Part I

London, 4 October 2012

He couldn’t count how many beers he’d had. He couldn’t count how many whiskeys he’d had either. Sean threw his head back and laughed, sharp and loud. The joke wasn’t particularly funny. In fact, he hadn’t even heard it. But someone was talking to him, and the best response was to laugh. His heart was beating in his ears, drowning out all other noises. Da-dum-da-dum, he was sick of the sound, so he drank even more, drowned them all out. The burn of the whiskey, the bitterness of the beer. Sean didn’t care for the taste of either. If there was a way of piping alcohol into his veins via a needle, he would do it.

I don’t have any mirrors in my house anymore.

Thinking. He was still thinking. Sean laughed again and threw another shot of whiskey back. He had a friend with him, and that friend had a hand on his arm, trying to talk to him, trying to tell him something. But Sean waved his hand away and gulped down another half a bottle of beer. Around him, he could hear cheers. More alcohol pressed into his hand. He remembered something: asking the waiter to keep them coming. That was a good decision.

This is pathetic.

The more he drank, the softer the voice spoke. Drowned out by his own breathing, drowned out by his laughter. Even his heartbeat faded. There were cheers around him, people taunting him that he couldn’t possibly drink anymore. He liked this place. The people here, they didn’t ever try to stop him drinking.

You can’t drown me out forever.

Yes he could. He always could. Alcohol, work, his daughters. Sean had perfected the art of forgetting. It wasn’t denial, because denial meant something existed. Nothing existed. If he said it didn’t, then it didn’t. If it refused to go away, it just meant that he had to work a little bit harder at it. Sean knew all about working hard. He wasn’t a slacker; that much everyone around him knew. First to the set, last to leave. No director had ever blamed him for being busy. Sean drained the last of that bottle of beer.

Last to come home, first to leave. Isn’t that why-

There was another bottle of beer in his hand but the world was moving. He couldn’t hear his own footsteps, much less feel his feet. He didn’t need to. He’d brought a friend; a good friend, a good man, a hand on Sean’s elbow as he steered him out of the bar. London was always so bright, so full of lights- no, that was not a streetlamp. That was a camera’s flash. Flashing camera. Someone was looking at him. He remembered:

Laughter, sweeter laughter, not tainted by drink. Glass surrounded by black, glinting off the light that came shining down between the leaves of the trees. Blue eyes, a dimpled chin, white, almost-crooked teeth. Laughter.

His throat was hot. It wasn’t the alcohol. Sean drained the bottle and tossed it to the ground. He pulled his elbow out of his nice friend’s grasp. His heart was roaring in his ears. The world was moving, but he could hear own his feet. Slamming on the pavement. It was almost familiar. His legs burned. His hand. The wavering little figure with that piece of shit camera had disappeared. There were more cameras.

Sean covered his eyes. It was the only thing he could do.

Story of your life.

No. No, the story of an alcoholic’s. A role that Sean received. Benny... Benny... the one time he wanted his mind to start working, it didn’t. Never mind. Sean wasn’t an alcoholic. He lived without alcohol when he was working. Not a single drop until the director called ‘cut’ and sent them all home. Not that there was anything wrong with taking a drop. Plenty of actors do it. Pete... God, Pete was a glorious man. Always had a drink in his hand.

He’s researching for a role the fun way. Not Method. He wasn’t a Method actor. That was a technique for-

Viggo

-someone’s name he couldn’t be bothered with remembering right now. It didn’t matter.

***

Toronto, September 2012

Something new. More work. Sean loved to work, loved his work. There was a difference between those two statements that he wasn’t particularly interested in investigating right now. A new project, his agent had told him. He had always wanted to be in a cowboy movie, and here there was one being served up to him on a plate. Too bad there weren’t horses.

Or that was better, really.

He loved Toronto. The people were polite and were far less prone to rushing up to him and asking for his autograph, or whispering loudly about him hoping that he would hear and punch them so they could earn some money from selling the story and suing him. Less people who would recognise him. That was less of a problem nowadays, outside of London. He wasn’t very much recognisable anymore, was he? That was a good thing, he decided. A damn good thing.

It was easy to smile and talk, as easy as it had ever been. Sean was an actor, and so what if he was always acting nowadays, outside of pubs and bars and when he was alone with a bottle. There was nothing wrong with that. A person had to know how to act whenever they were in a certain situation. You couldn’t be yourself, that wasn’t allowed, not in this business. Actors didn’t only act in front of a camera. Even directors acted. They were all false men (and women) in the end, pretending to be someone better, someone more respectable, selling themselves and their ideas like the most well-dressed of whores. It was a game that Sean had played for a long time.

The name of the film escaped him now. It didn’t matter anyway. His agent would call him and remind him a week before, or send him an email to remind him. Technology was a great improvement upon society, no matter what anyone said. There was a man, once... A boy when he knew him, who hated technology and always said he hated it. Sean knew his name, but names weren’t important. Faces weren’t important. He knew his lines even when they weren’t scripted. He knew how to act; knew how to pretend. He made a whole career of it. Someone once said that actors were paid to be like children, playing pretend. He had mastered that; playing pretend.

So what if he wasn’t particularly good at it at times? There was no one to see him then. The world didn’t care about you when your pictures weren’t splashed across papers for everyone to see.

He goes to see Viggo at his premiere. He takes a seat at the back and wears a baseball cap, pulled low over his face. Perhaps it’s pathetic, acting like he’s some kind of stalker or something, but Sean decides that this is what he wants.

God, but Viggo is beautiful. He’s always been beautiful, but age has deepened the lines in his face and made him even more so. When he smiles it’s not the sun coming out, because that is cliché, but it is the sea that draws away from the shore, revealing white sands, white beaches, far too good to be true. This man is too good to be true. He’s a dream, a dream that Sean watches and listens to and tries to grasp with both hands. But his hands are slippery now, so full of dirt that it has become utterly impossible for him to hold onto anything.

He watches and listens to Viggo talk and categorises every single spot of imperfection that he can see, from the wrinkles on his shirt to the scars upon his hands. It is more of a dream than ever, because it is impossible to see Viggo’s hands from so far away. Memories of a magical place, when Viggo’s hands are on his clothes, his shoulders, his skin. He remembers the scrape of calluses against his beard, and he wonders why the memory is so clear. It is an old memory, from long ago, and he’s not felt the like since.

Strange what a mind does.

Sean liked smooth hands. Hands of people who had never held anything rougher than a pen in their lives. Women who slathered their skins with creams and lotions, with perfectly tapered nails that showed how little they truly had to work. It came down to differences, he thought. Opposites attracting. If women thought exactly like men, where was the excitement?

The bar was a dark place. Sean and his baseball hat and jeans stood out, but the bartender gave him a whiskey and he stopped caring. There was plenty of beauty here; young men with smooth, pale skins who danced like they were trying to fuck the air, shoving their arms upwards and throwing their heads back. Young men, barely men, who stood at the corners with their legs slightly apart and their eyelashes heavy with mascara and eyeliner, little better than whores except they charged not money but dignity.

Sean drank. His hand did not shake. There was a beautiful man on the dance floor, his hair long enough to brush his chin. It was sweat-soaked but there was no product in it. Sean drank. The man danced and danced, and the dim bar lights glanced across his eyes and they were blue, the blue of the ocean just as it crashed against the cliffs. His nipples peeked through the mesh shirt. Sean finished his drink, and ordered another one. His lips were pink and thin, perfect and unscarred, but his pants stretched so tightly across his crotch that Sean could see the outline of his cock. He leaned left.

Sean drank.

“Buy a man a drink?”

The voice was wrong, Sean noted. But it didn’t matter. The hips were close enough, and the legs -- long, slim, clad in leather jeans. He smiled, lifted a shoulder.

“Vodka tonic.”

There’s more grey and silver in Viggo’s hair nowadays. The brown came from a bottle and the gold had long faded, but wasn’t his own hair the same? It is just stubbornness that keeps his roots from showing, but his body betrays him anyway, with little spots where hair used to be. But he’s not here to think about himself.

Viggo’s voice has not changed. It’s still the same. Not only the sound itself but the rhythm. Sometimes he thinks that he can key his heartbeat to it, force it to beat with every soft rise of Viggo’s voice, in the musicality of his speech. He doesn’t know the words and he doesn’t particularly care. The voice is enough - the voice and the parting of his lips, wet despite the slow-approaching dry chill of Toronto. Pink lips underneath yellow lights, almost obscene. Sharp lines of cheekbones and jaws, as if carved by a sculptor; marble instead of human flesh. He is dreaming again, but he can’t see either of those from here.

(He thinks of Pygmalion. Pygmalion and Galatea, his beautiful creation. Except that his own hands tremble far too much to wield a chisel, and not even a god can breathe life into something without form, something entirely made up of mist and bitterness and wishing.)

He can remember that crooked grin, so close that it seems like a dream. It is a dream. Dreams are his reality and his anti-reality both. Sometimes he wishes he knows the difference, or at least, he knows what he wants.

The lines beside Viggo’s eyes have deepened. Do they taste different from the rest of his face? Does the salt gather better? If he tastes the skin, will it be salt, or his own tears?

Or will it only be ash?

The bar’s bathroom was a dirty place. Sean’s knees ached when he sank down, his hands clinging onto leather-clad hips. He didn’t bother pulling them all the way down, just the zip. He tugged the half-hard cock out with his hand and sucked it into his mouth. Thicker than a fag and far more salty, but the burn and the bitterness was almost the same. Almost; he could deal with almost.

There was a hand in his hair, a wordless groan up top, and Sean opened his mouth wide just as the young man shoved his cock down his throat. Deep enough to choke, but Sean swallowed back the tears and took his punishment, his knees spreading even wider. His cock was pressing against the zipper of his jeans, the rasp of the metal painful against the sensitive tip, but Sean only pressed hard down on it, scraping the metal all along his cock. He shuddered from the burn in his throat, the burn in his groin, the pain in his eyes. He closed them, shoving his mouth in even further, feeling his teeth catch in pubic hair.

It was disgusting. Utterly disgusting and demeaning. Like addicts that snort coke in public restrooms, surrounded by shit and piss and vomit. He was little different. Worse. The come on his tongue was not poison for his body but it was poison nonetheless. Like a little shot of shame. Sean almost laughed when the hand in his hair held him still as the man fucked his mouth. Nothing but a hole; nothing better than a sex toy. He was fine with that. It was what he was looking for.

Gentleness had no place in these dingy, dark bars. They were all the same across all countries. Places of shame and shamelessness both, where people made use of each other. Sean wasn’t wearing the cap any longer but he didn’t need to. It was his mouth that was wanted, not his face. Except this time--

He felt the cock twitch. Almost, almost, he lived his life on almosts nowadays. Almost there but never reaching it, never good enough. He closed his eyes just in time to feel the cock spurt in front of him, come streaking across his face, nose and eyes and hair and chin and mouth. Sean shuddered and shame was like arousal, like adrenaline, little different from either, and he pulled down the zip of his pants just in time to feel the come paint the palm of his own hand.

Little better than a whore, except he was a whore who gave his own money to be used. Reduced to a hole. In his youth there had been places in London. Toilets with holes at waist level to shove cocks into. Or so he’d heard. He’d never been there.

Too late, too late, almost in time. The bell tolled too early and now he was out of time. That was a line for that bastard to write about. Something just perfect for the kind of things he liked to worry about. Sean lowered his eyelids and licked his own hand clean, then licked his lips. He knew that the man whose come painted his face could still see him; could see the way that Sean was dragging his fingers through the white stains, as if rubbing it into his skin, into every crease, every pore.

“Thought a man as old as you would be better at this.”

He ignored the words. Words had no place here either. Around them were the sounds of mouths on cocks, asses on cocks, cocks on cocks. The rumbles of protesting doors and the screams of hinges. Sean slipped his fingers into his mouth and sucked the tips. Come tasted like come. Salt and bitterness and rust - or perhaps the last was just the blood at his throat, the blood on his lip, from foreign cocks and his own teeth.

