LONDON
Taking some serious time off, Ian reflected, was a good idea, if one’s career was firmly established enough not to suffer, one had the money to live comfortably, eat and drink well, indulge ones artistic tastes and finally take that world tour there had never been time for before in a busy life. Fortunately, he now found himself in that happy position.
Today, he had played at being a tourist in the city that had been his home for the past thirty years or so and looked at it with fresh eyes. He had visited the Tower and reflected on centuries of history and barbarism, had gazed in awe at the glory of St Paul’s, with its most un-English basilica, trodden the wibbly-wobbly bridge over to Tate Modern for lunch, attended the matinée at the Globe Theatre, enjoyed a leisurely, early dinner and was ending his long, but satisfying day with an orchestral concert at the Albert Hall.
Tomorrow, he would be flying to Amsterdam on the first leg of his tour and he felt a sense of excitement and elation at the beginning of an adventure, which even the very uncomfortable, prickly upholstery could not deflate.
He had very good seats near the front and as the orchestra was slightly raised, he had an excellent view of the members as they filed in and took their places. Always a connoisseur of male beauty, Ian couldn’t help but notice that two of the players managed to stand out, effortlessly conquering the anonymity of their formal evening dress.
One was the pianist, whose natural grace and elegance did Ian’s old heart good as he made his way to the grand piano. He had entered the auditorium with the First Violin and used as he was to watching attractive men, Ian had seen that they walked so closely, their shoulders touched. Intrigued, he watched the exchanged smiles and ‘accidental’ brush of their hands as they parted to take up their allotted places.
The conductor appeared on his rostrum and the programme began, but his appetite whetted, Ian kept his private vigil, watching the two players, as he let the music flow over him.
The pianist, dirty blonde hair curling over his collar as his head bowed over his instrument stroked the keys lovingly with long, sensitive, expressive fingers. It was as if he pictured a living body beneath his touch and if the glances he kept stealing towards the string section were anything to go by, there was no mistaking the body he was imagining.
In response, the First Violin caressed the neck of his instrument as if it were the throat of a lover and occasionally closed his eyes, as his bow made the violin sing, only to open them at the end of each piece and flash a smile of reminiscence and promise towards the piano.
Ian was entranced, caught in the spell of the music and the concerto of love being played out before him. At the end of the concert, he sprang to his feet, joining the rest of the audience in the wild applause.
Outside, about to get into the cab he had ordered, he saw two figures slip out of the performers’ entrance and head away into the night, hand in hand, whispering together.
Ian settled back in his seat, weary, alone, but happy. Tomorrow the world would open up for him; tonight he could not begrudge them their harmony.
AMSTERDAM
Ian sat down gratefully. He was tired after walking all day. Amsterdam was nice, but tiring. In search of an oasis, he had entered a bar, ‘coffee shops’, they were called here in Amsterdam. He looked at the two good looking youngsters in the corner, wrapped in an intimate conversation, astonished at their resemblance to the musicians he had seen in London. Of course they were much younger, but still…
He closed his eyes, contemplating what was going on at that little wooden table...
Viggo closed his hands around the joint and inhaled deeply. Great stuff it was, and he still couldn’t believe his luck for being able to do this in a public place, legally. He had arrived only yesterday, but he loved Amsterdam already.
The coffee shop - that’s what they called it, though no one seem to be drinking coffee - was filled with people from all over the world, it seemed. A large group of backpackers took up almost the entire place, but for one table in the corner.
A blond guy was the sole occupant of that table. The way he looked, he could easily be Dutch, but Viggo somehow doubted that. He seemed about the same age as Viggo - 23, 24 maybe - and totally absorbed in smoking his joint. The hair was shaggy, pushed back behind his ears, showing a small gold earring in one of them.
“Fuck,” Viggo thought when the guy looked up, green eyes catching him staring, “he’s beautiful.”
Sean smoked his joint, determined to enjoy it till he had to stub it out, or burn his lips. The good looking bloke - Scandinavian? - at the far end of the room seemed to be checking him out and Sean gave him a small smile, enough to make him come over to Sean’s table.
Not Scandinavian, but American, “Viggo,” he said, and he was as easy to talk to as he was on the eye. Sean told him about the cheap day trip from England, and Viggo told him about his European tour.
They shared another joint, and then they were on their way to Viggo’s room, which he didn’t have to share, in a backpacker’s hostel.
The streets were crowded with tourists, looking at the statue on the Dam, taking pictures, of the Queen’s working Palace. There was a queue of people waiting for one of the canal boat trips, even though it was raining just a little.
