For bonnysprite: Better Judgement
Title: Better Judgement
Recipient: bonnysprite (Kik)
Author: valerienne
Pairing: Viggo/Elijah
Rating: PG
Summary: Elijah keeps turning up wherever Viggo happens to be, is it fate, chance, or merely Schrödinger's cat playing a game?
Pre-reveal Notes: This was my first time writing this particular pairing, I hope they ring true :)
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Elijah bites his nails. The thought floats across Viggo's mind, apropos of nothing, one day as he's oiling Anduril. He doesn't need to, of course, the Weta armourers will do all and any maintenance on Aragorn's precious sword, but he wants to, and that's a very different thing. He wipes in long strokes, the rhythm something he falls into easily now, as he imagines that Aragorn too might have done something like this, the routine of the motions giving his mind free rein. He wishes he could sharpen her, properly, which obviously he can't do, and the long, slow scrape of the whetstone is only in his mind. But. Still. It's beautiful picture.
Elijah bites his nails. The thought floats the other way, as Viggo leans back and imagines the shine from the newly sharpened blade, the vicious gleam of the edge, the pleasure that it would give to a craftsman, to a swordsman like Aragorn. The pleasure it would give to Viggo too. But this other thought, it keeps intruding, it keeps him from experiencing the purity of this visceral connection, and that might almost be irritating, if Viggo was the sort of man who allowed himself to be irritated. Why is it that he's thinking about Elijah's nails at all? It's something that needs pondering on perhaps. But. Anyway. Does Frodo bite his nails? That's the real question that matters. He leans back down to his blade.
***
"Oh, sorry," says a voice, breathy, a little high-pitched, and Viggo looks up, through his bangs, and up further, tipping his head back, into the early morning New Zealand sun. Dawn is just showing above the horizon, and light is slicing through the dark tree tops like brilliant knives.
There's a halo, and a twitching body, black in the light, and Viggo decides that the halo is a mere penumbral phenomenon, and no kind of spiritual indicator, not that it should be, not that a halo meant even that once upon a time. He wants his camera, in a sort of abstract way, but not enough to worry him. If it was going to worry him, he'd have it here, to hand.
The body is still twitching, and Viggo realises, as slow as molasses, that Elijah might be waiting for a response. He smiles slightly, and brings his arm up to shade his eyes, bringing Elijah's features into sharper relief. He's still all made of shadows, but they are, at least, more defined. He's smiling back at Viggo.
"I came here for a moment of solitude, you see," says Viggo, answering the question, and he can see confusion in Elijah's eyes, the chagrin of his posture as apology and dejection war within, his mobile mouth twitching with it.
Viggo's smile drops when he realises he's answered the unspoken question, the one he heard, plain as the new day. He must stop doing that. Aragorn would hear, but he wouldn't let on that he knew, now would he? He wouldn't make anyone of his company feel uncomfortable through such actions, showing himself up, or them. Oh dear. Aragorn would never be unworthy.
Viggo tries smiling again, as Elijah turns to go, and catches his arm. It's so early, Elijah is still wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt, it feels soft against his palm, with wrinkles in the fabric that make an interesting sensation when contrasted with the warmth of Elijah's skin. Elijah waits, half-turned away, and Viggo says, "No, I'm sorry. I'm not being clear - it's early."
All of which is true, and yet, it says not quite all he means.
Elijah grins again however, all confusion apparently banished, and Viggo is delighted with the simple pleasure that it brings, to Elijah himself, but by reflection, also to Viggo. He's over-complicating things again, isn't he? Henry would smack him on the arm and whine, "Daaad!" And he'd be right.
Viggo lets Elijah's arm go then, sits back again on his heels. Watches him ambling off, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans for the inevitable clove cigarette, undoubtedly the reason he'd come across Viggo in the first place, looking for a quiet place to smoke. Viggo laughs at himself. Fate is for larger men than he, it's for Aragorn, for Boromir, even. Certainly not for Viggo, for all of this film's synchronicity. Certainly not for Elijah.
***
Except that it's not exactly the first time. It's certainly not the last. Viggo watches, a little bemused, certainly amused, as Elijah turns up in the most unexpected of places. They can't all be coincidence, no, even Viggo, after a time, begins to look for a cause and effect, other than accident, other than chance.
It's not fate. It's really not. He's not arrogant enough to even entertain that. But he has a choice, Viggo thinks, they both do. Elijah's decision seems to be made, his mind seems set, and it is up to Viggo to channel that choice into one of the branching paths. Saying no seems to lead to a certain tension, a consoling drink or three, good friends patting Elijah on the back, and Viggo living with the odd wry smile from his fellows, possibly a comment or two about youngsters, what can you do? Maybe a nudge or a wink or four, some talk about fancy not tapping that? It's over quickly, not even a small storm in the proverbial teacup - more like a wave or two across the surface.
