Part 49
49a.
Viggo leans into the microphone and pictures himself knee-deep in a creek, throwing out lines with the guitorgan and waiting for Karl or Billy to bite. The noise moves around him like water and when he looks out past the stage he can see hundreds of faces watching. He bends back down, touches the strings, and focuses on the sound.
"I crossed out alternating Thursdays in December," Daisy sings. "I gave you blue pens…" His voice cracks slightly, but it just adds to Liv's harmony.
The band is tired. When they're in a room together and a phone rings, everyone's very eager for it to be theirs. Viggo watches mostly, because he never quite feels that pull the way the rest of them do, but he wrote himself a note after Sydney. Notice things.
The mood's been shifting further since then. Everyone's slowly edging away from the exhaustion that attacked in Sydney and into the sort of soreness that comes after hours of chopping wood.
Viggo's tempted to pull them all away and go camping. He wants to get a fire going, have everyone put their feet up, and roast some marshmallows. They're leaving the stage, though, and he files it away to say later. But when the band finishes the second encore and drifts towards the van, there's a sort of awed silence hanging over everything. It's shiny. Viggo doesn't want to ruin it.
He's feeling slightly out of focus. He's in the picture, but he's the smudge of movement watching in the background. Which is another thing to write down for later. Instead, he collects two rocks from the edge of the parking lot, to give himself something to hold onto, and in the van, Viggo puts his hand against the window, stretches his fingers out across it and imagines he can feel the air pushing back from the other side of the glass.
When they arrive back at the hotel, Viggo grabs his acoustic and heads towards the common area of the suite. Liv's already there, reading a magazine Viggo doesn't recognize.
"How's the world?" He nods at it.
"Crafty," Liv smiles.
Viggo helps himself to a beer from the mini-fridge, claims the green loveseat for himself, and settles into pulling notes out of the guitar strings.
Daisy arrives with his laptop after a minute or two. "Contract revision," he scowls at them, then steals a swig of Viggo's beer and sets up on the coffee table.
Viggo ignores that, just sings something about not trusting people near your mead, then moves back into the tune he's been messing about with. Daisy's tapping away at the keys, which gives Viggo an interesting rhythm section to work with, and Liv hums along occasionally as well, Usually in approval but sometimes with a suggestion. Eventually Liv's cell phone rings at her and from the way she smiles at it, Viggo knows Roy is on his way over to the hotel.
"Ta, my loves," she says, shaking out her skirt, grinning. They're lucky to just have her around, Viggo thinks, even if he also wonders sometimes why she puts up with them.
So far his notes include something about fish and steaming wood to form a curve. He tries a few more strings of notes and when he looks up again he's alone. Which is startling, because he didn't notice, and he isn't sure when he came in, but the clock on the wall is telling him it's twelve am. The quiet in the room makes him nervous and he wonders if Orlando is already sleeping.
Orlando opens the door looking very awake, with the television making noises through the open door. He's wearing plaid pajama bottoms, smelling like the shower, and pulling a t-shirt over his head.
"Hi," Viggo says, feeling relieved. "Everyone's asleep."
"I'm not," Orlando shrugs, moving back into the room and tugging his shirt down.
"I hoped not." Viggo reaches down to get rid of the guitar case and his shoulder wrenches oddly when he's reaching down. "My back is killing me."
"Right," Orlando makes a face at him. "You think Liv gets backrubs, so you'll just pop in and get one too?"
"Well," Viggo touches his neck where the knot is. "A man can hope."
"A man can hope?" Orlando smirks and sits down on the edge of his mattress. "Sit down then, oh man." He motions towards a patch of floor and Viggo arranges himself there, thanking several deities when Orlando goes to work with his thumbs.
"I'm getting old," Viggo mumbles, chin tucked into his chest. Even his jaw is unclenching. "My mother used to make me do things like this for her."
"You," Orlando pokes him in the back, "you're not old."
"I am." Viggo says, feeling ornery.
