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[FIC] RPF: casual/causality [3/3]
Part II
Part III
Abby called him every week while in New Zealand. Sean remembered the fights they seemed to be unable to stop themselves from having, but what he remembered most was that Abby would always try to start the conversation about something Evie had done that week. Evie could laugh. She was starting to learn to crawl. She could babble. Sometimes there were troubles as well, such as the week when Abby had called in the middle of New Zealand’s night, crying that their daughter had colic and she didn’t know what to do. Sean would have walked back to London if he could then, but he could only stay up the night reassuring Abby that the baby would be fine, that she had a strong Northern constitution from her father. He spent the next morning stumbling around the Council set, drinking cups after cups of tea, trying desperately to stay awake. Practically the whole cast was irritated with him by the end of the day, but Sean didn’t regret doing it. That night, Viggo had driven him back to his rented house, and they had crashed on the bed together, just sleeping.
She had grown so big while he had been gone. She didn’t even recognise him, and she had sniffled and nearly burst into tears when he held her. Sean closed his eyes and leaned his head against the doorway. He had watched from the lobby while Abby’s car had disappeared around the corner. She lived in the London house and in the few weeks Sean was in England, he lived in a hotel room.
Abby had still wanted him to be Evie’s father, and Sean was so thankful for that kindness that he would give her everything she wanted. She was a decent woman, Abby was, because she didn’t even want the house. Sean knew that the failure of this marriage was his fault. Like it was his fault that things had fallen apart with Mel; like it was his fault that it didn’t work out with Debra. Like it was his fault that Viggo had--
Christ, he wasn’t going to be so pathetic as to degenerate to that level of self-pity. Sean took a deep breath and turned around, walking back to the lifts. He had made promises and Boromir was still needed in Lothlorien. No matter how much he wanted to stay here with his daughters, he knew he couldn’t. There were three promises that he had already broken, and he would be damned if he added another one to it.
His phone rang just as he stepped into the lift. The door closed and the car started moving before he had the chance to stop it, and the reception cut off immediately. Sean blinked, pulling out his mobile and staring at the caller ID. He couldn’t tell who it was, but he knew New Zealand’s country code; had memorised it from the few times Viggo had called him while they were separated by oceans and continents. He shrugged to himself. It was probably someone from New Line, telling him about his flight details for the umpteenth time.
But the mobile shrilled again when he stepped out of the lift. Sean stabbed the button to pick it up, shoving the phone between his head and shoulder as he wriggled out his keycard.
“Sean Bean.”
“I’ve been trying to call you for ages! Well, okay, not ages, but really just a couple of seconds but you scared the shit out of me by hanging up like, seconds after you picked up. Why the hell did you hang up?”
Orlando. Not New Line executives, then. Sean blinked.
“Slow down, for Christ’s sake,” he said automatically. The door opened and he stepped inside. “I got into a lift. What happened?”
“You... uh... is it okay for you to come back like, right now?”
“No,” Sean frowned. Evie still loomed in his head. “I’ve still got a bunch of things to take care of.”
“This is pretty important,” Orlando said.
Sean sighed. The young man was hedging, and he wasn’t doing it very well. “Not unless you give me a damn good reason,” he replied.
“Viggonearlydrowned,” Orlando said, all in one breath.
“What?”
“Viggo nearly drowned,” Orlando repeated, barely slow enough to be audible. “We’re, uh, we’re filming the scene where Aragorn floats down the Anduin, right? It’s supposed to be one of the stunties, but Viggo insisted on doing the scene himself for some weird reason. I don’t understand that crazy bastard. But anyway, the current was crazy strong and the river is cold because New Zealand has fucked up seasons, and he got pulled under.”
“What?” Sean said again. It seemed to be the only word in his vocabulary at the moment.
“I don’t know, man! I really don’t!”
“When the hell did this happen?” Sean was surprised that the words could force themselves out of his throat. He could barely breathe. Viggo had nearly killed himself for some unknown reason. He realised that his hand was clenched around the doorknob, and he slowly released it.
“They shot the scene two days ago. Look, Sean, I- he- he’s being all weird, man. I mean, Viggo is usually weird by human standards but now he’s weird by Viggo standards because he’s being all quiet and shit. He’s not talking to anyone and he doesn’t want to come out with us. He tells PJ that he’s fine and his Aragorn is as good as ever, but... I’m off my head with worry and PJ keeps trying to get him to take shorter days but you know he’s not going to accept that.”
