The little AU: Rising Spring: Hold me, wrap me up
The little AU: Rising Spring: Hold me, wrap me up
slashfairy
for foxrafer and shegollum, in particular.
~~
Viggo calls from filming.
I'm cold, he says.
Call Orlando, Karl says. He's in New York. I'm in LA.
But I'm cold. And so dehydrated my shit's like rocks. And my legs hurt, and my back, and I hate that damn shopping cart. And I've never wanted good shoes as much as I do right now.
I know, Karl says, holding back more than he'll ever say. Hunter made you a driftwood dog. It's on your desk.
That's good, Viggo says. What's it's name?
Just 'Dog' so far, Karl says.
Well, keep it warm for me. I think I'll call Orlando.
~~
In his dreams he is a flagellant, the leather biting into his shoulders, his back, as he takes each step toward salvation. Perhaps that is because in the story he's in right now salvation seems far away, but pain is near-at-hand and self-caused. The boy and he talk about their movies- mostly about Hidalgo and Romulus, My Father, about the desert and desolation and carrying the fire. It isn't all make-up, the darkness under their eyes, the gauntness.
When they're not filming there is music, there is futbol and there are maps, and they talk about how we are all immigrants to this earth, and how this is all illusion even while it is so, so real. The boy is annoyingly astute for such a wide-eyed innocent, and Viggo can see how he carried a film with Bana and Marton and the immigrant 60's in outback Australia, and he likes him for that, for the depth of him. Where was it that you were from? he asks the boy, meaning where was the boy you played from? Frogmore, NSW, the boy answers, but there weren't a lot of frogs there. Dust, mostly, and brown.
Viggo nods and kicks the ball and the boy kicks it back, whistling up and down the scale, the notes whipping back and forth on the wind that doesn't quite, anymore, chill them to the bone.
~~
Orlando arrives wearing greens and greys and smelling of the city, of exhaust and concrete and electricity and movement and noise. He doesn't say much, just unpacks his bag quietly and goes into the bathroom to shower. He's brought a Moleskine sketchbook, Japanese style, and pencils in varying shades of grey; a worn copy of Dostoevsky and soap that smells of patchouli and lavender.
He gets out of the shower wearing the towel around his waist, his hair damp and finger-combed and curling like waves. Viggo licks him, licks the water off him, each drop as much as a year's worth of water welcome to him. Orlando stands still, breathing in and out, except to turn, to bend, to tilt his chin and lift his arm until Viggo has drunk his fill and staggered back to sit on the bed like a man sated.
From somewhere in the room- Viggo's laptop- comes a faint stream of music, some local internet station that Henry likes that plays songs that are vignettes, that are stories told in verse and tune. National Poetry Month the dj'd said, every song this hour is for National Poetry Month, and begins the set with Breathe Me.
Orlando looks at Viggo once, then closes his eyes and begins to dance. Nothing fancy, just a slow turning, weaving of his steps, his feet finding the deeper rhythm of it spoken by the drum as he raises one arm to the sinuous strings breathing into them and out, his hand barely moving as he finds the piano bass and plays the air along with it until the song is over.
His eyes never open, he doesn't stop moving, isn't dizzy or clumsy but present in this moment. When the song changes and he stills, comes out of movement to open his eyes, looking up from under his lashes like a man at prayer, Viggo's eyes are closed, he's resting sitting up leaning back against the headboard, his chest rising and falling in the comfortable breaths of a man who can, for the moment, rest in the comfort of being loved.
Orlando pulls on a t-shirt and boxers, hangs up the towel, turns out the light, and, as Viggo slides down beside him in the bed, holds him, wraps him up, pulls the covers over them, and Viggo breathes him, and is redeemed.
mediafire, Sendspace, Yousendit
Help, I have done it again
I have been here many times before
Hurt myself again today
And, the worst part is there's no-one else to blame
Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me
I am small
and needy
Warm me up
And breathe me
Ouch I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found,
Yeah I think that I might break
Lost myself again and I feel unsafe
Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me
I am small
and needy
Warm me up
And breathe me
Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me
I am small
and needy
Warm me up
And breathe me
[a/n: it seems that in this season of Rising Spring I am borrowing words from here and there as they fit. This one is for those alone, small and needy and cold, who need a friend. xchasingtailsx introduced me to this song when she needed words; I borrow them here for all the ones who find themselves needing just that little bit of help to breathe.
slashfairy
for foxrafer and shegollum, in particular.
