He needed a drink. Several drinks would be even better. Ahead loomed another bloody day of airheads, of smiling, of hearing the eternal cicada-buzz of cameras whizzing. Oh God, and those endless asinine questions.’
‘If I've told them once, I've said it a million times, 'Ned was an honourable man out of his depth.‘ Like he was now, drowning in undeserved hangovers, frustrations, tiredness, worry, and always the fear, like Ned. Fear of not doing enough, not being effective, not achieving the result wanted. And always the money problem. The financial demands were greater than ever, did they ever diminish? Alimony, the girls' education, courses, and their little goodies, and the taxes now.’ He hoped his accountant could keep up with the hand-outs. The last bill for the house taxes was extraordinary…‘Am I keeping the whole of London running? These days he seemed to be working, working, working, just to pay the bills, and not to fulfill his own desires, his vocation, his need to lose himself... Now I have to stand up on me hindlegs and bark like the sodding trained poodle that I've become.’
He peered in the mirror. Shit. Is that me? Oh Christ, I look a real bummer, those bags under my eyes. Bean, you're a mess!’. Grabbing his toothbrush, slathering a great dollop of white and blue paste on the bristles (another splats into the washbasin) he sawed violently at the inside of a mouth that felt like it should have been emptied by the bin-men last week.
Twenty-five minutes later, his mouth still stinging from an overdose of mint mouthwash, the shower towels lying unheeded where they had been dropped, Sean stood regarding his wardrobe.
Scratching his belly, ‘Wore that silver-grey one yesterday evening, sweated a lot in it... p'raps not. The darker one? No, that's too sombre, it's only a Q & A today" he snorted "Asshole time! More of the same questions. Shirt and jeans'll do. That nice cool linen shirt, ok, wore it a bit yesterday, but..." he held a handful of undersleeve linen to his face and sniffed "Nope, that's fine, more of my 'pong' than me. Fine…’
Breakfast at the little table by his window ‘Why couldn't I have a decent fried breakfast here in my room? OK, it'd smell a bit, but there's the air-conditioning and air fresheners. These three small buns and a couple of coffees isn't enough for a man’s belly, that needed a good fry-up to settle it.’ Sean Bean was not in the best of moods this day.
An hour later, newspapers scanned, a couple of phone calls accepted, one very unexpected, Sean rose, pulled on his shoes, not new-polished by the hotel as he'd slept in them most of the night, and pushed his way out of the entrance of the Grand Carlton Hotel in Monte Carlo, and walked. Away.
Spotting that particular square with light-dimpling shady trees, the quiet cafe tables with decent chairs he paused. He could see some figures relaxing, chatting, leaning engrosssed in each other. He decided he needed a decent soothing drink, a good long cold beer while he waited?
The waiter waved his notebook "Msieu?"
"Beer… please."
"Une biere, pression, ou en bouteille, un nom, peut-etre?"
"Um, just a beer, long and cold. Beer! One like that one. That one over there - like that..." Pointing at a dark-haired man leaning back in the shade behind a book, but a misted light-brown half-filled glass on the table by his brown hand. "Like that!"
"Eh, Msieu, c'est une biere non-alcoholisee...."
Sean snorted "All I want is a beer, like that one there...." loud enough for 'that one there's' drinker to look up and grin.
Sean smiled to himself. If this is how Viggo wanted to play it - his ’Game’ he calls it, then this is how we play it!’ It had been a real surprise to hear him this morning on the ‘phone, with the news that they were in southern France for another Press Day. The prompts Viggo had given him had been ’ Straight Director’ for him, and it would be ‘Gay Pride contestant’ for Viggo. That prompt had made him a little worried at first, but he assumed that Vigs wouldn’t be too outrageous, as the paperazzi would be not too far away. So here he was, ready to ‘be’ a bored, straight-sexed Director of a large Company.
‘Right. Viggo You want a Game, let’s play! Play on, play on, and lead us where it will!’ He grinned to himself. These games always turned out such fun…’
The waiter approached the smile, which nodded, smiled again and rose. Slim, wiry even, the upcurving lips drifted with the half-consumed beer in hand to Sean's table.
"Hi. Jean-Jacques is trying to tell you this is non-alcoholic. He's rather more used to you Brits drinking high-alcohol beers and he naturally wonders if you know what this is? Anyways, you'd better try it first..." Shoving the glass towards Sean. "Have a swig. I think it tastes like real hop-beer?"
Sean took the glass, sniffed at it, and gingerly took a small mouthful. Tasted it, tongued it. His mind said, knowing Viggo, it could be sarsparilla or something...’
"Um, yes" He took another, bigger mouthful. "Yes, I still want one of those. Can you tell him? It does taste like a proper beer! Thanks."
The bookreader encouragingly patted the arm of Jean-Jacques, who pattered off into the darkness of the bar, collecting another order from one table and swiping up the small change lying left on another on his way.
Sean smiled at the tall form still holding his nearly empty glass "Thanks, that is really very nice tasting. and I should leave alcohol alone, I like it too much..." his voice trailed off.
Grey eyes calmly regarded the stubbled chin, the slightly puffy skin, twinkles of silver in the short thinning hair. He seemed to like what he saw and pulled out a chair and dropped gracefully into it.
.“Yeah, think I could do with another, mine seems to have gone somewhere...." and laughed gently.
Jean-Jacques reappeared, surprisingly with two pale honey brown glasses, beaded with moisture, and smiled, depositing his little tin bucket with the 'addition' beside the beers.
“Oh hey, I'm Peter - Peter Morten.” said Viggo, becoming his Game person. “I hang out here quite a lot. I like people-watching in comfort, and somewhere where they don't usually watch you back. What are you doing here - being a Tourist?" He knew Sean hated being a Tourist!
