Author: rotpunkt (klatschmohn) Pairing: VigBean Rating: R Warning: None Disclaimer: All made up Summary: This is an interpretation of Viggo´s book “Linger” as a story Linger 2 – The Poetry Analysis “My book…?” The surprise half-hid the disappointment that lay deeper. Sean nodded slyly. “Okay…” drawled Viggo, getting poised for the unexpected. “I want to ask you why you called it “Linger.” “Eh?” Viggo asked, nonplussed. “Let me explain…” Sean rummaged in his small bag and produced a copy of Viggo´s book. It was loaded with neat little sheets scribbled full of notes in Sean´s handwriting. Viggo blinked. The perfect organisation and meticulous neatness was very much seany-ish, yet working his way through a work of poetry like this wasn´t Sean-like at all. Of course, Viggo knew that there was more to Sean than just dull bloke-ishness, that he possessed more sensitivity and a much more flexible brain than many people gave him credit for, but this… Sean frowned and absent-mindedly fumbled for his spectacles, putting them on for a moment, then nodded to himself and stuffed them back in their case. The deep diagonal ascending furrows above his eyebrows accentuated the expression of concentration on Sean´s face so beautifully it filled Viggo with aching desire. The same thing always happened when he discovered something “new” about Sean. Seeing him in a way he hadn´t seen him before meant there were parts of Sean he hadn´t “possessed,” and instantly wanted to “have.” jealous of anything Sean might deny him. Also, the strangeness of Sean´s performance deepened the notion of being separated from him, of not knowing him anymore, and this, too, added to the maddening drive to claim him again. This time, confusion mingled with the want. It was indeed like watching Sean in a new movie role that was combed against his image. Viggo had very much enjoyed the rarely forthcoming facets of Sean´s acting ability in his latest non-villain-ish roles, but now he was overcome by dizzying doubt over whether this was still real life or if he was witness to a rehearsal. In some ways, the suspicion was warranted; Sean had practised for this. And he had even had the advice of some “director”… “When I read your book… I noticed that the only story you tell in a narrative, easily understandable way is that of the exhumation of a dead dog,” Sean murmured. It was clearly not yet the start of the lecture he seemed to have prepared, but an improvised preamble, a memory crossing his mind – and it was a mistake. Sean immediately realised it himself, because Viggo´s face went stiff, his body tensed. He was ready to get up from the table before Sean had even begun - but when Sean looked up in honest regret, Viggo slowly breathed out through his nostrils and decided to let it pass. “What else…” Sean flipped pages, with nervous resoluteness, then rested on page 27.”…the story of an old and empty house where no one can live anymore, or, even worse, the house doesn´t want anyone in it…” He sized Viggo up, shortly, with unintentional sharpness, and Viggo lowered his lashes. Sean was adamant. “I don´t always understand what you´re talking of, but just let me quote some sentences to make myself clear: Page 13 – `Will I let bygones be bygones?’ Page 17 – `Strain and see wheel sunk in moss so deep it´s lost.’ Page 30 - `Music that rises, breaks away from its source, hovers over wet, empty streets.’ Or: `A picture a face, blizzard-bit: one of many images never captured. One more missed opportunity to exploit and order the growing past.’ And here: `What seem like lucid glimpses sparkling inside untutored lapses only confirm value of trying nothing, saying nothing, solving nothing.’ – All this, Viggo, is about loss and vanity, which is the opposite of anything that could be associated with the word “Linger.” The only thing that lingers here is the feeling of emptiness and absence.” Viggo resembled a ghost now, blanched to a degree of serious anaemia. Like on keyword, Sean went on: “Page 53: `We make bad ghosts, and are last to know or believe we too will fade, just as our acrid smoke and those strange flakes of skin and strands of hair will, into largely undocumented extinction.’ I don´t suppose you meant the title to be paradoxical? So, what´s the aspect of `lingering’ in your book?” Viggo stared at him with an almost hostile glare, his lips firmly pressed to a line, obviously not going to answer. He felt like Sean had committed an act of spoliation – taken his poems as hostages for blackmailing a confession out of him. Finally he gathered himself to take up his defence. “You remind me of the mediocre so-called fans who believe they know me and patterns of my behaviour because they watched a few movies and mix me up with the characters I played. They point out certain characteristics they think they discovered and insist it´s so “obvious.” That´s just weird. You should know all about that, Sean. You often told me about how police men or officials at borders mistake you for a baddy just because a dim memory of a villain with your face comes to their minds, and we laughed about that. People who are so sure that they know what a piece of art tells about its creator simply don´t get it – they don´t understand the nature of art.” Sean wavered in his resolve to see it through. He hadn´t been sure from the start whether this was such a good idea. He had read Viggo´s new book weeks ago, because it was the only information available, out of the desperate wish to look inside Viggo´s head. Maybe it would allow him to be able to read between the lines and find something… a trace of lost crumbs of words he could follow, that would lead him to Viggo´s heart. He didn´t remember how and why it came up, but he had talked to Dave about it. Sean always had considered Dave a more intellectual guy, a more-like-Viggo bloke than himself. He explained how he always had felt that he couldn´t get “through” to Viggo. Sean put the blame on himself. Long ago, back in New Zealand, he had known that Viggo wanted to talk. But Sean blocked. Viggo, a real man, a mature man, was obviously confused like teenager, waiting for the right moment to confess his love for Sean. Sean had honestly, truly believed he was doing his friend a favour, preventing him from a foolish slip he would regret as soon as his brain clicked back into normal function. It was okay to have sex with men – always a pleasant change