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wordsontongueTitle: Five Times Sean Can't Breathe (and One Time He Can)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stormatdusk
Rating: pg
Warnings: none
Request: Genres - fluff, romance, h/c, angst w/happy ending, au, humor; prompt(s) or general mood(s) - clean sheets (just came to my mind - use it or bend it, or throw it away! *g*); established relationship is fine, but I really love stories where their relationship is either coming together, or is still very new.
Disclaimer: This is only fiction. I don't know anyone you recognize and make no profit from this story.
one. smell
He lifts the tiny jumper from his drawer, brings it to his face and inhales. It's fading now, but Evie's slightly sweet, powdery scent still clings to the soft, spring green fibers and tiny pearl buttons.
The brittle voice in his head reminds him that yes, he'd had a third chance at being a husband, and he'd managed to fuck it up again. Now his baby girl will pay for his failure, as well.
This time away from her won't be like his usual absences. Not a movie like this, such a long shoot, on practically the other side of the world. And bad enough he's away from her now, amidst all this anger and turmoil between Abby and him. But this time... this time he'll be going back will she even remember me? to a different home, one he wouldn't share with Evie. Not really.
They're as apart as they've ever been, as separated as they could be. The realization is cutting.
He's ridiculously grateful that Evie at least has her mum - and Abby is a good one, he'll give her that - and that her big sisters are nearby, and that they love her to pieces. All Sean has of her, though, here in New Zealand, is her photo, a drawing she'd made him, and this jumper he'd stuffed into his suitcase last minute in pointless hope of easing this sense of loss and the loneliness he knew would come.
The cast and crew have been quite supportive, really, when he's let them. Cheerful invitations are extended, to a group dinner or out to a pub, and he accepts as often as he can force himself to. He knows - from experience, god damnit - that getting out and being around people helps. At some point they always ask about Evie, and he pulls out her picture, fatherly pride and the ache of missing her tightening his chest.
Many nights, though, he politely declines the offers of companionship. He goes back to his place alone and opens a bottle. He leaves the lights off.
He presses the jumper against his cheek, tries again to find Evie's scent. The backs of his eyes burn; his lungs won't expand. He wonders if the pain of it all might crush him, if it might just finish him this time.
two. touch
The set's never dull. The sheer number of people involved in a shoot of this magnitude, the multiple cultures all come together, not to mention the Hobbits and the Elf constantly tumbling about like foul-mouthed little otters: all combine for a sort of controlled chaos that Sean is surprised to find himself rather enjoying.
Still, an extra crackle of anticipation is nearly palpable in the atmosphere this morning. Today, they're getting their new Aragorn.
With a few more minutes till he's expected in Wardrobe, Sean gulps his last swallow of coffee. The heat of it thrums down his throat, through his chest, radiates outward to throw off the chill of the damp morning. He's about to toss the empty cup into a bin when suddenly the back of his neck prickles, there's a shout behind him, and - what the fuck?! - he's crushed flat to the bloody ground. He blinks at the spinning sky, very aware of solid arms banded tight around him, a flutter of breath against his face.
"Viggo Mortensen."
A manic grin appears before Sean's eyes. Then the man - Viggo - is laughing, his entire frame shaking with it, jostling Sean. Sean couldn't offer his hand in introduction even if he wanted to, locked in Viggo's strong grasp like this.
Sean shivers hard as a startling this is new wash of awareness engulfs him. His breath is still stolen, as much from the warmth of dancing blue eyes as from the shock of the impact, but as soon as it returns, he'll be laughing right along with the apparently mad bastard atop him.
three. see
They're sitting on the steps of Viggo's trailer, passing time whilst the lighting is adjusted, sharing a smoke and quiet conversation about Viggo's son. Sean likes to watch Viggo talk about Henry. His face softens a bit, the angles smooth out; it's almost imperceptible, but it's there. A breeze tosses a strand of Aragorn's hair across Viggo's eyes and Sean's hand just stops itself lifting to brush it aside.
A Hobbit-shaped object abruptly streaks out of the trailer next door, followed immediately by another. A sleep-rumpled Orlando comes crashing out after them, naked but for a bed sheet that he's trying and mostly failing to keep wrapped around his waist. Dom and Elijah are hooting, gremlin-faced, as they play keep-away with - ah, yes - it's a camera, Sean sees. Orli seems to have... something... painted in bright red on his arse, and when his long arm finally does manage to snatch the camera in mid-arc, down the sheet goes, and the Elf's mooning everyone within a 30-yard radius.
