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monaboyd Dec. 15th, 2007 02:58 pm)
phentalon.livejournal.com posting in monaboyd Dec. 15th, 2007 02:58 pm)Title: Men, Mountains, and Molehills
Author: Phentalon
Pairing: Billy/Sean B Billy/Viggo Dom/Sean B Dom/Viggo
Summary: Billy and Dom are rent boys in London, haunted by the death of their mentor Sean, and they are only just getting back into the swing of life when someone turns it all upside down.
Rating: Generally R for language and smutty setting.
Feedback: Pretty please with Domlijah flavoured porn and chocolate on top! If I get zero feedback I wont bother finishing, so if you like it just a tiny comment?
Chapter Summary: Billy’s relationship with Viggo is explored when he spends a perfect day and night with him (no smut). By the way apologies to the Elijah fangirls.
The gallery was bright, cool, and quiet. He liked it. He’d been there for almost three hours now, had studied Viggo’s work carefully and glanced at the rest. The odds of seeing him were very slim, but where else could he go? He could have wandered up to the vague area of Viggo’s flat but he didn’t want to be so forward.
“When people read this are they going to come see your work? No! This gallery may be free but we don’t need an exhibit that’s been lost under the artists muddy reputation. So do not get photographed with these bimbos again, got it?” The posh and pompous voice cut through the quiet of the marble room. It was a Wednesday afternoon so there was few people this could have come from and he found the speaker in the corner, waving a newspaper, his well-cut suit ruffled in anger. Billy didn’t give a toss about him however, as he had instantly recognised the back of that scruffy, longhaired head. The man caught Billy’s look and frowned. Out-stared, he had reached the end of his tirade and strode away, unnerved.
Seeing the look that went over his shoulder, Viggo turned and to Billy’s surprise and gratification, the morose expression hanging from his brow like a wet, heavy cloth flew off. He began to walk swiftly for him, but was intercepted by a young student who had been glancing from the small photo on the artist information plaque beside the painting Billy had so admired in the flat, to Viggo. Billy heard her voice carry.
“You’re Viggo Mortensen aren’t you!” He looked very uncomfortable. “I love your work, really, it’s beautiful.
“Um, thanks…” Hand rubbing his neck uncomfortably he gestured to Billy and shook her off, completing his journey over to the glass wall surrounding the escalator in front of which Billy stood.
“See, your public don’t give a rats arse, no matter what that prat says.”
“I don’t like people knowing that’s me. I don’t like them seeing me and my work in the same place. I feel so… inadequate.” Viggo’s voice may have mumbled and stumbled, but that was no less poetry to Billy.
“No, you stand up to it very well. Look quite the part.” He offered a small smile. He was always struck by the change in him when he was away from that flat, away from the stench of death, and from Dom, who was only a constant stone memorial of everything Billy hated about his life.
“Thanks. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Well I read an article about it and wanted to come see the rest of your work. I was thinking about going down to the papers office and setting that cow straight, but I’m not sure how much that would improve your reputation.” His lips curved more wryly this time and Viggo gave a bark of laughter that bounced gently off the walls.
“As much as I would appreciate you telling off a journalist on my behalf, wanna come for some lunch instead?”
“I thought you artists lived on absinthe and roll-up cigarettes?” They made their way in synch down the stairs.
“Wrong centaury I’m afraid. D’you mind walking to Soho? There’s a nice place there.” Billy stopped dead.
“What’s wrong?” Viggo asked.
“Nothing, I tripped over my shoelace.” Viggo’s eyes flicked down to the short, done-up laces but said nothing. “Soho sounds good.”
“Sure?”
“Perfectly.” He gave a small smile, the one Sean had said made him look like an elf.
They walked down the Southbank and across the Thames talking about a lot of very entertaining nothing. Viggo spoke very animatedly, Billy noticed, hands waving in unison in front of him, to remove hair that flew over his face or just to make a point.