But the other choice, ah, the paths branch more wildly, a thicket no less, with tangled webs, possibly woven to deceive, but Viggo doesn't think so. There are arguments that float in the background of Viggo's thoughts, way beyond questions of bitten nails, such as - he is unattached here in New Zealand, there's nobody that could be hurt, nobody waiting for him. He's half the world away, dreamlike, in a beautiful country, and yet a small one in attitudes, whilst vast in the richness of its landscape. A dichotomy that he loves. And this, this question he's pondering, it would be no less than that. A dichotomy, potentially providing heartache, but he's old enough to handle it. It's Elijah who most certainly is not.
People tell him that Elijah has an old soul, and Viggo stares at Elijah, as he messes around with the other hobbits, with Billy and Dom, and he knows that he should laugh at their antics, and scoff at those who talk about men's souls, knowing, smug, mouthing about the unknowable as though it's something to be picked up at the mall; it should be laughable. But then Viggo sees Elijah handle Sean so skilfully, with his moods, and his insecurities, and he truly laughs, with wonder, at his own arrogance. For how are his assumptions any better?
He takes it, as he always does, back to the man he is inhabiting. He will dwell here for more than a year, in this house of Aragorn's fathers, in which the line is unbroken, back through history to Númenor, and forwards through to Viggo. He lives here, in this shelter, and Viggo will use his wisdom, not his own - anything else would only interfere. In the space he is in now, it's all he knows how to do.
***
"I want to fish," says Viggo, "This weekend. Does anyone want to come with me?"
Billy looks up from the card game he's playing with Dom. Some variant of gin, Viggo thinks, but with dares thrown in, and a strip version in potentia. The rules are convoluted, and he's not sure even Billy or Dom knows them all. He's not sure they're meant to, he suspects that it's the whole point. They're storing everything up for the weekend, Viggo knows, because they're in costume - there are very few dares that would survive Ngila's wrath at the inevitable damage, or Peter's disappointment.
Billy smiles, but shakes his head. They have a wild time, already planned, already anticipated. Viggo can almost taste the beer in Billy's mouth, smell the heavy acetone stink of Dom's nails. Dom scrunches his forehead, shaking his head, not even looking up.
"You'll be camping, right?" says Dom, and Viggo shrugs. Nothing's certain. "Nah," says Dom, again, "Another time though, yeah?"
Viggo blinks, his eyelids already heavy with the solitude to come, and looks around the room. At the various levels of comfort, and boredom. At the apathy, and mild interest, and wants to shout that life's too short. Don't go fishing then, but do something, shout, scream, anticipate, anything more than share lethargy on a sofa.
"Can I come?" asks Elijah, suddenly, from behind him, and Viggo tenses, an unfair reaction, but he wasn't there before, an unknown quantum reaction collapses into Elijah walking silently through the door.
Viggo turns, his mouth held in a half-smile, as halfway reduced as Schrödinger's cat. "Sure," he says, because perhaps this is him taking action, without making that decision he is still letting dangle, allowing the possibility without the responsibility of choice, as unfair as he knows that to be.
Elijah lights up, a candle-flame's worth of brilliance, not enough for the room to see, but enough here, next to him, for Viggo alone to bask in. Viggo shifts, not comfortable, but content, the glow shining on his skin.
"Yeah," says Sean, his rangy form stretching until it creaks, "Me too. I need the air, and there's no footie on."
Elijah's star collapses then. An uncertain penumbra, shifting in its spectrum, along with his smile, equally uncertain. Viggo wants to reach out and touch. He realises, suddenly, that he doesn't want this particular waveform to collapse, and that is a singular revelation. So he puts out his hand, and squeezes Elijah's shoulder, who sways in Viggo's hold, and is so young. Just by being. Viggo feels vaguely greedy, and selfish. He's glad that Sean will be coming too. He feels Aragorn whispering to him of bitten nails and eyes as wide as the sea, and he doesn't understand the whisper. It worries him, he wants to know this isn't some twisted wish of his own devising. He wants his motives to be... if not pure, then at least real.
***
Viggo has always thought of being an actor as something that he fell into. It wasn't planned, he didn't have a burning desire for the limelight, far from it. He'd been pursuing ambitions in other fields of endeavour, as he remembers, some of them in the arts, but there had been other ideas, other things he could have done. It occurs to him now that perhaps he began to study acting because it was elusive, because it was something he could pursue forever, without ever arriving at any sort of real goal. Viggo isn't sure why he feels that way - other than he's not sure that he approves of goals in quite the way that others do. The American Dream, for example, is always about looking over the horizon, it's about being better, being bigger, forever fighting your way upwards towards a summit that is never achieved, because there is always another mountain to climb. It's never about looking around at the scenery on the way.