"You're also hardly anyone's mother," Orlando snorts. "Who cares if you're getting old. It just makes you all rugged and the like." He tilts Viggo's head back and examines Viggo's jaw between his hands. "Very manly."
"Well then," Viggo says. "Manly." He moves his right shoulder up towards his ear, then back down again, leaning back into Orlando's hands. "Thanks. That feels better."
"De nada." Orlando doesn't move for a moment, but then he pushes Viggo's shoulders away. "I don't want to go to sleep yet," he yawns, "it was such a good show."
Viggo stands up again. "When Billy handed me the chorus of 'Scotsman,' it felt like there was a bow on it." He looks around for a place to sit and a very bright yellow armchair is the only option. It's extremely modern, and very bland. Viggo hates hotels.
"It won't kill you to sit in it," Orlando laughs.
"It's," Viggo grabs one of the arms to drag it over. "Very yellow."
"I like it," Orlando shrugs, "it's cheerful." Viggo sits down with some discomfort and props his feet up on the mattress. "You'll be home soon enough. Just picture yourself in a warm den. Surrounded by all of your, you know, wall hangings and things."
Viggo frowns. He hadn't actually thought about that, but now he's wondering if this is maybe why he's sitting in Orlando's room. "Henry doesn't like to go to the ranch. He say's it's too quiet." He rubs at a blister on his thumb and realizes he feels unfinished. "Does this feel strange to you? This tour, I mean. Something's different."
"Well," Orlando drawls, "we are actually completing a tour. Is that possibly what feels a bit off to you?"
Ah. "Possibly." Viggo murmurs and pokes the blister and little too hard. "Maybe not. What should I do when we leave Wellington?"
"Well," Orlando shrugs, "see where the wind takes you?"
"I really don't do that," Viggo frowns. "Not really."
"Oh yes you do." Orlando looks like he's either laughing or trying not to look sorry for him. Viggo's not sure which and he feels a jab of annoyance. "Always. You just never notice it."
Viggo opens his mouth, then closes it, swallows and opens it again. The knot in his shoulder is saying hello again. "Are you allowed visitors when you're filming?"
"Well, yes," Orlando nods, "within reason. I think you'd pass."
"You know," Viggo rubs at his neck, "I'll miss you."
Orlando just blinks back at him. Viggo isn't sure how to read that. "You should visit," he says after a moment. "There'll be beaches. I'd show you all the horrible sides of the film industry. You'd get to say, you know, cryptic things about artistic expression."
"Or perhaps," Viggo scowls, "I'll write them in a notebook and not share them."
"Oh no," Orlando shakes his head. "I couldn't bear that. You should come then. Ian has a condo on at least one of those islands."
"Mmm," Viggo nods. "I could hole up in the guest room."
"Viggo," Orlando sounds appalled. "That's not proper. Only Aunt Mabel sleeps in the guest room."
Viggo is confused. "Ian has an Aunt?"
"Well..." Orlando snorts. "Good question."
"Wait," Viggo frowns and Orlando shifts on the bed. "Where do you sleep? Didn't you just stay there with Eric?"
"Yes--"
"I always sleep in the guest room. I don't." Viggo swallows a rather unpleasant mental image. "Are you still?" Viggo starts to feel annoyed. "How does he-- Well he hasn't tried with me. Should I feel insulted?"
"No," Orlando says. "If you ever slept with Ian," he shudders. "Horrible things would happen. To everyone."
Viggo feels maligned. He has never even contemplated sleeping with Ian, but he's half-ready to go find him right now, on principle.
"Stop!" Orlando looks alarmed. "Right. Don't think about this again, consider the guest room yours."
"Still," Viggo rubs at his shoulder some more. "You don't sleep in there?"
"Wait," Orlando holds up his hand, palm out. Viggo stares at it even after Orlando puts it back down on the bed. "I haven't, with Ian. For ages. I mean, I don't think." There's a pause and Viggo looks up in time to see Orlando turning red. "Alright, yes," he sighs. "I would probably be in the guest room. And I'd probably request it."
