The sound of their teeth meeting echoed throughout the room. Viggo’s shoulders were warm, his lips dry and chapped beneath Sean’s mouth. But his body was tense, stiff underneath Sean’s bruising grasp. There was almost a spell, held together by the bare threads formed by touch of their joined lips-- then Viggo was shoving at him, pushing him away, tearing their mouths apart.
“What the fuck, Sean?” the words were growled out. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Fixing meself,” Sean said, his lips tingling and breath coming hard. He licked his lips, tasting nothing but alcohol.
“You’ve never been a two-beer queer,” Viggo said, and his accent flattened out the words, made them sound strange on his tongue. “So forgive me for feeling fucking confused right now.”
“It takes hell lot more than this ta make me drunk,” he replied, but he knew the answer was insufficient. Sean closed his eyes, took a step back, and hissed as the glass buried itself further into his skin.
“Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing to yourself,” Viggo said. It wasn’t even a question.
His eyes were fixed on the ground, on Sean’s legs. Sean looked down and there was blood on the floor, mixing with glass shards and the few remnants of alcohol. He wondered why he could barely feel the pain. The alcohol had long faded, its effects chased away by the sight of Viggo standing in his doorway.
Maybe Sean had finally managed to find a way to numb himself. Too little, too late.
Viggo practically dragged him towards the couch, holding him by the elbow and leading him in a big circle. Rough hands on Sean’s skin and yet this was the furthest thing from what Sean had fantasised of, the very last thing that he could ever want. There was such stifled pity in Viggo’s eyes that Sean felt that he should want to scream, to chase him out of the house.
He went anyway. “Thought you were leaving,” he said.
“I might be pissed at you, but I’m not going to let you bleed out or be crippled by your own idiocy,” Viggo replied tartly. “Do you even remember your job?”
He shoved Sean down to the couch, stepping back. “Look, do you even own a first aid kit?”
“I have kids,” Sean drawled. His feet were starting to hurt, and he rested them on the coffee table. Good thing it was made of glass; at least there wouldn’t be bloodstains on wood. Maybe he should break the table as well and cover the living room in glass. “It’s in the bathroom.”
“Stay here.”
A person, Sean mused, could get used to the sight of another’s back. Viggo was thinner now, his shoulders narrower and bonier. Or maybe he hadn’t changed at all and Sean was simply remembering him wrong. Either one was a possibility. He didn’t trust his memory anymore; it had proven him wrong far too many times.
“You want to tell me what the hell is up with you right now?”
Viggo dropped to his knees in front of him, the first aid box opened at the side of the couch. Sean couldn’t help but reach forward, thumb tracing the heavy crow’s feet, the visible sign of Viggo’s exhaustion that refused to be chased away no matter how bright his eyes shone. Viggo’s hand grabbed onto his wrist, and pulled it away.
“Sean.”
“You tell me,” Sean said, his voice soft. He sat up and pulled his foot towards himself. His finger grabbed hold of a single shard and yanked it out. Blood flowed over his skin and he stared at the red.
The sound of their teeth meeting echoed throughout the room. Viggo’s shoulders were warm, his lips dry and chapped beneath Sean’s mouth. But his body was tense, stiff underneath Sean’s bruising grasp. There was almost a spell, held together by the bare threads formed by touch of their joined lips-- then Viggo was shoving at him, pushing him away, tearing their mouths apart.
“What the fuck, Sean?” the words were growled out. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Fixing meself,” Sean said, his lips tingling and breath coming hard. He licked his lips, tasting nothing but alcohol.
“You’ve never been a two-beer queer,” Viggo said, and his accent flattened out the words, made them sound strange on his tongue. “So forgive me for feeling fucking confused right now.”
“It takes hell lot more than this ta make me drunk,” he replied, but he knew the answer was insufficient. Sean closed his eyes, took a step back, and hissed as the glass buried itself further into his skin.
“Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing to yourself,” Viggo said. It wasn’t even a question.
His eyes were fixed on the ground, on Sean’s legs. Sean looked down and there was blood on the floor, mixing with glass shards and the few remnants of alcohol. He wondered why he could barely feel the pain. The alcohol had long faded, its effects chased away by the sight of Viggo standing in his doorway.
Maybe Sean had finally managed to find a way to numb himself. Too little, too late.
Viggo practically dragged him towards the couch, holding him by the elbow and leading him in a big circle. Rough hands on Sean’s skin and yet this was the furthest thing from what Sean had fantasised of, the very last thing that he could ever want. There was such stifled pity in Viggo’s eyes that Sean felt that he should want to scream, to chase him out of the house.
He went anyway. “Thought you were leaving,” he said.
“I might be pissed at you, but I’m not going to let you bleed out or be crippled by your own idiocy,” Viggo replied tartly. “Do you even remember your job?”
He shoved Sean down to the couch, stepping back. “Look, do you even own a first aid kit?”
“I have kids,” Sean drawled. His feet were starting to hurt, and he rested them on the coffee table. Good thing it was made of glass; at least there wouldn’t be bloodstains on wood. Maybe he should break the table as well and cover the living room in glass. “It’s in the bathroom.”
“Stay here.”
A person, Sean mused, could get used to the sight of another’s back. Viggo was thinner now, his shoulders narrower and bonier. Or maybe he hadn’t changed at all and Sean was simply remembering him wrong. Either one was a possibility. He didn’t trust his memory anymore; it had proven him wrong far too many times.
“You want to tell me what the hell is up with you right now?”
Viggo dropped to his knees in front of him, the first aid box opened at the side of the couch. Sean couldn’t help but reach forward, thumb tracing the heavy crow’s feet, the visible sign of Viggo’s exhaustion that refused to be chased away no matter how bright his eyes shone. Viggo’s hand grabbed onto his wrist, and pulled it away.
“Sean.”
“You tell me,” Sean said, his voice soft. He sat up and pulled his foot towards himself. His finger grabbed hold of a single shard and yanked it out. Blood flowed over his skin and he stared at the red.
