On the one hand, Viggo thought morosely, sitting down to eat breakfast, there was the whole gay thing.
He was wondering--again--how he'd come to be in this situation in the first place. Love, of course: he'd fallen in love, and that had been the beginning of the end.
He squirmed a little on his chair, trying to get comfortable, and started eating, making a mental note to tell off the stupid jerk if he ever again insisted on making economy of lube the next time he was on top.
On the one hand, as he was saying, there was the whole gay thing, which was awkward and potentially risky from each and every angle: you came out and everyone would get in your face, and you weren't 'that actor' anymore, but 'that gay actor'; you stayed in the closet, and people who were out would start to call you on your cowardice and opportunism and so on.
There was also the living together thing: Viggo wasn't really big on that. He'd always needed his space, needed to be free to just wander off and be with himself and just, you know, not hear from people, at least for a while. That had always been something that weighed heavily on his relationships, and sooner or later brought them down.
Then there was the sex, of course: that, he thought, shifting to rest his weight more on his hip, was great. But quite frankly, he hardly needed to be in a relationship to get laid, now did he?
There also were the other, petty things--like don't fuck around with whomever happens to catch your fancy and don't take things for granted and remember anniversaries and don't get (too) mad when he doesn't remember anniversaries and... Little things like that, in short.
He really wasn't cut for long-term relationships.
What the fuck was he doing here, then? Living with a man, not particularly caring if the first paparazzi out there caught them making out in the backyard, sitting down to organize both their schedules so they could spend most of their free time together, planning a secret romantic trip months ahead as anniversary gift (though New Zealand was always lovely in winter)?
Going crazy, that's what he was doing.
He had lost his mind, surely. He grunted, putting two spoonfuls of sugar in his coffee.
Love. Yeah, well. There was that, and it was well and good and everything. But just look at the practicalities it brought on! Just counting on one hand, it was already enough to make him run screaming for the hills and never...
"Oi, did you see where I kicked off me boot last night?"
Viggo looked up to see a frowning, freshly showered Sean in the kitchen doorway--one foot booted and the other clad in a white cotton sock—looking perplexedly around.
"Couch," Viggo said, sipping his coffee. He took a second to recall where they'd started the night before. "Under the couch," he specified.
Sean wandered off in the other room, and after a moment Viggo heard him holler, "Found you, you bugger!"
Sean wandered back in, wholly booted this time. "Ta, mate," he said, and dropped a kiss on the top of Viggo's head before sitting in front of him with his own cup of coffee, promptly stealing a slice of Viggo's toast.
Viggo went back to his own breakfast, pushing the whole plate in front of Sean, and just watched him munch happily away. Inwardly he was rolling his eyes and patting himself on the head: 'on the one hand,' really.
Now completely awake--damn mornings anyway--he made another mental note (the carpet in front of the couch needed dry-cleaning), and hid an embarrassingly happy grin behind his cup.
On the other hand, of course, there was Sean.
Summary: Viggo is not, apparently, a morning person.
Rated: PG
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 632 Read: 988
Published: 01 Aug 2009 Updated: 01 Aug 2009