Hobbits and elves gyrate on the dance floor, while Bean debates footie and rugger with a squad of stuntmen.
Viggo sits alone, watching the surge of the crowd, a half-empty pint in front of him. Bean occasionally glances in his direction, a question in his eyes. Viggo has no answer.
He doesn't know what will happen next. Which one of them will relinquish control first, will break the pretence that they are simply friends, merely mates.
Until that happens, the knowledge of what might be sits between them, an impregnable fortress waiting for the right key to open its gate.
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