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Fic:VigBean
Right, another musically inspired fic. Couldn't be helped, ;)
Title: Aria
Author: Archet
Pairing: Viggo/Sean
Rating: PG
Summary: Viggo drifted among the shadows, headed no where particular but knowing he needed to be in motion, moving.
Disclaimer: oh, you know none of it’s true, and implies nothing as to the real lives to the lovely men who inspired these characters.
Feedback: welcomed and appreciated.
Viggo drifted among the shadows, headed no where particular but knowing he needed to be in motion, moving. Wasn’t anything pressing to take care of, shooting for the day had wrapped and he’d even left Aragorn’s sword in its case in his trailer. For once, he wasn’t submersed in one of his Rangerly moods. Tonight he was just restless, looking for something, someplace where he might just be still.
The moon was up, a bright round pearl in a sky that was more grey than black, the stars all but washed out with moonlight. Viggo paused in his hunt for a destination, stood in the shadow of a trailer that was deeper than the blanket of moonlit night that shaded everything except for the occasional patch of brightness cast out by an exterior light or from windows. The usual bustle of the set-even at this hour someone was always working on something somewhere-seemed subdued, and Viggo wondered at that, but then, it was after three in the morning. Most sane folk where asleep if they were able, at least those unlike Pete, who was constantly hop scotching from unit to unit around the clock with the frenetic energy of a Hobbit hopped up on speed.
Viggo leaned against the cool metal skin of one of a dozen dozen trailers on the set, and considered the moon that hung silently in the evening sky. Every now and again he caught a noise, a generator cough to life, the slam of a door, laughter. A scrap of conversation reached him . . . where the fuck are tomorrow’s Hobbit feet?! . . . another door slam cut off the rest. Viggo grinned, hoped a certain circle of Hobbits (and obligatory Elf) hadn’t been up to their usual tricks. Even now, in this relatively peaceful portion of night, as the skies wheeled them toward morning, someone was freaked out. That was pretty normal too, he thought. Organized chaos . . . kind of.
Viggo was on the verge of pushing away from his spot, ready to head elsewhere, when something else drifted to his ear on the gentle, crisp breeze. Tender strains of . . . music? Viggo stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight, intrigued. A voice mingled with it too, somewhere nearby. He took a few more steps, stopped, listened. Nothing.
Viggo frowned, strangely disappointed, but before he could decide whether to stay or go, the music came again, echoed between the rows of trailers and the Kraft Services tent, and all the other assorted equipment, halogen lights on their stands, generators crouched in the moonlight and numberless other things. He started walking, turned his head from side to side, suddenly anxious to pick up the thread of music again.
Viggo turned a corner, found the sound grow more distinct. He discerned the voice accompaniment more easily now, a high, lilting tone, clear as crystal. It dipped and rose, twined with the music made of strings and the steady deep strum of brass, the suddenly plaintive, feather light touch of violins. All delicate as the moonlight, and yet possessed an alluring strength, just the same. Emotional, and Viggo sought it out, tracked the echo between two trailers, and finally to the door of a third, left slightly ajar.
Italian, Viggo realized suddenly. Italian opera he further concluded as he slowly pulled the door open and peeked inside. Maybe . . . an aria? Rude, perhaps, just barging in, but he was too curious now. The interior of the trailer was darker than the night outside, and Viggo stealthily mounted the steps and eased just inside, on the watch in case he wouldn’t be welcomed. He blinked, eyes gradually adjusting, his gaze drawn the brightest thing in the room. A glowing red dot, accompanied by light green dots, that he soon realized was part of the display on a portable stereo. The green buttons shone faintly in the darkness, the red light held steady, indicated that power flowed through the radio without interruption, an unblinking point of reference.
Viggo eased deeper into the room, wished he’d paid more attention to where he was going before. Goose bumps rose over his skin as the music swelled, as the singer, the soprano, nailed her notes, voice infusing the evening air with longing. His honed Ranger instincts kicked in and saved him from stubbing the toe of his boot on a dark shape on the floor. A suitcase, he thought. Casting around, he spotted something, gleaming muted in the square of moonlight sliding in through the window. He leaned in and saw it was a chess board, the pieces neatly arranged.