~~
Viggo calls from filming.
I'm cold, he says.
Call Orlando, Karl says. He's in New York. I'm in LA.
But I'm cold. And so dehydrated my shit's like rocks. And my legs hurt, and my back, and I hate that damn shopping cart. And I've never wanted good shoes as much as I do right now.
I know, Karl says, holding back more than he'll ever say. Hunter made you a driftwood dog. It's on your desk.
That's good, Viggo says. What's it's name?
Just 'Dog' so far, Karl says.
Well, keep it warm for me. I think I'll call Orlando.
~~
In his dreams he is a flagellant, the leather biting into his shoulders, his back, as he takes each step toward salvation. Perhaps that is because in the story he's in right now salvation seems far away, but pain is near-at-hand and self-caused. The boy and he talk about their movies- mostly about Hidalgo and Romulus, My Father, about the desert and desolation and carrying the fire. It isn't all make-up, the darkness under their eyes, the gauntness.
When they're not filming there is music, there is futbol and there are maps, and they talk about how we are all immigrants to this earth, and how this is all illusion even while it is so, so real. The boy is annoyingly astute for such a wide-eyed innocent, and Viggo can see how he carried a film with Bana and Marton and the immigrant 60's in outback Australia, and he likes him for that, for the depth of him. Where was it that you were from? he asks the boy, meaning where was the boy you played from? Frogmore, NSW, the boy answers, but there weren't a lot of frogs there. Dust, mostly, and brown.
Viggo nods and kicks the ball and the boy kicks it back, whistling up and down the scale, the notes whipping back and forth on the wind that doesn't quite, anymore, chill them to the bone.
~~
Orlando arrives wearing greens and greys and smelling of the city, of exhaust and concrete and electricity and movement and noise. He doesn't say much, just unpacks his bag quietly and goes into the bathroom to shower. He's brought a Moleskine sketchbook, Japanese style, and pencils in varying shades of grey; a worn copy of Dostoevsky and soap that smells of patchouli and lavender.
He gets out of the shower wearing the towel around his waist, his hair damp and finger-combed and curling like waves. Viggo licks him, licks the water off him, each drop as much as a year's worth of water welcome to him. Orlando stands still, breathing in and out, except to turn, to bend, to tilt his chin and lift his arm until Viggo has drunk his fill and staggered back to sit on the bed like a man sated.
From somewhere in the room- Viggo's laptop- comes a faint stream of music, some local internet station that Henry likes that plays songs that are vignettes, that are stories told in verse and tune. National Poetry Month the dj'd said, every song this hour is for National Poetry Month, and begins the set with Breathe Me.
Orlando looks at Viggo once, then closes his eyes and begins to dance. Nothing fancy, just a slow turning, weaving of his steps, his feet finding the deeper rhythm of it spoken by the drum as he raises one arm to the sinuous strings breathing into them and out, his hand barely moving as he finds the piano bass and plays the air along with it until the song is over.
His eyes never open, he doesn't stop moving, isn't dizzy or clumsy but present in this moment. When the song changes and he stills, comes out of movement to open his eyes, looking up from under his lashes like a man at prayer, Viggo's eyes are closed, he's resting sitting up leaning back against the headboard, his chest rising and falling in the comfortable breaths of a man who can, for the moment, rest in the comfort of being loved.
Orlando pulls on a t-shirt and boxers, hangs up the towel, turns out the light, and, as Viggo slides down beside him in the bed, holds him, wraps him up, pulls the covers over them, and Viggo breathes him, and is redeemed.
mediafire, Sendspace, Yousendit
Help, I have done it again
I have been here many times before
Hurt myself again today
And, the worst part is there's no-one else to blame
Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me
I am small
and needy
Warm me up
And breathe me
Ouch I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found,
Yeah I think that I might break
Lost myself again and I feel unsafe
Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me
I am small
and needy
Warm me up
And breathe me
Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me
I am small
and needy
Warm me up
And breathe me
[a/n: it seems that in this season of Rising Spring I am borrowing words from here and there as they fit. This one is for those alone, small and needy and cold, who need a friend. xchasingtailsx introduced me to this song when she needed words; I borrow them here for all the ones who find themselves needing just that little bit of help to breathe.