Oh dear God I hate today so completely. Nngh. I can't concentrate on anything because I stayed up until 3am yesterday to finish this fic. I am so sleepy and it's rainy outside and argh.

OKAY I actually have no idea how to classify this fic. The clearest inspiration comes from The Lady of Shalott and the constant images of Simon looking at his own images through the mirror. Glass, windows, and distortions/displacements in my current Spivak readings. The second clearest inspiration is that I twitch every single time I look at grazed knees because of the one loose thread I left and never really dealt with.

Beta'd by regasssa. All remaining mistakes are mine.


roadside

Characters/Pairing: Sean Bean/Viggo Mortensen, Stephen Graham, Ian McKellen, Elijah Wood, Ariadna Gil, Isaac Hempstead-Wright
Rating: PG
Words: ~7800
Disclaimer: Didn’t happen, just the product of my imagination.
Summary: “Winter has been here for so long that I feel like I’ve become a block of ice, and every glance of him is making me melt, the bonds holding my being together breaking apart.” One third a coming out story, one third a movie script, one third an experiment in form. Sort of a sequel to grazed knees, but it’s not necessary to read that first.


Cannes is a good job; safe with a guaranteed paycheque at the end of the day without any need for him to find bushes to hide his camera in. But God, he hates French weather, because it's suddenly drizzling heavily. He has his jacket draped over his camera to shield it from the rain.

Some would call it a photographer's instinct. Others, less charitably, would call it being a fucking busybody bastard. Nevertheless, something makes him turn, and that's when he sees them. They were just two people standing out on the pavement. It's late; there's no one on the streets right now. One of them has his jacket drawn over the other's head. Their bodies are pressed so closely together that only the nearby streetlamp separate the two, and he can only tell the difference from the different colours of their hair. Brown and grey.

His hand almost fumbles with his camera as he shoves himself into an alleyway. Can't have his camera spoiled now. He's going to make his career with this. With this, he doesn't have to do something like this again. His kids' college funds will be set.

Sean Bean's silver band glows in the light of the yellow streetlamps, and Viggo Mortensen's arm is just at the right angle to not block either of their faces. Their lips are pressed together, kissing with such familiarity that it’s clear that they have been doing this for a while. Bean's fingers are clenched around Mortensen's shoulder, and Mortensen's one free hand is buried into dark brown hair.

It's damning.

The photograph, when it is published, will be a piece of fucking art straight out of a romantic movie.

***

“’Ey Sean?” The answer machine crackled on. “Some bastard came up ta meh t’day and asked if Al Capone’s now gay ‘cause you probably ‘ad yer way all over meh on that couch in Tracie’s room.” There was a pause. “I socked ‘im one in yer ‘onour.”

Sean stared at the phone before he stabbed at the button to answer it. It took him a few moments to get his amusement under control before he could say, “Thank ya, Stephen.”

“So you are there!” Stephen crowed. “Listen, are you alrigh’?”

“Aye.”

“Will ya promise me now that Viggo won’t come after me wi’ a knife fer even darin’ ta look at ya jest that one time?”

Coming up behind him, Viggo’s arms wrapped around Sean’s waist before he kissed his ear lightly. “No, Stephen, I’m not going to come after you with a knife,” he grinned hard, sure that it was showing in his voice.

“Am I on speaker, you wankers?”

Sean couldn’t help it any longer. He threw his head back and laughed hard, the sound echoing around the hotel room that he and Viggo had barricaded themselves in for the time being, “Ya are.”

Stephen snorted. “Alrigh’, alrigh’. Listen, good luck, yeah? You both been at this fer longer than I ‘ave, but don’t listen to the fuckin’ rags, aye?”

“I just might,” Viggo drawled. “My agent told me Daily Mail just called Roadside ‘a love letter from me to Sean.’ Like I’m Shah Jahan and that’s my Taj Mahal. It sounds pretty and pretentious enough to be a soundbite, so I might be using it.”

“Yer a damn cheapskate, Mortensen, ta give me a present that I ‘aveta work in,” Sean nudged against Viggo’s shoulder, grinning.

“I’m ‘anging up now ‘fore you two get all sappy on me,” Stephen declared loudly. Then he did.

Viggo’s laughter was a series of heated breaths against Sean’s skin, and Sean turned his head and found his lips. They kissed slowly, sweetly, exactly as they had that time in Cannes’s rain, both of them believing that they were both too old for paparazzi attention, and that Viggo’s jacket would be able to shield them from prying eyes.

“Shall we go out to face the music?” Viggo asked, his voice muffled against Sean’s skin.

“Nah,” Sean replied. He shoved at Viggo lightly, urging him towards the bed. “Those bastards can wait. I’d rather spend the mornin’ wi’ ya.”

