Viggo waited. Waited as Sean thought, and he knew that it wasn't teasing, not really. This was something new, and Viggo was suddenly, sharply so glad that Sean wasn't running away screaming or thinking that he was strange (stranger than he usually was) or anything like that. Those were the possibilities he had considered, in the car driving to Los Angeles, and Viggo had almost backed out of it a thousand times. He could've spoiled their friendship. He could've made things awkward between them. He could've driven Sean from him, and never be able to touch him again.
But how was that different from status quo- from an hour ago, from before the Oscars? Viggo hadn't seen Sean up close in years, and hadn't touched him for even longer. Their friendship and camaraderie had faded since New Zealand, torn to pieces by Sean's globe-trotting schedule and Viggo's Perceval Press and various bits and pieces of art. Viggo went everywhere, Sean went everywhere else, and they never seemed to meet each other halfway except for that one time in Heathrow.
The world had seemed larger and stranger to him in that one moment, when he realised how far he was from Sean. He knew the colours of his hair for at least seven years now, memorised every shade, and he was working on pinning down the exact shade of Sean's eyes- but he was doing it from far away, separate from Sean by time and oceans and phone calls that Viggo had never made. He had waited and waited and he had never even told Sean that he was waiting, and that was always his problem, wasn't it?
Viggo leaned against the door once he had closed and locked it, closing his eyes and feeling the chill of the wood against his skin. He breathed against it, and looked at it through hooded lashes, seeing the condensation on the wood, and rubbed at it absently with a callused finger. Everything to not turn around and answer that question.
But then again, Viggo had never been particularly good at hiding. Or lying, for the matter. Not like Bale, and he thought- wow, he had such bitterness for a man over Sean. Sean, whom he did not even have. Sean, whom he had no idea if he would ever have. Sean who sounded so disappointed in him.
"A lot of reasons, really," he'd shoved his hands into his pockets by now, shoulders hunched, eyes staring at the ceiling. "I didn't know that it was- you, for a long while." He made an indeterminate motion with his hand. "I wondered if it was Boromir, or if it was you. It's not fair if I went to you when it's just Boromir, and it was only when you left New Zealand that I realised that it was you, and then you've left and I still had filming to do."
He shrugged again, his hand dropping to his side. "The next time I saw you- you've already found someone else." A little smirk. "I still didn't understand it myself, and I thought I had all the time in the world. It was only last year- I saw you in that HBO series with the wolves, and you aged, and I looked at myself in the mirror and I don't have as much time as I thought I did-"
Viggo stopped. Cut himself off with a sigh, and rubbed at the back of his neck, quietly sheepish. "Better to regret what you have done than what you haven't."
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But how was that different from status quo- from an hour ago, from before the Oscars? Viggo hadn't seen Sean up close in years, and hadn't touched him for even longer. Their friendship and camaraderie had faded since New Zealand, torn to pieces by Sean's globe-trotting schedule and Viggo's Perceval Press and various bits and pieces of art. Viggo went everywhere, Sean went everywhere else, and they never seemed to meet each other halfway except for that one time in Heathrow.
The world had seemed larger and stranger to him in that one moment, when he realised how far he was from Sean. He knew the colours of his hair for at least seven years now, memorised every shade, and he was working on pinning down the exact shade of Sean's eyes- but he was doing it from far away, separate from Sean by time and oceans and phone calls that Viggo had never made. He had waited and waited and he had never even told Sean that he was waiting, and that was always his problem, wasn't it?
Viggo leaned against the door once he had closed and locked it, closing his eyes and feeling the chill of the wood against his skin. He breathed against it, and looked at it through hooded lashes, seeing the condensation on the wood, and rubbed at it absently with a callused finger. Everything to not turn around and answer that question.
But then again, Viggo had never been particularly good at hiding. Or lying, for the matter. Not like Bale, and he thought- wow, he had such bitterness for a man over Sean. Sean, whom he did not even have. Sean, whom he had no idea if he would ever have. Sean who sounded so disappointed in him.
"A lot of reasons, really," he'd shoved his hands into his pockets by now, shoulders hunched, eyes staring at the ceiling. "I didn't know that it was- you, for a long while." He made an indeterminate motion with his hand. "I wondered if it was Boromir, or if it was you. It's not fair if I went to you when it's just Boromir, and it was only when you left New Zealand that I realised that it was you, and then you've left and I still had filming to do."
He shrugged again, his hand dropping to his side. "The next time I saw you- you've already found someone else." A little smirk. "I still didn't understand it myself, and I thought I had all the time in the world. It was only last year- I saw you in that HBO series with the wolves, and you aged, and I looked at myself in the mirror and I don't have as much time as I thought I did-"
Viggo stopped. Cut himself off with a sigh, and rubbed at the back of his neck, quietly sheepish. "Better to regret what you have done than what you haven't."