“Sean,” Viggo snapped out his name like a scolding father, grabbing both of his wrists and slamming them against the couch. Sean’s finger nearly trailed blood against his skin when he tried to cup his cheek, but Viggo pushed him down again, practically straddling him until he couldn’t move.
“I should call an ambulance for you, you stupid bastard,” Viggo said. “But I suspect that it wouldn’t go very well, and you don’t need more bad press.”
“I ain’t care ‘bout that.”
“What do you care about, Sean?”
“You,” Sean enunciated the word as much as he could, turning the consonants clear and sharp, ringing in the air around them. “Just you.” He took a shuddering breath. “That what you want ta hear?”
“There’s nothing you can tell me that will be what I want to hear,” Viggo sighed. “Because I would know that it’s a damn lie.”
“Try me.”
“Can you tell me truthfully that you’re alright and you’re not falling apart? That we’re still friends, and you don’t look at me differently than you had when we were shooting Rings, or even three years ago?”
Sean reached out, grabbing onto Viggo’s shoulders, pulling him so close their breaths touched. “I can’t say that, but neither can you.”
“No, but I’m not the idiot who has glass on his feet right now and is drinking himself into a stupor in the morning,” Viggo said. He took tweezers out of the kit, wielding it like he would a sword. Keeping the two of them apart.
“Nah, yer just exhausting yerself. That ain’t much better than what I’m doing.”
“At least I’m being productive. Hold still.”
Sean let him fix him. The hands of a King were the hands of a healer, but Viggo was no King and Sean was no Steward. Boromir wouldn't be destroying himself like this. Or maybe he would, if he had lived after Amon Hen. What did it matter?
He had a dream once -- or was it a memory -- of Viggo on his knees like this, his hands gentle on Sean’s skin. But the blood was new and jarring and the pain came from somewhere inside him instead of his skin, and Viggo wasn’t looking at him like this. He dreamt of kindness from those eyes and a sweet kiss that chased all of his demons away. He made believe that Viggo’s voice and scent would become his new addiction, chasing away the taste of alcohol that lingered so much on his tongue that he no longer tasted it.
“I need a drink,” Sean said. At the corner of his eyes he could see white bandages in Viggo’s hands, being slowly wrapped around his feet. Years, or months, ago, he read the stories of old Chinese women who had their feet bound so they could not run away.
“You want a drink,” Viggo corrected. He pulled the bandages tight around Sean’s feet. The white was fading away, replaced by the red of his blood, soaking through the cloth. Strange that he could still barely feel it. “You need the hospital, and stitches.”
His feet were swathed in stark colours. Sean pushed himself down the couch, sliding to his knees until his eyes met Viggo’s. His breath ghosted against Viggo’s neck as he cupped his cheeks and leaned their foreheads together. He could see himself reflected in grey eyes but he looked away, instead focusing on thin lips, on the white scar.
“The couch’s here but you got everything else wrong,” he murmured, his voice barely loud enough to be heard. “Even the alcohol is wrong. Last time it was beer and you brought me ta yer house. It was in New Zealand and the weather was odd, cold, and you gave me a blanket.”
Viggo cocked his head slightly, trying to seek out Sean’s eyes with his own. Sean stared at the wall beyond his shoulder instead.
“That happened plenty of times, Sean,” Viggo’s breath was hot. “We both got drunk many times in New Zealand.”
“That ain’t what I’m talking ‘bout,” Sean said. “I remember blankets and yer hands on me face. I remember you kissing me, on the damn couch in yer old house.”
Viggo was frozen, his eyes wide, his lips parted. Sean darted his tongue out, feeling sweat and teeth at the tip of his tongue but tasting neither.
“Is that so? Is that why you’ve been avoiding me, Sean?” Sean’s sleeves were caught in rough hands, nails dragging against the skin of his arms. “Do I disgust you now?”
Sean shook his head. “I want you,” he said, knowing that his voice was trembling but he was beyond caring. “I want you so fuckng badly, Vig.” He took a deep breath. “It’s making me head spin, it is.”
“That would be the blood loss,” Viggo said brusquely. But his hands were gentle on Sean’s jaw, lifting his head up and forcing their eyes to meet.
“I’m bringing you to the hospital. Unless you don’t want me to touch you?”
Sean’s eyes flashed, and he shoved Viggo away, hissing as his soles hit the bottom of the couch as he scrambled away, trying to put as much distance between the two of them.
“Do you want me ta beg you?” His voice was like a whip, every enunciation a crack that split the air. “I gave you your damn answer, didn’t I?”
“What did you expect, Sean?” Viggo grabbed him by the collar, dragging him up and shoving him down to sit heavily on the couch. “That I would kiss you and tell you that I’ve loved you for the past twelve, thirteen years? That I’ve been waiting for you? I’ve moved on, Sean. Like normal people do when their friends didn’t show a goddamn hint of interest in them for over a fucking decade!”
“Fuck off, then. Leave the house and forget you’ve ever been here,” Sean hissed. He drew his legs up and hugged them to his chest, ignoring his injuries, ignoring the blood staining the bandages that Viggo’s hands had put on him.
“Jesus, I’m fucking surprised you haven’t choked yourself to death on your own self-pity.” Viggo dragged a hand over his hair. He stood up, looming over Sean. “I can’t fucking forget you because you’re a friend.”
“Go fuck yerself on yer own damn nobility,” Sean grabbed him by the collar, pulling him down until they were eye-level to each other again. “Either you fuck off and leave me alone, or you fuck me. You can’t have it any other way.”
Viggo looked at him for a long moment. His shoulders sagged, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft.
Sean had always liked the way Viggo could see through him. Viggo knew him well and always seemed to know the right thing to say.
“How long have you been using me as an excuse for your own self-destruction, Sean?”
At this moment, he hated him for that very reason. Hated him more than words could say. He refused to look at Viggo, staring at the front door, wanting Viggo to disappear from his sight, wanting him to walk out and never come back again. More than anything, he wished that Viggo would shut the fuck up and take his words and his too-piercing eyes with him.
He might be left with only illusions, but he knew now that reality was far more horrible.