***

“I cleared it wi’ Ashley already. It’s just a friend o’ mine who wanted ta come. He’s a Yank and he ain’t in England long. ‘Sides, he ain’t ever been ta Manchester.”

“I told ya I was fine wi’ it.” Stephen glanced over at Sean—at Tracie—and he couldn’t help but grin at how incongruous Sean’s usual gestures looked on Tracie. He was licking his lips. Leslie was going to come after him in just a second to reapply the gloss, Stephen just knew it.

There Leslie was, and Sean tipped his head back to allow her better access. Stephen shoved his hands into his pockets; he had a much easier job, that didn’t need much to be said.

“So that friend o’ yers, he got a name?”

“Viggo,” Sean managed to mutter around the stick of lipgloss hovering around his mouth.

“Stay still, Sean,” Leslie chided. Sean obediently stayed still.

Stephen just whistled lowly, looking around. He couldn’t find long black hair anywhere, so he turned back to Sean, “I’ve got ta ‘ave the King of Men watchin’ me as I’m playin’?”

Leslie finished the touch-up, moving away just in time for Stephen to see Sean grin. God, when he was smiling, Stephen could definitely see how Tracie had been so attractive to many men.

“Yeah, ya got a problem wi’ that?”

“Nah,” Stephen shook his head. Stick to the script, he scolded himself. He wasn’t Tony yet, and ogling his co-star was bad form no matter who he was. “If I got a problem wi’ showin’ meself off, I won’t be an actor, aye?”

“Positions!” Ashley yelled. Stephen obediently moved over while Sean moved himself back, out of the current’s camera sight. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a grey-haired man in a paint-splattered shirt sitting himself down on Sean’s chair. Stephen had never seen him before, so he reckoned that must be Viggo—the crew was small enough that he knew all of their names. He didn’t look anything like Aragorn, but then again, he didn’t think he looked much like Al without the damn hat either.

Sean shifted his weight from one leg to the other and tossed his hair back before he picked up the glasses on the counter. It was like watching magic happen, and Stephen would never get tired of it. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment, but he knew that at some point, Sean entirely disappeared, replaced by Tracie, and it was Tracie who aimed that small smile at him even as Ashley looked over them. He took a deep breath—Tony was never far away from him nowadays, especially when Tracie was right there.

Been drinkin’?

One or two.

Cheer-cheers.

Cheers.

I’m okay to smoke?

Fire away.

What you do for a livin’?

“Cut! Alright, cameras, move positions!”

Sometimes Stephen really wondered if he should try acting for theatre. He had been doing this for years, but the sudden cut was always jarring. He looked at Ashley and waved the lit cigarette, and Ashley told him with a wave of a hand to get on with it. He looked at the length, remembering it, before he walked over to the corner and took a deep drag, leaning against Tracie’s shelf.

Sean was definitely back to being Sean, though his legs remained crossed because it must be awkward trying to sit like a man in a dress that tight. Stephen grinned to himself even as he watched Viggo walk over.

He wasn’t trying to listen, honestly, but sound carried really well in a set. They were all built that way.

“Ya ain’t allowed ta say anythin’,” Sean declared even as Viggo dropped beside him on the couch, their bodies brushing lightly. Stephen blinked. “Ya’ve watched the whole of two seconds.”

“But that’s not fair,” Viggo said, grinning. He bumped his shoulder against Sean’s. “Am I allowed to say that you’re absolutely brilliant if I’ve watched you during rehearsals a few times?”

“Nope,” Sean smirked as he placed his glass on Viggo’s head. “Yer opinion’s biased.”

“If I can objectively judge my own performance, I think that I can judge yours.”

“Ya think Paul in that Woman’s Guide shite was good, so I ain’t taking yer judgments seriously ever.”

Viggo laughed again, tilting his head up to look at Sean. Stephen, still watching idly, thought that the look there—that was the perfect look of a man in love, the kind of eyes he had whenever he looked at his wife, the kind that Tony had whenever he looked at Tracie. Just like that, though Tony wouldn’t have his head tilted in that angle. Probably a smaller smile too. He’d have to ask his wife to tape him at home to get it right for the later scenes—it was hard to be in love with his own mirror image, so he needed help.

… Wait a damn second.

Stephen nearly dropped his cigarette. His eyes lifted and Sean had the exact same look. Though he was a lot more subtle with it, but not entirely, especially with how he was ruffling his hand through Viggo’s hair.

Look, Stephen wasn’t a judging kind of person. He couldn’t have played the villains he did otherwise, or even have taken this role at all. But this was a hell of a surprise. Not the fact that Sean’s ‘friend’ was in fact something much more, but the fact that he had someone at all and didn’t tell Stephen about it. It was generally polite to tell your co-stars these things, especially if they were playing lovers—Sean’s met his wife, after all.

