The thing about actors on location was that they were working almost all the time, and whenever they had the chance they would celebrate working so hard. Or even having work to do at all. Something in between, really; the fact was, in New Zealand everyone grasped any chance of celebration with both hands. Someone in the crew was getting married, someone was pregnant, someone was engaged, someone was promoted, they finished a scene, they finished half a scene... whatever it was, it deserved celebration.
Sean’s memories for names that he didn’t need to immediately remember had always fell just a little short after a few drinks. He wasn’t particularly sure where he was, but that didn’t particularly matter as long as he still remembered where he lived.
“Oh God, look at them,” Viggo said. The bastard was still nursing the same bottle of beer he had bought when he first entered the bar. The thing was warm by now. But Sean ignored that, because what Viggo was pointing out was far more interesting.
Elijah was sitting on the bar counter, his legs opened wide. Between them was a huge, long glass, filled to the brim with beer. He was looking at it with the same determination Frodo had when he said that he would take the Ring to Mordor. It was a good thing, Sean thought, that Peter had decided to go home early and not partake in the festivities today. He might ask for reshoots for the Council scene after this, and Sean was heartily sick of the Rivendell set already.
“Christ, they’re going ta get the kid drunk even before midnight,” Sean drawled, his voice barely loud enough to be heard by himself amongst the din of cheering hobbits and elf who surrounded Elijah.
“The kid asked for it,” Viggo said. He grinned and grabbed Sean’s wrist, lifting it and drinking from his cold beer. His throat bulged as he swallowed, and Sean stared at it for a moment before he shook his head.
“Yeah? He did?”
“Yep,” Viggo licked his lips, his smile widening. “He was boasting that he can’t get drunk in front of Dom and Orlando, and that’s just asking for it.”
Sean snorted. He dropped his head back, finishing the beer. There was almost a new taste to the thing -- probably from the crappy American beer that Viggo was still nursing -- but he forgot about it almost immediately as Elijah lifted the huge glass and started to drink.
“I ain’t staying ta see the kid get smashed,” he declared, dropping the bottle on a free space. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Might get roped into bringing him home. I’m taking a slash.”
“I’ll come with you,” Viggo said, pushing off the table he was leaning against. “As entertaining as this is, I’m not going to deal with the fallout either.”
“What,” Sean raised an eyebrow even as he fell into step with Viggo. “Are we a pair of teenage girls now, only capable of going ta the loo together?”
“You never know about this place,” Viggo shoved his hands into his pockets, his grin wide enough to nearly swallow his face. “There might be aliens and predators and ghosts about. You might need me to protect you.”
“Aragorn’s Dead are a bunch of computer graphics, Vig,” Sean reminded him, shoving an elbow into Viggo’s ribs. “You would be useless against a bunch of real ghosts.”
“I don’t know, I can smile at them and show them my tongue,” Viggo pushed over the door of the men’s room. “I heard that it’s a pretty scary look.”
“Only ‘cause you look deranged,” Sean shot back.
Talking to Viggo had always been easy; Sean didn’t even need to think about it. The slight haze of alcohol had only made his tongue a little looser and the jokes come easier, but things had always been easy with Viggo. Sean didn’t think much about it, putting it down to being around the same age while surrounded by admired thespians and kids who were so wild and exhausting to watch that they were reminders of themselves when much younger. They had gone through similar experiences.
Sometimes, just before he fell asleep, Sean had thought that his friendship with Viggo would have been the same even if they weren’t the only Men within the Fellowship. They would still have found each other and talked the same way. But it was a fleeting thought, the kind that came when the night was dark and he wasn’t trying to think of his girls or the divorce papers that seemed to always arrive at the worst of times. Nothing to linger upon when he was awake and the sun was shining and there was work to do or Viggo to talk to.
It was something natural, what he and Viggo had. They had clicked on their first meeting; what was the use of thinking more about that?
“You think the kids are gone by now?”
Sean blinked, jerked out of his thoughts by Viggo’s voice. He finished washing his hands, turning around. “What?”
“The hobbits and Orlando,” Viggo repeated. He flicked water at Sean’s face, and really, Viggo didn’t need alcohol to behave like a kid. At least Sean had the excuse that he was drunk to flick the water back. “You think they’re gone by now?”
