Winter Wind, Day 4 - Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Winter Wind, Day 4 - Wednesday, December 14, 2011
For aprilkat’s birthday, part 4/5.
Author: undonne
Title: Winter Wind, Day 4 - Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Pairing: VigBean
Genre: RPS, relationship angst
Rating: NC-17 for subject and language
Disclaimer: has absolutely nothing to do with the real gentlemen named or their lives. Shadows of my hopeful imagination only.
Then even as the fire doth upward move
By its own form, which to ascend is born,
Where longest in its matter it endures,
So comes the captive soul into desire,
Which is a motion spiritual, and ne’er rests
Until she doth enjoy the thing beloved.
~~ Dante Alighieri, Purgatorio, Canto XVIII
Wednesday afternoon, and he still hadn’t left the house. He had worked his way through the Jameson’s, then the Newcastle Brown, late last night or early this morning. He finally slept. He woke around noon with the devil’s own head, disgusted with himself. That was nothing new. He had been disgusted with himself since he had left Viggo without a word. Viggo had called, left messages on his mobile, emailed him. He had responded to none of them. He couldn’t explain except in person, and he couldn’t bear to see Viggo. To explain that he was afraid, that he wasn’t willing to turn his life upside down, that he loved, but not enough. He would be too ashamed to look into Viggo's eyes and say those things.
Soon enough, Viggo stopped trying to contact him. Both their lives went on. Sean’s life seemed emptier, but he worked hard and played hard. The play, however, seemed more and more like work. He fought with his wife. He had little patience with her anymore, and little control over his temper. He tried to stay in the marriage only because of the embarrassment of ending it. He had been glad to leave home for the filming of Game of Thrones, and the marriage finally unraveled throughout that process. Humiliating, but he was glad to be done with it. He reached a low point in June when the news hit the tabloids of his fight outside a bar, defending the dubious honor of a topless dancer. The papers made much of the fact that he hadn’t sought medical attention for the gash in his arm. He had, in fact, relished the pain. He pushed his shirt sleeve up and contemplated the jagged scar. He hadn’t felt anything for a while at that point. He felt he deserved to carry a scar, although he wasn't quite sure what it stood for. It brought him up short, though. For the last six months, he had concentrated on work and cut back on his drinking for a while.
He had been spending more time alone, though, and that let the memories of Viggo back in. He had gone to Los Angeles in October to accept an award. He thought about trying to see Vig, to apologize, to seek forgiveness, to finally try to explain what he had done. Ironically, he found out that when he would be in LA, Viggo would be in London to talk about his latest film, Dangerous Method. Maybe he wasn't meant to be forgiven. He had turned back to alcohol to numb the pain. Vicious cycle, that, Sean thought.
He sighed, rubbed his aching temples, and turned on his computer. He still had to get gifts for the girls. If he wasn’t going out, then the marketplace must come to him. He surfed a few sites - jewelry, fashion, whatnot. He became intrigued by antique jewelry, and ordered unique pieces for his girls. Things he thought would suit them. He was about to turn off the computer and figure out something for dinner, when the thought of Viggo came back. He sat, staring at the search screen. Where was Viggo now? He couldn’t call Vig’s agent or any of their friends. He was persona non grata. He hesitated, then typed “Viggo Mortensen” into Dogpile.
He looked down the list of links. First the Wikipedia article. That wasn’t what he needed. Then IMDb. He knew Viggo’s work as well as he knew his own, so that didn’t help. Third down on the list was Viggo-works.com, whatever that was. He clicked the link. The face looked out at him, the scar on the lip visible, a slight smile, weariness in the eyes. A wave of grief washed over him.
Fuck, he thought. Fucking hell. Viggo looked beautiful as always, but…sad. Wistful. The unformed idea that led him to click on the link for viggo-works formed itself fully. He loved Viggo. He was going to find him, wherever he was, and tell him. He didn't think he could hurt Vig more than he had already. Would Viggo see him? Could he possibly forgive him? He wouldn’t blame him if the man told him to go to hell. But he had to tell him the truth, if he would listen. He tore his eyes away from the face. In the upper left-hand corner was a link to “Viggo News.” He clicked.
Very shortly, he knew where Viggo was. A half-hour later he had booked a ticket for the next day on a noon flight to Madrid. He then clicked on the helpful link for www.telentrada.com and, deeply relieved to see that there was an English language option on the site, soon had a ticket for the 8:30 performance of Purgatorio at the Matadero. He was terrified. He was also happy for the first time in almost three years.
He threw together a quick feta and basil omelette. Faintly embarrassed, he came back to the computer and continued reading viggo-works while he ate. He sat up straighter and put down his plate when he came to an interview with Viggo and his co-star about Purgatorio. Viggo was quoted as saying that “this play asks whether it is possible to forgive unconditionally, whether there are things that are so hurtful that they cannot be forgiven, and the answer I personally provide is that real forgiveness cannot set any conditions, be they what they may.”
Real forgiveness cannot set any conditions. He wiped tears from his eyes with an impatient hand, carefully cut and pasted the words onto a blank Word document, and printed it out. He might need it in Madrid.
