The little AU: Autumnal: Mountains and Molehills
The little AU: Autumnal: Mountains and Molehills
slashfairy
[a/n: art by irezumihorimono]
~~
Orlando looks down when he walks now, the flashbulbs just too glaring to tolerate, in vain hope that his privacy will be respected by fans if not by paparazzi. He goes on about his life expecting it to be misunderstood, expecting people to focus on the wrong things: his looks, who he's with, where he goes; and not what he says, what he does, what he supports.
They'll all be in LA for several days: filming's done, or as good as, on Appaloosa and Viggo's got an appearance to make for EP and a Q&A. Karl's going great guns on Star Trek. And Orli's made sure he'll be around a good part of the time.
Time together: something that's been hard won this last year.
Then again, this time last year the fear was it'd never happen again, wasn't it?
Never let me go, he'd cried into their shoulders. No matter what, if you have to chase me down and tie me up and bring me back, don't let me leave. Come find me. And they had, had gently brought him home on a string of postcards and good wishes and, when the home turned out to be London, not the house at the end of the bluff road, had gone to meet him there. Home is where the heart is, he muses to himself as he sees one friend off at the airport, has dinner with others, checks in on his obligations to the Everest Peace Project, mulls over his next work.
He forgets sometimes to walk with his head down to avoid false adoration and walks down the street just as himself; mature, responsible, compassionate, human, with faults and foibles and the need [as we all have] to connect in real ways with others, with life. He understands [or rather, wishes to understand] the interbeing his life has with the paparazzi, and usually he does, is polite- firm, but polite- to them, but every so often he'd like to be left alone, be just a man walking down the street: a mole-hill, not a mountain.
previously: Thanksgiving
next: On Wings of Love
[a/n: I'm aware that the pictures in this piece are paparazzi photos, which is an odd and circular comment both on the story and on the art. We insatiable fans strip his life of any privacy; it's only by dint of living a strong (not pure, not easy, but simple and strong) inner life that he's free of that, of our greed. I love this art because it conveys that in the way she's chosen to back it with the story, and trace the story over the photos to bring him some measure of ordinary life in the midst of flashbulbs and invasion. Thank you, dear, for that.]
slashfairy
[a/n: art by irezumihorimono]
~~
Orlando looks down when he walks now, the flashbulbs just too glaring to tolerate, in vain hope that his privacy will be respected by fans if not by paparazzi. He goes on about his life expecting it to be misunderstood, expecting people to focus on the wrong things: his looks, who he's with, where he goes; and not what he says, what he does, what he supports.
They'll all be in LA for several days: filming's done, or as good as, on Appaloosa and Viggo's got an appearance to make for EP and a Q&A. Karl's going great guns on Star Trek. And Orli's made sure he'll be around a good part of the time.
Time together: something that's been hard won this last year.
Then again, this time last year the fear was it'd never happen again, wasn't it?
Never let me go, he'd cried into their shoulders. No matter what, if you have to chase me down and tie me up and bring me back, don't let me leave. Come find me. And they had, had gently brought him home on a string of postcards and good wishes and, when the home turned out to be London, not the house at the end of the bluff road, had gone to meet him there. Home is where the heart is, he muses to himself as he sees one friend off at the airport, has dinner with others, checks in on his obligations to the Everest Peace Project, mulls over his next work.
He forgets sometimes to walk with his head down to avoid false adoration and walks down the street just as himself; mature, responsible, compassionate, human, with faults and foibles and the need [as we all have] to connect in real ways with others, with life. He understands [or rather, wishes to understand] the interbeing his life has with the paparazzi, and usually he does, is polite- firm, but polite- to them, but every so often he'd like to be left alone, be just a man walking down the street: a mole-hill, not a mountain.
previously: Thanksgiving
next: On Wings of Love
[a/n: I'm aware that the pictures in this piece are paparazzi photos, which is an odd and circular comment both on the story and on the art. We insatiable fans strip his life of any privacy; it's only by dint of living a strong (not pure, not easy, but simple and strong) inner life that he's free of that, of our greed. I love this art because it conveys that in the way she's chosen to back it with the story, and trace the story over the photos to bring him some measure of ordinary life in the midst of flashbulbs and invasion. Thank you, dear, for that.]