By the time his phone rang, Sean was already up, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. He looked at it for a long moment, striding over and looking at the caller ID.
Viggo
Reaching out, his finger hovered over the red button for a long moment before he closed his eyes and pressed it. Then he stepped away, picked up the phone, and placed it on the table. He had another meeting today; more promotion for Cleanskin, which he didn’t mind doing (it was part of the job) but this was starting to get repetitive. At least he hadn’t needed to do much promotion right now for the press—now that was just saying the same things over and over again. He usually went on automaton for those.
He refused to think about Viggo, about the phone call, about the missed calls that he had been getting every single day for the past three weeks. He dived into his work and used that as an excuse—he couldn’t pick up the phone because he didn’t have the time. Every single call wore down at his resistance, and he knew that he had to pick up one day. He couldn’t run away; not from Viggo, not from their friendship. He couldn’t let what they had go to complete shit because he was a complete shit. Viggo was important to him; one of the few friends he made in this business and someone who… understood him.
(Yeah, that was a good, clean, and proper way to put it, wasn’t it?)
The box of Viggo’s heart-pieces he had placed back into his bedroom, but it had been moved from the wall to beside the bed, where he could pick any book at random and look over the photographs and trace his fingers over the words. He would feel the texture of the paper and weigh the heft of the book, and he could imagine Viggo painstakingly choosing the correct paper, the proper binding. Each one of these was made with care.
(And he would drop them back into the box like hot coal, hiding his face underneath the pillow as he slept so he could convince himself that he was not haunted by the ghosts of Viggo’s words; that he did not see Viggo’s face whenever he turned his head; that he did not ache to feel Viggo’s heat against his own skin.)
He still couldn’t pick up the call. He still couldn’t call back. He was making excuses to himself already—he was too busy, Viggo was probably on another continent. Except he knew perfectly well that Viggo was in London now. He had that Gala Premiere yesterday; Sean saw the pictures. He was surprised that Ariadna wasn’t with him.
If he didn’t take this chance—how long must he wait, must the both of them wait, before they were in the same country again?
Sean didn’t know. What he did know was that he should apologise; that it was ridiculous for Viggo to have to keep calling. Viggo had done nothing wrong, and he missed the man’s voice. Every single word he heard and every picture he saw only reminded him of the person who was missing.
His hand reached out towards the phone, then fell back to his side. Tomorrow. If Viggo called again tomorrow, he would answer.
(He had told himself the same yesterday, and the day before, and the day before.)
***
Viggo wasn’t particularly drunk yesterday night, so he woke up without a hangover in the suite that he shared with David and Michael. Keira actually lived in London, so she had gone home the previous day instead of staying in a hotel room, but the one person in London that Viggo could have—would have, wanted to—stayed with was completely out of the question nowadays.
Speaking of which… He didn’t bother to dress, walking out of the door in sweatpants. Michael was already up for some ungodly reason, his head dropped onto the glass table in the faux-kitchen area of the suite. He was groaning and making hangover noises. Viggo ignored him; this was a normal sight by now, and honestly, with the amount of alcohol he had drank the last night, he deserved it. Instead, Viggo parked himself onto the couch, switched on his phone, and dialled the number. He knew he could have just used the dialled number function. He knew he could use the speed dial. He didn’t, even though this had his ritual for something close to a few weeks now. He would call Sean at 10am London time, no matter where he was, and hope he picked up, even though he hasn’t so far.
The phone rang. Viggo waited, and counted the rings. Upon the sixteenth ring, it went to the answering machine. He switched off his phone very calmly, and stood up from the couch, walking over to the wall.
David and Vincent walked in just as he punched the wall as hard as he could without breaking his knuckles. There was a silence. David developed the look of a scientist peering at a particularly interesting toad doing somersaults underneath the microscope. Viggo sighed and let his hand drop to his side.
“… I’m pretty sure that’s not a hangover cure,” Vincent offered, finally. At the word ‘hangover’, Michael groaned, right on cue.
“The fuck are you doing here,” Viggo stated. It wasn’t really a question. Vincent didn’t have to attend the premiere, even though he lived only a Channel away while Viggo had to attend and he was in Spain, for God’s sake.
(He didn’t mind. It was a better alternative than returning back home; for some reason, returning to Idaho without Sean seemed like an admission of failure.)
“Monica had a photoshoot. Can’t I pop by and visit my friends?” Vincent shrugged, eyes wide and all-innocent. It worked as well as Kirill pretending to be straight. Viggo gave him a flat look. “Why are you living here anyway? I thought you have a friend,” he made that word sound particularly obscene (or French), in inflection, grinning as if he made a particularly good joke, “to live with.”
“Fuck off,” Viggo said pleasantly, stamping to the kitchens. He busied himself with the coffeemaker.
“Are you making coffee?” Michael lifted his head blearily from the table, his eyes bloodshot and hair ruffled. For a split second, he reminded Viggo of Sean during the endless mornings they had woken up near each other back in New Zealand, badly hungover and wincing at the light.
