Footprints in the Sand
Dec. 23rd, 2021 09:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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vigorliTitle: Footprints in the Sand
Author: Artemis Allen
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Orlando/Viggo
Beta::gattodoro; Thank you.
But I have tampered with it because I can’t leave well alone, so all mistakes are mine.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.
Notes: This story is set in 2015 - just because it is and so avoids any COVID issues.
Word Count: 6,920
Summary: A young man thinks he wants to spend his Christmas alone.
Footprints in the Sand
Orlando was beginning to think that he’d made a huge mistake. He’d lied to everyone; he winced at the word lied, maybe mislead was a better description, yes that would do, he’d mislead everyone; his friends, his colleagues and especially his loving family, so that he could spend his Christmas alone, in an isolated, windswept village, on the Northumbrian coast.
He’d justified this plan, to himself at least, with the excuse that what he really needed during the Christmas holidays this year was a chance to get away from his real, everyday life and recharge his emotional batteries. It had been an eventful, exhausting year for him, both personally and professionally and he didn’t feel that he could endure all the usual festivities; he just wanted some peace and quiet. But now it was Christmas morning and he was seriously considering packing up his things, getting into the car and driving south to throw himself on his knees beside someone else’s Christmas dinner table, begging for sanctuary.
Not his mother’s of course. His newly married mother was on a Caribbean cruise. She had asked him to accompany them, and George, her new husband, whom Orlando actually liked very much, had heartily supported her request. But there were some things a son really shouldn’t do and playing gooseberry on his mother’s honeymoon was certainly one of them. His mother had argued the case and pointed out that he didn’t have to spend all his time with them. It was a big ship and cruise lines catered exceptionally well for single people of all ages; that was how she and George had met. There would be plenty to entertain him on board, lots of other single people around and the crew made sure that no one ever had to sit out the dances. All she expected of Orlando was to see him for Christmas lunch but they would both be happy to see him more often. Orlando had almost capitulated; the idea of dancing with a handsome sailor in a dashing white uniform and peaked cap, was very appealing but then he’d started wondering if the crew on cruise ships wore different uniforms to the Navy whites he was visualising; his brow had wrinkled, his Mother had asked what he was thinking and he’d blushed. Not that she, or George, was unaware of his sexual preferences, he just didn’t think they should see him drunk and needy, wrapping himself around a man who was only dancing with him because it was specified in his job description. He said no, he would prefer to spend his Christmas with friends. See, that wasn’t a lie, he had expressed a preference; he hadn’t said he would spend it with friends. His mother had accepted this, after all she knew there were plenty of friends to choose from; childhood friends, university friends, work friends and he had spent many of his previous Christmas holidays this way.
There had been a group of them who, after leaving university, regularly got together for the holidays. They flew out to sunnier shores, went skiing or rented remote cottages, they had even stayed in a castle and once they had been snowed in for a whole week on Dartmoor. Then over the years people got married, had children and started spending their Christmas at home. Not that they’d stopped being friends, they still managed occasional weekends away together and they often invited him to stay with them for the holidays. He had spent last Christmas with Dom, one of his closest friends, and his family. Sarah, Dom’s wife, was lovely and treated Orlando like a brother but their two kids, both under five, had roused the whole household before six am and Sarah’s mother had tried to fix him up with her younger daughter. He knew that whichever invitation he accepted this year the situation would be much the same. Orlando was in his mid-thirties now and he was the only one of the group without a long-term partner but he didn’t want them all to think he was lonely, because he wasn’t, he really, really wasn’t. So he’d told all his friends that Sean had invited him for Christmas. This was also true, in principle, there had certainly been an invitation; they weren’t to know that Orlando had no intention of accepting it.
Despite the fact that they weren’t seeing each other anymore, ‘seeing’ being a euphemism for enthusiastically fucking, they were still friends and Sean would be spending Christmas in Yorkshire with his parents who both liked Orlando very much. It was a big house, there were plenty of bedrooms and there would be a mountain of food and drink; it was tempting, almost too tempting. Orlando liked Sean, another man who looked good in a uniform and in Sean’s case, being an airline pilot, one covered in an impressive amount of gold braid; and there had been a time when Orlando thought he might be looking at a future with Sean. As with most of his more serious relationships, Sean was older than him but he was fit, good looking, even without the captain’s uniform, charming, when he made the effort, down to earth and fun to be with.
But Orlando was a romantic, not hearts and flowers and white doves kind of romantic exactly, he just wanted someone with a poetic soul, someone who would be happy to curl up on the rug in front of a roaring fire with a glass of wine and talk about nothing in particular until they drifted into lovemaking and then snuggled. Sean certainly liked to spend evenings at home but he was more inclined to shout at the football on TV from the edge of the sofa before downing the remains of his beer and announcing with a lascivious wink that it was bedtime. They would fuck, athletically, and then Sean would roll away and sleep. The one time Orlando had suggested trying out the rug Sean had frowned and pointed out that there was a perfectly good bed upstairs so why on earth would they want to shag on the floor.
After two years Orlando had realised that, notwithstanding the quality of the sex, they were really just like good mates, friends with obvious benefits. This had been fine for Sean, it was all he was looking for, but Orlando wanted more and so he’d attempted to terminate the relationship. Sean had been disappointed but certainly not devastated and suggested they could still be friends. Orlando had seen no reason not to, he enjoyed the man’s company, so they still went for a pint when Sean was home and saw the occasional football match together at weekends. This worked well enough in London, with other people around, but in Yorkshire, in the same house, defences lowered by egg-nog and Christmas bonhomie, it would be very easy to fall into Sean’s bed and Orlando would undoubtedly fall and then hate himself in the morning.
Sean had been the longest relationship he’d had for some time. At university no strings hook-ups had been easy to come by. Thrown out into the world of working in the city he’d gone clubbing at weekends and London had an abundance of gay bars, some pretty wild, others on the more sophisticated side, so there was always sex to be had for anyone who wanted it but romance was in shorter supply and Orlando was starving for a little love and tenderness.
He could have stayed at home over Christmas of course; there was no shortage of entertainment in London and a couple of his work friends had invited him to Christmas lunch but he just didn’t feel that he could display the necessary level of Christmas spirit this year so he had hatched a scheme to spend his Christmas vacation alone and had rented a hideaway for the week. It was a small cottage in the far north east of England, a ‘stone’s throw’ from the beach and it had low beams, an open fire and, according to the website, plenty of old world charm; whatever that meant. There were a couple of pubs in the village, a hotel and a few touristy shops, although the shops were now closed for the winter. It sounded ideal. He could get up late, gaze at the sea from his window, take long bracing walks on the beach, catch up on his reading, watch corny films on TV, eat as much, or as little, as he liked and no one could force him to have fun or join in their games.
So far the idyll he had imagined had not materialised. The long drive up from London on Christmas Eve had been tortuous. He’d finished work at lunchtime and headed straight out but with everyone else trying to get away for the holidays too the roads had been jammed and it was late evening before he’d arrived and unloaded the car. His cottage was more precisely the ground floor apartment in a solid stone built two storey house. It was decently furnished, if a little heavy on the chintz and had all the necessary amenities including an efficient central heating system which was fortunate because despite being well supplied with logs and matches, Orlando had failed to get the open fire to light. It had put an immediate damper on his evening. He had been looking forward to sitting by the fire with his book and a glass of wine. Tired and fractious, he had decided to turn in and at least get a decent night’s sleep but that hadn’t gone well either. The upstairs apartment also appeared to be inhabited and the floorboards creaked as the occupants walked about the room. There seemed to be an excessive amount of this walking about and Orlando deduced that there must be several people up there, maybe a family. If that were the case he hoped the children wouldn’t be up and bouncing around early the next morning but already his quiet retreat was turning sour. He turned off the light, pulled the covers over his head and eventually drifted into a restless sleep.
