Winter work/ interlude: New Year's Day, January 13 2007
The little AU: Winter Work: Interlude: New Year's Day, January 13 2007
slashfairy
R
~~
There are things I've never told you, Viggo muses, looking at the scraps of paper that represent thoughts about, impressions of, feelings for, sense memories of Orlando over the last -eight?- eight years. Communion took three years, after all. I might just not have all the pieces I want for this year's gift.
Somehow become the friends of early theory
I knew from the first day that I needed you. Needed you like I need air. But I was afraid, so afraid... suppose I came on too strong, suppose I backed you into a corner and frightened you. Suppose you didn't believe me. Suppose I was too old for you, too academic, too boring? None of that mattered though, none of it. I needed you.
You looked up from where you were, taller than the Hobbits but giggling at some joke of theirs, and I fell. Just like that. No one thing, but each and all: high square cheek, that I've lain against now a thousand times, soft and bold against me where ever you place it. Deep brown eyes at once soft like velvet and crystal clear, like a forest day, hiding everything, taking everything in, showing only what you wanted shown, or so you thought. Soft strong voice, intimate, one that would fool a stranger into thinking you might be weak, might be shallow, but you are not; you are gentle but firm, tender but determined. Lips that open to taste, to tell, all... honest lips, in our field a rarity.
But... you didn't take me in and swallow me whole; no, you let me come to you in steps, in small waves, that first couple days. Showed me around, helped me meet people. You took pity on my shyness, on my being the new kid, the replacement fellow; you made me welcome, and comfortable, so that on the day I couldn't wait anymore, when I caught you behind a trailer and held you, just held you, until I could breathe again and move, and lean forward, my one hand in your hair, the other fisted in your shirt, and kiss you on those lips, the same that told me everything I've ever needed to know: friends, first, on that day it all happened as though written by a hand greater than ours. No theory now, that- friends of the heart, we are.
Are we ruined for finding our faces fit, and wanting to know more about morning?
I'd climbed in your window, remember? The door was locked, you were passed out asleep, and I'd gotten back late. And I just had to see you, be with you. Fuck you, slow and deep, let you control it all, how deep, how hard, everything for you. And I wanted to wake with you, not the memory of you, but you, in my arms, safe, loved. I've tried not to miss a morning since- even the mornings lost after Cannes I held you in my heart. I want to know every morning, even if, like today, we're separated by time and space- I don't ever want a morning without you in it for the rest of my life.
Every time we've touched- your strong square hand cradling my grateful skull, indeed... your kiss ghosting over my back, your arms around me, pulling me up... every time is etched in my memory, in my heart. I love you, so much... not one word of these scraps here makes it any easier to say how much.
I'd write you a new poem, but it would be just words... and the only words I really have ever had to give you are those. I love you.
~~
Viggo gathers up the scraps and bits and puts them carefully back in the flat leather satchel he keeps them in, a gift from someone in NZ during filming on the The Two Towers. He pats it once, twice, then goes out onto the deck to look West, toward Hawaii, toward Orlando, and calls.
"Happy Birthday, love," he says down the phone, stunned to find two strong arms sliding around his waist from the back.
"Thank you, Vig." Velvet slides over his ear, soft fog ghosts over his cheek, as he turns, dropping the phone over the banister unheedful of its leaving because all he can see, hear, feel, sense, is Orlando in his arms. "I had to be here, today."
"Oh," is all Viggo can say. "Oh-" and it's all he needs to say. Every day of the last 8+ years is engraved on both their hearts- the rest is just words. The house that Karl built takes them in as they stumble gratefully into it to celebrate Orlando's birthday in quiet comfortable friendship uncanceled by love.
~~
a/n for those who may not know it, this refers to Viggo's poem "Communion".
We've left shore
somehow become the friends of early theory
close enough to speak desire and pain of absence
of mistakes we'd make given the chance
Each smile returned makes harder avoiding
dreams that see us lying in the early evening
curtain shadows, skin safe against skin
Bloom of compassion, respect for moments eyes lock
turn forever into one more veil that falls away
This after seeing you last night
first time smelling you with permission:
shoulders to wonder openly at
as carefully kissed as those arms waited impossibly on
They've held me now and your breath down my back
sent away night air that had me
shaking in the unlit Anglican doorway
Are we ruined for finding our faces fit
and wanting to know more about morning?
Is friendship canceled if we can't
call each other anymore in amnesia,
invite ourselves to last glances
under suspicious clocks telling us
when we've had enough?
Your steady hand cradling my grateful skull:
were you taking in my face to save an image
you've rarely allowed yourself
after leaving that cold alcove?
Am I a photograph you gaze at in moments of weakness?
You ordered me off my knees into your arms
Wasn't to beg that I knelt:
only to see you once from below.
Tried to say something that filled my mouth
and longed to rest in your ear
Don't dare write for fear it'll become words
just words.
