At first it was, mostly, about fucking: long hard sessions of raw, intense fucking, that left them panting, lips bruised, bodies marked, aching, sated. And hungry for more.
It was going to parties and pubs and friends' homes and chatting up ladies, or guys, and then leaving them and waiting--waiting to be pushed into the wall out in the dark street or against a piece of furniture in an empty room, waiting to feel hands and lips and teeth and tongue--waiting to be owned. Waiting to be reminded.
It was drinking themselves to stupor and then fucking, until their hearts were thumping in their throats, leaving them breathless and sometimes, later on, making them careless with words--half-acknowledged truths whispered against sweaty skin, eyes widening in the dark, hearts skipping a beat: so easy to see in the darkness, to know; to pretend forgetfulness in the light of morning. Secrets revealed and kept safe.
It was laughing at the hobbits' jokes, working together on the script, rehearsing, sparring. Watching football games, no matter the teams. Sharing tales of ex-wives and children, of past youth, past dreams, past loves.
And then fucking, long and slow, reaching deep inside, sometimes brushing gently over the scars in the souls, and sometimes drawing new blood.
Afterwards, it was intercontinental calls and rare meetings in hotel rooms around the world, the occasional party and premiere, VIP stuff. A gallery in LA. A theatre in London. A dinner somewhere private, sharing old memories and new gossip.
And then, fucking. Happiness hidden in giddy kisses and soft laughter and sleepy nonsense.
And after that too, sometimes it was sleeping curled up together, listening to the other's even breathing until the first lights of dawn; it was watching the telly in silent brain-death and exhaustion, and making dinner while he set the table for two.
Later on still, it was fighting and hiding things and straying and splitting up and being miserable until the moment they couldn't bear it any longer and it started all over again.
It was memorising each other's PA's numbers on their cellphones and remembering to set the alarm and check they wouldn't forget the toothbrush when leaving for the airport and some fucking distant place for some fucking new project.
And arguing about the right brand of coffee or where to spend the only two free weeks together of the year. And buying the kind of beer he hated but couldn't get the other to stop drinking, and it didn't really matter anyway.
And visiting their families and their friends and each other's friends. Learning words in Danish; and to drive on the left side of the road. And sending cards and wishes from only one address; and worrying about their kids and then, about their kids' kids.
And sometimes there still was fucking; and sometimes it was intense and raw and heart-stopping and sometimes it was quick and distracted and sometimes it just wasn't, but it was always, somehow, all right.
Sometimes it was easy to see, and to know, and to remember. And sometimes it was not, but it always worked out all the same.
And in the end, it was a life.
Summary: What it was about...
Rated: PG
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 531 Read: 702
Published: 01 Aug 2009 Updated: 01 Aug 2009