They were drunk. At least, Sean knew he was, and he laughed out loud at nothing in particular before he swung his arm back and swallowed another shot of whiskey. The liquor burned down his throat, and he grinned as he leaned on the bar. It was Christmas Eve and filming had literally just wrapped; they all had reason to drink and celebrate.

“I’m proposing!” Nikolaj was saying, one arm in the air.

“Aww, that is so sweet. Who to?” Peter’s drawling voice interrupted him, and Nikolaj snorted, reaching out and lightly smacking the other actor on the back of his head.

“I’m not proposing-proposing. I’m proposing an idea.”

“Oh, this is going to be good,” Lena said, and she grinned behind her beer. Sean squinted at her; somehow, she seemed far less drunk than most of them. Or maybe just less drunk than he was. He put down his shot glass and picked up another one, swigging that too before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Now just get on wi’ it!” he shouted.

“I’m trying, I’m trying, jeez.” Nikolaj shook his head. “I’m saying, our sweet Emilia here needs to get to know what the acting world’s really like. What kind of depravities we all get up to.” He waggled his eyebrows at the girl, and Emilia shrieked in laughter. “What I’m proposing is that one of our illustrious female cast members here give her a long smooch, just for starters.”

There was a silence. Lena’s hand paused halfway to lifting her glass to her mouth. Everyone stared at Nikolaj for a long moment, then, as one, their gazes moved to Emilia, who was blushing deeply.

“You just want to watch girls kiss,” Michelle broke the silence.

Jason threw his head back and roared with laughter. “I agree with the proposal!” He paused, then drank a deep gulp of his beer. “I’ve kissed plenty of men during my time.”

“You have?” Emilia practically yelped.

“We’re actors, sweetheart,” Sean leaned forward, his Northern English accent deepening as he caught her gaze and grinned at her. “It’s a ‘azard of the job. Ya got ta get use ta the idea of kissin’ girls.”

“So…” Lena swung an arm over Sean’s shoulder. “You’ve gotten used to the idea of kissing men, Sean?”

Sean’s smile froze on his face for a long moment. His mouth was suddenly dry and he swallowed, trying to find words that weren’t: Oh, yeah, for the last ten, eleven years I’ve been kissing the same damn man every single time I can lay my hands on him. I’ve got plenty of practice. Not as much as I like or I should, but I’ve got plenty.

“Caravaggio, man. Caravaggio.” Kit slurred, lifting his head from the table where he had been half-passed out. “First movie after Sharpe I saw Sean in, and he was kissin’ a dude there alrigh’.”

“Ask a question about Sean’s filmography, get an answer from Kit. First words he’s said in at least an hour, at that,” Peter drawled, reaching over to ruffle the younger actor’s hair. Kit blushed and opened his mouth to defend himself, but Nikolaj cleared his throat loudly, banging his hand on the table.

“Er-hum! Can I have everyone’s attention brought back to my extremely important proposal? We’re talking about Emilia’s education here!”

Lena snorted, reaching out and smacking him hard on the back of his neck. “I’ll kiss her,” she declared. “But before we girls become wank material for you boys, you give me something to keep our nights warm, yeah?” She turned to Emilia and winked at her. “Be a dear and kiss Sean for me, Nikolaj?”

“Oh, so we are finally doing something about the sexual tension during that scene in King’s Landing,” Michelle murmured, sotto voce. She was grinning hard behind her glass.

Sean blinked. He had an idea that his name had been mentioned a few times and he just got himself into something uncomfortable. Lifting his eyes, he blinked when he saw Nikolaj right in front of him. He frowned, turning his head back to the conversation before—and he burst out laughing.

“Sure, why not,” he drawled, reaching out with his hand. “C’mere, ya. Let’s give Lena somethin’ ta write ‘ome ‘bout.”

“How can I resist such an invitation?”

When Nikolaj smiled, he smiled with all of his body, turning it towards Sean. There were crinkles at the side of his eyes, and Sean’s finger found them unerringly, stroking down the lines. Such a strong jaw, such high cheekbones; the features reminded him so strikingly of someone else that his breath caught, and Sean tilted his head as Nikolaj’s lips landed on his.

His hands moved before he knew it. He was sliding a hand into Nikolaj’s hair, another around his neck, pulling him in against him, their bodies plastering together as Sean parted his lips and bit Nikolai’s lower one, urging his mouth open. Nikolaj obliged, his exhale hot on the roof of Sean’s mouth, and Sean pressed his advantage, licking the teeth, his tongue sliding against Nikolaj’s.

The bar was suddenly silent around them, but Sean wasn’t paying attention any longer. His hands slid downwards, curling around Nikolaj’s shoulders, and somewhere in his alcohol-hazed brain he recognised that they were too broad, they didn’t fit his hands the way they should.

“Hvem tænker du på, Sean?” Nikolaj murmured, the words half-muffled against Sean’s lips. Sean knew that language—Danish. He gripped Nikolaj even tighter, feeling the kiss being returned as Nikolaj slowly, slowly started to push him towards the bar counter, pressing him against the marble with his whole body.

Christ. Sean moaned low in his throat.

“Guys?” Peter’s voice. Always the sensible one. Sean barely registered it, unable to think past Nikolaj’s mouth, Nikolaj’s heat, his crotch pressed against Sean’s. “Guys, I think that’s enough.”

Enough. Right. Enough. Sean’s hand slid forward, splaying out on Nikolaj’s chest. He pushed him a little, just enough to force Nikolaj to take a single step back, breaking the kiss.

Sean stared at him. He realised that he’d had to tilt his head up, because Nikolai was a couple of inches taller. His breath was coming short and fast in his throat, and he knew that his lips were swollen and wet and obscene. He licked them, and watched as Nikolaj swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“That,” Kit said. “That was not the kiss in Caravaggio.”

“Would be,” Sean said, and he licked his lips again when his voice failed him. He tried again, “Would be pretty bad form if I ain’t learned anythin’ in the past twenty, thirty years, aye?”

His eyes never left Nikolaj’s. They stared at each other for a long moment before Nikolaj tipped his head slightly to the side, motioning towards the door. Sean squeezed his eyes shut. He knew what he was getting into; knew that this was the point of no return. But at the same time, he had reached that point long ago, and why should he restrain himself for some… for some man who didn’t even pay any attention to him anyway?

Sean opened his eyes, caught Nikolaj’s gaze. He nodded.

“Right,” Lena said, but her voice seemed so far away. Sean barely gathered the strength to tear his eyes away from Nikolaj to look at Lena again. She was grinning at Emilia, who was still staring blankly in his direction. She jerked, turning to Lena when she felt the older woman’s hand on her chin.

“I think it’s our turn.”

*

Sean didn’t know how they’d found a cab, or how; didn’t know how Nikolaj managed small talk with the driver on the way here. He was only aware of his own hands at his thighs, nails digging into his skin, each tiny spike of pain reminding him of whom he wasn’t supposed to think about.

When they stumbled into Nikolaj’s borrowed apartment in Belfast, Sean turned around and slammed him against the door. He locked it before he cupped that strong jaw between his two hands, kissing him hard and feeling Nikolaj return the kiss just as fiercely, his teeth scraping Sean’s lips, Sean’s chin. It was good; he preferred it that way. There was no gentleness, just need and the intensity of Nikolaj’s entire attention on him.

Just like it should be.

“Hvem er du tænker på?” Nikolaj asked again, and Sean pulled away, looking at him for a long moment. He pressed two fingers on Nikolaj’s lips, silencing him.

”Don’t talk.”

Nikolaj gave him a small smile, darting his tongue out to lick the tip of Sean’s finger. Sean’s breath caught, and he reached out, hands bunching into Nikolaj’s collar as he pulled him forward into another kiss, their feet slowly finding their way to the bedroom.

When Nikolaj pushed him down onto the bed, his hand hot on Sean’s thigh, Sean looked at him. He fixed his gaze on the strong jaw as Nikolaj bent down and unbuckled his trousers with his teeth alone; focused on his dark, blue eyes as Nikolaj pressed two fingers inside him.

He tried to believe that he wasn’t thinking of anyone else at all.

***

April 2010, London


“… Each of them would have wished, like his father, to have all the women to himself…” Viggo’s head was bent over his copy of a book, another two of them wide open beside him as he read out loud and his pen tapped an impatient rhythm beside him. “Technically, it’s possible to analyse Freud himself through what he has written; he practically invites it with his account of his dream of Irma’s injection… But the problem is that writing is a controlled medium and it doesn’t tell much about his body language…”

Sean leaned on the doorway to the study, frowning slightly. Viggo flipped a few more pages before he lifted his head slightly and finally spotted Sean.

“Hey!” He stood up, dropping his pen upon the book to mark his place before he went over and wrapped his arms around Sean. “Why are you up again? Going for a leak?”

Hopeless. Completely hopeless.

Sean looked at him for a long moment before he sighed, reaching out and stroking a hand through the rat’s nest that Viggo called his hair. “It’s already mornin’, ya wanker,” he said, his breaking halfway to allow a yawn through. “Ya’ve left me alone the whole damn night.”

Viggo blinked. He turned his head and laid a kiss onto Sean’s palm before he pulled away, walking towards the blinds. Pulling them up, he stared out at the morning sun that was already halfway up the sky, and whistled one long, low tone.

“Damn. I’ve lost all track of time.”

“Ya keep doin’ that lately,” Sean said, and he almost managed to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Viggo moved towards him immediately, leaning up and pressing a soft kiss on his temple. “I’m sorry. Let me make it up for you today?”

“Nah,” Sean replied. “We can do that in a couple o’ weeks, yeah? When we get ta France—a beautiful place, just fer the two o’ us.”

They had been planning for this vacation for years; going to Limousin, to the Land of a Thousand Lakes. They would have gone there last year, but Viggo’s mother had fallen ill, and they hadn’t. They would have gone the year before that too, but their schedules didn’t allow them to spend that much time with each other. This year… this year, they had found some time; Viggo’s filming didn’t start for at least six weeks, and Sean’s in a couple of months.

This year, they would be able to go. They should be able to.

But Viggo was frowning and pulling away, his arms wrapping around himself.

“I don’t think I can,” he said. Sean closed his eyes, and wondered why he wasn’t surprised.

“Freud’s a pretty big undertaking for me. He’s a real person, completely unlike any of the other characters I’ve ever played. I don’t think I fully understand him, and I don’t think I can understand him until I get to Vienna. There’s his old house there, and I want to see it. I need to see it.” He lifted his eyes and gave Sean a lopsided smile, “Want to go with me? We can postpone Limousin till next year.”

Sean reached out, his hand curving over Viggo’s jaw. Viggo leaned into the touch, his eyes half-lidding, and he pressed a kiss on Sean’s palm.

“Don’t think so,” Sean said, and this time, he managed to keep the harshness out of his voice entirely. It was for this reason that he loved Viggo, he reminded himself. It was because of his dedication and focus; because of the way he threw himself entirely into whatever he was doing at the time, believing in it in its entirety and holding nothing back.

But he couldn’t help but wonder what made him so much less that Viggo seemed to judge everything else to be more worthy of his attentions. Sean had looked at himself in the mirror plenty of times and he noticed that he had aged. But everyone did that. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t stop or reverse time to remain pretty for the sake of keeping Viggo’s attention.

He chuckled to himself.

“I’ll just distract ya. Besides, I’ve got me own preparations ta do as well. Might ‘ave ta get ta Belfast early ta see the Winterfell set and all, since Ned rules over the place and it defines ‘im so.”