Viggo smiles and leans back in the chair again. "I won't tell a soul."
"Thank you," Orlando nods, then grins at him, rolling his eyes.
Viggo wishes he still had that beer. "Eric. Do you still talk to him?"
"Well," Orlando stops and peers straight into Viggo's eyes until Viggo realizes with a start that he's actually feeling nervous. He looks away first. "No," Orlando continues. "We tried. We decided, like, we weren't ready yet. It was-- odd, I guess." Orlando frowns at him. "I'm fine, you know? I was wrecked for a little while, but it's done." Orlando shrugs and taps his hand onto the bedspread. "He wasn't ever going to work. Not that way."
Viggo nods. He can still picture Eric and Orlando together in his mind, though. The way they'd stand side by side at the edge of the stage and the moment when the ring on Orlando's cell phone became some song about being blinded with science. Viggo never got the hang of needing to look for Orlando, when he wanted to tell him something.
"He didn't seem." Viggo swallows. "He was very tall."
"He was," Orlando nods. "Quite tall."
"I really," Viggo looks at Orlando's fingers and then back up at his face. "I didn't really like him."
Orlando pulls at his ear. "Well, yeah," he smiles, then tilts his head at Viggo. "But he didn't notice."
Viggo starts to nod, but then he starts, because Orlando is lying. He's lying and Viggo watches as Orlando wipes his palm against his thigh, feeling absolutely sure that Orlando doesn't want him to know this, but completely unsure what it means.
It's unsettling and he looks around for something familiar. "We should. I know what we should do." Viggo stands up and pokes around his guitar case until he comes back up with his pipe and a plastic bag. "There," he says. He nods towards Orlando's balcony, and holds out his hand.
"Yes?" Orlando eyes Viggo's fingers. He looks apprehensive, which seems new, but Viggo ignores it and pulls Orlando up. It takes them five minutes to undo the four different latches on the screen and then Viggo sort of stumbles over the landing, pulling Orlando out with him into the air.
It's cool out. Temperate. The balcony doesn't have any chairs, but the river is right there, staring back at them. There are lights flashing on it and across it, but the view of the sky is clearer from the floor and the railing blocks out the lights.
Viggo realizes he's still holding Orlando's hand. His thumb is touching Orlando's wrist and it's warm against his palm, but Orlando twitches suddenly and pulls away to rub at his shoulders.
"It's cold out here." He slides down the wall and looks up at Viggo. "Give me some of that before I freeze."
"Just wait a second." Viggo squats down. He pulls out the pipe, rests it on the concrete floor, and concentrates on packing the bowl, humming something with an up-note as he goes through the motions. When he's satisfied, he hands it all over to Orlando, watching the way Orlando's eyes glow at him from behind the flame.
Orlando winces, coughs, winces at that, and coughs again, his hair falling down into his face. Viggo reaches over to tuck it back, still humming.
"What?" Orlando stares at him.
"Nothing," Viggo shakes his head, confused. Orlando nods and picks up the lighter again. This time he looks at Viggo over the flame. Viggo pulls his head back to watch it and the expression is different, but the light on Orlando's face is still uncanny.
They've done this hundreds of times, on probably a couple dozen balconies, but there was something different about Orlando when he was younger and Viggo first stumbled into him. A sort of looseness in his muscles that Viggo misses seeing.
"Do you think--" Viggo takes the pipe back from Orlando. "If Sean hadn't. Happened. Would we still..." He pauses to flick the lighter on again and pulls smoke into his lungs.
Orlando frowns at him. "I hope not. That wasn't--" Orlando swallows and Viggo wishes he hadn't asked. "That was a whole different time, you know? That was then. I don't want to be like that anymore."
Viggo pulls at his shoelace. "We were happy, though. It worked. I made decent coffee in the morning, you made me speak in complete sentences, enjoy pop music," he leans into Orlando's side, "eat tofu."