The door closed. Sean did not turn. Instead, he lifted the toilet seat. Come, piss, shit and vomit.

Everything tasted the same when it all came up.

Like fire. Like hatred. Like shame.

Viggo leaves. He watches his back as he goes before he stands, cap pulled down low. A cigarette in his mouth once he’s out of air-conditioning. He starts to walk.

He needs a drink.

***

London, 5 October 2012


What day was it? Why would he care?

The sun was coming in through the window. Daylight then. Sean groaned, slamming a hand over his face. His mouth felt like shit and his head was throbbing. He groped for the nightstand, pulling out the lower drawer. Without bothering to open his eyes, he grabbed for the bottle he kept there just for this purpose, pulling the cap open and dropping it on the sheets. He took a swig, savouring the taste of the whiskey as it slid down his throat.

He’d done something last night. He remembered light. Something about cameras. Some bastard following him around snapping pictures. Sean snorted to himself, half-stumbling, half-pulling himself out of bed. There was a graze on his hand. Dried blood was still encrusted on it. He looked at it before he stumbled over to the bathroom. Upended the whiskey over his hand and savoured in the burn. What was it that Sharpe said? Half-and-half: half on the wound, half in the mouth. He drank more whiskey and shook the droplets off his hand.

The laptop was blinking at him. New emails. There shouldn’t be anything recentl Nothing was coming up. He moved over anyway, squinting as he pulled over the laptop lid. The words were blurry, dancing in front of his eyes, but he knew enough to click on buttons.

Sean, Ian’s email said. I think you might appreciate this.

He shouldn’t click the link. Ian was a busybody bastard, but Sean couldn’t help himself. Or maybe someone else had control of his hand as he pressed the button.

Viggo. Viggo looking absolutely stunning in a cream suit and matching hat that would have looked disgusting on anyone else. Blue shirt, dark blue tie, shoes. Sean swallowed saliva and bile as he zoomed into the photographs. Sunglasses; Viggo was wearing sunglasses. That was good. Sean couldn’t deal with seeing those eyes right now. (Blue, blue and grey, blue with grey amongst filth and crap lighting.) Long fingers and a white pocket handkerchief tucked in perfectly in his breast pocket. Sean’s hands trembled.

He closed his eyes and took another swig of the whiskey. His hand slammed the lid closed, not even bothering to reply to Ian. He drank some more.

The hair of the dog cured the disease.

***

28 April 2012


23:14:21 "You have beautiful eyes. Grey. Changes with the light."

23:22:18 "My eyes are green, Sean."

23:24:02 "Georgie, Georgie. Did I ever mention that I love your tits?"

23:29:01 "Are you drunk?"

23:30:55 "Having a pint with a mate. You can't nag me about it anymore. We're divorced."

23:32:10 "Exactly. So stop texting me."

23:33:15 "I'm complimenting you. You should be happy. New boyfriend know your hair comes out of a bottle?"

23:38:43 "You're fucking pathetic, you know that? Fucking pathetic."

23:41:27 "Ha. I win."

23:43:06 "Win at what? The competition about who is the most pathetic?"

23:43:59 "No. Argument."

23:45:17 "We're not arguing, Sean."

23:47:22 "Then why are you texting me back?"

23:49:36 "Tell me why you texted me in the first place."

23:59:02 "Complimenting you. Suddenly thought of your tits and your arse. Beautiful things, them. Nice big handfuls. You had nice lips and you always look fucking good with my cock between them. Still use the same slut-coloured lipstick?"

00:04:35 "Fuck yourself on a blow-up doll."

00:06:11 “Didn't need to. Had you the last time for that, didn't I?”

00:08:12 “You were never particularly tight, though. Remembered you at the bar. Had a train of blokes waiting for you to spread your legs. You with your red lips and fuck me heels.”

00:10:37 “Still remember you on your knees. Men’s WC, getting your bar apron dirty on the floor when you wrapped your mouth around my cock. Told your new boyfriend yet that your mouth and your cunt had Sean Bean in them?”

00:13:24 “You wore that rubber dress of yours for your new man?”

00:14:10: “Have fun with the coppers tomorrow, darling.”

00:16:05 "Never quit that habit, have you?

***

6 Oct 2012


“Sean.”

“Ian,” Sean drawled. He decided that he would be adventurous this morning, and poured vodka over the ice cubes in his rock glass. Leaning back against the tree in his garden, he yawned as he looked up to the sky through the leaves of the small birch. “What have I done to deserve your delightful company today?”

“Certain worrying reports,” Ian said.

“Yeah?” He clinked the ice against the side of the glass and sipped it.

“Sean,” Ian’s voice sounded sharp. “Are you drinking in the morning? Before eleven o’clock?”

Sean threw the shot back, feeling the burn of vodka mixing with the chill of the ice. It slid down his throat so easily and started a fire in his chest. Oh, it was money well spent alright.

He chuckled, “I’m British, mate. And so are you. It’s perfectly normal.”

“Is it now?”

He leaned over, popping the cap of the vodka bottle and pouring himself another shot. There was something almost defiant about doing this, like he was a teenager again, defying his parents’ wishes, doing what he wanted and nothing less than that. It was a good feeling. He’d missed it.

“Ian, hey Ian,” Sean changed the subject suddenly. “I’ve got a question fer you.”

“What is it?”

“When did you realise yer gay?” He sipped some more at the vodka, releasing his lips from the rim of the glass with a gusty sigh. “I mean, did you just look at a man’s bollocks one day and realised- yeah, I want that. That looks good.”

Ian didn’t answer. Sean didn’t expect him to; he wasn’t finished yet.

“I mean, mmm... look, I played Ranuccio. Stood in front of Derek Jarman half-naked and everything. Even played fucking Tracie and shoved me bits into a pair of panties and a fucking dress. Talked ‘bout thinking of killing meself ‘cause I’m queer.” He tipped his head back and drained the glass, slamming it down beside himself. He wiped his mouth; Ian still wasn’t saying a word. “All throughout, it’s just a bunch of shite. I ain’t even know what it’s like ta want a man. I know how ta pretend all well and good, but it never felt real.”

He said that again, for emphasis, “Never. Hardest part of the job ta get done, you have no fucking idea. And now they are talking ‘bout giving me awards fer pretending ta be a pouf. Why ain’t they giving poufs awards fer pretending ta be straight, eh?”

“I don’t see what’s wrong with that,” Ian said, and his tone was careful, so careful. Like Sean was a bomb that could go off at any moment. Though, given the amount of alcohol that was usually in him at any point of time, that probably wasn’t wrong.

“I’m a fucking fake, Ian. A fucking liar. Part of me job description, but I’ve always been good at pretending that the person I am actually goes through the shite I’m pretending he goes through. But I ain’t even know even now why Tracie sees a pair of balls and want ‘em, you get what I mean?” He poured another glass of vodka and swirled it, watching a piece of ice break away from the main piece and float on top of the clear liquid.

“Are you still down under?”

“For now?” Ian didn’t sound fazed over the change in subject. “Yes, I am.”

“I got a new girl now,” Sean said, and he didn’t know why he brought her up. It must be the vodka. “She’s called Victoria. She curates art and goes ta yer theatre performances. Goes ta other theatre performances too and trashes ‘em sometimes. You’d like her.”

“Why?”

Sean blinked, “Why wot?”

“Why do you like her?” Ian asked, still using that careful, gentle tone.

“She’s pretty,” Sean shrugged, taking a sip of the alcohol with the same nationality as his girlfriend. “Long hair. Nice legs. Small tits, but nice tits. No use telling you that bit. She likes vodka. That’s important.”

“I think,” Ian said, “You have your answers, Sean.”

“I ain’t even got a question.”

“Perhaps not,” Sean could hear the creak of wood as Ian leaned back against something. His chair, most likely. “You're trying to ask me something, but you can't even ask what the real question is. You even have the answers already. You just have to admit them.”

Sean stared at the phone. He sighed, “It's too fucking early ta deal with yer cryptic shite, Ian.”

“But not early enough to abstain from alcohol.” He could hear Ian’s raised eyebrow even from miles and miles away and through the phone.

Sean snorted. He tossed the glass down to the grass and grabbed the vodka bottle. The phone went between his chin and shoulder as he used both hands to open the cap. Then he threw the bottle back and swallowed.

“What the hell else am I going ta do with the rest of me day?”

The thing about actors on location was that they were working almost all the time, and whenever they had the chance they would celebrate working so hard. Or even having work to do at all. Something in between, really; the fact was, in New Zealand everyone grasped any chance of celebration with both hands. Someone in the crew was getting married, someone was pregnant, someone was engaged, someone was promoted, they finished a scene, they finished half a scene... whatever it was, it deserved celebration.

Sean’s memories for names that he didn’t need to immediately remember had always fell just a little short after a few drinks. He wasn’t particularly sure where he was, but that didn’t particularly matter as long as he still remembered where he lived.

“Oh God, look at them,” Viggo said. The bastard was still nursing the same bottle of beer he had bought when he first entered the bar. The thing was warm by now. But Sean ignored that, because what Viggo was pointing out was far more interesting.

Elijah was sitting on the bar counter, his legs opened wide. Between them was a huge, long glass, filled to the brim with beer. He was looking at it with the same determination Frodo had when he said that he would take the Ring to Mordor. It was a good thing, Sean thought, that Peter had decided to go home early and not partake in the festivities today. He might ask for reshoots for the Council scene after this, and Sean was heartily sick of the Rivendell set already.

“Christ, they’re going ta get the kid drunk even before midnight,” Sean drawled, his voice barely loud enough to be heard by himself amongst the din of cheering hobbits and elf who surrounded Elijah.

“The kid asked for it,” Viggo said. He grinned and grabbed Sean’s wrist, lifting it and drinking from his cold beer. His throat bulged as he swallowed, and Sean stared at it for a moment before he shook his head.

“Yeah? He did?”

“Yep,” Viggo licked his lips, his smile widening. “He was boasting that he can’t get drunk in front of Dom and Orlando, and that’s just asking for it.”

Sean snorted. He dropped his head back, finishing the beer. There was almost a new taste to the thing -- probably from the crappy American beer that Viggo was still nursing -- but he forgot about it almost immediately as Elijah lifted the huge glass and started to drink.

“I ain’t staying ta see the kid get smashed,” he declared, dropping the bottle on a free space. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Might get roped into bringing him home. I’m taking a slash.”

“I’ll come with you,” Viggo said, pushing off the table he was leaning against. “As entertaining as this is, I’m not going to deal with the fallout either.”

“What,” Sean raised an eyebrow even as he fell into step with Viggo. “Are we a pair of teenage girls now, only capable of going ta the loo together?”

“You never know about this place,” Viggo shoved his hands into his pockets, his grin wide enough to nearly swallow his face. “There might be aliens and predators and ghosts about. You might need me to protect you.”

“Aragorn’s Dead are a bunch of computer graphics, Vig,” Sean reminded him, shoving an elbow into Viggo’s ribs. “You would be useless against a bunch of real ghosts.”

“I don’t know, I can smile at them and show them my tongue,” Viggo pushed over the door of the men’s room. “I heard that it’s a pretty scary look.”

“Only ‘cause you look deranged,” Sean shot back.

Talking to Viggo had always been easy; Sean didn’t even need to think about it. The slight haze of alcohol had only made his tongue a little looser and the jokes come easier, but things had always been easy with Viggo. Sean didn’t think much about it, putting it down to being around the same age while surrounded by admired thespians and kids who were so wild and exhausting to watch that they were reminders of themselves when much younger. They had gone through similar experiences.

