Viggo Mortensen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
honestlyyours) wrote2011-12-27 12:40 am
honestlyyours) wrote2011-12-27 12:40 am
we are the same but our lives have moved along, and the third one between-
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.
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.
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This was what he wanted. He wanted to not have to hide himself; it wasn't just the thrill of being able to do this in public, it was because it was perfectly normal to want to be with the one you loved and have everyone know about it and not have to keep the truth away like some dirty secret. Hidden like old pornography in a shoebox under the bed.
He reached up, and took Viggo's face in both hands and pulled him down and kissed him hard and longingly, crushing his nose against the other man's face and pressing his eyes shut and smushing their lips together until it hurt, and when all that was done he uncurled, and moved his hands down to Viggo's shirt to fix his collar and tie. He stroked Viggo's jaw.
"I don't know how you do it. We ain't even got in there yet and you're ruffled like a street-bum."
Changing the subject, gathering his strength through familiarising himself again with Viggo's chest, smoothing him out again, pulling himself up to his feet.
"We both have faith in this thing. S'all it needs, I hope. Half those bloody critics were kneehigh to a fucking grasshopper when I were in Chatterley, but so help me if they don't all want me when we get out of here."
It was cocky, he knew, but there was a certain vindictive pleasure in knowing that he - at the age he was now - was smouldering enough to melt the loins of every man and woman in the audience more than half his age, and Odysseus was more than man enough to do it. They didn't make men like they had in those myths; men brave and strong and powerful enough to take on gods and monsters and kings, to conquer the impossible, but Sean thought he and Viggo were taking on the impossible now, and it meant he had to have Odysseus' courage.
Odysseus' courage. Was that what he was missing here? He glanced at Viggo and smiled, and kissed his temple, then reached into his pocket to dump a fifty in the towel-man's tray.
"I'll wear Odysseus' armour," he said. "If you can stand it me."
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"Wear his armour, but be yourself," he said, and he tilted his head to the side. He stepped closer, his hand wrapping around Sean's shoulders. "It isn't only Odysseus who is lusted over and who is so incredibly easy to love. I fell in love with you with just one smile, and with every smile of yours I fall a little more, because you're-" he reached up, barely touching Sean's neck, his eyes heavy-lidded and half-closed, "I can write poetry about almost everything I see, but I still haven't found the words to describe you."
He shook his head, then pulled away, his hand on Sean's wrist. He looked at the tray for a moment before his smile flickered back on, and he dropped his own fifty on it before he took Sean out. The lights were down already, and Viggo nodded to the towel-man as he waited for Sean to catch up with him. They held hands, Sean's fingers rough against his own, as he walked up to their seats, beside the director and the producers, and Viggo's other side was Rachel Weisz, who played Penelope. She gave him a brief smile, and he gave a smaller, rather startled-looking one back, before they sat down and the movie started.
Viggo leaned in, close to Sean's ear. When he whispered, it was with the practiced ease of an actor who knew exactly how to project his voice. No one but Sean would be able to hear him, or even know that he was speaking. Not even the people on the other sides of them.
"They might all want you, but they will have you. They have to watch, burning jealously, as you stay by my side. They will know that it's me that you've chosen to go home with, and they'll wonder what you see in someone like me, because I'm not worthy of you." He smirked a little, his lips caressing against Sean's ear. "They'll want you, Sean. Men, women, whether they are older or they are as young as our children- they will want you."
He nipped against Sean's ear before he slid back into his seat, straightening his shoulders just as the screen flickered, and the movie started. And Viggo threw himself into only watching, stubbornly refusing to turn around to look at Sean and notice his expression. If he did, he wouldn't be able to concentrate on the movie at all- and he was here for the movie. To watch Sean on the big screen; to see what he had created. To look at him and feel proud and say that- that man there, on the screen. That man who created Odysseus so seemingly effortlessly, who breathed sensuality and walked like temptation itself- that man had chosen him.
They would have to face the public later on, but that was later. Right now- right now, Viggo allowed himself to linger on his own vanity, and on the feel of Sean beside him, and Sean's hand in his.
