Ariadna was especially beautiful in the morning.
She was leaning on the door of the room he had taken for his studio, dressed only in a thin flannel shift that covered her wrists. Viggo looked at her, finally turning away from the large canvas that he had been staring at ever since the sun had risen this morning, and he reached out an arm for her. Her hand tangled with his as she took the three steps forward, and she leaned in and gently kissed his hair.
“You haven’t slept,” she said, her own voice thick with the fog of the newly-awaken, the Spanish words slurred from her usually impeccable Madrid accent.
Viggo shook his head, closing his eyes for a long moment, “Couldn’t.”
She shifted until she was standing beside him, looking at what he had been staring at—what he was still staring at. Her fingers reached out, almost touching the edge of the canvas- and Viggo couldn’t help himself. He grabbed onto them, tugging her back almost too harshly, then let out a breath and gentled the motion with a soft kiss on her fingertips.
He had to close his eyes to avoid the pity of her gaze.
“You still love him,” she murmured in English, and her tone was the exact one Sigmund Freud had used on Sabina Spielrein, once upon a time. His breath shuddered out of his lungs and he forced his eyes open to meet hers.
“No, I don’t. How can I, when he doesn’t seem to give a fuck about me?”
Ariadna only smiled softly in reply. Her hands splayed out over his jaw, touching him with only her fingertips. “It’s always possible to love someone who does not seem to want you at all, my love,” she said, and there was that pain in her eyes again; a hurt that he was aware of these past five months and change, a hurt that he was aware he had caused. “You know that perfectly well, Viggo.”
He pulled away from her grasp to walk towards the window, staring mindlessly out to the backyard. Viggo had never been one for gardening—it had always seemed too much like trying to restrain what should never be kept behind neat, trim lines—but he had learned the names of the plants she had anyway. He knew that he could say that he learned them all for the sake of it, but he knew that his heart was a traitorous thing, and it still had hope that one day he be able to would show Sean these plants, and Sean would give him that soft, sweet little smile that Viggo had long associated with his garden.
“It’s a fool’s errand to even try.”
“I know,” Ariadna replied. She turned his head towards her and placed a kiss on his cheek, friendly and perfunctory. “That’s why I’m not going to keep trying. I think I deserve better than a man whose heart belongs elsewhere, no matter how quickly a single glance of you makes my own beat.”
“Ariadna—”
She placed a finger on his lips, silencing his protest. “You will always be my friend, Viggo, and you will always have a place here, in my home and in my heart.” Her hand closed into a fist that she placed over her chest. “But you need to look for yours as well.”
“I wasn’t talking about you,” he protested. Even as he spoke, he knew that it was useless.
Ariadna indulged him anyway. “I know, but what you said is true in most cases. Not yours, however.”
Viggo laughed a little, rubbing his hand over his lip and nose. He paused midway through the motion and let his hand drop back to his side. “How do I always end up with optimists?”
“Your heart is an optimist,” Ariadna shot back lightly. She chuckled quietly, dragging a hand through her hair. “But listen to me, Viggo. You’re an extraordinary man, and after five months I cannot imagine not ever having fallen for you. Why would anyone who had loved you for ten years not love you any longer?”
“Exene stopped,” he said, cursing himself inwardly for the easy way that he destroyed the very hope that he wanted to grab onto with both hands. There was nothing more that he wanted to believe in than that Sean loved him, but he knew better. Wasn’t Sean the one who broke it off, who fucked someone else?
Ariadna gave him a wry look, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking about. Knowing her, she probably did; every single word. “If David and I are ever capable of reaching even half of what you have with Exene even now, I will be extremely thankful. Most exes aren’t capable of still going on vacations together with the child they share, you know.”
Viggo let out a hard exhale. He couldn’t help the small, upward quirk of his lips. “You’re determined to cheer me up.”
“No,” Ariadna corrected him. “I’m determined to make you go for what you really want, because being the second best gets really tiring after a while.”
His smile failed immediately at those words, and he reached out a hand, gently stroking her hair. “I’ve sorry; I’ve been unfair to you.”
“I knew what I was getting into. Even that first day, when you stumbled through my door, there was nothing in your eyes except a reflection of him.” She turned her head and kissed his palm. “I’m too old for illusions, but I let you in anyway.”
There was nothing else Viggo could say. He could only close his eyes, leaning in and kissed her forehead.
“Thank you.”
***
August 2011, New Orleans
Sean Bean was a fucking coward.
Near half a year wasted looking for an excuse; near half a year wasted because he didn’t have the courage to pick up the damn phone and ask if Viggo would ever want to see him again. Then again, maybe that wasn’t his fault entirely—it wasn’t as if Viggo had reached out a hand either. But then again, would Sean have taken that hand if it was offered? Viggo had disappointed him for so many times that he wondered why he would try, why he would set himself up for another possible disappointment.