At the hostel they had to wait until the reception area was empty, not because of Viggo bringing up a guy, this was Amsterdam, but because of bringing up a non-paying guest. By the time they reached Viggo’s room, rain was pouring down on the small roof window.
They laughed as they pulled each other down on Viggo’s bumpy bed, making inappropriate comments about canals and then kissing breathlessly, while opening buttons and zippers.
Sean fucking Viggo in syncope to the rhythm of the rain, the beat of hip hop music coming from below, made it all feel even better. They slept after that, under the red, white and blue blanket, because it was getting chilly and clinging to each other, sweating, felt cosy.
Later that night they woke, got up and smoked the weed they had brought from the shop. No words, because Sean would be on that boat back to England soon, Viggo travelling to Paris, Stockholm, or Berlin and this was no time and place for love.
PARIS
Sunday morning and a perfect spring day for a stroll in the Jardin des Tuileries, thought Ian as he approached the large glassy pond with a fountain in the centre.
He had visited Paris several times before, but usually to work and he had never been able to spend time and take such a leisurely view. Over the past few days, he had walked the wooden floor of the Louvre until his feet throbbed, revelled in the joys of the Musée D’Orsay, enjoyed seeing Notre Dame from the river and dutifully ascended the Eiffel Tower. He had plodded grimly up the 284 steps to the top of the Arc de Triomphe, counting every step, afraid to rest in case he couldn’t get up the momentum to continue.
Once there, he had been suitably impressed at the layout of wide avenues, marvelled at the apparently chaotic traffic arrangements, the miraculous way that collisions seemed to be averted at the last minute and the courage under fire of the traffic policeman with his whistle.
He had promised himself a quiet, reflective Sunday and now he smiled at the wooden toy boats with their colourful sails, which reminded him of his boyhood. There was nothing mechanical or high-tech here, just the graceful little crafts, moved by the gentle breeze.
It could almost have been a Victorian scene, he thought, the families strolling together and the children carefully launching their wooden boats. It was utterly delightful, and charmed, he helped himself to one of the seats and settled down to watch for a while.
His gaze was drawn to two little boys aged about nine, who were sitting on the edge of the pond, heads together, chattering animatedly as they watched their boats. Of course, they were wearing the inevitable jeans and trainers, rather than the sailor suits little Victorians would have worn, but he didn’t believe that little boys had changed all that much at heart.
He frowned, thinking that they seemed somehow familiar. Then they looked up at the same time and smiled at one another in some mischievous conspiracy and he noticed that one had green eyes and the other grey-blue. He started in surprise…
Viggo was pleased to have met Sean at the boating pond and now they met here every Sunday morning. He was American, an only child, the son of a junior diplomat, and the family had moved around too much for him to have been able to make friends.
They would have become friends even if they had not been able to communicate, but to his surprise and delight, Sean himself was not French, but English. Newly arrived in Paris, where his parents had opened a business, his French was as rudimentary as Viggo’s.
Sean had just told him that he had managed to smuggle a small penknife out of his dad’s desk drawer, so that they could carry out the plan they had made last Sunday and they grinned at each other with pleasure.
Looking around to check that their mothers were not too near and finding that they were sitting together, deep in conversation, they felt safe to go ahead. Sean surreptitiously opened the knife and made the small ritual cut in his thumb, before handing it solemnly to Viggo, so he could do the same.
They clasped hands and smiled at each other again, chanting in unison,
“Blood brothers for ever.”
ROME
Ian was enjoying his travels as much as he had hoped, but he was becoming slightly concerned that he seemed to be haunted by those musicians he had so enjoyed watching at the Albert Hall.
And it wasn’t as if he was actually seeing them, because they must have been in their forties, while the pair in Amsterdam couldn’t have been more than early twenties, if that. Then there had been the little boys with the sailing boats, mere children.
Was he losing it? He shook his head. Come now, he wasn’t THAT old, but he had been alone now for a long time, though he hadn’t been lonely, with his work, his books and his music. Maybe his mind was telling him that he lacked human company.
Once again, he had followed the required tourist route in Rome and having photographed it in bright sunlight, had returned to the Trevi Fountain after dinner to photograph it by night.
He carefully disabled the flash on his camera and selected the night programme, moving to rest it on one of the stone pillars supporting the railings, as he had no tripod.
The water glowed greenish blue, lit from beneath and Neptune rode in splendour, glowing golden in the light from the lamps. Ian managed to get several shots, in spite of the fact that the fountain seemed even more crowded at night than by day.
