"Oh, why you look so sad? Tears are in your eyes, Come on and come to me now."

When Viggo read the title in one of the tabloids on display at the grocery store that afternoon, he spared it no more than a passing glance. That tabloid was trash-paper, that was clearly a hoax, he thought, and left it at that, making a mental note to call later and have a good laugh about it.

Then he got back into his car, clicked on the radio.

And it was in the news, too. He just caught the end, so it wasn't all that clear; but it was confusing enough that when he got home he went straight into the living room and flicked the TV on.

And there it was.

"Fuck," he said, and luckily the sofa was just behind him, because his legs gave way and he dropped down on it.

He stared at the screen, feeling so numb he knew he had to be in shock. When he could move, he reached for the remote, switched channels.

And there it was again.

On fucking CBS.

He let the remote fall down on the cushions, and was on his feet and looking down at the phone in his hand before he stopped to think. Phone. He had to useit. No, he'd better not – he would've bet a huge amount of his next paycheck that all he would've found would be a disconnected sound.

The sudden thrill startled him, and he caught the phone back just before it crashed onto the floor.

"Viggo? Viggo, is that you?"

"Orlando. Yeah – I just... sorry. I was..."

"You saw it, then." A muffled voice said something at Orlando's end of the line.

"Orli? Is that Elijah?"

"Ah... yeah. We... we just caught the six p.m. news."

Viggo closed his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them, the TV screen was showing a familiar house, surrounded by TV speakers and crews of reporters and
cameramen. He felt vaguely sick – thank God he had muted the damn thing before dropping the remote.

"Viggo? Vig, you still there? Look, we tried to reach him, but the phone is disconnected, and his mobile is off..."

Viggo took a deep, calming breath. The kids were freaked out, he thought.

Hell – so was he. But he had to snap out of it. Quickly.

"I'll try," he said.

Orlando hesitated, just for a second. "You're going to his flat. We could..."

"Orli. No. The last thing he needs right now is to draw still more attention. Which you two pretty teen-idols coming to his house and walking right into a crowd of reporters is surely gonna accomplish."

"Oh." A brief pause. Viggo could hear Elijah speaking, but not his words. Then Orlando said, "I suppose you are right. Shit, Viggo!" And then he had no more words.

"Yeah," Viggo softly agreed, feeling the other's frustration. Shit,indeed.

An intake of breath at the other end of the line. "Look. You just call,if there is something..." Another intake of air. "If there is anything, Viggo. Anything at all."

And even now, in spite of all that was happening, Viggo had to smile in the face of Orlando's loyalty and desire to dive right into the middle of the fight.

"Yeah. I'll do that. Say hi to Lij. Gotta go," and disconnected. He went into his studio, searched briefly in the top drawer of his desk, found what he was looking for and, pausing just long enough on his way to the door to turn off the TV set with a vicious stab of his finger, went out again.


* * *

Viggo knew the route by heart, even if he had happened by the house maybe twice in the last six months or so. It was just one of those things that you know, and don't stop by wondering why you do know, or even if it matters that
you do.

He did know, though.

He parked two blocks away and walked the distance, trying not to think ahead,not to work himself into a nervous fit. He knew how bad things were as soon as he came in sight of the place, and it was just as he had seen on TV – press -vans, cameras and reporters were all over the place, practically camping out in
the damn driveway.

There was a small coffee shop at the end of the street, far enough to not be bothered by all the chaos, close enough that, sitting in just the right booth near the window, you could still catch a glimpse of the house.

Not that Viggo used to sit in that booth frequently or anything.

Okay – so maybe it had happened. Once or twice.

He got in, and no one paid him attention, which was good. The waitress maybe looked at him a bit longer than usual, but he liked to think it was just because he was still handsome.

The coffee shop was fairly empty at that hour, so he finally found himself blessedly alone. He opened the newspaper he had bought after having parked – and a fucking newspaper it was, The Los Angeles Times, not a mere tabloid – and forced himself to read.

The news hadn't made the front page, but the coverage was still pretty large. Too large, in fact.

Viggo scanned his eyes over the title, and breathed deep.

"World-renowned British actor Sean Bean arrested yesterday night for Indecent Behavior."

Well, fuck, Viggo thought. No wonder Lij and Orli were freaking out. He read the first lines, and right enough, the George Michael affair of some five years
before was mentioned every other line.

At least, the journalist felt in need to point out, he hadn't been caught with a hooker, as another well-known British actor years ago, just with 'another man.' But then again, that other actor had at least had the taste to be caught with a female hooker.

Viggo winced.

It was really bad. Sean's eyes stared at him from the coarse grain of the paper, a black and white police identification photograph. Viggo was used to see Sean's eyes looking at him from the papers, the magazines, TV and movie screens. This was so different, so wrongly different, it just couldn't be right. Those weren't Sean's eyes – they couldn't be Sean's eyes. Haunted, lost eyes. Viggo closed the paper. He couldn't look. He wanted to freak out like the kids. He wanted to get up and tear into that fucking crowd of fucking vultures out there,
and get right into Sean's face and...

And what?

Yell at him. What the fuck he'd been thinking. Kick his ass. You stupid fucker.

Deep breath, he told sternly to himself. You just have to wait.

So he waited, drinking too much coffee and pretending to read the friggin' newspaper and really watching Sean's house and the comings and goings around it.

Sean's house. The house he had bought years ago, to stay in when in L.A. filming some movie or the other. Viggo remembered the first time he'd been in it, he and Orlando and the hobbits. A neat, nice house. So typically Sean – that time there had been Sean's daughters, too.

Viggo took another deep breath. Sean's daughters. He ried to remember if they were in L.A. with him, then recalled clearly Sean telling him they were back in London, with their mothers. Not that that mattered, anyway. What a ess.

He took another gulp of now-cold coffee, passed his other hand over his hair. He had to come to terms with the hole thing. He still couldn't believe it: just two nights ago – the very night Sean got arrested, as he now read-- they'd had dinner over at Viggo's, because Sean was in L.A. for a project and had called to say hi, and Viggo had just finished a new painting for his next exhibition and Henry was with Exene for the whole month anyway, so he had invited Sean over. It had been nice: a pleasant, lovely evening. Two good friends, talking, laughing, trying to not let show how much they'd missed one nother. Failing, and laughing over that, too.

Then Sean had left and, apparently, gone to pick up someone in a club, and got to the point right there by the road in his own fucking car.

Some male one.

Viggo glanced at the clock on the wall opposite him. He'd been in there for over two hours. Outside it was already dark.

He decided he had waited long enough.

* * *

There were still people outside the house, even if less than before. And though it was now decidedly dark, not one light was on inside.

He managed to go around the house without being noticed, and got to the back door. Apparently some reporter had decided to lie in wait there as well. Luckily enough, just while Viggo was trying to decide what to do, the guy's cell-phone went off and, after a brief talk, the man and his cameraman left.

Viggo waited a little longer after they vanished around the corner, just in case. Then he quickly crossed the street, got out of his pocket the spare set of keys Sean had given to him the last time he'd been in L.A., and within seconds he was in.

As he'd expected, the house was completely dark. And silent. He could hear the sounds from the outside, cars rushing by, even – if he listened very, very carefully – the muted voices of the reporters still lingering on the doorstep. He checked to be sure he'd locked the door behind him.

Now. Where would Sean be? Probably upstairs, in his bedroom. Feeling his heart beating oddly loud in his chest, Viggo navigated the darkened house, managing to not stumble into random articles of furniture too often, all the time cursing the damn journalists out there who wouldn't let him flip on the lights.

When he reached the bottom of the stairway, though, he decided he wouldn't risk giving Sean a heart-attack. Feeling discreetly certain he couldn't be heard outside, called Sean's name aloud.

No answer.

Yet he was sure Sean was home – the jacket he'd worn two nights ago had been flung carelessly over the banister. He just hoped the stupid fucker hadn't done anything... stupid.

"Sean, it's Viggo. I know you're home. I'm coming up, all right?"

Still no answer. Viggo started climbing, three steps at a time. The stupid fucker. If he found out he had done some stupid thing, he'd kick his ass from here back to England.

His heart was still racing. Fuck, it had to be the stairs. That stupid,stupid...

He halted on the doorway to Sean's bedroom.

Empty bedroom.

"Sean?"

He was about to turn and see if maybe Sean was downstairs after all, when the lights of a passing car lit the room for a second. Enough for Viggo to see the man sitting in a chair at the farther corner of the room.

His heart gave a thump, then for a second it was still.

Viggo had readied himself to expect a great deal of things – drunk,passed-out Sean had been the foremost in his mind.

What he saw had him cringing inside, realizing he had actually half-hoped Sean would be drunk. And unconscious.

But it was not so. Sean was sitting in the chair, in the dark. Looking the image of calm itself. Perfectly sober, at a first glance. And staring right at Viggo.

For some reason, Viggo felt ice running up his spine, crawling all over his body.

They remained like that, staring at each other, for a little eternity. Then another car went by, and Sean said, "I thought I had locked the doors."

Viggo just lifted his right hand, opening it, letting the keys dangle from their ring.

Sean said nothing.

Then, just as Viggo made to enter the room, he spoke again, still looking right at Viggo, still with ice in his voice, in his eyes.

"Just tell me, then go away."

Viggo remained where he was, feeling confused. And cold.

"Tell me," Sean clarified, and this was when Viggo finally noticed how hard Sean's hands were gripping the armrests, so hard his fingernails were positively digging into the leather, "how I fucked my career. How I fucked
my life." The ice seemed to spread, thin all over, cold all over. "Tell me what a fucking loser I am. And go the fuck away."

Viggo was thinking how he hated being cold. He fucking hated it so fucking much.

So he decided he wouldn't take any more of it.

In three long strides he was over to Sean, and looking down in the dim light filtering from outside, he saw Sean's eyes up close. Red-rimmed. Shiny. Haunted.

The same fucking look in them he had seen in the police photo.

Yes – he had wanted to yell at him. To ask what the fuck he'd been thinking. To kick his ass for having thought it. Stupid fucker.

He'd wanted to hold him so tight he wouldn't have to look into those empty,dead eyes anymore.

So he did just that – he sat down on the nearest armrest, dislodging Sean's arm, reaching out with a hand to draw Sean's head to his chest, his other arm circling around Sean's shoulders, to keep him against his side.

And without a struggle, Sean went.

Viggo lay his cheek on top of Sean's head.

"Stupid fucker," was all he said, just a whisper in the darkness all around them.

And when he felt Sean tremble slightly in his arms, the first tears falling onto his shirt, warming his chest just over his heart, he tightened his grip,and just held on.

Because they were warm. Hot. He liked heat, heat was what ice needed to break up and melt away. Viggo could work with that.

And he would.

"Don't be ashamed to cry, Let me see you through, 'Cause I've seen the dark side too."

Sean wasn't really sure how much time he stayed like that, cradled into Viggo's arms, crying his eyes out like a damn baby. He hadn't thought he could still cry so much, and strangely even that thought was enough to make him cry longer still.

At last, thoroughly finished and disgusted with himself, he just sat there, spent, feeling numb all over, with only the warm weight of Viggo's arms around him, of Viggo's body close to his, keeping him connected to reality. Albeit barely.

He didn't know what to do. Or what to say, for that matter. He'd been living in a nightmare for the past twenty-four hours; and that was enough to let even his shocked mind realize that the nightmare was no nightmare at all.

He had fucked everything up. So bad.

Viggo had been the last straw. He had spent all the day thinking, trying to shut out the reporters' voices detailing his 'misadventure' to the whole sodding world right from his own sodding lawn. When the phone had started ringing, he'd ripped it out of its socket. Then he'd hurled his cell across the room, allowing himself a moment's satisfaction when he heard it crash on the opposite wall.

He had accurately avoided thinking about his daughters. He just couldn't cope with that right then.

He just couldn't.

His L.A. agent had been the one who had come to bail him out. She had been half out of her mind, but Sean hadn't really listened to what she had been saying. He just caught the one word.

"Why?"

Fucked if he knew.

He couldn't think of that, either.

So, he'd thought of Viggo.

They had had a pleasant dinner, the past night. It had been good seeing him again after over six months. Sean couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so much, or so hard. It had been... more than good.

Viggo would be so mad, Sean had thought. Surprised – nah, not that. He knew Viggo well enough to know there wasn't much that could really surprise him anymore. But he'd be shocked, that he would be – Sean was sure Viggo would never condone him to have been so stupid to actually get caught at it.

Viggo would think back to their lovely, wonderful evening, and be disgusted with Sean. Mad at Sean, for having spoilt what could have been a good memory.

And so after all Sean couldn't cope with thinking of Viggo, either.

After a while, he decided he was angry himself. Fucking press. Fucking people. What the fuck was to them what he did in his fucking private life? Who the hell did they think they were? It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair. Fucking bastards! It wasn't...

And that had been when he first realized he was crying. It had only made him so much more furious.

He had never been more afraid.

And then, in the darkness, in the midst of the silence all around him – of the nothing that his life had so quickly become – he had heard Viggo's voice, calling his name.

And it had sounded so afraid, too.

* * *

Tears could last only so long, then they dried up, burning your eyes, stinging in your throat, leaving you numb all over, a dreadful silence filling your head. Wrapped up in Viggo's arms, Sean thought he could fall asleep, just like that. Dreaming that he could be safe once again.

Viggo was stroking one hand gently along his back, the other entangled in the short hair at the nape of his neck. Sean could feel Viggo's chin on top of his head, and though they were not in the most comfortable of positions, he found himself slowly relaxing, something tight in his chest giving way, uncurling as with a long sigh.

Viggo had to have felt it, because he gradually slowed his hands, and without removing his chin from Sean's head he asked, softly, "Have you eaten?"

The question sounded so incongruous, that for a moment Sean actually considered laughing at it: for what do you eat when your life is falling apart?

Then again, it wasn't all that funny. So he just shook his head.

Viggo straightened up, disentangling himself gently, and tugged on the sleeve of Sean's shirt. "Come on. I'll fix you something."

Sean just stared at him.

Viggo sighed, without letting completely go of him – one hand he kept on Sean's shoulder, the other was still on his arm, just above Sean's wrist.

"I won't have you falling over your face, Bean. And besides," he added, and here he actually had he cheek to wink, "my ass's fallen asleep."

At that, Sean had nothing to say. He let himself be lifted onto his feet and followed Viggo downstairs in the darkened house. He didn't think to ask why Viggo was feeling the need to led him by his hand, as if that wasn't Sean's own home, that he knew better than Viggo did. He didn't ask, and he didn't let it go.

He watched, still a little dazed, as Viggo rummaged around in his kitchen's drawers, taking out things with a minimum of fuss, as if he were in his own kitchen. From a cabinet Viggo took out some wax candles – Sean didn't even remember he had those – and when he lit them, the small kitchen was bathed in a soft yellow glow, for which Sean felt immediately grateful: he didn't think his sore eyes would adjust so well to the brighter electric lights.

After a while, he was presented with tea and a plate of toast. He looked at it, then up at Viggo. "I'm not hungry."

"I know." Viggo's voice was still soft in the soft light, his eyes almost dark, and Sean found out he couldn't look into them for very long. "Just eat, okay?"

As he hadn't an answer for that either, Sean obeyed. "Good," nodded Viggo, and patted him briefly on the shoulder. "I have something to do. Be right back."

Sean didn't look up when Viggo left the room. He continued to nibble on histoast, curving his free hand around the mug of tea, letting its warmth soak into him. Muted footsteps sounded over his head, telling him Viggo had gone back to his bedroom. He didn't care. He stared at the flame of a pale yellow candle on the counter before him and kept on eating.

After what seemed hours, but probably wasn't, Viggo was back at his side,looking down at his still almost full plate and untouched tea, but without commenting on it. Sean glanced up, and saw his own green sportbag on the floor near Viggo, who followed his gaze. "Look, I know you are probably dead on your feet and all, but hold on for a little more, all right? You can always
sleep in the car."

Sean thought he was hearing things, but when he looked at Viggo, there was faintest trace of a smile on his lips. Then Viggo bent and picked up Sean's bag.

"Feel like a little walk?"

* * *

They didn't exactly sneak out in the night: as Viggo put it, they were just being careful not to be spotted; and, as luck had it, they weren't.

Only when Viggo was settled next to him and had the engine running, Sean thought of asking where they were going.

"Oh. My house. In Idaho," Viggo replied, turning his head, one arm braced around Sean's seat to maneuver out of his parking spot.

"We're driving all the way," he added when he turned back to the road, as in an afterthought. "No flying."

Though greatly relieved by this bit of news, Sean was still a little out of it, the numbness of just minutes before being quietly replaced by confusion.

"But... we can't. I mean, I can't. My agent..."

"Oh, yeah. She said she'd take care of it with your lawyer, just to call when we get there."

Sean opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. Then tried again. "You talked with my agent?"

He noticed that Viggo had the grace to look a bit sheepish. "Well... yeah. While you were eating."

Sean just stared at him.

Viggo shrugged, looked briefly at him, then back at the road. "I. Hm. I saw your address book in your room, so I thought..." Another brief look.

"You don't mind, do you? I mean... much?"

Sean wasn't very good with words today, so in the end he settled for shaking his head. He was feeling a bit overwhelmed... but in a kind of nice, not-quite-as-frightening-as-before sort of way.

Traffic was almost non-existent in the pre-dawn hours, so they got out of L.A. relatively fast and smooth. Viggo had inserted some CD in the car player, and a soft, soothing music was flowing out – not country, thank God.

"I think I'll go to sleep," Sean said over the music.

Viggo turned briefly his head to flash him a warm, approving smile, and said nothing.

Sean slept.