He realised, slowly, that he was being shown something that he shouldn’t tell anyone about; something Sean couldn’t tell him because of the way the world worked. Stephen took another deep drag of the cigarette, narrowing his eyes slightly. He would have to talk to Sean about it. Maybe Viggo too.

“Places!”

Later, Stephen decided. He went back to his original position, dropping down to the couch.

He lifted his eyes just in time to see Viggo give him a lopsided smile.

*

Tracie had been completely wiped away, but it was Sean who emerged, not Simon. He was already grinning like himself when he dropped onto the makeup chair—Viggo still had no idea whatsoever how he actually managed it. For himself, he always needed at least a few minutes before he could crawl out of his character’s skin.

Sean always made everything seem easy and effortless. Like now, peeling out of Tracie’s orange dress right in front of everyone, laughing and joking with Stephen and the makeup artists. Viggo tried his best to hide the besotted smile, but he was rather sure that he wasn’t succeeding very well. At least no one was looking at him right now.

No, he was wrong about that. Stephen turned around and looked straight at him. Viggo gave him a small smirk and a two-fingered salute before he turned away and lit up a cigarette.

It looked like Stephen would be joining the two of them for a pint after work.

*

“’Friend’, eh? That what you callin’ it nowt?” Stephen asked.

They found themselves in a secluded corner of a local pub. Viggo’s whiskey glass was halfway to his lips when he froze.

“Well, that’s a forward way of asking,” he murmured, barely loud enough to be heard. Sean laughed, a sheepish little thing, and Viggo had been resisting for the whole day. He leaned forward and kissed him on the lips gently, his fingers trailing the ends of Sean’s shoulder-length hair.

“’abit by now,” Sean said, not moving away from Viggo’s touch. “Our profession ain’t a good place fer true things ta be told.”

“I’ll give you that, aye,” Stephen raised his glass of ale. He looked slightly uncomfortable with how much Viggo was touching Sean, his eyes darting around the bar. It looked more like he was checking things out so that they wouldn’t have a camera suddenly pointed in their faces, so Viggo let it go. He liked to have hope in people.

“So ‘ow long ‘as it been?”

“Eleven years, give or take a few months,” Viggo said, and he flashed Stephen a bright smile.

Stephen lifted his glass as if in a toast before he drained it. “Damn. That’s a fuckin’ long time ta be hidin’.”

“We ain’t hidin’,” Sean protested immediately. Viggo stared at his glass, finger tracing the rim as he tried not to sigh. “Just ain’t anyone else’s business is all. Me family know, so does ‘is, so who cares what anyone else thinks?”

“Hey, I ain’t criticisin’,” Stephen raised his hands, shaking his head. “More like admirin’. I get way too much attention from paps already, and I ain’t near as famous as you two.”

“You can do what you want, as long as you’re smart about it,” Viggo shrugged, knocking back his shot of whiskey. This wasn’t exactly a topic he liked to talk about.

He definitely knew the reasons for hiding, but Viggo had always preached honesty and he hated liars most of all. Nowadays he felt like a hypocrite, because he was still hiding what he had with Sean as if what they had was a dirty little secret or something to be ashamed about. He had read McGovern’s script, and he still couldn’t help wincing when reading the scene where Tracie accused Tony of not having enough balls to go out into public with her. Some parts of it just struck far too close to home, and he wondered how Sean dealt with it. Maybe it was a good thing that Sean was always able to delineate himself from his role so successfully—so he could believe that Tracie’s words didn’t apply to his own situation.

They were both cowards, and Viggo found it hard to believe that it took guts to live a lie. It was incredibly easy—inaction always was.

Sean was nudging him. Viggo blinked himself out of his thoughts, focusing on him again.

“Ya want a new one?” Sean gestured towards the glass.

“No,” Viggo said before he could be tempted. “I’m good.”

Stephen’s gaze was heavy on the two of them. Good actors tend to be incredibly observant people—there was no other way they could pretend to be other people convincingly if they didn’t watch people carefully—but Viggo refused to give away more. For one thing, he just met the man today.

For another, he still wasn’t exactly sure how to put what he wanted to say into words.

Sean looked between Stephen and him for a moment before he nodded. “Alrigh’,” he said, “I’ll get another round fer me and Stephen.”

“Look, I ain’t tryin’ ta pry,” Stephen said once Sean was out of earshot. “But I ‘ave never seen once when lies—important lies—make people ‘appy in a relationship.”

Viggo sighed, half-smiling when he replied, “You are prying.”

“Sorreh,” Stephen shrugged half-heartedly, his accent deepening slightly. “But you know what I’m sayin’, aye?”

“Yeah, I know,” Viggo bit his lip for a moment. His eyes turned towards Sean at the bar, his fingers tapping on the table.

“Think o’ it as a story,” Stephen said. Viggo blinked, his lips parting as if he asked about what he meant, but Sean came back just that moment.

