we are the same but our lives have moved along, and the third one between-

[honestlyyours]

There's one thing Viggo is good at, and that's waiting. He waited twenty years to get a big break with his acting. He waited more than a decade for Sean. It's just- in Lord of the Rings, during the filming, he falls in love with Boromir. Aragorn didn't, not really. Aragorn is complicated, full of obligations and weight and kingship and Arwen and a completely different view of love and what love is. Aragorn belongs to the world of Tolkien entirely, and he cannot fall in love with Boromir, not like that. But Boromir has left an indelible mark on Aragorn- and on Viggo, and Viggo falls for Boromir.

He falls for his nobility, for his burdens, for his strength. He falls in love with the way that Boromir's hand shakes in Lothlorien, in the look in his eyes as he dies, in his passion and fierceness when he speaks at the Council. It's all jumbled up, completely out of chronological order, but that's filming, isn't it? Viggo thinks he falls for Boromir, but at the same time he's with Sean, and Sean isn't Boromir. He snaps out of Boromir's character so easily that Viggo is left chasing dust, but at the same time he thinks that the passion he sees, the way that the words tumble out of Boromir's throat when he's talking about something he cares about- that's all in Sean too. And he thinks he loves the way Sean's mouth looks when wrapped around a bottle of beer; loves the way his hands curl and fly when he's taking out a cigarette to smoke. He falls in love with the planes of Sean's face when he takes a drag, blue-grey smoke all around him, and Viggo takes pictures and throws them all out because none of them capture the essence of it.

And Viggo falls, very quietly, very subtly, for Sean, and he thinks it's half-Boromir, half-Sean, and it really shouldn't matter, because he's not young anymore, and there's no real rush. Then Sean goes off to Berlin to film a science fiction movie, and Viggo sees him after the Fellowship of the Ring premiere and there's something different about him. A bit of desperation, his rough edges sharpened even further, a feverish look in his eyes. He wonders what the hell happened, but it's a slow-burning fire. He keeps track of Sean throughout the years, watching his movies, loving his movies, and falls in love every single time with the way Sean's tongue curls around the words. When Troy comes, he visits the premiere ostensibly for Orlando and spends the whole of it watching Sean. It was then that he categorised the fifty-three different shades of gold in Sean's hair.

Four years ago, they met at Heathrow. A coincidence, really. He's in a whirlwind, promoting Eastern Promises, and he'd met Sean. The feverish look in Sean's eyes seem to have set up and took up residence and started requesting for permanent residency, and Sean's hand was hot in his skin. Viggo becomes Aragorn for a little while, but what they do isn't what Aragorn do, and Aragorn never wanted to fuck Boromir. That's Viggo, through and through, for Sean and Boromir both, and he knows that he's not what Sean is looking for. Sean is looking for someone who immerses even deeper, who becomes completely, who erases himself entirely. Viggo's not like that. He's too centered, too calm, to patient. Sean looks for a thunderstorm and all he finds is a smooth, gentle glade.

Now Viggo starts looking, starts listening. It's not urgent. Just off to the side. It takes a little effort, and he starts reading tabloids online- and when he does, it becomes a little clearer. He doesn't get an invitation to Sean's wedding, but he's heard of Georgina, and when Christian Bale explodes on the set, everything becomes a little sharper, a little clearer. Berlin, a science fiction movie. A beautiful face. Viggo has met Christian before, years and years ago. He has met him, but he knows nothing of him. Viggo is an artist, with a strong eye. He's a photographer. He knows masks when he sees them, and Christian has always been about masks.

It's a little disappointing, a little anti-climatic. Now he knows, so what? He can't sweep Sean up into his arms, and he doesn't want to do that. The kind of poetry he writes doesn't talk much about sweeping romances. Viggo is patient still, and he waits. He works more, and waits, and dates a little, here and there. He laughs with Henry, and he's proud of his son, and he talks to Exene. She's ill, and he helps with that too. He stays in Idaho and takes care of horses and watches Sean and Christian from across the ocean. Bits and pieces of Sean starts to appear in his poetry, in his paintings- but it's fine, really, because no one notices amidst the abstraction.

He works, and he waits. Game of Thrones come and go, and Viggo is startled at how old Sean seems, how he seems weighed down, barely able to breathe. Viggo looks into the mirror and he sees the white in his brow, and suddenly he thinks that- he's running out of time. He's patient, but he's running out of time and it's been twelve years. Twelve years of waiting, and Sean doesn't know a thing about it. Viggo traces the white in the mirror and thinks of a painting, of a blue sky that's streaked with darkness and dotted with hidden starts. But he can't not continue to wait. Sean divorces Georgina. Christian exists. He waits, but he's getting a little antsy about it.

Viggo talks about it, in the interviews. He's afraid. He's running out of time. He's getting old. But he never really says what he's afraid of- and he's glad he hadn't, when the news come out, and Christian starts to tease the press. It's not very nice of him, and Viggo knows truth when he sees it. Since Equilibrium. Since 2001. Sean brightens up, laughs more. He loses the weight he gained for Ned Stark, and loses the years he gained with it. Viggo watches him during the Scream Awards; watches him surrounded by his girls; watches him laugh in a way he hadn't in a long time. And for the first time, he wonders how he can still love this man.

Then the spotlight angles against Sean's hair. A split-second flash, his face is out-of-focus as Viggo slams down on the pause button on the video. Fifty-three shades of gold, and now at least three shades of silver. Viggo's next painting is full of those shades, and he tries over and over to try to recreate the exact differences that he can see, but paint is a terrible mistress and he's more frustrated than not. It's alright. It's not a painting he can sell or display anyway, because it has his heart all over it, and god knows he's obvious enough.

Viggo hates the Oscars, but he has another nomination, and Sean has one. It's a little strange. Viggo's mind makes the strangest leaps. Sean is nominated for his role in David, and Viggo has David Cronenberg to thank for his nomination. Both for Supporting Actors. Sigmund Freud would probably love to have Lucas Shaw on his chair. The press is going crazy over it, what with the Rings connection. Viggo laughs and congratulates him on the phone when they talk, and he drives to LA, more than a little pensive. He hasn't seen Sean in years. Not since the Empire Awards in 2009. It's been three years.

He's running out of time. It's been thirteen years now, and Viggo wonders if he should still wait, or if he should make his move. Christian has laid his claim all over Sean in one movie, tying the two of them together. But Viggo has his mark too, even though he shares it with seven others. Nine, written on Sean's shoulder, written on his arm. It binds them together, this Fellowship.

He thinks he should meet Christian. If only as Christian Bale and Viggo Mortensen, rather than Edward Rosier and Caspar Goodwood. It'll be interesting. Viggo can already see Christian's colours, all blacks and greys and cut-ruby red, glistening and splashed across a painting. The paint has to be wet. It's worthless when it's dry, the meaning all gone, the rubies turned to blood, and that's not the point.