When he woke in the morning, he thought it must still be quite early as there was no light filtering through the flowery drapes but his watch showed it was nearly nine. After he rolled out of bed and pulled open the curtains he realised why it seemed so dark; the village was buried in a thick, grey fog. The view from the front of the house might well be of the sea but Orlando could barely see the other side of the road. ‘Just perfect,’ he thought, ‘just absolutely bloody perfect’. Hoping the fog might clear, he breakfasted on tea and toast and had another fruitless attempt at lighting the fire. The fog hadn’t budged. He kept checking his phone, hoping for at least a couple of Happy Christmas messages but there was no mobile reception and the promised Wi-Fi was patchy at best. He’d brought a small pile of gifts with him, mostly from his mother, but it didn’t feel very much like Christmas and he wasn’t in the mood for opening them so he decided to wait until after lunch when he might finally succeed in getting the bloody fire to light and be mellowed by food and wine. Finally, his mood having deteriorated to seriously pissed, he put on his walking boots and heavy coat, pulled a woolly hat down over his ears, wrapped his scarf a couple of times around his neck and then ventured outside. He’d been determined to walk on the beach on Christmas morning and he was going to do just that; if he could find it.
Even in the all-encompassing mist it was fairly easy to locate the path that led to the sea. The dunes were a couple of hundred yards from the house, a bit more than the promised stone’s throw, unless you had a very long reach, Orlando thought to himself grumpily and it was a beautiful beach; firm, pale golden sand stretching for miles, and clean, white surf; Orlando knew this, he’d seen pictures on the cottage website. There had been happy holiday makers, children fishing in rock pools, dogs chasing balls, horses cantering through the surf. Today there was nothing except the dense fog and an eerie deadness. He was fairly sure the sea was out there, somewhere, but he certainly couldn’t see it and all he could hear was the dull hoot of a distant fog horn. It was as if he were the only person left in the world. Well this was what he’d wanted wasn’t it, solitary isolation?
He advanced towards where he thought the sea must surely be, the sand becoming wetter as he walked. When he eventually reached the water’s edge the sea was flat calm and lacy foam edged waves sloshed lazily on to the sand; Orlando watched them, fascinated. It was only as he turned to walk along the shore that he looked back towards the dunes and realised with horror that he could no longer see them through the thick fog. He experienced a moment of heart stopping panic. What if he couldn’t find his way back? He knew the tide came in very quickly here because of the level shelf, he might drown, no one knew he was here, no one would miss him. ‘Idiot’ he gave himself a mental shake, all he had to do was head away from the sea in a straight line, that seemed like a reasonable action. Then another thought encroached, hadn’t he read somewhere that when people were lost they never, ever managed to walk in a straight line, they always went round in circles, or was that just in the woods. He was about to start back up the beach at a run before he completely lost his bearings and his sense of proportion when he looked down and realised that he could see his own footprints in the sand, they ran in a slightly meandering line from the direction, hopefully, of the dunes.
He laughed at his stupidity but another part of him almost wanted to cry. ‘Man up Bloom, you are such a city boy!’ he admonished himself. What the hell did he think he was doing out here? What was he even trying to prove, running away from everyone? He liked company and if he thought he was looking for romance he really wasn’t going to find it holed up beside a deserted beach in the middle of nowhere. This whole trip had definitely been a mistake. He should admit defeat, pack up his things and leave. He could be down in Yorkshire in a few hours, well maybe four if the fog was widespread; Sean’s parents wouldn’t mind. He pulled out his phone, still no reception, dammit.
He had wandered up and down along the water line as he pondered his predicament and tried his phone and looking down at the sand he smiled to see the patterns his footsteps had made, then he noticed there were other footsteps, actual imprints of feet, someone had walked along this beach in their bare feet, what kind of idiot did that in weather like this? He had childhood recollections of Robinson Crusoe and Man Friday and he briefly imagined an African native in a grass skirt; not probable really in the English climate. He assumed that the footprints must belong to a native of the area though, someone who was used to the, cold in summer and icy in winter, North Sea. As he continued staring down intently at the strange footprints a low drawling voice broke the silence.
“Hi there.”
Orlando started and embarrassingly let out a high pitched yelp of surprise, then hoping that his blushing cheeks were hidden by his scarf he turned towards the voice.
The man was standing about ten feet away from him and appeared quite relaxed. There was an amused smile on his face, head tilted slightly to one side, hands stuffed casually into his pockets. He was of a similar height and build to Orlando, although since he too was wearing a heavy jacket it was difficult to be sure, and there was a seriously expensive camera slung over one shoulder. Orlando eyed it curiously; he hadn’t taken photos on anything but his phone for years. Over the other shoulder hung a pair of boots, laces tied together, his gaze drifted down to the rolled up trousers and bare feet; so this was his Man Friday.
“I’m sorry,” the man continued, “I really didn’t mean to sneak up on you but in this mist it’s kinda difficult to see anything till you’re up close.” He was softly spoken with an accent, American with a hint of something else, Orlando thought. “I didn’t think there was anyone else crazy enough to be out here this morning.”
“Me either,” Orlando acknowledged with a brief smile. He wondered if he should be worried, the man looked harmless and he hadn’t come close enough to make him feel threatened, but still, who the hell wandered around on a beach in the fog, in winter, in their bare feet, as the man had said himself, surely only crazy people. On the other hand the boots and coat, although well worn, were obviously expensive and Orlando was fascinated by the camera. He gestured towards it, “What on earth were you planning to take pictures of in the fog?”
The man grinned, revealing slightly uneven teeth and shrugged. “There’s always something to catch my attention, even on days like this.” He looked Orlando up and down quite brazenly and winked and something fluttered in Orlando’s stomach.
“Really?”
“Sure. And the mist adds a certain other worldliness, you know?”
Orlando wasn’t sure he did know, “I think it’s a bit creepy out here.”
The man laughed a low, unaffected laugh. “Yeah that too,” he agreed.
Orlando couldn’t help smiling back, the guy seemed pretty normal, he had a nice face, especially when he grinned and a dimple in his chin and slender, shapely feet; blue feet.
“Aren’t your feet freezing?” he asked, stupidly, aware that he had been staring at them.
The man looked down, almost as if he’d forgotten that his feet were bare. “Yeah, I guess,” he shrugged. “You don’t notice after a while.”
“Why are you walking around without your boots?” Orlando asked. In this strange, creepy, alien environment his continuing curiosity didn’t seem rude.
The man’s brow furrowed as if the reason were obvious. “It’s a beach,” he said. “Why would you come here if not to feel the sand and the sea?”
Orlando stared, bewildered, the man was totally mad after all. “Do you live in the village then?” he asked, redundantly he thought, surely the man must be local and used to the conditions.
“Nah, I’m just visiting, I’m staying in a cottage over there somewhere.” He pulled a hand out of his pocket and gestured vaguely towards the dunes. “It’s called Sea View.”
Orlando gasped, “Oh my God, you’re the family upstairs!”
“What?” the man looked bemused.
“I’m staying in the ground floor apartment at Sea View. I only arrived last night and I could hear you all. I mean it wasn’t really loud or anything, just I guess there are a few of you…” Orlando trailed off, aware that he was sounding rather petulant.
“No there’s only me, and I didn’t realise… was it the music, I had it turned down pretty low, at least I thought I did.”
“No, no!” Orlando could feel his cheeks flushing with embarrassment again and he was desperate to mitigate his complaint. “It’s an old house and the floorboards creak, so I could hear you walking around and, well, there seemed to be a lot of activity, so I thought there must be a whole crowd of you up there.”
“Hey, I’m really sorry.” The man looked truly upset. “That was all me. I tend to pace around when I’m composing.”
Orlando just stared at him. “You write music?”
“No, poetry.”
“So you’re a photographer and a poet?” Orlando’s eyes widened.
The man grinned again. “Fraid so, but neither of those is my actual day job?”
“What is your day job?”
“I’m a publisher.”
“Do you publish your own poetry?”
“I sure do, perk of the job.”
Orlando laughed; he was really beginning to warm to this man. “I guess it would be.”
“I’m Viggo by the way.” The man moved cautiously forward, hand outstretched.
“Orlando,” Orlando replied, immediately pulling off his glove, shaking the firm, cold hand and gazing into what he could now see were lively, pale blue eyes. At closer quarters Viggo really was very attractive.
“Well, hello Orlando,” Viggo drawled, “it’s good to meet you.”
Orlando nodded. “You too.”
Viggo returned his hand to his pocket. “So what are you out here looking for?”
“Looking for?” Orlando frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“When I first came across you, you were bending down staring at the ground; I thought you were looking for something.”
“Ahh, no, I wasn’t looking for anything, unless you count myself maybe,” Orlando replied with a nervous laugh.
Viggo looked concerned. “That’s some heavy shit for Christmas Day. Are you okay?”