Sean was thinking in circles, thinking in the same damn circles that he had been thinking in since the March when the promotions ended. At least he had work to distract him; Sean had always scoffed at the actors who seemed to jump into other people’s heads in order to avoid their own, but nowadays he was reduced to just scoffing at himself. It was so much easier to just be someone else for a while.
For first time he wished that he was more like Viggo, that the character he played lingered with him after work every day. But Sean wasn’t a man like that; he couldn’t run away forever, and after Age of Heroes was over he was left with himself again, looking in the mirror and not liking what he saw looking back.
That man was a liar and a half, and Sean was tired of being him. He pulled the car into the parking lot nearest to where the film crew was. Out of the corner of his eye, he could already see the boy nearly vibrating in spot as he waited. Sean almost smiled as he climbed out of the car, turning his head and smiling.
“Hey, Garrett.”
“Sean!” Garrett ran over, stopping barely a few steps in front of Sean, neatly intruding into his personal space. “It’s so cool that you’ve found time to come. I haven’t seen you in ages! God, you knew me when I still had trouble growing facial hair!”
Sean laughed, and it was a genuine sound. He swung an arm around Garrett’s shoulders, “So ya gonna keep that prickly ‘air on yer face fer this shoot?”
“Just a little bit.”
Months of waiting and looking for an excuse. On the Road gave him the perfect excuse in the form of Garrett Hedlund. It didn’t matter that he had something like half a scene with that kid in Troy, because Hedlund remembered him and invited him to the set the moment he had breathed that he had an interest. Sean wondered when he had become so purely mercenary; when he started making use of other people for his own means. He knew that he should feel guiltier over it, but he didn’t.
Funny how being away from Viggo exposed the worst parts of him. Maybe he should blame that on the man too. Sean chuckled at the thought.
“So who else is on the set?”
“Well, pretty much everyone,” Garrett answered immediately, completely oblivious to the sudden turn of Sean’s thoughts. “Kristen Stewart, Kirsten Dunst, Sam Riley… I don’t suppose you know any of them?”
“Nah,” Sean said. He tipped his head to the side and waited.
“Oh, yeah, and Viggo just arrived this morning! Viggo Mortensen; he plays Old Bull Lee—you know, William Burroughs? Man, I’m scared shitless just by the thought of him here. I’ve been looking up every possible philosophical movement that’s been attached to the Beat generation, just in case, I don’t know, he brings it up during conversation or something.”
Sean looked at the kid for a moment. Slowly, his lips curved upwards and he threw his head back and laughed. Fucking odd, really fucking odd, to talk to someone who knew Viggo and him both but didn’t know about the two of them, didn’t know the wreck they had both made of their relationship. He chuckled loud and long, slapping Garrett hard on the back, hard enough to make the boy stumble, before he shook his head.
“He won’t, cross me ‘eart,” he said, still laughing under his breath. “I can promise ya that.”
“You know him?” Garrett’s mouth was little bit open as he stared. Then he shook his head hard. “What kind of question is that? Of course you do, from Lord of the Rings, right?”
“Yeah,” Sean said, and he hoped Garrett did not notice the strange distance in his smile.
“He’s an old friend of mine.”
*
Viggo turned, halfway into a word with Walter. Immediately, his head cocked to the side as he tried to catch hold of that elusive voice in the wind—a very familiar laugh and one that he missed as greatly as he missed having heartbeats that signified something other than that he was still alive. Walter gave him a strange look, but Viggo ignored him, his eyes slipping fully shut as he tried to find that voice.
Nothing. Of course there was nothing. Damn, he thought he had stopped hallucinating Sean’s presence since March. He rubbed at his eyes.
“You alright there?” Walter asked him, and there was a quiet caution in his voice.
“Yeah,” Viggo said, coughing and clearing his throat when he realised how very rough his voice was. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just thought I heard something.” He tried frantically to recall their previous topic of conversation. They had been talking about Old Bull Lee… something about his sexuality, which was entirely uninteresting. Viggo would rather talk about—
“I wonder if Bull Lee- Burroughs- if he had ever heard voices like that, in the wind. He’s described writing Naked Lunch as something almost like an out-of-body experience, writing without thinking, just typing out the words without going through the filter of his consciousness. Obviously there must be some lucidity in him because he’s still capable of understanding the meaning of words; he’s not writing gibberish like Lewis Carroll when he wrote Jabberwocky—though that’s a completely different kind of gibberish, not the use of the word as understood conventionally—but returning to Burroughs, I wonder what he thinks about the Greek concept of muses, of authors as conduits instead creators, helpless at the fingertips of immortal beings with great powers who whisper in their ears.” He scratched at his jaw, took a breath, and ignored Kristen’s uncomprehending stare right beside him and Walter’s suddenly-intense eyes. “I wonder if he would believe that the drugs are in fact the muse that whispers in his ears and he only writes that down, or if the drugs become like a…. well, a q-tip I guess, something to clean out your ears so that you can listen to people better.”