Sometimes, just before he fell asleep, Sean had thought that his friendship with Viggo would have been the same even if they weren’t the only Men within the Fellowship. They would still have found each other and talked the same way. But it was a fleeting thought, the kind that came when the night was dark and he wasn’t trying to think of his girls or the divorce papers that seemed to always arrive at the worst of times. Nothing to linger upon when he was awake and the sun was shining and there was work to do or Viggo to talk to.

It was something natural, what he and Viggo had. They had clicked on their first meeting; what was the use of thinking more about that?

“You think the kids are gone by now?”

Sean blinked, jerked out of his thoughts by Viggo’s voice. He finished washing his hands, turning around. “What?”

“The hobbits and Orlando,” Viggo repeated. He flicked water at Sean’s face, and really, Viggo didn’t need alcohol to behave like a kid. At least Sean had the excuse that he was drunk to flick the water back. “You think they’re gone by now?”

“Probably not,” he replied, shrugging. He wiped his hands dry on his jeans. “We haven’t been gone long.”

But when they came out of the washroom, the bar was quiet and the long glass was in the bartender’s sink. Someone had probably dragged Elijah out of there, or they had been thrown out, because most of the stunties were still lingering around the tables, chatting amongst themselves. Sean jerked his head towards the bar and Viggo nodded, wandering off. That was something else he liked about Viggo, that they knew what each other wanted to say without having to say much at all.

Sean wandered over to the bar, leaning against the counter and digging in his pockets for a cigarette while he waited for the bartender to get his next beer.

“So is he your boyfriend?”

He jerked a little, lighting up the cigarette before he realised that someone was talking to him. Blinking, he cocked his head, turning, “What?”

“The guy who was with you,” the stranger said, swinging himself up to the barstool. He was young, probably in his late twenties at most, and Sean narrowed his eyes even as he grabbed the beer. “Is he your boyfriend?”

Sean stared. He took another drag, cocking his head to the side.

“Do I look like a pouf ta you?”

“What?” The man blinked, cocking his head to the side. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what that word means.”

“Do I look as if I’m gay ta you?” Sean repeated. There was a drink at his elbow and he swigged it hard, feeling cold beer slide down his throat and burn his insides even more. He smiled, perhaps showing a little bit too much teeth. “I’m straight, man.”

The man - boy, really, with how young he looked: face smooth and free of wrinkles, his lips plush and pink and his hands white and unscarred. Sean suddenly thought of Viggo’s hands, the scars on his knuckles and the cuts on the palm and how rough the skin was against his own. He shook his head.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t--” Sean watched as the kid backed away from him, nearly tripping over the stools. “I made a mistake. Sorry, I’m so sorry--”

The kid’s reaction was odd. Sean wasn’t angry, not really; he was secure in his own sexuality and masculinity enough not to be, wasn’t he? He tried to give the kid a smile, to tell him it was alright, everyone made mistakes.

“Sorry, really sorry, sorry,” the kid babbled, and his hand groped at the bar. He practically ran away backwards, staring at Sean with wide-open eyes as if he was a monster who had suddenly appeared from underneath his bed.

Sean watched him for a moment before he shrugged. But before he could turn, there was a hand on his elbow.

“I leave you alone for a few minutes and you start scaring people,” Viggo said. His voice was almost too close to Sean’s ear, and Sean elbowed him, wanting -- needing -- space, growling underneath his breath. He wasn’t a little girl who needed to be led everywhere, and Viggo was only half a year older than he was -- he wasn’t his child. But Viggo ignored him, pulling him towards the door even as he gave him a half-amused glance.

Sean heaved a breath, stepping out of the bar. It was only when he was outside that he realised, oddly enough, that the whole bar was entirely silent. Was he truly that terrifying, or was it just a matter of reputation? He was rather famous for playing villains.

He was more famous than Viggo was, but in a place like this where they were all part of the Fellowship, all almost-equal... in a movie where Viggo was the King and one of the main characters of all three movies, things like that didn’t matter. They just didn’t.

What happened next was entirely a blur. There was a car and Viggo’s hand on the steering wheel. New Zealand’s night was beautiful as always, and Viggo’s shoulder was warm against Sean’s cheek. Maybe he was drunker than he first thought, because he couldn’t remember how many beers he had, only that he had drunk far more than Viggo had. Sean had always been bad at judging his own intoxication. It worked well enough as an excuse to lean his weight more on Viggo as the other man dragged him inside the house. It was why he didn’t protest being driven to Viggo’s rented house instead of his own hotel room. It was a better reason than simple loneliness, a better reason than the images that threatened to linger at the edge of his mind about the pretty boy with his pretty pink lips. He was drunk, stumblingly so, even though he could usually hold his liquor better than this and Viggo’s hand on his arm was perfectly steady.

They had never really needed an excuse to stay at each other’s place, but Sean found his mind grabbing on the fog that surrounded him. It was enough reason for everything. Sean closed his eyes and let Viggo shove him onto the couch. His breathing smoothed out, one of the lingering remnants of RADA’s training, even as he listened to Viggo’s footsteps tap-tap-tapping on the floorboards around him. Viggo walked like he talked, Sean’s mind supplied. There was an odd rhythm to it, something as soothing as the rough hand accidentally brushing his arm as Viggo drew the blanket over his body. A considerate man, Viggo was -- a British man wasn’t made to withstand the strange chill of New Zealand’s June when he had been expecting summer and rain.

Sean didn’t remember when he fell asleep. He only knew that the night was cold, and he dreamt he felt warm breath on his cheeks, and warm skin in his hair.

Maybe he had been married too long, if he was dreaming of romantic touches when there could be none.

***

Manchester, January 2012


“People will be talking once the paps’ pictures come out,” Stephen said.

Sean lifted his eyes from where he was adjusting Tracie’s gloves. They fitted him perfectly a couple of weeks ago when he went for the fitting, but now they were just a little loose, the threads bulging outwards slightly. The costume designers had apologised and told him they could find him new pairs, but Sean liked these; it was another detail of Simon’s life, because he doubted that the man could find perfectly-fitting gloves for Tracie.

“People will always talk,” Sean said. He gave Stephen a crooked smile, leaning back against the couch and stretching out his legs. Black tights were stretched across his skin, and Sean wondered how women stand it, to constantly have that pressure against their skins and muscles. “Good thing in this case: if they talk, they’re going ta watch.”

“Not that kind of talking,” Stephen replied. He sighed slightly, tugging slightly at his earlobe. “It’s probably silly, but I can’t help but be worried, ye know what I mean?”

Sean snorted. His eyes crossed for a moment, trying to blow an errant strand of Tracie’s wig out of his eyes, before he turned to Stephen again, “Yer spending too damn much time wi’ the Yanks and their antiquated ideas, Stephen. Yer acting, aren’t ya? I ain’t Tracie, and you ain’t Tony.”

“Oh, but yer plenty attractive as Tracie,” Stephen drawled. His head was tilted towards Sean, a broad grin stretching his lips. Sean tipped his head back, raising an eyebrow even as Stephen reached out, stroking a hand down from Sean’s neck to his shoulders, curving around Tracie’s large, false breast, before settling on his hip. “So much that I feel like kissing ye even when the cameras ain’t running.”

Sean’s fingers reached up, stroking the side of Stephen’s cheek, following the line of his jaw. He lowered his eyes until his eyelashes, heavy with mascara, brushed against his cheekbones. “What are you afraid of, Tony?” The question was barely loud enough to be heard, and he almost spoiled the effect by grinning. It took a bit of an effort to swallow back his laughter, but he knew that his eyes were sparkling.

“Either you come in wi’ me right now, or you spent the rest of yer life time regretting it,” he stroked his gloved hand down Stephen's neck, curling outwards to do a small finger-walk over his collarbones, half-hidden by his shirt. “What do you think?”

Stephen was staring at him, and Sean could tell that he wasn't the only one. The set was suddenly quiet, as if everyone was holding their breaths and staring at them. There was something exhilarating about doing this while still dressed in Tracie's clothes and makeup. It would be an easy excuse to say that he was caught up in the role, except that Sean had never really done something like that. He had always been good at being Sean when the cameras weren't rolling, so good that he had ruined at least one marriage by not being the person he was while in front of the cameras, while on the set.

“Are you going ta stare at me all day?”

Maybe Sean was just looking for an excuse, any excuse, no matter how thin.

Cocking his head to the side, Stephen took his hand. His lips were warm, just warm enough to be felt through the silk of the gloves, and he was grinning.

“Yer damn lucky me wife ain't 'ere right now, Tracie,” Stephen dragged out his words, emphasising his accent even further. “It won't be right proper fer her ta see something like this, eh?”

Sean turned his hand and patted the barely-stubbled cheek. He grinned widely – not Tracie's smile, merely his own – before he dropped his arm back to his lap. “Why not? It's just a way of establishing character, aye?”

Stephen raised his eyebrows, and he shook his head, leaning back slightly, enough to increase the space between them. As if on cue, the crew seemed to breathe a sigh. “Nah, that ain't enough of an excuse,” he declared. “Tracie ain't ever been that bold.”

“You think so?” Sean made a considering noise. He pushed himself forward, his mouth nearly grazing Tony's ear. “Why don't we go ta bed, sweetheart?”

“We can't,” Stephen shot back, but he was still smiling. It was a game now, between the two of them. Something entirely safe because no one would think it was real, not with the spectre of Stephen's wife that hung between the two of them. “We're already done wi' the bed scene.”

“Think we can convince Jimmy and Ashley ta let us do another one?”

“I don't know. How prettily can you beg, Tracie?”

“It won't take much,” Sean's gloved hand lightly tapped his lips. He was aware of Stephen's eyes lingering on his mouth, so he darted out his tongue, tracing the outline. “Sure plenty o’ people who'd want ta see more than what we'd shown so far.”

“We ain't a midnight show, darling.”

“Why, are you afraid ta get yer kit off?” He tipped his head back, showing the curve of his throat, the tell-tale exposure of the Adam's apple that separated 'Simon' from 'Tracie'. “Don't worry, sweetheart. I won't laugh. Besides, I've gotten naked plenty fer cameras that ain't fer midnight showings plenty.”

“Aye, that might be so,” Stephen's hand was warm on his white-clothed legs, his breath wet on Sean's skin. “But I ain't a sex symbol like you, Sean.”

The use of his name broke the spell. Sean leaned back against the couch, his arm against the back.

“A shame, that,” Sean said, all seductiveness bleached from his voice. It was Sean again, not the strange melding of character and actor. (Odd: he rarely did that. It was always one or the other.) “You missing out.”

“I'll take that chance,” Stephen winked.

“Are you two quite finished with the flirting? We have some scenes to finish today.”

Ashley's voice broke through the reverie, and Sean turned, throwing their director a bright smile.

“Aye. Fer now.”

“We'll 'ave ta continue later at the pub,” Stephen said, giving Ashley a broad wink. His gaze flickered towards Sean. “You're coming on later, aye?”

“Thought you were afraid of the paps talking,” Sean said even as he stood up, moving into positions.

“Just a couple of mates going out fer a drink, ain’t we?” Stephen tipped his head back, looking at Sean upside down. “I can bring me wife if it makes you feel better.”

“I ain't the one complaining,” Sean pointed out.

Stephen lifted one shoulder, his arm stretching out across the back of the couch. Ashley gave him a look and he dropped it back down. “So you coming?

“Sure.”

In Manchester, no one cared about how many times their faces were splashed on the news or on rags, or how many awards they held. If they went to a pub they became as anonymous as the next man, and that was what Sean had always liked about the North. People left them alone, and cameras weren’t pointed in their faces when they committed the minor crime of leaving their houses for a drink.

But Sean knew that he would go just for the chance of an excuse to play Tracie again. For the briefest moment, grey eyes and a manic smile flashed across his eyes, and he wondered how loudly Viggo would laugh at the thought of needing an excuse to play. Sean didn’t expect him to understand; he was the same man who was kissing everyone left and right on the set.

The oddest thing was, Viggo had never once kissed him.

