Viggo went back to America. He purposefully avoided Idaho and Los Angeles. Instead, he headed to Boston under the pretence that the Coolidge Theatre was going to present an award to him and he might as well get comfortable in the city instead of flying in and out, especially since he had to give a speech.
He knew that Sean was in the country—there was that Snow White movie coming up, and Sean had always been spectacular when it came to fulfilling his obligations with regards to movie promotions. Viggo acquainted himself with a few gossip sites and looked at the pictures, and he wondered how Sean could have seem to age years since the last time he saw him, and how no one else seemed to have noticed at all.
His phone was ringing again. Viggo stared at it, willing it to stop—the caller ID didn’t say Sean, and Sean was the only person he wanted to talk to nowadays. But it was his agent, and Viggo sighed as he picked it up.
“You weren’t going to pick up the phone, were you?” his agent began.
“Not really,” Viggo said. “I’m kind of busy right now.”
“You’re in Boston without anything scheduled,” came the tart reply. “Anyway, I have something pretty interesting for you. Do you remember the guy who presented you with that Empire Icon Award?”
“… What? Sean—”
His agent chuckled. “That caught your attention, didn’t it? Yeah, the guy called me up—he did it himself and not his agent. Turns out that he has a ticket to some remote German state for you, and he wants to ask if you have anything scheduled for the next month or so.”
“Uh—”
“I told him that you have something three weeks free since A Dangerous Method finished promotions.” Viggo tried to speak again, but he was completely steamrolled. “So you have a plane to catch tomorrow at 2pm at Logan Airport. I’m emailing you the ticket; print it out and pack something decent.”
“Wait,” Viggo said, raising his voice. “Wait a fucking minute, I haven’t agreed to anything yet!”
“I’m not stupid, Viggo,” his agent said, perfectly calm. “And I am not going to play messenger between the two of you again. My job is to manage relations between you and studios and directors, because God knows you need it, not to manage lovers’ spats.”
“We aren’t—”
“Yeah, and that’s the exact problem, isn’t it? Look, the ticket is to Saxony-Anhalt. I just Googled it, and it is as out of the way as possible. It’s also in Germany. Be as continental as you like. Just don’t get photographed having sex on the streets and come back in time for your Coolidge presentation and I won’t bother you too much about it.”
“We’re not going to—”
“Good. Now go pack your bags.”
Viggo stared at his phone and the flat, halting dial tone that was left behind after his agent hung up. He took a deep breath. Sean just sent him an invitation to a country that he had never been in and which spoke a language he did not speak whatsoever through his agent rather than speaking to him. Instead of calling Viggo. Or picking up his phone.
When had they reached this point? Viggo didn’t know. He closed his eyes, and sighed. Saxony-Anhalt it was.
So much for not flying in and out of Boston.
***
5 February 2012
He landed in Leipzig/Halle when the sunlight was still piercing through the glass. Mid-morning in the middle of Europe, with winter barely out of the door and spring hovering near the corner, the light was almost painfully piercing his eyes. Viggo squinted slightly as he held a hand above his face; he had just gone through customs, and he watched as everyone else on the plane gravitated towards their friends, families, relatives or even business partners that had come to pick them up. But he only stood there, trying to catch a glimpse of gold without turning his head.
Somehow, he didn’t want anyone else to realise that he was actively looking for someone. It was probably irrational and entirely foolish, but then again, there was nothing remotely rational about this whole trip.
“Vig.”
The voice was soft, hesitation thickening the familiar brogue even further. Viggo turned around to see Sean standing there, his hands in his pockets. They looked at each other for a long moment. Viggo refused to make the first move; he simply refused.
“Hey,” Sean said, and he lowered his eyes for a moment before looking up again. “I- I’m glad yer ‘ere. I know that yer busy right now, so…”
When, Viggo thought, had we started speaking to each other so formally?
He exhaled; the sound of the breath echoed around them. “What do you want me here for, Sean?”
“I was...” Sean hesitated again. “I was here in 2009, for Black Death.” He licked his lips, and Viggo let himself stare at his mouth for just the briefest of seconds. “And all the time I was here, I kept thinkin’- you should see this place. Was… was actually thinkin’ of invitin’ you back wi’ me after the Empire Awards, but I supposed I got too drunk ta think ‘bout it and the next mornin’ I was almost late fer me flight already so—”
He dragged a hand through his hair, falling silent.
