind.
He slipped his hand downwards. Viggo’s leg was rough against his hand, but his cock was smooth. His nails caught against rough pubic hair as he stroked, and the hitch of Viggo’s breath against his skin was nothing like he had ever imagined. The slow filling of Viggo’s cock between his finger reminded him of dirty floors and filthy mouths, and Sean closed his eyes.
“Do you have condoms? Lube?”
“Nightstand.” He bought them both months ago in an airport in Canada, before he returned to London. Both were still unused.
Strange that he would not feel Viggo’s skin when he had tasted so many so many varieties of come. It was, he thought, better this way. Cleaner.
Viggo’s hands pulled his legs apart. The mattress shifted under his weight and Sean drew his legs up. The bandages were stark white against Viggo’s skin, and Sean focused on the contrast even as he felt a finger press inside him. He arched. His blood pounded in his ears, rushing downwards, filling his cock. He felt it all, detached, his nerves telling his brain what was happening to him but there was a haze inside his head and he could barely feel it.
This was like a story, something happening to someone else.
“Probably a stupid question,” Viggo said. His eyes were fixed on Sean’s hip, and his finger slid in and out, stretching him, fucking him. “But have you ever done this before?”
Sean squeezed his eyes shut. Arched his back. Buried his fingers into Viggo’s hair.
“No,” he said, the word tumbling from his lip. He wanted to take it back, to suck it between his teeth.
“Damn you,” Viggo breathed. His lips traced the edge of Sean’s hip, against the pelvic bone that was still visible from beneath skin and muscles. “Damn you to hell, Sean.”
He wanted to laugh. There was no use to damn him so when he was already there. His lips parted as if to say it, but Viggo was taking his only half-hard cock into his mouth. Heat and wet and the softest scrape of tongue against the head, and Sean gasped, body jerking, air rushing into his lungs so fast and sharp that it cut against the inside of his throat.
“Those are me words ta say,” Sean whispered. He pulled his legs apart even more. He could feel himself getting hard, and he wondered why the sight of Viggo’s naked body hadn’t done the job.
The answer was already there, at the edge of his mind, but Viggo pulled out his finger and shoved in two more. His mouth was so hot, the suction perfect. Sean’s fingers dug into the mattress, scoring temporary lines down the cloth cover. Viggo’s fingers curled, touching something within him, and Sean jerked again. Like a marionette on strings, played perfectly, and the pleasure that flooded his mind chased the comparison away as quickly as it had come.
“Vig,” he whispered instead. The name was mangled by his accent. Viggo’s mouth pulled away. Three fingers now and Sean flinched, less at the stretch than at the expectation of the pain that didn’t come. But Viggo seemed not to notice, because he pressed a kiss against the inside of a thigh, his teeth barely scraping skin.
“I’m going to fuck you,” Viggo said. His fingers were pulling away, grabbing Sean’s legs and pulling them up and hooking them over his shoulders. Sean was wide open, exposed.
He heard the sound of silver foil ripping. He opened his eyes and pushed himself up, taking the condom out of Viggo’s hands. Their eyes did not meet. But it was not Viggo’s eyes that he wanted, was it? His cock was hard enough, rising from thick, dark curls, and Sean slid the condom down the shaft, his fingers stumbling from the unfamiliarity.
“Lie down.”
He did. Lay down while Viggo pushed into him, fucked him-- or perhaps he should use the word ‘have sex’ because this was nothing more than going through the motions. But it was good, the burn of his ass pressing on the edges of his mind, Viggo’s weight shoving him down, squeezing the breath out of him. Sean kept his eyes closed and he raised his arms, covering his face.
There was only heat when they came. Heat on the outside, his come splashing against his own skin, Viggo’s heat inside him, his single pant wet against Sean’s skin.
Nothing like what he thought it would be.
Viggo pulled out and dropped down next to him. Their breaths were coming just slightly faster than before. Sean let his legs fall back down to the bed, straightening them. He didn’t shift his arm from his face. Their bodies were inches from each other, and he could feel the heat of Viggo’s skin. They lay there like that for long moments. Sean didn’t know how long it was; he would count the time by his heartbeat, but he could not hear that.