“Sorry, sorry, yes, I’m absolutely fine,” Orlando replied hastily, realising that he sounded like he was the crazy person now. “I was just studying the footprints in the sand. Your footprints I guess unless there is some other completely insane person wandering around in the freezing fog with no boots on.”
Viggo’s mouth curled into an amused smile. “So, you think I’m insane, huh?”
Orlando cursed under his breath, when would he learn to think before speaking. “No!” he spluttered. Then seeing Viggo’s amusement escalate at his obvious alarm he hazarded with a smile, “Well, maybe a little bit. Not many people go paddling on Christmas Day.”
Viggo tilted his head again and adopted a puzzled frown. “I’m sure I’ve seen somewhere that you guys over here all go swimming on Boxing Day.”
“Not all of us,” Orlando laughed, “and anyway that would be tomorrow. The sea will be warmer tomorrow, we arrange it specially.”
Viggo let out a huge bark of laughter. “You Brits really are insane.”
“We’re eccentric,” Orlando said solemnly, “there’s a difference.” This was definitely eccentric Orlando thought, standing on a fog shrouded beach debating insanity with a man who was wearing no shoes. And he had grown so desperate after only twenty-four hours of solitude that he didn’t want to let go of this just yet.
“I like eccentrics,” Viggo declared, smiling. “And since we’ve now become acquainted, would you do me a favour?”
Orlando hesitated, wondering if Viggo wanted to photograph him, he wasn’t really keen on the idea, but then he shrugged, hell, he’d come here to get away from his everyday life in London, be spontaneous, adventurous. “Sure,” he said.
“Would you hold the camera for me so I can put my boots back on, before I lose all feeling in my feet?”
Orlando automatically glanced down again at the feet in question, they were certainly turning an even deeper shade of blue but they were attractive feet, strong, shapely. “Yes, of course, no problem.” He extended his hands to carefully take the camera from Viggo and having handed it over Viggo sat down on the sand and took off his scarf and used it to towel his feet. Orlando turned the camera over in his hands, studying it, partly out of interest, partly because he thought he’d already done too much staring at his new acquaintance.
“Are you interested in photography?” Viggo asked as he pulled on his socks and laced up his boots.
“I like looking at photographs, but I’m not sure I’m much good at taking them.”
“So, what do you do, Orlando, when you’re not following footsteps on deserted beaches?”
“I work in the City,” Orlando said. “I mean, I work in London in a bank, a Merchant bank.”
“Right,” Viggo jumped to his feet and brushed the sand off his coat and trousers. “And why are you spending your Christmas alone out here? Don’t you have family?”
Orlando again hesitated. Viggo was smiling at him encouragingly and Orlando was thinking how easy it would be to confess everything to those soft blue eyes. “I do, but my mother has just remarried and is on her honeymoon and I…, I just wanted to get away for the holidays, you know, peace and solitude, a complete change from my everyday life.”
“Ah, yes, I do know. That was mostly my plan too. My family are all back in the States and work is always pretty manic in the run up to Christmas, so I was also planning a solitary and peaceful holiday.”
Orlando nodded as he handed back the camera. “Yes, exactly, and I thought this place would be ideal.”
“But it’s not working out huh?” Viggo eyed him speculatively and Orlando flushed again, was his dissatisfaction so obvious? “What with the noisy family upstairs and the crazy man in the fog?” Viggo continued and his lips quirked.
Orlando laughed. “And I couldn’t get the wretched fire to light.”
Viggo frowned. “Really? Mine was all set up; didn’t it just need a match?”
“Yes, I’m sure it did,” he said hurriedly, wanting to kick himself for sounding like such an idiot, “But applying it in exactly the right place is apparently something else I’m not good at.”
Viggo’s brow wrinkled as if he were pondering something, then he said, “Look, Orlando, how were you planning to spend the rest of today?”
“Well the pub will be open for a couple of hours, so I was going to have a few drinks and then eat my microwave turkey dinner for one and fall asleep in front of the TV,” Orlando said. He grinned as he spoke, hoping to convey that this plan wasn’t as desperately sad as it now sounded.
Viggo nodded. “The pub sounds like a good idea, I was thinking of going there too, but after that well..,” he paused for a moment before continuing, “I do have a roaring fire and fresh food upstairs and there’s certainly enough for two if you’d like to join me.”
Orlando shuffled his feet and hummed as he pondered this offer, trying to buy himself thinking time, trying to resist admitting that his declared aim of spending Christmas alone wasn’t going well and he’d love to attach himself to this handsome stranger who seemed to be quite comfortable with solitude and isolation but was also charitable enough to offer him companionship; trying to deny that he felt a spike of excited anticipation.
“Have I overstepped the mark?” Viggo asked when Orlando didn’t answer immediately. “I know we’ve only just met but we are sharing a house.”
“No,” Orlando shook his head, “I’d really like to…” he ran the alternative conclusions to this response through in his head; have dinner with you, come upstairs with you, get drunk and snog you under the mistletoe. “do that,” he finished lamely. “Thank you.”
“Great.” Viggo’s face split into a wide grin and Orlando wondered if Viggo was also finding that spending Christmas alone was not as much fun as he had thought it would be. Or if he was just a very generous man.
********************************************************
He accompanied Viggo to the pub, a cosy, old fashioned and very welcoming hostelry on the main street, only a little further down from their cottage. It was bustling with merry customers and the landlord greeted them warmly and offered them a tot of whiskey on the house to celebrate Christmas Day. They clinked glasses before swallowing it and then ordered beer. By the time they left the pub and wandered back up the street Orlando’s mood had improved immeasurably. Viggo was an entertaining companion. The publishing company he worked for was based in London, out towards the suburbs and part of a larger US group, Viggo had come over to run the UK office a couple of years ago. Orlando had contributed his own, occasionally amusing he hoped, experiences of working in the Square Mile and his life in London and the conversation had flowed easily between them.
When they returned to the house Orlando went to his own apartment first and grabbed a couple of bottles of wine from the box he had brought up with him and he was halfway to the door when a thought struck him. He put the bottles down on the table and went to the bathroom where he burrowed into his toilet bag, finally retrieving a strip of condoms and a tube of lubricant. He looked at the items for a while, wondering if he was being too presumptuous, maybe even inappropriate; their talk in the pub had been more than just superficially friendly and he was ninety per cent sure that Viggo was at the very least bi but there had been no obvious flirting. He stood looking at the items for a few more moments then stuffed them into his jacket pocket. It was a sensible precaution he decided, they didn’t have to get used, it was just a comfort to know they were there if he needed them. Then he picked up the wine and made his way upstairs.
He cheerfully acted as the sous-chef while Viggo cooked a delicious if not exactly traditional meal of turkey stir fry. It was certainly better than his own pre-prepared meal would have been even though it had come from a gourmet catering company. Orlando had tried some mild flirting and Viggo had responded playfully but never escalated the exchanges so he began to think that he perhaps wasn’t interested in brunettes, younger men or bankers. This was a shame because the longer he was exposed to Viggo’s quietly amusing charm, the more he was attracted to the man.
When the dishwasher had been loaded and turned on he made a half-hearted, and certainly regretful, move to return to his own ‘cottage’, joking that it was amusing to have to put his coat on and go outside to effectively get downstairs and Viggo said, again somewhat tentatively. “You don’t have to go yet do you? We could watch a film, or just talk, I’m really enjoying your company.” Orlando enthusiastically agreed that he’d love to stay longer and then panicked that he sounded truly desperate and tried to cover his excessive response by flicking purposefully through the TV channels to find a suitable film. When Viggo collapsed onto the capacious sofa. Orlando contemplated joining him but was slightly afraid that the wine and the atmosphere might lead to him making a pass and ruining the day so he opted to sit on the sheepskin rug with his back against the sofa. Now he was floating on a pleasantly buzzed cloud; warm, well fed, and a little drunk. Somehow during the film maybe one of them had moved but either way Viggo’s leg was pressed against his shoulder and the weight of it there felt comfortable, intimate. He inadvertently rubbed himself against the leg; he might have purred.
Viggo chuckled and stretched out a hand and, perhaps accidentally, brushed against Orlando’s hair. “Would you like some more wine?”
Orlando turned his head and his cheek grazed Viggo’s hand. “Why don’t you fill the glasses and then join me down here?” he suggested seductively.