Billy steadfastly ignored the step that screamed out at him from beneath a stall selling char-sui buns, and carried on round the corner into a small restaurant that hummed with Chinese students. Billy ordered a coke and dumplings, Viggo noodle soup and very strange drink like an iced milkshake but had large round dark-blue things in the bottom.
“What on earth’s that?”
“They call it Pearl Delight, I’m not sure what they are, but they taste good. Try one.” He poked the thick straw over one of the balls and offered the other end to Billy. Hesitating, he sipped it and was surprised at the squishy, starchy thing that popped into his mouth. The cold milky liquid was almond tasting and he decided he was definitely imagining Viggo’s eyes fixed on his mouth as he drank.
He chewed.
“Good?”
He furrowed his brows, then discreetly but quickly took it from his mouth to his napkin. “No.”
Viggo laughed.
Viggo was stroking his shoulder blade they he lay between the sheets, Billy’s arms folded beneath his head, which was turned and intently watching Viggo do nothing.
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
“You’re probably the only person I’d answer honestly, so sure.” This threw Billy right off.
“What?”
“That’s not a very personal question.” Viggo rolled onto his back and nonchalantly lit a cigarette, leaving Billy to open and close his mouth like a confused idiot.
“No I mean… I…” Viggo smiled.
“What did you want to ask me?”
“What’s with the bimbos?” He blushed, not meaning to be so blunt. Viggo saw the humour fortunately.
“Honestly? I was trying to wean myself off men, and lasting relationships. Two birds as it were. No pun intended.”
“Why?”
“I got a bit crushed, heart wise. Back in America. His name was Elijah. He took me apart for fun more or less, brought down all my defences with affection and love, made me totally vulnerable but totally trusting, then like I said, pretty much crushed my heart under his heel. I crossed an ocean to escape it.”
There was very long silence during which Billy thought he might cry. Again with the poetry, said in a stinting tone that made him sure Viggo was ashamed of the words. But he didn’t cry, ever.
“You should write a book.” He said at last. He hoped Viggo could see in his face what that story had stirred in him and judging by the way he turned back towards him and kissed him lightly, he had.
“Why?”
“You only have to write the way you talk and it would be a bestseller.” Viggo looked thoughtful.
“But then I’d have nothing to say, if I put it all on paper. Then I’d become even more of a recluse. Besides, Oscar Wilde said ‘a great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures.’ According to you, I’m poetical, so doesn’t that mean I’d write terrible poetry?”
“If you believe everything Oscar Wilde says.”
“Of course I do.”
“Ok. Well your art is just as great, so it doesn’t matter.” They lay inside a moment of serene quiet.
“I envy you. You’ve created a whole life doing what you love.”
“No, I don’t love to paint.”
“Really?” Billy sat up in interest.
“No, I have to. I wasn’t given a choice. I get irritable and headachy if I can’t paint when I need to.”
“Ok, well I still envy you. I’ve never felt like that about anything.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“People don’t count.” There was an almost tangible layer of frost on his words.
“Something’s been done to you.” Viggo chose his words very slowly. “Someone’s damaged you inside.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me, stop talking like a-” He was going to say pouf. “Like a therapist.”
“Ok.” Was Viggo’s only reply as he stubbed out the cigarette and moved back towards him, encouraging him playfully onto his stomach.
Billy thought about this conversation at length the next morning as he walked home. He had slipped; he hadn’t meant to go home with Viggo. He hadn’t meant to have the first lasting conversation he’d ever had that wasn’t angry. He hadn’t meant to have his worldview changed by this man. Being out of control made him angry. Most things made him angry these days. And Viggo was so calm, serene, wise… what could he possibly see in Billy? Nothing, he was a shag. He’d heard what he said about long-term relationships. Billy was a shag Viggo liked to talk to, for some unknown reason. And that’s all there was too it.