“Show me then,” Viggo said, keeping his voice low and soft.
“… The car’s out back.” Sean took a step before stopping abruptly. His smile was crooked and unsure, but it reached his eyes. His lips parted, but it took a few seconds more before the words came along.
“Travellin’ light again, huh?”
Viggo snorted, swinging his one duffel bag across his shoulders, feeling the edge of his treasure box pressing against his back. “Ever seen me do anything else?”
“World might end early if ya change yer ‘abits.”
***
Palace Blankenburg was a beautiful place, but Viggo could barely see it. Neither Sean nor he had said anything ever since they left the airport; the silence and unspoken words hung over all of them like a glass box. Everything outside of the two of them was distorted, twisted, and Sean was the only thing he could see with any clarity at all.
He wished that they would stop walking; that they could instead sit down and talk like they desperately needed to. That they needed to ever since New Zealand. But he had been waiting—they had both been waiting—for such a long time now that he couldn’t even think of the first word to say to break the silence. They had so many chances to speak that they bypassed through the years, letting the opportunities slip past their fingers out of habit or out of a fear of change. Maybe it was simply because there were too many people around them, even when they were alone, the ghosts of the public haunted them, sending prickling up and down their skins.
All Viggo could do now was to follow Sean, eyes half-lidded as he listened to their feet tapping uneven rhythms on the cobblestones of Saxon-Anhalt. They circled the Palace and pretended that there was nothing that needed to be said, even though the pieces of their unbroken agreement still lingered in a dressing room in a Madrid theatre, never to be picked up again.
“Yer not seein’ anythin’, are you?”
The words—so sudden and unexpected—jerked Viggo out of his thoughts, and he blinked suddenly, raising his head to look at Sean. The other man had stopped, his shoulders hunched as he looked at Viggo.
“No,” Viggo said, his voice soft. In the distance, he could hear the cooing of doves; this was, after all, Europe. He did not continue: Because all I can see is you.
Sean sighed for a long moment. He tipped his head up and stared at the sky. It was going into afternoon, and truly, Viggo felt a tinge of regret that it was not dusk. But then again, that would be too cliché—to fall in love at sunrise, and to find that it was truly impossible at sunset, a dozen years later. If this was a story, if this was a poem, Viggo would have the day just beginning, with streaks of light across the darkness and landing in Sean’s golden hair.
But it was merely life, and the poetics of life could only be searched for instead of made.
“I should have,” Sean started, haltingly. Viggo turned to look at him. “Should have offered you two tickets. I’m glad you came, though. Is- is Ariadna alright?”
“I think so,” Viggo shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know; I haven’t seen her since Madrid, and that was before Christmas.”
Sean’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He nudged Viggo, feigning playfulness. “What kind of lover are you to abandon your girlfriend during Christmas?”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Viggo said, and he sighed at how juvenile that sentence sounded. Even Henry wouldn’t be caught dead saying something like that. He dragged a hand through his hair. “We… broke up. It wouldn’t have worked anyway. I don’t like lying to her.”
Silence. “Oh,” Sean said finally, when it seemed too obvious that there was nothing else that could be said.
They looked at the palace again.
“Will you—”
“I have—”
They looked at each other. Viggo cracked a small smile, and Sean ducked his head, embarrassed. He shrugged.
“I have something to show you,” Viggo said, quietly. “I’d rather not do it here. Do you have a room around here or something?” The weight of the bag was suddenly so heavy that it seemed to have lead bars dropped into it within the last second. Viggo tried to not bite his own lip.
But Sean had no such compunction. He licked his lips again, then nodded, “Wanted ta ask if you would come back wi’ me, to me hotel room. I… I have somethin’ ta show you as well.”
They looked at each other for a long moment, words hanging in the silence, so loudly unspoken that Viggo thought they might deafen him. There were no first words that he could find after groping in the dark for them, and his skin itched as if to tell him that this was too public a place; that if he was to be humiliated, he refused to have it be at a place where others could see.
“Let’s go to your hotel,” he said finally.
Sean nodded.
