Cinzia

Looking for help

ressala@tin.it — Mon, 26 Jul 2004 10:05:22 GMT

Crossposted from my LJ, 'cause it's IMPORTANT omg. ;)

A very good friend of mine, Roberto, is about to go live in Newport Beach, CA, from mid-September to mid-December, and he wondered if someone in the area (and/or from the L.A. area) might feel like contacting him and maybe show him the place a little... or at least give him some info about which kind of public transport he should take to get from Newport Beach to L.A., which places/clubs he might want to check out, things like that.

He's a really nice guy, my best friend for the last 15 years, and he's also lots of fun. :) He's going to be all alone in a strange place, poor love (*snickers at him* *cough*) and any kind of help would be greatly appreciated. Btw, I'm not locking this post so he can reply to comments himself. *looks around hopefully*

Thank you, in any case, for reading here. *many squishy hugs* ♥

FIC: Coincidence of Memory (VM/SB, PG)

ressala@tin.it — Thu, 25 Mar 2004 11:17:55 GMT

Title: Coincidence of Memory (1/1)
Author: cinzia
Rating: PG
Pairing: Viggo Mortensen/Sean Bean
Summary: Memories have their own languages.
Disclaimer: This is NOT true, because I just made it up. It NEVER happened.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Archive: My website, Rugbytackling, Green Opals.
Author Notes: Title shamelessly stolen from Viggo. Many, many thanks to galadriel and to viva_gloria for their priceless beta-skills.

Coincidence of Memory
by Cinzia

Sometimes, when the sky is a pale blue sheet and there's dust lying on the rare tufts of grass by an unpaved road, thirsty-looking and luscious at once, Viggo finds himself back in Argentina. He's nine years old, wearing red shorts in November and playing fútbal in the sweet-scented, warm summer afternoon with the kids from school; dark-haired, golden-skinned kids, blond, lily-white kids just like him, all of them with blood crusting over scraped knees and elbows, mud and grass stains from unthinking, eager dives for the ball.

The ball they're playing with is not much, just a plastic blue thing with faded black checkers and the name of an Italian team on it, and it's difficult to kick because it's been kicked too many times already. Deflated, it rolls oddly on the uneven, grassy field, barely bouncing. They still keep at it though, still keep running after it and kicking at it and occasionally at each other, pushing, laughing, jeering, cursing. High-pitched choirboys' voices yelling foul Spanish obscenities in the still golden air, Italian accents punctuating the unholiest.

Viggo could add his own English and Danish expletives to the noise, but he doesn't, because he's just a kid like them, just a muchacho from the same neighborhood, this discreetly wealthy suburb of Buenos Aires in the late Sixties. This is all he can remember ever having known as 'home', though he's more than faintly aware of having been born elsewhere, some place that's not this. His little brothers were born here, though; and even if they visit Mom's parents up north and Dad's parents in Europe, every so often, here is where they've been living for as long as Viggo can remember.

So here is where he belongs.

Sometimes there's a sharp, yellow-white quality in the light washing down through the wide square windows in his studio, and Viggo is fourteen again. He spends much of his free time sitting in the docks in Copenhagen, looking not at the ships but at the light filtering through the cold blue cloud piling high in the sky, which is different from the light he's seen anywhere else.

It's November, but he has to keep his nose buried in his thick woolen scarf to avoid freezing his face off. It feels wrong, except that this is the way things are now: November is cold, July is hot, Dad's not living with them anymore, so Viggo spends his holidays with him, winter and summer, a few months per year in Denmark. His brothers are still too young, and they get to stay with Mom most of the time. It doesn't matter. New York City in November feels colder than Denmark.

People--his father's family, his own family--talk to him, and even though he doesn't find it difficult to follow, he still stumbles a little when he tries to get the words out, and he knows his voice sounds different, foreign but not foreign. Most of the time he thinks in Spanish anyway.

Dad says he doesn't have any particular accent, not Danish nor Spanish and even his English is like that, not like his brothers'; like Viggo's not grown up in any particular place; like he's been living in his own world all this time.

Denmark's not where he was born nor is it a place he can really call home, but it's part of home. Half of home.

And anyway, the light here is special.

Sometimes in New York, often at night, when the pavement is wet and sparkling from the fine evening drizzle, reflecting the city's lurid neon lights, Viggo turns a corner and finds his seventeen year old self in front of him. Long unkempt hair and an attitude, a notebook hidden in one of his jacket pockets. Scribbling fragments of thoughts and conversations in it--when he's not prowling the streets smiling sweetly at strangers with a coy look from under his thick, bleached blond fringe, drunk on his newly-learned awareness of sex; of his newfound power.

He finds himself and he's bleeding on the pavement--though the rusty barbwire fence has been removed long ago and everything else in the block has changed too--vaguely aware that his face hurts, a sharp throbbing pain, but he's so stoned he's not sure it's even his own face. He's on all fours on the wet concrete, and he giggles, looks up.

The sky is dark blue, and he thinks he can see stars, which is sort of strange in New York City. Maybe it's just the stuff he's smoked. There's people around him, and he's almost sure he knows them. Friends. It doesn't matter--the stars, the people--he doesn't know them anyway, he'll move out soon, move on, go somewhere else, just like always. He doesn't need any of these things. He's all right by himself. With himself.

He likes people, though. They're like the stars: they're not the ones he used to know, but he'll learn to know these new ones too; even when they're different, they look alike. Or is it the other way around? He doesn't need any of them, anyway, because there will always be stars, people, wherever he goes. Can't really help it. By this time he's learned that no matter where they are, they've always something new and different to tell him, even when he can't make himself understood; no matter who they are, Viggo will learn their language, will know how to speak to them.

It's not really them; it's him. He is his own star, his own tongue that no-one else knows. No-one knows his name--not even he.

A new joint is lit, gets passed around. The boy who's pushed Viggo face first against the broken wire crouches down in front of him, puts his fingers in the wet pool under Viggo's face and Viggo notices for the first time that it's dark red, his own blood trickling down his split upper lip. The boy puts his fingers in the pool, then his whole hand, palm down, fingers splayed wide. "Warm," he says, and his voice is wondering and breathless when he adds, "I'm gonna fuck you, man, I'm gonna fuck you now."

Viggo giggles again. The concrete is scraping the palms of his hands and his knees raw like when he was a kid playing ball, and the air feels hot against his bare ass and thighs. It's July. It's summer. It's all right. This is where he was born, he thinks; and he thinks it in English. Then he falls facedown in his own blood, and passes out.

When he looks at Henry, it's easy for Viggo to remember the day his son was born, and those first days and months and years, so full of wonder as though he is rediscovering the world again, through his child's new eyes; as though he never had a language that was his own until Henry forms the first sounds that will become words; and Viggo learns along with him, learns how to need and how to live when you can't--you won't--leave people behind anymore.

And his world is new and content, and he belongs.

They belong together; it's a home that he made, and it's full of its own clear, happy light. He doesn't need to look for stars anymore.

Until Exene grows restless; until Henry grows up and Viggo can see that he too soon will start looking for his own stars, for his own words and people and stories--for that is just the way the world is.

It seems strangely comforting, and things suddenly fit.

It's not the first roles in films; it's not the deep rich colors filling his eyes with yet untold visions and his nose with the thick smell of darkness and light and chaos, bringing the words hidden deep in his heart to the rough surface of blank canvases; it's not the snapshots of life blending reality and dreams and snatches of music captured in poetry; it's not the people he meets, dark and light and gray and all sorts of inbetween, people used to smiling for a camera and people just going about their business in the street.

He learns that there's special people that get to stay with you in your life, and that it's all right to want to be with them, always; that it's something that can happen. That moving on doesn't always mean leaving.

It's like beginning again; it's like accepting that he, too, will never stop looking.

Except this time, he thinks he knows what he's looking for. What he wants.

"Mae govannen," Viggo says, and he smiles wide when Sean laughs in the airport, and pulls him close to put his arms around him. Sean smells of too many hours in crowded airports and tiredness and sleep, and of the dark warm light that used to bleed into Viggo's paintings, into Viggo's poetry, just after Henry was born.

If Viggo had a word for it, it would be something complicated and simple at the same time, a Japanese kanji maybe--a sign like stunned happiness, and maybe, just a little, like relief.

Viggo has been learning languages in New Zealand, this new world he never was in before, where Henry told him he should go, and that sometimes feels like a place he had once known: a little bit of Quenya wisdom, long meaningful Sindarin lyrics. It comes all so easily, as though he were born to it, or maybe it's because he, too, has always been speaking a language that wasn't that of people, but made up by just one.

He guides Sean through the airport, and he takes him back on set--back home--as he's been doing for these past few months; and that night, through the ceiling and the roof and the black, blood-red crossed curtain of his lowered eyelids he can see the stars, and they're just like they always were in Argentina: the right stars, in the right seasons--new, the first stars he ever saw, the first stars whose names he learned.

"You're miles away," Sean says, soft and happy, his voice deep with fond exasperation. It's contentedness, and it's another word. It sounds new, not yet worn with use. Viggo doesn't open his eyes, only frowns because Sean's stopped suckling at his scar: that's always the first thing Sean does when he comes back, he licks and kisses and nuzzles the long deep scar running from Viggo's upper lip to his nose, and Viggo never asks why, because it just seems the right thing for Sean to do, like making memories out of returns, a sign language of future partings looming just further along the road, waiting to happen, already yearning for memories onto which to parse the distance.

Viggo reaches out blindly, finding the scar just over Sean's left eyelid, feeling the smooth deep hollow in the warm skin under his thumb, knowing it's paler than the rest of Sean, a faded memory of pain. He feels Sean's eyes flutter close against the tender curve of skin between his thumb and forefinger; and they're matched just like that, matched in height and age and loves and children and art and quirks and sex, and that's all there is for all the world to see, just there, right there in their matching scars, a sort of fucked-up symmetry of lives in their flesh, a twisted coincidence of halves, a permanent reminder of old hurts and foolishness; of youth, and seasons long past; and he should write that down before he loses it--symmetry of memories, symmetry in halves.

