For blinddreamer: The Spectral Frequency
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. The author has no knowledge of and is making no claims about the real-life activities of anyone depicted herein. This is for entertainment purposes only and no profit has been made.
Rating: The overall rating for this challenge is NC-17. Not all fics are, but some will be.
Note: All headings that could reveal the author's identity have been stripped. Authors, please do not reveal yourself yet. Readers, feel free to guess who wrote which fic. A list of authors is here.
For blinddreamer, who requested AU, supernatural, with the prompt words: glow, drowsy, strength, pastels.
Summary: Viggo is a museless artist in a house with an unexpected history.
The Spectral Frequency
The artist sighed and shifted on his chair. It felt late, as if the day was ending, but the sun was still fairly high in the sky and its rays lit the room. The room had two large windows, both on the wall to the artist's left. He'd asked for them when he'd had the house built, so that he could use both light and shadow when he worked, and the bar of shadow sometimes cast in the room was just wide enough for his preferences. The windowframes also caused shadows, but only when the sun shone directly on them. Today, the artist saw no shadows; though the sun warmed the side of his face, the light was not bright enough for shadows to become distinct. The artist doubted that studying the play of dark on light would inspire him anyway - he sat back from his canvas because he could not find it within himself to continue working on it. His carefully mixed paints dried on the palette and the hairs on his paintbrush dried together in clumps and would soon be unusable, yet he didn't care enough to clean them. Paintbrushes were, by necessity, replaceable, and he could mix the paints again - two parts white, one part solid colour; mix to an even blend and adjust if necessary.
Inspiration, however, had deserted him after a day and a half of working. He could not remember what he last ate, nor whether he'd had any alcohol to dull his normally active mind. Certainly it felt like it; even lifting his hand to brush the blurred-looking hairs from over his eyes seemed too much effort, and he had to blink constantly in order to maintain some kind of focus. The canvas remained such; a mere canvas with newspaper and paint covering its original whiteness with a haphazardly incomplete pattern. It seemed to almost be a coloured void, though the colours seemed to shift and blur in the afternoon sun, almost taking on a sort of glow to the eyes of the sleepy artist.
Though the colours seem to mix and blend, the canvas was void enough to remind him of the room. The walls were originally painted white, but have acquired spatters and markings over time; the floor is concrete, with swirls of light and dark decorating it. Cans of paint sit on a set of steel shelves in one corner, near empty canvases and wooden frames. Finished works lean against walls where there's space, but overall the room feels emotionless. The artist preferred it that way because it let him focus on his work, but lately he has felt as if the room itself intrudes on his state of mind, disrupting him and keeping him from engaging himself in the process of creation. The pressure to have this set done still failed to motivate him, and he found himself looking beyond his own emotions for direction. His agent would have liked him to have something new to show, perhaps by the fall if not now, but the artist doubted himself and his ability to make that happen. It shows in his work, and even in the way the finished pieces feel incomplete. Had he been stronger, or perhaps just his thoughts differently structured, he may have been able to find some new muse, but the artist was only a man. His strength lay in the way he expressed his emotions, and when he lacked the drive to do so there was no method for him to find it, save for waiting out the passage of time.
"You look despondent today, Viggo." Though his painting was necessarily pale, it seemed to capture the sunlight and almost glow. It seemed as if the soft pastels he'd mixed developed a texture of their own, though if not for the voice he would have put it down to his half-closed eyes and lethargic brain. The painting seemed to speak to him, though he had not yet given it a soul or a life of its own. Even that might have been his imagination, or a manifestation of the insanity some credited him with.
"I really need another drink," he muttered, out loud but more to himself, as if he would listen more to the echo of his own voice than his thoughts.
"You've had enough, I think - you had a whole bottle of rum overnight, you know." The glow surrounding his painting shifted and swirled, the colours darkening through the addition of a greyish patina over their new shape. The artist watched and involuntarily tilted his head as he saw his painting seemingly give birth to a young man. He could have been the artist's opposite - dark where Viggo was pale, with deep brown eyes and hair the colour of a panther's coat, so dark a brown it was easily mistaken for black. His skin, though tainted with grey, was tanned, and his chin was covered with a thin layer of hair in the shape of a goatee. The blue-grey shirt seemed to hang loosely from his shoulders and when the artist looked down, he saw that it gave way to blue-grey jeans that folded roughly over the tops of his sneakers.