like exotic food, sharp and spicy. But that Viggo seemingly had come to think he wanted more must have had to do with their secluded situation during filming. With the intense experience being together so close for a long time and the tension and exhaustion the filming often caused. It was girlish; childish - just ridiculous. Sean was willing to show leniency and understanding and look over it generously. He would protect his friend from behaving silly. He would give him no chance to declare himself and thus keep his dignity. Yes, their sex was special – more than that: unique. But that was just chemistry. Put two of the right elements together and you have an explosion. That has everything to do with laws of nature and nothing with – love. It had taken years until Sean realised that he had been the fool. Years of boring insipidity and laggard listlessness in sex and conversation with various partners, interrupted by euphoric fireworks and lucid tranquillity when he met Viggo on rare occasions. Lost years of stubborn denial, and then it seemed too late. Now it was Sean who timidly tried to talk, and it was Viggo who wallowed in lugubrious refusal. Something in Viggo had expired – his hope, and maybe, his love. Sean had wanted to talk in Toronto, but Viggo hadn´t even really realised it, locked up in his ivory tower Guilt and shame wormed into Sean´s courage; he had given up. Weeks later he had listened to Viggo´s answer to the question in an interview, whether love was important in his life. “I don´t talk about it – not with friends, and certainly not with journalists,” Viggo had firmly rejected the question. The “not with friends” part of the answer had sounded incredibly sad to Sean. During their long talk, Dave had offered the theory that Viggo somehow hid and barricaded himself behind his arts and poetry. According to Dave´s psychoanalysis, Viggo obviously wanted to communicate his thoughts and feelings, or else he wouldn´t publish the poems and literature he wrote. Viggo wanted to tell something about himself, but trusted no one. That contradiction – the need to speak of his feelings versus the fundamental distrust in both friends and strangers - made him write cryptic poems, revealing and disguising himself at the same time in a very personal, subjective ´sign-language,´ as he – typically - called one of his books. In some way, Viggo´s poems were like a “message in a bottle.” He sent them out into the world, without much hope that someone could decipher the code of his mind. So, if Viggo cordoned himself off, behind his poems, Sean would have to use them like a stairway or a bridge to reach him… which included stepping on them… Sean had already opened up page 62: “And in this one you´re telling of a blood stain you used to “visit,” kneeling down in front of it as if it was some “blood sacrifice” on an altar. Maybe in a way it was – legitimating this gesture of hopeless nostalgic desperation with artistic purposes… “ Sean´s voice took on a mocking tone, “… looking for the right light for a photo…” Viggo gave him a hard glare, the one he used to ward off his pursuers when his privacy was invaded. Sean stayed silent for a few seconds, watching Viggo attentively, but when Viggo showed no reaction at all he went on. “But in the end the blood stain is so faded you can hardly find the outlines… I must admit, you find a hundred original and sadly beautiful ways to essentially repeat the same concepts. Is there one word, Viggo, one word that is not a metaphor of death and disappearance and decay?” Viggo felt as if Sean flailed him alive to get to the pip. It was a 180-degree turn, too – from his resignation with the audience at his reading, his secret conviction they didn´t get anywhere near the meaning of anything he wrote with their guesses, to Sean´s brutal invasion in the sacred area. Without warning, he suddenly got up and left. He was already halfway down the street, when Sean caught up with him, grabbing his shoulder. Viggo cried out harshly, and hauled him back. Sean hit the nearest wall, felt his head crash against it with the momentum, the bursting of skin and crunching of bones. He knew he was bleeding, but within split seconds he had already flung himself towards Viggo and delivered a savage smashing blow to Viggo´s chin. Viggo staggered backwards, but managed to catch his balance; he flicked a look at Sean, his eyes moist, flashing with violent loathing and fierce despair. They had often fought, though it had always been fun wrestling and never a means of arguing. Two things had become obvious long ago: one, that Viggo was the stronger man; the other, that Sean would win in a serious fight. Sean could unleash his potential for violence far too quickly and easily for Viggo to cope with. Both men were panting heavily, staring each other down. Suddenly, in the most unrequited moment, Viggo´s mind came up with a memory- vision of Sean, totally out of context: Sean, whimpering beneath him… little sexy whimpers that didn´t stem from pain. “No…no… please… no…” Sean hissed and sighed, but Viggo had known that Sean didn´t want him to stop fucking him. Sean´s body´s reactions confirmed it, too - the way he met Viggo´s thrusts, opened up for him, trying to take even more, the way his body flushed with overheated blood. Even his voice was stripped of every other tone than the sweetness, hoarseness and softness of pure arousal, but nevertheless he kept on pleading. “No… please, no…” And when Viggo came, shuddering in endless spasms deep inside him, he still whispered “No…no,” and his eyes filled with tears, while his own come flooded between them. The unwelcome picture, blurred with the sight in front of him, made Viggo dimly realise the connection. Sean´s eyes were begging. They were begging him to tell the truth, to talk to him. Sean didn´t speak, didn´t formulate his plea, which made it worse, because Viggo didn´t have to answer simply to words; he had to answer to those eyes. The most beautiful, honest, and tender eyes, and they were begging… Viggo knew he should produce compassion, but all he felt was fear, mindless panic. He felt like a soldier who looking into the eyes of a child he´s going to kill. Almost stumbling backwards, he retreated, unable to take his eyes from Sean and turn away. And then he cried out, not very loudly, but raw with pure horror, filled with tremendous pain, out of his innnermost core: “No!”