The little AU: Autumnal: Tumbling (Like Rocks, Like Thoughts)
The little AU: Autumnal: Tumbling (Like Rocks, Like Thoughts)
slashfairy
~~
It gets too hard for Karl.
Viggo knows it will; Karl has the shortest line between his love for his men and his need for them not to be hurting. When something hurts them and he can't fix it he's not very good at standing it.
It starts out as encouragement.
Eat something today, yeah?
I am. I'm following what they suggested. I'll be ok.
Well, drink some of the soup then, anyway, ok?
Yeah, I will. I'll be careful, Karl. I will.
Karl comes over and takes Viggo's face in his hands, makes hongi with him, sharing the breath. Trying not to cry. Trying not to shout.
No, you won't. You look like hell already. How'm I going to hold you when you're parchment stretched over sticks? he thinks.
But he doesn't say anything, just holds him for a moment. Then lets go, and leaves. It's a work day, he needs to go in to the studio, so... he just does.
And worries when he has time, between readings and filming and getting a glimpse of himself in Bones' uniform and being thrilled, forgetting for a moment what's got him so upset.
Until he gets home.
Finds Viggo standing in front of a large canvas sketching out something only he can see, sleeve of his shirt fallen back, the cuff already so much larger in diameter than his forearm that it falls nearly to the elbow before it stops, his scapula already wings under the paint-flecked plaid flannel.
Karl stands and watches, utterly absorbed in the ruin stretching before him, until he can't take it anymore, turns on his heel, and goes back into the house.
Viggo comes in the kitchen a while later to top off his mate gourd and finds Karl sitting at the counter, brows drawn, scribbling on a piece of paper.
What's that?
Trying not to say anything harsh, here, Karl answers, gruffly.
Why?
Because, he says, slamming down the pen, I can't ... I don't know how to do this, Viggo. I just... you're going to kill yourself doing this, and I can't watch. How'm I supposed to watch you do this? Gesturing at the cans of fortified drink on the counter, the boxes of chicken broth, the paper taped up on the fridge with the nutritionist's recommendations. How?
I'm sorry, Viggo says quietly. I'm not doing it to hurt you.
I know, but it does, damnit, and that makes it worse, that it's not meant to!
Viggo comes around the counter to hold Karl, but Karl swats him away. Don't.
Viggo steps back.
I'm sorry, he says again, reaching for the mate. But I have to.
I know, says Karl, I know. And so do I but by God, right now I just can't. I can't. I love you but I just--I'm sorry.
With that he slams out the door; it bangs on the jamb and quivers like Viggo's lip. Hunter's at a friend's house tonight, working on a project: sweet and personable like his Dad in so many ways, he's made friends fairly easily. Because he's not there, Karl revving up the motorcycle is more frightening than it would be otherwise: there's nothing but time, now, that will bring him home.
He gets this way, Karl does: flames up suddenly as though flint's struck steel, and flares out like a comet, like the sparks from the exhaust of the Ducati when it roars up the alley to Ocean Park Boulevard and turns south toward the airport, toward San Diego, toward noplace. The sound is soon lost in the everyminute traffic noise, but Viggo can hear it for hours as he moves through the rest of the evening on automatic, shifting gears only when a change in the grade in front of him requires it: make fresh mate, drink a can of fortified nutrient crap, sharpen his pencil to continue blocking out the canvas.
It's not until Orli calls that he lets it in.
They don't hide things anymore: maybe sometimes by accident, but never on purpose. He tells Orlando right up front. We fought. Karl's gone off on the bike. How long? About... oh. Eight hours, now. No, probably not tonight.
He's calm until he hears Orlando's swallowed sigh, then he breaks. Wh-when will you be back? he asks in a faraway voice.
Not before Karl, love. I wish I were, but...
Oh, Viggo says, very small-voiced.
But I'll wait with you, yeah? Open up the laptop, put on the voice phone thing, yeah? And I'll wait with you. More battery time that way, yeah? Ready? Ok, I'll meet you there.
There are very few things Orli's learned to do with a computer, but one is to use internet phone services to keep in touch when he's far away. They've all learned that they need that, need contact, so they've learned to keep it.