"I somehow don't think that's enough," said the artist, but he didn't move from his chair. The apparition lifted an arm and black bracelets clinked against each other.
"You can see me?" The apparition held his hand in front of his face and turned it palm forwards, as if studying it carefully. "I can see me, but that's not exactly new." He held his hand out. "I'm Orlando Bloom. I guess it's an honour to finally talk to you, Mr. Mortensen - I've been watching you for a while now."
The artist, faced with a young man who could be his muse if only he was awake, blinked and reached to shake Orlando's hand.
"Damn. Oh well, I'll settle for talking." The artist's hand passed straight through Orlando's, and now it was cold. He clenched his fingers into a fist and spread them again, hoping the action would warm them.
"Watching me? And please, call me Viggo. If I'm talking to myself, I shouldn't worry about formalities." Orlando smiled and Viggo felt his breath grow shallower when he saw the light in Orlando's eyes.
"You're most definitely not talking to yourself, Viggo. I've been here a few weeks now - getting to know you, I suppose."
Viggo stood up; the chair fell with the force of his movement and he kicked it aside, then backed away from Orlando. "You're real, aren't you?"
"Yup. You still want that drink?"
When Viggo reached the wall, he leaned against it and then slid slowly to the floor; his eyes never left Orlando.
Eventually Orlando joined him on the floor; he seemed to glide across the floor even though he looked like he was walking. Having the apparition close seemed strange to Viggo; though tinged with grey and the occasional flicker, Orlando's presence was like that of a real person. If Viggo didn't look so carefully for the details, he would not have noted the difference.
"You want to know how I'm here, yeah?" Orlando said, after a while. His voice was a bit faint and he sounded like he was whispering at times, but Viggo decided that he liked the British accent and the way Orlando's voice seemed to soften at the end of sentences.
"As good a place to start as any."
"I died here, a while ago I guess, before this place was built. What year is it?"
Viggo had almost been thinking of Orlando as normal, but he tensed at the question and looked down at the floor. He shifted slightly before answering.
"It's 2007."
He looked up at Orlando and put his hand to the back of his neck, twisting his mouth in an apologetic half-smile. Orlando, though, seemed almost unconcerned.
"So that would be nine years ago, give or take. The house next door? I sorta fell off the roof. I was dead and then one day I see you here painting. Nice work, by the way. You need to use more vibrant colours, though... the pastels are getting boring."
"How can I see you? If you've been here all this time why haven't I seen you before?" Viggo instantly swore at himself, something he rarely did. Orlando didn't seem to mind his questioning that much, and if the coolness against Viggo's arm meant that Orlando was trying to touch him, wasn't even deterred by Viggo's unusual curiosity.
"You know how cameras sometimes take photos of spirits? I guess it's a bit like that - you've been looking for inspiration, haven't you?" Viggo nodded. Though the evening shadows had started to take over the room, Orlando's appearance didn't change. Viggo's own skin was less visible in this light, but not Orlando's. He was struck by how similar they looked in the light of the sunset. "You see things other people don't because you're an artist and that's what you do. Probably you opened yourself up to see something more and now you can see me, just like a camera. Not sure exactly how it works, but."
Viggo's mind, so still earlier, was now processing Orlando's words and he saw a rainbow that extended past the red line, fading into a sort of grey before the sky returned to its usual blue. His eyes flicked to the canvas and he saw it complete; the pastels he'd already painted in becoming more vibrant at the higher points, as if a rainbow viewed through many different eyes. His forearm was cold beneath his flannel shirt and he looked at it, seeing Orlando's hand instead of the red and white checks.
"I guess I got sent back to be your muse. Go."
Viggo reached for Orlando's knee but his hand touched concrete instead. He bowed his head slightly but Orlando whispered in his ear.
"Maybe one day you'll learn to touch me, too."
Already the air around Orlando seemed cool instead of the ice-like cold it had earlier. The time when he could touch Orlando felt closer, already, but Orlando was nodding towards the canvas.
"I want to watch you work."