Viggo calls Sean, and it hits his voicemail. That's alright, and he leaves a message. He's staying at a friend's LA flat. (He wonders if Sean is living with Christian, with Christian's wife and daughter.) He wants to meet. For a drink, maybe before the Oscars, because he's missed laughing with Sean; missed being called 'filthy humans' and grouped together by Orlando. The Men of the Fellowship. Viggo-and-Sean. A bond together that they have inked into their skin. Just the two of them, like the kiss that Aragorn had laid upon Boromir's forehead, a benediction from the King to his Steward.

He wonders if Sean thinks of the same thing. If he misses the same things. If he misses New Zealand. It's 2012, Viggo thinks. Maybe it's time to stop waiting.

He wonders if Sean's hair still has the same fifty-three shades.

***

If Viggo had waited for other people's opinions to validate his work to think that what he did meant something, he would've committed suicide a long time ago.

That was a sobering thought. Rather amusing too, actually. There were still vultures outside, circling around the bar - around LA in general - waiting for the tiniest flicker, the smallest giveaway that Viggo Peter Mortensen, nominee (and loser) of the 73rd Academy Award for Best Supporting Award begrudges Sean Mark Bean, winner of the same award, his victory. Well, the vultures could continue to circle. They could keep running around in circles, because Viggo wasn't going to give them what they wanted.

Sean had won. Of course Sean had won. If anyone else had won, Viggo would have stormed out of the Oscars in a towering rage. Even if it was himself. Especially if he was himself. Freud was good, he felt good about the performance, but after what Sean had done...

Perhaps he was a damn masochist, but Viggo couldn't help himself - he watched David, and he came away nearly clawing at his own skin, feeling the dirt that Lucas had accumulated from too much exposure to David Allen stick onto himself. He could feel it along with Sean, the corruption of a good man and the way he had fallen all the way to hell. It was choking and exhilarating and Sean had barely needed to say anything for his performance to carry through with such weight and power. Every single move, every single breath. Viggo had watched Sean carry Boromir's despair and wear it as a tight-fitting cloak with just one turn of the head and one look into his eyes. He had watched with the one and only front-row seat how Sean portrayed Boromir's final acceptance of his King, and had kissed his forehead in absolution while entirely-unplanned tears had coursed down his cheeks.

Viggo couldn't give him a standing ovation during the performance because it was in a goddamn cinema, and it's a shame that no one does that anymore. But there's the Oscars, and the announcement of Sean's name, and Viggo didn't care about anyone's opinions. He stood and applauded for all that he was worth, turning to look at Sean with a blindingly bright grin because goddamn did he deserve it, and Viggo wasn't biased at all, and he knew from one glance that Christian Bale was reaching out, grabbing onto Sean's jacket and pulling him close, hugging him tight, and he was smiling in a way that he hadn't even smiled during his own win - Viggo watched that, too, because he was thorough - and he had let Sean go.

Had turned to look at Viggo through his lashes, across the rows of seats, head tilted to the side.

Because see- Viggo didn't tell Sean after all. Not during that drink one day before the show. Not during that first reunion, full of backslapping and hugs in that too-public hotel lobby, three days before the Oscars. The words had somehow gotten stuck in his throat, or perhaps they were lost, half-formed and tossed away even before he could complete then. The edges of the words were pressing against his tongue, heavy and weighted and he couldn't say anything, and it was ridiculous because he was fifty-four (one number greater than the shades of Sean's hair) and he should be an old hand with this. He should know what to do. It had been thirteen years.

He didn't. Not at all. Viggo had clapped his hands red and raw, his breath coming too fast and too hard, his head spinning from the adrenaline and the exhilaration and David and Michael had given him such odd looks, because he seemed more excited by the fact that he had lost to Sean Bean. But it was Sean, and during the commercial break Viggo had tried to explain it to David haltingly, with broken words and fragmented sentences and waving hands and stilted shoulders, and David had gotten it and grinned, giving him a little headbutt right in front of everyone and it was a little strange, thirteen years out of time. That, and the fact that David Cronenberg had watched the DVD extras for Lord of the Rings.

(Keira and Michael didn't get it, but Vincent did, and texted him about it. It was a marvellous example of how things had gone every single time, with this movie.)

He had texted Sean after the show, the first moment he could. Told him the bar, told him he would be here, and here he was. He wasn't waiting for a reply. There might be messages, there might be not. Viggo didn't want to know, not from a machine. He wanted to hope because he would see Sean's figure at the door. He wanted to feel the sharp disappointment and the tiny flare of unquenchable hope if he didn't. Viggo had nothing else to do tonight. All he would be doing would be waiting for Sean.

And that, he had enough practice. Thirteen years' worth.

Comments

[honestlyyours]

Viggo wasn't drunk; not in the least. It took more than a couple of shots of scotch to get him tipsy enough to mistake Sean for someone else, especially with that little rub across his mouth. Viggo's eyes fixated on that mouth for a moment, staring at the lips and at the hints of stubble that was peeking through the skin, letting his eyes follow the lines of Sean's face down to the strong chin, to the long neck that was caught in his Awards' best. White shirt, black tie, black jacket. Sean looked beautiful.

There were new lines, too. Lines around his mouth, around his eyes, the skin of his cheeks a little looser. Signs of aging, but Viggo preferred that to the false smoothness of Hollywood, where a forty-year-old tried their best to erase their years of living and their decades of experience to look like a 'sweet young thing'. Sean's life story was written on his face, on the strong neck, on the darkened skin of the back of his hands. Viggo could paint it all, write it all, if he had the time to sit Sean down to look. He would take in every single inch, every tiny line, and Viggo would memorise it, capture it, and spin a thousand stories of where it had come from.

There were too many lines from frowning, he thought, head tilted to the side, absolutely silent and still. That was alright, because this was Sean, no matter what he said, and Sean knew that Viggo had a habit of trailing off into his own head in the middle of a conversation, in the middle of a damn sentence. Right now his head was trailing onto Sean's face, to take in the lines, and he smiled a little himself because he could tell that there were lines for smiling too, and those were always beautiful.

"You look like a friend that I'm waiting for," Viggo said, and he barely noticed that he was speaking at all. The words seemed to flow from him, quietly murmured, his lips barely moving. He raised a hand, and traced the air in front of Sean's lips, then up to his eyes, then to his hair. Inhale, exhale, and his smile was just lopsided, his head tilted to the side as he watched Sean.

Then he broke his gaze, digging into his pockets for change. He smacked four-fifty onto the table, sliding it over, and sat himself onto a bar stool. He picked at his nails a little, tugging and tugging at his own black suit jacket. His little brother had dressed him today, because Viggo wasn't allowed to go out to a ceremony like the Oscars and dress himself.

"I've been counting, you know," he said, almost idly, his voice barely loud enough to be heard by Sean. "Shades, I mean. On my friend's hair. There are fifty-three, and I've started naming them. I've a handful of names, like, mm- caramel-if-you-put-gold-flakes-in-it-but-why-would-you-do-that-because-it-spoils-the-caramel, gold-burned-by-candlelight-on-one-side, well-worn-gold-bracelet-faded-by-sweat-and-years-and-love. The names are kind of long."