“I don’t think he’s ever thought about drugs and the muses in the same sentence like ya just did. He calls ‘is drugs ‘junk’, yeah? ‘The ideal product’ fer sellin’. Ya can’t sell muses or creativity, can ya?”
That was Sean’s voice.
Viggo stopped talking immediately, his hand closing at his side. Like Orpheus, he so badly wanted to turn around to check if Sean was really there; yet like Orpheus, he was terribly afraid that if he did, Sean would disappear, condemned back into the underworld because of Viggo’s foolishness.
“I don’t know,” he shrugged without turning around, his hand starting to curl into a fist. Of all the places to choose, why had Sean chosen somewhere so public?
(He knew the answer already—because Sean was a coward, because Viggo was a coward as well, and both of them needed being in public to delay the inevitable confrontation.)
“There’s plenty of artists who swear that sleep deprivation or drugs help them to create better.”
Sean snorted, “Ain’t it you who said that art’s just a matter o’ payin’ attention? If ya need somethin’ ta make ya see somethin’ in a way that allows ya ta make art, ya ain’t payin’ close enough attention in the first place.”
Viggo took a deep breath and turned around. Near a lamppost on the street just inches away from Viggo, Sean stood, his hands shoved into his pockets, his head cocked slightly to the side. He was half-smiling and, Viggo noticed, his fingers were curled inside his pockets, the tips digging hard into his thighs.
“And what do you know about art, Ranuccio?”
Sean arched an eyebrow, perfectly British in his expression, “Of all the fuckin’ movies, couldn’t ya ‘ave picked another one, Master Chief?”
They looked at each other. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see his new castmates looking from him to Sean then back again, utter confusion written on their features. He ignored them, his eyes fixed upon Sean—noticing the slight pallor to his cheeks, the dark circles laid below his eyelids, and the lines writ even deeper into his skin. Sean looked worse than the last time Viggo had seen him, and Viggo knew that he had aged, too.
He knew he shouldn’t, but he smiled. A small laugh escaped him before it exploded into full-blown giggles, and he shoved a hand into his mouth but it was too late, laughter spilled out of him and he was bent over, howling without knowing why. He wasn’t alone, because he could hear Sean’s deep, rumbling chuckles alongside him, and they had somehow managed to stumble towards each other, their hands closing around each other’s shoulders, and Viggo was leaning on Sean and Sean was leaning back as they tried to stifle their mildly hysterical laughter, but neither of them could.
Sean felt so warm against him, skin against skin, and it was so goddamn wonderful that Viggo felt his eyes burn.
Viggo was damn glad that he had a reputation for being just a little bit off his trolley, because he couldn’t at all explain what the hell was happening right at the moment. He only knew that he was laughing with Sean, something he hadn’t done for over a year, and it felt so good. Like coming home.
“What- what are you doing here?” he gasped out when he gained some modicum of control over himself.
Sean slapped him hard on the back before he pulled away, dragging Garrett Hedlund over. The boy blinked owlishly at Viggo and alright, it was probably imagination, but the kid looked terrified for the briefest of moments before he smiled.
“Viggo,” Sean declared, deepening his voice as much as possible. “I would like to introduce you to my friend Garrett Hedlund. He plays Dean Moriarty in this movie, ain’t that grand? I came over ta visit ‘im”
Like hell you did, Viggo thought, and he was surprised that his own mental tone was fond instead of angry like he thought it would be. He took Garrett’s hand and shook it solemnly.
“Such a kindly man, Mister Sean Bean is,” he said in an exaggerated stage whisper. “To introduce me to my own castmate.”
“Nah,” Sean said, and he was back to leaning on the lamppost. “I just like it when yer payin’ attention ta me.”
Viggo looked at him. There was a solemn undertone to Sean’s words that he didn’t quite understand but he knew, instinctively, that they had to discuss it, sooner or later. But not now, not now in front of so many people who didn’t deserve to know the full extent of their relationship. Viggo looked at Sean for a long moment, his lips parting to ask—
“Hey, Vig,” Sean said, and his words were so abrupt that Viggo’s own teeth clacked closed, nearly biting off the tip of his tongue. “Ya want ta go fer a drink later?”
“Yeah,” he heard himself saying before he could think about it or regret it (the two were almost synonymous, nowadays). “Yeah, that’d be nice.”
*
There wasn’t any filming to be done for Viggo; the day was just an introduction between him and his new castmates. Sean had left after the first few minutes, and Viggo had surprised himself once again by the sheer ache he felt when he saw the man’s back disappear behind the new-built and new-repaired houses and streets of New Orleans. He thought he had gotten used to the idea of Sean disappearing from him long ago. Apparently not.
