Their escape after everything had been such a relief for Sean - such a relief - because there just wasn't anything that he liked better than getting Viggo alone and just--well, enjoying him.
It was late summer in Idaho; the sun clung to everything from morning through to night like it didn't want to let go for any reason, and Viggo taught Sean to look around with bare feet and let the sand and mud and grass squelch between his toes. He'd begun to actually like it--mostly because after a long day they'd sit with each other's feet in their laps and rub between each other's toes, and it was all just so utterly ridiculous that Sean would probably never tell anyone about it. It was soppy, and romantic, but he wouldn't exchange it for the whole world.
He was thinking about marriage. Viggo had always said it wasn't necessary--putting a label on it. But Sean was addicted, the press insisted, and to a certain extent that was true. He wanted to be able to say that Viggo was his husband, because 'boyfriend' seemed to dispensable, and he didn't want to lose him. As much as it was the kiss of death, it seemed, to his relationships, he was certain this time. He'd even bought the ring, with their names inscribed inside, back in London.
But he hadn't decided yet, and he didn't know how he was going to do it, even if he did.
It was a long, slow day - early rising, in Viggo's arms, and then the morning out shopping, getting some time to himself while Viggo worked, and coming back round to the studio to meet him so that they could maybe go out for dinner together, depending on how much more there was to do, or if inspiration had caught him. Sean bought a new pair of sunglasses because his were broken; and they weren't the huge black monstrosities he used to block out his face but a pair that were closer to normal glasses, with thin wire frames in dark green, and a subtle forest shade to the oblong lenses that darkened depending on the intensity of the light.
Wearing a button down white shirt--the top buttons undone, and brown suede slacks over his current pair of cowboy boots - genuine leather - Sean breezed back into Viggo's studio without knocking, carrying take-out coffee under his arm, and with a smile on his face that more than reflected the Idaho sunshine, if not outright outdoing it.
"Special delivery for--" A pause, as he pretended to read his hand. "--Mr. Viggo Mortensen? What kinda stupid ass name is that?"
no subject
It was late summer in Idaho; the sun clung to everything from morning through to night like it didn't want to let go for any reason, and Viggo taught Sean to look around with bare feet and let the sand and mud and grass squelch between his toes. He'd begun to actually like it--mostly because after a long day they'd sit with each other's feet in their laps and rub between each other's toes, and it was all just so utterly ridiculous that Sean would probably never tell anyone about it. It was soppy, and romantic, but he wouldn't exchange it for the whole world.
He was thinking about marriage. Viggo had always said it wasn't necessary--putting a label on it. But Sean was addicted, the press insisted, and to a certain extent that was true. He wanted to be able to say that Viggo was his husband, because 'boyfriend' seemed to dispensable, and he didn't want to lose him. As much as it was the kiss of death, it seemed, to his relationships, he was certain this time. He'd even bought the ring, with their names inscribed inside, back in London.
But he hadn't decided yet, and he didn't know how he was going to do it, even if he did.
It was a long, slow day - early rising, in Viggo's arms, and then the morning out shopping, getting some time to himself while Viggo worked, and coming back round to the studio to meet him so that they could maybe go out for dinner together, depending on how much more there was to do, or if inspiration had caught him. Sean bought a new pair of sunglasses because his were broken; and they weren't the huge black monstrosities he used to block out his face but a pair that were closer to normal glasses, with thin wire frames in dark green, and a subtle forest shade to the oblong lenses that darkened depending on the intensity of the light.
Wearing a button down white shirt--the top buttons undone, and brown suede slacks over his current pair of cowboy boots - genuine leather - Sean breezed back into Viggo's studio without knocking, carrying take-out coffee under his arm, and with a smile on his face that more than reflected the Idaho sunshine, if not outright outdoing it.
"Special delivery for--" A pause, as he pretended to read his hand. "--Mr. Viggo Mortensen? What kinda stupid ass name is that?"