He lifted his head, blue eyes peeking through dark lashes to peer at Sean. "It's funny, because I counted your shades, and there are fifty-three too. Fifty-three, and three more of gray, six more of silver." His lips suddenly quirked up, a little too wide, because- it's funny.

"Is it the British sun's fault?"

[somethingleft]

There wasn't a chance he was imagining it, and his breath caught in his throat as Viggo reached out, tracing the air in front of him as though memorising the angles of his face by almost touching. Swallowing as the other man's hand retreated, he leaned a little closer to listen to him, and found himself unable to hide the surprise in his expression as a result. He'd named the colours in his hair? Some of them didn't sound so romantic, but that was art, wasn't it? He remembered Viggo in New Zealand, always the guy with a camera in his pocket, never able to leave a piece of paper blank. His scripts seemed to have suffered the most.

And there was no doubt in his mind now--Viggo was lovesick. He was fucking head over heels, because Sean wasn't stupid, he knew what it was like to have a crush, knew the way you focused on the little details - like the colours in his hair - knew how you couldn't get it out of your head even if you wanted to. His lips were dry, and he was biting one of them, and leaning back he licked it, raised his hand to push back his hair.

"Gray and silver. Sure know how to compliment a guy, don't you?"

His eyes flicked down, as though checking Viggo out too; a long look, as though he'd never seen him before, and then he looked back up and leant forward, reaching out with one hand to Viggo's tie and wrapping it about his own fist. When he'd wound it all the way down to the Oxford knot, he pulled him forward, half across the bar, almost nose to nose, his eyes steely and unshaking.

"I don't think your friend's coming," he purred, and his voice sunk back into Sheffield, and he moved his mouth so close his breath tickled across Viggo's lips, and when he leant back it was only so the other man could see his smile.

"This is where you invite me back to your place, and tell me it's not far."

[honestlyyours]

Sean wasn't behaving like himself. Viggo knew about all about masks, and knew even more how Christian Bale used his. It seemed like Sean had been close enough to that man to pick up his habits, and Viggo froze for the briefest of moments. Like the flash of the lightning before he smiled. It was his business smile, his artist's smile, the smile he put on for the interviewers, the fans, the bookstore owners- everyone who wanted something from him.

Viggo had his masks too. His masks, and his pride. He took a breath, and pushed himself away, his hand on Sean's wrist - he could feel his pulse, and Viggo felt his own heart traitorously start to follow that beat, unbidden - and tugging him away from his own tie.

Then he leaned in, tilted his head a little, and pressed a gentle kiss on the side of Sean's lips. It was a chaste little thing, almost like a continental greeting; far more pure than the dozens of kisses that Viggo had laid upon his friends' lips over the years. Billy, Dom, Orlando, Elijah, Ian, Sala, Lawrence, not to mention David and Ed and Vincent. Most of his friends and those he had worked with, because Viggo was free with his affections and easy with his touches.

But he was cagey with his love, and kept his heart locked up tight. He hadn't a choice with that, to be honest; after all, his heart hadn't belonged to him for a very long time.

"It's alright," Viggo murmured, and pulled away. He took his drink, and knocked it back, letting the cold, smooth liquid burn its way down his throat.

"It's not very fair to either of us if I ask you to come back to my place, because you're not my friend." Reached out, placing a hand on Sean's arm, and his smile faded a little. "It's better if you stay here, and find someone who would like you for you, rather than whatever resemblance you have to some actor you don't even know."

Then, Viggo placed the empty glass on the counter, sliding it over to him. He licked his lips slowly, catching the last drops of the alcohol, and sighed.

"I've been waiting for that friend of mine for thirteen years, I think I can spare another night."

[somethingleft]

Sean blinked, staring at the other man as he leant forward without a single word and kissed him on the edge of the lips as though he were saying 'farewell'. He stared, and wasn't sure what he was doing wrong, and when Viggo knocked back his drink and spoke, soft and unsmiling, Sean felt a blush crawl up his neck--not embarassment but shame. He was ashamed.

The thing was he was trying to be someone else; trying so hard, like he always was to be something he was not, just like he'd tried with Georgina, just like he tried all the time he was with Christian, and Viggo was saying without hesitation that he was waiting for Sean. For Sean, not any of his masks, not for anyone he was pretending to be, and it had been a decade and he just didn't know if he could be himself any more, because nobody ever wanted him like that. Not his wives, not Christian, not the press. Sean Bean was never good enough as just himself, and that was why women left him and it was why he never won any damn awards. He wasn't a Hollywood star, no matter that he was paid like one.

And Viggo wanted him? He didn't know if he could even be himself.

"Viggo." He said it before he knew what was supposed to come afterward, and he felt his legs weaken a little underneath him, suddenly wishing he'd poured himself a drink too. He stared bleakly, and struggled for something more - something honest - to say, and came up short.

The second passed, and he moved to one side, moved around the bar and reached for the edge of his jacket and saw his hand tremble.

"Don't go."

[honestlyyours]

There was something heartbreakingly beautiful about that flush. Red against the gilded gold of Sean's skin, against his hair. Viggo wanted to reach out to touch, to feel the heat of the flush against his fingertips. Did Sean's heartbeat quicken? Was that embarrassment, or-- no, no, that wasn't it. That wasn't a good kind of flush at all, and Viggo smacked himself for getting so caught up with the aesthetics that he had almost completely foregone the meaning.

It was shame, and Viggo's heart ached, twisted painfully in his chest. Sean was beautiful; beautiful in ways that Viggo had never been able to articulate except in bits and pieces, hidden like easter eggs in his poetry and paintings and photographs throughout the years. He had never really thought about it before, but perhaps he had broken it all up into pieces so that he could still breathe when he looked at his own work. Breathe, instead of break, instead of shattering, from the heartache of being able to capture Sean on paper. In any way.

There was nothing this man needed to be ashamed about. Today should be his victorious day, because he had won a prestigious award, a prize that many people had said that he had deserved for a very long time. Viggo didn't really care about all that, but he knew that not everyone was as careless with material validation as he was, and he knew that this award should mean something to Sean. There was nothing he should be flushing about. Not in shame. Embarrassment, maybe, because Viggo had turned him down, but-

He shook his head gently, tossing away the thoughts that were starting to run in circles. Viggo's hand closed around Sean's, feeling the rough knuckles against his thumb, and he shifted his body slightly, hiding Sean from sight before he lifted that hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. He could smell sweat and cologne and musk and Sean, and this close, the hair on Sean's hand looked like burnished gold underneath the dark lights of the bar. Impulsively, Viggo kissed his hand again.

"Alright," he said, simply, but he tugged on Sean's hand, leaning back to his original booth. It was against a window, so they could look out to the silly people still camped out on this bar at night. He tipped his head back and signalled to one of the real bartenders to bring them two double shots of scotch.

Viggo hadn't let go of Sean's hand. Reluctantly, he opened his fingers, letting his arm drop back to his side. It draped loosely, like a doll's arm. Viggo ignored it, focusing on Sean.

