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rugbytackleTitle: Once Written
Author: Trinity Helix
Feedback: Everything to trinity_cross@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: Real Person Slash is also code for Never Happened. Really.
Archive: Yes to LxF, LotrAdult, Waters, and everyone else who wants it, as long as the feedback, site url, etc. links are intact. No need to ask-- go ahead and post it wherever you like. ;)
Website: http://trinitycross.net/lotrfan (my Lotr art and fiction site)
Warnings: R, Slash
Cast/Pairings: Viggo/Sean B
Genre: Romance, kinda Angsty
Summary:
Comments: The poem found within was not written by Viggo Mortensen. I wrote it for the story, so any inconsistencies it may have with his writing style is my fault alone.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*A poem, once written, is forever lost.*
Viggo knows this, but he writes them anyway.
As a child he went on rooftops and screamed his anger to the heavens; as a teenager he wrote angry words in his deliberately-battered notebook. The words faded on paper faster than his screams echoed into the distance, syllables and sound losing coherence in the cold air. He would lose the words no matter how hard he tried to keep them, to capture their essence with paper and ink.
Forgotten. Lost.
Now Viggo is an adult and he knows all about losing poems. He writes them now to make a living, writes them even though he knows he’s losing them, or maybe *because*.
“It’s not in my eyes,” he mumbles now, eyes going dark and thoughtful as he chews on the tip of his pen. The plastic is cool and slick and bright in his mouth, and after a while he writes down the words.
Viggo stares at them for a little while, ink smears on white-lined paper-- and decides he doesn’t like them.
So he crosses them out, writes “It is not in your eyes” underneath it, but still it doesn’t look right. He purses his lips and runs through the words in his head, fragments and bits of memory and life, and after a while he writes:
It is not in your eyes
That I see
Or am drawn
But to the touch of your hand
On my soul
Viggo nods, satisfied. He has written a little bit of this poem everyday for the past two months, and soon it will be finished.
“Soon I’ll be able to let it go,” he says.
***
Sean is wondering if he should be worried about his friend. Viggo has barely spoken two words to him in the past few days, and even the obligatory ‘hellos’ aren’t said directly to him. They’re aimed somewhere at his feet, where Viggo’s eyes seemed to be glued whenever he’s around him.
So tonight at the pub, Sean purses his lips and raises his chin and heads straight for him. Viggo is talking to Astin, and he taps the other man on the shoulder.
“You’re the wrong Sean,” he says, trying to make it a joke but instead sounds tight and stiff.
“Right,” says Astin, eyes going wide. “I’m… going away now.”
And when Sean turns to Viggo he’s looking at his feet again. “So you want to tell me what’s the matter or do I have to beat it out?” he asks.
That gets an almost-smile on Viggo’s face, and he looks up briefly before looking away again. “No, it’s nothing,” says Viggo. “Just busy. You know how it is.”
“Right.” Sean isn’t impressed. “You know, I thought we were mates, Vig. If I did something to piss you off, I at least have the right to know.”
“You didn’t do anything,” says Viggo, a tad more sharply than he’d intended. “I’m a dark, tortured artist-- I have a right to mood swings.”
“Christ,” huffs Sean. “Well if that’s all it is, why can’t you even look at me? I’m starting to feel like a leper, mate.”
And Sean’s voice has risen ever-so-slightly, a few curious heads turning in their direction. Viggo ducks his head. “I don’t want to get into it, Sean,” he says. “Just drop it, okay?”
But Sean is pissed and he doesn’t even know why, and he knows he should shut up and back off but he doesn’t. He hunkers down and sticks his face into Viggo’s, their noses almost touching at the closeness.
“The fuck I’ll drop it, Vig,” he says, and enunciates each word with careful alacrity.
And Viggo pulls up, pushes away, but not before he looks into Sean’s eyes and freezes like a deer trapped in headlights.
Because whatever is there, whatever he’s hiding, Sean *sees* it. Sees it in the scared pale eyes, awash in a current of want and need and…
“Oh,” says Sean softly.
And Viggo knows that he knows, grinds his teeth and pushes his fingernails into the palms of his hands.
There are so many things that Sean wants to say, so many words that vie for a chance to be spoken. I didn’t know you were gay. I want you. Do you want to have dinner? I love you.
The words catch in Sean’s throat and what he says instead is: “Vig, wait.”
And whatever it is that Viggo wants to hear, that isn’t it. He’s gone before Sean can blink, pushing past the hobbits on the dance floor and out into the cold night air.