Viggo could not deny his muse, for he sensed that there would be time to learn more about Orlando's world when this set was finished and this new surge of inspiration had passed.
Rating: The overall rating for this challenge is NC-17. Not all fics are, but some will be.
Note: All headings that could reveal the author's identity have been stripped. Authors, please do not reveal yourself yet. Readers, feel free to guess who wrote which fic. A list of authors is here.
For blinddreamer, who requested AU, supernatural, with the prompt words: glow, drowsy, strength, pastels.
Summary: Viggo is a museless artist in a house with an unexpected history.
The Spectral Frequency
The artist sighed and shifted on his chair. It felt late, as if the day was ending, but the sun was still fairly high in the sky and its rays lit the room. The room had two large windows, both on the wall to the artist's left. He'd asked for them when he'd had the house built, so that he could use both light and shadow when he worked, and the bar of shadow sometimes cast in the room was just wide enough for his preferences. The windowframes also caused shadows, but only when the sun shone directly on them. Today, the artist saw no shadows; though the sun warmed the side of his face, the light was not bright enough for shadows to become distinct. The artist doubted that studying the play of dark on light would inspire him anyway - he sat back from his canvas because he could not find it within himself to continue working on it. His carefully mixed paints dried on the palette and the hairs on his paintbrush dried together in clumps and would soon be unusable, yet he didn't care enough to clean them. Paintbrushes were, by necessity, replaceable, and he could mix the paints again - two parts white, one part solid colour; mix to an even blend and adjust if necessary.
Inspiration, however, had deserted him after a day and a half of working. He could not remember what he last ate, nor whether he'd had any alcohol to dull his normally active mind. Certainly it felt like it; even lifting his hand to brush the blurred-looking hairs from over his eyes seemed too much effort, and he had to blink constantly in order to maintain some kind of focus. The canvas remained such; a mere canvas with newspaper and paint covering its original whiteness with a haphazardly incomplete pattern. It seemed to almost be a coloured void, though the colours seemed to shift and blur in the afternoon sun, almost taking on a sort of glow to the eyes of the sleepy artist.
Though the colours seem to mix and blend, the canvas was void enough to remind him of the room. The walls were originally painted white, but have acquired spatters and markings over time; the floor is concrete, with swirls of light and dark decorating it. Cans of paint sit on a set of steel shelves in one corner, near empty canvases and wooden frames. Finished works lean against walls where there's space, but overall the room feels emotionless. The artist preferred it that way because it let him focus on his work, but lately he has felt as if the room itself intrudes on his state of mind, disrupting him and keeping him from engaging himself in the process of creation. The pressure to have this set done still failed to motivate him, and he found himself looking beyond his own emotions for direction. His agent would have liked him to have something new to show, perhaps by the fall if not now, but the artist doubted himself and his ability to make that happen. It shows in his work, and even in the way the finished pieces feel incomplete. Had he been stronger, or perhaps just his thoughts differently structured, he may have been able to find some new muse, but the artist was only a man. His strength lay in the way he expressed his emotions, and when he lacked the drive to do so there was no method for him to find it, save for waiting out the passage of time.
"You look despondent today, Viggo." Though his painting was necessarily pale, it seemed to capture the sunlight and almost glow. It seemed as if the soft pastels he'd mixed developed a texture of their own, though if not for the voice he would have put it down to his half-closed eyes and lethargic brain. The painting seemed to speak to him, though he had not yet given it a soul or a life of its own. Even that might have been his imagination, or a manifestation of the insanity some credited him with.
"I really need another drink," he muttered, out loud but more to himself, as if he would listen more to the echo of his own voice than his thoughts.
"You've had enough, I think - you had a whole bottle of rum overnight, you know." The glow surrounding his painting shifted and swirled, the colours darkening through the addition of a greyish patina over their new shape. The artist watched and involuntarily tilted his head as he saw his painting seemingly give birth to a young man. He could have been the artist's opposite - dark where Viggo was pale, with deep brown eyes and hair the colour of a panther's coat, so dark a brown it was easily mistaken for black. His skin, though tainted with grey, was tanned, and his chin was covered with a thin layer of hair in the shape of a goatee. The blue-grey shirt seemed to hang loosely from his shoulders and when the artist looked down, he saw that it gave way to blue-grey jeans that folded roughly over the tops of his sneakers.