"You should be celebrating your win." A little idle, and very gentle. He had spoken the truth when he said that he could wait another day. Something was bothering Sean.

[somethingleft]

Sean suddenly felt very young, and he followed Viggo a little distractedly, the tingle of kisses still lingering on the back of his hand. If this was London he'd be terrified of being seen, but it was a little bar in America, and even if the stars were out tonight, the spotlight on them was far away. He sank down into the seat opposite Viggo, still a little shellshocked, and his hand dropped onto the table when Viggo let him go.

"Feels like it's been forever," he told him, his shoulders sinking a little. "Since I've been around people who want me as me. Can't imagine anything much worse than those damn bootlickers draping all o'er me fer the rest of the night."

He shook his head, watching the bartender approach with their drinks, and taking one to sip it quietly. He'd have preferred beer, but they only exported Guinness out here and there was only so much of the stuff he could stand.

He didn't know quite how to approach what Viggo had left him with, with the flash of his smile and the appreciative downward working of his eyes, the murmured words about the shades of his hair.

"You've been waiting thirteen years," he said, almost afraid that the sentiment would run away from him the moment he spoke out loud. That Viggo would shake him off and walk out and have none of it. "Didja mean it?"

[honestlyyours]

There was an exhausted little crease between Sean's brow, a tension in his neck. Viggo wanted to reach out and smooth it clear, to soothe away the tension until Sean was relaxed again; until he could be himself, without artifice, without his false smiles, without all the weight that he was carrying on his shoulders. It wasn't the first time that Viggo had wished that the fairytale of the Rings shooting had never ended; that they actually managed to meet up every year, that the five year, ten year reunion actually went through.

But they were all busy. Acting was a career like that; you didn't have much control over your schedule, much less anyone else's. It was a life of the eternal nomad, moving from place to place, moving from groups of people to other groups, going through the same motions. Viggo hadn't really tried this time, because he was tired and there was a feverish light in Michael's eyes that reminded him of Orlando at his worst and Christian Bale at his usual, and it was more than a little tiring.

All Viggo wanted to do, nowadays, was to act, write, paint and photograph. Like always. He didn't need the awards or the attention, and honestly, he had learned to do without the people.

Except for Sean. Viggo's smile was still a little crooked, and he wanted, achingly badly, to kiss Sean. To lean forward and kiss him gently on the lips, and kiss him all over. To trace the lines of his jaw with his own mouth, then to dot the smaller, gentler lines with kisses, to reassure Sean somehow that he wanted him just like this. That Viggo didn't need him to be anyone else; that he was beautiful like this, and he didn't even need him to smile if he didn't want to.

Viggo never really had many demands in his life.

"I don't say anything I don't mean," he said, and his voice was gentle, a little teasing. That was what Sean had said of him, wasn't it, on the extended videos. Viggo reached out, blindly, hand closing around his drink, and he held onto the glass so he wouldn't reach out to touch. They were still in public, and Viggo still remembered about Sean's limits.

"It doesn't matter how long I have to wait," he tipped his head back, looking at the ceiling. "Or even if I will get what I want at the end. As long as you're happy. As long as you feel better about yourself."

He caught Sean's eyes again, and his smile widened, genuine and large and true. He lifted a single shoulder, then dropped it. Almost a shrug, but far too fraught with meaning.

[somethingleft]

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."

[honestlyyours]

Almost done. Almost done waiting, and Viggo's breath caught. It was so easy to talk about loving Sean and accepting him and wanting him to be happy, because it was all true- but there was always the looming possibility that there would be nothing after this. That even though Viggo had finally got his legs working to chase, he would just be chasing dust and light, both of which fading away with the next corner. It was almost a comforting thought, because it was terrifying to think about what would happen next.

And wasn't that what Exene had always told him was his greatest flaw? Viggo wasn't afraid to take risks, wasn't afraid to say what he meant- as long as it was about abstractions, about concepts. Loving his son was easy, expressing it was easy, but Henry wanted to go to New York for university and Viggo had let him without a word even though he would miss him. Expressing what he wanted, what he truly wished from people- was always ridiculously difficult. Viggo spoke in riddles and circles that he himself did not and could not understand, and, if he was perfectly honest with himself, it annoyed him too.

But this was Sean, and Viggo had always taken the first step, the first chance. And Sean was reaching back to him, his hand opened; Viggo would be a fool to not take it. There was an advantage to knowing and being in love with someone for over ten years - he knew that Sean would get angry, and start spluttering at him if he didn't reach out his hand; at the same time, he knew that it would never be offered again if retracted.

Slowly, Viggo closed his hand around Sean's fingers, and his smile was almost shy. His other hand fumbled for the glass, and he knocked back the two shots in a single second, leaving his throat burning. He didn't cough.

"My hotel room is just upstairs," he said, and immediately hesitated. A moment passed, and he pressed on-

"Would you like to come up instead?"

[somethingleft]

"Upstairs, eh?"

He seemed to be mulling it over for a moment, drawing it out as though to torture Viggo a little before lifting his own glass, taking another sip.

"I guess I could come upstairs."

He was taking his time thought, still sunk into his chair with his head down, thinking about what he was committing himself to. It wasn't just about sex--assuming they even got as far as that. It was about getting in deeper. It had just been Christian before, and he could write it off as just a whim. It wasn't him. Now it really was. Now this was something new about himself that he was actually learning. He was saying 'this isn't a one time thing.'

And Viggo was going to be different. He wouldn't be gone in the morning like Christian. He wouldn't be so possessive. He'd be loving, and in a totally different way, and Sean would have to confront that as much as anything else. It wasn't at all going to be like being Christian's bit on the side.

Their hands were still held, and Sean made no effort to pull his away, instead taking his glass with him, and Viggo with his other hand, pulling him off toward the stairs. They climbed together, and Sean hung back sipping his drink as Viggo opened the door.

"What I want to know, Viggo, is why you didn't say anything before? It's been years. If you felt this way... Well there was always New Zealand." If anything there was a note of disappointment in his voice. "We're only getting older, you know."

[honestlyyours]

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."

[somethingleft]

He looked sort of lost, or maybe defeated, with his shoulders bunched up as though to protect his head, his hands buried deep in his pockets. Then he said something that Sean considered punching him for, even if he understood it. I wondered if it was Boromir or if it was you. Sodding Boromir. The half of the world that didn't know him as Sharpe only knew him as sodding Boromir.

"Looked worse than it was," he said, warily. But it was true. He was old in Game of Thrones. Old in real life, too.

He hung back, listening, watching, and then he stepped forward, reached for the hand at Viggo's side and whirled him away from the wall the way he knew how; the way he did it with Christian, bending him all the way over, curling his hand in his belt to keep them hip to hip, taking utter command over the position.

It was only a matter of leaning close enough to kiss him then, tightening his grip slightly and pressing his lips against Viggo's, kissing him hard, but not at all for long. He was passionate, yes, but it was different than his kisses for Christian. There wasn't heat like there was between them. They weren't rutting, and there wasn't a battle of tongues. The domination ended at the position, at the kiss, but it wasn't a part of it.

