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wordsontongue2010-07-04 04:17 am
vbmods.livejournal.com) wrote in wordsontongue2010-07-04 04:17 am
A Library Across His Chest
Title: A Library Across His Chest
Author: Kris (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ribby)
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Prompt(s): #5: tchotchke and he wore a library across his chest
Disclaimer: Don't own them, not making any money
Summary: Viggo is bound within words; for Sean, the only boundaries are his heart.
Sean *hated* night shoots ... he was a morning person by nature, so being up all night, being *active* all night, threw his body off something fierce. He *hated* coming back to his rooms just as the sun was coming up, knowing he wouldn't be able to sleep yet go through the day in a fog.
He stomped up the steps, grumbling quietly--for all he knew, Viggo wasn't even still there. But he was too polite to take the chance of waking him. Slowly, he clicked the door open. Quietly, he slipped out of his shoes, hung his jacket up. Cat-footed, he slipped into the living room.
Yes, Viggo was still there--good thing he'd been quiet, as Viggo looked almost as exhausted as Sean felt. He was collapsed sideways in the armchair where sleep had dropped him, fingers still keeping his place in a book.
Sean had to smile--obviously, Viggo had been in one of his frequent bouts of "I know that fact/poem/picture is in here somewhere." There were books scattered across the tables on either side of the armchair, stacked to the sides of the chair, and tucked into the chair at his ribs. Most of them bristled with bookmarks, proper cardstock ones and thin slips of torn paper mingling equally. At least this time, Viggo had remembered to move all the little souvenirs and *things* he tended to collect. Viggo called them souvenirs--Sean called them tchotchkes, thanks to a good friend's grandmother. And somehow Sean was always the one who ended up dusting them. This time, for a change, they wouldn't need it.
Besides the book he himself was bookmarking, there lay three or four more across Viggo's chest. Poetry, nonfiction on plants, an illustrated Rodale book on herbs, a cookbook. Cross-referencing again, Sean bet himself.
He picked up the nearest book. Poetry, no real surprise. They'd gotten into the habit of reading bits and snatches to each other over breakfast, in the evenings after dinner, any time they had a little downtime. Poetry, nonfiction, the worst passages from current bestsellers, nothing was safe.
Sean *loved* those moments. He loved understanding a little of how Viggo's mind worked, and loved sharing his own favorites. He loved hearing Viggo read, hear the passion for his subject reflected in his voice. And whether it was egotistical or not, he loved knowing that Viggo had as much joy in Sean's reading voice as he did in Viggo's.
He opened the book randomly--they'd do this sometimes, a poetry oracle. Open the book, and read the two lines your finger lands on.
"he wore a library
across his chest; he had a church on his knees."
He stuttered a quiet laugh. A library across his chest, yes. Fiction, poetry, cookbooks, reference, all spread across Viggo's chest. But more than that--Sean always felt that a certain part of Viggo bound himself to earth with words, breathing and beating words that meant life and love and joy to him, but were often another language to those around him.
Viggo stirred under Sean's scrutiny, absent-mindedly catching the books on his chest as they fell.
"Morning, Sean. Have you slept? Oh, wow, look at that sunrise. Gorgeous, huh? Turns your hair into fire ... halos you like an angel." He stopped, blinking. "Sorry, I'm rambling."
Sean smiled. "I love your words, Viggo, whatever they are." He kissed Viggo gently, tasting sleep and future words unknown and unsaid. "I'm going to bed ... read me to sleep?"
Viggo picked up a book and followed him quietly into their bedroom, watching with a gentle smile as Sean slowly stripped and climbed under the covers. Viggo perched himself at the corner of the bed, close enough that Sean could hear him and feel him, but not so close that he couldn't get up without waking Sean once he was asleep.
Sean settled a little deeper under the covers, his eyes already beginning to close. Viggo's voice wrapped around him like honey, sequestering him in words and love, and the scent of books and *Viggo* sent him into sleep. He barely registered the light brush of lips against his, but the words "Love you, Sean," rang clear, and stayed with him as he drifted into the library of Viggo's words, the words of his heart.
Author: Kris (
ribby)Rating: G
Warnings: None
Prompt(s): #5: tchotchke and he wore a library across his chest
Disclaimer: Don't own them, not making any money
Summary: Viggo is bound within words; for Sean, the only boundaries are his heart.
Sean *hated* night shoots ... he was a morning person by nature, so being up all night, being *active* all night, threw his body off something fierce. He *hated* coming back to his rooms just as the sun was coming up, knowing he wouldn't be able to sleep yet go through the day in a fog.