“Alright, I’ll play your game,” Viggo’s voice was tight, and his calluses burned on Sean’s face as he shoved his head back to look at him. Sean’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to speak.
But Viggo was kissing him, smashing their lips together, their teeth knocking against each other.
“I’ll fuck you,” Viggo said, and his smile was sharper than the glass still littered around them. “But first, you’re going to the hospital, because damned if I’m going to let you blame me for bleeding to death as well.”
***
Vancouver, April 2012
April in Vancouver was when it rained half the time and the parks were covered in spring blossoms. Spring was just coming in and the skies were full of white clouds on the days that the rains didn’t come.
In other words, it was like London, except less crowded. And brighter.
Sean only had a couple of weeks of filming to do, and within those weeks he only had a few days that he had to work, and it was a character that he had already explored before. Sometimes he had to laugh at how ridiculous his job was sometimes.
He walked along the streets with a cigarette in one hand and a beer on another. Canadians didn’t recognise him most of the time, and Sean was glad for that. He didn’t want to take his eyes off the sun that was setting off in the distance, disappearing behind the buildings, and he leaned against a tree and took a long drag. The red of the sun was almost like the fire at the end of the stub, red and burning bright.
Viggo would have taken a picture, Sean thought. He smiled to himself, and sipped at his beer.
--there’s a blanket drawn over his shoulders. It’s dark, too dark for it to be night. His eyes are closed. He almost remembers--
He blinked at the sudden memory, coming unbidden to the forefront of his mind. Vancouver wasn’t a place that he visited extensively before, so why--
-- hands, rough hands, smoothing over the side of his face, scraping against his beard stubble. His back is warm and he can’t move his arm much. Is that a couch?--
Sean breathed out. The cigarette fell from his hand. Almost blind, he found his way to a bench. The city slowly disappeared from his sight. The beer was cold, and he took a large gulp of it. He chased memories instead of sights.
-- the hand had moved into his hair, slowly stroking, the motions limited by the short strands. There is a thumb on his neck. The shift of cloth, his shirt being pulled away. The thumb strokes his shoulder. He knows those calluses. Roughness on the fingertips and the base.--
He wished he had opened his eyes. He took another swallow of the beer. It was almost gone, but he barely noticed it.
-- lips. Chapped lips on his temple. Hand on his neck. He’s still. He can hear his own heartbeat, slow and soft, thrumming at the edge of his breathing.--
He knew those hands. He knew those lips. He didn’t know why his mind suddenly wanted him to remember this, only that it did and it was somehow important. Sean squeezed his eyes shut, his hand tightening against the neck of the bottle.
-- lips on his cheek. Lips on his lips.--
Sean exhaled. Tipped his head back, and drained his beer. He wanted another cigarette, but he could barely move.
“Goodnight, Sean. Sleep well.”
The sun had disappeared behind the buildings, the red darkened into black. It was dreadfully poetic. Sunsets symbolised endings, Sean was no poet or photographer, but he knew that well enough. The night was slowly growing darker even as the streetlamps turned on, and that was appropriate too. It was a little bit too cliché, and Sean wondered, for a small hysterical moment, if he was dreaming.
He pinched himself even though he knew he wasn’t. There was wind in his hair and he could taste the incoming rain on the tip of his tongue. Sean licked his lips.
There was no use blaming his mind for suddenly remembering.
“O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall,” he whispered to himself. “Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed.”
It was not the memory. Not merely it. It was the sudden tightening of his chest, a sudden knot in his stomach that he had not once noticed until now. A desperate longing to feel those hands and lips on his own, to see those eyes. Grey they were, a colour only defined by the light that fell upon them. The image of a man appeared behind his eyelids, so sharp as if it was tattooed there and he had blinded himself to it all these years.
Hopkins’s lines were more appropriate than he had ever thought they would be. A random utterance a character made that now applied to him, for he felt as if he was hanging on a precipice, the world spinning around him. In the distance, thunder rumbled, but Sean took no notice of it for the drums in his heart were far louder. Suddenly he wished for that peaceful beat he heard of himself in his memory, that steady one-two that he knew so well because it had always been with him.
The rain came while he sat on the bench. Water soaked into his hair but Sean was already cold. The beer was long gone but he wished there was more, much more, because now he had grasped onto the memory his mind was turning it over and over. Phantom hands ghosted across his neck, his collarbone, far stronger than the cold rain as it slowly dripped into his shirt, plastering cloth against his skin.
He must look like a madman, Sean realised, sitting on a bench in the rain, talking to himself. He felt like he was going mad, the Earth shifting beneath his feet and sending him tumbling, stumbling from the place that he had always known to be his. He knew that voice. He knew that hand, those lips. He even knew that couch, for once upon a time he had spent many nights upon it.
Over a decade had passed and only now then he remembered; years that had set more lines in his face and made his skin sag. His hair was dark now and so was his skin, darkened by time and cigarettes and alcohol. Sean’s hand nearly shook as he bowed his head, lighting up another fag. The burn of the first drag was sharp in his throat, but he wished it was harsher still. He wished he could inhale fire, so it could destroy what he had just regained.
The rain threatened to drown him. Water seeped into his hair and hung on his lashes, and when he blinked he knew they must look like tears. It was the strangest thing to cry when there was nothing to be lost.
There was a message in his email that Sean had yet to answer. He would delete it the first chance he had, he decided. He knew that voice, knew those words, and he could not help himself from wondering what those lips would look like when shaping those words. Would the scar stretch? What would be the colour of those eyes? Sean didn’t use to wonder about such things, yet now it lingered in his head.
It had been too long and there was too much dignity to lose to even think of mentioning this, much less reaching out a hand and placing his hope in a fire that had to have been drowned at least ten years ago. The rain continued, the drops soaking into his clothes as if to prove his point. Water drowned out the cigarette’s flame, and he let it fall to the ground. His metaphors were running together, getting confused. ‘Cliché’ didn’t half describe the situation now. Sean wanted to laugh, but he swallowed back the sound.
He needed another drink. The pubs must be opened by now.
***
London, November 2012
“You’re damn heavy.”
