Fic: Everything (2/6)
Jan. 27th, 2011 08:13 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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vigorliTitle: Everything (2/6)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
indecentexposed
Pairing: Vigorli
Rating: R (this chapter, for language only), NC-17 overall (for language & smut)
Warnings: Fluff, in spades. Side dish of angst. One major punch to the gut.
Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and this is fiction.
Words: 1,266
Beta: I’m entirely to blame for this one.
Summary: Scenes from a life together, beginning in New Zealand and spanning the next 30 years.
Cross-posted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
volaslash
Part II. Dinner & Dessert.
“God, this is fantastic.” Orlando closed his eyes briefly, savoring the rich, complex taste. “I haven’t had decent steak in ages.”
He opened his eyes and caught Viggo staring at him, wearing the same peculiar expression he’d had the first day they met. Orlando had seen it intermittently since then, sometimes directed at him, sometimes not. He hadn’t been able to figure it out, and hadn’t yet worked up the courage to ask. Admittedly, the glass of wine in his hand --his third since arriving at Viggo’s place-- was currently helping him out on that count.
He opened his mouth, but Viggo got there first. “Didn’t that specialist say you should be having a steak a week?”
“I have been. It’s just that they’re hardly decent by the time I’m through with them,” Orlando confessed, recalling the last over-cooked mess with a grimace.
Viggo chuckled. “Steak’s pretty straightforward. I can teach you, if you’d like.”
Appealing as that sounded, there was something else on Orlando’s mind. “What’s that look about, Vig?”
“What look?”
Orlando flushed, but persisted. “The one you were giving me just now.”
“When?”
“When I said the--” He looked up, caught the glint in Viggo’s eye, and stopped mid-sentence. The next instant, he balled up his napkin and tossed it at Viggo, who ducked, laughing. “Wanker. You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?”
“I’m what?”
“Joking. Teasing. Fucking me around.”
“Guilty as charged.”
Orlando glared at him. “And?”
“It’s just a look.”
“Not sodding good enough.”
“I’m not sure I want to tell you until you’ve calmed down a bit.” Viggo eyed him thoughtfully. “Have some more wine, in the meantime.”
“Trying to get me drunk so you can take advantage,” Orlando grumbled, but he picked up his glass.
“Something like that.”
He didn’t know how to respond to that, so he kept drinking.
“The look you noticed is the one I get when I’m trying to get inside something. Or someone.”
Orlando choked.
“Not like that,” Viggo added hastily, seeing his expression. “I meant, from an artistic perspective. Figuring out what it, they, are all about. What’s going on beyond, beneath. What I’d be trying to paint, or put to words, or capture in a photograph.”
“Right.” Orlando set his glass down and took several deep breaths in succession, in an effort to slow his pulse. “Right, of course.” Get a hold of yourself, Orlando. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Orlando?” Viggo studied him. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, yeah.” He desperately needed Viggo to keep talking. “Haven’t you pretty well got me figured out, though?”
“I’d like to know much more.”
“Why not ask, then?”
“Why do you think?” He caught Orlando’s suspicious look and chuckled. “I assure you that I am not, as you so delightfully put it, taking the piss. Why wouldn’t I just ask?”
“Depends why you want to know in the first place.”
“Let’s say I want to paint you.”
“Then I suppose it’d be because...” Orlando thought for a moment. “I suppose because art is as much about the artist as it is about the subject, yeah? You’d want to paint, not necessarily what I’d tell you, but what you saw to be true.”
“Well put. More succinctly than I could have done.” Viggo leaned forward, catching Orlando’s gaze and holding it. “Now, let’s say I just want to know. Personally. Why not?”
“I... don’t know.” In truth, he’d half forgotten the question, absorbed in the intensity of Viggo’s stare.
“Perhaps I don’t want to be intrusive. Or I’m simply waiting for you to tell me in your own time. Or perhaps,” he went on, his eyes never leaving Orlando’s, “I’m afraid I won’t like what I’ll hear.”
Orlando wondered, wildly, if Viggo could hear his heart pounding. “I...”
“So you see, in that case, there could be all sorts of reasons.”
And just like that, the moment passed. Viggo broke the gaze abruptly, and stood up. “Ready for dessert?”
Speechless, Orlando managed a nod.
“I’ll meet you in the living room.”
*
Dessert was a custard-like presentation in glass dishes, layers of fluffy white cream and something golden orange in color, topped with dark chocolate shavings and a mint leaf garnish.
Orlando, who had managed to recover his composure somewhat while Viggo was in the kitchen, shook his head incredulously. “Christ, Vig. Is there anything you do halfway?”
Viggo merely smiled and joined him on the couch-- leaving ample distance between them, Orlando noted. He turned his attention back to the dessert dish in his hand, and took a bite. It was rich and sweet, but so light it melted away in his mouth. “It's heaven. What is it?”
“Mango fool. It’s popular in Argentina.”
“You grew up there, yeah?”
