Viggo was good at pretending. It was, after all, what all of them did for a living. Ian was a flirty rascal until he pulled on Gandalf's long robes, and then he became a wizard with magic in his fingertips. Elijah was young and hopelessly hyperactive until he slipped into Frodo's driven soul and gazed up at the sky with the Hobbit's ageless eyes.
Viggo was a crazy man with crazier thoughts about his best friend, thoughts he tried to bury and ignore. He did what he was told to do. He memorized lines and put his body through the choreography of kicks and lunges, picked up his sword and swung it in a lethal arc until his shoulders and upper back burned and his mind was filled with white noise. "Beauty," Pete called out finally. "That's a keeper, my king."
A week had passed since that bright afternoon in Sean's living room. A week since he'd parted his lips for Sean, swallowed his taste, made it part of his dreams. Sean had acted as though nothing had happened, and maybe nothing had, really. Maybe whatever Viggo had seen in Sean's steady gaze that afternoon was nothing more than wishful thinking. He had a tendency to develop crushes on movie sets, harmless infatuations that owed more to being away from home and lonely than anything else.
So Viggo pretended, because he was good at doing that. He pretended his dreams of Sean weren't so real that he didn't wake up and reach out expecting to feel warm skin and solid muscle instead of empty cool sheets. He pretended that the simple act of watching Sean read script changes under a tree didn't feel fill him with a deep and nameless delight, that Sean's husky laugh didn't make the hairs on his arms stand up and holler, that the way he licked his lips didn't turn Viggo's thought process dandelion-fuzzy.
He pretended he was fine and sane and not in love with his good friend Sean.
"Viggo. Hey. Mate."
He blinked, looked down at the familiar, tanned hand holding his arm, then looked at Sean's face.
"You nearly walked out in front of a car." Sean shook his arm gently. "You okay?"
"Oh. Right. Wasn't watching where I was going. Thanks." Viggo waved at the stuntman who was driving slowly past, wary gaze on Viggo. He had no memory of walking from the set to the parking lot.
Sean chuckled. "Where's your head these days, you nutter?"
He knew the words trembling on the tip of his dry tongue (I'm dreaming about you; I can't stop thinking about you) weren't words meant for the light of day. "Dunno," he replied. "Sorry." He looked over in time to see the grin fade from Sean's face.
"Okay, now I'm worried," Sean told him. "What's going on, Viggo?"
"I'm fine," Viggo protested. "Really. I'm just tired."
Sean's eyes narrowed, and Viggo wondered if it would be rude of him to ask Sean not to do that, not to give him that slow, measuring, thoughtful look because it made pretending that he was okay much more difficult.
"I'm driving you home," Sean announced firmly.
"I'm fine." Viggo stressed the last word. "Just spacey."
"All the more reason to keep you from getting behind the wheel of an automobile." Sean unlocked his own car, then turned and reached for the sword Viggo still carried.
He reacted out of some odd instinct, Aragorn's instinct, maybe, because whatever Aragorn felt for Boromir was layered with suspicion. He stepped back and brought the sword up between them in one smooth move, metal cutting air with a quiet hiss, and found himself staring at Sean with the blade between them.
Sean went still, his pale green eyes fixing on Viggo's face. "Vig," he said quietly. "I just wanted to help you with that, mate."
"I---uh---sorry." Of course Sean just wanted to help. He was Sean, not Boromir. Sane, steady Sean, his exact opposite in terms of mental acuity right now. Christ, was he losing his fucking mind? "Jesus, Sean. I'm sorry."
"It's okay." Sean reached out slowly so Viggo wouldn't be startled, gently pushed the sword down. Viggo flinched a little as Sean cupped his warm, dry hand on top of his. "Let go, Vig. I've got it." His was the soothing tone you'd use with a skittish animal. Was he skittish? Surely not. Crazy, yes, but not skittish.
"I think I need to sleep," Viggo said, looking down at their hands. He loosened his fingers, watched as Sean gripped the sword. Sean's hand was only a few inches away from Viggo's crotch, and the proximity fed an image to his imagination that made the back of his neck burn. Touch me, he wanted to say. Put your hands on me.
"I think you need a vacation," Sean commented. "I'm going to put this in the back seat, alright?"
Viggo nodded. He was losing his mind. That was the only explanation for this.
Sean let a mile unspool beneath them before he broke the silence. "Gonna tell me what's wrong?" he asked quietly.
"I'm just in a weird place," Viggo muttered.
"Viggo, you are a weird place," Sean replied. "Is Henry okay?"
"He's fine. He went to his first dance last week and spent most of the phone call telling me how gross girls are."
"Give him a few more months to change his tune." Sean signaled for the turn-off to Viggo's street. "Did you eat today? I didn't see you at lunch."
"I think so." Viggo sighed. "I don't remember."
"Are you hungry? I'll do a fry-up, assuming you have something edible in your fridge."
"I have eggs. Maybe some cheese."