“You could let me use me crutches,” Sean pointed out. His arm was slung over Viggo’s shoulders, his weight almost entirely placed upon the other man. Those very crutches were gripped tightly in his other hand.
“And have you tear open your stitches less than an hour after you come back from the hospital?” Viggo shot him a look. “No. I’d rather not have to drive you back again.”
Sean scowled as Viggo’s fingers pressed against his hip, digging into his pocket. “I ain’t a damn kid, you know that.”
“From what I’ve seen of you so far? I doubt it,” Viggo shot back. He took Sean’s keys and shoved it into the door, kicking it open.
They hobbled inside, avoiding the mess still left on the floor as much as they could.
“I need a drink.”
“Do you want me to fuck you or not?”
Sean froze and nearly dropped the crutches. Viggo nearly stumbled and he looked at him, his grey eyes like broken glass set deep within his face. His lips were pressed thin.
“You make it seem like a chore,” Sean said. It was a damn pathetic attempt at deflection.
Viggo shrugged, practically dragging him forward so they could move up the stairs to the bedroom. Sean couldn’t help the small exhale of relief when those eyes were turned away from him again.
“I keep my promises.”
“I thought you were joking.”
“Do you want me to be?”
Reality was nothing like the fantasies that he had held deep inside his mind, turning it over and over again. There were waking dreams that he had of Viggo kissing him, of the two of them falling into bed while the sun came through the windows. A brand new day, a brand new him, all of his previous faults erased and once they woke up from their fucking, Sean could look himself in the mirror again.
But the sky was dark from the approaching sunset and this was no fantasy. Viggo’s body was hot underneath his arm but so tense he felt like a carved statue than living flesh.
He wondered what was wrong with him, that he still held on to fairytales and ideal relationships even after four divorces. Viggo once told him that nothing was permanent except for parents and children, and not even those were perfect -- it had to be worked for.
Sean was so damn tired of working for it.
“No,” he said softly. He stared down at his feet. “I don’t want you ta be joking.”
But he had to try.
“Alright,” Viggo said, business-like. “Bedroom, then.”
Viggo’s hands were still gentle on him even as he pushed the door open. Sean placed the crutches next to the bed, lowering himself down. He looked up to Viggo and he laughed to himself, a half-swallowed chuckle. Months of alcohol-fogged fantasies and nearly thirteen years of knowing each other (could they still call what they have friendship after this?) and this was all that could come of this.
“Do you want me to help you strip?” Viggo asked. His hands were at the hem of his own shirt, starting to pull it off.
“I ain’t that helpless.”
Sean still had some pride, though he didn’t know what use it was to him right now. He pulled off his shirt and pants, toed off his shoes and socks. He hooked his fingers beneath his boxers, but his eyes were fixed on Viggo’s skin as it was revealed to him, slowly.
“You got a new tattoo,” he said.
“Yeah. Months ago,” Viggo shrugged. “I told you about it in an email, but I guess you didn’t read it.”
“No.” Sean pushed himself up the bed, fully naked now. His cock was limp against his thigh and so was Viggo’s. “I didn’t.”
Viggo draped himself over him. His leg was warm between Sean’s. His scar was stark against his tanned skin, and Sean opened his mouth, pressed their lips together. They kissed. It was, Sean thought, like one of the kisses he shared with countless women in front of cameras, except that he didn’t have another name and another life to hide behind.
He slipped his hand downwards. Viggo’s leg was rough against his hand, but his cock was smooth. His nails caught against rough pubic hair as he stroked, and the hitch of Viggo’s breath against his skin was nothing like he had ever imagined. The slow filling of Viggo’s cock between his finger reminded him of dirty floors and filthy mouths, and Sean closed his eyes.
“Do you have condoms? Lube?”
“Nightstand.” He bought them both months ago in an airport in Canada, before he returned to London. Both were still unused.
Strange that he would not feel Viggo’s skin when he had tasted so many so many varieties of come. It was, he thought, better this way. Cleaner.
Viggo’s hands pulled his legs apart. The mattress shifted under his weight and Sean drew his legs up. The bandages were stark white against Viggo’s skin, and Sean focused on the contrast even as he felt a finger press inside him. He arched. His blood pounded in his ears, rushing downwards, filling his cock. He felt it all, detached, his nerves telling his brain what was happening to him but there was a haze inside his head and he could barely feel it.
This was like a story, something happening to someone else.
“Probably a stupid question,” Viggo said. His eyes were fixed on Sean’s hip, and his finger slid in and out, stretching him, fucking him. “But have you ever done this before?”
Sean squeezed his eyes shut. Arched his back. Buried his fingers into Viggo’s hair.
“No,” he said, the word tumbling from his lip. He wanted to take it back, to suck it between his teeth.
“Damn you,” Viggo breathed. His lips traced the edge of Sean’s hip, against the pelvic bone that was still visible from beneath skin and muscles. “Damn you to hell, Sean.”
He wanted to laugh. There was no use to damn him so when he was already there. His lips parted as if to say it, but Viggo was taking his only half-hard cock into his mouth. Heat and wet and the softest scrape of tongue against the head, and Sean gasped, body jerking, air rushing into his lungs so fast and sharp that it cut against the inside of his throat.
“Those are me words ta say,” Sean whispered. He pulled his legs apart even more. He could feel himself getting hard, and he wondered why the sight of Viggo’s naked body hadn’t done the job.
The answer was already there, at the edge of his mind, but Viggo pulled out his finger and shoved in two more. His mouth was so hot, the suction perfect. Sean’s fingers dug into the mattress, scoring temporary lines down the cloth cover. Viggo’s fingers curled, touching something within him, and Sean jerked again. Like a marionette on strings, played perfectly, and the pleasure that flooded his mind chased the comparison away as quickly as it had come.
“Vig,” he whispered instead. The name was mangled by his accent. Viggo’s mouth pulled away. Three fingers now and Sean flinched, less at the stretch than at the expectation of the pain that didn’t come. But Viggo seemed not to notice, because he pressed a kiss against the inside of a thigh, his teeth barely scraping skin.