Author: Phentalon
Pairing: Billy/Sean B Billy/Viggo Dom/Sean B Dom/Viggo
Summary: Billy and Dom are rent boys in London, haunted by the death of their mentor Sean, and they are only just getting back into the swing of life when someone turns it all upside down.
Rating: Generally R for language and smutty setting.
Feedback: Pretty please with Domlijah flavoured porn and chocolate on top! If I get zero feedback I wont bother finishing, so if you like it just a tiny comment?
Chapter Summary: Billy’s relationship with Viggo is explored when he spends a perfect day and night with him (no smut). By the way apologies to the Elijah fangirls.
The gallery was bright, cool, and quiet. He liked it. He’d been there for almost three hours now, had studied Viggo’s work carefully and glanced at the rest. The odds of seeing him were very slim, but where else could he go? He could have wandered up to the vague area of Viggo’s flat but he didn’t want to be so forward.
“When people read this are they going to come see your work? No! This gallery may be free but we don’t need an exhibit that’s been lost under the artists muddy reputation. So do not get photographed with these bimbos again, got it?” The posh and pompous voice cut through the quiet of the marble room. It was a Wednesday afternoon so there was few people this could have come from and he found the speaker in the corner, waving a newspaper, his well-cut suit ruffled in anger. Billy didn’t give a toss about him however, as he had instantly recognised the back of that scruffy, longhaired head. The man caught Billy’s look and frowned. Out-stared, he had reached the end of his tirade and strode away, unnerved.
Seeing the look that went over his shoulder, Viggo turned and to Billy’s surprise and gratification, the morose expression hanging from his brow like a wet, heavy cloth flew off. He began to walk swiftly for him, but was intercepted by a young student who had been glancing from the small photo on the artist information plaque beside the painting Billy had so admired in the flat, to Viggo. Billy heard her voice carry.
“You’re Viggo Mortensen aren’t you!” He looked very uncomfortable. “I love your work, really, it’s beautiful.
“Um, thanks…” Hand rubbing his neck uncomfortably he gestured to Billy and shook her off, completing his journey over to the glass wall surrounding the escalator in front of which Billy stood.
“See, your public don’t give a rats arse, no matter what that prat says.”
“I don’t like people knowing that’s me. I don’t like them seeing me and my work in the same place. I feel so… inadequate.” Viggo’s voice may have mumbled and stumbled, but that was no less poetry to Billy.
“No, you stand up to it very well. Look quite the part.” He offered a small smile. He was always struck by the change in him when he was away from that flat, away from the stench of death, and from Dom, who was only a constant stone memorial of everything Billy hated about his life.
“Thanks. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Well I read an article about it and wanted to come see the rest of your work. I was thinking about going down to the papers office and setting that cow straight, but I’m not sure how much that would improve your reputation.” His lips curved more wryly this time and Viggo gave a bark of laughter that bounced gently off the walls.
“As much as I would appreciate you telling off a journalist on my behalf, wanna come for some lunch instead?”
“I thought you artists lived on absinthe and roll-up cigarettes?” They made their way in synch down the stairs.
“Wrong centaury I’m afraid. D’you mind walking to Soho? There’s a nice place there.” Billy stopped dead.
“What’s wrong?” Viggo asked.
“Nothing, I tripped over my shoelace.” Viggo’s eyes flicked down to the short, done-up laces but said nothing. “Soho sounds good.”
“Sure?”
“Perfectly.” He gave a small smile, the one Sean had said made him look like an elf.
They walked down the Southbank and across the Thames talking about a lot of very entertaining nothing. Viggo spoke very animatedly, Billy noticed, hands waving in unison in front of him, to remove hair that flew over his face or just to make a point.
Billy steadfastly ignored the step that screamed out at him from beneath a stall selling char-sui buns, and carried on round the corner into a small restaurant that hummed with Chinese students. Billy ordered a coke and dumplings, Viggo noodle soup and very strange drink like an iced milkshake but had large round dark-blue things in the bottom.
