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Mar. 23rd, 2003 10:02 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
tyaa.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
rugbytackleTitle: Home
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tyaa
Pairing: Viggo/Sean, RPS
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Yes, please!
Disclaimer: These are real people, but this never, ever happened. The poem isn't mine, either.
Notes: Forkarelian's "Poetry" challenge. I read this one & the idea hit me in the shower. So I padded my slightly damp self over to the computer and here you are.
HOME
HE'S GOT A DEEP, ABIDING RESPECT
VERGING ON IDOL WORSHIP
FOR WHERE THINGS END UP.
THERE ARE UNOPENED LETTERS
IN HIS REFRIGERATOR, A FAKE
FINGERNAIL IN THE SOAPDISH,
SHOES EVERYPLACE.
THESE THINGS, AND MANY MORE
LEAVINGS, FRAGMENTS, BALANCING
REMINDERS OF A BREEZE
FROM A SLAMMED DOOR- CONFIGURATIONS OF SANCTIFIED LOOSE ENDS- HAVE BECOME THE LIVING NET
ABOVE WHICH HE PERFORMS
THE MOVEMENTS THAT MAKE
THE CLOCK WORK.
Thanks to "The Many Faces of Viggo Mortensen" for posting this poem.
***
Viggo has never been one for goodbyes. And because of that, he has hurt someone deeply. The fact of that is killing him. He considers all the possible "what-ifs" and discards them one by one. Too late. Feelings hit him and he stumbles, reaches out for something to balance him and finds the doorway.
Flashes of their last meeting; not quite knowing what to say, wanting to tell him everything. Saying nothing. What held you back? It's not like those feelings are any kind of secret.
Now that opportunity has past. Sean is in London, committed to Hamlet. And Viggo is in New Zealand. Committed to Sean? Not after what happened.
"Fine! Leave it then! I don't give a fuck! I'm not into this - and I'm not into you!" The slamming of a door, the sound of Sean's footsteps as he leaves for the last time.
Sean is in London. Viggo is in New Zealand. But there will be shoots in London. Not soon enough.
Time moves too slowly. Waiting is agony when you finally realize what you need. When you finally realize what has been haunting you for all this time can be exorcised, but it can't be done just now because you've made an ass out of yourself and Time, once wasted, is collecting its payback.
"I'm sorry!" His hand slams against the wall, leaving the shadow of an imprint. One more to join others made not in anger but in ecstasy. He remembers being pushed against unyielding stone, giving himself up to a passion he had never experienced before. Open mouths, the sweet, salty taste of flesh that you have wanted for so long and finally have. He shakes off those feelings and heads toward the bedroom. Perhaps sleep is what's needed.
Viggo stands in the middle of his bedroom and looks around. Remembrances of things past? Scanning the room he sees a couple of pairs of Sean's boots, discarded after a long days worth of filming. A shirt tossed over a chair; hastily removed and carelessly flung. Bits of latex in the bathroom, cold ales in the refrigerator. Pieces of Sean everywhere. Best to leave things as they are. It will seem that he is still here if nothing is moved.
Letters come in from time to time. Postmarked London, holding secrets Viggo can't bring himself to discover. What could Sean say to him? Henry calls out joyously when a new one comes in, waving the letter like a flag, but the letters are hope and Viggo tosses them into the vegetable hamper so he can deny their existence. Henry looks at him sideways but says nothing. Things can be hashed out in London; rifts can be mended there. Yes, that is how it will be. Some things you just can't say, some things you have to show. Viggo looks back at the clock.
London beckons. And Time moves too damn slow.
Author:
tyaaPairing: Viggo/Sean, RPS
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Yes, please!
Disclaimer: These are real people, but this never, ever happened. The poem isn't mine, either.
Notes: For
karelian's "Poetry" challenge. I read this one & the idea hit me in the shower. So I padded my slightly damp self over to the computer and here you are. HOME
HE'S GOT A DEEP, ABIDING RESPECT
VERGING ON IDOL WORSHIP
FOR WHERE THINGS END UP.