***

London, November 2012


Vodka was Sean’s newest love. He could call it Victoria if it wasn’t a terrible joke. Laughing to himself nonetheless, Sean threw his legs up, resting his ankles at the opposite arm of the couch. He stretched out fully, tipping his head back and pouring the rest of the vodka shot down his throat. It was cold enough to burn, or perhaps it was just burning, and Sean closed his eyes and wondered if there was any alcohol that was cold enough to burn him from inside out, scorch him until he was left with nothing but ashes.

He didn’t think he would feel any differently from what he did now anyway.

Time passed. He didn’t know how long; the sun was still out. The only way he had left to mark time was by the slow-dwindling of alcohol. It was fine; the girls were busy nowadays, and they wouldn’t be paying him visits. Besides, they knew better than to drop in without calling, didn’t they?

There was something ringing. Probably a salesman. Sean leaned back and hissed a breath out from between his teeth. He didn’t have shoes on, he realised, and wiggled his toes just to see them move. The vodka bottle was almost empty. Did he just open it today? He couldn’t remember. Age had the unfortunate tendency of making memory start to fade, apparently. But he still could remember his lines; still knew how to force the words to stick in his brain for at least the time that he needed to finish a scene. There was no chance that he could return to theatre anyway.

The bell rang again, sharp against his ears. Persistent bastard. Sean sighed and pushed himself to sit up. His shirt was clinging on his skin. The days were getting more and more humid. London was always far too wet and humid during the winter. He wondered if he should head North again and see his parents and sister before Christmas to escape the cloying heat. It would be good to see his parents again; he should do that more often, just in case they died. (Or he did.)

The ringing changed into a series of sharp knocks, each one of them thrumming against the side of his head. Piercing through the fog that he had barely managed to win from the drink. Rubbing his eyes, Sean stood up. He thumbed the buttons of his shirt free -- why was he wearing a button-down at home, he had no idea -- and rubbed at his eyes as he stumbled towards the door.

The man standing just outside his step was familiar. Brown hair, grey eyes, but the smile was missing and his lips were only a line. His hand was raised mid-knock, almost close enough to touch Sean’s chest. The scars were there. His memories were wrong. The line above the top lip was white, not pink.

No. No, this couldn’t be real. It was just a fantasy, made obviously false. Sean inhaled. The air was cold against his throat. He pushed the door closed-- but there was a hand against the edge, and Viggo shoved his way inside.

“Hello, Sean,” Viggo said.

The house smelled like vodka, Sean realised. He didn’t realise -- how could he, when everything around him had the stench of alcohol for so long? But he realised it now, in the one moment he looked into Viggo’s eyes and watched the colour disappear behind his eyelids; watched as his nostrils flared.

“Bit early in the morning for a drink, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Sean bit out. Fantasies weren’t supposed to talk. He had never really managed to make them real enough that they talked to him in new words, words he had never heard from Viggo’s lips before. This wasn’t a fantasy. The realisation was cold, sinking deep in his chest and winding ropes of steel and concrete around his lungs and heart.

“I ain’t know what time is it.”

“Eleven in the morning,” Viggo replied. He glanced at his watch, his movements deliberately slow. “Eleven twenty-two, to be exactly.”

Sean snorted, “You mean it’s eleven-thirty. Barely even morning.”

“But you’ve been drinking for a lot longer than that, haven’t you?”

“Why,” Sean drawled, shoving his hands into his pockets. His eyes rested just a few inches to the left of Viggo’s face. He had a spot on his wall; he should clean it. “You came all the way here ta lecture me ‘bout drinking in the morning?”

“I’ve noticed something about you,” Viggo said almost idly. “Never really stuck me as important until now, but I think it is pretty significant.” His hand shot out, grabbing hold of Sean’s wrist. “You have the tendency to exaggerate your accent when you’re trying to get someone to fuck off.”

A cold chill ran down Sean’s spine. It wasn’t a fantasy. Sean wouldn’t have dreamt of this. Not while Viggo was like this, the calluses on his hand imprinting on Sean’s skin, his words cutting straight through the cloud and the layers that Sean had spent so long in trying to build up. Not those too-sharp eyes that he had always admired when they were scrutinising someone else.

Sean jerked at his hand, trying to loosen Viggo’s grip-- and he almost stumbled backwards when Viggo let go suddenly.

He swallowed, “Is it working?”

“No,” Viggo’s smile was crooked. “Maybe I just know you too well.”

“Is that so?” Sean said, the words tumbling out of his mouth. The edges of his vision were darkening-- he was narrowing his eyes. The heat was coming back to him, except it burned instead of warmed, and Sean gritted his teeth.

“Think you can still say that when you remember we haven’t seen each other fer years?”

“Funny you should say that,” Viggo’s voice remained calm, and Sean hated him for it. Hated that he was the only one still half-shaking from anger; hated that his hands were clenched at his side to stop them from trembling while Viggo was standing so still, his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his jeans.

“That’s what I came to see you for, you see. Well, not to London, because I happened to be filming here. If you’d pick up any of my calls you would have known, because I was asking if you wanted to meet up. But that’s not the point, is it?”

Viggo stepped forward. His eyes were so close, so piercing, that Sean was surprised that there wasn’t blood on his own face.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were in Toronto, Sean?”

This was no fantasy. This was a damn nightmare. Sean licked his lips.

“Didn’t realise I have ta tell you where I am at all times now.”

“I didn’t say that,” Viggo said. “I was only wondering, because I had to find out that you were in Toronto from the papers. You know I hate reading papers.”

“Is that what you came here fer?” Sean raised an eyebrow so he wouldn’t raise his fist. There was no point in getting violent with Viggo; he always refused to fight back. Sean used to admire him for that, for that control. “Ta nag me ‘bout calling? Yer worse than me ma; at least she knows when ta stop.”

Viggo took a step back, and brushed his hair out of his eyes. “I thought that friends have the right to drop in to each other. I thought friends want to see each other. But it seems that I’m wrong, aren’t I?”

“Yer fucking pathetic,” Sean spat out, and for a moment he wasn’t sure who he was talking to -- Viggo, or himself. “Been more than thirteen years since Rings and yer still holding on ta those words we said years ago. When did you become this desperate?”

“Maybe at the same time you’ve started smelling of alcohol at eleven in the morning,” Viggo threw out, the words mangled by his hissing exhale. His hands were clenched at his side, and Sean couldn’t help the sharp shot of glee at Viggo’s anger, at his loss of composure.

He smiled, “I remember you smelling much of the same the last time we saw each other. Maybe you should have a drink too, Vig, ta stop you from being so damn choked up by yer own self-righteousness.”

“Self-righteousness,” Viggo repeated, eyes narrow. “Have you looked yourself in the mirror lately? Have you heard yourself?”

“I know what I am,” Sean was almost shouting. “I ain’t need some occasional friend ta come along and try ta pretend he knows everything ‘bout me.”

“What, that you’re an alcoholic?”

Sean stepped back. He turned away and walked towards the couch, grabbing the bottle of vodka and taking a full, defiant swig. His eyes were fixed upon Viggo, taking in the hint of his curling lips, his bared teeth, and the fingers slowly clawing holes on his jeans.

“Nah,” he said, wiping his mouth and grinning sharply. “I know when ta stop drinking as much as you don’t know when ta stop talking.”

“That,” Viggo drawled, his hand curling around Sean’s wrist. He lifted the bottle and drank from it, his Adam’s apple bulging outwards as he swallowed. “That ain’t what the papers said, Sean.”

The mockery of his own brogue rang in Sean’s ears, scraping and clawing at his senses far more than Viggo’s words, than the trust that shattered between them, not only from the lack of communication but the fact that Viggo would believe in the tabloids over Sean himself.

“When did you start taking what the rags say ta be true?”

“I don’t know,” Viggo dropped the accent. “Maybe when you stopped telling me anything worth hearing, and I need to desperately grasp at something, anything, to know any news about you.”

“You should take a hint from that,” Sean growled. He turned his hand around, dropping the bottle of vodka. It smacked against the floorboards, smashing into pieces. Alcohol splashed on his skin, and he knew there were splinters of glass that surrounded his feet, perhaps some that landed on skin. “Maybe I ain’t want ta tell you anything. Maybe I ain’t ever want ta hear yer voice or see you. Ever thought of that?”

He couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Ah,” Viggo’s voice was soft now. He took another step forward, crunching glass beneath his shoes, staring into Sean’s eyes-- and whatever that he saw there had him nodding. “Ah. So that’s how it is then.” He took a deep breath and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Never mind. Bye, Sean, I’ll only see you again if bad fortune occurs and forces you to look at me.”

Viggo turned away. He took a step, then another, walking towards the door. Sean should be happy. The vodka was gone but there was always whiskey in the cabinets, and he could keep drinking until he forgot about this. Forgot about Viggo’s voice and words and the haunted look in his eyes. Until he could forget the hurt he couldn’t help but see no matter how much he tried to blind himself with his eyes open.

It wouldn’t work.

The glass was sharp against the soles of his bare feet. Viggo’s hand was on the lock of his front door. Sean stumbled, crossed the floorboards. The shards buried themselves into his skin. He grabbed Viggo by the back of his shirt and turned him around. Viggo’s back hit the door, his mouth opening in a gasp.

Sean slammed their lips together.

The sound of their teeth meeting echoed throughout the room. Viggo’s shoulders were warm, his lips dry and chapped beneath Sean’s mouth. But his body was tense, stiff underneath Sean’s bruising grasp. There was almost a spell, held together by the bare threads formed by touch of their joined lips-- then Viggo was shoving at him, pushing him away, tearing their mouths apart.

“What the fuck, Sean?” the words were growled out. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Fixing meself,” Sean said, his lips tingling and breath coming hard. He licked his lips, tasting nothing but alcohol.

“You’ve never been a two-beer queer,” Viggo said, and his accent flattened out the words, made them sound strange on his tongue. “So forgive me for feeling fucking confused right now.”

“It takes hell lot more than this ta make me drunk,” he replied, but he knew the answer was insufficient. Sean closed his eyes, took a step back, and hissed as the glass buried itself further into his skin.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing to yourself,” Viggo said. It wasn’t even a question.

His eyes were fixed on the ground, on Sean’s legs. Sean looked down and there was blood on the floor, mixing with glass shards and the few remnants of alcohol. He wondered why he could barely feel the pain. The alcohol had long faded, its effects chased away by the sight of Viggo standing in his doorway.

Maybe Sean had finally managed to find a way to numb himself. Too little, too late.

Viggo practically dragged him towards the couch, holding him by the elbow and leading him in a big circle. Rough hands on Sean’s skin and yet this was the furthest thing from what Sean had fantasised of, the very last thing that he could ever want. There was such stifled pity in Viggo’s eyes that Sean felt that he should want to scream, to chase him out of the house.

He went anyway. “Thought you were leaving,” he said.

“I might be pissed at you, but I’m not going to let you bleed out or be crippled by your own idiocy,” Viggo replied tartly. “Do you even remember your job?”

He shoved Sean down to the couch, stepping back. “Look, do you even own a first aid kit?”

“I have kids,” Sean drawled. His feet were starting to hurt, and he rested them on the coffee table. Good thing it was made of glass; at least there wouldn’t be bloodstains on wood. Maybe he should break the table as well and cover the living room in glass. “It’s in the bathroom.”

“Stay here.”

A person, Sean mused, could get used to the sight of another’s back. Viggo was thinner now, his shoulders narrower and bonier. Or maybe he hadn’t changed at all and Sean was simply remembering him wrong. Either one was a possibility. He didn’t trust his memory anymore; it had proven him wrong far too many times.

“You want to tell me what the hell is up with you right now?”

Viggo dropped to his knees in front of him, the first aid box opened at the side of the couch. Sean couldn’t help but reach forward, thumb tracing the heavy crow’s feet, the visible sign of Viggo’s exhaustion that refused to be chased away no matter how bright his eyes shone. Viggo’s hand grabbed onto his wrist, and pulled it away.