Sean runs after him, catches him in the parking lot just as Viggo’s car pulls out, but Viggo doesn’t even slow down.
Sean listens to the squeal of the tires, shell-shocked and tired and just plain pissed.
“Daft bastard,” he says finally. Sadly.
And then he goes back into the pub.
***
The next few days are ice, nine walkers climbing up Caradhras (or a New Zealand mountain dressed up like Caradhras), snow blowing into their eyes and mouths.
Sean rubs water from his face and feels his cheeks turn raw under the hot/cold of the sun and snow. Viggo shivers under the leather of his Aragorn costume, clutching his cape just a little bit tighter around himself.
It’s cold, filming on that mountain, but deep down they know it’s not where the ice is coming from.
Viggo sneezes as they wait for the crew to set up the next shot, and pulls out a scrap of paper. His hands shake slightly as he looks at Sean, sitting a little bit away from him, eyes farther than they have ever been.
Viggo wants to go to him, wants to sit next to him and maybe have a chat, but he knows they can’t now, not anymore, and feels infinitely sad.
Knuckles white around the pen, he writes another line.
***
It’s pub night for the cast yet again, and Viggo watches Sean talk to Cate at the bar. She has her hand on his arm and he’s grinning in a way that Viggo’s never seen, and they put their heads together and laugh.
Viggo wonders if they’re talking about him, decides that he doesn’t care.
Liv comes off the dance floor with Orlando, smiling widely. “Are you okay?” she yells, trying to make herself heard over the din.
“Fine,” Viggo mutters, not really caring if she hears him.
Liv follows his gaze and cocks her head to the side. “Jealous?” she asks. “I’d never have guessed, Vig. I guess blondes do have more fun.”
Viggo sighs. “Cate and I are just friends,” he says.
And Liv laughs and slings an arm around his shoulders. “I wasn’t talking about Cate,” she whispers in his ear, and then lets Orlando pull her back to the floor.
Viggo frowns at that, downs the rest of his beer and pulls out the receipt. He flips it over and takes out his pen, scratches in a few lines at the back.
“Almost,” he says, his voice low with not-quite relief. “It’s almost done.”
***
Sean decides that it’s not nearly as fun being in love with your best friend as it is actually being *with* said best friend, and he goes to Cate and asks her what it’s like to be gay.
Sean’s been with guys before but he’s never really considered himself that way, figured he liked women too much to totally jump the fence.
Cate tosses her golden head and laughs. “It’s not *gay*, Sean,” she says. “It’s happy.”
And Sean shakes his head. “I don’t think I caught that, love.”
Cate grins as Miranda walks up, looking at Sean with her twinkling sea eyes. “It’s happy,” she repeats, as the other woman gently curves a hand about her waist.
“Are you or aren’t you?”
***
Sean and Cate spend a lot of time together. The shoot in Lothlorien is taking longer than Peter has anticipated, and it gives them ample time together on set.
Viggo’s gaze is quite dark as he stares at the back of Sean’s head. He can overhear snippets of their conversation, something about seafood and how to cook it properly, and Viggo thinks about fly fishing and the yellow tails he caught yesterday. He thinks about taking a picture of Sean asleep, dressed in full Boromir regalia, sleeping on the grass outside what was supposed to be Rivendell. He thinks about their late dinners, their late nights, all the talks they’d managed to avoid.
He bites his lip, takes out a pen. There’s just one more line left, one more line to go.
Viggo tries to write it but finds that his pen has run out of ink. He is disappointed, but doesn’t bother to shake the pen, doesn’t feel the need to check for stoppage or clot. Instead he throws a two hundred dollar fountain pen into the brush, feeling a mild satisfaction as he hits a rock and watches it skitter across the field.
“Tomorrow,” he says, looking at Sean across the clearing.
Their eyes meet and Sean tentatively holds up a hand and waves. Viggo is about to wave back when he sees Cate watching him keenly.
Viggo turns away.
“I’ll finish it tomorrow.”
***
That night Viggo lies awake in bed, eyes open and staring. He has a thousand thoughts that refuse to simmer, a thousand dreams refusing to come.
He thinks, not for the first time, what it would be like to have Sean lying next to him. He bites his lip at the thought; slow torture for one more night, and then tomorrow he’ll let it go.
His fingers creep down to touch himself, aching to have what Sean had once called, rather rudely he thinks, “a bit’ve a wank”. The thought brings an involuntary smile to Viggo’s face, and then he loses himself in himself, mind blanking. It’s a slow pull in an exact spot, a numb wash of pleasure and want and…
The phone rings.
