Viggo tied his shoes. Yes, he not only owned shoes but also knew how to attach them to his feet so they didn’t come off when he started to walk. Viggo, against popular belief, also owned a hair brush that he now put to good use, or as good as possible. Damn, his hair really had grown long.
He leaned nearer to the mirror, furrowed his brows, raised them, leaned a little closer yet checking whether maybe they had grown together above his nose. It always distracted him when he sat across people who didn’t seem to have two eyebrows but only one big one. But his were as neatly separated as Eastern and Western Germany up to 1989.
A hand came to rest on his shoulder, squeezing lightly as if its owner was prepared to hold onto him if some sort of primeval flight instinct should kick in. But Viggo could smell him, inhaled a little deeper because of it and turned around. He looked at the hand as it moved over his shoulder and down, elegant fingers straightening the collar of his jersey shirt.
“You really dressed up, mate.” A dark rumble more than a voice, amusement softening the rough edges. As always Viggo’s gaze drifted up to the source of that sound. As usual he got distracted on the way by the throat. It took him a bit of self restraint to not bend forwards and lick the vulnerable curve of the Adam’s apple.
“Got my shirt buttoned up correctly, too,” he replied, lips curling into a smile, and Viggo’s eyes finally met Sean’s.
“I’ll teach you how to tie a tie yet.”
Viggo almost protested when Sean dropped his hand and buried it in the pocket of his pants instead of touching him. Viggo’s skin really needed touching apparently but Sean already leaned against the door of the Cuntebago, pushing it open. Fresh air came in and ever so lightly brushed passed him which was nice enough but a rather disappointing consolation price.
“You coming, mate? I’m bloody peckish,” Sean said and walked down the small metal staircase, expecting Viggo to follow. Viggo did, of course as always, but just as predictably Sean slowed his tempo after a few steps to glance over his shoulder, as if to look out for him.
Viggo caught up with him, jogging a couple of paces. Sean cuffed him with a shrug of his shoulder and Vig returned the amiable gesture by putting an arm around Sean’s shoulder and giving the other man the softest of head butts. The response was indulgent, Sean leaned into the embrace briefly before taking out his car keys.
Would it earn Viggo just another chuckle and a friendly headshake if he’d just give in to that feeling? The one that rushed through him like a whirlwind in spring, scattering apart his thoughts like they were paper clippings without an order. Whenever he was close enough to Sean to smell him.
If he’d just kissed him? It probably would be Viggo, not Sean, who’d freak, and then he’d do something slightly mental, American style, just to not have to face the consequences. ‘Oh, that’s just Viggo being Viggo, don’t think much of it.’
“Get in the car, Vig,” Sean pushed the door open for him and gestured for him to get a move on. And with a hint of worry in his voice when Viggo had to mentally shake himself before following the order, Sean added, “Too rough a day, then? Want me to just drop you off?”
“No,” Viggo replied quickly and almost indignantly which earned him another odd glance. How was Sean to know that he’d been looking forward for their shared dinner, for every evening spent together, so much that the mere suggestion of skipping it came close to an insult?
“I mean,” he added, hickupping on what he really meant, “long day, yeah.”
They drove back to town in companionable silence for a while, Viggo trying to tell himself that he needed a bit of time to get rid off Aragorn. As if it had nothing to do with suppressing the growing urge to put his hand on Sean’s thigh possessively.
“That sunrise today,” Viggo’s mouth said eventually and the rest of him was sceptically interested in what was going to follow, “so subtly hinting the hope still remaining in them.”
What? Viggo rubbed his ear and tried to figure out where that nonsense had come from. He gave up after a moment or two and added, “I’d like Mexican tonight. That alright with you?”
“I’m good with that, I reckon,” Sean said, a lopsided smile enough of a comment on Viggo’s randomness and his own sometimes a little sensitive digestion, “if that’s what you want.”
