The little AU: Summer Flights: Clearing
The little AU: Summer Flights: Clearing
slashfairy
~~
They disappear.
Viggo finishes the festival circuit. What can be done has been done; there will be some appearances on talk shows, no doubt, maybe even Oprah since she'd touted the book, but in essence, work for The Road is nearly over. He can concentrate on Purgatorio, purge his Rioplateno accent from his Castellano, bring up his Madrileño, and become the man who, with the woman, will explore the circled snake of relationships and fate and destiny.
Karl, still buzzing from Star Trek, doesn't lose his groundedness. He talks with his co-stars about the sequels, but he walks the dogs even more often, repairs a cupboard door that's gotten loose on its hinges, designs a railing for the stairs down to the beach out of driftwood and seaweed. He emails Hunter who writes him back in short elegantly misspelled stories, every one a bit more elegant and a bit better spelled and every one signed "I love you Dad, Hunter." He prints them and hangs them on the fridge and touches them when he gets a tinnie or puts away the bacon after making a sarnie. At night he looks at the moon and asks him to watch over his son, and when he goes back inside he promises the dogs their boy will be back soon.
Orlando manages to dive beneath the radar and stay there. He's got some projects going, small ones, quiet ones, roles that stretch him without over-extending him beyond the boundaries of his ability to live his own life. He and Karl ride their motorcycles up the Coast Highway, camping in small campgrounds, bringing back stones and feathers for Viggo who uses them for paperweights and brushes. There are sketches of Orlando all over the studio, of his broad shoulders and high cheekbones and ever-increasingly-mature eyes, and in every one he's smiling.
At night they cook on the beach over driftwood and stones, lie under the stars and tell stories of the last year or so, their adventures, their trials, their achievements, their dreams. And after the climb to the house, time in the roomy shower, the big hot tub, they tumble in the big bed in combinations of twos and three and love each other late into the night and sleep until the sun's well up over the house and the dogs, impatient for the day, wake them.
previously: Drifting
next Long awaited party
slashfairy
~~
They disappear.
Viggo finishes the festival circuit. What can be done has been done; there will be some appearances on talk shows, no doubt, maybe even Oprah since she'd touted the book, but in essence, work for The Road is nearly over. He can concentrate on Purgatorio, purge his Rioplateno accent from his Castellano, bring up his Madrileño, and become the man who, with the woman, will explore the circled snake of relationships and fate and destiny.
Karl, still buzzing from Star Trek, doesn't lose his groundedness. He talks with his co-stars about the sequels, but he walks the dogs even more often, repairs a cupboard door that's gotten loose on its hinges, designs a railing for the stairs down to the beach out of driftwood and seaweed. He emails Hunter who writes him back in short elegantly misspelled stories, every one a bit more elegant and a bit better spelled and every one signed "I love you Dad, Hunter." He prints them and hangs them on the fridge and touches them when he gets a tinnie or puts away the bacon after making a sarnie. At night he looks at the moon and asks him to watch over his son, and when he goes back inside he promises the dogs their boy will be back soon.
Orlando manages to dive beneath the radar and stay there. He's got some projects going, small ones, quiet ones, roles that stretch him without over-extending him beyond the boundaries of his ability to live his own life. He and Karl ride their motorcycles up the Coast Highway, camping in small campgrounds, bringing back stones and feathers for Viggo who uses them for paperweights and brushes. There are sketches of Orlando all over the studio, of his broad shoulders and high cheekbones and ever-increasingly-mature eyes, and in every one he's smiling.
At night they cook on the beach over driftwood and stones, lie under the stars and tell stories of the last year or so, their adventures, their trials, their achievements, their dreams. And after the climb to the house, time in the roomy shower, the big hot tub, they tumble in the big bed in combinations of twos and three and love each other late into the night and sleep until the sun's well up over the house and the dogs, impatient for the day, wake them.
previously: Drifting
next Long awaited party