Something niggled in the back of his mind, and he took another step. This was familiar, somehow. He knew this place. The stereo poured the music into the small space, and the soprano’s voice climbed the scales, seemed to pour the Italian right inside Viggo and fill him. He turned his head, some slip of instinct that had his gaze swinging around. Another window on the opposite side of the trailer let in more moonlight, and there sat his destination.
Blonde hair, silvered by moonlight, beckoned Viggo closer. Carefully, he took the few steps required, stopped, stared. The aria wound around him, vibrated against his eardrums, painted the night with beautiful music and Viggo could only stare at Sean as he slept. For a moment, the thought wouldn’t compute. Sean and opera? His friend who drank Viggo under the table on a regular basis and could cut down a man with a look. His friend who was known to cart a chess board around the set and invited anyone to match him. His friend that possessed a smile which soaked Viggo with warmth right down to his bones.
His Sean, the continual contradiction, the bit of rough from Sheffield with the caring hands that had guided Viggo safely home, more than once, after a hard day’s shoot. He thought suddenly, Sean was the aria. Beautiful layers of depth capable of dragging the emotion right out of him by simply being.
Viggo eased closer, smiled into the cool darkness as Sean stirred from his doze, and strangely, showed no surprise at finding Viggo leaning over him. The aria eddied between hem, crafted currents of beauty in the moonlit darkness, and Viggo drew even closer, wanted to hold this music in his hands. His fingers brushed across Sean’s warm, soft lips, and when met with nothing but stillness, Viggo leaned down, pressed his mouth where his fingers had been.
Their first kiss flowed like the music, spiraled from gentle touches to deep, searching notes, and after an impossibly long moment spent stroking Sean’s mouth, Viggo drew back and there was only music between them until, “Been looking forward to that.”
Viggo grinned, heart pounding as he replied, “Me too. You speak Italian, by any chance?”
Sean laughed softly, a warm, barely heard sound under the layer of strings and soprano. “Nah, were hoping you did.”
Viggo laughed too, lowered down beside Sean on the couch, and for all that his hands and his mouth were on the move, inside, he fell still.
Title: Aria
Author: Archet
Pairing: Viggo/Sean
Rating: PG
Summary: Viggo drifted among the shadows, headed no where particular but knowing he needed to be in motion, moving.
Disclaimer: oh, you know none of it’s true, and implies nothing as to the real lives to the lovely men who inspired these characters.
Feedback: welcomed and appreciated.
Viggo drifted among the shadows, headed no where particular but knowing he needed to be in motion, moving. Wasn’t anything pressing to take care of, shooting for the day had wrapped and he’d even left Aragorn’s sword in its case in his trailer. For once, he wasn’t submersed in one of his Rangerly moods. Tonight he was just restless, looking for something, someplace where he might just be still.
The moon was up, a bright round pearl in a sky that was more grey than black, the stars all but washed out with moonlight. Viggo paused in his hunt for a destination, stood in the shadow of a trailer that was deeper than the blanket of moonlit night that shaded everything except for the occasional patch of brightness cast out by an exterior light or from windows. The usual bustle of the set-even at this hour someone was always working on something somewhere-seemed subdued, and Viggo wondered at that, but then, it was after three in the morning. Most sane folk where asleep if they were able, at least those unlike Pete, who was constantly hop scotching from unit to unit around the clock with the frenetic energy of a Hobbit hopped up on speed.
Viggo leaned against the cool metal skin of one of a dozen dozen trailers on the set, and considered the moon that hung silently in the evening sky. Every now and again he caught a noise, a generator cough to life, the slam of a door, laughter. A scrap of conversation reached him . . . where the fuck are tomorrow’s Hobbit feet?! . . . another door slam cut off the rest. Viggo grinned, hoped a certain circle of Hobbits (and obligatory Elf) hadn’t been up to their usual tricks. Even now, in this relatively peaceful portion of night, as the skies wheeled them toward morning, someone was freaked out. That was pretty normal too, he thought. Organized chaos . . . kind of.
Viggo was on the verge of pushing away from his spot, ready to head elsewhere, when something else drifted to his ear on the gentle, crisp breeze. Tender strains of . . . music? Viggo stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight, intrigued. A voice mingled with it too, somewhere nearby. He took a few more steps, stopped, listened. Nothing.
