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rugbytackleTITLE: The Orange Grove (18/32): Restless
AUTHOR: Cinzia and Gloria
Full headers here
Sean was feeling restless. Tired, but restless: he'd taken one of the cars in the pool to drive home, then he'd showered and called Melanie, hoping to talk to the girls, but they weren't home; and neither was Abigail with the little one. So he'd brought his plate of sandwiches outside on the terrace, and had chewed on them distractedly, while the sun went down behind the hill.
The evening breeze felt cool, but not chilly, and he watched the swallows fly high in the red and golden sky, crying out to each other.
It was probably a sign of how tired he was, that he was thinking of how, only a week before, Viggo had cooked some Greek dish made with baked potatoes, goat cheese and pastry -- he'd forgotten the name now -- and they'd had dinner right there on the terrace, discussing the movie, their characters, stuff, before leaving to go to Valeria's party. Felt like a long time ago.
He pushed his plate aside, and reached for the pack of cigarettes and the lighter he'd put on the low stone parapet. He could go on for months without feeling the need for a cigarette, something he was quite proud of; but he usually went back to smoking heavily during filming, a habit he'd never seriously tried to lose, since it helped him relieve the stress. He was always stressed, when he worked.
He looked down at the packet in his hand: he'd bought these at Heathrow, the day he'd left for Crete. It was still more than half-full. He had had to rummage through his things to find the lighter, too -- couldn't remember where he'd left it the last time he'd used it.
Fuck it, he thought, and put the packet back down with so much force he crushed it.
He didn't like it. He didn't like this shit that was going down with Viggo. He knew it wasn't his business, that likely as not Viggo was just Method-acting again, living so deep in the Comte's head he actually felt like he had a dead lover to mourn and whatnot. He'd done enough of that with Aragorn that Sean could recognise the signs. Yet even then, he hadn't shut Sean out: he'd just talked to him strangely from time to time, with a quiet, grave voice Sean couldn't help but react to, keeping in character even when driving Viggo to the pub.
It had been easy to fall into step like that, to see Viggo the way Boromir would've seen Aragorn. John used to mock them about it, cheerful and friendly when his allergic rash let him be. They'd just smiled, and carried on: what could a Dwarf know of the ways of Men? Boromir was content enough to sit exchanging tales, learning how to be friends. Aragorn was a decent man.
Aragorn had never once avoided him, not even after Boromir's death. Especially not after Boromir's death.
Sean sighed.
Not even when Viggo and Orlando had gone steady. Even then, Viggo had always come to Sean to talk about things and shit. To just hang out, have a pint, a game of pool... God knew, Sean had learnt a great deal about gay relationships during those last few weeks in New Zealand, more than he'd ever cared to know, really.
And Viggo had cared a lot about the lad, Sean knew: he'd been there, he'd seen it happen. He'd been happy for them: he'd teased them about it any chance he got.
He'd been happy, on that set.
And now. It'd been a week. Since the day after the party... No. Beating around the bush didn't help: since the night of the party, actually. It had started right then, and Sean had been thinking of it all afternoon, and there was only one thing that stood out in his mind, from that night.
Though he didn't know how it could be possible: so yeah, maybe he'd fucked up, he shouldn't have kissed Viggo quite like that: for a second there, he'd forgotten himself, forgotten that this was his mate he was kissing, and not... Well, he'd fucked up. It had felt like the right thing to do just then, but he'd obviously got it wrong. And so what? Was Viggo afraid Sean might want something more from him? No, that was daft: Viggo knew Sean wasn't after... after that sort of thing. And not from Viggo, of all people! Ridiculous, just thinking of it. Viggo had to know it.
And anyway, why would he react like that? Why not simply tell him off?
Because, Sean thought, frustrated, everything here looked like New Zealand, and for a little while, he'd let himself believe that it felt like it, too. But it wasn't. Five years had passed, lots of things had happened, to both of them. They had changed. They were still good friends, but that kind of closeness, of... intimacy... That had been part of Rings. And had stayed there.
They'd been stupid, thinking they could have it all back once again. He had been, at any rate.
So maybe, he found himself thinking almost without realising it, they could have -- something else. Something different? Maybe Viggo might want...
He got abruptly to his feet, wandered over to the end of the terrace. It was almost completely dark now, but he could see, just below him, the orange tree under which he'd found Viggo that night -- sleepless, quietly freaking out on his own, all because of a dream.
That was the tree Sean had dreamt about.
