The autumn days dragged now. He had finished one contract, apart from the odd 'phone call, and there were no more firm dates, only a few tenuous suggestions. He'd finished painting the two upstairs rooms. His garden was sodden, much too wet to do any good strenuous digging to relieve the ingrinding tensions across his shoulders. He knew why they were there. Why his back refused to slump into the curve of the chair, but rigidly denied its comfort. He was also bored. He needed activity, challenge, demands to be here, or there for a reading. To be on a train heading for an audition, or even in the pickup, off to the recording studio. He needed something, anything... Oh he knew what he really wanted, but that was out of the question right now, and for an unknowable time yet.
He rolled his shoulders, twisted with elbows bent high, hands behind his head. He felt his hairline. It was almost non-existent, the hairs running lighter and fuzzier down towards his collar. Snorting, he ran his hand across the bristles over his skull. Of no colour now, rather like his thoughts in the mornings, sort of brown, with a hint of darkness, but the tiniest spark of silver, becoming more and more apparent. No longer the full rich head of an English blonde, that bleached into a pale corn in sunshine. The colour he had been once, all those years past. There had been colour in his life then. New work, new people, new challenges, new countries to visit and learn about. Now he seemed to have been in almost all the countries that had locations for filming. There was even talk about going to the one place he hadn't yet been. South America. He didn't feel excited, just interested perhaps, but the idea didn't raise the twist-flicker of electricity he used to have at the knowledge he would be in Russia, Turkey, South Africa... and then those times in the far north... in the snow, after India.
He thought of Venice, of Rome, Toronto, Los Angeles. Los Angeles with its hard sunshine, the wide streets always active. Its size seemed to go on for ever, and yet there was the occasional clumping of a 'village', like a handful of sweets shoved into a shiny jacket pocket. He knew of a couple of those places...
The airports were all the same. Some more difficult than others when it came to controls, security or passport, or just waiting for luggage. They all felt the same, smelt the same, had the same muted background roar of vast masses of people, present, or the ghosts of those who had come this way and left. It was the same with hotels. Every room was as unmemorable as the last. The beds were good, the trimmings fine, always the hum of air conditioning. The were all equally without soul, without contentment, without even a hint of someone having been in this room, alive, laughing, dressing, drinking, making love. Just a blank sheet of paper, on which one could not write, as your pen, your own soul, had no ink. It had nothing left to leave in these blind empty rooms.
He wandered around his lounge. Pushed small memories tidy on the mantel, straightened a picture. Moved the magazines he didn't want to read. Toward the window, his hand tapped, then stroked along the piano-top. When had he last played? Played properly, with concentration, with his heart open to the music's meaning? It must be weeks... no, months... several months now. Before...
It must be nearly a year since he had sat and poured out his thoughts through his fingers. He lifted the lid, ran the back of a fingernail up the white keys in a ripple of sound. Pulled out the stool and sat, crossways, not intending to play. His left hand betrayed that intention. It lifted and lay, spread over white and black keys, waiting. He turned straight on the stool, his feet found the pedals. Steinway smiled at him from the backboard as his right hand found the third octave, and rested, outcurved, ready to run down, down, faster than seemed possible. His fingers itched to hear the command to go. His head counted, one, two and... Beethoven, Rhachmaninov, Pathetiques and Serenades, Nocturnes and dances...
He was bored no longer. He did not exist. He was one with the sounds crashing, floating, whispering, sliding... His shoulders became supple, muscles shifting as his arms reached for the flight of the upper ranges, or the depth of the dark left. He could not have exactly what he really wanted, he was too far away now, but in recompense, he had this... until he returned.
Summary: Sean is bored...
Rated: G
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 789 Read: 466
Published: 01 Dec 2011 Updated: 01 Dec 2011