Viggo’s eyes fly open, his hands jerking away from his body. There’s a guilty flush of red that creeps up his neck and to his face, like a randy teenager caught in his room. He shakes his head and takes a few calming breaths, willing himself to relax.
When he picks up the phone he manages a not-quite winded hello, and silence greets him on the other end.
“Who is this?” he asks, louder this time.
A beat, then: “Hey, Vig.”
Viggo lets out a breath he doesn’t know he’s been holding, and when he says Sean’s name it’s like a sigh. “It’s a bit late,” he says. “Is everything all right?”
“Not really,” says Sean. “I just… wanted to say that I missed you.”
And this time the silence is on Viggo’s end, surprised and not quite displeased.
“If you’re not busy tomorrow,” Sean continues. “I thought that maybe we could… have dinner or something. At the pub.”
That gets Viggo’s attention. “Dinner?” he repeats. “Are you asking me out?”
And Sean makes a funny noise in the back of his throat. “I have no idea,” he says. “I just know that I want things to be like they were *before*.” There’s a slight shift in pitch when he says that, and Viggo’s heart sinks when he hears it.
Friends, then. Mates instead of /mates/. “Right,” says Viggo, nodding. “Dinner sounds good. I’ll see you at the pub, then.”
And he doesn’t remember if he hears Sean says goodbye, but the dial tone hums in his ear and he puts the phone back in its cradle.
“Dinner,” he sighs, and lies back. “It’s better than nothing, I suppose.”
His hands don’t stray back to his skin, and he falls into a dreamless sleep.
***
Viggo sits atop a tree trunk between shoots and sifts bits of paper on the ground. There are a few scribbled lines on each scrap, and as he arranges them they form an unfinished poem.
“Last line,” he says, and takes out his pen.
It’s a new pen, a cheap ballpoint that he found at the cafeteria tent, and it runs a little as he scratches out a word: Love.
The sun peeks through leaves and branches and tall trunks, getting in his eyes and making him blink. Moisture pools at the corner of his left eye, trickling down the side of his face before he can wipe it away.
“Vig? Are you okay?”
And that’s Sean coming up to him, walking up to his spot just a little bit away from the cameras, just a little bit away from the others.
“Yeah,” says Viggo. “Just got the sun in my eye.”
“Oh,” Sean says, and pauses a little before sitting next to him. The Boromir cloak is heavy velvet, and Viggo gets a little bit on him as Sean arranges it on the trunk. He grips the hem of it, fingers twisting lightly in the cloth.
He’s concentrating on the mix of earth and skin that clings to it, and he barely notices that Sean has started to speak.
“Something Cate said to me a few days ago,” he says. “All that matters is if you’re happy or not.”
And it’s a rather curious thing for someone to say, and Viggo turns to look at Sean, squinting in the bright morning light.
Sean’s not looking at him, his eyes are glued to the ground. To the scraps of paper Viggo had so carefully arranged, bits and pieces of his soul committed to the earth.
“Christ knows I don’t know what I’m doing,” Sean says, still not meeting his eyes. “But I do know that you make me happy.”
And Sean turns to him and smiles-- a wide, happy smile-- and kisses him. It’s awkward at first, their noses bumping into each other, both unused to the odd rasp of stubble-- but it’s quite possibly the best kiss they’d ever had.
They pull away as they hear their names being shouted over the megaphone, and Sean laughs. “I’ve been wanting to do that for days,” he says, getting up.
“Months,” replies Viggo, smiling a little. “What happened to the Not-A-Date-Dinner-At-The-Pub tonight?”
Sean shakes his head and looks down, eyes drawn to the paper on the ground. “You’ve been keeping me at arm’s length for weeks, and now I know why,” he says. “I figured we’ve both done enough waiting.”
And Viggo watches Sean walk away, watches the sun glinting little bright flecks of gold in his hair. He falls a little more in love with him then, just a little, and Sean turns and says: “Coming?”
And Viggo crumples the paper with the unwritten line and leaves it on the bench. The poem isn’t finished, and now he knows it will never be.
“Yeah,” he says. “I am.”
He goes to Sean and slings an arm around him, smiling wide.
“I’m keeping this one to myself,” he says.
*fin*
Author: Trinity Helix
Feedback: Everything to trinity_cross@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: Real Person Slash is also code for Never Happened. Really.