Slowly, Viggo shifted, sitting up on the bed. Sean felt the mattress move and heard the slight squeak of latex being removed, and the flush of the toilet. He didn’t open his eyes even as Viggo started to dress.
“Stay,” he said, his voice barely loud enough to be heard.
Viggo’s shoes made a soft thud on the floor as he stopped. Sean heard his footsteps as he walked back to the bed.
“Look at me, Sean,” Viggo’s hands were rough on his skin.
Sean let his arms drop back to his side. He opened his eyes and caught Viggo’s gaze again. His lips quirked in an attempt to smile, a deflated, defeated little thing.
“I’m not what you want,” Viggo said.
“No,” Sean closed his eyes again, turning his head away. He laughed, a high, hysterical little sound that rang around the room. He had to laugh because if he did not, he knew he would start to cry, and he looked pathetic enough already, with come still on his skin and his hair ruffled and bandages on his feet. His dignity was stripped to pieces without needing to be further destroyed by tears.
“No, you’re not.”
He laughed again. Viggo’s fingers carded gently through his hair just once.
The sound of the front door closing echoed in his ears. Perhaps it was only his imagination, for the sound couldn’t reach to the bedroom, no matter how silent the house. But it rang nonetheless, over and over, the sound of a closing door.
Sean tried to count his heartbeats as he lay on the bed, curled up to his side.
The sun was rising when he stood up from the bed. He limped to the bathroom and wiped himself off, barely resisting the urge to flinch at the dried come on his skin.
His phone was downstairs. The crutches were beside the bed. He took them and took the stairs one at a time.
End
There are two endings to this. Either it ends here, or you read the epilogue. If you feel as if the story's fine as it is, don't click on the link. If you want at least a hint of hope, click ahead.
New Zealand, December 2012
“You really shouldn’t have drunk that beer.”
Sean lifted his head from the sink, meeting Viggo’s eyes in the mirror. It was the first time he looked at Viggo since arriving in New Zealand for the impromptu reunion. Downstairs, the hobbits and Orlando -- who were all in their thirties at least now, but still behaved like they were twelve when with each other -- continued to make a ruckus.
“Can’t let me reputation go down the drain, can it?”
Viggo snorted, shaking his head. But there was a glass of cold water in his hand, spiked with only lemon, and he dropped a wet cloth on Sean’s face.
“Idiot.”
Sean wiped his face and took a long drink. He took another gulp, swirling it all over his mouth before he spat into the sink. Bile was disgusting.
“Aye,” he said. There was no use denying it, not to this man.
But Viggo only gave him a flickering smile. “Come on,” he said, and his hand was warm on Sean’s sweaty arm. He dropped the toilet lid down and Sean sat down on it.
“Drugs?”
Sean made an affirmative sound. He tipped his head up to look at Viggo, and he noticed that the lines seemed to have set even deeper around his eyes. He looked like he had aged at least a few years since the last time Sean had seen him. Sean looked away.
“Sorry.”
“It’s alright.”
“Yer going ta choke on yer nobility one day,” Sean said, but there was no anger behind his words, only a heavy resignation. “I used you worse than the damn condom, and I’m damn sorry ‘bout it.”
“Guilt isn’t as bad a look on you as self-pity,” Viggo shot back. He dropped down to sit on the still-dry bathroom floor, folding his legs underneath him. “How are your feet?”
“Not as bad as they looked the last time you saw them.”
They looked at each other and Sean licked his lips. He didn’t look away.
“You look better,” Viggo said. He reached out and took the cloth from Sean’s hand, leaning forward and gently wiping the sweat on his neck, down to the hollow of his throat. Sean tensed at the first touch, but he let the breath out, letting it ease out between his teeth.
“Why did you kiss me, Vig?” his voice was whisper-loud.
Viggo gave him one of his half-smiles, and he shrugged again. “I don’t know.” He paused, and sighed. “I wanted to.”
Do you still want to, Sean wanted to ask, but he didn’t. He wouldn’t know how to deal with the answer, no matter what it was.
“Alright,” he said instead. He finished the water and sat it down on the ground.
“Are we still friends?” Viggo asked, the question seeming to burst out of him.
Were they? Could they be? Sean didn’t know. He stared at his feet.