Sean halted in front of the tiny place where you could get a few Mexican dishes and suggested Viggo might wanna pick up some wine in the store opposite. Viggo did so, even found something that would go with whatever food Sean would choose, but then he had to wait for Sean to pick him up anyway because he’d forgotten his wallet again. Shop owners didn’t chalk up for a forty something boy who, half dressed up as a mythical hero, had got lost in the mall.
Sometimes when things like this happened, the orderly and neat, trustworthy looking Brit who had to vouch for his mate would say something like “I should put ye on a leash, really” and ruffle his hair as if indeed Viggo was his eccentric street mutt. Sometimes Viggo would bark, first like a good puppy, then with laughter, and jump his master like any other untrained dog, throwing them both to the ground, even if that happened to be in the middle of Wellington.
Today, tough, Viggo scratched his belly, shrugged uneasily and didn’t meet Sean’s eyes when the other man paid for their wine. Sean shook his head and they drove back to Viggo’s and Vig thought he got away with it until another time. Until they’d reached his kitchen.
“You,” Sean said decisively and put down a plate with food in front of himself only, “won’t get anything until you tell me what’s wrong with you. And don’t give me any ‘Aliens abducted me and experimented with my brain’ Elijah story, yeah?”
Viggo eyed the spicy meat and the beans on Sean’s plate and wondered whether a radical diet was indeed a route of escape. If it meant not having to confess he figured he could go quite a while without any food at all. Native Americans, he’d read, sometimes hungered in order to receive hallucinations of their future, brought to them by messengers in the forms of wild animals. But Viggo’s eagle or bear or David Lynch like road kill even would probably roll their collective eyes at his thickness and just silently point at Sean anyway.
Spending an hour or two just longing for his handshake, for a wink in between takes, for anything really. Viggo was easy by then. Or desperate, depending on how you looked at it. He’d write poetry, would paint if thinking of Sean didn’t fill him with so much nameless yearning that he was almost paralysed and unable to do anything. Well, besides wanking off in the shower of the trailer occasionally. Desperate, then.
Sean had finished his first round of food and sat back, a glass of wine in his hand, elegant fingers curling almost tenderly around the smooth surface. He studied Viggo’s face, tilting his head to the left. Maybe Viggo looked on the brink of starving, feeling like it for different reasons, because Sean, stubborn as a mule usually, caved in and got up, probably to get him some dinner after all.
Sean walked past the table that was scarcely decorated with a candle stub directly stuck onto the wood and deformed by Viggo’s playing fingers in earlier nights. Viggo looked at the peculiar waxen sculpture, his mind blank, but then, suddenly, a gentle hand is buried in his strands and Sean, leaning over him from behind, places a light kiss on top of his hair.
Somehow this gesture of care and companionship, of concern and friendship shreds something inside Viggo. Something that up until then he’s managed to protect from the havoc that wanting Sean has wreaked in the rest of his being. That flimsy blanket of himself, of pride and sense of self preservation, falls off him and leaves him naked and shivering, literally shivering under Sean’s light touch.
Sean bows down a little and wraps both of his arms around Viggo’s quivering shoulders, as if to shield him now that Viggo can’t even manage that task on his own any longer. For a moment Viggo just gives in and leans back and doesn’t care about here and now, about consequences or how naïve the wish to stop time and the concept of ‘eternity’ sound.
He lets himself fall, fall apart and trusts Sean to hold him up and together. He can hear Sean’s even breathing close to his ear and will Sean always sound like this, just like this when he sleeps, when he moans, when he holds him like this for always? Sean’s position can’t possibly be comfortable but nevertheless the deeper Viggo falls, the tighter Sean holds onto him, clutching his body against his chest, never mind the back of the chair, muscles, strong from hours and hours of swordplay practice, tense against Viggo.
When eventually Sean lets go he crouches in front of Viggo on the not really clean kitchen tiles. His fingers dig into the flesh of Viggo’s thighs, pressure felt even through layers of fabric.
“Please, Viggo,” Sean says, quietly but louder with distressed urgency than Viggo can bear hearing, “tell me.”
His hands reach out for Sean. They are practical and calloused, unsteady and frantically wanting to be tender. And despite everything they almost choose the coward’s, the fool’s way out yet again to merely come to rest on Sean’s broad shoulders.