Coincidence of halves, he speaks soundlessly with lips and hands over the newly familiar planes of Sean's body, and there has to be something about mirrors and unmovable axes and halves never being wholes but sort of looking as though they are, if you look and want to see, if you want to know and make it fit.

I was years away, Viggo thinks. And then he thinks, I'm right here.

Sean sighs softly under him, and there's light under Viggo's fingers where they touch, warm living light as though they're holding a newborn star between their bodies, and Viggo opens his eyes and looks.

Sean looks at Viggo and asks, "What do you want?" as though he is the one learning Viggo's language, taking it in; changing it.

It's always been a language of one; it was never made to be spoken aloud.

"Tell me," Sean says, as though he can hear Viggo's words, as though he understands them.

The light seeps inside, like a memory forming; the contours of the world shift; lines blur, reshaping life.

Words appear, dark and bright, and Sean says his name.

"What's your happiest memory?" Philippa asks their drunken, high, just-for-today perfectly happy Fellowship of friends, the ones who were on stage to receive the awards and the ones who joined them privately, when all the cameras are finally off and the Oscars are over and the parties are over, and it's a bright winter morning in LA, and they're left alone on their reserved hotel floor, a private party just for them.

"Barring the day your children were born," she adds after a beat and a sip of her drink, making Peter's face fall, then screw up in mock-concentration. He looks angelic when at last he says, "The first time I saw Fran," and gains a wifely kiss and many snorting laughs.

And then Fran says, deadpan, picking wilting flowers out of her hair, "The day Pete told me he'd cast Sean Bean," which leads to more laughs, a few knowing nods, and a gallant kiss on her hand from a blushing, laughing Sean; and to Peter throwing a pillow at his head.

"Not fair," John grumbles loudly, "What am I supposed to say now?"

The hobbits' mirth is so loud that all conversations stop for a moment. Philippa has to catch her breath before turning to Viggo, sitting next to Sean but at his feet, cross-legged on the thick carpet covering the wide floor of the suite.

Henry's kneeling on the floor across the room from him, between Elijah and Dom, deciding which CD to listen to next; Viggo looks at him and then Henry looks up and rolls his eyes, grinning, making a 'not listening' kind of gesture. There's a little boy grinning somewhere inside Viggo, and he can't tell whether it's him or Henry, only that he knows what he's saying, and he repeats it out loud.

"In fifteen years," he says. "I'll be in bed with my lover one morning, and one of our children will call and tell us one of our grandchildren just spoke their first word. When they hang up I'll feel dazed and happy and maybe I'll cry, and we'll have old couple sex to celebrate. Then we'll get up and make breakfast."

Someone blinks; someone giggles then looks down into his drink; and the silence is perfect.

"I'll have maté," Viggo adds.

New laughter dispels the silence, and it's happy; and then there are shaking heads and bright eyes--or perhaps it's only the light. Philippa turns to Sean.

"Ask me again," Sean says, still blushing, his eyes glowing, his thumb rubbing the scar above his eye, "in fifteen years."

His hand comes down, and his fingers twine warm and heavy in the short, graying strands of Viggo's red-dyed hair.

When Viggo looks up he can't hear what is being said around him anymore, but that's all right. The world is warm and filled with a sort of dark gleaming light, with family and friends and life; and there are words in Sean's eyes, in Sean's hand on him.

Across the years, Viggo has been learning how to say things, how to understand them in many languages--English and Spanish and Danish and Elvish and Lakota and so many others besides--but this one they made together, and Viggo knows.

Seasons change, and always come back, unchanged. Sometimes things make sense; most times they don't, no matter how many words you find to try and make them fit, to make them more of what they are.

It's not about stars, or people, or needing.

It's him. Not half, not whole.

Just him--just Sean, speaking to him.

End

FIC: The End (SB/VM, PG)

ressala@tin.it — Thu, 25 Mar 2004 11:06:20 GMT

Title: The End (1/1)
Author: cinzia
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sean Bean/Viggo Mortensen
Summary: Someone's been waiting for Sean to come home.
Disclaimer: This is NOT true, because I just made it up. It NEVER happened.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Archive: My website, Rugbytackling, Green Opals.
Author Notes: Dedicated to Kandadze, for her birthday. Many thanks to viva_gloria for beta.

The End
by Cinzia

When Sean came back from the newsagent, there was a man standing on the sidewalk across the street from his house, huddled close to the wall to ward off the soft snow that had started falling while Sean was out. It had been snowing for almost an hour now, but the layer of white around the man's feet wasn't marred by any footprints. He had to have been standing there for quite a while.

Sean had thought he knew him, from afar: now he wasn't sure. This man had short greying hair, he wore what looked like a nice dark suit under an elegant black coat; and no hat. The man Sean used to know would've never gone for anything like that.

But of course, that had been then; and this was now and there was snow in Viggo's hair when he looked up and saw Sean watching him from only a few feet away.

"I thought," Viggo said, his teeth chattering only a little, "that they'd have sent you an invitation for this one."

"They did," Sean said. He didn't bother walking closer to the wall to escape the snow. He didn't bother getting closer to Viggo, or explaining about the unopened envelope that lay buried in the bottom drawer of his bedside table, on top of so many unsent letters and unwritten postcards.

He did gesture towards his own front door, though, on the other side of the street. "Care to come in?"

His voice came out softer than he'd intended. For a moment surprise, and a faint thrill that felt suspiciously familiar, shivered down his spine, while he looked into Viggo's face; but it was a cold night and he had had long months to get reacquainted with those old friends, coldness and its close mate, denial.

Viggo shook his head. A few snowflakes, dislodged, fell from his hair onto his cheek, melting into a cold watery trail that rushed down, slowly, towards the corner of his mouth, twisting something tight and fragile nestled precariously in the center of Sean's chest, just under the skin. Sean looked away, and the snow kept falling, lying thicker and whiter and colder around their feet.

"It's over," Viggo said, and Sean couldn't tell if Viggo's teeth were still chattering: his voice was too quiet, almost as quiet as the snow. "You missed it," Viggo added; and then his snow-quiet voice said, "Missed us."

Viggo wasn't quite looking at him.

When Sean was a kid, up in the North, he'd used to go out and make angels in the snow, the joy of just letting himself fall down and lie in the white cold softness, arms and legs spread as wide as they could go, so pure it was impossible to resist; years later, he had tackled Viggo down into the thick snow hiding Viggo's backyard in Wellington, New Zealand, and that, too, had been a crazy thing to do: he'd done it because he'd been falling for months then, and losing himself in the pure joy of it, the simple, breath-taking exhilaration of it, as though he was a kid again, with no thought of tomorrow or consequences, with no fear.

Viggo had been quicker and stronger than he'd expected him to be, and had gripped Sean hard and rolled them over, grinning down at Sean with his manic, wide open grin, with laughing eyes and a light in his face. "Let's make an angel," Viggo had said when they'd stopped laughing and Sean's breath hadn't really come back to him yet, Viggo's voice going soft and quiet as the snow that had fallen during the day. He'd spread Sean's legs with his knees, and had brought Sean's arms up over Sean's head with his hands closed warm around Sean's wrists; and he'd kissed Sean for the first time, in the soft white snow.

Sean had shivered into Viggo's kiss, shivered with all his body and with something that had reached out from the inside--and back then, he had known what it was; he hadn't needed to explain it away with the cold melting snow filtering through his clothes.

Back then.

"You kissed me in the snow," Sean said now, as though Viggo had been following his thoughts. And maybe Viggo had: maybe he, too, couldn't watch the snow falling and not think of it.

"I did," Viggo said, still quiet. "You kissed me back," he added. "We melted the snow."

A lone flake found its way to the tip of Sean's nose, and he felt the first cold flicker of fear biting at him: that was then. Now it was over, just like Viggo had said. Now the snow wasn't melting: it just accumulated around them and over them, layer upon layer, soft and white and cold, freezing them where they stood--apart.

This was not the man Sean had known back then. That man would never let his hair be cut quite so short if not for a role, and if he did, he'd never let the grey show. He'd never go out without one of his damn hats. That man had made an angel with Sean in the snow, with wings open wide, and the snow had melted while they kissed, and Sean hadn't been afraid of flying, because he had already fallen, and he'd remembered the wonder of it, beyond the fear.

That man had broken Sean's heart, or maybe Sean had broken his own when he'd thought he wouldn't care if they went their separate ways in the end, didn't meet each other again--when he'd thought he didn't care whether or not Viggo would fall with him. Then the end at last had come, and they had let it come between them.

"I missed you," Viggo said now, with a hot rush of breath in the falling snow, and when he said "you," he looked up into Sean's eyes, and Sean looked up, and Viggo's eyes were a little too bright, maybe, as though snow was melting in them.

A dog barked in one of the gardens down the street; a door opened and closed loudly somewhere nearby, a car engine spurring noisily into life after a moment.

The quiet of the night dispelled, and suddenly they were in London again, on the 11th of December, 2003, and the last premiere had come and gone. Sean for the first time noticed that Viggo's sleek-looking coat was unbuttoned, and that under the dark suit Viggo wore an awful-looking, bright blue and white UN shirt, and that a Maori hook hang around Viggo's neck. Sean had chosen it for him in Queenstown, on the last day of their camping trip through the South Island, at the warm, beautiful end of a summer full of light and laughter, only weeks away from the first snow.

The falling snow felt warm in Sean's eyes, when the smile broke on his lips, taking him by surprise. It was only snowflakes catching on his eyelashes, he thought. Because he still needed to think it.