Viggo finds it ironic, that now he is an actor, at least most of the time, he seems to have more goals than ever, although at least they are smaller, more easily achievable. The trick, he thinks, is to not think of them like that at all. Each part, each role, is a goal of sorts, of course, and each film the end result. But that is a trap, a fallacy, that he wants to fight against, tooth and claw. He wants to live in the moment, here with each scene, each character, unique and present. Each one perfect, like a teardrop, poised to fall, ready for the river of time to wash it all away. But the teardrop, while it remains, is perfect.
Sometimes Viggo wants to ring Henry and get him to babble at him about his day, about Star Wars action figures, and macaroni and cheese, and how mean Bobby Berkowitz is, and whether he's done his homework. Sometimes Viggo thinks he needs that, his own personal version of a kick up the ass.
Aragorn is a demanding man. He's got a lot of goals of his own, a lot of worries. Viggo wants to help, he does, but sometimes he doesn't always feel equal to the task, as though he's not quite good enough. He's not a King, or even a King-in-Waiting, thinking will not make it so. But. There are things that he can do.
Elijah is too young. It's a fact. But then, so is Aragorn. Viggo likes that dichotomy too - Aragorn has lived many decades more than he himself has, but by the standards of his own people, he is still a man in his prime, a young man even. He's been waiting in the wings his whole life. He's been waiting for so long that now he's not even sure if he wants to leave them, even though he might miss the cue that he's been waiting for. Viggo doesn't know how to sympathise with that - it's such a different attitude to his own. Aragorn has a goal, an admirable one, but goals obliquely distress Viggo...
Turn it around, look at it another way. Aragorn also has the love of Arwen, an ageless Elven maiden who will love him whether he will or no, despite her father's wishes, and the differences between them. Aragorn must be almost like a child, to a lady who has lived centuries, endlessly, dreaming among the trees and grace of Lothlórien. Viggo is not sure he can portray that either. He's being petulant, in his obstinacy, but it's true enough, so much so that it's beginning to become a block to the performance. In his mind, anyway, it's a block, and the sword over his shoulder is feeling heavier each day.
Elijah is young - too young, but Viggo isn't sure. Why should it be a problem? Arwen doesn't see it as such, so why should Viggo? Is Elijah any less worthy than Aragorn? His mind skitters in wayward circles, and his performance likewise; he swings Anduril wildly in practice, wide of the mark. It disturbs him that no-one else seems to notice.
***
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Viggo whispers, as he looks at Elijah.
The last of the fish are gutted, and hooked on sticks over the campfire. Night has fallen, and the stars are probably out, but the brilliance of the flames means that it's impossible to tell. Viggo stares at the brilliance of Elijah and wonders what he's masking, what points of illumination are hidden within. Wonders whether he has any right to ask, or even speculate. Elijah stares into the fire, and his eyes glitter with it.
Sean has fallen asleep, beer bottle in hand, and Viggo is not sure if he's glad. He is sure that it's been a good day, a fulfilling day. The coldness of the water, and the heaviness of the rod, juxtaposed with the chatter of the river, and the cries of birds. It's all filled a hole in himself that he hadn't realised was hollow, which is a shame, because he prides himself on his own self-knowledge, if he's allowed pride in such a thing. Viggo tips his head up, takes a slug of beer. Sometimes he disappears into his own self-reflection, sometimes he thinks that he takes it all far too seriously, like mirrors repeating that reflection endlessly. It may be an inspiring thing, but it's also pointless, in a way, self-defeating.
"Yeah, it's beautiful," says Elijah, equally quietly, and Viggo remembers he's just asked a question.
"I'm glad I came," Elijah continues, but he's not looking at Viggo, and his voice is far away. "Thanks."
And Viggo should be glad, shouldn't he? That Elijah has gained something from today, that he too has absorbed the peace of the river, the camaraderie of good fellowship. Viggo looks over, his hand tightening on the neck of his bottle, aware that self-knowledge shouldn't be a lie. He's glad that Elijah could come and gain some satisfaction, but what Viggo really wants is an Elijah who is far from being at peace. He wants Elijah to be thrumming with barely contained energy, he wants to see fingers in his mouth - bitten nails, Viggo remembers with a tiny thrill - he wants him to be staring at Viggo from under dark lashes. It's unfair. Viggo... apparently wants a great deal.