“I’m going to fuck you,” Viggo said. His fingers were pulling away, grabbing Sean’s legs and pulling them up and hooking them over his shoulders. Sean was wide open, exposed.
He heard the sound of silver foil ripping. He opened his eyes and pushed himself up, taking the condom out of Viggo’s hands. Their eyes did not meet. But it was not Viggo’s eyes that he wanted, was it? His cock was hard enough, rising from thick, dark curls, and Sean slid the condom down the shaft, his fingers stumbling from the unfamiliarity.
“Lie down.”
He did. Lay down while Viggo pushed into him, fucked him-- or perhaps he should use the word ‘have sex’ because this was nothing more than going through the motions. But it was good, the burn of his ass pressing on the edges of his mind, Viggo’s weight shoving him down, squeezing the breath out of him. Sean kept his eyes closed and he raised his arms, covering his face.
There was only heat when they came. Heat on the outside, his come splashing against his own skin, Viggo’s heat inside him, his single pant wet against Sean’s skin.
Nothing like what he thought it would be.
Viggo pulled out and dropped down next to him. Their breaths were coming just slightly faster than before. Sean let his legs fall back down to the bed, straightening them. He didn’t shift his arm from his face. Their bodies were inches from each other, and he could feel the heat of Viggo’s skin. They lay there like that for long moments. Sean didn’t know how long it was; he would count the time by his heartbeat, but he could not hear that.
Slowly, Viggo shifted, sitting up on the bed. Sean felt the mattress move and heard the slight squeak of latex being removed, and the flush of the toilet. He didn’t open his eyes even as Viggo started to dress.
“Stay,” he said, his voice barely loud enough to be heard.
Viggo’s shoes made a soft thud on the floor as he stopped. Sean heard his footsteps as he walked back to the bed.
“Look at me, Sean,” Viggo’s hands were rough on his skin.
Sean let his arms drop back to his side. He opened his eyes and caught Viggo’s gaze again. His lips quirked in an attempt to smile, a deflated, defeated little thing.
“I’m not what you want,” Viggo said.
“No,” Sean closed his eyes again, turning his head away. He laughed, a high, hysterical little sound that rang around the room. He had to laugh because if he did not, he knew he would start to cry, and he looked pathetic enough already, with come still on his skin and his hair ruffled and bandages on his feet. His dignity was stripped to pieces without needing to be further destroyed by tears.
“No, you’re not.”
He laughed again. Viggo’s fingers carded gently through his hair just once.
The sound of the front door closing echoed in his ears. Perhaps it was only his imagination, for the sound couldn’t reach to the bedroom, no matter how silent the house. But it rang nonetheless, over and over, the sound of a closing door.
Sean tried to count his heartbeats as he lay on the bed, curled up to his side.
The sun was rising when he stood up from the bed. He limped to the bathroom and wiped himself off, barely resisting the urge to flinch at the dried come on his skin.
His phone was downstairs. The crutches were beside the bed. He took them and took the stairs one at a time.“Sean,” Viggo snapped out his name like a scolding father, grabbing both of his wrists and slamming them against the couch. Sean’s finger nearly trailed blood against his skin when he tried to cup his cheek, but Viggo pushed him down again, practically straddling him until he couldn’t move.
“I should call an ambulance for you, you stupid bastard,” Viggo said. “But I suspect that it wouldn’t go very well, and you don’t need more bad press.”
“I ain’t care ‘bout that.”
“What do you care about, Sean?”
“You,” Sean enunciated the word as much as he could, turning the consonants clear and sharp, ringing in the air around them. “Just you.” He took a shuddering breath. “That what you want ta hear?”
“There’s nothing you can tell me that will be what I want to hear,” Viggo sighed. “Because I would know that it’s a damn lie.”
“Try me.”
“Can you tell me truthfully that you’re alright and you’re not falling apart? That we’re still friends, and you don’t look at me differently than you had when we were shooting Rings, or even three years ago?”
Sean reached out, grabbing onto Viggo’s shoulders, pulling him so close their breaths touched. “I can’t say that, but neither can you.”
“No, but I’m not the idiot who has glass on his feet right now and is drinking himself into a stupor in the morning,” Viggo said. He took tweezers out of the kit, wielding it like he would a sword. Keeping the two of them apart.
“Nah, yer just exhausting yerself. That ain’t much better than what I’m doing.”
“At least I’m being productive. Hold still.”
Sean let him fix him. The hands of a King were the hands of a healer, but Viggo was no King and Sean was no Steward. Boromir wouldn't be destroying himself like this. Or maybe he would, if he had lived after Amon Hen. What did it matter?
He had a dream once -- or was it a memory -- of Viggo on his knees like this, his hands gentle on Sean’s skin. But the blood was new and jarring and the pain came from somewhere inside him instead of his skin, and Viggo wasn’t looking at him like this. He dreamt of kindness from those eyes and a sweet kiss that chased all of his demons away. He made believe that Viggo’s voice and scent would become his new addiction, chasing away the taste of alcohol that lingered so much on his tongue that he no longer tasted it.
“I need a drink,” Sean said. At the corner of his eyes he could see white bandages in Viggo’s hands, being slowly wrapped around his feet. Years, or months, ago, he read the stories of old Chinese women who had their feet bound so they could not run away.
“You want a drink,” Viggo corrected. He pulled the bandages tight around Sean’s feet. The white was fading away, replaced by the red of his blood, soaking through the cloth. Strange that he could still barely feel it. “You need the hospital, and stitches.”
His feet were swathed in stark colours. Sean pushed himself down the couch, sliding to his knees until his eyes met Viggo’s. His breath ghosted against Viggo’s neck as he cupped his cheeks and leaned their foreheads together. He could see himself reflected in grey eyes but he looked away, instead focusing on thin lips, on the white scar.
“The couch’s here but you got everything else wrong,” he murmured, his voice barely loud enough to be heard. “Even the alcohol is wrong. Last time it was beer and you brought me ta yer house. It was in New Zealand and the weather was odd, cold, and you gave me a blanket.”
Viggo cocked his head slightly, trying to seek out Sean’s eyes with his own. Sean stared at the wall beyond his shoulder instead.
