For dancingbarefoot: In These Final Hours
Title: In These Final Hours
Recipient: dancingbarefoot
Author: stormatdusk
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando, Orlando/Sean Bean
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Unresolved angst
Summary: Orlando has made a choice.
Pre-reveal Notes: Title from Bonnie Raitt's "I Can't Make You Love Me"
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Viggo sits tentatively on the edge of the bed. The sickly green glow of the alarm clock draws his gaze and holds it. But for the slight shake of his breathing, he is still. A minute passes. Two.
Orlando lifts his hand. The backs of his fingers skate slow reassurance over Viggo's arm. When Viggo does not respond, Orlando turns his hand over and squeezes lightly, encouragingly.
Viggo blinks slowly, turns his head, and meets Orlando's eyes. The dark does not completely swallow their shimmer, or the concern he tries to hide. If Viggo looked, he'd be able to make out the vision of crisp white hotel sheets slung low over slender hips. Still, Viggo doesn't look. Not yet.
Viggo pauses, his hand on the doorknob, and counts to ten in a failing effort to calm his galloping pulse. He opens the door; unwelcome light slices into the room. Orlando stands in the plush-carpeted hallway; his eyes are unreadable. He does not speak. Viggo's breath stutters quietly.
Orlando steps inside and soundlessly closes the door.
Viggo tentatively leans down to Orlando's pillowed head. He keeps his eyes open to catalogue each highlight and shadow of flesh, to appreciate again the way each dark curl has a mind of its own.
He touches his lips to the other man's cheek in just the barest brush of connection. He pauses, bent close like that, and just breathes. After a time, Orlando touches Viggo's face. He very gently guides Viggo to his mouth. Their lips slip, catch, then melt together. They fit perfectly.
Barely-there fingers move tenderly through Viggo's hair. A few moments later, a drop of warm salt slowly descends and finds its way into their joined mouths.
"Are you sure? Isn't there - - Orlando, are you sure?" Viggo speaks in hushed, funeral-parlor tones. The waning moon is dim and the suite is dark but for the pale orange leak of streetlights below. Viggo's hands twist around each other.
"I'm sure. I wish...." Orlando trails off; there is no way to finish the sentence that will satisfy either of them. "Yes. I'm sure."
Orlando steps forward and carefully takes Viggo's hand between his own. Viggo lets Orlando lead him into the bedroom. He keeps his eyes on the floor.
Viggo mouths wetly at the porcelain-fine space behind Orlando's jaw. The skin there tastes of lime and warm caramel, faint on Viggo's tongue.
Blind fingertips ebb and flow in gentle exploration of Orlando's face: the smooth plane of forehead, the ridge of brow, the creped softness of eyelid, the smooth expanse of cheek. He learns again every slope and curve, committing each to memory.
Later, Viggo will paint his fingers' recollections, ochre and cobalt blue and silver on pale parchment.
"Feels strange, being naked in front of you." Viggo's eyes don't know where to rest. "I've been naked with you a hundred times. Makes no sense...." His throat closes.
"No, I think... I think it does. It's an odd thing, this." Orlando forehead is creased. He holds out a hand from where he reclines on the bed. "C'mere."
Viggo tries again to let the tension drain from his shoulders. He breathes in, out, slowly. Eventually, his footsteps lead him to Orlando.
Their cocks are aligned hot and heavy in the desperate curve of Viggo's fist and Orlando's flesh jumps guiltily against his own. Viggo memorizes the feel of urgent fingers as they press into his back, his hip; he files away the breathless sounds that escape from Orlando's throat.
Viggo tries to slow his pace, to hold on a little longer, to make it last every dazzling second it deserves. But this is lust and love and light in his arms, it's everything, and Viggo loses the battle, loses the war, comes, silently forming Orlando's name.
Orlando emerges from the bathroom, dressed now. His face is slightly flushed. Viggo is still where Orlando left him, curled on his side, wrapped in the sheets; Orlando's pillow is tucked to his chest. His breathing is uneven.
Viggo does not look at Orlando when he speaks.
"I love you."
Orlando closes his eyes. "I know. And part of me will always love you. But - "
" - but... it's not enough."
There is a knock at the door of the suite.
Viggo lies close along Orlando's side as their breathing slows. He presses his face further into the damp heat of the side of Orlando's skull; the arch of his foot cradles Orlando's calf. He inhales deeply, then does it again when he realizes the movement serves to tighten Orlando's arm around him.
The cocktail of their mingled come is cooling on Orlando's belly. Viggo wants to drag his fingers through it, paint them both in it, immortalize this moment, keep it safe. He wants to preserve them together, here, just like this.
Time passes and Orlando whispers Viggo's name. Viggo's fingers move to hush the sound. He traces the bow of Orlando's lips, quietly erasing the words that would follow.
Orlando sighs a temporary acceptance. A shudder runs through Viggo and he blinks hard.
"You alright?" Sean's voice is barely audible. Orlando leans into Sean, foreheads together, eyes closed. Sean's hand settles easily, protectively on Orlando's low back. After a moment, Sean guides them to the door.
Viggo emerges from the bedroom.
"Sean." The word drags itself scratched and bleeding from Viggo's throat.
Orlando meets Sean's eyes. He nods slightly. He inhales audibly and turns, leaving the suite. He does not look back.
Expressionless, Sean regards Viggo. Finally Viggo speaks.
"If you hurt him, there'll be no place you can hide from me."
Sean's eyes narrow and glitter. He lifts his cigarette to his mouth; the ash flares red-orange. Silence is a thick, gray slab of granite between them.
Sean turns and walks from the room, closing the door with a click behind him.
Viggo stands naked in the dark. The muffled honk of a lone car horn rises from the street below.