"Let's go in," he said. Only then it seemed to hit him that Viggo was actually there, in front of him, and had been waiting for him for God knew how long, out in the cold. And so he said, as though only now realising he meant it, "I missed you"--and when he said "you," Viggo's eyes closed, just for a moment. When they opened again, they held a look so naked that Sean thought, He couldn't possibly mean for me to see this--to see all that was revealed in that naked, bare look. Yet Viggo kept looking, didn't turn away.

Sean looked back.

The snow didn't melt when Viggo finally moved and stepped forward; it made a soft crunching noise, nothing as angelic as spread wings, or flying. It was just a footprint in the snow.

Well, Sean thought. That was then. And now it was over.

But he had Viggo close, again; still. Viggo had been waiting for him in the snow. They weren't touching yet, just shoulder to shoulder while they crossed the street, leaving two matching sets of footprints in the white. Sean opened the door, standing aside to let Viggo in.

The snow kept falling. It would soon cover the footprints; it would look as though they'd flown to Sean's door.

Viggo looked up and brushed against Sean when he walked past. It made Sean shiver, and he could've explained it away with the cold air drifting in from the outside--and he didn't.

Maybe they had never stopped falling: falling into each other, until they found each other again, here, at the end of the day, the end of the year. The end of past things.

Viggo turned, reached past him, and closed the door on the cold white world outside.

End

FIC: Not Today (A/B, R)

ressala@tin.it — Tue, 23 Mar 2004 14:33:39 GMT

Title: Not Today (1/1)
Author: cinzia
Rating: R
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir; Aragorn/Arwen
Summary: Aragorn wonders if he is destined to awake alone for ever.
Disclaimer: The characters are Tolkien's. Therefore, not mine.
Warning: AU, especially in regard to the final fate of Aragorn and Arwen. Additional warning at the bottom of the page, to not spoil the ending (just scroll down if you don't like surprises).
Archive: My website, Rugbytackling.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Author Notes: For Tessy's birthday. Thanks to Stewardess, lannamichaels and viva_gloria for beta, constructive criticism, and much appreciated suggestions.

Not Today
by Cinzia

Twilight was a golden haze among the canopy of mellyrn branches, the pale blue of the sky slowly deepening until it would give in to darkness. Eärendil rose and twinkled between the flickering leaves, hidden and revealed in his eternal journeys by the vagaries of the sweet evening breeze dancing through the foliage.

It was a time for rest, a place for healing. Weariness and fatigue slid away like unneeded burdens under the pale sky, and the mind found repose in peaceful quiet, in the songs of long-lost love drifting to them from deep in the woods, where the first silver lamps of Caras Galadhon were being lit.

Aragorn's eyes followed the sailing of his forefather into the glowing sky. The light of the last Silmaril would endure for ever, the hard-won wergild for Lúthien, a token of love that had been paid with life, eternity willingly exchanged for a mortal love.

Its light was beautiful, and it pierced the heart as it did the dark seas of the night.

He remembered plighting his troth to Arwen Undómiel nigh this very place: long years had passed, yet Cerin Amroth had not changed. It still was a place out of time, out of memories of Ages for ever lost in the West, where time had run differently, free of the tides of Moon and Sun.

His eyes, his fingers still recalled how perfect her beauty was; how that day, in the thin light of dawn, she had seemed to him as if not of this world, and how his heart had swelled whilst he looked upon her face. She had looked back with bright eyes, and forsook immortal destiny for his sake.

He wondered whether she was heading to the Havens even now, or whether she would wait for him, as she had said she would: it seemed impossible that she would not, and then hideous that she would, a choice for him between love and guilt. Both carried a burden that at times felt too heavy to bear.

He did not doubt her love, no more than he doubted his own for her, yet whatever her choice, she was no Lúthien, and he, no Beren: they would have the years of his mortal life to spend together; and no more. Their spirits would be sundered in the end, hers to depart and not come back until the world was made anew, when she would be reborn unchanged but a little. And he... he would sleep alone; and, if that was to be, he would awake alone.

And in the world of Men, they would never meet again.

Loss was the gift of Ilúvatar to mortal Men: loss, and change. It was the doom appointed to them, and more so, it appeared, to the children of restless Eäarendil, descendants of fair, brave Lúthien, mortal and immortal alike. They would be parted; and he loved her all the more for their time was measured, finite.

"You are thoughtful," Boromir quietly said.

Stirred out of his thoughts, Aragorn bowed his head briefly in acknowledgment, and turned to look upon his companion. They were lying together on the gentle slope of Cerin Amroth, resting undisturbed on the soft moss covering the forest floor, among the deep green grass beneath the trees.

He lifted himself up on one braced elbow, looking down into Boromir's face; the Evenstar pendant swayed gently on his chest as he moved, gleaming softly in the fading light. Boromir was silent under his gaze: he looked as if clad in the shades and colours of the setting Sun, deep gold and blood-red and the pale green of the last light upon the highest leaves.

This Man... He was a mortal Man; he was what Aragorn was. It felt not wrong for them to be in Cerin Amroth together, to lie together thus, for under the eternal light of Eärendil, in the unchanging, timeless beauty of the Golden Wood, where no shadows could dwell, Boromir burned as warm as a flame: he made living shadows out of that immortal light, giving the night its many different shapes. Boromir did not fear to tread upon unknown paths into the waiting darkness of life, for he was unencumbered by the weight of eternity.

Boromir's light defined what Aragorn had found in himself, and gave it completeness: with this man, Aragorn's mortal spirit was whole, and did not fear the journey ahead.

There was a chill in the cool evening air; the shadows lengthened. Aragorn banned every feeling of loss resolutely from his mind, for this was not the place to let despair win, nor the time.

"Forgive me," he murmured, leaning down a little. "I was thinking of stars, and songs." It was truthful enough.

Boromir smiled, brushing back one lock of hair from Aragorn's brow with the back of his fingers.

"Noble things," he said, and there was no hint of jest or mockery in his voice. Aragorn remembered the tales Boromir had gifted him with, tales of the beloved brother he had left in the White City, and had no need for wonder.

His eyes never leaving Boromir's, he shifted to capture Boromir's lingering hand in his own, and brought it down to his face, the sword-calloused palm rough and strong against his skin. Boromir's fingers curled around his cheek, a caress as tender as any Aragorn could have wished for.

"Will you sing, my lord?" Boromir asked, his eyes deep and bright, his voice quiet, filled with a warmth that they had never tried to name, or to speak aloud of. "Will you sing for me?"

A muted, far-away thunder, as the distant echo of falling waters, muted for a moment all of Aragorn's senses, drowning out the last golden light of the day in the greyness of winter skies, in the loud rushing of the river; the strong hand cradling Aragorn's neck, long fingers tangled gently in his hair, all of a sudden felt heavy, chillingly cold.

Night fell in Lothlórien, deep blue and silver under the magnificent boughs.

"Not today," Aragorn whispered, and taking Boromir's hand he pressed a kiss in the centre of its palm, feeling the warmth of life pulsing under his lips; then he tugged on Boromir's hand, rolling them over so that Boromir would lie half on top of him, amidst the elanor and niphredil blinking pale gold and white like unveiled stars in the grass, among the fallen leaves of past springs. Boromir willingly complied, his fair hair and shining green eyes hiding the darkening sky from Aragorn's sight.

Aragorn lifted his hands to tangle his fingers in the golden strands, using the grip to guide Boromir's mouth down on his own: it was not a hard grip, yet neither was it gentle. And Boromir's kiss responded to this unspoken urgency, for it soon turned dark and hungry, and it kindled in Aragorn's blood a fiery passion. He ran his hands all over the strong body covering him, kiss merging into kiss, into a building frenzy of lips and tongues and teeth, of tangling hands and legs and harsh breathing; and at last he freed one hand and brought it down where it most desired to go, to tug impatiently at the lacings of Boromir's breeches. He let his legs part then, let Boromir come to rest in the curve of his hips, hardness finding hardness. Boromir took his mouth away with a low growl, his hand joining Aragorn's to free them both of all constraints.

"As my King commands," Boromir breathed, in answer to the look in Aragorn's eyes, his voice rough and hot like burning smoke, drifting into Aragorn's soul, scalding, blinding him. Aragorn willed his eyes to stay open and looked into Boromir's face, lips reddened and glistening, eyes as dark as the night; and it seemed to him that it was right that he should lie thus, under this man, seeing him from below: for this way no cold shard of unknown fears would pierce his heart, and Boromir was warm, burning hot and blessedly alive in his arms, keeping him firmly down on the soft ground, in the heart of Elvendom in Middle-earth, where life and beauty would never fade, but pass on to more.

He fastened his mouth to Boromir's, willing them to share breath and life, clinging to him in the deepening dark, and when at last the pain came, sweet, anticipated pain, it was the fleeting discomfort of a moment, not the frightening grief of eternity, and he accepted it gladly, his breath catching in his throat with the beauty of it, the joy of it, for he guided and welcomed the strength of this noble, valiant, proud man--his Steward, his rightful Steward--in his own flesh and soul, and there he kept him safe, for this brief time.

As the King should.

They clung together in the swaying grass, rocking gently at first, and then it was as if desperation took them and Aragorn was pinned down and possessed, and Boromir's fast breathing came as muffled sobbing that the wind carried away.

Their cries echoed softly in the night, Aragorn cried out first and Boromir soon after, tumbling down from high into each other. Afterwards they lay there for a while still, unmoving, looking deep and wonderingly into one another's eyes, watching each other breathe and hide nothing, twin pledges passing unspoken between them, in the living quiet of the starlit wood that needed no words, nothing more than the lingering touch of hand to hand to reveal the truth of feelings.

On the verge of sleep and dream, with Boromir tucked safely into his arms, it seemed to Aragorn that the fearful sound of the great waterfall was back, and that he lay alone in the woods, his arms empty, his chest cold, his heart hurting with the fatal wound of absence; tears of mourning were in his eyes, and a song of passing still echoed in his ears, over the falling of the waters.