“Probably not,” he replied, shrugging. He wiped his hands dry on his jeans. “We haven’t been gone long.”
But when they came out of the washroom, the bar was quiet and the long glass was in the bartender’s sink. Someone had probably dragged Elijah out of there, or they had been thrown out, because most of the stunties were still lingering around the tables, chatting amongst themselves. Sean jerked his head towards the bar and Viggo nodded, wandering off. That was something else he liked about Viggo, that they knew what each other wanted to say without having to say much at all.
Sean wandered over to the bar, leaning against the counter and digging in his pockets for a cigarette while he waited for the bartender to get his next beer.
“So is he your boyfriend?”
He jerked a little, lighting up the cigarette before he realised that someone was talking to him. Blinking, he cocked his head, turning, “What?”
“The guy who was with you,” the stranger said, swinging himself up to the barstool. He was young, probably in his late twenties at most, and Sean narrowed his eyes even as he grabbed the beer. “Is he your boyfriend?”
Sean stared. He took another drag, cocking his head to the side.
“Do I look like a pouf ta you?”
“What?” The man blinked, cocking his head to the side. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what that word means.”
“Do I look as if I’m gay ta you?” Sean repeated. There was a drink at his elbow and he swigged it hard, feeling cold beer slide down his throat and burn his insides even more. He smiled, perhaps showing a little bit too much teeth. “I’m straight, man.”
The man - boy, really, with how young he looked: face smooth and free of wrinkles, his lips plush and pink and his hands white and unscarred. Sean suddenly thought of Viggo’s hands, the scars on his knuckles and the cuts on the palm and how rough the skin was against his own. He shook his head.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t--” Sean watched as the kid backed away from him, nearly tripping over the stools. “I made a mistake. Sorry, I’m so sorry--”
The kid’s reaction was odd. Sean wasn’t angry, not really; he was secure in his own sexuality and masculinity enough not to be, wasn’t he? He tried to give the kid a smile, to tell him it was alright, everyone made mistakes.
“Sorry, really sorry, sorry,” the kid babbled, and his hand groped at the bar. He practically ran away backwards, staring at Sean with wide-open eyes as if he was a monster who had suddenly appeared from underneath his bed.
Sean watched him for a moment before he shrugged. But before he could turn, there was a hand on his elbow.
“I leave you alone for a few minutes and you start scaring people,” Viggo said. His voice was almost too close to Sean’s ear, and Sean elbowed him, wanting -- needing -- space, growling underneath his breath. He wasn’t a little girl who needed to be led everywhere, and Viggo was only half a year older than he was -- he wasn’t his child. But Viggo ignored him, pulling him towards the door even as he gave him a half-amused glance.
Sean heaved a breath, stepping out of the bar. It was only when he was outside that he realised, oddly enough, that the whole bar was entirely silent. Was he truly that terrifying, or was it just a matter of reputation? He was rather famous for playing villains.
He was more famous than Viggo was, but in a place like this where they were all part of the Fellowship, all almost-equal... in a movie where Viggo was the King and one of the main characters of all three movies, things like that didn’t matter. They just didn’t.
What happened next was entirely a blur. There was a car and Viggo’s hand on the steering wheel. New Zealand’s night was beautiful as always, and Viggo’s shoulder was warm against Sean’s cheek. Maybe he was drunker than he first thought, because he couldn’t remember how many beers he had, only that he had drunk far more than Viggo had. Sean had always been bad at judging his own intoxication. It worked well enough as an excuse to lean his weight more on Viggo as the other man dragged him inside the house. It was why he didn’t protest being driven to Viggo’s rented house instead of his own hotel room. It was a better reason than simple loneliness, a better reason than the images that threatened to linger at the edge of his mind about the pretty boy with his pretty pink lips. He was drunk, stumblingly so, even though he could usually hold his liquor better than this and Viggo’s hand on his arm was perfectly steady.