"Yes, but--" Orlando pulls away and shakes his head, blinking at Viggo. "Right. What are you doing? Why are you asking me about this?"
"I was just thinking about you," Viggo frowns, then flicks some ash away from his sleeve. "Back then, and now. I just wanted to ask. "
He doesn't really want to turn and look at Orlando so he looks out over the balcony instead. Only, Orlando turns to face him, moving as close to the railing as he can get. "We had sex, a lot. We both had sex with a lot of people and then you--" He stops and rubs at his eye. "You decided you wanted to try out monogamy with a straight man. Which wasn't," he laughs and Viggo feels a jab, right in his side, "The smartest move you've ever made, you know?"
"I didn't--" Viggo can feel his forehead tightening up. Now that their shoulders aren't touching, his whole side feels cold. "I didn't think that bothered you then." He swallows. "I'm sorry?"
"It didn't bother me," Orlando makes an exasperated noise. Which just makes Viggo think of Elijah last week, handing him coffee instead of tea. "Don't apologize. It didn't. Maybe you were ready to try the monogamy thing before I was. I get that. I didn't want it, you know? Or," he chuckles, "or maybe you're a masochist. Because, Bean, Viggo. Bean?"
Viggo examines his blister, then he shrugs. He doesn't like to think about that.
"Do you have any idea how stupid that was?"
Viggo frowns at Orlando. "I'd rather not..." He shakes his head. "I know. Or, I know now." He shakes his head. "I just woke up one day, and it had happened."
"It just," Orlando starts, then stops again. "Look, that was a different time, right? I don't want to do what we were doing, you know, anymore. Eric, that was me enjoying some nice sex with emotions attached. I liked it."
"I remember." Viggo nods at him.
"What is this?" Orlando pushes off from the railing with a jerk and steps over towards the far end of the balcony. Then he turns back, waving his hand in a chopping motion at Viggo, the sky, then the pipe and the cement floor. "You gave me that mix tape yesterday," he sputters. "A tape, Viggo. That's not your way of just saying hello, you know?"
He's listening, but in all of the words flying at him, Viggo can't find a series to hold onto. He takes a breath, lets it out, and then takes two more. "I didn't realize giving someone a tape of music was so," he swallows. "Insulting."
Viggo doesn’t know what else to say. What do people say to one another, to talk about these things? Because the words are just clutter. Viggo stands up to collect his things and the movement brings a rush of something to his head. Possibly the cold, confusion or frustration, some anger. Or just blood moving from his feet to his brain too quickly.
Orlando's just staring at him. Viggo wonders if this was what Dom meant when he talked about being all right with people needing things. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other. "It was just a tape."
"No," Orlando looks down at his feet, then back at Viggo. "It wasn't." He rubs at his neck, elbow pointing out like a flag. "If you're doing this, you need to actually be able to admit you're doing it. Go away, meditate, whatever. But don't pull this unless you can ask for it. Directly. Instead of handing me rocks and things."
Viggo can't stop staring. The lights from below the balcony are outlining Orlando in orange. It has a glow that shifts back and forth as the lights blink. He's looking old, older than Viggo remembers ever seeing him, and Viggo's mouth feels dry. From the smoke, probably.
He turns away, steps over the ledge slowly this time and heads back into the hotel room to collect his guitar. He walks to the door, opens it and starts down the hallway, following the red stripe in the carpeting to his room, but when he gets there he needs to stop and reach his arm out to lean against the door. He can still picture Orlando standing there. He doesn't remember ever seeing Orlando look angry, but this is probably what it looks like.
"Fuck."
Viggo rubs against the knot rapidly forming between his neck and his shoulders. He can feel the two rocks forming a lump in his pocket.
49b.
"How's the tour been so far? Are you ready to take a break?"