“I’m really sorry,” Viggo looked at him, his hands cupping Sean’s jaw, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. “I know we’ve been both looking forward to this, but it’s not just the script’s vision I’d be betraying if I do a bad job with this. It’s—”

“I know,” Sean interrupted him. It took some effort to keep his other words back: Have you ever thought that you might just be betraying me? Betraying what we have every single time you decided that your job is more important than us? But he swallowed them back, because it was irrational and unfair and he knew this about Viggo even before he had fallen for him.

“Do a good job wi’ it, yeah? I’m expectin’ ta see rave reviews of yer performance, like always.”

Viggo snorted, “I’ll just be happy with my being happy with how I did.” He paused, and his eyes were bright and sincere when he spoke again.

“I’ll miss you.”

Sean smacked him gently on the back of his head, and Viggo gave a soft oof under his breath. He was grinning, and Sean couldn’t help but smile.

“Ya think I won’t? Just make sure that it’s worth it.”

***

Early August 2010, Belfast, Ireland


A few years ago, Sean had Molly teach him how to change his ringtone for a specific person. His daughter had teased him to hell and back about it, but Sean had remembered, and even when he had changed phone models, he had kept that particular ringtone for Viggo’s several numbers.

It was a ringtone that his castmates had become pretty familiar with during the past couple of weeks, so Sean didn’t even bother to excuse himself before he dug his phone out of Ned Stark’s pouch and wondered away to the back of the trailers to answer it.

“You know,” Peter said, thumbing through his very battered copy of A Game of Thrones for the umpteenth time. “I’m pretty sure Sean has a girlfriend or something.”

“According to the tabloids, he’s been single for eight years,” Kit said, and everyone stared at him for a moment. It had taken only a couple of days for them to realise that Kit was the biggest Sean Bean fanboy on the entire set. Considering that Isaac’s mother was amongst them, that was quite a feat.

“Tabloids don’t actually know anything,” Emilia said dryly. Kit only shrugged.

“If he had a girlfriend, I think he’d have told me about it, at least,” Michelle cocked her head, levelling a curious stare at Peter. “I mean, considering the scenes that we have to play together. A warning would be nice, especially if I’ve got to prepare for a jealous girlfriend confronting me about it.”

“Or he’d have brought her here,” Kit contributed. “Your wife’s here.”

Peter snorted quietly, placing his bookmark into the book and closing it. “I’m just saying that it’s a possibility. I’ve never seen him not pick up the phone when it’s that ringtone. I’ve got a special ringtone for my wife.”

“Maybe it’s his agent,” Michelle said, turning her head away as she lit up a cigarette.

Nikolaj burst out laughing. “Look at us,” he said, his Danish accent creeping into his words now that he wasn’t in front of the cameras as Jaime Lannister. “Gossiping like a bunch of fishwives about our colleague. It’s like the actors’ version of water cooler talk.”

“Well,” Emilia shrugged, and she took Michelle’s proffered cigarette and inhaled it. She coughed immediately, and Michelle took the cigarette away before she could drop it. “Christ, why do you smoke menthols?”

“So my mouth stinks less,” Michelle replied wryly. “You were saying?”

“I was saying that Sean doesn’t ever talk about himself and he’s pretty much the most well-known of us,” she gave Kit a teasing smile. “It’s not surprising that we’re gossiping about him.”

“You think he’d ever tell us anything?” Kit asked, and Peter wondered wryly how the boy was able to turn out such a good performance for Jon Snow when he couldn’t even keep the soft wistfulness out of his voice.

“Probably not,” Nikolaj shrugged. “Especially if you keep fanboying over him like that.

“I don’t—”

“Oh, you do,” Peter grinned, and Nikolaj reached over and ruffled Kit’s hair for him. Kit yelped, batting at his hand. “Don’t worry, it’s kind of cute.”

Sean didn’t hear any of that—and a good thing too, because if he had been aware of his castmates talking about him, he would have been too shy to continue speaking with them—because he had found himself behind a trailer.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey, you.”

He couldn’t help but smile at Viggo’s voice in his ear. It had been over a week since they had spoken to each other, and Sean had missed him. Maybe it was a little pathetic, because they had been together for over ten years, but Sean couldn’t help missing Viggo whenever they were apart. But he only cleared his throat and leaned a little harder against the trailer, pressing the phone between his ear and shoulder as if it could breach the distance between them.

“How’s filmin’?”

“We’d just finished,” Viggo replied, and Sean could hear the background noises of people moving and talking. “It was a pretty good shoot, though I feel a little silly.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“You know I’ve been worried about getting Freud right, yeah? I went to Vienna and did all of my research, but when I arrived and I met David again it’s as if—well, I realised that I had a template for him right in front of me in the form of my director.”

Sean swallowed, “So ya cancelled our vacation fer nothin’?”

“Well,” Viggo paused, and that was why Sean loved him, wasn’t it? That he actually took a question like that seriously. “I wouldn’t say it was for nothing. It helped me understand Freud so much more, whether it’s about his personality or what he read or how he thought. Just looking at David wouldn’t have helped me with that.” He paused for a moment.

“Hey, Sean? You alright?”

Sliding down to sit on the ground, Sean closed his eyes and rubbed at them. “Yeah,” he lied. “Just tired, ‘s all. Been some time since I’ve ‘ad ta wake up so early fer makeup.”

Viggo chuckled, “I know what you mean. It takes me forever before I look like Freud, given that I don’t look anything like him.”

“Mm. Hey, Vig?”

“Yeah?”

“Ya still comin’ over ta Malta ta visit?” Sean opened his eyes, reaching out to pluck at the grass near his feet. Something for his hands to do. He swallowed, and even before Viggo answered, he already knew what he’d say. He still hoped though. Like a fucking fool, doing the same thing over and over and hoping for a different result.

“I was meaning to talk to you about that,” Viggo said. The casual note in his voice was gone, and he sounded serious now. “Do you remember the Spanish play I’ve talked to you about? Purgatorio?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, uh,” Viggo swallowed audibly. “Apparently they’ve finally found a theatre that might fund for it to go ahead, but the backers want to meet me first. There are only two characters, so I’m half of the entire cast, you know? If they agree, then rehearsals will go ahead immediately. Ariadna’s already in Madrid with them.”

“Well, she lives in Madrid, doesn’t she?” Sean snapped out. Then he sighed, hunching inward even further. “Sorry, sorry. That ain’t fair ta ya. Ya’d been lookin’ forward ta this fer a real long time.”

“Yeah,” Viggo said, his voice growing even quieter. “It’s been in talks for so long, and it’s a really good story that I want a part in.”

“I know,” Sean replied, and he ripped up a few blades of grass. God, did he know. His hand curled around the blades, his fingers digging into the plant so hard that he could feel his nails press into flesh. “I’ll miss ya durin’ Christmas, though.”

“I don’t think it’ll take that long,” Viggo laughed quietly. His fingers were tapping on the table. “It’s just a couple of meetings. I’m hoping to finish it by October and fly over to see you.”

Sean chuckled quietly, “Don’t make promises ya can’t keep, yeah? Ya don’t know ‘ow long it might run, and if it goes well, yer startin’ rehearsal immediately.”

“I know.” Viggo said, and Sean could practically see him rubbing the back of his neck. “But we’ll find time, yeah? Spend Christmas together, and maybe with your girls and Henry too.”

“Would be the best fuckin’ thing ta ‘appen ta me the whole year,” Sean said, completely honestly. He let out a gust of breath, rubbing his hand over his lips.

“I miss ya, Vig.”

“You think I don’t?” Viggo said, and Sean barely resisted retorting that it was Viggo who kept postponing their meetings; postponing spending time together, just the two of them, completely away from work. He bit his lip, hard.

“I miss your voice next to me. Miss your breath, your heat. I miss turning around and knowing that you’ll be there, somewhere near me. I miss being able to take only a few steps and hold you in my arms. I miss being able to kiss you whenever I like. I miss kissing you so much, Sean, that sometimes my mouth feels like lead because I can’t taste you on it anymore.”

Sean curled up into himself, biting down on his fingers to try to stifle the sob that were forcing itself past his throat. “Vig…”

Viggo took a long, shuddering breath, “Most of all, I miss waking up with you and seeing you in the morning. I miss seeing the way that your eyes open when you are barely conscious, and the way you smile when you see me there.”

“Come ta me,” Sean gasped out, trying to keep his voice low because he knew he was still in public. “Come ta me, or ‘ell, let me go ta ya. Please, Viggo. I miss ya.”

“I want to come to you right now. You know that. But I can’t. I can’t. You know I can’t,” Viggo’s voice broke.

Sean closed his eyes at those words, dropping his head down until his forehead rested on his knees.

You say you can’t, but how much of that is truth, and how much of that is simply because you don’t want to?

He clutched the phone even tighter and took a shaking breath, and tried to lighten his voice, “We’ll find time. Just don’t make me wait too long, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Viggo’s voice was soft, and Sean could see him behind his eyelids, curled into himself and he wanted so badly to reach out and hold him tightly.

“Yeah.”

***

Christmas Day 2010, Malta


Mornings in Malta was always far too bright even in the depths of winter. Sean was looking out of the window, one hand pulling open the curtains. He didn’t have anything on; it wasn’t as if Nikolaj hadn’t seen everything that there was to see last night anyway. The insides of Sean’s thighs were still sticky, and Sean thought that he should feel happier about that. Wasn’t that what was normal to feel? The pleasure of the conquest?

He only felt sick to his stomach.

Turning away from the window, he picked up his abandoned slacks and slipped his hand into the pockets. He took out his pack and lit a cigarette, watching as the white smoke curled upwards into the ceiling lamp before he dropped back down onto the bed, wincing a little as the impact jarred a few overworked muscles.

“Those will kill you one day, you know?”

Nikolaj was sitting up at the head of the bed, as naked as he was last night. The sun’s light caressed his tanned skin as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he looked at Sean.

Sean snorted quietly, “Least of me vices, these.” He paused, then looked at Nikolaj for a long moment.

“What were ya sayin’ last night? That phrase in Danish.”

Nikolaj chuckled, a rumbling sound low in his throat. He leaned forward, crawling across the bedsheets before he plucked the cigarette out of Sean’s hand and took a deep drag of it.

“I was asking who you were thinking about,” he gave Sean a lopsided smile. He reached over and placed the cigarette back between Sean’s lips.

Sean pulled it out, turning away. “Ain’t any of yer business.”

“I spent last night fucking you while you imagined me as someone else, I’d say that it’s something of my business,” Nikolaj drawled quietly, his eyes narrowing at Sean. There was a tense moment before he shrugged, “Fuck it, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Just tell me this: this going to be the only time?”

“If it keeps goin’ on, wouldn’t yer wife somethin’ ta say ‘bout it?”

Nikolaj threw his head back and laughed, “God, no. I have a free pass with men. Not with women, though. A pity, that, because Lena is hot.”

Sean saluted him with the cigarette, “I ain’t lookin’, so I’ll take yer word fer it.”

“You haven’t been looking at anyone except me last night. I’d be flattered, but I think it’s less of who I am or what I did than who I remind you off.”

“Thought ya ain’t goin’ ta ask,” Sean snapped out. Then he paused, sighing quietly as he rubbed a hand over his own face. “Fuck.”

Nikolaj looked as if he was going to say something else, but then the phone rang. It was Sean’s phone, just a quiet piano number, and Sean swore under his breath. He didn’t want to answer it; not with Nikolaj standing right there. But the music carried on, moving on to the lyrics themselves.

The leaves were long, the grass was green—

Sean stood up and picked up the phone.

“Hey,” he said, and he hated how tired and drained he sounded. He didn’t open his eyes.

“It’s already past midnight over there, isn’t it?” Viggo said, and he sounded rushed. “God, I’m so sorry, Sean. I told myself that I was going to call you exactly at midnight, because it’s Christmas and I know we couldn’t find the time to spend Christmas together—”

“Stop it.”

