The little AU: autumn dreams: cycles
The little AU: autumn dreams: cycles
slashfairy
~~
He'd rather they were at the house at the end of the bluff road, but he'll take this and gladly so.
So rare, now, all three together. Each a changed man, each still- more- fully himself. Each true to his commitment to the others, to the whole of what they've made, each grateful for these moments of respite, of rest, of freedom.
Viggo lies as still as he can, willing himself not to move but to lie there and take in every touch, every sensation, so that he'll have them on some other night when the travel and distraction and exhaustion become- just for a moment- less about new experiences of life and more about wearing down against the grind. He allows himself expletives, grunts, moans, sighs, involuntary twitches, shivers, quiet laughter, but not large movement.
For instance, he doesn't lift his head to chase Orlando's lips when Orlando lifts his, stretches his neck, rolls his shoulders, shifts position for a more comfortable angle. Viggo follows how the light plays over the angles and curves of Orlando's face, how his eyelids lower and rise, how his pupils become larger just before he kisses Viggo again, palm on his breastbone, words whispered lost in Viggo's mouth.
And when Karl's tongue slides along the inside of Viggo's left thigh from just there above the knee to just there, just below where his balls fall, Viggo doesn't bend his knee, doesn't make room for Karl to go further- he stills to let the fullness of Karl's lips, the heat of his tongue, be stored there against a cold day, against an icy waterfall or grey ocean, for who knows when the sun will die, when Viggo will die, who knows what warmth must be savored now or lost forever to random unnecessary movement.
Tomorrow he will paint. There is a large canvas in the studio (all their houses have studios, all their houses have big beds and hot tubs and peace, all their houses have room for three men and their love and their lives and living), a canvas big enough to start on, though it may not ever be large enough to hold everything he'll put on it- paint, collage, writing, scraping this off, layering that on. Tomorrow, what is saved, savored, from this day will in no way find adequate expression, nor will it ever except in the quality of the love he returns to them whenever he can.
Outside, down the alleyway, someone rides a bicycle from town toward the beach, from the sound of the Pacific Coast Highway rushing through town toward the sound of the Pacific calmly breaking against the flat white beach.
Viggo can almost hear the sound of the wheel's spokes through the late evening air, sun gone down, fog come in, shhh shhh shhh.
previously: New Year's Day, October 20, 2009
next: hymnal
slashfairy
~~
He'd rather they were at the house at the end of the bluff road, but he'll take this and gladly so.
So rare, now, all three together. Each a changed man, each still- more- fully himself. Each true to his commitment to the others, to the whole of what they've made, each grateful for these moments of respite, of rest, of freedom.
Viggo lies as still as he can, willing himself not to move but to lie there and take in every touch, every sensation, so that he'll have them on some other night when the travel and distraction and exhaustion become- just for a moment- less about new experiences of life and more about wearing down against the grind. He allows himself expletives, grunts, moans, sighs, involuntary twitches, shivers, quiet laughter, but not large movement.
For instance, he doesn't lift his head to chase Orlando's lips when Orlando lifts his, stretches his neck, rolls his shoulders, shifts position for a more comfortable angle. Viggo follows how the light plays over the angles and curves of Orlando's face, how his eyelids lower and rise, how his pupils become larger just before he kisses Viggo again, palm on his breastbone, words whispered lost in Viggo's mouth.
And when Karl's tongue slides along the inside of Viggo's left thigh from just there above the knee to just there, just below where his balls fall, Viggo doesn't bend his knee, doesn't make room for Karl to go further- he stills to let the fullness of Karl's lips, the heat of his tongue, be stored there against a cold day, against an icy waterfall or grey ocean, for who knows when the sun will die, when Viggo will die, who knows what warmth must be savored now or lost forever to random unnecessary movement.
Tomorrow he will paint. There is a large canvas in the studio (all their houses have studios, all their houses have big beds and hot tubs and peace, all their houses have room for three men and their love and their lives and living), a canvas big enough to start on, though it may not ever be large enough to hold everything he'll put on it- paint, collage, writing, scraping this off, layering that on. Tomorrow, what is saved, savored, from this day will in no way find adequate expression, nor will it ever except in the quality of the love he returns to them whenever he can.
Outside, down the alleyway, someone rides a bicycle from town toward the beach, from the sound of the Pacific Coast Highway rushing through town toward the sound of the Pacific calmly breaking against the flat white beach.
Viggo can almost hear the sound of the wheel's spokes through the late evening air, sun gone down, fog come in, shhh shhh shhh.
previously: New Year's Day, October 20, 2009
next: hymnal