“I want us ta be,” he replied, and he knew it wasn’t an answer at all. But he was alright with that.
It was the truth, and that was better than chasing dreams.
End
Christ, that was depressing. I hope you like it still, Noa! And... uh, anyone else who actually read this.
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For what it's worth, I think it works just as well with or without the epilogue. Really amazing work, and I'm sure Noa will be just as floored as me.
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I know I should probably feel horrible after this. But somehow I can't because while Sean is really, really seriously fucked up, the writing isn't. It's so clear and fitting and brilliant that I feel like a complete pervert to be all excited about it when the subject is so depressing.
And also, something that I really liked about this - with and without the epilogue - is that there HAS to be something about Sean that is not disgusting and horrible and broken, he just can't see it anymore. Because whyelse would Viggo be there all the time - “Are we still friends?” Viggo asked, the question seeming to burst out of him.? And it's not just because he is just too noble to be real.
Like I said, Sean might be drowning in his own vomit and I am sort of standing on the sidelines waving my ponpoms, cheering on your writing. This is kind of perverted...
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You know, I find it fascinating that you think that. This entire thing is caged in Sean's POV, so there's no way that you can see what Viggo thinks, or even how Viggo really is. I just think that it's awesome you think it's something about Sean, that his self-hatred and self-pity has destroyed every single thing he has ever thought is good about himself, instead of Viggo being the perfect, too noble friend. Mostly because of the Viggo implications, really, because he's basically a projection of Sean at this point, and anyone can have an interpretation of him in any way. What is there for him to do this, I wonder? 8D
Like I said, Sean might be drowning in his own vomit and I am sort of standing on the sidelines waving my ponpoms, cheering on your writing.
AHAHA the mental image of this, omg. I love you, bb, and thank you for taking a chance with this. /twirls you in arms
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the bit i enjoyed the most was Sean dressed as Tracie - and what it means and doesn't mean to him. seeing him flirt on camera is one thing. seeing it in rl would have been... day-am.
the sex, now the way that went down was so totally different than what 99.999% of slash is. i admire you for writing and posting it.
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Oh yes, definitely. /grins.
the sex, now the way that went down was so totally different than what 99.999% of slash is. i admire you for writing and posting it.
The sex was actually the easiest part for me to write, because I've written so much slash with porn that sometimes it's literally going through the motions. And I just did that exact same thing, but the results are so entirely different. Honestly, that bit is inspired by the... well, the healing cock idea that used to perpetuate in the anime fandoms I was in. That sex solves everything.
/snugs Thank you so much for the beta again, Helena. It's hugely appreciated. 8D
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I like the epilogue, but it could stand alone.
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And that's the bite of life, isn't it? That the person you want to run away from the most is usually yourself, but you can't do it. Thank you for taking a chance with this despite the warnings, and I'm really glad that you like it! /hugs
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I've read something by you rec'd by Helena, and Blue couldn't believe I didn't know you .. .
but anyway - the story gave me some words - which I put here (hope you don't mind - http://sadme4b.livejournal.com/139187.html)
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Do you mind if I add you as a friend?
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Maybe it was! Saw a horoscope reading that said something important was going to happen around or after the 25th . . . *g* There were parts where I though - omg, this is how I've thought of it as being . . . the depression, the need to drown it somehow . . .
*hugs*
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Like others, I think it works equally well with or without the epilogue
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Like others, I think that it stands well alone, without the epilogue.
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Thank you for taking a chance with this, mooms, and I'm glad you like it. /hugs!
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It's not strange that he doesn't feel the pain. Can happen if you are running high on adrenaline. And he surely is. Also he has been trying his best to ignore certain thoughts, certain desires, surely also many physical reactions during the past decade, he might just feel oddly detached from everything.
I love this line: "Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing to yourself,” Viggo said. It wasn’t even a question.
To Viggo of course the blood painfully colors the picture of the mess Sean is in, especially in combination with the inappropriate kiss. We don't know what he has sensed, figured out during the years but I would guess that he has not realized the extend of Sean's problems before.