Viggo and Orlando share stories, sit quietly and work on things, laugh over something tiny and frivolous and needed, until it's nearly day in Venice Beach and nearly halfway round the world from that for Orlando.
In the alley the sound of the bike being rolled in, the gate closing, the stamp of boots echoes off the dawn. He's here, Viggo says.
Good, says Orlando. Now we can all talk.
Karl comes in, sheds jacket and wallet, and splashes some water from the tap on his face.
Damn hard to ride a motorcycle and cry at the same time, you know that? he says, coming up behind Viggo, wrapping his arms around him gently, feeling every rib already, knowing it'll be worse before it's better.
Just like keeping up a conversation for eight hours without shorting out the keyboard, yeah? says Orlando, the smile now in his voice illuminating just how much it's not been there before. Viggo looks at him more carefully- how'd that get past him? Damn fine acting, that.
Found something out there, Karl says, picking up his jacket, pulling a small brown-wrapped irregular parcel from a pocket.
Look. He unwraps it, exposing nine, ten different rocks, all tumbled smooth, each one with its flaws showing through the polished surface, but none cracked, all whole.
Gonna be like this, these next months, I reckon, he says, holding each on up so Orlando can see on the webcam now that he's not pacing back and forth, but sitting with them as close as he can get.
Viggo nods, leans back against Karl's chest, puts a palm toward the screen where Orlando puts his palm too. They can't touch, can't even see each other's hands in the webcam, but the effect is there: space and distance melt away; only the connection is left.
Be rough going in, to come out polished, finer, on the other end, Orli says, nodding too.
Yeah. I reckon, Karl says, letting the stones fall from his hand to the counter where they pick up gleams of light coming in through the window, their many fractured shades reverberating from inside their polished surfaces.
And if one breaks? Viggo asks, picking up a piece of petrified wood, decades of life caught in its striae.
Well, stones are stones, yeah? but people heal, right? Karl says, kissing the top of his head.
Yeah, says Orlando, fingering his necklaces, his palm still on the screen touching Viggo's.
Yes. People heal, Viggo says, suddenly tired beyond measure. Come home, Orli, please? No matter what? he asks plaintively, trustingly.
No matter what, I promise. And after that, and after that. Not going to let go, Vig. No matter what.
Good. Then I'm going to bed. This abruptness a product of the role, the hunger, the narrowness of the Road already coming into their home, despite Karl's attempt to drive it away by driving away himself. Come find me after you two talk, ok? Viggo says, kissing at Orlando, taking his kiss in return.
I will, I will, Karl says, watching Viggo head down the short hall to the stairs to the bedroom. Is every step just a little harder? Is he looking too closely? His sigh matches Orli's.
I'll be home soon, Orlando says to him as he turns back to the screen. I'll bring Christmas with me, yeah? and we'll find things he can eat, and we'll make sure he's taking care of himself. And I'll hold you when you can't look anymore, and you'll hold me? This last in a not-quite-so-secure tone of voice, not because they won't hold each other, but because they'll need to do it so often, he fears.
No matter what, Karl says. We agreed to that last year, for you- and it's that for him, now. And damnit, when this is all over and he's back, you'll be there for me, right? Because Kiwi Can-Do or no, there's only so much...
I know, Karl, I know. You're not a doctor, you only play one in the movie. Right? Grinning like the cat that got the cream.
That breaks the somber mood for good. It changes something altogether: even the rocks on the counter seem to be affected by it as Karl sets them in the places of the planets in the solar system while the two men talk a bit longer, holding each other up, smoothing another microscopic layer of roughness off the pain of this choice Viggo's made.
There will be laughter and smiles and lovemaking this winter, there will be light and colour and warmth and softness, and there will be hope at the end of every night and the beginning of every day until it's done. They'll find ways to bring life to every corner of every day, because life is the water that keeps the rocks of pain and hardship and anger and depression and stubborn choice and love sliding over each other as time goes inexorably by between rough, unpolished, and smoothed out, finished, until the rocks are removed from the tumbler refined, beautiful.
previously: Fading Traces
next: Comfort and Joy
slashfairy
~~
It gets too hard for Karl.
