The little AU: Summer dreams: Touches
The little AU: Summer Dreams: Touches
slashfairy
G
~~
Orlando's tired.
Not tired of the play, no. It's perfect, exactly what he'd wanted, needed: the challenge of doing something sustained and doing it over and over and over, better every time, perfect each time. He's not so tired of having to arrive early, of leaving late- he understands, because Johnny explained it to him so succinctly, his obligation to his fans and he appreciates their caring about him, about what he's doing, and the effect their appreciation's had on getting David Storey's play seen, heard, understood.
But he is tired. He can feel it in how dry his eyes are, how the lids hood and fold over after the show, how his nose gets red 'round the edges and his throat scratchy after Steven cries, and the redness and scratchiness don't go away by the time he's signing programmes. He can see it in the photos in people's cameras and cell-phones when he's signing, himself imaged a hundred times in front of himself, when he's not blinded by flashes and deafened by noise.
What he wants is a month at home. Any home- London, the bluff house, doesn't matter. Just a month at home with his men and the dogs and maybe Henry stopping by, and nothing to do but read or walk or draw or dance or sleep or swim or surf or anything that's quiet and private and just the three of them or just him or just home.
It's gotten to him, Steven's crying. The desolation of it, the deep despair when all the fire's burned away and there's nothing left but obligations and disappointments and the sense that you just don't know who you are or how you got here but there's nothing you can do to make it work. Orlando's wise enough to know that it's Steven's ache, not his, but he carries it, wears it every night and twice on Tuesdays and Saturdays, so days like today when he can go to mum's have dinner with her and Colin and Sam, talk about what it was like for them and Harry in the old days, are heavenly refuges of sanity and love.
What he realizes in these Sundays of quiet and love is that a year ago, less than, he was Steven, to all intents and purposes. Raised by the Rings out of his class- beginning actor, new graduate drama student, to film star, box office draw [or not], big-screen hunk, he'd found himself adrift, unable to connect with his own fire, his own internal drives, until Viggo and Karl brought him home, warmed him up, dried him off, and kept him company while he found his ground, gathered tinder and kindling and fuel and started up his fire again.
He's a different man than he was, than he would have been, without that bleak winter and lonely spring, but he's glad for who he is now, and how he's made new friends, kept old ones, and has family to fall back on when all else fails.
There's a hand on his shoulder- it's mum, Sonia, rousing him from reverie. "They're on the phone, love, on a conference call- want to take it in here?" She hands him the house phone- so they've called her first, to say hello and all? So typical- and smiles at her. "Thanks, Mum," he says, turning away again, listening to the endearments and unspoken things in their voices.
Sonia watches him, proud of her son and his work. Who knew, a little over thirty years ago, their experiment would result in this fine young man who touches so many, and remains himself no matter what life throws at him? She hopes he's taking care of himself there in London, getting his rest, eating well, not working too hard, and she knows that whatever he's doing, he's doing it with all his heart.
Tired, but not broken. Not Orlando.
slashfairy
G
~~
Orlando's tired.
Not tired of the play, no. It's perfect, exactly what he'd wanted, needed: the challenge of doing something sustained and doing it over and over and over, better every time, perfect each time. He's not so tired of having to arrive early, of leaving late- he understands, because Johnny explained it to him so succinctly, his obligation to his fans and he appreciates their caring about him, about what he's doing, and the effect their appreciation's had on getting David Storey's play seen, heard, understood.
But he is tired. He can feel it in how dry his eyes are, how the lids hood and fold over after the show, how his nose gets red 'round the edges and his throat scratchy after Steven cries, and the redness and scratchiness don't go away by the time he's signing programmes. He can see it in the photos in people's cameras and cell-phones when he's signing, himself imaged a hundred times in front of himself, when he's not blinded by flashes and deafened by noise.
What he wants is a month at home. Any home- London, the bluff house, doesn't matter. Just a month at home with his men and the dogs and maybe Henry stopping by, and nothing to do but read or walk or draw or dance or sleep or swim or surf or anything that's quiet and private and just the three of them or just him or just home.
It's gotten to him, Steven's crying. The desolation of it, the deep despair when all the fire's burned away and there's nothing left but obligations and disappointments and the sense that you just don't know who you are or how you got here but there's nothing you can do to make it work. Orlando's wise enough to know that it's Steven's ache, not his, but he carries it, wears it every night and twice on Tuesdays and Saturdays, so days like today when he can go to mum's have dinner with her and Colin and Sam, talk about what it was like for them and Harry in the old days, are heavenly refuges of sanity and love.
What he realizes in these Sundays of quiet and love is that a year ago, less than, he was Steven, to all intents and purposes. Raised by the Rings out of his class- beginning actor, new graduate drama student, to film star, box office draw [or not], big-screen hunk, he'd found himself adrift, unable to connect with his own fire, his own internal drives, until Viggo and Karl brought him home, warmed him up, dried him off, and kept him company while he found his ground, gathered tinder and kindling and fuel and started up his fire again.
He's a different man than he was, than he would have been, without that bleak winter and lonely spring, but he's glad for who he is now, and how he's made new friends, kept old ones, and has family to fall back on when all else fails.
There's a hand on his shoulder- it's mum, Sonia, rousing him from reverie. "They're on the phone, love, on a conference call- want to take it in here?" She hands him the house phone- so they've called her first, to say hello and all? So typical- and smiles at her. "Thanks, Mum," he says, turning away again, listening to the endearments and unspoken things in their voices.
Sonia watches him, proud of her son and his work. Who knew, a little over thirty years ago, their experiment would result in this fine young man who touches so many, and remains himself no matter what life throws at him? She hopes he's taking care of himself there in London, getting his rest, eating well, not working too hard, and she knows that whatever he's doing, he's doing it with all his heart.
Tired, but not broken. Not Orlando.