Day thirteen: letters
The little AU: Advent Calendar: Day Thirteen: Letters
slashfairy
R
The little box is light in his hand, is heavy as his heart, as he slowly picks at the tape then throws caution to the winds, to the stars and the sea, and rips the paper off.
Fine leather stops his palm, soothes it as he rubs his hand over the embossed leaves, weights him down and holds him steady as the longing he'd kept frozen begins to thaw, threatens to carry him off in vapour and scent and un-ground him altogether. He shifts, unsteady even though he's sitting, causing the box of pencils to slide out of his lap and land on the floor at his feet. He wants to pick them up, but he's afraid to: for just a moment he stops to consider his back, something he's not done in nearly, well, over 9 years. Vig, he whispers, Karl, stretches, bends down, and picks up the box of presharpened assorted greys and blacks and puts it on the table to his side. The artist's blank book joins the box of pencils, his hands fall loosely to his lap, and he dreams.
Behind his eyes is the house on the bluff, under grey skies, grey-green ocean just visible through a break in the scrub. The sea is warm, he can hear the waves in his ears, in his heart, smell the salt and seaweed and sandy grit of the yard on his hands as he strokes Sidi's soft coat. He goes inside, tossing his jacket on a chair, walking through to the studio to see what Vig's doing, but no-one's there. No-one's in the kitchen nor upstairs in bathroom or bedroom, nor in front of the fire burning in the fireplace in the living room. There's a pile of driftwood, large pieces, in the yard, but nothing about them rings any bells. He turns around in a circle, looking for clues, but none are there to be had- except that the gate between this house, their house, and the little house up the bluff he'd bought on the spur of the moment before moving in with Vig and Karl, is open, and he finds himself walking up that path for the first time in nearly a year.
He enters the house to find it not dusty, but lived in: Henry's been here on weekends, it looks like, and brought friends from Uni. It's clean, things are put away, but there's a jacket left, and a pair of flip-flops under a chair. Orlando smiles, turns, and finds himself in their bed, his and Karl's and Viggo's, half-asleep, able to hear their voices but not to move, not to understand what they're saying. They sound concerned, discussing something quietly, moving around downstairs from chore to chore, then their voices fade, and he falls into that sharp drop of sleep that only pure exhaustion brings. How long that lasts, he's unaware: what he wakes to find is himself, sitting in the chair, pants open, hand around his cock, tears falling down his cheeks, their names on his lips as he pulls, cries out, and comes, limp with need and missing, and empty where the run-off from melting heart-ice is leaving a place for warmth, a place for life, if only light can reach it.
Embarrassed, he stirs, pulls his shirt off, and wipes up the mess on the floor. He showers, tossing towels and clothes together- then sorts them, towels for the hotel laundry, clothes for the service that does them for guests. He picks out something clean, dresses, then sits at the table with the book and pencils, and starts to sketch his dream. Maybe, he not-quite-thinks, maybe I can draw it, and draw myself in it, and then I can get there through the picture. I miss them. I miss home.
Day fourteen
slashfairy
R
The little box is light in his hand, is heavy as his heart, as he slowly picks at the tape then throws caution to the winds, to the stars and the sea, and rips the paper off.
Fine leather stops his palm, soothes it as he rubs his hand over the embossed leaves, weights him down and holds him steady as the longing he'd kept frozen begins to thaw, threatens to carry him off in vapour and scent and un-ground him altogether. He shifts, unsteady even though he's sitting, causing the box of pencils to slide out of his lap and land on the floor at his feet. He wants to pick them up, but he's afraid to: for just a moment he stops to consider his back, something he's not done in nearly, well, over 9 years. Vig, he whispers, Karl, stretches, bends down, and picks up the box of presharpened assorted greys and blacks and puts it on the table to his side. The artist's blank book joins the box of pencils, his hands fall loosely to his lap, and he dreams.
Behind his eyes is the house on the bluff, under grey skies, grey-green ocean just visible through a break in the scrub. The sea is warm, he can hear the waves in his ears, in his heart, smell the salt and seaweed and sandy grit of the yard on his hands as he strokes Sidi's soft coat. He goes inside, tossing his jacket on a chair, walking through to the studio to see what Vig's doing, but no-one's there. No-one's in the kitchen nor upstairs in bathroom or bedroom, nor in front of the fire burning in the fireplace in the living room. There's a pile of driftwood, large pieces, in the yard, but nothing about them rings any bells. He turns around in a circle, looking for clues, but none are there to be had- except that the gate between this house, their house, and the little house up the bluff he'd bought on the spur of the moment before moving in with Vig and Karl, is open, and he finds himself walking up that path for the first time in nearly a year.
He enters the house to find it not dusty, but lived in: Henry's been here on weekends, it looks like, and brought friends from Uni. It's clean, things are put away, but there's a jacket left, and a pair of flip-flops under a chair. Orlando smiles, turns, and finds himself in their bed, his and Karl's and Viggo's, half-asleep, able to hear their voices but not to move, not to understand what they're saying. They sound concerned, discussing something quietly, moving around downstairs from chore to chore, then their voices fade, and he falls into that sharp drop of sleep that only pure exhaustion brings. How long that lasts, he's unaware: what he wakes to find is himself, sitting in the chair, pants open, hand around his cock, tears falling down his cheeks, their names on his lips as he pulls, cries out, and comes, limp with need and missing, and empty where the run-off from melting heart-ice is leaving a place for warmth, a place for life, if only light can reach it.
Embarrassed, he stirs, pulls his shirt off, and wipes up the mess on the floor. He showers, tossing towels and clothes together- then sorts them, towels for the hotel laundry, clothes for the service that does them for guests. He picks out something clean, dresses, then sits at the table with the book and pencils, and starts to sketch his dream. Maybe, he not-quite-thinks, maybe I can draw it, and draw myself in it, and then I can get there through the picture. I miss them. I miss home.
Day fourteen