"Nah, I'm... er... oh hell.” ‘C’mon Sean, get into the Game, what are you doing if you were… “Yes. I'm… yep - I'm running away! I've got a meeting I should be going to before long, but I get so bored with them. If I don't go I'll get blasted, no doubt, but… " He swallowed half his beer, " I’m beginning to think I don't bloody care any more, it just gets..." He took a smaller swig, let out a breath of satisfaction, and put his glass carefully down into its own damp circle.
"I'm… I'm Mark-us... Marcus Feoghnan." he raked out the old pseudonym, His second given name, with the Irish word for a bean.
He grinned, and hands met, held, gripped firmly and shook. Parted gently to resume resting around the moist glasses.
The morning passed with cigarettes slowly and enjoyably shared, another glass, chatting about this and that. Then ’Peter’ stretched his arms above his head.
"I’m hungry, and it’s time for lunch. I'm eating here as they do a very good midday meal. Have you got a corporate luncheon to go to?" Cocking his clear-eyed head in question, smiling.
Sean swallowed. Mentally hit himself, I’m Marcus now - remember you twit’ “Er, yes, I could do with something solid and filling, I had a lousy little breakfast on a sloshy stomach.”
“O.K. Plat du Jour, and I’ll guarantee it will be solid, filling and wonderful! Jean-Jacques!”
A long easy lunch of beef bourgignon, cheeses and fruit, ended with 'Peter' looking at his watch.
“Sorry, but… I have to treat myself this afternoon. I promised, and I keep my promises!”
‘Marcus’ died a little. It was a quarter to three, he could just make it back to be respectable for the Q&A session. “Oh Hell!
“Do you like Zeppelins?” ‘Peter‘ half-laughing asked. “Seriously, do you like Zeppelins?”
“Zeppelins? What those bloody great dirigibles that crash godawfully and burn up, or the fat little advertising ones at footer games? They’re the only ones I know.”
“Well, these are, almost… sorta…” ‘Peter’ hesitated “It’s an exhibition of Transport through the Ages, at the Museum. I went there yesterday for a quick look. Its good, very different and I really have to go back and enjoy it slowly this time. If you really hate your promised afternoon, why don’t you come and join me? It’s free, and for me it’s ’freeing’. Come on. Sod the stiffs! There’s a car there like a cigar case with bike wheels that did a hundred miles an hour!”
Sean really had no option. The choice between Zeppelins, a cigarcase Formula One car and another hot sticky questioning on an old tired ’honourable’ idiot was no choice. Zeppelins won hands down.
The two men, matched in height, climbed down from the tram and sauntered through the sunlight. The Museum had doors of carved bronze. Sean stroked the Medusa’s face as he passed, and found it was not bronze at all, it hadn’t that hard heavy feel. This was… plastic?’ He stopped, tapped, knuckles rapped. ‘Yes, plastic, but a brilliant copy of some doors… ah yes… Percy Jackson. Those hall entrance doors.’ ‘Peter’ was waiting patiently in the coolness of the hallway, his soft straight hair framing the sharp cheekbones.
“Sorry Peter, thought they really were bronze, but they're damned good replicas, aren’t they?”
“Hah, in life you’ll find there’s very little that is truly what it professes to be, these days especially, there’s so much good faking going on.” and he moved on, with a sudden sideways look, grinning pointedly at his companion.
The click click of heels on marble floors. ‘Peter’ looked down. “Yes, even that isn’t marble. It’s epoxy resin and ceramic dust, and it wears even better than marble for floors.”
At the dark double doors at the entrance to the exhibition, Viggo/‘Peter’ stopped, his back-muscles stirring under his shirt as he turned.
“I was here last afternoon. I know how I felt when I… I’d like to give you that experience too. Would you trust me?” He looked at Sean/'Marcus', calm grey eyes in a fine-skinned, spare-boned face, a question in the eyebrow...
Cheekbones you could shave with’ thought ‘Marcus‘. Sean was settling into the part now. He was another being entirely now.
“Would you let me lead you? Will you close your eyes and not open them ’till I say? Could you trust me enough to do that?”
Sean, as Marcus, knew there was no question. He was already being completely idiotic, chancing his career in dodging the Q & A, wandering round in the open when any passing paperazzi would spot him and shout “Sean” and he’d automatically look up. So why not let this nice, friendly, attentive ‘Peter’ lead him into God knows what. Why not?’ He was playing the bored Company Director Marcus, going along with mad Viggo, this ’Peter‘ he has been before.
“O.K. I don’t fancy falling up or down steps ok? But go ahead, lead on.” He screwed up his eyes, holding out his hand.
.
He felt a known, firm warmth clasp his open fingers, a big horny thumb clamped to the back. Another hand spread quietly in the centre of his back, feeling hot through the linen shirt. ‘Peter’s’ softly accented voice breathed in his ear,
“Then forward, ordinary steps. Now. Whoa… turn this way…” the hand pushed on his left side until he seemed to make a quarterturn, “Forward again, this way a bit, some tables in the way. Keep walking… O.K.now… Wait a bit, I’ll tell you when…”
Marcus waited. Quiet. Listening to voices of children laughing, excited. in “Look Daddy” voices. The murmuring of grownups soothing, explaining… Peter’s voice again.
“Coming, coming, are you ready? When you open, look up a bit and straight ahead - NOW!”
Summary: Inspired by a true exhibition, but held at the Grand Palais in Paris.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo/OC
Warnings: BDSMChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 3 Completed: Yes
Word count: 6480 Read: 1529
Published: 01 Dec 2011 Updated: 01 Dec 2011