The hotel was heaven; hot towels, tubs and tea, all at the touch of a button. Sean sighed, secure in his sense of singleness, happy he'd slipped the bonds of duty and devotion, beyond blunder, bluster and belligerence.
No need to corral keys, nor pick up pants left pooling on the floor; no need to rescue a wholly white wardrobe stained salmon in the wash, nor put perishables placed in pantries into their proper positions. No more miserable mornings waking to a missing mate, spending breakfast, lunch and dinner separate and solitary as iridescent inspiration was captured and condensed behind a barrier built of mind as much as materials. No more teacups and trays deposited at doorways, left to linger until later, until cleared and cleaned, not a comment on the cooking, not a thank you for the thought.
He sank softly to the down duvet, comfortably cool, cocooned in calm. The white walls were a balm to his bruised being, a blank slate for his spirit. Here he could be satisfyingly selfish, safely settled in his suite, imposing only on those for whom cash could compensate.
Perhaps later he'd venture downstairs, take in the tempting, temperate territory, wander wooded walkways, relearn how to relate to his own inner identity, or whatever shlock shrinks sell to the susceptible. But for now he was content to enjoy the emptiness, savour the silence that quite curiously came without anxious awkwardness.
It didn't matter that he'd had every photograph, every painted piece removed from the room. The unspoiled, unbroken uniformity provided a pleasingly pale pallette, and anyway, every guest had his peculiarities. The concierge hadn't even commented, just brought up the bellboys and whisked all ocular offenses away.
And now, he was alone. Blessedly, blissfully, cheerfully, contentedly, deliriously, delightfully, ecstatically, exuberantly alone. Alone by choice, not chance or circumstance. Able to accommodate any and all of his own appetites, tugged only by his own tides.
Any minute now he'd turn on the telly; catch a match, or maybe a comedy. He might ring a mate, swing 'round to a pub for a pint, find a place to play pool. Or he could browse through a book, slide into a snooze, write a few words. The whole world was waiting -- potent and pleasurable -- each enticement so easily grasped. He'd rid himself of the millstone, made a molehill from a mountain, freed himself from his fetters and it felt fantastic.
He would do something... sometime soon. He would avail himself of his advantages, appreciate the amenities, amuse himself -- gloriously, gleefully -- alone.
He would.
Sometime soon.
He was sure of it.
Summary: May finds Sean satisfied with his solitary state. Follows April: Personification
Rated: PG
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 439 Read: 745
Published: 19 Aug 2009 Updated: 19 Aug 2009
Story Notes:
"[A]lliteration, (also known as 'head rhyme' or 'initial rhyme'), the repetition of the same sounds--usually initial consonants of words or of stressed syllables--in an sequence of neighbouring words."
~From The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms by Chris Baldick.
~From The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms by Chris Baldick.