He growled underneath his breath.
“No, I’m making a potion that will summon Tinkerbell to me so that I can have some intelligent company.”
There was a long pause.
“David, if Vincent makes a fairy joke I will cut off his balls, and I really don’t want to do that to Monica.”
There was a longer pause.
“What crawled up his ass and died?” Michael whispered, so loud that he might as well have shouted it.
“It’s more of what didn’t crawl up his ass,” David replied enigmatically, linking his fingers and dropping his head on top of them, looking for all intents and purposes like an evil mastermind like Julius No. Or like Hannibal Smith, cackling that he loved it when a plan came together. Why did he start working for a director that looked like a stereotype again?
“I fucking hate you guys,” Michael complained. “Here I am, hungover and without coffee, and you’re all talking in code. Vincent, where the fuck did you come from?”
“Viggo’s potent Tinkerbell brew summoned me.”
“You don’t look any good in a leaf dress, you bastard,” Viggo said, and he plunked down coffee in front of Michael. Michael shouted a hallelujah to the ceiling before he hoarded it to his chest and started sipping. Viggo started on his mate.
“I want numbers, Viggo,” David intoned, half-ominous and half-completely insane. The words cut off any retort Vincent might have made.
“Twenty-one,” Viggo sighed. Vincent whistled under his breath.
Meanwhile, Michael had grabbed hold of Viggo’s hand, and placed a loud, flourishing kiss to the back of it. “My coffee saviour. Thank you. Now what was it about this twenty-one? Adele?”
Everyone else ignored him.
“Twenty-two tomorrow?” David asked, his voice deceptively mild. He was getting serious now. Viggo sighed, and took a sip of his too-strong mate to hide his face behind it. He sighed quietly to himself, and lifted his head.
“And twenty-three the next, and twenty-four, and so on, until I actually get a fucking answer.”
“Ever thought of not trying?”
“I don’t give up that easily.” Even though he wished he could.
By now, Vincent and Michael were looking at the two of them, turning their heads left and right, like watching a particularly fascinating tennis match. Vincent looked amused; Michael was entirely confused.
“Oh, I can think of plenty of exceptions.” David leaned back, his hands unfolding and shoving them into his pockets, and he sighed. “Goddamnit, Viggo, how many years have it been?”
“You didn’t have to go through my suitcase,” Viggo said, entirely wry, switching the subject with the complete ease that came with the secure knowledge that David knew exactly what he was talking about. David just had a knack for worming information out of him, whether he wanted to tell it or not. He drained his gourd and turned away, dropping it in the sink. David shrugged.
“I’m taking this as a punishment for my own actions.”
“I didn’t think I needed to be punished as well.”
“You’re not; what you’re doing to yourself should be enough, I think.”
Viggo only looked away. It wasn’t as if that wasn’t true, even though David seemed to have the misconception that Viggo had been an absolute saint during all of this instead of the truth that he was a fucking stubborn bastard while Sean was a moronic, stubborn bastard. Though, it seemed that he was the only one who wanted to fix it. Did his friendship meant that little to Sean?
“You know what?” Michael said finally, his voice breaking the lull of tense silence between the two of them. “I have decided that I really don’t want to know. I’m going to have a shower and cry salty tears about my lack of an Oscar nomination. And brush my teeth.” He raised a hand and wandered off into his own room.
Vincent watched him go, and then sighed. “Look, this is London. The food is utter shit, and I’ve been here long enough to find places to eat that won’t kill my tongue. I’ve decided to impart my knowledge to you and so,” he raised his voice to be heard through Michael’s door, “You’re all going to lunch with me.”
“We’re all in debt to your kindness,” David said, completely dry.
“Go wear a shirt, Viggo. And something that I won’t be ashamed of to be walking next to, please,” Vincent gave him a little nudge on the shoulder. Viggo let himself be nudged, stumbling forward.
“One day I’m going to wear the ugliest shirt while in your company, you French snob,” the insult was half-hearted, because Viggo was already heading back to his own room. He tossed the phone onto the bed. It wasn’t as if it would be of any use for the rest of the day. Sean wasn’t picking up his phone. He didn’t want to hear anything Viggo had to say, even though they were in the same country for a substantial period of time. These occasions weren’t exactly numerous.
He just had to face the fact that Sean didn’t want to look at him. That would take some time to get used to. Viggo rubbed his hand over his eyes.
“Then I hope you like running around naked!” Vincent hollered suddenly from behind him. Viggo, who was used to this, didn’t even jump as he flipped him off, closing the door in his face.
Tomorrow. He would call Sean again tomorrow. That would be the last time he would call him.
No matter what Ariadna had said, it seemed that he would have to give up one day.
Summary: There is one secret that Sean keeps from Viggo, and one secret that Viggo keeps from Sean. One day both will be blown open, and they both can't wait for that day.
Rated: G
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 10 Completed: No
Word count: 28356 Read: 10272
Published: 30 May 2012 Updated: 30 May 2012