There were small marks on his palm. Sean stared at them, flexing his hand for the sake of something to do.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“No one can get through to him, Sean,” Orlando said, and his panic seemed to have faded, replaced by a much more worrying current of seriousness. Orlando was rarely serious except when it came to work. “No one who’s here anyway. Karl told me that Bernard tried but Viggo brushed him off. Christ, Sean, the set’s like a damn graveyard the past couple of days. Viggo’s not pulling pranks, he’s not tackling people, he’s not making stupid jokes... He’s not even going randomly fishing! He’s just doing his scenes and then going to the stables with the horses.”
“Maybe he just likes the horses because they don’t ask him constantly if he’s feeling okay,” Sean suggested, but the words rang hollow even as he said them.
“Sean,” Orlando said, and he sounded terrified. “Can you- can you come back early? Please? I’m begging you here.”
There were still three weeks more; three weeks he was going to spend with Evie and Lorna and Molly, and to finalise the divorce with Abby. Sean closed his eyes.
The last time he saw Viggo was at the airport. Viggo was grinning then, slapping Sean on the back and telling him to not get too soft and fat while he was at home. Viggo’s body was warm as they hugged. The night before, Viggo had come over, helping Sean pack and watching him silently fret about what was going to happen when he reached home. If his oldest girls would be angry with him; if Evie would know his face; if he could still save his marriage with Abby. Viggo had watched him pace for half an hour before he tossed out half of Sean’s nicely-folded clothes to find the charcoals and paints that Sean bought in New Zealand, shoving them into his hands. Sean went through half of Viggo’s sketchpad that night, drawing without knowing what he was trying to capture, the pencils breaking underneath his hands with the abuse he dealt them. But Viggo had only taken the stubs, sharpened them, and placed them next to Sean so he could use them again.
There was a picture that Viggo showed him, on the way to the airport. It was Sean himself, leaning over a sketchpad. He strode over to the closet, yanking the doors open before he took out his bag, finding the folded piece of paper. There were creases on the corners now, from the many times he’d looked at it.
They talked about when he would come back to New Zealand. Viggo promised to pick him up from the airport, and tell him about all the stupid things he had gotten up to, the more ridiculous pranks and jokes Dom and Billy had pulled, the new ways that Orlando had found to try to kill himself, and the myriad swear words that Ian knew.
Sean sat down hard on the bed.
“Sean? You still there?”
“Viggo nearly died,” Sean said. The sound of the words vibrated around him, turning what seemed like a sick joke into reality.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Orlando said quietly.
God, he hoped the girls would forgive him. He hoped Abby would understand.
“I’m coming back,” he said.
But somehow, even if they didn’t, Sean knew that he would go to Viggo anyway.
***
Viggo pulled the car into his driveway. He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the steering wheel, counting heartbeats. After five, he stepped out of the car, locking the door behind him. And he blinked.
The lights in the house were switched on. That was odd. Viggo hoped, vaguely, that it wasn’t a robber, because he really couldn’t be bothered to try to stop anyone from stealing his things. Had he locked the door before he left the house? He couldn’t really remember, though he probably had. He sighed quietly, moving up the porch steps and unlocking the door.
He stopped. His lips parted, but no words came out.
“You gave me a key to yer house the last time,” Sean said quietly. He was sitting on his usual armchair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I figured I’ll just drop in.”
Viggo swallowed. He raised his eyes and rubbed at them, but he didn’t bother to pinch himself. His body hurt enough to tell him that he was still awake.
“What are you doing here?”
Sean stood up. He walked over and tugged at Viggo’s jacket. The cloth slipped off, and Sean’s hands were on the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head as well. Callused fingers ran along his shoulder blades, and Viggo flinched slightly as they pressed against the dark bruises.
“Why didn’t you go to the doctors?”
“You haven’t answered my question,” Viggo whispered. The situation felt surreal. Wasn’t Sean supposed to be in England?
“Orlando told me what happened,” Sean said, his voice so close and quiet that Viggo could feel his breath ghosting his ear. “I had to come back.”
“What about--”
“Now you answer my question,” Sean said. He nudged Viggo over to the couch, and Viggo sank into it, feeling Sean’s arm wrap around his bruised shoulders.
“I don’t want to,” he said. It was the only answer he could give, because he didn’t have any other.
Sean snorted, but he didn’t push him away when Viggo dropped his head on his shoulder. He was warm, Viggo realised, and the chill that sank into his lungs and bones from the river started to unravel, just like that.
“Yer an arse,” Sean informed him. “Worrying everyone like that.”
“Sorry,” Viggo said automatically. His eyes closed. This was good, and he felt better than he had for the past four days. “Was everyone really that worried?”