“Sean?”

“Fuckin’ just- stop it, alrigh’?” Sean let out a breath as steadily as he could, gripping the phone tight. He was almost hyper-aware of Nikolaj’s presence right in the room.”Stop it. I ain’t waitin’ up fer ya or anythin’.”

“I know you weren’t,” Viggo said, sounding confused and subdued. “I just thought—”

“Nah, Viggo,” Sean laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “Ya always thought, ‘aven’t ya? Always just thinkin’, never doin’ anythin’.”

“Sean—”

“Listen,” he said, and he couldn’t stop the rush of words. “I ain’t waitin’ up fer ya, because ya know ‘ow I’m spendin’ me Christmas? I’m in me room righ’ now, with Nikolaj, because he fucked me inta the mattress last night, and I’m goin’ ta spend the whole fuckin’ mornin’ lettin’ ‘im do it all over again, ya ‘ear me?”

Viggo was completely silent on the other line.

“Ya told me ya missed me,” Sean said, feeling so viciously vindicated that he finally got Viggo to shut up for once. “Ya told me in so many pretty words that I near fuckin’ cried on the set because yer words are so damn beautiful. But they are just words, yeah? Yer always good wi’ ‘em. But I ain’t, Vig, so I’m goin’ ta keep this simple.”

He took a deep breath. Ten years; it was longer than any of his marriages, longer than anything he had ever had. Behind his still-closed eyelids he could see Viggo as he always looked in the sun that shone through the trees, bright-eyed with a brilliant grin, so gorgeous that it made his heart ache. Sean’s heart was hurting now, twisting in his chest and he could barely breathe.

“It’s over.”

Sean didn’t wait for Viggo to reply. He peeled the phone away from his ear and threw it at the wall. It crashed, splitting open, the battery ripping itself out through the force of the impact. He stared at it, feeling the fist around his heart clench even tighter. Slowly, he let out a breath. Pushed himself off the bed and picked up the pieces of the phone, one by one, and slotted them back in.

“I can still do that,” Nikolaj said, and the Danish hint in his accent made Sean’s hands stop in their fussings over the phone. “I can still fuck you, if that’s what you want.”

He could, Sean thought. He could fuck Viggo out of him, fuck away every trace of him on Sean’s skin. But it wouldn’t help, because Viggo’s marks were more than skin-deep, so deep that even a few months of not seeing him hadn’t erased any of them at all.

Sean closed the back of the phone. He turned it around and switched it on, dropping it onto the nightstand like nothing had happened. He picked up his trousers, shaking them out and stepping into them.

“I want,” he enunciated each syllable carefully, “you to get out.”

Nikolaj looked at him, but Sean was long past caring as he his clothes back on. His fingers trembled on the fly of his jeans, so he dropped them, pulling the sweater over his head. He could tell that Nikolaj was dressing as well, but he ignored him in favour of moving towards the bathroom to clean his teeth.

The door closed. Sean was alone.

He had never been here. Ariadna had given him her address a long time ago, but he had never once been to this place. They kept their work and their personal lives separate, because Viggo was fond of her—and he was with Sean.

That wasn’t a problem any longer.

He dropped his single duffel bag onto the ground, leaning on the pillar at the side as he rang the doorbell. Her house was more of an estate, really, with gates and fences surrounding the grounds. It reminded him of his house in Idaho. Viggo squeezed his eyes shut; he’d rather not think about that right now.

“Hello? Who is this?”

“Ariadna,” he breathed out the name in a soft breath, not even trying to hide the exhaustion that was wound all over his body. “Sorry, I know I’ve never—I just—”

“Christ, you sound like shit,” despite the words, there was no humour in Ariadna’s tone, but Viggo smiled anyway. It was probably a pathetic thing, and he was so glad that she couldn’t see it right now.

“Come on in.”

The gates swung open, and Viggo picked up his bag and walked through the front gardens. It was a beautiful place, with trees that he was sure that Sean would want a few cuttings of to try out in his London backyard. His breathing hitched and he almost tripped over himself trying to shove that thought out of his head, and he was so wretchedly glad when she saw her at the door. He raised a hand in a half-hearted wave as she jogged down the steps towards him.

She was beautiful, as she always was. Even as Maria, sickened with syphilis, she was beautiful, and Viggo caught her in his arms, the bag falling with a thump to the floor, and held onto her like she was the last lifeline he had left in the world.

That wasn’t very far from the truth.

“Te ves como mierda,” she murmured under her breath, stroking her fingers through his hair. Viggo almost sagged at the sound of Spanish, something so different and so apart from everything he had with Sean, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight. She felt different, too. Shorter, almost short enough for him to tuck her head under his chin, with long hair that he could bury his hand into and not see it.

“I’m damn glad to see you,” he replied in the same language. Slowly, he pulled away, looking at her for a long moment. “How’s David?”

“Gone,” she said, and her smile was tremulous. “I’m keeping the house, though.”

He closed his eyes and knew that even though she told him otherwise, this might just be his fault. But Viggo was selfish, terribly selfish, and he couldn’t help but lean forward, pressing their lips together. Ariadna stilled for a single heartbeat before she surged forward, her hands clutching at his shoulders as she returned the kiss hard, tilting her head to the side as she nipped at his lips.

It was wrong, completely wrong, because it was unfair to her that Viggo was not thinking about her. He was only thinking about how different she was, how strange this kiss was compared to what he had gotten used to for the past decade. The wave of relief he felt shook him—here, there was no possible reminder of Sean—and he kissed her back hard, his hands spreading out on her waist, pressing her body to his own as he opened his mouth.

“I thought you said you were taken,” she said a few moments later, her head lying on his shoulder, nuzzling the skin of his neck. “That’s why you keep pushing me away.”

Viggo squeezed his eyes shut, his breath shaking as it made its way out of his lungs.

“He—” he shook his head, pulling away from her. His hand cupped her jaw, and the smoothness of her cheek nearly tore his heart apart again. But he didn’t pull away, instead stroking his thumb along her cheekbone.

“I changed my mind.”

***

Christmas Day 2010, Madrid


Viggo stared at the phone. He held it to his ear again, but there was only a dial tone before everything went blank, and he slammed the button to hang it up.

It’s over.

No, no it couldn’t be. Viggo knew that he had made many mistakes in his life and he had always learned from them, but he had always held the belief that what he had with Sean was the one thing that was right, that was completely perfect. They had fought their way so hard towards each other and had gone through so much in ten years by each other’s sides. It couldn’t be over. There had to be some sort of mistake, because Viggo had had break ups before. They were always preceded by the dimming of the fire inside him, the shift in the way he looked at that person, in the realisation that he no longer found them beautiful, in one way or another.

But the very thought of Sean still took his breath away. He meant every word that he had said in that one phone conversation, a few months and a lifetime ago. He missed Sean with an ache inside him every single time he couldn’t see him out of the corner of his eyes.

He had just been busy; they had both been busy.

Viggo reached for the phone again and pressed Sean’s number. It was on the first speed dial, but he typed in the whole number anyway. He didn’t even know why.

“What?”

Sean sounded hoarse, tired, and Viggo was already closing his eyes, curling into himself as much as could while still standing.

“Ten years, Sean,” he said, soft and quiet. “Ten years, and you’re telling me that it’s over through the fucking phone because you’ve fucked someone else? I think I deserve more than that.”

“Deserve, ya say?” Sean laughed, and the bitterness in his voice cut into Viggo’s heart, twisted him all around, and he didn’t even know where it came from. “Fuckin’ rich, ya tellin’ me what ya think ya deserve.”

Viggo felt silent. By his side, he could feel his nails cutting into his own skin, his hand was clenched so tight. “What do you mean, Sean?” It took some effort to keep his voice calm.

Sean laughed again, a horrible barking sound. “If I need ta tell ya ‘bout it, then it’s a good thing we’re already over.”

“We are not over.” Viggo inhaled sharply before he let out the breath hard, air cutting the insides of his own throat. “Do you really want to throw away ten years just like that? Do you really want to throw away what we have just like that?”

“Ain’t much of ten years,” Sean said, and Viggo could almost feel his heart break in two at those words. Not the words alone, but the sheer resignation of Sean’s voice, as if he had come to this conclusion a long time ago and only deigned to tell Viggo about now. “Ain’t much of an ‘us’.”

Viggo’s hand tightened on the phone, “That’s what you really think?”

“Ain’t what I think, Vig. Just the truth,” Sean laughed again. “There ain’t much left ‘ere between us except fer some words, and words ‘aveta end sometimes. Yer the poet. Ya know that better than me.”

Viggo walked to the wall and slammed his fist into it. He was suddenly so angry, so incredibly pissed off, and he was glad that Sean was across the ocean, that it was only his voice here, because Viggo would have beaten the shit out of him if he saw him right now.

“I thought you were happy,” he said instead, his voice perfectly level and calm. He could hear Sean’s breath hitch; could practically see his entire body stilling under the effect of Viggo’s rage.

“But maybe you’re right, Sean. Maybe I’m just the fucking idiot who keeps thinking and thinking about you all the fucking time, not even looking elsewhere. I don’t know why I bother, because you’re having fun, aren’t you? You’re the one going out and doing all of your castmates, isn’t it? How many of them have you fucked, Sean? How many of them have you spread your legs for while I wasn’t there? How many of them have screamed your name and left marks down your back—”

“Shut up!” Sean was roaring, so loudly the words rang in Viggo’s ear. “Shut up, shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up, ya got no fuckin’ idea what ‘bout anythin’, ‘bout anyone—”

“Oh, I think I have some ‘fucking idea’ alright,” Viggo hissed. “What did you say his name is, Sean? Nikolaj? I think I know him, Sean. I think he’s married. Must be fun, huh? Does he call you by his wife’s name when he comes?”

“Well I ain’t gotta find anyone else ta fuck if ya bother ta—”

“Don’t you dare blame this on me!” Viggo sprang to his feet, shouting down the phone so loudly that he could hear his own voice echoing back to him. Somehow his hand ached, and he realised that he had been punching it over and over at the wall, and the knuckles were looking like they would be bruised tomorrow. He closed his eyes and fell to his side, shoulder leaning on the damn thing as he held his hand hard to his chest.

“I’m not the one who says that it’s over.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Sean said, and Viggo heard him take a shaky inhale. “Just blame me, yeah? Easier ta. I’m the one with the three divorces, failed husband fer three times. We ‘ad ten years. Ya managed to tolerate Sean-fucking-Bean fer longer than any of the women he ‘ad put a fuckin’ ring on. Congratulate yerself. ‘ave a fuckin’ beer. Too bad there ain’t divorce papers ta send or any money to be got from me, eh?”

“Is that what you think I want?” Viggo laughed, and he knew, deep inside himself, that he was laughing in the exact same way Sean was in the beginning of the phone call. A dark, horrible thing, less of a laugh than just a sound to try to release the pain he felt. “Money? Bragging rights? Jesus Christ, Sean, you don’t know me at all, do you?”

“Thought I did. Was wrong ‘bout it. Should get used ta being wrong ‘bout everythin’, shouldn’t I?” Viggo could hear the snap of a lighter. He wanted so badly to hold onto his anger, but he couldn’t. He would only be hurt, torn apart from inside out.

From here, he could see outside his window.

It was snowing. A goddamn white Christmas. Viggo placed his injured hand over his eyes, and he refused to sob; refused to give Sean the satisfaction of hearing him cry; refused to show him that the images of Sean on clean white sheets, moaning as someone else fucked him and made him cry out like Viggo did, time after time, was enough to drive him to violence.

