Waiting 2

Waiting

Part 2

Posted: January 2003

*****

Sean's left hand is wrapped up in a white bandage to protect his raw knuckles, but Peter takes this remarkably well, since they're filming Lothlórien today and it can pass as a wound Boromir sustained when the cave troll knocked him around.

"I knocked Viggo around," Sean says.

Peter rolls his eyes, commenting distractedly on the British sense of humour while perusing his notes.

Viggo sits down next to Sean, a bit stiffly, just then. He sits close to Sean, doesn't say anything. He could be smiling, but Sean is looking at him sideways and can't really tell.

Dom, who has heard Peter's comment, amiably calls Sean a cunt.

Yeah, Sean thinks, and looks down at his bandaged hand.

Viggo chuckles softly, wincing only a little. "Yeah," he says, brightly, and leans a little closer, unnoticed by the others around them.

He makes Sean smile, after all.

***

This is Boromir's death scene, take something or other, and there's some problem with the cameras. Sean can hear Peter shouting something, there's people running around, but he can't see, because they've been told to hold their positions, it won't be long.

Sean doesn't think they could have moved anyway.

This time it's Viggo who is kneeling between Sean's legs; Sean is the one battered, bruised, even if only for this moment in time, even if only for the cameras. Viggo's arms are resting on Sean's chest, a solid warm weight, heavy, but not uncomfortable.

Viggo's right hand, bloodied and dirty, is lying lightly on Sean's cheek.

Sean is looking up, up into Viggo's eyes, and has no idea what Viggo is thinking, or what Aragorn is--he can never tell the two of them apart, when they're between takes. Viggo's approach to his characters is so different from his own--Sean knows what Boromir is thinking now--well, what he would be thinking, if he wasn't dying but just lying there, on the soft forest floor, Aragorn lying half on top of him, touching him--Sean knows about Boromir, all right.

He doesn't bother about what he himself is thinking; instead he just lies there, as if there were no one else around, and looks up into Viggo's, into Aragorn's, eyes.

They have a remote look in them, and are so bright and filled with light in his dirtied face--remote, and veiled with tears.

Sean wonders how much longer they'll have to wait.

Then the hand on Sean's face is moving, an almost-caress that could be involuntary, but the warm palm is moving across his face, bloodied fingertips finding their way into his, Boromir's, hair. Sean is still looking up, so he sees the tear gathering in the bright eye, rolling down, falling; he feels it splashing onto his cheek, at the corner of his mouth. Viggo's fingers brush it away, gentle, lingering; but Aragorn's eyes are still remote, bright; and Viggo looks down into Sean's eyes, and doesn't smile.

There's a taste blossoming in Sean's mouth all of a sudden--it's metallic and sharp and unreal; he thinks this is what light should taste like.

***

The first time Sean had been fucked, he'd been 22, and just out of his first marriage. It had been hard and painful, not gentle at all--back at RADA, bent over his roommate's desk one night after one wild party.

Hard and painful and so intense, it'd sucked Sean's soul right out of him, leaving him empty, marked. Frightened by how intense it'd been, by the power it had on him. By the hidden parts of himself it'd made him glimpse.

Possessed. Made into something new--someone new. No more separate.

He'd hurt for days afterwards, and had sworn to himself he would never let it happen to him again.

He wonders, while the makeup people flit around him, around Viggo sitting in the chair next to his, taking Boromir's death away from them, if he and Viggo--if they'll ever be friends enough for him to tell Viggo about it.

To tell Viggo that if he had never let it happen again, it hadn't been because of the pain.

***

As soon as the door of Viggo's trailer is locked, Viggo attacks him--because there's really no other word for it--and Sean finds himself pushed up against the door, banging against it with a crash loud enough to shake the whole trailer; not even time to take a breath, and he has Viggo flush against his chest, bright eyes wide and wild. Yes, Sean thinks when Viggo takes his mouth hard enough to draw blood--real blood this time--yes: we've been heading here for weeks now.

We've done with waiting, he thinks then, and his arms come up and crush Viggo to him, fighting not to get free, but to come out on top. He fights hard and he fights for real, and their blood mingles. He doesn't care.

And at last, Sean wins; or Viggo lets him win. He doesn't know; he only knows that Viggo's little sigh of surrender in his mouth is enough to make him crazy; and the deep moan in the back of Viggo's throat makes him wild.

He pushes Viggo through the small room, to the couch; he pushes him down on the cushions and rips buttons and seams in his violence, the violence of his need, their need; until he has Viggo's dark hard cock in his hand, searing his palm, making his mouth dry and his eyes water when he takes it deep into his throat, when he makes Viggo dig his fingers deep into his shoulders, makes him come with a strangled, cut-off cry, Viggo's heels digging hard into the carpet.

There's no trace of bruising on Viggo's skin now; there's no trace of Sean on Viggo. Sean tastes Viggo on his tongue, and sees Viggo watching him, breathing hard, still crazy; sees that this is not enough, for either of them.

Viggo doesn't wait for him to ask, but he gets up, steadying himself by grasping Sean's arms, then turns to kneel on the couch, looking at Sean from over his shoulder; he braces himself against the cushions. And finally, slowly, he nods; turns his head away; leans over.

He bites hard on the cushions when Sean slides in, Viggo's come his only lubricant. Sean feels him stiffen, sees his fists closing so tight he's probably drawing blood where his nails bite into his palms; yet Viggo still arches up, arches back, spreading his legs wide, letting Sean have it all--all of him Sean would take.

It's hard and fast, and then it's over.

Sean comes, and if he cries out Viggo's name, he doesn't know.

The light is deafening.

***

The sun has already set when Sean unlock the trailer's door and steps outside, closing it softly behind him before descending the few steps.