“Aye.”
They sat in silence for a long time. Sean’s fingers stroked the curve of Viggo’s shoulder.
“How are the girls?” Viggo asked. He wanted to ask Sean for the real reason why he decided to come back, but somehow he knew that Sean would tell him eventually.
“Good,” Sean said. “Lorna’s doing great in school; she’s so clever, Vig. Molly’s taking drama classes, not ‘cause Mel wanted her ta, but because she asked. Evie’s grown so big, and she’s learning to crawl. They’re good.”
“Are they--”
“I told them someone important to me nearly killed himself because of his own stupidity. They know I’ll come back.”
There was a soft note of insecurity in Sean’s voice that had Viggo raising his head. He opened his eyes, turning to look at Sean again. His beard had grown longer than Boromir’s should be, and Viggo grazed the rough strands with his fingertips.
“I have terrible timing, haven’t I?”
Sean chuckled. His head slipped into Viggo’s hair. “Aye, you do.”
It felt good to laugh again, Viggo realised. Sean’s eyes were so green this close, and Viggo’s lashes lowered as Sean leaned in. They kissed slowly, gently, their mouths moving together, simply tasting each other. They had never kissed like this. Their kisses were always something desperate, needy, both of them needing release. It had always been only a prelude to sex.
Their foreheads touched. Sean’s hand teased with the small hairs at the nape of Viggo’s head, and his shifted slightly until his lips brushed Viggo’s temple.
“I came back ‘cause you needed me,” Sean murmured. “I can’t stay away, not when I know you needed me here. Can’t even worry properly ‘bout the plane crashing, ‘cause I was too worried that ‘bout you.”
Viggo’s hands reached out. He tugged at Sean’s sweater, and they pulled away from each other just long enough for Sean to pull the damn thing off his head. He needed bare skin, now, and he wrapped his arms around Sean’s chest, feeling his heart beat steadily against his own.
“The water was cold,” he said, and the words tumbled out of him. “It was so cold and the current was so strong. I tried to pull myself to the surface but it was no use, my arms were all numb.” He stroked his fingertips down Sean’s back, counting the ribs he could barely feel through the layers of skin and muscles. “I was underwater and everything was so dark. I couldn’t see the sky. It was so odd; I could always see the sky. Even if the stars and clouds changed, even in cities where the fog covered most of it, I could always see the sky. I couldn’t, while underwater, and I thought--”
He stopped. Sean didn’t urge him, only stroked his hair slowly like he was a child, pressing soft kisses into his hair. Viggo took a deep breath and buried his face into Sean’s neck. Sean always smelled wonderful. Even now, when he smelled of airplanes and airports and sweat, Viggo couldn’t help but draw it into his lungs, his breath shuddering.
“I thought this must be what death feels like,” Viggo said, his voice half-muffled against Sean’s neck. “Cold and dark. It was terrifying, because, because death is so close, Sean. It’s always so damn close and I can’t stop it. Even if I take care of myself, I will still die eventually, and there’s still so much for me to do. So much that I want to see and experience and I can’t--” He took a shuddering breath, pulling away. His arms wrapped around himself, trying to hold Sean’s warmth in his heart and keep it there.
Sean’s fingers touched his chin, lifting his head up. Viggo felt the slightest twinge of annoyance, because he wasn’t one of Sean’s girls or wives, but it faded when Sean kissed him again.
“I ain’t ever thought much ‘bout the future,” Sean said. “Me, I’m a selfish bastard. I only think ‘bout the now, ‘bout living while I can. None of us get to live forever, Vig, no matter what the vampire novels Lorna likes to read say.” Viggo burbled a laugh, pulling Sean into his arms again. He felt Sean smile against his cheek.
“You ain’t dead, Vig,” Sean continued. “If I have me way, you won’t be dead for a damn long time.”
Viggo felt his breath stop in his throat, tensing up. But Sean only continued to stroke his hair, pulling away slightly to look Viggo in the eyes.
“Won’t you get sick and tired of me after a while?” Viggo tried to make light of it, but he knew the joke had fallen flat on its face.
“Aye,” Sean said. He was so close that their breaths touched. “But it won’t stop me trying.”
I love you, Viggo thought desperately. I love you. I love you so damn much that I might go insane with how much I love you.
“You made me break so many of my promises to myself, you bastard,” he said instead. It should be a non-sequitor, but Sean only laughed, green eyes sparkling as he rubbed his thumb over Viggo’s cheek.
“Aye, and so did you,” Sean said. “But I thought- those promises ain’t important, not as important as this one.”
