Sharing of Dreams 1/11
Sep. 9th, 2005 10:00 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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rugbytackleTitle: The Sharing of Dreams
Author: Rocketbalm
Pairing: SB/VM
Rating: Starts G and gets R in later chapters
Summary: The journey from friends to lovers is a difficult one as Sean and Viggo meet years before LOTR.
Authors Note: AU in the fact that Sean and Viggo meet before filming LOTR, and marriages, divorces and births are a bit out of sequence to accommodate the story.
Content/warnings: none
Spoilers: None. Posted: Originally on Mirrormere. Now on Rugbytackle
Disclaimer: A work of my modestly twisted mind -- complete fiction. Never happened. Don’t know these people, sadly all in my imagination.
Author's Note: This was my first *finished* multi-part fic. I've never posted it to LJ so I thought I would now.
Chapter 1 – Bang and Clatter
London, 1994
Here he was again, another “industry” party – more like a suck-up fest wrapped in the impersonal perfection of a multi-million dollar private residence. Viggo hated this part of the business; the schmoozing, the making nice, being seen by the right people -- mostly because being an actor, though fulfilling in its own way, was merely a means to an end. If he could find a way to pay all his bills, look after Henry, and keep himself awash in paints and brushes, he’d give himself over to his art and never pimp himself out like this. Right now, he’d give anything to be at home in his studio or on the couch with a good book and a beer. Maybe another drink would help. Around him he could feel the party start to build, as conversations became either huddled intimately or a series of superficial nods and smiles as familiar faces bumped and nudged their way from room to room. The music that had begun low and warm grew louder, vibrating through the bodies as they pushed against each other. The evening wasn’t going to get any better; everywhere he looked he saw pretentious people in the business or wanna-bes trying to get in, offering themselves up to whatever perversion would get them closer to their goal. The whole scene made him feel slightly depressed.
Ten more minutes Viggo figured, and then he could make his excuses, jet-lag, call from home, whatever. Christ the English expected American’s to be rude. The thought made him smile. He never used his country’s reputation for rudeness as an excuse. Then again he never really did anything that he was expected to do: like take roles that were easy, cut his hair fashionably or wear shoes for that matter. Not that he set out to be different, he just was; always had been. He decided that either way, leaving now or waiting ten extra minutes wouldn’t change his country’s status for boorishness or dispel his own aura of quirkiness.
Brushing his hair out of his eyes, Viggo put down his empty glass and made his way down the hallway toward the guest bathroom. Quick piss he figured and then he was out of there. Though the washroom door was closed, he tried the knob and it swung open easily. Everything seemed to move in slow motion -- a gasp; a flash of skin; movement of hands straightening clothing; long dark hair ducking under a well muscled arm; a somewhat familiar looking blond man, giving a shrug and tight smile turning to gallantly shield a shapely brunette.
“Thought I locked that” His voice slightly self-conscious, and his low, northern accent thick. For a second the blonds’ deep green eyes flashed and locked on his blue ones making Viggo flush with embarrassment.
Viggo backed out, and mumbled a quiet apology, and softly closing the door. In the closeness of the low lit hallway, Viggo shook his head. He remembered how it felt to be caught. The guilt; the regret; being scared it was the end of everything; being scared that it wasn’t. Things usually got a lot worse before they got better – if they got better. He didn’t envy the guy. It was only a matter of time before whomever, whatever he was hiding was going to catch up with him. Still shaking his head, lost in his own memories, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Sorry about, that mate”. A warm deep voice curled around him. He turned to see the Brit standing in front of him looking a bit sheepish, like a child with a grin that would make you forgive him anything. Viggo couldn’t help smiling.
“Its’ okay. Don’t worry about it.”
“Sean, Sean Bean,” he offered Viggo his hand with a touch of shyness.
“Viggo Mortensen,” Viggo replied, enjoying the warmth in the firm hand that was offered to him.
“American, eh?” Sean ducked his head awkwardly and looked past Viggo to the party that continued around them. “I hate these things. Nervous energy gets me in trouble every time”.