When he drew back, it was with a sigh, and he drew back, brought Viggo back to his feet and brushed his shoulders, patted them, smoothed back the hair from his eyes.

"Alright. Just wanted to get that out of the way now so you know where I stand. Better to regret what you have done an' all that, eh?"

He swallowed hard - anxious - and drew away, licking the taste of Viggo from his lips and half tripping over a rug as he excused himself back to one of the seats, sinking down on the edge of it, putting some space between them.

"Feeling better?"

[honestlyyours]

Heat. Heat with every touch, with the kiss. Sean had kissed him before- well, he had kissed Aragorn before, just that once, when they had fucked in that hotel room and Viggo had turned his brain off and locked his heart up even tighter. It was just Aragorn then, even though he kept slipping character, because it was Viggo who was in love- whether it was Boromir or Sean, it had always been Viggo. Aragorn had Arwen, his soulmate and the love of his life, but he had been rocked by Boromir so much that the ripples of his emotions had shaken up Viggo so entirely that he couldn't breathe sometimes.

He was breathing hard when Sean pulled away, his hands clenched at his side and his shoulders tight. Viggo exhaled quietly as he watched him lick his lips, and he was moving, walking forward, almost stumbling on his own two feet. He crashed down in front of Sean, staring at him with wide eyes, lips parted, still glistening slightly with spit.

"Not really," Viggo said, and he surprised himself with how hoarse he sounded. His breath tripped over itself, and this- this was something else too. This was something he hadn't even thought about until now; something that surprised him and made his tongue heavy in his house. Kissing Sean. Having sex with him.

Seeing the shades of his eyes when he hooded them in pleasure. The shape of his mouth when he was aroused, swollen with kisses. The taste of him, far less fleeting than now. Nightlights on his skin, gleaming against the scars and hairs and roughness, pure masculinity- and how Viggo's shadows would look, playing on his skin. Placing a mark that would be indelibly written in Viggo's mind, but easy enough to erase when- if- Sean chose it.

He was losing his courage again. Viggo took a deep breath, and reached out, curling his fingers into Sean's hair. The other hand went to the back of his neck, and Viggo leaned in and kissed him again, open-mouthed. And this time, he wasn't still. His tongue darted out immediately, sweeping across every single corner, tasting every inch. Sean tasted of cigarettes and dark scotch and grass and steel and sunlight and everything that Viggo had never been able to define. He tasted different behind his teeth than he did at the corners of his mouth, and there was a tiny pulse at the edge of his cheek, right next to his molars, and Viggo pressed his tongue there for a few seconds, feeling his heartbeat against his skin.

Breathing in Sean's warmth, and feeling his chest hard against his own, his heat seeping through the layers they wore. Viggo shook slightly when he pulled away, and his fingers tingled where he had touched Sean.

"I love you," he blurted, and it was a relief and completely redundant at the same time.

[somethingleft]

The kiss was fantastic, but it wasn't how amazing the kiss was that mattered so much, it was who was kissing him. Sean had almost forgotten the taste of this man, which was a good thing because it had changed in the last thirteen years. He wasn't sweet like Australian beer and fresh fruit any longer, but he did still taste like charcoal and old paper and chemicals, with a strong overture of alcohol that sang through, though it was much stronger these days.

Viggo's lips were on his and Viggo's hands were in his hair, and he found himself less perched in the chair and more sliding down into its depths with Viggo above him like some overgrown bird.

And then he said 'I love you' and Sean almost laughed out loud, but it would have been totally inappropriate.

"Sodding understatement, mate." It was a rumbled murmur, and Sean returned the affection with a broad grin, lifting his own hands to bury them in Viggo's hair, tugging on the short strands as he pulled him into another kiss. This time when they parted he was still grinning, and he let his hands wander down, squeezed Viggo's ass and pulled him the rest of the way up into the chair, legs around him. If there was one thing Sean wasn't, it was shy about intimacy. At least when you were alone. He hated being with girls who were full on until you got them alone, at which point they suddenly decided things were moving too fast and tried to stall the seduction. Not that he didn't appreciate foreplay, it wasn't that at all. It was confidence that he found attractive, and it got him in trouble far too often.

"There's probably one thing you should know," he purred, "Before we go any further. You know you said you didn't know if it were Boromir or me? Well it were both, you know? Aragorn fell in love, an' so did you. That's the only reason why he'd stay in Gondor after everything. It's why he was so determined to save it he near enough came back from the dead. For me. For Boromir."

He brushed another kiss to Viggo's mouth, then leant up, grazed his teeth to Viggo's ear.

"Apart from that night you never kissed me on set. Everyone else you macked all over, like you were tryin' t'make it okay, but not me. You've got a lot to make up for Mortensen. Starting now, if you want it."

[honestlyyours]

Sean was unbalancing him again, physically and mentally and emotionally all, and Viggo gasped quietly, leaning over him, his legs spread around Sean's hips as if straddling him. He bit down on his own lip, staring at him for a long moment, completely uncomprehending about what is being said because his mind had taken to running in circles in panic over his desire for this man.

It wasn't a sexual identity crisis; nothing that cliche. It was simply that it had been so damn long since Viggo had kissed anyone, much less plastered himself so fully against them with the aching want to take off their clothes and feel the heat of their bodies against each other. There were plenty of people willing to fuck him, whether because he was Aragorn or Walker Jerome or even Tom Stall, but Viggo had never taken them up to any of those offers because he knew it wasn't Viggo Mortensen that they wanted; that It was even he was only capable of disappointing them.

It had been years, and Viggo had never been afraid of intimacy or affection- it wasn't Sean who scared him, not really. Sean had only taken him off-guard, exposed him to his body and his mind and his heart's desires, and that had terrified him far more than he can ever say. Viggo had so rarely wanted that it was almost like being lost at sea, and he couldn't help but lean in further, pressing his lips against Sean's neck. He licked gently at the column, from the stark hollow upwards to his chin, to the mild stubble he could feel, and Viggo leaned in gently and kissed Sean again, just the briefest brush of the lips. The kind of kiss that he would've given any of the Fellowship.

"I didn't understand why I hadn't," he said, and his voice was almost contemplative. It would have been if not for the heavy thrum of desire underneath, if not for the tension in his voice, tight as the skin of a drum. "But I think- I would've wanted more than just that. Even Aragorn would have wanted more, Arwen and kingship be damned, because Boromir meant so much to him."

He stroked a hand down Sean's face, feeling the roughness of the lines, the scrape of stubble, and he kissed him again, at his temple.

"I want it, but-" he took a breath, and pulled himself up with an effort, pulling away from Sean's blazing heat. "Are you sure? I don't want you to become someone else just to please me. You don't have to do anything because of what I want."

Another breath. "I know that you're- sleeping with Christian Bale. It's hard not to, with how fiercely he was glaring at me." Viggo ducked his head, feigning amusement but only hiding his embarrassment and discomfort. If Sean pushed him away now, he would've deserved it, but- he wanted to be sure.

"I've never been very good at chasing the people I want."