“What on earth’s that?”
“They call it Pearl Delight, I’m not sure what they are, but they taste good. Try one.” He poked the thick straw over one of the balls and offered the other end to Billy. Hesitating, he sipped it and was surprised at the squishy, starchy thing that popped into his mouth. The cold milky liquid was almond tasting and he decided he was definitely imagining Viggo’s eyes fixed on his mouth as he drank.
He chewed.
“Good?”
He furrowed his brows, then discreetly but quickly took it from his mouth to his napkin. “No.”
Viggo laughed.
Viggo was stroking his shoulder blade they he lay between the sheets, Billy’s arms folded beneath his head, which was turned and intently watching Viggo do nothing.
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
“You’re probably the only person I’d answer honestly, so sure.” This threw Billy right off.
“What?”
“That’s not a very personal question.” Viggo rolled onto his back and nonchalantly lit a cigarette, leaving Billy to open and close his mouth like a confused idiot.
“No I mean… I…” Viggo smiled.
“What did you want to ask me?”
“What’s with the bimbos?” He blushed, not meaning to be so blunt. Viggo saw the humour fortunately.
“Honestly? I was trying to wean myself off men, and lasting relationships. Two birds as it were. No pun intended.”
“Why?”
“I got a bit crushed, heart wise. Back in America. His name was Elijah. He took me apart for fun more or less, brought down all my defences with affection and love, made me totally vulnerable but totally trusting, then like I said, pretty much crushed my heart under his heel. I crossed an ocean to escape it.”
There was very long silence during which Billy thought he might cry. Again with the poetry, said in a stinting tone that made him sure Viggo was ashamed of the words. But he didn’t cry, ever.
“You should write a book.” He said at last. He hoped Viggo could see in his face what that story had stirred in him and judging by the way he turned back towards him and kissed him lightly, he had.
“Why?”
“You only have to write the way you talk and it would be a bestseller.” Viggo looked thoughtful.
“But then I’d have nothing to say, if I put it all on paper. Then I’d become even more of a recluse. Besides, Oscar Wilde said ‘a great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures.’ According to you, I’m poetical, so doesn’t that mean I’d write terrible poetry?”
“If you believe everything Oscar Wilde says.”
“Of course I do.”
“Ok. Well your art is just as great, so it doesn’t matter.” They lay inside a moment of serene quiet.
“I envy you. You’ve created a whole life doing what you love.”
“No, I don’t love to paint.”
“Really?” Billy sat up in interest.
“No, I have to. I wasn’t given a choice. I get irritable and headachy if I can’t paint when I need to.”
“Ok, well I still envy you. I’ve never felt like that about anything.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“People don’t count.” There was an almost tangible layer of frost on his words.
“Something’s been done to you.” Viggo chose his words very slowly. “Someone’s damaged you inside.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me, stop talking like a-” He was going to say pouf. “Like a therapist.”
“Ok.” Was Viggo’s only reply as he stubbed out the cigarette and moved back towards him, encouraging him playfully onto his stomach.
Billy thought about this conversation at length the next morning as he walked home. He had slipped; he hadn’t meant to go home with Viggo. He hadn’t meant to have the first lasting conversation he’d ever had that wasn’t angry. He hadn’t meant to have his worldview changed by this man. Being out of control made him angry. Most things made him angry these days. And Viggo was so calm, serene, wise… what could he possibly see in Billy? Nothing, he was a shag. He’d heard what he said about long-term relationships. Billy was a shag Viggo liked to talk to, for some unknown reason. And that’s all there was too it.
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Big yay that this comm exists!
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He chewed.
“Good?”
He furrowed his brows, then discreetly but quickly took it from his mouth to his napkin. “No.”
Viggo laughed.
hee hee. That was cute. I'll have to work my way backwards now :)
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If it helps, it's all here at the top in one post: wwww.community.livejournal.com/lotr_step_kids
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