Maybe Ariadna was right that Sean loved him still. Or maybe Viggo should just try to find out if she was. It was only fair—after all, Sean had taken the first step and came here, hadn’t he?
They had decided on the bar near the bed-and-breakfast that Viggo had found himself in. The producers had offered to set him up in a hotel, but Viggo decided that Burroughs probably didn’t have the money to afford a proper hotel and probably stowed himself in one of the many little places like these. That and Viggo liked the idea that he was supporting the local economy instead of big hotel chains in New Orleans; that in return for the city so generously lending the movie its environs, Viggo would try to encourage its people and get to know them.
He kept his mind on the city as he waited for Sean at the bar. Years ago, he had waited for Sean in a bar like this, called the Green Parrot, all the way on the other side of the world. New Zealand seemed like a dream—a place where he and Sean first found each other, and Viggo first understood the ache of missing someone for a few hours; when he first recognised a certain light in Sean’s eyes that said, Hey, I haven’t seen you in a few hours, I’ve missed you.
Maybe they had simply taken each other for granted through the past years.
Viggo took a long drag of his cigarette. One good thing about New Orleans was that the bars themselves, as long as they weren’t attached to a restaurant, allowed for smoking indoors. Viggo was already building up a small pile in his ashtray while his single beer was left untouched. He waved down the bartender and ordered another two packs of his usual brand and left them by his elbow.
Maybe it would have been a better idea to invite Sean up to his room- no. That would be a terrible idea. Viggo rubbed at his jaw, wishing that he had something other than cigarettes to occupy himself.
Then Sean breezed in through the door and dropped down into the seat opposite him before Viggo could even take a breath.
“I was outside,” Sean said, his words quick and overly casual. “Just outside. Saw ya when ya came in ‘round fifteen, twenty minutes ago. Spent that time tryin’ ta convince meself ta not run away wi’ me tail between me legs and ta just come in.”
He laughed, turning his head away and slipping a cigarette out of his pocket. Viggo moved on automatic, his mind whirling over Sean’s words but his fingers remembered motions ten years familiar, reaching forward and cupping his hand around the cigarette, snapping on the lighter. Sean glanced at him over the flickering flame before he leaned in, taking a deep breath. The smoke curled around his face. Viggo’s fingers ached to pick up a camera, because Sean was absolutely beautiful in that moment. Just like that: perfectly normal, perfectly common, just another man in a bar smoking, and he was gorgeous beyond words.
It had been so long since Viggo had wanted to pick up a camera. His hands almost trembled at the want of it, but he pushed it away.
Not now; not now.
“In June-” Viggo started hoarsely. He cleared his throat and rubbed at his nose and lips. “In June, a good friend of mine told me that I’ve been using her rather badly, because I promised her half a heart when, in fact, I haven’t got a single damn piece left to give.”
“That friend in Madrid?” Sean said, and he turned away to exhale out smoke, and Viggo could not see his face.
“Barcelona,” he replied. He answered the unasked question: “But Spain, yes.”
“Wise girl, that,” Sean continued, and there was a caution in his voice that made Viggo’s hands shake slightly. He clamped down on the filter of his cigarette and took a long drag.
“I reckon so too.” He paused, and he knew that he was sabotaging himself, sabotaging them, but he couldn’t help it. Sean refused to look at him, and Viggo in turn refused to feel guilty for trying to find comfort in someone else’s arms when Sean was the one who walked away.
“How’s Nikolaj these days?”
Sean let out his smoke in a long, slow stream, his shrug carefully careless. “I don’t know. I ‘aven’t talked ta ‘im since March.”
“I think,” Viggo said before he could think on it and swallow the words back. “I think we should have this conversation somewhere else.”
There was a silence as Sean avoided his eyes, gaze roaming all over the table before he found the ashtray and stubbed out his cigarette in it.
“Aye.” His eyes flickered upwards. “Ya got a place? A’ouse?”
“A room, sort of,” he smiled, half-depreciatingly. “In a bed and breakfast. The couple that owns it are pretty friendly…”
Sean snorted. “I’ve got a ‘otel room,” he offered.
Viggo was sick of hotel rooms; sick of anonymity, sick of perfectly polished manners, sick of being called ‘Mister Mortensen’ and being treated like a King while subtly being looked at in askance thanks to his lack of shoes. But he knew that they would get no peace at his place, and the anonymity was a blessing. He knew for a fact that he was going to shout; his voice was already storing itself in his throat, ready to burst.
So he closed his eyes and took the last drag of his cigarette, nodding. He stood up.
“Let’s go.”
*
Sean didn’t much care about the brand that was emblazoned on the hotel room’s entrance or pretty much anything in the room. It was anonymous and the people knew better than to ask questions, and that was all he cared about. Case in point: the porter barely gave him a glance when he brought Viggo up to his room.