And then seagulls cried, and he remembered that Boromir's hair had smelled of the long-forgotten promise of the Sea; and wandering from dream into dream, he perceived a twilight of strange stars wheeling overhead, and opened his eyes onto a strange land.

He was lying in a golden meadow full of sunlight, tall white flowers dancing in a gentle wind. A faint knowledge was in him of having come to this place across many waters, of having passed over the Sea; and a man was looking down at him, his face new and his manner unfamiliar; yet Aragorn would have known those eyes though a thousand Ages of the world had come and gone.

He tried to blink awake and smile. "You are here," he murmured, hearing himself speak the soft words in an unknown speech, and even his own voice sounded strange to his ears. Yet he knew what he had said; and when the man answered, shaking his head with laughing eyes, he knew what was truly being said, beyond the idle meaning of the unknown words.

A sign like and yet unlike the White Tree was engraved onto the man's vambraces, and he reached out and tugged softly, with a startling intimacy, on Aragorn's hair, and spoke again, in the same strange language. Aragorn felt the familiarity of emotions and feelings swell in his soul, as he listened to the man's voice.

I missed you, he wanted to say: All this time. I missed you every instant before we met.

But the words stayed quiet inside his heart; and he felt that this sudden knowledge would soon fade, as though it were no more than the misty edge of a half-forgotten dream.

At last the man smiled and sat down beside him in the grass, as if prepared to keep watch while Aragorn rested. He did not touch him again, yet Aragorn did not mind. He was there: Aragorn watched him glow with warmth and life, a tender light dancing in the beloved green eyes. He would be there when Aragorn awoke.

"Viggo," the man said softly, a smile like a shy kiss in the word, marking it somehow as more important than all others; and Aragorn fell back to sleep, the word vague and faint as if heard across the sundering Sea, over silver trumpets singing high in the clear air of the morning, calling him back.

In the timeless magic of Cerin Amroth the dream faded away; the tides of time closed over it. Forgetfulness was already coming to Aragorn in his sleep, yet for one sharp moment of clarity death held no sway on him: the knowledge burned in his heart, stronger than hope, and his soul shone brighter for its flame. Asleep, he tightened his arms around Boromir, feeling their hearts beat together in a shared rhythm. Then he loosened their embrace again, releasing all fears.

Be at peace, his own voice from the dream said; and a restful quiet came into his heart. In this world or the next, over distant shores, they would meet again.

He did not fear the journey.

End

Warning 2: Implied RPS (VM/SB).
Author Notes 2: A couple of verses are freely (mis)quoted from Viggo's poems Communion and Apart. I like to think of this as a sort of prequel for A Long Journey but that's because I'm a big sap, really.

cough

ressala@tin.it — Tue, 23 Mar 2004 14:27:36 GMT

*dusts off journal*

Wow. I haven't been here for a long time. How did that happen? o_O

I'm going to post a few recent fics. Apologies in advance for the spamming!

*waves tentatively* :)

FIC: At the Turn of the Tide (KU/HS, PG)

ressala@tin.it — Wed, 07 Jan 2004 17:50:13 GMT

Title: At the Turn of the Tide (1/1)
Author: cinzia
Rating: PG
Pairing: Karl Urban/Harry Sinclair
Summary: Tall ships and tall kings...
Disclaimer: This is NOT true, because I just made it up. It NEVER happened.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Archive: My website.
Author Notes: For Brenda's birthday. Many thanks to viva_gloria for beta.

At the Turn of the Tide
by Cinzia

Harry's yacht is moored at its usual place: Karl can see it from the curb, when he parks his car. It rocks gently in the calm water, in the sunlit morning, indistinguishable from all the other boats in the dock--except to the knowing eye.

Karl's eyes know it very well. It's all there, in his memories, as familiar as if he had left only the day before. The white hull, the low cabin that is surprisingly large once you get inside; the wavering light coming in from the wide skylights, mirroring the sea on the opposite wall. The polished table, the padded benches, the rest of the furniture, all safely secured. Harry's bunk, which is really a proper, comfortable king-sized bed.

"Yeah, it's the most appreciated item on board," Harry had laughed, the first time Karl had gone to sail with him.

"Popular with the ladies, eh?" Karl had grinned, trying to picture Harry in that bed, Harry and some woman.

"Never been ladies in here, mate," Harry had said, his voice only a low rumble from behind Karl. "Not even girls."

Karl had stopped looking at the bed. He had turned, his grin fading away.

"Wanna get back on shore?" Harry had offered. His voice had been calm; his dark eyes had hesitated before looking back at Karl.

Karl was still picturing Harry in the large, cozy-looking bed. It wasn't so very difficult, after all, he had thought: Harry in that bed, Harry and...

Aloud he'd simply said, "No."

That had been many years before, before Rings, before his son, before things started happening: for even though the best parts of Éomer's role ended up on the cutting room floor, Karl is still going places.

And now he's here, and has no idea if he's doing the right thing. No idea if he should be here, walking down the pier towards the waiting yacht: but it's the middle of summer, just before Christmas, and on the phone--weeks, months ago--Harry had said, "Whenever you come back, mate. You know where to find me."

So here Karl is, looking up at the white, slim lines of the boat, thinking that Hunter would love it, love sailing on this beauty of a little ship, and of course it's a ridiculous thought, because he could never bring his son here, he knows, he's always known that, and he still thinks of it, and he still can't help wishing that he could, hoping that he could. One day.

Maybe one day.

He takes a deep breath.

"Permission to come aboard, sir?" he calls out, loud enough for Harry to hear, if he's inside.

A heartbeat, two; then Harry's dark, greying head appears from the shadows leading to the cabin, and he stands on deck, almost right above Karl, a light blue shirt open on his chest, old white shorts riding low on his hips. Harry's skin looks golden all over, and suddenly there's the tug of memory in Karl's fingertips, a feeling like thirst in Karl's mouth. He looks steadily up, up into the dark eyes behind the wire-rimmed glasses.

"Permission to come aboard?" he asks again, his voice much softer.

The long fingers of Harry's left hand curl around the polished rail. He's holding an uncapped pen in his right, and Karl guesses Harry was working: he still prefers, most of the time, jotting down ideas on paper to typing away on his laptop. Karl still knows this, as he knows that a blue-rimmed white mug of lukewarm tea will be cooling on the table downstairs, just to the left of Harry's notebook; that the phone is probably dead because Harry can never be bothered to recharge the battery when he's writing; that after a while the glasses will annoy him, and will go back in their case, and Harry will promptly forget it and then it'll take him half an hour to remember where he put them, next time he needs them.

"You're back," Harry says, kind of quiet-like, and Karl can see him smile even though Harry's lips barely curve: his eyes crinkle up at the corners, just a little, and "Permission granted," he says; and then, "What the fuck happened to your hair?" he adds, like an afterthought, when Karl climbs on the deck. Karl feels the pen poking him on the shoulder as Harry takes him in a tight hug: it's probably leaking ink on his white tee, and he feels like laughing--and then he realises there's no reason why he shouldn't.

No reason why he shouldn't be here.

"I'm back," he says, and Harry laughs with him, and he's perfect, perfectly right, in Karl's arms. "Are we gonna sail?"

"Yeah, why not? It's a boat, after all," Harry grins, automatically steadying Karl against the faint rolling of the deck with his body. His hands are warm, firm on Karl's shoulders. "Where to?"

Karl's lips feel oddly dry. He licks them while he gives the question careful thought, letting himself grow accustomed to the boat's motion again, steady in Harry's easy embrace. Where to? He's just spent months filming in Berlin, then the best part of December travelling across the whole bloody wide world, Wellington to LA to Berlin again to Japan to countries whose names he's already forgotten. Going places, indeed.

Now he's back, though: there's no new place for him to be, no more promotional stuff to do, no new people to greet, no old friends to meet again.

Just Harry.

The deck rolls slowly, an increasingly familiar swaying under Karl's feet; the summer sun dazzles him, but the breeze is cool, and he can smell the ocean as a living thing around them. Harry's scent is stronger, closer. Holding Harry again, after so long, feels like a thing of the sea: warm and wondrous and never, ever entirely safe.

"So," Harry whispers, arms loosening, shifting, then tightening again, around Karl's waist. "Where do you want to go, Karl?" he says, and his voice drops, like the rolling of the waves coming to shore, shattering, running back to the deep, deep ocean.

Karl's thirst flares again, and he remembers his grandad telling him, when he was just about Hunter's age, you're not supposed to drink sea water. It'll make you go mad.

"Your bed," he says at last, and leans in with the next heaving swell, tasting sun and salt and lukewarm tea under his parted, dry lips, laughter and lust bubbling up inside: a madness he's known for years now.

"Just your bed," he says, before diving in again. "I'm thirsty."

End

FIC: Far from Home (LT/CB, LT/MO)

ressala@tin.it — Sun, 07 Dec 2003 23:11:33 GMT

Title: Far from Home (1/1)
Author: cinzia
Rating: PG
Pairing: Liv Tyler/Cate Blanchett; Liv Tyler/Miranda Otto; VM/SB (hinted at)
Summary: There's something missing.
Disclaimer: This is NOT true, because I just made it up. It NEVER happened.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Archive: My website.
Author Notes: Dedicated to Poor Napoleon.
Author Notes 2: Many, many, many thanks to viva_gloria for beta, and generally bearing with me.

Far from Home
by Cinzia

It's difficult, sometimes. Even when things are good and she can't believe how much beauty she's surrounded by, day after day, Liv feels homesick, and a little lost. This is Arwen's home, she thinks at those times: This is not for me.

And she would miss something, then: she would feel something missing inside, that she wouldn't quite have a name for; something stirred by all that beauty, perhaps, and which she wouldn't know how to soothe, or to sate.

She calls it homesickness because that's what it feels like the most: like a place she longs for, that she needs to go back to; except she's not sure she ever went there before, and if she did, now she can't remember the way.