THERE ARE UNOPENED LETTERS
IN HIS REFRIGERATOR, A FAKE
FINGERNAIL IN THE SOAPDISH,
SHOES EVERYPLACE.
THESE THINGS, AND MANY MORE
LEAVINGS, FRAGMENTS, BALANCING
REMINDERS OF A BREEZE
FROM A SLAMMED DOOR- CONFIGURATIONS OF SANCTIFIED LOOSE ENDS- HAVE BECOME THE LIVING NET
ABOVE WHICH HE PERFORMS
THE MOVEMENTS THAT MAKE
THE CLOCK WORK.
Thanks to "The Many Faces of Viggo Mortensen" for posting this poem.
***
Viggo has never been one for goodbyes. And because of that, he has hurt someone deeply. The fact of that is killing him. He considers all the possible "what-ifs" and discards them one by one. Too late. Feelings hit him and he stumbles, reaches out for something to balance him and finds the doorway.
Flashes of their last meeting; not quite knowing what to say, wanting to tell him everything. Saying nothing. What held you back? It's not like those feelings are any kind of secret.
Now that opportunity has past. Sean is in London, committed to Hamlet. And Viggo is in New Zealand. Committed to Sean? Not after what happened.
"Fine! Leave it then! I don't give a fuck! I'm not into this - and I'm not into you!" The slamming of a door, the sound of Sean's footsteps as he leaves for the last time.
Sean is in London. Viggo is in New Zealand. But there will be shoots in London. Not soon enough.
Time moves too slowly. Waiting is agony when you finally realize what you need. When you finally realize what has been haunting you for all this time can be exorcised, but it can't be done just now because you've made an ass out of yourself and Time, once wasted, is collecting its payback.
"I'm sorry!" His hand slams against the wall, leaving the shadow of an imprint. One more to join others made not in anger but in ecstasy. He remembers being pushed against unyielding stone, giving himself up to a passion he had never experienced before. Open mouths, the sweet, salty taste of flesh that you have wanted for so long and finally have. He shakes off those feelings and heads toward the bedroom. Perhaps sleep is what's needed.
Viggo stands in the middle of his bedroom and looks around. Remembrances of things past? Scanning the room he sees a couple of pairs of Sean's boots, discarded after a long days worth of filming. A shirt tossed over a chair; hastily removed and carelessly flung. Bits of latex in the bathroom, cold ales in the refrigerator. Pieces of Sean everywhere. Best to leave things as they are. It will seem that he is still here if nothing is moved.
Letters come in from time to time. Postmarked London, holding secrets Viggo can't bring himself to discover. What could Sean say to him? Henry calls out joyously when a new one comes in, waving the letter like a flag, but the letters are hope and Viggo tosses them into the vegetable hamper so he can deny their existence. Henry looks at him sideways but says nothing. Things can be hashed out in London; rifts can be mended there. Yes, that is how it will be. Some things you just can't say, some things you have to show. Viggo looks back at the clock.
London beckons. And Time moves too damn slow.
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no subject
Date: 2003-03-23 10:53 am (UTC)Re:
Date: 2003-03-23 12:42 pm (UTC)Well, I did feel a bunny rattle around when I read a few of his other pieces....
no subject
Date: 2003-03-23 11:45 am (UTC)Gah! Beautiful *^_^* more please!
Re:
Date: 2003-03-23 12:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-03-23 01:31 pm (UTC)Re:
Date: 2003-03-23 01:55 pm (UTC)nogood.no subject
Date: 2003-03-23 03:01 pm (UTC)Re:
Date: 2003-03-24 11:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-03-23 04:08 pm (UTC)Also I cannot even tell you how much I think you need to write a happy sequel. *g*
Sean's doing Hamlet next? *g,d,r*
Re:
Date: 2003-03-24 11:11 am (UTC)Sean's doing Hamlet next? *g,d,r*
I'm a sucker for Shakespeare. ;)