Viggo frowned, strangely disappointed, but before he could decide whether to stay or go, the music came again, echoed between the rows of trailers and the Kraft Services tent, and all the other assorted equipment, halogen lights on their stands, generators crouched in the moonlight and numberless other things. He started walking, turned his head from side to side, suddenly anxious to pick up the thread of music again.
Viggo turned a corner, found the sound grow more distinct. He discerned the voice accompaniment more easily now, a high, lilting tone, clear as crystal. It dipped and rose, twined with the music made of strings and the steady deep strum of brass, the suddenly plaintive, feather light touch of violins. All delicate as the moonlight, and yet possessed an alluring strength, just the same. Emotional, and Viggo sought it out, tracked the echo between two trailers, and finally to the door of a third, left slightly ajar.
Italian, Viggo realized suddenly. Italian opera he further concluded as he slowly pulled the door open and peeked inside. Maybe . . . an aria? Rude, perhaps, just barging in, but he was too curious now. The interior of the trailer was darker than the night outside, and Viggo stealthily mounted the steps and eased just inside, on the watch in case he wouldn’t be welcomed. He blinked, eyes gradually adjusting, his gaze drawn the brightest thing in the room. A glowing red dot, accompanied by light green dots, that he soon realized was part of the display on a portable stereo. The green buttons shone faintly in the darkness, the red light held steady, indicated that power flowed through the radio without interruption, an unblinking point of reference.
Viggo eased deeper into the room, wished he’d paid more attention to where he was going before. Goose bumps rose over his skin as the music swelled, as the singer, the soprano, nailed her notes, voice infusing the evening air with longing. His honed Ranger instincts kicked in and saved him from stubbing the toe of his boot on a dark shape on the floor. A suitcase, he thought. Casting around, he spotted something, gleaming muted in the square of moonlight sliding in through the window. He leaned in and saw it was a chess board, the pieces neatly arranged.
Something niggled in the back of his mind, and he took another step. This was familiar, somehow. He knew this place. The stereo poured the music into the small space, and the soprano’s voice climbed the scales, seemed to pour the Italian right inside Viggo and fill him. He turned his head, some slip of instinct that had his gaze swinging around. Another window on the opposite side of the trailer let in more moonlight, and there sat his destination.
Blonde hair, silvered by moonlight, beckoned Viggo closer. Carefully, he took the few steps required, stopped, stared. The aria wound around him, vibrated against his eardrums, painted the night with beautiful music and Viggo could only stare at Sean as he slept. For a moment, the thought wouldn’t compute. Sean and opera? His friend who drank Viggo under the table on a regular basis and could cut down a man with a look. His friend who was known to cart a chess board around the set and invited anyone to match him. His friend that possessed a smile which soaked Viggo with warmth right down to his bones.
His Sean, the continual contradiction, the bit of rough from Sheffield with the caring hands that had guided Viggo safely home, more than once, after a hard day’s shoot. He thought suddenly, Sean was the aria. Beautiful layers of depth capable of dragging the emotion right out of him by simply being.
Viggo eased closer, smiled into the cool darkness as Sean stirred from his doze, and strangely, showed no surprise at finding Viggo leaning over him. The aria eddied between hem, crafted currents of beauty in the moonlit darkness, and Viggo drew even closer, wanted to hold this music in his hands. His fingers brushed across Sean’s warm, soft lips, and when met with nothing but stillness, Viggo leaned down, pressed his mouth where his fingers had been.
Their first kiss flowed like the music, spiraled from gentle touches to deep, searching notes, and after an impossibly long moment spent stroking Sean’s mouth, Viggo drew back and there was only music between them until, “Been looking forward to that.”
Viggo grinned, heart pounding as he replied, “Me too. You speak Italian, by any chance?”
Sean laughed softly, a warm, barely heard sound under the layer of strings and soprano. “Nah, were hoping you did.”
Viggo laughed too, lowered down beside Sean on the couch, and for all that his hands and his mouth were on the move, inside, he fell still.
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Hehe and I love Viggo brazenness of seeing no problem in breaking and entering!
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~Kris
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Thank you so much for writing this and sharing it with us!
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The aria eddied between hem, crafted currents of beauty in the moonlit darkness, and Viggo drew even closer, wanted to hold this music in his hands.
Very sensual, very loving
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These are both so lovely; the flow of the music perfect with their movements, and Viggo successfully finding a place to just be still.
I must say, though, the idea of a Hobbit hopped up on speed fills me with dread! ;)
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