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rugbytackleTHIS TIME, FOR VARIETY (PART FOUR OF FIVE)
PAIRING: SB/VM, OB, hobbits
DISCLAIMER: A pack of lies.
FEEDBACK: Lovely.
Preceding three parts are here.
THIS TIME, FOR VARIETY
It gets light early here, and the air is so pure it nearly hurts. There’s a big, pale skin of sky, crossed only by a single jet trail.
Sean’s drunk so much black coffee his small bones have started to trill. His head is still delicate, the night before making his neck wince at every beat of blood. He finds he can efficiently picture himself tucked away into a coffin on a furnace-bound conveyor belt, bound for attractively total destruction.
Horror blasts immediately as the helicopter rises – a whirling shove of violent air, risky machinery, frightened blood. Beyond that is sound so loud it ceases to be a sound and is only a variety of sweaty fear. Sean is strapped into a seat, flanked by Orli and Billy, but also drowning in the kind of sensory crush anyone would associate with a massive accident.
If I was cornered by a man-eating crocodile I could fight. If I got taken on by some thug on the street after closing time, I’d give him something to remember. If I got marooned on a desert island, I hope I’d remember there are few trials impossible for human beings to surmount.
So, things could be worse, and if I keep thinking, I’ll come up with something.
When they were flown up for the Caradhras scenes, he’d had the warm weight of Viggo’s arm laid out across his shoulders or tucked in at the small of his back the whole way, and on the way down he’d had a hard-on baying for attention, as Viggo’s hand idly rubbed the inside of his thigh while they shouted at other people about the view and the cold.
It’s awful, getting reminded of how much you can want.
Dom leans across to shout to Lijah. ‘So you really don’t remember kissing Bean out the back of the Hub?’
‘Nice one, Dommie.’
‘I swear, you slipped him a bit of tongue and everything.’
‘I’m so not listening.’ Lijah looks about nine in his tear-stained Frodo makeup and his fingers in his ears.
Facing them in the opposite corner, Viggo is tilting his head, which means he is trying his hardest to hear whatever story Astin is telling, getting a better angle on it. He has this way of listening absolutely, Viggo has, frowning in concentration, chin dipped inside the collar of his old coat, a layer of hair slithering forward against his smudgy cheek, already a bit Aragorn.
Arching and stretching against Sean is the ache Viggo has so completely installed.
‘How are you doing, Beanie?’ Orli, muffled up against the cold, leans in and gives Sean a careful pat between the shoulder blades. ‘You can tell me. I’m taking all my medication and the doctor says I’m very stable now.’ Drowsily scrubbing his eyes, even in his elf contacts and wig, he’s such a kid it makes Sean breathless inside to think of the damage he might do to him and not know.
Billy is also making intermittent checks, from Sean to Viggo and back. ‘Get a grip, Beanie. Stop looking like you spent the night clubbing baby seals to death.’
‘Yeah, it’s not like you just told him to grab his ankles and take it like a choirboy.’ Dom glances at Sean in the way you would reserve for an unstable building. Or maybe it’s more than that, the way you’d look at bottled specimens of rare deformities that you were somehow, inexplicably, fond of. ‘You didn’t, right?’
‘Hello,’ Orli says.’ I’m right here.’
Sean thinks about mercifully launching himself from three thousand feet, or just lying down on a mountain top when they get there, for a neat death by refrigeration. Then he tries to think of any horrendous sex-related activity a hobbit hasn’t already confessed to in his hearing with total calm, if not actual pride. ‘Piss off, Monaghan.’
Orli leans in forgivingly against Sean’s shoulder to shout across him. ‘That guy Martin, a couple of weeks back? Said I had the IQ of a table. After I blew him.’
‘Now that’s just bad manners,’ Billy says reprovingly.
Orli shrugs. ‘He turned out to be a wanker, anyway. Gym nut. He had a mirror opposite the bed and stuff. I thought he was going to give me marks out of ten for technique or something.’