“For about ten years. I started at boarding school when I was seven.”
Orlando couldn’t imagine it. Viggo caught his expression and shook his head, smiling. “It wasn’t as bad as you’re thinking. I learned to take care of myself. And I started writing there.”
“You were going to read me something of yours.” Orlando had been waiting for the right moment to bring it up again. “Would you, now?”
“If you’d like.”
“Please.”
Viggo didn’t read. He recited his poems, speaking the words with familiarity, affection, emotion. Orlando couldn’t decide if it was the wine or the soft light or simply exhaustion setting in, but a haze seemed to have settled over the room. The world had gone soft at the edges, and the intensity of the feelings Viggo’s metered, musical words were evoking in him was startling.
In the midst of one of the poems, he thought he heard his name.
Orlando gave up on pretense and studied Viggo openly, as enticed by the way the other man looked when he spoke as by the words themselves. He was relaxed, one arm draped over the back of the couch, the other resting lightly on his knee, his posture open as if to commune with the words—or perhaps the nameless muse that had driven him to write them in the first place. He’d closed his eyes and tipped his head back slightly, leaving visible a beguiling expanse of throat. His lips moved with the measured reverence of prayer.
Orlando moved closer. The words were shifting and blending together in his ear; he was conscious of nothing but the force that seemed to be drawing him nearer and nearer.
He wasn’t entirely sure of his intent—at least, he didn’t think he was, but then Viggo opened his eyes, raised his head, and was still. The echo of the poem’s last line hovered in the little air left between them.
Time was slowing down. A thousand things exploded in his head at once, threatening to break the heavy spell of the moment, and Orlando swallowed, hard. “Vig...”
“Shh.” Viggo tentatively lifted his hand to Orlando’s face, gently caressing his cheek when he didn’t retreat. “You’re thinking too much.”
“Stop me.”
“Stop yourself.”
“I might kiss you.”
Viggo’s eyes went soft. “Then kiss me.”
It was all the encouragement Orlando needed. He closed the space between them, lips meeting, hesitating for the briefest instant, then acquiescing, shifting together. Viggo’s hand was at the back of his neck, urging him closer, drawing him in, his tongue flicking lightly against Orlando’s lips, seeking entrance, and then everything crashed.
What the fuck am I doing?
The haze vanished, the fear hit hard and fast, and Orlando jerked back, his heart racing, beginning to shake. Viggo let go instantly, his eyes filled with concern.
“Orlando--”
“I have to go.”
He was out the front door and down the sidewalk before Viggo could react.
To be continued.
Author:
indecentexposedPairing: Vigorli
Rating: R (this chapter, for language only), NC-17 overall (for language & smut)
Warnings: Fluff, in spades. Side dish of angst. One major punch to the gut.
Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and this is fiction.
Words: 1,266
Beta: I’m entirely to blame for this one.
Summary: Scenes from a life together, beginning in New Zealand and spanning the next 30 years.
Cross-posted to
volaslashPart II. Dinner & Dessert.
“God, this is fantastic.” Orlando closed his eyes briefly, savoring the rich, complex taste. “I haven’t had decent steak in ages.”
He opened his eyes and caught Viggo staring at him, wearing the same peculiar expression he’d had the first day they met. Orlando had seen it intermittently since then, sometimes directed at him, sometimes not. He hadn’t been able to figure it out, and hadn’t yet worked up the courage to ask. Admittedly, the glass of wine in his hand --his third since arriving at Viggo’s place-- was currently helping him out on that count.
He opened his mouth, but Viggo got there first. “Didn’t that specialist say you should be having a steak a week?”
“I have been. It’s just that they’re hardly decent by the time I’m through with them,” Orlando confessed, recalling the last over-cooked mess with a grimace.
Viggo chuckled. “Steak’s pretty straightforward. I can teach you, if you’d like.”
Appealing as that sounded, there was something else on Orlando’s mind. “What’s that look about, Vig?”
“What look?”
Orlando flushed, but persisted. “The one you were giving me just now.”
“When?”
“When I said the--” He looked up, caught the glint in Viggo’s eye, and stopped mid-sentence. The next instant, he balled up his napkin and tossed it at Viggo, who ducked, laughing. “Wanker. You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?”
“I’m what?”
“Joking. Teasing. Fucking me around.”
“Guilty as charged.”
Orlando glared at him. “And?”
“It’s just a look.”
“Not sodding good enough.”
“I’m not sure I want to tell you until you’ve calmed down a bit.” Viggo eyed him thoughtfully. “Have some more wine, in the meantime.”
“Trying to get me drunk so you can take advantage,” Orlando grumbled, but he picked up his glass.
“Something like that.”
He didn’t know how to respond to that, so he kept drinking.
“The look you noticed is the one I get when I’m trying to get inside something. Or someone.”
Orlando choked.
“Not like that,” Viggo added hastily, seeing his expression. “I meant, from an artistic perspective. Figuring out what it, they, are all about. What’s going on beyond, beneath. What I’d be trying to paint, or put to words, or capture in a photograph.”