She can tell it's a bit like that for most of the guys: they often go around with that bright, startled look in their eyes, lost and a little bit happy, as though they've just found something they don't quite know what to make of--yet.

It's different for them, though: they're boys. They stick together and do boy-things, and find their answers in their own way.

Orlando, sweet-hearted Orlando, tries to make her feel at home as much as he can, always making a place for her when they go and hang out together; but she's never been good at boy-type things, and the home they make for her amongst them feels more like a nest left by someone else, prepared for someone who's not her: it's warm and snuggly and comfortable--and it doesn't quite fit.

Cate, at first, helps. Beautiful, golden Cate, with her brilliant smile and the gentle eyes glittering in the smoky lights of the Lothlórien set, the morning they first meet.

They would go out together, just she and Cate; then go home together, back to Cate's place, and there they'd sit and talk and laugh until the wine was gone, or the first light of day showed outside the window panes.

Or until, one night, Liv starts feeling happy and warm inside, in the place with no name; and she grows quiet. A soft light comes into Cate's eyes; a sad shadow, like regret, nests in the softness of her lips. She touches Liv's hair gently, tucking dark locks behind Liv's ear, and brushes Liv's cheek with the back of her fingers; and she says, "Go to sleep now."

The bedsheets in Cate's guestroom are silky, and exquisite, a deep blue color like a midnight sky: there's a pale flight of swans printed in a corner, and it looks beautiful and ethereal. It reminds Liv of those scenes they have yet to film, Elves leaving Middle-earth, for ever.

Cate's fingers linger, warm and soft and a little distant on Liv's hot skin.

Looking at her then, Liv feels sure Cate knows about that secret place: she knows, she could take Liv there--but the smooth hard metal of Cate's wedding ring presses cold against Liv's cheek, stealing most of the warmth away, and Liv knows she'll ache all over again, soon. Yet it doesn't matter, because she's not hurting now; not just now. Not when she closes her fingers around Cate's and leans closer; when Cate doesn't turn away.

Cate's soft golden hair spills like moonlight on the dark blue sheets, when she whispers Liv's name.

The day she watches the first rough assembled cut of Arwen and Aragorn's scenes in Rivendell--Aragorn's memory, the evening before the Fellowship leaves--Liv can see that Aragorn's eyes are clouded and distant, as though he's already far away from his beloved, already on the road with the boys.

Liv remembers shooting those scenes the day after Sean left; remembers Orlando saying something about Viggo's head being somewhere over the Pacific right then. It hadn't been an unkind comment, and Liv remembers thinking, It's not his head. It's that place inside, and he'd found it and now it's gone, over the Pacific. That had been when she first thought of 'it' as home, and missing home.

Now she sees how distant Arwen's eyes look, too; and she knows Arwen is not thinking of her lover walking away from her... Or maybe she is: Cate's scenes are few, and the last one had been filmed the day before.

And all Liv can see is pale, silvery swans flying away in the night; all she can feel is the ache of saying goodbye.

"It's difficult, sometimes," Viggo says then, watching the screen from beside her. His hand is warm on her naked shoulder, hard and heavy, and the cuts in his fingers from Aragorn's fights are rough, and scratch at her skin.

It feels all wrong, his hand on her; and maybe he feels it, too, because he lets it drop after only a moment.

She's not alone in this; although she is. They both are.

The thought comforts her, in a way, and she turns her head toward him, letting their hands brush together over the back of Peter's chair.

"It is," she says, very quietly. He's often very quiet, too, these days.

With Viggo's bruised fingers kept secure under her own, watching the lovers part on the screen, in the beautiful evening, Liv thinks that it's all right, for this little while, so far from home, to be alone and hurting.

Miranda's smile is quick, her eyes sparkling with mischief when she calls Liv "princess", her voice ringing with laughter. She envelops Liv in her arms, cheek pressing against cheek, when Liv goes to watch her practice her sword technique with Viggo. Her golden hair is tied back with a piece of leather, just like Dernhelm would.

They took Arwen away from Helm's Deep. They made her journey a journey of the spirit: she'll have to find her strength and purpose inside, Fran told her; not like the boys--not like Éowyn.

Miranda's tied-back hair smells sweet and clean, as though she's just washed it in a clear pool outside, beside the river. She doesn't make Liv feel all quiet and happy inside, but she makes her laugh out loud, she makes her think of wide blue skies and mountaintops and airy, sunlit rooms.

"My warrior," Liv laughs, hugging her and holding on even after Viggo walks away. Miranda's hands are bruised and ruined like a boy's, yet still soft, smaller than her own. They hold Liv tight.

Liv's not sure if Miranda has a guestroom; but Miranda's bed has sheets with different colors for different days, and her hair is a rich golden shade, warm as the light streaming into Liv's room back at home, on lazy summer afternoons.

When Liv makes her smile, she can feel Miranda's smile light her up from the inside; and she thinks she can see that secret place a little better now.

"I'll show you just what this warrior can do with her sword," Miranda grins, blue eyes gleaming, voice low and husky, and then blushes a little and quickly kisses her on the lips. Her grin lingers on Liv's mouth.

They lie close together at night, and when Miranda finally falls asleep, arms and legs entwined with Liv's so that they'll both wake up hot and sweaty and hungry in the early hours of the morning, Liv doesn't feel so lost: if she aches for home, it's a sweet, familiar ache, and she's not impatient for it to be soothed any more.

She's sure she doesn't have very far to go now, to find her way there.

End

ressala@tin.it — Sun, 07 Dec 2003 19:23:40 GMT

*happy sigh*

Though I have to say, I'm glad it didn't happen for real--'cause, DEAD, you know? As in, DEAD.

...oh, who am I kidding? I'd sell my ~~collection of gay porn~~ soul to see it happen. ;)

FIC: Nigh Uncatchable (PotC, N/J, E/W)

ressala@tin.it — Tue, 25 Nov 2003 19:02:16 GMT

Title: Nigh Uncatchable (1/1)
Author: cinzia
Rating: R
Pairing: Norrington/Jack; Elizabeth/Will
Summary: Norrington dreams; Elizabeth wonders; Jack sets things straight.
Disclaimer: The characters are Disney's. Therefore, not mine.
Archive: My website.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Author Notes: For viva_gloria, as a (much) belated birthday present. Thanks to lamath, Kandadze and Phantomas for wonderful beta and constructive criticism.

Nigh Uncatchable
by Cinzia

Elizabeth had always been out of his reach.

And Norrington had always known this: since the day she had saved the boy's life, her heart had gone out to Will Turner.

He had been a fool to hope, to dream. He had been a fool to fall. She was now resolutely out of his grasp, and things were as they were meant to be. His dreams, though, were still his own; and if they failed to catch up with the current state of things... Eh, well: they were a fool's dreams.

When the sharp-edged hole of absence began to tug at his soul even in his dreams, and he could feel only cold and emptiness in the warm, sweet place where she had been, Norrington decided he would stop dreaming altogether. Then, when that failed--being as it was not really possible, or even sensible--he resolved he would keep one dream alone. Just the one.

He would be the best commodore the Spanish Main had ever seen.

He would bring an end to piracy.

He would catch Captain Jack Sparrow.

Of course this decision, as most decisions made by a broken heart are wont to do, began having interesting consequences not only on his waking hours--most of which he spent on board the Dauntless chasing after Sparrow--but on his sleeping habits as well.

He couldn't catch the damnable man when he was awake, so he would run into him in his dreams: he should have been shocked and surprised when, in those unpredictable waters, the Dauntless deck turned into his cabin's bunk; yet he was not, for he had often dreamt of Elizabeth coming to share this very bed, and now it seemed absurdly appropriate that a pirate would take her place in it, as well.

The pirate would climb onto Norrington's bed in the middle of some other forgettable flight of fancy, the baubles in his hair glinting faintly in the moonlight, clinking and jangling while the man settled over him: glint of gold when he smiled, wolfish and lustful and oh so irritating; glint of gold when he straddled Norrington's lap and his white shirt fell open to reveal the tanned skin of his chest, as smooth as any native's.

He would ride Norrington as a ship would an angered, swelling ocean; and he would reach out with his bound hands to touch him, his dark eyes wild and pleading... "I'm yours," he would whisper with a new smile, half cocky, half coy--and just like that, just when Norrington remembered he was never able to keep Elizabeth, not this way, but this man, this pirate, he was a different matter altogether and maybe--oh, Lord--maybe he could...

...just like that, Sparrow would vanish. Not like Elizabeth, sweet warmth fading in cold morning mists, no: more like the ever-receding horizon, endless, uncatchable. Always there, forever out of grasp.

His grasp.

Norrington was constantly ashamed to find himself in very uncomfortable, very sticky predicaments, awakening from those dreams. He was also almost positively certain he'd called out a most improper name just prior to awakening; luckily, though, usually no one was around to hear--except maybe the Marine standing watch not so far out of his door: but Norrington could easily pretend to ignore that.

At last--after a few weeks of this state of affairs--he acknowledged to himself he was growing too obsessed with this particular pirate, which was surely unhealthy, not to mention sanity-threatening; and when Lieutenant Gillette one morning brought him a report about the pirate Lacroix's ship being sighted just South of Port Royal, Norrington ordered the Dauntless to make sail. A little distraction would have been healthy for everyone involved, he decided.

And he stood on deck watching the eternally distant line of sea and sky stretch endlessly in front of him.

The celebrations for the capture of the pirate Lacroix were magnificent: all the high society of Port Royal assembled in Fort Charles to witness the hanging and, afterwards, take part in the parades and festivities in honour of their victorious commodore.

Elizabeth wandered away from her father and his entourage in the middle of a long speech, and went in search of a little quiet on the parapet where, not so long ago, Commodore Norrington had proposed to her; the parapet from where she had fallen, quite literally, into Jack Sparrows' arms; where she had at last chosen Will, and kissed him for the first time.