[somethingleft]

For a second Sean considered just strangling him, or doing like he would with Christian and turning him over and fucking him into the couch. He didn't. It was more that he hated that tease and duck away thing that seemed to be happening. Viggo in his lap, leaning over him, kissing him with passion and uttering words of love - unneccessary - into his ear, and then suddenly he was turning cold again, pulling away from him, hiding his face. It was infuriating, and Sean didn't know how to deal with it. It required a certain subtlety that he wasn't great at.

"You know I'm sleeping with Christian," he repeated, softly. "And you barely even know who he is, do you? You were always worse at the politics than I was." He curled his lips and reached up, taking Viggo's hand.

"Christian's married. Happily married, with a pretty little girl. We're good together, but he don't make me happy. He ain't there when I wake up in the mornin'. S'just about sex, and I've got no problem with that. And I matter to him--I really do." He rubbed his face with the other hand, then leant up so that he could kiss the edge of Viggo's mouth.

"Answer me something, Viggo. If you're not good at chasing the people you want, why am I here?"

His hand dropped to Viggo's shoulder, then ran down, settling eventually on his hip. His eyes were turned down, thoughtful, and when he spoke it was barely a murmur.

"What were you hoping would happen? You've been planning this a while, right? So what did you want to happen? We have a few drinks, fall all over each other like last time? Maybe you just wanted t'talk ta me until it were after midnight and I couldn't get a cab back for love nor money, got stuck here on yer couch while you drew me while I was sleeping. Then you could be happy for another thirteen years, never say another word to me."

His hand wandered a little further down.

"I'm going to have to put that on hold, the never talking to me again thing. See, I rather like the idea of seeing you again. And again, and again. So let's make this good, yeah? Like it is in my fantasy."

[honestlyyours]

Information and just a little bit too much input for him to process properly; for him to look at from all the angles he had to look at and understand the consequences and implications of what Sean was telling him. Viggo wasn't entirely surprised that Bale was married - he was there with his wife, wasn't he? But he was more surprised at how easily Sean had given up that information; that he seemed to have no problem with it. That just seemed- odd, to Viggo.

It wasn't that he hadn't had his own affairs with married people. His was a woman, but what differences were there, in the end? Viggo couldn't think about her being married while they were together- in as much together as he could be, while his heart had belonged to someone else. Even then, he couldn't think about it, and needed her to pull off her wedding ring even when they spoke to each other. Sean's ease was- disturbing.

But Viggo's thoughts screeched to a halt and focused on what was more important. That this was Sean's fantasy, and he wanted to see him again, and again, and again. That it didn't have to be chaste, and Viggo could reach forward and take what he wanted for so long. It wasn't a dream or a rebound, and Sean was perfectly clear-sighted. He knew what Viggo wanted, and what he himself wanted, and Christian Bale had nothing to do with this at all.

Viggo reached out and touched, cupping Sean's face with long fingers, leaning close until his lips brushed against the edges of Sean's ears. His breath was hot, and his words slurred, and it was an actual effort to not speak Spanish, all of the sudden.

"I've always wanted to bring you back to Idaho," he murmured against Sean's hair. "There are hills behind the estate where I live, and the horses and the stables. You always look so magnificent while riding a horse, and I want to bring you riding in the early morning, to see the sun brightening your hair. Before that I would watch you wake up with the dawn, and I will fuck you gently into the mattress. There's no one around for miles, and I will make you scream and melt and want me as much as I want you whenever you do something as beautiful as breathing."

His own breath was shaking, and his hands shifted, moving down, down. Down to Sean's waistband, hooking against it- then moving up, sliding up against his chest, feeling smooth, hot skin beneath his calluses. "But right now, I'm not going to let you sleep. We're going to the bed, and I'm going to make sure that you don't remember any other name than mine."

Viggo's eyes were bright, and he traced Sean's bottom lip with his thumb, pressing in- before he kissed him. Just the barest brush of lips against lips.

"At least for tonight."

[somethingleft]

Sean might have been holding back a little on his own fantasy, but Viggo's when he told it was as filthy as Sean had considered making his own. It was romantic enough--you always look so magnificent riding a horse--but it trailed off into a lot more than that, and Sean slid his hands down the back of Viggo's thighs, gently pulling him closer, rocking his own hips upward into the other man's, shivering visibly as Viggo's hand wandered under his shirt.

"That sounds fantastic," he growled, softly, and drew Viggo's hand back to his mouth and gently bit the tip of his thumb.

Was he really these things, or was it just the rose tinted glasses that Viggo always wore making yet another appearance? Sean himself knew he was dazzled by glamour, tripped over his tongue like any other man when a beautiful woman walked into a room (and that had gotten him in more than enough trouble, and destroyed at least one if not more of his marriages). He didn't see Viggo as beautiful, and it wasn't anything as trite as convenience either. Love? Sean might say love was easy for him, but was it really love? All those relationships? Was it just two people who happened to meet well and line up well and have reasonable great sex?

He'd told Christian he loved him.

No, Viggo was a little more like an experiment, and that wasn't fair to him, not really. He didn't know all of what to make of him, and it could go horribly wrong. The fact that Viggo loved him so unrepentently just might be too much to handle, and he'd end up breaking his heart. He hated breaking people's hearts. But he made of people what he saw of them, and Viggo was no different. He'd give it a chance. Maybe it'd be everything he wanted. Maybe it'd be what he'd been looking for all this time.

His hands rose up again, from Viggo's hips up to his shoulders, and then he gave him a little push off his lap, leaning in to kiss his chin.

"First part of that is going to the bed, Vig. Means you have to stop kissing me, 'less you think you can handle both at once." He bit at his stubble and grinned, and raised a hand to brush back through his hair, tilting his head back. "And when we get there, you'd better make good on all your promises."

[honestlyyours]

Viggo wasn't a fool. He might be idealistic, he might be a hopeless romantic at times- but he wasn't an idiot. Sex didn't equate to love, and just because Sean agreed to sleep with him, it didn't mean that he loved him. Viggo had outgrown those assumptions decades ago, and he knew that right now, Sean didn't love him. There was no chance in the world that he would, not when Viggo had been away for so long; not when Christian's shadow still loomed over him, his mark ever present and invisible on Sean's skin.

But Sean was willing to give him a chance, and Viggo would be a fool to take it just because it wasn't perfect. Perfection needed to be worked for, there was no doubt about that, and this man- Viggo had taken the first plunge, the great risk, and he looked at Sean's bright, glittering eyes right now and knew that it would be worth it.

It wasn't just that Sean was beautiful. Viggo was an actor, and he had been in the Hollywood circuit enough to almost be numbed to the physical beauty of human beings. It had stopped affecting him a long time ago, the plain things about the shape of a person's jaw or the colour of their eyes or the curve of their hands- no, Viggo found his inspiration and true beauty in movement, in gracefulness, in their self assurance and vulnerability and reality. It was in their senses of self, and Viggo had never found a person who drew him in more than Sean. Sean with all of his different facets and contradictions, the most complicated of them all.