And of course Viggo's pity is not what he wants. It must be painful to see the man you have wanted for so long look at you with nothing but pity (because doesn't this mean that-whatever he might have fantasized about- there is no way for them to be together? Viggo is at a completely different point, towering above him, intact, healthy, stable- and he might extend his hand to drag him up from the bloodied floor into a sitting position but he surely won't invite him into his life as a partner, as his equal. If he ever has been attracted to Sean he surely isn't anymore). Viggo drops to his knees in front of him but not for the reason that Sean might have dreamed of- it's for damage control and Sean's touches are completely out of place.
I like your Viggo throughout these moments. It's actually as if he has taken a course in de-escalation strategies. He stays calm despite the bloody mess, despite Sean's touches and his weird focus on Viggo that is completely made up and doesn't have anything to do with the Viggo in front of him. Viggo clearly does not want to rehash past sentiments, I'd guess that there are things much more important in his life than Sean who he hasn't seen in a long time but he still seems to care and of course he wants his friend to be well. And he says it himself here, that of course he does not see Sean the same way he has seen him in NZ. His state is frightening and it's not an appealing picture.
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The bandaged feet that might keep him from running are an interesting picture because it maybe keeps both of them from running. Sean is hurting and needs Viggo's help and if they hadn't been able to establish a connection over the wounds maybe they wouldn't have been able to make a connection at all and Viggo would just have left.
You surprised me quite a bit with Viggo's reply to Sean telling him that he remembers his caresses in NZ. I'm not sure what to make of his words. I'm not sure if he tries to reflect Sean's thoughts (has he been talking to Ian maybe) or if it really is about him during the one short moment, if he really is worried that he might have upset Sean and that Sean might be disgusted. His choice of words tell a tale though, he must know that Sean isn't unconflicted where his sexuality is concerned. Usually, if a friend kisses you you might be a little embarrassed and sorry for them if you don't have feelings for them, but disgusted? Why would you be disgusted? And, he seems to have kissed half of the Fellowship but never Sean (not while he was awake), out of consideration?
And then he asks if it's okay for him to touch Sean, in stark contrast to Sean who just tries to take what he wants without regard for what Viggo might want. He has comes to terms with what he wants now (or at least with what he thinks he wants) and he wants reality to bend in order to fit the picture. Of course Viggo won't do that, because, of course, he has moved on. And because the level of Sean's loss of reality is disconcerting.
“How long have you been using me as an excuse for your own self-destruction, Sean?”
All of it is an excuse, the real Viggo, the Viggo standing in front of him it's not what this is about, it's about the image of the knight in shining armour, the deus ex machina who will safe him and make all of his problems go away- Hollywood style. It's sad because it's understandable-maybe he isn't longing for Viggo in particular but only for someone to be there with him, for someone to love him and grew old with him. His love life is a mess, he is the crowned king of marriage fuck-ups and it must be lonely as hell. Concentrating on something you can't have always is easy, provides you with ample amounts of self-pity and never craves any real emotional investment, you never need to actually trust someone with your feelings, with your heart. He has a lot of experience with rejection and has learned the hard way how much you can get hurt if you fall in love and trust without condition. Chasing and blaming ghosts is convenient. But not very healthy.
Viggo forced him to acknowledge that it's an illusion, in a very harsh and thorough way (and it makes me wonder at what personal cost) by taking him by his word and doing exactly what he has asked him for-by fucking him.
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And the phone in the end, I hope so much that he is going to make an appointment with a psychiatrist or counsellor... but who knows, he might be ordering liquor home as well...
I am reading this the way that Sean has made an effort indeed and tried to stop drinking- Viggo only mentions one beer (not "that last beer") and the "drugs"- he might really be trying to quit drinking. And they are still able to look each other in the eyes and have a proper conversation, even if it's a tentative one. Maybe they can really start being friends now, despite of what has happened or maybe because of what has happened. Sean is able to see that he has treated Viggo badly and is able to say that he wants them to be friends, he really has come a long way. And they finally talk about NZ and even if the chance has passed, he will know that Viggo wanted to kiss him then, he has not imagined all of it, there have been feelings there once and maybe that will be a consolation. Mabye this will help him deal with the ghosts.
