His gaze wandered beyond the looped dark-curtained tall winows of this room in the University in the far West of America. It was an old-established scholarly college, not considered 'out of the top drawer' but it was very much to the Professor's taste. He saw the big mature trees, along the grassy slope - he remembered hills, far away hills - high, bigger, rounded hills where he and Sean Bean had run - and run - and run like crazy children - run and run and run, him hearing the thudthudthud of feet, close - too close - he dodged - left then kinked right, the huffing laugh as a heavier body lunged, turned and twisted - following, running, closer, even clo...THUD - a roll, and a laughed grunt of effort, as they panted in each others' faces.
He remembered Sean , arms outstretched high - high on the empty hilltop - just him and the wind - his arms anointing the sky - his long naked limbs challenging the swift passing of air as it caressed his sweaty body. The sheer beauty of a Viking golden man against a blue-bright sky - a God.... Professor V. Mortensen sat - ‘Oh Sean Sean, where are you now ? ’ It had only been the one short summer, that one glorious summer. Sean had 'sacked' himself from his 'barrer-cushing‘, and because he'd moved into his mate's 'nice' room, his substitute Mam had smilingly allowed him to store all his paintings and gear, meaning 'those smelly canvases he painted on' in his old room, the one with the washbasin for late-night pissing into. ... Viggo smiled, ... he remembered the 'caff', the laughter, his first of so many rip-roaring laughters with his love.
Just one summer - until December - he'd managed to extract an extension to his course from the authority, speaking of 'brilliant students " and "needing further detailed work, and physical practice" for them. And he and Sean had spent the Long Vac. in the north of England. "Me home" as Sean declared as Viggo beheld him,standing King of his Domain, towering over his recumbent servant Viggo Mortensen, peasant. They'd stayed with his 'real' Mam, a tall strong woman, very like her son, big,healthy, her hair the colour of beaten eggs, with the same golden eyes rimmed with green. There was 'Uncle Dee' Mam's love partner, 'husband' who'd been there to help carry the coffin of Malcolm after the colliery accident that had left Sean fatherless at the age of six.
"Don't remember much of me Da, he were but a black man wot sat in the bath in front of the range by the night. He'd blow bubbles at meh - he had such white teeth in that black face..." " Derek's bin good to me Mam - he'd do anything for her, - and she him, I think.." He added softly "They don't mind meh - being wot I am, like, - no grandchildren an' all - me Mam don't mind..."
They had loved, long, hard, joyously, deeply, noisily - on hills, in glades, - once - Viggo almost giggled - oh so 'quietly' noisily back of the carpark behind a shelter of bramble bushes, whilst a gaggle of ramblers adjusted backpacks and boots, slamming and locking car doors - Viggo's attempts to keep his feet down, below bramble-hedge top, and Sean burying his shiny golden head in Viggo's chest as he slammed and pounded into Viggo - their climax had to be stifled, muffled anyhow, desperately, and which ended up like the distant sound of cows mooing. Viggo laughed at his desk, tears running unnoticed down, oh they'd loved and loved, laughed and been alive, they'd fucked and sucked, nibbled, bit and bruised, enough for a long lifetime. Viggo had loved that year, loved until he thought his heart would burst. The leaving was like Death, only far far worse, Death happened once - but this death went on and on and on and on..... His tears fell, staining his pale blue shirt to large dark patches.
The doorbell rang, he wiped his eyes with his hand, and fetched in the mail. A large handful of 'junk' mail, brochures and catalogues, four more magazines - four more to add to the pile as yet waiting on the top corner of his desk. "Oh hell, I must get around to reading or chucking these, they'll be useless,..." He yawned, opened the two official looking ones, the first a bill from his garage, the other of no interest, which he crumpled into the bin beside the desk, while his other hand felt the brown-yellow padded envelope.. Hand long, thin, the postmark was - chinese ? -but that was nothing new, he often received mail and packets from that side of the world, theses, papers from students, even the occasional 'fan-mail' This didn't seem to be of the usual kind, so he took care in the opening, and into his hand slid a long slim leather box a length of his hand, and two fingers wide , the top embossed in a delicate filigree of silver. He examined the box, looking for a catch, none on the long side, ah a slight knob at the bottom edge, he pressed, lifted the lid, the interior was padded with soft very dark silk, on which gleamed a sliver of silver, a moonbeam of light...