Archive: Yes to LxF, LotrAdult, Waters, and everyone else who wants it, as long as the feedback, site url, etc. links are intact. No need to ask-- go ahead and post it wherever you like. ;)
Website: http://trinitycross.net/lotrfan (my Lotr art and fiction site)
Warnings: R, Slash
Cast/Pairings: Viggo/Sean B
Genre: Romance, kinda Angsty
Summary:
Comments: The poem found within was not written by Viggo Mortensen. I wrote it for the story, so any inconsistencies it may have with his writing style is my fault alone.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*A poem, once written, is forever lost.*
Viggo knows this, but he writes them anyway.
As a child he went on rooftops and screamed his anger to the heavens; as a teenager he wrote angry words in his deliberately-battered notebook. The words faded on paper faster than his screams echoed into the distance, syllables and sound losing coherence in the cold air. He would lose the words no matter how hard he tried to keep them, to capture their essence with paper and ink.
Forgotten. Lost.
Now Viggo is an adult and he knows all about losing poems. He writes them now to make a living, writes them even though he knows he’s losing them, or maybe *because*.
“It’s not in my eyes,” he mumbles now, eyes going dark and thoughtful as he chews on the tip of his pen. The plastic is cool and slick and bright in his mouth, and after a while he writes down the words.
Viggo stares at them for a little while, ink smears on white-lined paper-- and decides he doesn’t like them.
So he crosses them out, writes “It is not in your eyes” underneath it, but still it doesn’t look right. He purses his lips and runs through the words in his head, fragments and bits of memory and life, and after a while he writes:
It is not in your eyes
That I see
Or am drawn
But to the touch of your hand
On my soul
Viggo nods, satisfied. He has written a little bit of this poem everyday for the past two months, and soon it will be finished.
“Soon I’ll be able to let it go,” he says.
***
Sean is wondering if he should be worried about his friend. Viggo has barely spoken two words to him in the past few days, and even the obligatory ‘hellos’ aren’t said directly to him. They’re aimed somewhere at his feet, where Viggo’s eyes seemed to be glued whenever he’s around him.
So tonight at the pub, Sean purses his lips and raises his chin and heads straight for him. Viggo is talking to Astin, and he taps the other man on the shoulder.
“You’re the wrong Sean,” he says, trying to make it a joke but instead sounds tight and stiff.
“Right,” says Astin, eyes going wide. “I’m… going away now.”
And when Sean turns to Viggo he’s looking at his feet again. “So you want to tell me what’s the matter or do I have to beat it out?” he asks.
That gets an almost-smile on Viggo’s face, and he looks up briefly before looking away again. “No, it’s nothing,” says Viggo. “Just busy. You know how it is.”
“Right.” Sean isn’t impressed. “You know, I thought we were mates, Vig. If I did something to piss you off, I at least have the right to know.”
“You didn’t do anything,” says Viggo, a tad more sharply than he’d intended. “I’m a dark, tortured artist-- I have a right to mood swings.”
“Christ,” huffs Sean. “Well if that’s all it is, why can’t you even look at me? I’m starting to feel like a leper, mate.”
And Sean’s voice has risen ever-so-slightly, a few curious heads turning in their direction. Viggo ducks his head. “I don’t want to get into it, Sean,” he says. “Just drop it, okay?”
But Sean is pissed and he doesn’t even know why, and he knows he should shut up and back off but he doesn’t. He hunkers down and sticks his face into Viggo’s, their noses almost touching at the closeness.
“The fuck I’ll drop it, Vig,” he says, and enunciates each word with careful alacrity.
And Viggo pulls up, pushes away, but not before he looks into Sean’s eyes and freezes like a deer trapped in headlights.
Because whatever is there, whatever he’s hiding, Sean *sees* it. Sees it in the scared pale eyes, awash in a current of want and need and…
“Oh,” says Sean softly.
And Viggo knows that he knows, grinds his teeth and pushes his fingernails into the palms of his hands.
There are so many things that Sean wants to say, so many words that vie for a chance to be spoken. I didn’t know you were gay. I want you. Do you want to have dinner? I love you.
The words catch in Sean’s throat and what he says instead is: “Vig, wait.”
And whatever it is that Viggo wants to hear, that isn’t it. He’s gone before Sean can blink, pushing past the hobbits on the dance floor and out into the cold night air.
Sean runs after him, catches him in the parking lot just as Viggo’s car pulls out, but Viggo doesn’t even slow down.