He turned on hearing a throaty chuckle nearby and his chest constricted for a moment, as he watched the couple, who were laughing together as they prepared to toss their coins into the fountain.
They were both so beautiful, around thirty and they were so like his musicians that it was uncanny. Seeing his camera, one of them approached him and his American accent was so soft that Ian had to bend to catch his request,
“Please, would you mind taking our picture?”
“Of course,” Ian smiled into the interesting face, with its incredible cheekbones and took the proffered camera, having first made sure that his own was safely stowed away. These tourist haunts were notorious for pickpockets.
The two took up their positions with their backs to the fountain and each put an arm around the other’s waist. In their free hands, each held a coin ready to throw over his shoulder to ensure a return to the Eternal City.
“Ready, say cheese,” Ian told them, taking the picture as they threw the coins.
“Another for luck?” he suggested and they repeated the action.
“Thank you, mate,” said the American’s partner, who surprisingly had an English accent, Yorkshire, Ian was sure, as he himself originated from Lancashire.
“You are most welcome. It was my pleasure. You’re both very photogenic.”
The Yorkshireman blushed charmingly.
“Actually, we’re on our honeymoon,” said the American, drawing his partner close as he took back the camera. ”Rome is so romantic, right?”
“Absolutely right. Rome is for lovers and please let an old man wish you every happiness in the future.”
Ian watched a little enviously as the pair headed off to their hotel, undoubtedly for a night of unbridled passion and their future ahead of them together.
There was a tug on his sleeve and he turned to see a rather beautiful young man with curly dark brown hair and enormous, luminous eyes, who might have been the subject of a renaissance painting.
“You like company tonight, senore?”
Ian sighed. Those of us not lucky enough to have our soul mate here in the City of Lovers could still buy the illusion for a night. He smiled,
“Yes, I should like that very much.”
BARCELONA
As much as he enjoyed Parc Güell, Ian found himself subconsciously looking for his two men. He sat down next to the amazing water-spitting lizard at the entrance to the park, and marvelled at Antoni Gaudi’s mastery in design and ceramics.
Amazing, he thought, even more amazing than the Gaudi buildings he had visited, or just walked by in the centre of Barcelona.
The park was built on a hill, and some parts of it were quite steep. After walking for a while, Ian sat on the beautiful, colourful ceramic serpentine bench, glad to rest his feet. He smiled when a ray of sunlight highlighted the golden hair of what seemed to be boys to his eyes, hidden by tree-like columns on the other side of the park.
Sean rested his elbows on his knees, looking at Viggo’s sketchbook. It was not so much being curious about Viggo’s work, as being close to him, he admitted to himself.
It had been hard for Sean, to attend art classes. His friends had mocked him, and his family hadn’t been much better. He was a loner, the other kids so different from him. Even though he was twenty one, older than most of them, they seemed much more world wise than he was.
That had all changed when Viggo had arrived. He was in England only for a few months, and had joined on a whim, seeing the poster outside. From the beginning, he and Sean had got along well, even though they disagreed on almost everything.
They had both subscribed to the art course in Barcelona, and on their second day here, had been brought to Parc Güell, assigned to put down their view of Gaudi’s park on paper or canvas.
Sean had made a drawing, more like a sketch really, promising himself he would work on it tonight. For now, he stared at Viggo’s work, which didn’t seem to bear any resemblance to anything here.
He asked Viggo what it meant and Viggo scrunched up his nose, thinking for a long time before he answered,
“It’s how I feel,” he said finally. “Torn.”
Sean looked up at him, “Torn between what?”
“Between what I should do and what I want,” Viggo said, his eyes still on the scribbled text in coloured spots in his sketchbook.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about,” Sean muttered, kicking at a pebble near his feet.
Viggo tilted his head to look at him, a small smile twitching his mouth.
“It is simple, though. I should make the most of this trip art-wise. I mean it’s fucking brilliant what this guy did here. I should throw myself into it, learn from it, do something with it.”
He looked at the sky as if asking for help, then turned his gaze back to Sean,
“Instead I think about want, how I want you, how I would like to learn about you and how, maybe then, I could do what I should.”
After that, kissing Viggo was so easy.
Summary: Ian is on a world tour, and he keeps meeting Viggo and Sean, or isn't he ?
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: AUChallenges:
Series: A Tale of Ten CitiesChapters: 2 Completed: No
Word count: 5613 Read: 12000
Published: 04 Aug 2009 Updated: 04 Aug 2009