And, as a final remark, I love the epilogue because it's not all pink cotton wool balls and rainbows and chocolate cookies. To me there isn't hope for them as a couple (which is brilliant because I think your story proves that that would be a bad idea for both of them) but maybe as friends, and, what is the most important for me, for Sean with regards to his addiction.
It's not the standard fluffy fandom read but I don't love it despite of that but because of that! Perfect graduation surprise, again, thank you so much (both for writing this despite all of your doubts and for waiting to post it until after my exam, this would have distracted me immensely!) :)
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You know, when I'm writing this part, I had the nagging idea that- well- that Viggo does love Sean still. That he carries a torch for him through the years (like in cartographies. Honestly this fic can be like a much darker version of that, but anyway-) but I didn't actually write any of that day. I'm fascinated again that none of that actually comes through (and honestly, I'm really happy about that), because. I think, in a more idealised story, that would be the case. But this is just too... dark, I think, for Viggo to harbour any of that sort of sentiment. There's friendship, but primarily it's just pity, like you said.
I'm not sure what to make of his words. I'm not sure if he tries to reflect Sean's thoughts (has he been talking to Ian maybe) or if it really is about him during the one short moment, if he really is worried that he might have upset Sean and that Sean might be disgusted. His choice of words tell a tale though, he must know that Sean isn't unconflicted where his sexuality is concerned.
See, the thing is, I wrote that because I don't think Viggo is perfect either. Not in the way he sees people, at least. It's entirely possible that he said that because he knows that Sean is unconflicted, but at the same time... the way he kissed Sean isn't the way he kissed anyone else in the cast. The latter cases are just for fun, the kind of kisses in public that talks more about affection and friendship than actual desire. With Sean, it was desire, and Viggo is hyperaware of that. That's why he asked Sean that, because I think he's in his own way blinded and afraid when it comes to exposing himself and his emotions.
(tl;dr people are complicated)
And the phone in the end, I hope so much that he is going to make an appointment with a psychiatrist or counsellor... but who knows, he might be ordering liquor home as well...
... You know, in my first draft, I had a line about him finding a therapist through his agent, but Helena recommended that either I keep that line or I keep the epilogue, and I chose the epilogue. I'm so glad that I did now, because the second implication is something I have never, EVER thought about, and it is so incredibly fascinating to me, the idea. Because it's entirely true.
To me there isn't hope for them as a couple (which is brilliant because I think your story proves that that would be a bad idea for both of them) but maybe as friends, and, what is the most important for me, for Sean with regards to his addiction.
Honestly, romantic relationships make things worse a lot of times. Friendships are far simpler. >_>
I actually finished it and had it beta'd around a day or two before your exam, so I hid it until the 24th :3. NO DISTRACTIONS FOR NOA.
/HUGS YOU TIGHTLY. I'm just so happy you liked this ahhhh. And that it remains a surprise despite me feeding you several sections of this through PM. >_> Thank you for all the comments. You are awesomesauce.
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But to me he really seemed so much in control, so composed- too composed maybe for someone who still was a little bit in love. Damn. Now I'm confused. But so are these two.
Heee, now I like the epilogue even better. I like the call he wants to make because of all the possibilities it contains. He might be calling a therapist or the anonymous alcoholics, he might call his parents or daughters to hear if they are all right, he might call a friend and ask for help (maybe Ian?), but he might as well just cave in again and continue drinking. It's the perfect way to end this, with the same uncertainty that has been there throughout the rest of the fic. And for people like me who prefer a tiny spark of hope in the fic they read because in real life so many times there just isn't any hope at all (if you work in a hospital) the epilogue contains just the right amount of hope :)
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the epilogue contains just the right amount of hope :)
Oh, I'm really glad! I was afraid that it'll sound trite. It's progress, but it's not very much progress. He doesn't heal instantaneously and start being able to declare that he hates all alcohol and he'll never touch another drop with any sincerity whatsoever. 8D 8D 8D
Edit: TELL ME YOUR CO-WRITING IDEA, DAMN YOU.
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And yes, Viggo certainly touches him a lot and there seems to be a lot of concern behind the gentleness of his touches. But to me it appeared to be only that, concern, without a sexual motive/desire lurking in the shadows. But then, in bed he kisses him, too, kisses the inside of his thigh which really is intimate... so, maybe there still is something there :)