Placing the box gently on his desk, Professor Mortensen lifted with both hands, a flat, paper-thin slice of shivering metal, a filigree flattened clip held securely at the head by a dragon, a smiling dragon, holding a sun in its foreclaw as if offering....?
Viggo gazed, absorbed, astonished that such a fine piece of metal ... such a treasure of lightness and light, should be as commonplace as a bookmark - a page-clip.? Who...? Where...? A card securely tucked into the top cover of the box read "As always, I think of you" with the Chinese characters that he knew, the 'chop' of Han Ho Tan. He turned the card over - a small pen and ink drawing of a sundial on a pedestal, and the words 'I count only the sunny hours' in a small neat script.
"I count only - ah, Hazlitt, his Essay on a Sundial ..." His tears began again "oh, oh, Ho Tan.. Ho Tan...".
Professor Viggo Mortensen rested his elbows on the desk while he held the card between his forefingers, damp now with stirred tears, Ho Tan, that golden wand of a young man, eyes of almond jet, but of light and joy. A slim long golden face above a lithe column of neck, flowing to the curve of a shoulder, into the chest, to the..." oooh Ho Tan " he groaned, to the long flanks of such unblemished delicacy Viggo could not bear to think of 'flesh' in the same context, leading to legs of perfect symmetry, his man-length, long, in the almost hairless Vee of his groin. Han Ho Tan, of the grace and lightness of a cranefly dancing, hovering, floating above the dark still waters,... rising,.. falling... passing... as he moved in the ritual dances of his desired ancient calling.
Professor Viggo P. Mortensen reflected, back to the years, over the last empty years, to the three and a half blessed years with the youth, the young man of twenty-five, who had sat in, - no flowed into, his seat that morning, and looked...- the dark distant-near crash- clash of enormous cymbals rang in the Professor's ears, and he knew, had known again and savoured, with a leap of his heart. He had smiled and started his life again
"Right then, Gentlemen, let us begin. In the era of the early..."
The three-and-a -half years of teaching, learning, heads close, touching...? The debates, discussions, the dances, pirouettes, the leaps, thrusts, freezings, the clashings of metal or wood, the night-long whispered talks, questions as to whether ironwood, rosewood or cherry gave that especial vibrating singing note 'clac' as wooden staff struck wooden staff. These whispers crept, night-long, as the limber fingers crept dancing like the moonbeams which shone on those strong bruised fingers that slipped , danced and delved on, and in, into Viggo's willing body.
"Oh, Ho Tan, you lit my life - and left like a paper lantern in the night sky - bearing your candle of love away, away from me - to leave the dark, . oh the dark..."
§
The book came slowly, but surely, and growing - the 'putting together' of the main parts, the indeces and referencing already in hand with Fazakerly, now, poor man, completely confined to his wheelchair or bed, the wasting muscles now faded beyond any hope of more remissions. He was only seventy-two for heaven's sake, and his mind so open, and as vast as the skies and stars themselves. A mind so prodigious that it knew every poem, quote, painting, artist, composer, works, history, dates, anything and everything, filed, tucked away, to be retrieved almost instantly - Fazakerly had no need to 'Google' he could recall, totally accurately, almost any author, subject, he was a lifetime's dedication to learning listening and loving all things. He was engrossed enjoyably, with the 'Tome' , he was Mortensen's advisor, editor, researcher, referencer. Nothing slipped past Fazakerly, his infinitely all-seeing brain. He would be dead within the year....