He shifts a little, the better to watch Elijah, without seeming to do so, and then he freezes. There's something, a sideways look through narrowed eyes, an orange, cat-like glance. The fire is still dancing, reflected in Elijah's eyes. Viggo feels heavy, like he's pinned, like his breath is caught in his throat, and he coughs a little, the slight chill of the night's air catching at him. Then he puts his head down on his knees and wheezes into them, the cough morphing into a laugh. He chuckles slightly at his own ridiculousness. He is a transparent fraud, and apparently his vanity should be legendary.
When Elijah was the pursuer, Viggo had leaned away, considering, doubting. As soon as Elijah stopped paying attention, he finds a sudden interest. Surely that is a reaction so classic, so vintage, that it might almost be why he missed it? Despite all of his introspection? And again Viggo laughs.
Then his chuckling abruptly stops, and Viggo sucks in a breath. There's a hand on his shoulder.
"Hey, what's so funny?" asks Elijah, his voice soft, his breath stirring the hair by Viggo's ear. Elijah has moved round the fire. He also sounds confused, but Viggo cannot blame him in the slightest for that.
Viggo wishes he had Anduril. He could go fetch it, it's only in the car, on the road some ways back. It wouldn't be more than a few minutes hike, even in the dark. He wants the heft of it in his hand, he wants Aragorn's whisper in his head, perhaps even his permission. Viggo is no Arwen, he has no ageless wisdom, he claims nothing, not even introspection, not any more.
He only knows that as he makes room on his bedroll for Elijah, as he shifts along, that he's watching the glossy shine of dark hair on a bent head. That he's waiting for eyes wider than the sea, to turn back to his own. That there is a set of young limbs folding up like a soft pretzel next to him, and that he's not moving away. His heart is soaring at the little hitch of breath, as Elijah puts his head on his knees. Viggo's mouth is dry as he bumps their shoulders together, and finally, finally, gets Elijah to look up.
Viggo isn't worthy, he knows that now. He's had pretensions towards humility, and he's been caught out, if only by himself. He can admit it, and he can feel Aragorn smile, as Viggo smiles. Elijah looks unsure, and then worried. Viggo wonders how wild-eyed he's looking. Then Elijah glances at Sean, snoring slightly, a grating counterpoint to the spit and crackle of the fire, and moves away a vital inch, to make their postures one of unmistakable friendship and nothing more. Viggo's heart snaps then, at the realisation that Elijah must have thought he's been so reticent because he worries what people may think. Oh, he's been so foolish. What harm can be done by that moment's inattention? An erroneous assumption or two?
It's a fluid thing, in the end, natural, the easiest and most natural thing in the world. Viggo leans forward, with intent, and he can see Elijah's eyes widening, before he's too close to see anything at all. He fumbles a little, seeking for Elijah's mouth, and then suddenly it's there, he's nudging at his lower lip, sucking lightly, before moving and tasting properly. There's the sourness of beer, a tang of wood smoke, and the warmth of the fire pushing itself back at him insistently. Viggo trails nibbles down Elijah's jaw, back and round to his mouth, and the kiss is messier this time, harder and more urgent. Viggo realises he's fisted Elijah's jacket in both hands without even noticing, and then pushes it aside, searching for body-warmed t-shirt, and eventually skin. Elijah moans and pushes back. He's no shrinking flower, thinks Viggo, smugly, certainly not that young, and wants to laugh again, at himself, at the foolishness of men.
There's a small noise, and somehow it's enough of an interruption, something a little foreign, something that isn't them. Elijah pulls back, and Viggo lets him, but he doesn't let go. He's feeding no more insecurities tonight by his action, or inactions, not any more. Sean is halfway to standing, and has knocked one of the empties into another. He's looking wide-eyed, shaggy and somewhat discomfited. Viggo wants to laugh again, the night seems filled with these small joys. Sean's eyes crinkle then, his embarrassment segueing into a rueful smile.
"I'll just leave you two to it then, shall I?" he says, and Viggo shrugs. It's all one with him, but he knows Sean will feel more comfortable if he moves his bedroll.
"Sorry," says Sean, "You know... If I got in the way..."
"No," says Elijah, abruptly, "You didn't. It doesn't matter at all."
There's a note of dazed surprise in Elijah's voice. It's exultant, full of a quiet happiness. Viggo's hand is still under Elijah's jacket, tucked into the waistband of his boxers. Elijah won't be getting away. Viggo is proud, suddenly, again, of himself. He can almost feel Aragorn's approval. Since when should age matter? Certainly not here, in this enchanted land. What was he thinking?
"I'm sorry too," says Viggo, whispering it into the tender space behind Elijah's ear. Watching him shiver.
But Viggo suspects that Elijah doesn't know all he's really saying sorry for.