Orli, even when he’s playing up being the fucktoy of the fellowship, can be all doe-eyed and soaking with confidence in strangers, like a stray dog that adopts you and keeps arriving back on your doorstep, panting and prick-eared and pleased as punch. Of course, Sean’s capable himself of doing the frank thing, the disarming thing, which suggests you are safe with me and is therefore dangerous. Don’t get into a car with me, he feels like saying, or make us take a short cut through the shopping precinct, so we’ll get on CCTV at least, so they’ll know who to blame if bodies show up in a ditch. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ he says. ‘I’m the piece of shit here, remember?’
Light swings round and swipes across Viggo’s face, hitting all his angles. His eyes tick, inscrutable, across Sean’s for a second and then away, like a hand recoiling from a hot pan, or like something’s being tripped in his memory.
‘Oh yeah.’ Orli unleashes his high-voltage smile, squeezing his eyes nearly shut. ‘I nearly forgot.’
‘Shit,’ says Lijah, craning over to the window as they lose height. ‘I hate it when I have to spend the whole day crying.’
‘Yeah, it’s great Elves don’t have any feelings, really.’
---
There’s nothing like a good symbolic act to give you an entirely pointless sense of achievement. Buying a daffodil is nearly as good as finding a cure for cancer or depression or whatever, and hurling abuse or small objects at the news is nicer than voting. This is why Sean scours the trailer for the few things of Viggo’s he knows are still there, cocked and loaded, lying in wait to be looked at and thought about, patiently waiting to lacerate. There’s not much, so no nicely symbolic bonfires necessary. It’s like Viggo was determined not to leave any evidence. A shirt, a couple of Spanish paperbacks, a box of herbal teabags, and some pen sketches that don’t look like anything much.
Sean’s mouth tastes of something slightly metallic and wrong today, like he’s been chewing rusty nails in his sleep, and somewhere behind his ribs there’s a hard, uneasy pressure. He might be coming down with something, like a mild case of bubonic plague.
The most reliable measure of a person is, of course, what they do when they’re alone, when there’s no need to pretend. Are they firm when solitary, or do they slide? Do they find a glass for their good single malt, or swig rotgut straight from the bottle in front of the television? Can civilised standards of behaviour be kept up? Sean slides. He’s a slider. He’d never have dressed for dinner in some outpost of empire, he’d have been the one out-cannibalising the natives. He’s a man of no private standards.
So it comes as no surprise whatsoever to him that he cannot throw the shirt away without putting it to his face and taking in a breath of it first, as no human being with dignity surely should. Getting himself a faceful of Viggo’s unreachable skin that still has the power to harden him.
Want what’s worse? What’s really worse? Then come and fucking get it, all the way.
No need to be just sad, is there, when he can be thoroughly, completely suicidal.
Like you can choose not to do this. Like you can help it. It’s enough to make you laugh.
Then all done, all gone. His parcel of bad memories, his bad old friend from another life, is at the bottom of the pedal bin with half a dozen furtive empty bottles and some long-dead take-away. He has no physical proof of Viggo’s existence as part of his life, apart from a fading, greening mouth-shaped bruise on his left hip and the sort of total recall that can conjure him up in detail hard and fast enough to make Sean bleed.
Everything gone, better now.
Several areas of his body are shivering. The cold, he supposes, will do that.
‘He’s thinking of you, you know.’ Orli is leaning against the doorway, ribby, shirtless, with a towel slung round his neck. When Orli comes to a standstill you can be sure it’s only because he has reached the optimum comfort point for Orli.
‘Water under the bridge,’ Sean says. ‘Forget it.’
Thinking of you.
Like a fucking Hallmark card. Thinking how exactly? Fondly, badly, randomly, of the fifty I owe you, or in the context of air pollution, or buying the paper, or in comparison to the next guy you fucked?
‘Beanie, I meant to ask, were you really married three times?’
‘I got divorced three times, that’s different.
Orli settles his weight more comfortably against the trailer wall. ‘You just seem like kind of an amateur.’
Who dresses Orli in the morning? It’s hard to stay pissed off with him for long.
