rugbytackle | Possibly a Mistake (IX)

Chapter IX: Piles
Vig/Bean
fic/PG
Author’s Note: not true. Just a fignewton of my imagination.
Archive. Rugbytackle.
feedback: sure
Summary: Sean thinks over how things work.
ARchive: Rugbytackle

First part of the story (chapters 1-7) is here:
Chapter VIII is here:

Chapter IX is ….

A glance inside the guest room

showed a pile of tee shirts stacked on the bureau, plus a few western style shirts in the closet. Jeans were folded, albeit neatly, on the chair. Viggo’s Birkenstocks were in the entry way. Clutter he could live with. All his wives had complained that he could walk by a scrap of paper, or a trash bin, and never think to pick up one and put it in the other, much less take the contents of one out to the alley bin. Tee shirts were also fine. He was no fashion plate himself, and for all that he claimed he tried to look tidy when he went out, he was not that concerned about it, and as long as his shirt didn’t actually smell he was even okay with wearing the same one twice in a row, although he didn’t turn it inside out, the way his new flatmate did.

His guitar leaned against the davenport, one string broken. The extra strings lay in scattered packages on the table beside it. Music, staff paper, a pick or two, all scattered in place. A mug of some horrible South American tea stood on the table too, suggesting not only Viggo’s … but his immediate return. The window stood wide open, the breeze blowing through, at something less than Force 10, but not much. A stormy day in Wellington, and even on such a day, the sandals, the open window. On the dining table, his sketch books, his notebooks, and his copy of Tolkien lay scattered. Notes had blown off the table, littering the floor like big snowflakes. It was damned cold, and evidence of Viggo’s presence..

What the fuck is the matter with you Bean, he irately asked himself. You mope about because you're lonely, look forward to the guy's arrival, and now he's under your skin? Get a grip. But getting a grip required that he get a hand around something, and he wasn't sure what that something was.
It’s not that he was antisocial, he told himself, it was just that he was…well….not used to this much togetherness. Living with Viggo was like living with a burr. He just stuck. It wasn’t that he meant to, it was just part of his nature. He didn't care about the clutter, and he didn't care about the laundry everywhere...Viggo seemed to live out of piles, piles of socks, piles of shirts, piles of music, piles of poetry, piles of jeans... Viggo liked fresh air, and seemed impervious to the cold. He hated being cold, and if he complained, Viggo cheerfully shut the windows. He never complained about the mess Sean made, the dishes in the sink, the tins of SPAM, the bottles of beer everywhere. Never had a wife that didn't take umbrage to that sort of thing. But the worst part was something else. By the end of the third day, Sean’s mental space felt crowded.

For someone as quiet as Viggo, he left an indelible dent in the flat. Viggo didn't talk much, but he had a way of saying a lot without saying much, or even anything at all. Sean would have the telly on, and a sports caster would say something he thought stupid, and Viggo would snort, and the snort became a commentary. The guy's language, the guy's style, whatever. A wry smile, a twitch of his brows, a cock of his head, all of it was commentary. And the commentary started to stick in Sean's brain, clog up his hearing, crowd his own thoughts.

Not that he had many thoughts. Survival depended on not thinking a whole lot about anything in particular. If he did, then his brain started in on the exes, the almost exes that he had never married, the wannabe soon-to-be ex.

Some had him labeled as a grumpy old man (the Hobbits), others as a cranky youth (the Ians). The Hobbits took great delight in tormenting him, making him grumpier, crankier, quieter. The Ians treated him with great politeness, which he didn't deserve. The straight male crew gave him space, respectful of his crankiness. The female crew flirted with him, babied him, fetched him coffee, but he knew how to deal with that. Smiled sweetly and thanked them. The gay crew flirted too; the boldest of them had even squeezed his butt yesterday, a gesture he had ignored, other than a minor growl. PJ and his sidekicks made polite requests (stand here, wave your sword in that direction, look over there). But nobody, nobody... got under his skin. Except Viggo.

The Ians and sometimes John didn't occupy each other's space, but shared it. Their spaces were adjacent, compatible, and comfortable. They seemed quite happy mimicking the English club routine. Scotch and soda in the afternoon, or sherry, or some fancy iced tea drink. Faintly, and sometimes overtly, philsophical conversations in gentle tones. Despite their costumes, wearing false beards, false feet, and armour, he could almost smell the tobacco and old leather, and hear the crackle of a fire in the fireplace.

The Hobbits seemed quite comfortable occupying each other's space. And they did. Hobbits and the Elf, but the Hobbits especially, they seemed like a gaggle of kittens, sleeping cheek to butt. Heads of tossled curls, oversized feet. He half expected them to start picking each others' noses.

When he had said yes to Fran, after she asked if Viggo could stay with him a few days, he expected the spacial relationships similar to the Ians, not to the Hobbits. Viggo occupied his space, most importantly, his mental space. It was as if the man could read his mind. He craved ice cream, Viggo showed up with a half gallon of chocolate chip. He came home expecting to turn on the TV and find the Blades game, and Viggo already had it on...possibly had recorded anything he had missed. He finished his beer, and Viggo appeared magically from another part of the flat and handed him another. It would be endearing if it weren't so annoying.

None of his wives had every treated him like that....not once they were married. It was almost as if the guy was courting him.

He scratched his head and put his beer bottle on the coffee table.

"Want another?" Viggo asked softly, at his right shoulder.

He started, startled. "Oi, how long you been there?"

"Just got here," Viggo said, handing him a cold bottle.