***
Recipient: dancingbarefoot
Author: stormatdusk
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando, Orlando/Sean Bean
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Unresolved angst
Summary: Orlando has made a choice.
Pre-reveal Notes: Title from Bonnie Raitt's "I Can't Make You Love Me"
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Viggo sits tentatively on the edge of the bed. The sickly green glow of the alarm clock draws his gaze and holds it. But for the slight shake of his breathing, he is still. A minute passes. Two.
Orlando lifts his hand. The backs of his fingers skate slow reassurance over Viggo's arm. When Viggo does not respond, Orlando turns his hand over and squeezes lightly, encouragingly.
Viggo blinks slowly, turns his head, and meets Orlando's eyes. The dark does not completely swallow their shimmer, or the concern he tries to hide. If Viggo looked, he'd be able to make out the vision of crisp white hotel sheets slung low over slender hips. Still, Viggo doesn't look. Not yet.
Viggo pauses, his hand on the doorknob, and counts to ten in a failing effort to calm his galloping pulse. He opens the door; unwelcome light slices into the room. Orlando stands in the plush-carpeted hallway; his eyes are unreadable. He does not speak. Viggo's breath stutters quietly.
Orlando steps inside and soundlessly closes the door.
Viggo tentatively leans down to Orlando's pillowed head. He keeps his eyes open to catalogue each highlight and shadow of flesh, to appreciate again the way each dark curl has a mind of its own.
He touches his lips to the other man's cheek in just the barest brush of connection. He pauses, bent close like that, and just breathes. After a time, Orlando touches Viggo's face. He very gently guides Viggo to his mouth. Their lips slip, catch, then melt together. They fit perfectly.
Barely-there fingers move tenderly through Viggo's hair. A few moments later, a drop of warm salt slowly descends and finds its way into their joined mouths.
"Are you sure? Isn't there - - Orlando, are you sure?" Viggo speaks in hushed, funeral-parlor tones. The waning moon is dim and the suite is dark but for the pale orange leak of streetlights below. Viggo's hands twist around each other.
"I'm sure. I wish...." Orlando trails off; there is no way to finish the sentence that will satisfy either of them. "Yes. I'm sure."
Orlando steps forward and carefully takes Viggo's hand between his own. Viggo lets Orlando lead him into the bedroom. He keeps his eyes on the floor.
Viggo mouths wetly at the porcelain-fine space behind Orlando's jaw. The skin there tastes of lime and warm caramel, faint on Viggo's tongue.
Blind fingertips ebb and flow in gentle exploration of Orlando's face: the smooth plane of forehead, the ridge of brow, the creped softness of eyelid, the smooth expanse of cheek. He learns again every slope and curve, committing each to memory.
Later, Viggo will paint his fingers' recollections, ochre and cobalt blue and silver on pale parchment.
"Feels strange, being naked in front of you." Viggo's eyes don't know where to rest. "I've been naked with you a hundred times. Makes no sense...." His throat closes.
"No, I think... I think it does. It's an odd thing, this." Orlando forehead is creased. He holds out a hand from where he reclines on the bed. "C'mere."
Viggo tries again to let the tension drain from his shoulders. He breathes in, out, slowly. Eventually, his footsteps lead him to Orlando.
Their cocks are aligned hot and heavy in the desperate curve of Viggo's fist and Orlando's flesh jumps guiltily against his own. Viggo memorizes the feel of urgent fingers as they press into his back, his hip; he files away the breathless sounds that escape from Orlando's throat.
Viggo tries to slow his pace, to hold on a little longer, to make it last every dazzling second it deserves. But this is lust and love and light in his arms, it's everything, and Viggo loses the battle, loses the war, comes, silently forming Orlando's name.
Orlando emerges from the bathroom, dressed now. His face is slightly flushed. Viggo is still where Orlando left him, curled on his side, wrapped in the sheets; Orlando's pillow is tucked to his chest. His breathing is uneven.
Viggo does not look at Orlando when he speaks.
"I love you."
Orlando closes his eyes. "I know. And part of me will always love you. But - "
" - but... it's not enough."
There is a knock at the door of the suite.
Viggo lies close along Orlando's side as their breathing slows. He presses his face further into the damp heat of the side of Orlando's skull; the arch of his foot cradles Orlando's calf. He inhales deeply, then does it again when he realizes the movement serves to tighten Orlando's arm around him.
The cocktail of their mingled come is cooling on Orlando's belly. Viggo wants to drag his fingers through it, paint them both in it, immortalize this moment, keep it safe. He wants to preserve them together, here, just like this.
Time passes and Orlando whispers Viggo's name. Viggo's fingers move to hush the sound. He traces the bow of Orlando's lips, quietly erasing the words that would follow.
Orlando sighs a temporary acceptance. A shudder runs through Viggo and he blinks hard.
"You alright?" Sean's voice is barely audible. Orlando leans into Sean, foreheads together, eyes closed. Sean's hand settles easily, protectively on Orlando's low back. After a moment, Sean guides them to the door.
Viggo emerges from the bedroom.
"Sean." The word drags itself scratched and bleeding from Viggo's throat.
Orlando meets Sean's eyes. He nods slightly. He inhales audibly and turns, leaving the suite. He does not look back.
Expressionless, Sean regards Viggo. Finally Viggo speaks.
"If you hurt him, there'll be no place you can hide from me."
Sean's eyes narrow and glitter. He lifts his cigarette to his mouth; the ash flares red-orange. Silence is a thick, gray slab of granite between them.
Sean turns and walks from the room, closing the door with a click behind him.
Viggo stands naked in the dark. The muffled honk of a lone car horn rises from the street below.
***