Sean's chortling, but it's not until he glances at Viggo, at those pointed white teeth and crinkled eyes as Viggo laughs himself breathless, that he really loses it. Sean can almost see Viggo's joy friendship, love in the air between them, dappled sunshine on a pond. Then Sean's done for, his breath whooshing out of him as he laughs long and hard enough to see stars.
four. hear
It's not the altitude, nor the sickening lurching this way and that. Well, not only those.
It's the sound of it, the screeching, horrific cacophony of the blades rotating. His nausea ramps up along with that terrible rhythm until the chopping whine blurs into a dizzying, fierce roar, then stretches slowly out again to that horrible pounding, like a live, angry thing.
He used to have nightmares like this when he was a boy. An unseen evil ogre was coming for him, and Sean could sense the distance closing as the giant's crashing footsteps came faster and faster behind him. He's somehow slung right back into those wretched dreams whenever he finds himself trapped in one of these fucking flying cages.
Desperate not to be sick, he mentally scrabbles for comfort, distraction. Then he's remembering overhearing Viggo last week, mumbling something low and soothing to Uraeus. The words don't matter don't worry, it's all going to be alright; it's the quiet, gentle cadence and tone that Sean trusts, that he needs. He clings to the echo of that odd American drone, and it calms his pulse enough that it's not in his ears any longer. Still, he'll wait until he's back on solid ground to exhale.
five. taste
They filmed Boromir's death scene today. His own shots went well enough. Then it was Viggo's turn.
He thinks he managed to keep most of it off his face, the sense of awe that Viggo's performance brought over him. Hell, he surely gave Viggo little back, nothing to react to, lying there stunned as he was, fighting back his own amazed tears.
The scene took forever and was over much too soon. Sean wasn't quite surprised when he heard himself ask Viggo to come for dinner tonight.
He's spent the past two hours convincing himself that what he thought was there today, wasn't. Couldn't have been. It was just the scene.
But Viggo arrives, stands before Sean with hope and friendship and more in his eyes, and Sean needs... he needs...
Viggo's mouth is warm with tobacco and mint and thin restraint. Their mouths move together, take, teeth clashing before they find the right angle and Sean's tasting Viggo's tongue in his own mouth. Long-forgotten lust pulses inside him, a pure thing he hasn't felt since he was young, before everything, before he'd made such a mess of his life, and yes finally please shouldn't don't deserve can't Sean's breath hitches, the beginning of panic.
Viggo pulls back, taking his rich flavor with him, and lays a concerned hand aside Sean's face. Sean can taste his confusion, but speaking requires oxygen, and Sean can't reassure Viggo of anything.
Viggo stands there, breathing, waiting. Finally his eyes dim. He nods once, a small motion, and then he is gone.
and, breathe
Sean's not sure Viggo will even let him in after what transpired a few hours earlier. He's not even sure Viggo should.
Viggo opens the door; he is sleep-rumpled and beautiful. "Sean, is everything - - "
"It wasn't just the scene, was it. Tonight."
Viggo blinks. "No." His voice is rough, his eyes pale with a sort of caution. "Not... not for me."
Something twists inside Sean, and after all these months, suddenly he's had enough of caution for the both of them. He doesn't ever want to see it on Viggo's face again. Not where Sean is concerned.
He holds his breath, takes Viggo's face in his hands, takes his own life back. He touches his lips to Viggo's forehead. Viggo is still, quiet, barely breathing. Sean trails ghosted kisses over Viggo's skin, his eyelids, his cheekbones, before settling gently over his mouth.
Viggo's arms come around him, pull him close and warm, and Sean's heart starts beating again.
They take each other to bed. Gentle hands push aside clothing, explore new skin. Small, almost surprised-sounding moans punctuate the silence. They pull back, panting, only to reach for each other's mouths again. Sean knows only the heat of Viggo's skin, the taste of Viggo's tongue, the press of Viggo's erection against his own. He knows only swirling thoughts and whispered promises and yes want you need you please inside yes more please please long-denied need, finally fulfilled.
"Love," he gasps into Viggo's mouth, sharing breath, sharing it all, letting it all go.
