Compassion

Title: Compassion
Author: Mimine (mimine101@hotmail.com)
Disclaimer: None of it is true. If you think it is just because I wrote it you're nuttier than a Snickers bar.
Pairing: SB/VM, VM/OB
Rating
T
The phone rings. Your director had been about to yell action but the dull ringing comes before so he's left without a reason to throw a fit. He appears disappointed.

You look at Orlando's face. By his expression alone you can always tell who is calling. His smile freezes.

"Yes… yes, I unders. No. No, don't worry about it."

The phone falls on the ground. Did he even turn it off? You pick it up and hang up. A glance at the screen confirms your guess.

He has left in the direction of his trailer. Just left in the middle of shooting, right little primadona. You're not in any further scenes, yours had ended just as his were about to begin and you were simply there to wish him a safe trip.

You suspect that after that phone call there is going to be no trip.

The door is unlocked. You were prepared to bang on it and demand he let you in so simply turning the handle and entering his trailer leaves you disoriented for a second.

He's on the bed, hugging his knees. A forlorn child. You silently set the mobile on the nightstand. He is not looking at you.

"It was Viggo," he whispers.

"I take it he doesn't…"

"He doesn't want me to visit. He said he'll be too busy. He said…" His voice trails off. He does look at you then.

How understanding is your expression? How compassionate? He crumbles.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry…" his voice is muffled. He has buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

He's sorry.

~*~

You had been feeling so lonely back home, two endless months thinking of them in New Zealand, missing them all. So you grabbed a plane… you were never good at those spontaneous things but you managed. You arrived around midnight at Wellington, jet-lagged and tired but smiling like an idiot as you gave the cabbie directions to Viggo's house.

He hadn't changed the lock. Whouldould he have? You were in fucking England. You'd thought of bringing a champagne but had remembered that he said it tastes like horse piss and you're not particularly fond of it either. So you were carrying a sixpack, the bottles jingling as you walked to his bedroom. You didn't want the sound to give you away so you moved slowly.

Surprise! Surprises all around. For a moment you just stared trying to process the scene in front of you. A bony back, tense, very tense, white thin buttocks but you could hardly see those, Viggo's hands were cupping them and you could see, like in any good porn film you could see Viggo's cock going ince ace and clear. Orlando's back, his arse, his shaved head.

You wanted to leave as quietly as you had gotten in but you dropped the beers. You hardly heard the crash over the ringing in your ears.

They turned to you you, bodies still entwined, still moving.

"Sean! Oh, fuck! Sean!"

You left. You ran as quickly as you could, laughing hricarically while tears coursed down your cheeks. You ended up in John's house… You told yourself you went there because it was closest but that was not quite true. A quick look at the time and it was 2:00 AM and that particular castmate of yours was not likely to be staying up late.

It took a while for him to open the door, eyes bloodshot and hair sticking out, his tone even more gruff than usual. You were ready to leave but he held on to you, his expression soft and concerned, his tone gentle. He pulled you inside.

You followed him, quiet, docile and John seemed to understand. Perhaps he knew what you had seen. He knew an awful lot. He'd known about you and Viggo before you did. Orlando was hardly the soul of discretion when it came to these things. John probably knew.

He asked no questions. He offered you a drink but you felt as though you had drank that sixpack instead of dropping it on the floor, so you declined. He brought you a blanket and lay you down on his couch and when your eyes started leaking he had the graciousness to look away, pretending not to notice anything.

He asked whether there was anything else you needed. You shook your head.

You pretended to sleep but you could feel him in the room. Still with you, looking over you. And you remembered something Viggo had said once… He'd just gotten off the phone with John. He smiled and said something about a "crush". Because Gimli had been asking about fair Boromir. Because… You didn't remember anymore, you hadn't been paying attention, too busy kissing Viggo's neck and trying to take off his T-shirt at the same time.

John left at some point. You fell asleep.

You woke up early. You had to find a flight back. John came in the room. He was talking on the phone.

"What do you mean have I seen Sean?"

Frantic gesticulating.

"No. Of course I haven't. He's back home, isn't he?"

You thanked him, blushing at the thought of him knowing what had happened. He squeezed your shoulder and told you you were welcome to stay as long as you needed. He had to leave early to allow for two hours in makeup.

You left when he did even though it had meant waiting at the airport for several hours. You probably lost a couple of fans on the flight …

"I don't know this Sean Bean now piss off."

Wearing shades, sitting alone in a corner, drinking. fli flight lasted forever.

At home the light on your answering machine was blinking. Mocking you. You grabbed it and threw it against the wall.

He had tried again the days that followed. You never picked it up.

You had to see him eventually. At all the premieres. At Cannes. He tried to apologise but you pretended you didn't know what he was talking about. You were good at that. Orlando greeted you just as warmly as he had greeted everyone else. You allowed his touch although your first impulse was to wring his scrawny neck.

And fate threw you in the same fucking great big epic (or had it been him pulling some strings?) and your hatred had subsided until the friendship between you was no longer a front.

"At least you called, you didn't just go there anyway."

Your words hit right on target and you instantly regret them. You climb on the bed, pulling that stupid skirt you have on lower even though there's no camera to flash at the moment. You had explained that wearing a thong was completely out of the question but showing your tidy whites was also unacceptable.

He gives out a choked laugh at the sight. He's not wearing much either.

"It was always you, you know?" he whispers. "When I told him we'd be doing this film together he didn't talk to me for a week."

You don't want to know. It doesn't matanymanymore. You will not let it matter.

He is curled up in your arms, tucked under your chin and you slowly rub on his bare back. You murmur comforting words. "It's ok. It's not your fault. It's going to be alright". The funny thing is you believe them. You don't specify *when* it is going to be alright.

He eventually quiets down in your arms. Only half an hour later he's out doing his scenes. His mobile is back in the trailer ringing away. You drop it and accidentally step on it. It is not really your fault, they are making these things smaller and smaller these days.