Looking back, Viggo supposes that it all really started the day that Sheffield United got relegated and Sean went into mourning. Viggo had seen it before, of course. And felt it on one memorably bitter occasion that was, in his mind at least, inextricably linked to a whole year of crap. The utter devastation, the aching gap inside yourself that you alternated between almost enjoying and loathing with a passion. Of course, it hadn't helped that Manchester United had won the league and Dom had been walking around with a permanent grin affixed to his face...
+++
For Sean, one of the worst things about filming Rings was that he wasn't able to go to Blades matches with any real frequency. He managed to see a few of the games against the bigger teams on extortionately priced pay-per-view channels and followed what else he could on the radio, blessing the BBC for the world service. By the time the season was into its closing months, things were looking bad. The Blades were hovering around the relegation spots, occasionally climbing a few meagre places up the table, only to slip down again.
The last game of the season would decide their fate. The game was against Newcastle who had nothing to play for. They wouldn't be able to get a place in Europe, they wouldn't make any headway. They were bound for mid table obscurity and Sean had been half hoping that they'd just sit back and let the Blades run roughshod over them. As always, Sean had known the deep, complex statistics for weeks. He knew exactly what needed to happen if the Blades drew. If they lost they were fucked, plain and simple. If they won they were safe. If they drew and the teams around them lost by the right numbers of goals, they were safe.
Sean was feeling confident. They wouldn't just curl up and die, they would fight with the same passion that he had. They would do anything and everything to keep their spot in the Premiership. Sean didn't care if they played so dirty that the whole squad was suspended for the opening three games of the next season. Just as long as they didn't start that season in the First Division.
Sean was alone in his living room, the curtains drawn, a pack of cigarettes within arm's length on the coffee table, the television on loud. Sometimes Viggo kept him company when the games were on TV but today, for this game, the one that could decide everything, Sean wanted to be alone. If he couldn't be in Sheffield, surrounded by people aching with hope for the same purpose then he'd rather be alone.
Within ten minutes, they were a goal down and Sean was hurling abuse at the TV as though that would make it all better. Newcastle scored a second goal at around the half hour mark and Sean slammed his fist so hard into the coffee table that the pack of cigarettes jumped several inches into the air. Just before half time, the Blades scraped back a goal and Sean leapt to his feet, punching the air. During half time, Sean made himself a cup of coffee with shaking hands and settled down; willing the Blades to fight now, fight for survival.
They failed spectacularly, went to pieces almost as soon as they ran back out onto the pitch and forty-five minutes later, Sean was officially a fan of a first division club. He sat stunned for a moment, unable to digest what he knew it meant. Vainly, he turned to the sports page in the international papers and looked at the league table from earlier in the morning. There was no doubt about it. It didn't matter a shit what the teams around them had or hadn't done. They had lost and that was that. Over. Fuck.
Sean lit a cigarette, sitting in morose thought, pondering the future of the team that meant the world to him. Well, it could all be a downward spiral from here. They had no money worth speaking of. Their best players were out of contract halfway through next season. Sean could all too easily imagine slipping further and further down until snap, Sheffield United are just as defunct as Sheffield steel.
Finally, unable to think of a suitable alternative, Sean dragged himself upstairs to bed, crawling under the covers fully clothed, his Blades shirt hot against his skin. Under the covers, he bit his nails and finally let out a few tears that he assured himself were just of frustration. He would have to go to work the next morning, he knew, and somehow act as though he was interested in saving Middle Earth from the terror of Sauron. If it was a choice between destroying the ring and seeing the Blades reinstated to the Premiership, Sean knew which he would choose. Football wasn't a matter of life and death. It was much more important than that.
***
The next morning, on set, Sean was silent as his make up and wig were applied, the crew exchanging glances at his silence, missing the buzz of his flirty chatter. After he'd been there for fifteen minutes, the door burst open and Orlando bounded in with two Styrofoam coffee cups in his hands. He placed one in front of Sean who just nodded distractedly."Morning," Orlando said brightly. Immediately, the make up artists started chatting to him, delighted to get a friendly response. Sean didn't mind. It gave him time to chew his thumbnail and relive the match again and again. In time, his hand was batted away from his mouth and he settled for biting the inside of his cheek. He was outraged to find that his eyes were stinging as he thought about that absolute sitter of a goal they had missed in the twentieth minute. If only...