Viggo cocked his eyebrow and snorted, “Nervous energy?”
Sean erupted with laughter, somehow knowing that Viggo knew that nervous energy had nothing to do with what had just happened. The laughter was infectious and Viggo found himself chuckling and shaking his head again. A look of understanding passed between the two men. This business had the ability to make you crazy, to go against your better judgment, to feel entitled. It was very seductive. A moment of weakness, a moment of self-pity or despair and you were done. You could find yourself doing things you promised yourself you would never do. Hurting people you promised to love and cherish and losing yourself in the process. When Sean looked into the startling blue eyes in front of him he saw compassion without judgment. The kindness flowed through Sean and touched him in a way he had forgotten he could feel. Usually somewhat shy and reserved around strangers he found himself really enjoying this eclectic looking Yank.
“What do you say -- shall we make a break for it and find a quiet pub for a pint?” Sean asked with a mischievous grin. For a moment Sean’s invitation startled Viggo out of his musings: a quiet pub and pint -- he liked the sound of that and nodded his agreement with a grin.
Like two boys ditching school they made their way through the maze of people, Sean leading the way with confidence. Though everyone seemed to want a piece of him, he managed to smile at each one graciously, as they made their way to the door, looking for their opportunity to escape unnoticed. Viggo, could see how the effort of being “on” drained the popular Brit, and felt even more empathy toward him as they finally found themselves out in the cool English night.
“Married, you know,” Sean said as they got in the car.
“Figured as much,” Viggo shrugged, “it happens.”
“What happens? The getting married part or the adultery part?”
“Both I guess,” replied Viggo noncommittally
“Spoken like someone who knows?” glancing curiously at Viggo. He noticed how the darker man shifted uneasily in his seat he added “didn’t mean to pry”.
“It’s all right,” but Viggo didn’t elaborate as they drove the rest of the way to the pub in a comfortable silence.
The conversation was easy, as the two settle into a rapport that usually takes months or years to cultivate while they sipped their pints. Sean slowly led the conversation through his first marriage and divorce, and his current marriage. Hurt and regret reflect in the man’s expressive green eyes – deep endless pools that drew you in and made you feel as if you were drowning. The artist in Viggo studied the man across from him with interest. The American’s hand twitched in his lap yearning for a pencil and his sketch book or better yet his camera.
To Viggo’s artistic eye, Sean was a study in contrasts. Searing testosterone covered in a scarred, rugged exterior was contradicted by the gentleness of his hands, the soft curve of his full lower lip, and the shy way he ducked his eyes under his hair when he sipped his beer. He embodied confidence and masculinity, a carefree air that he carried off unless you looked into his eyes during an unguarded moment. His eyes would become bright, glow as he spoke about his daughters, the Blades or his garden. They would dull and become flat with hurt and pain and guilt when he spoke of marriage and relationships. And even then, even when the pain in his eyes was most raw, there was a glimmer of hope. Hope for something he hadn’t quite found yet, if he even knew what it was he was looking for – it was hope none the less. Viggo didn’t know if it was possible to capture what he saw in a sketch, a painting, or even a photograph – the effect would be amazing if he could.
Playing with his pint, he let himself drift on the lull of Sean’s voice. It felt like he needed an ear and Viggo didn’t mind listening. Sean’s conversation was engaging, and made Viggo laugh at the self depreciating humour, making light of the industry, and being thought of as a “movie star” and hating it. They talked about their shared appreciation for art and books they’d both read. Sean started with beer and then moved to something stronger, while Viggo nursed his lone pint. Engrossed in their conversation, and comforted by the connection that had developed, last call took them by surprise. Viggo realized by the way Sean swayed slightly when they stood to leave that he shouldn’t drive home.
“How about I drive?” asked Viggo with a smile.