He slammed his keycard into the lock, the movement violent to hide the shaking of his hands.
Then he opened the door and let Viggo in.
“Nice place. Plenty anonymous, isn’t it? Plenty of people who tend to your every need without wanting to know the reason behind them.” Viggo said, his tone acidly casual. So that was how it was then. He should have known better.
Sean looked at him, shrugging before he tossed his keycard and wallet towards the shoe rack. “Yeah, it’s fuckin’ nice. Better than—” he looked at Viggo again before he laughed, no humour in the sound this time. “Never mind. Never fuckin’ mind.”
Viggo moved fast; he had always been fast, and he was grabbing Sean by the shoulders, slamming him onto the nearest wall before Sean even realised what he was doing. “Oh no, you don’t get to avoid answering my question like that. You came here to see me, didn’t you?”
“I came ‘ere fer Garrett.”
“Bullshit. You were just using him as an excuse.”
“That’s fuckin’ rich, comin’ from ya,” Sean shot back, his teeth gritting together and his breath coming in a sharp hiss. “That’s fuckin’ rich, given that ya probably ‘ave a doctorate in usin’ people.”
Viggo’s eyes widened, “What does this have to do with Ariadna?”
His grip had loosened on Sean, and Sean took the chance to shove him off. “Ariadna. Fuck, Vig, if that’s where yer thoughts are goin’, we ain’t got anythin’ ta say ta each other.”
“No,” Viggo insisted, and he was in Sean’s personal space again. Their hips touched; despite Sean’s anger, despite his constant reminders to himself that he no longer wanted this man, he could hear his breath catching. He tried to lean back further but there was nowhere to go, for there was only an unyielding wall behind him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“It must feel good, ain’t it?” he said, eyes fixed on the wall right opposite Viggo’s left shoulder. “Feel damn good, every single time ya tell me ya miss me, ya love me, and I believe it with all me ‘eart. ‘Cause I do, every single fuckin’ time. Then I feel like a fuckin’ idiot, ‘cause then ya’d say that ya got somethin’ else on, somethin’ else more important than me ta spend yer fuckin’ time on, and I ain’t mean nothin’ ta ya despite all ya said. Ya probably were laughin’ at me all the damn time, yeah?”
Viggo gasped, the air cold against Sean’s collarbone, and Sean took a sharp, vicious thrill in that reaction.
“I thought we said that we’re not going to try to interfere with each other’s careers.”
“Aye,” Sean shrugged as much as he could in that position. “I said that, aye. Seems like I’m just the one impeding yer career all the time. All yer projects, all yer movies and art—all that comes first, aye? I just come dead last, that’s all.” He opened his eyes, wrestled his arms from Viggo’s grasp and grabbed onto Viggo’s shirt front himself.
When he spoke, his voice was soft, and it was damn weak of him, but he couldn’t keep the hurt from his words, “When’s the last time ya ‘ave looked at me properly, Vig?”
Viggo only shoved him back again, his voice a hard growl, “Who is the one who refuses to go public about our relationship, huh? I would come with you to your premieres if you’d only ask, but no, you prefer Nikolaj’s company, don’t you? Does he look at you the way I do, Sean? Does he pay you attention? Does the whole cast know that you’re fucking, because that’s obviously what you want?”
A mistake; a goddamn mistake to try to open his heart, to say what was hurting him, because it was just making himself vulnerable, leaving ground for Viggo to attack and tear up with his words. Sean swallowed back the hurt and refused to let it escape to his eyes or voice again. He put anger in its place, and his growl was entirely real.
“Must be nice ta bring Ariadna out. No one questionin’ ya, aye? No one spoilin’ yer career, wonderin’ if yer gay. Ya can bring ‘er ta that old couple who keeps yer room in this place and show ‘er off, say she’s yer girl. Must be nice, eh? Why ain’t she wi’ ya, Viggo? She got tired of bein’ second place ta everythin’ else already?”
“Yeah,” Viggo said, and Sean wanted so much to punch the stupid, ironic little smile out of his face. “She’s not a stupid girl, you see, and she’s sick of me seeing you every single time I’m with her, and I was with her for a pretty long time.”
He let go of Sean suddenly, stumbling backwards to lean on the shoe cabinet. His hands tugged at the hem of his own t-shirt, over and over, stretching the fabric even as he continued, “You know how seriously I take my work. We get paid an obscene amount of money to be overgrown children playing pretend, Sean; you know I want to do the best job I can. You know that from the first time you met me.”
Bastard. Goddamn fucking bastard. Just like that, Sean’s anger deflated, and he was left clamouring with his hands, trying to catch it again. He couldn’t. He was only so goddamn exhausted; of fighting with Viggo, of seeing Viggo out of the corner of his eyes with every step he took; of fighting with him even when he wasn’t; of waking up and still not getting used to the cold bed, no matter how long a time they had been spending apart.