* * *

The light woke him up. For a moment, Sean was in the blissful ignorance of half-sleep, not really remembering where he was or what was happening; then he opened his eyes, saw the landscape running swiftly by, and everything came back. He shut his eyes again, stifling a groan.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," came the soft greeting from his left.

"What time is it?" Sean mumbled, without bothering to turn his head away from the window. It wasn't a particularly bright day: sunlight kept coming and going as clouds rolled over the sun, then away again. It didn't look like rain, though.
"About half past noon."

This got his attention. He straightened up, turning to look at Viggo.

"What?"

Viggo smiled, sparing him a brief glance before returning his attention to the road. A blue-striped pick-up truck passed them on their left. "You were pretty out of it. It's good you could sleep for a while."

"For a while? I've been sleeping for ten bloody hours!"

"Yeah." Viggo shrugged, then he shifted on the seat, rolling his shoulders a bit, surreptitiously easing the tension in them.

Sean winced. It meant Viggo had been driving for as long. He took another look around, saw a Nevada State sign passing them by, and winced again. From the look of things, Viggo had probably driven for that whole time.

"We have to stop."

"You hungry?" Viggo glanced at him again, and though now that he looked closer Sean could see the signs of fatigue on his face, Viggo's eyes were as clear and attentive as usual. Sean just shook his head, nonplussed.

"No, you daft sod. You have to eat. And sleep," he expanded, still trying to grasp the fact that he'd slept away a good half of the journey.

At this, Viggo's eyes seemed to cloud over a little, and Sean realized Viggo was looking at him with some concern.

"You sure?"

And this, of course, was the real question. Stopping to eat somewhere meant... people. Staring at him, most likely – and not for the usual reason people stared when they recognized him. Sean considered it – damn, he was no coward. He didn't hide from people, nor he run from his own issues. He couldn't believe what he'd gotten himself into. It still felt, at times, like a nightmare, like it was happening to someone other. He still did not seem able to fully understand that his life has changed so much – overnight, really. And through this all, Sean was suddenly grateful that Viggo wasn't bothering to fake a cheerful tone, or to act as if all were fine with Sean's world.

"Hey, know what?" Viggo's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. When he looked over, Viggo pointed at a sign that was quickly approaching in front of them. "I think I wanna burger. Let's stop at that drive-through."

* * *

Sean tapped his fingers on the side of the dashboard, waiting for Viggo to come back with the keys. He should have insisted, he kept repeating to himself. He should've insisted on going with him to pay for their room, instead of just sitting there and agree to let Viggo do it, and waiting for him outside in the car-park of the anonymous-looking motel, like... like some cheap whore Viggo had picked up on the street.

The analogy failed to amuse him.

He got out of the car as soon as Viggo reappeared, collecting his bag – Viggo hadn't one, it seemed – and followed him to the door of their room, that happened to be just the one in front of which they had parked... at the farther end of the parking lot from the office. At that hour, the place was very nearly empty, so he had a strong suspicion Viggo had expressly asked for that specific room. Sean didn't question him about it, though.

The room was nothing special, kind of small, but with a king-sized bed at its center. Sean thought about raising an eyebrow, then considered Viggo had in all probability let believe he was alone. He dropped his bag on the floor on one side of the bed, and felt tired all over again.

Viggo did the same survey of the room, then got to inspect the small bathroom. "It's not too bad," he informed Sean coming back out into the room. He lay down on his side of the bed, stretching. "Why don't you have a shower first?" He wrinkled his nose. "Don't take this personally, of course."

And yet again, not for the first time since he'd seen Viggo the night before, Sean felt as if he could actually still remember how to laugh. And though that was a hideous concept, he found himself smiling nonetheless.

Viggo just smiled back, and had his eyes closed even before Sean had nodded his assent.

Sean took his time in the shower, feeling as if he needed to clean himself inside and out, yet knowing it was a stupid thought. He would've stayed under the hot spray for hours, but probably using up all the hot water wouldn't be very nice to Viggo, so he got out, donned a clean pair of sweatpants and a tee-shirt (wondering idly how many drawers Viggo had had to go through before finding them) and went back to the bedroom.

As he found out, he shouldn't have bothered. Viggo was still where he'd left him, fast asleep, one arm over his middle, the other near his face on the pillow, the hand slightly curled up.

Sean padded softly over to the bed, and looked down at him.

It had been almost three years, he reflected. In New Zealand. He'd been taking a stroll through the woods during a break from shooting, still in his Boromir's costume. He'd entered a clearing not that far from the set, a shock of yellow and white under the bluest sky Sean had ever seen; and there'd been Viggo, asleep in the grass, he too in his Aragorn's costume, his sword by his side, loosely held in his right hand, all rugged-looking and exhausted and strangely not out of place at all.

Sean's first impulse had been to wake him up, maybe with a light kick, teasing him a bit. Instead he'd found himself settling down in the grass, watching his friend sleep, while a soft breeze sighed over them, brushing the tall grass and the flowers, ruffling lightly the long, dark hair of the
Aragorn's wig. They had been filming the Lothlorien scenes those days, and Sean had thought of Boromir and Aragorn. Of Boromir mostly, watching over his sleeping captain. It had felt right.

Viggo had stirred after more than an hour had already passed, and when his eyes had opened, they'd focused on Sean almost immediately, as if Viggo had known all along he'd find him there when he awoke. And after all, Sean had thought, smiling back at him, neither of them bothering to talk, wasn't that right? Aragorn would have known Boromir would watch over him, protecting his rest. And what if no one else would ever trust him as much? Aragorn did.

Viggo did.

Sean looked down at Viggo now, in a somewhat ratty motel room somewhere in Nevada, three years after that afternoon in a world that was so far away, it could've really been Middle-earth. Viggo's hair was short now, back to its natural colour – blond, ever so slightly darker than Sean's own, with a touchof silver at his temples. The sun had decided to come fully out after all, and
in its light, Viggo looked rather golden, golden hair and golden skin, golden all over.

And though he was now sleeping, and Sean was awake, just like that lost New Zealand afternoon, the feeling of peace wasn't there, as it had been back then; for even if Viggo was asleep, Sean could tell he was the one who was being still watched over now, taken care of.

He went to the window to draw the blinds close, blocking out the sunlight. New Zealand was far away. And it would never be like that again.

He silently went back to the bed, managing to remove Viggo's shoes without waking him, then stretched down beside him, facing away. And stared, his eyes wide open, into the alien darkness.

*****

"When the night falls on you,
You don't know what to do,
Nothing you confess
Could make me love you less
I'll stand by you,
Won't let nobody hurt you."

*****

Viggo woke up a few hours later. The room was dark, though he could hear noise outside telling him it had to be still early in the evening. Rolling over in the bed, he found it empty. A quick scan, while his eyes adjusted to the darkness, showed him Sean sitting in the only chair of the room, wide awake.

Before Viggo could say "Deja vu," though, Sean asked him for his cell, to call his agent back in L.A.

Viggo let his head fall back on the pillow, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "It's in there." He gestured vaguely with one arm in the general direction of Sean's bag, passing his other hand over his hair, not caring if that would make it stick up even worse.

Sean clicked on the lights, then got up and went to sit on his side of the bed, rummaging in the bag until he came up with what he was looking for.

"How long did I sleep?" asked Viggo, stifling a yawn, then stretched a little. He felt good enough, all things considered. He still wasn't that old, he mused--he would have to tell Henry that.

"A little more than five hours," Sean absentmindedly answered, while punching numbers on the phone.

Viggo peered up at him, debating whether or not investigate if Sean had rested at all, then decided not: he had already slept for almost ten hours, and even if he *had* been--both emotionally and physically--exhausted, too much sleep was a sign of depression, he believed. Seeing him so alert was actually a comfort.

While Sean spoke with his agent, his back to Viggo, Viggo leaned over, took possession of the bag, and from a pocket fished out a pen and a notepad. He sidled up till he was sitting against the headboard, bent a knee to support the pad and scribbled on the first sheet. When Sean said into the phone, "Wait a sec," Viggo just reached out over Sean's shoulder and gave him the notepad.

Sean turned, his eyes slightly widened in surprise, and Viggo felt actually pleased about the grateful, affectionate smile tugging at Sean's lips while he read Viggo's Idaho number and address to his agent. It still wasn't a real smile, not by a long shot, and Sean's eyes were still somewhat dull. Still scared. But it was the second smile since last night, and that surely had to count for something. Viggo was a Positive Thinking kind of guy.

Sean disconnected, and turned to sit against the headboard as well.

"So?" Viggo prodded.

Sean sighed, scratched his jaw. "My lawyer got a deal with the prosecutor," he said. "As long as I keep in touch and they can reach me, I'm allowed to stay out of town."

"Good."

"'til the court hearing."

There was a silence. Viggo reached over, felt Sean's shoulder under his hand, and squeezed. He let his hand linger there.

"So," he said after a while. "Want to hit the road again?"

Sean looked at him then, and for a moment he looked like he was about to say something; but in the end, he just shrugged.

Viggo let his hand fall back onto the coverlet.

*****

After a quick shower, Viggo felt completely rested and firing on all cylinders again. He went to pay for the room and give back the key, and when he got back to the car, he found Sean in the driver seat.

"Um," he said.

"Get in," said Sean.

Viggo guessed he really had nothing to object to: after all, he *was* tired of doing the driving, and beside that, it was good to see Sean out of the somewhat catatonic state of earlier in the day. Back in charge of his life--or at the very least, of Viggo's Saturn.

It was about eight p.m. when they got back on the highway, and Sean insisted he could drive all night, he had had all the rest he could ever need. After a bit of arguing, Viggo gave in, just told him to follow the road until the exit he had told him before, then he would give directions.

At some point, Viggo nodded off again. He thought he dreamed, but wasn't certain. Some place with tall grass, lots of wild flowers, and a sense of peace, of safety. Of someone watching over him, happiness adrift in the wind. He knew that place--he thought so, but couldn't really tell.

*****

They reached Idaho some time in the early hours of the morning. Sean woke Viggo up just before leaving the highway, and refused again to switch places, so Viggo settled for giving him directions from the passenger seat, and reflected that it was a shame they were arriving in the middle of the night: mountains loomed dark and imposing all around them, and as the road started to climb, Viggo thought he would've loved to see Sean's reaction, because the landscape would soon become breathtaking.

He decided not to dwell on it and concentrated on the road, instead. Hopefully, he'd have plenty of time to show him the sights. It didn't really matter, anyway. What mattered was... well, was Sean. Viggo knew he could help him, and he wanted to--so badly, in fact, it was almost ridiculous.

They drove on for a couple more hours, and finally left all signs of civilization behind. Viggo lowered the window, taking in a deep breath, not caring if it was cold. God, but how he loved the very air of this place. He looked over at Sean, who seemed oblivious to everything that wasn't the road.

"We're almost there. Tired?"

"Just a bit." Sean glanced back at him. The sun was about to rise, and a pale gray light was creeping its way into the valley they were in now. Viggo saw how dark Sean's eyes looked in the lit interior of the car. Then, with a hand, Sean gestured all around. "It has to be beautiful here--you know, when you can actually see."

Viggo could only nod. Then, feeling absurdly proud, "You will see," he smiled; and in his heart, he made that a promise.

The rest of the way passed in silence.

*****

When they arrived at Viggo's cottage, the sun had just risen over the mountains, pale and white and probably just about to go out again, hidden by gray livid clouds coming over it from the north.

Viggo took a moment to silently congratulate himself for having asked his housekeeper to come over the previous afternoon--to make sure all worked properly and stock out the fridge--then showed Sean his room, which was on the first floor, just below his own room, and attached to his studio. While Sean settled, he went to the kitchen and decided about breakfast.

Sean joined him a little later, and sat at the counter, watching Viggo work.

"Almost ready," Viggo said. "I just made coffee."

Sean nodded, took the mug Viggo handed him, filled it. Then he stared down at it. Viggo felt again the unease of the night before, when he had gone to Sean's in L.A.

"What's up?" he asked, softly.

Sean continued to stare into his mug. Then he said, "You haven't asked me anything."

Viggo looked at him. Took in the drawn face, the slightly ruffled hair. The details, like the tight curve of his lips, the two days' growth of stubble, the lines around his eyes and mouth, the long nervous fingers, clenching and unclenching around the pale yellow china mug; the inane little things, like the fine blond hair on Sean's wrists, showing under the sleeves of his dark green sweater. And the way he sat, hunched over and stiff at the same time, on the stool. The way he wasn't looking at Viggo.

He turned back to the cooking.

"Yeah," he just said.

He couldn't be sure, but he thought he heard a slight exhalation of breath.

"Thanks," Sean quietly offered, after a while.

Viggo nodded, without turning back around, and reached into the cabinet on his left to take out two plates.

*****

After breakfast--which was a rather short and silent affair--Sean went to rest in his room. Viggo made sure the phone worked fine, then went in his studio. He barely looked at the half-filled canvas strewn all over the room, the scraps and sheets of paper littering the floor, and sat down on the futon facing the huge glass window occupying almost a whole wall of the large room. Even though it was now full morning, the valley was still drowned in shadows: the wind had picked up, howling as it blew through the trees, lifting golden whirlpools of fallen leaves. The rain wouldn't be long now.

For some reason, Viggo thought about New Zealand. Well, okay, so he knew the reason: that kind of weather never failed to remind him of the Helm's Deep shooting, how it had never really stopped raining for all of that time.

The filming of the Helm's Deep scenes had taken the last three months with Sean on set--so he and Viggo had pretty much had to spend those last months apart.

Viggo relaxed on the futon and looked at the world outside, dark and almost unreal in the dim morning light, and let himself remember.

He'd been living so much inside Aragorn's head back then. Trying to be him--to act like him, to think like him. To feel what Aragorn would feel.

So much so, indeed, that he had actually started worrying if maybe this had begun to color his perceptions of things: of the film, of the people in the film... of his castmates.

He had noticed it when, separated from Sean because of the Helm's Deep shooting, he had realized for the first time how much, of late, he had been thinking about Boromir.

And maybe that was how it had started, trying to get into Aragorn's skin and seeing Boromir with Aragorn's eyes. But really, Viggo knew better than that.

It'd gotten worse after Boromir's death scene. Viggo caught himself thinking, 'It's so unfair. He's going to die, and he'll be forgotten.'

He re-read The Two Towers and The Return of the King, just to be sure, and yeah: only a couple of fleeting mentions of him again, then nothing. No more Boromir, never again.

Forgotten.

Yet he could've bet his right arm that Aragorn had not forgotten--because he could feel Aragorn's pain, so keenly. He was sure Aragorn never forgot Boromir, in all his long life. Never.

But of course he wasn't really the kind of guy who liked to live for too long in Denial-land, so after a time--and a few drinks--he'd faced the truth and could finally be honest with himself about it: it wasn't that Boromir would die and be forgotten that upset him.

It was that Boromir would die, and Sean would leave.

And Viggo would be forgotten.

Left behind.

It had really struck him then, and for a while he hadn't been sure what to do, what to make of it.

Actually, he still hadn't a clue.

Having Ian on his case hadn't helped one bit, either. Viggo smiled, remembering the long talks they had used to have back then. What an annoying man Sir Ian could be, when he put his mind to it. Which he often did. Viggo had also caught Orlando and Elijah trying to sneak up on them once or twice, and even then he couldn't help but to be amused: yeah, Viggo's Got a Secret. A Big fucking Secret.

What a laugh.

The first raindrops spattered against the glass.

*****

Viggo was actually attempting to do some creative work--which was to say, he was trying to clean up the studio a bit--when a familiar trilling sound intruded in the dim-lit rainy peace of the early afternoon, and he was suddenly reminded that he had left his cell-phone still in Sean's bag. And it was indeed from Sean's room that the trill was coming.

Groaning, he made to knock on Sean's door, but just then it opened and a slightly rumpled Sean handed him the offending object without comment. Viggo smiled apologetically, tried not to stare at Sean's bare chest, and took the call.

"About time! Where the fuck *are* you?"

"Good afternoon to you, too, Orlando."

Orlando didn't seem in the mood to appreciate sarcasm, though. "I left like two hundred messages on your machine. I thought you went missing as well! Oh, yeah, Sean's missing. Nobody seems to know where he is."

"He's with me." Viggo chanced a glance at Sean, saw him standing there, looking as if he didn't really care about the conversation--although his eyes were fixed on Viggo. Viggo had to look away.

After a little pause, Orlando said, "That's what I figured." Viggo could detect the faintest note of relief in his voice, and it made him smile. He didn't tell where they were, Orlando didn't ask. Some of them, Viggo thought, had actually managed to grow up.

He didn't know what that said about him.

"Look," Orlando was going on, "d'ya think I could talk with him?"



But when Viggo turned his head again, Sean had already gone back to his bed--though he'd left the door ajar. Viggo lowered his voice. "Not right now, Orli."

"All right." Muffled sounds. "Oh, the guys say hi."

"The guys?"

"Yeah." There was a smile in Orlando's voice. "Me and the hobbits--well, me and Lij and Dom. Astin and Billy called here, when they couldn't reach Beanie. Even John called. Said he knows some big name Hollywood lawyer, if Sean thinks he'll need it, John can get hold of him in no time." There was another brief pause, and Orlando's voice was serious again. "It's gonna get better, Vig. And we don't care. Tell him, okay?"

Viggo wished he could reach out, hug all of them. "Will do," he settled for instead.

"Ya take good care of him, ya cunt, or I'll...!" Dom's voice stopped just as abruptly as it came, and sounds of wrestling--Viggo figured--ensued. This actually surprised a laugh out of him, and when the phone went dead, he found himself still grinning.

Take care of Sean. Yeah, he thought. He glanced briefly into the shadowed bedroom, whispering a muted "G'night," before silently shutting it again.

