WIP: Directions, Part 2
I'm working on a new fic for the sons_of_gondor Reflections on Sean's 50th. Part 2...
author: undonne
title: Directions, South
rating: NC-17 (language)
pairing: VigBean forever
disclaimer: has absolutely nothing to do with the actors in real life. Simply borrowed personae (yo, sock puppets!) for fangirl amusement
South (Boromir)
Burning.
His eyes, his hair
his skin all licked with fire,
as if a small sun lived inside,
white hot.
They had become friends, two actors about the same age. They had bonded, two humans among a litter of hobbits, elves, and other assorted creatures. He found Sean restful and uncomplicated - a father like himself, an adult not given to the highs and lows and intrigues that swirled through the continuing soap opera that was the on-set-and-off lives of the hobbit-tweens. They had taken to having drinks and dinner at the Parrot or sitting on his porch smoking and having a glass of wine after their long days. They talked of the actor’s life, of their dreams of the theatre, of their failed marriages and their dogged attempts not to fail as fathers in spite of their dedication to their craft and its demands.
Then there was the day he had watched the filming of the scene in which Boromir had dragged himself back from the brink of damnation, had tried to defend Merry and Pippin against a hord of orc. Viggo watched as Boromir… Sean… charged toward them. The sun was behind him and turned his hair into a halo of gold. His eyes were alight with love and desperation. Everything about Sean that Viggo had suspected lurked below the cool surface burst into fire in that moment. And in that moment, he fell in love. He gasped with the force and suddenness of it and turned away from everyone until he could get his face under control. Control. He had needed every ounce of it the next day when they filmed the death scene. Lying on top of Sean, looking into those leaf-green eyes blazing with Boromir’s desire to throw his spirit into the future of Gondor, hearing that voice pledge loyalty to him… to Aragorn.… Control. He managed it, although he was sick and shuddering with the weight of it by the time they finished the scene. Sean was married. He was definitely not interested in men. In any man. He was sure of it. He could not bear to let their friendship go, and so control became his watchword. If he woke, burning with desire, night after night, Sean would never know it.
author: undonne
title: Directions, South
rating: NC-17 (language)
pairing: VigBean forever
disclaimer: has absolutely nothing to do with the actors in real life. Simply borrowed personae (yo, sock puppets!) for fangirl amusement
South (Boromir)
Burning.
His eyes, his hair
his skin all licked with fire,
as if a small sun lived inside,
white hot.
They had become friends, two actors about the same age. They had bonded, two humans among a litter of hobbits, elves, and other assorted creatures. He found Sean restful and uncomplicated - a father like himself, an adult not given to the highs and lows and intrigues that swirled through the continuing soap opera that was the on-set-and-off lives of the hobbit-tweens. They had taken to having drinks and dinner at the Parrot or sitting on his porch smoking and having a glass of wine after their long days. They talked of the actor’s life, of their dreams of the theatre, of their failed marriages and their dogged attempts not to fail as fathers in spite of their dedication to their craft and its demands.
Then there was the day he had watched the filming of the scene in which Boromir had dragged himself back from the brink of damnation, had tried to defend Merry and Pippin against a hord of orc. Viggo watched as Boromir… Sean… charged toward them. The sun was behind him and turned his hair into a halo of gold. His eyes were alight with love and desperation. Everything about Sean that Viggo had suspected lurked below the cool surface burst into fire in that moment. And in that moment, he fell in love. He gasped with the force and suddenness of it and turned away from everyone until he could get his face under control. Control. He had needed every ounce of it the next day when they filmed the death scene. Lying on top of Sean, looking into those leaf-green eyes blazing with Boromir’s desire to throw his spirit into the future of Gondor, hearing that voice pledge loyalty to him… to Aragorn.… Control. He managed it, although he was sick and shuddering with the weight of it by the time they finished the scene. Sean was married. He was definitely not interested in men. In any man. He was sure of it. He could not bear to let their friendship go, and so control became his watchword. If he woke, burning with desire, night after night, Sean would never know it.