They looked at each other. Viggo ducked his head, laughing quietly.
“I have to tell you I can’t consummate anything tonight,” he said dryly. “The bruises aren’t just on my back.”
Sean gently cuffed him on the jaw, leaning over and kissing Viggo lightly on his nose.
“Even if you wanted to, I wouldn’t let you. You need a bath and sleep, and I’m going to make sure you get both.”
“When did you become my mother?” Viggo arched an eyebrow.
“Part of me promise,” Sean shot back. He stood up, and Viggo’s body protested the disappearance of his warmth immediately. But Sean held out his hands, and Viggo let himself be pulled upwards. There was still a part of him that refused to believe that this wasn’t a dream, but Viggo could ignore it easily.
Then again, it could have been the ache of his bruises talking.
“My call tomorrow is at five,” Viggo said.
“Fuck that,” Sean declared. “I’m calling Peter and telling him yer taking the day off tomorrow. If you keep going, yer going to break bones or turn yer skin permanently black and blue.”
“I can work,” Viggo protested.
Sean looked at him. He nodded sharply, and Viggo started to smile before Sean slapped him lightly on the back. The sudden pressure on the bruises made Viggo stumble, and he practically fell on his face before Sean grabbed him by the arm and pulled him close.
“You’ve been taking care of me all the time,” Sean said quietly, murmuring into Viggo’s hair. “Let me do it this time, aye?”
“Alright,” Viggo said, finally letting the smile come.
“Alright.”
***
“Christ, just look at them.” Karl said disgustedly, chewing on his sandwich with vigour.
Orlando blinked. He leaned back against the tree and watched as Viggo screamed a war cry, running across half the set to tackle Sean to the ground in one of his famous rugbytackles. But he didn’t do this for anyone else: he grabbed Sean by the waist and rolled him all over the ground, taking every opportunity to feel him up. Sean yelled, but he wasn’t making much of an effort to pull away, instead locking his legs around Viggo’s waist and rolling him over, sliding fingers into Aragorn’s clothes to initiate a tickle fight.
They were behaving like teenagers rutting in public. Orlando felt mildly ill.
“Well, at least they’re not moping or pissed at each other anymore,” he said. Hey, no one could call him a pessimist.
“You know,” Karl said. He paused, and Orlando looked over to watch him peel a strand of his blond wig out of his sandwich. Karl shrugged and took another bite of the thing. There was a bit of tuna mayo stuck to the hair, and Orlando stared at it, fascinated, as it slowly slid off and dropped onto the floor.
“You know,” Karl repeated. “I signed up to play Eomer in the greatest movie to be ever made in my home country, not to be part of some bizarre love story between Aragorn and Boromir.”
Orlando laughed, slinging an arm over Karl’s shoulders. “Oh come on, sourpuss. One day you’ll tell their future children and grandchildren that Viggo and Sean would never he gotten together without you. It can be the best achievement of your life.”
Karl stared at him. “There are so many problems with that sentence that I don’t even know where to begin,” he finally said. “You do know that they’re two middle-aged men and men can’t have kids together, right? I’m not giving you the Talk. You can go to Fran and Peter for that.”
“Ew,” Orlando said, damn eloquently if he didn’t say so himself.
In front of them, Sean and Viggo had finally stopped trying to feel each other up on the forest floor. Now they were patting each other down, brushing grass and leaves from each other’s costumes. There were stains on the clothes that Costumes would scream at them for, but Orlando was distracted from the thought. He was pretty sure that cleaning had never involved so much ass-caressing as he was witnessing.
“Ew,” he said again.
“Don’t worry, Orlando,” Karl said, though he had a mouthful of sandwich and it sounded more like dunryrrrlanoo. Orlando prided himself on deciphering food-speech due to too much time spent with Karl, Dom and Billy, all of whom had no table manners whatsoever.
Karl flicked breadcrumbs off Eomer’s breeches, and he grinned. “I’m sure one day you’ll find your own gay one true love and you’ll be molesting him on set in no time.”
Orlando opened his mouth. Closed it. In the mean time, Karl stood up and started running.
“You piece of shit!” Orlando yelled. He shoved himself off his feet, giving chase. “I’ll get you for that!”
Karl’s laughter floated back to him. He tucked his head down and half-leaped, half-flailed onto Karl, knocking him onto the ground and tickling him hard. In the distance, he could hear Viggo and Sean whooping, but it barely registered because making Karl cry uncle was his main priority right now.
Peter Jackson stared at his handpicked cast and sighed to himself, wondering why he chose a bunch of madmen to portray characters with such gravitas. At least they were happy, he told himself.