Will was not among the people gathering enthusiastically around the hero of the day: although he and Norrington were still on friendly terms, Elizabeth knew that both found a certain degree of awkwardness in each other's presence. It was because of her, of course, and though she regretted it dearly, there was nothing she could do about it.

Men were queer creatures.

She was not worried about Will: he still was more a blacksmith than a pirate, and in her heart, she knew it would always be like this. She wasn't disappointed, either: having now experienced what a true pirate's life was, she was satisfied to have the knowledge and the dream safe in her memory, and let life go on as it would.

For a little while.

Norrington, though...

She didn't feel guilty at having used his feelings towards her as a means to rescue Will: she had done what had needed to be done, and she could never regret that. In a way, though, she was aware that it would have been so very easy to accept Norrington's proposal and be happy with him. It would have--if her heart hadn't belonged to Will since they had been children.

So, out of what love she truly felt for the commodore, she worried about him, about that faraway look he got when he talked to her, and about the half-hidden glimpse of sea that she saw in his eyes sometimes.

Just then Lieutenant Gillette, who had been instructing two red-coated guards on the ramparts, spotted her. Elizabeth sighed, seeing him come her way: and as surely as she had known, he remarked how she shouldn't be in this place, for it was a treacherous spot--so high over the rocks and wind-swept--for a lady to be; and he would've thought she should remember that, having had the misfortune to fall from this very place not so long ago.

Elizabeth managed to take all this with good grace; she truly could not stand the young, pompous lieutenant, yet he was Norrington's left arm, and she was determined to act graciously with him.

"I see our commodore is making a name for himself," she cut in as soon as she could, and predictably enough, Gillette swelled with pride at the mention.

"Why, he is for sure," he commented. "He has been hell-bent--pardon my language, Miss Swann--on catching the scoundrels, of late. We have been chasing Sparrow's ship for many a long week now. It is just as well that we caught this other pirate, too. Sparrow will think twice about taunting us now, for sure."

"The commodore," Elizabeth said, folding and unfolding her fan in a pensive manner, "has been very keen on apprehending Captain Sparrow, is that so?"

"Very keen indeed, Miss," Gillette nodded. "So much so, that I oftentimes heard him call out in his sleep--my cabin is just next to Commodore Norrington's, you see--in fervor, with such a hoarse, passionate voice..."

"Call out?" Elizabeth asked, puzzlement colouring her voice.

"'Pirate', Miss," Gillette happily explained. "More than once I heard him, with these ears of mine. He is, as I said, very passionate about his work."

"Is he, now," Elizabeth mused aloud; and she was almost certain there could be no echo in that open space, so high up over the water, suspended in the brilliant sky: yet in the washing of the waves she thought she'd heard another voice--a very familiar voice--utter those same words, in a very similar, questioning tone.

Yet when she turned there was no one there but her and Gillette: only the cries of swooping seagulls and the distant sounds of the festivities in the Fort's courtyard, and the faint, ever-present scent and sound of the sea.

It is always a funny moment, when one awakes to find that one's dream has, in fact, bled into the waking world; and so it felt to Norrington, when he came awake the night of the celebrations for Lacroix's capture to find a pirate looking at him from the shadows at the side of his own bed.

"What do you think you're doing," were the pirate's first words, "going off chasing after other pirates?"

Norrington blinked several times. It hadn't escaped his notice, either, that his hands were now drawn over his head and bound with sturdy--he ascertained after some cursory testing--ropes to his own bedpost.

"What," he said, his voice somewhat hoarse; and then, "How," and then he trailed off again, since it really didn't bear to think about either of those questions; and anyway in his mind he could already hear the pirate answer, "Why, because I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, of course."

So Norrington didn't bother. He kept his silence, and glared.

Captain Jack Sparrow, sitting on the edge of Norrington's bed as calmly as though he belonged there--Norrington could feel the pirate's warmth seeping through the air into his own bared, vulnerable skin--shook his head, with a clink and clang and thump of beads and medallions and the Lord knew what else had found its way into his hair over the years, and he looked at the bound commodore with an expression of wounded reproach on his face.

"Really," Sparrow said. "I'm appreciative of your efforts in helping reduce the competition, but--" and here the pirate reached out to play with the edge of the sheet covering Norrington's hips, still vaguely tenting from the mad dream Norrington'd been having just prior to awakening in this mad reality-- "I'm a bit miffed that you went after that other ship."

Sparrow lifted the sheet then, and quite pointedly looked under it, then, in a similarly pointed fashion, looked back up into Norrington's eyes.

"I thought you wanted me, mate," he breathed.

And for a wild second, Norrington found himself on the verge of offering his apologies.

Madness.

"Ah, well," Jack mused. "I s'pose we just have to set this straight now."

Norrington had to bite back another "What" at that: it was useless, as much as considering why he wasn't even considering to scream for help, or to simply ask Sparrow to untie him and leave him the hell alone, on pain of death.

And after all, he had been dreaming of exactly this--or something surprisingly like this--for quite a while now.

In the moonlight Jack's skin--when he shed his clothing--looked more like tarnished silver than gold; his eyes were as dark as the night, and made darker by the kohl outlining them. His hair, quite heavy on Norrington's chest, and not at all smooth--not at all like Elizabeth's hair had used to feel in those other, older dreams--smelled of sea and salt, and there was a discordant cacophony of glass beads and bone baubles and... was that a golden doubloon?... that would've made Norrington grit his teeth, if this were in fact reality and not, as it were--as it must have been--only another, crueler, crazier dream.

The pirate slid like a sea snake over Norrington's chest, smelling of the dark secret depths of the ocean: in his kiss Norrington tasted salt and rum and gold--and his own blood, when Jack bit down--a real pirate's kiss, sharp as a cutlass, dangerous as sin.

When Jack smiled and licked his lips, reddened by his prisoner's blood, and ran at last his hands up over Norrington's arms, closing his fingers around the commodore's wrists, deftly loosening the knots of rope, Norrington thought, My sword; then he licked his own blood from the pirate's lips; he tasted the cold hard metal in Jack's mouth, and Jack's rough, warm tongue.

His arms, now free, closed around the pirate.

Caught you.

It was like riding out a storm in the open ocean. It was loud like thunder, blinding like lightning, and it hurt like the rain lashing out at you on the deck. When the last wave surged, drowning Norrington and spitting him out again on a distant, newly-discovered shore, all he could gasp with his last--first--breath was, "Pirate."

Jack's wild smile dazzled Norrington like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

"Your pirate," Jack whispered, when they found each other again on that unexplored shore, and had caught their breath. "And don't you go forgetting it again."

In that new world the pirate's kiss felt like the only true familiar thing: it tasted of salt, rum, blood--and endless horizons just in Norrington's reach.

The party for Elizabeth's birthday, a few days later, was the occasion which brought Will and Norrington face to face again.

Elizabeth watched both men closely-- though not in an overtly open fashion--and at last she thought she could see why Norrington had looked so different to her, of late: when the commodore looked at Will with no more bitterness at all; when he smiled at her with no more than a passing, flickering shadow of regret.

He looked better than she had ever seen him, and he gladly accepted her hand when she asked him to dance.

When he told her that the Dauntless was about to make sail again, Elizabeth smiled. "Another sighting of the Black Pearl, Commodore? Another day in which you'll 'almost' catch Captain Jack Sparrow?"

She waited for him to scowl and gently reproach her lightness; she was amazed, and a little worried, when he smiled back, and kept his silence, twirling her around the golden, crowded room. She noticed for the first time that his bottom lip was bruised at the corner, a faint red mark like a discordant, strangely upsetting note in the commodore's smooth appearance.

"You won't catch him, James," she said, furrowing her brow, aware that it sounded less a question than a command: she was serious, and suddenly afraid even though she couldn't quite put her finger on the reason. Surely, there could be no real danger: Jack was sly and cunning and as slick as an eel; and Norrington... Norrington knew that Jack was a good man, in his heart.

"I've no need of it," Norrington at last said, and Elizabeth finally saw: the sea in his eyes--it was endless and blue, sparkling under a clear sky.

"Then why," she began, confused. "What need do you have to..."

When Norrington looked down in her eyes, deep in her eyes, she could almost feel the roaring rush of the waves breaking against the hull, and the blowing wind in her hair.

"I'll just take what is mine to take," he simply said; and took her back to her father and Will, bowed, and was gone.

Elizabeth looked after him, as he walked proud and sure amidst the well dressed ladies and gentlemen of Port Royal--walked away from her.

And then, she knew.

"Why are you smiling, Elizabeth?" Will asked, taking her loosely into his arms, her name on his lips--after so many years--the sweetest endearment to both of them. She knew that if she were to crane her head back and look up into his dark, dark eyes, she'd see a calm sea, rich tilled earth and the heat of the forge, the warmth of the hearth; she would see their long years together, the past and those yet to come.

Norrington turned briefly, before leaving the room. She could see him smiling at them, at both of them equally, from here; then she smiled, too. When he was gone she looked up, looked at Will, and saw his heart in his eyes--she saw herself.

"Pirates," she murmured, contentedly.

When Will smiled and leaned down to kiss her brow, she remembered the Pearl's rolling deck, the spray of the waves and the rushing wind upon her face; and she felt the horizon opening endless all around.

End

FIC: Slanted (OB; SB; VM; KU)

ressala@tin.it — Tue, 18 Nov 2003 00:13:40 GMT

Title: Slanted (1/1)
Author: cinzia
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sean Bean; Viggo Mortensen; Orlando Bloom; Karl Urban. Mix and match.
Summary: "One lazy Sunday afternoon Sean finds himself sitting on the beach with most of his castmates."
Disclaimer: This is NOT true, because I just made it up. It NEVER happened.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Archive: My website, Rugbytackling.
Author Notes: For my dearest Darkie's birthday. Many thanks to Galadriel for the very strict beta-reading, and to the precious viva_gloria for last-minute much needed suggestions.
Author Note 2: Don't quote me about the reshoots schedule: I made that up, too.