---
There.
Viggo.
In the concreted, ducted stillness of the set, with no one around, only some end-of-shoot noises coming from the far side, they are both already too near to take evasive action.
‘What do you want?’ Viggo’s speaking that that tired, wary voice, the voice of one who has been closer, but who isn’t, who won’t be again.
‘To talk, just.’ Sean keeps his head down, his voice constricted somewhere. He tries to keep it ironed flat, undemanding, tidy.
‘I don’t want to hear it.’
Something about the tone of his voice sets up a little splash of nervous reaction behind Sean’s ribs.
A pause.
‘All right, what do you have to say?’
Sean’s breathing takes this point to change with the shock of talking to Viggo. His inhalations have become flimsy and unhelpful. ‘I should have never – I shouldn’t have – ‘
‘Let me fuck you? It was my idea in the first place, though I don’t remember having to try very hard.’ Viggo’s lips stay closed across a short, wincing smile. ‘Amazing the way beer can dissolve your common sense.’
Sean feels like one of those posters you get in doctors’ waiting rooms, a transparent male shape, peeled down to the muscles and veins, different-coloured organs, all horribly damaged by the effects of cigarettes and alcohol.
It makes him try to think up blanket apologies for generally the way and the kind of man he is.
Viggo is more three dimensional than he should be, the ruffling of his hair, the unloading of weight from foot to foot, the forces at work in his muscles from ankle to thigh. Looking at him even now can still make Sean want to change things, like their angles to each other, their temperatures, states of dress, now that there is no conceivable point to this.
‘You don’t understand,’ he says, when he’s discarded several attempts to say things. His voice comes out tiny, shabby.
‘That’s right, I don’t.’ Sean’s heard that before, that dry half-laugh when someone finds they’ve been deluded into believing you’re human. Viggo’s voice has a weary burn of anger and it sounds thin, contracted. ‘What the fuck goes on in your head?’
How you fuck. How you were. How we used to fuck each other.
‘OK, so you didn’t have too many problems any time you had your cock in my ass. But then I’d just see it coming back, that look. Every single time. Bristling with fear and loathing and total fucking self-obsession, in case I was going to start wanting to pick out curtains together or something. Talk about the art of fuck and run.’ Viggo laughs in a way that Sean doesn’t want to hear, doesn’t want anyone he knows to have to hear. ‘Not all that fetching a dynamic, is it? My jaw would be sore from sucking your cock and I’d think why couldn’t I blow someone with recognisable emotions. That, Sean, is what’s going on with me.’
Shivers start in on Sean. ‘I didn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to do.’ He folds his arms against the lack of anything to hold. He can nearly see this last pathetic sentence, fumbling, bleating out into the air, with a faint anxious shine about it.
‘You’re making me do something I don’t want to do right now.’ The full hoarse punch of his voice. ‘Leave me the fuck alone, OK?’
‘Vig – ‘
Anything rather than this.
‘Let’s just forget it.’ Even as he’s leaving, there’s still the way Viggo’s body moves together as one live thing, every detail of him ready to lacerate and cling.
Sean realises what he wants most is for Viggo, temperate, accurate Viggo, to come at him and punch him until his lungs rattle, until he’s pulp. He’d like him to hit him unreasonably hard and confirm his total understanding that he is not enough of a human being to be allowed unsupervised contact with other human beings, that there should be someone keeping an eye through a two-way mirror, hand over the alarm buzzer. Also he’d like to be hit because it isn’t something that can happen when you are alone, or something that someone who’s indifferent will do to you.
But mainly he just has that surgical chill behind his ribs, the kind that indicates the amputation of hope.
Billy emerges from behind a wall and falls into step beside him. ‘Well, that went well.’
‘Don’t say anything.’
Billy looks quickly at him, to check, and reaches in to set a light, comfortable rub between Sean’s shoulders. ‘Mind you, it might have gone down better before you started waving your cock about like a plastic light sabre.’