They had never really needed an excuse to stay at each other’s place, but Sean found his mind grabbing on the fog that surrounded him. It was enough reason for everything. Sean closed his eyes and let Viggo shove him onto the couch. His breathing smoothed out, one of the lingering remnants of RADA’s training, even as he listened to Viggo’s footsteps tap-tap-tapping on the floorboards around him. Viggo walked like he talked, Sean’s mind supplied. There was an odd rhythm to it, something as soothing as the rough hand accidentally brushing his arm as Viggo drew the blanket over his body. A considerate man, Viggo was -- a British man wasn’t made to withstand the strange chill of New Zealand’s June when he had been expecting summer and rain.
Sean didn’t remember when he fell asleep. He only knew that the night was cold, and he dreamt he felt warm breath on his cheeks, and warm skin in his hair.
Maybe he had been married too long, if he was dreaming of romantic touches when there could be none.
***
Manchester, January 2012
“People will be talking once the paps’ pictures come out,” Stephen said.
Sean lifted his eyes from where he was adjusting Tracie’s gloves. They fitted him perfectly a couple of weeks ago when he went for the fitting, but now they were just a little loose, the threads bulging outwards slightly. The costume designers had apologised and told him they could find him new pairs, but Sean liked these; it was another detail of Simon’s life, because he doubted that the man could find perfectly-fitting gloves for Tracie.
“People will always talk,” Sean said. He gave Stephen a crooked smile, leaning back against the couch and stretching out his legs. Black tights were stretched across his skin, and Sean wondered how women stand it, to constantly have that pressure against their skins and muscles. “Good thing in this case: if they talk, they’re going ta watch.”
“Not that kind of talking,” Stephen replied. He sighed slightly, tugging slightly at his earlobe. “It’s probably silly, but I can’t help but be worried, ye know what I mean?”
Sean snorted. His eyes crossed for a moment, trying to blow an errant strand of Tracie’s wig out of his eyes, before he turned to Stephen again, “Yer spending too damn much time wi’ the Yanks and their antiquated ideas, Stephen. Yer acting, aren’t ya? I ain’t Tracie, and you ain’t Tony.”
“Oh, but yer plenty attractive as Tracie,” Stephen drawled. His head was tilted towards Sean, a broad grin stretching his lips. Sean tipped his head back, raising an eyebrow even as Stephen reached out, stroking a hand down from Sean’s neck to his shoulders, curving around Tracie’s large, false breast, before settling on his hip. “So much that I feel like kissing ye even when the cameras ain’t running.”
Sean’s fingers reached up, stroking the side of Stephen’s cheek, following the line of his jaw. He lowered his eyes until his eyelashes, heavy with mascara, brushed against his cheekbones. “What are you afraid of, Tony?” The question was barely loud enough to be heard, and he almost spoiled the effect by grinning. It took a bit of an effort to swallow back his laughter, but he knew that his eyes were sparkling.
“Either you come in wi’ me right now, or you spent the rest of yer life time regretting it,” he stroked his gloved hand down Stephen's neck, curling outwards to do a small finger-walk over his collarbones, half-hidden by his shirt. “What do you think?”
Stephen was staring at him, and Sean could tell that he wasn't the only one. The set was suddenly quiet, as if everyone was holding their breaths and staring at them. There was something exhilarating about doing this while still dressed in Tracie's clothes and makeup. It would be an easy excuse to say that he was caught up in the role, except that Sean had never really done something like that. He had always been good at being Sean when the cameras weren't rolling, so good that he had ruined at least one marriage by not being the person he was while in front of the cameras, while on the set.
“Are you going ta stare at me all day?”
Maybe Sean was just looking for an excuse, any excuse, no matter how thin.
Cocking his head to the side, Stephen took his hand. His lips were warm, just warm enough to be felt through the silk of the gloves, and he was grinning.
“Yer damn lucky me wife ain't 'ere right now, Tracie,” Stephen dragged out his words, emphasising his accent even further. “It won't be right proper fer her ta see something like this, eh?”
Sean turned his hand and patted the barely-stubbled cheek. He grinned widely – not Tracie's smile, merely his own – before he dropped his arm back to his lap. “Why not? It's just a way of establishing character, aye?”
Stephen raised his eyebrows, and he shook his head, leaning back slightly, enough to increase the space between them. As if on cue, the crew seemed to breathe a sigh. “Nah, that ain't enough of an excuse,” he declared. “Tracie ain't ever been that bold.”