At least they were happy.
End
Part III
Abby called him every week while in New Zealand. Sean remembered the fights they seemed to be unable to stop themselves from having, but what he remembered most was that Abby would always try to start the conversation about something Evie had done that week. Evie could laugh. She was starting to learn to crawl. She could babble. Sometimes there were troubles as well, such as the week when Abby had called in the middle of New Zealand’s night, crying that their daughter had colic and she didn’t know what to do. Sean would have walked back to London if he could then, but he could only stay up the night reassuring Abby that the baby would be fine, that she had a strong Northern constitution from her father. He spent the next morning stumbling around the Council set, drinking cups after cups of tea, trying desperately to stay awake. Practically the whole cast was irritated with him by the end of the day, but Sean didn’t regret doing it. That night, Viggo had driven him back to his rented house, and they had crashed on the bed together, just sleeping.
She had grown so big while he had been gone. She didn’t even recognise him, and she had sniffled and nearly burst into tears when he held her. Sean closed his eyes and leaned his head against the doorway. He had watched from the lobby while Abby’s car had disappeared around the corner. She lived in the London house and in the few weeks Sean was in England, he lived in a hotel room.
Abby had still wanted him to be Evie’s father, and Sean was so thankful for that kindness that he would give her everything she wanted. She was a decent woman, Abby was, because she didn’t even want the house. Sean knew that the failure of this marriage was his fault. Like it was his fault that things had fallen apart with Mel; like it was his fault that it didn’t work out with Debra. Like it was his fault that Viggo had--
Christ, he wasn’t going to be so pathetic as to degenerate to that level of self-pity. Sean took a deep breath and turned around, walking back to the lifts. He had made promises and Boromir was still needed in Lothlorien. No matter how much he wanted to stay here with his daughters, he knew he couldn’t. There were three promises that he had already broken, and he would be damned if he added another one to it.
His phone rang just as he stepped into the lift. The door closed and the car started moving before he had the chance to stop it, and the reception cut off immediately. Sean blinked, pulling out his mobile and staring at the caller ID. He couldn’t tell who it was, but he knew New Zealand’s country code; had memorised it from the few times Viggo had called him while they were separated by oceans and continents. He shrugged to himself. It was probably someone from New Line, telling him about his flight details for the umpteenth time.
But the mobile shrilled again when he stepped out of the lift. Sean stabbed the button to pick it up, shoving the phone between his head and shoulder as he wriggled out his keycard.
“Sean Bean.”
“I’ve been trying to call you for ages! Well, okay, not ages, but really just a couple of seconds but you scared the shit out of me by hanging up like, seconds after you picked up. Why the hell did you hang up?”
Orlando. Not New Line executives, then. Sean blinked.
“Slow down, for Christ’s sake,” he said automatically. The door opened and he stepped inside. “I got into a lift. What happened?”
“You... uh... is it okay for you to come back like, right now?”
“No,” Sean frowned. Evie still loomed in his head. “I’ve still got a bunch of things to take care of.”
“This is pretty important,” Orlando said.
Sean sighed. The young man was hedging, and he wasn’t doing it very well. “Not unless you give me a damn good reason,” he replied.
“Viggonearlydrowned,” Orlando said, all in one breath.
“What?”
“Viggo nearly drowned,” Orlando repeated, barely slow enough to be audible. “We’re, uh, we’re filming the scene where Aragorn floats down the Anduin, right? It’s supposed to be one of the stunties, but Viggo insisted on doing the scene himself for some weird reason. I don’t understand that crazy bastard. But anyway, the current was crazy strong and the river is cold because New Zealand has fucked up seasons, and he got pulled under.”
“What?” Sean said again. It seemed to be the only word in his vocabulary at the moment.
“I don’t know, man! I really don’t!”
“When the hell did this happen?” Sean was surprised that the words could force themselves out of his throat. He could barely breathe. Viggo had nearly killed himself for some unknown reason. He realised that his hand was clenched around the doorknob, and he slowly released it.
“They shot the scene two days ago. Look, Sean, I- he- he’s being all weird, man. I mean, Viggo is usually weird by human standards but now he’s weird by Viggo standards because he’s being all quiet and shit. He’s not talking to anyone and he doesn’t want to come out with us. He tells PJ that he’s fine and his Aragorn is as good as ever, but... I’m off my head with worry and PJ keeps trying to get him to take shorter days but you know he’s not going to accept that.”