He breathed out a soft breath, tilting his head to kiss against the heel of the hand. Sean's hand was soft, and warm, and Viggo's lips were dry again. He licked them his tongue prodding slightly against a line on Sean's palm.

"I can do both," he murmured quietly, looking up at Sean from below. He tugged on the hand, placing it around his own shoulders while he wrapped his arms around Sean's back and waist. Viggo knew the layout of the room well enough, and he kissed Sean- gentle little things, closed-mouth and fleeting and yet lingering all the same. He kissed Sean like he was chasing the shadow of his own hair and head on Sean's skin, touching bits and pieces of his lips at one time- and all at once he's moving backwards, pulling Sean with him, finding his way to the bedroom and the bed.

[somethingleft]

Sean was laughing despite his best efforts not to, mostly at Viggo's gall rather than anything else. Seans' feet weren't big, but with his eyes shut, following quietly after Viggo's kisses as he was pulled, he stepped on Viggo's toes none the less, unable to really guide himself. He hadn't even got a really good look at the place to know where he was going himself.

They reached the bedroom more or less intact, though - thank god for Viggo's steel toe caps - and Sean found Viggo's mouth with his own, kissing him hard and deep and taking the last step back himself, pulling Viggo down after him, over him. His right hand slipped into Viggo's hair (which was nothing, he noted, like Christian's), and his left slid down the back of Viggo's pants, squeezing hard, pulling them hip to hip.

He had to stop for breath, still unable to stop his laughing, and forced himself to relax, to exhale, even if the amusement still danced in his eyes.

"We made it to the bedroom. Now comes the hard part."

Like whether or not Viggo could undo Sean's bowtie while Sean's hands were all over him, and after he'd drunk six shots here and however many more drinks he'd had back at the awards ceremony. Probably lots.

"Come on," it was a breath, more than anything, and Sean flexed, arching deliberately underneath Viggo, physically lifting him off the bed with just the strength of his back and thighs.

[honestlyyours]

There were benefits to going barefoot all the time, and Viggo didn't even notice his feet being stepped on. He had Sean in his arms, his heat against his own skin, and that was distracting enough. He rocked backwards against the hands against his ass, then forward against Sean's groin, before he spread his legs and straddled him fully, sitting on top of his thighs.

His head was spinning a little from the drinks and the exhilaration of all this, but Viggo never really let a little tipsiness stop him. In fact, it steadied his hands further, brightened his vision, and he pulled open Sean's bowtie smoothly, letting the silk drop to the side. He wound it around his own hand, feeling the silk against skin- and watched Sean carefully, the smallest quirks curving his lips upwards.

"The hard part is right," he said, his voice a drawl and his words curling inwards, rolling around his tongue, more Spanish than the American flat vowels. He leaned in, his hands slamming down on the mattress beside Sean's head, and kissed him hard, swallowing his breath, his demands, even as he ground down with his hips. Pressing down just as Sean was arching up, and he could feel the indent of Sean's cock against his own ass, curving upwards, pressing against him through at least four layers of cloth.

He laughed quietly to himself, into Sean's mouth, a high, happy sound before he pulls back. Viggo unbuttoned the white shirt in front of him quickly enough, and pulled it back and upwards. The jacket went with it, and Viggo tossed the heavy material back. The shirt, however... he wound the sleeves around Sean's arms, pinning them together. At the same time, he had moved upwards until he was now crouched over Sean's chest, pressing him down, making sure that he couldn't move while Viggo tied his hands together. Then, he freed the bowtie from his hand and tied a crude little bow around Sean's wrists, silk pressing against silk against skin.

"Patience, my Steward," he drawled.

It had been years, but this was like riding a bike, and Sean's eager smiles and smooth skin and beautiful laugh were all inspiring him. His fingers itched to make art, to draw, to create colours on Sean's skin- and he moved down again, his lips pressing against Sean's pulse point. He didn't bite, only letting his teeth scrape against the golden expanse, over and over, while his hands busied themselves with unbuckling Sean's belt, opening up his zipper. The heel of his hand pressed hard against the cock hidden inside his underwear. His hands moved to the waistband of Sean's pants and underwear, fingers digging inwards-

Then, he pulled down, and bit against Sean's throat.

[somethingleft]

Okay so Sean was surprised by Viggo's sudden change of heart. This wasn't romantic any more - or it was, but it wasn't softly softly like Viggo had been before, it was passionate and powerful, and it totally overwhelmed him, so that he wasn't really prepared for Viggo to kiss him all at once like this, driving down onto him, rockign his hips down to trap him against the bed, with his nimble fingers working his clothing like he were working saddle leathers, buttoning open, dropping down so that every inch of his erection seemed to press against him fabric through fabric.

"Fuck," he hissed, and "Fuck" again as Viggo's hands moved up, twisting his shirt together until he found himself pinned, the full weight of the other man on his chest as he tied him up with the silk bowtie. Well... He really hadn't seen that coming.

Patience, my Steward. Jesus, the lines were being crossed all over the sodding place, weren't they? Half himself and half Boromir and yet all Sean and Viggo and modern and sex, his expensive suit trousers and his crumpled silk shirt and Viggo's fucking hands running down. He hadn't had any reason to worry, not really, this wasn't going to be a gentle, slow fuck, and if it was then it was only to wind him up, to stretch it out and make him moan and shiver, and Sean was reminded of that scene with Christian, bound to the chair with the other man moving all over him, barely touching and yet driving him crazy. This was different and yet very similar. This was Viggo, and Viggo was...Viggo was a promise. Viggo was different. When Viggo bit him it wasn't a laciviously tender bite with lots of tongue and hot breath, it was hard and passionate and sharp. Everything about Viggo was passionate and sharp, Sean reflected.

"Shoulda done this...sooner." He grinned, leaning slightly back, turning his wrists just slightly inside their bondage, and his eyes stayed bright on Viggo's. His grin turned into a smirk.

"Make me think only of you, huh?" He licked his lips, charmed. "Hard to do that when you do such a good job of reminding me of Aragorn." Another lick, and he leant forward. "You call this kingly?" He laughed again. "I think Boromir mighta forgotten all about Gondor if Aragorn did this to him."

His eyes were still sparkling.

[honestlyyours]

"Oh, Aragorn had wanted," Viggo's voice was half-breathless, lifting his head to look into those sparkling eyes. He stopped suddenly, body half-splayed upon Sean's thighs, reaching out and grazing the tips of his fingers against the edges of Sean's jaw, then against his lips. Slowly, he dragged down his hand against Sean's throat, flattening it out against his chest, flicking against a nipple with his thumb. For a man in his fifties, Sean was still so incredibly beautiful, and Viggo could feel the muscles of his stomach jump under his hand. "It's a pity that there was so much going on."

He took a breath, and ducked his head, licking a line from the top of Sean's navel upwards to his sternum, letting the tip of his tongue curl against the little dip between his ribs.

"But I wanted to," he continued, and the words were spilling out of him without design, without much thought. Viggo had always been good with words; had always been eloquent, even when he was drunk. He could form words and use them even without thinking, and he wasn't thinking right now. Not when his hands were busy pulling down Sean's pants and underwear, kicking them off.