He planned on doing just that.

*****

*****

"So, if you're mad get mad,
Don't hold it all inside,
Come on and talk to me now."

*****

That first day at Viggo's place in Idaho passed quite unremarkably. Sean got up at some hour in the afternoon, took a shower, shaved, had some coffee and bagels, then wandered for a time through the cottage, which was smallish but lovely, all wood and glass and stone, solid and cozy all in one. Sean decided he liked it. Quite a lot.

The place had 'Viggo' written all over it.

After a while, he joined Viggo in his studio, silently handing him a cup of tea, which was accepted with a smile and a nod of thanks. Sean settled himself on a black and white futon near the glass window, and tried to decide if he should look at the awesome landscape outside, beautiful and majestic and sort of wild in the pouring rain, or at Viggo's works, strewn all over the place, mostly unfinished, bright splatters of colors and nervous flashes of handwriting everywhere Sean looked.

Difficult choice.

He had seen some of Viggo's paintings before, of course; but being actually in the forge where they were created felt quite different, and Sean found himself mesmerized by the sheer amount of the canvas, shapes and colors so brilliant he could stare at them for hours and actually think to know what they all were meant to say.

Viggo didn't seem bothered by his presence while working. He was writing in one of the notebooks scattered everywhere, once in a while muttering something unintelligible under his breath. Sean wondered if it was Danish--sometimes Viggo had spoken Danish while they were in New Zealand, and even if he always translated afterwards, Sean had always maintained it was a bunch of crude words and he just liked to call Sean names to his face and get away with it.

He had used to say that just to see the sly twinkle in Viggo's eyes, of course.

He passed a hand over his face, and concentrated on thinking about something else. Anything else.

While watching him scribbling, it occurred to Sean that he had never really questioned why Viggo had come to him in the first place, nor why he had taken Sean to his beloved Idaho cottage, the very one Viggo had always talked so fondly about, his 'special place'. Why Viggo had felt the need to do all that for Sean, to just drop everything else and...

And how well Viggo had known how to take care of him.

Then Sean thought about what *he* would've done, had their places been reversed. And he found that there was no need to ask, after all. For some reason, he felt a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, fighting to come out.

Viggo just then looked up from his writing, glanced at Sean. An answering smile lit up his pale blue eyes. He put down the pen.

"I think it's dinner time."

*****

The rain started to ease just about when they finished eating. Viggo had been talking about his exhibition at the Track 16 Gallery in L.A., how it had gone and all the people who had been there. Sean had regretted not being able to make it to it, remembered having said as much to Viggo on the phone, the night before the opening. He said it again now, because it was true.

To his surprise, Viggo grinned.

"Yeah, well--you were there in spirit, as they say." He lifted his glass, taking a sip of wine, his eyes alight with some kind of sparkle as they fixed on Sean. "I never had the chance to thank you for the flowers. They were beautiful."

For a second, Sean was at a loss for words: he had actually forgotten about the flowers. Two dozens red roses, he'd had them delivered at the gallery, had even seen them in some of the photos in the reviews the day after--and had felt damn pleased with himself.

"I still have the card," Viggo quietly added.

For a while, they were silent. Sean could tell Viggo's thoughts had gone back to New Zealand, to the small pub they used to go to after shooting. Back to a lazy winter night and an animated discussion--actually, more a joke than a real argument--about whether or not romance was dead. Viggo had insisted it was *so* dead. Sean had been convinced of the opposite--mostly because arguing with Viggo and getting him all hot and bothered was fun. They had never reached an agreement, and never really talked about it again, after that night. Just one of the hundreds of little discussions they had had over the year of Sean's permanence on the set.

It had been just a weird impulse that had made Sean send the roses, well over two years after a meaningless, inane, slightly drunken conversation in a pub at the other end of the world, and write "Told ya so!" on the card accompanying them, with just a simple 'S.' as a signature.

But of course, he'd been right. Viggo had understood at once--like Sean, Viggo had not forgotten.

"So," said Viggo now, "thank you."

And at that, the most remarkable thing happened--Sean forgot, actually forgot, why he wasn't supposed to feel happy or to laugh ever again. "You're welcome," he said. And just like that, he laughed.

Viggo lowered his wineglass on the tabletop, and stared at Sean with such an intense look that Sean couldn't help but stare right back, a little bemused. And in the end, "Better," Viggo said, with the strangest expression, almost as if talking to himself.

Sean couldn't resist asking, "What?"

Viggo just reached across the table, brushing slightly the back of his fingers across Sean's eyelids, making them flutter close, then open again.

"Better," he just repeated, still looking so intently into Sean's eyes. And he seemed satisfied.

Sean decided not to investigate further. Viggo could be right, after all, even if about what, he wasn't sure. He smiled again. Because yes--he did feel a little better.

*****

The rain had long ceased by the time Sean stepped out onto the porch, inhaling deeply the cool mountain air: it was the first days of October, and the woods were already starting turning yellow and red. He could just imagine how the little valley would look just in a few weeks.

"Heaven," he stated.

Viggo, sitting behind him onto a wooden chair, his feet up on the railing, made a contented sound. "It is," was all he said. Then, after a while, he added, "I'd like to show you around, tomorrow."

Sean nodded, but didn't bother to speak. It was peaceful all right, here--yet he felt his fingers trying to dig into the wood of the railing, and with an effort released their grip. It was peaceful, but he wasn't really in the mood to appreciate it at its full. He knew himself well enough to know, now that he'd begun to relax, and the shock was wearing off, he would soon start to feel trapped, helpless. Then he would get in an awful mood, and start biting heads off out of frustration. He just hoped Viggo could cope with that, too.

The trill of the phone pierced the quiet of the night. Viggo let his head drop back for a minute against the wall, with a loud sigh, before getting to his feet and going back into the house. Sean heard him picking the phone up, and smiled a little when Viggo said, "Hey, Ian. No, of course you don't disturb."

He took the place Viggo had vacated, lifting his feet on the railing in his turn, laying back and trying to calm down. Now that the rain had stopped, there was a fresh, clean smell of earth and grass in the air, and it was pleasant. The wind was scattering the clouds, stretching them as thin as cow-webs, tearing them apart, and here and there he could see a few stars blinking down at him from a jet black sky, so sharply bright he could almost feel their light prickling his skin.

Viggo was moving around inside the cottage. Sean could hear his voice growing louder then fainter on occasion. At some point, he heard him snort and say, "Yeah, I know that, *Serena,*" and couldn't help but snort himself, shaking his head. Viggo and Ian had been like that almost since the day they'd met, he thought: seeing them argue was always a show worth the price of the ticket.

Bitchy sods.

After a little while, Viggo came back onto the porch, not at all bothered by finding Sean on his chair. He nudged Sean's legs back down and climbed instead to sit on the railing, facing him. "Ian gives you his love," he announced. He sounded somewhat subdued. Sean drew his eyebrows together, but didn't comment. He did not reply, either.

"He was wondering..." Viggo began.

"I am *not* going to become a gay rights activist," Sean stated with finality, cutting him off; and that pretty much killed that line of conversation. Just as he had hoped it would.

"Hm," Viggo said, noncommittally. They stayed like that for a few minutes more, just enjoying the night. Then Viggo rubbed his palms against his thighs, got up and announced he was going to sleep. Sean just nodded, and didn't turn to watch him going back inside.

He was already feeling awful.

*****

The day after dawned bright and sunny--Sean could tell, since he'd been awake to see it rise. He trailed after Viggo around the woods after lunch, and tried his best to look properly awed... which he would've surely been, on any other day. The place was wonderful, in its own way as beautiful as New Zealand has been, and just as wild. He really regretted not having come there sooner.

Most of all, though, he regretted being such a poor company to Viggo... who, being the bright guy he was, caught up early on Sean's frame of mind and just let him be, walking quietly beside him, not making any idle chatter. They got back quite early, and with a light, understanding slap on Sean's shoulder, Viggo left him to his own devices, going into his studio to work on his art. Or whatever he did in there.

Sean grew quickly bored, but he didn't fancy always being in Viggo's hair, as if he was some bloody toddler attached to his Mum's skirts. So he took another look around the house, and spotting the DVD collection near the TV set in the living room, decided he would be best off watching a movie, distracting himself before coming around to call his lawyer in L.A.

But, for what morbid reason he couldn't tell, instead of choosing a tape or a DVD he turned on the TV, and began to flip around the channels.

Until he found it.

At first, it was just his own face, a whirlwind of images from his various movies (Fellowship of thr Ring was the most prominently featured, he noted dryly) and public apparitions. He could even tune out the speaker, just concentrating on remembering which was what. For a fleeting moment, he even thought about P.J., wondering how he was taking all this: he probably was thinking of it as free promotional material. Sean couldn't really blame him.

Then, just as he knew it would, there *he* was.

The man from the other night.

His name was news to Sean, just as much as for the audience in the small TV studio. He had never bothered to ask, nor had the guy offered to tell. Sure, Sean had had his suspicions the guy knew exactly with whom he was leaving the club, but hadn't cared.

Now, Sean looked back at him for the first time since they got separated at the police station.

It wasn't really how he looked, Sean thought again--pale blue eyes, a little distanced. A small dimple on his chin. Blond, longish hair--no, that was close, but not nearly enough. The colors were all a bit off. Better was the way the man moved--long limbs, elegant motions--yes, close enough, but still not really near. But most of all, above all else...

He turned up the volume, just one notch, when he saw the man was about to speak.

Yes.

The voice was wrong, of course. Not even close, the less close of all. Too high-pitched, too sweet. Yet... He closed his eyes for a second, just taking in the sound, how it rose and fell, that peculiar speech-pattern he couldn't say he was really familiar with.

He muted the TV again while the interpreter translated from Danish.

It was just then that he heard the soft intake of breath behind him; and of course, when he turned, Viggo was right there, staring at the screen--at the man on the screen--and in his eyes, Sean saw what he had feared the most since the very moment of the arrest, what he had known would surely happen but prayed to God, against all reason, that it wouldn't, for he hadn't the first fucking clue how to deal with it.

Well. No use, of course.

Viggo knew.

*****

"And hey, what you got to hide?
I get angry too
But I'm a lot like you."

*****

The real shocker, Viggo thought, still staring at the TV screen even though Sean had turned it off, was that it wasn't really a shock at all.

Because Viggo had had time to think, those last couple of days.

He turned his eyes on Sean, saw his closed-off look, the one he knew Sean got when he thought he was about to be forced to deal with something he would rather not--there had been a couple of occasions like that during filming, generally involving flying in choppers and talking over the phone with his soon-to-be ex-wife--and knew he had to say something quickly, or he would lose him.

"Uh," he articulated, cultured man that he was. "That was..."

"It's not..." Sean started, just about at the same time. Then he stopped, worrying his lower lip between his teeth, a sure sign of his nervousness, that he was so off his guard he couldn't act to save his live. He lifted his eyes on Viggo, and something seemed to give in in his look. "Yeah," he softly said. "It is."

This was all it took to make Viggo move, come over to the couch, and sit down next to him--not too close, though.
"What is 'it'?" he asked, his voice as calm as he could muster.

Sean looked down at his hands, clenched tightly between his knees, and didn't answer.

Viggo waited for several minutes, sighed. "Look," he said. "I was going to make some phone calls." He gestured with his hand towards the phone on the table near the living room door. "I'll be in the studio, if you want to... Well."

He got up, looked at Sean, who was still staring at his own hands. In the end, he just walked away. While he passed him by, he had to fight hard to not reach out and touch him.

He had just entered the studio, when he heard the front door opening and then shutting again, Sean's footsteps fading off in the distance.

Viggo looked down at the cordless in his hands, and went to put it back in its cradle.

*****

So, yes, Viggo had had time to think, and he had thought.

He had thought how much it hurt knowing that he could make Sean feel a little better, could make the dead look in his eyes go away--and man, wasn't that just *good*--but couldn't really do much more than that. He couldn't fix things for Sean, so he tried to, at the very least, fix things inside himself.

And the first one was, he had to let go of his anger.

Anger at Sean, of course, because Sean had been with him for most of that day, and the best part of the night--been with him and laughed with him and told him how fucking wonderful it was to be there with Viggo--and then he had gone and fucked a perfect stranger.

A blond, blue-eyed, tall Danish stranger.

Viggo just knew Ian would have something to say about this--fuck, Ian had something to say about nearly everything, really. Especially when it came to Viggo's private life. Sometimes Viggo thought he'd made a mistake, when he had told Ian he had always swung both ways--it had actually been one of the traits Exene had found most sexy in him... or so she'd used to say--but that in later years, since the divorce, he'd found himself gravitating more and more towards men.

You could have walked in on Gandalf the Grey and Strider discussing this to nausea back then, in full costumes during on-set breaks, debating whether or not let the world know you'd rather bed fellows than lasses--shag, he believed was the word the refined British gentleman had employed. Repeatedly.

Ian had a point, Viggo conceded. But it wasn't exactly as if he'd been hiding in a closet... Well, all right, so he declined going to awards and parties mostly so he wouldn't have to ask a lady friend to pretend to be his date instead of taking his boyfriend to them, but what of it?

It wasn't as if he had had a proper boyfriend in ages.

Ian would listen to him intently, then just shake his head, with a "If you say so" kind of look. He wouldn't really press his point, for which Viggo was grateful. He didn't want to hide, yet he didn't want to be labelled, stuck into a box and taken out to become the poster-boy of some crusade.

Mostly, he just wanted to be left alone.

Of course, Ian had had something to say about Viggo's 'obsession' with Sean as well; and of course, he had had strong opinions about that, too--if not even more so--calling Viggo a fool, among other names. But still Viggo had just wanted--or firmly believed it so--to be left alone.

And Boromir had died, and Sean had left.

Viggo had been alone.

He now wondered why he had never really listened to Ian. Well, obviously Viggo could tell there was *something* between him and Sean. The looks. The touching. The way it felt, just being with him. Yet, what of it? He and Sean, they were both grown men, each with his own established life and routines, their families and their kids--all of this, most of the time on the opposite ends of the planet. What could possibly come out of it? They weren't crazy teenagers in love, they couldn't just leave all of that behind and just being together--just like that.

Just, say, like the hobbits had done.

So, what would that leave... a fling? Viggo was all over those. Flings were good. They made you pass the time, keep you busy. They were good.

Not with Sean, though.

Sean was important.

Viggo didn't want to just 'pass the time' with Sean. He wanted... he wanted time. Time to pass with Sean.

Plus, as he had told Sean long ago, romance was *so* dead.

After New Zealand, Viggo had seen Sean again; of course he had. At the Fellowship premieres, doing interviews, even attending a few parties. Cannes. Those two or three times in L.A. They had seen each other often enough.

Not nearly often enough.

And even if Viggo had still just wanted to be left alone--he'd never been really alone with Sean anymore. Families and hobbits and journalists and fans everywhere around them. Viggo had never thought to ask. Sean had never offered.

Yet, like a freaking teenager, he had been thrilled when he'd heard Sean's voice over the phone, telling him he'd be in L.A. soon, and would Viggo like to meet.

Viggo had been more than thrilled that night, but there really wasn't any proper word for it. He and Sean, just the two of them. It had felt so good. He hadn't thought anything of it when he hadn't heard from Sean the day after, figuring he was busy promoting or whatever.

He sure as hell hadn't thought Sean could be waiting in a prison cell for his lawyers to bail him out.
Fuck.

Most of all, Viggo was really, really angry with himself.

*****

Sean had been gone for almost three hours now, and Viggo was getting a little restless--not that he was worried, he knew he could trust Sean to not get lost in the woods, even when upset--so he started dinner, just to have something to do. He began to wonder how much time he should still wait before going out and finding him.

Really, it seemed like all he did these days was wait to go to Sean.

On second thought, it wasn't just these days.

He was so tired of being that chickenshit.

Yet, when he stepped out on the porch, he found out he needn't go very far, for there Sean was, sitting on his chair, kind of slumped down. He didn't move, not even when Viggo came over and sat down on the railing in front of him, much in the same position they'd been the night before.

"It's chilly out here," Viggo said, for wanting of better.

Sean still didn't look at him. "So go back inside."

As if. Viggo watched him a little more, watched Sean's eyes staring into the night and become empty again, dead again. So he said, "I've just had enough," and when even that failed to get Sean's attention, he added, "You know, screwing that guy, that's not really bad. I should think entering your house when you're not there could just about fare worse."

And man, how quick *that* got Sean's attention.

"You... what?"

For a moment, Viggo debated if coming clean would actually be safe. Then decided, What the fuck. He had waited for too long as it was, it just had to be done. And to do it, he had to rid himself of whatever--unfair--advantage Sean was thinking Viggo had on him.

"I think you heard just fine," he said, and what if he could feel his face heating up a little? Sean was looking at him, and his eyes weren't all that empty, after all. Viggo watched as a light went on in them, and felt the heat burning a little into his chest as well, chasing away the cold.

"Candles," Sean murmured, as if to himself. "I *didn't* have candles."

Viggo blushed a little more, remembering the first time he had actually dared to use the keys Sean had given him to get in, instead of just hanging around in the neighbourood and watching from outside. It had been a dark night, and a thunderstorm had found him out on the street, where he had convinced himself it was Mother Nature's way to tell him 'Pray enter, make yourself at home.' So he had done just that, and when the lights had gone out because of the storm and he couldn't find a single candle, he'd decided to buy several ones and stack Sean's drawers with them, thoughtful guest that he was.

Sean was looking oddly at him; which, Viggo suspected, was the only sane thing to do. Viggo was a freak, nothing new in that, he'd always known it. And, he suspected, Sean had known it all along as well.

Because he was looking funny at him, but not *that* funny.

"How many...?"

