Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly.
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see.
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free.
Blackbird fly, blackbird fly
Into the light of a dark black night.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly.
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.
John Lennon & Paul McCartney
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When they’d said on the weather forecast that something of a warm spell was on its way, he hadn’t taken much notice - it was still early May, after all. But in the small hours of the morning Sean awoke damp and uncomfortable under too much duvet in a room stuffy with the night. He pushed the covers away and lay naked, letting the sweat dry upon his body.
Sleep eluded him. The stale heat, the rumpled sheets, the torment within his mind… There was no peace from any of it.
The back room overlooking the garden was quiet but airless. Admitting defeat he rose and found himself in the front room, the one with the French windows opening onto the little balcony with its peeling wrought iron railings, rickety table and chairs, and far too many potted plants. The large plastic bottle of water was meant for the plants but it was clean - well, clean-ish – and he needed a drink. He opened the glass doors and stepped outside.
Only water. Too many nights he’d been awake at this hour downing vodka, whisky, cooking sherry. Anything that had come to hand. Anything to dull the pain and fear.
Time - it was supposed to be the great healer, but he was beginning to have serious doubts. Viggo had given him all the time he needed and maybe that had been too much. Perhaps it would have been better if Viggo had forced his hand, bullied him into making a decision then and there, rather than being so understanding, patient, trusting and above all – God damn him – loving.
Despite the unseasonable warmth, Sean shivered as a thin early morning mist curled upwards from the square. Wandering back into the room he found a spare blanket, picked up the first item of clothing he could find and pulled it on.
Then he realised what it was. Viggo’s t-shirt.
Why it had been left behind Sean didn’t know. What he did know was that it was the only thing he had which still carried Viggo’s scent. Just. Fading now, elusive, almost lost under Sean’s own scent after too many wearings and no washings. Soon it too would be lost forever.
There was no point in going back to bed. It was too early to get up but too late to sleep. Sitting on the balcony wrapped in the blanket, Viggo’s shirt and a cloak of night air, only water in the bottle for a change, pieces of the puzzle he had tried so hard to ignore began to slip quietly into place.
Viggo had come to him, gently and honestly told of his love, stayed and waited, but had left without an answer. Those few short days spent together had been some of the most confusing Sean had ever known. Thoughts and emotions he’d never realised he possessed - let alone repressed - were suddenly dancing wildly in his brain, demanding attention.
It had been all too much.
And then, as swiftly and silently as he had arrived, Viggo was gone, taking – Sean now knew – a large part of his heart with him, leaving behind only a t-shirt.
At first there had been hesitant phone calls, cautious texts, the occasional postcard or letter enclosing a photo from whatever film Viggo was working on. Gradually these had grown more sporadic and lately there had been nothing. And now, Sean finally realised – no, not realised, admitted – that not only had Viggo offered him a love more deep and true than any other he’d ever known, but that he wanted and needed to return that love.
But ‘now’ was also when Viggo had all but disappeared from his life. No calls, no letters, no funny little gifts from around the world. Not that Sean really needed any of them. What he needed was Viggo himself, warm of heart and body, but it was too late to tell him. Sean had been given all the time he needed yet had managed to squander it in a haze of alcohol and denial.
Suddenly disgusted with himself, Sean upended the water bottle over his head in an act of self-mortification, soaking his ruffled hair, gasping from the shock. He buried his head in his arms and for the first time in all the months since Viggo had turned his life upside-down, wept like a child.
In the tangle of garden surrounded by the square of houses, lost somewhere within the tall plane trees, a blackbird began to sing. Tentatively at first, trying his voice for the first time that day, almost nervous of its own beauty.
Sean raised his head, wiped the tears away with the back of his hand and pulled the blanket closer. The blackbird’s song had long been his favourite. Since childhood he had always paused and listened, captivated by the melodious fluting, the almost conversational intonation, the wry chuckle at the end of a phrase. It felt as though the song contained a message, but one teasingly just beyond his grasp.
The blackbird had sung when Viggo had been there. New to the call of native British birds, the American had stood silent and still, letting the song wash over him. ‘Liquid music’ he had called it, ‘spiritual balm’, and Sean had loved him for loving it.
Eyes closed, listening intently, Sean let the song’s healing power slip over and into him, allowed it to melt away his sorrow. Almost as if it understood, the blackbird renewed its efforts, adding new vigour to the melody. Slowly but surely all the birds of Belsize Park joined the blackbird’s call, welcoming the dawn of a new day.
Beauty and strength, simple but pure - that was what he had always drawn from the secret meaning of the blackbird’s song and now it seeped unnoticed into his soul.
He knew. Knew that he loved Viggo, knew that he had been a fool to deny that love and the truth of his sexuality. Knew that he could no longer wallow in regret and self-pity waiting for Viggo to return, that he must go out and find him, track him down and bring him home.
A low hum, the rattle of glass and a milk float trundled around the corner of the square. The world was waking up, intruding upon the private microcosm that Sean had shared with the blackbird. The bubble faded rather than burst. Sean found himself slipping back into the reality of the new day but able to view its very ordinariness with fresh eyes, eyes that for too long had seen only darkness and despair. He was alive again.
Milk bottles clattered onto steps, the milkman whistling whilst he worked. Front doors opened and closed, neighbours emerged blinking like moles. A low plane droned overhead, lights winking as it banked into its landing trajectory. The earliest risers surfaced, setting off for the daily grind. From down a side street a solitary figure appeared, bag slung casually across its back, striding purposefully. A figure Sean knew all too well, a figure that could not be real, must be a dream, could only be Viggo.
Sean was on his feet, gripping the balcony railings, straining to see properly in the growing light. The figure paused as it crossed the empty street, glancing upwards, breaking into that distinctive grin.
‘I guess the blackbird called me home.’
Only a mumble, as always, but clear enough in the morning’s quiet.
Unable to respond, Sean remained frozen. Then swiftly and purposefully he retreated into the room, flinging the t-shirt into the laundry basket just as the doorbell rang.
In the square the blackbird kept careful watch until the front door closed.
Then, chuckling loudly, he was gone.
Summary: It had been all too much.
Rated: PG-13
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 1411 Read: 966
Published: 02 Aug 2009 Updated: 02 Aug 2009