“You have a fucking good way of sending someone a Christmas present. But you know what? I’ll accept it. It’s over, Sean. It’s fucking over. You happy now?”

He hurled the phone so hard at the wall that it bounced back, the back splitting open as it skittered across the floor. It was probably ruined, but Viggo didn’t care—he picked out that phone with Sean. He didn’t want to look at it or touch it—not now, not ever again.

In fact—

Viggo stood up and picked up the phone. He turned it around and around before he walked it towards the table. He smacked the glass front of it against the edge, just once. A small crack formed. Viggo pressed a finger against it as he smiled slightly, then he did it again, smacking the phone over and over and over on the edge of the table until he could hear the glass splintering, feel the pieces litter against his feet, but he didn’t stop until the piece of metal completely bent into half, destroyed beyond any possible repair.

Maybe he should tape it on a canvas, call it ‘broken heart: a modern representation’. Put it up on exhibition to be sold. Viggo laughed to himself at the thought, the sound sharp and hysterical, piercing through the air. The glass was cutting into his feet. Good.

Like this, he wouldn’t have to imagine Sean, his head thrown back, pupils blown wide and dark, his lips red and swollen from biting as he spread his legs to be fucked into the mattress by Nikolaj, or by anyone else who wasn’t him.

Like this, he could tell himself that the image meant nothing to him.

***

February 2011, London


The house was empty.

But Sean had gotten used to that, hadn’t he? It had been over a month since he had returned to the empty house and the big, empty bed. Not that it was much different, with Viggo away most of the time. He was used to it.

Now he was just sitting in the living room on the couch, two packs of cigarettes lying open next to him and an ashtray on the table, with the script of Age of Heroes in front of him as he read through it over and over while he smoked. Life went on, work went on, and there was nothing wrong in Sean’s life whatsoever. He had his mates here, like always, and he went out almost every night to the pub. The fridge was full of beer; there wasn’t a need for him to keep food there because there was no one who bothered to cook in this house. Sean had thrown out most of it when he came back.

Viggo was usually the one who cooked.

He lifted his head when he heard a key in the door. Immediately he stood up, stubbing out the cigarette. He had heard the car pulling up in the driveway a couple of minutes ago, but had thought nothing of it. Probably the neighbours; wasn’t like he was expecting or wanting anyone to visit him right now.

Fuck. He had never gotten his key back, had he? Well, it looked like he was going to.

Viggo had grown thin, Sean thought, watching as Viggo stilled completely at the sight of him. Viggo had a couple of big bags on his arm, folded, and he glanced at Sean for a couple of seconds before staring at the stairs.

Fucking typical.

“I’m just here to pick up my things.”

Of course he was. Sean snorted, waving an arm towards the house. He dropped back to the couch, lighting up another cigarette.

“Feel free. Ya know what’s yers in ‘ere.”

“Yeah,” Viggo said, and Sean deliberately didn’t turn to look at him. There wasn’t a point. Never mind that he hadn’t seen Viggo for over ten months now; never mind that he hadn’t heard his voice since Christmas last year. There wasn’t a fucking point.

He heard Viggo walk up the stairs to his room—to the untouched spare room. It wasn’t locked—he never bothered to lock it—and Sean tried his best to ignore the sound of footsteps and shifting things as he turned back to his script and his smokes. After he had finished the second pack, he looked at the cigarette stub he had snuffed out when Viggo first came in. There was still half of it left, and Sean picked it up and went to the kitchen, looking for a scissors and cutting off the burnt part on the sink. He then lit it up again, leaning on the counter.

Viggo was coming down the stairs. There had been a time when Sean would be glad of that sound, but now he felt nothing.

When he next looked up, Viggo was leaning on the doorframe, looking at Sean. There wasn’t much of a difference to him whether Viggo was in front of him or not.

“You can throw away the big stuff. The easels, whatever. I took whatever I needed,” Viggo raised the two full bags in his hands. Sean looked at them; looked at Viggo closely, and he might be smoking, but only a completely deadened man would not notice the perfume still lingering in the air. Only a blind man would lipstick prints on his collar, the too-slim handprints at the hems of his shirt. Looked like someone’s proprietary. Sean didn’t blame them—he was, and he only hoped that it would go better for them than it did for him.

(No. No, he didn’t. But he could pretend that he did.)

He only chuckled, “Looks like ya ain’t taken long ta find someone else, eh?” He waved a hand towards Viggo. “Poet, photographer, publisher, and actor; probably got people linin’ fer a taste of ya.”

Viggo stilled completely. Deliberately, he placed the bags on the ground, crossing his arms and ankles as he looked at Sean.

“I didn’t realise that you’re the only one who can fuck someone else,” he said, every word slow, his eyes like burning coals upon Sean’s skin. “Especially now. We’re over, aren’t we, Sean?”

“I ain’t stoppin’ ya,” Sean said, shrugging. He took a slow inhale of his cancer stick, his eyes not leaving Viggo’s. “But who is it, Vig? Ya want ta tell me who’s pickin’ up Sean Bean’s leftovers?”

Viggo moved faster than he could see, one hand grabbing Sean by the upper arms and pressing him hard against the counter. His fingers plucked the cigarette from Sean’s hand and he took a drag from it, and the move was so familiar from all the times they had shared smokes together that Sean suddenly couldn’t breathe.

Then Viggo blew smoke at his face, and his smile was so unlike all the other smiles that Sean had ever received from this man.

“Her name is Ariadna Gil,” Viggo said, very softly. Without turning away, he flicked the cigarette over to the sink “She’s Spanish and I’m living at her place right now. A nice, big house; it’s a beautiful place, really. I think you might remember her from Alatriste and Appaloosa.” His hand came up, bunching the cloth around Sean’s neck, almost hard enough to cut off his air.

“See, Sean? You’re not the only one who knows how to fuck a castmate.”

Sean saw red. He shoved Viggo away hard, and before he could stop himself, he punched him across the jaw. Viggo didn’t even bother looking at him before he laughed again, his hand rubbing the spot where Sean’s fist had landed.

“You’ve always had the best solutions to problems, Sean: violence, or sex.” He straightened up and looked Sean straight in the eye. “Talking is too good for the great Sean Bean, isn’t it?”

Sean opened his mouth, but he couldn’t get a single word out before Viggo backhanded him across the face. His teeth cut into his lip from the blow but Sean didn’t even notice, already taking a step forward and grabbing onto Viggo’s head, holding tight before he shoved his knee into his ribs. He knew that he was proving Viggo right, but he couldn’t help himself. He just wanted Viggo to shut up, just to shut up. He didn’t want to hear a single word from him, not when he knew they were not and would never be what he wanted to hear.

Viggo only laughed breathlessly, a sound that made the red deepen even further behind Sean’s eyes. But Viggo was punching him hard on the sternum, driving all the air out of his lungs, and he grabbed Sean’s head and smacked it hard enough on the counter to make him see stars.

“I hate you,” Viggo said. There was a note in his voice that Sean didn’t want to listen to; something that matched the gentling of Viggo’s hand in his hair. “I fucking hate you, you bastard.”

Sean nearly tore his hair out by their roots as he shoved himself backwards, away from Viggo’s grasp. He didn’t look up, didn’t look at the bastard before he smack his head hard into his throat. At the same moment, he droved him back until he could see Viggo’s feet stumbling.

“Get out,” he hissed, still staring at the floor. “Get the fuck out of me ‘ouse . I don’t want ta see yer fuckin’ face.”

He heard Viggo take in a breath; could see his hands slowly curling into fists by his side. “Good,” Viggo snarled. “I don’t want to see you either.”

A breath, two. Sean waited until Viggo was retreating. Then he looked up, his eyes boring into the wall right beside Viggo’s head.

“I want me stuff back,” Sean said, and he kept his voice as steady as he could, his knuckles turning white, stark against the black marble counter. “Ya know me address, so pack up all me stuff from Idaho and send it over ‘ere.”

Viggo was silent for a long moment. “Fine,” he finally said, and then he was picking up his bags and slamming the door on his way out. The echo of the sound resounded around the house.

Only when it had stopped completely and he heard the car move out of the driveway would Sean let himself fall to his knees. The fridge was right there. He opened the door and took out a can of beer, opening it and drinking deeply. He finished that can in record time, crushed it, and tossed it in the direction of the sink. Then he took another one.

He might as well stay here. There weren’t much out there for him anyway.

***

March 2011, Los Angeles


Promotions were always a pesky thing. Nikolaj knew that they were necessary, of course, because that was when people saw actors out of character, and it helped to prevent them from attaching the actor too much to a character. That and it helped the actors get to know the fans, get their names out there so that they would have other jobs when this current gig was over. It was probably a cynical way of looking at things, but Nikolaj had always been a realist. An actor had to be, in this profession; the Hollywood dream was only for people who weren’t actually involved in the business.

Though, it helped that he actually liked the people he was working with this time. Sometimes it was a damn pain in the ass to have to do promotions with people he already disliked. This cast, though, they knew how to have fun, how to throw a party, and Nikolaj couldn’t help grinning as he leaned on the wall, watching. He wanted a cigarette, but they were in Los Angeles and there were those pesky laws; he didn’t want to be thrown out of the bar.

“Nikolaj?”

He blinked at the voice, turning around to see Emilia look at him with huge eyes. Immediately he reached forward, swinging an arm around her and holding her close. His other hand ruffled through her long hair, mussing it up even further, and she smacked at his arm and laughed. God, but she was a pretty girl.

“I’m not here to be molested, you know,” she said wryly, her voice almost muffled against his clothes.

“Yeah?” he tipped his head, looking down at her. “What are you here for, then?”

“It’s kind of stupid- okay, it’s really stupid and I can’t believe that I’m saying this, but do you think that I’m pretty?”

Nikolaj blinked. He stared at her, but she wasn’t looking at him. It was easy enough to follow her gaze.

Off to the other side of the bar, Sean had found another admirer. She was tall, blond, with cheekbones to kill for, and he was handing her a beer. Without letting the girl’s hand touch the glass, he snatched it up and brought it to his lips, and even from here Nikolaj could perfectly envision his flirtatious smile and the way his tongue darted out to taste her skin. It wasn’t just that he had personal experience of that smile and tongue; Sean had been doing this with every single new country and hotel that they had been to.

He ruffled Emilia’s hair again.

“You’re not pretty,” he told her seriously, his gaze heavy on her. He only let a few seconds lapse before he smiled widely. “You’re a fucking stunning woman, Emilia, and if I’m not married you should worry about your virtue.”

Emilia gave him an open-mouthed look before her eyes darted back to Sean.

“He doesn’t seem to think so,” she said. Then she sighed heavily, rubbed at her own eyes. “I mean, I’ve seen him flirt with Lena, Michelle, you…every single female crew member and even a few of the male ones… Except for me. God, Nikolaj, I swear he even flirts with Richard.”

“Everyone flirts with Richard,” Nikolaj countered mildly. “His pale Scottish complexion is too much to pass up.”

The girl punched him hard on the arm. “I’m being serious here. Is there something wrong with me?”

“You’ve ever seen Sean flirting with Sophie?”

“God, no!” Emilia wrinkled her nose, and Nikolaj found it so cute that he had to flick it. “She’s like, fifteen. And she plays his daughter.”

“And you are just one year older than Sean’s daughter, sweetheart,” Nikolaj tilted her face up so that she could look at him. She was tiny and beautiful and it was a damn shame that Jaime Lannister never had a single scene with the last heir of the Dragon King. Or maybe it was a good thing, because she was tempting. He wondered how Jason dealt with it. He shook his head a little to dislodge those thoughts; that wasn’t the point.

“He’s fallen low, but he’s not fallen that low yet.”