‘Go away.’ His muscles are punching uselessly, his breath rabbit-punching in his chest, and all of him shrivelling and chilling, strenuously holding his imagination back.
‘I think Viggo has a future as a bunny-boiler.’
A pause.
‘I’m going.’
TBC ASAP
PAIRING: SB/VM, OB, hobbits
DISCLAIMER: A pack of lies.
FEEDBACK: Lovely.
Preceding three parts are here.
THIS TIME, FOR VARIETY
It gets light early here, and the air is so pure it nearly hurts. There’s a big, pale skin of sky, crossed only by a single jet trail.
Sean’s drunk so much black coffee his small bones have started to trill. His head is still delicate, the night before making his neck wince at every beat of blood. He finds he can efficiently picture himself tucked away into a coffin on a furnace-bound conveyor belt, bound for attractively total destruction.
Horror blasts immediately as the helicopter rises – a whirling shove of violent air, risky machinery, frightened blood. Beyond that is sound so loud it ceases to be a sound and is only a variety of sweaty fear. Sean is strapped into a seat, flanked by Orli and Billy, but also drowning in the kind of sensory crush anyone would associate with a massive accident.
If I was cornered by a man-eating crocodile I could fight. If I got taken on by some thug on the street after closing time, I’d give him something to remember. If I got marooned on a desert island, I hope I’d remember there are few trials impossible for human beings to surmount.
So, things could be worse, and if I keep thinking, I’ll come up with something.
When they were flown up for the Caradhras scenes, he’d had the warm weight of Viggo’s arm laid out across his shoulders or tucked in at the small of his back the whole way, and on the way down he’d had a hard-on baying for attention, as Viggo’s hand idly rubbed the inside of his thigh while they shouted at other people about the view and the cold.
It’s awful, getting reminded of how much you can want.
Dom leans across to shout to Lijah. ‘So you really don’t remember kissing Bean out the back of the Hub?’
‘Nice one, Dommie.’
‘I swear, you slipped him a bit of tongue and everything.’
‘I’m so not listening.’ Lijah looks about nine in his tear-stained Frodo makeup and his fingers in his ears.
Facing them in the opposite corner, Viggo is tilting his head, which means he is trying his hardest to hear whatever story Astin is telling, getting a better angle on it. He has this way of listening absolutely, Viggo has, frowning in concentration, chin dipped inside the collar of his old coat, a layer of hair slithering forward against his smudgy cheek, already a bit Aragorn.
Arching and stretching against Sean is the ache Viggo has so completely installed.
‘How are you doing, Beanie?’ Orli, muffled up against the cold, leans in and gives Sean a careful pat between the shoulder blades. ‘You can tell me. I’m taking all my medication and the doctor says I’m very stable now.’ Drowsily scrubbing his eyes, even in his elf contacts and wig, he’s such a kid it makes Sean breathless inside to think of the damage he might do to him and not know.
Billy is also making intermittent checks, from Sean to Viggo and back. ‘Get a grip, Beanie. Stop looking like you spent the night clubbing baby seals to death.’
‘Yeah, it’s not like you just told him to grab his ankles and take it like a choirboy.’ Dom glances at Sean in the way you would reserve for an unstable building. Or maybe it’s more than that, the way you’d look at bottled specimens of rare deformities that you were somehow, inexplicably, fond of. ‘You didn’t, right?’
‘Hello,’ Orli says.’ I’m right here.’
Sean thinks about mercifully launching himself from three thousand feet, or just lying down on a mountain top when they get there, for a neat death by refrigeration. Then he tries to think of any horrendous sex-related activity a hobbit hasn’t already confessed to in his hearing with total calm, if not actual pride. ‘Piss off, Monaghan.’
Orli leans in forgivingly against Sean’s shoulder to shout across him. ‘That guy Martin, a couple of weeks back? Said I had the IQ of a table. After I blew him.’
‘Now that’s just bad manners,’ Billy says reprovingly.
Orli shrugs. ‘He turned out to be a wanker, anyway. Gym nut. He had a mirror opposite the bed and stuff. I thought he was going to give me marks out of ten for technique or something.’
