Happy birthday, Viggo!
Oct. 20th, 2004 10:11 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
sadness1986.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
rugbytackleOkay. I'm sorry. Messed this one up. Wasn't able to finish it. Studying isn't an apology, nor struggling with a firewall, that doesn't let me log in, nor staring at the stormy sea for hours, nor my ADS.
This is an incomplete fic. More soon. I promise. And soon the next part of "hope and despair" if anyone is still interested in it and of course "no tomorrow 4".
This is an angst-birthday fic.
TITLE: OUT OF THE DARK
AUTHOR: Sadness1986
PAIRING: SB/ VM
RATING: NC-17
WARNING: examples of my really weird humour, angst, language(!), drug use implied
DISCLAIMER: It's fiction and don't take this serious at all... I'm crazy.... Title involuntary sponsored by Falco.
SUMMARY: Sean wants to lead Viggo out of the dark...
NOTES: For isern. Please come back, I miss you, miss your unique humour and angst.
Brittle like old silk Viggo's voice fills the emptiness of Sean's living room: "I'm so tired. Time grows firm as stone and crusts on my opened eyes like sunlight blinding me. Everything is so slow, that I can watch it. Light beating shadows out of all things till they bleed black on the floor and walls, that stare angrily at me, naked and white, just clad in the echo of other things, they embrace.
I miss you, you always meant safety for me, your strong arms holding me, when I was weak, your love always there for me to rely on.
I need you..."
The last sentence sends a shiver down his spine, it sounds so helpless, so utterly defeated. Viggo had always been to proud to beg and claimed stubbornly, that he wasn't sentimental, joked, that he is a "grizzled hunk".
He never sounded that vulnerable and weak.
And now he suddenly remembered, that there was an idiot, loving him unconditionally with all his odds and strange habits, loves the man he is, not just easy and lovely parts of his personality.
Now he wants to rely on the strength of a man, he pushed out of his life with the same ferocity as he had dragged him in. It couldn't work, he should think of his career and his family.
"Fuck it all!", Sean had screamed, "I don't mind!" And Viggo had smiled his little annoyingly mocking smile: "The only thing you'll fuck is my ass, it wants to say 'Farewell'..."
But Sean had left him, furious enough to withstand the dirty seduction of the slut Viggo could be, when he chose to, when he wanted to reduce everything they shared to the raw physical act of frenzied hard fucking, wiping away all affection and gentleness Sean offered.
Their whole "relationship" had been a tumble in and out of their beds and a collection of other rather odd places, they had sex on and in.
Sean snorts and darts up from his couch, pacing through the room.
"Fuck it all!", he curses and laughs at his own foolishness.
Two hours later he's standing at the airport, waiting for his flight to Idaho.
As he watches the blurring landscape through the window of the cab, he remembers: Viggo, driving his car through Idaho. They mock-argued all way about country music and after listening for maybe sixty times to Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire" and Viggo's version: "Last night you fu-ucked my burning ring of fire, you went down, down, down and my cries went higher and it burns, burns, burns, burns! The ring of fire, the ring of fire!" Sean didn't know, what to do.
He felt utterly embarrassed, disgusted and at the same time amused by Viggo's choice of words. He blushed, laughed and finally said: "If your poet-friends could hear you now... I would pay everything to see their faces... And maybe they would finally admit, that you bloody can't sing. Next time I will sell ear-plugs to your fans at your poetry readings, that could include some of your so called singing."
"Wanker!", Viggo shot at him with a quick death-glare.
"Nope", Sean said and stretched contentedly, "Not as long as I have your 'burning ring of fire'..."
Then Viggo cackled and laughed so hard, that they had to pull over, then Viggo tried to tickle him to death, but ended up getting fucked.
Dreamily smiling, he climbs out of the cab, almost forgets his suitcase in a haze of remembrance of sex with Viggo. Mind-blowing, wild, hard sex.
Shaking his head to clear his mind again, he pays the driver and climbs the stairs to Viggo's door.
Frowning he looks at them. Usually they were decorated with more or less small rocks, Viggo had picked up somewhere, claiming, that they were special and worth carrying them home through three continents.
He also picked up feathers and all possible and impossible garbage, he found, adding it to the havoc in his house, that gave Sean the creeps.
