Winter Wind, Day 3 - Tuesday, December 13, 2011
For aprilkat’s birthday, part 3/5.
Title: Winter Wind, Day 3 - Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Pairing: VigBean
Genre: RPS, relationship angst
Rating: NC-17 (or maybe R-ish) for a small bit of explicit sex. Be warned if you don’t like that sort of thing.
Disclaimer: has absolutely nothing to do with the real gentlemen named or their lives. Shadows of my hopeful imagination only.
And if your strife strikes at your sleep
Remember spring swaps snow for leaves
~~Mumford & Sons, Winter Wind
Going into the Red Bar on Sunday hadn’t been his best idea ever. A wall of memory and sensation had hit him the moment he walked in the door. He hadn’t even sat down, but turned on his heel, walked back out into the cold, and hailed a cab. It was now Tuesday, and he’d been more-or-less drunk since then. It was so close to Christmas that things everywhere were winding down. He had no commitments, no meetings, not even a script to read. He was going to Yorkshire for Christmas, but not for a while yet. He had nothing to do but brood. And drink. He should be out shopping for the girls, but he couldn’t face the busy crowds or, God forbid, any cheerful Christmas music.
He was halfway through a bottle of Jameson’s, and it wasn’t even four o’clock. In an obscure way he thought that sticking to Jameson’s was the honorable thing to do. A sort of obscure punishment, since he had acted dishonorably back then and since.
He had been excited to see Viggo. They had had such fun in New Zealand, and he felt that he had made a friend for life. He had also felt other things for Viggo, things that he had chosen to put aside. The man was just so damned attractive, inside and out. Although he had done some of the usual adolescent experimentation, he considered himself fairly far over to the heterosexual end of the spectrum. People in film and theatre were always testing those boundaries, though, whether playfully, seriously, or as a strange type of political correctness. He’d wondered, occasionally, what it would be like, but he’d never met anyone who made him wonder enough. Until Amon Hen.
Sean snorted to himself and poured some more whiskey. He had become such a closet fan boy ever since Fellowship. He had really gotten caught up in it. He thought of it as Amon Hen, not as a scene on a set. That day had turned out to be pivotal in his life, in more ways than one. It was a moment he was proud of as an actor. It was a moment that had haunted him as a man. When Viggo lay stretched on top of him, eyes bright with unshed tears, Sean realized he wanted this. This closeness, this intensity, this man. The vision of a life with Viggo came to him in that instant, whole and beautiful. He longed for that life, and for the person he would be in it.
Deeply shaken, he had left the set as quickly after the scene as he decently could. Staying up far into the night, he had come to the conclusion that he would be mad to pursue it. He had family, friends, a life that depended on him being.... Well, being who he seemed to be. He convinced himself, almost, that it was the intensity of the scene that had brought those desires and emotions to the surface. The love he thought he had seen in Viggo’s eyes had not been for him, it had been for Boromir.
He left New Zealand and went back to his old life. He had seen Vig from time to time, had kept the friendship up as best he could. He found himself drinking more, dating younger and younger women, even marrying one of them. He hadn’t been unhappy, he told himself, just restless. He thought about that strange moment in which he had an intuition of what a life with Viggo would have been like, but he let it go. He thought of his family in Yorkshire, his daughters, everyone’s expectations of him. It wasn’t a life he could choose, even if he had the chance.
Then they asked him to present Viggo with the Empire Icon Award. More than two years ago now, closer to three. He hesitated. He really wanted to see Vig again. He missed that friendship, but would the sight of Viggo bring more discontent into his life? In the end, he couldn’t resist. That brought him to the Red Bar at the Grosvenor, looking down at the familiar, relatively unwashed hair. He was as rumpled as ever, no tie, pocket square that didn’t match his shirt. He looked, Sean thought, wonderful. He was suddenly very nervous. They had talked about this and that, friends, projects, memories of the Fellowship. He knew he was drinking too much. Viggo, who had started before him, was drinking even more. Jesus, were the two of them even going to be able to make it through the ceremony?
He had managed pretty well, introduced Viggo, and stepped aside. Viggo, not so much. Torn between amusement and concern, Sean managed to get him off the stage before he said anything more untoward than he had already said and maneuvred him into a deserted corridor.
“You’re pissed, lad. Where’s your room?”
“Third floor. Suite. Nice.” Viggo had laughed that high, almost maniacal laugh of his. “Come with me.” He remembered Viggo grabbing him by both arms, and leaning in to whisper, “Come up for a drink.”