At last, two days before the end of term, it was done. completed, finished. Viggo's two half-days each week had finished this afternoon, and now what - tidy up, pottering, wandering, wishing, thinking....?
First, the Tome to Fazakerly, spend a long easy afternoon with him, then back, a drink; and work his way through this pile of glossies - the pile nearly a foot high - his pending tray, the pending-pending tray. He did that first - paid finally, the garage bill, parcelled up to return, with appropriate words, that dreadful 'thesis'? from a brash girl/woman who spent most of her time gazing at him, and not at the diagrams on the board...he had no interests there.
He returned later, taking a large Bourbon on the rocks, and the top half-dozen magazines from the pile; he slumped into the large chair by the window. A sip, a looong sip, aaah, his wiry, now unbruised hand stretched for the first paper - His left hand idly turned pages, oh dull. Dull, Dull, DULL.....clever columns on 'the expanded imagined extensions of the truth of 'Karma' allowing the interlocutory strengths of self-understandings within the Western mind....'whatever the hell any of THAT meant! He dropped it on the carpet, reached for another, sipped more, the dewy slide of chinking glass a lullaby.. .. A Glossy ! " Dear me, oh well,..." again, sippings and the left thumb bending, turning the slippery pages, "oh dear - dear oh dear - all those glossy pictures of glossy people, smiling glossy shiny smiles with empty glossy eyes..." "Mind you, the adverts weren't too dull... not the expensive cars, the watches framed with buttons to push, nor the caps, or hand-made shoes - aah there the young males who were in the caps, wearing the shoes..., some 'scruffy-rough', the smoothsatin skins, the sultry mouths, pouting lips, the glancing dark-pupilled eyes..." Professor Viggo Mortensen's eyes lingered, just lingered, never staying, never .... He didn't see the famous, expensive 'names' - 'Gucci' 'Hermes' ' Boss' 'Lobbs' ....
Rising to refresh his drink, he accidentally kicked the pile of glossies, they slid, one flipped, and waved a page .." Eh there - there " Viggo Mortensen dropped to his knees, his glass falling forgotten on the carpet beside him..."There - there it was _ There - oh GOD - THERE..…!."
That smile - that smile that had lit up and made his world bright. Had always been there shining, though 'through a glass, darkly ' these latter years, but still always......He peered, his eyes suddenly watering, squinted ...
"Sir Sean Behan opens his exhibition in the Maidstone Art Gallery on East Street, ..." Sean - Sir Sean...and BeHan - he'd put the 'haitch' back into Bean..... It WAS him,... it WAS HIM!!
"Hell, what date - the DATE dammit, the bloody date...?? " His fingers scrabbled, were licked, turned, re-turned " oh god, THREE WEEKS AGO -" ---- "and the exhibition was for one month..." A month and he was already half-way through that last week !
He flung himself at the desk, across it, grabbed the 'phone, snarled down it, "Oh Christ - half eight - its nearly dark the secretary'll have long gone...'". he grappled with the handset, dialled for 'Enquiries' A practised emollient voice asked if it could help..? Viggo stuttered, demanded, the 'phone number of the Gallery on East Street, New York City ...
He waited, shivered, shook, sweated. Finally the Voice spoke there were three numbers - "Oh, three - oh I'll have them all, please, - - yes, I have a pen - please....?" He carefully, so carefully wrote, and checked, and muttered his thanks, as the silky voice wished him "Have a good day sir" Viggo snorted - "Day - hunh, 'tis not Day soddit, silly bitch.. its nearly OH GOD...." He dialled the first number - waited, nothing, a ringing, but nothing. He tried the second - a mechanized voice suggested he play with his 'phone numbers 'Press One ' - blah blah bla ‘Press Two…’... Viggo desperately dialled the last number.... a male voice, calm, smooth, said’’Good evening, the Maidsto..." Viggo's heart somersaulted....the voice wasn't HIS ....not His.. "Yes sir, the Gallery is open, and will remain open for a further two weeks, as it has been such a success... " "Yes Sir, indeed Sir, Sir Behan does visit the Gallery most days, usually in the afternoons - do you have an interest in a particular piece, Sir, or a sculpture, although most of those have been sold, I'm afraid...? " . the genteel voce wittered on..."Yes, we are open from eleven in the morning, until ten in the evening Sir.. except Sundays, of course." "Thank you Sir, I'm glad to have been of service..."