“Right.” Orlando set his glass down and took several deep breaths in succession, in an effort to slow his pulse. “Right, of course.” Get a hold of yourself, Orlando. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Orlando?” Viggo studied him. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, yeah.” He desperately needed Viggo to keep talking. “Haven’t you pretty well got me figured out, though?”
“I’d like to know much more.”
“Why not ask, then?”
“Why do you think?” He caught Orlando’s suspicious look and chuckled. “I assure you that I am not, as you so delightfully put it, taking the piss. Why wouldn’t I just ask?”
“Depends why you want to know in the first place.”
“Let’s say I want to paint you.”
“Then I suppose it’d be because...” Orlando thought for a moment. “I suppose because art is as much about the artist as it is about the subject, yeah? You’d want to paint, not necessarily what I’d tell you, but what you saw to be true.”
“Well put. More succinctly than I could have done.” Viggo leaned forward, catching Orlando’s gaze and holding it. “Now, let’s say I just want to know. Personally. Why not?”
“I... don’t know.” In truth, he’d half forgotten the question, absorbed in the intensity of Viggo’s stare.
“Perhaps I don’t want to be intrusive. Or I’m simply waiting for you to tell me in your own time. Or perhaps,” he went on, his eyes never leaving Orlando’s, “I’m afraid I won’t like what I’ll hear.”
Orlando wondered, wildly, if Viggo could hear his heart pounding. “I...”
“So you see, in that case, there could be all sorts of reasons.”
And just like that, the moment passed. Viggo broke the gaze abruptly, and stood up. “Ready for dessert?”
Speechless, Orlando managed a nod.
“I’ll meet you in the living room.”
*
Dessert was a custard-like presentation in glass dishes, layers of fluffy white cream and something golden orange in color, topped with dark chocolate shavings and a mint leaf garnish.
Orlando, who had managed to recover his composure somewhat while Viggo was in the kitchen, shook his head incredulously. “Christ, Vig. Is there anything you do halfway?”
Viggo merely smiled and joined him on the couch-- leaving ample distance between them, Orlando noted. He turned his attention back to the dessert dish in his hand, and took a bite. It was rich and sweet, but so light it melted away in his mouth. “It's heaven. What is it?”
“Mango fool. It’s popular in Argentina.”
“You grew up there, yeah?”
“For about ten years. I started at boarding school when I was seven.”
Orlando couldn’t imagine it. Viggo caught his expression and shook his head, smiling. “It wasn’t as bad as you’re thinking. I learned to take care of myself. And I started writing there.”
“You were going to read me something of yours.” Orlando had been waiting for the right moment to bring it up again. “Would you, now?”
“If you’d like.”
“Please.”
Viggo didn’t read. He recited his poems, speaking the words with familiarity, affection, emotion. Orlando couldn’t decide if it was the wine or the soft light or simply exhaustion setting in, but a haze seemed to have settled over the room. The world had gone soft at the edges, and the intensity of the feelings Viggo’s metered, musical words were evoking in him was startling.
In the midst of one of the poems, he thought he heard his name.
Orlando gave up on pretense and studied Viggo openly, as enticed by the way the other man looked when he spoke as by the words themselves. He was relaxed, one arm draped over the back of the couch, the other resting lightly on his knee, his posture open as if to commune with the words—or perhaps the nameless muse that had driven him to write them in the first place. He’d closed his eyes and tipped his head back slightly, leaving visible a beguiling expanse of throat. His lips moved with the measured reverence of prayer.
Orlando moved closer. The words were shifting and blending together in his ear; he was conscious of nothing but the force that seemed to be drawing him nearer and nearer.
He wasn’t entirely sure of his intent—at least, he didn’t think he was, but then Viggo opened his eyes, raised his head, and was still. The echo of the poem’s last line hovered in the little air left between them.
Time was slowing down. A thousand things exploded in his head at once, threatening to break the heavy spell of the moment, and Orlando swallowed, hard. “Vig...”
“Shh.” Viggo tentatively lifted his hand to Orlando’s face, gently caressing his cheek when he didn’t retreat. “You’re thinking too much.”
“Stop me.”
“Stop yourself.”
“I might kiss you.”
Viggo’s eyes went soft. “Then kiss me.”
It was all the encouragement Orlando needed. He closed the space between them, lips meeting, hesitating for the briefest instant, then acquiescing, shifting together. Viggo’s hand was at the back of his neck, urging him closer, drawing him in, his tongue flicking lightly against Orlando’s lips, seeking entrance, and then everything crashed.
What the fuck am I doing?
The haze vanished, the fear hit hard and fast, and Orlando jerked back, his heart racing, beginning to shake. Viggo let go instantly, his eyes filled with concern.
“Orlando--”
“I have to go.”
He was out the front door and down the sidewalk before Viggo could react.
To be continued.
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