He took a deep breath -- the scent of green earth and oranges was always more intense in the evening.
If you looked at it from the outside, he supposed, his own behaviour when he was with Viggo wasn't entirely, well... straight. He had been the one kissing Viggo, as though... as though he actually meant it. Looking at it now, he couldn't begin to fathom what the hell he'd thought he was doing.
"That's it," he murmured. He was going crazy, thinking this thing over and over, making too much of it. And Viggo -- Viggo would've laughed at him: he wasn't worrying things to death, was he? No, he was out with his pretty Greek boy right now, getting laid. As Sean should've been doing -- maybe, possibly, most likely -- if only he'd accepted Valeria's invitation to dinner.
Enough was enough. He strode back inside, grabbed the car keys he'd let drop on the coffee table when he got in, and drove the short distance to the village, knowing the road fairly well by now. And he was growing accustomed to driving on the right again. He left the car in the first suitable spot he saw, and walked on.
Greek villages were familiar to Sean after Troy, especially one so small as this, with its narrow streets, cluttered with the evening market and people sitting out on the front steps catching the night breeze, exchanging gossip, hanging around in the tavernas. It'd been a little like this in Malta, and he'd found the unhurried rhythm of these seaside little towns calming, comforting.
It was having the same effect on him now. He roamed the streets, looking at the hand-dyed shawls and shirts for sale on the stalls, drifting lazily in the breeze, the terracotta reproductions of ancient urns with red and black warriors, centaurs, gods. It was a place accustomed to tourists, so while he was clearly a foreigner, no one really paid too much attention to him. He thought he spotted one or two familiar faces around as well, guys from the crew.
Everything felt better here, peaceful, the constant, humming chat in a language he didn't understand soothing his nerves. His head felt clearer: thank God he'd thought of this, or he would've still been at home, climbing the walls by now, for sure.
He turned a corner, and found himself in a square. The village's church stood in front of him, looking ancient and silent, its walls maybe in need of a few repairs. 'Orthodox service,' the plaque outside read. At this time of night, it was closed.
Sean frowned: he was sure he'd already been here. Maybe that night he had dinner with Sarah? Yes, he remembered the taverna over there, with the football playing -- it'd only be a local game, though -- and the dusty-looking sign above the grocery store... and the bakery on the other side, where a street started climbing along the side of the hill. The restaurant they'd gone to was just a couple of streets after that.
It was getting late, and there weren't so many people around now. Sean thought he could go home without having a fit. He started retracing his steps, not feeling quite as restless as he'd felt for most of the evening. Home, then, and to bed. And maybe he could make something nice for breakfast tomorrow, see if Viggo was home by then: maybe he'd catch him in a good enough mood, and he could persuade him to stop moping.
He had a good feeling about this.
Someone emerged from the narrow, darkened street by the bakery, walking so fast Sean had to take a step back to avoid collision. A man with long, dark blond hair, quite ruffled, wearing a light blue cotton shirt with Greek patterns crossing over the chest, and frayed jeans.
The shirt looked inside out.
Sean blinked.
"Viggo?"
TBC
AUTHOR: Cinzia and Gloria
Full headers here
Sean was feeling restless. Tired, but restless: he'd taken one of the cars in the pool to drive home, then he'd showered and called Melanie, hoping to talk to the girls, but they weren't home; and neither was Abigail with the little one. So he'd brought his plate of sandwiches outside on the terrace, and had chewed on them distractedly, while the sun went down behind the hill.
The evening breeze felt cool, but not chilly, and he watched the swallows fly high in the red and golden sky, crying out to each other.
It was probably a sign of how tired he was, that he was thinking of how, only a week before, Viggo had cooked some Greek dish made with baked potatoes, goat cheese and pastry -- he'd forgotten the name now -- and they'd had dinner right there on the terrace, discussing the movie, their characters, stuff, before leaving to go to Valeria's party. Felt like a long time ago.
He pushed his plate aside, and reached for the pack of cigarettes and the lighter he'd put on the low stone parapet. He could go on for months without feeling the need for a cigarette, something he was quite proud of; but he usually went back to smoking heavily during filming, a habit he'd never seriously tried to lose, since it helped him relieve the stress. He was always stressed, when he worked.
He looked down at the packet in his hand: he'd bought these at Heathrow, the day he'd left for Crete. It was still more than half-full. He had had to rummage through his things to find the lighter, too -- couldn't remember where he'd left it the last time he'd used it.