***
In half an hour, they were standing in the living room area of Sean’s hotel suite. It was one of those anonymous hotel rooms again, built for tourists attracted by the landmarks. Though this place was smaller than most, the layouts of the building and the room itself were too much the same. Viggo hated hotel rooms; they always seemed to be a nebulous, unreal space, and he could find no roots in them. There were only two real things in this entire place.
Sean finally spoke, “I’ve wanted ta show you this fer a long time.” He had his hands shoved into his pockets.
“Show me what?”
He shook his head, slipping his hand into his pocket and producing the bedroom key. He held it out to Viggo. “Go inta the room, Vig,” he said quietly, “and turn to your left. There’s a box on the floor. I think- I think it’ll explain everythin’.”
Viggo took the key, and noted that Sean’s hand was cold and a little wet against his skin. He was still holding onto his duffel bag, and he clutched it even closer to him as he moved towards the door. He unlocked it. Every move seemed to be made in slow motion as he opened the door open.
The box stood out to him the moment he first stepped into the room—the only thing that had any personality in the midst of anonymity. It was a long, brown thing, its covers and flaps creased and folded from too much use, its edges and corners bent from being ill-used. He fell to his knees, and opened the covers.
His books stared out at him. Starting from Ten Last Night, which he wasn’t aware that could be found these days. Then, in chronological order: Recent Forgeries, Errant Vine, Hole in the Sun, SignLanguage, Coincidence of Memory… and so on, ending with Winter Songs. Though they were hardcovers and each book had been reverently wrapped in plastic to save them from creasing, nothing could disguise the creases on the pages themselves from too much reading.
Viggo let his fingers take him to the end of the box. Tucked in the corner, in the space left behind by the books, were his CDs. There were… fifteen of them, with only Pandemoniumfromamerica missing. Viggo’s breath caught. There was an envelope lying on top of the CDs, and Viggo reached for it.
“I wore one of them out,” Sean’s voice came from the door. Viggo whirled around to look at him, the envelope forgotten as he stared at Sean’s closed-off figure. The ankles and arms were crossed, and he leaning against the doorframe and looking into space, as remote and far from Viggo as it was possible to be.
“I listened ta it too much, and the sound’s not as good anymore. So I got a new one, but I gave the address for me ‘ouse in London, and I ‘aven’t been back there fer a while.”
“Sean—”
“I carry it wi’ me everywhere; it’s like a lucky charm ta me, you see?” Viggo jerked at that, his eyes widening. He tried to say something, but Sean was on a roll. “It started all the way back in 2000, and I didn’t know why I was doin’ it. Later… later I figured- if I can’t ‘ave you, then I can at least ‘ave yer words and yer voice. It might be somethin’ that I share wi’ the world, but I ain’t mind that. It’s the closest thin’ I can get ta actually havin’ you, I thought.”
He rubbed his hand over his eyes, suddenly looking very old, very tired. “Yeah, I know. I know, it’s fuckin’ pathetic ta collect all yer stuff like that without tellin’ you.”
“It’s not,” Viggo finally found his voice. The words were loud and resonant, ringing in the room. “It’s not pathetic, Sean- look. Wait. Just- stay there.”
He could speak, but his words were clumsy and inarticulate. Even his hands were shaking. But Viggo ignored all of that, reaching for his duffel bag. He opened the zip, bypassing his camera and the two changes of clothes he brought and immediately grabbing onto the small, metal box. Viggo pulled it out before he stumbled over to the bed. Almost reverently, he placed the thing on top of the white sheets. It wasn’t locked, so he opened the box and tipped it over.
Photographs, notes, letters, tapes, and a single shirt spilled all over the bed; a cacophony of colours and black and white, of script and pictures both.
“You didn’t have books or CDs for me to pore over,” Viggo said, and he kept his back to Sean. His fingers were still shaking. “So I…” he took a deep breath. “I kept every photograph I’ve ever taken of you, every note you’ve written to me. I’ve even taped your voicemails to save them.”