“Thanks mate”. Slapping his keys into the outstretched palm and swinging an arm around Viggo’s shoulders as they headed to the car. Viggo realized that even before they’d got out of the car park, Sean had nodded off. Not knowing where Sean lived, Vig slowly made his way back to his own rented house. With only the light from the street, Viggo helped the dozy and drunken Sean in the door and deposited him sloppily on the couch. He grabbed a spare blanket from the closet and covered him up and found a pillow for his head. As he got up, Viggo left Sean’s keys on the coffee table and prepared to go to bed. Looking back over his shoulder and he stopped at the sight, his heart beating hard in chest leaving him breathless.
The light from the street played softly over Sean’s features allowing his masculinity radiate even as the softness of sleep cradled him like a child. Automatically Viggo rubbed this thumb and fore finger together, longing once more for a pencil. Glancing around, he snatched his notebook from the kitchen table and crept back to the room, needing to capture the image before it was lost.
With his back to the window, the light ghosted over his page – quickly and quietly he began to sketch. Three sketches in swift succession, showed the relaxed beauty of the man on his couch, but could not recapture the soul that had shone through in his eyes when they spoke earlier. Viggo sighed and realized that he couldn’t touch on the quiet intensity, which flickered and sparked from this man. He wondered if he would ever be able to portray Sean on canvas, wondered if he could stop himself from trying. And, as he sat there, watching; the last lines of the song that had played in the car kept running through his head.
Three o'clock in the morning
It's quiet and there's no one around
Just the bang and the clatter
As an angel runs to ground
Just the bang and the clatter
As an angel hits the ground
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Viggo woke with a start. Viggo glanced at the clock next to his bed. 7:30 AM . Something had wakened him out of a sound sleep. He lay there in early morning light and listened. He heard the quiet hum of a car as it left his driveway and then he remembered. Sean. He felt a twinge of regret that he couldn’t explain as he lay in the bed and quietly ran the events of the last 12 hours in his head and gradually fell asleep with a smile.
An hour later the phone jarred him awake again, his agent’s voice reminding him that he was here on business. He had meetings with several people today and he was expected to attend, be on time and remember to wear shoes. He stumbled into the kitchen and over to the coffee maker and turned it on. While he waited he grabbed a glass and filled it with water, its coolness began to wake him up. Then he saw it. There on the kitchen table was his notebook open with a message written on a recently blank page.
“Fuck,” he thought, knowing instinctively that Sean had seen the sketches. Viggo hoped Sean wouldn’t be offended by the knowledge that he had sat in the dark and sketched him in the middle of the night. The thought rattle around in his brain and he winced at how bad it sounded even to him. “Fuck,” he thought again. He spun the book around and tried to focus his eyes as he gulped down the remaining water. Laughter bubbled upward in his throat meeting the water on it’s way down, flooding him with relief and leaving him in a paroxysm of choked giggles. The note read:
---------------
Viggo,
Nice drawings. The bloke on the couch looks like a bit of a git though. Bet he snores like a son of a bitch too. Seriously though, thanks. Seems like I really bent your ear last night and I owe you a night out maybe even take in a footie match. Give me a ring when you’re free. 71.349.4930
Sean
PS my eyelashes ARE NOT that long…
---------------
Grinning, Viggo turned the page back to one of his sketches of Sean. True enough the lashes fanned out on the sleeping man’s cheek did seem a little long – giving him the innocence and peace that eluded him while awake. Running his finger over the sketch Viggo remembered how he genuinely enjoyed Sean’s company the night before, how they connected, and he smiled at the thought of getting together with him again. Maybe his time in London wouldn’t be as tedious as he originally thought.
Author’s note: Lyrics of the song are from U2’s Stay {Far away, So Close}
TBC
Author: Rocketbalm
Pairing: SB/VM
Rating: Starts G and gets R in later chapters
Summary: The journey from friends to lovers is a difficult one as Sean and Viggo meet years before LOTR.
Authors Note: AU in the fact that Sean and Viggo meet before filming LOTR, and marriages, divorces and births are a bit out of sequence to accommodate the story.