Fuck it, he thought, and put the packet back down with so much force he crushed it.
He didn't like it. He didn't like this shit that was going down with Viggo. He knew it wasn't his business, that likely as not Viggo was just Method-acting again, living so deep in the Comte's head he actually felt like he had a dead lover to mourn and whatnot. He'd done enough of that with Aragorn that Sean could recognise the signs. Yet even then, he hadn't shut Sean out: he'd just talked to him strangely from time to time, with a quiet, grave voice Sean couldn't help but react to, keeping in character even when driving Viggo to the pub.
It had been easy to fall into step like that, to see Viggo the way Boromir would've seen Aragorn. John used to mock them about it, cheerful and friendly when his allergic rash let him be. They'd just smiled, and carried on: what could a Dwarf know of the ways of Men? Boromir was content enough to sit exchanging tales, learning how to be friends. Aragorn was a decent man.
Aragorn had never once avoided him, not even after Boromir's death. Especially not after Boromir's death.
Sean sighed.
Not even when Viggo and Orlando had gone steady. Even then, Viggo had always come to Sean to talk about things and shit. To just hang out, have a pint, a game of pool... God knew, Sean had learnt a great deal about gay relationships during those last few weeks in New Zealand, more than he'd ever cared to know, really.
And Viggo had cared a lot about the lad, Sean knew: he'd been there, he'd seen it happen. He'd been happy for them: he'd teased them about it any chance he got.
He'd been happy, on that set.
And now. It'd been a week. Since the day after the party... No. Beating around the bush didn't help: since the night of the party, actually. It had started right then, and Sean had been thinking of it all afternoon, and there was only one thing that stood out in his mind, from that night.
Though he didn't know how it could be possible: so yeah, maybe he'd fucked up, he shouldn't have kissed Viggo quite like that: for a second there, he'd forgotten himself, forgotten that this was his mate he was kissing, and not... Well, he'd fucked up. It had felt like the right thing to do just then, but he'd obviously got it wrong. And so what? Was Viggo afraid Sean might want something more from him? No, that was daft: Viggo knew Sean wasn't after... after that sort of thing. And not from Viggo, of all people! Ridiculous, just thinking of it. Viggo had to know it.
And anyway, why would he react like that? Why not simply tell him off?
Because, Sean thought, frustrated, everything here looked like New Zealand, and for a little while, he'd let himself believe that it felt like it, too. But it wasn't. Five years had passed, lots of things had happened, to both of them. They had changed. They were still good friends, but that kind of closeness, of... intimacy... That had been part of Rings. And had stayed there.
They'd been stupid, thinking they could have it all back once again. He had been, at any rate.
So maybe, he found himself thinking almost without realising it, they could have -- something else. Something different? Maybe Viggo might want...
He got abruptly to his feet, wandered over to the end of the terrace. It was almost completely dark now, but he could see, just below him, the orange tree under which he'd found Viggo that night -- sleepless, quietly freaking out on his own, all because of a dream.
That was the tree Sean had dreamt about.
He took a deep breath -- the scent of green earth and oranges was always more intense in the evening.
If you looked at it from the outside, he supposed, his own behaviour when he was with Viggo wasn't entirely, well... straight. He had been the one kissing Viggo, as though... as though he actually meant it. Looking at it now, he couldn't begin to fathom what the hell he'd thought he was doing.
"That's it," he murmured. He was going crazy, thinking this thing over and over, making too much of it. And Viggo -- Viggo would've laughed at him: he wasn't worrying things to death, was he? No, he was out with his pretty Greek boy right now, getting laid. As Sean should've been doing -- maybe, possibly, most likely -- if only he'd accepted Valeria's invitation to dinner.
Enough was enough. He strode back inside, grabbed the car keys he'd let drop on the coffee table when he got in, and drove the short distance to the village, knowing the road fairly well by now. And he was growing accustomed to driving on the right again. He left the car in the first suitable spot he saw, and walked on.
Greek villages were familiar to Sean after Troy, especially one so small as this, with its narrow streets, cluttered with the evening market and people sitting out on the front steps catching the night breeze, exchanging gossip, hanging around in the tavernas. It'd been a little like this in Malta, and he'd found the unhurried rhythm of these seaside little towns calming, comforting.
It was having the same effect on him now. He roamed the streets, looking at the hand-dyed shawls and shirts for sale on the stalls, drifting lazily in the breeze, the terracotta reproductions of ancient urns with red and black warriors, centaurs, gods. It was a place accustomed to tourists, so while he was clearly a foreigner, no one really paid too much attention to him. He thought he spotted one or two familiar faces around as well, guys from the crew.