Most of all, he was fucking tired of not being good enough.
“I’ve always—” Viggo spoke again, and Sean lifted his head. But Viggo didn’t meet his eyes, instead staring at the wall, and wasn’t that just the perfect representation of their relationship? “I’ve always seen you. There’s so much of my poetry and art that’s of you. I didn’t bring my camera out with me today, Sean. There’s no use. I don’t see anything that’s worth photographing anymore. All I notice is that I can’t see you.”
“Nice,” the bitterness spilled out of Sean even before he could stop them, but the damning thing was—he meant it. “Ya always ‘ave words, all these rich, gorgeous things, but they ain’t never mean anythin’ ta ya. Ya just say them.”
He took a long ragged breath, “I’m sorry that I ain’t good enough, Viggo. I’m so fuckin’ sorry I can’t keep me promises ta not interfere. I’m fuckin’ petty. I get so goddamn jealous of yer canvas, yer acting jobs, and I wonder when I got so fuckin’ ugly that ya don’t want ta look at me anymore.”
He swept his hands down on his jeans, ignoring that he was trembling all over and his chest burned so badly that he nearly thought he was having a heart attack. But it was a familiar hurt by now, and Sean ignored it the best he could, turning towards the door. It was a stupid mistake to come. He should just take these ten years of his life as wasted; there was no happy ending to be found here, funny how he wasn’t used to that even though this was the fourth time.
His hand was on the doorknob when he heard Viggo’s voice.
“I’m sorry.”
Viggo’s arms were around his waist and his forehead on Sean’s shoulder. Sean followed the hand on his cheek, turning him around. There was a mouth on his own, a soft sweet kiss, and Sean knew he shouldn’t, that he should get out of here because anything else would just tear another chunk out of his heart and he had none more to spare.
But he didn’t want to. His hands were already burying themselves into Viggo’s hair.
“I’m looking at you,” Viggo murmured against his mouth. Sean opened his eyes when the kiss broke and found blue eyes fixing onto his own. Viggo’s hand traced the curve of his cheek.
“I’m looking at you,” Viggo repeated. “I’m not going to turn away. God, Sean, I’m so fucking sorry, I’m so goddamn fucking sorry.” His head tilted, teeth scraping the side of Sean’s neck. “I didn’t—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Sean said, and though he wanted to growl the words out, he could not find the energy to do so. He was tired of words, of everything that Viggo had ever said because he never once made good with them. “You keep talkin’, and I’ll leave ya ‘ere.”
“Don’t- fuck, alright,” Viggo took a shaky breath. “No more statements. Just questions. I think I deserve those, at least.”
Viggo’s hands slid down Sean’s arms, raising first one wrist then another and pinning them on the wood of the door. His teeth scraped against his throat again. “Did you let Nikolaj do this to you, Sean?” He flicked his tongue out at the spot just beneath Sean’s ear, and Sean couldn’t help but let out a small gasp at the sensation. “Does he know how fucking sensitive you are right here?” His hand slid up Sean’s shirt, thumb scraping the strip of skin right underneath his last rib, and Sean’s hips thrust upwards minutely.
Damn him. Damn this man.
“Why would ya care?” the words were hissed out. Not in anger, but in arousal, for Viggo’s nails were now perilously close to his hardening cock. “Though ya’d already forgotten all that. Thought ya’d never noticed.”
Viggo didn’t say a word. He only kept his gaze on Sean even as he slid down elegantly to his knees. His fingers curled into Sean’s waistband, tugging it down to expose the curve of his hipbones—and he leaned in and pressed his teeth right at the joint, biting down. Sean cried out involuntarily, his hips jerking forward, his cock growing to full hardness in his boxers and staining them wet.
“Did he, Sean?”
“It ain’t just ‘im I fucked,” Sean snarled. “Ya called me a slut, didn’t ya?”
“Mm,” Viggo said, and wasn’t it so fucking grand, that now Viggo decided to listen to him and not talk at all? But Viggo’s mouth was moving, tongue flat on his zipper and- fuck, fuck, Sean shouldn’t have looked down. The sight of Viggo’s pink tongue and white teeth against the silver of the metal made his heart skip a beat. He loved this; he always loved this, how Viggo took off his jeans with his mouth alone, tonguing the button until it slipped past the hole.
“You told me once that I shouldn’t make promises I can’t keep, Sean,” Viggo said, his words as clear as his eyes as he looked up. Sean started at his own words mirrored back to him. “So I’ll make one I’m keeping: I’ll bring you to bed, and I’ll fuck you and mark every single inch of your skin, until my touch has burned out every single other person whom you have ever fucked, and you’ll never want them again."
Viggo took his hand and slipped the fingers into his mouth, drawing it between his teeth, tongue tracing the tiny whorls. Sean stared, transfixed, as Viggo’s entire attention fixated on him, on his hand, and nothing else. His traitorous heart skipped a beat, and his hand betrayed him by shoving down his jeans until they pooled at his ankles.