He ran a shaky hand through his hair, and didn’t dare to turn around. “I’ve brought this everywhere with me. It’s a lucky charm; before the start of every single movie, I would look at you first. Every time, as if… I needed to see you to reassure myself, to conquer my fear. Dave—David Cronenberg—knew. Ariadna knew. I wasn’t very good at hiding it. Whenever I had trouble separating myself from my character, I would reach for you. Because that’s the strongest thing that separates me from anyone else I’ve ever played—my want for you.”
Sean’s footsteps were loud in the room, and Viggo closed his eyes when he felt arms wrap around him slowly, cautiously. As if Sean was afraid that he would push him away at any moment. Viggo held his breath, and slowly leaned back into Sean’s arms.
“You could’ve just called me,” Sean murmured into his ear. “And I could’ve just called you. All this time… we’re pretty fuckin’ pathetic, aren’t we?”
Viggo laughed, because Sean’s words were perfectly true. He closed his eyes. Just for the moment.
“…first time,” he started, and he could feel Sean stiffen then slowly relaxed behind him. “Smelling you with permission: shoulders to wonder openly at.” He turned around slowly, his fingers curling over Sean’s shoulders. Sean’s mouth moved down, dry against Viggo’s neck. “As carefully kissed,” his voice hitched at the mouth against his collarbone, “as those arms waited impossibly on. They've held me now.”
“And your breath,” Sean picked up the thread, his voice soft and low and thrumming against Viggo’s skin. He buried his face into Sean’s neck, his breath hot against his skin as his fingers danced down his spine. “Down my back sent away night air that had me shaking in the unlit Anglican doorway.”
They faced each other now. Sean was solid in Viggo’s arms, warm and heavy and so real that it knocked the breath out of his chest.
“It’s selfish,” the words tumbled out of him, sentences full-formed in his head without the agreement of his thoughts. “But I don’t have a single photograph from any of your photoshoots. I hate to see the photographs that others took of you. You are always so still, each angle sharp and perfect, with all of your flaws and movements erased. You always look so polished.” Viggo closed his eyes. His breath ghosted against Sean’s skin; they were so close. “You are the most beautiful in a bar, cheering and laughing when the Blades score, with your hair all over your face and your smile wide enough to split skin, teeth stained with smoke and alcohol and your eyes glittering green like the sea.”
“Vig,” Sean breathed, and the heat of his breath on Viggo’s skin sent a shiver down his spine. They took another step together simultaneously, and Viggo’s vision was filled entirely by green. The green of Sean’s eyes as their foreheads met. They breathed in each other’s exhales.
“I have been trying to paint you for years. I write you into every consonant, every vowel; I paint you with every brush stroke, every colour, on every canvas. Only my photographs remain clean, but I’ve dreamt of it. I’ve dreamt of taking a single photograph—of a bead of sweat hovering against your eyelash, monochrome but for the startling green of your eyes.” His fingers trembled against Sean’s cheek. “Your body is a work of art, and I want to display it as art. Not merely in films, with cruel cameras that strip you clean and whore you out. I want to- I dream of undressing you, pulling each thread apart until your skin and imperfections are revealed, the sun in your hair. Your throat is a Grecian column. I want to photograph you when you swallow. I want…”
Viggo took a deep breath. There was a line that they had not dared cross; not once. He dived across it.
“I want to see how your lips look like with my cock between them.”
“Vig,” Sean whispered again, and he lifted his head, nosing and nuzzling against Viggo’s temple. His lips were dry against his temple, and his soft kiss was far more intimate than any other kiss that he ever had. His body burned against Viggo’s.
“Vig. I ain’t got the words. Not like you. Wish I do, but I ain’t. All I can do is—”
“I don’t need them,” Viggo’s voice was low and fierce. He pressed a kiss against Sean’s cheek, and felt his breath tremble in his lungs. He splayed his hand against Sean’s chest. “You’ve kept my words and my paintings and my pictures so close to your heart all this while. That’s enough. That’s more than enough.”
Sean shook his head, “No. No, it ain’t. I’m not lettin’ either of us ta get away so easily. Your words are beautiful, but Viggo, but I want you.” He cupped Viggo’s jaw and tilted his head up.
“I want you.”
They looked at each other, and it was a mere heartbeat—a single second—but within it contained thirteen years of longing. There was no sunset here, but Sean’s hair still gleamed like spun gold. But his eyes were fixed upon Viggo’s instead of the distance, and when they kissed it was as if every promise that had ever been made was suddenly fulfilled.