“You mean that he’ll have to be desperate before he tries to pick me up?” She bit her lip, turning her head away slightly.

“No,” Nikolaj said. At the opposite corner, Sean’s laughter rang out, loud enough to echo. Nikolaj watched him as he placed a kiss on his latest conquest’s cheek, and wondered wryly if he should tell the man that he should stop trying to pick up people who reminded him of the one he was really looking for.

Really, ‘Viggo’ wasn’t a common name, and it was easy enough to Google it. This whole thing was going to turn him completely off sleeping with his castmates. A damn shame; they were all so attractive.

“I’m saying that he’s being a complete slut right now because there’s something wrong with him, not with you,” he said dryly. “But what’s wrong with him right now isn’t so bad that he would sleep with someone his daughter’s age, no matter how gorgeous you are.” He paused, giving her a wry grin.

“I’m pretty bad at comforting people.”

“That’s obvious,” she teased, and Nikolaj heaved a sigh of relief when he saw the small smile on her lips.

They watched Sean together for a moment before she cocked her head, looking up at Nikolaj again. “I’m not saying that I agree with you that he’s being a slut, but what is wrong with him?”

Nikolaj shrugged, “My best guess is that he’s trying to spite someone, but who it is or about what…” He placed a finger to her lips, “That, my radiant Emilia, is not my story to tell.”

He turned towards Sean again, watching their main character twirl the girl in his arms, laughing again. Nikolaj wondered how much he had had drank that night.

Damn, he would have to do something about that guilt that was plaguing him, wouldn’t he?

*

Sean had never been particularly claustrophobic. He hated planes, yeah, but it was less of the enclosed space than the fact that it was several thousand feet off the damn ground. But he just couldn’t help but feel closed in, in the bar, with so many people there, so he went out.

Nikolaj was outside too, smoking, and Sean dropped down next to him on the curb and lit up his own.

“Hey,” Nikolaj acknowledged him.

It was stupid, but Sean couldn’t help but flinch at the greeting. Stupid, because it had been months since he had spoken to Viggo, but that was how Viggo had always started whenever they spoke to each other on the phone, or even when they saw each other again after a long separation. He looked at Nikolaj for a moment before he grunted noncommittally, taking a drag of his cigarette.

“You going to bring that girl back?”

Sean shrugged, “Don’t know yet.”

“She seems plenty willing. I was just wondering if we need to go back a little bit later, so that you can…” he waved a hand.

“Probably,” Sean lifted a shoulder again. There was a moment of silence before he sighed. “Sorry fer that. Shoulda gotten a private suite of me own, huh?”

“I’m not speaking for the others, but I don’t mind,” Nikolaj’s smile was brief as he let his cigarette drop to the ground, rubbing it out with a booted toe. “It’s a little less awkward than you fucking Lena.”

Sean flinched again, and didn’t reply. He could feel Nikolaj’s gaze on him, somehow reminding him of that Christmas Day, but he only ducked his head down and puffed some more on his cigarette. He didn’t even know why they were having a conversation. Nikolaj was a castmate, yeah, and maybe Sean would even call him a friend, but he didn’t like talking to him nowadays.

“Are you going to stay in America after this?”

“Wot?” Sean jerked his head up, eyes automatically narrowing.

Nikolaj met his glare evenly, “I asked if you’re going to stay in America after this.” He waved a hand, “The promotions, I mean.”

“Ain’t no reason ta stay,” Sean said. He meant to stop that, he really did, but the words tumbled out of him before he could stop there. “Ain’t no reason ta see that bastard. He’s got a new girl already, hasn’t ‘e? She’s fuckin’ pretty and ‘e’s known ‘er fer six years now. Maybe she’s been wantin’ ‘im fer that long too. I ain’t care. I ain’t give a shit ‘bout that.” He twisted the cigarette in his hand until it broke, scattering raw tobacco everywhere and he looked down, stamping on the embers viciously, wishing that it was Viggo’s face that he was trampling on. “She can ‘ave ‘im fer all that I care about.”

He barked a laugh. “Funny fuckin’ bastard he is. All that talk ‘bout ‘us’ this, ‘us’ that, and ‘e’s the one that finds someone the very fuckin’ moment I did ‘im the favour of endin’ ‘is damn bullshit.” His hands shook, but they were still steady enough for him to light another cigarette. He wished Nikolaj would say something, wished even that he would kiss him and they could go back to the hotel room and fuck so he could forget about all of this. Maybe he should go back inside and bring the girl back; she was willing enough.

“She speaks Spanish, ya know?” He took a long drag and nearly choked on the smoke with his next chuckle, dark and bitter with no humour in it at all. “I tried ta learn, but I ain’t good wi’ other languages like ‘e is. I ain’t even like ya, wi’ the ability ta make movies in more than one language.” His eyes flickered to Nikolaj. “I ain’t ever spoken anythin’ other than English, but that ain’t enough fer ‘im, is it? Ain’t fuckin’ good enough.”

His gaze was hostile when it turned to Nikolaj, but the anger wasn’t turned towards the other man. Not towards this man, at any rate. “The fuck didja ask that fer?”

Nikolaj only smiled, a small knowing expression that Sean hated immediately. “There are brochures for New Orleans and Idaho all over the suite, Sean, and I’m pretty sure they’re yours.”

Sean gritted his teeth so hard that he bit through the filter of his cigarette, and he spat it out and threw the thing down in disgust. No use trying to smoke anyway; it wasn’t calming him. “Fuckin’ busybody ya are.”

“Maybe,” Nikolaj said. He wiped his hands on his trousers before slapping a hand on Sean’s shoulder. “Or maybe I’m just sick of you looking at everyone and seeing the person that they’re not.”

“What do ya mean?” The words came out as a growl.

“I notice that you have a type, Sean, whether male or female. They all have changeable grey eyes and beautiful cheekbones. I might not have met Viggo Mortensen,” Sean couldn’t help the flinch at the name being spoken out loud, even though he had just been talking about the man less than a minute ago, “but the internet has plenty of pictures of him.”

“It ain’t any of yer fuckin’ business.”

“It is when you fucked me because I remind you of him, or because I don’t remind you of him, whichever it was.” Nikolaj leaned in, and his voice was almost poisonous as it caressed Sean’s ear.

“Hvem tænker du på, Sean?”

Before Sean could sock him—and wouldn’t that be a laugh, trying to explain why Nikolaj had a black eye in the middle of the promotions circuit—he was already dancing away, squeezing Sean’s shoulder lightly.

“Or maybe, just maybe, I want you to stop being the stereotypical Hollywood slut that everyone were so glad you weren’t.”

Sean could punch him, he really could, but he knew that the person he really wanted to punch himself. Or Viggo, but Viggo was several oceans away, wasn’t he? Like he always was. Instead, he only rubbed a hand over his eyes, avoiding Nikolaj’s near-burning gaze.

“Just say what yer ‘ere ta say.”

“You’re the one who started ranting about him when I asked a simple question,” Nikolaj pointed out, flat and matter-of-fact. “Look, I consider you a friend, alright? I wouldn’t be saying this otherwise; wouldn’t have fucked you either. Hell, I wouldn’t have fucked you if I’ve known that you were actually attached.”

Sean winced again. Ten years; ten years and no one other than their families, the Fellowship, and some of their closest friends had known. Wasn’t that absolutely fantastic? He locked his hands together, turning his eyes up to finally look at Nikolaj. But Nikolaj had his hands stuffed in his pockets and he was staring at the ground.

“Fix it, Sean,” he said quietly. He finally turned, reaching out and cupping Sean’s jaw with a gentleness that was crueller than any harsh grip he could have used. “Go to him. See him. Resolve this before you tear yourself apart.”

“I ain’t,” Sean denied it, but he knew the words were a weak lie even before they escaped his lips.

Nikolaj didn’t call him out on it, only moved his hand until he was stroking Sean’s hair, leaning in and pressing a gentle kiss on his forehead. In that moment, just that one moment, the move was so familiar that Sean could almost close his eyes and pretend that it was Viggo doing this. But Nikolaj’s hand was too large, his face was entirely the wrong shape, and his voice wasn’t Viggo’s.

“I know I’ll probably not see you again on this show because George likes killing off the decent characters, but the next time I see you, I want you to be able to smile without looking like you’re dying inside, yeah? I’m a selfish bastard; it makes me guilty, thinking that I did that to you.”

Sean laughed, a broken and brittle sound.

“Like he’d still want me.” Funny, how that worked. Sean was the one who had cut ties, but he was also the pathetic sod who was still looking into the mirror and wondered what was so inadequate about himself that Viggo just up and decided that he wasn’t worth looking at anymore.

“Ten years, wasn’t it?” Nikolaj smiled against his skin. “I don’t know him, Sean, but I don’t think you’d stay with him for ten years if he doesn’t love you back as desperately as you do him. I’m almost jealous.”

With that parting shot, he pulled away, standing up. He gave Sean a small smile before he went back inside the bar.

Sean watched him go before he stood up himself and hailed a cab. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but the brochures were a start. His hand closed around his phone and he wondered if his agent would know where Viggo was.

Ariadna was especially beautiful in the morning.

She was leaning on the door of the room he had taken for his studio, dressed only in a thin flannel shift that covered her wrists. Viggo looked at her, finally turning away from the large canvas that he had been staring at ever since the sun had risen this morning, and he reached out an arm for her. Her hand tangled with his as she took the three steps forward, and she leaned in and gently kissed his hair.

“You haven’t slept,” she said, her own voice thick with the fog of the newly-awaken, the Spanish words slurred from her usually impeccable Madrid accent.

Viggo shook his head, closing his eyes for a long moment, “Couldn’t.”

She shifted until she was standing beside him, looking at what he had been staring at—what he was still staring at. Her fingers reached out, almost touching the edge of the canvas- and Viggo couldn’t help himself. He grabbed onto them, tugging her back almost too harshly, then let out a breath and gentled the motion with a soft kiss on her fingertips.

He had to close his eyes to avoid the pity of her gaze.

“You still love him,” she murmured in English, and her tone was the exact one Sigmund Freud had used on Sabina Spielrein, once upon a time. His breath shuddered out of his lungs and he forced his eyes open to meet hers.

“No, I don’t. How can I, when he doesn’t seem to give a fuck about me?”

Ariadna only smiled softly in reply. Her hands splayed out over his jaw, touching him with only her fingertips. “It’s always possible to love someone who does not seem to want you at all, my love,” she said, and there was that pain in her eyes again; a hurt that he was aware of these past five months and change, a hurt that he was aware he had caused. “You know that perfectly well, Viggo.”

He pulled away from her grasp to walk towards the window, staring mindlessly out to the backyard. Viggo had never been one for gardening—it had always seemed too much like trying to restrain what should never be kept behind neat, trim lines—but he had learned the names of the plants she had anyway. He knew that he could say that he learned them all for the sake of it, but he knew that his heart was a traitorous thing, and it still had hope that one day he be able to would show Sean these plants, and Sean would give him that soft, sweet little smile that Viggo had long associated with his garden.

“It’s a fool’s errand to even try.”

“I know,” Ariadna replied. She turned his head towards her and placed a kiss on his cheek, friendly and perfunctory. “That’s why I’m not going to keep trying. I think I deserve better than a man whose heart belongs elsewhere, no matter how quickly a single glance of you makes my own beat.”

“Ariadna—”

She placed a finger on his lips, silencing his protest. “You will always be my friend, Viggo, and you will always have a place here, in my home and in my heart.” Her hand closed into a fist that she placed over her chest. “But you need to look for yours as well.”

“I wasn’t talking about you,” he protested. Even as he spoke, he knew that it was useless.

