Days three, four, and five/letters
The little AU: Advent Calendar: Days three, four, and five/letters
slashfairy
G
~~
The mail piles up in the basket. It's not like Orlando not to look at it. He's good about all of it: of course, these days most bills, all the fan-mail, and a lot of business stuff goes to the office, but there's mail from home, from friends, the ubiquitous circulars and junk mail, magazines, NetFlix, and cards, letters, parcels from Karl, from Viggo, even from Henry occasionally. They might as well not be in the basket tonight, though, for all the attention he pays it.
Instead he goes out on the patio again, as he has every night, and stands in the moonless starlight watching his life go by. Just a little while ago everything was full of air and movement; why's it so stifling, so stale now?
There're the rumors, of course, tales told out of school by people who could care less who they hurt. There's the uncertainty of upcoming projects, things to do over for current projects, past projects to reject regrets over. There's family stuff, always family stuff: parents getting up in age, Sam's work, Seb's work, and everyone so far from him. Sometimes he wonders if Guildhall was such a good idea, but he knows he'd just had to.
He just... he just can't seem to remember how to not be so tired. What did he used to do, to get through it? Even when he remembers, nothing seems to stick; if his efforts to cheer himself up were gymnasts, they'd all be disqualified on the landing.
The basket sits quietly just inside the front door, holding an antique postcard of an angel, with 'you' written in the corner; a small envelope from New Mexico, where Karl's doing a bit of pick-up work for Comanche Moon, and a letter from England, from Kent, in Sonia's spidery hand. They'll wait: like the stars, they'll do their work slowly, and let him take what he can at his own pace, until he breathes again, until he's alive for himself, again.
Day five, 2
slashfairy
G
~~
The mail piles up in the basket. It's not like Orlando not to look at it. He's good about all of it: of course, these days most bills, all the fan-mail, and a lot of business stuff goes to the office, but there's mail from home, from friends, the ubiquitous circulars and junk mail, magazines, NetFlix, and cards, letters, parcels from Karl, from Viggo, even from Henry occasionally. They might as well not be in the basket tonight, though, for all the attention he pays it.
Instead he goes out on the patio again, as he has every night, and stands in the moonless starlight watching his life go by. Just a little while ago everything was full of air and movement; why's it so stifling, so stale now?
There're the rumors, of course, tales told out of school by people who could care less who they hurt. There's the uncertainty of upcoming projects, things to do over for current projects, past projects to reject regrets over. There's family stuff, always family stuff: parents getting up in age, Sam's work, Seb's work, and everyone so far from him. Sometimes he wonders if Guildhall was such a good idea, but he knows he'd just had to.
He just... he just can't seem to remember how to not be so tired. What did he used to do, to get through it? Even when he remembers, nothing seems to stick; if his efforts to cheer himself up were gymnasts, they'd all be disqualified on the landing.
The basket sits quietly just inside the front door, holding an antique postcard of an angel, with 'you' written in the corner; a small envelope from New Mexico, where Karl's doing a bit of pick-up work for Comanche Moon, and a letter from England, from Kent, in Sonia's spidery hand. They'll wait: like the stars, they'll do their work slowly, and let him take what he can at his own pace, until he breathes again, until he's alive for himself, again.
Day five, 2