The little AU: Winter Woven Fine: Quiet Evening
The little AU: Winter Woven Fine: Quiet Evening
slashfairy
~~
He hides in Denmark. Finds a flat above a bookshop. Back entrance, small shops on either side. He can come and go and not be seen, and that's just how he wants it.
He reads: he writes. He walks into the forest and yells at the top of his voice to Anyone who will listen that Attention Must Be Paid. He posts in CAPITAL LETTERS at Perceval and doesn't regret it at all. He is unapologetic about loving his country, and he is unapologetic about not being there for the inauguration.
His head hurts and the whiskey doesn't help. He could drink the entire bottle by himself and it wouldn't make a blind bit of difference.
The door downstairs opens and closes, and he hears boots being unlaced and left at the foot of the stairs, and slippers being pulled on, and a bit of a grunt as the person doing all this straightens up and comes up the stairs.
Brought food, Karl says, coming into the kitchen with two bags of groceries. Thought we might need it. Nothing but greens here.
I've been eating fresh greens because I can afford them.
Outside the rain pours down, someone's dog barks and is silent again.
Last year you weren't even eating that.
No. No, I wasn't.
Karl puts the stove on to warm a cast iron pan, slices the potatoes and drops them in a stainless steel pot of boiling water. Slices an onion, celery too, and puts them aside. Lays a pair of pork chops in the pan, smiles at the sizzle.
I'm making us dinner, Karl says.
So I see.
Orlando can't get away.
I know. He called. Gonna be more of an issue, I expect.
I reckon. She won't always be able to not mind him having us.
No. No she won't. We knew that would be a risk, him wanting children.
We did. We all did. She does, too. She's willing to take it. We'll all get old together, somehow- us, her, our kids.
Hell. Viggo snorts, shakes his head. I'm already old.
Now that's something we need to talk about.
Karl takes the chops out, puts the celery then the onions in the pan, then the chops on top, and turns the heat down just a bit.
Talk about what? Viggo asks, pouring himself another drink- the first he's poured since Karl came in. He offers Karl the bottle. Karl gets a glass and pours himself some, leaves the bottle on the counter instead of putting it back on the table.
About you whinging about getting old. You're the sexiest man I've ever met. In damn fine shape. Eminently fuckable. Passionate about your politics, your hopes and dreams, your art. Still shy as hell, and yet you speak out whenever it moves you. That's experienced, not old.
Experienced.
Experienced. That's you. Educated and experienced. Say, Henry going to the inauguration?
No. Maybe. I don't know. Maybe spend the day with Howard, keep him company. He's a bit lonely since Ros died.
Karl just nods. He serves the food, plate for each of them, fork-knife-napkin, water in a glass, pitcher on the table. Sits across from Viggo, offers his hand.
Let's say grace tonight, hm? Offer up your rage as a burnt sacrifice, and have some peace at the table? I know it makes you angry- I know that's why you're here, and not there- but for tonight just be here. Ok?
All right.
They say grace, eat in companionable silence. Viggo finishes everything, cleans his plate, surprising himself but not Karl. They do the dishes together like an old married couple, or a pair of friends keeping the space around them clear.
They forgo television: the American inauguration's sure to be on the Danish news, on the BBC, on the German news, the Swedish- everyone pissed off about the Bush administration, and impatient for the change promised, and well aware - as perhaps the American people are not quite yet - that it's going to take a hell of a lot of work to put things right after the last eight years, and Viggo just can't take another minute of his frustration and disappointment, so they don't tempt it, just leave the television off and go to bed.
~~
They lie naked under the comforters, square Danish pillows warm in flannel covers, flannel sheet under them keeping their skin warm as they touch and kiss, lick and suck and nip at each other, hands roaming or holding tight -there'll be bruises in the morning, good ones- legs tangled as hard cocks rub against each other between bellies full of comfort and desire. The bed is solid and the headboard strong, and Viggo comes first against Karl's belly, and lays his head down after against Karl's shoulder and whispers Fuck me, oh god, please fuck me.
Karl answers by sliding his hand down Viggo's back to his ass, pulling him close, holding him. Turn over, then, he says, Get comfortable. Viggo lies on his side, one leg drawn up, and Karl slides down him until he can tongue Viggo's anus, until he can hold him by the hipbones and make him moan with it, make him say it again, Oh god, fuck me.
No time wasted with fingers- Karl aligns himself with Viggo and, one hand spit-slicking his cock, pushes against, letting that moment of 'no' that bodies seem to insist on become the moment of 'yes' that bodies accept, desire, demand, and thrusts into Viggo's ass, holding him close, letting him moan and cry out with the pressure and the heat.
Karl's just that much taller, just that much larger, that Viggo can relax, let the space be Karl, let the movement be Karl, let it all just go until all it is is Karl fucking him until Karl comes in him and the whole world, all of time, is that moment when it's all just Karl coming, shuddering against him, saying Fucking god, Viggo, I love you, and Viggo only has to be there, just there, and that's enough, and after he can sleep in Karl's arms, and the world will turn as it will, and tomorrow will bring what it does and whatever it is he'll be able to face it and who he is will be enough for that, because he's slept in Karl's arms tonight.