Sean had thought he’d better go with him. Besides, Viggo had a charming, fey quality about him when he wasn’t quite sober. He had thought.... He had thought he couldn't bear to leave him so soon. So they went, sort of clinging to each other as they made their way to the elevator.
Since they had various bottles of Jameson’s about their persons, they drank those. Or at least some of those. Sean had known that it wasn’t a good idea, but he had missed Vig so damned much. He’d wanted him for so long.
Much later, they were sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, coatless and shoeless. Sean had taken off his tie and flung it on top of his suit coat.
"D'you ‘member Amon Hen?" Viggo had asked. Sean had nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Viggo looked at him, not smiling any more, and said softly, “Loved you since then. Maybe before. You?”
Sean’s heart turned over. “Viggo…,” he had started. Then stopped. He didn’t know what to say, how much of the truth he could afford to tell. The other man had put a hand to his mouth.
“Don’t worry,” Viggo had said softly, the ghost of a smile curving his lips, "doesn’t matter.” Sean had taken the hand away and kissed it. Then he leaned over and kissed the small scar on Viggo's upper lip.
Now came the part that Sean remembered, couldn't help remembering again and again, not whole but in vivid flashes. And the part he tried to forget but could not. He poured the last of the bottle into his glass and closed his eyes. They had kissed, first tentatively, then passionately. He remembered Vig kissing his Fellowship tattoo, laughing softly. Sean groaned. Another flash, Viggo inside him, moving slowly and gently, with his hands in Sean’s hair. The feeling of almost frightening joy. Another, Vig’s bare back arched under him, the feel and smell of his sweat. Holding him, looking into those eyes, impossibly close to his own. Licking the little scar on his lip.
When he had awakened the next morning, Viggo was curled up, still fast asleep. His face was still close to Sean’s, a faint smile on his lips. He suddenly felt almost unspeakably frightened. He wanted the man like he had never wanted anyone. And, yes, he loved him. But all the reasons that it wouldn't, couldn't, work came flooding back, including his latest marriage. He couldn’t explain it. If he had to talk to Viggo, he would tell him he loved him. Then he would be lost.
He dressed quietly, and turned to leave the room. He hesitated. He couldn’t just leave like this, but he couldn’t stay either. He found a cocktail napkin, pulled a pen from his jacket pocket, and wrote.
I can’t do this.
I’m so sorry Vig.
Forgive me.
Sean
He had left it on the bed beside Viggo, cursed himself for the coward he was, and left.
Title: Winter Wind, Day 3 - Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Pairing: VigBean
Genre: RPS, relationship angst
Rating: NC-17 (or maybe R-ish) for a small bit of explicit sex. Be warned if you don’t like that sort of thing.
Disclaimer: has absolutely nothing to do with the real gentlemen named or their lives. Shadows of my hopeful imagination only.
And if your strife strikes at your sleep
Remember spring swaps snow for leaves
~~Mumford & Sons, Winter Wind
Going into the Red Bar on Sunday hadn’t been his best idea ever. A wall of memory and sensation had hit him the moment he walked in the door. He hadn’t even sat down, but turned on his heel, walked back out into the cold, and hailed a cab. It was now Tuesday, and he’d been more-or-less drunk since then. It was so close to Christmas that things everywhere were winding down. He had no commitments, no meetings, not even a script to read. He was going to Yorkshire for Christmas, but not for a while yet. He had nothing to do but brood. And drink. He should be out shopping for the girls, but he couldn’t face the busy crowds or, God forbid, any cheerful Christmas music.
He was halfway through a bottle of Jameson’s, and it wasn’t even four o’clock. In an obscure way he thought that sticking to Jameson’s was the honorable thing to do. A sort of obscure punishment, since he had acted dishonorably back then and since.
He had been excited to see Viggo. They had had such fun in New Zealand, and he felt that he had made a friend for life. He had also felt other things for Viggo, things that he had chosen to put aside. The man was just so damned attractive, inside and out. Although he had done some of the usual adolescent experimentation, he considered himself fairly far over to the heterosexual end of the spectrum. People in film and theatre were always testing those boundaries, though, whether playfully, seriously, or as a strange type of political correctness. He’d wondered, occasionally, what it would be like, but he’d never met anyone who made him wonder enough. Until Amon Hen.
Sean snorted to himself and poured some more whiskey. He had become such a closet fan boy ever since Fellowship. He had really gotten caught up in it. He thought of it as Amon Hen, not as a scene on a set. That day had turned out to be pivotal in his life, in more ways than one. It was a moment he was proud of as an actor. It was a moment that had haunted him as a man. When Viggo lay stretched on top of him, eyes bright with unshed tears, Sean realized he wanted this. This closeness, this intensity, this man. The vision of a life with Viggo came to him in that instant, whole and beautiful. He longed for that life, and for the person he would be in it.