“Bastard o’ a bartender’s a Wednesday supporter,” Sean grumbled. He placed the beers on the table, and blinked immediately when he registered the way Viggo was looking at him, wide-eyed and mouth opened, as if he just received a revelation.

“What were ya talkin’ ‘bout?”

“Nothing,” Viggo said distractedly. His mind was already whirring, and he grabbed a napkin off the side and a pen from Sean’s shirt pocket before he started scribbling. “You guys keep talking.”

Sean snorted, but he was used to this behaviour from Viggo by now.

“Artists.”

***

ROADSIDE
Starring: Sean Bean, Viggo Mortensen, Ian McKellen, Elijah Wood, Ariadna Gil, Isaac Hempstead-Wright
Written by: Viggo Mortensen
Directed by: Viggo Mortensen
Produced by: Peter Jackson and Fran Walsh

I walk down this street every day. I always see him, that man sitting over there with his electric keyboard on his lap and a speaker by his side, a hat on the ground. He sings, and he has a beautiful voice that made his New York accent sound so much better. Every morning I swear to myself that I will approach him that day and talk to him—if only to have his name. One day I will; if I write it down, it will happen. There’s a magic in writing like that.

Right now, I’m happy just to watch. From right here, by the roadside. He has a face that tells of so many stories, and I wonder what they are. Does he have a family? Friends? How did he end up here, sitting by a lonely roadside in New York?

There’s not much to do around here. I’ll just wait, and watch, and think.

Just think.

***

There wasn’t much money to be earned in busking, no matter how good he was—and John knew that he wasn’t very good at it. Maybe tomorrow he could try harder, but today he had barely enough. He picked up his hat off the floor and zipped his keyboard into its bag before shouldering it. He looked down the street—he didn’t live very far away, but he didn’t like going home. It was terrible to think that way, but nowadays, John felt guilty only about not feeling guilty, and he would laugh at the contradiction if it wasn’t his life.

He went to the grocery store, and dawdled there. Then he left with small bags on his arms to take a detour down to Central Park. The bags were heavy on his shoulders, but he was used to much worse. This was far more preferable; at least such weight would not draw further lines into the skin of his face.

Eventually, John went home.

“Why are you so late?”

He winced at the voice: a perfect Received Pronunciation accent, but so sharp and so harsh that maybe he talked like a New Yorker himself just to escape from it.

He walked past the man in the wheelchair and placed his bags on the table near the door, then went to the fridge to unpack in the groceries. It was a short walk; he couldn’t afford much more than a small house, with how little he earned from busking.

“You’re avoiding me, aren’t you? You don’t even want to look at me right now. You’re avoiding me. How much did you get today?”

“Of course I’m not, Dad,” he murmured, barely loud enough to be heard. He stared into the depth of the fridge for a moment more before he sighed and turned.

His father’s head was full of white hair now, sticking out every which way. His hands were clenched on the arms of the chair, and his eyes glared harshly. John winced slightly at the condemnation he found there. Actions spoke far louder than words, and he knew that his detours always said so much more than any denial he could manage.

“Look at me, boy!” the father rapped out. John couldn’t help but lift his eyes at the order.

His father used to be such a great man, and now he was trapped in this small flat with its windows looking out towards more dilapidated buildings. He had trimmed his nails again, as well or even better than any manicurist could, and even at home, he was dressed perfectly in an old dress shirt and pressed slacks and a tie.

“What is it, Dad? I’m tired. Do you mind if I go to bed?”

“You’re not going anywhere until I have my answer, boy! You don’t want to look at your old, useless father now, right? So you keep running away!”

“You’re not useless, Dad,” John said, but he knew that the words were useless things, so weak that they were only platitudes, worth less than nothing.

“So you admit I’m ugly now, eh?”

“No, I—” He licked his lips and turned his head away, hands clenching tight against the counter. “I just stayed longer because I wanted to earn a little bit more money, that’s all.”

“Did you, boy? So how much did you get today?”

“Just a little over fifty bucks—”

“Hah! You’re lying, I knew it! You didn’t earn anything more today. I’m your father, boy, you can’t lie to me!”

“No, I just- I tried, but I didn’t get anything more. There’s a recession, you see?” he was tired, so tired, and this was an argument that he knew all the lines to already.

“Or maybe you’re just crap at playing, huh? Why don’t you get a real job?” his father snorted, wheeling his chair back slightly so he could cross his arms in righteous anger.

“I can’t find one. The economy’s still bad, you know that.”

“You always have so many excuses, John.” The sudden use of his name after so long being called ‘boy’ made John’s head jerk upwards, eyes wide.

“Dad,” he started.

“You don’t call me ‘Da’ anymore,” his father said. His entire posture seemed to droop, becoming far smaller and far less of a man than he had been a moment before. “I know I’m a burden. I know that if you didn’t have to take care of me, you would be able to do so much more. I know that.”