Sean settles into the pillows, pulls Viggo to him, wraps up in him, and as they fall asleep together, Sean breathes.
Author:
stormatduskRating: pg
Warnings: none
Request: Genres - fluff, romance, h/c, angst w/happy ending, au, humor; prompt(s) or general mood(s) - clean sheets (just came to my mind - use it or bend it, or throw it away! *g*); established relationship is fine, but I really love stories where their relationship is either coming together, or is still very new.
Disclaimer: This is only fiction. I don't know anyone you recognize and make no profit from this story.
He lifts the tiny jumper from his drawer, brings it to his face and inhales. It's fading now, but Evie's slightly sweet, powdery scent still clings to the soft, spring green fibers and tiny pearl buttons.
The brittle voice in his head reminds him that yes, he'd had a third chance at being a husband, and he'd managed to fuck it up again. Now his baby girl will pay for his failure, as well.
This time away from her won't be like his usual absences. Not a movie like this, such a long shoot, on practically the other side of the world. And bad enough he's away from her now, amidst all this anger and turmoil between Abby and him. But this time... this time he'll be going back will she even remember me? to a different home, one he wouldn't share with Evie. Not really.
They're as apart as they've ever been, as separated as they could be. The realization is cutting.
He's ridiculously grateful that Evie at least has her mum - and Abby is a good one, he'll give her that - and that her big sisters are nearby, and that they love her to pieces. All Sean has of her, though, here in New Zealand, is her photo, a drawing she'd made him, and this jumper he'd stuffed into his suitcase last minute in pointless hope of easing this sense of loss and the loneliness he knew would come.
The cast and crew have been quite supportive, really, when he's let them. Cheerful invitations are extended, to a group dinner or out to a pub, and he accepts as often as he can force himself to. He knows - from experience, god damnit - that getting out and being around people helps. At some point they always ask about Evie, and he pulls out her picture, fatherly pride and the ache of missing her tightening his chest.
Many nights, though, he politely declines the offers of companionship. He goes back to his place alone and opens a bottle. He leaves the lights off.
He presses the jumper against his cheek, tries again to find Evie's scent. The backs of his eyes burn; his lungs won't expand. He wonders if the pain of it all might crush him, if it might just finish him this time.
The set's never dull. The sheer number of people involved in a shoot of this magnitude, the multiple cultures all come together, not to mention the Hobbits and the Elf constantly tumbling about like foul-mouthed little otters: all combine for a sort of controlled chaos that Sean is surprised to find himself rather enjoying.
Still, an extra crackle of anticipation is nearly palpable in the atmosphere this morning. Today, they're getting their new Aragorn.
With a few more minutes till he's expected in Wardrobe, Sean gulps his last swallow of coffee. The heat of it thrums down his throat, through his chest, radiates outward to throw off the chill of the damp morning. He's about to toss the empty cup into a bin when suddenly the back of his neck prickles, there's a shout behind him, and - what the fuck?! - he's crushed flat to the bloody ground. He blinks at the spinning sky, very aware of solid arms banded tight around him, a flutter of breath against his face.
"Viggo Mortensen."
A manic grin appears before Sean's eyes. Then the man - Viggo - is laughing, his entire frame shaking with it, jostling Sean. Sean couldn't offer his hand in introduction even if he wanted to, locked in Viggo's strong grasp like this.
Sean shivers hard as a startling this is new wash of awareness engulfs him. His breath is still stolen, as much from the warmth of dancing blue eyes as from the shock of the impact, but as soon as it returns, he'll be laughing right along with the apparently mad bastard atop him.
They're sitting on the steps of Viggo's trailer, passing time whilst the lighting is adjusted, sharing a smoke and quiet conversation about Viggo's son. Sean likes to watch Viggo talk about Henry. His face softens a bit, the angles smooth out; it's almost imperceptible, but it's there. A breeze tosses a strand of Aragorn's hair across Viggo's eyes and Sean's hand just stops itself lifting to brush it aside.
A Hobbit-shaped object abruptly streaks out of the trailer next door, followed immediately by another. A sleep-rumpled Orlando comes crashing out after them, naked but for a bed sheet that he's trying and mostly failing to keep wrapped around his waist. Dom and Elijah are hooting, gremlin-faced, as they play keep-away with - ah, yes - it's a camera, Sean sees. Orli seems to have... something... painted in bright red on his arse, and when his long arm finally does manage to snatch the camera in mid-arc, down the sheet goes, and the Elf's mooning everyone within a 30-yard radius.