There were small marks on his palm. Sean stared at them, flexing his hand for the sake of something to do.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“No one can get through to him, Sean,” Orlando said, and his panic seemed to have faded, replaced by a much more worrying current of seriousness. Orlando was rarely serious except when it came to work. “No one who’s here anyway. Karl told me that Bernard tried but Viggo brushed him off. Christ, Sean, the set’s like a damn graveyard the past couple of days. Viggo’s not pulling pranks, he’s not tackling people, he’s not making stupid jokes... He’s not even going randomly fishing! He’s just doing his scenes and then going to the stables with the horses.”
“Maybe he just likes the horses because they don’t ask him constantly if he’s feeling okay,” Sean suggested, but the words rang hollow even as he said them.
“Sean,” Orlando said, and he sounded terrified. “Can you- can you come back early? Please? I’m begging you here.”
There were still three weeks more; three weeks he was going to spend with Evie and Lorna and Molly, and to finalise the divorce with Abby. Sean closed his eyes.
The last time he saw Viggo was at the airport. Viggo was grinning then, slapping Sean on the back and telling him to not get too soft and fat while he was at home. Viggo’s body was warm as they hugged. The night before, Viggo had come over, helping Sean pack and watching him silently fret about what was going to happen when he reached home. If his oldest girls would be angry with him; if Evie would know his face; if he could still save his marriage with Abby. Viggo had watched him pace for half an hour before he tossed out half of Sean’s nicely-folded clothes to find the charcoals and paints that Sean bought in New Zealand, shoving them into his hands. Sean went through half of Viggo’s sketchpad that night, drawing without knowing what he was trying to capture, the pencils breaking underneath his hands with the abuse he dealt them. But Viggo had only taken the stubs, sharpened them, and placed them next to Sean so he could use them again.
There was a picture that Viggo showed him, on the way to the airport. It was Sean himself, leaning over a sketchpad. He strode over to the closet, yanking the doors open before he took out his bag, finding the folded piece of paper. There were creases on the corners now, from the many times he’d looked at it.
They talked about when he would come back to New Zealand. Viggo promised to pick him up from the airport, and tell him about all the stupid things he had gotten up to, the more ridiculous pranks and jokes Dom and Billy had pulled, the new ways that Orlando had found to try to kill himself, and the myriad swear words that Ian knew.
Sean sat down hard on the bed.
“Sean? You still there?”
“Viggo nearly died,” Sean said. The sound of the words vibrated around him, turning what seemed like a sick joke into reality.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Orlando said quietly.
God, he hoped the girls would forgive him. He hoped Abby would understand.
“I’m coming back,” he said.
But somehow, even if they didn’t, Sean knew that he would go to Viggo anyway.
***
Viggo pulled the car into his driveway. He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the steering wheel, counting heartbeats. After five, he stepped out of the car, locking the door behind him. And he blinked.
The lights in the house were switched on. That was odd. Viggo hoped, vaguely, that it wasn’t a robber, because he really couldn’t be bothered to try to stop anyone from stealing his things. Had he locked the door before he left the house? He couldn’t really remember, though he probably had. He sighed quietly, moving up the porch steps and unlocking the door.
He stopped. His lips parted, but no words came out.
“You gave me a key to yer house the last time,” Sean said quietly. He was sitting on his usual armchair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I figured I’ll just drop in.”
Viggo swallowed. He raised his eyes and rubbed at them, but he didn’t bother to pinch himself. His body hurt enough to tell him that he was still awake.
“What are you doing here?”
Sean stood up. He walked over and tugged at Viggo’s jacket. The cloth slipped off, and Sean’s hands were on the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head as well. Callused fingers ran along his shoulder blades, and Viggo flinched slightly as they pressed against the dark bruises.
“Why didn’t you go to the doctors?”
“You haven’t answered my question,” Viggo whispered. The situation felt surreal. Wasn’t Sean supposed to be in England?
“Orlando told me what happened,” Sean said, his voice so close and quiet that Viggo could feel his breath ghosting his ear. “I had to come back.”
“What about--”
“Now you answer my question,” Sean said. He nudged Viggo over to the couch, and Viggo sank into it, feeling Sean’s arm wrap around his bruised shoulders.
“I don’t want to,” he said. It was the only answer he could give, because he didn’t have any other.
Sean snorted, but he didn’t push him away when Viggo dropped his head on his shoulder. He was warm, Viggo realised, and the chill that sank into his lungs and bones from the river started to unravel, just like that.
“Yer an arse,” Sean informed him. “Worrying everyone like that.”
“Sorry,” Viggo said automatically. His eyes closed. This was good, and he felt better than he had for the past four days. “Was everyone really that worried?”
“Aye.”