John crossed the distance between them, dropping to his knees in front of his father. His hands closed around the wheelchair’s arms, clenching and unclenching convulsively, because he didn’t know what to do.

“You’re a good boy, John,” the old man continued softly. He was old, so old like this, all the lines in his face standing out in sharp relief against the snow white of his hair. “I’m a burden and I’m useless and I always shout at you...”

“I don’t like you shouting,” John said, and he closed his eyes for a long moment to avoid his father’s gaze. He had always been such a big man, his father, so healthy and with such a zeal for life. He didn’t want to see him like this. The shouting was far easier to deal with. “But you’re my Da, and I promised to take care of you. I’m sorry I can’t- get a bigger house.”

His father’s hands were cold upon his cheeks, cupping his jaw.

“You’re a good boy, John,” he said again.

Then, as John watched, the old man’s face went blank, his gaze unfocused. John closed his eyes because he didn’t want to see this, he never wanted to.

“What are you doing, boy? Being lazy again while pretending to take care of an old man?” his father barked, and John could only stand up again, trying to not shake. He should be used to this already, he told himself, but he never was.

No matter how much he tried.

“I’m making dinner,” he said, and turned away from his father.

The shouting always came back

***

“I’m from Empire, and I have a question for Sir Ian McKellen?”

Ian raised his eyebrows slightly, but he leaned forward and nodded encouragingly.

“What made you take up this project?”

“Well,” Ian said, folding his hands beneath his collarbones gently. “Viggo is a good friend of mine. One day he called me up and said that there’s a script that he wants me to look over. Now, I generally don’t like looking at scripts given to me by friends—it’s always terribly awkward when I have to say no, and it’s especially difficult to tell them that it’s not a very good script. But I know Viggo is a good writer, a good poet, and I told him to send it over. I was busy at the time so I only read it a couple of weeks later—when I finally did, I absolutely devoured it. It’s a brilliant script, really, a very good story, and it was only a few days of filming, so I said yes.”

“As you know, there’s already been quite a discussion about your character amongst the critics. What would you say he is like?”

“That’s two questions,” Elijah pointed out just for the sake of it, grinning, before the facilitator could. The reporter looked flummoxed for a moment, but Ian only waved a hand.

“No, no, it’s alright. It’s not a question I can answer. It’s up to you, really. More than any other character I have played, the old man is a figment of imagination, a shadow of a shadow even within the world of the movie. All the critics are right—and wrong—because the interpretation is up in the air.”

“Last question: What do you think of the recent media coverage of Viggo Mortensen and Sean Bean’s relationship?”

Ian raised an eyebrow. He looked at Viggo and Sean for a long moment. The two of them were sitting together, not any closer than propriety would allow, and Ian smiled slightly before he turned back to the reporter.

“I’m a little envious, really. But then again, who wouldn’t be?” he shrugged airily. “It’s no one’s business, anyhow.”

***

Today I realised that he has green eyes. It might be a trick of the light, because the approaching winter makes everything seem faded and grey. Still, I think he has green eyes. He came over and he smiled at me.

John doesn’t fit him very well anymore, I think. He has a better name, a less common name—a happier story too, because no one with that sad of a story is capable of smiling like that. He smiles with his whole face, like the sun coming out from behind winter clouds. Winter has been here for so long that I feel like I’ve become a block of ice, and every glance of him is making me melt, the bonds holding my being together breaking apart.

If all that’s left of me is a puddle in the ground because of too much watching of this man and hearing him sing, then all that would be left of me would be this journal. That’s enough, I think.

That’s enough.

***

Mark checked the clock on the street opposite, barely sparing a glance for the poor homeless guy who was huddled in the corner with his hat out for some coins. He packed his equipment quickly, shouldering his bags and shoving today’s earnings into his wallet. Then he walked over the street and dropped a few coins into the guy’s hat before he headed home.

He had to drop by the supermarket, but he did his shopping quickly. Vegetables, eggs, pasta, tomato paste, cheddar cheese... Walking past the candy aisle, he took out his wallet and counted his money. He had always been good at arithmetic—out of necessity if nothing else--he grinned to himself as he picked out a small bag of sweets and tossed it into his basket.

“Have a good day,” he told the cashier after he had paid and took his bags. Her smile was small, but sweet and sincere with how surprised she was, and he couldn’t help but feel a small surge of warmth in his chest for it.

It was a beautiful sunset today. Mark wished he had a camera to take a picture, but that was just a fleeting thought. Memory would have to be enough for now, he thought as he opened the door to his flat.

“Daddy, you’re home!” His son hopped off from his chair and ran at him. Mark laughed, dropping his bags onto the floor carefully—the eggs would break and he couldn’t afford the waste—before wrapping his arms around his boy.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, setting his son down to the ground and ruffling his hair. “Look what I got for you.”