Viggo sighed and Orlando cursed his habitual tendency to rush in too soon. “I’m sorry,” he blurted.
“No, I’m sorry,” Viggo said, “but if I come down there, I’m not sure I could stop myself from kissing you and…”
“And?” Orlando said hopefully.
“And I don’t want you to think you have to respond just because I made you dinner.”
Orlando rubbed his chin against Viggo’s knee. “I’m really not that much of a push-over, I’d be responding because I wanted to.”
“You’re sure that’s not just the alcohol talking?”
“I’m sure,” Orlando said firmly, “I was sure before we’d even left the pub.”
“Is that so?” Viggo said his voice now more of a low growl.
“Yes,” said Orlando firmly. “And I’m really not the kind of guy who takes advantage of his host, or ever makes anyone do anything they don’t want to. But my suggestion still stands: fill the glasses and join me down here and we’ll see what happens, but there’s absolutely no pressure.”
Viggo chuckled. “I think you’ve pretty much covered all the disclaimers there, without quite managing to kill the mood.”
Orlando pressed his forehead against Viggo’s knee. “I swear, I have better lines,” he chuckled.
Viggo stroked Orlando’s hair, more deliberately this time and stood up. “Give me your glass.”
Orlando passed over his glass and smiled up at his host, trying to look both seductive and unthreatening at the same time but from his position on the floor he could see that, what he had already thought was a nicely shaped bulge in Viggo’s jeans, was now more prominent; his own penis swelled at the sight.
Viggo seemed to be away longer than was necessary to fill two glasses and Orlando was wondering if he should worry but then Viggo reappeared with a glass in each hand and after giving them to Orlando to hold, knelt down beside him on the rug. Before he finally settled he covertly removed something from his back pocket and slid it out of sight under the sofa. Orlando smiled to himself, he guessed that Viggo had made a detour to the bathroom.
Viggo retrieved his glass and clinked it against Orlando’s. “Cheers,” he said, “here’s to whatever happens.” The smile was still slightly uncertain, nervous even but the soft blue eyes were already darkening with arousal.
Orlando’s jeans were rapidly becoming too tight. He knew the atmosphere was more charged than if this had just been a casual chance encounter. It was Christmas, and the spirit of the season had finally seeped into him. The crowd in the pub had included carol singers, Viggo had produced crackers for their meal and there had been real holly adorning their dessert. Ridiculously he was already investing too much in this situation.
They sipped from their glasses and then Viggo took Orlando’s glass and laid them both aside. “I am going to kiss you now,” he warned.
Orlando tried to show some restraint and not just throw himself at the other man when Viggo’s lips pressed gently against his, nudging his nose so that Orlando tilted his head to allow better access. But when he deepened the kiss, his tongue teasing at Orlando’s lips and then his hand cradling the back of Orlando’s head increasing the contact it was all he could do not to climb into Viggo’s lap and beg to be fucked. Viggo was a very good kisser, he didn’t dominate but Orlando couldn’t remember when he had last been so thoroughly kissed, it wasn't something Sean was keen on, he liked to get straight to the main event, but Viggo was taking his time, exploring Orlando’s lips, and then his mouth with his tongue and Orlando was happy to let him. The pace was unhurried and breathing wasn't an issue but eventually Viggo drew back, his hand still lingering against Orlando’s cheek.
“I knew that kissing you was a really bad idea,” Viggo said with a teasing smile, “now I can’t stop myself from wanting something more.”
“It’s all good so far,” Orlando said reassuringly, and he reached over and started to unbutton Viggo’s shirt, revealing a tanned, lightly furred chest; he immediately slipped his fingers inside the open gap and caressed the warm skin at his throat. “I’d tell you if I wanted you to stop.”
Viggo nodded. “Okay, that’s alright then.” He grasped the hem of Orlando’s t-shirt and urged him to take it off, Orlando struggled out of it and tossed it aside, then he finished undoing Viggo’s buttons and pushed the shirt off his shoulders, Viggo manoeuvred his arms out of the sleeves and threw it towards the sofa. For a few minutes they just explored the skin that was now exposed. The brush of Viggo’s fingers over his nipples caused Orlando’s cock to pulse in his jeans and it motivated him to reach for Viggo’s belt. Viggo drew him into another kiss and as they came closer again Orlando could feel the heat of Viggo’s body. He trailed his fingers down across the front of Viggo’s jeans and cupped his erection, and Viggo moaned into his mouth.
“I think this is the point where I ask you how you want to do this.” Viggo said his breath already a little ragged.
Orlando sighed against Viggo’s lips; a part of him, the ridiculously romantic part was screaming, ‘we’re on a rug in front of a log fire and what I want is for you to undress me and take me any way you like; just make my dreams real’. The rational adult replied, “I can go either way but, if it’s good with you I’d really like it if you’d…” he hesitated because the romantic didn’t want to say fuck or screw or shag and dammit he was way, way too overinvested in the fantasy.
Viggo again pulled back and stroked Orlando’s cheek, pulling his thumb down across his kiss-swollen lips. “I’d very much like to make love to you,” he said, “and I’d decided that before we left the pub too.”
The butterfly in Orlando’s stomach was probably causing a tornado somewhere in South America as he said, “I’d very much like that too.”
“Okay,” Viggo nodded and pressed a brief kiss against Orlando’s lips then he stood up, unfastened his jeans and shrugged them off, reached over for the throw on the back of the sofa and pulled it onto the floor. “Is right here OK?”
***************************************************************
Orlando woke the next morning to find himself in Viggo’s bed with the older man spooned up behind him. He was almost too afraid to move in case the previous evening had been a dream; or worse that it had all happened as he remembered but, as had occasionally been the case in his younger days, his bed mate was not as gorgeous as he’d thought him the previous night through the haze of alcohol. Viggo felt real enough, he could sense the rise and fall of the man’s breathing and an arm was draped across Orlando’s chest. He nestled back against the warm body and felt the man’s semi erect penis against his thigh. He shuddered as he relived how it had felt last night, inside him.
Viggo had been a considerate lover; taking his time with the prep, making sure Orlando was comfortable. There had been a point when Orlando was so painfully aroused and needy that he almost wanted to scream ‘just get on with it’ but Viggo, perhaps sensing his frustration kissed the dip between his shoulder blades and whispered huskily, “Please, just let me do this a little longer, I love the way you feel.” And he’d rubbed the pads of his fingers very gently across Orlando’s gland and Orlando had whimpered. And when he was finally happy, Viggo had rolled him onto his back and said, “I want to watch you when you come.” before wrapping Orlando’s legs around his waist and pushing in to him, agonisingly slowly. The man had astonishing self-control, they’d rocked together for what seemed like hours, the face to face position allowing them to kiss, albeit messily, until Viggo finally took a firmer grasp on Orlando’s penis, thrust harder and faster inside him and whispered, “Come for me now.” into Orlando’s ear.
When they’d recovered they’d lounged, still naked, on the throw in front of the fire, drinking the rest of their wine and talking, laughing, touching until Viggo had finally said, “Will you stay the night and sleep with me.”
As he remembered it now Orlando’s hand slipped down to his penis and Viggo’s arm moved too and his hand joined Orlando’s. “Good morning,” Viggo said, nuzzling the curls at the base of Orlando’s skull. Orlando’s response was more of a moan as Viggo’s hand stroked him. “Would you like some breakfast?” Viggo continued, squeezing. “There’s definitely coffee and eggs and I’ll see what else I can find.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Orlando growled, reaching back with his free arm and grasping Viggo’s thigh.
Sometime later, Orlando, sweaty and sated, clung to Viggo, still unwilling to let the man get out of bed. “Happy Boxing Day,” he murmured.
“Ah right, I guess Boxing Day is another day of celebrations for you Brits?” Viggo chuckled.
“Well, traditionally Boxing Day used to be the day people exchanged gifts, not Christmas Day,” Orlando said. “I should go downstairs and try and find something as a present for you.”
“I thought you were my present,” Viggo said, his tongue curling around Orlando’s earlobe.
“Is there any way I could be your future too?” Orlando asked. His heart was still beating a little too fast, his brain was probably short of oxygen; dammit, yet again he’d spoken first and thought later.
Viggo drew back so that he could look at him and he smiled a genuinely happy smile. “I think that would be something I’d definitely like,” he replied softly.
