Twelve days of Christmas: Day eight
The little AU: Twelve Days of Christmas: Day eight
slashfairy
G
New Year's Day. A falsehood if ever there was one: there's nothing new about this year so far. The paparazzi are still out in full force. The fans and fanatics with cellphone-cameras are out in even fuller force, wanting to be first in some blog or another with scandalous photos of ordinary life made insane by undue, unwanted interest from strangers. They have things they have to do though, so they pull up scarves and turn up coat-collars and pull down caps and wince-smile and cross the street to get away as politely, as quickly as possible.
Arriving back in the suite in staggered bursts of parcels and jackets and wallets tossed down and boots kicked off and shoulders rolled to relieve tension carried in from the thousand stolen pictures taking bits of their souls off into the world unshriven they greet each other with hongi, the sharing of the breath learned in Aotearoa, forehead to forehead, breathing in and out together, until their anxieties are allayed: each one is safe, they are all together, safe altogether. Orli breaks first this time, saying "I'm for a scrub, a shower, and a soak- if you're not with me, you're against me!" giggling when Karl grabs for him, misses, and falls off the footstool of the wing chair Viggo likes to drape himself over.
Karl pouts good-naturedly, says "No one gets away with that, Orlando Bloom!" and clambers up, tearing off jumper and t, jeans and socks, joining Orli in the bathroom just in time to grab the soap and start lathering him up with the big looping strokes that soothe Orlando's back the most. He slows down, gentles further, whispers "Sometimes I wish it were easier for you, love- I fuss about it but there're advantages to not having to worry that every phone is taking a snap...I'm happy for you that you've had all this success but I wish the cost weren't so high." He takes the shower head and rinses Orli off the way you'd curry a fine horse, spray over hand, brushing off the static, smoothing out the space around Orli's heart until he's stopped shivering, stopped panting, is leaning against the shower wall relaxed, beautiful in his absolute trust.
"Come on, let's get in the tub, let Vig make his mess in here," Karl says, but it's sweetly said, acknowledging that of them all Vig is the one who will bathe anywhere, who will slide into the water as though into his element, shake it off him like a dog, drink it up like a cloud needing to burst. Vig buys the really good, hand-milled soaps, the fine cotton bath towels, the soft floor mats that fill their bathroom at home, and in the grey house in Venice Beach; if he leaves a little soapy mess or doesn't hang up his towel after, they don't mind at all.
Nothing's changed so far: except that they're together, it's New Year's Day, and this year it's on purpose. All of it.
previously:
next:
day nine
slashfairy
G
New Year's Day. A falsehood if ever there was one: there's nothing new about this year so far. The paparazzi are still out in full force. The fans and fanatics with cellphone-cameras are out in even fuller force, wanting to be first in some blog or another with scandalous photos of ordinary life made insane by undue, unwanted interest from strangers. They have things they have to do though, so they pull up scarves and turn up coat-collars and pull down caps and wince-smile and cross the street to get away as politely, as quickly as possible.
Arriving back in the suite in staggered bursts of parcels and jackets and wallets tossed down and boots kicked off and shoulders rolled to relieve tension carried in from the thousand stolen pictures taking bits of their souls off into the world unshriven they greet each other with hongi, the sharing of the breath learned in Aotearoa, forehead to forehead, breathing in and out together, until their anxieties are allayed: each one is safe, they are all together, safe altogether. Orli breaks first this time, saying "I'm for a scrub, a shower, and a soak- if you're not with me, you're against me!" giggling when Karl grabs for him, misses, and falls off the footstool of the wing chair Viggo likes to drape himself over.
Karl pouts good-naturedly, says "No one gets away with that, Orlando Bloom!" and clambers up, tearing off jumper and t, jeans and socks, joining Orli in the bathroom just in time to grab the soap and start lathering him up with the big looping strokes that soothe Orlando's back the most. He slows down, gentles further, whispers "Sometimes I wish it were easier for you, love- I fuss about it but there're advantages to not having to worry that every phone is taking a snap...I'm happy for you that you've had all this success but I wish the cost weren't so high." He takes the shower head and rinses Orli off the way you'd curry a fine horse, spray over hand, brushing off the static, smoothing out the space around Orli's heart until he's stopped shivering, stopped panting, is leaning against the shower wall relaxed, beautiful in his absolute trust.
"Come on, let's get in the tub, let Vig make his mess in here," Karl says, but it's sweetly said, acknowledging that of them all Vig is the one who will bathe anywhere, who will slide into the water as though into his element, shake it off him like a dog, drink it up like a cloud needing to burst. Vig buys the really good, hand-milled soaps, the fine cotton bath towels, the soft floor mats that fill their bathroom at home, and in the grey house in Venice Beach; if he leaves a little soapy mess or doesn't hang up his towel after, they don't mind at all.
Nothing's changed so far: except that they're together, it's New Year's Day, and this year it's on purpose. All of it.
previously:
next:
day nine