Sean didn't tense at the question either--in fact he laughed. It was a stupid question. A stupid, ignorant question, that went a thousand ways to convincing himself that the public didn't know the slightest thing about him, homosexuality or in fact acting. He laughed to himself, but he laughed like someone had said something extremely vapid at a dinner he was at, and his eyes were bright as he looked up, once, at Viggo, and grinned doggedly at Rachel and had her wink at him like she was speaking his language--a secret language the press didn't understand.
And there was roaring, and Sean was too dazed to respond to any of it, so the director fielded a couple of questions, explained how difficult love scenes were to film, and how deeply professional and talented his actors were, how they put all their heart into even the scenes they found hard, and that for Sean it had been the mountain scene, how he'd first insisted on climbing up there himself rather than taking the helicopter, and then had to be airlifted out--how they'd had to tranquilise him to get him into the rescue helicopter because he'd knocked out one of the paramedics despite not being able to stand up at the time. It was a beautiful story, but it didn't distract them from what they really wanted to get their teeth into--Viggo.
Viggo who had to lean over to use Sean's microphone because he wasn't actually on the panel. Viggo who, as he leant forward to respond, was the only person in the conference to hear Sean growl low and deep in his throat, barely restrained, by the guts of that suggestion.
"Sodding publicity stunt my ass." He said, quiet enough not to be heard, but knowing full well that this was an age of high quality recording equiptment, and that particular soundbite would be all over the internet by noon tomorrow.
The crowd went crazy, but Sean hadn't heard the last part of what Viggo was saying over the roar, and he wasn't sure quite what it was they were responding to. There was waving from the PA, and a call of 'one at a time', and Sean heard all the questions from earlier repeated all over again, and he felt half like throwing himself into the crowd and punching people in their ugly cameraphones. He didn't. He was professional, like Rachel had said.
Sure. Professional. He spared a glance for Viggo, reached for his hand quietly and folded both of his own around it.
"I've got a fucking question," he said, firmly, and he cast his eyes into the front row. He knew this guy--not because he knew him, but because he was the one who'd asked about Georgina on the red carpet before, and Sean had memorised his nametag right then. "It's for Jordan Michaels--the guy from Heat?" The PA looked horrified, but turned toward Sean, and everyone in the room was dead quiet. Michaels was the guy who'd asked the questions to Viggo before. About if it was a publicity stunt; the guy asking how long he'd been in love, and making it sound like it was a joke. Michaels looked pale, but game. Sean was known for being pretty quiet, especially around the press, but he suddenly realised that he was being addressed by someone much loved. An A-lister with an impressive background, whom he had just insulted under the protection of little more than his plastic press badge. And Sean looked predatory--the kind of predatory he took to the bedroom. Viggo would recognise it as his most dangerous expression, there was absolutely no doubt.
Sean knew the whole room was holding its breath now, that he had their absolute attention, and he kept them waiting for a few seconds longer.
"I'd like to ask him how the fuck he thinks this is a publicity stunt. Don't open your mouth, Jordan, I ain't done yet. I'll tell you when I'm done." There was an audible snap as Michaels closed his mouth, and the faint sound of his career falling apart around his ears. "I'd like to know if he thinks it would be acceptable to ask that of some other star taking his wife, or his girlfriend - some hot model or something - to his premiere to see his fucking movie. To see what he's been pouring his heart an' soul into while they've been apart working. Is that okay? Cause I tell you what I think it is. I think it's fucking rude. That goes for the rest of you too."
He shifted his eyes across the crowd, then back, and leant forward, picking up the microphone as he stood up, little stand and all. It was on a short cable, so he still had to lean forward, but he pointed at Viggo.
"I love this man. I love Viggo fucking Mortensen. And it don't mean I don't love me wives an' kids. It don't mean that what I felt with them, with him, is any more or less real. It's love--it ain't rhyme or reason, it just happens, and you can't control it. Who it is, or when it comes, and it doesn't decide what gender it is you fall in love with, you just fucking do."
He paused, and realised that this sounded like a wedding speech, or an award speech, and he frowned.
"Don't ask me any damn questions that it would be rude to ask a straight guy about his girlfriend, because he'd punch you in the fucking nose and so will I, got it?"