The End
Author: Artemis Allen
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Orlando/Viggo
Beta::
gattodoro; Thank you. But I have tampered with it because I can’t leave well alone, so all mistakes are mine.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.
Notes: This story is set in 2015 - just because it is and so avoids any COVID issues.
Word Count: 6,920
Summary: A young man thinks he wants to spend his Christmas alone.
Footprints in the Sand
Orlando was beginning to think that he’d made a huge mistake. He’d lied to everyone; he winced at the word lied, maybe mislead was a better description, yes that would do, he’d mislead everyone; his friends, his colleagues and especially his loving family, so that he could spend his Christmas alone, in an isolated, windswept village, on the Northumbrian coast.
He’d justified this plan, to himself at least, with the excuse that what he really needed during the Christmas holidays this year was a chance to get away from his real, everyday life and recharge his emotional batteries. It had been an eventful, exhausting year for him, both personally and professionally and he didn’t feel that he could endure all the usual festivities; he just wanted some peace and quiet. But now it was Christmas morning and he was seriously considering packing up his things, getting into the car and driving south to throw himself on his knees beside someone else’s Christmas dinner table, begging for sanctuary.
Not his mother’s of course. His newly married mother was on a Caribbean cruise. She had asked him to accompany them, and George, her new husband, whom Orlando actually liked very much, had heartily supported her request. But there were some things a son really shouldn’t do and playing gooseberry on his mother’s honeymoon was certainly one of them. His mother had argued the case and pointed out that he didn’t have to spend all his time with them. It was a big ship and cruise lines catered exceptionally well for single people of all ages; that was how she and George had met. There would be plenty to entertain him on board, lots of other single people around and the crew made sure that no one ever had to sit out the dances. All she expected of Orlando was to see him for Christmas lunch but they would both be happy to see him more often. Orlando had almost capitulated; the idea of dancing with a handsome sailor in a dashing white uniform and peaked cap, was very appealing but then he’d started wondering if the crew on cruise ships wore different uniforms to the Navy whites he was visualising; his brow had wrinkled, his Mother had asked what he was thinking and he’d blushed. Not that she, or George, was unaware of his sexual preferences, he just didn’t think they should see him drunk and needy, wrapping himself around a man who was only dancing with him because it was specified in his job description. He said no, he would prefer to spend his Christmas with friends. See, that wasn’t a lie, he had expressed a preference; he hadn’t said he would spend it with friends. His mother had accepted this, after all she knew there were plenty of friends to choose from; childhood friends, university friends, work friends and he had spent many of his previous Christmas holidays this way.
There had been a group of them who, after leaving university, regularly got together for the holidays. They flew out to sunnier shores, went skiing or rented remote cottages, they had even stayed in a castle and once they had been snowed in for a whole week on Dartmoor. Then over the years people got married, had children and started spending their Christmas at home. Not that they’d stopped being friends, they still managed occasional weekends away together and they often invited him to stay with them for the holidays. He had spent last Christmas with Dom, one of his closest friends, and his family. Sarah, Dom’s wife, was lovely and treated Orlando like a brother but their two kids, both under five, had roused the whole household before six am and Sarah’s mother had tried to fix him up with her younger daughter. He knew that whichever invitation he accepted this year the situation would be much the same. Orlando was in his mid-thirties now and he was the only one of the group without a long-term partner but he didn’t want them all to think he was lonely, because he wasn’t, he really, really wasn’t. So he’d told all his friends that Sean had invited him for Christmas. This was also true, in principle, there had certainly been an invitation; they weren’t to know that Orlando had no intention of accepting it.
Despite the fact that they weren’t seeing each other anymore, ‘seeing’ being a euphemism for enthusiastically fucking, they were still friends and Sean would be spending Christmas in Yorkshire with his parents who both liked Orlando very much. It was a big house, there were plenty of bedrooms and there would be a mountain of food and drink; it was tempting, almost too tempting. Orlando liked Sean, another man who looked good in a uniform and in Sean’s case, being an airline pilot, one covered in an impressive amount of gold braid; and there had been a time when Orlando thought he might be looking at a future with Sean. As with most of his more serious relationships, Sean was older than him but he was fit, good looking, even without the captain’s uniform, charming, when he made the effort, down to earth and fun to be with.
But Orlando was a romantic, not hearts and flowers and white doves kind of romantic exactly, he just wanted someone with a poetic soul, someone who would be happy to curl up on the rug in front of a roaring fire with a glass of wine and talk about nothing in particular until they drifted into lovemaking and then snuggled. Sean certainly liked to spend evenings at home but he was more inclined to shout at the football on TV from the edge of the sofa before downing the remains of his beer and announcing with a lascivious wink that it was bedtime. They would fuck, athletically, and then Sean would roll away and sleep. The one time Orlando had suggested trying out the rug Sean had frowned and pointed out that there was a perfectly good bed upstairs so why on earth would they want to shag on the floor.
After two years Orlando had realised that, notwithstanding the quality of the sex, they were really just like good mates, friends with obvious benefits. This had been fine for Sean, it was all he was looking for, but Orlando wanted more and so he’d attempted to terminate the relationship. Sean had been disappointed but certainly not devastated and suggested they could still be friends. Orlando had seen no reason not to, he enjoyed the man’s company, so they still went for a pint when Sean was home and saw the occasional football match together at weekends. This worked well enough in London, with other people around, but in Yorkshire, in the same house, defences lowered by egg-nog and Christmas bonhomie, it would be very easy to fall into Sean’s bed and Orlando would undoubtedly fall and then hate himself in the morning.
Sean had been the longest relationship he’d had for some time. At university no strings hook-ups had been easy to come by. Thrown out into the world of working in the city he’d gone clubbing at weekends and London had an abundance of gay bars, some pretty wild, others on the more sophisticated side, so there was always sex to be had for anyone who wanted it but romance was in shorter supply and Orlando was starving for a little love and tenderness.
He could have stayed at home over Christmas of course; there was no shortage of entertainment in London and a couple of his work friends had invited him to Christmas lunch but he just didn’t feel that he could display the necessary level of Christmas spirit this year so he had hatched a scheme to spend his Christmas vacation alone and had rented a hideaway for the week. It was a small cottage in the far north east of England, a ‘stone’s throw’ from the beach and it had low beams, an open fire and, according to the website, plenty of old world charm; whatever that meant. There were a couple of pubs in the village, a hotel and a few touristy shops, although the shops were now closed for the winter. It sounded ideal. He could get up late, gaze at the sea from his window, take long bracing walks on the beach, catch up on his reading, watch corny films on TV, eat as much, or as little, as he liked and no one could force him to have fun or join in their games.
So far the idyll he had imagined had not materialised. The long drive up from London on Christmas Eve had been tortuous. He’d finished work at lunchtime and headed straight out but with everyone else trying to get away for the holidays too the roads had been jammed and it was late evening before he’d arrived and unloaded the car. His cottage was more precisely the ground floor apartment in a solid stone built two storey house. It was decently furnished, if a little heavy on the chintz and had all the necessary amenities including an efficient central heating system which was fortunate because despite being well supplied with logs and matches, Orlando had failed to get the open fire to light. It had put an immediate damper on his evening. He had been looking forward to sitting by the fire with his book and a glass of wine. Tired and fractious, he had decided to turn in and at least get a decent night’s sleep but that hadn’t gone well either. The upstairs apartment also appeared to be inhabited and the floorboards creaked as the occupants walked about the room. There seemed to be an excessive amount of this walking about and Orlando deduced that there must be several people up there, maybe a family. If that were the case he hoped the children wouldn’t be up and bouncing around early the next morning but already his quiet retreat was turning sour. He turned off the light, pulled the covers over his head and eventually drifted into a restless sleep.
When he woke in the morning, he thought it must still be quite early as there was no light filtering through the flowery drapes but his watch showed it was nearly nine. After he rolled out of bed and pulled open the curtains he realised why it seemed so dark; the village was buried in a thick, grey fog. The view from the front of the house might well be of the sea but Orlando could barely see the other side of the road. ‘Just perfect,’ he thought, ‘just absolutely bloody perfect’. Hoping the fog might clear, he breakfasted on tea and toast and had another fruitless attempt at lighting the fire. The fog hadn’t budged. He kept checking his phone, hoping for at least a couple of Happy Christmas messages but there was no mobile reception and the promised Wi-Fi was patchy at best. He’d brought a small pile of gifts with him, mostly from his mother, but it didn’t feel very much like Christmas and he wasn’t in the mood for opening them so he decided to wait until after lunch when he might finally succeed in getting the bloody fire to light and be mellowed by food and wine. Finally, his mood having deteriorated to seriously pissed, he put on his walking boots and heavy coat, pulled a woolly hat down over his ears, wrapped his scarf a couple of times around his neck and then ventured outside. He’d been determined to walk on the beach on Christmas morning and he was going to do just that; if he could find it.