“You think so?” Sean made a considering noise. He pushed himself forward, his mouth nearly grazing Tony's ear. “Why don't we go ta bed, sweetheart?”
“We can't,” Stephen shot back, but he was still smiling. It was a game now, between the two of them. Something entirely safe because no one would think it was real, not with the spectre of Stephen's wife that hung between the two of them. “We're already done wi' the bed scene.”
“Think we can convince Jimmy and Ashley ta let us do another one?”
“I don't know. How prettily can you beg, Tracie?”
“It won't take much,” Sean's gloved hand lightly tapped his lips. He was aware of Stephen's eyes lingering on his mouth, so he darted out his tongue, tracing the outline. “Sure plenty o’ people who'd want ta see more than what we'd shown so far.”
“We ain't a midnight show, darling.”
“Why, are you afraid ta get yer kit off?” He tipped his head back, showing the curve of his throat, the tell-tale exposure of the Adam's apple that separated 'Simon' from 'Tracie'. “Don't worry, sweetheart. I won't laugh. Besides, I've gotten naked plenty fer cameras that ain't fer midnight showings plenty.”
“Aye, that might be so,” Stephen's hand was warm on his white-clothed legs, his breath wet on Sean's skin. “But I ain't a sex symbol like you, Sean.”
The use of his name broke the spell. Sean leaned back against the couch, his arm against the back.
“A shame, that,” Sean said, all seductiveness bleached from his voice. It was Sean again, not the strange melding of character and actor. (Odd: he rarely did that. It was always one or the other.) “You missing out.”
“I'll take that chance,” Stephen winked.
“Are you two quite finished with the flirting? We have some scenes to finish today.”
Ashley's voice broke through the reverie, and Sean turned, throwing their director a bright smile.
“Aye. Fer now.”
“We'll 'ave ta continue later at the pub,” Stephen said, giving Ashley a broad wink. His gaze flickered towards Sean. “You're coming on later, aye?”
“Thought you were afraid of the paps talking,” Sean said even as he stood up, moving into positions.
“Just a couple of mates going out fer a drink, ain’t we?” Stephen tipped his head back, looking at Sean upside down. “I can bring me wife if it makes you feel better.”
“I ain't the one complaining,” Sean pointed out.
Stephen lifted one shoulder, his arm stretching out across the back of the couch. Ashley gave him a look and he dropped it back down. “So you coming?
“Sure.”
In Manchester, no one cared about how many times their faces were splashed on the news or on rags, or how many awards they held. If they went to a pub they became as anonymous as the next man, and that was what Sean had always liked about the North. People left them alone, and cameras weren’t pointed in their faces when they committed the minor crime of leaving their houses for a drink.
But Sean knew that he would go just for the chance of an excuse to play Tracie again. For the briefest moment, grey eyes and a manic smile flashed across his eyes, and he wondered how loudly Viggo would laugh at the thought of needing an excuse to play. Sean didn’t expect him to understand; he was the same man who was kissing everyone left and right on the set.
The oddest thing was, Viggo had never once kissed him.
***
London, November 2012
Vodka was Sean’s newest love. He could call it Victoria if it wasn’t a terrible joke. Laughing to himself nonetheless, Sean threw his legs up, resting his ankles at the opposite arm of the couch. He stretched out fully, tipping his head back and pouring the rest of the vodka shot down his throat. It was cold enough to burn, or perhaps it was just burning, and Sean closed his eyes and wondered if there was any alcohol that was cold enough to burn him from inside out, scorch him until he was left with nothing but ashes.
He didn’t think he would feel any differently from what he did now anyway.
Time passed. He didn’t know how long; the sun was still out. The only way he had left to mark time was by the slow-dwindling of alcohol. It was fine; the girls were busy nowadays, and they wouldn’t be paying him visits. Besides, they knew better than to drop in without calling, didn’t they?
There was something ringing. Probably a salesman. Sean leaned back and hissed a breath out from between his teeth. He didn’t have shoes on, he realised, and wiggled his toes just to see them move. The vodka bottle was almost empty. Did he just open it today? He couldn’t remember. Age had the unfortunate tendency of making memory start to fade, apparently. But he still could remember his lines; still knew how to force the words to stick in his brain for at least the time that he needed to finish a scene. There was no chance that he could return to theatre anyway.