Orli, even when he’s playing up being the fucktoy of the fellowship, can be all doe-eyed and soaking with confidence in strangers, like a stray dog that adopts you and keeps arriving back on your doorstep, panting and prick-eared and pleased as punch. Of course, Sean’s capable himself of doing the frank thing, the disarming thing, which suggests you are safe with me and is therefore dangerous. Don’t get into a car with me, he feels like saying, or make us take a short cut through the shopping precinct, so we’ll get on CCTV at least, so they’ll know who to blame if bodies show up in a ditch. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ he says. ‘I’m the piece of shit here, remember?’
Light swings round and swipes across Viggo’s face, hitting all his angles. His eyes tick, inscrutable, across Sean’s for a second and then away, like a hand recoiling from a hot pan, or like something’s being tripped in his memory.
‘Oh yeah.’ Orli unleashes his high-voltage smile, squeezing his eyes nearly shut. ‘I nearly forgot.’
‘Shit,’ says Lijah, craning over to the window as they lose height. ‘I hate it when I have to spend the whole day crying.’
‘Yeah, it’s great Elves don’t have any feelings, really.’
---
There’s nothing like a good symbolic act to give you an entirely pointless sense of achievement. Buying a daffodil is nearly as good as finding a cure for cancer or depression or whatever, and hurling abuse or small objects at the news is nicer than voting. This is why Sean scours the trailer for the few things of Viggo’s he knows are still there, cocked and loaded, lying in wait to be looked at and thought about, patiently waiting to lacerate. There’s not much, so no nicely symbolic bonfires necessary. It’s like Viggo was determined not to leave any evidence. A shirt, a couple of Spanish paperbacks, a box of herbal teabags, and some pen sketches that don’t look like anything much.
Sean’s mouth tastes of something slightly metallic and wrong today, like he’s been chewing rusty nails in his sleep, and somewhere behind his ribs there’s a hard, uneasy pressure. He might be coming down with something, like a mild case of bubonic plague.
The most reliable measure of a person is, of course, what they do when they’re alone, when there’s no need to pretend. Are they firm when solitary, or do they slide? Do they find a glass for their good single malt, or swig rotgut straight from the bottle in front of the television? Can civilised standards of behaviour be kept up? Sean slides. He’s a slider. He’d never have dressed for dinner in some outpost of empire, he’d have been the one out-cannibalising the natives. He’s a man of no private standards.
So it comes as no surprise whatsoever to him that he cannot throw the shirt away without putting it to his face and taking in a breath of it first, as no human being with dignity surely should. Getting himself a faceful of Viggo’s unreachable skin that still has the power to harden him.
Want what’s worse? What’s really worse? Then come and fucking get it, all the way.
No need to be just sad, is there, when he can be thoroughly, completely suicidal.
Like you can choose not to do this. Like you can help it. It’s enough to make you laugh.
Then all done, all gone. His parcel of bad memories, his bad old friend from another life, is at the bottom of the pedal bin with half a dozen furtive empty bottles and some long-dead take-away. He has no physical proof of Viggo’s existence as part of his life, apart from a fading, greening mouth-shaped bruise on his left hip and the sort of total recall that can conjure him up in detail hard and fast enough to make Sean bleed.
Everything gone, better now.
Several areas of his body are shivering. The cold, he supposes, will do that.
‘He’s thinking of you, you know.’ Orli is leaning against the doorway, ribby, shirtless, with a towel slung round his neck. When Orli comes to a standstill you can be sure it’s only because he has reached the optimum comfort point for Orli.
‘Water under the bridge,’ Sean says. ‘Forget it.’
Thinking of you.
Like a fucking Hallmark card. Thinking how exactly? Fondly, badly, randomly, of the fifty I owe you, or in the context of air pollution, or buying the paper, or in comparison to the next guy you fucked?
‘Beanie, I meant to ask, were you really married three times?’
‘I got divorced three times, that’s different.
