The reshoots schedule is nowhere near as bad as principal filming, and one lazy Sunday afternoon Sean finds himself sitting on the beach with most of his castmates, watching the play of the waves on the surf. It's March, a clear, luminous late summer day with a bright blue sky and a pale yellow sun; the ocean looks dark and deep and tranquil.
Orlando is talking to Billy, a few paces in front of Sean: he shouldn't have been here, given that his own reshoots had been moved to February to leave him free to film Ned Kelly in Australia; yet here he is, jostling with timetables and jet-lag to meet with his old mates once again.
Sean has to smile at that. Orlando has changed since his elvish days: he's more assured now, less wide-eyed; yet he's still playful and loyal, much like a puppy. His hair has grown out, curling up in loose dark ringlets, drifting lazily in the wind. He looks tanned and fit.
If Sean were so inclined...
"Oi," Orlando calls, turning when Billy walks away and catching Sean's look. "You checkin' out my arse?"
The laughter catches Sean by surprise, and feels good in his chest. "I think I was, yeah."
Orlando strides over to where Sean's sitting. "Oh, that's all right then." He grins, and plops down next to Sean. "Want to cop a feel?"
Sean laughs again, shakes his head. "D'you ever sleep with people who aren't famous?"
It would be a poor, tasteless remark were it anyone else; but this is Orlando, and it's an old joke between them.
"Not recently, no," Orlando shrugs, not minding in the least. A beat later he adds, "Not since Vig," and Sean suddenly remembers how the joke started.
"You're famous enough, anyway," Orlando says then, and he leans closer to run his fingers through Sean's shorn beard, the touch almost light enough; almost careless enough. "Want to have a go at me?"
Sean sees the smirk--the teasing-but-not-quite smirk--in Orlando's dark eyes; pretending that he doesn't feels easier than it should, somehow. He bats Orlando's hand away with a mock growl. "Sod off. You're not my type."
"You're too straight, mate," Orlando laughs, leaning back again, and keeps his hands obediently to himself.
"I'm so sorry my heterosexuality offends you."
"'S all right." Orlando laces his hands behind his head and lies down, making himself comfortable on Sean's towel. The towel's not large enough for both of them, and the sand is damp and a bit cold; Orlando's lying half on and half off, but he doesn't seem to care. Youth, Sean thinks, and has to stop himself from calling the young man beside him a silly kid; he's not. Not anymore.
"You shaved your chest," Orlando says conversationally, deciding that he's at his most comfortable using Sean as a pillow, and then squirming a little to find the best position.
"Oof," Sean says, Orlando's curls ticklish on his--admittedly--newly shaved skin. "Stop moving so much, will ya? Am trying to get a wink here."
Orlando settles down at last, at ease with his head just below Sean's breastbone. "Whiny bastard," he mumbles, his eyes closing. "You haven't changed a whit." But he stops moving.
Sean doesn't feel like dignifying that with an answer. They lie in silence for a while, the calm rushing of the waves and distant voices and occasional laughter lulling them to sleep. Sean's eyes close; his thoughts wander to his daughters: they used to cuddle up to him and go to sleep with their heads on his chest, on his stomach, when they were younger.
"Haven't seen much of Vig these days." Orlando's voice--matter-of-fact, as though they'd been talking of it all along--reaches Sean when he's almost asleep, breaking the quiet feeling into a handful of glittery shards. Sean can feel uneasiness drift in, and he's not sure who it's coming from.
Viggo's voice drifts to them on the wind. He's droning on about something, low and soft; quoting poetry, maybe. Or describing the trout he caught that morning. Sean can't quite make out the words.
He blinks rapidly as his eyes open, raising a hand to protect them from the brightness of the late afternoon. All he sees at first are blinding white sky and muted grey water; then the light dims, bringing back the colours. Orlando's eyes are still closed.
Sean turns his head to see where the voice's coming from.
So that's why, he thinks, the lad's here on my towel.
"Seems like," he says carefully, "Viggo's got his hands full just now."
Orlando turns his head at that, blinking and craning his neck to follow Sean's line of sight. Then he turns back again, resuming his slouched sprawl. He doesn't feel particularly tense, Sean decides. Or any tenser.
"Oh, that one," he says. Sean's almost sure the note in his voice is not anything quite as ugly as distaste. Or as bland. Orlando closes his eyes again. "That one's straighter than you."
Sean watches Karl grope the front of Viggo's swimming trunks quite unashamedly.
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
Karl's back looks very broad and golden in the warm, brilliant afternoon light. Sean can't be sure, but he's probably bitten Viggo's neck to make Viggo yelp and then laugh, like that. A bit breathless. Viggo's hands look almost pale, splayed against that golden skin.
"Hides it bloody well."
And that is the beginning of a frown on Orlando's smooth forehead. Sean takes his eyes away from Karl's back, and rocks so that Orlando's head bounces a couple of times against his chest. "Now why the Look?"
Orlando's eyes open, and glare at him from under dark, loose curls, an upside-down glare that is really not that impressive. "I mean it, Bean. That one's straight. He just likes to string Vig around."
"Did you hit on him, and he was too straight for you?"
Orlando rolls his eyes. "As if." He moves his head around to get back to his previous position--or to get back at Sean. His curls drag and scratch at Sean's skin, itching. "You know I'm only into famous people anyway."
Sean has to grin at that; he settles back. "Fair enough."
They don't speak after that. Orlando is warm and comfortable against his chest; the urge to scratch passes.
Sean listens to the ocean, the seagulls, people's increasingly scarce conversations around them. Orlando's breathing evens out, his head feels heavier.
Orlando, who's becoming, by now, more famous than Sean; and who would've shared Viggo's towel only six months before.
Orlando, who isn't a silly kid any longer.
Sean can still hear a hobbit call out occasionally to another--little critters, they never change--but by now the afternoon is mostly quiet.
He can't hear Viggo's voice anymore.
He closes his eyes, and wonders if Karl knows that he's straight.
If Sean were so inclined...
I'm straight, too, he tells himself. Of course, that has never been the problem.
"Only young people," Viggo said once. "Not famous people." He'd laughed, a bit breathlessly, in Sean's ear then, his scent filling Sean's nostrils, his arms warm and easy around Sean's waist; his stubble had scratched against Sean's cheek when he'd leant back and got up to go sit beside Dominic in the crowded pub.
Viggo doesn't see gender or inclination; Sean knows this.
Viggo sees possibilities.
And sometimes, he doesn't see.
There's still something, like an itch, bothering Sean. It's not Orlando. It doesn't come from outside. It subsides, from time to time; and he can never really scratch it away.
The beach is so quiet, it feels like they're alone on it.
The light slants red shadows, like open fingers, behind Sean's closed eyelids, and little by little bleeds out of the day.
Summary: One lazy Sunday afternoon Sean finds himself sitting on the beach with most of his castmates.
Rated: PG
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 1293 Read: 745
Published: 01 Aug 2009 Updated: 01 Aug 2009