rugbytackle | RPS ficlet: Pick up (S/V, PG)

Been lurking for a while :)

Thanks to lovely

moldava ~~orders~~ encouragement, I come with offerings: hope it is okay to post more than one at the same time.
There is some sort of progression, chronological and from lighter to darker, so you could consider it a sort of disjointed series.

Title: Pick up
Author: phantomas
Pairing: S/V
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: not for profit, figment of my imagination
Feedback: welcome

Pick up

Viggo is slowly spreading the white cream on his face. Every day, getting rid of the dirt covering Aragorn is more and more difficult, like shredding a part of himself - being Aragorn is second nature by now, and Aragorn’s doubts Viggo’s own, Aragorn’s choices, Viggo’s.

Sometimes it would be easier to just ‘be’ Aragorn, forever.

Viggo’s fingers gently brush over the photographs covering and surrounding what little is left of his mirror. That’s how it feels, life, sometimes - pressing on you from all sides, a multitude of images, feelings, faces and places, colours, shapes, vibrations - the cream on his fingertips leave an oily shine on the opaque paper of the photographs, and Viggo stops, stares at it, at the reflexions and textures in front of him.

Aragorn would know what to do, some part of Viggo knows.

Sean is slowly stripping just beside Viggo.

Viggo had been the first to receive the phone call from Sean, back for the pick up scenes in Osgiliath.
The first to take him out to dinner, the first to tell the Brit all the latest gossip, all that had happened in his absence, the first to see Sean grinning, the first to comment on the family resemblance Sean shares with Wenham, and how the hobbits had started calling David ‘Daisy’.

Sean laughs, and some part of Viggo knows that it takes so little to feel so happy.

Sean is back to sharing a trailer with Viggo and Orli, and while the costume guys are off with the steel cuirass embossed with the tree of Gondor, the greaves and vambraces, the shoulder pauldrons that so enhance Boromir’s presence, Sean is left wearing the woollen under-tunic and hose adorned with chain mail.

It looks so real, to Viggo, that part of him knows how Boromir must have looked in the battlefield, leading his men onwards to regain Osgiliath, the Orcs’ arrows this time deflected by the steel armour plate.

Boromir’s memory is a vivid flash of pain in Aragorn’s mind, a sudden slash of blinding, burning light.

Viggo closes his eyes, and concentrates on the sounds, the little grunts coming from Sean, the rustling of the heavy fabric falling on the trailer’s floor, the warm smell of sweat. When Viggo turns around, Sean is buttoning his jeans, barefoot, his shirt ready to be picked up from the chair beside him.

What would Aragorn say, part of Viggo wonders. What would Aragorn do?

Sean turns around then, one hand holding the white shirt. He wants to know if Viggo is going to be ready anytime soon, because it’s damn well time to eat something, and Viggo promised to cook, and is he going to take that cream off his face or does he need a hand to clean up?

Sean’s idea of ‘giving a hand’ is not exactly to Viggo’s liking, so Viggo quickly grabs a face towel and rubs the cream off his skin, then takes off his clothes - no, Aragorn’s clothes - and looks around for his own jeans and the blue t-shirt that he had left somewhere in the trailer.

Sean is leaning on the trailer’s door frame.

A part of Viggo knows that if someone comes up, Sean is likely to fall out of the trailer, but Sean’s is also the best position from where he can look at Viggo.

Viggo stands still then and looks back at Sean, mirrored on the dressing-tables wall. How Sean is looking at him, and Aragorn would know how to define that look, Viggo feels, Aragorn would recognise the hunger of the prey, the fear of the hunter.

And then it comes back, to Viggo, that same sensation of being crowded, of too many energies and vibrations pressing on him, hot and cold, sweet and bitter, and he lets go, finding unity, searching focus, holding on to Aragorn, and what Aragorn would do, what Aragorn would feel.

It would be easier, to be Aragorn.

Sean doesn’t say anything. His eyes are locked onto Viggo’s, and it seems he is waiting, for his friend to be back from those faraway places he goes to, leaving all behind. Sean has always been attentive with Viggo, thoughtful of Viggo’s words, Viggo’s example.

Sean had called Viggo, first thing.

Viggo moves slowly, stepping up to Sean, and maybe he is talking, and maybe he is not, but his left hand touches Sean’s chest, Viggo’s fingers splayed so to cover as much as possible.

Sean stiffens, but Viggo is not going to jump him, not yet. All he wants is a kiss, and this time all of Viggo knows, Sean is not going to deny him.
His lips are soft, warm, the contrast with the coarse beard hair a welcome counterpoint.
His tongue is hot, wet, defensive.

Viggo can smell the cream still lingering on his own skin, and can feel Sean’s hands coming up to hold his face.

It takes so much, sometimes, to be so happy.
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