Slanted
by Cinzia

The reshoots schedule is nowhere near as bad as principal filming, and one lazy Sunday afternoon Sean finds himself sitting on the beach with most of his castmates, watching the play of the waves on the surf. It's March, a clear, luminous late summer day with a bright blue sky and a pale yellow sun; the ocean looks dark and deep and tranquil.

Orlando is talking to Billy, a few paces in front of Sean: he shouldn't have been here, given that his own reshoots had been moved to February to leave him free to film Ned Kelly in Australia; yet here he is, jostling with timetables and jet-lag to meet with his old mates once again.

Sean has to smile at that. Orlando has changed since his elvish days: he's more assured now, less wide-eyed; yet he's still playful and loyal, much like a puppy. His hair has grown out, curling up in loose dark ringlets, drifting lazily in the wind. He looks tanned and fit.

If Sean were so inclined...

"Oi," Orlando calls, turning when Billy walks away and catching Sean's look. "You checkin' out my arse?"

The laughter catches Sean by surprise, and feels good in his chest. "I think I was, yeah."

Orlando strides over to where Sean's sitting. "Oh, that's all right then." He grins, and plops down next to Sean. "Want to cop a feel?"

Sean laughs again, shakes his head. "D'you ever sleep with people who aren't famous?"

It would be a poor, tasteless remark were it anyone else; but this is Orlando, and it's an old joke between them.

"Not recently, no," Orlando shrugs, not minding in the least. A beat later he adds, "Not since Vig," and Sean suddenly remembers how the joke started.

"You're famous enough, anyway," Orlando says then, and he leans closer to run his fingers through Sean's shorn beard, the touch almost light enough; almost careless enough. "Want to have a go at me?"

Sean sees the smirk--the teasing-but-not-quite smirk--in Orlando's dark eyes; pretending that he doesn't feels easier than it should, somehow. He bats Orlando's hand away with a mock growl. "Sod off. You're not my type."

"You're too straight, mate," Orlando laughs, leaning back again, and keeps his hands obediently to himself.

"I'm so sorry my heterosexuality offends you."

"'S all right." Orlando laces his hands behind his head and lies down, making himself comfortable on Sean's towel. The towel's not large enough for both of them, and the sand is damp and a bit cold; Orlando's lying half on and half off, but he doesn't seem to care. Youth, Sean thinks, and has to stop himself from calling the young man beside him a silly kid; he's not. Not anymore.

"You shaved your chest," Orlando says conversationally, deciding that he's at his most comfortable using Sean as a pillow, and then squirming a little to find the best position.

"Oof," Sean says, Orlando's curls ticklish on his--admittedly--newly shaved skin. "Stop moving so much, will ya? Am trying to get a wink here."

Orlando settles down at last, at ease with his head just below Sean's breastbone. "Whiny bastard," he mumbles, his eyes closing. "You haven't changed a whit." But he stops moving.

Sean doesn't feel like dignifying that with an answer. They lie in silence for a while, the calm rushing of the waves and distant voices and occasional laughter lulling them to sleep. Sean's eyes close; his thoughts wander to his daughters: they used to cuddle up to him and go to sleep with their heads on his chest, on his stomach, when they were younger.

"Haven't seen much of Vig these days." Orlando's voice--matter-of-fact, as though they'd been talking of it all along--reaches Sean when he's almost asleep, breaking the quiet feeling into a handful of glittery shards. Sean can feel uneasiness drift in, and he's not sure who it's coming from.

Viggo's voice drifts to them on the wind. He's droning on about something, low and soft; quoting poetry, maybe. Or describing the trout he caught that morning. Sean can't quite make out the words.

He blinks rapidly as his eyes open, raising a hand to protect them from the brightness of the late afternoon. All he sees at first are blinding white sky and muted grey water; then the light dims, bringing back the colours. Orlando's eyes are still closed.

Sean turns his head to see where the voice's coming from.

So that's why, he thinks, the lad's here on my towel.

"Seems like," he says carefully, "Viggo's got his hands full just now."

Orlando turns his head at that, blinking and craning his neck to follow Sean's line of sight. Then he turns back again, resuming his slouched sprawl. He doesn't feel particularly tense, Sean decides. Or any tenser.

"Oh, that one," he says. Sean's almost sure the note in his voice is not anything quite as ugly as distaste. Or as bland. Orlando closes his eyes again. "That one's straighter than you."

Sean watches Karl grope the front of Viggo's swimming trunks quite unashamedly.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Karl's back looks very broad and golden in the warm, brilliant afternoon light. Sean can't be sure, but he's probably bitten Viggo's neck to make Viggo yelp and then laugh, like that. A bit breathless. Viggo's hands look almost pale, splayed against that golden skin.

"Hides it bloody well."

And that is the beginning of a frown on Orlando's smooth forehead. Sean takes his eyes away from Karl's back, and rocks so that Orlando's head bounces a couple of times against his chest. "Now why the Look?"

Orlando's eyes open, and glare at him from under dark, loose curls, an upside-down glare that is really not that impressive. "I mean it, Bean. That one's straight. He just likes to string Vig around."

"Did you hit on him, and he was too straight for you?"

Orlando rolls his eyes. "As if." He moves his head around to get back to his previous position--or to get back at Sean. His curls drag and scratch at Sean's skin, itching. "You know I'm only into famous people anyway."

Sean has to grin at that; he settles back. "Fair enough."

They don't speak after that. Orlando is warm and comfortable against his chest; the urge to scratch passes.

Sean listens to the ocean, the seagulls, people's increasingly scarce conversations around them. Orlando's breathing evens out, his head feels heavier.

Orlando, who's becoming, by now, more famous than Sean; and who would've shared Viggo's towel only six months before.

Orlando, who isn't a silly kid any longer.

Sean can still hear a hobbit call out occasionally to another--little critters, they never change--but by now the afternoon is mostly quiet.

He can't hear Viggo's voice anymore.

He closes his eyes, and wonders if Karl knows that he's straight.

If Sean were so inclined...

I'm straight, too, he tells himself. Of course, that has never been the problem.

"Only young people," Viggo said once. "Not famous people." He'd laughed, a bit breathlessly, in Sean's ear then, his scent filling Sean's nostrils, his arms warm and easy around Sean's waist; his stubble had scratched against Sean's cheek when he'd leant back and got up to go sit beside Dominic in the crowded pub.

Viggo doesn't see gender or inclination; Sean knows this.

Viggo sees possibilities.

And sometimes, he doesn't see.

There's still something, like an itch, bothering Sean. It's not Orlando. It doesn't come from outside. It subsides, from time to time; and he can never really scratch it away.

The beach is so quiet, it feels like they're alone on it.

The light slants red shadows, like open fingers, behind Sean's closed eyelids, and little by little bleeds out of the day.

End

gasp

ressala@tin.it — Mon, 17 Nov 2003 15:06:56 GMT

Oh God.

*blown away*

That was so beautiful, there are no words. God, I love those two. And Sean calling Viggo "Master" just then...! And Viggo offering...! *dead*

I adore you both.

*tries to breathe again*

Fic: Dinner (SB/VM, NC17; sequel to Nap)

ressala@tin.it — Fri, 26 Sep 2003 11:44:15 GMT

♥ Happy birthday, helens78! ♥

*lots of hugses and manly Men doing manly things to each other*

I swear, this bunny came up before the latest Establishment developments; but now it seems all the more appropriate... Hope you'll enjoy!

Title: Dinner (1/1)
Author: cinzia
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Viggo Mortensen/Sean Bean
Summary: Viggo and Sean have dinner out.
Disclaimer: This is NOT true, because I just made it up. It NEVER happened.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Archive: My website, rugbytackle.
Warning: A wee bit of spanking, though only mentioned.
Author Notes: Sequel to Nap.
Author Notes 2: Thanks to viva_gloria for beta. This is for helens78: happy birthday!

Dinner
by Cinzia

The restaurant Viggo has chosen for their dinner is a good one: not too exclusive or formal, but expensive and discreet enough, with good food and excellent wine. Besides, he and Sean have often come here in the past, and they are left alone without too much fuss.

Viggo can barely take his eyes off Sean tonight: he's wearing the fine, dark suit that Viggo chose for him as a present, with the silk tie that Viggo loves best, gray-green as Sean's eyes; Sean's hair is impeccable, his aftershave smells expensive and spicy. He looks gorgeous, manly, a ruggedly handsome British gentleman with refined taste in clothes, tobacco, rare leather-bound books and foreign cars... with a hard, tough edge to him that speaks of risks, of experience. Of passion. Dangerous things.

No Friday evenings drinking beer and telling rude jokes with his old mates in smoky pubs, no Saturday afternoons spent watching football matches, no Sunday mornings digging into the dirt to plant new saplings surface here: not if one doesn't know where to look -- or doesn't want to look for them.

Viggo catches sight of himself in one of the restaurant's windows, and can't help but smile: he too is wearing a damn fine suit, though of a less conventional design; the suit is light green, he's got no tie on, and the first two buttons of his shirt are open. His hair is still the Hidalgo hair, not too long but not short either, and its cut looks odd in a modern, civilized setting, with its blond and red highlights catching the light when he turns his head.

With his look and his stubble, Viggo looks almost disreputable next to Sean, a scruffy hippy trying to dress up with no real heart in it. The thought sends a spark of electricity, bright as laughter, through him, as he follows their waiter to their table, and when he catches Sean's eyes, he sees the same mischievous flicker in them, and knows that Sean knows exactly what he's thinking.

So, so good.

Once they're settled and have placed their order, Sean leans back in his chair, his eyes looking dark and amused at the same time. "You are daft," he says, his soft voice and soft, smiling eyes quickly turning amusement to a shiver down to Viggo's spine. So good, yes. Arousal is always only a step away whenever he hears Sean's voice, apparently. Especially these days -- these few, precious days they've managed to scrap together in-between their latest projects. But now filming for Hidalgo is over, and Troy is almost finished. Viggo already has a ticket for London booked to his name.