He was still dressed in his own shirt, jacket and pants, but Viggo ignored it, running his lips and tongue and teeth over Sean's thighs, his hand pressing against the back of his knee, nudging his leg upwards. "Whether it was Boromir or Sean, I wanted to do this. To taste you. I've thought about pinning you down on the grass and painting your skin, and taking photographs on thick paper. The photographs wouldn't have any colour except for your eyes. You have such beautiful eyes."

And he was leaning in, his lips dry again but he let the rough texture press against Sean's cock. He kissed him at the base, then licked until the tip, leaning his head forward until his lips curved around the head, sucking lightly. "I would paint on you," he continued, his voice soft and vibrating against Sean's skin. "Everywhere. Trace every line and every curve, and when I'm done I would lick it all off."

Viggo lifted his eyes, caught Sean's gaze with his own. He slammed a hand against the bed and propelled himself forward, kissing him hard, rubbing the cloth of his slacks against Sean's naked cock.

"There are so many things I want to do to you. For you. With you." Viggo kissed him again, soft and lingering and chaste- then spoiled the illusion by nipping him on the lips. "I shouldn't have waited."

[somethingleft]

Sean shivered at those particular words. That Aragorn had wanted to do this to him - to Boromir - and all that had come of it was just one drunken night in New Zealand. It seemed like a waste, and yet he was back there imagining the crisp snow, the echoing sets, the sweat that clung to his skin and the way that he'd come back bone tired at night and horny as hell with nothing to do about it, and that for a certain amount of time they had actually lived in such close proximity to each other that he could have satisfied that desire without any effort at all.

And here was Viggo - an artist - playing his body like it was a guitar, calloused and dirty fingertips (he hadn't noticed that in the darkness of the bar; they were flecked with paint and there was charcoal or something under his short nails) dragging hard over sensitive skin and arched muscle, making his body jump beneath him albeit completely uncontrollably; at Viggo's whim.

But Jesus, his tongue and his dry lips and his words--all new textures, and all played out against him like it was a particularly complicated movement in music, and Sean wanted nothing less than to play harmony. He moaned, careless of the sound he made, because Viggo's words turned him on, and when it wasn't Viggo's words - his imagination building scenes of lewd and lascivious perfection on the back of his eyelids, and his compliments like ice water poured down his spine - it was his hands urging his legs up, his body rubbing so perfectly against his own, his mouth delicate and yet bristled; pleasure and pinpricks of discomfort equally, and all of it completely overwhelming.

"Always imagined you wanted t'paint me on paper, Vig. Had a few waking dreams you did, but I thought that was me imagination."

He was naked; completely naked, and Viggo hadn't removed even a single stretch of fabric, but Sean arched under him, twisted so that when he inhaled his whole torso filled, rising up toward Viggo's chest, smooth muscles writ with tiny scars (and one in particular a little larger, a bottle wound he'd obtained not so long ago compared to some of his other scars.)

"All that waiting. What'd it get you except a cold, empty bed? I've been waiting too, always expecting something perfect. But nothing's bloody perfect, Vig. You just have to take advantage of what you can get yer paws on, and hold on and never let go. Because it's so fucking fleeting. It's vain, an I can't bloody stand it half the time."

He was rambling as though someone had turned on the faucet, and his eyes showed a certain warm desperation. He had so much love to give, and he wasn't perfect; he wasn't going to be anything that people thought him to be, because that wasn't him. But he wanted to be loved for who he was--bad as much as good, and Viggo had murmured sweet nothings about the greys and silvers in his hair, and given them names, and maybe that was a good start, right?

Maybe Viggo really did love him, and love him for him, not for some...image of Sean he'd painted some time. Maybe. It was clinging to those little chances that really got him through. Like betting on the favourite rather than the longshot.

"You better get started. An' take something off, else I start worrying you got me up here for a mag shoot and nothing much else." Again amusement--he was teasing.

[honestlyyours]

Right. He had to take something off. Viggo's focus had been so entirely on Sean that he had forgotten about his own clothes- no wonder he felt so uncomfortable. Even silk shirts and slacks became rough and heavy when his skin was oversensitised like this. Viggo sat backwards, shrugging his shoulders to get the jacket off before he started unbuttoning the shirt from bottom up- and he reached halfway before he had an idea, and threw Sean a small, mischievous grin before his hands stopped.

He was probably far too old for these games, and too out of shape for it to have the effect its meant to be. But Viggo smirked to himself and slowed his hands, nonetheless, making the last few buttons a tease, winding slowly upwards to his throat. When the shirt was finally opened, he shrugged it off, and dropped it over to the side of the bed before leaning over Sean again and kissing him, gently.

"Something's off," he teased, and stroked his fingers down one side of Sean's face again, tilting his head up for a kiss.

Viggo had never thought himself as attractive, much less beautiful. All of the women who flung themselves at him either saw him as Aragorn or Walker Jerome or, in a few rare cases, Caspar Goodwood. He was probably dull and plain by Hollywood's standards, or perhaps with features far too sharp to be considered conventionally attractive- features that sharpened ever further with age, and his light hair had lightened even further, turning into grey and silver. Whatever attractiveness he had, in his opinion, had been lost a long time ago.

But he wasn't shy about it, because this wasn't about him. It was about Sean, and he had used enough words to describe Sean's beauty in the past hour and he was starting to run out of them, or sound repetitive. So Viggo didn't say a word, only kissing him on the jaw, then to the side of his neck, nuzzling against his skin and feeling the warmth of his pulse beating against his own cheek. His hands moved, calluses on his fingers tracing down Sean's sides, tracing the lines of his ribs and moving inwards until his hand was flattened against his chest, right above his heart.

His slacks were still on, and Viggo let Sean feel the silk caressing his skin as he moved downwards, kissing against the new scar at his side, his tongue darting out to trace its shape.

"It might be a little silly," he said, words half-muffled against Sean's skin. "But I've always thought that perfection isn't a destination, but a journey. It's something that you have to work towards, and something that can fade just as easily. It's like a painting - and yes, you're right, I do want to paint you - and even a single wrong stroke can ruin it entirely, or make it into something else."

He turned his head, nuzzling against Sean's leg, nipping at the smooth skin at the back of his knees before working up his thighs again. "Whatever that comes before- is raw material, and you have to take it, shape it with your own hands."

Viggo took a deep breath and blew hot air against the tip of his cock. He raised his voice a little so Sean could still hear him even as he moved behind, lips curling against his balls, then pulling back. "Most people don't like it, I think, to have to change, to have to be shaped." He lifted his eyes and caught Sean's again, and the message in them was silent but present between them- he didn't know if Sean wanted to.

"But it's alright. I can still wait." Then he's pulling himself up again, his hand reaching out to the nightstand, rummaging until he could find the lube and the condoms. He dropped the strip on the bed, thumbing open the lube and pouring it over his fingers. Gently, he moved downwards, his lips smoothing against Sean's cheeks and ears.

"Spread your legs for me."