The little AU: Autumnal: Companions
The little AU: Autumnal: Companions
slashfairy
~~
Life begins to slow down to healthy for a bit. There's time to read, to write, to return calls, to check galleys and proofs, to sketch, to paint, to sleep, to go to the library, the art center, the beach, bed, to sleep.
He has the house to himself during the days at the moment: Orli's in Nepal, or someplace in between, and Karl's working- his deep New Zealand work ethic taking him to set even on days he's not required, because that's how he learned his craft: if you're being paid? then you show up. So Viggo's got the run of the place: alone, but not lonely, for those hours.
He's got old friends: Merton, Dickenson, Sandburg, Whitman, Neruda, Paz. He spends time with them, looking for things to pack up and take with him on this next journey, remembering the impact Fahrenheit 451 had on him so many years ago. Those things he puts aside to memorize for the long walk along The Road. But he also picks out things for right now: passages to get him through each day, each hour, to help him with his still unsatisfied need for change to happen in his country, in this world, and the anger that rises up out of him in frustration at the slowness of that change.
Orlando emails some photos: inscriptions, sayings, and their rough or smooth translations by bystanders, monks, teachers. He tells Viggo about the prayers he said while turning the prayer wheels, the tricks the monkeys at Monkey Temple know, the things he's learning, how the heights of Nepal, of Everest, fit in with Antarctica, with Morocco, with Kent, with the house at the end of the bluff road. How he can see it, begin to see it, the intricate weave of life over the surface of the planet, and how his hands itch to sculpt it, to draw it.
He asks after Karl (our good Doctor, he's taken to calling Karl, which will, later down the winter, turn into a series of good jokes all around, he's no doubt) and Hunter, tells that he's sending some small things back for Hunter to have, and finally makes his goodbyes to Viggo -- even as 'slow' as email is, compared to IM, to voice, to being in person, it's incredibly intimate and that makes it hard to sign off, to leave each other -- but they do, eventually.
Viggo goes to Henry's old school, picks up Hunter, says hello to the people who still remember Henry small and chubby and blondish. He and Hunter go to the farmers' market, the library, the community center, then home; have snack; walk the dogs on the beach; make dinner for Dad and themselves.
There's a guitar riff in Viggo's head, one that he can't quite place at the moment, so he can't tell if it's his, or one that belongs to someone else, but it's been good company all evening, and when dinner's over and cleaned up, and Karl's putting Hunter to bed, he gets his guitar out and plays it for a while.
Too bad there's not one of these in The Road, he thinks to himself. I wonder when he abandoned that? Ten years is a long time of letting go, letting go...
He sighs and plays, letting his fingers dance and stroll along the strings, pulling up pieces from different composers, until he's woven a net of notes around the evening. Karl comes in, kisses the top of his head, ruffles his hair, makes sure the dogs have water, and sits on the sofa to listen.
previously: Reaching Back
next: Solo
slashfairy
~~
Life begins to slow down to healthy for a bit. There's time to read, to write, to return calls, to check galleys and proofs, to sketch, to paint, to sleep, to go to the library, the art center, the beach, bed, to sleep.
He has the house to himself during the days at the moment: Orli's in Nepal, or someplace in between, and Karl's working- his deep New Zealand work ethic taking him to set even on days he's not required, because that's how he learned his craft: if you're being paid? then you show up. So Viggo's got the run of the place: alone, but not lonely, for those hours.
He's got old friends: Merton, Dickenson, Sandburg, Whitman, Neruda, Paz. He spends time with them, looking for things to pack up and take with him on this next journey, remembering the impact Fahrenheit 451 had on him so many years ago. Those things he puts aside to memorize for the long walk along The Road. But he also picks out things for right now: passages to get him through each day, each hour, to help him with his still unsatisfied need for change to happen in his country, in this world, and the anger that rises up out of him in frustration at the slowness of that change.
Orlando emails some photos: inscriptions, sayings, and their rough or smooth translations by bystanders, monks, teachers. He tells Viggo about the prayers he said while turning the prayer wheels, the tricks the monkeys at Monkey Temple know, the things he's learning, how the heights of Nepal, of Everest, fit in with Antarctica, with Morocco, with Kent, with the house at the end of the bluff road. How he can see it, begin to see it, the intricate weave of life over the surface of the planet, and how his hands itch to sculpt it, to draw it.
He asks after Karl (our good Doctor, he's taken to calling Karl, which will, later down the winter, turn into a series of good jokes all around, he's no doubt) and Hunter, tells that he's sending some small things back for Hunter to have, and finally makes his goodbyes to Viggo -- even as 'slow' as email is, compared to IM, to voice, to being in person, it's incredibly intimate and that makes it hard to sign off, to leave each other -- but they do, eventually.
Viggo goes to Henry's old school, picks up Hunter, says hello to the people who still remember Henry small and chubby and blondish. He and Hunter go to the farmers' market, the library, the community center, then home; have snack; walk the dogs on the beach; make dinner for Dad and themselves.
There's a guitar riff in Viggo's head, one that he can't quite place at the moment, so he can't tell if it's his, or one that belongs to someone else, but it's been good company all evening, and when dinner's over and cleaned up, and Karl's putting Hunter to bed, he gets his guitar out and plays it for a while.
Too bad there's not one of these in The Road, he thinks to himself. I wonder when he abandoned that? Ten years is a long time of letting go, letting go...
He sighs and plays, letting his fingers dance and stroll along the strings, pulling up pieces from different composers, until he's woven a net of notes around the evening. Karl comes in, kisses the top of his head, ruffles his hair, makes sure the dogs have water, and sits on the sofa to listen.
previously: Reaching Back
next: Solo