For cinzia. 37 Days Challenge - Day 12 - "Oranges"
Title: Oranges
Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Rating: NC-17-ish
Author: undonne
Warning: RPS, AU
Written for cinzia
Disclaimer: Has absolutely nothing to do with the real people. Totally imaginary and taking place in a definitely alternative universe
Word has it that cinzia has been both incredibly busy and somewhat under the weather. Miss you and hope you're feeling better! I also hope very much that you don't mind an bit of AU play by someone else into the future of one of my favorite Sean/Viggo fic of all time -- your and gloria's "The Orange Grove."
Sean was cold. April was definitely the cruelest month, at least in Yorkshire. It teased and taunted, blew warm one day and fucking cold the next. Led you to hope, like a lover, then froze you out. He stabbed the spade into the ground, sat back on his heels, and left it there. He felt in his jacket pocket for cigarettes and matches. He struck a match. The cold wind promptly blew it out. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. He sighed. He was cold and he was lonely.
Viggo, the bastard, was like April. You never knew where you were with him. Sometimes he was summer, and Sean’s soul unfolded and turned toward him. He’d never had a lover so unguarded, so full of passion. He closed his eyes, shivered, and tried to remember what that heat was like, the sweat dripping from Viggo’s naked flesh onto his own. It had been winter for a while now. Nobody’s fault. Maybe. They went where their shooting schedules demanded, and they’d both been busy. They had had Christmas together in Yorkshire. Two days together. Since then… He had lost track of Viggo’s movements as he went from project to project. Los Angeles, Poland, Japan, Korea…. They barely even spoke on the phone, and when they did Viggo seemed tired and distracted.
He looked at the ragged garden around him, neglected, full of weeds. It seemed neither of them had time to live, except on film. Leaving the spade stuck in the earth, he stood up and absently put a hand up to rub his aching right shoulder. A touch of arthritis, the doctor said. As the doctor had pointed out, he was almost 50. The fact that the doctor was young enough to be his daughter hadn’t softened the blow. He took out the cigarettes and matches again, and this time succeeded in lighting one. He drew the smoke into his lungs with perverse satisfaction. Viggo wanted him to quit, but Viggo wasn’t bloody well here, was he?
He went over to the wooden bench that surrounded the old willow and sat down. He took another drag on the cigarette, leaned against the trunk and closed his eyes. He imagined he was back in Crete. He was warm. He was happy. He was stretched out in the grass under the orange trees, his hands in Viggo’s hair, his body….
“Sir? Sir?”
He started and opened his eyes. A young woman in a blue uniform stood right in front of him, holding a large box wrapped in brown paper.
“Sorry, sir, but nobody came to the door, and I saw you back here….”
“S’ok…,” Sean mumbled. Had he been asleep? Must have been, because his cigarette was on the ground, burned out.
“If you could just sign….” She gestured with her chin at the clipboard balanced on top of the box. He took it and scawled his name as she sat the box down on the bench beside him.
As she left, he leaned over and saw that it was from Los Angeles. Was that where Viggo was now? Was it a peace offering to apologize for the fact he wasn’t going to be here on Sean’s birthday? His 50th birthday? Bastard.
Sean tore the brown paper off and opened the box. It was filled with oranges. He laughed out loud. Beautiful, big, golden-red globes. He took one out, dug in a thumb and pulled it open. He breathed in the frangrance and was just about to take a bite when he saw that there was a large manilla envelope under the fruit. He carefully set the orange down on the bench and pulled out the envelope, on which “Sean - Happy Birthday!” appeared in Viggo’s careless and scarcely readable script.
He opened the clasp and carefully tipped the contents onto the bench on the other side from the juicy orange. There was a single sheet of paper covered with Viggo’s writing, a tri-folded sheaf of papers, a smaller envelope, and… a key. Sean picked up the key in bemusement, laid it back down again, and picked up Viggo’s note.
My love
(it said. Sean sat up straighter)
Someone said, famously, that nothing rhymes with orange, or I’d write you an old-fashioned sonnet for your birthday.
Instead, I’ll say it straight. Any life with so little of you in it isn’t one I want to live anymore.
I miss you, I love you, I want to be with you. Suddenly, things seem very simple. I’m not accepting any more movie roles if they keep us apart.
Oh, the key? I called up Nikolaidis and bought the house. The deed’s in Greek, but as you can see it’s in your name. Happy birthday.
I kept thinking about the orange grove where all this started. I want to be with you. There. I want to lie with you under the trees and listen to the waves. I want a lot of things - things I think you’ll like. Anyhow, I hope so. There's a plane ticket to Crete in here, too. See you there on the 17th.
Vig
********************************************************************
~~ STORY NOTE: The idea for this comes from cinzia and gloria’s glorious “The Orange Grove” which is here
<"http://www.freaky.nu/glorious/orange/index.htm">
and from an April 6 news story supposedly quoting Viggo -- “In the past week I’ve been from Los Angeles to Japan to Korea to Poland to the UK. It’s ridiculous and it’s not a healthy way to be. But, as it happens, I’m taking measures to change that. No more movies… I haven’t said yes to one in over a year. I’ve been in all these well-received movies and it seems like I should be doing some more, but there are other things I want to do. It’s not the right time.” What better reason to quit acting than to be with Sean? ;)
Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Rating: NC-17-ish
Author: undonne
Warning: RPS, AU
Written for cinzia
Disclaimer: Has absolutely nothing to do with the real people. Totally imaginary and taking place in a definitely alternative universe
Word has it that cinzia has been both incredibly busy and somewhat under the weather. Miss you and hope you're feeling better! I also hope very much that you don't mind an bit of AU play by someone else into the future of one of my favorite Sean/Viggo fic of all time -- your and gloria's "The Orange Grove."