They sat in silence for a long time. Sean’s fingers stroked the curve of Viggo’s shoulder.
“How are the girls?” Viggo asked. He wanted to ask Sean for the real reason why he decided to come back, but somehow he knew that Sean would tell him eventually.
“Good,” Sean said. “Lorna’s doing great in school; she’s so clever, Vig. Molly’s taking drama classes, not ‘cause Mel wanted her ta, but because she asked. Evie’s grown so big, and she’s learning to crawl. They’re good.”
“Are they--”
“I told them someone important to me nearly killed himself because of his own stupidity. They know I’ll come back.”
There was a soft note of insecurity in Sean’s voice that had Viggo raising his head. He opened his eyes, turning to look at Sean again. His beard had grown longer than Boromir’s should be, and Viggo grazed the rough strands with his fingertips.
“I have terrible timing, haven’t I?”
Sean chuckled. His head slipped into Viggo’s hair. “Aye, you do.”
It felt good to laugh again, Viggo realised. Sean’s eyes were so green this close, and Viggo’s lashes lowered as Sean leaned in. They kissed slowly, gently, their mouths moving together, simply tasting each other. They had never kissed like this. Their kisses were always something desperate, needy, both of them needing release. It had always been only a prelude to sex.
Their foreheads touched. Sean’s hand teased with the small hairs at the nape of Viggo’s head, and his shifted slightly until his lips brushed Viggo’s temple.
“I came back ‘cause you needed me,” Sean murmured. “I can’t stay away, not when I know you needed me here. Can’t even worry properly ‘bout the plane crashing, ‘cause I was too worried that ‘bout you.”
Viggo’s hands reached out. He tugged at Sean’s sweater, and they pulled away from each other just long enough for Sean to pull the damn thing off his head. He needed bare skin, now, and he wrapped his arms around Sean’s chest, feeling his heart beat steadily against his own.
“The water was cold,” he said, and the words tumbled out of him. “It was so cold and the current was so strong. I tried to pull myself to the surface but it was no use, my arms were all numb.” He stroked his fingertips down Sean’s back, counting the ribs he could barely feel through the layers of skin and muscles. “I was underwater and everything was so dark. I couldn’t see the sky. It was so odd; I could always see the sky. Even if the stars and clouds changed, even in cities where the fog covered most of it, I could always see the sky. I couldn’t, while underwater, and I thought--”
He stopped. Sean didn’t urge him, only stroked his hair slowly like he was a child, pressing soft kisses into his hair. Viggo took a deep breath and buried his face into Sean’s neck. Sean always smelled wonderful. Even now, when he smelled of airplanes and airports and sweat, Viggo couldn’t help but draw it into his lungs, his breath shuddering.
“I thought this must be what death feels like,” Viggo said, his voice half-muffled against Sean’s neck. “Cold and dark. It was terrifying, because, because death is so close, Sean. It’s always so damn close and I can’t stop it. Even if I take care of myself, I will still die eventually, and there’s still so much for me to do. So much that I want to see and experience and I can’t--” He took a shuddering breath, pulling away. His arms wrapped around himself, trying to hold Sean’s warmth in his heart and keep it there.
Sean’s fingers touched his chin, lifting his head up. Viggo felt the slightest twinge of annoyance, because he wasn’t one of Sean’s girls or wives, but it faded when Sean kissed him again.
“I ain’t ever thought much ‘bout the future,” Sean said. “Me, I’m a selfish bastard. I only think ‘bout the now, ‘bout living while I can. None of us get to live forever, Vig, no matter what the vampire novels Lorna likes to read say.” Viggo burbled a laugh, pulling Sean into his arms again. He felt Sean smile against his cheek.
“You ain’t dead, Vig,” Sean continued. “If I have me way, you won’t be dead for a damn long time.”
Viggo felt his breath stop in his throat, tensing up. But Sean only continued to stroke his hair, pulling away slightly to look Viggo in the eyes.
“Won’t you get sick and tired of me after a while?” Viggo tried to make light of it, but he knew the joke had fallen flat on its face.
“Aye,” Sean said. He was so close that their breaths touched. “But it won’t stop me trying.”
I love you, Viggo thought desperately. I love you. I love you so damn much that I might go insane with how much I love you.
“You made me break so many of my promises to myself, you bastard,” he said instead. It should be a non-sequitor, but Sean only laughed, green eyes sparkling as he rubbed his thumb over Viggo’s cheek.
“Aye, and so did you,” Sean said. “But I thought- those promises ain’t important, not as important as this one.”
They looked at each other. Viggo ducked his head, laughing quietly.