"Good, then. I'll make sure you're fed."
"Thanks, Mom." Viggo grinned when Sean flipped him off.
The front room was a mess, but Sean didn't seem to mind. He looked in Viggo's fridge and muttered about the state of the cheese, then gave Viggo a fierce Boromir-like glower when Viggo hovered, uncertain, at his back. "You need a shower," Sean informed him. "Go on."
"Gee, thanks," Viggo retorted, even though a shower sounded good after all those hours with the sword and in Aragorn's dirty costume. His back and shoulders still ached, and if he was in the bathroom, he wouldn't get distracted by the way the bottom of Sean's faded green t-shirt hiked up to reveal a half-inch of bare skin every time he bent over or reached up, as he was doing now, searching for Viggo's frying pan in the cabinet over the sink. If he walked down the hall now, right now, he wouldn't give in to the temptation to skate his thumb across the small of Sean's back, to feel the bump of vertebrae and the cushiony swell of flesh and muscle.
Viggo turned and walked down the hall before temptation could turn into action, before he made a complete ass of himself.
Just a kiss, he told himself. You let your imagination run wild, and now you're thinking crazy things.
He lingered in the shower, watched the water sluicing down his legs go from grimy brown to soapy white to finally clear. He washed his hair twice, wincing as shampoo stung a shallow scratch on his ear. (Sword blade? Sharp Hobbit nails? He couldn't remember.) The water and steam cleared his head a little, eased the knot between his shoulders. His stomach let him know that whatever he'd eaten that day hadn't been enough.
"Thought you'd drowned," Sean greeted him when he finally came out. He tipped fried eggs onto toast covered in melted cheese and handed Viggo the plate.
"I was filthy," Viggo replied. "That looks good."
"You're in serious need of dill," Sean said.
"Okay," Viggo agreed. "Does this mean I can raid your herb garden?"
"It'll cost you." Sean gave him a look from under his eyelashes. "Help me put down some border timbers next weekend, and you can have anything you want."
Viggo swallowed a sip of orange juice the wrong way and coughed. "Okay."
"Good. I think we have everything we need here." Sean licked butter off his thumb. Viggo looked away, counted to ten. When he looked back, Sean was sitting down and peppering his eggs. "You know," Sean began affably, "if you don't tell me what's bothering you, I'm going to get you drunk enough to talk."
He had a mouthful of eggs and toast and cheese, so Viggo just shook his head and chewed. "I'm too tired to get drunk," he said when he'd swallowed. "And there's nothing to talk about. I'm just...er..." He lost his train of thought as Sean nibbled a bit of cheese from his fork. "Uh. Yeah."
"You are so out of it," Sean laughed. "Finish up and go to bed. I'll wash up, alright?"
"I'm fine," Viggo replied before giving in to the world's biggest yawn. "Ooops. Damn. Sorry."
"That's it," Sean said. "Go to bed."
"I can't sleep on a full stomach," Viggo protested.
"That were hardly enough to fill your stomach. Go on."
Viggo grumbled about being treated like a two-year-old but got up anyway. Sleep would be good. Sleep would be grand. "Thanks," he told Sean. "It was good of you to do this for me."
"You'd do it for me, mate," Sean replied. "Sleep well."
He thought for sure he wouldn't be able to sleep; when he was this bone-tired, it was hard to relax. Yet after brushing his teeth and pulling off his clothes and sliding between the cool sheets, he found himself drifting, drowsily listening to the sounds of someone else in the house. He could hear the muted clatter of dishes, the slosh of running water, the muffled thump of cabinets opening and closing. The sounds were somehow comforting.
He imagined Sean moving around the small kitchen, his head bent, the light overhead glinting gold in his short hair. He pictured white suds forming thin bracelets on Sean's tanned forearms, water splashing over the lip of the sink onto his t-shirt and leaving small dark marks like thumbprints that he'd rub absently, fingertips sliding the damp material away from his skin.
Viggo turned his face into his pillow and tried not to think of what he couldn't have.
**
He was dreaming that someone was touching his face with warm hands.
Viggo sighed and shifted. The light touch on his temples moved down to the crest of his cheekbones, cupped the curves of his jaw. In his dream, he tilted his head back, baring his throat. Fingertips skimmed across his pulse, rested lightly in the shallow dip between his collarbones. He moved his feet restlessly against the sheet. The touch moved; now he could feel palms against his chest, warmth radiating from fingers that spread across his skin. A thumb brushed over his nipple, circled gently, lightly. Short blunt nails skated across his ribcage. It felt too good to tickle. He kicked at the sheet again, felt it slip down his thighs so that cool air drifted across his groin. He willed the dream-hands to continue their path and shivered when a single fingertip traced a line down the center of his belly and circled his navel.
Viggo woke up moaning. Moonlight lapped at his hip. He hitched up on his elbows, his breath coming fast. The air felt heavy, as if someone had been leaning over him moments before and had just moved away, leaving a trace of warmth that settled over him. He spoke without thinking, the name pushing past his teeth and lips. "Sean?"