If it wasn’t for Sean’s eyes to widen. Their green change from a bright, almost lime colour, that has been mixed by worry and confusion, to a shimmering emerald. Sean looks up at him, waiting patiently and at the same time wanting so much for Viggo to see, to see himself, Viggo, there in those eyes finally.
And sometimes, Viggo realises then, it is good to lose yourself. To lose yourself to an extent in which you don’t even remember ever having had worries and fears and hopes and dreams. When you simply can’t go on pretending any longer as if everything is as per usual. When you solely exist because it is you who loves the man kneeling in front of you, love him so much that there is no room for anything else nor should there be.
His hands cup Sean’s face, the strong jaw in his palms, the stubble of his beard prickling his skin and curved cheekbones under his thumbs, and Sean still gazes at him. One of Sean’s hands leaves Viggo’s thigh and grabs his shoulder, really grabs it, holding him in place and clinging onto him at the same time. And no ‘as if’ this time.
Sean whispers, so quietly Viggo barely hears him even though he is so close to him.
“Ye daft bugger,” he whispers and Viggo can feel the faintest of head shakes in his hands where Sean’s head is still cradled, “ye daft bugger.”
Viggo has always thought that if he kissed Sean after all it would be spur of the moment, rushed, before he lost his courage again.
When he leans in now, though, everything slows down, and there is no haze whatsoever. On the contrary, Viggo is hyper aware of everything, of himself and of Sean. He can feel himself almost smiling when Sean licks his lips unconsciously as he realises what Viggo is about to do, a habitually calming and eager reaction. He can taste Sean’s spit on his lips when he’s closed the distance and it tastes of Mexican spices and cigarette smoke and dear Lord, he tastes just like he smells, only ten thousand times more intense.
His fingers are trembling against Sean’s skin and regularly breathing becomes an effort and he is kissing Sean and Sean’s hand slides up from his shoulder to his neck – ‘Don’t ye dare to shy away from me now’ – kissing him back with so much self assurance that there would’ve been enough to share it with Viggo even. But Viggo’s body might shake and he might be too occupied with moaning deep in his throat to take up the playful challenge of Sean’s tongue, pushing past his lips, but he doesn’t need borrowed confidence now.
Sean’s fingers curl in his neck and dig into his thigh and Viggo understands the sudden urgency that in him feels like he is imploding, a vacuum with the sole purpose of sucking in the world, Sean, and he slides from his chair because he isn’t close enough.
His kneecaps protest at the fall onto hard tiles but he just shuffles a little closer yet, his thighs trapping Sean’s and his hands move to the back of Sean’s head, finally, finally getting a grip, both metaphorically and literally, burying themselves in soft short strands. Sean groans and Viggo swallows the breath, the sound, the taste, all of it. He licks Sean’s mouth, lets his tongue curl around Sean’s, the dominance of the kiss see-sawing back and forth between them just like Viggo is shifting above Sean, unable to hold really still.
A strong arm wraps around his waist and Viggo feels delicate for a short moment when its embrace pulls him closer, properly up onto Sean’s lap, and it feels so fantastically right. His breathing hitches when Sean’s hand brushes against naked skin, gripping his loose shirt tightly.
Kissing Sean, touching Sean, being so blessingly close to him. It is too much, not enough, the ancient paradox and it isn’t one if anyone asked Viggo right now. It is right and perfect and the most logical and craziest thing ever and he doesn’t care whether kissing Sean on the floor of his kitchen costs him his last remaining grip on reason.
‘Cause Sean tastes like New Zealand and Sheffield, like everywhere Viggo has been to and ever wants to be. And if that is lunatic there is always Sean to lightly bite his lower lip, growl at him, wordlessly telling him that he is the daftest bugger he’s ever met and that it is alright and fine with him.
Summary: And sometimes, Viggo realises then, it is good to lose yourself.
Rated: PG
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: No
Word count: 2519 Read: 882
Published: 29 Jul 2009 Updated: 29 Jul 2009