Deeply shaken, he had left the set as quickly after the scene as he decently could. Staying up far into the night, he had come to the conclusion that he would be mad to pursue it. He had family, friends, a life that depended on him being.... Well, being who he seemed to be. He convinced himself, almost, that it was the intensity of the scene that had brought those desires and emotions to the surface. The love he thought he had seen in Viggo’s eyes had not been for him, it had been for Boromir.
He left New Zealand and went back to his old life. He had seen Vig from time to time, had kept the friendship up as best he could. He found himself drinking more, dating younger and younger women, even marrying one of them. He hadn’t been unhappy, he told himself, just restless. He thought about that strange moment in which he had an intuition of what a life with Viggo would have been like, but he let it go. He thought of his family in Yorkshire, his daughters, everyone’s expectations of him. It wasn’t a life he could choose, even if he had the chance.
Then they asked him to present Viggo with the Empire Icon Award. More than two years ago now, closer to three. He hesitated. He really wanted to see Vig again. He missed that friendship, but would the sight of Viggo bring more discontent into his life? In the end, he couldn’t resist. That brought him to the Red Bar at the Grosvenor, looking down at the familiar, relatively unwashed hair. He was as rumpled as ever, no tie, pocket square that didn’t match his shirt. He looked, Sean thought, wonderful. He was suddenly very nervous. They had talked about this and that, friends, projects, memories of the Fellowship. He knew he was drinking too much. Viggo, who had started before him, was drinking even more. Jesus, were the two of them even going to be able to make it through the ceremony?
He had managed pretty well, introduced Viggo, and stepped aside. Viggo, not so much. Torn between amusement and concern, Sean managed to get him off the stage before he said anything more untoward than he had already said and maneuvred him into a deserted corridor.
“You’re pissed, lad. Where’s your room?”
“Third floor. Suite. Nice.” Viggo had laughed that high, almost maniacal laugh of his. “Come with me.” He remembered Viggo grabbing him by both arms, and leaning in to whisper, “Come up for a drink.”
Sean had thought he’d better go with him. Besides, Viggo had a charming, fey quality about him when he wasn’t quite sober. He had thought.... He had thought he couldn't bear to leave him so soon. So they went, sort of clinging to each other as they made their way to the elevator.
Since they had various bottles of Jameson’s about their persons, they drank those. Or at least some of those. Sean had known that it wasn’t a good idea, but he had missed Vig so damned much. He’d wanted him for so long.
Much later, they were sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, coatless and shoeless. Sean had taken off his tie and flung it on top of his suit coat.
"D'you ‘member Amon Hen?" Viggo had asked. Sean had nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Viggo looked at him, not smiling any more, and said softly, “Loved you since then. Maybe before. You?”
Sean’s heart turned over. “Viggo…,” he had started. Then stopped. He didn’t know what to say, how much of the truth he could afford to tell. The other man had put a hand to his mouth.
“Don’t worry,” Viggo had said softly, the ghost of a smile curving his lips, "doesn’t matter.” Sean had taken the hand away and kissed it. Then he leaned over and kissed the small scar on Viggo's upper lip.
Now came the part that Sean remembered, couldn't help remembering again and again, not whole but in vivid flashes. And the part he tried to forget but could not. He poured the last of the bottle into his glass and closed his eyes. They had kissed, first tentatively, then passionately. He remembered Vig kissing his Fellowship tattoo, laughing softly. Sean groaned. Another flash, Viggo inside him, moving slowly and gently, with his hands in Sean’s hair. The feeling of almost frightening joy. Another, Vig’s bare back arched under him, the feel and smell of his sweat. Holding him, looking into those eyes, impossibly close to his own. Licking the little scar on his lip.
When he had awakened the next morning, Viggo was curled up, still fast asleep. His face was still close to Sean’s, a faint smile on his lips. He suddenly felt almost unspeakably frightened. He wanted the man like he had never wanted anyone. And, yes, he loved him. But all the reasons that it wouldn't, couldn't, work came flooding back, including his latest marriage. He couldn’t explain it. If he had to talk to Viggo, he would tell him he loved him. Then he would be lost.
He dressed quietly, and turned to leave the room. He hesitated. He couldn’t just leave like this, but he couldn’t stay either. He found a cocktail napkin, pulled a pen from his jacket pocket, and wrote.
I can’t do this.
I’m so sorry Vig.
Forgive me.
Sean
He had left it on the bed beside Viggo, cursed himself for the coward he was, and left.