Ariadna indulged him anyway. “I know, but what you said is true in most cases. Not yours, however.”

Viggo laughed a little, rubbing his hand over his lip and nose. He paused midway through the motion and let his hand drop back to his side. “How do I always end up with optimists?”

“Your heart is an optimist,” Ariadna shot back lightly. She chuckled quietly, dragging a hand through her hair. “But listen to me, Viggo. You’re an extraordinary man, and after five months I cannot imagine not ever having fallen for you. Why would anyone who had loved you for ten years not love you any longer?”

“Exene stopped,” he said, cursing himself inwardly for the easy way that he destroyed the very hope that he wanted to grab onto with both hands. There was nothing more that he wanted to believe in than that Sean loved him, but he knew better. Wasn’t Sean the one who broke it off, who fucked someone else?

Ariadna gave him a wry look, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking about. Knowing her, she probably did; every single word. “If David and I are ever capable of reaching even half of what you have with Exene even now, I will be extremely thankful. Most exes aren’t capable of still going on vacations together with the child they share, you know.”

Viggo let out a hard exhale. He couldn’t help the small, upward quirk of his lips. “You’re determined to cheer me up.”

“No,” Ariadna corrected him. “I’m determined to make you go for what you really want, because being the second best gets really tiring after a while.”

His smile failed immediately at those words, and he reached out a hand, gently stroking her hair. “I’ve sorry; I’ve been unfair to you.”

“I knew what I was getting into. Even that first day, when you stumbled through my door, there was nothing in your eyes except a reflection of him.” She turned her head and kissed his palm. “I’m too old for illusions, but I let you in anyway.”

There was nothing else Viggo could say. He could only close his eyes, leaning in and kissed her forehead.

“Thank you.”

***

August 2011, New Orleans


Sean Bean was a fucking coward.

Near half a year wasted looking for an excuse; near half a year wasted because he didn’t have the courage to pick up the damn phone and ask if Viggo would ever want to see him again. Then again, maybe that wasn’t his fault entirely—it wasn’t as if Viggo had reached out a hand either. But then again, would Sean have taken that hand if it was offered? Viggo had disappointed him for so many times that he wondered why he would try, why he would set himself up for another possible disappointment.

Sean was thinking in circles, thinking in the same damn circles that he had been thinking in since the March when the promotions ended. At least he had work to distract him; Sean had always scoffed at the actors who seemed to jump into other people’s heads in order to avoid their own, but nowadays he was reduced to just scoffing at himself. It was so much easier to just be someone else for a while.

For first time he wished that he was more like Viggo, that the character he played lingered with him after work every day. But Sean wasn’t a man like that; he couldn’t run away forever, and after Age of Heroes was over he was left with himself again, looking in the mirror and not liking what he saw looking back.

That man was a liar and a half, and Sean was tired of being him. He pulled the car into the parking lot nearest to where the film crew was. Out of the corner of his eye, he could already see the boy nearly vibrating in spot as he waited. Sean almost smiled as he climbed out of the car, turning his head and smiling.

“Hey, Garrett.”

“Sean!” Garrett ran over, stopping barely a few steps in front of Sean, neatly intruding into his personal space. “It’s so cool that you’ve found time to come. I haven’t seen you in ages! God, you knew me when I still had trouble growing facial hair!”

Sean laughed, and it was a genuine sound. He swung an arm around Garrett’s shoulders, “So ya gonna keep that prickly ‘air on yer face fer this shoot?”

“Just a little bit.”

Months of waiting and looking for an excuse. On the Road gave him the perfect excuse in the form of Garrett Hedlund. It didn’t matter that he had something like half a scene with that kid in Troy, because Hedlund remembered him and invited him to the set the moment he had breathed that he had an interest. Sean wondered when he had become so purely mercenary; when he started making use of other people for his own means. He knew that he should feel guiltier over it, but he didn’t.

Funny how being away from Viggo exposed the worst parts of him. Maybe he should blame that on the man too. Sean chuckled at the thought.

“So who else is on the set?”

“Well, pretty much everyone,” Garrett answered immediately, completely oblivious to the sudden turn of Sean’s thoughts. “Kristen Stewart, Kirsten Dunst, Sam Riley… I don’t suppose you know any of them?”

“Nah,” Sean said. He tipped his head to the side and waited.

“Oh, yeah, and Viggo just arrived this morning! Viggo Mortensen; he plays Old Bull Lee—you know, William Burroughs? Man, I’m scared shitless just by the thought of him here. I’ve been looking up every possible philosophical movement that’s been attached to the Beat generation, just in case, I don’t know, he brings it up during conversation or something.”

Sean looked at the kid for a moment. Slowly, his lips curved upwards and he threw his head back and laughed. Fucking odd, really fucking odd, to talk to someone who knew Viggo and him both but didn’t know about the two of them, didn’t know the wreck they had both made of their relationship. He chuckled loud and long, slapping Garrett hard on the back, hard enough to make the boy stumble, before he shook his head.

“He won’t, cross me ‘eart,” he said, still laughing under his breath. “I can promise ya that.”

“You know him?” Garrett’s mouth was little bit open as he stared. Then he shook his head hard. “What kind of question is that? Of course you do, from Lord of the Rings, right?”

“Yeah,” Sean said, and he hoped Garrett did not notice the strange distance in his smile.

“He’s an old friend of mine.”

*

Viggo turned, halfway into a word with Walter. Immediately, his head cocked to the side as he tried to catch hold of that elusive voice in the wind—a very familiar laugh and one that he missed as greatly as he missed having heartbeats that signified something other than that he was still alive. Walter gave him a strange look, but Viggo ignored him, his eyes slipping fully shut as he tried to find that voice.

Nothing. Of course there was nothing. Damn, he thought he had stopped hallucinating Sean’s presence since March. He rubbed at his eyes.

“You alright there?” Walter asked him, and there was a quiet caution in his voice.

“Yeah,” Viggo said, coughing and clearing his throat when he realised how very rough his voice was. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just thought I heard something.” He tried frantically to recall their previous topic of conversation. They had been talking about Old Bull Lee… something about his sexuality, which was entirely uninteresting. Viggo would rather talk about—

“I wonder if Bull Lee- Burroughs- if he had ever heard voices like that, in the wind. He’s described writing Naked Lunch as something almost like an out-of-body experience, writing without thinking, just typing out the words without going through the filter of his consciousness. Obviously there must be some lucidity in him because he’s still capable of understanding the meaning of words; he’s not writing gibberish like Lewis Carroll when he wrote Jabberwocky—though that’s a completely different kind of gibberish, not the use of the word as understood conventionally—but returning to Burroughs, I wonder what he thinks about the Greek concept of muses, of authors as conduits instead creators, helpless at the fingertips of immortal beings with great powers who whisper in their ears.” He scratched at his jaw, took a breath, and ignored Kristen’s uncomprehending stare right beside him and Walter’s suddenly-intense eyes. “I wonder if he would believe that the drugs are in fact the muse that whispers in his ears and he only writes that down, or if the drugs become like a…. well, a q-tip I guess, something to clean out your ears so that you can listen to people better.”

“I don’t think he’s ever thought about drugs and the muses in the same sentence like ya just did. He calls ‘is drugs ‘junk’, yeah? ‘The ideal product’ fer sellin’. Ya can’t sell muses or creativity, can ya?”

That was Sean’s voice.

Viggo stopped talking immediately, his hand closing at his side. Like Orpheus, he so badly wanted to turn around to check if Sean was really there; yet like Orpheus, he was terribly afraid that if he did, Sean would disappear, condemned back into the underworld because of Viggo’s foolishness.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged without turning around, his hand starting to curl into a fist. Of all the places to choose, why had Sean chosen somewhere so public?

(He knew the answer already—because Sean was a coward, because Viggo was a coward as well, and both of them needed being in public to delay the inevitable confrontation.)

“There’s plenty of artists who swear that sleep deprivation or drugs help them to create better.”

Sean snorted, “Ain’t it you who said that art’s just a matter o’ payin’ attention? If ya need somethin’ ta make ya see somethin’ in a way that allows ya ta make art, ya ain’t payin’ close enough attention in the first place.”

Viggo took a deep breath and turned around. Near a lamppost on the street just inches away from Viggo, Sean stood, his hands shoved into his pockets, his head cocked slightly to the side. He was half-smiling and, Viggo noticed, his fingers were curled inside his pockets, the tips digging hard into his thighs.

“And what do you know about art, Ranuccio?”

Sean arched an eyebrow, perfectly British in his expression, “Of all the fuckin’ movies, couldn’t ya ‘ave picked another one, Master Chief?”

They looked at each other. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see his new castmates looking from him to Sean then back again, utter confusion written on their features. He ignored them, his eyes fixed upon Sean—noticing the slight pallor to his cheeks, the dark circles laid below his eyelids, and the lines writ even deeper into his skin. Sean looked worse than the last time Viggo had seen him, and Viggo knew that he had aged, too.

He knew he shouldn’t, but he smiled. A small laugh escaped him before it exploded into full-blown giggles, and he shoved a hand into his mouth but it was too late, laughter spilled out of him and he was bent over, howling without knowing why. He wasn’t alone, because he could hear Sean’s deep, rumbling chuckles alongside him, and they had somehow managed to stumble towards each other, their hands closing around each other’s shoulders, and Viggo was leaning on Sean and Sean was leaning back as they tried to stifle their mildly hysterical laughter, but neither of them could.

Sean felt so warm against him, skin against skin, and it was so goddamn wonderful that Viggo felt his eyes burn.

Viggo was damn glad that he had a reputation for being just a little bit off his trolley, because he couldn’t at all explain what the hell was happening right at the moment. He only knew that he was laughing with Sean, something he hadn’t done for over a year, and it felt so good. Like coming home.

“What- what are you doing here?” he gasped out when he gained some modicum of control over himself.

Sean slapped him hard on the back before he pulled away, dragging Garrett Hedlund over. The boy blinked owlishly at Viggo and alright, it was probably imagination, but the kid looked terrified for the briefest of moments before he smiled.

“Viggo,” Sean declared, deepening his voice as much as possible. “I would like to introduce you to my friend Garrett Hedlund. He plays Dean Moriarty in this movie, ain’t that grand? I came over ta visit ‘im”

Like hell you did, Viggo thought, and he was surprised that his own mental tone was fond instead of angry like he thought it would be. He took Garrett’s hand and shook it solemnly.

“Such a kindly man, Mister Sean Bean is,” he said in an exaggerated stage whisper. “To introduce me to my own castmate.”

“Nah,” Sean said, and he was back to leaning on the lamppost. “I just like it when yer payin’ attention ta me.”

Viggo looked at him. There was a solemn undertone to Sean’s words that he didn’t quite understand but he knew, instinctively, that they had to discuss it, sooner or later. But not now, not now in front of so many people who didn’t deserve to know the full extent of their relationship. Viggo looked at Sean for a long moment, his lips parting to ask—

“Hey, Vig,” Sean said, and his words were so abrupt that Viggo’s own teeth clacked closed, nearly biting off the tip of his tongue. “Ya want ta go fer a drink later?”

“Yeah,” he heard himself saying before he could think about it or regret it (the two were almost synonymous, nowadays). “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

*

There wasn’t any filming to be done for Viggo; the day was just an introduction between him and his new castmates. Sean had left after the first few minutes, and Viggo had surprised himself once again by the sheer ache he felt when he saw the man’s back disappear behind the new-built and new-repaired houses and streets of New Orleans. He thought he had gotten used to the idea of Sean disappearing from him long ago. Apparently not.

Maybe Ariadna was right that Sean loved him still. Or maybe Viggo should just try to find out if she was. It was only fair—after all, Sean had taken the first step and came here, hadn’t he?