Sean listens to the squeal of the tires, shell-shocked and tired and just plain pissed.
“Daft bastard,” he says finally. Sadly.
And then he goes back into the pub.
***
The next few days are ice, nine walkers climbing up Caradhras (or a New Zealand mountain dressed up like Caradhras), snow blowing into their eyes and mouths.
Sean rubs water from his face and feels his cheeks turn raw under the hot/cold of the sun and snow. Viggo shivers under the leather of his Aragorn costume, clutching his cape just a little bit tighter around himself.
It’s cold, filming on that mountain, but deep down they know it’s not where the ice is coming from.
Viggo sneezes as they wait for the crew to set up the next shot, and pulls out a scrap of paper. His hands shake slightly as he looks at Sean, sitting a little bit away from him, eyes farther than they have ever been.
Viggo wants to go to him, wants to sit next to him and maybe have a chat, but he knows they can’t now, not anymore, and feels infinitely sad.
Knuckles white around the pen, he writes another line.
***
It’s pub night for the cast yet again, and Viggo watches Sean talk to Cate at the bar. She has her hand on his arm and he’s grinning in a way that Viggo’s never seen, and they put their heads together and laugh.
Viggo wonders if they’re talking about him, decides that he doesn’t care.
Liv comes off the dance floor with Orlando, smiling widely. “Are you okay?” she yells, trying to make herself heard over the din.
“Fine,” Viggo mutters, not really caring if she hears him.
Liv follows his gaze and cocks her head to the side. “Jealous?” she asks. “I’d never have guessed, Vig. I guess blondes do have more fun.”
Viggo sighs. “Cate and I are just friends,” he says.
And Liv laughs and slings an arm around his shoulders. “I wasn’t talking about Cate,” she whispers in his ear, and then lets Orlando pull her back to the floor.
Viggo frowns at that, downs the rest of his beer and pulls out the receipt. He flips it over and takes out his pen, scratches in a few lines at the back.
“Almost,” he says, his voice low with not-quite relief. “It’s almost done.”
***
Sean decides that it’s not nearly as fun being in love with your best friend as it is actually being *with* said best friend, and he goes to Cate and asks her what it’s like to be gay.
Sean’s been with guys before but he’s never really considered himself that way, figured he liked women too much to totally jump the fence.
Cate tosses her golden head and laughs. “It’s not *gay*, Sean,” she says. “It’s happy.”
And Sean shakes his head. “I don’t think I caught that, love.”
Cate grins as Miranda walks up, looking at Sean with her twinkling sea eyes. “It’s happy,” she repeats, as the other woman gently curves a hand about her waist.
“Are you or aren’t you?”
***
Sean and Cate spend a lot of time together. The shoot in Lothlorien is taking longer than Peter has anticipated, and it gives them ample time together on set.
Viggo’s gaze is quite dark as he stares at the back of Sean’s head. He can overhear snippets of their conversation, something about seafood and how to cook it properly, and Viggo thinks about fly fishing and the yellow tails he caught yesterday. He thinks about taking a picture of Sean asleep, dressed in full Boromir regalia, sleeping on the grass outside what was supposed to be Rivendell. He thinks about their late dinners, their late nights, all the talks they’d managed to avoid.
He bites his lip, takes out a pen. There’s just one more line left, one more line to go.
Viggo tries to write it but finds that his pen has run out of ink. He is disappointed, but doesn’t bother to shake the pen, doesn’t feel the need to check for stoppage or clot. Instead he throws a two hundred dollar fountain pen into the brush, feeling a mild satisfaction as he hits a rock and watches it skitter across the field.
“Tomorrow,” he says, looking at Sean across the clearing.
Their eyes meet and Sean tentatively holds up a hand and waves. Viggo is about to wave back when he sees Cate watching him keenly.
Viggo turns away.
“I’ll finish it tomorrow.”
***
That night Viggo lies awake in bed, eyes open and staring. He has a thousand thoughts that refuse to simmer, a thousand dreams refusing to come.
He thinks, not for the first time, what it would be like to have Sean lying next to him. He bites his lip at the thought; slow torture for one more night, and then tomorrow he’ll let it go.
His fingers creep down to touch himself, aching to have what Sean had once called, rather rudely he thinks, “a bit’ve a wank”. The thought brings an involuntary smile to Viggo’s face, and then he loses himself in himself, mind blanking. It’s a slow pull in an exact spot, a numb wash of pleasure and want and…
The phone rings.