"Oh," Viggo said, shifting a little on the railing. "Not so many." He shrugged. "Three times. The first was almost an accident. Second time around, was to bring the candles. Third..." and here he halted.

"Third?" Sean prompted softly, not looking freaked out at all, just curious.

So Viggo said, "Third time was after opening night at my exhibit. I went straight from there--took your roses with me."

Sean's eyes were green, dark in the fading light of the day. Pensive.

"Why?" he asked.

And Viggo shrugged again. "It was your place. I missed you." It was really that simple.

Sean thought about this for a while. "Oh," he said in the end.

Viggo nodded. "Yeah." And after a time he asked, "So, why did *you* do it?" and silently thought back at the roses, and wondered if romance--or, the hope of it--was after all really so dead.

When Sean averted his eyes and said, "It was just a stupid thing," Viggo felt romance crumble to dust between his fingers. Much as the roses' petals had long ago done.

*****

It was just so wrong, so damn wrong. There they were, in the middle of nowhere, the two of them alone, after all that time. Alone, just like they had been that last night in L.A.

And just like then, Sean couldn't say it. Couldn't say it to Viggo. Couldn't trust Viggo enough.

Sean couldn't trust Viggo, so he had gone to that Viggo lookalike, his fucking *stand-in* for fuck's sake, to have something Sean obviously thought Viggo couldn't give him. And why did Sean think that?

Because, a voice a little too much like Ian's voice said in Viggo's head, Viggo had never offered.

So Sean had never thought he could ask.

Before Viggo could really think about it, he was on his feet, in front of Sean's chair, leaning down over Sean, his hands braced on the wall behind, one on either side of Sean's head.

"What did he do to you?"

What, he barely restrained himself from adding, that you thought I wouldn't?

Sean looked up at him, startled, confused. Maybe, wondered Viggo, a little afraid?

And following that thought, so sharp it almost cut Viggo's very soul into pieces, was the question--how had Sean looked at that guy? What had he seen? Had he liked it?

Was that all there could ever be?

And still Sean wouldn't tell him.

"I slept in your bed," Viggo suddenly heard himself confess, and how low-pitched his voice had become, how rough. Damnit.

He leaned down a little more, steadying his voice as much as he could, trying to hear himself above the thundering of his heart. "I dreamed of you."

Sean's eyes were wide, and yes, Viggo noted... yes, there was fear in them. Sean turned his head away, but he couldn't really go anywhere. Viggo felt Sean's breath--quick intakes of air--warm on the chilled uncovered skin of his forearm. He lowered his head a little more, saw Sean shiver when he felt Viggo's own breath on the bare skin where his neck and shoulder met, that his shirt let exposed.

"I dreamed of you and me, in your bed."

Sean stiffened, went so still that Viggo could believe he was holding his breath.

"I dreamed it was real."

If only Sean had turned his head, their mouths would have touched.

It would've taken only that much. That little.

Sean lifted his hands, and shoved Viggo away.

*****

*****

"When you're standing at the crossroads,
Don't know which path to choose,
Let me come along,
'Cause even if you're wrong
I'll stand by you,
Won't let nobody hurt you."

*****

It was, in Sean's opinion, all a bit too much. It wasn't just that Viggo had to know about the bloke he'd picked up--of course Sean had realised that he was bound to know, sooner or later--or that he acted like it wasn't freaking him out... Now he had to go and tell Sean--those things.

Those things that couldn't be true.

Because if they were...

He lifted his hands, shoving Viggo's arms out of the way, pushing him off and away--so he wouldn't have to deal with what having Viggo so close was doing to him--and got up, facing him.

But before he could say anything, Viggo asked, "Why can't you tell me?" In that voice of his, the one he got when he was working on something, trying to figure out how a photo or a picture or a phrase would turn out.

That voice always made Sean crazy. Why the hell should Viggo think there was an explanation for everything? There wasn't! Or if there was, sometimes it just didn't bear to take it out in the open.

"That's enough," he said, trying to maintain his own voice even. Viggo just continued to look at him, studying him, still trying to solve the bloody Sean-puzzle. He said nothing.

And that *was* enough.

"C'mon, say it!" Sean cried, and had the fleeting satisfaction of seeing Viggo jump a little, startled. "Say it, for God's sake, and quit taking the piss!" He gritted his teeth. "I'm a good for nothing wanker, all right? Just say it, and get it over with. I know you want to."

And then the most amazing thing happened. Because, instead of tell Sean to fuck off, or whatever, Viggo just tilted his head a bit, still looking at him, looking at him for a long time, during which the sun actually went down behind the Rocky Mountains and night fell, sudden and cold, making Sean shiver. Or was that because of Viggo's eyes, now so dark.

"I think you're a stupid fucker anyway," at last Viggo said, his voice only a whisper, but clear and perfectly audible. Something in his eyes, in his pose, shifted then, softened, and in a sad voice he added, "But then, so am I."

And before Sean could say anything he added, "For I fell in love with you all the same."

*****
He couldn't have heard that right.
"You..."

Viggo just looked on. Sean blinked, regrouped. "I didn't know you swung," he finished lamely, and it was utter bullshit, as Viggo let him know by rolling his eyes. And he did not let Sean stray from the point.

"I like women," he said. "I like men." He took a step forward, but without coming too close. His eyes pinned Sean to the wall. "I *love* you."

But Sean couldn't say anything to that, because how could Viggo say that? Why was he saying that? That--which had always been there, between them, buried so deep as to never come to light. Now Viggo was digging it out, exposing it for Sean to see, acknowledge it, to never let him deny it anymore.

Why?

And then, just like that, Viggo was gone.

Sean turned just in time to see him go back inside the house, and heard him say, "Dinner's almost ready."

And even that didn't make sense.

Because, of course Viggo loved him. He loved Viggo. That was hardly news, but it was hardly the point, too. Was it? Sean liked men, too. He had sex with them--the world could actually tell you that, now--had always found that pleasurable, hell, even hot sometimes.

But love.

What was Viggo thinking?

So, all right, that Viggo wasn't entirely straight, he'd always known. Suspected. Whatever. He'd always felt Viggo wouldn't say no to sex with him--it had been there, between them, almost since day one, in New Zealand.

That was exactly why Sean had never asked.

Sean could love a friend, sure, but why he had to say he was in love? Sean had never been in love with a bloke. And a bloke who was a very close friend, at that. No way. He didn't even think it was possible--love had always seemed more like something you reserved for women.

Except, he thought letting his forehead rest against the wall, that wasn't true.

He'd thought he had never come on to Viggo because he was afraid he would ruin their relationship, so easygoing, so caring--sex tended to do that to relationships. Three failed marriages had taught him that much at least.

And *that* was exactly the point. He had been in love with his ex-wives, but that hadn't been enough to prevent the downfall. The hurt. The end of everything. It was so scary.

He'd been in love with Viggo for almost three years now.

He'd already been, that distant day in the clearing, watching Viggo sleep, not thinking at all, just... watching him.

Feeling so filled with a kind of quiet happiness, if he'd been honest with himself, he would have known all along what it was.

And Viggo now had gone and said it all out loud.

Could he really know? Know that being with Viggo, so close and so afraid of being so close, was what had pushed Sean over the edge, made him crazy--made him go out and find someone who was just enough to fuel his dreams, but not enough to ruin them with reality?

Viggo had been almost angry, when he had asked why Sean had done it and hadn't gotten an answer.

Angry because he had gone and laid it out in the open, and Sean had refused to follow.

But, how could Sean follow? It would just make everything go to hell.

It had already started.

"This *is* stupid," Sean murmured to the wall.

The wall didn't contradict him.

*****

Henry called while they were having dinner that night. Sean watched Viggo as he talked to his son, and once again it hit him, hard, how much he missed his daughters. Because yes, what had happened was bad for his career, but what it really hurt was that he couldn't think of what it was doing to his girls--he couldn't think how they would react. Evie and even Molly were still too young to know, but Lorna...

"Why don't you call them?"

He looked up, to see Viggo had hung up and was looking at him, a knowing, understanding look in his eyes.

Sean shook his head. "I can't," he said. "Not yet."

Viggo looked as if he wanted to add something, but in the end he just said, "You know, you just should quit moping around. It's not the end of the world, after all. I mean--look what happened with Hugh Grant and what's-her-name."

At Sean's confused frown, Viggo shrugged, went on. "And he was a 'guy next door' kind of guy. You are a baddie. People expect it from you to be perverse and debauched. It lends you credibility."

Sean just stared, dumbfounded.

"Seriously," Viggo drawled, raising an eyebrow.

And it was so easy, to laugh like that, hearing Viggo laugh with him, Sean could've believed he was really losing it, if not for the fact that, well, of course he wasn't. That was Viggo. So easy to be with.

"You're a loon," Sean shook his head, passing both his hands over his face. Laughing felt good. Something inside of him was suddenly warmer, more relaxed, than it had been since... forever, it felt like.

"I just like to see you laugh," Viggo softly said. Sean raised his eyes, and his breath caught at the look on his friend's face.

For a moment, it was like they were back in New Zealand. Like Viggo had just woken, and Sean had just watched him for hours, in the tall grass of a meadow full of yellow flowers and sunlight and wind, on a perfect, lost day.

He couldn't really think about it. But the warm, calm feeling stayed with him, so Sean smiled, looking back at Viggo, so grateful--that Viggo could make him laugh, that Viggo could understand him so well, that Viggo didn't push things Sean wasn't really ready to deal with--he just didn't have words.

In the end, he just stood up and asked Viggo if he'd like to watch some TV with him.

*****

So they watched TV together that night. Viggo wasn't sure about it, but Sean told him it was all right. After all, the rest of the world knew about every little sordid detail of what had taken place, so why shouldn't Viggo? They even debated whether Sean should go and have some sort of press conference, make a public statement or something. Amazingly enough, it was Sean who pressed the issue. Staying idle, watching others discuss him, wasn't his sort of thing. Viggo nodded, but thought it would be wiser to consult with his agents, beforehand.

"Plus," he said, seated on the couch near Sean, "what would you say, exactly?"

And that, Sean knew, was the real issue there.

"I'm not gay," he stated, but without looking at Viggo--who, in turn, didn't comment on this. The silence stretched on so long, Sean thought the subject had been dropped, and focused on the TV screen.

Viggo's voice, low but steady, came unexpectedly to jolt him out of his thoughts.

"I am."

Startled, Sean turned his eyes on him. Viggo was sitting on his right, completely relaxed, eyes on the tv, but not really watching it, Sean could tell by the thoughtful look on his face.

"What?" He couldn't help but ask.

Viggo turned as well, looking almost annoyed. "I would've thought that much was clear, by now. What with me declaring my love and all."

Sean knew he was staring at him like a total arse, but really. "I... you..." In the end, he chose to ignore the last phrase. "You've been married." And felt like slapping himself upside the head as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

Viggo didn't seem to mind, though. He had that thoughtful look again. "I was," he said after a long time. "Don't think it'll happen again. It could--who knows." He sighed. "But people loves labels. And if I had to choose a label... as opposed at having one forced on me..." He looked up, looked directly into Sean's eyes "... I'd define myself as gay."

Sean processed this. "You would, at that," he said at last, though why this surprised him he couldn't tell. It was just the kind of thing Viggo would say. Would do. It was, after all, Viggo who had just gone and said he was in love with Sean, not many hours before.

Suddenly, he felt angry again. Why was all of this happening? Why couldn't Viggo just let things stay as they had always been? The realisation that Viggo would have, if only Sean hadn't gone and made a fool of himself, hit him not for the first time. They had reached a turning point, and whichever way they would decide to go, things would be no longer as they had been before.

Sean knew he was really more scared than anything else, that his anger was just fear trying to get the better of him. But in the end, it didn't matter. It didn't matter that nothing of that was Viggo's fault, because Sean was afraid, he was afraid while Viggo looked so damn calm--and this annoyed the hell out of him.

"So," he said, conversationally, "you still want me to tell you what he did?" and gestured to the TV, seeing Viggo's eyes follow his gesture, flickering over the man who'd been arrested with Sean that crazy night. When Viggo returned his eyes to him, Sean could see a glimmer of uncertainty--but it was already too late to stop. He shifted on the couch, turning towards Viggo, getting on hands and knees, and crawled slowly to him, satisfied when Viggo's eyes went wide, when Viggo moved backwards, his back trapped by the couch.

And Sean was over him.

"I can't tell you," he whispered, and reached out with a hand, touching Viggo's chest--his heart was beating so fast under Sean's palm--trailing up, brushing his shoulder, caressing his neck.

"'Cause *he* didn't do anything."

Yes, Viggo's eyes were wide. Dark. Sean's saw himself reflected there, and as he had known it would, his anger left, suddenly as it had come, and he was left there, so close to Viggo he could feel their breaths mingling together, could feel how warm--burning, really--Viggo was, could smell the clean scent of him, soap and wood-smoke and oil paint; he could, above all else, *hear* how fast Viggo's heart was beating.

"He was..." Sean said, and he lifted his hand, "... too young," he said, tracing the contours of Viggo's face, ever so faintly. His stubbled jaw. "Too strange." Viggo's cheekbones, his brows, his nose. Those familiar features Sean had gotten to know so well. That familiar face he had felt happy watching relaxed in sleep. He traced the scar on the left upper lip--he brushed Viggo's lips, and felt him shiver.

Viggo closed his eyes, and Sean had to close his own, too.

"He was too *wrong*," he finished, so low he couldn't tell whether Viggo had heard him or not. But when he reopened his eyes, Viggo was looking up right at him, and his hands had reached up, one on Sean's own chest, the other had closed behind Sean's neck, and they were now keeping him in place, so near, so close, and was that really Viggo's heart, so loud in Sean's own ears?

"So show me," Viggo whispered, his voice husky, more so than Sean had ever heard it, sending shivers up his spine, making him feel like he was falling, and that, surely, couldn't be happening.

"Show me what you did," Viggo said, but his voice had already changed, there was an edge in it that hadn't been there only moments before--and it grounded Sean.

Viggo was daring him.

"As you wish," Sean murmured, and grabbing Viggo by the shoulders he pushed him back against the cushions of the couch, and was over him, straddling him. "I'll show you," he growled, "*exactly* what I did." He lowered his mouth on Viggo's, then deliberately moved away, avoiding his lips, and got instead to Viggo's throat.

Viggo made a small sound at this, whether of distress or relief, Sean couldn't tell, and neither would investigate. He concentrated on suckling hard on the exposed flesh just under Viggo's jaw, feeling his five o'clock shadow scratching his cheek, which only furthered his determination. He took one hand off Viggo's shoulder, and trailed it across his chest, unbuttoning his shirt almost all the way down before getting his hand in, massaging Viggo's stomach, feeling him lay back a little more, giving him space.

Sean stopped suckling, and stopped his hand. He looked down at Viggo's flushed face, and unconsciously licked his lips. His hand hovered over Viggo's fly, silently asking, and Viggo seemed to get it.

"You promised," he breathed, eyes into Sean's. "Show me."

Sean nodded. He leaned closer, whispering into Viggo's ear, "Then I need to get off the couch." And before Viggo could say anything, he did just that, sliding down until he was kneeling on the floor, kneading Viggo's legs apart with his hands--and then he left them there, stroking slowly up Viggo's legs, from the knees to the inside of his thighs--where he stopped.

And looked up again.

Viggo was watching him, and it looked like he was holding his breath... yet he still had that puzzled, waiting look, he still was trying to figure Sean out, even in this. For a moment, Sean couldn't move. He thought back to that night in his own car, when he'd been in almost the same position and had looked up to that strange, too young--wrong--face and wished with all his heart he could be with Viggo instead.

And now he was.

Point of no return, he thought. It couldn't be anymore like before, whatever he did. Viggo seemed to want this. And Sean... Hell.

It wasn't as if he hadn't spent the last three years of his life dreaming of this.

He lowered his face to Viggo's clothed crotch, and nuzzled it with the side of his face, feeling it harden under his touch, feeling all of Viggo tense up when he mouthed him through the light denim. He traced alongside the button fly with his nose, then with his teeth, lightly. Viggo closed one hand over the edge of the cushion, a white-knuckled grip; the other hand, Sean could feel it, was hovering just above his head, unsure if coming to rest in his hair. Strange how such a small, insignificant gesture all of a sudden seemed to become so important. Sean only knew he wanted that hand on his head, in his hair, keeping him close, urging him on. He kissed the swelling under his lips, closed his eyes.

When he finally felt Viggo's fingers on his scalp, Sean sighed.

Viggo's cellphone rang.

*****

It was just too ridiculous. And when they both groaned simultaneously, Sean couldn't help but chuckle--though his mouth was still against Viggo's groin, so that produced another, more interesting groan from above.

With an effort, Sean moved--though not much--and rested his forehead against Viggo's thigh. "You know," he said, trying for casual but not entirely pulling it off, "you could just turn it off, sometimes." His voice didn't sound too steady even to his own ears.

Viggo seemed to have as much problem in recovering his own voice. The damn thing kept on jingling. At last Viggo took a deep breath, muttered something like "I would, if I managed to remember I have it," and shoved Sean off his leg--but gently, his hand maybe lingering a little--managing to crawl along the couch to reach the coffee-table on the opposite end, and retrieve the phone.

Sean just stayed where he was, folded his arms on the couch's cushions, rested his head atop them, and watched him.

"Yeah?" Viggo said when he took the call. "Oh, hi, Lij." He looked over at Sean, and sat down where he was.

Whatever Elijah was saying it had to be bad, because Sean saw Viggo roll his eyes, heard him say "Elijah" in quite a warning voice... then, more forcefully, "Elijah. Cut it out." Then he rubbed between his eyes. Sean saw his smile though, and knew it was all right. He wondered if he should get up on the couch--go over to Viggo--or maybe he should just leave.