Tumbling blindly kissing in the dark towards the bedroom while undressing was dangerous enough for Sean to think about maybe getting a stunt-man for this job. But possessiveness and jealousy finally won and he gladly accepted bruises, scratches and abrasions from mysterious items lingering in the thick darkness of Viggo's hall.
Then Sean looks at the garden: neat and trimmed and not Viggo-like at all. The last time he had stumbled into a jungle of plants Viggo had more or less legally collected from all over the earth. There had been this cute little lemon tree, they had had sex under. Creative and acrobatic sex.
But said lemon tree had vanished.
The fucking whole cottage had lost its charm, this quiet lingering spirit of Viggo's energy-bursting presence.
Under that lemon tree, he'd thought: "God, will this man ever be like this? Will he ever stay that wild and untamed, that passionate and manic?"
Sean hopes, he won't, because he can't help but love him, for who he is.
Okay, Viggo could be serious, too, when it concerned his son or his job or his artsy stuff, but he was most comfortable, when teasing Sean into a punishing hard would-you-just-shut-up fucking, most comfortable laughing and mocking and rugbytackling...
Rugbytackling...Sean winced, no, better not thinking about this...
Viggo's: "It's over" had come so unexpected. The day before, they had had hot steamy sex under the shower, everything had been perfect.
But Viggo's cold steel-blue eyes darkened into a dangerously empty grey and the woman in his arms tightened her embrace possessively in the noisy bar.
Sean never saw her face, he just turned away and walked away, as dignified as he managed, then he ran and ran until he collapsed, crying like he never cried before, screaming in agony.
So SHE, whoever she is, is responsible for this change in Viggo, for the changed aura of Viggo's refuge from the world.
Taking a deep breath, he pulls Viggo's birthday-present out of the suitcase and rings the bell.
Strange, this silence, Viggo's birthdays had always been louder than a jet-engine and more destructive then dynamite.
He doesn't even hear footsteps before the door opens and Viggo's standing in front of him, so close, that he just has to reach out, embraces him, draws him close, burying his face in Viggo's long hair, that smells to clean, too much of shampoo, to less of Viggo and he is limp and unresponsive in Sean's arms and he finally releases him, whispering: "Happy birthday."
He's pale, everything is pale about him: his skin, his eyes, even his greying hair and, what really scares Sean, his aura, his once restlessly buzzing aura.
Viggo's wearing a too large, too expensive pullover, that doesn't suit him at all and equally expensive pants and... shoes, expensive, perfectly shining shoes on Mr. Barefoot-in-New York-in-the-middle-of-bloody-autumn, Mr. I-wear-hiking-boots-with-my-1500 $-suit.
He looks small, like curling protectively into himself, he looks dead. If Sean didn't know those beautiful features too well, he wouldn't have recognised him.
"Thank you", Viggo whispers, his voice defeated and smaller than ever.
He's broken into thousand shards, that glisten weakly into the sunshine of Sean, as Viggo tries to smile.
Everything had changed. No layers of more or less definable stuff all over the floor, everything neatly organised. No paintings nowhere to be seen.
Explains a lot, Sean thinks.
Then Viggo's voice breaks the silence: "She called everybody, she could find the number of and told them, that I can't celebrate my birthday, because I'm sick."
I can see, that he's not, he's just weary.
We sit down on the couch in this terribly empty house without dogs and cats and havoc.
It's a new couch. On Viggo's old couch they had their first time together. There had been oil-paint in Viggo's unruly hair, on his forearms and feet. He had smelled of paint, smoke and something unique Viggo.
He had been as wild as the storm rising in his cloudy blue eyes.
But she had stepped into his life, consuming, oppressing him completely, leaving just a pale, empty shadow of the man, Sean loves.
"Your present", Sean says, just to say anything and hands him the wrapped box. Viggo's fragile, shaking hands open it carefully, slowly, so tired.
Shock and disbelief mix with joy in his expressive face and he fights to find his voice again, as he holds the Hasselblad panorama cam.
"So you don't have to lend it anymore", Sean whispers and smiles at him. Viggo hugs it gently to his chest and begins to sob and cry.