Viggo knows it will; Karl has the shortest line between his love for his men and his need for them not to be hurting. When something hurts them and he can't fix it he's not very good at standing it.
It starts out as encouragement.
Eat something today, yeah?
I am. I'm following what they suggested. I'll be ok.
Well, drink some of the soup then, anyway, ok?
Yeah, I will. I'll be careful, Karl. I will.
Karl comes over and takes Viggo's face in his hands, makes hongi with him, sharing the breath. Trying not to cry. Trying not to shout.
No, you won't. You look like hell already. How'm I going to hold you when you're parchment stretched over sticks? he thinks.
But he doesn't say anything, just holds him for a moment. Then lets go, and leaves. It's a work day, he needs to go in to the studio, so... he just does.
And worries when he has time, between readings and filming and getting a glimpse of himself in Bones' uniform and being thrilled, forgetting for a moment what's got him so upset.
Until he gets home.
Finds Viggo standing in front of a large canvas sketching out something only he can see, sleeve of his shirt fallen back, the cuff already so much larger in diameter than his forearm that it falls nearly to the elbow before it stops, his scapula already wings under the paint-flecked plaid flannel.
Karl stands and watches, utterly absorbed in the ruin stretching before him, until he can't take it anymore, turns on his heel, and goes back into the house.
Viggo comes in the kitchen a while later to top off his mate gourd and finds Karl sitting at the counter, brows drawn, scribbling on a piece of paper.
What's that?
Trying not to say anything harsh, here, Karl answers, gruffly.
Why?
Because, he says, slamming down the pen, I can't ... I don't know how to do this, Viggo. I just... you're going to kill yourself doing this, and I can't watch. How'm I supposed to watch you do this? Gesturing at the cans of fortified drink on the counter, the boxes of chicken broth, the paper taped up on the fridge with the nutritionist's recommendations. How?
I'm sorry, Viggo says quietly. I'm not doing it to hurt you.
I know, but it does, damnit, and that makes it worse, that it's not meant to!
Viggo comes around the counter to hold Karl, but Karl swats him away. Don't.
Viggo steps back.
I'm sorry, he says again, reaching for the mate. But I have to.
I know, says Karl, I know. And so do I but by God, right now I just can't. I can't. I love you but I just--I'm sorry.
With that he slams out the door; it bangs on the jamb and quivers like Viggo's lip. Hunter's at a friend's house tonight, working on a project: sweet and personable like his Dad in so many ways, he's made friends fairly easily. Because he's not there, Karl revving up the motorcycle is more frightening than it would be otherwise: there's nothing but time, now, that will bring him home.
He gets this way, Karl does: flames up suddenly as though flint's struck steel, and flares out like a comet, like the sparks from the exhaust of the Ducati when it roars up the alley to Ocean Park Boulevard and turns south toward the airport, toward San Diego, toward noplace. The sound is soon lost in the everyminute traffic noise, but Viggo can hear it for hours as he moves through the rest of the evening on automatic, shifting gears only when a change in the grade in front of him requires it: make fresh mate, drink a can of fortified nutrient crap, sharpen his pencil to continue blocking out the canvas.
It's not until Orli calls that he lets it in.
They don't hide things anymore: maybe sometimes by accident, but never on purpose. He tells Orlando right up front. We fought. Karl's gone off on the bike. How long? About... oh. Eight hours, now. No, probably not tonight.
He's calm until he hears Orlando's swallowed sigh, then he breaks. Wh-when will you be back? he asks in a faraway voice.
Not before Karl, love. I wish I were, but...
Oh, Viggo says, very small-voiced.
But I'll wait with you, yeah? Open up the laptop, put on the voice phone thing, yeah? And I'll wait with you. More battery time that way, yeah? Ready? Ok, I'll meet you there.
There are very few things Orli's learned to do with a computer, but one is to use internet phone services to keep in touch when he's far away. They've all learned that they need that, need contact, so they've learned to keep it.