Viggo’s eyes fly open, his hands jerking away from his body. There’s a guilty flush of red that creeps up his neck and to his face, like a randy teenager caught in his room. He shakes his head and takes a few calming breaths, willing himself to relax.
When he picks up the phone he manages a not-quite winded hello, and silence greets him on the other end.
“Who is this?” he asks, louder this time.
A beat, then: “Hey, Vig.”
Viggo lets out a breath he doesn’t know he’s been holding, and when he says Sean’s name it’s like a sigh. “It’s a bit late,” he says. “Is everything all right?”
“Not really,” says Sean. “I just… wanted to say that I missed you.”
And this time the silence is on Viggo’s end, surprised and not quite displeased.
“If you’re not busy tomorrow,” Sean continues. “I thought that maybe we could… have dinner or something. At the pub.”
That gets Viggo’s attention. “Dinner?” he repeats. “Are you asking me out?”
And Sean makes a funny noise in the back of his throat. “I have no idea,” he says. “I just know that I want things to be like they were *before*.” There’s a slight shift in pitch when he says that, and Viggo’s heart sinks when he hears it.
Friends, then. Mates instead of /mates/. “Right,” says Viggo, nodding. “Dinner sounds good. I’ll see you at the pub, then.”
And he doesn’t remember if he hears Sean says goodbye, but the dial tone hums in his ear and he puts the phone back in its cradle.
“Dinner,” he sighs, and lies back. “It’s better than nothing, I suppose.”
His hands don’t stray back to his skin, and he falls into a dreamless sleep.
***
Viggo sits atop a tree trunk between shoots and sifts bits of paper on the ground. There are a few scribbled lines on each scrap, and as he arranges them they form an unfinished poem.
“Last line,” he says, and takes out his pen.
It’s a new pen, a cheap ballpoint that he found at the cafeteria tent, and it runs a little as he scratches out a word: Love.
The sun peeks through leaves and branches and tall trunks, getting in his eyes and making him blink. Moisture pools at the corner of his left eye, trickling down the side of his face before he can wipe it away.
“Vig? Are you okay?”
And that’s Sean coming up to him, walking up to his spot just a little bit away from the cameras, just a little bit away from the others.
“Yeah,” says Viggo. “Just got the sun in my eye.”
“Oh,” Sean says, and pauses a little before sitting next to him. The Boromir cloak is heavy velvet, and Viggo gets a little bit on him as Sean arranges it on the trunk. He grips the hem of it, fingers twisting lightly in the cloth.
He’s concentrating on the mix of earth and skin that clings to it, and he barely notices that Sean has started to speak.
“Something Cate said to me a few days ago,” he says. “All that matters is if you’re happy or not.”
And it’s a rather curious thing for someone to say, and Viggo turns to look at Sean, squinting in the bright morning light.
Sean’s not looking at him, his eyes are glued to the ground. To the scraps of paper Viggo had so carefully arranged, bits and pieces of his soul committed to the earth.
“Christ knows I don’t know what I’m doing,” Sean says, still not meeting his eyes. “But I do know that you make me happy.”
And Sean turns to him and smiles-- a wide, happy smile-- and kisses him. It’s awkward at first, their noses bumping into each other, both unused to the odd rasp of stubble-- but it’s quite possibly the best kiss they’d ever had.
They pull away as they hear their names being shouted over the megaphone, and Sean laughs. “I’ve been wanting to do that for days,” he says, getting up.
“Months,” replies Viggo, smiling a little. “What happened to the Not-A-Date-Dinner-At-The-Pub tonight?”
Sean shakes his head and looks down, eyes drawn to the paper on the ground. “You’ve been keeping me at arm’s length for weeks, and now I know why,” he says. “I figured we’ve both done enough waiting.”
And Viggo watches Sean walk away, watches the sun glinting little bright flecks of gold in his hair. He falls a little more in love with him then, just a little, and Sean turns and says: “Coming?”
And Viggo crumples the paper with the unwritten line and leaves it on the bench. The poem isn’t finished, and now he knows it will never be.
“Yeah,” he says. “I am.”
He goes to Sean and slings an arm around him, smiling wide.
“I’m keeping this one to myself,” he says.
*fin*
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Date: 2004-05-27 11:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-28 03:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-28 06:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-28 04:46 am (UTC)I swoon everytime I read something of yours, so much tenderness.
Very nice!!
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Date: 2004-05-28 06:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-28 07:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-28 09:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-31 05:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-31 09:07 pm (UTC)