Sean embraces his trembling form carefully, holds him and whispers to him like to his daughters, when they wept and fights his own tears, that well up, when he listens to the heartbreaking sounds, Viggo makes.
Finally, Viggo can talk again: "She scared Henry off. She sold my life. Sold my house in Venice, sold all of my paintings, my photographs, my art- and photography-equipment, my horses, my dogs and cats, everything I loved, by then I was too weak to fight, barely lived. Sean, please, forgive me, forgive me. I thought, it would be the best for us both, when we live in a normal heterosexual relationship..."
"It's okay, Viggo. I'm here now and I won't leave without you", Sean whispers.
Viggo looks at him and frowns, asking: "What do y...?"
"Pack everything, that's important for you, then come with me, you will stay at my place in England", Sean tells him and adds softer: "I love you."
Viggo smiles at him and nods.
Everything, that really belongs to Viggo fits into a rucksack. Just his passport, his driver's license and some other documents, several notepads, Viggo could hide from her, some photographs of Exene, Henry and Sean, Sean's last wife's wedding ring, that she had thrown at him and he had given it to Viggo as a half-joke, some postcards from the Fellowship, a small book with poems by Pablo Neruda, two undeveloped rolls of film, one of Sean's shirts, that has magically vanished once, a colourful drawing by a five-year-old Henry and a dried rose.
As they walk down the stairs again, Viggo sways dangerously and Sean has to steady him. Concerned, he looks into Viggo's slightly unfocused eyes, asking: "Does she drug you?" A nod is the answer and Sean wraps an arm around Viggo's waist, guiding them down.
"Where is she?", Sean asks. Viggo mumbles: "At our neighbours. Chatting with that woman living there."
Luckily they get into the cab and hit the road, before she recognises.
Viggo snuggles into Sean's embrace, not caring for the driver and Sean pets his hair, smiling: "You know, I bought all of your paintings and photographs, wondering, why they hell you sold them."
Again Viggo weeps, this time silently with relief and happiness.
On the plane they sleep curled up into each other and Sean is sure, that he never enjoyed a flight before, but who could be scared with a sleepy, ruffled Viggo holding his hand?
tbc in "Into the light"
This is an incomplete fic. More soon. I promise. And soon the next part of "hope and despair" if anyone is still interested in it and of course "no tomorrow 4".
This is an angst-birthday fic.
TITLE: OUT OF THE DARK
AUTHOR: Sadness1986
PAIRING: SB/ VM
RATING: NC-17
WARNING: examples of my really weird humour, angst, language(!), drug use implied
DISCLAIMER: It's fiction and don't take this serious at all... I'm crazy.... Title involuntary sponsored by Falco.
SUMMARY: Sean wants to lead Viggo out of the dark...
NOTES: For isern. Please come back, I miss you, miss your unique humour and angst.
Brittle like old silk Viggo's voice fills the emptiness of Sean's living room: "I'm so tired. Time grows firm as stone and crusts on my opened eyes like sunlight blinding me. Everything is so slow, that I can watch it. Light beating shadows out of all things till they bleed black on the floor and walls, that stare angrily at me, naked and white, just clad in the echo of other things, they embrace.
I miss you, you always meant safety for me, your strong arms holding me, when I was weak, your love always there for me to rely on.
I need you..."
The last sentence sends a shiver down his spine, it sounds so helpless, so utterly defeated. Viggo had always been to proud to beg and claimed stubbornly, that he wasn't sentimental, joked, that he is a "grizzled hunk".
He never sounded that vulnerable and weak.
And now he suddenly remembered, that there was an idiot, loving him unconditionally with all his odds and strange habits, loves the man he is, not just easy and lovely parts of his personality.
Now he wants to rely on the strength of a man, he pushed out of his life with the same ferocity as he had dragged him in. It couldn't work, he should think of his career and his family.
"Fuck it all!", Sean had screamed, "I don't mind!" And Viggo had smiled his little annoyingly mocking smile: "The only thing you'll fuck is my ass, it wants to say 'Farewell'..."
But Sean had left him, furious enough to withstand the dirty seduction of the slut Viggo could be, when he chose to, when he wanted to reduce everything they shared to the raw physical act of frenzied hard fucking, wiping away all affection and gentleness Sean offered.
