Winter Wind, Day 1 - Sunday, December 11, 2011
Tomorrow is aprilkat’s birthday! Sys, I’m starting your fic a day early to try to get up some momentum, cause my fic muscles are way rusty. Sorry it’s not hobbitses, just Men. :hugs:
Pairing: VigBean 4evAh
Genre: slash
Rating: this part’s G
Disclaimer: has absolutely nothing to do with the real gentlemen named or their lives. Shadows of my hopeful imagination only.
As the winter winds litter London with lonely hearts
Oh the warmth in your eyes swept me into your arms
Was it love or fear of the cold that led us through the night?
For every kiss your beauty trumped my doubt
And my head told my heart
"Let love grow"
But my heart told my head
"This time no
This time no"
~~Mumford & Sons, Winter Wind
He had just finished a rather luxurious lunch at Home House, a private club overlooking Portman Square, with Ben Hibon, his director for Pan. They found themselves in London at the same time, so it seemed a good opportunity to get acquainted. They hit it off famously over Côte de Boeuf and a bottle of Château Lynch-Bages. Pricey, but perfect for the grey, chilly London afternoon. Besides, the studio was paying. Now Sean stood on the sidewalk. He shook Hibon’s hand, told him truthfully what a pleasure it had been to meet him, and watched him turn the corner onto Gloucester Place. Sean started to lift his hand to hail a cab, then let it fall. He was in no mood to go back to the empty house. He shivered a bit as the wind picked up. He hadn’t worn an overcoat, as usual. Hated the things.
It was too cold to walk, but he set off aimlessly down Portman Square anyway, walking fast toward the Marble Arch with the vague idea of finding a pub. The thin veneer of cheer induced by the lunch, the wine, and his genuine excitement over the role of Smee faded as he walked. The depression, never far from the surface of his consciousness, rose up again. He walked faster, although he knew by now that he couldn’t walk away from it. He turned right onto Oxford Street. Four failed marriages. Almost a year ago, give or take a week or so, the High Court had granted him his fourth divorce. He was becoming a joke even to himself. If anyone said anything about Liz Taylor, he’d deck the bastard. He turned left on Park Lane. The fact that he knew the reason for his fourth failure didn’t help. It was a reason no-one else knew about, thank God.
No one, that is, except Viggo. He stopped abruptly when he realized where he was. In front of the Grosvenor Hotel. He realized that his wandering hadn’t been aimless after all. Viggo. This was where it started. He shivered. From the wind or from the memories? His jaw tightened. He had screwed up his life royally. He ducked into the Park Lane entrance and headed for the Red Bar.
Pairing: VigBean 4evAh
Genre: slash
Rating: this part’s G
Disclaimer: has absolutely nothing to do with the real gentlemen named or their lives. Shadows of my hopeful imagination only.
As the winter winds litter London with lonely hearts
Oh the warmth in your eyes swept me into your arms
Was it love or fear of the cold that led us through the night?
For every kiss your beauty trumped my doubt
And my head told my heart
"Let love grow"
But my heart told my head
"This time no
This time no"
~~Mumford & Sons, Winter Wind
He had just finished a rather luxurious lunch at Home House, a private club overlooking Portman Square, with Ben Hibon, his director for Pan. They found themselves in London at the same time, so it seemed a good opportunity to get acquainted. They hit it off famously over Côte de Boeuf and a bottle of Château Lynch-Bages. Pricey, but perfect for the grey, chilly London afternoon. Besides, the studio was paying. Now Sean stood on the sidewalk. He shook Hibon’s hand, told him truthfully what a pleasure it had been to meet him, and watched him turn the corner onto Gloucester Place. Sean started to lift his hand to hail a cab, then let it fall. He was in no mood to go back to the empty house. He shivered a bit as the wind picked up. He hadn’t worn an overcoat, as usual. Hated the things.
It was too cold to walk, but he set off aimlessly down Portman Square anyway, walking fast toward the Marble Arch with the vague idea of finding a pub. The thin veneer of cheer induced by the lunch, the wine, and his genuine excitement over the role of Smee faded as he walked. The depression, never far from the surface of his consciousness, rose up again. He walked faster, although he knew by now that he couldn’t walk away from it. He turned right onto Oxford Street. Four failed marriages. Almost a year ago, give or take a week or so, the High Court had granted him his fourth divorce. He was becoming a joke even to himself. If anyone said anything about Liz Taylor, he’d deck the bastard. He turned left on Park Lane. The fact that he knew the reason for his fourth failure didn’t help. It was a reason no-one else knew about, thank God.
No one, that is, except Viggo. He stopped abruptly when he realized where he was. In front of the Grosvenor Hotel. He realized that his wandering hadn’t been aimless after all. Viggo. This was where it started. He shivered. From the wind or from the memories? His jaw tightened. He had screwed up his life royally. He ducked into the Park Lane entrance and headed for the Red Bar.