“That happened plenty of times, Sean,” Viggo’s breath was hot. “We both got drunk many times in New Zealand.”
“That ain’t what I’m talking ‘bout,” Sean said. “I remember blankets and yer hands on me face. I remember you kissing me, on the damn couch in yer old house.”
Viggo was frozen, his eyes wide, his lips parted. Sean darted his tongue out, feeling sweat and teeth at the tip of his tongue but tasting neither.
“Is that so? Is that why you’ve been avoiding me, Sean?” Sean’s sleeves were caught in rough hands, nails dragging against the skin of his arms. “Do I disgust you now?”
Sean shook his head. “I want you,” he said, knowing that his voice was trembling but he was beyond caring. “I want you so fuckng badly, Vig.” He took a deep breath. “It’s making me head spin, it is.”
“That would be the blood loss,” Viggo said brusquely. But his hands were gentle on Sean’s jaw, lifting his head up and forcing their eyes to meet.
“I’m bringing you to the hospital. Unless you don’t want me to touch you?”
Sean’s eyes flashed, and he shoved Viggo away, hissing as his soles hit the bottom of the couch as he scrambled away, trying to put as much distance between the two of them.
“Do you want me ta beg you?” His voice was like a whip, every enunciation a crack that split the air. “I gave you your damn answer, didn’t I?”
“What did you expect, Sean?” Viggo grabbed him by the collar, dragging him up and shoving him down to sit heavily on the couch. “That I would kiss you and tell you that I’ve loved you for the past twelve, thirteen years? That I’ve been waiting for you? I’ve moved on, Sean. Like normal people do when their friends didn’t show a goddamn hint of interest in them for over a fucking decade!”
“Fuck off, then. Leave the house and forget you’ve ever been here,” Sean hissed. He drew his legs up and hugged them to his chest, ignoring his injuries, ignoring the blood staining the bandages that Viggo’s hands had put on him.
“Jesus, I’m fucking surprised you haven’t choked yourself to death on your own self-pity.” Viggo dragged a hand over his hair. He stood up, looming over Sean. “I can’t fucking forget you because you’re a friend.”
“Go fuck yerself on yer own damn nobility,” Sean grabbed him by the collar, pulling him down until they were eye-level to each other again. “Either you fuck off and leave me alone, or you fuck me. You can’t have it any other way.”
Viggo looked at him for a long moment. His shoulders sagged, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft.
Sean had always liked the way Viggo could see through him. Viggo knew him well and always seemed to know the right thing to say.
“How long have you been using me as an excuse for your own self-destruction, Sean?”
At this moment, he hated him for that very reason. Hated him more than words could say. He refused to look at Viggo, staring at the front door, wanting Viggo to disappear from his sight, wanting him to walk out and never come back again. More than anything, he wished that Viggo would shut the fuck up and take his words and his too-piercing eyes with him.
He might be left with only illusions, but he knew now that reality was far more horrible.
“Alright, I’ll play your game,” Viggo’s voice was tight, and his calluses burned on Sean’s face as he shoved his head back to look at him. Sean’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to speak.
But Viggo was kissing him, smashing their lips together, their teeth knocking against each other.
“I’ll fuck you,” Viggo said, and his smile was sharper than the glass still littered around them. “But first, you’re going to the hospital, because damned if I’m going to let you blame me for bleeding to death as well.”
***
Vancouver, April 2012
April in Vancouver was when it rained half the time and the parks were covered in spring blossoms. Spring was just coming in and the skies were full of white clouds on the days that the rains didn’t come.
In other words, it was like London, except less crowded. And brighter.
Sean only had a couple of weeks of filming to do, and within those weeks he only had a few days that he had to work, and it was a character that he had already explored before. Sometimes he had to laugh at how ridiculous his job was sometimes.
He walked along the streets with a cigarette in one hand and a beer on another. Canadians didn’t recognise him most of the time, and Sean was glad for that. He didn’t want to take his eyes off the sun that was setting off in the distance, disappearing behind the buildings, and he leaned against a tree and took a long drag. The red of the sun was almost like the fire at the end of the stub, red and burning bright.
Viggo would have taken a picture, Sean thought. He smiled to himself, and sipped at his beer.
--there’s a blanket drawn over his shoulders. It’s dark, too dark for it to be night. His eyes are closed. He almost remembers--
He blinked at the sudden memory, coming unbidden to the forefront of his mind. Vancouver wasn’t a place that he visited extensively before, so why--
-- hands, rough hands, smoothing over the side of his face, scraping against his beard stubble. His back is warm and he can’t move his arm much. Is that a couch?--
Sean breathed out. The cigarette fell from his hand. Almost blind, he found his way to a bench. The city slowly disappeared from his sight. The beer was cold, and he took a large gulp of it. He chased memories instead of sights.
-- the hand had moved into his hair, slowly stroking, the motions limited by the short strands. There is a thumb on his neck. The shift of cloth, his shirt being pulled away. The thumb strokes his shoulder. He knows those calluses. Roughness on the fingertips and the base.--
He wished he had opened his eyes. He took another swallow of the beer. It was almost gone, but he barely noticed it.
-- lips. Chapped lips on his temple. Hand on his neck. He’s still. He can hear his own heartbeat, slow and soft, thrumming at the edge of his breathing.--
He knew those hands. He knew those lips. He didn’t know why his mind suddenly wanted him to remember this, only that it did and it was somehow important. Sean squeezed his eyes shut, his hand tightening against the neck of the bottle.
-- lips on his cheek. Lips on his lips.--
Sean exhaled. Tipped his head back, and drained his beer. He wanted another cigarette, but he could barely move.
“Goodnight, Sean. Sleep well.”
The sun had disappeared behind the buildings, the red darkened into black. It was dreadfully poetic. Sunsets symbolised endings, Sean was no poet or photographer, but he knew that well enough. The night was slowly growing darker even as the streetlamps turned on, and that was appropriate too. It was a little bit too cliché, and Sean wondered, for a small hysterical moment, if he was dreaming.