Orli settles his weight more comfortably against the trailer wall. ‘You just seem like kind of an amateur.’
Who dresses Orli in the morning? It’s hard to stay pissed off with him for long.
---
There.
Viggo.
In the concreted, ducted stillness of the set, with no one around, only some end-of-shoot noises coming from the far side, they are both already too near to take evasive action.
‘What do you want?’ Viggo’s speaking that that tired, wary voice, the voice of one who has been closer, but who isn’t, who won’t be again.
‘To talk, just.’ Sean keeps his head down, his voice constricted somewhere. He tries to keep it ironed flat, undemanding, tidy.
‘I don’t want to hear it.’
Something about the tone of his voice sets up a little splash of nervous reaction behind Sean’s ribs.
A pause.
‘All right, what do you have to say?’
Sean’s breathing takes this point to change with the shock of talking to Viggo. His inhalations have become flimsy and unhelpful. ‘I should have never – I shouldn’t have – ‘
‘Let me fuck you? It was my idea in the first place, though I don’t remember having to try very hard.’ Viggo’s lips stay closed across a short, wincing smile. ‘Amazing the way beer can dissolve your common sense.’
Sean feels like one of those posters you get in doctors’ waiting rooms, a transparent male shape, peeled down to the muscles and veins, different-coloured organs, all horribly damaged by the effects of cigarettes and alcohol.
It makes him try to think up blanket apologies for generally the way and the kind of man he is.
Viggo is more three dimensional than he should be, the ruffling of his hair, the unloading of weight from foot to foot, the forces at work in his muscles from ankle to thigh. Looking at him even now can still make Sean want to change things, like their angles to each other, their temperatures, states of dress, now that there is no conceivable point to this.
‘You don’t understand,’ he says, when he’s discarded several attempts to say things. His voice comes out tiny, shabby.
‘That’s right, I don’t.’ Sean’s heard that before, that dry half-laugh when someone finds they’ve been deluded into believing you’re human. Viggo’s voice has a weary burn of anger and it sounds thin, contracted. ‘What the fuck goes on in your head?’
How you fuck. How you were. How we used to fuck each other.
‘OK, so you didn’t have too many problems any time you had your cock in my ass. But then I’d just see it coming back, that look. Every single time. Bristling with fear and loathing and total fucking self-obsession, in case I was going to start wanting to pick out curtains together or something. Talk about the art of fuck and run.’ Viggo laughs in a way that Sean doesn’t want to hear, doesn’t want anyone he knows to have to hear. ‘Not all that fetching a dynamic, is it? My jaw would be sore from sucking your cock and I’d think why couldn’t I blow someone with recognisable emotions. That, Sean, is what’s going on with me.’
Shivers start in on Sean. ‘I didn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to do.’ He folds his arms against the lack of anything to hold. He can nearly see this last pathetic sentence, fumbling, bleating out into the air, with a faint anxious shine about it.
‘You’re making me do something I don’t want to do right now.’ The full hoarse punch of his voice. ‘Leave me the fuck alone, OK?’
‘Vig – ‘
Anything rather than this.
‘Let’s just forget it.’ Even as he’s leaving, there’s still the way Viggo’s body moves together as one live thing, every detail of him ready to lacerate and cling.
Sean realises what he wants most is for Viggo, temperate, accurate Viggo, to come at him and punch him until his lungs rattle, until he’s pulp. He’d like him to hit him unreasonably hard and confirm his total understanding that he is not enough of a human being to be allowed unsupervised contact with other human beings, that there should be someone keeping an eye through a two-way mirror, hand over the alarm buzzer. Also he’d like to be hit because it isn’t something that can happen when you are alone, or something that someone who’s indifferent will do to you.
But mainly he just has that surgical chill behind his ribs, the kind that indicates the amputation of hope.
Billy emerges from behind a wall and falls into step beside him. ‘Well, that went well.’
‘Don’t say anything.’
Billy looks quickly at him, to check, and reaches in to set a light, comfortable rub between Sean’s shoulders. ‘Mind you, it might have gone down better before you started waving your cock about like a plastic light sabre.’