“Sean.”

“You tell me,” Sean said, his voice soft. He sat up and pulled his foot towards himself. His finger grabbed hold of a single shard and yanked it out. Blood flowed over his skin and he stared at the red.

The sound of their teeth meeting echoed throughout the room. Viggo’s shoulders were warm, his lips dry and chapped beneath Sean’s mouth. But his body was tense, stiff underneath Sean’s bruising grasp. There was almost a spell, held together by the bare threads formed by touch of their joined lips-- then Viggo was shoving at him, pushing him away, tearing their mouths apart.

“What the fuck, Sean?” the words were growled out. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Fixing meself,” Sean said, his lips tingling and breath coming hard. He licked his lips, tasting nothing but alcohol.

“You’ve never been a two-beer queer,” Viggo said, and his accent flattened out the words, made them sound strange on his tongue. “So forgive me for feeling fucking confused right now.”

“It takes hell lot more than this ta make me drunk,” he replied, but he knew the answer was insufficient. Sean closed his eyes, took a step back, and hissed as the glass buried itself further into his skin.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing to yourself,” Viggo said. It wasn’t even a question.

His eyes were fixed on the ground, on Sean’s legs. Sean looked down and there was blood on the floor, mixing with glass shards and the few remnants of alcohol. He wondered why he could barely feel the pain. The alcohol had long faded, its effects chased away by the sight of Viggo standing in his doorway.

Maybe Sean had finally managed to find a way to numb himself. Too little, too late.

Viggo practically dragged him towards the couch, holding him by the elbow and leading him in a big circle. Rough hands on Sean’s skin and yet this was the furthest thing from what Sean had fantasised of, the very last thing that he could ever want. There was such stifled pity in Viggo’s eyes that Sean felt that he should want to scream, to chase him out of the house.

He went anyway. “Thought you were leaving,” he said.

“I might be pissed at you, but I’m not going to let you bleed out or be crippled by your own idiocy,” Viggo replied tartly. “Do you even remember your job?”

He shoved Sean down to the couch, stepping back. “Look, do you even own a first aid kit?”

“I have kids,” Sean drawled. His feet were starting to hurt, and he rested them on the coffee table. Good thing it was made of glass; at least there wouldn’t be bloodstains on wood. Maybe he should break the table as well and cover the living room in glass. “It’s in the bathroom.”

“Stay here.”

A person, Sean mused, could get used to the sight of another’s back. Viggo was thinner now, his shoulders narrower and bonier. Or maybe he hadn’t changed at all and Sean was simply remembering him wrong. Either one was a possibility. He didn’t trust his memory anymore; it had proven him wrong far too many times.

“You want to tell me what the hell is up with you right now?”

Viggo dropped to his knees in front of him, the first aid box opened at the side of the couch. Sean couldn’t help but reach forward, thumb tracing the heavy crow’s feet, the visible sign of Viggo’s exhaustion that refused to be chased away no matter how bright his eyes shone. Viggo’s hand grabbed onto his wrist, and pulled it away.

“Sean.”

“You tell me,” Sean said, his voice soft. He sat up and pulled his foot towards himself. His finger grabbed hold of a single shard and yanked it out. Blood flowed over his skin and he stared at the red.

“Sean,” Viggo snapped out his name like a scolding father, grabbing both of his wrists and slamming them against the couch. Sean’s finger nearly trailed blood against his skin when he tried to cup his cheek, but Viggo pushed him down again, practically straddling him until he couldn’t move.

“I should call an ambulance for you, you stupid bastard,” Viggo said. “But I suspect that it wouldn’t go very well, and you don’t need more bad press.”

“I ain’t care ‘bout that.”

“What do you care about, Sean?”

“You,” Sean enunciated the word as much as he could, turning the consonants clear and sharp, ringing in the air around them. “Just you.” He took a shuddering breath. “That what you want ta hear?”

“There’s nothing you can tell me that will be what I want to hear,” Viggo sighed. “Because I would know that it’s a damn lie.”

“Try me.”

“Can you tell me truthfully that you’re alright and you’re not falling apart? That we’re still friends, and you don’t look at me differently than you had when we were shooting Rings, or even three years ago?”

Sean reached out, grabbing onto Viggo’s shoulders, pulling him so close their breaths touched. “I can’t say that, but neither can you.”

“No, but I’m not the idiot who has glass on his feet right now and is drinking himself into a stupor in the morning,” Viggo said. He took tweezers out of the kit, wielding it like he would a sword. Keeping the two of them apart.

“Nah, yer just exhausting yerself. That ain’t much better than what I’m doing.”

“At least I’m being productive. Hold still.”

Sean let him fix him. The hands of a King were the hands of a healer, but Viggo was no King and Sean was no Steward. Boromir wouldn't be destroying himself like this. Or maybe he would, if he had lived after Amon Hen. What did it matter?

He had a dream once -- or was it a memory -- of Viggo on his knees like this, his hands gentle on Sean’s skin. But the blood was new and jarring and the pain came from somewhere inside him instead of his skin, and Viggo wasn’t looking at him like this. He dreamt of kindness from those eyes and a sweet kiss that chased all of his demons away. He made believe that Viggo’s voice and scent would become his new addiction, chasing away the taste of alcohol that lingered so much on his tongue that he no longer tasted it.

“I need a drink,” Sean said. At the corner of his eyes he could see white bandages in Viggo’s hands, being slowly wrapped around his feet. Years, or months, ago, he read the stories of old Chinese women who had their feet bound so they could not run away.

“You want a drink,” Viggo corrected. He pulled the bandages tight around Sean’s feet. The white was fading away, replaced by the red of his blood, soaking through the cloth. Strange that he could still barely feel it. “You need the hospital, and stitches.”

His feet were swathed in stark colours. Sean pushed himself down the couch, sliding to his knees until his eyes met Viggo’s. His breath ghosted against Viggo’s neck as he cupped his cheeks and leaned their foreheads together. He could see himself reflected in grey eyes but he looked away, instead focusing on thin lips, on the white scar.

“The couch’s here but you got everything else wrong,” he murmured, his voice barely loud enough to be heard. “Even the alcohol is wrong. Last time it was beer and you brought me ta yer house. It was in New Zealand and the weather was odd, cold, and you gave me a blanket.”

Viggo cocked his head slightly, trying to seek out Sean’s eyes with his own. Sean stared at the wall beyond his shoulder instead.

“That happened plenty of times, Sean,” Viggo’s breath was hot. “We both got drunk many times in New Zealand.”

“That ain’t what I’m talking ‘bout,” Sean said. “I remember blankets and yer hands on me face. I remember you kissing me, on the damn couch in yer old house.”

Viggo was frozen, his eyes wide, his lips parted. Sean darted his tongue out, feeling sweat and teeth at the tip of his tongue but tasting neither.

“Is that so? Is that why you’ve been avoiding me, Sean?” Sean’s sleeves were caught in rough hands, nails dragging against the skin of his arms. “Do I disgust you now?”

Sean shook his head. “I want you,” he said, knowing that his voice was trembling but he was beyond caring. “I want you so fuckng badly, Vig.” He took a deep breath. “It’s making me head spin, it is.”

“That would be the blood loss,” Viggo said brusquely. But his hands were gentle on Sean’s jaw, lifting his head up and forcing their eyes to meet.

“I’m bringing you to the hospital. Unless you don’t want me to touch you?”

Sean’s eyes flashed, and he shoved Viggo away, hissing as his soles hit the bottom of the couch as he scrambled away, trying to put as much distance between the two of them.

“Do you want me ta beg you?” His voice was like a whip, every enunciation a crack that split the air. “I gave you your damn answer, didn’t I?”

“What did you expect, Sean?” Viggo grabbed him by the collar, dragging him up and shoving him down to sit heavily on the couch. “That I would kiss you and tell you that I’ve loved you for the past twelve, thirteen years? That I’ve been waiting for you? I’ve moved on, Sean. Like normal people do when their friends didn’t show a goddamn hint of interest in them for over a fucking decade!”

“Fuck off, then. Leave the house and forget you’ve ever been here,” Sean hissed. He drew his legs up and hugged them to his chest, ignoring his injuries, ignoring the blood staining the bandages that Viggo’s hands had put on him.

“Jesus, I’m fucking surprised you haven’t choked yourself to death on your own self-pity.” Viggo dragged a hand over his hair. He stood up, looming over Sean. “I can’t fucking forget you because you’re a friend.”

“Go fuck yerself on yer own damn nobility,” Sean grabbed him by the collar, pulling him down until they were eye-level to each other again. “Either you fuck off and leave me alone, or you fuck me. You can’t have it any other way.”

Viggo looked at him for a long moment. His shoulders sagged, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft.

Sean had always liked the way Viggo could see through him. Viggo knew him well and always seemed to know the right thing to say.

“How long have you been using me as an excuse for your own self-destruction, Sean?”

At this moment, he hated him for that very reason. Hated him more than words could say. He refused to look at Viggo, staring at the front door, wanting Viggo to disappear from his sight, wanting him to walk out and never come back again. More than anything, he wished that Viggo would shut the fuck up and take his words and his too-piercing eyes with him.

He might be left with only illusions, but he knew now that reality was far more horrible.

“Alright, I’ll play your game,” Viggo’s voice was tight, and his calluses burned on Sean’s face as he shoved his head back to look at him. Sean’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to speak.

But Viggo was kissing him, smashing their lips together, their teeth knocking against each other.

“I’ll fuck you,” Viggo said, and his smile was sharper than the glass still littered around them. “But first, you’re going to the hospital, because damned if I’m going to let you blame me for bleeding to death as well.”

***

Vancouver, April 2012


April in Vancouver was when it rained half the time and the parks were covered in spring blossoms. Spring was just coming in and the skies were full of white clouds on the days that the rains didn’t come.

In other words, it was like London, except less crowded. And brighter.

Sean only had a couple of weeks of filming to do, and within those weeks he only had a few days that he had to work, and it was a character that he had already explored before. Sometimes he had to laugh at how ridiculous his job was sometimes.

He walked along the streets with a cigarette in one hand and a beer on another. Canadians didn’t recognise him most of the time, and Sean was glad for that. He didn’t want to take his eyes off the sun that was setting off in the distance, disappearing behind the buildings, and he leaned against a tree and took a long drag. The red of the sun was almost like the fire at the end of the stub, red and burning bright.

Viggo would have taken a picture, Sean thought. He smiled to himself, and sipped at his beer.

--there’s a blanket drawn over his shoulders. It’s dark, too dark for it to be night. His eyes are closed. He almost remembers--

He blinked at the sudden memory, coming unbidden to the forefront of his mind. Vancouver wasn’t a place that he visited extensively before, so why--

-- hands, rough hands, smoothing over the side of his face, scraping against his beard stubble. His back is warm and he can’t move his arm much. Is that a couch?--

Sean breathed out. The cigarette fell from his hand. Almost blind, he found his way to a bench. The city slowly disappeared from his sight. The beer was cold, and he took a large gulp of it. He chased memories instead of sights.

-- the hand had moved into his hair, slowly stroking, the motions limited by the short strands. There is a thumb on his neck. The shift of cloth, his shirt being pulled away. The thumb strokes his shoulder. He knows those calluses. Roughness on the fingertips and the base.--

He wished he had opened his eyes. He took another swallow of the beer. It was almost gone, but he barely noticed it.

-- lips. Chapped lips on his temple. Hand on his neck. He’s still. He can hear his own heartbeat, slow and soft, thrumming at the edge of his breathing.--

He knew those hands. He knew those lips. He didn’t know why his mind suddenly wanted him to remember this, only that it did and it was somehow important. Sean squeezed his eyes shut, his hand tightening against the neck of the bottle.

-- lips on his cheek. Lips on his lips.--

Sean exhaled. Tipped his head back, and drained his beer. He wanted another cigarette, but he could barely move.