He pinched himself even though he knew he wasn’t. There was wind in his hair and he could taste the incoming rain on the tip of his tongue. Sean licked his lips.
There was no use blaming his mind for suddenly remembering.
“O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall,” he whispered to himself. “Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed.”
It was not the memory. Not merely it. It was the sudden tightening of his chest, a sudden knot in his stomach that he had not once noticed until now. A desperate longing to feel those hands and lips on his own, to see those eyes. Grey they were, a colour only defined by the light that fell upon them. The image of a man appeared behind his eyelids, so sharp as if it was tattooed there and he had blinded himself to it all these years.
Hopkins’s lines were more appropriate than he had ever thought they would be. A random utterance a character made that now applied to him, for he felt as if he was hanging on a precipice, the world spinning around him. In the distance, thunder rumbled, but Sean took no notice of it for the drums in his heart were far louder. Suddenly he wished for that peaceful beat he heard of himself in his memory, that steady one-two that he knew so well because it had always been with him.
The rain came while he sat on the bench. Water soaked into his hair but Sean was already cold. The beer was long gone but he wished there was more, much more, because now he had grasped onto the memory his mind was turning it over and over. Phantom hands ghosted across his neck, his collarbone, far stronger than the cold rain as it slowly dripped into his shirt, plastering cloth against his skin.
He must look like a madman, Sean realised, sitting on a bench in the rain, talking to himself. He felt like he was going mad, the Earth shifting beneath his feet and sending him tumbling, stumbling from the place that he had always known to be his. He knew that voice. He knew that hand, those lips. He even knew that couch, for once upon a time he had spent many nights upon it.
Over a decade had passed and only now then he remembered; years that had set more lines in his face and made his skin sag. His hair was dark now and so was his skin, darkened by time and cigarettes and alcohol. Sean’s hand nearly shook as he bowed his head, lighting up another fag. The burn of the first drag was sharp in his throat, but he wished it was harsher still. He wished he could inhale fire, so it could destroy what he had just regained.
The rain threatened to drown him. Water seeped into his hair and hung on his lashes, and when he blinked he knew they must look like tears. It was the strangest thing to cry when there was nothing to be lost.
There was a message in his email that Sean had yet to answer. He would delete it the first chance he had, he decided. He knew that voice, knew those words, and he could not help himself from wondering what those lips would look like when shaping those words. Would the scar stretch? What would be the colour of those eyes? Sean didn’t use to wonder about such things, yet now it lingered in his head.
It had been too long and there was too much dignity to lose to even think of mentioning this, much less reaching out a hand and placing his hope in a fire that had to have been drowned at least ten years ago. The rain continued, the drops soaking into his clothes as if to prove his point. Water drowned out the cigarette’s flame, and he let it fall to the ground. His metaphors were running together, getting confused. ‘Cliché’ didn’t half describe the situation now. Sean wanted to laugh, but he swallowed back the sound.
He needed another drink. The pubs must be opened by now.
***
London, November 2012
“You’re damn heavy.”
“You could let me use me crutches,” Sean pointed out. His arm was slung over Viggo’s shoulders, his weight almost entirely placed upon the other man. Those very crutches were gripped tightly in his other hand.
“And have you tear open your stitches less than an hour after you come back from the hospital?” Viggo shot him a look. “No. I’d rather not have to drive you back again.”
Sean scowled as Viggo’s fingers pressed against his hip, digging into his pocket. “I ain’t a damn kid, you know that.”
“From what I’ve seen of you so far? I doubt it,” Viggo shot back. He took Sean’s keys and shoved it into the door, kicking it open.
They hobbled inside, avoiding the mess still left on the floor as much as they could.
“I need a drink.”
“Do you want me to fuck you or not?”
Sean froze and nearly dropped the crutches. Viggo nearly stumbled and he looked at him, his grey eyes like broken glass set deep within his face. His lips were pressed thin.
“You make it seem like a chore,” Sean said. It was a damn pathetic attempt at deflection.
Viggo shrugged, practically dragging him forward so they could move up the stairs to the bedroom. Sean couldn’t help the small exhale of relief when those eyes were turned away from him again.
“I keep my promises.”
“I thought you were joking.”
“Do you want me to be?”
Reality was nothing like the fantasies that he had held deep inside his mind, turning it over and over again. There were waking dreams that he had of Viggo kissing him, of the two of them falling into bed while the sun came through the windows. A brand new day, a brand new him, all of his previous faults erased and once they woke up from their fucking, Sean could look himself in the mirror again.
But the sky was dark from the approaching sunset and this was no fantasy. Viggo’s body was hot underneath his arm but so tense he felt like a carved statue than living flesh.
He wondered what was wrong with him, that he still held on to fairytales and ideal relationships even after four divorces. Viggo once told him that nothing was permanent except for parents and children, and not even those were perfect -- it had to be worked for.
Sean was so damn tired of working for it.
“No,” he said softly. He stared down at his feet. “I don’t want you ta be joking.”
But he had to try.
“Alright,” Viggo said, business-like. “Bedroom, then.”
Viggo’s hands were still gentle on him even as he pushed the door open. Sean placed the crutches next to the bed, lowering himself down. He looked up to Viggo and he laughed to himself, a half-swallowed chuckle. Months of alcohol-fogged fantasies and nearly thirteen years of knowing each other (could they still call what they have friendship after this?) and this was all that could come of this.
“Do you want me to help you strip?” Viggo asked. His hands were at the hem of his own shirt, starting to pull it off.
“I ain’t that helpless.”
Sean still had some pride, though he didn’t know what use it was to him right now. He pulled off his shirt and pants, toed off his shoes and socks. He hooked his fingers beneath his boxers, but his eyes were fixed on Viggo’s skin as it was revealed to him, slowly.
“You got a new tattoo,” he said.
“Yeah. Months ago,” Viggo shrugged. “I told you about it in an email, but I guess you didn’t read it.”
“No.” Sean pushed himself up the bed, fully naked now. His cock was limp against his thigh and so was Viggo’s. “I didn’t.”