~~
previously: Words and Music
next: Wingéd Mercury, or from the other side of things
Quiet Evening
slashfairy
~~
He hides in Denmark. Finds a flat above a bookshop. Back entrance, small shops on either side. He can come and go and not be seen, and that's just how he wants it.
He reads: he writes. He walks into the forest and yells at the top of his voice to Anyone who will listen that Attention Must Be Paid. He posts in CAPITAL LETTERS at Perceval and doesn't regret it at all. He is unapologetic about loving his country, and he is unapologetic about not being there for the inauguration.
His head hurts and the whiskey doesn't help. He could drink the entire bottle by himself and it wouldn't make a blind bit of difference.
The door downstairs opens and closes, and he hears boots being unlaced and left at the foot of the stairs, and slippers being pulled on, and a bit of a grunt as the person doing all this straightens up and comes up the stairs.
Brought food, Karl says, coming into the kitchen with two bags of groceries. Thought we might need it. Nothing but greens here.
I've been eating fresh greens because I can afford them.
Outside the rain pours down, someone's dog barks and is silent again.
Last year you weren't even eating that.
No. No, I wasn't.
Karl puts the stove on to warm a cast iron pan, slices the potatoes and drops them in a stainless steel pot of boiling water. Slices an onion, celery too, and puts them aside. Lays a pair of pork chops in the pan, smiles at the sizzle.
I'm making us dinner, Karl says.
So I see.
Orlando can't get away.
I know. He called. Gonna be more of an issue, I expect.
I reckon. She won't always be able to not mind him having us.
No. No she won't. We knew that would be a risk, him wanting children.
We did. We all did. She does, too. She's willing to take it. We'll all get old together, somehow- us, her, our kids.
Hell. Viggo snorts, shakes his head. I'm already old.
Now that's something we need to talk about.
Karl takes the chops out, puts the celery then the onions in the pan, then the chops on top, and turns the heat down just a bit.
Talk about what? Viggo asks, pouring himself another drink- the first he's poured since Karl came in. He offers Karl the bottle. Karl gets a glass and pours himself some, leaves the bottle on the counter instead of putting it back on the table.
About you whinging about getting old. You're the sexiest man I've ever met. In damn fine shape. Eminently fuckable. Passionate about your politics, your hopes and dreams, your art. Still shy as hell, and yet you speak out whenever it moves you. That's experienced, not old.
Experienced.
Experienced. That's you. Educated and experienced. Say, Henry going to the inauguration?
No. Maybe. I don't know. Maybe spend the day with Howard, keep him company. He's a bit lonely since Ros died.
Karl just nods. He serves the food, plate for each of them, fork-knife-napkin, water in a glass, pitcher on the table. Sits across from Viggo, offers his hand.
Let's say grace tonight, hm? Offer up your rage as a burnt sacrifice, and have some peace at the table? I know it makes you angry- I know that's why you're here, and not there- but for tonight just be here. Ok?
All right.
They say grace, eat in companionable silence. Viggo finishes everything, cleans his plate, surprising himself but not Karl. They do the dishes together like an old married couple, or a pair of friends keeping the space around them clear.
They forgo television: the American inauguration's sure to be on the Danish news, on the BBC, on the German news, the Swedish- everyone pissed off about the Bush administration, and impatient for the change promised, and well aware - as perhaps the American people are not quite yet - that it's going to take a hell of a lot of work to put things right after the last eight years, and Viggo just can't take another minute of his frustration and disappointment, so they don't tempt it, just leave the television off and go to bed.
~~
They lie naked under the comforters, square Danish pillows warm in flannel covers, flannel sheet under them keeping their skin warm as they touch and kiss, lick and suck and nip at each other, hands roaming or holding tight -there'll be bruises in the morning, good ones- legs tangled as hard cocks rub against each other between bellies full of comfort and desire. The bed is solid and the headboard strong, and Viggo comes first against Karl's belly, and lays his head down after against Karl's shoulder and whispers Fuck me, oh god, please fuck me.
Karl answers by sliding his hand down Viggo's back to his ass, pulling him close, holding him. Turn over, then, he says, Get comfortable. Viggo lies on his side, one leg drawn up, and Karl slides down him until he can tongue Viggo's anus, until he can hold him by the hipbones and make him moan with it, make him say it again, Oh god, fuck me.
No time wasted with fingers- Karl aligns himself with Viggo and, one hand spit-slicking his cock, pushes against, letting that moment of 'no' that bodies seem to insist on become the moment of 'yes' that bodies accept, desire, demand, and thrusts into Viggo's ass, holding him close, letting him moan and cry out with the pressure and the heat.
Karl's just that much taller, just that much larger, that Viggo can relax, let the space be Karl, let the movement be Karl, let it all just go until all it is is Karl fucking him until Karl comes in him and the whole world, all of time, is that moment when it's all just Karl coming, shuddering against him, saying Fucking god, Viggo, I love you, and Viggo only has to be there, just there, and that's enough, and after he can sleep in Karl's arms, and the world will turn as it will, and tomorrow will bring what it does and whatever it is he'll be able to face it and who he is will be enough for that, because he's slept in Karl's arms tonight.
~~
previously: Words and Music
next: Wingéd Mercury, or from the other side of things
Quiet Evening