Their whole "relationship" had been a tumble in and out of their beds and a collection of other rather odd places, they had sex on and in.
Sean snorts and darts up from his couch, pacing through the room.
"Fuck it all!", he curses and laughs at his own foolishness.
Two hours later he's standing at the airport, waiting for his flight to Idaho.
As he watches the blurring landscape through the window of the cab, he remembers: Viggo, driving his car through Idaho. They mock-argued all way about country music and after listening for maybe sixty times to Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire" and Viggo's version: "Last night you fu-ucked my burning ring of fire, you went down, down, down and my cries went higher and it burns, burns, burns, burns! The ring of fire, the ring of fire!" Sean didn't know, what to do.
He felt utterly embarrassed, disgusted and at the same time amused by Viggo's choice of words. He blushed, laughed and finally said: "If your poet-friends could hear you now... I would pay everything to see their faces... And maybe they would finally admit, that you bloody can't sing. Next time I will sell ear-plugs to your fans at your poetry readings, that could include some of your so called singing."
"Wanker!", Viggo shot at him with a quick death-glare.
"Nope", Sean said and stretched contentedly, "Not as long as I have your 'burning ring of fire'..."
Then Viggo cackled and laughed so hard, that they had to pull over, then Viggo tried to tickle him to death, but ended up getting fucked.
Dreamily smiling, he climbs out of the cab, almost forgets his suitcase in a haze of remembrance of sex with Viggo. Mind-blowing, wild, hard sex.
Shaking his head to clear his mind again, he pays the driver and climbs the stairs to Viggo's door.
Frowning he looks at them. Usually they were decorated with more or less small rocks, Viggo had picked up somewhere, claiming, that they were special and worth carrying them home through three continents.
He also picked up feathers and all possible and impossible garbage, he found, adding it to the havoc in his house, that gave Sean the creeps.
Tumbling blindly kissing in the dark towards the bedroom while undressing was dangerous enough for Sean to think about maybe getting a stunt-man for this job. But possessiveness and jealousy finally won and he gladly accepted bruises, scratches and abrasions from mysterious items lingering in the thick darkness of Viggo's hall.
Then Sean looks at the garden: neat and trimmed and not Viggo-like at all. The last time he had stumbled into a jungle of plants Viggo had more or less legally collected from all over the earth. There had been this cute little lemon tree, they had had sex under. Creative and acrobatic sex.
But said lemon tree had vanished.
The fucking whole cottage had lost its charm, this quiet lingering spirit of Viggo's energy-bursting presence.
Under that lemon tree, he'd thought: "God, will this man ever be like this? Will he ever stay that wild and untamed, that passionate and manic?"
Sean hopes, he won't, because he can't help but love him, for who he is.
Okay, Viggo could be serious, too, when it concerned his son or his job or his artsy stuff, but he was most comfortable, when teasing Sean into a punishing hard would-you-just-shut-up fucking, most comfortable laughing and mocking and rugbytackling...
Rugbytackling...Sean winced, no, better not thinking about this...
Viggo's: "It's over" had come so unexpected. The day before, they had had hot steamy sex under the shower, everything had been perfect.
But Viggo's cold steel-blue eyes darkened into a dangerously empty grey and the woman in his arms tightened her embrace possessively in the noisy bar.
Sean never saw her face, he just turned away and walked away, as dignified as he managed, then he ran and ran until he collapsed, crying like he never cried before, screaming in agony.
So SHE, whoever she is, is responsible for this change in Viggo, for the changed aura of Viggo's refuge from the world.
Taking a deep breath, he pulls Viggo's birthday-present out of the suitcase and rings the bell.
Strange, this silence, Viggo's birthdays had always been louder than a jet-engine and more destructive then dynamite.
He doesn't even hear footsteps before the door opens and Viggo's standing in front of him, so close, that he just has to reach out, embraces him, draws him close, burying his face in Viggo's long hair, that smells to clean, too much of shampoo, to less of Viggo and he is limp and unresponsive in Sean's arms and he finally releases him, whispering: "Happy birthday."
He's pale, everything is pale about him: his skin, his eyes, even his greying hair and, what really scares Sean, his aura, his once restlessly buzzing aura.