The kiss was soft and sweet and slow, their lips moulded against each other. Neither of them moved to deepen it, but Viggo had been waiting far too long. His fingers closed around the cashmere of Sean’s sweater, and he pulled him in even as he leaned in hard, parting their mouths and finally tasting Sean after so many years of wanting to. He could feel Sean’s hand in his hair, warm and large, cradling his skull. Viggo pulled him even closer, trying to deepen the kiss and lean into that touch at the same time; opening his mouth and tasting Sean on the tip of his tongue. Sean tasted like aged whiskey and smoke and tea—everything and nothing like Viggo had ever imagined.
“Sean,” He gasped, trying to breathe under the torrent of emotions that he had kept locked behind the gates. “Sean.”
“That’s me name alright,” Sean said against his lips, and his amusement was almost drowned completely by the sheer want in his voice. They pulled apart out of the need to breathe. “Viggo. Vig. Viggo,” Sean breathed, proving himself a hypocrite by saying the name over and over as if tasting it on his tongue for the first time. His hand formed bruises on Viggo’s shoulder, but he didn’t care. He arched towards the pain.
They looked at each other. Sean’s calluses were rough and perfect against Viggo’s skin.
“I think,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. “I think we’ve waited long enough.” His hand slid down, trailing the line of Viggo’s neck to his spine, down his arm to close around his wrist. He tugged.
“Come to bed wi’ me?”
Viggo took a deep breath, and looked into Sean’s eyes. They were no longer green, but darkened, the pupils swallowing up the irises until the merest rim of emerald could be seen. Viggo knew that his own eyes looked the same, and he took a step forward. Then another one until he was near enough to slide his fingers into Sean’s hair. He kissed him gently, just once, before he wrapped his legs around the back of Sean’s knees and pushed him onto the bed. Sending him crashing back amongst the treasures that Viggo had collected for so long.
With one hand, Viggo swept off every single one, letting them flutter to the ground, ignoring where it landed. His eyes were fixed on Sean. He didn’t need those things now.
He had the real thing right here.
***
There was a hand in Viggo’s hair, stroking slowly through the greyed strands.
“’ow long ‘ave you got?”
“Mm?” Viggo cracked an eye open. He had been awake for a while. It was the middle of the night, which perturbed him even though it didn’t surprise him. Honestly, he should be too old to be having sex in the day, but who the hell cared about silly rules like that? He sat up slowly, turning around to look at Sean. His breath stuck itself in his throat.
“I said, ‘ow long ‘ave you got? Before you ‘ave ta go back,” Sean repeated, sounding a little exasperated. But he was smiling. Smiling and stretched out on his stomach, the expanse of his back completely bare. Viggo reached out and touched the spot right between Sean’s shoulderblades, walking his fingers down each knob of his spine. He could feel the tiny tremors of the muscles underneath his hand.
Then he reached out, pushing Sean over to his back before he leaned in and kissed him, wet and hot and hard. Sean hummed quietly against his lips, his hand sliding into Viggo’s hair as if holding onto him was something he couldn’t fathom not doing, and Viggo felt dizzy at how right this felt. How good this felt. He felt almost sick at the thought of how much time they had lost by waiting for something that had been there all along.
But Sean pulled away, nipping against his lobe, and Viggo kicked out that line of thought. He closed his eyes, turning his head and capturing Sean’s lips again.
“Three weeks,” he said, his voice muffled. His hand stroked down Sean’s side, and he took the small sigh and breathed it in; letting the heat and the scent settle within himself. Like the time within during the Empire Awards, except now he didn’t have to hold on so tightly—he knew he could breathe it in whenever he wanted, now. “Think we can stay here all the time?”
Sean snorted, cupping Viggo’s face with his hand. Viggo leaned into it, licking against the base of the thumb that hovered temptingly in front of him, and gloried in the tiny hitch of breath that Sean gave him. “I actually want you ta see all the sights, you know—”
“Oh, I think I have the best sight that Saxony-Anhalt can offer right here with me,” Viggo grinned.
“Shut yer mouth,” Sean punched him on the shoulder, and Viggo nudged him with it. They looked at each other for a moment before laughing, and Sean took the chance to push Viggo over until he was on his back.