***
Recipient: bonnysprite (Kik)
Author: valerienne
Pairing: Viggo/Elijah
Rating: PG
Summary: Elijah keeps turning up wherever Viggo happens to be, is it fate, chance, or merely Schrödinger's cat playing a game?
Pre-reveal Notes: This was my first time writing this particular pairing, I hope they ring true :)
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Elijah bites his nails. The thought floats across Viggo's mind, apropos of nothing, one day as he's oiling Anduril. He doesn't need to, of course, the Weta armourers will do all and any maintenance on Aragorn's precious sword, but he wants to, and that's a very different thing. He wipes in long strokes, the rhythm something he falls into easily now, as he imagines that Aragorn too might have done something like this, the routine of the motions giving his mind free rein. He wishes he could sharpen her, properly, which obviously he can't do, and the long, slow scrape of the whetstone is only in his mind. But. Still. It's beautiful picture.
Elijah bites his nails. The thought floats the other way, as Viggo leans back and imagines the shine from the newly sharpened blade, the vicious gleam of the edge, the pleasure that it would give to a craftsman, to a swordsman like Aragorn. The pleasure it would give to Viggo too. But this other thought, it keeps intruding, it keeps him from experiencing the purity of this visceral connection, and that might almost be irritating, if Viggo was the sort of man who allowed himself to be irritated. Why is it that he's thinking about Elijah's nails at all? It's something that needs pondering on perhaps. But. Anyway. Does Frodo bite his nails? That's the real question that matters. He leans back down to his blade.
***
"Oh, sorry," says a voice, breathy, a little high-pitched, and Viggo looks up, through his bangs, and up further, tipping his head back, into the early morning New Zealand sun. Dawn is just showing above the horizon, and light is slicing through the dark tree tops like brilliant knives.
There's a halo, and a twitching body, black in the light, and Viggo decides that the halo is a mere penumbral phenomenon, and no kind of spiritual indicator, not that it should be, not that a halo meant even that once upon a time. He wants his camera, in a sort of abstract way, but not enough to worry him. If it was going to worry him, he'd have it here, to hand.
The body is still twitching, and Viggo realises, as slow as molasses, that Elijah might be waiting for a response. He smiles slightly, and brings his arm up to shade his eyes, bringing Elijah's features into sharper relief. He's still all made of shadows, but they are, at least, more defined. He's smiling back at Viggo.
"I came here for a moment of solitude, you see," says Viggo, answering the question, and he can see confusion in Elijah's eyes, the chagrin of his posture as apology and dejection war within, his mobile mouth twitching with it.
Viggo's smile drops when he realises he's answered the unspoken question, the one he heard, plain as the new day. He must stop doing that. Aragorn would hear, but he wouldn't let on that he knew, now would he? He wouldn't make anyone of his company feel uncomfortable through such actions, showing himself up, or them. Oh dear. Aragorn would never be unworthy.
Viggo tries smiling again, as Elijah turns to go, and catches his arm. It's so early, Elijah is still wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt, it feels soft against his palm, with wrinkles in the fabric that make an interesting sensation when contrasted with the warmth of Elijah's skin. Elijah waits, half-turned away, and Viggo says, "No, I'm sorry. I'm not being clear - it's early."
All of which is true, and yet, it says not quite all he means.
Elijah grins again however, all confusion apparently banished, and Viggo is delighted with the simple pleasure that it brings, to Elijah himself, but by reflection, also to Viggo. He's over-complicating things again, isn't he? Henry would smack him on the arm and whine, "Daaad!" And he'd be right.
Viggo lets Elijah's arm go then, sits back again on his heels. Watches him ambling off, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans for the inevitable clove cigarette, undoubtedly the reason he'd come across Viggo in the first place, looking for a quiet place to smoke. Viggo laughs at himself. Fate is for larger men than he, it's for Aragorn, for Boromir, even. Certainly not for Viggo, for all of this film's synchronicity. Certainly not for Elijah.
***
Except that it's not exactly the first time. It's certainly not the last. Viggo watches, a little bemused, certainly amused, as Elijah turns up in the most unexpected of places. They can't all be coincidence, no, even Viggo, after a time, begins to look for a cause and effect, other than accident, other than chance.
It's not fate. It's really not. He's not arrogant enough to even entertain that. But he has a choice, Viggo thinks, they both do. Elijah's decision seems to be made, his mind seems set, and it is up to Viggo to channel that choice into one of the branching paths. Saying no seems to lead to a certain tension, a consoling drink or three, good friends patting Elijah on the back, and Viggo living with the odd wry smile from his fellows, possibly a comment or two about youngsters, what can you do? Maybe a nudge or a wink or four, some talk about fancy not tapping that? It's over quickly, not even a small storm in the proverbial teacup - more like a wave or two across the surface.