He's left Viggo sleeping, inside, sprawled under an afghan on the stained couch. Sean is almost sure he's not really sleeping, but pretends otherwise. Pretends not to know. It's better this way, surely--it has to be.

There's a sharp, metallic taste in his mouth, and it could be blood, or semen; but it tastes right, familiar: it tastes like something Sean had once used to know and then forgotten. Viggo had kissed him, afterwards--he'd turned over in Sean's arms and had taken Sean's face in his hands, and drawn him down--Viggo had kissed him, barely, lips brushing together, lingering--Viggo had kissed him, gently and caring, and held Sean for long minutes, in the breathing silence, their eyes locked, their bodies entwined.

Sean had felt, curiously, as if they could go on like that, holding to each other like that, looking at each other, for the longest time--and never stop to think of how right it feels.

Just touching.

Then Sean had remembered--had drawn back. Viggo's hands had fallen away, let Sean go. Light had faded; Viggo's breathing had evened out; yet Sean had stayed, waiting, until all the light had gone, and the night had closed in.

Then he'd left.

He's only gone a few paces, now, before he sees Ian sitting on the steps of his own trailer, smoking . Ian greets him with a nod of his head, and Sean can't help but join him. He idly wonders whether in the dim light of the evening his kiss-bruised lips and his disheveled clothing are very conspicuous; then decides they are. Ian is not looking at him, though: he's patting himself down to find his lighter, and when Sean takes the offered cigarette from his pack, he lights it for him.

Sean inhales gratefully, trying his best with his other hand to smooth down unruly tangled hair. They smoke in silence for a few moments, and Sean quietly waits for it.

"Emotionally charged scenes," at length Ian says, conversationally, his deep rough voice carrying far in the night, "are really something." He still doesn't look at Sean, but takes a drag from his own cigarette, letting bright orange ashes glow and die in the growing darkness. "Don't you think?"

Sean doesn't answer. They carry on smoking in peaceful quiet.

When he feels the heat beginning to burn his fingers, Sean looks down at the almost extinguished cigarette. He holds it before his eyes, before letting it fall to the ground. "Daft fucking name," he says, loudly, and even if it's already gone out, he stomps on it anyway, hard. "Fags."

Ian just offers him another.

***

It's the night before Viggo needs to move to the other island to film some of the Rohan scenes. He comes to Sean's place, uninvited, not unexpected. Sean has been waiting for him. For ages, Sean thinks when he opens the door, lets him in.

Viggo stays the night.

Sean looks at him, peaceful and at ease in Sean's bed; Viggo is keeping his eyes closed, yet Sean knows he's not really asleep--he's just still enough for Sean to pretend he is.

Viggo's lying there, dark blond head resting against Sean's belly, one arm cast over both of Sean's legs, the other disappearing under the pillow. He breathes slow and even; he's inside Sean's home, Sean's bed, Sean's life.

And quietly, as the night slowly fades into day, Sean tells him everything about his youth at RADA.

Everything.

***

Abby calls him again one Monday evening, the fifth day of Viggo filming on the other island. Sean gets comfortable to talk with her, and before he knows it, they've been talking for the best part of an hour. Abby says she doesn't remember the last time she'd found him so relaxed and cheerful, and neither can Sean.

"This film really does agree with you," Abby says, and Sean hears her smile in the words, can almost see the lovely way her lips curl gently up into it. Sean is glad they'd gotten involved, after all; he would never go back and change that, and not just because of Evie. He feels a little in love with her still, thinks he'll always be. He tells her so, and makes her laugh. But it's a gentle, trusting laugh that makes him smile in return.

He's almost dozing off in front of the telly, hours later, when it suddenly comes home to him--they're airing some weird talk show and he's been thinking all the time about the way Viggo would laugh at this or snort at that, the outrageous comments he would make at the screen in that slow, slurring voice he has... not really thinking of this, more like a constant commentary on the edge of his consciousness, a blurred background noise... Viggo's voice, soft and familiar in Sean's head. Always there.

And it all builds up until it finally surfaces, drilling a hole of nostalgia so deep and sharp-edged in him, for an instant he can't breath. It's that painful.

He misses Viggo.

He misses him real bad, yet it's not just that. He wants him back.

He wants him *now*.

***

They're sitting in Viggo's living room, rehearsing lines together. Viggo has been back for days, yet they've barely seen each other: their schedules are so different now, Viggo is mostly filming stuff for the other movies--the ones without Boromir.

Yet now they're here, at Viggo's place; and Sean listens to Viggo's low American drawl and feels there's something about it, something that at once keeps him anchored to reality and feeling like he's about to take flight at any moment; he feels caressed by Viggo's lazy speech, and when it stops, he just has to look up--to see himself being watched.

It's a familiar moment, and a thrill runs up Sean's spine. He revels in the realisation, his heart goes wild in his throat.

It's familiar. Not alien. Not separate.

Not any more.

"Am I," he deliberately says, words thick in his mouth, pushing out around his pulsing heart, "boring you?"

Viggo puts his script down. "I want," he says; Sean's mouth goes dry.

"Yes?" he whispers, watches while Viggo comes over, closes the distance between them--comes to him.

"I want to make love to you," Viggo says, leaning down over Sean's chair, bright and warm and familiar all over; and there's no question in his slow, familiar voice. No uncertainty.

"Yes," Sean says. And then he says, "You can." And with his next breath he says, "I want you to."

There's no hurry now, there's no violence; Viggo's fingers brush lightly over Sean's features, learning familiarity all over again.

Viggo is so close, they feel almost like one person.

Sean looks right into Viggo's eyes, leans into Viggo's touch, lets himself be touched; and finally knows he won't be waiting anymore.

*****

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