They had decided on the bar near the bed-and-breakfast that Viggo had found himself in. The producers had offered to set him up in a hotel, but Viggo decided that Burroughs probably didn’t have the money to afford a proper hotel and probably stowed himself in one of the many little places like these. That and Viggo liked the idea that he was supporting the local economy instead of big hotel chains in New Orleans; that in return for the city so generously lending the movie its environs, Viggo would try to encourage its people and get to know them.

He kept his mind on the city as he waited for Sean at the bar. Years ago, he had waited for Sean in a bar like this, called the Green Parrot, all the way on the other side of the world. New Zealand seemed like a dream—a place where he and Sean first found each other, and Viggo first understood the ache of missing someone for a few hours; when he first recognised a certain light in Sean’s eyes that said, Hey, I haven’t seen you in a few hours, I’ve missed you.

Maybe they had simply taken each other for granted through the past years.

Viggo took a long drag of his cigarette. One good thing about New Orleans was that the bars themselves, as long as they weren’t attached to a restaurant, allowed for smoking indoors. Viggo was already building up a small pile in his ashtray while his single beer was left untouched. He waved down the bartender and ordered another two packs of his usual brand and left them by his elbow.

Maybe it would have been a better idea to invite Sean up to his room- no. That would be a terrible idea. Viggo rubbed at his jaw, wishing that he had something other than cigarettes to occupy himself.

Then Sean breezed in through the door and dropped down into the seat opposite him before Viggo could even take a breath.

“I was outside,” Sean said, his words quick and overly casual. “Just outside. Saw ya when ya came in ‘round fifteen, twenty minutes ago. Spent that time tryin’ ta convince meself ta not run away wi’ me tail between me legs and ta just come in.”

He laughed, turning his head away and slipping a cigarette out of his pocket. Viggo moved on automatic, his mind whirling over Sean’s words but his fingers remembered motions ten years familiar, reaching forward and cupping his hand around the cigarette, snapping on the lighter. Sean glanced at him over the flickering flame before he leaned in, taking a deep breath. The smoke curled around his face. Viggo’s fingers ached to pick up a camera, because Sean was absolutely beautiful in that moment. Just like that: perfectly normal, perfectly common, just another man in a bar smoking, and he was gorgeous beyond words.

It had been so long since Viggo had wanted to pick up a camera. His hands almost trembled at the want of it, but he pushed it away.

Not now; not now.

“In June-” Viggo started hoarsely. He cleared his throat and rubbed at his nose and lips. “In June, a good friend of mine told me that I’ve been using her rather badly, because I promised her half a heart when, in fact, I haven’t got a single damn piece left to give.”

“That friend in Madrid?” Sean said, and he turned away to exhale out smoke, and Viggo could not see his face.

“Barcelona,” he replied. He answered the unasked question: “But Spain, yes.”

“Wise girl, that,” Sean continued, and there was a caution in his voice that made Viggo’s hands shake slightly. He clamped down on the filter of his cigarette and took a long drag.

“I reckon so too.” He paused, and he knew that he was sabotaging himself, sabotaging them, but he couldn’t help it. Sean refused to look at him, and Viggo in turn refused to feel guilty for trying to find comfort in someone else’s arms when Sean was the one who walked away.

“How’s Nikolaj these days?”

Sean let out his smoke in a long, slow stream, his shrug carefully careless. “I don’t know. I ‘aven’t talked ta ‘im since March.”

“I think,” Viggo said before he could think on it and swallow the words back. “I think we should have this conversation somewhere else.”

There was a silence as Sean avoided his eyes, gaze roaming all over the table before he found the ashtray and stubbed out his cigarette in it.

“Aye.” His eyes flickered upwards. “Ya got a place? A’ouse?”

“A room, sort of,” he smiled, half-depreciatingly. “In a bed and breakfast. The couple that owns it are pretty friendly…”

Sean snorted. “I’ve got a ‘otel room,” he offered.

Viggo was sick of hotel rooms; sick of anonymity, sick of perfectly polished manners, sick of being called ‘Mister Mortensen’ and being treated like a King while subtly being looked at in askance thanks to his lack of shoes. But he knew that they would get no peace at his place, and the anonymity was a blessing. He knew for a fact that he was going to shout; his voice was already storing itself in his throat, ready to burst.

So he closed his eyes and took the last drag of his cigarette, nodding. He stood up.

“Let’s go.”

*

Sean didn’t much care about the brand that was emblazoned on the hotel room’s entrance or pretty much anything in the room. It was anonymous and the people knew better than to ask questions, and that was all he cared about. Case in point: the porter barely gave him a glance when he brought Viggo up to his room.

He slammed his keycard into the lock, the movement violent to hide the shaking of his hands.

Then he opened the door and let Viggo in.

“Nice place. Plenty anonymous, isn’t it? Plenty of people who tend to your every need without wanting to know the reason behind them.” Viggo said, his tone acidly casual. So that was how it was then. He should have known better.

Sean looked at him, shrugging before he tossed his keycard and wallet towards the shoe rack. “Yeah, it’s fuckin’ nice. Better than—” he looked at Viggo again before he laughed, no humour in the sound this time. “Never mind. Never fuckin’ mind.”

Viggo moved fast; he had always been fast, and he was grabbing Sean by the shoulders, slamming him onto the nearest wall before Sean even realised what he was doing. “Oh no, you don’t get to avoid answering my question like that. You came here to see me, didn’t you?”

“I came ‘ere fer Garrett.”

“Bullshit. You were just using him as an excuse.”

“That’s fuckin’ rich, comin’ from ya,” Sean shot back, his teeth gritting together and his breath coming in a sharp hiss. “That’s fuckin’ rich, given that ya probably ‘ave a doctorate in usin’ people.”

Viggo’s eyes widened, “What does this have to do with Ariadna?”

His grip had loosened on Sean, and Sean took the chance to shove him off. “Ariadna. Fuck, Vig, if that’s where yer thoughts are goin’, we ain’t got anythin’ ta say ta each other.”

“No,” Viggo insisted, and he was in Sean’s personal space again. Their hips touched; despite Sean’s anger, despite his constant reminders to himself that he no longer wanted this man, he could hear his breath catching. He tried to lean back further but there was nowhere to go, for there was only an unyielding wall behind him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“It must feel good, ain’t it?” he said, eyes fixed on the wall right opposite Viggo’s left shoulder. “Feel damn good, every single time ya tell me ya miss me, ya love me, and I believe it with all me ‘eart. ‘Cause I do, every single fuckin’ time. Then I feel like a fuckin’ idiot, ‘cause then ya’d say that ya got somethin’ else on, somethin’ else more important than me ta spend yer fuckin’ time on, and I ain’t mean nothin’ ta ya despite all ya said. Ya probably were laughin’ at me all the damn time, yeah?”

Viggo gasped, the air cold against Sean’s collarbone, and Sean took a sharp, vicious thrill in that reaction.

“I thought we said that we’re not going to try to interfere with each other’s careers.”

“Aye,” Sean shrugged as much as he could in that position. “I said that, aye. Seems like I’m just the one impeding yer career all the time. All yer projects, all yer movies and art—all that comes first, aye? I just come dead last, that’s all.” He opened his eyes, wrestled his arms from Viggo’s grasp and grabbed onto Viggo’s shirt front himself.

When he spoke, his voice was soft, and it was damn weak of him, but he couldn’t keep the hurt from his words, “When’s the last time ya ‘ave looked at me properly, Vig?”

Viggo only shoved him back again, his voice a hard growl, “Who is the one who refuses to go public about our relationship, huh? I would come with you to your premieres if you’d only ask, but no, you prefer Nikolaj’s company, don’t you? Does he look at you the way I do, Sean? Does he pay you attention? Does the whole cast know that you’re fucking, because that’s obviously what you want?”

A mistake; a goddamn mistake to try to open his heart, to say what was hurting him, because it was just making himself vulnerable, leaving ground for Viggo to attack and tear up with his words. Sean swallowed back the hurt and refused to let it escape to his eyes or voice again. He put anger in its place, and his growl was entirely real.

“Must be nice ta bring Ariadna out. No one questionin’ ya, aye? No one spoilin’ yer career, wonderin’ if yer gay. Ya can bring ‘er ta that old couple who keeps yer room in this place and show ‘er off, say she’s yer girl. Must be nice, eh? Why ain’t she wi’ ya, Viggo? She got tired of bein’ second place ta everythin’ else already?”

“Yeah,” Viggo said, and Sean wanted so much to punch the stupid, ironic little smile out of his face. “She’s not a stupid girl, you see, and she’s sick of me seeing you every single time I’m with her, and I was with her for a pretty long time.”

He let go of Sean suddenly, stumbling backwards to lean on the shoe cabinet. His hands tugged at the hem of his own t-shirt, over and over, stretching the fabric even as he continued, “You know how seriously I take my work. We get paid an obscene amount of money to be overgrown children playing pretend, Sean; you know I want to do the best job I can. You know that from the first time you met me.”

Bastard. Goddamn fucking bastard. Just like that, Sean’s anger deflated, and he was left clamouring with his hands, trying to catch it again. He couldn’t. He was only so goddamn exhausted; of fighting with Viggo, of seeing Viggo out of the corner of his eyes with every step he took; of fighting with him even when he wasn’t; of waking up and still not getting used to the cold bed, no matter how long a time they had been spending apart.

Most of all, he was fucking tired of not being good enough.

“I’ve always—” Viggo spoke again, and Sean lifted his head. But Viggo didn’t meet his eyes, instead staring at the wall, and wasn’t that just the perfect representation of their relationship? “I’ve always seen you. There’s so much of my poetry and art that’s of you. I didn’t bring my camera out with me today, Sean. There’s no use. I don’t see anything that’s worth photographing anymore. All I notice is that I can’t see you.”

“Nice,” the bitterness spilled out of Sean even before he could stop them, but the damning thing was—he meant it. “Ya always ‘ave words, all these rich, gorgeous things, but they ain’t never mean anythin’ ta ya. Ya just say them.”

He took a long ragged breath, “I’m sorry that I ain’t good enough, Viggo. I’m so fuckin’ sorry I can’t keep me promises ta not interfere. I’m fuckin’ petty. I get so goddamn jealous of yer canvas, yer acting jobs, and I wonder when I got so fuckin’ ugly that ya don’t want ta look at me anymore.”

He swept his hands down on his jeans, ignoring that he was trembling all over and his chest burned so badly that he nearly thought he was having a heart attack. But it was a familiar hurt by now, and Sean ignored it the best he could, turning towards the door. It was a stupid mistake to come. He should just take these ten years of his life as wasted; there was no happy ending to be found here, funny how he wasn’t used to that even though this was the fourth time.

His hand was on the doorknob when he heard Viggo’s voice.

“I’m sorry.”

Viggo’s arms were around his waist and his forehead on Sean’s shoulder. Sean followed the hand on his cheek, turning him around. There was a mouth on his own, a soft sweet kiss, and Sean knew he shouldn’t, that he should get out of here because anything else would just tear another chunk out of his heart and he had none more to spare.

But he didn’t want to. His hands were already burying themselves into Viggo’s hair.

“I’m looking at you,” Viggo murmured against his mouth. Sean opened his eyes when the kiss broke and found blue eyes fixing onto his own. Viggo’s hand traced the curve of his cheek.

“I’m looking at you,” Viggo repeated. “I’m not going to turn away. God, Sean, I’m so fucking sorry, I’m so goddamn fucking sorry.” His head tilted, teeth scraping the side of Sean’s neck. “I didn’t—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sean said, and though he wanted to growl the words out, he could not find the energy to do so. He was tired of words, of everything that Viggo had ever said because he never once made good with them. “You keep talkin’, and I’ll leave ya ‘ere.”