They've been parted too long, of late. Viggo is determined to do his best to catch up on lost time.

"You like me daft," he counters, keeping his own voice a quiet purr, knowing what sort of effect it has on Sean, as well. He smiles, showing his teeth, when he sees Sean's eyes darken further. "You'll like it even more once we're back home," he adds, though he's sure he doesn't need to remind Sean of the promise he's made.

Sean shifts in his seat, his cheeks flushing faintly; Viggo wishes he could lean over the table, touch Sean's face to feel that lovely heat under his fingers, but as discreet as the place is, it's still not the right place for them to touch that way. So he contents himself with leaning in, toying with the silver cutlery, and saying, in the tone he'd use to talk about the food, "Can't wait to make you blush like that all over."

As he'd known, his words make Sean's blush deepen; but Sean doesn't look away, keeps looking at him with a gaze so intense, so hungry, that Viggo is the one squirming in his chair now, blood rushing to parts of him other than just his face. And fuck, Sean looks very casual sitting there, one arm casually draped over the back of his chair, the other playing with a silver knife; but he licks his lips, and Viggo knows that brilliant gleam in his eyes, that intent, focused look.

"Can hardly wait, myself," Sean says, his voice rough and low, intended just for Viggo.

Some familiar, classical music is playing softly in the background, but Viggo can barely hear it. He's remembering waking up from their afternoon nap, Sean's mouth kissing him awake in the now pleasantly cool room, and Sean's hand stroking him lazily but surely until he'd spilled over, his cries muffled by Sean's mouth. He remembers Sean shaking his head, eyes bright, smiling happily when he had made to return the favor, Sean's lips hot against his ear. "Want to keep it for later, love." Then he'd taken Viggo's hand to his mouth, turning it and kissing the palm lovingly, reverently, a faint blush coloring his ears and neck -- as close as Sean ever got to asking him for it, even after all this time -- to thanking him for it.

Viggo remembers, swallows, can't reply. However the evening will end -- with him buried deep in Sean, Sean driving hard into him, or just holding each other in their bed -- he feels blessed just to be here. In a way, after so long a separation, it's almost as if they're getting to learn each other all over again, to reacquaint themselves with each other. It's like being back in that first rush, like falling in love all over again. If something better than this exists, Viggo doesn't know what it is, nor is he interested.

"I will," he starts to say, then has to stop because their dinner arrives. He catches Sean's faint smirk while the waiters set their plates down, and hides his own smile.

"I will make it so good for you," he can finally promise, once they're alone again. And sees Sean close his eyes for a moment, draw a shaky breath in.

It still amazes Viggo, and pleases him, how much Sean's grown to like this, how important it feels to have Sean, so beautiful and hard and strong, lie of his own will over Viggo's lap and let himself in Viggo's hands, to receive pain and pleasure and yes, shame -- trusting Viggo with so much of himself.

It amazes him, and pleases him; and just thinking of the feeling of Sean's ass growing red and hot under his palm, of the soft little cries that escape Sean's lips, of the way Sean's cheeks clench hard under the first slaps, before abandoning every last trace of tension... the hot, sticky feeling of Sean's hard cock grinding into Viggo's thigh... Just thinking of it makes Viggo hard, and he lets out a long, trembling sigh.

"Viggo," Sean growls when he reopens his eyes, "I'm going to throw you down and fuck you right here, if you keep this up."

And by the way his eyes glow, Viggo can almost believe him.

"I wish," he says, the longing in his voice clear enough that Sean reaches over, after all: it's just a casual gesture, as though he meant to check Viggo's watch for the time; but Viggo's not wearing a watch, and Sean's fingers close warm and familiar around his wrist. And it's nothing, really: just a casual touch; but it's done with intent, it's done to tell Viggo something -- I'm here, I want you, I know -- and that simple, casual contact has Viggo's breathing hitch, his stomach flutter.

So good.

The dinner is good, too, and it's the best thing in the world to be here with Sean, still tingling from his touch, already anticipating what'll come next. There's no rush in it, no hurry: they have time, at last, and anticipation is something to be savored and cherished as much as the actual event.

They talk about everything and nothing while they eat. There's a poetry reading Viggo wants to attend to tomorrow; Sean needs to call his agent about a meeting that's been rescheduled. A soft drizzle begins to fall outside, glowing in the streetlights' halos. When they finally leave, the night is cool and shiny; their faces get quickly damp, and it's a pleasant feeling to walk so close, as though they need to stay like this to ward off the rain.

Viggo's car is parked a few paces ahead; they walk toward it, an alley opening just on their left, dark and unwatched. Viggo thinks he shouldn't be so surprised, when Sean pushes him toward the unlit street.

"Going crazy," Sean mutters, and Viggo's backed against a damp, crumbling brick wall. Sean's mouth is soft against his, but his kiss is hard, and Viggo moans into it, kissing back with all he has, pulling Sean closer.

"Christ, Vig," Sean pants, his hips rocking against Viggo's, so that Viggo can feel how hot and hard he already is.

Viggo gasps, fingers closing tightly around Sean's shoulders, his forehead coming to rest in the crook of Sean's neck. Sean's thigh between his own, rubbing against his balls while the heel of Sean's hand massages his trapped erection, Sean's hips grinding against him... Oh, Christ. He can still feel the small aches from having had Sean fuck him hard and rough that morning -- faint, but very much there -- and if only they weren't here, in some fucking street, he'd just push Sean down and tear his pants off and shove into him hard and fast and rough, hands digging into his chest, giving it to him the way Sean likes best, pinning him down, making him whimper and beg for it, until they lose it from the sheer intensity of it all...

"Fuck," he pants through clenched teeth, lips drawn back over them. Sean's smell, his heat... Sean's lips bruising his neck, sucking... Fuck.

"Close," he manages to mutter, and shit, that makes Sean stop at once. Or, not so at once: his hand is still over Viggo's cock, but it's not moving anymore. Sean breathes heavily against Viggo's neck, panting a little, and at last draws back. His other hand comes up, running lightly through Viggo's hair, trying to comb it back into some sort of order.

Viggo's glad of the reprieve. Walking to the car's going to be difficult, but that's good. He's going to need the discomfort, the time to cool off, or he won't last long enough to give Sean what he promised. And he wants to -- oh God, how he wants to.

"Fuck," Sean says, eyes wild, wide, dark. His fingers briefly close around two fistfuls of Viggo's hair, then slide down, hot on Viggo's neck, his chest. "Fuck."

Viggo nods. "Home," he says, and his hand taking Sean's, not letting go, is just another promise.

End

Fic: Precious (A/B, R)

ressala@tin.it — Mon, 22 Sep 2003 15:50:06 GMT

More crossposting from my LJ. Am I spammy, or what...?

This is all lannamichaels' fault, because she handed me the Evil!bunny and ran away before I could hand it back. So, puppy, this is for you. :)

Title: Precious (1/1)
Author: cinzia
Rating: R
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir
Summary: Frodo did not get away.
Disclaimer: The characters are Tolkien's. Therefore, not mine.
Archive: my website, rugbytackle.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Author Notes: Evil!AU. Many thanks to zasjah for beta.

Precious
by Cinzia

The first deed of Boromir, after he took the Ring from Frodo (after the Ring took him), Aragorn tries hard to forget.

He does not think he can ever remember the second, for his mind refuses to let it happen again, even if only in memory.

He had tried to stop the third with his sword and then, disarmed, with words and pleas: he had pleaded, yea, hope still burning in his heart.

He remembers Boromir's hand, a hard, unforgiving grip in his hair, lifting him up from his knees.

"You cannot offer me," Boromir had whispered, and his arm had felt like doom (inescapable) closing fast around Aragorn's waist, "what already is mine."

Boromir's eyes had been the clear green of the Lothlórien mellyrn leaves in Spring -- yet darkness lingered under the boughs, never to fade; and there had been blood on the ground.

The hall of the thrones in the Citadel, in Minas Tirith, has been as Aragorn remembered it.

Nothing else has been the way he had dreamed it would be.

He cannot tell what has been the fate of Denethor, who had seen Thorongil in him and had tried to touch his face; nor can he remember any more of Faramir, who had risen to his father's aid, than his startled voice.

And it had sounded so strangely young, in the silent, echoing hall, when he had called for his brother: a shrill cry, a plea -- interrupted.

It had been then, Aragorn thinks, that hope had fled him.

Aragorn's eyes are closed, and have been ever since he was brought here, for he does not wish to see.

Seated on the high throne of the Kings, chained to it, his hands are bound, and he is naked.

It does not matter, for no one entering this hall ever leaves it again.

"Mine," Boromir whispers from where he kneels between Aragorn's legs, his voice full of adoration. Boromir's mouth pays homage to Aragorn's flesh, his hands arouse him even though Aragorn wishes they would bestow death upon him, not passionate touches.

"My own," Boromir breathes into Aragorn's ear, and the Ring, dangling from a fine Elven-woven chain around Boromir's neck (that was not Frodo's blood, that dark stain Aragorn remembers on the stainless mithril, it was not, it was not) trails cold, burning kisses over Aragorn's chest when Boromir leans over him, taking what Aragorn has never had the courage to freely offer -- what has, to Aragorn's eternal shame, indeed always been his.

"My King."

The Ring burns an angry circle over Aragorn's heart, where long ago a different token had rested (Aragorn cannot remember what it was, or where it lies now), pressed into his skin by the rhythm of their coupling. There is a soft murmur in Aragorn's head, at times urgent, at times no more than a content hum. It is of no consequence to him; no more than his own heartbeat is.

And if it is the Ring, calling out to him, Aragorn cannot hear its voice over Boromir's love pledges and his own broken, mindless cries.

End