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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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."
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"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."
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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."
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"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
reasonablegreat 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."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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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."
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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.
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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."
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He couldn't move, but he could watch, and he drank Viggo in, watched him move, and felt him too, a weight dragging across him, rising through his belly, the soft peppering of his kisses on his lips, his cheek his jaw. He arched again, but it was more or less useless; a little thrust against the slick nothingness of silk. Viggo's hands at his sides were anything but motionless, seeming to glide against his ribs with every inhale, and Sean had to close his eyes just for a moment because everything was so very overwhelming.
When he opened them again it was to look down, trembling in anticipation as Viggo's lips and tongue wandered down over his sides, wandered over his scar as though fascinated by it, and he stared--stared and stared and strained his arms longing to reach out and down and touch, desperate to drag his fingers through that hair and scratch his shoulders and...
Anything. Everything.
Perfection was a journey. Seemed like a damn lot of effort if you asked him. But then Viggo was asking him if he wanted to be shaped, to be changed, and Sean wasn't really sure. He bit his lip, anxiously, and thought of the women in his life, almost all of which had tried to change him and only been let down and blamed him when they couldn't, or found out that he didn't need to be changed, imagining some bit of rough and only getting an artist; a quiet, gentle man with a man's desires and a man's passions and nothing more.
But if he could trust anyone to shape him, was there anyone in the world better for the job than Viggo? Unlikely. He had shown his patience and dedication already, and Sean knew inherently that he was a good man, trying to do good things, and that he loved him for who he was, and would never seek to harm him, his reputation, or anything else for that matter. If he changed him, it would be an acceptable change. Wouldn't it? Or maybe he was making too much of nothing. He could wait--maybe he could wait until Sean was ready. He hoped so.
He bit his lip, glanced over his shoulder to see what Viggo was doing, then with a shudder did as he was ordered, parting his legs, feet squared on the ground, thighs trembling.
"I haven't done this for a while..." Soft words, a tiny shake in them. "This way round, I mean."
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It should be impossible for him to love Sean more, given how long he had waited. But Viggo had always defied conventions and shoulds, and with every breath and every look upon him, he fell in love with Sean a little more. It was akin to stumbling down a cliff, really, or stepping into the ocean; a downward slope without much hope for turning around and scrambling for the top, for air. He could barely breathe for how much he adored this man.
"It's alright," he whispered, and his voice was rough with want. Viggo wanted so badly to just pin Sean down and fuck him hard into the mattress, to mark every single inch of his skin so Sean would know exactly how much Viggo loved him. He wanted to fuck him until he melted with pleasure and want; until he fell asleep on this bed and woke up the next morning pliant and sweet, and Viggo could then make love to him. Slowly, gently, until he was crying out and begging for more.
His head was spinning. Viggo's imagination had always been vivid, conjuring images from the barest handfuls of words. His lips were parted, and he was already panting.
No, not like that. That was what Viggo wanted, but- no, that wouldn't work at all.
Instead, he leaned in and kissed Sean again, open-mouthed and gently, his lips touching every corner and angle of Sean's mouth. His fingers were already moving down, stroking a line from the back of Sean's balls to his entrance, circling, feeling the tension of the muscle. His other hand reached up and unknotted the silk tie, leaving Sean with enough room to wrestle himself out of the shirt if he wanted to.
"Hold onto something," he said, and he flashed Sean a grin before he ground his knees against the bed and moved down. Lightning quick, and he had Sean's legs pulled upwards, his hands hot on his inner thighs, a pillow shoved underneath Sean's hips. Then, Viggo leaned in, and his tongue was rough and hot as he follow the line of the wet lube, trailing spit. He pressed the tip of his finger against the tightness before whipping it away and replacing it with his tongue, pressing in then out, up then downwards, and he repeated the motion again.
Slower.
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Fortunately he didn't have to look up then, because Viggo was leaning back into him, kissing him hard, then kissing him again, and his head spun too, so that he wasn't really aware which way was up, or that he was free. He arched against the touches, twisted his right wrist and drew it free, and the other followed soon after.
He had only a moment to really enjoy the feel of Viggo's fingers circling about his entrance, before he was given the order to find something to hold onto, and he did, snapping his hands up, seizing the headboard as though he were seizing the reins of a particularly wild horse, and tightening his grip fiercely. He didn't know what he was grabbing onto it for, but he knew that in bed it didn't do any good to ignore direct orders from either party.
A moment later Sean was glad he'd grabbed it. He shook all over as Viggo's tongue followed his fingers, and for a second he was expecting something as already overwhelming as a blowjob with Viggo's hands inside of him. It was worse than that, though. Well 'worse' was a matter of perspective. It was fantastic, and completely unexpected, and Jesus what was this man.
