He should probably get up and leave. Probably. Viggo was in love with him, and he should leave because Christian would be jealous. You're mine. But somehow it just...didn't surprise him. And he wasn't afraid. He felt like he'd known it all along, and when he closed his eyes for a moment and really thought back to that time, he thought he could see the signs. The glances, the softest touch of fingers to his face, the feather kiss of lips to his temple. Viggo had been caught on every word, he knew, the spell cast over him as intense as that which Boromir had cast over Aragorn.
Sean hadn't understood it at the time. Not until he played Partridge; until Christian fell into his trailer and kissed him, and they got no further than the door. Now, looking back, it all made a lot more sense. He'd been blind. No--he'd been straight.
Still the words were deeper than that. 'As long as you feel better about yourself.' Was that really what mattered? No, not really. Sean knew how loneliness felt, but his loneliness, he figured, was different to Viggo's. He'd filled it up with other people. With indy films and bar fights and women who were gone before he even figured out what they wanted from him. Viggo... Well Viggo was an artist; he'd probably filled up his time with more of himself. With photographs and music and drawing. With introspection. The shrug was a dead giveaway.
Viggo had been waiting for him. There hadn't really been anyone else. He'd been waiting all this time--thirteen damn years without much more than a few looks, and he'd been counting the sodding colours in his hair. Crazy prat.
It was the least he could do, really. The least he could do to reach across the table and acknowledge him, to place his fingertips on Viggo's wrist and run them down to the tips of his fingers, curling his own around them. He did it all wordlessly, his face turned down but his eyes angled upward, and he didn't even glance at his hands. When Viggo's hand had warmed to him a little, he spoke with confidence and certainty, without looking away.
"You're almost done waiting."
He patted his fingers, then drew back.
"Now drink up. 'Still half an hour back to my hotel from here. We can catch up on the way."
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Sean hadn't understood it at the time. Not until he played Partridge; until Christian fell into his trailer and kissed him, and they got no further than the door. Now, looking back, it all made a lot more sense. He'd been blind. No--he'd been straight.
Still the words were deeper than that. 'As long as you feel better about yourself.' Was that really what mattered? No, not really. Sean knew how loneliness felt, but his loneliness, he figured, was different to Viggo's. He'd filled it up with other people. With indy films and bar fights and women who were gone before he even figured out what they wanted from him. Viggo... Well Viggo was an artist; he'd probably filled up his time with more of himself. With photographs and music and drawing. With introspection. The shrug was a dead giveaway.
Viggo had been waiting for him. There hadn't really been anyone else. He'd been waiting all this time--thirteen damn years without much more than a few looks, and he'd been counting the sodding colours in his hair. Crazy prat.
It was the least he could do, really. The least he could do to reach across the table and acknowledge him, to place his fingertips on Viggo's wrist and run them down to the tips of his fingers, curling his own around them. He did it all wordlessly, his face turned down but his eyes angled upward, and he didn't even glance at his hands. When Viggo's hand had warmed to him a little, he spoke with confidence and certainty, without looking away.
"You're almost done waiting."
He patted his fingers, then drew back.
"Now drink up. 'Still half an hour back to my hotel from here. We can catch up on the way."