“As I was sayin’,” he continued, with an exaggerated Northern drawl. “I’m gonna bring you ta all the sights, show you off ta the locals…” he leaned in and kissed Viggo on the temple. “But that’s fer tomorrow, I think.
“We have ta years ta catch up with, today.”
Viggo reached up, curling his fingers around Sean’s neck. “Yeah,” he smiled, opening his mouth as Sean leaned in.
“We do, yeah.”
***
10 March 2012
He found himself smiling more, nowadays. His life was starting to become a cliché, and Viggo knew that it was a good thing that Sean didn’t come with him back to Boston. He wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything.
It seemed that he had spent thirteen years learning patience, only for it all to be forgotten with the space of three weeks. Every single inch of him seemed to ache with want and need for something that he now knew the shape and scent and touch of.
But he didn’t call Sean. He told him that he wouldn’t. They had to try—to get use to the separation and the times when Viggo would reach out and could not find Sean at the end of his fingers. They were actors and nomads all, living on two different continents, and if they could not breathe without the scent of each other weighing in their lungs then they would fall apart.
Sean knew it better than he did. They were in the car outside Leipzig/Halle when they said goodbye.
“I’ve got so many relationships that fell apart ‘cause I can’t be there all the time. ‘Cause of work, and I can’t—I can’t deal wi’ not havin’ work lined up,” Sean said, and Viggo felt his hand trembling against his cheek. “But I ain’t going ta let it happen ta us.”
“We’ve always falling back in step even after years apart,” Viggo said, quiet and gentle, crawling over the handbrake to lean against Sean, pressing him against the door. It was a strange reversal of their positions four years ago. “It’s just now—now, I will always find you. I won’t wait anymore.”
“Find yer way ‘ome ta me, Viggo,” Sean whispered against his mouth, holding him so close. “And I’ll find mine ta you.”
Then he had pulled back and pushed an envelope towards Viggo’s chest. “I wrote the whole bunch the last time I was here,” he said, and he smiled, lopsided and overly fond. “Never meant fer you ta see it, but you’ve seen far more of me than I ever thought you would. I’ve got yer words wi’ me, and you… you should ‘ave mine.”
Now Viggo was standing outside Sean’s house, his rented car parked in his driveway and stroking his thumb over the key to the front door. He opened the gate himself, and now he took a breath and unlocked the front door, stepping through into the house. His shoes had gotten lost somewhere between the airport and getting out of the car, but Viggo didn’t exactly car. He dropped his luggage at the hallway, locking the door again, and looked for Sean.
Sean was, of course, in the garden.
“I think I just want to see your face,” Viggo said, lips quirking up as he leaned against the doorframe that opened the kitchen up into the garden. “I kind of miss it, as nonsense as that sounds.”
Sean’s hands half-sunk into topsoil. He turned around and his smile was brighter than the sun when he saw Viggo, jumping up immediately. His clothes were covered in dirt and mud, but Viggo didn’t care, reaching out to take Sean into his arms before he kissed him hard. He could feel bits of dirt embedding itself into his hair, and Viggo laughed quietly into Sean’s mouth.
“I cancelled out those lines, oy,” Sean said, nudging him with a hip. “Yer ain’t supposed ta see ‘em.”
“I like those lines,” Viggo said, grinning, knowing that he had completely missed the point and didn’t care at all.
Sean laughed quietly, and he didn’t let go. “So you’ve got a new trophy to decorate the shelves with now, huh?”
There was a pause, and Viggo reached up, traced Sean’s brow with the tip of a finger. “I’ve brought it with me,” he said, soft and quiet. Sean’s smile faded as he held his gaze. “Can I… can I put it here?”
Sean’s eyes softened; he knew what that meant. “Mi casa es tu casa,” he nodded, voice tripping slightly over the unfamiliar language.
“No,” Viggo shook his head. “Su casa es nuestra casa; mi casa es nuestra casa. Your home is our home; my home is our home.”
“Aye,” Sean said, and he was so warm against Viggo's skin. “Welcome home, Viggo.”
“Estoy en casa.”
He found his way home.
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: 10275
Published: 30 May 2012 Updated: 30 May 2012