But the other choice, ah, the paths branch more wildly, a thicket no less, with tangled webs, possibly woven to deceive, but Viggo doesn't think so. There are arguments that float in the background of Viggo's thoughts, way beyond questions of bitten nails, such as - he is unattached here in New Zealand, there's nobody that could be hurt, nobody waiting for him. He's half the world away, dreamlike, in a beautiful country, and yet a small one in attitudes, whilst vast in the richness of its landscape. A dichotomy that he loves. And this, this question he's pondering, it would be no less than that. A dichotomy, potentially providing heartache, but he's old enough to handle it. It's Elijah who most certainly is not.
People tell him that Elijah has an old soul, and Viggo stares at Elijah, as he messes around with the other hobbits, with Billy and Dom, and he knows that he should laugh at their antics, and scoff at those who talk about men's souls, knowing, smug, mouthing about the unknowable as though it's something to be picked up at the mall; it should be laughable. But then Viggo sees Elijah handle Sean so skilfully, with his moods, and his insecurities, and he truly laughs, with wonder, at his own arrogance. For how are his assumptions any better?
He takes it, as he always does, back to the man he is inhabiting. He will dwell here for more than a year, in this house of Aragorn's fathers, in which the line is unbroken, back through history to Númenor, and forwards through to Viggo. He lives here, in this shelter, and Viggo will use his wisdom, not his own - anything else would only interfere. In the space he is in now, it's all he knows how to do.
***
"I want to fish," says Viggo, "This weekend. Does anyone want to come with me?"
Billy looks up from the card game he's playing with Dom. Some variant of gin, Viggo thinks, but with dares thrown in, and a strip version in potentia. The rules are convoluted, and he's not sure even Billy or Dom knows them all. He's not sure they're meant to, he suspects that it's the whole point. They're storing everything up for the weekend, Viggo knows, because they're in costume - there are very few dares that would survive Ngila's wrath at the inevitable damage, or Peter's disappointment.
Billy smiles, but shakes his head. They have a wild time, already planned, already anticipated. Viggo can almost taste the beer in Billy's mouth, smell the heavy acetone stink of Dom's nails. Dom scrunches his forehead, shaking his head, not even looking up.
"You'll be camping, right?" says Dom, and Viggo shrugs. Nothing's certain. "Nah," says Dom, again, "Another time though, yeah?"
Viggo blinks, his eyelids already heavy with the solitude to come, and looks around the room. At the various levels of comfort, and boredom. At the apathy, and mild interest, and wants to shout that life's too short. Don't go fishing then, but do something, shout, scream, anticipate, anything more than share lethargy on a sofa.
"Can I come?" asks Elijah, suddenly, from behind him, and Viggo tenses, an unfair reaction, but he wasn't there before, an unknown quantum reaction collapses into Elijah walking silently through the door.
Viggo turns, his mouth held in a half-smile, as halfway reduced as Schrödinger's cat. "Sure," he says, because perhaps this is him taking action, without making that decision he is still letting dangle, allowing the possibility without the responsibility of choice, as unfair as he knows that to be.
Elijah lights up, a candle-flame's worth of brilliance, not enough for the room to see, but enough here, next to him, for Viggo alone to bask in. Viggo shifts, not comfortable, but content, the glow shining on his skin.
"Yeah," says Sean, his rangy form stretching until it creaks, "Me too. I need the air, and there's no footie on."
Elijah's star collapses then. An uncertain penumbra, shifting in its spectrum, along with his smile, equally uncertain. Viggo wants to reach out and touch. He realises, suddenly, that he doesn't want this particular waveform to collapse, and that is a singular revelation. So he puts out his hand, and squeezes Elijah's shoulder, who sways in Viggo's hold, and is so young. Just by being. Viggo feels vaguely greedy, and selfish. He's glad that Sean will be coming too. He feels Aragorn whispering to him of bitten nails and eyes as wide as the sea, and he doesn't understand the whisper. It worries him, he wants to know this isn't some twisted wish of his own devising. He wants his motives to be... if not pure, then at least real.
***
Viggo has always thought of being an actor as something that he fell into. It wasn't planned, he didn't have a burning desire for the limelight, far from it. He'd been pursuing ambitions in other fields of endeavour, as he remembers, some of them in the arts, but there had been other ideas, other things he could have done. It occurs to him now that perhaps he began to study acting because it was elusive, because it was something he could pursue forever, without ever arriving at any sort of real goal. Viggo isn't sure why he feels that way - other than he's not sure that he approves of goals in quite the way that others do. The American Dream, for example, is always about looking over the horizon, it's about being better, being bigger, forever fighting your way upwards towards a summit that is never achieved, because there is always another mountain to climb. It's never about looking around at the scenery on the way.