Dom rubs his hand across his face so he can discreetly roll his eyes at Elijah as Sean talks about the "joys of touring and music", but also the "bitter reality" of missing your family and the "constant press of abandoned commitments." It's not that it's not true; it's just that he says it with such weight, like he's at a university lecture and not a press conference for a bunch of music journalists who are probably more excited about the coffee and danish than about the band.
Elijah smiles a little and then raises his eyebrows and nods at the space between the two of them. The name cards in front of the two empty green chairs read Liv and Karl, but if Dom and Sala hadn't switched all the name cards in accordance with time-honored tradition, they would read Viggo and Orlando. Dom lets his hand rest on his head, stretching his neck towards his shoulder and smiles a little, wondering if maybe Sala also switched Viggo and Orlando for people with rather less issues. If that's the case, Dom hopes the new band mates show up soon or at least by the time Sean's finished blathering on.
"So, this Wellington show thing, honoring the old tickets-- that's pretty big. What made you decide to give your fans this opportunity?"
The reporter in the third row is petite and perky and manages to make an easy question sound even more like a softball; she's clearly been an entertainment "journalist" too long. Billy mutters something Elijah can't hear over Liv's answer, but it makes Dom laugh and Elijah feels briefly jealous. He gulps from his cappuccino, wincing a little when the hot liquid shreds his mouth and throat. Looking over at Viggo's empty seat again, Elijah remembers the fumbling apology that's not going to be part of any answer today and he thinks that maybe if he drinks the coffee fast enough and burns enough of his tongue it'll give him a legitimate excuse not to talk.
If he were Chris Martin, Elijah would turn the whole thing-- press conference, missing band mates, burned mouth and love triangles-- into a song about the solar system that would make the perky reporter and her sister and her boyfriend and her boyfriend's sister all feel like the song was absolutely, definitely, intimately about them. Elijah hates songs like that, hates metaphors about stars almost as much as Viggo hates music with too much of a beat. In his head, Elijah can hear jangling unfinished melodies, beats that hang in threes and sharp jarring pauses. It's not about anyone except this band and he knows without even thinking about it that it will sound brilliant in Daisy and Bills hands, doing their best version of Icelandic punk rock vocals.
Elijah glares at the empty seat one more time and takes another long sip, wondering how easy it is to book a flight to Tibet from Perth.
"You've never really explained what happened the last time you played Wellington, then, have you?"
Billy bites his tongue even though he wants to just say, "No. Next?" Instead, he finishes scribbling on the notepad in front of him and shoves it towards Karl. Billy turns slightly in his seat and tips his head back to watch Dom's hands fly about as he speaks. After a few seconds Billy grins.
"Dommie, you're not s'posed to tell the reporters about that."
Dom turns his head and blinks slowly. "You mean there's something wrong with illegally raising monkey slaves?"
Billy shrugs, "It's a morally backwards world." Billy turns toward the reporter and smiles. "Just say we had some trouble with an experiment and had to leave the continent, eh?" Billy thinks that Viggo's run at falling pointlessly in love with his best straight friend and trying to be in a band with him at the same time qualifies as an experiment, so Billy isn't really lying. Not that he has a problem with lying.
The reporters all laugh and before the tall blond with the Buddy Holly glasses can repeat or modify his question, Daisy is pointing to someone else and asking, "Yes?"
"When the Wellington show is over, Daisy, will you be coming back? We do miss your show!"
Karl looks down at the note in front of him, Any idea where the pirate and the cowboy are? Karl reaches for a pen, glances at the Marriott logo on the side as he pulls off the cap and writes, not as such. got stoned with vig last night. he seemed--
Karl pauses and flexes his fingers, thinking. Viggo seemed tired and looked a little confused. He came out to the suite balcony where Karl had been talking to Cate on his mobile. It was after one in the morning and by the time they finished smoking all the pot Viggo had with him, it was after two. Karl offered more from his own stash, but Viggo shook his head, muttered something about the sun and set two smooth rocks on the railing before he left.
