Winter Work: day nine
The little AU: Winter Work: Nine
slashfairy
G
~~
There are things I can never tell you, Orlando thinks as he pulls out his pictures, the ones he travels with, in their worn leather folder. He takes them out: his parents, both sets, Sonia and Harry, Sonia and Colin; Samantha, Seb; Vig, Karl, Henry. He stands them up on the dresser where he can see them from the bed, then flops down on it and turns on the TV. He roams the remote, clicking aimlessly through sports and politics, Spanish and Korean, shopping and selling and games of chance and romance, but it's all noise, nothing to catch his interest.
His interest is in what he's working over in his mind. What he can say and what he can't, about being so depressed, about his disengagement over the fall into the winter. There are things I can never say, things I can never make come into focus long enough to describe, things I can't get far enough away from to see more than the details, can't make out the overall shape of them to tell you what they were, or how they affected me. I know you want to know... but I can't tell you. I just- I can't.
He's tired and antsy and needs to calm down and needs to talk to someone. He could call any of them, but he doesn't. He could call Elijah, he's in town, but he doesn't. He could go out for the evening, but he doesn't do that either. He picks up his bag, rummages in it for paper and pencils and charcoals, and sets himself a task: two pictures of something too big to describe, and two pictures of something so small it shouldn't matter as much as it does. He's no idea what will come of this, but he starts anyway. He draws for several hours, then does his yoga, strips, and falls into bed.
When morning comes it finds him alert and awake and happy to start the day. Well, not completely- he's still not a lively morning fellow, not if he can sleep in a bit. But he's looking forward to the day none-the-less: they're driving down to be with him for the day before Karl and Hunter go off to Disneyland for the weekend.
There are things he'll never be able to tell them, but it doesn't matter. It's not about sharing everything; it's about sharing the space in between so that they're not alone, even if they're lonely sometimes. Silence fills the space as companionably as chatter. Maybe I'll go with them, for the day, he thinks. Wonder if anyone would recognize me if I were with them? Maybe not. Maybe it'd just be a quiet day, two fellows with their little boy, out to Disneyland.
He puts the pictures away, takes out his cell phone, and texts Viggo. They text back and forth, then he gives up and calls. The next half hour is just between them, quiet and sensual and sweet.
There are things I'll never tell anyone, because I'm not those things, and they don't define me, step-skipping into the bathroom for a shower, just him, in his day.
dreamstate
slashfairy
G
~~
There are things I can never tell you, Orlando thinks as he pulls out his pictures, the ones he travels with, in their worn leather folder. He takes them out: his parents, both sets, Sonia and Harry, Sonia and Colin; Samantha, Seb; Vig, Karl, Henry. He stands them up on the dresser where he can see them from the bed, then flops down on it and turns on the TV. He roams the remote, clicking aimlessly through sports and politics, Spanish and Korean, shopping and selling and games of chance and romance, but it's all noise, nothing to catch his interest.
His interest is in what he's working over in his mind. What he can say and what he can't, about being so depressed, about his disengagement over the fall into the winter. There are things I can never say, things I can never make come into focus long enough to describe, things I can't get far enough away from to see more than the details, can't make out the overall shape of them to tell you what they were, or how they affected me. I know you want to know... but I can't tell you. I just- I can't.
He's tired and antsy and needs to calm down and needs to talk to someone. He could call any of them, but he doesn't. He could call Elijah, he's in town, but he doesn't. He could go out for the evening, but he doesn't do that either. He picks up his bag, rummages in it for paper and pencils and charcoals, and sets himself a task: two pictures of something too big to describe, and two pictures of something so small it shouldn't matter as much as it does. He's no idea what will come of this, but he starts anyway. He draws for several hours, then does his yoga, strips, and falls into bed.
When morning comes it finds him alert and awake and happy to start the day. Well, not completely- he's still not a lively morning fellow, not if he can sleep in a bit. But he's looking forward to the day none-the-less: they're driving down to be with him for the day before Karl and Hunter go off to Disneyland for the weekend.
There are things he'll never be able to tell them, but it doesn't matter. It's not about sharing everything; it's about sharing the space in between so that they're not alone, even if they're lonely sometimes. Silence fills the space as companionably as chatter. Maybe I'll go with them, for the day, he thinks. Wonder if anyone would recognize me if I were with them? Maybe not. Maybe it'd just be a quiet day, two fellows with their little boy, out to Disneyland.
He puts the pictures away, takes out his cell phone, and texts Viggo. They text back and forth, then he gives up and calls. The next half hour is just between them, quiet and sensual and sweet.
There are things I'll never tell anyone, because I'm not those things, and they don't define me, step-skipping into the bathroom for a shower, just him, in his day.
dreamstate