Content/warnings: none
Spoilers: None. Posted: Originally on Mirrormere. Now on Rugbytackle
Disclaimer: A work of my modestly twisted mind -- complete fiction. Never happened. Don’t know these people, sadly all in my imagination.
Author's Note: This was my first *finished* multi-part fic. I've never posted it to LJ so I thought I would now.
Chapter 1 – Bang and Clatter
London, 1994
Here he was again, another “industry” party – more like a suck-up fest wrapped in the impersonal perfection of a multi-million dollar private residence. Viggo hated this part of the business; the schmoozing, the making nice, being seen by the right people -- mostly because being an actor, though fulfilling in its own way, was merely a means to an end. If he could find a way to pay all his bills, look after Henry, and keep himself awash in paints and brushes, he’d give himself over to his art and never pimp himself out like this. Right now, he’d give anything to be at home in his studio or on the couch with a good book and a beer. Maybe another drink would help. Around him he could feel the party start to build, as conversations became either huddled intimately or a series of superficial nods and smiles as familiar faces bumped and nudged their way from room to room. The music that had begun low and warm grew louder, vibrating through the bodies as they pushed against each other. The evening wasn’t going to get any better; everywhere he looked he saw pretentious people in the business or wanna-bes trying to get in, offering themselves up to whatever perversion would get them closer to their goal. The whole scene made him feel slightly depressed.
Ten more minutes Viggo figured, and then he could make his excuses, jet-lag, call from home, whatever. Christ the English expected American’s to be rude. The thought made him smile. He never used his country’s reputation for rudeness as an excuse. Then again he never really did anything that he was expected to do: like take roles that were easy, cut his hair fashionably or wear shoes for that matter. Not that he set out to be different, he just was; always had been. He decided that either way, leaving now or waiting ten extra minutes wouldn’t change his country’s status for boorishness or dispel his own aura of quirkiness.
Brushing his hair out of his eyes, Viggo put down his empty glass and made his way down the hallway toward the guest bathroom. Quick piss he figured and then he was out of there. Though the washroom door was closed, he tried the knob and it swung open easily. Everything seemed to move in slow motion -- a gasp; a flash of skin; movement of hands straightening clothing; long dark hair ducking under a well muscled arm; a somewhat familiar looking blond man, giving a shrug and tight smile turning to gallantly shield a shapely brunette.
“Thought I locked that” His voice slightly self-conscious, and his low, northern accent thick. For a second the blonds’ deep green eyes flashed and locked on his blue ones making Viggo flush with embarrassment.
Viggo backed out, and mumbled a quiet apology, and softly closing the door. In the closeness of the low lit hallway, Viggo shook his head. He remembered how it felt to be caught. The guilt; the regret; being scared it was the end of everything; being scared that it wasn’t. Things usually got a lot worse before they got better – if they got better. He didn’t envy the guy. It was only a matter of time before whomever, whatever he was hiding was going to catch up with him. Still shaking his head, lost in his own memories, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Sorry about, that mate”. A warm deep voice curled around him. He turned to see the Brit standing in front of him looking a bit sheepish, like a child with a grin that would make you forgive him anything. Viggo couldn’t help smiling.
“Its’ okay. Don’t worry about it.”
“Sean, Sean Bean,” he offered Viggo his hand with a touch of shyness.
“Viggo Mortensen,” Viggo replied, enjoying the warmth in the firm hand that was offered to him.
“American, eh?” Sean ducked his head awkwardly and looked past Viggo to the party that continued around them. “I hate these things. Nervous energy gets me in trouble every time”.
Viggo cocked his eyebrow and snorted, “Nervous energy?”
Sean erupted with laughter, somehow knowing that Viggo knew that nervous energy had nothing to do with what had just happened. The laughter was infectious and Viggo found himself chuckling and shaking his head again. A look of understanding passed between the two men. This business had the ability to make you crazy, to go against your better judgment, to feel entitled. It was very seductive. A moment of weakness, a moment of self-pity or despair and you were done. You could find yourself doing things you promised yourself you would never do. Hurting people you promised to love and cherish and losing yourself in the process. When Sean looked into the startling blue eyes in front of him he saw compassion without judgment. The kindness flowed through Sean and touched him in a way he had forgotten he could feel. Usually somewhat shy and reserved around strangers he found himself really enjoying this eclectic looking Yank.