Even in the all-encompassing mist it was fairly easy to locate the path that led to the sea. The dunes were a couple of hundred yards from the house, a bit more than the promised stone’s throw, unless you had a very long reach, Orlando thought to himself grumpily and it was a beautiful beach; firm, pale golden sand stretching for miles, and clean, white surf; Orlando knew this, he’d seen pictures on the cottage website. There had been happy holiday makers, children fishing in rock pools, dogs chasing balls, horses cantering through the surf. Today there was nothing except the dense fog and an eerie deadness. He was fairly sure the sea was out there, somewhere, but he certainly couldn’t see it and all he could hear was the dull hoot of a distant fog horn. It was as if he were the only person left in the world. Well this was what he’d wanted wasn’t it, solitary isolation?
He advanced towards where he thought the sea must surely be, the sand becoming wetter as he walked. When he eventually reached the water’s edge the sea was flat calm and lacy foam edged waves sloshed lazily on to the sand; Orlando watched them, fascinated. It was only as he turned to walk along the shore that he looked back towards the dunes and realised with horror that he could no longer see them through the thick fog. He experienced a moment of heart stopping panic. What if he couldn’t find his way back? He knew the tide came in very quickly here because of the level shelf, he might drown, no one knew he was here, no one would miss him. ‘Idiot’ he gave himself a mental shake, all he had to do was head away from the sea in a straight line, that seemed like a reasonable action. Then another thought encroached, hadn’t he read somewhere that when people were lost they never, ever managed to walk in a straight line, they always went round in circles, or was that just in the woods. He was about to start back up the beach at a run before he completely lost his bearings and his sense of proportion when he looked down and realised that he could see his own footprints in the sand, they ran in a slightly meandering line from the direction, hopefully, of the dunes.
He laughed at his stupidity but another part of him almost wanted to cry. ‘Man up Bloom, you are such a city boy!’ he admonished himself. What the hell did he think he was doing out here? What was he even trying to prove, running away from everyone? He liked company and if he thought he was looking for romance he really wasn’t going to find it holed up beside a deserted beach in the middle of nowhere. This whole trip had definitely been a mistake. He should admit defeat, pack up his things and leave. He could be down in Yorkshire in a few hours, well maybe four if the fog was widespread; Sean’s parents wouldn’t mind. He pulled out his phone, still no reception, dammit.
He had wandered up and down along the water line as he pondered his predicament and tried his phone and looking down at the sand he smiled to see the patterns his footsteps had made, then he noticed there were other footsteps, actual imprints of feet, someone had walked along this beach in their bare feet, what kind of idiot did that in weather like this? He had childhood recollections of Robinson Crusoe and Man Friday and he briefly imagined an African native in a grass skirt; not probable really in the English climate. He assumed that the footprints must belong to a native of the area though, someone who was used to the, cold in summer and icy in winter, North Sea. As he continued staring down intently at the strange footprints a low drawling voice broke the silence.
“Hi there.”
Orlando started and embarrassingly let out a high pitched yelp of surprise, then hoping that his blushing cheeks were hidden by his scarf he turned towards the voice.
The man was standing about ten feet away from him and appeared quite relaxed. There was an amused smile on his face, head tilted slightly to one side, hands stuffed casually into his pockets. He was of a similar height and build to Orlando, although since he too was wearing a heavy jacket it was difficult to be sure, and there was a seriously expensive camera slung over one shoulder. Orlando eyed it curiously; he hadn’t taken photos on anything but his phone for years. Over the other shoulder hung a pair of boots, laces tied together, his gaze drifted down to the rolled up trousers and bare feet; so this was his Man Friday.
“I’m sorry,” the man continued, “I really didn’t mean to sneak up on you but in this mist it’s kinda difficult to see anything till you’re up close.” He was softly spoken with an accent, American with a hint of something else, Orlando thought. “I didn’t think there was anyone else crazy enough to be out here this morning.”
“Me either,” Orlando acknowledged with a brief smile. He wondered if he should be worried, the man looked harmless and he hadn’t come close enough to make him feel threatened, but still, who the hell wandered around on a beach in the fog, in winter, in their bare feet, as the man had said himself, surely only crazy people. On the other hand the boots and coat, although well worn, were obviously expensive and Orlando was fascinated by the camera. He gestured towards it, “What on earth were you planning to take pictures of in the fog?”
The man grinned, revealing slightly uneven teeth and shrugged. “There’s always something to catch my attention, even on days like this.” He looked Orlando up and down quite brazenly and winked and something fluttered in Orlando’s stomach.
“Really?”
“Sure. And the mist adds a certain other worldliness, you know?”
Orlando wasn’t sure he did know, “I think it’s a bit creepy out here.”
The man laughed a low, unaffected laugh. “Yeah that too,” he agreed.
Orlando couldn’t help smiling back, the guy seemed pretty normal, he had a nice face, especially when he grinned and a dimple in his chin and slender, shapely feet; blue feet.
“Aren’t your feet freezing?” he asked, stupidly, aware that he had been staring at them.
The man looked down, almost as if he’d forgotten that his feet were bare. “Yeah, I guess,” he shrugged. “You don’t notice after a while.”
“Why are you walking around without your boots?” Orlando asked. In this strange, creepy, alien environment his continuing curiosity didn’t seem rude.
The man’s brow furrowed as if the reason were obvious. “It’s a beach,” he said. “Why would you come here if not to feel the sand and the sea?”
Orlando stared, bewildered, the man was totally mad after all. “Do you live in the village then?” he asked, redundantly he thought, surely the man must be local and used to the conditions.
“Nah, I’m just visiting, I’m staying in a cottage over there somewhere.” He pulled a hand out of his pocket and gestured vaguely towards the dunes. “It’s called Sea View.”
Orlando gasped, “Oh my God, you’re the family upstairs!”
“What?” the man looked bemused.
“I’m staying in the ground floor apartment at Sea View. I only arrived last night and I could hear you all. I mean it wasn’t really loud or anything, just I guess there are a few of you…” Orlando trailed off, aware that he was sounding rather petulant.
“No there’s only me, and I didn’t realise… was it the music, I had it turned down pretty low, at least I thought I did.”
“No, no!” Orlando could feel his cheeks flushing with embarrassment again and he was desperate to mitigate his complaint. “It’s an old house and the floorboards creak, so I could hear you walking around and, well, there seemed to be a lot of activity, so I thought there must be a whole crowd of you up there.”
“Hey, I’m really sorry.” The man looked truly upset. “That was all me. I tend to pace around when I’m composing.”
Orlando just stared at him. “You write music?”
“No, poetry.”
“So you’re a photographer and a poet?” Orlando’s eyes widened.
The man grinned again. “Fraid so, but neither of those is my actual day job?”
“What is your day job?”
“I’m a publisher.”
“Do you publish your own poetry?”
“I sure do, perk of the job.”
Orlando laughed; he was really beginning to warm to this man. “I guess it would be.”
“I’m Viggo by the way.” The man moved cautiously forward, hand outstretched.
“Orlando,” Orlando replied, immediately pulling off his glove, shaking the firm, cold hand and gazing into what he could now see were lively, pale blue eyes. At closer quarters Viggo really was very attractive.
“Well, hello Orlando,” Viggo drawled, “it’s good to meet you.”
Orlando nodded. “You too.”
Viggo returned his hand to his pocket. “So what are you out here looking for?”
“Looking for?” Orlando frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“When I first came across you, you were bending down staring at the ground; I thought you were looking for something.”
“Ahh, no, I wasn’t looking for anything, unless you count myself maybe,” Orlando replied with a nervous laugh.
Viggo looked concerned. “That’s some heavy shit for Christmas Day. Are you okay?”