He dug his hand into the grocery bag and took out the candy, waving in it his son’s face. “You have a treat today.”

The boy took the candy and gave him another hug. This, Mark thought—this was worth sitting by the roadside every single day and playing for people who generally just passed him by. This was worth everything.

“Daddy?” the boy bit his lip and buried his face into Mark’s hip. “Another friend of mine got a phone today. All of them have phones, and I was wondering...”

Mark couldn’t help the sharp grimace, no matter how much he tried to hide it. He bit his lip for a moment before he sighed quietly, pulling away a little and dropping to his knees. Cupping his son’s cheeks, he looked into bright green eyes.

“Phones are expensive,” he said quietly.

“I know,” the boy said, scuffing his toe on the hardwood floor. They should have carpets, Mark thought, but carpets cost too much to keep and they got dirty so easily. “I don’t need it, Daddy, but everyone has one and they keep asking why I don’t. I mean, I know it’s stupid, but...”

Mark ruffled baby-soft brown hair again, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss against his son’s temple.

“I’ll try, kiddo.” It wouldn’t be very difficult, he told himself, expression steeling. Phones were getting cheaper these days. He barely resisted the urge to check his wallet again, his hand half-moving towards his pocket. “I don’t promise anything except that I will have to stay out a little longer than usual, alright?”

“Alright,” the boy said, and his smile was worth every effort Mark would have to make. “Thank you, daddy. I love you.”

“I love you too, kiddo,” Mark said, closing his eyes.

***

“Isaac, you played Sean’s son in Game of Thrones, and now you play his son again. What is the difference between the two roles?”

Isaac ducked his head down at being so directly addressed. He glanced at Sean, who gave him an encouraging smile, before he cleared his throat and leaned towards the microphone.

“They are very different characters from very different backgrounds,” he said. “Bran doesn’t have any of the experiences that J- this character does, and vice versa.” He bit his lip, thinking hard. “They both have fathers who love them very much, but that’s all the similarity between them, I think.”

The reporter jumped on his little lapse, “The boy has a name?”

“Well,” Isaac grinned sheepishly. “I gave him a name, in my head. It’s just what I call him, because calling him ‘the boy’ gets a little clunky sometimes. Though, it’s not his real name—so I won’t tell you what I call him—he’s just the pianist’s son, you know? Whatever the audience thinks his name is will be his name.”

“Why are there practically no names in the movie at all?”

Isaac turned, and Viggo gave him a smile before he took the question himself.

“Cormac McCarthy did it with The Road to achieve a sense of ambiguity, so that the reader might be able to displace himself within the characters,” he explained, hand waving in the air. “I’m trying to do something a little different. Names give meaning and identity, a kind of solidity to a person—a character without a name is porous and intangible. These characters are merely creations to support the stories of the pianist that the narrator is imagining. The boy is, like Ian said, a shadow of a shadow. When you watch people on the streets and try to imagine what their lives are like, you don’t give names to their imaginary parents or lovers. We’re trying to reach the same effect here—this movie is basically a daydream, a raw part of the imagination..”

“Would you say that the photograph of you and Sean Bean is just as intangible?”

“That,” Sean cut in, “’as nowt ta do wi’ the movie. Next question.”

Sean was either not very good at keeping to his story, or he was baiting the press that was aching to ask about the elephant in the room—even from here, Isaac could tell that Sean was holding Viggo’s hand. It was a little funny to see how the reporters were shifting around, craning their necks and straining their ears to catch the smallest hint, the softest whisper, that could answer their question.

They wouldn’t get anything until Sean and Viggo wanted to throw them a bone. It wasn’t very nice of them to tease that way, but Isaac couldn’t help but smile anyway.

***

I’ve read once that the stories tell more about the storyteller than about the subject itself. I don’t know if that’s true; it’s been a long time since I’ve thought about that. It’s been so long since I’ve wanted to tell a story. Maybe that’s why he’s been struggling with money in my head. Maybe I’m just trying to tell my own story.

But that’s not very fair to him, is it?

I don’t think I like him being poor, I think. I don’t like him being Mark either. I watched his fingers playing Beethoven today. Someone with hands so beautiful shouldn’t be given so harsh a name. I wish I knew his name. I should ask him one day, but today is too cold and I don’t want to melt because I’m standing next to him. I won’t get a name that way, and it would only be embarrassing. Maybe tomorrow I’ll try, so I can stop giving him names.

There’s a story of a little girl who sells matches and sees dreams through the fire. I don’t need matches to see dreams; I see them just fine in the cold. It’s just that I think they should be better dreams. Hopeful, happy dreams, where he’s surrounding by friends and laughs every single day.

He deserves that, I think. Maybe that’s what he already has. His smile is a hint that I don’t want to decode just yet.