He sunk back down into his seat and sat struggling to reattach his mic to the countertop--ineffective because suddenly his hands were shaking horribly.
The next question was about the computer graphics.
no subject
And there was roaring, and Sean was too dazed to respond to any of it, so the director fielded a couple of questions, explained how difficult love scenes were to film, and how deeply professional and talented his actors were, how they put all their heart into even the scenes they found hard, and that for Sean it had been the mountain scene, how he'd first insisted on climbing up there himself rather than taking the helicopter, and then had to be airlifted out--how they'd had to tranquilise him to get him into the rescue helicopter because he'd knocked out one of the paramedics despite not being able to stand up at the time. It was a beautiful story, but it didn't distract them from what they really wanted to get their teeth into--Viggo.
Viggo who had to lean over to use Sean's microphone because he wasn't actually on the panel. Viggo who, as he leant forward to respond, was the only person in the conference to hear Sean growl low and deep in his throat, barely restrained, by the guts of that suggestion.
"Sodding publicity stunt my ass." He said, quiet enough not to be heard, but knowing full well that this was an age of high quality recording equiptment, and that particular soundbite would be all over the internet by noon tomorrow.
The crowd went crazy, but Sean hadn't heard the last part of what Viggo was saying over the roar, and he wasn't sure quite what it was they were responding to. There was waving from the PA, and a call of 'one at a time', and Sean heard all the questions from earlier repeated all over again, and he felt half like throwing himself into the crowd and punching people in their ugly cameraphones. He didn't. He was professional, like Rachel had said.
Sure. Professional. He spared a glance for Viggo, reached for his hand quietly and folded both of his own around it.
"I've got a fucking question," he said, firmly, and he cast his eyes into the front row. He knew this guy--not because he knew him, but because he was the one who'd asked about Georgina on the red carpet before, and Sean had memorised his nametag right then. "It's for Jordan Michaels--the guy from Heat?" The PA looked horrified, but turned toward Sean, and everyone in the room was dead quiet. Michaels was the guy who'd asked the questions to Viggo before. About if it was a publicity stunt; the guy asking how long he'd been in love, and making it sound like it was a joke. Michaels looked pale, but game. Sean was known for being pretty quiet, especially around the press, but he suddenly realised that he was being addressed by someone much loved. An A-lister with an impressive background, whom he had just insulted under the protection of little more than his plastic press badge. And Sean looked predatory--the kind of predatory he took to the bedroom. Viggo would recognise it as his most dangerous expression, there was absolutely no doubt.
Sean knew the whole room was holding its breath now, that he had their absolute attention, and he kept them waiting for a few seconds longer.
"I'd like to ask him how the fuck he thinks this is a publicity stunt. Don't open your mouth, Jordan, I ain't done yet. I'll tell you when I'm done." There was an audible snap as Michaels closed his mouth, and the faint sound of his career falling apart around his ears. "I'd like to know if he thinks it would be acceptable to ask that of some other star taking his wife, or his girlfriend - some hot model or something - to his premiere to see his fucking movie. To see what he's been pouring his heart an' soul into while they've been apart working. Is that okay? Cause I tell you what I think it is. I think it's fucking rude. That goes for the rest of you too."
He shifted his eyes across the crowd, then back, and leant forward, picking up the microphone as he stood up, little stand and all. It was on a short cable, so he still had to lean forward, but he pointed at Viggo.
"I love this man. I love Viggo fucking Mortensen. And it don't mean I don't love me wives an' kids. It don't mean that what I felt with them, with him, is any more or less real. It's love--it ain't rhyme or reason, it just happens, and you can't control it. Who it is, or when it comes, and it doesn't decide what gender it is you fall in love with, you just fucking do."
He paused, and realised that this sounded like a wedding speech, or an award speech, and he frowned.
"Don't ask me any damn questions that it would be rude to ask a straight guy about his girlfriend, because he'd punch you in the fucking nose and so will I, got it?"
He sunk back down into his seat and sat struggling to reattach his mic to the countertop--ineffective because suddenly his hands were shaking horribly.
The next question was about the computer graphics.