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It wasn't a short movie, and the sound of his own voice was grating, the sight of his own face, knowing how much effort went into getting it all just right, how many times they'd retook that damned scene where he climbed up the mountain at a run, stumbling and slipping, and how one time the moss covered rocks had foiled him, and he'd slipped so hard he'd ripped a muscle in his leg. He found himself frowning awkwardly at his own love scenes, and knowing that the women in the audience were all biting his lips, and the critics in the screening all the more vigilant still for any lack of affection he might be showing, either in the film or out of it.
He found himself raising his chin and watching almost defiantly as the delicate filming captured lithe fingers stripping off his armour, stroking across his bare and scarred (genuinely scarred) chest, his own shivers and gusts of breath, sensual and beautiful...and humiliating.
Sean glanced toward Viggo again, and got no reassurance from him, but squeezed his hand just slightly. Hawk eyes were on him, he could feel them. And it was only the first love scene of the movie.
The second came and went. The big finale, and the whole theatre stood and applauded. Sean sat back, watching all the way to the end, where a creaking wooden horse was pulled up a sandy hill--a teaser--and then he stood, and they applauded again, and Sean was finally able to look Viggo right in the eye, and wrap his arms around him and kiss him like he'd been waiting to for hours.
Now came the hard bit; the walk out and the after party. The press. It was going to be hard work, and terrifying work, but he had Viggo beside him; he wore his armour. He could do this.
They walked out hand in hand, and at the end of the red carpet Sean deruffled Viggo all over again. He'd only been sitting still, and yet everything was out of place all over again.
"I'll have to take on some of them myself," he said, softly. "Make it clear I'm not attached to you by the hip. I'll be alright, but if I say we're going then we go, alright?"
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He knew that. He knew all of that, intimately. But he couldn't help the hitch of his breath at the sight of Sean's face, and his hand tangled itself into his own hair and pulled at the strands when he saw Sean dive for it. Neck first, then up the chin, and there was a tingling against his own skin, from the places where Sean had placed his kisses earlier. It was almost ridiculous, because this was Odysseus. Sean was acting, but Viggo couldn't help but find him so ridiculously seductive that it was an actual effort to control his breathing.
If this had such an effect on him- on him, who knew perfectly well that the whole thing was staged, who knew how uncomfortable it was for the actors involved- then what about the audience, who had no such knowledge to cool their loins? Viggo was right - Odysseus dripped sex. He was sensuality personified, witty and charming and charismatic, weaving a web around his men and Circe and all of the others that he had met. Even the damn surroundings were enchanted, Helios's chariot turning its rays of light in different angles to show Odysseus in his best parts. Even dirty, ragged, little more than Circe's slave, Sean was still so attractive that the camera seemed to be stuck upon him.
When Sean kissed him as the lights came up, Viggo leaned into it, opening his mouth and breathing against his tongue, trying to tell him without words everything he felt. He pulled away soon enough, stepping back and looking at the crowd- and yes, he was right. There were people looking at him with new eyes, with jealous eyes, with angry eyes. How dare you, they accused, men and women alike. How dare him take someone like that. How dare him take someone who could act as the utter paragon of masculinity and heroism, and turn him into a filthy homosexual?
How dare him, indeed. Viggo had to hide a triumphant smirk, ducking his head down as he walked with Sean down the red carpet. He felt his hand against his collar and hair, smoothing him down, and Viggo didn't even realise that he was all messed up again. He looked at Sean, capturing one of his hands in his own, and squeezed it. He would have kissed the knuckles, but the vultures were circling, and he wouldn't want to push their limits.
"Of course," he murmured, and his smile was a little crooked. They were led up to the podium where there were plaques announcing their names, and they took their seats. Viggo had a chair beside Sean and no plaque, but that didn't matter, because he wasn't a part of the film. And he waited for the questions on the film to be asked, watching as Sean talk about his process and research, listening to the director talking about his cinematography and location shooting and the beautiful beaches that the Greek islands were famous for. He rambled on a bit about the exact colour of the sea as Homer had envisioned it- he was just the kind of director.
It started with, oddly enough, a question raised to Circe. Rachel.
"Does it feel strange to have a love scene with a gay man?"
Viggo deliberately did not tense, tilting his head politely. Rachel smiled, shrugged. "As strange as it would be with any other man. We are professionals; I'm married, and he's in a committed relationship. We are friends, and it's our characters who are lovers."
The floodgates opened. Viggo leaned back slightly on his chair, folded his hands.