Viggo draped himself over him. His leg was warm between Sean’s. His scar was stark against his tanned skin, and Sean opened his mouth, pressed their lips together. They kissed. It was, Sean thought, like one of the kisses he shared with countless women in front of cameras, except that he didn’t have another name and another life to hide behind.
He slipped his hand downwards. Viggo’s leg was rough against his hand, but his cock was smooth. His nails caught against rough pubic hair as he stroked, and the hitch of Viggo’s breath against his skin was nothing like he had ever imagined. The slow filling of Viggo’s cock between his finger reminded him of dirty floors and filthy mouths, and Sean closed his eyes.
“Do you have condoms? Lube?”
“Nightstand.” He bought them both months ago in an airport in Canada, before he returned to London. Both were still unused.
Strange that he would not feel Viggo’s skin when he had tasted so many so many varieties of come. It was, he thought, better this way. Cleaner.
Viggo’s hands pulled his legs apart. The mattress shifted under his weight and Sean drew his legs up. The bandages were stark white against Viggo’s skin, and Sean focused on the contrast even as he felt a finger press inside him. He arched. His blood pounded in his ears, rushing downwards, filling his cock. He felt it all, detached, his nerves telling his brain what was happening to him but there was a haze inside his head and he could barely feel it.
This was like a story, something happening to someone else.
“Probably a stupid question,” Viggo said. His eyes were fixed on Sean’s hip, and his finger slid in and out, stretching him, fucking him. “But have you ever done this before?”
Sean squeezed his eyes shut. Arched his back. Buried his fingers into Viggo’s hair.
“No,” he said, the word tumbling from his lip. He wanted to take it back, to suck it between his teeth.
“Damn you,” Viggo breathed. His lips traced the edge of Sean’s hip, against the pelvic bone that was still visible from beneath skin and muscles. “Damn you to hell, Sean.”
He wanted to laugh. There was no use to damn him so when he was already there. His lips parted as if to say it, but Viggo was taking his only half-hard cock into his mouth. Heat and wet and the softest scrape of tongue against the head, and Sean gasped, body jerking, air rushing into his lungs so fast and sharp that it cut against the inside of his throat.
“Those are me words ta say,” Sean whispered. He pulled his legs apart even more. He could feel himself getting hard, and he wondered why the sight of Viggo’s naked body hadn’t done the job.
The answer was already there, at the edge of his mind, but Viggo pulled out his finger and shoved in two more. His mouth was so hot, the suction perfect. Sean’s fingers dug into the mattress, scoring temporary lines down the cloth cover. Viggo’s fingers curled, touching something within him, and Sean jerked again. Like a marionette on strings, played perfectly, and the pleasure that flooded his mind chased the comparison away as quickly as it had come.
“Vig,” he whispered instead. The name was mangled by his accent. Viggo’s mouth pulled away. Three fingers now and Sean flinched, less at the stretch than at the expectation of the pain that didn’t come. But Viggo seemed not to notice, because he pressed a kiss against the inside of a thigh, his teeth barely scraping skin.
“I’m going to fuck you,” Viggo said. His fingers were pulling away, grabbing Sean’s legs and pulling them up and hooking them over his shoulders. Sean was wide open, exposed.
He heard the sound of silver foil ripping. He opened his eyes and pushed himself up, taking the condom out of Viggo’s hands. Their eyes did not meet. But it was not Viggo’s eyes that he wanted, was it? His cock was hard enough, rising from thick, dark curls, and Sean slid the condom down the shaft, his fingers stumbling from the unfamiliarity.
“Lie down.”
He did. Lay down while Viggo pushed into him, fucked him-- or perhaps he should use the word ‘have sex’ because this was nothing more than going through the motions. But it was good, the burn of his ass pressing on the edges of his mind, Viggo’s weight shoving him down, squeezing the breath out of him. Sean kept his eyes closed and he raised his arms, covering his face.
There was only heat when they came. Heat on the outside, his come splashing against his own skin, Viggo’s heat inside him, his single pant wet against Sean’s skin.
Nothing like what he thought it would be.
Viggo pulled out and dropped down next to him. Their breaths were coming just slightly faster than before. Sean let his legs fall back down to the bed, straightening them. He didn’t shift his arm from his face. Their bodies were inches from each other, and he could feel the heat of Viggo’s skin. They lay there like that for long moments. Sean didn’t know how long it was; he would count the time by his heartbeat, but he could not hear that.
Slowly, Viggo shifted, sitting up on the bed. Sean felt the mattress move and heard the slight squeak of latex being removed, and the flush of the toilet. He didn’t open his eyes even as Viggo started to dress.
“Stay,” he said, his voice barely loud enough to be heard.
Viggo’s shoes made a soft thud on the floor as he stopped. Sean heard his footsteps as he walked back to the bed.
“Look at me, Sean,” Viggo’s hands were rough on his skin.
Sean let his arms drop back to his side. He opened his eyes and caught Viggo’s gaze again. His lips quirked in an attempt to smile, a deflated, defeated little thing.
“I’m not what you want,” Viggo said.
“No,” Sean closed his eyes again, turning his head away. He laughed, a high, hysterical little sound that rang around the room. He had to laugh because if he did not, he knew he would start to cry, and he looked pathetic enough already, with come still on his skin and his hair ruffled and bandages on his feet. His dignity was stripped to pieces without needing to be further destroyed by tears.
“No, you’re not.”
He laughed again. Viggo’s fingers carded gently through his hair just once.
The sound of the front door closing echoed in his ears. Perhaps it was only his imagination, for the sound couldn’t reach to the bedroom, no matter how silent the house. But it rang nonetheless, over and over, the sound of a closing door.
Sean tried to count his heartbeats as he lay on the bed, curled up to his side.
The sun was rising when he stood up from the bed. He limped to the bathroom and wiped himself off, barely resisting the urge to flinch at the dried come on his skin.
His phone was downstairs. The crutches were beside the bed. He took them and took the stairs one at a time.
Summary: There’s nothing anyone can do that is worse than what you can do to yourself.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: None
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 4 Completed: Yes
Word count: 20548 Read: 2168
Published: 28 Jan 2013 Updated: 28 Jan 2013