“Goodnight, Sean. Sleep well.”

The sun had disappeared behind the buildings, the red darkened into black. It was dreadfully poetic. Sunsets symbolised endings, Sean was no poet or photographer, but he knew that well enough. The night was slowly growing darker even as the streetlamps turned on, and that was appropriate too. It was a little bit too cliché, and Sean wondered, for a small hysterical moment, if he was dreaming.

He pinched himself even though he knew he wasn’t. There was wind in his hair and he could taste the incoming rain on the tip of his tongue. Sean licked his lips.

There was no use blaming his mind for suddenly remembering.

“O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall,” he whispered to himself. “Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed.”

It was not the memory. Not merely it. It was the sudden tightening of his chest, a sudden knot in his stomach that he had not once noticed until now. A desperate longing to feel those hands and lips on his own, to see those eyes. Grey they were, a colour only defined by the light that fell upon them. The image of a man appeared behind his eyelids, so sharp as if it was tattooed there and he had blinded himself to it all these years.

Hopkins’s lines were more appropriate than he had ever thought they would be. A random utterance a character made that now applied to him, for he felt as if he was hanging on a precipice, the world spinning around him. In the distance, thunder rumbled, but Sean took no notice of it for the drums in his heart were far louder. Suddenly he wished for that peaceful beat he heard of himself in his memory, that steady one-two that he knew so well because it had always been with him.

The rain came while he sat on the bench. Water soaked into his hair but Sean was already cold. The beer was long gone but he wished there was more, much more, because now he had grasped onto the memory his mind was turning it over and over. Phantom hands ghosted across his neck, his collarbone, far stronger than the cold rain as it slowly dripped into his shirt, plastering cloth against his skin.

He must look like a madman, Sean realised, sitting on a bench in the rain, talking to himself. He felt like he was going mad, the Earth shifting beneath his feet and sending him tumbling, stumbling from the place that he had always known to be his. He knew that voice. He knew that hand, those lips. He even knew that couch, for once upon a time he had spent many nights upon it.

Over a decade had passed and only now then he remembered; years that had set more lines in his face and made his skin sag. His hair was dark now and so was his skin, darkened by time and cigarettes and alcohol. Sean’s hand nearly shook as he bowed his head, lighting up another fag. The burn of the first drag was sharp in his throat, but he wished it was harsher still. He wished he could inhale fire, so it could destroy what he had just regained.

The rain threatened to drown him. Water seeped into his hair and hung on his lashes, and when he blinked he knew they must look like tears. It was the strangest thing to cry when there was nothing to be lost.

There was a message in his email that Sean had yet to answer. He would delete it the first chance he had, he decided. He knew that voice, knew those words, and he could not help himself from wondering what those lips would look like when shaping those words. Would the scar stretch? What would be the colour of those eyes? Sean didn’t use to wonder about such things, yet now it lingered in his head.

It had been too long and there was too much dignity to lose to even think of mentioning this, much less reaching out a hand and placing his hope in a fire that had to have been drowned at least ten years ago. The rain continued, the drops soaking into his clothes as if to prove his point. Water drowned out the cigarette’s flame, and he let it fall to the ground. His metaphors were running together, getting confused. ‘Cliché’ didn’t half describe the situation now. Sean wanted to laugh, but he swallowed back the sound.

He needed another drink. The pubs must be opened by now.

***

London, November 2012


“You’re damn heavy.”

“You could let me use me crutches,” Sean pointed out. His arm was slung over Viggo’s shoulders, his weight almost entirely placed upon the other man. Those very crutches were gripped tightly in his other hand.

“And have you tear open your stitches less than an hour after you come back from the hospital?” Viggo shot him a look. “No. I’d rather not have to drive you back again.”

Sean scowled as Viggo’s fingers pressed against his hip, digging into his pocket. “I ain’t a damn kid, you know that.”

“From what I’ve seen of you so far? I doubt it,” Viggo shot back. He took Sean’s keys and shoved it into the door, kicking it open.

They hobbled inside, avoiding the mess still left on the floor as much as they could.

“I need a drink.”

“Do you want me to fuck you or not?”

Sean froze and nearly dropped the crutches. Viggo nearly stumbled and he looked at him, his grey eyes like broken glass set deep within his face. His lips were pressed thin.

“You make it seem like a chore,” Sean said. It was a damn pathetic attempt at deflection.

Viggo shrugged, practically dragging him forward so they could move up the stairs to the bedroom. Sean couldn’t help the small exhale of relief when those eyes were turned away from him again.

“I keep my promises.”

“I thought you were joking.”

“Do you want me to be?”

Reality was nothing like the fantasies that he had held deep inside his mind, turning it over and over again. There were waking dreams that he had of Viggo kissing him, of the two of them falling into bed while the sun came through the windows. A brand new day, a brand new him, all of his previous faults erased and once they woke up from their fucking, Sean could look himself in the mirror again.

But the sky was dark from the approaching sunset and this was no fantasy. Viggo’s body was hot underneath his arm but so tense he felt like a carved statue than living flesh.

He wondered what was wrong with him, that he still held on to fairytales and ideal relationships even after four divorces. Viggo once told him that nothing was permanent except for parents and children, and not even those were perfect -- it had to be worked for.

Sean was so damn tired of working for it.

“No,” he said softly. He stared down at his feet. “I don’t want you ta be joking.”

But he had to try.

“Alright,” Viggo said, business-like. “Bedroom, then.”

Viggo’s hands were still gentle on him even as he pushed the door open. Sean placed the crutches next to the bed, lowering himself down. He looked up to Viggo and he laughed to himself, a half-swallowed chuckle. Months of alcohol-fogged fantasies and nearly thirteen years of knowing each other (could they still call what they have friendship after this?) and this was all that could come of this.

“Do you want me to help you strip?” Viggo asked. His hands were at the hem of his own shirt, starting to pull it off.

“I ain’t that helpless.”

Sean still had some pride, though he didn’t know what use it was to him right now. He pulled off his shirt and pants, toed off his shoes and socks. He hooked his fingers beneath his boxers, but his eyes were fixed on Viggo’s skin as it was revealed to him, slowly.

“You got a new tattoo,” he said.

“Yeah. Months ago,” Viggo shrugged. “I told you about it in an email, but I guess you didn’t read it.”

“No.” Sean pushed himself up the bed, fully naked now. His cock was limp against his thigh and so was Viggo’s. “I didn’t.”

Viggo draped himself over him. His leg was warm between Sean’s. His scar was stark against his tanned skin, and Sean opened his mouth, pressed their lips together. They kissed. It was, Sean thought, like one of the kisses he shared with countless women in front of cameras, except that he didn’t have another name and another life to hide behind.

He slipped his hand downwards. Viggo’s leg was rough against his hand, but his cock was smooth. His nails caught against rough pubic hair as he stroked, and the hitch of Viggo’s breath against his skin was nothing like he had ever imagined. The slow filling of Viggo’s cock between his finger reminded him of dirty floors and filthy mouths, and Sean closed his eyes.

“Do you have condoms? Lube?”

“Nightstand.” He bought them both months ago in an airport in Canada, before he returned to London. Both were still unused.

Strange that he would not feel Viggo’s skin when he had tasted so many so many varieties of come. It was, he thought, better this way. Cleaner.

Viggo’s hands pulled his legs apart. The mattress shifted under his weight and Sean drew his legs up. The bandages were stark white against Viggo’s skin, and Sean focused on the contrast even as he felt a finger press inside him. He arched. His blood pounded in his ears, rushing downwards, filling his cock. He felt it all, detached, his nerves telling his brain what was happening to him but there was a haze inside his head and he could barely feel it.

This was like a story, something happening to someone else.

“Probably a stupid question,” Viggo said. His eyes were fixed on Sean’s hip, and his finger slid in and out, stretching him, fucking him. “But have you ever done this before?”

Sean squeezed his eyes shut. Arched his back. Buried his fingers into Viggo’s hair.

“No,” he said, the word tumbling from his lip. He wanted to take it back, to suck it between his teeth.

“Damn you,” Viggo breathed. His lips traced the edge of Sean’s hip, against the pelvic bone that was still visible from beneath skin and muscles. “Damn you to hell, Sean.”

He wanted to laugh. There was no use to damn him so when he was already there. His lips parted as if to say it, but Viggo was taking his only half-hard cock into his mouth. Heat and wet and the softest scrape of tongue against the head, and Sean gasped, body jerking, air rushing into his lungs so fast and sharp that it cut against the inside of his throat.

“Those are me words ta say,” Sean whispered. He pulled his legs apart even more. He could feel himself getting hard, and he wondered why the sight of Viggo’s naked body hadn’t done the job.

The answer was already there, at the edge of his mind, but Viggo pulled out his finger and shoved in two more. His mouth was so hot, the suction perfect. Sean’s fingers dug into the mattress, scoring temporary lines down the cloth cover. Viggo’s fingers curled, touching something within him, and Sean jerked again. Like a marionette on strings, played perfectly, and the pleasure that flooded his mind chased the comparison away as quickly as it had come.

“Vig,” he whispered instead. The name was mangled by his accent. Viggo’s mouth pulled away. Three fingers now and Sean flinched, less at the stretch than at the expectation of the pain that didn’t come. But Viggo seemed not to notice, because he pressed a kiss against the inside of a thigh, his teeth barely scraping skin.

“I’m going to fuck you,” Viggo said. His fingers were pulling away, grabbing Sean’s legs and pulling them up and hooking them over his shoulders. Sean was wide open, exposed.

He heard the sound of silver foil ripping. He opened his eyes and pushed himself up, taking the condom out of Viggo’s hands. Their eyes did not meet. But it was not Viggo’s eyes that he wanted, was it? His cock was hard enough, rising from thick, dark curls, and Sean slid the condom down the shaft, his fingers stumbling from the unfamiliarity.

“Lie down.”

He did. Lay down while Viggo pushed into him, fucked him-- or perhaps he should use the word ‘have sex’ because this was nothing more than going through the motions. But it was good, the burn of his ass pressing on the edges of his mind, Viggo’s weight shoving him down, squeezing the breath out of him. Sean kept his eyes closed and he raised his arms, covering his face.

There was only heat when they came. Heat on the outside, his come splashing against his own skin, Viggo’s heat inside him, his single pant wet against Sean’s skin.

Nothing like what he thought it would be.

Viggo pulled out and dropped down next to him. Their breaths were coming just slightly faster than before. Sean let his legs fall back down to the bed, straightening them. He didn’t shift his arm from his face. Their bodies were inches from each other, and he could feel the heat of Viggo’s skin. They lay there like that for long moments. Sean didn’t know how long it was; he would count the time by his heartbeat, but he could not hear that.

Slowly, Viggo shifted, sitting up on the bed. Sean felt the mattress move and heard the slight squeak of latex being removed, and the flush of the toilet. He didn’t open his eyes even as Viggo started to dress.

“Stay,” he said, his voice barely loud enough to be heard.

Viggo’s shoes made a soft thud on the floor as he stopped. Sean heard his footsteps as he walked back to the bed.

“Look at me, Sean,” Viggo’s hands were rough on his skin.

Sean let his arms drop back to his side. He opened his eyes and caught Viggo’s gaze again. His lips quirked in an attempt to smile, a deflated, defeated little thing.

“I’m not what you want,” Viggo said.

“No,” Sean closed his eyes again, turning his head away. He laughed, a high, hysterical little sound that rang around the room. He had to laugh because if he did not, he knew he would start to cry, and he looked pathetic enough already, with come still on his skin and his hair ruffled and bandages on his feet. His dignity was stripped to pieces without needing to be further destroyed by tears.

“No, you’re not.”

He laughed again. Viggo’s fingers carded gently through his hair just once.

The sound of the front door closing echoed in his ears. Perhaps it was only his imagination, for the sound couldn’t reach to the bedroom, no matter how silent the house. But it rang nonetheless, over and over, the sound of a closing door.