Viggo and Orlando share stories, sit quietly and work on things, laugh over something tiny and frivolous and needed, until it's nearly day in Venice Beach and nearly halfway round the world from that for Orlando.
In the alley the sound of the bike being rolled in, the gate closing, the stamp of boots echoes off the dawn. He's here, Viggo says.
Good, says Orlando. Now we can all talk.
Karl comes in, sheds jacket and wallet, and splashes some water from the tap on his face.
Damn hard to ride a motorcycle and cry at the same time, you know that? he says, coming up behind Viggo, wrapping his arms around him gently, feeling every rib already, knowing it'll be worse before it's better.
Just like keeping up a conversation for eight hours without shorting out the keyboard, yeah? says Orlando, the smile now in his voice illuminating just how much it's not been there before. Viggo looks at him more carefully- how'd that get past him? Damn fine acting, that.
Found something out there, Karl says, picking up his jacket, pulling a small brown-wrapped irregular parcel from a pocket.
Look. He unwraps it, exposing nine, ten different rocks, all tumbled smooth, each one with its flaws showing through the polished surface, but none cracked, all whole.
Gonna be like this, these next months, I reckon, he says, holding each on up so Orlando can see on the webcam now that he's not pacing back and forth, but sitting with them as close as he can get.
Viggo nods, leans back against Karl's chest, puts a palm toward the screen where Orlando puts his palm too. They can't touch, can't even see each other's hands in the webcam, but the effect is there: space and distance melt away; only the connection is left.
Be rough going in, to come out polished, finer, on the other end, Orli says, nodding too.
Yeah. I reckon, Karl says, letting the stones fall from his hand to the counter where they pick up gleams of light coming in through the window, their many fractured shades reverberating from inside their polished surfaces.
And if one breaks? Viggo asks, picking up a piece of petrified wood, decades of life caught in its striae.
Well, stones are stones, yeah? but people heal, right? Karl says, kissing the top of his head.
Yeah, says Orlando, fingering his necklaces, his palm still on the screen touching Viggo's.
Yes. People heal, Viggo says, suddenly tired beyond measure. Come home, Orli, please? No matter what? he asks plaintively, trustingly.
No matter what, I promise. And after that, and after that. Not going to let go, Vig. No matter what.
Good. Then I'm going to bed. This abruptness a product of the role, the hunger, the narrowness of the Road already coming into their home, despite Karl's attempt to drive it away by driving away himself. Come find me after you two talk, ok? Viggo says, kissing at Orlando, taking his kiss in return.
I will, I will, Karl says, watching Viggo head down the short hall to the stairs to the bedroom. Is every step just a little harder? Is he looking too closely? His sigh matches Orli's.
I'll be home soon, Orlando says to him as he turns back to the screen. I'll bring Christmas with me, yeah? and we'll find things he can eat, and we'll make sure he's taking care of himself. And I'll hold you when you can't look anymore, and you'll hold me? This last in a not-quite-so-secure tone of voice, not because they won't hold each other, but because they'll need to do it so often, he fears.
No matter what, Karl says. We agreed to that last year, for you- and it's that for him, now. And damnit, when this is all over and he's back, you'll be there for me, right? Because Kiwi Can-Do or no, there's only so much...
I know, Karl, I know. You're not a doctor, you only play one in the movie. Right? Grinning like the cat that got the cream.
That breaks the somber mood for good. It changes something altogether: even the rocks on the counter seem to be affected by it as Karl sets them in the places of the planets in the solar system while the two men talk a bit longer, holding each other up, smoothing another microscopic layer of roughness off the pain of this choice Viggo's made.
There will be laughter and smiles and lovemaking this winter, there will be light and colour and warmth and softness, and there will be hope at the end of every night and the beginning of every day until it's done. They'll find ways to bring life to every corner of every day, because life is the water that keeps the rocks of pain and hardship and anger and depression and stubborn choice and love sliding over each other as time goes inexorably by between rough, unpolished, and smoothed out, finished, until the rocks are removed from the tumbler refined, beautiful.
previously: Fading Traces
next: Comfort and Joy