*****
"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.
*****
Summary: Viggo needs to go somewhere.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: A Long JourneyChapters: 9 Completed: Yes
Word count: 30289 Read: 12253
Published: 31 Jul 2009 Updated: 31 Jul 2009