Day twenty-one / Letters
The little AU: advent calendar: day twenty-one: letters
slashfairy
G
They find him. It's not hard. He isn't hiding, just hidden- although every website in the world must have pictures of him getting off the plane with other home-coming celebs.
He's sitting in the small bar sipping something, staring into space, when they check in. He hears Karl's voice and turns to the doorway in time to see them walk past the bar toward the elevators. He starts to speak but the words won't come out, his hands rising to his necklace to hold them in his heart instead, but his wish for contact spills out of his heart anyway into Karl's ear. Karl stops still, Viggo looks over into the darkened space, and Orli's heart melts.
"In here," he whispers. "In here."
"Fancy a tinnie, or something, I reckon," Karl says to Viggo. Karl, never a believer in 'that California Woo-woo stuff, you daft hippie,' has said over and over to Viggo when Vig says, about something, anything, "I don't know. I just heard it in my head": Henry, too shy to call from Uni and say how different it is to what he'd expected; Karl, waking in a state of deep depression for no known cause, alone on some shoot that is dissatisfying even though he loves working, wishes he were as busy as Vig or Orli. Karl looks into the bar, and sees Orlando.
Who slides, wordlessly, to standing, and moves to a booth in the back, dark, as they follow him, and cradle him between them, quietly, the shores of the ocean meeting round his heart and bringing him home.
"Champagne," Viggo says to the waiter, "and tea: PG Tips, if you have it, three. Thank you," as Karl looks at Orli and realizes they've something else in common besides Viggo: that deep, seemingly unending drop into terrifying depression that comes on them, each differently, out of the blue, and lingers, tainting everything with its black oily taste. Even champagne. Even tea.
"I'll see to the rooms," he says, starting to rise.
"I took a suite." Orlando stops him with a hand on his arm. "Don't- don't go. Don't lose me, Karl. Don't let me leave you." Karl settles back into his seat. The drinks come. They sip, silent, at the champagne, then in unison turn to the tea and let its warmth fill them, begin to melt the ice that's frozen them in place.
Viggo feels it, though he'd never say it in words: There's air falling into them, being pushed out, with every breath, and even though they've not yet made Hongi, touched foreheads, shared the breath, still: still, with every breath, they're sharing it now, in, and out, and in.
"No matter what," he says, raising his cup of tea in a toast to the three of them. He's not naive. There's no knowing, yet, why Orli's been so frozen, why the sky over Karl's been so dark, if the two things are at all related, why his own flow's been narrowed, made grey and sucked-in and cold. There's time, now, he thinks to himself, time, and we're here, and smiles. "To warmth," he says, raising his tea-cup in a second toast, knowing that forever after, this moment will be a gift he'll hold in his heart, turning it over to catch the light differently every time.
Day twenty-two, 1
slashfairy
G
They find him. It's not hard. He isn't hiding, just hidden- although every website in the world must have pictures of him getting off the plane with other home-coming celebs.
He's sitting in the small bar sipping something, staring into space, when they check in. He hears Karl's voice and turns to the doorway in time to see them walk past the bar toward the elevators. He starts to speak but the words won't come out, his hands rising to his necklace to hold them in his heart instead, but his wish for contact spills out of his heart anyway into Karl's ear. Karl stops still, Viggo looks over into the darkened space, and Orli's heart melts.
"In here," he whispers. "In here."
"Fancy a tinnie, or something, I reckon," Karl says to Viggo. Karl, never a believer in 'that California Woo-woo stuff, you daft hippie,' has said over and over to Viggo when Vig says, about something, anything, "I don't know. I just heard it in my head": Henry, too shy to call from Uni and say how different it is to what he'd expected; Karl, waking in a state of deep depression for no known cause, alone on some shoot that is dissatisfying even though he loves working, wishes he were as busy as Vig or Orli. Karl looks into the bar, and sees Orlando.
Who slides, wordlessly, to standing, and moves to a booth in the back, dark, as they follow him, and cradle him between them, quietly, the shores of the ocean meeting round his heart and bringing him home.
"Champagne," Viggo says to the waiter, "and tea: PG Tips, if you have it, three. Thank you," as Karl looks at Orli and realizes they've something else in common besides Viggo: that deep, seemingly unending drop into terrifying depression that comes on them, each differently, out of the blue, and lingers, tainting everything with its black oily taste. Even champagne. Even tea.
"I'll see to the rooms," he says, starting to rise.
"I took a suite." Orlando stops him with a hand on his arm. "Don't- don't go. Don't lose me, Karl. Don't let me leave you." Karl settles back into his seat. The drinks come. They sip, silent, at the champagne, then in unison turn to the tea and let its warmth fill them, begin to melt the ice that's frozen them in place.
Viggo feels it, though he'd never say it in words: There's air falling into them, being pushed out, with every breath, and even though they've not yet made Hongi, touched foreheads, shared the breath, still: still, with every breath, they're sharing it now, in, and out, and in.
"No matter what," he says, raising his cup of tea in a toast to the three of them. He's not naive. There's no knowing, yet, why Orli's been so frozen, why the sky over Karl's been so dark, if the two things are at all related, why his own flow's been narrowed, made grey and sucked-in and cold. There's time, now, he thinks to himself, time, and we're here, and smiles. "To warmth," he says, raising his tea-cup in a second toast, knowing that forever after, this moment will be a gift he'll hold in his heart, turning it over to catch the light differently every time.
Day twenty-two, 1