“Keep it then,” he said hoarsely.
Viggo rocked backwards, standing up. He leaned forward, his hand cupping the back of Sean’s neck as he kissed him, tasting of sweat and salt and Viggo and Sean was such a fucking weak man, such a pathetic creature, because he could feel hope filling him, and wasn’t that the worst thing in the world?
They got to the bedroom somehow. Sean didn’t remember any of it. He only knew of Viggo’s eyes, Viggo’s hands, Viggo’s lips, Viggo’s entire focus upon him. The back of his knees hit the bed and he felt onto it, and Viggo’s mouth closed over his collarbone, nipping the thin skin above the bone. There, just there- and he bit down and Sean jerked under his hands like a marionette, moaning.
He didn’t even realise Viggo remembered all of these spots. It had been so long since they had touched that sometimes Sean wondered if he had hallucinated all those times when they had sex. But there was no dreamy quality to this. It was all too sharp to be real; every single shot of pleasure as Viggo used the exact right amount of pressure on the exact right spot was like lightning through his veins.
“Vig, Viggo, please, fuck- just-” he gasped loudly, arching his back as Viggo slipped a finger inside him, the angle perfect on entry to stroke his prostate. Like this, just like this, a slow draw backwards and a staccato-quick slam inside, it was so good that Sean could come just from this. He could come from any touch that Viggo had given him throughout this night.
Viggo hadn’t said a single word since his promise. Sean could only hear his breathing, getting louder and louder; could only feel the evidence of his want in his cock, trailing lines up and down Sean’s thoughts; could feel Viggo’s gaze on him all the while, raking over every inch of his skin and never once leaving him.
God. Sean lifted his leg when Viggo curled his hand underneath his calf. Then Viggo turned his head, biting the back of Sean’s knee as he stroked him from the inside. Sean jerked, crying out, and he knew he was going to have to go with turtlenecks and jeans tomorrow or else he would look like he was mauled by a wild animal, but he didn’t care.
“Fuck me, ya goddamn bastard,” Sean gasped out. He sat up suddenly, pulling his leg from Viggo’s grasp, swallowing a moan as his movements made Viggo’s fingers shift inside him. He cupped Viggo’s face with both hands, slamming their mouths together. “Kiss my legs and ankles later. Fuck me now.”
“And your feet,” Viggo murmured. Sean barked a laugh, ready to demand again, but Viggo had a hand on his chest, shoving him down on the bed. Then his fingers pulled out of Sean and he was leaning over him, his hand slamming down on the mattress right beside his head.
Sean kissed him to pre-empt any words, but Viggo didn’t even try. He only returned the kiss, their lips and tongues sliding against each other. Sean lifted his lips, Viggo folded Sean’s legs back, and the first thrust had the both of them crying out sharply. The kiss broke from sheer necessity, but their lips still brushed as Viggo pulled out and slammed into him, over and over, hard enough to shake the bed and send Sean sliding upwards towards the headboard.
“Goin’ ta try to fuck every single one o’ them out of me, Viggo?” Sean couldn’t help the taunt. “Ya really think ya can?”
A hand came down to tilt Sean’s forehead back, exposing his throat before Viggo pressed in and stopped there- his eyes almost violently blue as he looked at Sean. His breathing was coming so fast and so loud he sounded like a freight train, and their every exhale touched.
“Mine,” Viggo said simply. He leaned down and bit Sean hard on the spot right beneath his chin. “Mine.”
“Look at me,” Sean growled, pulling at Viggo’s hair to force him to turn his eyes up. “Look at me.”
Viggo’s head remained bowed as he pulled back out, but with his next thrust he opened his eyes, catching and holding Sean’s gaze. Sean was close, so close, and Viggo loosened Sean’s hand from where it was wrapped around a bar on the headboard. He brought it to his mouth and licked the palm before he curled it around Sean’s cock, laying his own hand right on top. Their fingers twined before Viggo started stroking. Fast, rough, with plenty of twists on the head- exactly how Sean liked it.
Sean threw his head back and arched his back, his legs trembling as he came hard with a loud, incoherent roar. Even drowned in orgasm, he could feel Viggo’s gaze on him, as unrelenting in his attentions as his strokes as he fucked Sean through orgasm, his thrusts shallow and uneven now. It only took a few more seconds before Sean’s name was breathed into the air and Viggo came inside him. Right then, Sean felt a small spark of pleasure right at his Achilles’ tendon, and the rasp of a tongue.
Christ.
Sean let out a shaky breath as he fell back on the bed. His skin was oversensitive and his muscles were still trembling, but Viggo was keeping his promise, mouthing and biting and licking every single inch of Sean’s thighs and calves and ankles and his goddamn feet, toe by toe by arch.