Viggo's wearing a too large, too expensive pullover, that doesn't suit him at all and equally expensive pants and... shoes, expensive, perfectly shining shoes on Mr. Barefoot-in-New York-in-the-middle-of-bloody-autumn, Mr. I-wear-hiking-boots-with-my-1500 $-suit.
He looks small, like curling protectively into himself, he looks dead. If Sean didn't know those beautiful features too well, he wouldn't have recognised him.
"Thank you", Viggo whispers, his voice defeated and smaller than ever.
He's broken into thousand shards, that glisten weakly into the sunshine of Sean, as Viggo tries to smile.
Everything had changed. No layers of more or less definable stuff all over the floor, everything neatly organised. No paintings nowhere to be seen.
Explains a lot, Sean thinks.
Then Viggo's voice breaks the silence: "She called everybody, she could find the number of and told them, that I can't celebrate my birthday, because I'm sick."
I can see, that he's not, he's just weary.
We sit down on the couch in this terribly empty house without dogs and cats and havoc.
It's a new couch. On Viggo's old couch they had their first time together. There had been oil-paint in Viggo's unruly hair, on his forearms and feet. He had smelled of paint, smoke and something unique Viggo.
He had been as wild as the storm rising in his cloudy blue eyes.
But she had stepped into his life, consuming, oppressing him completely, leaving just a pale, empty shadow of the man, Sean loves.
"Your present", Sean says, just to say anything and hands him the wrapped box. Viggo's fragile, shaking hands open it carefully, slowly, so tired.
Shock and disbelief mix with joy in his expressive face and he fights to find his voice again, as he holds the Hasselblad panorama cam.
"So you don't have to lend it anymore", Sean whispers and smiles at him. Viggo hugs it gently to his chest and begins to sob and cry.
Sean embraces his trembling form carefully, holds him and whispers to him like to his daughters, when they wept and fights his own tears, that well up, when he listens to the heartbreaking sounds, Viggo makes.
Finally, Viggo can talk again: "She scared Henry off. She sold my life. Sold my house in Venice, sold all of my paintings, my photographs, my art- and photography-equipment, my horses, my dogs and cats, everything I loved, by then I was too weak to fight, barely lived. Sean, please, forgive me, forgive me. I thought, it would be the best for us both, when we live in a normal heterosexual relationship..."
"It's okay, Viggo. I'm here now and I won't leave without you", Sean whispers.
Viggo looks at him and frowns, asking: "What do y...?"
"Pack everything, that's important for you, then come with me, you will stay at my place in England", Sean tells him and adds softer: "I love you."
Viggo smiles at him and nods.
Everything, that really belongs to Viggo fits into a rucksack. Just his passport, his driver's license and some other documents, several notepads, Viggo could hide from her, some photographs of Exene, Henry and Sean, Sean's last wife's wedding ring, that she had thrown at him and he had given it to Viggo as a half-joke, some postcards from the Fellowship, a small book with poems by Pablo Neruda, two undeveloped rolls of film, one of Sean's shirts, that has magically vanished once, a colourful drawing by a five-year-old Henry and a dried rose.
As they walk down the stairs again, Viggo sways dangerously and Sean has to steady him. Concerned, he looks into Viggo's slightly unfocused eyes, asking: "Does she drug you?" A nod is the answer and Sean wraps an arm around Viggo's waist, guiding them down.
"Where is she?", Sean asks. Viggo mumbles: "At our neighbours. Chatting with that woman living there."
Luckily they get into the cab and hit the road, before she recognises.
Viggo snuggles into Sean's embrace, not caring for the driver and Sean pets his hair, smiling: "You know, I bought all of your paintings and photographs, wondering, why they hell you sold them."
Again Viggo weeps, this time silently with relief and happiness.
On the plane they sleep curled up into each other and Sean is sure, that he never enjoyed a flight before, but who could be scared with a sleepy, ruffled Viggo holding his hand?
tbc in "Into the light"
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Date: 2004-10-21 04:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-21 03:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-22 03:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-22 12:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-22 03:36 pm (UTC)Nah, I think the boards are just flooded with posts at the moment - Vig's birthday! Took me ages to catch up!
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Date: 2004-10-30 03:15 am (UTC)