Viggo had always been a little out there - worse drunk - and Sean knew never to expect anything but the unexpected from him. Viggo might at any second in public grab him by the mouth and kiss him, and Sean had learnt to appreciate it when he did.
"Fuck," he hissed, and arched. "Fuck."
His nails dug into the bedposts, and he whined, his legs knotting around Viggo's back and tightening, muscles flexing. It was absolutely impossible to relax, even if he knew that was what he should be doing to make this easier. It wasn't easy.
"Vig...Viggo. Sodding hell. You--" A deep, trembling moan. "Fuck me." It wasn't actually an order, more along the lines of any of his previous expletives. Demonstrative. He didn't even think of it in any other way but that.
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Then he licked at him again, a slow lingering thing before he pulled away. Before Sean could react, he was already pressing a single finger inside, breaching past the tight muscles, feeling Sean's tension around skin and muscle, and he kissed against his thigh again, deliberately ignoring his erection.
"I will," Viggo said, and his voice had deepened even further. There was a promise there, and he laughed silently to himself. "I will fuck you, Sean, until you forget your own name."
He crooked his fingers inside, sliding in further, trying to find that spot- and at the same time, he licked around his own finger, his tongue tasting Sean's entrance and taking in the smell of musk and sweat and sex. He took a breath, and kept talking, this time pressing two fingers inside, feeling clenching heat and the velvety smooth muscles. For a moment, he had to duck his head, sucking in a breath through his name and feeling the coldness sink into his lungs- but that backfired, just a little, because he now had a lungful of Sean's scent, and he wanted and wanted and wanted.
The ache was physical and mental, and Viggo could feel himself pressing against the mattress, his hips grounding hard against it. He wanted into Sean, to fuck him like he had said (albeit Sean had meant it entirely differently), and he bit down hard on his own lip to control himself. Later- just- later.
He had started speaking again, his words muffled against Sean's skin as he licked around his own finger, tasting salt and plasticky lube. "I've never thought about this, not really. But I'm good at thinking up some things at the fly, and I've always known that I want to hear my name in your voice. Just like that. Keep saying it. Don't ever stop."
Viggo took another breath, and he crooked his fingers up. Stopped talking, and he licked again at Sean's entrance, touching his own fingers- then he did that again. Stroke against Sean's prostate on the inside, licking him on the outside, and Viggo's other hand curled around Sean's cock, pulling from the base to the tip, twisting very slightly at the top and smearing precum all over his own hand.
"Let me hear you."
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He didn't know if - if it were him - he'd have had the control to eek this out as much as Viggo was doing. He thought he'd have lost it by now, pulled out and fucked him hard and fast without seeing, and he knew all at once that Viggo wasn't going to do that--that even if his base urges wanted to, Viggo wanted more for it to be special, for it to be something memorable and lasting, to leave his invisible marks on Sean just the same way as Christian did visible ones.
"Viggo," he breathed, and then he tried it in Spanish, drawing on decades old memories of the language. Guido. The Gui was easy to hang on, but it was the gg in Viggo that Sean preferred in the end, because he could draw it out as long as he liked, through any touch, through every stroke of Viggo's fingers and tongue, inside and out, and he never had to finish if he didn't have the breath to pronounce the 'o', which was more often than not. Every touch to his prostrate felt like a shotgun blast through his pleasure centres, and his voice caught totally in his throat every time. He didn't stop.
Sean knew the power of a name. He knew how terrifying it was to imagine being overhead; he knew how dazzling it was to hear it cried and cried in passion and ecstasy. He couldn't think of anything better than that, than giving that, because it was a gift that was free, and yet meant so much.
When Viggo actually touched his erection, it was such a shock that he cried out loud, let go of his hold on the bed and bolted clean upright, curled around into almost a fetal position against the pillow beneath him, catching Viggo's shoulders in both hands and squeezing so hard he knew he'd leave bruises. He could see him now, really look down at him where his head bobbed, every finger curled against him somehow, filthy and perfect with his sweat-beaded hair clinging to his face and his eyes closed and his long fingers wrapped around his cock--his own come on Viggo's fingers. Sean released one narrow shoulder to reach for that hand, and pulled it up to his mouth and half bit half licked the fingers, depending on whether or not Viggo's finger was knotted into his prostrate or not at the time, sucking the precome from his fingertips.
He never said anything except "Viggo."
And soon enough even that turned into a note of warning; he couldn't take much more of it.