The bell rang again, sharp against his ears. Persistent bastard. Sean sighed and pushed himself to sit up. His shirt was clinging on his skin. The days were getting more and more humid. London was always far too wet and humid during the winter. He wondered if he should head North again and see his parents and sister before Christmas to escape the cloying heat. It would be good to see his parents again; he should do that more often, just in case they died. (Or he did.)
The ringing changed into a series of sharp knocks, each one of them thrumming against the side of his head. Piercing through the fog that he had barely managed to win from the drink. Rubbing his eyes, Sean stood up. He thumbed the buttons of his shirt free -- why was he wearing a button-down at home, he had no idea -- and rubbed at his eyes as he stumbled towards the door.
The man standing just outside his step was familiar. Brown hair, grey eyes, but the smile was missing and his lips were only a line. His hand was raised mid-knock, almost close enough to touch Sean’s chest. The scars were there. His memories were wrong. The line above the top lip was white, not pink.
No. No, this couldn’t be real. It was just a fantasy, made obviously false. Sean inhaled. The air was cold against his throat. He pushed the door closed-- but there was a hand against the edge, and Viggo shoved his way inside.
“Hello, Sean,” Viggo said.
The house smelled like vodka, Sean realised. He didn’t realise -- how could he, when everything around him had the stench of alcohol for so long? But he realised it now, in the one moment he looked into Viggo’s eyes and watched the colour disappear behind his eyelids; watched as his nostrils flared.
“Bit early in the morning for a drink, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” Sean bit out. Fantasies weren’t supposed to talk. He had never really managed to make them real enough that they talked to him in new words, words he had never heard from Viggo’s lips before. This wasn’t a fantasy. The realisation was cold, sinking deep in his chest and winding ropes of steel and concrete around his lungs and heart.
“I ain’t know what time is it.”
“Eleven in the morning,” Viggo replied. He glanced at his watch, his movements deliberately slow. “Eleven twenty-two, to be exactly.”
Sean snorted, “You mean it’s eleven-thirty. Barely even morning.”
“But you’ve been drinking for a lot longer than that, haven’t you?”
“Why,” Sean drawled, shoving his hands into his pockets. His eyes rested just a few inches to the left of Viggo’s face. He had a spot on his wall; he should clean it. “You came all the way here ta lecture me ‘bout drinking in the morning?”
“I’ve noticed something about you,” Viggo said almost idly. “Never really stuck me as important until now, but I think it is pretty significant.” His hand shot out, grabbing hold of Sean’s wrist. “You have the tendency to exaggerate your accent when you’re trying to get someone to fuck off.”
A cold chill ran down Sean’s spine. It wasn’t a fantasy. Sean wouldn’t have dreamt of this. Not while Viggo was like this, the calluses on his hand imprinting on Sean’s skin, his words cutting straight through the cloud and the layers that Sean had spent so long in trying to build up. Not those too-sharp eyes that he had always admired when they were scrutinising someone else.
Sean jerked at his hand, trying to loosen Viggo’s grip-- and he almost stumbled backwards when Viggo let go suddenly.
He swallowed, “Is it working?”
“No,” Viggo’s smile was crooked. “Maybe I just know you too well.”
“Is that so?” Sean said, the words tumbling out of his mouth. The edges of his vision were darkening-- he was narrowing his eyes. The heat was coming back to him, except it burned instead of warmed, and Sean gritted his teeth.
“Think you can still say that when you remember we haven’t seen each other fer years?”
“Funny you should say that,” Viggo’s voice remained calm, and Sean hated him for it. Hated that he was the only one still half-shaking from anger; hated that his hands were clenched at his side to stop them from trembling while Viggo was standing so still, his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his jeans.
“That’s what I came to see you for, you see. Well, not to London, because I happened to be filming here. If you’d pick up any of my calls you would have known, because I was asking if you wanted to meet up. But that’s not the point, is it?”
Viggo stepped forward. His eyes were so close, so piercing, that Sean was surprised that there wasn’t blood on his own face.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were in Toronto, Sean?”
This was no fantasy. This was a damn nightmare. Sean licked his lips.