He stomped up the steps, grumbling quietly--for all he knew, Viggo wasn't even still there. But he was too polite to take the chance of waking him. Slowly, he clicked the door open. Quietly, he slipped out of his shoes, hung his jacket up. Cat-footed, he slipped into the living room.
Yes, Viggo was still there--good thing he'd been quiet, as Viggo looked almost as exhausted as Sean felt. He was collapsed sideways in the armchair where sleep had dropped him, fingers still keeping his place in a book.
Sean had to smile--obviously, Viggo had been in one of his frequent bouts of "I know that fact/poem/picture is in here somewhere." There were books scattered across the tables on either side of the armchair, stacked to the sides of the chair, and tucked into the chair at his ribs. Most of them bristled with bookmarks, proper cardstock ones and thin slips of torn paper mingling equally. At least this time, Viggo had remembered to move all the little souvenirs and *things* he tended to collect. Viggo called them souvenirs--Sean called them tchotchkes, thanks to a good friend's grandmother. And somehow Sean was always the one who ended up dusting them. This time, for a change, they wouldn't need it.
Besides the book he himself was bookmarking, there lay three or four more across Viggo's chest. Poetry, nonfiction on plants, an illustrated Rodale book on herbs, a cookbook. Cross-referencing again, Sean bet himself.
He picked up the nearest book. Poetry, no real surprise. They'd gotten into the habit of reading bits and snatches to each other over breakfast, in the evenings after dinner, any time they had a little downtime. Poetry, nonfiction, the worst passages from current bestsellers, nothing was safe.
Sean *loved* those moments. He loved understanding a little of how Viggo's mind worked, and loved sharing his own favorites. He loved hearing Viggo read, hear the passion for his subject reflected in his voice. And whether it was egotistical or not, he loved knowing that Viggo had as much joy in Sean's reading voice as he did in Viggo's.
He opened the book randomly--they'd do this sometimes, a poetry oracle. Open the book, and read the two lines your finger lands on.
"he wore a library
across his chest; he had a church on his knees."
He stuttered a quiet laugh. A library across his chest, yes. Fiction, poetry, cookbooks, reference, all spread across Viggo's chest. But more than that--Sean always felt that a certain part of Viggo bound himself to earth with words, breathing and beating words that meant life and love and joy to him, but were often another language to those around him.
Viggo stirred under Sean's scrutiny, absent-mindedly catching the books on his chest as they fell.
"Morning, Sean. Have you slept? Oh, wow, look at that sunrise. Gorgeous, huh? Turns your hair into fire ... halos you like an angel." He stopped, blinking. "Sorry, I'm rambling."
Sean smiled. "I love your words, Viggo, whatever they are." He kissed Viggo gently, tasting sleep and future words unknown and unsaid. "I'm going to bed ... read me to sleep?"
Viggo picked up a book and followed him quietly into their bedroom, watching with a gentle smile as Sean slowly stripped and climbed under the covers. Viggo perched himself at the corner of the bed, close enough that Sean could hear him and feel him, but not so close that he couldn't get up without waking Sean once he was asleep.
Sean settled a little deeper under the covers, his eyes already beginning to close. Viggo's voice wrapped around him like honey, sequestering him in words and love, and the scent of books and *Viggo* sent him into sleep. He barely registered the light brush of lips against his, but the words "Love you, Sean," rang clear, and stayed with him as he drifted into the library of Viggo's words, the words of his heart.
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~Kris
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So glad you enjoyed this, Tessy, and thank you!
~Kris
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~Kris
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*grin* Which is a long-winded way of saying, yes, they do, don't they? So glad you enjoyed this, and thanks!
~Kris
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Thanks, Alex--I always love hearing your thoughts on my fic, and I'm so glad you enjoyed this!
~Kris
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~Kris
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*hugs* Thank you, my dear... I'm so glad you enjoyed it, and thank you for such lovely words!
~Kris
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~Kris
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BTW thank you for the quotation which sent me searching for the poet and the poem - wow read it and now I have to catch up with all his work. Bliss.
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So pleased you liked this!
~Kris
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"... future words unknown and unsaid."
Lovely.
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~Kris
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Viggo perched himself at the corner of the bed, close enough that Sean could hear him and feel him, but not so close that he couldn't get up without waking Sean once he was asleep. sums it all up for me.
I also like the love of language that comes through.
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So glad you liked this, Mooms, and thank you!
~Kris
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~Kris