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God. His fingers in Sean's mouth, hot and wet and biting, and he could feel the roughness of Sean's tongue. And his eyes, the irises almost wholly swallowed by the black pupils, the slits of green bright and shining. Viggo pulled his hand away with an effort, curling his fingers on Sean's chin and pulling him forward, his mouth pressing against his neck, kissing and nipping at him, but he didn't kiss him. He couldn't, not after where his mouth had been. Not right now.
"Sean," he breathed, and inhaled in his scent again. He could get addicted to this. The shape of Sean's name on his own lips, the scent of him, the feel of him against himself. He had waited so long and relied on the abstract, on his imagination- and this was something so real, so earthy and visceral. Everything that Sean was, everything he had never gone after and now he had it. He had Sean, and it was making his head spin and his breath short.
He could barely breathe. "Sean," he said again, and it was a helpless little sound, because it was a little too overwhelming and his mind was short-circuiting out. He could barely think- and Viggo took another breath and stopped thinking. Simply stopped, and pulled away. His fingers almost literally ached from being out of Sean's heat and tightness, and they tremble as they move down on his own pants, yanking them off. He must've ruined the zip on his slacks, but he frankly didn't care, kicking off both his pants and underwear and falling upon Sean again, pushing him back onto the bed.
And he couldn't help it, thrusting forward, upwards, feeling his cock slide against Sean's. He whispered his name again, his one hand shifting underneath Sean's leg, pulling it up and apart and around his own waist. Lining himself up, the other hand on his own cock, and he was pressing in, sliding home.
Viggo closed his eyes, his body falling over Sean's, breath trapped in his throat because he was so damn tight he had to control himself. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, pulling out slightly and pressing in again, changing his angle, trying to find that spot within Sean. His mouth was back on Sean's neck, teeth scraping against skin, tasting him as he shook, his elbows barely enough to support his own weight.
"Sean," he wasn't even aware that he was talking again. "I love you," he pulled back, thrust forward, rocking in until he was inside to the very hilt. "I love you so damn much." Again. "So much." Again.
"Sean."
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When he tightened his grip on Viggo's back, the other man obeyed his unspoken command. His pupils were blown out, and it seemed to Sean as though Viggo was no longer at home. His lips were parted, his clothes shed as though he were brushing them off carelessly, then all at once he was on his back again, Viggo over him, sliding against him. Not even all the strength in the world could make him lift Viggo off and turn him over, even if he wanted to--even though he was strong enough to do it. Nothing could make him want to.
And when Viggo finally pushed into him, any more words caught in his mouth, and he couldn't speak, Viggo's name or otherwise.
His whole body was trembling now, oversensitised to the extreme, until there was almost nothing more he could possibly feel than what he was already feeling. He arched his hips and pushed up, and the head of Viggo's cock stabbed into his prostrate and rocked with the boat-sway rhythm of Viggo settling inside of him, and his eyelashes fluttered as he fought back the urge to come right then. The sound of his name spoken by that voice almost thre him the rest of the way over the edge, the soft I love yous and the hushed feeling of hot breath and sharp teeth and tongue forming his name against his neck like a mantra.
"Viggo. Fuck--Viggo."
And he began to move deliberately, tightening the muscles of his legs around Viggo's back, clamping him closer, deeper, fucking himself back against the other man until everything began to go white and the sounds they were making became all the less coherent.
And then he was coming--coming--coming. Heat rushed through him, tightness that started in his balls and felt like he was climbing and the cord holding him up had snapped, and it whipped over him through him, faster than thinking. All he felt was sensation and Viggo; he could smell him and feel him and taste him, until there was nothing else.
The world swam up to meet him, and the bed felt like it was swallowing him whole, smothered with Viggo, cushioned by feathers and silk and floating--god he was floating.
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And it was mindless now. Mindless rutting, throwing himself forward, fucking Sean into the mattress, thrusting into him hard and fast and rough. Viggo's hands were shaking, but he gritted his teeth and bit down onto Sean's pulse, feeling the rush of his heartbeat against his teeth before he pulled back, grabbing Sean's wrists and pinning them above his head- and he stopped. He stopped there, eyes closed, trying to control himself, to slow his breathing, as he felt Sean writhe on his cock. As he felt Sean come, come from his hands and lips and tongue and cock; as he felt Sean's muscle clench down on him, strangling the breath in his lungs.
"Jesus Christ," he whispered, and his hands clawed at the sheets as he waited. Waited until Sean came down from his orgasm, and Viggo nipped him on his jaw, again.