He stayed where he was.

Then Viggo said, "I don't know," and looked over to Sean, who got the message. He reached out with his hand--after what he'd been up to just moments before, talking to a friend didn't seemed that hard a task.

He winced at his own awful pun, feeling kind of a twat kneeling there on the floor--but then Viggo smiled at him while handing him over the phone, and he forgot all about it.

"Elijah?"

"Beanie!" The kid's cheerful voice pierced his ear, but Sean found himself grinning--that daft child. "How're ya doing? God, we missed you, it's not the same without you."

Sean shook his head, nonplussed. "Lij, we haven't seen each other in *months,*" he pointed out.

"So? Dommie and Orli are driving me crazy. They have the biggest Sean Bean video collection this side of the Atlantic between them, did you know?"

"No," Sean whispered, suddenly feeling, oddly enough, as if something was choking him up. "I didn't."

"Well, they have. And Orli took his over to our place and we stayed home all day watching it. They're sacking out on the floor right now. Wankers," he added, and Sean had to smile at Elijah's terribly fake British accent.

And then, abruptly, Elijah's voice changed, his tone more serious than Sean remembered to ever having heard it.

"Is Viggo listening in?"

Baffled, Sean shot a look over to Viggo, saw him curled up on his side of the couch, his arms draped around his bent knees, his chin over them, looking at Sean with this kind of... warm... look in his eyes. Sean swallowed, couldn't turn his eyes away again.

"Sean?"

"Uh... no," he remembered to say.

He heard Elijah take a breath. "Look... we saw that... that Danish guy, on TV," he said, and there was surely a special emphasis on 'Danish.' Sean found that after all he *had* to look away.

"Yeah," he said, and waited.

"Well, I'm speaking for the guys too. We wanted you to know, it's all right, you know? I mean--it's not like a surprise or anything. Well, maybe it is, but not a *big* surprise, really. And now we're kind of, you know, hopeful."

Sean sighed. He wasn't in the right frame of mind for hobbity talk right now. "Lij--what exactly are you trying to say?"

A little pause. "We know you can handle the real thing."

Sean knew he was gripping the cell a little too hard, but he didn't care. Sodding prat, he thought. The real feeling and love in Elijah's voice threatened to make him choke up again, so he resorted to his old and trusted tactic.

"Fuck off, Lij." Though there was really little sentiment behind the words.

Elijah knew him all too well by now, because he just laughed--a real carefree, happy laugh. "Yeah, I love you too, you pervy old man." Another little pause, and then the serious Elijah was back. "We love you, Sean."

Sean closed his eyes for a second.

"Yeah," was all he could say. Stupid, sentimental kid. His heart felt as if it was suddenly a few sizes too big, taking up his whole chest.

Elijah could probably tell, for he just said, "Now by all means, go back to boinking each other senseless, I shan't keep you. I have two die-hard Sharpe fans to get into bed." And with a final giggle, he hung up.

Sean looked down for a moment at the cell, then he silently handed it back to Viggo, who took it, turned it off, and let it drop down on the couch between them.

"I'm..."

Viggo cut him off. "Are you sorry?"

Sean didn't look up. "I don't know," he answered, and it was true.

"Sorry that we started it, or that we got interrupted?"

Viggo sounded so calm, so normal. Sean just kept on looking at his own hands. He hadn't any answers for that one, either.

Viggo uncurled, slowly, getting to his feet. "Yeah," Sean heard him say. "Me too."

There was a moment of silence, in which Viggo stood, perfectly still, and Sean knelt, perfectly still, his head bent, looking intently at his own hands. His thoughts were whirling so fast inside his head he just couldn't follow them anymore, so all he could hear, like from the inside of a soundproof room, was a kind of muffled silence. White noise. All he could do was feeling.

And oh--how Viggo had felt under his hands.

Under his mouth.

Then Viggo took a step forward, and Sean felt Viggo's hand in his hair, when Viggo leaned down to place a feathery light kiss on the top of his head. The open hems of his shirt brushed Sean's cheek.

"Stupid fucker," Sean felt, more than heard, him whisper. Or had that been a sigh.

Then Viggo straightened up and walked away.

*****

*****

"Take me into your darkest hour,
and I'll never desert you.
I'll stand by you."

*****

Sean had to be, thought Viggo that night, scowling up at the ceiling of his own bedroom, one of the most stubborn men he had ever met.

Okay, that was partly incorrect.

Sean was without doubt the most stubborn man he had ever fallen in love with.

And to make matters worse, Viggo had just had to go and tell him.

With a sigh, he rolled over onto his stomach, rubbing slightly onto the sheets--but fuck, he was still half-hard.

'You sound a little out of breath, man,' had teased Elijah on the phone. 'What were you... oh. Ooh!'

Viggo inwardly groaned, just thinking about Elijah's leering tone. Sooner or later he should remember to tell the kid that he didn't pull it off as well as he thought. He definitely needed more practice to erase that Junior High kind of effect, for instance.

And Elijah had been joking, of course. Of course, he couldn't have known that Viggo really *had* been so close to having Sean's mouth on his cock.

Oh, fuck.

Wrong line of thoughts. Frustrated, Viggo rolled over again, kicking away the sheets, laying sprawled on the bed, willing his hands to be still and his hard-on to just go away and let him the hell alone. He had thinking to do, he didn't need the distraction. Plus, for some reason, the thought of jerking off wasn't really all that appealing, right now.

Maybe because he could have had Sean's hand on him, instead of his own.

He wondered if Sean was in his own room just then, having the same problems.

If he knew the fucker, Viggo thought darkly, he was probably 'having a wank' right now. Viggo tried not to think about that in too graphic detail.

But then again, maybe not. Sean had looked pretty shaken, when Viggo had left him. At that thought, guilt kicked in, and that worked like magic on his little problem--in moments, all Viggo could think about was that Sean wasn't really having a great week. Viggo suspected he had just made it worse with his little confession. He wasn't regretting it, though. It wasn't that. He really wasn't sure what it was--and that was precisely why he had just risked to sending it all to hell.

And that brought him back again on topic: as annoyed as he'd been with Lij's bad timing, he was grateful, too. Thinking back on it now, alone in his room, it had been an half-assed idea from the beginning.

It wasn't the sex. Sex was not the real issue between them--now more than ever he was certain of that. He had just been... curious, he supposed. Of seeing how far Sean could go, before... before admitting the Other Thing as well.

Really bad plan.

If Lij hadn't stopped them with his call, Viggo was sure he and Sean would have been fucking right now; and as appealing as *that* idea was, it was also the single worst thing Viggo could envision happening to them.

They simply couldn't go at it as if it came baggage-free. There was some damn major baggage there, and it couldn't be ignored. Not anymore. The Other Thing. The pink elephant in the middle of their fucked-up emotional living-room. That Viggo had said it out loud didn't really change anything. It would, in the end, just ruin it all.

Viggo had taken on himself the task of watching over Sean, at the beginning of this little, maybe insane Fugue-time they had embarked in. He had sworn to himself he would've taken care of Sean. And that entailed, he supposed, taking care of himself, too, not letting himself panic and screw it all up once and for all.

Sean just didn't need that--and, of course, neither did he.

He would not let Boromir die on him again, he resolved. He would not let Sean drift apart and leave him. Again. He simply... would not.

And trying to hold firmly onto that simple thought, Viggo finally drifted off to sleep.

*****

When he came downstairs the next morning, Sean was talking on the phone. From his tone, it had to be his agent, or his lawyer.

Sean spotted him when he entered the living room, and the smile with which Viggo was greeted--a little tentative, yet a smile nonetheless--set his mind at ease. Sean had already turned back to his conversation, so Viggo left him at it and went to fix breakfast.

Sean joined him a little later.

"You all right?" Viggo enquired, seeing his face.

"Hm? Oh, yeah. Fine." Sean sat down, and for a while, they settled down to eat. Viggo was reaching for his coffee, when Sean said, "I have to go back."

Viggo watched his own hand waver a little, then stayed it and picked up the mug. "When?" he asked, satisfied at how normal his voice sounded.

"Tomorrow. In the afternoon, at the last." Sean sighed. "She's already booked my ticket."

Viggo nodded, sipping his coffee. After all, they had known from the start it would go like this. Their staying here, separated from the world outside, was only temporary. It had just been... so brief.

"I'll give you a lift to Boise," Viggo said. "Then I think I'll stay here for a while more."

Sean nodded as well. "You know," he said after a while, "I was thinking... I'd like to see around. I mean... really see around. Not like yesterday." He looked up. "Would you come with me?"

What a question, Viggo thought. "Sure. Just let me take a shower," he started to say, then inspiration struck. "Why don't you make some sandwiches, or something? There's a place I'd like you to see--it's a bit far, so we could..."

"... have a picnic?"

He and Sean exchanged a look, and Viggo knew they wouldn't mention what had happened the night before. Today, they would work at just being there, together, enjoying themselves. Viggo smiled. "Yeah," he nodded, and saw a comprehending smile dawn on Sean's face.

"Today," Sean said, as if reading his mind--as if he was making a promise--"will be a perfect day."

A promise, Viggo thought while heading for his shower, that he would do his best to keep.

*****

The trail Viggo chose was the one he had wanted to show Sean since their arrival, but never got around to because of... well, of Sean's mood mostly, but that seemed no more a problem, now.

The sun was shining, bright and warm, so though there was a chill in the air, it was just about what was needed to make the weather lovely: early Fall, and the woods were golden and fire over their heads and under their feet. Viggo took Sean through them.

They had been walking for a little over two hours, not talking very much apart from a few occasional comments. Viggo felt content just like that, forgetting everything else for a while, pretending they could always be together like this.

And then they were there: suddenly the trees opened up before them, and they were in a clearing in the middle of the woods, yellow grass slowly dancing in the faint breeze, the ground sloping lightly, trees with red-golden leaves delimiting the glade. The snowy peaks of the Rockies were barely visible over the treetops.

Viggo had discovered this place one day when he'd just got back from New Zealand, and since then had itched to take Sean here. At first, he had had no idea why; it had come back to him just a few days ago, when he and Sean had already been on the road. A dream, he had thought. Then he had remembered.

Viggo turned around to see Sean taking it in with a look of wonder on his face, and wondered if Sean would see it too--would remember--one day long ago, on a brilliant New Zealand afternoon, when the sun over them had been warmer, the yellow in the grass different, and different the blue over their heads.

Just a look into Sean's eyes, when Sean turned to gaze wonderingly at him, and he had no more need to ask.

He sat down in the long yellow grass. "Beautiful, isn't it," he stated proudly, as if he owned it all.

Sean nodded silently, taking his time looking around. Just for the look on his face, Viggo thought: just for that, the day would have been perfect already.

He heard Sean sitting down next to him, unbuckling the backpack Viggo had lent him, but he didn't turn, his eyes focused on the warm colors of the woods, the deep violet of the mountains. He wished he had remembered to take his camera with them...

Then he heard the faint 'click'.

Sean laughed when he turned to look at him, and lowered the camera--Viggo's camera--with a smile. "I borrowed it while you were in the shower," he explained. "I just thought..." Then he shrugged. "I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all." Viggo smiled back. It was amazing, how their minds apparently worked along the same paths. Scary. Wonderful. Viggo decided he didn't really care which one.

"Just think of it as payback for all the shots of me you took in New Zealand," Sean joked, and took another pic.

Viggo felt himself blushing a little, and looked away. Surely he hadn't been so obvious...?

"I took it as a compliment, personally," Sean continued, still keeping him in the camera's lens. "I mean, all those young pretty things around, and every time I turned there you were, with this thing aimed at me..."

Viggo was beginning to feel a little annoyed. So, all right, he had kind of stalked Sean back then, for a time. Most of the pictures he hadn't used in his book--most of them were in his studio back home, in L.A. Just for him, not the world, to see. Sean didn't have to know that, though... he already sounded all too smug.

"Are you having fun?" Viggo asked, annoyed all the more at finding his voice so plaintive. Sean lowered the camera once again.

"I'm not teasing you, Vig," he said, quietly, and Viggo could now see he was actually serious. "It felt rather good."

Viggo considered this, then shook his head, wonderingly. "We're freaks," he said, and--oh God--he giggled.

Sean's eyes went as wide as small saucers. "You just giggled!"

"Did not!" Viggo protested--then ruined it by giggling again.

The moment was captured on film, before the camera was laid down. "You did! It was an honest to God giggle... Do that again!"

Viggo shook his head, feeling oddly happy, and a bit reckless, as he hadn't in... decades, perhaps. Just because, he stuck his tongue out at Sean.

Who pounced on him.

They rolled in the grass for a while, and if Viggo giggled again--which he did--Sean was in no condition to notice it, because Viggo was trying to stuff grass into his ears and, failing that, under the back of his sweater, while Sean was trying to tickle him to death, until they came to a stop, panting and chuckling--giggling, really--in the middle of the clearing, Sean halfway on top of Viggo, keeping Viggo's wrists down with both his hands.

When Viggo looked up, the sky was very blue, full of light, and there was light in Sean's eyes as well--and just as brilliant.

"Well," was all he could come up with, Sean's lips just a breath away from his, "this would be when my cell rings."

"Thank God I left it back home, then," was Sean's breathless answer. Then, suddenly, they seemed not to see the humour of the situation anymore, and Viggo just raised his head, and Sean lowered his own--and they met halfway, and finally, finally, the world felt right again.

*****

Viggo didn't know how much time they spent like that, just kissing, enjoying the closeness, the feeling of each other's mouths and arms and weight, stroking, caressing, touching, stretching the moments, with no hurry to do or say anything, or to really move at all. It was just that kind of thing, when all you have is some sort of liquid warmth in your belly, burning you slowly, content enough, for a while, to just simmer and feel good. And God, how good they felt, and the sun was warm over them, the woods quiet all around.

They drifted off to sleep.

When Viggo awoke again, he was laying on his back in the grass. He got up on his elbows, and looking down he found Sean, splayed on his stomach between Viggo's legs. It was erotic, seeing him like this; but there was something more. Sean's eyes were open, looking up at him. His head was warm against Viggo's stomach, and as he watched, Sean lifted his hand, slowly caressing Viggo's side.

Had Sean been watching him, while he slept?

Viggo shivered slightly and shakily said, "Deja vu."

Sean chuckled, sending more of the delicious shivers running through him. "You remember too, then," he said.

Viggo nodded. He still didn't exactly know why, but yes, he remembered. The first day, upon arriving, he recalled how important had seemed to him, that he could show the clearing to Sean. He had wondered why... then the memories had come back.

Waking up, finding Sean with him. Watching him. Smiling at him.

He had remembered, and he had known--because happiness didn't happen to him so often, or so perfectly.

"I love you, you know," Sean said now, quietly, his hand resting over Viggo's heart.

For a moment, Viggo thought his heart had stopped. Then he recovered, and simply nodded again: of course he knew. He had never really doubted that--but God, it still took his breath away, hearing Sean finally saying it... finally trusting Viggo enough to say it.

If only it could be enough.

"Let me," Sean whispered, and took his hand down on Viggo's fly.

"You don't have to," Viggo said, and watched the smile blossom on Sean's lips.

"I know."

A smile that said that there was no stranger between them this time, no challenges to meet, no point to prove, no nothing. Just the two of them now. Alone.

And it was right.

Viggo watched as Sean unbuttoned his fly, then as he gently tugged his jeans and underwear down just past his hips. The air was chilly on his exposed flesh, but soon Sean's hands were on him, big and warm, his long fingers taking hold of Viggo's hips, brushing lightly, lovingly, over the elvish Nine tattooed on his right hip--and the cold was not much of a problem anymore.

He was no more than half-hard, but seeing Sean freeing him of his clothes, seeing him watching Viggo's cock with that fond, hungry look, was correcting the situation quickly. When Sean leaned down, inhaled deeply, and pressed a small, little kiss on the side of his cock, Viggo couldn't help a moan, less for the sensation of Sean's lips of him--it was after all just a little peck--than for the love that simple gesture conveyed to Viggo. For how much Sean cared about him, and was no more afraid to show--not here, at least, not to him--for the first time.

"Lovely," Sean murmured, and there that was that fond little smile again, his breath just teasing Viggo, making him harden more and more. "I could toy with this for hours."

"Oh God, please no," Viggo couldn't help but laugh, and it felt so good--yeah, he'd always known that with Sean it would be like this, once past the doubts and the fears. Laughter. Love. "Don't you *dare!*"

Sean laughed, too. "Next time, then," and without any more warning he lowered his head and took Viggo's cock into his mouth.

It wasn't, technically speaking, the best blowjob Viggo had ever had, he would reflect later on--too much emotional stress and the first time with each other, Viggo had hardly expected for it to be--yet, in a way, it was.

Because although his position was uncomfortable and the ground hard and chilly under his back, and his jeans, bundled up just under his ass, weren't allowing him much maneuvering space, and the way Sean was holding him didn't allow him to use his hands on Viggo as well--which made it a little more awkward still--Viggo felt devoured, consumed, by the feeling behind it... by the way Sean was holding him close, taking care to lift Viggo's hips and passing an arm under his ass so he wouldn't be hurt by twigs and get splinters, by the way Viggo could feel Sean's eyes burning into him, even if after the first few seconds he couldn't stand on his elbows to watch him anymore.

Viggo was warm all over, inside and out, quietly melting away, a slow burn that was better than any blasting fire he had ever experienced before.

He reached down blindly, closing his hands over Sean's head, entangling his fingers in Sean's hair, hearing him groan, feeling it, and God, how he wished he could move his legs, wrap them around Sean, wrap all of himself around him and never let him go.