Sean tried to count his heartbeats as he lay on the bed, curled up to his side.

The sun was rising when he stood up from the bed. He limped to the bathroom and wiped himself off, barely resisting the urge to flinch at the dried come on his skin.

His phone was downstairs. The crutches were beside the bed. He took them and took the stairs one at a time.“Sean,” Viggo snapped out his name like a scolding father, grabbing both of his wrists and slamming them against the couch. Sean’s finger nearly trailed blood against his skin when he tried to cup his cheek, but Viggo pushed him down again, practically straddling him until he couldn’t move.

“I should call an ambulance for you, you stupid bastard,” Viggo said. “But I suspect that it wouldn’t go very well, and you don’t need more bad press.”

“I ain’t care ‘bout that.”

“What do you care about, Sean?”

“You,” Sean enunciated the word as much as he could, turning the consonants clear and sharp, ringing in the air around them. “Just you.” He took a shuddering breath. “That what you want ta hear?”

“There’s nothing you can tell me that will be what I want to hear,” Viggo sighed. “Because I would know that it’s a damn lie.”

“Try me.”

“Can you tell me truthfully that you’re alright and you’re not falling apart? That we’re still friends, and you don’t look at me differently than you had when we were shooting Rings, or even three years ago?”

Sean reached out, grabbing onto Viggo’s shoulders, pulling him so close their breaths touched. “I can’t say that, but neither can you.”

“No, but I’m not the idiot who has glass on his feet right now and is drinking himself into a stupor in the morning,” Viggo said. He took tweezers out of the kit, wielding it like he would a sword. Keeping the two of them apart.

“Nah, yer just exhausting yerself. That ain’t much better than what I’m doing.”

“At least I’m being productive. Hold still.”

Sean let him fix him. The hands of a King were the hands of a healer, but Viggo was no King and Sean was no Steward. Boromir wouldn't be destroying himself like this. Or maybe he would, if he had lived after Amon Hen. What did it matter?

He had a dream once -- or was it a memory -- of Viggo on his knees like this, his hands gentle on Sean’s skin. But the blood was new and jarring and the pain came from somewhere inside him instead of his skin, and Viggo wasn’t looking at him like this. He dreamt of kindness from those eyes and a sweet kiss that chased all of his demons away. He made believe that Viggo’s voice and scent would become his new addiction, chasing away the taste of alcohol that lingered so much on his tongue that he no longer tasted it.

“I need a drink,” Sean said. At the corner of his eyes he could see white bandages in Viggo’s hands, being slowly wrapped around his feet. Years, or months, ago, he read the stories of old Chinese women who had their feet bound so they could not run away.

“You want a drink,” Viggo corrected. He pulled the bandages tight around Sean’s feet. The white was fading away, replaced by the red of his blood, soaking through the cloth. Strange that he could still barely feel it. “You need the hospital, and stitches.”

His feet were swathed in stark colours. Sean pushed himself down the couch, sliding to his knees until his eyes met Viggo’s. His breath ghosted against Viggo’s neck as he cupped his cheeks and leaned their foreheads together. He could see himself reflected in grey eyes but he looked away, instead focusing on thin lips, on the white scar.

“The couch’s here but you got everything else wrong,” he murmured, his voice barely loud enough to be heard. “Even the alcohol is wrong. Last time it was beer and you brought me ta yer house. It was in New Zealand and the weather was odd, cold, and you gave me a blanket.”

Viggo cocked his head slightly, trying to seek out Sean’s eyes with his own. Sean stared at the wall beyond his shoulder instead.

“That happened plenty of times, Sean,” Viggo’s breath was hot. “We both got drunk many times in New Zealand.”

“That ain’t what I’m talking ‘bout,” Sean said. “I remember blankets and yer hands on me face. I remember you kissing me, on the damn couch in yer old house.”

Viggo was frozen, his eyes wide, his lips parted. Sean darted his tongue out, feeling sweat and teeth at the tip of his tongue but tasting neither.

“Is that so? Is that why you’ve been avoiding me, Sean?” Sean’s sleeves were caught in rough hands, nails dragging against the skin of his arms. “Do I disgust you now?”

Sean shook his head. “I want you,” he said, knowing that his voice was trembling but he was beyond caring. “I want you so fuckng badly, Vig.” He took a deep breath. “It’s making me head spin, it is.”

“That would be the blood loss,” Viggo said brusquely. But his hands were gentle on Sean’s jaw, lifting his head up and forcing their eyes to meet.

“I’m bringing you to the hospital. Unless you don’t want me to touch you?”

Sean’s eyes flashed, and he shoved Viggo away, hissing as his soles hit the bottom of the couch as he scrambled away, trying to put as much distance between the two of them.

“Do you want me ta beg you?” His voice was like a whip, every enunciation a crack that split the air. “I gave you your damn answer, didn’t I?”

“What did you expect, Sean?” Viggo grabbed him by the collar, dragging him up and shoving him down to sit heavily on the couch. “That I would kiss you and tell you that I’ve loved you for the past twelve, thirteen years? That I’ve been waiting for you? I’ve moved on, Sean. Like normal people do when their friends didn’t show a goddamn hint of interest in them for over a fucking decade!”

“Fuck off, then. Leave the house and forget you’ve ever been here,” Sean hissed. He drew his legs up and hugged them to his chest, ignoring his injuries, ignoring the blood staining the bandages that Viggo’s hands had put on him.

“Jesus, I’m fucking surprised you haven’t choked yourself to death on your own self-pity.” Viggo dragged a hand over his hair. He stood up, looming over Sean. “I can’t fucking forget you because you’re a friend.”

“Go fuck yerself on yer own damn nobility,” Sean grabbed him by the collar, pulling him down until they were eye-level to each other again. “Either you fuck off and leave me alone, or you fuck me. You can’t have it any other way.”

Viggo looked at him for a long moment. His shoulders sagged, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft.

Sean had always liked the way Viggo could see through him. Viggo knew him well and always seemed to know the right thing to say.

“How long have you been using me as an excuse for your own self-destruction, Sean?”

At this moment, he hated him for that very reason. Hated him more than words could say. He refused to look at Viggo, staring at the front door, wanting Viggo to disappear from his sight, wanting him to walk out and never come back again. More than anything, he wished that Viggo would shut the fuck up and take his words and his too-piercing eyes with him.

He might be left with only illusions, but he knew now that reality was far more horrible.

“Alright, I’ll play your game,” Viggo’s voice was tight, and his calluses burned on Sean’s face as he shoved his head back to look at him. Sean’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to speak.

But Viggo was kissing him, smashing their lips together, their teeth knocking against each other.

“I’ll fuck you,” Viggo said, and his smile was sharper than the glass still littered around them. “But first, you’re going to the hospital, because damned if I’m going to let you blame me for bleeding to death as well.”

***

Vancouver, April 2012


April in Vancouver was when it rained half the time and the parks were covered in spring blossoms. Spring was just coming in and the skies were full of white clouds on the days that the rains didn’t come.

In other words, it was like London, except less crowded. And brighter.

Sean only had a couple of weeks of filming to do, and within those weeks he only had a few days that he had to work, and it was a character that he had already explored before. Sometimes he had to laugh at how ridiculous his job was sometimes.

He walked along the streets with a cigarette in one hand and a beer on another. Canadians didn’t recognise him most of the time, and Sean was glad for that. He didn’t want to take his eyes off the sun that was setting off in the distance, disappearing behind the buildings, and he leaned against a tree and took a long drag. The red of the sun was almost like the fire at the end of the stub, red and burning bright.

Viggo would have taken a picture, Sean thought. He smiled to himself, and sipped at his beer.

--there’s a blanket drawn over his shoulders. It’s dark, too dark for it to be night. His eyes are closed. He almost remembers--

He blinked at the sudden memory, coming unbidden to the forefront of his mind. Vancouver wasn’t a place that he visited extensively before, so why--

-- hands, rough hands, smoothing over the side of his face, scraping against his beard stubble. His back is warm and he can’t move his arm much. Is that a couch?--

Sean breathed out. The cigarette fell from his hand. Almost blind, he found his way to a bench. The city slowly disappeared from his sight. The beer was cold, and he took a large gulp of it. He chased memories instead of sights.

-- the hand had moved into his hair, slowly stroking, the motions limited by the short strands. There is a thumb on his neck. The shift of cloth, his shirt being pulled away. The thumb strokes his shoulder. He knows those calluses. Roughness on the fingertips and the base.--

He wished he had opened his eyes. He took another swallow of the beer. It was almost gone, but he barely noticed it.

-- lips. Chapped lips on his temple. Hand on his neck. He’s still. He can hear his own heartbeat, slow and soft, thrumming at the edge of his breathing.--

He knew those hands. He knew those lips. He didn’t know why his mind suddenly wanted him to remember this, only that it did and it was somehow important. Sean squeezed his eyes shut, his hand tightening against the neck of the bottle.

-- lips on his cheek. Lips on his lips.--

Sean exhaled. Tipped his head back, and drained his beer. He wanted another cigarette, but he could barely move.

“Goodnight, Sean. Sleep well.”

The sun had disappeared behind the buildings, the red darkened into black. It was dreadfully poetic. Sunsets symbolised endings, Sean was no poet or photographer, but he knew that well enough. The night was slowly growing darker even as the streetlamps turned on, and that was appropriate too. It was a little bit too cliché, and Sean wondered, for a small hysterical moment, if he was dreaming.

He pinched himself even though he knew he wasn’t. There was wind in his hair and he could taste the incoming rain on the tip of his tongue. Sean licked his lips.

There was no use blaming his mind for suddenly remembering.

“O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall,” he whispered to himself. “Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed.”

It was not the memory. Not merely it. It was the sudden tightening of his chest, a sudden knot in his stomach that he had not once noticed until now. A desperate longing to feel those hands and lips on his own, to see those eyes. Grey they were, a colour only defined by the light that fell upon them. The image of a man appeared behind his eyelids, so sharp as if it was tattooed there and he had blinded himself to it all these years.

Hopkins’s lines were more appropriate than he had ever thought they would be. A random utterance a character made that now applied to him, for he felt as if he was hanging on a precipice, the world spinning around him. In the distance, thunder rumbled, but Sean took no notice of it for the drums in his heart were far louder. Suddenly he wished for that peaceful beat he heard of himself in his memory, that steady one-two that he knew so well because it had always been with him.

The rain came while he sat on the bench. Water soaked into his hair but Sean was already cold. The beer was long gone but he wished there was more, much more, because now he had grasped onto the memory his mind was turning it over and over. Phantom hands ghosted across his neck, his collarbone, far stronger than the cold rain as it slowly dripped into his shirt, plastering cloth against his skin.

He must look like a madman, Sean realised, sitting on a bench in the rain, talking to himself. He felt like he was going mad, the Earth shifting beneath his feet and sending him tumbling, stumbling from the place that he had always known to be his. He knew that voice. He knew that hand, those lips. He even knew that couch, for once upon a time he had spent many nights upon it.

Over a decade had passed and only now then he remembered; years that had set more lines in his face and made his skin sag. His hair was dark now and so was his skin, darkened by time and cigarettes and alcohol. Sean’s hand nearly shook as he bowed his head, lighting up another fag. The burn of the first drag was sharp in his throat, but he wished it was harsher still. He wished he could inhale fire, so it could destroy what he had just regained.

The rain threatened to drown him. Water seeped into his hair and hung on his lashes, and when he blinked he knew they must look like tears. It was the strangest thing to cry when there was nothing to be lost.

There was a message in his email that Sean had yet to answer. He would delete it the first chance he had, he decided. He knew that voice, knew those words, and he could not help himself from wondering what those lips would look like when shaping those words. Would the scar stretch? What would be the colour of those eyes? Sean didn’t use to wonder about such things, yet now it lingered in his head.

