It all started at The Two Towers premiere. Somewhere between Orli kissing everyone in sight and Lij sneaking smoke breaks, Viggo found himself in a conversation with Ian, Karl, and Billy.
"Look at all these cute girls ready to declare their love," Billy said, half-joking. "I know it doesn't do much for you, Ian, but I get a kick out of it."
Viggo kept silent, not feeling a need to out himself at a public event. Ian's blue eyes smiled in tandem with his mouth, knowing his friend's secret but respecting his decision to keep it quiet. "No, indeed, Mr. Boyd. But truly, this is such a crass way to declare your love."
"Oh?" Karl asked with a grin. "And what's the best way to do that?"
"I don't know. Maybe a love letter. People underestimate the thrill of getting real, honest-to-God-written-on-paper letters."
And so, months later, Viggo sits with his head in his hands, wondering why he took Ian's advice. After all, it wasn't as if Ian was saying he wanted Viggo to declare his own love in that way. Especially since Ian had no clue how Viggo felt. Well, he knows now. Even though he had sent the letter ten days ago, Viggo can still remember every word.
'Dear Ian . . . I realized you're right, that a love letter is a perfect way to declare your true feelings about a person. So here goes nothing. Ever since I heard that you and Nick weren't involved anymore . . . fuck, this is hard. Ironic, huh? Me, the man who can always write down exactly what he feels, can barely get a sentence out. Well, fine. I love you, okay? Have since New Zealand. But I didn't want to fuck up the filming process, or our friendship, and then came Nick, and I wanted your happiness, so I never said anything. I'm rambling, aren't I? Oh, well, you should be used to it by now. But the bottom line is that I do love you. Viggo.'
Shit, *why*? It wasn't even well-written, Viggo realizes now. He's a *poet* for fuck's sake, and he can barely *write* the words 'I love you'? Three simple words. Shouldn't be so hard. And Ian's not returning his calls. Surely by now, he would've gotten the letter. Viggo knows that the older man has caller ID, so he's probably screening out his unwanted admirer. Viggo Mortensen, the world's oldest lovesick teenager.
A knock at the door shakes Viggo from his wallowing. A brief look out the bedroom window shows an unfamiliar car in the driveway; it looks like a rental car. Frowning in confusion, he opens his front door, and is stunned speechless.
"I hate driving in America. God knows why you people insist on driving on the right side of the road."
"Ian?" Viggo wonders if he's dreaming, but a brief – and painful – pinch to his arm reveals that he's not.
"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"
"Um, no, of course not. I just wasn't expecting –"
"I got your letter."
"My letter?"
Ian chuckles. "Yes, Viggo, your letter. The one in which you declared your love." Viggo can only nod. "So I came here."
"But you've been avoiding me. I called, and I know you were in London . . ." He trails off, feeling slightly pathetic.
"I have been avoiding you, but not for the reason you think. I just thought that declaring my love over the phone would be dreadfully impolite."
Viggo's eyebrows shoot up so high they're practically part of his hairline. "You? Declaring *your* love?" This isn't quite what Viggo's expecting Ian to be saying.
"Oh, dear," Ian says thoughtfully. "Was this supposed to be an unrequited love to later be used as some kind of tortured poetic device?"
"No," he says, laughing a bit. "I just didn't think you felt the same way."
Ian steps forward, wrapping his arms around Viggo and kissing him soundly. "And now?"
"I think you feel the same way," Viggo breathes, his lips tingling.
"I love you, Viggo. Very, very much."
"I love you, too."
"So do you think you can put up with an old queen for a lover?"
"Of course." Viggo shivered as Ian kissed his neck. Pulling
the other man inside, he finally closed the front door, and the world outside
was forgotten for just a little while.