"Sean," he gasped, the sky so blue, so full of light over him, that had to be the reason why there suddenly were tears in his eyes. He tightened his grip on Sean's head, something fierce and terrifying burning its way through him, blinding him with its light. He felt his lips moving, forming the words--"Love you"--like he was learning a prayer.

When he came, Sean's hands still holding him tight, keeping him close, it was like nothing he had ever experienced before.

It hadn't been perfect.

And it had been so much more.

*****

They stayed there for a while, Sean insisting he didn't need the favor returned, because that was not what it was about, so Viggo could just nod, for once at a loss for words, and sitting with his back against a tree he took Sean with him, to lay between his legs, his back against Viggo's chest. As the afternoon wore away, they ate, quietly enjoying the peace and each other's company.

And they talked.

Mostly about inane things, but then the topics changed. Viggo had been talking about the new movie he'd just been filming during the summer, when Sean wondered, almost casually, what would happen with his Macbeth performances, which should have started at the end of the month in London. And from there, as if a dam had broken, words came, and Sean told him about the night of the arrest... the shock of being caught, the humiliation of the arrest, and the worse one at the look on the cop's face when he was recognized--and that damn paparazzi happening by and getting lucky.

Sean didn't spare himself anything: he told Viggo every detail, every thought that had crossed his mind. And Viggo could only listen, and hold him tight, as he had done that night in L.A., but this time he had his face pressed into Sean's shoulder, while Sean's hand slowly caressed his hair, his neck, as if they were talking about the weather or something.

"You scared me, Bean," Viggo whispered when Sean was finished. "That night at your place. You were just... going along, putting yourself in my hands, like some kind of puppet. I was about to freak out."

"You didn't, though." A soft sigh, Sean's hands coming down to rest on Viggo's, above Sean's stomach.

"'Cause it didn't last for long. After you had some sleep, you were back to your usual annoying self."

Sean chuckled, until Viggo bit gently on his shoulder, and he shuddered and was quiet.

"Don't scare me like that anymore." Viggo's quiet words were a pleading command. The cool autumn breeze took them away.

"I was scared," Sean confessed, quietly, after a while. Then sighed. "The day we spent together at your place. You were..." He trailed off, then tilted his head backwards, letting it rest on Viggo's shoulder, green eyes looking briefly up, then away. "You were so damn *good,* Viggo. It was just so... perfect, being there with you, seeing you again... I almost forgot myself, you know. A couple of times." He squeezed Viggo's hands. "I almost forgot everything I had always told myself could never work for us, and I just..." He trailed off once more.

Viggo was just there with him, though, didn't need further explanation. "So you went, and..."

"Yeah." Sean gently freed himself from Viggo's embrace, turning to look him in the eye. "I don't know, Viggo. It seemed all so clear, before. It hurt," he quietly admitted, sending Viggo's heart fluttering again. "But it was also all so clear. Now..." He looked away.

Viggo knew what Sean was feeling. Wasn't exactly that, the problem? Sean was afraid of ruining their relationship. So had always been Viggo. But now Viggo was tired of being afraid, tired of being afraid without Sean. Tired of knowing that Sean loved him as he loved Sean, and of fearing it couldn't be enough.

It looked like they had been afraid together, after all, of the same things, hiding from the same unspoken questions. Which was stupid, but it was what it was. And for Sean, now, there was the other issue as well, the one which involved labels and going public and all that shit. Not really avoidable anymore, because of what had happened.

"There's no real resolution," he heard himself say. "You already know this."

Sean nodded.

Viggo took a deep breath. He thought back to New Zealand and his arguments with Ian, and could now see them for what they were. Wanting to be left alone. Afraid of being alone. Afraid of being with someone--with Sean.

He was so tired of being afraid--and alone.

There had to be something, once in your life... something that was worth the risk--that was worth the hurt.

Viggo wanted this--wanted them, Sean and him--to be that something.

"I'm gonna say this just this once," he started, "because I still want this day to be perfect." When Sean looked back at him, Viggo said, "About the press conference we were talking about yesterday. You ever decide to do it..." He spoke without ever releasing Sean's eyes from his, to let him see how serious he was, "I'll be right there with you."

Sean didn't answer. His eyes went wide, getting all the implications of what had just been said. In the end, they returned to their original position, back to chest, and stayed like that for a long while, saying nothing more. Just being together.

Sean was the first to talk, when already the shadows were lengthening. "Come," he simply said. "Let's go home."

*****

When they got back to the cottage, a little after the sun had set, Viggo went to check the messages on his machine. There was no new message, except the one from Sean's agent that morning. Viggo deleted it, then turned, and saw Sean sitting on the couch, looking pensively in front of him.

"I should've called them," Sean said, quietly, and Viggo understood.

"Your girls." He eased down next to Sean on the couch, this time not hesitating coming right up to him, while mentally doing the math--yeah, it was something like two a.m. in England now. "You'll call 'em tomorrow, first thing in the morning."

Sean nodded, rubbing both his hands tiredly over his face, then passing them in his hair. "I wonder how is it, I always manage to mess up so badly," he grumbled, trying to sound as he was joking.

And though Viggo didn't miss the deep sadness behind the light tone, he wouldn't have none of it in their perfect day. He slung his arm around Sean's shoulders, with his other hand tugging affectionately at a short strand of blond hair. "Yeah, you have a knack at arriving late at things," he teased, and saw Sean smile a little.

"Yeah," he sighed.

Viggo couldn't resist. "Din satans pikansjos," he muttered fondly, shoving him a little.

Sean turned his head, regarding him with a suspicious look that just about made Viggo crack up. "What was that?"

Viggo chuckled. "What? I thought you liked Danish."

Sean narrowed his eyes a little more, but chose not to comment. "Just tell me."

"I said," Viggo explained in his most serious voice, his most serious face, "'You stupid fucker.'"

Then he had barely the time to register Sean's eyes widening, before he was knocked down onto the couch, the warm weight of Sean on him, pinning him down. "I knew it," Sean was saying, half-chuckling, half-breathless. "All these years, you were calling me names."

"Yes," Viggo simply said, looking straight into Sean's eyes, serious without making any effort now. "All these years."

There was a moment, in which everything stood still, all there was was Sean, on top of him, so warm and solid and, God, the way he was looking down at him. Then the world moved again, and Sean was kissing him, as they had kissed before in the clearing, except now, it already seemed like they were coming home.

"Stay with me tonight," Sean breathed into his mouth, thumbs stroking lightly the sides of Viggo's face. "Let me stay."

"Yes--yes, of course," was all Viggo could think of saying, breathing Sean in, his hands full of Sean, as his heart was. Because tonight, of all nights, was their Perfect Night. And maybe they would have no other night.

"Stay."

*****

Coming home, Viggo thought again, his eyes caressing Sean, pale and beautiful in the dim lamplight, in Viggo's bed--finally--then following the trail his eyes had taken with his lips: Sean's forehead, the scar over his left eye, his expressive green eyes never leaving him, while Viggo's hands roamed, learning the feeling of Sean's skin, how his fingertips and his lips tingled passing over his stubble, how Sean's whole body could feel, hard and deliciously heavy, pressing down on Viggo, keeping him safe, grounded in the reality of what was happening.

Sean's nails scratched around his nipples when Viggo took Sean's cock in his hand--beautiful, uncut cock, now Viggo could see why Sean would feel the need to play with Viggo's own 'for hours,' as he'd said earlier. He rolled them over, so he was on top, but as he made to lean down and pay the proper attention to his new and much desired toy, Sean stopped him, breathing into his ear, "You know what I want."

"Tell me," Viggo said, forcing himself to look away from the hot, living beauty in his hand, his voice barely loud enough to be heard. He didn't let it go, though: he pulled a bit, experimentally--just enough to make Sean's breath hitch. He did that again, just because he could, and watched as Sean's eyes clouded over, his eyelids fluttered close for a moment before opening again, smoky dark green looking up at him, making his heart skip a beat.

"I want you," Sean gasped, breathing loud, his voice a bit hoarse now, his accent rich and thick, sending shivers up and down Viggo's spine. "Want you in me--want you to give it to me--hard." Sean's eyes gleamed, a feral look in them. "So I can feel you deep in me--feel you even after you're gone." He pushed his hips up, pushed into Viggo's hand. "I want to *know* you've been here."

Viggo had to take a moment to recover breath and speech. "Christ," he said. "You're such the romantic." And he meant it.

Sean somehow managed to look smug and sultry all in one. "So I am told." He took Viggo down on him, kissing him hard, bruising. "In me," he ordered, lips on Viggo's ear. "*Now.*"

Viggo shuddered, so hard he could barely speak. "I... I don't know. That sounds," he managed to get out, "real nice. What if..." a gasp as Sean bit his earlobe, "... what if I wanted that, too?"

"Tough luck," Sean growled, and his hand shot down to take firm possession of Viggo's cock. "Just try and stop me."

And somehow, Viggo had just known Sean in his bed would be like this--bossy and stubborn and completely in charge, no matter what they did--and he felt that now that he knew this, knew Sean, for real, he couldn't bear to let him go again... But, no. That was a thought for some other time, a time when he was alone and hurting and Sean was not there. Sean was there now. Their Perfect Night.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Viggo whispered, his hands already searching in the first drawer of the bedside table, while Sean looked at him with hungry, dark eyes, that made Viggo's hands shake.

The soft laughter from behind him when Viggo almost spilled the lube threatened to stop his heart--how much he had longed to hear Sean's beautiful laughter, these past days--so he turned back and pounced on Sean, flattening him onto the mattress, taking him into a kiss so long and fierce they came up again breathless, dizzy, and laughing as two loons.

And then, his eyes fell on the small tattoo on Sean's left hip--the Fellowship tattoo, that Viggo was seeing for the first time. With a start, he realized it matched his own on the right exactly, when they stayed like this--when they embraced.

Viggo knew that Orlando had searched out Sean in L.A. after the filming was over, so Sean too could have the tattoo the rest of them had gotten in New Zealand. Orlando had been there the day Viggo had had his own made.

Sean could probably read the question in his eyes, because he smiled, kind of a shy, defensive smile, and said, "Yeah, once and for all. I'm a bloody sap. I thought, if we couldn't have matched rings..."

Viggo traced the small elvish Nine with his fingertips, swirls of black ink on pale, soft skin. "Fucker," he said, softly, not trusting his voice with more.

Sean just leaned up to kiss him briefly on the lips. "You too," he returned, and really, Viggo fiercely thought, who the hell cared about hearts and flowers? This so-called romance was overrated. No one had ever said 'I love you' to him in a more beautiful way.

Viggo would have taken his time preparing him. Sean would have none of it. He took Viggo's cock in both hands, coating it with lube, then he urged him on between his legs, leaning up to take his mouth into another searing kiss, so Viggo could feel them gasp together as he entered Sean, could feel Sean's tongue invading his mouth as he invaded Sean's body, and the hard bite on his bottom lip when he was finally buried deep inside. He licked his bruised lip, fighting to retain some control, to not start thrusting right away, letting Sean have time to adjust.

But it looked like Sean didn't need all that time, after all: he released Viggo's lips, letting himself drop back on the bed, his hands going to the headboard behind his head, gripping it hard. "Fuck, that hurts," he cursed, breathing deeply for a few moments, then a wide grin spread over his face, his eyes looking dark and dangerous. He wrapped both legs around Viggo's back, gripping him hard. "Move," he ordered.

So Viggo did as he was told, grasping Sean's hips hard, digging his fingers in Sean's flesh, feeling he was about to burst into a million shards of glass--of ice, the ice that had finally let go of Sean, that had finally melted away from between them.

Sean, though, didn't seem too satisfied with the slow building pace Viggo had set. "Come *on,*" he urged Viggo, pushing back to meet his thrusts. "Harder, you bloody wanker! I'm not some bloody *girl*!"

"Harder, huh?" Viggo grinned and picked up the pace, thrusting for all he was worth, so much so that Sean winced, and soon he was driven towards the headboard with each thrust--and from the sounds he was making, deep in his throat, he was loving every second of it.

"Yeah--yeah! Fuck! That's it!" Then a look came into Sean's eyes, sort of a gleaming, mischievous light turning on, and with a softly accented voice Viggo had been used to hearing once, long ago, Sean breathed, looking right up into Viggo's eyes, managing for a moment to become someone else--

"My king."

Viggo couldn't help himself--he shuddered, his rhythm becoming even more frantic--and Sean laughed again, breathless, his breath hitching and changing into short moans and curses every time Viggo hit his prostate. "God! I *knew* it! I knew you would go for that!"

"Oh--shut... up!" Viggo gasped, but he was laughing too, more turned on than he ever remembered being.

Sean saw it, and laughed harder. "You--sick--fuck!"

"Look--who's--talking!"

Sean smiled a beatific, contented smile. "Yes," he hissed, then he took one hand between his own legs, the other gripping the headboard tighter, and pulled hard on his cock, once, twice, and he was coming, still laughing, and Viggo was, too, slamming hard into Sean one more time, then exploding, burning away--and he too was laughing, and he had probably cried out Sean's name but he wasn't really sure. God. How many years had it been, since the last time he had laughed during sex? Too many, he was sure. He and Sean--they used to laugh so much, he really should have expected it.

He was sure he had never felt anything like this--like he had just delivered the perfect line, written the perfect poem, painted the perfect picture.

Perfect.

He collapsed onto Sean's heaving chest, still inside him, both of them coated with sweat and come and so absurdly pleased with themselves--Viggo found the energy to think--they would surely make a funny picture.

"Fucker," he rasped, at last catching his breath, and another, more subdued rumble of laughter resounded beneath his ear.

"You too," Sean said, and a hand came up to stroke gently Viggo's tangled hair. Then, more quietly, "You, too."

Viggo thought he could go to sleep just like that, when he heard Sean say, quietly, "You know, I always felt that if there was to be someone who would never forget Boromir--Aragorn would've been that one."

And stupidly enough--and most annoyingly--Ian's voice from long ago suddenly echoed in Viggo's mind.

'Fool of a sodding twat! Can't you *see*?'

"He's been remembering him," Viggo now whispered, closing his eyes as the slow caress in his hair slowed even more. Was that his heart, that felt so funny inside his throat? "He'll be thinking of him until his last living day."

But by then, Sean's hand was still, and Viggo could not tell if Sean had heard him or not. He had not the heart to look.

He was almost asleep, when Sean's voice came too him, soft and maybe, just maybe, a little choked itself.

"Fucker."

Viggo drifted off to sleep with a smile, Sean's hand still in his hair, his arms keeping Sean close.

*****

*****

"And when the night falls on you baby,
you're feeling all alone,
you won't be on your own,
I'll stand by you.
won't let nobody hurt you."

*****

Sean was the first to wake up the next morning, so he had time to indulge in his new, old hobby.

Watching Viggo sleep.

He couldn't really think that he had to go, and leave this little world of just the two of them behind; it seemed cruel, yet strangely appropriate--for if he had not gotten himself in trouble in the first place, he would've never ended here, in Viggo's bed, watching him sleep and thinking...

How fucking beautiful Viggo was.

How could Sean let him go?

He had to, though; staying wasn't in the deal. It was... too dangerous, for both of them. And even though he'd never felt as alive and, yeah, happy, as the day before, in Viggo's arms... Well, that was enough. Had to be. It couldn't really work--not in the long run, and that was the problem.

With Viggo, he wanted forever--or as close to forever as it was humanly possible. And if they couldn't have that... then, nothing at all was better than just to try it and see it all go to hell, no more Viggo and no more laughter and no more love.

Love.

He had to be losing his mind.

Yet, just as he was starting to work himself in a nice bout of self-pity, the most amazing, wondrous, breath-taking thing happened.

Viggo opened his eyes.

Sean was totally absorbed by the process.

It happened slowly, so delightfully slow--first Viggo stirred, just a little; then a pale blue light appeared under the dark eyelashes, and as dawn rising over the mountains, Viggo's eyes opened, slowly but steadily, until they were gazing up at Sean, sleepy and drowsy and, oh fuck, just so *sweet*.

And then... then, just as Sean realized he was holding his breath, a slow, sleepy, sweet smile followed the same path, and with a husky whisper Viggo said, "You okay?"

Sean could just nod, still not quite back to himself.

"What time is it?" Viggo asked then, when it became clear Sean wasn't about to make any sort of comment.

Sean darted his eyes to the bedside table, reading the red numbers on the alarm display; and doing that he realized that it was just a little before the time they had joined for breakfast the day before.

He looked back at Viggo.

Why not?

"It's a few minutes 'til our perfect day's end," he said, simply, quietly.

He saw Viggo's eyes sparkle, their blue light going to twilight then midnight in moments--a midnight sky twinkling with thousands and thousands of stars, like their first night at Viggo's place. Sean leaned down, pressing his mouth to Viggo's, finding it open under his, and he was home again, kissing Viggo like there was no tomorrow--and there wasn't--moving over Viggo, right into Viggo's arms, a hand sliding down to grasp their cocks together, then Viggo's own hand coming to cover his. Slow, long gliding motions, and it was as the previous day in the clearing under the blue autumn sky: so lush and unhurried as they had all the time in the world--which they couldn't have--moving against each other, rubbing, stroking, caressing, a tangle of arms and legs and mouths and tongues and yeah, just like that, perfectly like that, coming together with a small explosion so quiet and so powerful that it shook the very foundations of the universe--their universe--their Perfect Day came to its perfect end.

*****

Sean knew Viggo was in the kitchen making breakfast--as it had become their routine--and not listening, though he really would have loved to have him near when he finally got hold of Melanie on the phone. Talking to his ex-wife had never been easy, yet today she sounded supportive, as if... as if she still cared. She told him the girls were still at school, but they had left a message for him--it was a short, unsettling conversation, hearing how much he was loved, how much his little girls had been worried for him; how much they missed him and wanted to see their dad and, as Melanie quoted, with a smile in her voice, "Kick everybody who said bad things" about him.