Of course, Sean was gone. There were no more comforting sounds coming from the kitchen, and the house felt dark and still. It was just a dream, a sensual, vivid dream.
Viggo blinked down at his straining erection, then gingerly turned onto his side. He was too tired to masturbate. He wanted to slip back into that dream. He wanted what he couldn't have.
"Sean," he sighed to the room.
"Yeah, Vig?" the shadows answered quietly, and he went rigid, goose bumps rising on his arms and legs. He stared into the moonlight-dappled darkness, certain he'd lost his mind, certain that his hallucinations had gained a familiar, throaty voice.
A shadow moved, and the moonlight picked out a shoulder, an arm, the curved rim of an ear. Sean sat on the floor by the window, one knee drawn up, his face in shadow.
The throb between Viggo's legs finally spurred him to reach for the sheet. He fumbled with the linen, fumbled for words, found both beyond his reach.
"No," Sean murmured. "Don't. Don't cover up."
Viggo flushed all over, heat blooming along his arms and legs and chest. It wasn't as though Sean hadn't seen him naked; they shared a trailer after all. But it was one thing to change from costume to street clothes while you talked about how much your feet hurt or how you couldn't wait to get a cold beer, and quite another to lie in moonlight with an aching erection. "Sean," he finally mumbled, half-protest, half-plea.
"I never thought I could feel this way," Sean began, his voice soft and low. "Not after three marriages and as many divorces."
Viggo's breath locked in his chest somewhere around his trip-hammering heart.
"Last week," Sean went on, "when you showed up and asked me to kiss you, I thought I was hallucinating at first. You know how you want something so bad, and then it lands in your lap like a miracle? You can't really believe it." He leaned forward, wrapped his arms around his knee. "I've thought about that kiss a thousand times, Vig," he murmured. "The way your mouth felt, the way you tasted. I've wanted..." He trailed off into a sigh. "I feel like a bloody stalker, watching you, wishing for things I can't even name. I had to drink a beer tonight to loosen meself up enough to tell you this. Tomorrow, I'll convince you that you dreamed all of it, that I didn't creep into your room and watch you sleep. That I'm not wishing I had the courage to crawl into that bed with you."
Viggo's breath broke on a sigh. He rose up on his elbow, held out his hand. "Come here," he said softly.
"I can't," Sean muttered. "I don't want to fuck this up, Vig. I don't want to fuck up our friendship."
"You won't," Viggo told him. "You won't."
"Are you...do you feel the same way about me?" Sean asked, his tone somewhere between gruff and shy.
"I almost walked in front of a car today because I was thinking about you instead of watching where I was going," Viggo admitted.
"Is that why you've been so spacey all week?"
Viggo nodded, certain that he was blushing all the way to his ears now.
"We're a couple of nutters," Sean finally muttered. "Both of us mooning about and too chicken to say a word."
"You didn't look like you were mooning about," Viggo protested. "You've been acting like nothing happened."
"I was pretending nothing had happened, you crazy sod!"
"So stop pretending and get over here," Viggo told him, all too aware of the irony of his words and the goofy grin that was making his face ache.
Sean hit the mattress hard enough to make Viggo bounce. Viggo scooted over and watched as clothing was peeled off and tossed aside. He let out an "Ooof!" of pleased surprise when Sean swarmed over him, wrapping him in heat and skin. Sean's kiss felt like sunlight on his lips. Viggo grumbled a protest when the kiss ended much sooner than he expected or wished.
"We can take this slow, right?" Sean whispered, nose to nose with him. "I haven't...I've never..."
Viggo pulled his head down until he could feel the brush of Sean's lashes against his cheek. Sean's hair was soft against his fingers. "We have all the time in the world."
"That's good, then." Sean nuzzled in, rumbled a short laugh against his ear. "Maybe Ian can give us pointers on bloke sex."
"I imagine he'll even draw pictures for us," Viggo laughed.
They lay belly to belly, legs entwined. Sean played gently with the hair on Viggo's chest. "You didn't dream it," he murmured against Viggo's shoulder. "I touched you while you were sleeping. I couldn't help meself."
"It's okay," Viggo replied. "We can touch each other any time we want now." He rested his hand on Sean's hip, let his fingers trace a circle on the smooth, warm skin. He could feel his cock stirring against Sean's, but he was content to lie still and let the sweet ache simmer under his skin. They had time. There was nothing beyond this bed in its ocean of moonlight, nothing more important than the man in his arms. Sean's breathing evened out and deepened. He sighed and draped an arm across Viggo's waist.
Viggo stroked Sean's back and thought about the bright stretch of days ahead. Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, he wouldn't have to pretend.
Summary: Viggo pretends he's not dreaming about Sean.
Rated: R
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 2853 Read: 800
Published: 31 Jul 2009 Updated: 31 Jul 2009