“Don’t leave in the morning,” Viggo murmured, lapping against the protruding bone of Sean’s ankle.
Sean snorted, trying to hide the surge of warmth he felt at the request, “It’s me damn ‘otel room, ya bastard. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.” He paused. “We ain’t done yet, ya know that?”
“Yeah,” Viggo said, licking a long line from his heel to the arch of his foot. His fingers drew continuous circles around Sean’s calf. “I’m not going anywhere either.”
“Good,” Sean breathed, and he was so goddamn stupid because he could feel the weight of three years of disappointment lift off of him. But Viggo was warm against his skin, his hand stroking Sean’s side, so strongly present as if he had never left at all.
He couldn’t help but give in to the call of sleep.
*
Sean woke up to the smell of coffee, bacon and eggs, and cigarette smoke. He cracked an eye open, immediately blinking when he realised that there was no piercing light that seared through him. The blinds were closed; odd, that.
He squinted, rubbing at his eyes and yawning as he sat up. Immediately, he realised there was a paper takeout box and a thermos full of coffee on top of the nightstand. Viggo’s back was against the thing, a cigarette burning in his hand.
“Ya ain’t supposed ta smoke in the ‘otel room,” Sean drawled quietly.
Viggo jerked a little. He dropped the burning stub, then caught it again midair. He glared at it before he stood up, opening the balcony and tossing it out towards the back gardens.
“Ain’t supposed ta do that either,” Sean said, and his lips twitched quietly. Viggo had never been one for hotel rules, but usually he obeyed the ones that said that he wasn’t allowed to accidentally set trees and grass on fire.
“They should hire you for landscaping,” Viggo jerked his thumb towards the balcony. “The garden looks boring out there; no soul in it at all.”
“’otels ain’t a place fer people ta find souls in,” Sean shrugged. He stood up, completely unself-conscious about his nakedness, and paused. He was moving on automatic, going towards Viggo to claim his usual morning kiss, but so many months apart had put rust onto the gears of easy habits, and Sean didn’t know if a kiss would even be welcome.
Instead, he turned and picked up the thermos of coffee, sipping it. “Don’t ya ‘ave work?”
Viggo looked down at his hands, then back up. He shoved his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans, hunching his shoulders as he gave Sean a small, uncertain smile. “I made a few calls just now. I told Walter I’m not dropping in today since we’re still not shooting my scenes—I’ve already faxed him my ideas for Bull Lee—and I told my agent to cancel my next couple of engagements. I haven’t signed contracts for either of them. So after this week of filming, I’m… free for the foreseeable future, barring having to drop in at Perceval once in a while.”
Sean stared. Viggo rubbed at his nose, then his lip. That, Sean thought wryly, was his gesture, and Viggo had gone and stolen it.
“I’ve- uh- I’ve booked tickets for us to go to Limousin. It’s for next week—when I’m done with On the Road by then—and I know it’s fucking presumptuous and maybe even too damn soon but I’ve wasted too much time and too much words, and—”
“Ya fuckin’ bastard,” Sean breathed, interrupting him.
Viggo started, lifting his eyes. Though he tried to keep his body language nonchalant, Sean had over a decade of experience, and he could read the tension written in every line of that body, he could see the nervousness in the slight tic of the jaw and the fists shoved into his pockets.
“Ya fuckin’ bastard,” Sean repeated, though his tone had softened. “Ya think I ‘ave the time ta spend traipsin’ ‘round France wi’ ya at any time yer free?” He paused, then chuckled. “And ’ere I thought I could finally give up on ya. Thought I can stop hopin’, or waitin’ like some sailor’s wife on the cliffs. Then ya do somethin’ like this.”
Viggo strode forward. His forehead leaned against Sean’s, his hand cupping the back of Sean’s neck.
“So?”
“I can’t come ta France wi’ ya,” he whispered. “But I ‘ave an all-expense paid working vacation ‘round Europe comin’ up. It’s called Missing. Ya want ta come wi’ me?”
“Anywhere,” Viggo breathed. His lips ghosted against Sean’s, and he slanted his head, his gaze never leaving Sean’s. “I’ll go anywhere with you. I’m not so stupid to let you go again.”
Yeah, Sean thought as they kissed. Yeah, they still had plenty to talk about, because this couldn’t last. Viggo would be bored stiff following Sean around after a few months.
But for now- now, they were okay. They were okay, and Viggo’s hand was warm on his skin, his shoulders fitting perfectly beneath Sean’s hands.
Maybe it’s fucking stupid of him, but Sean had always been an optimist.
Summary: You can’t press an ‘off’ switch on a love you’ve held for ten years, no matter how much you might want to.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 3 Completed: Yes
Word count: 19844 Read: 3581
Published: 23 Aug 2012 Updated: 23 Aug 2012