“I have to tell you I can’t consummate anything tonight,” he said dryly. “The bruises aren’t just on my back.”
Sean gently cuffed him on the jaw, leaning over and kissing Viggo lightly on his nose.
“Even if you wanted to, I wouldn’t let you. You need a bath and sleep, and I’m going to make sure you get both.”
“When did you become my mother?” Viggo arched an eyebrow.
“Part of me promise,” Sean shot back. He stood up, and Viggo’s body protested the disappearance of his warmth immediately. But Sean held out his hands, and Viggo let himself be pulled upwards. There was still a part of him that refused to believe that this wasn’t a dream, but Viggo could ignore it easily.
Then again, it could have been the ache of his bruises talking.
“My call tomorrow is at five,” Viggo said.
“Fuck that,” Sean declared. “I’m calling Peter and telling him yer taking the day off tomorrow. If you keep going, yer going to break bones or turn yer skin permanently black and blue.”
“I can work,” Viggo protested.
Sean looked at him. He nodded sharply, and Viggo started to smile before Sean slapped him lightly on the back. The sudden pressure on the bruises made Viggo stumble, and he practically fell on his face before Sean grabbed him by the arm and pulled him close.
“You’ve been taking care of me all the time,” Sean said quietly, murmuring into Viggo’s hair. “Let me do it this time, aye?”
“Alright,” Viggo said, finally letting the smile come.
“Alright.”
***
“Christ, just look at them.” Karl said disgustedly, chewing on his sandwich with vigour.
Orlando blinked. He leaned back against the tree and watched as Viggo screamed a war cry, running across half the set to tackle Sean to the ground in one of his famous rugbytackles. But he didn’t do this for anyone else: he grabbed Sean by the waist and rolled him all over the ground, taking every opportunity to feel him up. Sean yelled, but he wasn’t making much of an effort to pull away, instead locking his legs around Viggo’s waist and rolling him over, sliding fingers into Aragorn’s clothes to initiate a tickle fight.
They were behaving like teenagers rutting in public. Orlando felt mildly ill.
“Well, at least they’re not moping or pissed at each other anymore,” he said. Hey, no one could call him a pessimist.
“You know,” Karl said. He paused, and Orlando looked over to watch him peel a strand of his blond wig out of his sandwich. Karl shrugged and took another bite of the thing. There was a bit of tuna mayo stuck to the hair, and Orlando stared at it, fascinated, as it slowly slid off and dropped onto the floor.
“You know,” Karl repeated. “I signed up to play Eomer in the greatest movie to be ever made in my home country, not to be part of some bizarre love story between Aragorn and Boromir.”
Orlando laughed, slinging an arm over Karl’s shoulders. “Oh come on, sourpuss. One day you’ll tell their future children and grandchildren that Viggo and Sean would never he gotten together without you. It can be the best achievement of your life.”
Karl stared at him. “There are so many problems with that sentence that I don’t even know where to begin,” he finally said. “You do know that they’re two middle-aged men and men can’t have kids together, right? I’m not giving you the Talk. You can go to Fran and Peter for that.”
“Ew,” Orlando said, damn eloquently if he didn’t say so himself.
In front of them, Sean and Viggo had finally stopped trying to feel each other up on the forest floor. Now they were patting each other down, brushing grass and leaves from each other’s costumes. There were stains on the clothes that Costumes would scream at them for, but Orlando was distracted from the thought. He was pretty sure that cleaning had never involved so much ass-caressing as he was witnessing.
“Ew,” he said again.
“Don’t worry, Orlando,” Karl said, though he had a mouthful of sandwich and it sounded more like dunryrrrlanoo. Orlando prided himself on deciphering food-speech due to too much time spent with Karl, Dom and Billy, all of whom had no table manners whatsoever.
Karl flicked breadcrumbs off Eomer’s breeches, and he grinned. “I’m sure one day you’ll find your own gay one true love and you’ll be molesting him on set in no time.”
Orlando opened his mouth. Closed it. In the mean time, Karl stood up and started running.
“You piece of shit!” Orlando yelled. He shoved himself off his feet, giving chase. “I’ll get you for that!”
Karl’s laughter floated back to him. He tucked his head down and half-leaped, half-flailed onto Karl, knocking him onto the ground and tickling him hard. In the distance, he could hear Viggo and Sean whooping, but it barely registered because making Karl cry uncle was his main priority right now.
Peter Jackson stared at his handpicked cast and sighed to himself, wondering why he chose a bunch of madmen to portray characters with such gravitas. At least they were happy, he told himself.
At least they were happy.
End