He had been wearing Sean's ring on a chain around his neck for over a year now, and Viggo was aware every single day of its weight. A literal weight in gold, the chain coated in white gold and warmed against his skin. He wore it to countless events and interviews; events that he had to go to because that 'retirement' from acting never did happen, and he kept getting scripts dumped at his agent's; scripts with stories that drew him strongly and which he could not resist. Every single time he wanted to drag out the chain and say- look, look at this.
Look at what I have. Look at this, this sign of the man I loved for so long who had claimed me and whom had allowed me to claim him. He wore my ring on his neck and I could see it in every picture all of you vultures took of him, the barest hint of chain. Every time I did so I wanted to reach forward to kiss him in front of all the cameras, all of you damn cannibals, and screw the rules.
But he never did. He kept silent, and never went out with anyone in public. It was a good thing that he was past his prime - he was in his mid-fifties now, with a grown-up son, and he looked the part. The press was far less interested in him than it was in its youthful beauties; its Taylor Lautners and Robert Pattinsons and Zac Efrons. That was fine, becaiuse Viggo still had roles. Hollywood was kinder to its older actors than it had ever been to its actresses. Yet it still grated, because he had never been that good at hiding. He knew how to play people, how to shift the press's attentions away from him - there was a damn good reason why he never had a publicist and why he never needed one - but he had never liked doing it.
(Not like Christian Bale. There was something incredibly disturbing about a man who enjoyed 'trolling' the press as much as he did. Viggo knew he was probably being entirely unfair and irrational about his dislike of the man, but he had never been good at not holding grudges.)
But they were doing this. No more hiding. No more hiding. No more keeping quiet. Viggo knew that they didn't need to come out; that they could simply fade into the background. He had been talking about retirement for years, after all. The problem was- the problem was very, very simply that he wanted to be able to bring Sean with him to premieres. To hold his hand. To kiss him like he was able to kiss his damn costars and director and friends without an uproar or titters of oh, there Mortensen goes again, being overly affectionate. He wanted to be able to hold Sean and to wear his ring and have people know.
Because Viggo was possessive too, in his own way. He could wait. He could turn away. But he wanted to know- wanted everyone to know- that the person that Sean went home to was him. Him and no one else.
And they were doing this. A few more days. They had been speaking to Sean's publicist. It wasn't going to be loud or any magazine covers. He was simply going to be Sean's plus-one to his movie premiere. There was really no better time than this. Sean had an Oscar on his shelves and had been able to successfully evade the damn Oscar curse, Viggo had two nominations under his belt. They weren't signed on to any other projects at the time. They were stable. For now.
And Sean's girls - his ex-wives and daughters both - now knew. Viggo was stalling at the kitchen of his ranch, his fingers busying at tea and coffee and mate and he finally made a gourd of the last and a cup of Sean's Earl Grey before bringing it to him. He leaned in and pressed a kiss into Sean's hair, taking a deep breath of his scent. Viggo still wasn't sick of it. He never would be.
if the oscars above are 2012, let's say this is around 2014. the world hasn't ended.
Look at what I have. Look at this, this sign of the man I loved for so long who had claimed me and whom had allowed me to claim him. He wore my ring on his neck and I could see it in every picture all of you vultures took of him, the barest hint of chain. Every time I did so I wanted to reach forward to kiss him in front of all the cameras, all of you damn cannibals, and screw the rules.
But he never did. He kept silent, and never went out with anyone in public. It was a good thing that he was past his prime - he was in his mid-fifties now, with a grown-up son, and he looked the part. The press was far less interested in him than it was in its youthful beauties; its Taylor Lautners and Robert Pattinsons and Zac Efrons. That was fine, becaiuse Viggo still had roles. Hollywood was kinder to its older actors than it had ever been to its actresses. Yet it still grated, because he had never been that good at hiding. He knew how to play people, how to shift the press's attentions away from him - there was a damn good reason why he never had a publicist and why he never needed one - but he had never liked doing it.
(Not like Christian Bale. There was something incredibly disturbing about a man who enjoyed 'trolling' the press as much as he did. Viggo knew he was probably being entirely unfair and irrational about his dislike of the man, but he had never been good at not holding grudges.)
But they were doing this. No more hiding. No more hiding. No more keeping quiet. Viggo knew that they didn't need to come out; that they could simply fade into the background. He had been talking about retirement for years, after all. The problem was- the problem was very, very simply that he wanted to be able to bring Sean with him to premieres. To hold his hand. To kiss him like he was able to kiss his damn costars and director and friends without an uproar or titters of oh, there Mortensen goes again, being overly affectionate. He wanted to be able to hold Sean and to wear his ring and have people know.
Because Viggo was possessive too, in his own way. He could wait. He could turn away. But he wanted to know- wanted everyone to know- that the person that Sean went home to was him. Him and no one else.
And they were doing this. A few more days. They had been speaking to Sean's publicist. It wasn't going to be loud or any magazine covers. He was simply going to be Sean's plus-one to his movie premiere. There was really no better time than this. Sean had an Oscar on his shelves and had been able to successfully evade the damn Oscar curse, Viggo had two nominations under his belt. They weren't signed on to any other projects at the time. They were stable. For now.
And Sean's girls - his ex-wives and daughters both - now knew. Viggo was stalling at the kitchen of his ranch, his fingers busying at tea and coffee and mate and he finally made a gourd of the last and a cup of Sean's Earl Grey before bringing it to him. He leaned in and pressed a kiss into Sean's hair, taking a deep breath of his scent. Viggo still wasn't sick of it. He never would be.
"Los Angeles tomorrow," he murmured. "Ready?"