VM 1999-2002
Published in
Coincidence of Memory available from Perceval Press along with other fine works by many good authors.
seven
slashfairy
R
~~
There are things I've never told you, Viggo muses, looking at the scraps of paper that represent thoughts about, impressions of, feelings for, sense memories of Orlando over the last -eight?- eight years. Communion took three years, after all. I might just not have all the pieces I want for this year's gift.
Somehow become the friends of early theory
I knew from the first day that I needed you. Needed you like I need air. But I was afraid, so afraid... suppose I came on too strong, suppose I backed you into a corner and frightened you. Suppose you didn't believe me. Suppose I was too old for you, too academic, too boring? None of that mattered though, none of it. I needed you.
You looked up from where you were, taller than the Hobbits but giggling at some joke of theirs, and I fell. Just like that. No one thing, but each and all: high square cheek, that I've lain against now a thousand times, soft and bold against me where ever you place it. Deep brown eyes at once soft like velvet and crystal clear, like a forest day, hiding everything, taking everything in, showing only what you wanted shown, or so you thought. Soft strong voice, intimate, one that would fool a stranger into thinking you might be weak, might be shallow, but you are not; you are gentle but firm, tender but determined. Lips that open to taste, to tell, all... honest lips, in our field a rarity.
But... you didn't take me in and swallow me whole; no, you let me come to you in steps, in small waves, that first couple days. Showed me around, helped me meet people. You took pity on my shyness, on my being the new kid, the replacement fellow; you made me welcome, and comfortable, so that on the day I couldn't wait anymore, when I caught you behind a trailer and held you, just held you, until I could breathe again and move, and lean forward, my one hand in your hair, the other fisted in your shirt, and kiss you on those lips, the same that told me everything I've ever needed to know: friends, first, on that day it all happened as though written by a hand greater than ours. No theory now, that- friends of the heart, we are.
Are we ruined for finding our faces fit, and wanting to know more about morning?
I'd climbed in your window, remember? The door was locked, you were passed out asleep, and I'd gotten back late. And I just had to see you, be with you. Fuck you, slow and deep, let you control it all, how deep, how hard, everything for you. And I wanted to wake with you, not the memory of you, but you, in my arms, safe, loved. I've tried not to miss a morning since- even the mornings lost after Cannes I held you in my heart. I want to know every morning, even if, like today, we're separated by time and space- I don't ever want a morning without you in it for the rest of my life.
Every time we've touched- your strong square hand cradling my grateful skull, indeed... your kiss ghosting over my back, your arms around me, pulling me up... every time is etched in my memory, in my heart. I love you, so much... not one word of these scraps here makes it any easier to say how much.
I'd write you a new poem, but it would be just words... and the only words I really have ever had to give you are those. I love you.
~~
Viggo gathers up the scraps and bits and puts them carefully back in the flat leather satchel he keeps them in, a gift from someone in NZ during filming on the The Two Towers. He pats it once, twice, then goes out onto the deck to look West, toward Hawaii, toward Orlando, and calls.
"Happy Birthday, love," he says down the phone, stunned to find two strong arms sliding around his waist from the back.
"Thank you, Vig." Velvet slides over his ear, soft fog ghosts over his cheek, as he turns, dropping the phone over the banister unheedful of its leaving because all he can see, hear, feel, sense, is Orlando in his arms. "I had to be here, today."
"Oh," is all Viggo can say. "Oh-" and it's all he needs to say. Every day of the last 8+ years is engraved on both their hearts- the rest is just words. The house that Karl built takes them in as they stumble gratefully into it to celebrate Orlando's birthday in quiet comfortable friendship uncanceled by love.
~~
a/n for those who may not know it, this refers to Viggo's poem "Communion".
We've left shore
somehow become the friends of early theory
close enough to speak desire and pain of absence
of mistakes we'd make given the chance
Each smile returned makes harder avoiding
dreams that see us lying in the early evening
curtain shadows, skin safe against skin
Bloom of compassion, respect for moments eyes lock
turn forever into one more veil that falls away
This after seeing you last night
first time smelling you with permission:
shoulders to wonder openly at
as carefully kissed as those arms waited impossibly on
They've held me now and your breath down my back
sent away night air that had me
shaking in the unlit Anglican doorway
Are we ruined for finding our faces fit
and wanting to know more about morning?
Is friendship canceled if we can't
call each other anymore in amnesia,
invite ourselves to last glances
under suspicious clocks telling us
when we've had enough?
Your steady hand cradling my grateful skull:
were you taking in my face to save an image
you've rarely allowed yourself
after leaving that cold alcove?
Am I a photograph you gaze at in moments of weakness?
You ordered me off my knees into your arms
Wasn't to beg that I knelt:
only to see you once from below.
Tried to say something that filled my mouth
and longed to rest in your ear
Don't dare write for fear it'll become words
just words.
VM 1999-2002
Published in
Coincidence of Memory available from Perceval Press along with other fine works by many good authors.
seven