Sean got through the day, but barely. His voice was rough from too many cigarettes, his head pounded with frustrated dreams and he fluffed his lines countless times. He was well aware that his attitude was gaining some raised eyebrows and the look on Dominic's face suggested that he would dearly like to say something derogatory but was being barely restrained by his inner humanity. Or more likely, Billy's inner humanity.
Finally, they finished for the day and Sean changed as quickly has he could, heading out for his car with his hands in his pockets. That was why he didn't see Viggo sitting on Sean's car like some really fucked up hood ornament. As he drew level with the car, feet crunching on the gravel, Sean finally looked up. Viggo had somehow managed to change quicker than Sean and there he was, sprawled barefoot on the car, a book in his hands. Sean checked quickly and yep, sure enough, that bloody sword was resting against the car. There was also a bottle of Scotch and a crate of beer. Sean's raised his eyebrows, feeling vaguely interested in something for the first time all day.
Viggo looked up from his book and slide from the car, moving to Sean's side and hugging him tightly before either of them spoke."Heard about The Blades," Viggo explained. Sean nodded. "Thought you might be able to use some company tonight.""You're going out with Orlando and the hobbits," Sean said, stepping around Viggo and sliding the car key into the door."Not if I can help it," Viggo smiled. "They make me feel too old.""Viggo, I'm not very good company at the moment," Sean sighed, swinging his legs into the car, staring ahead."All the more reason why you should be around someone who knows the feeling."
With a groan, Sean let his head fall onto the steering wheel. All he really wanted to do was go home and wallow in his own self-pity, maybe phone up some mates in Sheffield and sit saying nothing while they gave him a blow by blow account of the match that they had undoubtedly been at. That Sean should have been at. Sean knew it was ridiculous, but he wanted to be at home in Sheffield, wanted to walk the streets and feel the grief pouring off of other devastated fans, just to reassure himself that he wasn't abnormal for feeling worse about this than he did about his last divorce."Sean?" Viggo was asking. And to Sean, it didn't sound like it was the first time he had spoken."Get in the bloody car," Sean sighed. Viggo grinned, picking up the booze, the sword and the book and sliding into the passenger seat."You can give me a ride in in the morning, right?" Viggo asked."Sure," Sean agreed.
***
Sean wasn't entirely sure when he had got quite so wasted. It had seemed to come on very quickly, which might have been because he was tired, or it might have been because of the sticky, tightly rolled joint that Viggo had produced like a magician from the depths of his pocket. Whatever combination of events it was, Sean was definitely well on the way to being really pissed. However, he wasn't yet drunk enough not to mind the fact that in the course of raving to Viggo about 'those eleven useless twats' he had come disastrously close to tears. Dashing away the tiny traces of moisture, he frowned and stared at the bottle of Scotch.
His whole world seemed to fade out as he stared at the bottle and the next time he was truly aware of anything other than the rumbled of voices, he could feel the soft sofa cushion under his cheek. The room was dim and from somewhere away to his left, he could hear soft snores. Idly, he reached out one hand that felt oddly disconnected from his body and felt around himself. There was something covering him. Something rough and smooth all at the same time. It took Sean's numb fingers quite a while to communicate to his equally numb brain that he was laying underneath Viggo's coat, and that the snoring from somewhere across the room was probably Viggo himself.
Sean had time to think that Peter was going to kill them both if they were hungover in the morning and that Viggo's coat smelt curiously nice before sleep claimed him and he felt his eyelids drooping shut.
+++
Viggo turns away from the canvas distractedly, remembering the way Sean had cried that night, honest-to-god cried and Viggo had realised all of a sudden "he's human." And then, two seconds later "he's gorgeous." When Sean had crashed out on the floor, Viggo had somehow managed to manhandle him onto the couch and cover Sean with Viggo's own coat before the drink finally knocked him out too. Smiling at the memory, Viggo reaches for the stereo and flicks it on, filling the room with music, telling himself firmly that he's not doing it just to wake Sean up so he can see him.