“Don’t- fuck, alright,” Viggo took a shaky breath. “No more statements. Just questions. I think I deserve those, at least.”

Viggo’s hands slid down Sean’s arms, raising first one wrist then another and pinning them on the wood of the door. His teeth scraped against his throat again. “Did you let Nikolaj do this to you, Sean?” He flicked his tongue out at the spot just beneath Sean’s ear, and Sean couldn’t help but let out a small gasp at the sensation. “Does he know how fucking sensitive you are right here?” His hand slid up Sean’s shirt, thumb scraping the strip of skin right underneath his last rib, and Sean’s hips thrust upwards minutely.

Damn him. Damn this man.

“Why would ya care?” the words were hissed out. Not in anger, but in arousal, for Viggo’s nails were now perilously close to his hardening cock. “Though ya’d already forgotten all that. Thought ya’d never noticed.”

Viggo didn’t say a word. He only kept his gaze on Sean even as he slid down elegantly to his knees. His fingers curled into Sean’s waistband, tugging it down to expose the curve of his hipbones—and he leaned in and pressed his teeth right at the joint, biting down. Sean cried out involuntarily, his hips jerking forward, his cock growing to full hardness in his boxers and staining them wet.

“Did he, Sean?”

“It ain’t just ‘im I fucked,” Sean snarled. “Ya called me a slut, didn’t ya?”

“Mm,” Viggo said, and wasn’t it so fucking grand, that now Viggo decided to listen to him and not talk at all? But Viggo’s mouth was moving, tongue flat on his zipper and- fuck, fuck, Sean shouldn’t have looked down. The sight of Viggo’s pink tongue and white teeth against the silver of the metal made his heart skip a beat. He loved this; he always loved this, how Viggo took off his jeans with his mouth alone, tonguing the button until it slipped past the hole.

“You told me once that I shouldn’t make promises I can’t keep, Sean,” Viggo said, his words as clear as his eyes as he looked up. Sean started at his own words mirrored back to him. “So I’ll make one I’m keeping: I’ll bring you to bed, and I’ll fuck you and mark every single inch of your skin, until my touch has burned out every single other person whom you have ever fucked, and you’ll never want them again."

Viggo took his hand and slipped the fingers into his mouth, drawing it between his teeth, tongue tracing the tiny whorls. Sean stared, transfixed, as Viggo’s entire attention fixated on him, on his hand, and nothing else. His traitorous heart skipped a beat, and his hand betrayed him by shoving down his jeans until they pooled at his ankles.

“Keep it then,” he said hoarsely.

Viggo rocked backwards, standing up. He leaned forward, his hand cupping the back of Sean’s neck as he kissed him, tasting of sweat and salt and Viggo and Sean was such a fucking weak man, such a pathetic creature, because he could feel hope filling him, and wasn’t that the worst thing in the world?

They got to the bedroom somehow. Sean didn’t remember any of it. He only knew of Viggo’s eyes, Viggo’s hands, Viggo’s lips, Viggo’s entire focus upon him. The back of his knees hit the bed and he felt onto it, and Viggo’s mouth closed over his collarbone, nipping the thin skin above the bone. There, just there- and he bit down and Sean jerked under his hands like a marionette, moaning.

He didn’t even realise Viggo remembered all of these spots. It had been so long since they had touched that sometimes Sean wondered if he had hallucinated all those times when they had sex. But there was no dreamy quality to this. It was all too sharp to be real; every single shot of pleasure as Viggo used the exact right amount of pressure on the exact right spot was like lightning through his veins.

“Vig, Viggo, please, fuck- just-” he gasped loudly, arching his back as Viggo slipped a finger inside him, the angle perfect on entry to stroke his prostate. Like this, just like this, a slow draw backwards and a staccato-quick slam inside, it was so good that Sean could come just from this. He could come from any touch that Viggo had given him throughout this night.

Viggo hadn’t said a single word since his promise. Sean could only hear his breathing, getting louder and louder; could only feel the evidence of his want in his cock, trailing lines up and down Sean’s thoughts; could feel Viggo’s gaze on him all the while, raking over every inch of his skin and never once leaving him.

God. Sean lifted his leg when Viggo curled his hand underneath his calf. Then Viggo turned his head, biting the back of Sean’s knee as he stroked him from the inside. Sean jerked, crying out, and he knew he was going to have to go with turtlenecks and jeans tomorrow or else he would look like he was mauled by a wild animal, but he didn’t care.

“Fuck me, ya goddamn bastard,” Sean gasped out. He sat up suddenly, pulling his leg from Viggo’s grasp, swallowing a moan as his movements made Viggo’s fingers shift inside him. He cupped Viggo’s face with both hands, slamming their mouths together. “Kiss my legs and ankles later. Fuck me now.”

“And your feet,” Viggo murmured. Sean barked a laugh, ready to demand again, but Viggo had a hand on his chest, shoving him down on the bed. Then his fingers pulled out of Sean and he was leaning over him, his hand slamming down on the mattress right beside his head.

Sean kissed him to pre-empt any words, but Viggo didn’t even try. He only returned the kiss, their lips and tongues sliding against each other. Sean lifted his lips, Viggo folded Sean’s legs back, and the first thrust had the both of them crying out sharply. The kiss broke from sheer necessity, but their lips still brushed as Viggo pulled out and slammed into him, over and over, hard enough to shake the bed and send Sean sliding upwards towards the headboard.

“Goin’ ta try to fuck every single one o’ them out of me, Viggo?” Sean couldn’t help the taunt. “Ya really think ya can?”

A hand came down to tilt Sean’s forehead back, exposing his throat before Viggo pressed in and stopped there- his eyes almost violently blue as he looked at Sean. His breathing was coming so fast and so loud he sounded like a freight train, and their every exhale touched.

“Mine,” Viggo said simply. He leaned down and bit Sean hard on the spot right beneath his chin. “Mine.”

“Look at me,” Sean growled, pulling at Viggo’s hair to force him to turn his eyes up. “Look at me.”

Viggo’s head remained bowed as he pulled back out, but with his next thrust he opened his eyes, catching and holding Sean’s gaze. Sean was close, so close, and Viggo loosened Sean’s hand from where it was wrapped around a bar on the headboard. He brought it to his mouth and licked the palm before he curled it around Sean’s cock, laying his own hand right on top. Their fingers twined before Viggo started stroking. Fast, rough, with plenty of twists on the head- exactly how Sean liked it.

Sean threw his head back and arched his back, his legs trembling as he came hard with a loud, incoherent roar. Even drowned in orgasm, he could feel Viggo’s gaze on him, as unrelenting in his attentions as his strokes as he fucked Sean through orgasm, his thrusts shallow and uneven now. It only took a few more seconds before Sean’s name was breathed into the air and Viggo came inside him. Right then, Sean felt a small spark of pleasure right at his Achilles’ tendon, and the rasp of a tongue.

Christ.

Sean let out a shaky breath as he fell back on the bed. His skin was oversensitive and his muscles were still trembling, but Viggo was keeping his promise, mouthing and biting and licking every single inch of Sean’s thighs and calves and ankles and his goddamn feet, toe by toe by arch.

“Don’t leave in the morning,” Viggo murmured, lapping against the protruding bone of Sean’s ankle.

Sean snorted, trying to hide the surge of warmth he felt at the request, “It’s me damn ‘otel room, ya bastard. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.” He paused. “We ain’t done yet, ya know that?”

“Yeah,” Viggo said, licking a long line from his heel to the arch of his foot. His fingers drew continuous circles around Sean’s calf. “I’m not going anywhere either.”

“Good,” Sean breathed, and he was so goddamn stupid because he could feel the weight of three years of disappointment lift off of him. But Viggo was warm against his skin, his hand stroking Sean’s side, so strongly present as if he had never left at all.

He couldn’t help but give in to the call of sleep.

*

Sean woke up to the smell of coffee, bacon and eggs, and cigarette smoke. He cracked an eye open, immediately blinking when he realised that there was no piercing light that seared through him. The blinds were closed; odd, that.

He squinted, rubbing at his eyes and yawning as he sat up. Immediately, he realised there was a paper takeout box and a thermos full of coffee on top of the nightstand. Viggo’s back was against the thing, a cigarette burning in his hand.

“Ya ain’t supposed ta smoke in the ‘otel room,” Sean drawled quietly.

Viggo jerked a little. He dropped the burning stub, then caught it again midair. He glared at it before he stood up, opening the balcony and tossing it out towards the back gardens.

“Ain’t supposed ta do that either,” Sean said, and his lips twitched quietly. Viggo had never been one for hotel rules, but usually he obeyed the ones that said that he wasn’t allowed to accidentally set trees and grass on fire.

“They should hire you for landscaping,” Viggo jerked his thumb towards the balcony. “The garden looks boring out there; no soul in it at all.”

“’otels ain’t a place fer people ta find souls in,” Sean shrugged. He stood up, completely unself-conscious about his nakedness, and paused. He was moving on automatic, going towards Viggo to claim his usual morning kiss, but so many months apart had put rust onto the gears of easy habits, and Sean didn’t know if a kiss would even be welcome.

Instead, he turned and picked up the thermos of coffee, sipping it. “Don’t ya ‘ave work?”

Viggo looked down at his hands, then back up. He shoved his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans, hunching his shoulders as he gave Sean a small, uncertain smile. “I made a few calls just now. I told Walter I’m not dropping in today since we’re still not shooting my scenes—I’ve already faxed him my ideas for Bull Lee—and I told my agent to cancel my next couple of engagements. I haven’t signed contracts for either of them. So after this week of filming, I’m… free for the foreseeable future, barring having to drop in at Perceval once in a while.”

Sean stared. Viggo rubbed at his nose, then his lip. That, Sean thought wryly, was his gesture, and Viggo had gone and stolen it.

“I’ve- uh- I’ve booked tickets for us to go to Limousin. It’s for next week—when I’m done with On the Road by then—and I know it’s fucking presumptuous and maybe even too damn soon but I’ve wasted too much time and too much words, and—”

“Ya fuckin’ bastard,” Sean breathed, interrupting him.

Viggo started, lifting his eyes. Though he tried to keep his body language nonchalant, Sean had over a decade of experience, and he could read the tension written in every line of that body, he could see the nervousness in the slight tic of the jaw and the fists shoved into his pockets.

“Ya fuckin’ bastard,” Sean repeated, though his tone had softened. “Ya think I ‘ave the time ta spend traipsin’ ‘round France wi’ ya at any time yer free?” He paused, then chuckled. “And ’ere I thought I could finally give up on ya. Thought I can stop hopin’, or waitin’ like some sailor’s wife on the cliffs. Then ya do somethin’ like this.”

Viggo strode forward. His forehead leaned against Sean’s, his hand cupping the back of Sean’s neck.

“So?”

“I can’t come ta France wi’ ya,” he whispered. “But I ‘ave an all-expense paid working vacation ‘round Europe comin’ up. It’s called Missing. Ya want ta come wi’ me?”

“Anywhere,” Viggo breathed. His lips ghosted against Sean’s, and he slanted his head, his gaze never leaving Sean’s. “I’ll go anywhere with you. I’m not so stupid to let you go again.”

Yeah, Sean thought as they kissed. Yeah, they still had plenty to talk about, because this couldn’t last. Viggo would be bored stiff following Sean around after a few months.

But for now- now, they were okay. They were okay, and Viggo’s hand was warm on his skin, his shoulders fitting perfectly beneath Sean’s hands.

Maybe it’s fucking stupid of him, but Sean had always been an optimist.