"I want you to feel this," he said, and he drew back until only the head of his cock remained inside Sean. Then he slammed in. Again and again- it wasn't much, because he couldn't last long, but he relished in the feeling of Sean around him, relaxed and pliant from his orgasm- and he came hard inside him, the light behind his eyelids turning blindingly white. He was buried in deep, his mouth at Sean's throat, breathing in his scent, barely holding himself up with shaking elbows.
Another exhale, and he turned, rolled to his side, slipping out and staring at the ceiling.
"God."
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Sean's eyes were closed--they stayed that way for a moment longer, then slowly flickered open, fighting down the urge to leap headfirst into unconsciousness and stay there. Christian always left more or less straight after sex, and Sean had learnt perfectly well how to overcome his desire to sleep. He desired much more to be awake, to look once more into his lover's eyes, and touch him, and study his afterglow-smile before he was gone.
But he didn't think Viggo would go, and he still wanted to look into his face again.
"Viggo." It was a sleepy slur, and he pushed himself up a little higher, eyes half closed, pupils still blown, lips moist. "That were fantastic."
And he smiled an afterglow-smile, and reached up and brushed flat the other man's hair, and leant in close enough to kiss his lips. When his eyes closed again it was only for a moment, while he breathed him in; the scent of sex, the smell of Viggo's cologne, of the alcohol that still lingered on his breath, and on his own lips. He kissed him again, tasted it--and himself - a million different facets of himself - on Viggo's tongue.
"I don't think I'm ever going to be able to feel anything else again," he breathed. He was thrumming, filled with warmth, filled with pleasure, happily floating along in the wake of sensation.
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His hand raised, and he stroke his fingers slowly through Sean's hair. Then he did it again- pushed himself up on his elbow, and pressed the softest, gentlest kiss against his temple. A breath inwards, and Viggo could feel something inside himself shift. Something clicked, and warmth spread out from his chest, reaching to the tips of his fingers, and he looked at Sean for a long moment as if seeing something entirely new.
"I'll be right back," he blurted out, and he was scrambling out of the bed. He pulled off the condom off his softened cock with distracted fingers, tying it off and dumping it just as he nearly tripped over himself getting into the bathroom. He didn't bother with the door, instead moving to the sink, his hands automatically finding towels, wetting one- no, wait. That was wrong. The water was too cold. Viggo's breath shook as he tossed that into the hamper, and picked up another towel. Then he put it down.
Mouthwash. He switched on the tap, dumped a capful of the minty thing into the mug given at the hotel, and rinsed his mouth. Turned the tap to warm water, and he wet the towel. Inhaled. Looked at the mirror- he looked at himself, and his eyes were bright and shining underneath the glaring bathroom light, and his lips were red and swollen and bitten.
He was smiling like a damn idiot. The warmth was still there. Viggo wanted paints- pens- paper and canvas. Brushes. A camera. Anything- anything to capture this feeling within himself, like an iron band around his throat and torso had snapped completely and he could now actually take in a full, deep breath. He did so, continuing to watch himself, and his hands trembled. Viggo leaned against the mirror, and closed his eyes.
God, what was Sean doing to him?
He had been alone for a long, long time. Not since Exene left him- even before the divorce, they had been separated. Ariadna was a friend, a possibility, but there had been the shadow of Sean since before the new millennium had loomed upon them. That, and Viggo always had his work; so much of it, in so many fields that he dabbled, and he had never found room in his life to think about what he did not go after. What he could have had. But he had gone after it, now. He had it. In one way or another.
He would do anything for Sean's smiles. For Sean to be in his bed; to sleep next to him and wake him up next morning. To be tangled up in their sheets and to see Sean with rumpled hair and with pillow creases on his face. To know if he was a morning person; to remember again how he took his tea. Many things.
Viggo took a deep breath. Splayed his hand on the mirror, right over his face. He was thinking too far; Sean did not love him. Not yet. He wringed the water out from the towel, but he was still frozen up, eyes closed. Trying to level out his breathing in the vain hope that his world could tilt right back onto its normal axis.
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Yeah, he'd definitely have to do something about it. And was he really planning to be lying here on his back long enough for it to matter? Interestingly and not at all surprisingly--yes.
Sean sat up after a little while, the blanket draped awkwardly across his hips, picking off the items of clothing that remained on the bed and grinning a little stupidly at the mess he'd made. So it wasn't the first time he'd done this with Viggo, but it did make him smile--he felt good, and it was because of Viggo; not just because of the sex but because of Viggo. He wanted to be with him more, because this man--this impossible, incorrigible, insane man--completed him in a way he hadn't expected, when he'd kissed him first.
Viggo was his dearest friend, and now they had taken it further, and there was no going back, and he wasn't sure if it delighted him or frightened him--or a little of both.