For aprilkat’s birthday, part 4/5.
Author: undonne
Title: Winter Wind, Day 4 - Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Pairing: VigBean
Genre: RPS, relationship angst
Rating: NC-17 for subject and language
Disclaimer: has absolutely nothing to do with the real gentlemen named or their lives. Shadows of my hopeful imagination only.
Then even as the fire doth upward move
By its own form, which to ascend is born,
Where longest in its matter it endures,
So comes the captive soul into desire,
Which is a motion spiritual, and ne’er rests
Until she doth enjoy the thing beloved.
~~ Dante Alighieri, Purgatorio, Canto XVIII
Wednesday afternoon, and he still hadn’t left the house. He had worked his way through the Jameson’s, then the Newcastle Brown, late last night or early this morning. He finally slept. He woke around noon with the devil’s own head, disgusted with himself. That was nothing new. He had been disgusted with himself since he had left Viggo without a word. Viggo had called, left messages on his mobile, emailed him. He had responded to none of them. He couldn’t explain except in person, and he couldn’t bear to see Viggo. To explain that he was afraid, that he wasn’t willing to turn his life upside down, that he loved, but not enough. He would be too ashamed to look into Viggo's eyes and say those things.
Soon enough, Viggo stopped trying to contact him. Both their lives went on. Sean’s life seemed emptier, but he worked hard and played hard. The play, however, seemed more and more like work. He fought with his wife. He had little patience with her anymore, and little control over his temper. He tried to stay in the marriage only because of the embarrassment of ending it. He had been glad to leave home for the filming of Game of Thrones, and the marriage finally unraveled throughout that process. Humiliating, but he was glad to be done with it. He reached a low point in June when the news hit the tabloids of his fight outside a bar, defending the dubious honor of a topless dancer. The papers made much of the fact that he hadn’t sought medical attention for the gash in his arm. He had, in fact, relished the pain. He pushed his shirt sleeve up and contemplated the jagged scar. He hadn’t felt anything for a while at that point. He felt he deserved to carry a scar, although he wasn't quite sure what it stood for. It brought him up short, though. For the last six months, he had concentrated on work and cut back on his drinking for a while.
He had been spending more time alone, though, and that let the memories of Viggo back in. He had gone to Los Angeles in October to accept an award. He thought about trying to see Vig, to apologize, to seek forgiveness, to finally try to explain what he had done. Ironically, he found out that when he would be in LA, Viggo would be in London to talk about his latest film, Dangerous Method. Maybe he wasn't meant to be forgiven. He had turned back to alcohol to numb the pain. Vicious cycle, that, Sean thought.
He sighed, rubbed his aching temples, and turned on his computer. He still had to get gifts for the girls. If he wasn’t going out, then the marketplace must come to him. He surfed a few sites - jewelry, fashion, whatnot. He became intrigued by antique jewelry, and ordered unique pieces for his girls. Things he thought would suit them. He was about to turn off the computer and figure out something for dinner, when the thought of Viggo came back. He sat, staring at the search screen. Where was Viggo now? He couldn’t call Vig’s agent or any of their friends. He was persona non grata. He hesitated, then typed “Viggo Mortensen” into Dogpile.
He looked down the list of links. First the Wikipedia article. That wasn’t what he needed. Then IMDb. He knew Viggo’s work as well as he knew his own, so that didn’t help. Third down on the list was Viggo-works.com, whatever that was. He clicked the link. The face looked out at him, the scar on the lip visible, a slight smile, weariness in the eyes. A wave of grief washed over him.
Fuck, he thought. Fucking hell. Viggo looked beautiful as always, but…sad. Wistful. The unformed idea that led him to click on the link for viggo-works formed itself fully. He loved Viggo. He was going to find him, wherever he was, and tell him. He didn't think he could hurt Vig more than he had already. Would Viggo see him? Could he possibly forgive him? He wouldn’t blame him if the man told him to go to hell. But he had to tell him the truth, if he would listen. He tore his eyes away from the face. In the upper left-hand corner was a link to “Viggo News.” He clicked.
Very shortly, he knew where Viggo was. A half-hour later he had booked a ticket for the next day on a noon flight to Madrid. He then clicked on the helpful link for www.telentrada.com and, deeply relieved to see that there was an English language option on the site, soon had a ticket for the 8:30 performance of Purgatorio at the Matadero. He was terrified. He was also happy for the first time in almost three years.
He threw together a quick feta and basil omelette. Faintly embarrassed, he came back to the computer and continued reading viggo-works while he ate. He sat up straighter and put down his plate when he came to an interview with Viggo and his co-star about Purgatorio. Viggo was quoted as saying that “this play asks whether it is possible to forgive unconditionally, whether there are things that are so hurtful that they cannot be forgiven, and the answer I personally provide is that real forgiveness cannot set any conditions, be they what they may.”
Real forgiveness cannot set any conditions. He wiped tears from his eyes with an impatient hand, carefully cut and pasted the words onto a blank Word document, and printed it out. He might need it in Madrid.