“Sorry, sorry, yes, I’m absolutely fine,” Orlando replied hastily, realising that he sounded like he was the crazy person now. “I was just studying the footprints in the sand. Your footprints I guess unless there is some other completely insane person wandering around in the freezing fog with no boots on.”
Viggo’s mouth curled into an amused smile. “So, you think I’m insane, huh?”
Orlando cursed under his breath, when would he learn to think before speaking. “No!” he spluttered. Then seeing Viggo’s amusement escalate at his obvious alarm he hazarded with a smile, “Well, maybe a little bit. Not many people go paddling on Christmas Day.”
Viggo tilted his head again and adopted a puzzled frown. “I’m sure I’ve seen somewhere that you guys over here all go swimming on Boxing Day.”
“Not all of us,” Orlando laughed, “and anyway that would be tomorrow. The sea will be warmer tomorrow, we arrange it specially.”
Viggo let out a huge bark of laughter. “You Brits really are insane.”
“We’re eccentric,” Orlando said solemnly, “there’s a difference.” This was definitely eccentric Orlando thought, standing on a fog shrouded beach debating insanity with a man who was wearing no shoes. And he had grown so desperate after only twenty-four hours of solitude that he didn’t want to let go of this just yet.
“I like eccentrics,” Viggo declared, smiling. “And since we’ve now become acquainted, would you do me a favour?”
Orlando hesitated, wondering if Viggo wanted to photograph him, he wasn’t really keen on the idea, but then he shrugged, hell, he’d come here to get away from his everyday life in London, be spontaneous, adventurous. “Sure,” he said.
“Would you hold the camera for me so I can put my boots back on, before I lose all feeling in my feet?”
Orlando automatically glanced down again at the feet in question, they were certainly turning an even deeper shade of blue but they were attractive feet, strong, shapely. “Yes, of course, no problem.” He extended his hands to carefully take the camera from Viggo and having handed it over Viggo sat down on the sand and took off his scarf and used it to towel his feet. Orlando turned the camera over in his hands, studying it, partly out of interest, partly because he thought he’d already done too much staring at his new acquaintance.
“Are you interested in photography?” Viggo asked as he pulled on his socks and laced up his boots.
“I like looking at photographs, but I’m not sure I’m much good at taking them.”
“So, what do you do, Orlando, when you’re not following footsteps on deserted beaches?”
“I work in the City,” Orlando said. “I mean, I work in London in a bank, a Merchant bank.”
“Right,” Viggo jumped to his feet and brushed the sand off his coat and trousers. “And why are you spending your Christmas alone out here? Don’t you have family?”
Orlando again hesitated. Viggo was smiling at him encouragingly and Orlando was thinking how easy it would be to confess everything to those soft blue eyes. “I do, but my mother has just remarried and is on her honeymoon and I…, I just wanted to get away for the holidays, you know, peace and solitude, a complete change from my everyday life.”
“Ah, yes, I do know. That was mostly my plan too. My family are all back in the States and work is always pretty manic in the run up to Christmas, so I was also planning a solitary and peaceful holiday.”
Orlando nodded as he handed back the camera. “Yes, exactly, and I thought this place would be ideal.”
“But it’s not working out huh?” Viggo eyed him speculatively and Orlando flushed again, was his dissatisfaction so obvious? “What with the noisy family upstairs and the crazy man in the fog?” Viggo continued and his lips quirked.
Orlando laughed. “And I couldn’t get the wretched fire to light.”
Viggo frowned. “Really? Mine was all set up; didn’t it just need a match?”
“Yes, I’m sure it did,” he said hurriedly, wanting to kick himself for sounding like such an idiot, “But applying it in exactly the right place is apparently something else I’m not good at.”
Viggo’s brow wrinkled as if he were pondering something, then he said, “Look, Orlando, how were you planning to spend the rest of today?”
“Well the pub will be open for a couple of hours, so I was going to have a few drinks and then eat my microwave turkey dinner for one and fall asleep in front of the TV,” Orlando said. He grinned as he spoke, hoping to convey that this plan wasn’t as desperately sad as it now sounded.
Viggo nodded. “The pub sounds like a good idea, I was thinking of going there too, but after that well..,” he paused for a moment before continuing, “I do have a roaring fire and fresh food upstairs and there’s certainly enough for two if you’d like to join me.”
Orlando shuffled his feet and hummed as he pondered this offer, trying to buy himself thinking time, trying to resist admitting that his declared aim of spending Christmas alone wasn’t going well and he’d love to attach himself to this handsome stranger who seemed to be quite comfortable with solitude and isolation but was also charitable enough to offer him companionship; trying to deny that he felt a spike of excited anticipation.
“Have I overstepped the mark?” Viggo asked when Orlando didn’t answer immediately. “I know we’ve only just met but we are sharing a house.”
“No,” Orlando shook his head, “I’d really like to…” he ran the alternative conclusions to this response through in his head; have dinner with you, come upstairs with you, get drunk and snog you under the mistletoe. “do that,” he finished lamely. “Thank you.”
“Great.” Viggo’s face split into a wide grin and Orlando wondered if Viggo was also finding that spending Christmas alone was not as much fun as he had thought it would be. Or if he was just a very generous man.
********************************************************
He accompanied Viggo to the pub, a cosy, old fashioned and very welcoming hostelry on the main street, only a little further down from their cottage. It was bustling with merry customers and the landlord greeted them warmly and offered them a tot of whiskey on the house to celebrate Christmas Day. They clinked glasses before swallowing it and then ordered beer. By the time they left the pub and wandered back up the street Orlando’s mood had improved immeasurably. Viggo was an entertaining companion. The publishing company he worked for was based in London, out towards the suburbs and part of a larger US group, Viggo had come over to run the UK office a couple of years ago. Orlando had contributed his own, occasionally amusing he hoped, experiences of working in the Square Mile and his life in London and the conversation had flowed easily between them.
When they returned to the house Orlando went to his own apartment first and grabbed a couple of bottles of wine from the box he had brought up with him and he was halfway to the door when a thought struck him. He put the bottles down on the table and went to the bathroom where he burrowed into his toilet bag, finally retrieving a strip of condoms and a tube of lubricant. He looked at the items for a while, wondering if he was being too presumptuous, maybe even inappropriate; their talk in the pub had been more than just superficially friendly and he was ninety per cent sure that Viggo was at the very least bi but there had been no obvious flirting. He stood looking at the items for a few more moments then stuffed them into his jacket pocket. It was a sensible precaution he decided, they didn’t have to get used, it was just a comfort to know they were there if he needed them. Then he picked up the wine and made his way upstairs.
He cheerfully acted as the sous-chef while Viggo cooked a delicious if not exactly traditional meal of turkey stir fry. It was certainly better than his own pre-prepared meal would have been even though it had come from a gourmet catering company. Orlando had tried some mild flirting and Viggo had responded playfully but never escalated the exchanges so he began to think that he perhaps wasn’t interested in brunettes, younger men or bankers. This was a shame because the longer he was exposed to Viggo’s quietly amusing charm, the more he was attracted to the man.
When the dishwasher had been loaded and turned on he made a half-hearted, and certainly regretful, move to return to his own ‘cottage’, joking that it was amusing to have to put his coat on and go outside to effectively get downstairs and Viggo said, again somewhat tentatively. “You don’t have to go yet do you? We could watch a film, or just talk, I’m really enjoying your company.” Orlando enthusiastically agreed that he’d love to stay longer and then panicked that he sounded truly desperate and tried to cover his excessive response by flicking purposefully through the TV channels to find a suitable film. When Viggo collapsed onto the capacious sofa. Orlando contemplated joining him but was slightly afraid that the wine and the atmosphere might lead to him making a pass and ruining the day so he opted to sit on the sheepskin rug with his back against the sofa. Now he was floating on a pleasantly buzzed cloud; warm, well fed, and a little drunk. Somehow during the film maybe one of them had moved but either way Viggo’s leg was pressed against his shoulder and the weight of it there felt comfortable, intimate. He inadvertently rubbed himself against the leg; he might have purred.
Viggo chuckled and stretched out a hand and, perhaps accidentally, brushed against Orlando’s hair. “Would you like some more wine?”
Orlando turned his head and his cheek grazed Viggo’s hand. “Why don’t you fill the glasses and then join me down here?” he suggested seductively.
Viggo sighed and Orlando cursed his habitual tendency to rush in too soon. “I’m sorry,” he blurted.
