rugbytackle | Ficlet: Hidden, Wide Open (VM/SB, R)

Some of you might have already seen this--it was in a locked entry in my journal, 'cause I thought I could re-write it. It's not happening, alas, so I'm posting it as it is. Hope you'll enjoy!

Title: Hidden, Wide Open (1/1)
Author:

cinzia
Rating: R
Pairing: Viggo Mortensen/Sean Bean
Summary: Some things are not to be told.
Disclaimer: This is NOT true, because I just made it up. It NEVER happened.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Archive: My website,

rugbytackle, Green Opals, list archives.
Warnings: Dark themes, (hinted at) violence.
Author Notes: For

lannamichaels.

Hidden, Wide Open
by Cinzia

Viggo had a secret.

It wasn't the kind of secret you could tell people about, because, quite frankly, there was nothing there that could be told. This secret, it was about Viggo, who he was. What he was. And you could never 'tell' about such a thing. You could just... feel it, maybe. Experience it. Never 'tell'.

Viggo knew what his secret was, of course. Sort of. He thought Exene might have guessed it, long ago, after they'd married. He wasn't sure it was the reason why they'd divorced, but he was sure it was part of it. It must have been.

Sometimes he felt like everyone, looking at him, could guess; most of the time he didn't think of it, just as he didn't usually think of his right arm or his foot. It just was.

And when he looked at Sean, he could do nothing else but think of his secret--could do nothing else but feel it, feel it right inside, a heavy weight, a cloud over the sun, whatever. It was there, so close to the surface, every time Sean was near him.

Sean was, without exception, the cleanest person Viggo had ever known.

No secrets there: nothing lurking under the surface, every sin, every passion, everything was just taken out in the open and discussed, pointed out, taken apart, occasionally laughed at. Nothing mysterious; nothing bad enough, or strange enough, to be worth hiding.

Sean could go and play football with the hobbits and land in the mud and end up covered in grass stains and scrapes like a too-grown kid, or he could pass out with his face on the greasy surface of a sleazy out-of-town pub, pissed out of his head, and he still...

...he'd still be clean. Whole. As though he'd just spent an evening playing chess with John, sipping expensive port, smoking even more expensive cigars.

Wholeness and cleanliness actually seemed to abound on this set, Viggo was well aware of it because he'd been drinking it up like a thirsty man in the desert--or like a newly-awaken vampire; in Sean, it was tangible: you could, literally, reach out and touch it.

So it was hardly surprising that Viggo did just that.

The first time was easier than he would've thought: just reaching out in the shadows under a broken streetlight, on their way home from a night in the pub, mouth soft and wet under his, caught mid-word, tip of the tongue coming out to moisten dry lips and finding other lips there--just barely, because then Viggo had drawn away, shrugged, grinned drunkenly.

"Oops," Viggo'd said, and Sean's eyes had cleared, his chuckle accompanying his hand on Viggo's shoulder, steadying Viggo all the way back to their cars.

Still so clean, Sean. Untouched.

Second time was different.

Finding Sean alone in Makeup hadn't been in the plans; but how to avoid it, really? So Viggo hadn't, and he'd trailed his hand along one chainmail-covered arm to reach the shoulder--green eyes startled and wide fixed on Viggo in the mirror, the familiar, safe sound of Sean's laughter cut off in the middle; Boromir caught off-guard.

Sean's neck, warm and smooth under Viggo's fingertips; Sean's pulse, quickening under Viggo's palm.

Viggo had smiled then, a non-drunken smile, and this time, when he'd leant in to kiss Sean's half-parted lips he'd meant it. He'd tasted Sean and cigarettes and he'd gone deep, deeper; and breath and spit mingled, and blood when he bit down, marking.

Not so clean now, Sean, with his lips swollen and bruised, his blood a shiny red tear on the bottom lip and a pale rose on his cheekbones, his wig ruffled, his eyes blazing, his moan still echoing in the enclosed, intimate space of the trailer.

Not so clean. Viggo had touched him--deep; and yet, still not deep enough.

Third time... Third time was the charm.

Rubbing hard against each other in Viggo's bed, sweat and spit and come and blood, taking him hard, opening himself to be taken, the sheets dirty and the smell of sex thick and heady in the air afterwards--

--and not clean now, not any more, green eyes closed tight and face bruised and scratches and bitemarks all over him, and Viggo had done it, had taken Sean--taken him and his moans and his cries and his tears and his curses and his pleas, and made them his own. He'd cleaned himself on Sean, he'd gone right in and had made Sean dirty, at last, the way he should've been, the way...

...the way Viggo had always been.

And they had fucked and fucked until both of them had been raw and couldn't remember their own names, who they were.

What they were.

And for a little while, Viggo hadn't been alone with his secret any more.

And the time after that... The time after that Sean's eyes had been open, and that had been the way Viggo had felt--open, like he'd never been, his secret exposed, leaving him unprotected, leaving him unguarded, leaving him...

...leaving him.

Because the time after that, Sean had been the one reaching out. With his eyes wide open. Knowing. Knowing everything--everything--there was to know.

Saying nothing, because nothing could be said, Sean had reached out, and had taken Viggo in.

End