Twelve days of Christmas: Day twelve
The little AU: Twelve Days of Christmas: Day twelve
slashfairy
G
~~
Rising up from the sunset the fog slips over the shore and climbs gracefully up the bluff to hover just below the edge of the deck, soft blanket of the night gentling the surf's horses as they parade in the foam and breakers below.
Orlando leans over the rail, stretching one leg, then the other, arching and bowing his back like the cat he sometimes feels he is, hearing his tail switch behind him as the last aches from the long trip drop off him and roll down the bluff trail to melt into the sea, leaving him relaxed, calm at center, for the first time since... God, since September?
Not settled, nothing's settled really: he's still over-committed, still discomforted with the demands he's made himself prey to, the horrendously wrong images people create of him, but he's not lost out there in those demands, those images, the way he was before. Sadder, wiser, he thinks to himself. He's learning to let regret go, to let that obsessive grinding go-- not to stop mulling things over, working out how they happened, what they mean, but the wearing away of his self-confidence, his self-sense... of his sense that he's worthy of being loved, being cared for, that what he does matters-- that he's learning to keep holy and sacred and protect against "the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune".
~~
Karl walks through the house, touching walls, wood trim, windows that he'd carefully restored, rebuilt, replaced over the first year they'd lived there. The bones of the house -old growth redwood and cedar and pine from the beginning of the last century- had been good, just the outer skin needed loving up, so he'd done that, and then some. Skills learned on his uncle's farm, on odd jobs taken to get through lean acting years, even practiced for fun had become his meditation tools as he'd measured and cut, planed and sanded, laid into place, hammered and screwed and bolted into connection, until stain and paint and hardware made finished surfaces throughout the whole place a joy to touch, to use, to live within. He pretends he's not a spiritual man nor a deep one, but there's not a surface in the house nor a space in it that's not been blessed by his care and attention: the entire place is a prayer, though if you said that to him he'd look at you sceptically and offer you a tinnie.
He's no idea how the next year will go. He's optimistic even as he admits to himself that he's scared, a bit: Orlando's fragility frightens him, makes him both frustrated and worried because he can't fix anything when Orli's angry or hurt or in pain, but he wants to because he loves Orli, wants him not to be angry or hurt or in pain. It's going to be work, Karl thinks, to let him feel and not censor him to prevent my feelings from overwhelming me. He doesn't realize it but that insight is as much a building and a prayer as the house is, as much a gift to himself as it is to Orlando, to the three of them.
~~
Viggo gets off the phone with Henry, and gathers up the dogs and leashes and takes off across the sand under the blanket of fog, thinking about fathers and sons and how you just can't prepare for everything, no matter what. He suspects he'll be stealing words at a great rate over the next month or so, snatching phrases and images out of thin air as they float by him, sneak through his consciousness, parade in all their awkward glory just out of reach, each, all, trying to help him sort out what it means that he sometimes feels Henry's more mature than he himself will ever be.
He knows he'll have to go back to London soon, that Orli's got to go back to LA, that Karl's got work lined up in Canada, and got to go visit Hunter soon in Aotearoa. The world's so big, and they so small, and he feels helpless in the face of it until he remembers that they're not alone: not only do they have each other, but they have family, they have their individual friends, and friends of their peculiar threesome; and the world has been kind to them the last six weeks. Why not continue to expect that, to give it opportunities over and over to practice kindness in the arena of letting them love each other, letting them care without self-censoring, risk without self-condemning, love without self-robbing, live without self-denying?
He inhales the salty silvery fog, replete with seaweed and shell and driftwood and sand, wet dog and tired man, and turns back toward the house, the house at the end of the bluff road, the house full of men, and care, and safety, and love, and life. The dogs trot along with him, content on their leashes now that their men are home, and all is right with the world, for tonight, the Twelfth Night of Christmas.
previously…
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slashfairy
G
~~
Rising up from the sunset the fog slips over the shore and climbs gracefully up the bluff to hover just below the edge of the deck, soft blanket of the night gentling the surf's horses as they parade in the foam and breakers below.
Orlando leans over the rail, stretching one leg, then the other, arching and bowing his back like the cat he sometimes feels he is, hearing his tail switch behind him as the last aches from the long trip drop off him and roll down the bluff trail to melt into the sea, leaving him relaxed, calm at center, for the first time since... God, since September?
Not settled, nothing's settled really: he's still over-committed, still discomforted with the demands he's made himself prey to, the horrendously wrong images people create of him, but he's not lost out there in those demands, those images, the way he was before. Sadder, wiser, he thinks to himself. He's learning to let regret go, to let that obsessive grinding go-- not to stop mulling things over, working out how they happened, what they mean, but the wearing away of his self-confidence, his self-sense... of his sense that he's worthy of being loved, being cared for, that what he does matters-- that he's learning to keep holy and sacred and protect against "the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune".
~~
Karl walks through the house, touching walls, wood trim, windows that he'd carefully restored, rebuilt, replaced over the first year they'd lived there. The bones of the house -old growth redwood and cedar and pine from the beginning of the last century- had been good, just the outer skin needed loving up, so he'd done that, and then some. Skills learned on his uncle's farm, on odd jobs taken to get through lean acting years, even practiced for fun had become his meditation tools as he'd measured and cut, planed and sanded, laid into place, hammered and screwed and bolted into connection, until stain and paint and hardware made finished surfaces throughout the whole place a joy to touch, to use, to live within. He pretends he's not a spiritual man nor a deep one, but there's not a surface in the house nor a space in it that's not been blessed by his care and attention: the entire place is a prayer, though if you said that to him he'd look at you sceptically and offer you a tinnie.
He's no idea how the next year will go. He's optimistic even as he admits to himself that he's scared, a bit: Orlando's fragility frightens him, makes him both frustrated and worried because he can't fix anything when Orli's angry or hurt or in pain, but he wants to because he loves Orli, wants him not to be angry or hurt or in pain. It's going to be work, Karl thinks, to let him feel and not censor him to prevent my feelings from overwhelming me. He doesn't realize it but that insight is as much a building and a prayer as the house is, as much a gift to himself as it is to Orlando, to the three of them.
~~
Viggo gets off the phone with Henry, and gathers up the dogs and leashes and takes off across the sand under the blanket of fog, thinking about fathers and sons and how you just can't prepare for everything, no matter what. He suspects he'll be stealing words at a great rate over the next month or so, snatching phrases and images out of thin air as they float by him, sneak through his consciousness, parade in all their awkward glory just out of reach, each, all, trying to help him sort out what it means that he sometimes feels Henry's more mature than he himself will ever be.
He knows he'll have to go back to London soon, that Orli's got to go back to LA, that Karl's got work lined up in Canada, and got to go visit Hunter soon in Aotearoa. The world's so big, and they so small, and he feels helpless in the face of it until he remembers that they're not alone: not only do they have each other, but they have family, they have their individual friends, and friends of their peculiar threesome; and the world has been kind to them the last six weeks. Why not continue to expect that, to give it opportunities over and over to practice kindness in the arena of letting them love each other, letting them care without self-censoring, risk without self-condemning, love without self-robbing, live without self-denying?
He inhales the salty silvery fog, replete with seaweed and shell and driftwood and sand, wet dog and tired man, and turns back toward the house, the house at the end of the bluff road, the house full of men, and care, and safety, and love, and life. The dogs trot along with him, content on their leashes now that their men are home, and all is right with the world, for tonight, the Twelfth Night of Christmas.
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