What was taking him?
The path to the bathroom was a little more awkward that Sean expected. Ass naked, and just a little bow-legged, he swayed over to the bathroom door and leant against the frame for a moment. Viggo was facing the mirror, his hand on it, his eyes closed, a wet towel in his other hand. He seemed to be gathering his strength for something, but Sean had more than enough for both of them.
He slipped across the room in utter silence, braced his hands against the sink to either side of Viggo - still without touching him - and then leant in over his shoulder.
"What's keeping ya?" he purred, lips close to Viggo's ear, his eyes half closed. His hair, he noted, was horribly mussed, and he wore sex like a tattoo on his skin. When he leant close, his chest met Viggo's back entirely, and he moved his left hand from the sink to the towel, and drew it back toward them, grazing the wet terry cloth against the other man's abdomen.
"Not that I mind coming to you, eh?"
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"Just thinking," he murmured quietly, turning around. Sean's eyes were so green at this distance, and Viggo could see it- could smell it, the sex that they just had. He closed his eyes, fingertips barely grazing against the edge of Sean's jaw as he tipped his head up and kissed him, pressing their lips together chastely.
Then, he took the towel from Sean's hand and swiped it down his stomach, cleaning off the stickiness, then teasingly swiped towards his thighs before he used a stronger touch and cleaned there as well before dropping the towel in the sink. Viggo met Sean's eyes for a moment more, his hands spreading out, the tips of his fingers touching against Sean's cheeks before he moved up, up, tracing the edges of his cheeks before burying themselves in his hair.
He kissed Sean again as he tried to find the words. Viggo had always been good with them, but he somehow couldn't find anything that suited. Everything seemed so empty and hollow and cold, unable to completely capture the warmth he felt and even more inadequate when it came to talking about this man. He could only kiss him, stroking against every corner of his mouth, drawing his taste and his scent and everything about him into himself, placing it next to his heart.
Viggo's hand moved down, pressing against Sean's chest, right above his heart. He could feel his own start to speed up, then slowed- following Sean's heartbeat. Slowly, he pulled away, leaning his forehead against Sean's.
"I would hold you to that, you know," he said, his voice barely loud enough to be heard. "That you will come to me. That you'll let me go to you."
A ragged breath, and he stroked Sean's cheek, feeling the short hairs of his stubble scraping against his fingers.
"I don't want this to be just today."
I've waited too long for that.
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He was perfectly happy--gloriously happy, and he hadn't felt that way in a long time. Christian's company was wonderful, yes, but it had almost always made him feel sad, because it was only a fragile thing; he could never take it home. He could never just float in the happy, and roll over and stroke Christian's hair and know that neither of them had anywhere better to go.
Sean was sturdy, and relaxed, and he moved his right hand up and trailed his fingers back through Viggo's hair, their foreheads together, his eyes closed because he was too close to actually see him. He smiled, and breathed out a relaxed, minty breath, and thought of that damn condom he'd used with Christian and found himself laughing rather inappropriately at Viggo's request.
"Vig, if it were just today I wouldn't be here."
He licked his lips, opened his eyes and leant back so that he could see Viggo; so that he could look straight into his eyes.
"You know I want more than that. You said we have to work for perfection, and I want to work for it. I want to find it." Now, curling his hand around Viggo's back he stepped away, guiding the other man back with him. "Starting with me in your bed, until morning, starting with you waking up beside me, and me waking up beside you, and us eating a great big ugly sodding breakfast together, right here."
Sean stepped back as far as the door, brushes his lips over Viggo's once more and smirked.
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He knew that it wasn't going to be easy. Relationships rarely were, and the kind of things that the romance novels wrote about were either wishful thinking or made or purely naivete. Or perhaps Viggo was too cynical. Or both were true. He knew that this wasn't the end of it, and there were still obstacles for them to face.
But they would face it together. He would have Sean by his side, and what they face would involve them both. What involves you will now involve me, and what involves me will now involve you. He hadn't been in a relationship for years- over a decade. Viggo wasn't even sure that he remembered how to be.
But this was Sean, and Sean was worth trying. Viggo was stepping back, moving them towards the bed, tugging him close until he was falling back onto the mattress and dragging Sean with him.
"There's room service," he said, and rolled over until he was leaning over Sean again, and his smile was crooked. "But I'd rather cook for you. Let's see if that's possible in the morning, mm?"
God. Morning. Having Sean here in the morning, and being able to look at him when the sun rose in his hair. To be able to watch him open his eyes; listen as his breathing changed.
Viggo couldn't imagine anything else that would make him happier.