Sean couldn't begin to fathom how he could be so lucky. So loved. He could only promise he would be back to see them as soon as he could. For he loved them so damn much, he felt ashamed he told them that so seldom.

Had he actually ever told them? He knew he was really lousy at that kind of thing, the last few days had done a lot to make him aware of it. He could just hope they knew, somehow.

Time must have been gotten away from him, because next thing he knew Viggo was there, gently prying the receiver from his hand and putting it back into place, then drawing him briefly close, touching Sean's forehead with his own. All too briefly, for in seconds he was gone again, and of course, Sean understood. Their day lay behind them. They couldn't have more than that, now.

Could they?

After breakfast and a shower, he went into his room to pack his bag, a matter of minutes, really; he was wearing some of Viggo's clothes, as a matter of fact, because when Viggo had hurriedly packed for him, he hadn't taken more than a spare change of shirts. The sweater Sean was wearing now was at least a size too big for him, but he didn't mind--corny as it sounded, it smelled like Viggo, and he was glad to have at least something of him for a little while more.

God, he sure hadn't joked when he'd told Viggo he was a sap.

After a last look around to make sure he wasn't forgetting anything, he sat down on his bed, still unmade from two nights before. What, now? Go back to L.A. Let his lawyer take care of the hearing and everything. Go back to England, to see his girls, as soon as possible. Other matters that needed taking care of, in London. His old mates. His parents--bugger, that would be bad enough. Call Elijah and the others in the Fellowship, maybe.

Think about a press conference.

Think about...

No. Don't think about Viggo. What Viggo had said. He couldn't--couldn't do that, and stay calm. Not right now.

A light knock on the open door made him look up. Viggo was leaning against the door jamb, hands in his pockets. "I'm ready whenever you are," he announced.

Sean looked on, wanting to say something, finding nothing. Hadn't it been him, the one insisting romance was alive and well? Yes, but then, it had been more for the fun of arguing with Viggo than anything else. He'd always secretly thought Viggo was right--and the current situation was just proving it once and for all.

He got to his feet, sportbag in one hand, sunglasses in the other. "I'm ready."

Viggo nodded, and turned away, preceding him out.

*****

The trip to Boise was uneventful. Viggo let Sean choose the music, and for some reason Sean decided he was in the mood for country.

This got him an arched eyebrow and amused look from Viggo, to which he responded with kind of a scowl... and when Viggo grinned, Sean sprawled down comfortably in the passenger seat and thought that they could have had just a few days, but maybe, just maybe, that wouldn't be the end of it. If he only could be braver, perhaps. He was confused. He had to think--he would have time to do that, now.

When Viggo started to humming softly along, Sean closed his eyes. The silence between them wasn't awkward nor tense, it was instead that kind of silence that is comfortable and easy between two people who know each other so well they have no need to fill the time with speech, for everything has already been said; or anyway, everything that mattered, so time could trickle away in peaceful quiet, leaving behind just a kind of easy contentedness that spoke of loving, and caring, and dreams laid, for the moment, to rest.

Sean thought about never spoken words and lonely nights with strangers and what it all was worth.

*****

"So," Sean said when they announced his flight.

"So." Viggo stood in front of him, sunglasses on, eyes invisible behind that. Giving away nothing. "You gonna be all right... you know, with the plane and... all," Viggo trailed off, not really needing to finish the sentence.

"Yeah." Sean sighed, took a look around--then decided. What the hell. He took off his shades, looking at Viggo in full light, Viggo so bright and vibrant in an old battered leather jacket and washed-out jeans, a little frayed around the cuffs. The artificial lights glinted off Viggo's hair, golden streams sparkling when he moved, tilting his head to one side in that peculiar, waiting way that he had. Sean felt himself smile. "I'll be fine."

Viggo didn't seem utterly convinced, but he let it pass, and nodded. Maybe he too was remembering the wreck Sean had been just a couple of days before, Sean reflected. Maybe Viggo too could see that Sean was now, well, not all right, but decidedly on his way to get there. He smiled. Hell--he had spent all of the previous day *laughing*.

Among other things.

He suddenly noticed the dark bruising that was forming on Viggo's lower lip--and remembered that he had put it there--and remembered how, and when. He felt a not unpleasant heat rise to his cheeks, more than a little aware of the little aches he himself was feeling, the secret reminder that he had wanted so bad from Viggo. He would feel that for a while, he just knew it; and it was a comforting thought, in its own way. It was why he'd asked for it in the first place. Would Viggo nurse his bruised lip as well? He had the strange certainty that he would. All of a sudden, he wished Viggo would take his sunglasses off.

"You are stayin' up here?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. But he wanted something... what exactly, he didn't know. He just knew that he didn't want to leave--not like that.

Viggo nodded. "For a few days."

Sean nodded too. It wasn't easy. "I'll call you," he said.

He wasn't certain, but thought Viggo could've rolled his eyes. "What am I, a bad date?"

Sean glared at him for a moment, before taking in the hunched shoulders, the nervous stance, the way Viggo kept shifting his weight from one foot to another. Viggo's whole posture radiated uncertainty, defensiveness, and it struck Sean all over again.

Was it really the end, this? Like this?

"Viggo," he said, firmly.

And at last, Viggo stilled. He took one hand to his sunglasses, lowering them, folding them into his hand, tucking them away. He smiled faintly, then lifted his eyes, studying Sean for a long time, seeing, of course, how nervous Sean himself was.

Viggo chuckled, shaking his head. He pursed his lips slightly, a thoughtful look in his blue eyes, a smile tentatively offered. "I don't want romance," he stated, his eyes looking right through Sean. And right there, in the middle of the crowded airport, he added, simply like that, "You are enough."

Warmth and something that felt suspiciously--dangerously--like hope flooded Sean at that, and as he looked at Viggo's smile growing steadier, he found he had one himself. He took a deep breath, took a step closer. "Tell me again."

Light danced in Viggo's eyes, blue and bright. When he spoke, his voice was as wind in the leaves, low but clear. He too stepped closer. "Din satans pikansjos," he whispered, and they were in each other's arms, holding tightly.

"I'm calling you," Sean whispered, with finality.

"You do that," Viggo whispered back, and dropped a swift secret kiss just behind Sean's ear.

*****

Sean was on-board at last, buckled up in his seat, half his mind dreading, as usual, the moment the plane would take off, the other half wandering farther than that. He found himself unable to tear his mind's eye away from Viggo, how he'd looked in the middle of the airport, just a guy saying his goodbyes to a friend. How quickly he had put his shades back on, watching as Sean disappeared from his sight. Sean had watched him till he could.

Time. They needed time, Sean thought. Time apart--time to think, time to...

To miss each other all over again.

Sean couldn't help but wonder what would happen now that the real world--their real lives, careers, families--has finally come back between them. They had had a brief precious time, separated from all that, secure in their little world of two.

That time had been Viggo's gift to him--to them. Yet what Viggo had given to the two of them had been even more than that: he had given them an opening. A chance.

For Sean to take.

His brave Viggo. Sean knew he had let him lead the way for too long, had let him take the risks for them both. Now it was up to him, Sean reckoned--the both of them, they were in Sean's hands. Could he? Take that risk. Take that chance.

Was it worth it? Were *they* worth it? Sean closed his eyes, resting his head back against his seat. He couldn't stop seeing Viggo, a lonely figure standing in the crowded airport, watching him walk away.

He never even noticed the plane taking off.

*****

*****

"Take me in into your darkest hour
and I'll never desert you
I'll stand by you."

*****

Whatever Sean was expecting from his return to L.A., being sighted upon landing and grabbed by one very determined elf-hobbit team hadn't been on the list.

It was what he got, though.

"We're the Smelly Human Rescue Team," Orlando informed him, looking around to check they hadn't been spotted. "As per orders, we're here to get you safely home."

"Orders?" Sean was wondering if he hadn't fallen asleep on the plane and was still dreaming. The event had a certain surreal, odd quality to it... but then again, so had most of the kids-related events.

"Yeah--Viggo called, said we were to come and get you." Elijah looked at him speculatively--or was that a leer? One was never too sure with him. "Said to tell you, you are to obey your king. Are you by any chance blushing?"

Sean decided then and there that yes, that was probably a leer... and that he would *not* blush so easily, damn it all. And damn Viggo. He couldn't already miss him so badly.

He also had the feeling that it would be a long day.

"So," he said, subtly changing the subject. "You're coming home with me?"

"You bet it... as soon as Lij can start this trash-can on wheels," sneered Dominic, leaning over from where he sat with Orlando in the backseat, after having settled Sean in the front.

"You just call it that 'cause I don't let you drive it."

"Dom's driving is hellish," Orlando explained to Sean, deftly ducking the swat aimed at his head and continuing unperturbed. "But his cooking is heavenly, so we stopped on the way to pick up a few things."

"For your 'welcome back' dinner," Elijah cut in from the driver seat. His voice was suspiciously innocent-sounding.

Though he just knew he shouldn't, Sean couldn't help himself. "'Things'?"

Dom and Orlando's twin grins in the rearview mirror were nothing less than angelic.

"Why... Danish sausages, of course!"

Sean groaned, but he had to fight to not join the general hilarity--he had, after all, to stay in character. "I'm not gonna live it down anytime soon, am I?"

This time was Orlando who leaned over between the front seats, and stamped a wet smooch somewhere in the proximity of Sean's ear. "Nope. Not in the next fifteen years or so."

Sean shoved him back with a hand on Orlando's face. "Brat," he growled.

"Prat," was the ready answer.

Sean was positive he was indeed grinning like one.

*****

The first thing Sean saw coming home was the candles.

Candles on the kitchen counter and on the table, a dozen or so, pale yellow wax, half consumed. The kids didn't seem to notice them, but Sean did. He stood there like a fool, staring at them, remembering Viggo putting them out just before leaving the room, one night that now seemed so far away.

He remembered how he'd felt that dreadful night, and then Viggo, and crying in Viggo's arms. How easy that had been, how... comforting.

Viggo had said he'd been there while Sean was away, just feeling his presence in the house. How fitting, really. Viggo would do such a thing, Sean mused: the man wrote poetry, after all. A soft smile curved his lips.

Viggo had slept in his bed.

He found out he really liked that image: Viggo, sleeping. In Sean's bed.

Now that he thought back on it, he couldn't seem to recall exactly why he'd given a spare set of keys to Viggo in the first place, nor could he recall exactly why, or how, Viggo had accepted it. He supposed it just had seemed, at the time, the right thing to do... After all, when in L.A., Sean used to go to Viggo's place all the time, even though he didn't have his own keys--because when Sean was around, it seemed like Viggo was always to be found home.

"Sean?" Orlando's voice called him back to earth. "What's up? Are you tired?"

Sean looked up to see the slightly concerned look on Orlando's face. "It's all right," he reassured him. Then he looked around. "Where are your partners in crime?"

Orlando waved a hand dismissively behind him, in the general direction of the living room. "Snoggin' on your sofa, I reckon." He took a closer look at Sean. "We could stay over, you know, if you..."

Sean just shook his head, then nodded mutely when Orlando, evidently seeing Sean wasn't about to change his mind, asked if he would like for him to make some coffee, before leaving. Sean found he was rather amused by the offer, in fact: it seemed people were just dying to fix him with food and hot beverages, these days. Viggo sure had done more than his fair share of it... It had to be true, when you didn't know how to help someone, you resorted to cooking for them. It had to be a deeply-seated urge, or something.

As he watched Orli trying to find his way around in the small kitchen, absently directing him where the various implements were, Sean found himself thinking about--of all things--young love. He had never questioned Dominic and Elijah's relationship, nor he had ever ventured to dwell on Orlando's occasional presence and how it figured in that particular equation... and now he was wondering if, perhaps, he had just been envious.

Young love. Young people. Carefree, hopeful. Still so young as to believe love was enough--enough to make everything work out right. As if their youth could actually make them unaware of how much hurt could come with all that love. Or maybe it was their very youth that made them reckless, more resilient in the face of pain? He'd been like that too, after all, so long ago: he and Debra, they'd been exactly like that. Their childhood dream of eternal love had lasted less than it had taken him to complete his courses at RADA.

Three times Sean had believed love could be enough. He had tried: tried living together, even living apart, when it had seemed like the only viable option. Nothing, in the end, had worked out. Yet there had been love, so deep--and so damn painful, in the end. Every time.

He wondered when had it actually been, that he had started to close off, to be so scared.

How can you do it?, he now wanted to ask Orlando: Do you really not know?

But maybe, Sean thought, it was him that didn't know--not anymore. He had forgotten how good love could be, while once he had used to know.

Those past few days--they should've been the worst of his life, he mused.

They had made him feel so good.

He smiled at Orlando, accepting his mug of hot steamy coffee with a nod of thanks. "I need to take care of a few things, but I'll be fine. You don't need to worry," he said again, just to make sure Orlando understood.

His answer was a slightly doubtful look. Suddenly, Sean recalled the look Orlando had given him the day he'd taken Sean to the tattoo parlor in L.A., after Sean had inquired about their other fellows, and chosen the spot where to have his own made.

"You already knew, didn't you?" Sean softly asked.

Orlando blinked, and put down his mug. "What, about you and Vig?"

Sean nodded.

Orlando nodded, too, then took a careful sip of his coffee. And grinned.

Sean sighed. "How long?"

"Oh." Orlando scrunched up his face, pretending to think hard on it. "Years, really." He laughed out loud at the look Sean gave him. "All right, so I wasn't one hundred percent certain," he shrugged, then he winked. "Almost there, though."

"How..."

"The pub." At Sean's blank stare, Orlando expanded, "I don't remember exactly when, but I think it was one of the last weeks of the Helm's Deep shooting. You know?" Orlando put his mug back down on the counter, lazily twirling it around. "We were all very busy filming. We in the Deep almost didn't see you for days on end. Yes," Orlando nodded again, as talking about it was making his memories clearer. "Yes, it was just then, I'm sure. This one night, you showed up at the pub, it was raining hard, just me and Dom and Vig were still hanging around. Viggo was writing, or drawing, or something, in his goddamned note-pad--you know he always had one of those with him--and then you were there, and went right up to him, as though me and Dom were invisible."

Sean just stared at him. He didn't remember... well, yes, he did remember that one night--it'd been the only night that he and Viggo had really seen each other during those long weeks--the night that had later led to that silly 'romance' discussion. He just didn't remember any other people in the room, he now realized, though of course there had to have been. Funny, that.

"And the two of you just started bickering as soon as your arse hit the chair," continued Orlando, still playing with the mug, stopping spinning it around just in time to prevent the coffee from sloshing over the rim and onto the counter. "Some silliness or the other, I wasn't paying attention, really."

Sean still wasn't following him. "I remember that night," he said. "But I can't see how from that you could..."

"It was the way you looked at him while taking the piss, you twerp," Orlando patiently explained. "Though I have to say, it was mostly the way Viggo was smiling, while pretending he was mad at you. Method actor, my arse." He sniffed, took another sip. "Just don't you go and tell him I said that, eh."

"The way he was smiling?" Sean repeated. But he remembered that night. Having Viggo's pen waved at him as Viggo explained his view. Ink-stained fingertips. A tiny smudge of blue ink on the left bottom corner of Viggo's lips, where he had evidently been chewing on the pen. Beautiful lips, Sean was seeing them as if he was still there. Beautiful smile.

"... just like this," Orlando's voice brought Sean back to the present, to Orlando looking up at him, and in his dark brown eyes, Sean saw reflected back at him his own smile.

A quiet, content, happy smile.

"You really have it bad, mate," Orlando whispered, conspiratorially. He looked pretty pleased at that.

Sean found himself blushing again, for the second time in less than an hour. Luckily enough, this time he was saved by Elijah and Dominic walking into the room.

"We've taken your bag inside, and the food," Dominic said, the very image of innocence, helping himself to the coffee. He pointedly ignored Orlando's knowing smirk, and after having put two sugars in it, he passed the mug he'd filled to Elijah before proceeding to fix his own. "Anything else we can do for you, Beanie?"

Sean was considering to let Dominic know they had, without even knowing it, already done a great deal: he had always thought that what Lij and Dom had could never work for Viggo and him. And now he was for the first time asking himself... just *why* couldn't it?

He suddenly realized he had no idea.

He just knew that he should be thinking about tomorrow's court hearing, worrying about it--when all he could think of was, instead, Viggo.

"We'll just let the old man catch up on his sleep," Orlando cut in before Sean could reply. He put his arms around his two friends' shoulders. "I think Seanie here has things to do and all that."

"Oh." Elijah looked disappointed. He rubbed his nose. "Well, then." He looked right into Sean's eyes. "You really sure? I mean, will you be fine, by yourself?"

Sean nodded. He was suddenly very, very sure. "Yeah. I think I will be." He absently noted that his hand, apparently of its own volition, was idly fingering the smooth waxy softness of one of the half-burned yellow candles.

He would be fine, yes. And maybe--just maybe--he wouldn't have to be by himself...?

"Hey," Elijah's voice piped up, somewhat muffled from behind his cup of coffee. "Don't I know that sweater from somewhere...?"

*****

Viggo tucked the receiver between his ear and his shoulder, smiling when he recognized the voice at the other end. A quick look at his watch told him it was nearly eleven p.m.

Which meant that in London it was...

He mentally shut the door on that line of thoughts. Very hard. This was getting ridiculous--well, more so than it already was, anyway. Sean had already called him several times, those past two weeks: the first call had been at the cottage, the very night of his arrival in L.A.; then two days after that, while Viggo was about to leave: it'd been right after Sean's court hearing. They had talked for over an hour, that night. Sean had been about to leave too, to go back to his house in London.