Sean was cold. April was definitely the cruelest month, at least in Yorkshire. It teased and taunted, blew warm one day and fucking cold the next. Led you to hope, like a lover, then froze you out. He stabbed the spade into the ground, sat back on his heels, and left it there. He felt in his jacket pocket for cigarettes and matches. He struck a match. The cold wind promptly blew it out. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. He sighed. He was cold and he was lonely.
Viggo, the bastard, was like April. You never knew where you were with him. Sometimes he was summer, and Sean’s soul unfolded and turned toward him. He’d never had a lover so unguarded, so full of passion. He closed his eyes, shivered, and tried to remember what that heat was like, the sweat dripping from Viggo’s naked flesh onto his own. It had been winter for a while now. Nobody’s fault. Maybe. They went where their shooting schedules demanded, and they’d both been busy. They had had Christmas together in Yorkshire. Two days together. Since then… He had lost track of Viggo’s movements as he went from project to project. Los Angeles, Poland, Japan, Korea…. They barely even spoke on the phone, and when they did Viggo seemed tired and distracted.
He looked at the ragged garden around him, neglected, full of weeds. It seemed neither of them had time to live, except on film. Leaving the spade stuck in the earth, he stood up and absently put a hand up to rub his aching right shoulder. A touch of arthritis, the doctor said. As the doctor had pointed out, he was almost 50. The fact that the doctor was young enough to be his daughter hadn’t softened the blow. He took out the cigarettes and matches again, and this time succeeded in lighting one. He drew the smoke into his lungs with perverse satisfaction. Viggo wanted him to quit, but Viggo wasn’t bloody well here, was he?
He went over to the wooden bench that surrounded the old willow and sat down. He took another drag on the cigarette, leaned against the trunk and closed his eyes. He imagined he was back in Crete. He was warm. He was happy. He was stretched out in the grass under the orange trees, his hands in Viggo’s hair, his body….
“Sir? Sir?”
He started and opened his eyes. A young woman in a blue uniform stood right in front of him, holding a large box wrapped in brown paper.
“Sorry, sir, but nobody came to the door, and I saw you back here….”
“S’ok…,” Sean mumbled. Had he been asleep? Must have been, because his cigarette was on the ground, burned out.
“If you could just sign….” She gestured with her chin at the clipboard balanced on top of the box. He took it and scawled his name as she sat the box down on the bench beside him.
As she left, he leaned over and saw that it was from Los Angeles. Was that where Viggo was now? Was it a peace offering to apologize for the fact he wasn’t going to be here on Sean’s birthday? His 50th birthday? Bastard.
Sean tore the brown paper off and opened the box. It was filled with oranges. He laughed out loud. Beautiful, big, golden-red globes. He took one out, dug in a thumb and pulled it open. He breathed in the frangrance and was just about to take a bite when he saw that there was a large manilla envelope under the fruit. He carefully set the orange down on the bench and pulled out the envelope, on which “Sean - Happy Birthday!” appeared in Viggo’s careless and scarcely readable script.
He opened the clasp and carefully tipped the contents onto the bench on the other side from the juicy orange. There was a single sheet of paper covered with Viggo’s writing, a tri-folded sheaf of papers, a smaller envelope, and… a key. Sean picked up the key in bemusement, laid it back down again, and picked up Viggo’s note.
My love
(it said. Sean sat up straighter)
Someone said, famously, that nothing rhymes with orange, or I’d write you an old-fashioned sonnet for your birthday.
Instead, I’ll say it straight. Any life with so little of you in it isn’t one I want to live anymore.
I miss you, I love you, I want to be with you. Suddenly, things seem very simple. I’m not accepting any more movie roles if they keep us apart.
Oh, the key? I called up Nikolaidis and bought the house. The deed’s in Greek, but as you can see it’s in your name. Happy birthday.
I kept thinking about the orange grove where all this started. I want to be with you. There. I want to lie with you under the trees and listen to the waves. I want a lot of things - things I think you’ll like. Anyhow, I hope so. There's a plane ticket to Crete in here, too. See you there on the 17th.
Vig
********************************************************************
~~ STORY NOTE: The idea for this comes from cinzia and gloria’s glorious “The Orange Grove” which is here
<"http://www.freaky.nu/glorious/orange/index.htm">
and from an April 6 news story supposedly quoting Viggo -- “In the past week I’ve been from Los Angeles to Japan to Korea to Poland to the UK. It’s ridiculous and it’s not a healthy way to be. But, as it happens, I’m taking measures to change that. No more movies… I haven’t said yes to one in over a year. I’ve been in all these well-received movies and it seems like I should be doing some more, but there are other things I want to do. It’s not the right time.” What better reason to quit acting than to be with Sean? ;)