Sean's chortling, but it's not until he glances at Viggo, at those pointed white teeth and crinkled eyes as Viggo laughs himself breathless, that he really loses it. Sean can almost see Viggo's joy friendship, love in the air between them, dappled sunshine on a pond. Then Sean's done for, his breath whooshing out of him as he laughs long and hard enough to see stars.
It's not the altitude, nor the sickening lurching this way and that. Well, not only those.
It's the sound of it, the screeching, horrific cacophony of the blades rotating. His nausea ramps up along with that terrible rhythm until the chopping whine blurs into a dizzying, fierce roar, then stretches slowly out again to that horrible pounding, like a live, angry thing.
He used to have nightmares like this when he was a boy. An unseen evil ogre was coming for him, and Sean could sense the distance closing as the giant's crashing footsteps came faster and faster behind him. He's somehow slung right back into those wretched dreams whenever he finds himself trapped in one of these fucking flying cages.
Desperate not to be sick, he mentally scrabbles for comfort, distraction. Then he's remembering overhearing Viggo last week, mumbling something low and soothing to Uraeus. The words don't matter don't worry, it's all going to be alright; it's the quiet, gentle cadence and tone that Sean trusts, that he needs. He clings to the echo of that odd American drone, and it calms his pulse enough that it's not in his ears any longer. Still, he'll wait until he's back on solid ground to exhale.
They filmed Boromir's death scene today. His own shots went well enough. Then it was Viggo's turn.
He thinks he managed to keep most of it off his face, the sense of awe that Viggo's performance brought over him. Hell, he surely gave Viggo little back, nothing to react to, lying there stunned as he was, fighting back his own amazed tears.
The scene took forever and was over much too soon. Sean wasn't quite surprised when he heard himself ask Viggo to come for dinner tonight.
He's spent the past two hours convincing himself that what he thought was there today, wasn't. Couldn't have been. It was just the scene.
But Viggo arrives, stands before Sean with hope and friendship and more in his eyes, and Sean needs... he needs...
Viggo's mouth is warm with tobacco and mint and thin restraint. Their mouths move together, take, teeth clashing before they find the right angle and Sean's tasting Viggo's tongue in his own mouth. Long-forgotten lust pulses inside him, a pure thing he hasn't felt since he was young, before everything, before he'd made such a mess of his life, and yes finally please shouldn't don't deserve can't Sean's breath hitches, the beginning of panic.
Viggo pulls back, taking his rich flavor with him, and lays a concerned hand aside Sean's face. Sean can taste his confusion, but speaking requires oxygen, and Sean can't reassure Viggo of anything.
Viggo stands there, breathing, waiting. Finally his eyes dim. He nods once, a small motion, and then he is gone.
Sean's not sure Viggo will even let him in after what transpired a few hours earlier. He's not even sure Viggo should.
Viggo opens the door; he is sleep-rumpled and beautiful. "Sean, is everything - - "
"It wasn't just the scene, was it. Tonight."
Viggo blinks. "No." His voice is rough, his eyes pale with a sort of caution. "Not... not for me."
Something twists inside Sean, and after all these months, suddenly he's had enough of caution for the both of them. He doesn't ever want to see it on Viggo's face again. Not where Sean is concerned.
He holds his breath, takes Viggo's face in his hands, takes his own life back. He touches his lips to Viggo's forehead. Viggo is still, quiet, barely breathing. Sean trails ghosted kisses over Viggo's skin, his eyelids, his cheekbones, before settling gently over his mouth.
Viggo's arms come around him, pull him close and warm, and Sean's heart starts beating again.
They take each other to bed. Gentle hands push aside clothing, explore new skin. Small, almost surprised-sounding moans punctuate the silence. They pull back, panting, only to reach for each other's mouths again. Sean knows only the heat of Viggo's skin, the taste of Viggo's tongue, the press of Viggo's erection against his own. He knows only swirling thoughts and whispered promises and yes want you need you please inside yes more please please long-denied need, finally fulfilled.
"Love," he gasps into Viggo's mouth, sharing breath, sharing it all, letting it all go.
Sean settles into the pillows, pulls Viggo to him, wraps up in him, and as they fall asleep together, Sean breathes.
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