'Hungry as an archway
Through which the troops have passed,
I stand in ruins behind you (...)'
L. Cohen, 'Take This Longing'
*
Sean's no stranger to temptation. It's preyed on him for longer than he can remember. Now is no exception. It lurks behind unlikely corners, stalks him from afar in stolen glances across catering tables. Challenges him to take, to steal, ravish, if he dares.
'He fought bravely', they'll say, honourably. To no avail.
Temptation is mutual, this much he knows. There have been signs. Not quite accidental touches; the breeze of a soft breath too close to his skin.
Sean fights temptation every waking hour, with every fibre of his being, all the while praying for a battle lost. He fights temptation, but not the blade. He never fights the blade.
The need is there always, like a song learnt long ago, humming the soundtrack of his life. It's welcome, a warm, comforting shelter found against all odds amid the wasteland.
He knows the drill by heart; identifies the first warnings, the vague unease, the light-headedness, within a second. The mute panic that ensues. A good half hour during which self-control is tested to its limits as he struggles not to hyperventilate, not to run, not to bang his head against walls. Win or lose, he doesn't care either way.
When it fades, giving way to a deceiving sense of relief, he feels almost pleasantly exhausted. But he knows better. There's still the all too familiar feeling of unreality to deal with. And there's nowhere to go from there.
That's when he cuts. It's either that or ending it. Because where he is, there's absolutely no reason to live.
The pain and the blood bring him back. In that first instant of searing pain when blade meets skin, it's like he's just learned how to breathe again. Oxygen. Light. Colour. Life.
*
Sean stands in his bathroom, holding on to the edge of the sink with his right hand. Three identical stripes of red adorn his left wrist, spiral down his hand and around his fingers, drip onto warm water. Crimson tears from a man who cannot cry.
*
This is the drill. This is his life. The scars are the record of his history. He can follow the trail of three divorces through the markings on his ribcage. His left calf talks of a time when he was so lonely he thought he could have died and no one would've noticed. Right above his hipbone, a lost love that will never be forgotten. And now, his wrist will forever bear witness to the glorious battle of wills he'd never meant to win in the first place.
*
Viggo hovers above Sean's naked body, learning all there is to learn about him by kissing his way up a path of scars that leads inexorably towards his left arm. Once there, the kisses cease. His fingers trace the three red streaks. 'These are fresh', he thinks, and is overwhelmed by what it means. He closes his eyes for a moment, breathes one, two times, then lifts them to meet Sean's, silent and resigned where his own are bright and questioning.
"These are mine?" Viggo's question doesn't have much interrogation in it.
Sean smiles at all the emotions Viggo can put in a single phrase: tenderness, concern, curiosity. Being a simpler man, he settles for reassurance. "These are yours."
Summary: Sean's no stranger to temptation.
Rated: R
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: BloodplayChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 566 Read: 735
Published: 08 Aug 2009 Updated: 08 Aug 2009