It had been too long and there was too much dignity to lose to even think of mentioning this, much less reaching out a hand and placing his hope in a fire that had to have been drowned at least ten years ago. The rain continued, the drops soaking into his clothes as if to prove his point. Water drowned out the cigarette’s flame, and he let it fall to the ground. His metaphors were running together, getting confused. ‘Cliché’ didn’t half describe the situation now. Sean wanted to laugh, but he swallowed back the sound.

He needed another drink. The pubs must be opened by now.

***

London, November 2012


“You’re damn heavy.”

“You could let me use me crutches,” Sean pointed out. His arm was slung over Viggo’s shoulders, his weight almost entirely placed upon the other man. Those very crutches were gripped tightly in his other hand.

“And have you tear open your stitches less than an hour after you come back from the hospital?” Viggo shot him a look. “No. I’d rather not have to drive you back again.”

Sean scowled as Viggo’s fingers pressed against his hip, digging into his pocket. “I ain’t a damn kid, you know that.”

“From what I’ve seen of you so far? I doubt it,” Viggo shot back. He took Sean’s keys and shoved it into the door, kicking it open.

They hobbled inside, avoiding the mess still left on the floor as much as they could.

“I need a drink.”

“Do you want me to fuck you or not?”

Sean froze and nearly dropped the crutches. Viggo nearly stumbled and he looked at him, his grey eyes like broken glass set deep within his face. His lips were pressed thin.

“You make it seem like a chore,” Sean said. It was a damn pathetic attempt at deflection.

Viggo shrugged, practically dragging him forward so they could move up the stairs to the bedroom. Sean couldn’t help the small exhale of relief when those eyes were turned away from him again.

“I keep my promises.”

“I thought you were joking.”

“Do you want me to be?”

Reality was nothing like the fantasies that he had held deep inside his mind, turning it over and over again. There were waking dreams that he had of Viggo kissing him, of the two of them falling into bed while the sun came through the windows. A brand new day, a brand new him, all of his previous faults erased and once they woke up from their fucking, Sean could look himself in the mirror again.

But the sky was dark from the approaching sunset and this was no fantasy. Viggo’s body was hot underneath his arm but so tense he felt like a carved statue than living flesh.

He wondered what was wrong with him, that he still held on to fairytales and ideal relationships even after four divorces. Viggo once told him that nothing was permanent except for parents and children, and not even those were perfect -- it had to be worked for.

Sean was so damn tired of working for it.

“No,” he said softly. He stared down at his feet. “I don’t want you ta be joking.”

But he had to try.

“Alright,” Viggo said, business-like. “Bedroom, then.”

Viggo’s hands were still gentle on him even as he pushed the door open. Sean placed the crutches next to the bed, lowering himself down. He looked up to Viggo and he laughed to himself, a half-swallowed chuckle. Months of alcohol-fogged fantasies and nearly thirteen years of knowing each other (could they still call what they have friendship after this?) and this was all that could come of this.

“Do you want me to help you strip?” Viggo asked. His hands were at the hem of his own shirt, starting to pull it off.

“I ain’t that helpless.”

Sean still had some pride, though he didn’t know what use it was to him right now. He pulled off his shirt and pants, toed off his shoes and socks. He hooked his fingers beneath his boxers, but his eyes were fixed on Viggo’s skin as it was revealed to him, slowly.

“You got a new tattoo,” he said.

“Yeah. Months ago,” Viggo shrugged. “I told you about it in an email, but I guess you didn’t read it.”

“No.” Sean pushed himself up the bed, fully naked now. His cock was limp against his thigh and so was Viggo’s. “I didn’t.”

Viggo draped himself over him. His leg was warm between Sean’s. His scar was stark against his tanned skin, and Sean opened his mouth, pressed their lips together. They kissed. It was, Sean thought, like one of the kisses he shared with countless women in front of cameras, except that he didn’t have another name and another life to hide behind.

He slipped his hand downwards. Viggo’s leg was rough against his hand, but his cock was smooth. His nails caught against rough pubic hair as he stroked, and the hitch of Viggo’s breath against his skin was nothing like he had ever imagined. The slow filling of Viggo’s cock between his finger reminded him of dirty floors and filthy mouths, and Sean closed his eyes.

“Do you have condoms? Lube?”

“Nightstand.” He bought them both months ago in an airport in Canada, before he returned to London. Both were still unused.

Strange that he would not feel Viggo’s skin when he had tasted so many so many varieties of come. It was, he thought, better this way. Cleaner.

Viggo’s hands pulled his legs apart. The mattress shifted under his weight and Sean drew his legs up. The bandages were stark white against Viggo’s skin, and Sean focused on the contrast even as he felt a finger press inside him. He arched. His blood pounded in his ears, rushing downwards, filling his cock. He felt it all, detached, his nerves telling his brain what was happening to him but there was a haze inside his head and he could barely feel it.

This was like a story, something happening to someone else.

“Probably a stupid question,” Viggo said. His eyes were fixed on Sean’s hip, and his finger slid in and out, stretching him, fucking him. “But have you ever done this before?”

Sean squeezed his eyes shut. Arched his back. Buried his fingers into Viggo’s hair.

“No,” he said, the word tumbling from his lip. He wanted to take it back, to suck it between his teeth.

“Damn you,” Viggo breathed. His lips traced the edge of Sean’s hip, against the pelvic bone that was still visible from beneath skin and muscles. “Damn you to hell, Sean.”

He wanted to laugh. There was no use to damn him so when he was already there. His lips parted as if to say it, but Viggo was taking his only half-hard cock into his mouth. Heat and wet and the softest scrape of tongue against the head, and Sean gasped, body jerking, air rushing into his lungs so fast and sharp that it cut against the inside of his throat.

“Those are me words ta say,” Sean whispered. He pulled his legs apart even more. He could feel himself getting hard, and he wondered why the sight of Viggo’s naked body hadn’t done the job.

The answer was already there, at the edge of his mind, but Viggo pulled out his finger and shoved in two more. His mouth was so hot, the suction perfect. Sean’s fingers dug into the mattress, scoring temporary lines down the cloth cover. Viggo’s fingers curled, touching something within him, and Sean jerked again. Like a marionette on strings, played perfectly, and the pleasure that flooded his mind chased the comparison away as quickly as it had come.

“Vig,” he whispered instead. The name was mangled by his accent. Viggo’s mouth pulled away. Three fingers now and Sean flinched, less at the stretch than at the expectation of the pain that didn’t come. But Viggo seemed not to notice, because he pressed a kiss against the inside of a thigh, his teeth barely scraping skin.

“I’m going to fuck you,” Viggo said. His fingers were pulling away, grabbing Sean’s legs and pulling them up and hooking them over his shoulders. Sean was wide open, exposed.

He heard the sound of silver foil ripping. He opened his eyes and pushed himself up, taking the condom out of Viggo’s hands. Their eyes did not meet. But it was not Viggo’s eyes that he wanted, was it? His cock was hard enough, rising from thick, dark curls, and Sean slid the condom down the shaft, his fingers stumbling from the unfamiliarity.

“Lie down.”

He did. Lay down while Viggo pushed into him, fucked him-- or perhaps he should use the word ‘have sex’ because this was nothing more than going through the motions. But it was good, the burn of his ass pressing on the edges of his mind, Viggo’s weight shoving him down, squeezing the breath out of him. Sean kept his eyes closed and he raised his arms, covering his face.

There was only heat when they came. Heat on the outside, his come splashing against his own skin, Viggo’s heat inside him, his single pant wet against Sean’s skin.

Nothing like what he thought it would be.

Viggo pulled out and dropped down next to him. Their breaths were coming just slightly faster than before. Sean let his legs fall back down to the bed, straightening them. He didn’t shift his arm from his face. Their bodies were inches from each other, and he could feel the heat of Viggo’s skin. They lay there like that for long moments. Sean didn’t know how long it was; he would count the time by his heartbeat, but he could not hear that.

Slowly, Viggo shifted, sitting up on the bed. Sean felt the mattress move and heard the slight squeak of latex being removed, and the flush of the toilet. He didn’t open his eyes even as Viggo started to dress.

“Stay,” he said, his voice barely loud enough to be heard.

Viggo’s shoes made a soft thud on the floor as he stopped. Sean heard his footsteps as he walked back to the bed.

“Look at me, Sean,” Viggo’s hands were rough on his skin.

Sean let his arms drop back to his side. He opened his eyes and caught Viggo’s gaze again. His lips quirked in an attempt to smile, a deflated, defeated little thing.

“I’m not what you want,” Viggo said.

“No,” Sean closed his eyes again, turning his head away. He laughed, a high, hysterical little sound that rang around the room. He had to laugh because if he did not, he knew he would start to cry, and he looked pathetic enough already, with come still on his skin and his hair ruffled and bandages on his feet. His dignity was stripped to pieces without needing to be further destroyed by tears.

“No, you’re not.”

He laughed again. Viggo’s fingers carded gently through his hair just once.

The sound of the front door closing echoed in his ears. Perhaps it was only his imagination, for the sound couldn’t reach to the bedroom, no matter how silent the house. But it rang nonetheless, over and over, the sound of a closing door.

Sean tried to count his heartbeats as he lay on the bed, curled up to his side.

The sun was rising when he stood up from the bed. He limped to the bathroom and wiped himself off, barely resisting the urge to flinch at the dried come on his skin.

His phone was downstairs. The crutches were beside the bed. He took them and took the stairs one at a time.

“You really shouldn’t have drunk that beer.”

Sean lifted his head from the sink, meeting Viggo’s eyes in the mirror. It was the first time he looked at Viggo since arriving in New Zealand for the impromptu reunion. Downstairs, the hobbits and Orlando -- who were all in their thirties at least now, but still behaved like they were twelve when with each other -- continued to make a ruckus.

“Can’t let me reputation go down the drain, can it?”

Viggo snorted, shaking his head. But there was a glass of cold water in his hand, spiked with only lemon, and he dropped a wet cloth on Sean’s face.

“Idiot.”

Sean wiped his face and took a long drink. He took another gulp, swirling it all over his mouth before he spat into the sink. Bile was disgusting.

“Aye,” he said. There was no use denying it, not to this man.

But Viggo only gave him a flickering smile. “Come on,” he said, and his hand was warm on Sean’s sweaty arm. He dropped the toilet lid down and Sean sat down on it.

“Drugs?”

Sean made an affirmative sound. He tipped his head up to look at Viggo, and he noticed that the lines seemed to have set even deeper around his eyes. He looked like he had aged at least a few years since the last time Sean had seen him. Sean looked away.

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“Yer going ta choke on yer nobility one day,” Sean said, but there was no anger behind his words, only a heavy resignation. “I used you worse than the damn condom, and I’m damn sorry ‘bout it.”

“Guilt isn’t as bad a look on you as self-pity,” Viggo shot back. He dropped down to sit on the still-dry bathroom floor, folding his legs underneath him. “How are your feet?”

“Not as bad as they looked the last time you saw them.”

They looked at each other and Sean licked his lips. He didn’t look away.

“You look better,” Viggo said. He reached out and took the cloth from Sean’s hand, leaning forward and gently wiping the sweat on his neck, down to the hollow of his throat. Sean tensed at the first touch, but he let the breath out, letting it ease out between his teeth.

“Why did you kiss me, Vig?” his voice was whisper-loud.

Viggo gave him one of his half-smiles, and he shrugged again. “I don’t know.” He paused, and sighed. “I wanted to.”

Do you still want to, Sean wanted to ask, but he didn’t. He wouldn’t know how to deal with the answer, no matter what it was.

“Alright,” he said instead. He finished the water and sat it down on the ground.

“Are we still friends?” Viggo asked, the question seeming to burst out of him.

Were they? Could they be? Sean didn’t know. He stared at his feet.

“I want us ta be,” he replied, and he knew it wasn’t an answer at all. But he was alright with that.

It was the truth, and that was better than chasing dreams.

End