"I somehow don't think that's enough," said the artist, but he didn't move from his chair. The apparition lifted an arm and black bracelets clinked against each other.
"You can see me?" The apparition held his hand in front of his face and turned it palm forwards, as if studying it carefully. "I can see me, but that's not exactly new." He held his hand out. "I'm Orlando Bloom. I guess it's an honour to finally talk to you, Mr. Mortensen - I've been watching you for a while now."
The artist, faced with a young man who could be his muse if only he was awake, blinked and reached to shake Orlando's hand.
"Damn. Oh well, I'll settle for talking." The artist's hand passed straight through Orlando's, and now it was cold. He clenched his fingers into a fist and spread them again, hoping the action would warm them.
"Watching me? And please, call me Viggo. If I'm talking to myself, I shouldn't worry about formalities." Orlando smiled and Viggo felt his breath grow shallower when he saw the light in Orlando's eyes.
"You're most definitely not talking to yourself, Viggo. I've been here a few weeks now - getting to know you, I suppose."
Viggo stood up; the chair fell with the force of his movement and he kicked it aside, then backed away from Orlando. "You're real, aren't you?"
"Yup. You still want that drink?"
When Viggo reached the wall, he leaned against it and then slid slowly to the floor; his eyes never left Orlando.
Eventually Orlando joined him on the floor; he seemed to glide across the floor even though he looked like he was walking. Having the apparition close seemed strange to Viggo; though tinged with grey and the occasional flicker, Orlando's presence was like that of a real person. If Viggo didn't look so carefully for the details, he would not have noted the difference.
"You want to know how I'm here, yeah?" Orlando said, after a while. His voice was a bit faint and he sounded like he was whispering at times, but Viggo decided that he liked the British accent and the way Orlando's voice seemed to soften at the end of sentences.
"As good a place to start as any."
"I died here, a while ago I guess, before this place was built. What year is it?"
Viggo had almost been thinking of Orlando as normal, but he tensed at the question and looked down at the floor. He shifted slightly before answering.
"It's 2007."
He looked up at Orlando and put his hand to the back of his neck, twisting his mouth in an apologetic half-smile. Orlando, though, seemed almost unconcerned.
"So that would be nine years ago, give or take. The house next door? I sorta fell off the roof. I was dead and then one day I see you here painting. Nice work, by the way. You need to use more vibrant colours, though... the pastels are getting boring."
"How can I see you? If you've been here all this time why haven't I seen you before?" Viggo instantly swore at himself, something he rarely did. Orlando didn't seem to mind his questioning that much, and if the coolness against Viggo's arm meant that Orlando was trying to touch him, wasn't even deterred by Viggo's unusual curiosity.
"You know how cameras sometimes take photos of spirits? I guess it's a bit like that - you've been looking for inspiration, haven't you?" Viggo nodded. Though the evening shadows had started to take over the room, Orlando's appearance didn't change. Viggo's own skin was less visible in this light, but not Orlando's. He was struck by how similar they looked in the light of the sunset. "You see things other people don't because you're an artist and that's what you do. Probably you opened yourself up to see something more and now you can see me, just like a camera. Not sure exactly how it works, but."
Viggo's mind, so still earlier, was now processing Orlando's words and he saw a rainbow that extended past the red line, fading into a sort of grey before the sky returned to its usual blue. His eyes flicked to the canvas and he saw it complete; the pastels he'd already painted in becoming more vibrant at the higher points, as if a rainbow viewed through many different eyes. His forearm was cold beneath his flannel shirt and he looked at it, seeing Orlando's hand instead of the red and white checks.
"I guess I got sent back to be your muse. Go."
Viggo reached for Orlando's knee but his hand touched concrete instead. He bowed his head slightly but Orlando whispered in his ear.
"Maybe one day you'll learn to touch me, too."
Already the air around Orlando seemed cool instead of the ice-like cold it had earlier. The time when he could touch Orlando felt closer, already, but Orlando was nodding towards the canvas.
"I want to watch you work."
Viggo could not deny his muse, for he sensed that there would be time to learn more about Orlando's world when this set was finished and this new surge of inspiration had passed.