***

Sam packed up for the day, counting the money in his hat before shoving the whole lot into his pocket. He felt a little guilty for putting his hat out when surely there must be so many people around here who definitely needed the money more. But the first time he had tried to play on the streets without a hat, people had dropped money on the ground anyway, so he gave in and got an old hat. At least he donated the money afterwards.

Today was a pretty big day. He hurried home, waving down a cab and dropping onto the leather seat with a heavy sigh as he put his equipment down. They were heavy, he thought as he rubbed at his shoulder with a fist, and he wished that people would have a way to make lighter amplification equipment.

The cab drew up beside his house. Sam paid the fare absent-mindedly before he picked up his things and went inside. He dropped the money from the day into the small box right beside the door. The keyboard and speaker went to his studio.

He was going to be busy, so he changed quickly to a nicer shirt, a pair of pants and new shoes before he went out again. The cab driver was waiting for him, and he asked the man to drive down to the specialty market a few streets down and a world away from the roadside where he usually played.

Sam hummed under his breath as he took his time shopping, looking through the produce. Steaks for the gentleman and fish for the lady. He knew the stuff here was good—they certainly charged enough for it to be, he frowned down to the price tag on a bag of broccoli—but it couldn’t hurt to be careful. Maybe he had once thrown his money away haphazardly, not caring if he wasted, but nowadays he liked to think that he had learned better.

The sun had finished setting when he finally reached home, and he had just started the grill when he heard the doorbell ring.

Bright blue eyes and pink lips greeted him when he pulled open the door. Sam laughed and embraced his friend hard, pulling him in and slapping him on the back, hand splayed out against one wide, flat shoulderblade.

“Hey, Sam,” blue-eyes murmured against his shoulder, smacking a hard kiss against his cheek. Sam laughed, hugged him once more before he pulled away and let him come in.

“It’s been a long time,” Sam said, and he had barely finished those words when he was bowled over by a body with long black hair. The woman’s laughter was husky and low as she grinned at him, almost half-hanging on by her legs around his hips alone. He let out a breath and staggered backwards, blue-eyes holding him still with a hand against his back and preventing him from falling over due to the weight of long-black-hair.

“God, we missed you,” long-black hair declared as she was set back down to the ground. She leaned forward and gave Sam two big kisses on his cheek.

“Come on in, come on in,” Sam was grinning widely, his hand closing around her wrist and tugging her forward. She threw her arm around him, laughing.

The dinner was just a series of images in Sam’s memory, like a montage of laughter and old jokes and good food with better wine. Like slipping on an old cloak. And he could not stop from grinning constantly like an idiot, or like someone with a constant private joke, kept deep inside his heart.

They were all seated at the couch before blue-eyes stood up and went for the bag he placed at the hallway.

“To business now that we have all been fed?” He smiled widely, and Sam noted that there were no creases at the corner of his eyes, the lucky bastard.

“Alright, alright,” He stood up himself, placing his glass of wine down before he walked over to the baby grand piano he kept in the main room. He lifted the black cover, running a hand reverently over the velvet-covered keys.

“You composed anything new lately?” Brushing long black hair off her shoulders, his friend placed her flute near her shoulder. Her brown eyes sparkled.

“Just a couple. Nothing for the three of us, though.”

“Start something,” blue eyes suggested.

“Alright.”

He started slowly, his fingers splaying out against ivory-white keys. His eyes drifted half-shut. It only took a few notes before the violin joined in, soft and low and deep—the perfect complements for the flute when she started, just a few sweet notes.

They always did improvise well together, Sam thought, and he smiled to himself as he kept playing. Unbidden, he thought of the man he saw on the streets today, and he wondered if he would ever be able to play like this for him.

***

He should always be like that, laughing and surrounded by friends. I don’t know if that’s what they would talk about. I’m not very good at music nowadays. I used to be, but it’s easy to forget things in the cold. You can’t capture music in writing. That’s good, I think. I don’t think I would be able to do his music justice. I hear it every day, but what you play for strangers is different from what you play for friends, isn’t it?

Sometimes I wish that he’s a cloth-person, so I can find the ending thread and pull at it, tugging and tugging until he spins around and spills all of his secrets to me. Then I won’t ever need to ask. I don’t have to stand up. Standing up is so difficult nowadays. The cold sinks into my feet and my back like into old rusty hinges, and every time I stand I feel like I’m falling apart. Is falling apart easier or better than melting? I wonder.

He came over again today. His teeth are so very white and straight—does he go to a dentist often, or is he just lucky that way? Or maybe he used to be a dentist himself, giving up on his previous occupation to chase his dreams of music. It’s the kind of stories that movies are made of, the kind that are supposed to make you feel good and warm on the inside, just like the heated movie theatres make you feel warm on the outside.

It’s been so long since I’ve been to the movies.

***

“I don’t actually play the violin very well, though I learned when I was a kid,” Elijah said, smiling as he leaned into the microphone. “I’ve always loved music. It’s one of the great perks about working on this film, actually, learning the violin again. I got too busy the last time, but now I’m trying to practice more.”