Viggo nearly fainted. A great desire to piss, long and hard overtook him. He staggered up, found relief, and returned to the picture and the magazine. He fell into his chair, and wept again- in sheer need, in relief, in exhaustion. He shook, his heartbeat thudded, roared in his ears.... he had to slow down, he must, he can't die now...! Not NOW...! He slowed, an effort, but with deep breaths he sang in his mind - "SIR Sean - Sir Sean Be (with an'H') han" wonders "any letters after that...?" Whatever happened to 'barrer pushing'? Oh that, so long so LONG ago time, how many years...? The silence, the wondering... He,Viggo was what, 48, coming 49..now .. so it was - oh he knew exactly, - it was sixteen - SIXTEEN long awful dying years...long bloody AWFUL years...
He found himself outside the Gallery's shiny glass 'Portico' - hardly 'doors' ...His very best expensive suit, his 'Conferences' suit, his shoes gleaming, - a silk tie under the collar of his Asher's ($350 !) shirt. His hands sweating, and a terrible need to empty his bladder again - again!! His feet wanted to run up the road, down the road, anywhere, and not walk deliberately forwards as they were doing - his hand reached up towards the glass - but a uniformed 'personage' stepped from the shadows, and pulled at the door with an immaculate white-gloved hand - '"Welcome Sir, may I take your coat Sir ?" Viggo glanced down at his empty hands, and so nearly gigled " Certainly you may - if I had one.!" and stepped forward into Sean's world - into Sir Sean's work world..
There were walls, thick white, soft ? many many, partitions, each displaying a single object - paintings, some as tall as this, as tall as he was; Or, there, far away on a white wall, spotlit, a small hand-sized painting- frame ...? It looked like an oil..., Viggo prowled, the soft murmurs of a few visitors, reassured his ears, - gazed at oils, acrylics, one or two exquisite 'haiku' of paintings, faint drifts of grey, pink, caramel, deep storm blue - far far Eastern and so gentle...
There were some views of scenery, wet skies in watercolour, but mostly hands, backs, feet and thighs, male, female even the small childish neck of an infant regarding an insect - the gaze utterly enthralled, There was a dark corner, dark dark colours, a city street, wet, gold strikes of reflected streetlights in the cold wet road - it had a red sticker on the top corner, denoting 'Sold' - Viggo wondered who would want to buy such a cold cold scene -the wind from it blew down his back - he shivered - an earlier work ! He moved on, and found himself before the small spotlit painting - it was a watercolour but strongly coloured, strengthening the small scene... A brook, shimmering beneath the summer trees, a hill behind, big, rounded, blue-hazed... Oh yes, he knew that place - that rock there - that bunch of reeds, that branch - on that branch had swung and laughed a golden man, green-gold eyed, joyous in love, and laughter, a faun, a Bacchus, full to brimming with the joys of Life .
The name - oh yes, that melody of a name ; 'Skelmersdale' the start of the River that gave its name to the Valley down which it danced...
His eyes watered again, he swallowed, he blinked, cleared his vision, and read the title 'Brookhead' and a date..... "NOT FOR SALE" beneath a clear command.
He stood.
A hand, a large quiet hand rested on his back, two fingers touching the back of his neck. A voice of chocolate-chip caramel spoke gently in his right ear ...
"Aye, Sean's Been and Done That ..!"
Viggo stood, the voice continued, even softer ...
"Ah knew thee'd coom!"
Summary: Some years later in Viggo's life...
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 3017 Read: 352
Published: 03 Jul 2011 Updated: 03 Jul 2011