"Elephant in the room here. Alright, a question for Viggo. I'm going to be frank and ask the question that everyone's thinking: is this a publicity stunt?"
Viggo blinked, tilted his head. He glanced at Sean, at the director, before leaning in and speaking through the mike. "You've all watched the movie. It doesn't need that kind of publicity."
"So how long have you been together? How long have you been in love?" the last two words were almost thrown at them, as if it was a mockery. Viggo smiled inscrutably, and took a breath.
"There are three different questions to that answer. For my part, I'll just say that I have been in love with Sean for fifteen years, and I don't see myself as stopping any time soon."
His last words went unheard. As soon as he finished saying fifteen years, the roar was sudden and deafening, and the questions came quick, chaotic, and utterly disorganised, words all mangled. The reporters realised that the story might actually be even bigger than they originally thought.
Viggo leaned back on his chair and waited.
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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.
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He didn't, because he was already taking too much attention away from the director and the movie already. Viggo only continued holding Sean's hands, his thumbs gently stroking against his wrists. He kept his eyes on Sean's, trying to show him all of the love and affectionate and genuine admiration he felt for him. He wanted Sean to know how proud he was of him. How proud he was that out of all of the people in the world, Sean had chosen him.
Viggo had never really put stock in the belief that a relationship could entirely validate a person's existence. He thought it passe and frankly disgusting, because it implied a certain co-dependency, a certain reliance on someone else entirely for their own self-worth. If the relationship fell apart - and most relationships did, to the point that relationships that stayed together seemed to be the exception - those who relied on someone else for their own self-worth was going to be left shattered, broken and utterly useless, unable to remind themselves of what they were good for because they never really knew.
But he was starting to have an idea. Watching Sean, hearing his words- feeling so much awe and admiration for him and knowing that a man like this had chosen Viggo of all people for his boyfriend... he didn't have an ego, and he was famous for not having one, but he suspected that that wasn't true any longer. At least, not while he had Sean beside him- and with him, Viggo found himself having faith. That they could last. He was going to fight tooth and nail for this relationship, and do everything he could to make it work permanently. Not like Sean's short marriages, oh no.
Viggo was here to stay, and nothing would pry him from Sean's side. Especially now that he could touch him like this. Now that he could sit next to him during panels. Now that he could hold his hands underneath the table and not have to fear if anyone suspected- no one did, because they knew perfectly what he was doing. He squeezed Sean's hand a little tighter as the questions wound down to a trickle and they finished off. Sean's outburst had rendered most of the journalists incredibly cautious about what to say, and Viggo's utter silence and utterly cold stare (he slipped on Nikolai's skin for a moment) did not encourage them to be rude idiots.
Then, it was over. It was over until they moved towards the film festivals and started promoting the film. Everyone pushed their chairs back and stood up, and Viggo did so, throwing a small smile at Sean as he pulled back his chair. Viggo might not mind in the slightest that Sean had essentially compared Viggo to his girlfriend (which he didn't mind about, honestly), but Viggo wasn't going to stop with his little acts of chivalry. He liked doing them for Sean; it was a matter of pure pleasure.
Their hands slipped into each others' again as they stepped towards the red carpet. That would, honestly, be the last stretch. Viggo ducked his head down, looking at the reporters as they walked towards their car. Rachel stepped forward, taking the lead with James Bond on her arm, and Daniel winked at Sean - oh, right, they were in Sharpe together, weren't they? - before going down the red carpet for the last pictures. Viggo tried to slip away, but the last, shouted question from someone who wasn't Jordan Michaels made him stop.
"Viggo, you said that the two of you were together for fifteen years- but Sean was married just four years ago. Were-"
"No," Viggo's voice was sharp, cutting through the silence. It was the first time he spoke since he had let Sean take the floor, and even the photographers stopped clicking on their cameras. His eyes were narrowed. "I said that I was in love with him for fifteen years. I've waited for him for thirteen of those."
They might as well give the bastards one last photographs. Viggo smiled, turning until his entire body was angled towards Sean. "I think," he said, looking into Sean's eyes now, ignoring everyone else. "He's more than worth the wait."
And he kissed him, again. Against the black curtains backdrop, his fingers against Sean's jaw, his other hand sliding into his hair. Picture fucking perfect.