‘Go away.’ His muscles are punching uselessly, his breath rabbit-punching in his chest, and all of him shrivelling and chilling, strenuously holding his imagination back.
‘I think Viggo has a future as a bunny-boiler.’
A pause.
‘I’m going.’
TBC ASAP
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no subject
Date: 2005-04-14 06:49 pm (UTC)Arching and stretching against Sean is the ache Viggo has so completely installed.
Thinking how exactly? Fondly, badly, randomly, of the fifty I owe you, or in the context of air pollution, or buying the paper, or in comparison to the next guy you fucked?
But mainly he just has that surgical chill behind his ribs, the kind that indicates the amputation of hope.
Awesome.
no subject
Date: 2005-04-15 10:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-14 08:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-15 10:58 am (UTC)Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2005-04-15 01:18 am (UTC)And Viggo, I love him just as much, you wrote him so well...all he needed was visual tits...because he sure as heck had them when he told Sean to fuck off!
Your writing is awesome! Thank you.... ;)~
no subject
Date: 2005-04-15 10:59 am (UTC)Visual tits????!!!
no subject
Date: 2005-04-15 07:32 am (UTC)Sean smelling the shirt keeeeeled me.
The convo in the helicopter was priceless...painful and stressful and fucking hilarious. Poor Orli--"I'm right here!" lolol...omg! *squishes him*
I adore your Hobbit boys so much. They must intervene more, really. Only a horny Hobbit can help...hee...
He might be coming down with something, like a mild case of bubonic plague.
LOL! I love how you capture his neuroses so well...and how we laugh and ache for him all at once. I've probably said that before, but it never ceases to amaze me!! *hearts* But really, he needs to do some Yoga and read a few self-help books and then launch himself at Viggo. If he doesn't I shall never forgive him.
Or you. *eyes you sternly*
no subject
Date: 2005-04-15 11:03 am (UTC)And yoga!!??
You are in jest, surely. Sean has no base chakra and would think a shoulder stand was a sexual position.
I think a deus ex machina may have to be involved, myself.
no subject
Date: 2005-04-15 05:18 pm (UTC)To be fair, Viggo's being a bit of a poo-head, too. Stubborn male pride reasserting itself, I think. Perhaps I was wrong about that Mars bit down below. :P
A shoulder stand isn't a sexual position? Damn. All that dislocation for nothing, then.
I was going to reiterate the need for the 4H, Horny Hobbits Helping Hands, but considering they're horny, the helping hands bit takes on different meaning than intended, I think. :P
*hands Sean "Fixing Plates for Dummies" book and hopes for the best.
no subject
Date: 2005-04-16 04:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-16 10:15 am (UTC)*throws thunderbolts*
self help?
Date: 2005-04-15 02:41 pm (UTC)Re: self help?
Date: 2005-04-15 03:15 pm (UTC)Re: self help?
Date: 2005-04-15 05:11 pm (UTC)Re: self help?
Date: 2005-04-15 05:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-15 12:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-15 02:15 pm (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2005-04-15 03:03 pm (UTC)"That went well!"
excellent, and Vig is right, Bean is a self obsessed twat!
no subject
Date: 2005-04-15 03:13 pm (UTC)Yes, Billy gets the Official Sanity Certificate. And Viggo gets marks for self-expression - better late than never, really.
no subject
Date: 2005-04-15 03:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-15 03:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-15 03:26 pm (UTC)I have forgotten how to write slash, I'm here grinding my idea to a pulp and it's really horrible ewww
no subject
Date: 2005-04-15 03:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-15 03:44 pm (UTC)Will go and have nap and hope that nuerones and synpases regenerate!
no subject
Date: 2005-04-16 04:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-16 10:11 am (UTC)Billy's idea of intervention would be locking the two of them naked in a cupboard.
no subject
Date: 2005-04-16 08:17 pm (UTC)You say that almost as though it might be a Bad Thing. blink.