Last time Viggo had heard Sean had been just the day before: Viggo's birthday, which he'd spent in New York with Henry, Exene, and a few close friends. Even his mom had called him. Lots of people had called and left messages, emails, whatever.

Sean's call had come a little before midnight, when Viggo had just got back home after saying his goodnight to Henry. And how fucked up it was, Viggo had thought, that right there, in the very city he'd been born, among all the people he'd known and loved for nearly all his life--among his *family* for crying out loud--only when he'd heard the richly accented voice crooning, muted by the distance, "'appy birthday, ol' boy," he'd felt as if he finally, really, had come home?

Pretty fucked up, Viggo had no doubt.

He had realized only after having hung up that in England it had to have been five in the morning--that Sean had probably set the clock or something, in order not to miss Viggo's birthday.

What the hell was wrong with the fucker?, Viggo had thought then. Did Sean think he could go missing a night's sleep as if he still was a kid? Should Viggo start worrying?

And when the fuck had he turned into Sean's keeper, anyway?

All pretty pointless questions, of course. But it felt right going around asking them to himself, worrying a little, pretending he was annoyed at Sean and not as if he was actually so fucking missing the man he could barely take a breath without thinking of him.

Pretending that he didn't really care all that much... that he didn't really dare to *hope*.

And to top it all, now *this*. Viggo shifted a little the receiver under his ear, and thought about trying to summon the energy to be really annoyed... Of course, he ended up smiling fondly: not only did Ian not feel the need to be in the least sorry for having had to cancel their lunch-date (to have fun with pretty young Nick, Viggo uncharitably mused)--he even had the fucking balls to call to discuss Viggo's private life... again.

Viggo's smile broadened.

"So, how is our naughty boy doing?" What a *fabulous* way to begin a conversation, Viggo thought, and he settled himself comfortably on the bed, letting the beautiful, deep voice wash over him, idly recalling a distant time when the two of them had actually toyed with the idea of being something more than friends. It had come to nothing in the end, just an half-formed idea born of affection and maybe a little loneliness. He'd recalled telling Ian he didn't want to be labelled as gay--then telling Sean, in Idaho, that he would choose that label for himself.

"He's doing pretty well, I think," he answered, and told Ian what Sean had said--that he'd pleaded guilty so he got off with a fine and hours of community service. The very big deal would be seeing how all of this would reflect on his public image, but for now it didn't look all that bad... They still wanted him for Macbeth back in London, so that at least was a relief.

Ian listened carefully, and in the end, declared himself very pleased that Sean seemed to not have suffered great harm. Viggo could only agree. "Yeah. Though he had me a little worried there, for a while." He closed his eyes, picturing Sean shell-shocked and crying... then he wilfully replaced that image with how he'd looked the last time Viggo had seen him, the warm smile he had had at the airport--how tight they had embraced. "Things went pretty well, after all," he commented.

A non-committal sound from Ian, a small pause. "Did they, then?" Just enough *significance* in those simple words to leave Viggo with no doubt about what Ian was really asking.

He opened his eyes, giving the question some thought. Did they? Hope yet again threatened to send him under, cutting his breath.

"I trust you both finally came to your senses?" Ian prompted, gently, when Viggo didn't answer right away.

Viggo swallowed dryly, sitting up a little against the pillows. "I'm... not sure, Ian. We cleared up some things, yes."

There was again that little, thoughtful pause. "Well, at the very least, it sounds like a beginning."

Viggo noticed how hard he was gripping the receiver, and forced his fingers to relax. Hope--he wanted it, so badly. He couldn't talk.

A sigh fluttered down the line after a while. "Silly boys," Ian softly stated. "I can't begin to fathom how can I possibly be so fond of the two of you."

Viggo grinned. "You're just an old mushy queen," he teased.

A very unroyal snort greeted that statement. "Old? Just for that remark, I shall invite myself over and bug you out of your mind with the proper way to treat a lady."

"Yes, please do," Viggo answered, in all seriousness. He hadn't seen enough of Ian those last few months, that was for sure. He told him so.

"Who's being mushy, now?" Ian chuckled, but he sounded pleased. "I'll come over then, and we can have lunch and some girl-talk. How is that for a plan?"

"Terrific," Viggo grinned. "But you still owe me a date, don't forget."

"My dear boy," Ian said, and Viggo could tell he too was entirely serious, now. "I'm looking forward to seeing you, you know. But I think that it's high time you should go home."

Home, Viggo repeated to himself. He thought back to Sean's phone call, the night before, Sean's voice over the phone, enveloping him in warmth, in yearning.

And as absurd as that was, he thought he could actually see what Ian was telling him.

Hope.

"Yes," he said. "I guess it's time."

*****

What the hell was he thinking.

Sean stared at the phone, chewing absently on his thumbnail. He had to do this. He'd let it go on for much too long as it was, he would have no more of it. It was right. He was doing it.

Just deep breaths, mate, and you'll be fine.

He had thought long and hard about it, he knew it was right--the truth was, he'd known from the start, and all the days that had passed since he'd left Viggo had just made it all the more clear.

He just... There were so many things to consider, so many things that could go wrong.

And oh, he remembered well telling Viggo all about it; and he remembered telling him, again and again, that he was. Not. Gay.

He still was afraid of the word.

Though his mind knew it was ridiculous, the rest of him had problems following. Something very deep in his being just cried out and recoiled in shock, just at hearing that word. Cultural upbringing. Social taboos. Ages of repression... whatever.

He still was scared.

Even if of what, exactly, he was afraid, he couldn't really tell. Maybe of not being able to go out and have a pint with his mates anymore? To go to the match, take his daughters out... what?

Because those were all the real important things he could think about, and not one of them would've been denied to him, if he... Hell.

He'd been called a fairy before, of course. He'd been a pretty young boy, blond hair and green eyes, a pretty face, and sometimes people simply... assumed. His old mates from Sheffield had used to rib him about that too, when he'd started acting: he had always brushed it off with a laugh and some ribbing of his own, giving as good as he got; because, yeah, he shagged blokes. Sometimes. His mates did that, too. Sometimes.

So what? General belief was that you were a fairy just if you took into your head that there could be more than that--that you wanted more than that--that you could have feelings for the bloke you shagged.

Well, of course you could do it with a friend, so of course you could care for him and all that, but that wasn't the same. That was just being friends. You didn't daydream about shacking up with your mate, did you? That was what poofters did.

Sean had honestly believed he had grown out of that little-town kind of shit years before, had forgotten all about it, and learned to ignore it. That had actually been the lesson behind the failure of his first marriage.

It apparently wasn't so; it apparently ran deeper, much more so than he had thought.

It's not about *that*, he told himself again and again. He had deeply loved all of his wives--all of them. He'd always fallen in love with women, just women. Women were for love, men were for friendship.

And then he'd fallen in love with his friend.

He did love Viggo. No doubt there.

Did *that* make him a poof? Gay? Did it? And was that really so bad--did that erase who he'd been before, what he'd felt before? He still had his daughters. He still loved them. He still had his mates and his pints and the Saturday match.

He still wanted to know how spending the whole day in bed with Viggo would be... long, lazy hours spent making love to him, learning each other, learning what Viggo would find pleasurable, what would make him squirm and moan and call out Sean's name with that breathless, breath-taking voice he had... And waking up and finding him still there, and seeing him open his eyes... and finding himself reflected there.

He wanted to go home, and find Viggo there.

He wanted Viggo to be his home.

He wanted--he so desperately, so badly wanted--all of that.

So what the hell did his falling in love with Viggo make him?

Viggo's voice was so clear in his head, he could've sworn Viggo was in the room with him.

*It makes you a stupid fucker--fucker.*

Sean actually chuckled at that: yeah, Viggo would say just that.

The one thing that scared him worse than the whole gay issue was going on waking up every day as he had for the past three years--waking up, and not having Viggo there.

He couldn't erase all his fears in one go, but then, was that really necessary? He could do it, a little at a time. He knew he could.

The smile stayed on his face, when he picked up the phone and started dialing.

*****

The pictures were scattered all over the table-top, many more than Viggo had realized at first. He'd been back in L.A. only for a couple of days, when he'd remembered the camera he'd packed in his bag and took with him all the way from Idaho to New York, to here. He'd developed the film himself.

He took up the first picture under his hand, examining it closely: his own face stared back at him, hair softly ruffled by the breeze, mouth half-open as if saying something, eyes half-closed. He looked pretty funny in this one, he reflected, amused. He didn't remember what he'd been saying.

Another showed him in profile, looking lost in some daydream or the other. Another had caught him just the moment when he turned, startled, to find the photographer capturing him on film.

Sean.

They were all pictures of Viggo, all taken that day in the clearing near the Idaho cottage.

He opened the top drawer of his desk, took out a pale blue, bulky envelope, that had been residing in there for years now, and shook out its contents on the desk: more brightly colored pictures slid out, a few black and white, but the most of them in the bright, brilliant colors of the New Zealand sunny landscape.

All of them, with just the one subject.

He leafed through them lazily, spreading them near the first ones, fewer, of him, picking each one up before putting it back again. Sean in Boromir costume. Sean in make-up, drinking coffee. Sean caught while walking out of his room one of the first days Viggo had been on-set, a decidedly not-yet-awake look on his face. The picture after that showed Sean making the two fingered salute at the photographer, but his smile could've lit up the hallway better than the camera's flash.

The beginning, Viggo thought, picking up that picture and placing it beside the one of him Sean had taken in Idaho--the one where he giggled, the last one Sean had taken that day, that perfect day--and the end?

Viggo stared at them so long he almost lost touch with reality. It seemed so strange, somehow, sitting there, looking at the two of them, together--together, yet apart. Separated from time, and from distance... and from everything, really. How could he even begin to think things could work out, in the end? Maybe they were better the way they'd been until now. Friends. Talking on the phone. Seeing each other from time to time. Spending time with their families--time not together.

Fuck.

Idaho seemed already so far away.

He debated for a long time whether to answer the phone that had started ringing or not: he was in the middle of a panic attack, and it was about time he had one of those, too. He was sick of being calm and rational. He wanted to get mad, throw things about. He could smash that lamp over there--he'd never really liked it.

He sighed. There was not really much point in losing it when you still rationalized about which piece of furniture you were going to break, and when they were the ones you had been wanting to get rid of anyway, was it? Yeah. He thought so. He picked up the phone.

"'lo?"

"Are you home?"

In a blink, the mood was gone. "Sean?"

"I'm flying over tomorrow--I... we... Look. Will I find you home?"

Viggo's glance fell again on the two top pictures, himself and Sean, both laughing, both looking up at their photographers--at each other. It felt almost as if they were talking among themselves, in some strange, surreal way. So alike. So apart.

"I didn't expect you would be back so soon."

"Me neither--Macbeth opens next week, I'll have to fly back almost at once. But..." A deep breath. "Viggo."

Home, Viggo was thinking. It's high time for you to go home.

"Will you be home?"

Silly boys, Viggo thought to the pictures. He brushed the shiny, glossy surface of the two photos fondly, almost caressing, then opened the top drawer, and let them slid in.

"Yes," he said.

I guess it's time.

He closed the drawer. "I'll be home."

*****

Viggo opened his eyes slowly, trying to decide what had woken him up. Not morning of course, because he could tell it was still dark outside. Hmm... yet there was light in the room, a dim light from one of the bedside lamps. And someone was right there in the bedroom with him.

A slow smile spread on his face, when he turned on his back, looked up.

"What took you so long?"

Sean just shook his head and didn't answer, apparently speechless. Viggo wondered for how long he'd been there. He stretched a little, and then wondered how long *he* had been sleeping. He had thought he would just wait up for Sean--but of course he hadn't asked what time Sean's plane would arrive--and the bed had been so comfy...

Sean in the meantime had managed to recover speech. He sat down on the bed, still looking at Viggo. "It would've taken me less--if I hadn't been so stupid as to go to *your* home, before."

Viggo didn't bother to move. Sean's bed was really quite comfy--and it was the only place where he really wanted to be. His heart, though, fluttered a little, uncertainty trying to prevail.

"Am I not home, then?"

An heartbeat later he had his arms full of warm, laughing Sean, laughing while squeezing Viggo so hard he was having trouble drawing a breath.

And Sean had a way of laughing, Viggo could never really resist join in... though before doing that, he wanted to know what he was laughing at.

"What? What's so funny? Hey! Are you laughing at me?"

Sean shook his head, and when he looked up, the dancing green light in his eyes stole Viggo's breath all over again. "You are," Sean said, then proceeded to kiss Viggo until Viggo was sure they would pass out. Not that he actually cared, as it was.

"You are," Sean repeated when he could. "You're home--you are home," he softly said, and then said it again and again, enunciating each word with great care, as if he couldn't quite believe it. Viggo felt just the same. He kissed Sean again.

And while the fact that he hadn't bothered to undress before falling asleep had now, clearly, some flaws, it had its own advantages, too, because it meant Viggo hadn't to get up and leave Sean in order to find his jeans and what he'd put in their pocket: he just shifted slightly, letting go of Sean with just one hand, and fished what he was looking for out of it, pressing it right into Sean's hand.

Sean looked down at the keys dangling from their ring, then up again at Viggo. Viggo sighed, took Sean's hand and explained, touching each key in turn, "This is for my L.A. house. This for the one in New York... this one's for the Idaho cottage..."

At Sean's look, he just shrugged and reached out for the bedside table, picking up Sean's spare set of keys that he'd used to come in earlier. He put the ring with its keys on his left ring finger, wiggling it a little self-consciously. "Weren't you the one who was whining about wanting matched rings...?"

A light came into Sean's eyes. "Viggo," he said, solemn and serious. He took Viggo's hand and kissed it, then brushed a sweet, lingering kiss on Viggo's lips, his own ring of keys safely held in his own hand. "This is..."

Viggo was feeling light-headed, with relief, joy, he didn't know. Hope, probably. He grinned. "... romance?"

Sean grinned back at him. "Fucker," he said, softly, everything he was feeling clear in his voice, in his eyes.

Viggo lifted a hand to caress his face, lightly, looking into those eyes, never wanting to look away again. "You, too," he murmured, trailing his fingers into Sean's hair. At that moment, he didn't really care about anything else. Looking up into Sean's eyes, so full of love--of hope--he could only think, this time he would not let him slip away. This time, he would fight hard for his Boromir--and he would win.

"Are we good?" Sean asked, his voice no more than a whisper.

Viggo used his hold on Sean's hair to draw him down, and kissed him on the corner of the mouth, then full on the lips, doing his best to erase that edge of uncertainty he thought he'd still detected in Sean's question. "Getting there," he said, and after that Sean took the hint, and neither of them spoke for a while.

The moment was somewhat disrupted a little later, when jet-lag kicked in and Sean couldn't hold back a yawn. Viggo chuckled. "Get some sleep now, old man," he ordered, cuffing Sean's head gently.

"Hmm." Sean didn't seem about to protest. He kicked off his shoes, snuggling closer into Viggo's arms, his face half-buried into Viggo's chest. "Smell good," he murmured, contentedly.

"Really." Viggo chuckled again, made himself comfortable, the feeling of Sean in his arms something that defied words. He took the two key-rings, putting them back safely on the bedside table, then reached out to turn off the lamp.

"Quit moving," came a somewhat sleepy protest.

"Not only old, but grumpy, too," Viggo teased, and got his thigh pinched for his trouble--though he didn't complain, as Sean kept his hand there afterwards, sleepily fondling the offended part.

"Yer older," Sean grumbled, eyes already closed, accent more marked now. "And chattier. Lemme sleep."

Viggo smiled. "And what else?"

"Know Danish." Arms tightening around him in playful warning. "Now shut up."

Viggo grinned, and shut up. He fought the urge to sing a lullaby, contenting himself with just laying there, Sean draped all over him, slowly caressing the short blond hair, listening to Sean's breath evening out, getting slower, heavier.

Being there, he reflected, being right there was enough.

They were just two guys, after all... two guys nearing middle-age that had bad days, that could fight and be petty and selfish and, he knew that all too well, hurt each other, maybe without even realizing it. And Viggo, though now cocooned in the sleepy, comforting warmth that was Sean in his arms, had the sinking feeling that things would get worse, before they could get better. Yet--and he knew this as well--they loved each other.

"So much," he murmured into the short, slightly sweat-dampened hair under his fingers. And that could hurt, too.

As it had in the past.

But now they were going to work it out. They were willing to try--both of them, they were finally side by side on the same road.

"It's not perfect," Viggo mumbled before he, too, closed his eyes. He felt content. He felt happy.

It was perfect for them.

*****

Sean was distantly aware that Viggo was still talking, saying something he didn't quite catch. Annoying sod, he thought, feeling really happy for the first time in entirely too long.

He still had no idea what would happen next--it couldn't be all that simple, surely--but he was with Viggo, and it was worth it, he was sure of it now: the fear, the heartache, the...

The loving and the comfort and the happiness.

It was worth it.

He was home, with Viggo.

And when he'd wake up, they would still be there: maybe it wouldn't last forever--he doubted such a thing even existed--but they could work on it... they could make it last, and make the most of it while it lasted.

They could go on from there--from him and Viggo, home together.

Sean smiled happily in his sleep, Viggo's warm smell filling his dreams, his whole world. And even if he couldn't believe anymore that love could be enough, at least he finally remembered why it was worth trying.

He felt Viggo's lips on his forehead, the slow caress of his voice lulling him gently into sleep, Viggo's arms keeping him close, and a new kind of peace found him: after all, right then, at the other end of the world, the sun was shining on a little clearing in the woods under a blue, endless sky.

He was ready, now, for the first time in long years, to hope again.

They would make their journey a long, long one.

*****