“What do you say -- shall we make a break for it and find a quiet pub for a pint?” Sean asked with a mischievous grin. For a moment Sean’s invitation startled Viggo out of his musings: a quiet pub and pint -- he liked the sound of that and nodded his agreement with a grin.
Like two boys ditching school they made their way through the maze of people, Sean leading the way with confidence. Though everyone seemed to want a piece of him, he managed to smile at each one graciously, as they made their way to the door, looking for their opportunity to escape unnoticed. Viggo, could see how the effort of being “on” drained the popular Brit, and felt even more empathy toward him as they finally found themselves out in the cool English night.
“Married, you know,” Sean said as they got in the car.
“Figured as much,” Viggo shrugged, “it happens.”
“What happens? The getting married part or the adultery part?”
“Both I guess,” replied Viggo noncommittally
“Spoken like someone who knows?” glancing curiously at Viggo. He noticed how the darker man shifted uneasily in his seat he added “didn’t mean to pry”.
“It’s all right,” but Viggo didn’t elaborate as they drove the rest of the way to the pub in a comfortable silence.
The conversation was easy, as the two settle into a rapport that usually takes months or years to cultivate while they sipped their pints. Sean slowly led the conversation through his first marriage and divorce, and his current marriage. Hurt and regret reflect in the man’s expressive green eyes – deep endless pools that drew you in and made you feel as if you were drowning. The artist in Viggo studied the man across from him with interest. The American’s hand twitched in his lap yearning for a pencil and his sketch book or better yet his camera.
To Viggo’s artistic eye, Sean was a study in contrasts. Searing testosterone covered in a scarred, rugged exterior was contradicted by the gentleness of his hands, the soft curve of his full lower lip, and the shy way he ducked his eyes under his hair when he sipped his beer. He embodied confidence and masculinity, a carefree air that he carried off unless you looked into his eyes during an unguarded moment. His eyes would become bright, glow as he spoke about his daughters, the Blades or his garden. They would dull and become flat with hurt and pain and guilt when he spoke of marriage and relationships. And even then, even when the pain in his eyes was most raw, there was a glimmer of hope. Hope for something he hadn’t quite found yet, if he even knew what it was he was looking for – it was hope none the less. Viggo didn’t know if it was possible to capture what he saw in a sketch, a painting, or even a photograph – the effect would be amazing if he could.
Playing with his pint, he let himself drift on the lull of Sean’s voice. It felt like he needed an ear and Viggo didn’t mind listening. Sean’s conversation was engaging, and made Viggo laugh at the self depreciating humour, making light of the industry, and being thought of as a “movie star” and hating it. They talked about their shared appreciation for art and books they’d both read. Sean started with beer and then moved to something stronger, while Viggo nursed his lone pint. Engrossed in their conversation, and comforted by the connection that had developed, last call took them by surprise. Viggo realized by the way Sean swayed slightly when they stood to leave that he shouldn’t drive home.
“How about I drive?” asked Viggo with a smile.
“Thanks mate”. Slapping his keys into the outstretched palm and swinging an arm around Viggo’s shoulders as they headed to the car. Viggo realized that even before they’d got out of the car park, Sean had nodded off. Not knowing where Sean lived, Vig slowly made his way back to his own rented house. With only the light from the street, Viggo helped the dozy and drunken Sean in the door and deposited him sloppily on the couch. He grabbed a spare blanket from the closet and covered him up and found a pillow for his head. As he got up, Viggo left Sean’s keys on the coffee table and prepared to go to bed. Looking back over his shoulder and he stopped at the sight, his heart beating hard in chest leaving him breathless.