Finally, as Daisy is nearing the end of a story about Mitzi that Karl's heard four times in the last three days, Karl puts the pen back to the page and writes like viggo. He shrugs and pushes the pad back to Billy, pressing the end of the pen to his lower lip and laughing at Daisy's punch line. It's still pretty funny.
"So there'll be another album? How long until you start recording again?"
Daisy reaches for his water and lets Dom deflect the question. Instead of tall tales about monkeys, this time he's flirting with the reporter, who's about forty years old, male and very, very straight. Daisy grins and wonders what they'd do without Dom. Other than have a lot fewer mornings that start with someone cutting something sticky out of their hair, of course.
Daisy looks off stage, smiles at Bernard and tips his head towards the gap made from the empty chairs between Dom and Elijah which keeps getting smaller as Dom strategically moves his chair around. Bernard shakes his head quickly and lifts his mobile. Daisy knows Bernard's left messages, but apparently neither of the missing stars has been found. Daisy can tell everyone else is worried and if just Viggo were missing, Daisy might have preemptively cancelled the Wellington show and all future albums, gone home to Sydney and made an honest woman of Mitzi.
Thankfully (for all of them, because really as much as Daisy likes Mitzi, she's even more exhausting than Peter and Fran. Not that Daisy'll be telling the band that anytime soon), Orlando's missing too, so Daisy can only assume that they're together somewhere. He briefly considers that this might actually be more worrisome because Viggo's Viggo, but Orlando's never missed anything important before. Daisy turns the thought over in his mind, wonders if maybe Viggo finally figured himself out and forced Orlando to go with him. Maybe the band will get a postcard from the Amazon or the depths of India. But, Daisy's been watching Orlando since they started this tour and Daisy doesn't know what he's seen exactly, but it tells him that Orlando wouldn't let himself get kidnapped, so Daisy chooses to assume Orlando's keeping Viggo tethered to this continent.
Dom stands up and leans over the table, batting his eyes. "Is that a yes, then? If you'd like, I can bring Liv along as a chaperone." The reporter is blushing, but he's apparently not easily fazed and Daisy laughs with the crowd when the man looks down at his notebook and then back at Dom and says, "Mr. Monaghan, it's not you, it's me."
Daisy finishes his water and grins at Dom as he settles into Orlando's empty seat to make a show of pouting.
"What's your favorite part about touring?"
Bernard looks at his phone, but doesn't bother to ring either of them again. He's tried twice and there was no answer and it's not as though finding them would do any good at this point.
Ian leans into him and whispers, "Have you ever quite managed to lose the front man and our main press draw on the way to the biggest press event of the tour before?" As usual, Ian sounds more amused than angry.
Bernard shrugs. "You try wrangling this lot with a hangover."
Ian smiles, says, "I've tried and I would suggest you give up drinking, but I'm aware that that just makes it all worse." Then he's moving into Karl's eye-line to signal that he should stop Billy from speaking.
Bernard watches as Karl snorts and leans back in his chair, arms crossed. Billy continues listing his favorite things, ending with "shagging against the amps" causing the short, redheaded reporter's eyes to widen.
Bernard shakes his head and catches Bean's eye. Instead of their usual shared exasperation, though, Bean just blinks like he's been caught at something and then turns quickly back to staring out at the audience. If Bernard had even a little more energy, he'd be worried about that look-- it's not like Bean to pass up the chance to take the piss where Viggo's concerned.
But, Bernard's eyes are heavy with exhaustion and all he wants is to sit down and maybe read the paper, so he just watches as Bean laughs too loudly saying, "Turn them on first, though, yeah?"
Bernard walks away from the table in search of Sala and tea and possibly a wayward band member or two. He hasn't felt this way all tour, but he's starting to look forward to getting off the road for a while.
"Do you really think people still have tickets from so many years ago?"