Viggo finds it ironic, that now he is an actor, at least most of the time, he seems to have more goals than ever, although at least they are smaller, more easily achievable. The trick, he thinks, is to not think of them like that at all. Each part, each role, is a goal of sorts, of course, and each film the end result. But that is a trap, a fallacy, that he wants to fight against, tooth and claw. He wants to live in the moment, here with each scene, each character, unique and present. Each one perfect, like a teardrop, poised to fall, ready for the river of time to wash it all away. But the teardrop, while it remains, is perfect.
Sometimes Viggo wants to ring Henry and get him to babble at him about his day, about Star Wars action figures, and macaroni and cheese, and how mean Bobby Berkowitz is, and whether he's done his homework. Sometimes Viggo thinks he needs that, his own personal version of a kick up the ass.
Aragorn is a demanding man. He's got a lot of goals of his own, a lot of worries. Viggo wants to help, he does, but sometimes he doesn't always feel equal to the task, as though he's not quite good enough. He's not a King, or even a King-in-Waiting, thinking will not make it so. But. There are things that he can do.
Elijah is too young. It's a fact. But then, so is Aragorn. Viggo likes that dichotomy too - Aragorn has lived many decades more than he himself has, but by the standards of his own people, he is still a man in his prime, a young man even. He's been waiting in the wings his whole life. He's been waiting for so long that now he's not even sure if he wants to leave them, even though he might miss the cue that he's been waiting for. Viggo doesn't know how to sympathise with that - it's such a different attitude to his own. Aragorn has a goal, an admirable one, but goals obliquely distress Viggo...
Turn it around, look at it another way. Aragorn also has the love of Arwen, an ageless Elven maiden who will love him whether he will or no, despite her father's wishes, and the differences between them. Aragorn must be almost like a child, to a lady who has lived centuries, endlessly, dreaming among the trees and grace of Lothlórien. Viggo is not sure he can portray that either. He's being petulant, in his obstinacy, but it's true enough, so much so that it's beginning to become a block to the performance. In his mind, anyway, it's a block, and the sword over his shoulder is feeling heavier each day.
Elijah is young - too young, but Viggo isn't sure. Why should it be a problem? Arwen doesn't see it as such, so why should Viggo? Is Elijah any less worthy than Aragorn? His mind skitters in wayward circles, and his performance likewise; he swings Anduril wildly in practice, wide of the mark. It disturbs him that no-one else seems to notice.
***
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Viggo whispers, as he looks at Elijah.
The last of the fish are gutted, and hooked on sticks over the campfire. Night has fallen, and the stars are probably out, but the brilliance of the flames means that it's impossible to tell. Viggo stares at the brilliance of Elijah and wonders what he's masking, what points of illumination are hidden within. Wonders whether he has any right to ask, or even speculate. Elijah stares into the fire, and his eyes glitter with it.
Sean has fallen asleep, beer bottle in hand, and Viggo is not sure if he's glad. He is sure that it's been a good day, a fulfilling day. The coldness of the water, and the heaviness of the rod, juxtaposed with the chatter of the river, and the cries of birds. It's all filled a hole in himself that he hadn't realised was hollow, which is a shame, because he prides himself on his own self-knowledge, if he's allowed pride in such a thing. Viggo tips his head up, takes a slug of beer. Sometimes he disappears into his own self-reflection, sometimes he thinks that he takes it all far too seriously, like mirrors repeating that reflection endlessly. It may be an inspiring thing, but it's also pointless, in a way, self-defeating.
"Yeah, it's beautiful," says Elijah, equally quietly, and Viggo remembers he's just asked a question.
"I'm glad I came," Elijah continues, but he's not looking at Viggo, and his voice is far away. "Thanks."
And Viggo should be glad, shouldn't he? That Elijah has gained something from today, that he too has absorbed the peace of the river, the camaraderie of good fellowship. Viggo looks over, his hand tightening on the neck of his bottle, aware that self-knowledge shouldn't be a lie. He's glad that Elijah could come and gain some satisfaction, but what Viggo really wants is an Elijah who is far from being at peace. He wants Elijah to be thrumming with barely contained energy, he wants to see fingers in his mouth - bitten nails, Viggo remembers with a tiny thrill - he wants him to be staring at Viggo from under dark lashes. It's unfair. Viggo... apparently wants a great deal.