“No, I’m sorry,” Viggo said, “but if I come down there, I’m not sure I could stop myself from kissing you and…”
“And?” Orlando said hopefully.
“And I don’t want you to think you have to respond just because I made you dinner.”
Orlando rubbed his chin against Viggo’s knee. “I’m really not that much of a push-over, I’d be responding because I wanted to.”
“You’re sure that’s not just the alcohol talking?”
“I’m sure,” Orlando said firmly, “I was sure before we’d even left the pub.”
“Is that so?” Viggo said his voice now more of a low growl.
“Yes,” said Orlando firmly. “And I’m really not the kind of guy who takes advantage of his host, or ever makes anyone do anything they don’t want to. But my suggestion still stands: fill the glasses and join me down here and we’ll see what happens, but there’s absolutely no pressure.”
Viggo chuckled. “I think you’ve pretty much covered all the disclaimers there, without quite managing to kill the mood.”
Orlando pressed his forehead against Viggo’s knee. “I swear, I have better lines,” he chuckled.
Viggo stroked Orlando’s hair, more deliberately this time and stood up. “Give me your glass.”
Orlando passed over his glass and smiled up at his host, trying to look both seductive and unthreatening at the same time but from his position on the floor he could see that, what he had already thought was a nicely shaped bulge in Viggo’s jeans, was now more prominent; his own penis swelled at the sight.
Viggo seemed to be away longer than was necessary to fill two glasses and Orlando was wondering if he should worry but then Viggo reappeared with a glass in each hand and after giving them to Orlando to hold, knelt down beside him on the rug. Before he finally settled he covertly removed something from his back pocket and slid it out of sight under the sofa. Orlando smiled to himself, he guessed that Viggo had made a detour to the bathroom.
Viggo retrieved his glass and clinked it against Orlando’s. “Cheers,” he said, “here’s to whatever happens.” The smile was still slightly uncertain, nervous even but the soft blue eyes were already darkening with arousal.
Orlando’s jeans were rapidly becoming too tight. He knew the atmosphere was more charged than if this had just been a casual chance encounter. It was Christmas, and the spirit of the season had finally seeped into him. The crowd in the pub had included carol singers, Viggo had produced crackers for their meal and there had been real holly adorning their dessert. Ridiculously he was already investing too much in this situation.
They sipped from their glasses and then Viggo took Orlando’s glass and laid them both aside. “I am going to kiss you now,” he warned.
Orlando tried to show some restraint and not just throw himself at the other man when Viggo’s lips pressed gently against his, nudging his nose so that Orlando tilted his head to allow better access. But when he deepened the kiss, his tongue teasing at Orlando’s lips and then his hand cradling the back of Orlando’s head increasing the contact it was all he could do not to climb into Viggo’s lap and beg to be fucked. Viggo was a very good kisser, he didn’t dominate but Orlando couldn’t remember when he had last been so thoroughly kissed, it wasn't something Sean was keen on, he liked to get straight to the main event, but Viggo was taking his time, exploring Orlando’s lips, and then his mouth with his tongue and Orlando was happy to let him. The pace was unhurried and breathing wasn't an issue but eventually Viggo drew back, his hand still lingering against Orlando’s cheek.
“I knew that kissing you was a really bad idea,” Viggo said with a teasing smile, “now I can’t stop myself from wanting something more.”
“It’s all good so far,” Orlando said reassuringly, and he reached over and started to unbutton Viggo’s shirt, revealing a tanned, lightly furred chest; he immediately slipped his fingers inside the open gap and caressed the warm skin at his throat. “I’d tell you if I wanted you to stop.”
Viggo nodded. “Okay, that’s alright then.” He grasped the hem of Orlando’s t-shirt and urged him to take it off, Orlando struggled out of it and tossed it aside, then he finished undoing Viggo’s buttons and pushed the shirt off his shoulders, Viggo manoeuvred his arms out of the sleeves and threw it towards the sofa. For a few minutes they just explored the skin that was now exposed. The brush of Viggo’s fingers over his nipples caused Orlando’s cock to pulse in his jeans and it motivated him to reach for Viggo’s belt. Viggo drew him into another kiss and as they came closer again Orlando could feel the heat of Viggo’s body. He trailed his fingers down across the front of Viggo’s jeans and cupped his erection, and Viggo moaned into his mouth.
“I think this is the point where I ask you how you want to do this.” Viggo said his breath already a little ragged.
Orlando sighed against Viggo’s lips; a part of him, the ridiculously romantic part was screaming, ‘we’re on a rug in front of a log fire and what I want is for you to undress me and take me any way you like; just make my dreams real’. The rational adult replied, “I can go either way but, if it’s good with you I’d really like it if you’d…” he hesitated because the romantic didn’t want to say fuck or screw or shag and dammit he was way, way too overinvested in the fantasy.
Viggo again pulled back and stroked Orlando’s cheek, pulling his thumb down across his kiss-swollen lips. “I’d very much like to make love to you,” he said, “and I’d decided that before we left the pub too.”
The butterfly in Orlando’s stomach was probably causing a tornado somewhere in South America as he said, “I’d very much like that too.”
“Okay,” Viggo nodded and pressed a brief kiss against Orlando’s lips then he stood up, unfastened his jeans and shrugged them off, reached over for the throw on the back of the sofa and pulled it onto the floor. “Is right here OK?”
***************************************************************
Orlando woke the next morning to find himself in Viggo’s bed with the older man spooned up behind him. He was almost too afraid to move in case the previous evening had been a dream; or worse that it had all happened as he remembered but, as had occasionally been the case in his younger days, his bed mate was not as gorgeous as he’d thought him the previous night through the haze of alcohol. Viggo felt real enough, he could sense the rise and fall of the man’s breathing and an arm was draped across Orlando’s chest. He nestled back against the warm body and felt the man’s semi erect penis against his thigh. He shuddered as he relived how it had felt last night, inside him.
Viggo had been a considerate lover; taking his time with the prep, making sure Orlando was comfortable. There had been a point when Orlando was so painfully aroused and needy that he almost wanted to scream ‘just get on with it’ but Viggo, perhaps sensing his frustration kissed the dip between his shoulder blades and whispered huskily, “Please, just let me do this a little longer, I love the way you feel.” And he’d rubbed the pads of his fingers very gently across Orlando’s gland and Orlando had whimpered. And when he was finally happy, Viggo had rolled him onto his back and said, “I want to watch you when you come.” before wrapping Orlando’s legs around his waist and pushing in to him, agonisingly slowly. The man had astonishing self-control, they’d rocked together for what seemed like hours, the face to face position allowing them to kiss, albeit messily, until Viggo finally took a firmer grasp on Orlando’s penis, thrust harder and faster inside him and whispered, “Come for me now.” into Orlando’s ear.
When they’d recovered they’d lounged, still naked, on the throw in front of the fire, drinking the rest of their wine and talking, laughing, touching until Viggo had finally said, “Will you stay the night and sleep with me.”
As he remembered it now Orlando’s hand slipped down to his penis and Viggo’s arm moved too and his hand joined Orlando’s. “Good morning,” Viggo said, nuzzling the curls at the base of Orlando’s skull. Orlando’s response was more of a moan as Viggo’s hand stroked him. “Would you like some breakfast?” Viggo continued, squeezing. “There’s definitely coffee and eggs and I’ll see what else I can find.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Orlando growled, reaching back with his free arm and grasping Viggo’s thigh.
Sometime later, Orlando, sweaty and sated, clung to Viggo, still unwilling to let the man get out of bed. “Happy Boxing Day,” he murmured.
“Ah right, I guess Boxing Day is another day of celebrations for you Brits?” Viggo chuckled.
“Well, traditionally Boxing Day used to be the day people exchanged gifts, not Christmas Day,” Orlando said. “I should go downstairs and try and find something as a present for you.”
“I thought you were my present,” Viggo said, his tongue curling around Orlando’s earlobe.
“Is there any way I could be your future too?” Orlando asked. His heart was still beating a little too fast, his brain was probably short of oxygen; dammit, yet again he’d spoken first and thought later.
Viggo drew back so that he could look at him and he smiled a genuinely happy smile. “I think that would be something I’d definitely like,” he replied softly.
The End
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Date: 2021-12-28 01:34 pm (UTC)Merry Christmas one and all xx