Viggo shoved one last time, the final stream of bubbles spilling over his fingers. He bit his lip, willing the bundle to still, to settle at the bottom of the stream having given up that very last breath of air, the last modicum of buoyancy.
***
The first time it happened, Viggo didn't even notice. It might have even happened a half-dozen times before, maybe more, but all he remembered was the vague sense that there was no longer enough room in his closet. After breakfast, and a few idle hours spent photographing the underside of the porch, he wandered back into the bedroom and, in the interests of space, tugged out a handful of items to donate, including a drab blue suit he couldn't remember ever having purchased.
The second time, he was off on another press junket, punctuated by two different premieres in two different cities within the space of forty-eight hours. After eight hours in the air and another six in airports, all he wanted to do was get to his hotel room, strip and take a long shower.
The suitcase sat on the bed unopened until he padded out from the bathroom, damp and wrapped in a towel. It sprang open as he unzipped it, as if it had been slightly overstuffed. Yet he'd made sure to pack lightly, this carry-on and his backpack enough to get him on and off planes, bypassing baggage claims.
Inside, he found the same pair of jeans, three t-shirts and two dress shirts he remembered packing, plus two of his smartest suits. But underneath those two suits was crammed a third, balled up more than folded, in a russell grey that reminded him more of something Sean would wear than anything he'd ever be caught dead in.
He checked the chain on the door was still in place. It was ridiculous, really, to imagine someone would sneak into his room and pack a suit he'd never seen before. Even so, he checked under the bed before he went to sleep; there was no one there.
Viggo was sure he was going crazy; there was no other explanation for it. New suits didn't spawn from old, they just didn't. He was crazy or senile way before his time, and it wasn't like he wasn't known for his eccentricities. They'd simply taken over, that was all, and that was why he couldn't remember purchasing suit after suit and shoving them deep in his closet for packing up later.
Eventually, he found himself lulled into an odd sense of security by the new suits. They were nearly always sandwiched in between two old, and really, it was saving him a lot of money. Each one fit like a glove, and as long as he paired them with flamboyant ties and shirts, they almost looked like something he'd have picked out himself.
It was an easy and uncomplicated relationship. Two suits gave him three, three lead to four, four to five, and then he'd simply pull out the extras and drop them off at the nearest thrift store. He was learning to trust in the strange magic of it all, and he supposed that one day he'd get up and simply accept it as given.
Until the drab blue donated suit turned up again, laid neatly out by unseen hands on the couch in his living room.
Maybe, Viggo supposed, this was something that all men dealt with: suits that turned up between other suits, some weird reverse fashion vortex that remained part of the unspoken brotherhood, like never asking for directions or accompanying others to the restroom. Maybe they were breeding. Maybe they spawned and returned home to spawn again. Maybe... maybe he should ask someone.
He dialled the first five digits of Sean's number a total of seven times before he gave up and put down the phone. After all, it wasn't like he had any idea how to phrase such a question: "Hey, Bean, do you ever catch your suits breeding?" and "I think my clothes might be stalking me," just didn't seem appropriate.
He resolved to ask Sean on his next visit. If he could remember in the rush to tear Sean's suit off.
The russell grey was next, hanging on the hook in his bathroom, neatly pressed, not a wrinkle in evidence. Then a cream-coloured double-breasted number found its way back onto Viggo's bed, and Viggo, by now thoroughly unsettled, declared war.
He tried thrift stores further afield, a couple towns over, or even across whatever border presented itself as handy. He started leaving them in anonymous hotel rooms, mailing them to charities on the other side of the earth, but each and every one turned up like a shower of bad pennies. It was getting ridiculous; he didn't have any more room to store them. He'd had to take over the closet and dresser in the spare bedroom, the space under his bed, and short of stuffing them all in his attic and setting the house ablaze, something had to be done.
After a comforting dinner and a long, quiet evening outside with the stars above filling his vision and the best of his weed filling his lungs, the answer came to him. It seemed so simple, he caught himself laughing before he even realized he was making any noise at all.
A few trips in and out of the house, and he'd dragged all but one suit down to the creek bed at the bottom of his yard. He thrust each into the water, one after the other, turning suit to wetsuit, letting them sink and slide beyond the reach of his fingertips, carried away over pebble and rock.
The days after were a blessing. No, more than that, they were a miracle. He stopped flinching when he opened his closet, stopped wincing when he stepped out of the shower. No more perfectly pressed outfits arrived out of the air, and eventually he relaxed enough that he found happiness in his one-suit life. It was simplicity itself, and it seemed to guarantee no more surprises, no more strangeness, no more stress. When that one wore out, down to the stream it went, and the next day, Viggo would purchase himself something fine and elegant and perhaps a little wacky, and it would hang there in his closet, beside ties and shirts and sweaters, and it would be. It would be one, just one suit, and Viggo found happiness in that.
Until, for his birthday, Henry sent him a herringbone jacket and trouser set.
***
The suit now drowned, Viggo got to his feet, brushing the dirt off his knees. It'd wash downstream with all the others, disappearing to who knows where, but at least he could be satisfied in the knowledge that it wouldn't be returning. Not tomorrow, not the next day, nor a month or more down the road.
And if it did, well... Viggo wasn't above lighting it on fire.
Reflexively, he checked his watch. Sean would be here in an hour, and there was still so much to do before his visit. Not the least of which was to count the socks in his drawer. He couldn't be sure, but he suspected there were four extra pairs he'd never seen before in there this morning.
Summary: Viggo had no idea where the hell they were coming from, but dammit, they weren't going to be coming back.
Rated: G
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: No
Word count: 1219 Read: 901
Published: 17 Feb 2010 Updated: 17 Feb 2010