The light from the street played softly over Sean’s features allowing his masculinity radiate even as the softness of sleep cradled him like a child. Automatically Viggo rubbed this thumb and fore finger together, longing once more for a pencil. Glancing around, he snatched his notebook from the kitchen table and crept back to the room, needing to capture the image before it was lost.
With his back to the window, the light ghosted over his page – quickly and quietly he began to sketch. Three sketches in swift succession, showed the relaxed beauty of the man on his couch, but could not recapture the soul that had shone through in his eyes when they spoke earlier. Viggo sighed and realized that he couldn’t touch on the quiet intensity, which flickered and sparked from this man. He wondered if he would ever be able to portray Sean on canvas, wondered if he could stop himself from trying. And, as he sat there, watching; the last lines of the song that had played in the car kept running through his head.
Three o'clock in the morning
It's quiet and there's no one around
Just the bang and the clatter
As an angel runs to ground
Just the bang and the clatter
As an angel hits the ground
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Viggo woke with a start. Viggo glanced at the clock next to his bed. 7:30 AM . Something had wakened him out of a sound sleep. He lay there in early morning light and listened. He heard the quiet hum of a car as it left his driveway and then he remembered. Sean. He felt a twinge of regret that he couldn’t explain as he lay in the bed and quietly ran the events of the last 12 hours in his head and gradually fell asleep with a smile.
An hour later the phone jarred him awake again, his agent’s voice reminding him that he was here on business. He had meetings with several people today and he was expected to attend, be on time and remember to wear shoes. He stumbled into the kitchen and over to the coffee maker and turned it on. While he waited he grabbed a glass and filled it with water, its coolness began to wake him up. Then he saw it. There on the kitchen table was his notebook open with a message written on a recently blank page.
“Fuck,” he thought, knowing instinctively that Sean had seen the sketches. Viggo hoped Sean wouldn’t be offended by the knowledge that he had sat in the dark and sketched him in the middle of the night. The thought rattle around in his brain and he winced at how bad it sounded even to him. “Fuck,” he thought again. He spun the book around and tried to focus his eyes as he gulped down the remaining water. Laughter bubbled upward in his throat meeting the water on it’s way down, flooding him with relief and leaving him in a paroxysm of choked giggles. The note read:
---------------
Viggo,
Nice drawings. The bloke on the couch looks like a bit of a git though. Bet he snores like a son of a bitch too. Seriously though, thanks. Seems like I really bent your ear last night and I owe you a night out maybe even take in a footie match. Give me a ring when you’re free. 71.349.4930
Sean
PS my eyelashes ARE NOT that long…
---------------
Grinning, Viggo turned the page back to one of his sketches of Sean. True enough the lashes fanned out on the sleeping man’s cheek did seem a little long – giving him the innocence and peace that eluded him while awake. Running his finger over the sketch Viggo remembered how he genuinely enjoyed Sean’s company the night before, how they connected, and he smiled at the thought of getting together with him again. Maybe his time in London wouldn’t be as tedious as he originally thought.
Author’s note: Lyrics of the song are from U2’s Stay {Far away, So Close}
TBC
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Hello
Date: 2005-09-10 06:43 am (UTC)Sean"
Oh I can see the wheels in Viggo's head go around and around already as I just know he is going to make call before or right after the meeeting, and I hope that he remembers to put on his shoes. LOL
Re: Hello
Date: 2005-09-10 01:48 pm (UTC)cheers, rb
Hi
Date: 2005-09-10 06:45 am (UTC)Re: Hi
Date: 2005-09-10 01:49 pm (UTC)cheers, rb
no subject
Date: 2005-09-10 07:06 am (UTC)Looking forward to reading more of this
no subject
Date: 2005-09-10 01:50 pm (UTC)cheers, rb
no subject
Date: 2005-09-10 03:05 pm (UTC)Thank you.
Could I add you to my Flist please?
I want to read both stories - "Slippery Slope" and this...
no subject
Date: 2005-09-11 05:31 am (UTC)cheers, rb
no subject
Date: 2005-09-11 09:15 am (UTC)