“Didn’t realise I have ta tell you where I am at all times now.”
“I didn’t say that,” Viggo said. “I was only wondering, because I had to find out that you were in Toronto from the papers. You know I hate reading papers.”
“Is that what you came here fer?” Sean raised an eyebrow so he wouldn’t raise his fist. There was no point in getting violent with Viggo; he always refused to fight back. Sean used to admire him for that, for that control. “Ta nag me ‘bout calling? Yer worse than me ma; at least she knows when ta stop.”
Viggo took a step back, and brushed his hair out of his eyes. “I thought that friends have the right to drop in to each other. I thought friends want to see each other. But it seems that I’m wrong, aren’t I?”
“Yer fucking pathetic,” Sean spat out, and for a moment he wasn’t sure who he was talking to -- Viggo, or himself. “Been more than thirteen years since Rings and yer still holding on ta those words we said years ago. When did you become this desperate?”
“Maybe at the same time you’ve started smelling of alcohol at eleven in the morning,” Viggo threw out, the words mangled by his hissing exhale. His hands were clenched at his side, and Sean couldn’t help the sharp shot of glee at Viggo’s anger, at his loss of composure.
He smiled, “I remember you smelling much of the same the last time we saw each other. Maybe you should have a drink too, Vig, ta stop you from being so damn choked up by yer own self-righteousness.”
“Self-righteousness,” Viggo repeated, eyes narrow. “Have you looked yourself in the mirror lately? Have you heard yourself?”
“I know what I am,” Sean was almost shouting. “I ain’t need some occasional friend ta come along and try ta pretend he knows everything ‘bout me.”
“What, that you’re an alcoholic?”
Sean stepped back. He turned away and walked towards the couch, grabbing the bottle of vodka and taking a full, defiant swig. His eyes were fixed upon Viggo, taking in the hint of his curling lips, his bared teeth, and the fingers slowly clawing holes on his jeans.
“Nah,” he said, wiping his mouth and grinning sharply. “I know when ta stop drinking as much as you don’t know when ta stop talking.”
“That,” Viggo drawled, his hand curling around Sean’s wrist. He lifted the bottle and drank from it, his Adam’s apple bulging outwards as he swallowed. “That ain’t what the papers said, Sean.”
The mockery of his own brogue rang in Sean’s ears, scraping and clawing at his senses far more than Viggo’s words, than the trust that shattered between them, not only from the lack of communication but the fact that Viggo would believe in the tabloids over Sean himself.
“When did you start taking what the rags say ta be true?”
“I don’t know,” Viggo dropped the accent. “Maybe when you stopped telling me anything worth hearing, and I need to desperately grasp at something, anything, to know any news about you.”
“You should take a hint from that,” Sean growled. He turned his hand around, dropping the bottle of vodka. It smacked against the floorboards, smashing into pieces. Alcohol splashed on his skin, and he knew there were splinters of glass that surrounded his feet, perhaps some that landed on skin. “Maybe I ain’t want ta tell you anything. Maybe I ain’t ever want ta hear yer voice or see you. Ever thought of that?”
He couldn’t bring himself to care.
“Ah,” Viggo’s voice was soft now. He took another step forward, crunching glass beneath his shoes, staring into Sean’s eyes-- and whatever that he saw there had him nodding. “Ah. So that’s how it is then.” He took a deep breath and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Never mind. Bye, Sean, I’ll only see you again if bad fortune occurs and forces you to look at me.”
Viggo turned away. He took a step, then another, walking towards the door. Sean should be happy. The vodka was gone but there was always whiskey in the cabinets, and he could keep drinking until he forgot about this. Forgot about Viggo’s voice and words and the haunted look in his eyes. Until he could forget the hurt he couldn’t help but see no matter how much he tried to blind himself with his eyes open.
It wouldn’t work.
The glass was sharp against the soles of his bare feet. Viggo’s hand was on the lock of his front door. Sean stumbled, crossed the floorboards. The shards buried themselves into his skin. He grabbed Viggo by the back of his shirt and turned him around. Viggo’s back hit the door, his mouth opening in a gasp.
Sean slammed their lips together.
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: 2165
Published: 28 Jan 2013 Updated: 28 Jan 2013