Ariadna laughed, picking up the thread immediately, “I had to learn to play the flute from the very beginning! But it’s entirely by my choice. Viggo asked me if I’d like a part and to pick an instrument. I’ve always loved the flute, so I jumped at the excuse. I’ve been practicing more, so I’d like to think I’m pretty good at it nowadays.” Her grin widened. “Sean’s the only one who can actually play his instrument beforehand.”

“Viggo, was Sean’s role written for him?”

“He’s the only one I could imagine for it,” Viggo replied simply. Looking at the two of them, Ariadna’s smile softened. Viggo looked like himself again instead of the cold, exhausted version of him that she had during those five months they had together.

“I think it’s time to address the elephant in the room,” a journalist said as he raised his hand, and Ariadna immediately disliked his smug, oily smile. “Jordan Michaels, from Heat. Ariadna, was it an awkward filming experience for you with Sean and Viggo on the same set, given that you had been romantically involved with Viggo in the past?”

The room went silent. Sean opened his mouth, but Ariadna beat him to it.

“Why would it be?” She gave him her most beguiling marquee smile. “Both of them are my friends, and I was very flattered by Viggo’s invitation to have a part in the film. It’s something we’re all proud of.”

“Our time is up,” the moderator said, waving a hand. “The conference is over—”

“Wait,” Viggo said. He stood up from behind the long table, his hands splaying out against the edge. “If it’s an answer you want, Mister Michaels, then you should address them to me. As it is, I have an answer.”

Ariadna took a sip of her water. This was going to be good.

Viggo’s fingers were soft against Sean’s cheek, curving against his jaw. Sean tilted his head up, smiling at him, before he got to his feet. They leaned into each other, and the kiss they shared was picture-perfect, unwavering and unashamed even as the cameras flashed around them, almost blinding in their light.

It was a picture that graced almost every celebrity-centric magazine the next day.

***

He always wears sneakers. Old ones, ragged around the edges, the laces dirtied and greyed by walking through snow and slush and mud. His steps are gentle, barely leaving footprints in the thick, heavy snow. Beneath the heavy blanket of white, there was just a glimpse or two of the black graphite and grey concrete of roads. Grey, black, grey, he walked across it.

His shoes used to be flipflops, but they can’t be called much nowadays; they are fallen apart. The thong has been worn down to nearly nothing and the soles are barely thick enough to keep his feet from touching the ground. His pants are dirty things, sweatpants that can barely be called pants anymore, what how thin they are from constant washings and wearings.

“’ey.”

His eyes are green, like the first shoots of spring that push out from snow. There are many lines on his face, every single one of them evident because of the wide smile. On his back is slung his speaker and keyboard, and this close, it’s obvious that the bag has been used a long time—the strap is fraying at the edges—but it’s well-loved, and well-cared for.

“Weather’s goin’ ta be shite tonight.”

How has he never realised that accent? Like thick, dark chocolate, warm and melting on the tongue. Every story is wrong. The speech is wrong; he’ll have to write them all over again. He wonders why he’s not more upset about it.

His eyes move down, and he notices that the nails are bitten to the cuticles, the pads callused. But the fingers are long and elegant; pianist fingers. Very appropriate, really.

He turns his head up. He doesn’t know the colour of his own eyes anymore—it’s been too long since he’s looked into a mirror—and he knows that his teeth are dirty. Snow doesn’t clean very well, not when it has been driven over.

“Ya want ta come ‘ome wi’ me? I ain’t got much, but there’s blankets, ‘eater and clean clothes fer ya.”

He should speak. He should say something. But his vision is wavering from hunger—or perhaps it’s something else. He thinks of the little match girl again and her dreams born from the small, wavering flame of a match. This is a dream, he thinks. This can only be a dream. He feels so warm from the voice alone.

But there were knees in front of him and hands curling around his wrists, and those green eyes bright enough to chase away the cold. His hands are large and warm, enveloping his own dirty fingers and chipped nails and slowly rubbing against them.

“Ya’ve been ‘ere fer some time. Always jest over ‘ere, watchin ‘me. Best audience I’ve ‘ad.”

His smile is blinding. Like the sun, emerging from the clouds after a thunderstorm.

“C’mon, man. Come ‘ome wi’ me.”

Suddenly he finds his feet unsticking from the ground, the ice melting away. But he is solid still, and he’s surging forward, his fingers shaking from more than cold now. His shoulders are thin, narrow things, but he finds the strength still to reach out, to pull close elegant fingers tangled up with his.

What’s your name, he asks. He has wanted to ask the question for so long that the words mangle themselves in his mouth, his throat. He swallows, and asks again. What is your name?

“Me name?”

His laughter is beautiful.

“Me name is—”

End