He shifts a little, the better to watch Elijah, without seeming to do so, and then he freezes. There's something, a sideways look through narrowed eyes, an orange, cat-like glance. The fire is still dancing, reflected in Elijah's eyes. Viggo feels heavy, like he's pinned, like his breath is caught in his throat, and he coughs a little, the slight chill of the night's air catching at him. Then he puts his head down on his knees and wheezes into them, the cough morphing into a laugh. He chuckles slightly at his own ridiculousness. He is a transparent fraud, and apparently his vanity should be legendary.
When Elijah was the pursuer, Viggo had leaned away, considering, doubting. As soon as Elijah stopped paying attention, he finds a sudden interest. Surely that is a reaction so classic, so vintage, that it might almost be why he missed it? Despite all of his introspection? And again Viggo laughs.
Then his chuckling abruptly stops, and Viggo sucks in a breath. There's a hand on his shoulder.
"Hey, what's so funny?" asks Elijah, his voice soft, his breath stirring the hair by Viggo's ear. Elijah has moved round the fire. He also sounds confused, but Viggo cannot blame him in the slightest for that.
Viggo wishes he had Anduril. He could go fetch it, it's only in the car, on the road some ways back. It wouldn't be more than a few minutes hike, even in the dark. He wants the heft of it in his hand, he wants Aragorn's whisper in his head, perhaps even his permission. Viggo is no Arwen, he has no ageless wisdom, he claims nothing, not even introspection, not any more.
He only knows that as he makes room on his bedroll for Elijah, as he shifts along, that he's watching the glossy shine of dark hair on a bent head. That he's waiting for eyes wider than the sea, to turn back to his own. That there is a set of young limbs folding up like a soft pretzel next to him, and that he's not moving away. His heart is soaring at the little hitch of breath, as Elijah puts his head on his knees. Viggo's mouth is dry as he bumps their shoulders together, and finally, finally, gets Elijah to look up.
Viggo isn't worthy, he knows that now. He's had pretensions towards humility, and he's been caught out, if only by himself. He can admit it, and he can feel Aragorn smile, as Viggo smiles. Elijah looks unsure, and then worried. Viggo wonders how wild-eyed he's looking. Then Elijah glances at Sean, snoring slightly, a grating counterpoint to the spit and crackle of the fire, and moves away a vital inch, to make their postures one of unmistakable friendship and nothing more. Viggo's heart snaps then, at the realisation that Elijah must have thought he's been so reticent because he worries what people may think. Oh, he's been so foolish. What harm can be done by that moment's inattention? An erroneous assumption or two?
It's a fluid thing, in the end, natural, the easiest and most natural thing in the world. Viggo leans forward, with intent, and he can see Elijah's eyes widening, before he's too close to see anything at all. He fumbles a little, seeking for Elijah's mouth, and then suddenly it's there, he's nudging at his lower lip, sucking lightly, before moving and tasting properly. There's the sourness of beer, a tang of wood smoke, and the warmth of the fire pushing itself back at him insistently. Viggo trails nibbles down Elijah's jaw, back and round to his mouth, and the kiss is messier this time, harder and more urgent. Viggo realises he's fisted Elijah's jacket in both hands without even noticing, and then pushes it aside, searching for body-warmed t-shirt, and eventually skin. Elijah moans and pushes back. He's no shrinking flower, thinks Viggo, smugly, certainly not that young, and wants to laugh again, at himself, at the foolishness of men.
There's a small noise, and somehow it's enough of an interruption, something a little foreign, something that isn't them. Elijah pulls back, and Viggo lets him, but he doesn't let go. He's feeding no more insecurities tonight by his action, or inactions, not any more. Sean is halfway to standing, and has knocked one of the empties into another. He's looking wide-eyed, shaggy and somewhat discomfited. Viggo wants to laugh again, the night seems filled with these small joys. Sean's eyes crinkle then, his embarrassment segueing into a rueful smile.
"I'll just leave you two to it then, shall I?" he says, and Viggo shrugs. It's all one with him, but he knows Sean will feel more comfortable if he moves his bedroll.
"Sorry," says Sean, "You know... If I got in the way..."
"No," says Elijah, abruptly, "You didn't. It doesn't matter at all."
There's a note of dazed surprise in Elijah's voice. It's exultant, full of a quiet happiness. Viggo's hand is still under Elijah's jacket, tucked into the waistband of his boxers. Elijah won't be getting away. Viggo is proud, suddenly, again, of himself. He can almost feel Aragorn's approval. Since when should age matter? Certainly not here, in this enchanted land. What was he thinking?
"I'm sorry too," says Viggo, whispering it into the tender space behind Elijah's ear. Watching him shiver.
But Viggo suspects that Elijah doesn't know all he's really saying sorry for.
***