Everything felt better here, peaceful, the constant, humming chat in a language he didn't understand soothing his nerves. His head felt clearer: thank God he'd thought of this, or he would've still been at home, climbing the walls by now, for sure.
He turned a corner, and found himself in a square. The village's church stood in front of him, looking ancient and silent, its walls maybe in need of a few repairs. 'Orthodox service,' the plaque outside read. At this time of night, it was closed.
Sean frowned: he was sure he'd already been here. Maybe that night he had dinner with Sarah? Yes, he remembered the taverna over there, with the football playing -- it'd only be a local game, though -- and the dusty-looking sign above the grocery store... and the bakery on the other side, where a street started climbing along the side of the hill. The restaurant they'd gone to was just a couple of streets after that.
It was getting late, and there weren't so many people around now. Sean thought he could go home without having a fit. He started retracing his steps, not feeling quite as restless as he'd felt for most of the evening. Home, then, and to bed. And maybe he could make something nice for breakfast tomorrow, see if Viggo was home by then: maybe he'd catch him in a good enough mood, and he could persuade him to stop moping.
He had a good feeling about this.
Someone emerged from the narrow, darkened street by the bakery, walking so fast Sean had to take a step back to avoid collision. A man with long, dark blond hair, quite ruffled, wearing a light blue cotton shirt with Greek patterns crossing over the chest, and frayed jeans.
The shirt looked inside out.
Sean blinked.
"Viggo?"
TBC
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no subject
Date: 2003-10-27 03:05 pm (UTC)*pets Sean*
And he is so proud that he has figured out what to do - bless the little "I'm not getting it until I have to" dear.
*loves*
no subject
Date: 2003-10-28 04:05 pm (UTC)Thank you so much! *squishes* :)
And he is so proud that he has figured out what to do - bless the little "I'm not getting it until I have to" dear.
Aww, he's like that, a bit, isn't he? *giggles* That's a great description of Sean. Thanks again. :)
*hugs*
no subject
Date: 2003-10-27 03:31 pm (UTC)//sends out hit-bunnies
no subject
Date: 2003-10-28 04:11 pm (UTC)Dude. Now I'm picturing all this little Alec Trevelyan with fluffy bunny ears
and tailscoming at me with their little bunny-guns...*shivers**collects the bunnies* ;)no subject
Date: 2003-10-27 03:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-28 04:14 pm (UTC)And as for Petros... heh. Not saying. *winks* *pets little pretty boy*
*hugs you*
no subject
Date: 2003-10-27 05:24 pm (UTC)Lovely piece of nostalgia there-I feel the same (a bit, in my own way) thinking about how RotK wil be out in two months and how I have timed somehow my life a little on it....what next year?
Nostalgia :)
no subject
Date: 2003-10-28 04:17 pm (UTC)*sniff* Don't say that, I'm all weepy now... ;)
*hugses you tight* Thank you for enjoying this, and leaving feedback. There will be more tomorrow... :)
no subject
Date: 2003-10-28 10:44 pm (UTC)Shades of
I love watching the story unfold. Thank you so much for a huge, multi-part story that leaves me eagerly awaiting each installment.
no subject
Date: 2003-10-28 11:00 pm (UTC)Ooh, funny that you should mention that, because...Erm. I meant. Sorry to disappoint you. *hides*I love watching the story unfold. Thank you so much for a huge, multi-part story that leaves me eagerly awaiting each installment.
Thank you for reading (and commenting). Next part will be out tomorrow... I hope you'll like it! :)
no subject
Date: 2003-10-29 09:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-29 10:25 pm (UTC)PS: Thanks for reading! ;)
no subject
Date: 2003-10-30 08:35 am (UTC)'Bout time you got a clue, you wanker!
And I adore the insideout shirt!Viggo! So him! *g*
no subject
Date: 2003-10-30 02:21 pm (UTC)And I adore the insideout shirt!Viggo! So him! *g*
Hee! Oh, indeed. He needs a keeper, methinks. ;)
Thank you so much for liking this! *hugs* :D
no subject
Date: 2003-10-31 04:50 am (UTC)Yes, a hunky blond British one too!
Thank you so much for liking this! *hugs* :D
Thanks so much for writing it! *hugs you back*
no subject
Date: 2004-10-20 07:56 am (UTC)