Five Minutes

by P. R. Zed


He’s blathering on, trying to explain Boromir’s motivations in a one-minute sound bite and cursing his own awkwardness. He wishes he could be as smooth as Trevelyan, as brash as Sharpe. Instead, he struggles not to hesitate, covering his nervousness with his hands, gesturing in the air.

His eyes flick left as he’s finishing, and he sees Viggo waiting in the wings for his own interview. Vig is smirking, daring him to laugh at himself. Then the host is thanking him and he’s passing Viggo.

“Prat,” he whispers.

“Wanker,” Viggo replies, the word sounding wrong in those flat American tones.


He settles in a tatty chair at the studio’s edge to watch Viggo work. As many times as he’s seen this, he never tires of watching the magic happen, watching the interviewer lean in to catch every word. He envies Viggo his absolute concentration, his ability to find exactly the right word at exactly the right time. His stillness.

He feels anything but still. He wants this over. Wants Viggo to himself, not sharing him with the host or the crew or all the viewers of this show.

He tries not to fidget and wills time to pass more quickly.


Viggo’s minute is up and the taping is over. The host shakes Viggo’s hand and moves away. Camera operators and lighting technicians rush around, doing their jobs. The producer comes to thank them both and several still star struck PAs ask them both for autographs.

All he wants to do is get away.

He puts a hand on Viggo’s elbow and pulls. Viggo finishes signing a picture and exchanges a few words with the young woman it belongs to, and then he moves, perfectly willing to be led.

Viggo’s smirk reappears, but now there’s something else behind it. Something solemn.


They walk through the building, concrete halls hiding offices and studios. He’s thankful for his sense of direction, since the place is a maze of corridors, all looking more or less the same.

His hand is no longer on Viggo’s elbow; now, he has an arm wrapped possessively around his waist. He doesn’t worry about being seen, knows that everyone will assume he’s just another fucking luvvie.

He wonders if he can wait until they get to the hotel, decides he can’t. He stops for a moment to think, then directs a smiling Viggo towards his goal: the green room.


He opens the door, finding the room empty and dark. The last guests for the day, they won’t be disturbed.

Flicking on the light, he pushes Viggo inside. He’s no longer hesitant, no longer awkward. Viggo is looking at him with an expression he can’t identify: not quite longing, not quite happiness.

“What?” he asks.

“No one else gets to see you like this,” Vig says.

While he’s still taking that in, Viggo takes his mouth in a hot, deep kiss and tips him onto the couch.

He doesn’t get his breath back again for the rest of the day.


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