Viggo/Sean!
Jan. 16th, 2006 01:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
archetA fast, short rather angsty ficlet because suddenly I felt that if I didn't post some VigBean, I'd bust. ;)
Title: Replay - Scene Stealer
Author: Archet
Pairing: Viggo/Sean
Summary: “Help me understand," he says, voice low and uncertain.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Fiction, pure and simple, and in no way implies anything as to the real lives to the lovely men who are inspirations for these characters.
Feedback: welcomed and appreciated!
***
“Help me understand,” he says, voice low and uncertain. I want to reach out, want to soothe the turmoil from his green eyes, take apart his uncertainty and make it into something else, but I don’t.
“I can’t do this alone,” he admits, eyes going darker, greener, if you can imagine, and I can. I can and I do, I imagine everything about him all the time, but now, I can’t do what we both need me to do.
“Why don’t you fucking say something?” he demands finally, and I want to answer him. I want to tell him that yes, I will say something, I’ll say everything if only he would listen, if he could only hear it. I would, but I don’t, because despite his words he won’t hear, he won’t listen. Not now, like this.
“Fine. Fine, that’s how you want it, then that’s how it is,” he says, low and quiet and I can feel his defeat, and jesus, I’d change the world for him, to have him, if I could, if I only knew how.
He leaves, just turns and walks away, shoulders slumped, every line of his beautiful body a study in exhaustion and finally, I can breathe. One breath, two, three all in a row and my heart’s pounding. Fuck, but I’m a fool.
Pressing the button on the remote the television winks off, taking him with it, and yeah, I can see why they’re saying ‘Oscar’ and ‘Sean Bean’ in the same sentence this year. The movie’s fine but Sean . . . god, he who was my Boromir is finally getting the recognition he deserves.
On impulse I grab the remote again, stab at the buttons, working them until he’s back onscreen, those knock-me-on-my-ass breathtaking green eyes looking out at me . . . at no one. “Help me understand,” he says again on replay, voice low and uncertain.
I want to. God, but I need to and I reach for my cell phone, pulling up his number, my thumb hovering over the ‘send’ button.
“I can’t do this alone,” he says, and fuck, neither can I.
I grip the phone, stare at him onscreen as his scene, his glorious Golden Globe scene, plays out, and hell, what do I do?
“What do you want, Sean?” I ask him, but he’s already walking away, every line of his beautiful body a study in exhaustion and finally, I can breathe.
When the phone hits the far wall it doesn’t even leave a dent, doesn’t even crack. Like me, it finds a way to hold together, somehow.
Title: Replay - Scene Stealer
Author: Archet
Pairing: Viggo/Sean
Summary: “Help me understand," he says, voice low and uncertain.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Fiction, pure and simple, and in no way implies anything as to the real lives to the lovely men who are inspirations for these characters.
Feedback: welcomed and appreciated!
***
“Help me understand,” he says, voice low and uncertain. I want to reach out, want to soothe the turmoil from his green eyes, take apart his uncertainty and make it into something else, but I don’t.
“I can’t do this alone,” he admits, eyes going darker, greener, if you can imagine, and I can. I can and I do, I imagine everything about him all the time, but now, I can’t do what we both need me to do.
“Why don’t you fucking say something?” he demands finally, and I want to answer him. I want to tell him that yes, I will say something, I’ll say everything if only he would listen, if he could only hear it. I would, but I don’t, because despite his words he won’t hear, he won’t listen. Not now, like this.
“Fine. Fine, that’s how you want it, then that’s how it is,” he says, low and quiet and I can feel his defeat, and jesus, I’d change the world for him, to have him, if I could, if I only knew how.
He leaves, just turns and walks away, shoulders slumped, every line of his beautiful body a study in exhaustion and finally, I can breathe. One breath, two, three all in a row and my heart’s pounding. Fuck, but I’m a fool.
Pressing the button on the remote the television winks off, taking him with it, and yeah, I can see why they’re saying ‘Oscar’ and ‘Sean Bean’ in the same sentence this year. The movie’s fine but Sean . . . god, he who was my Boromir is finally getting the recognition he deserves.
On impulse I grab the remote again, stab at the buttons, working them until he’s back onscreen, those knock-me-on-my-ass breathtaking green eyes looking out at me . . . at no one. “Help me understand,” he says again on replay, voice low and uncertain.
I want to. God, but I need to and I reach for my cell phone, pulling up his number, my thumb hovering over the ‘send’ button.
“I can’t do this alone,” he says, and fuck, neither can I.
I grip the phone, stare at him onscreen as his scene, his glorious Golden Globe scene, plays out, and hell, what do I do?
“What do you want, Sean?” I ask him, but he’s already walking away, every line of his beautiful body a study in exhaustion and finally, I can breathe.
When the phone hits the far wall it doesn’t even leave a dent, doesn’t even crack. Like me, it finds a way to hold together, somehow.
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