Bean is concentrating very hard on what Elijah is saying, something about fans and their tickets on the internet message boards. Elijah is speaking slower than usual, like his tongue's slightly too thick for his mouth and Bean risks cutting his eyes at Sean to see if the boys got high before this conference. It's only 8:30 in the morning, but with this bunch, it's been known to happen.
Sean's got his mobile in his lap, though, and is looking down at it, so Bean can't see his eyes, but Sean seems as sober as anyone else, so Bean shrugs and turns back to Elijah. Bean looks straight at the top of Elijah's head-- his hair is slightly too flat on the top-- and pretends that the internet is the most fascinating thing ever. He's trying very hard to be in the moment and the only other time he remembers this being so difficult was three years ago on the way to the same place they're headed tomorrow.
Bean likes the science channels in their hotel rooms-- it's one of his favorite things about touring (though, he's never shagged anyone on an amp, so perhaps he's been missing out). He saw one last tour about deja vu and all the neurological explanations. He thinks about it now because he's running through all the ways Viggo could be spiraling out of control and it's a long list and Bean is desperately familiar with every single one.
If asked, he could tell you the way Viggo's hands shake when he's lying to himself and the way he runs his fingers through his hair when he's lying to someone else. If Bean wrote songs, he could write one about Viggo's postures and what they mean-- the rigid lines that appear just before he bolts (often to another country), the arch that comes right before he picks a fight with Dom, the loose bending just before he presses his mouth unexpectedly to yours.
Bean can see all these things and at least fifty more-- a full catalogue of Mortensen's madness-- so clearly that it would be easy to convince himself they've already all happened again. So he thinks about the science program to remind himself that déjà vu is nothing but misfiring neurons. He laughs to himself a little bit when he thinks that he's probably got nothing on Viggo when it comes to misfiring in the brain.
Sean looks up from his phone and glances at Bean, brows furrowed, before smiling at the reporters. He says, "One more question."
Bean forces himself to stare hard at the reporters, waiting to see what will be asked like it might predict the future and to very carefully not think about the past.
"Are you still planning on releasing a documentary about this tour?"
Dom opens his mouth to speak, but Sean doesn't let him make a joke. He nods at the reporter, a woman Christine's age, with darker hair and a tight smile. Sean sits up straight and smiles back at her. "Absolutely. I've got some absolutely amazing footage-- concert stuff, of course, but mostly behind the scenes. What it's really like to be in a band, to be so committed to music and each other, warts and all. You'll get to see Orlando when he's not all dressed up and Karl when he's not so nice and--"
"Hey!" Karl says and Sean waves it away, laughing.
"I'm so excited about this, it's going to be amazing, like nothing that's been done with music film before. The level of access I have as a part of the band, Pennebaker and the Maysles and the rest-- they only wish they could have been this close to the band."
Sean knows he probably sounds like he's exaggerating, but he was editing last night and there was this moment, Orlando sprawled on a couch in the green room, Viggo watching him from a distance and the rest of the band churning like controlled chaos all around. Sean watched the shots unfold, and he remembered being there, but he felt like he'd never seen them before. He wanted to wake someone up to tell them what was happening, what he'd captured, what they were doing.
Instead, he let them sleep and settles for telling this reporter everything he couldn't quite manage to say to the band.
"They're sick of the cameras," Sean explains, "but they're also so used to me and me be--"
"Being a wanker," Dom says and Sean rolls his eyes at him.
"--ing in their face. Sure, being a wanker," everyone laughs, but Sean continues. "They're so used to that, that they don't even think to censor themselves. And they're amazing people. It's going to be an amazing film."
No one says anything and Sean looks over his shoulder at the now-filled-in space that Viggo should be in. He wonders what's happening, what he's missing. His hand practically twitches to grab a camera, not the one that's set up to film the conference, but the hand-held upstairs, that's where the best footage has come from so far. He moves to the edge of his seat, flipping his cell phone round and round in his hand. When Ian comes out to thank the press, Sean's the first one up from the table and on the elevator back to their room.
