The little AU: Vignettes: New Year's Day: October 20, 2006
The little AU: Vignettes: New Year's Day: October 20, 2006
slashfairy
Viggo wakes, on his 48th birthday, not at home, not with his men. It's been a busy year. A busy year, too busy, traveling and traveling and traveling, for fun, for work, for things needed but not wanted, wanted but not had.
He wakes in ... León? Rome ... alone, tired, exhilirated, excited by the idea of the new puppy to raise, missing Idaho, missing home.
~~
They're each lonely; Karl staying in Vig's place in LA while Vig's in Spain and Orli is across the ocean six times a day it seems like from the pictures in every gossip site. The place in León is to be near London, like the place he's thinking of in South America would be to be near Auckland, Wellington, closer than LA is anyway. He thinks it won't matter much, at this rate. He's not held either of them for what feels like years, now, his arms aching with empty cold in the Roman Fall. He wraps the new scarf a fan sent him, oranges and greys, fall leaves and fall skies, around his neck, tucks his hands in the ends, and wanders round the streets looking for familiar brown eyes, familiar hazel eyes, but he knows they're not looking at Rome tonight. He's alone, and he's lonely, and he hates it.
~~
Karl lies in the big bed in the late Southern California October light, listening to the traffic on one side of the house, wafting over from Ocean Boulevard, and the ocean on the other, grey under grey skies. He feels grey, tired, excited by the reception Out of the Blue has gotten, angry that he missed Viggo in Toronto, sad that Orli's not in LA but is off on another jaunt to someplace else to be questioned, photographed, made much of for nothing. He pulls one of Orli's scarves out of the pile on the chair, falls onto the bed, and wonders if Orlando resents him, wonders if Viggo needs him, wonders if he can text either of them at this hour to tell them how much he loves them each, both, separately, together. He breathes in coconut and tobacco, Orlando and Viggo, and smiles as he falls asleep. It'll work out. It has so far. He's not a man of faith, or of hope, but he's a practical man, and he believes that love has energy to accomplish things that magnetism, attraction and chemistry don't.
~~
Orlando pulls his scarf tighter, pulls the jacket tighter, feels absolutely fucking frozen in the... where is he? fuck, wherever... sunshine. This year is worthless, he thinks, for all the good Pirates did him, for all the hard work on Haven, for all the hours talking to Kate... worth nothing, useless. He shivers and pulls his coat tighter, missing Sidi, missing Karl and Viggo, missing home. It's his fucking birthday today, and where am I? No where. Nothing, nobody. Dammit all to hell, anyway, the phrase picked up on set from somewhere, for something, for nothing. He sees someone whip out a cellie-camera and automatically puts a hand up at the same time the damn smile crosses his face, not caring, really, about any of it anymore. He just wants to be home, and happy, and ordinary.
~~
Viggo wakes from a nap face creased and eyes sunken, too many flashbulbs, not enough comforting. He throws on a shirt, pants, shuffles stiffly to the bathroom, takes care of business, comes out again restless, impractically impatient with life. He wants to be home, to be where they are. But he's not, he knows it, so he brushes his teeth, scrambles together socks and boots, and goes out to face the day. It's important for the film that he show up, so he will. That's what I do, he thinks, not always the most gracefully, or the most intelligently, but I show up. He picks up the charms hanging around his neck and kisses them, whispering "I love you, so much," to a green and white hei matau, and an ivory wheel of Ganesh, one for Karl, one for Orlando, who have the mates in their collections, somewhere.
~~
slashfairy
Viggo wakes, on his 48th birthday, not at home, not with his men. It's been a busy year. A busy year, too busy, traveling and traveling and traveling, for fun, for work, for things needed but not wanted, wanted but not had.
He wakes in ... León? Rome ... alone, tired, exhilirated, excited by the idea of the new puppy to raise, missing Idaho, missing home.
~~
They're each lonely; Karl staying in Vig's place in LA while Vig's in Spain and Orli is across the ocean six times a day it seems like from the pictures in every gossip site. The place in León is to be near London, like the place he's thinking of in South America would be to be near Auckland, Wellington, closer than LA is anyway. He thinks it won't matter much, at this rate. He's not held either of them for what feels like years, now, his arms aching with empty cold in the Roman Fall. He wraps the new scarf a fan sent him, oranges and greys, fall leaves and fall skies, around his neck, tucks his hands in the ends, and wanders round the streets looking for familiar brown eyes, familiar hazel eyes, but he knows they're not looking at Rome tonight. He's alone, and he's lonely, and he hates it.
~~
Karl lies in the big bed in the late Southern California October light, listening to the traffic on one side of the house, wafting over from Ocean Boulevard, and the ocean on the other, grey under grey skies. He feels grey, tired, excited by the reception Out of the Blue has gotten, angry that he missed Viggo in Toronto, sad that Orli's not in LA but is off on another jaunt to someplace else to be questioned, photographed, made much of for nothing. He pulls one of Orli's scarves out of the pile on the chair, falls onto the bed, and wonders if Orlando resents him, wonders if Viggo needs him, wonders if he can text either of them at this hour to tell them how much he loves them each, both, separately, together. He breathes in coconut and tobacco, Orlando and Viggo, and smiles as he falls asleep. It'll work out. It has so far. He's not a man of faith, or of hope, but he's a practical man, and he believes that love has energy to accomplish things that magnetism, attraction and chemistry don't.
~~
Orlando pulls his scarf tighter, pulls the jacket tighter, feels absolutely fucking frozen in the... where is he? fuck, wherever... sunshine. This year is worthless, he thinks, for all the good Pirates did him, for all the hard work on Haven, for all the hours talking to Kate... worth nothing, useless. He shivers and pulls his coat tighter, missing Sidi, missing Karl and Viggo, missing home. It's his fucking birthday today, and where am I? No where. Nothing, nobody. Dammit all to hell, anyway, the phrase picked up on set from somewhere, for something, for nothing. He sees someone whip out a cellie-camera and automatically puts a hand up at the same time the damn smile crosses his face, not caring, really, about any of it anymore. He just wants to be home, and happy, and ordinary.
~~
Viggo wakes from a nap face creased and eyes sunken, too many flashbulbs, not enough comforting. He throws on a shirt, pants, shuffles stiffly to the bathroom, takes care of business, comes out again restless, impractically impatient with life. He wants to be home, to be where they are. But he's not, he knows it, so he brushes his teeth, scrambles together socks and boots, and goes out to face the day. It's important for the film that he show up, so he will. That's what I do, he thinks, not always the most gracefully, or the most intelligently, but I show up. He picks up the charms hanging around his neck and kisses them, whispering "I love you, so much," to a green and white hei matau, and an ivory wheel of Ganesh, one for Karl, one for Orlando, who have the mates in their collections, somewhere.
~~