FICLET: Bruise PG13

[crimsonsenya.livejournal.com]

Title: Bruise
Author: crimsonsenya
Pairing: V/O
Rating: PG13
Warnings: m/m, AU, angst, UNBETAED
Summary: Orli has a bruise on his hip…
A/N: Written for dinalphiel‘s request, who wanted Orli calling Viggo to bed & the word marbles.





A the fund raising party that had taken place only an hour ago the silver-haired senator had made a crude, condescending pass on him in the empty men’s room. There was an ugly purple bruise the size of a fist on Orlando’s hip, where the bone had hit the sharp edge of the sink. In Viggo’s bathroom the memory of it was much less painful, but no less frightening. The dark green-veined marbles of the walls and the floor were moist from the steam. It wasn’t hard to slip in a dimly lit room. That was the story Viggo would hear, Orlando didn’t have the luxury to say no when he wanted to, or to always tell the truth.


The mirror reflected a too skinny, scared boy. He was fearful of a lot of things, fearful of Viggo realizing he was just a toy that could be discarded more easily than the thrash, a cheap hustler man-whore with no more use than what you saw on the outside, and that one day Viggo would drop him in the same corner where he had picked him up, only this time Orlando would be in Hugo Boss loafers and with a crushed heart. Orlando was jealous of many things too, jealous of all the beautiful, stylish, well-educated people who sought and caught Viggo’s attention wherever they went, jealous of the subjects of the photographs he had taken, of the colours in his paintings, of the places and persons that had inspired his poems. He had learned them by heart during the hours Viggo spent in events and negotiations Orlando couldn’t assist.


He walks in the bedroom naked. Viggo wanted his body, and he relinquished it willingly, and at the same time, he couldn’t help surrendering his soul. Viggo lies sprawled on the couch, revising a speech he will give in the election campaign the next day. He was the famous, shamelessly rich though maddeningly eccentric artist, who would get those votes for the senator he couldn’t have ever gotten by his own. Orlando sits down on the edge of the couch beside the slightly smudged sheets of paper. He tells Viggo about the bruise. Viggo sidles closer to brush with his stubbled cheek the sensitive skin of the inside of his thigh before pressing down his lips into a kiss that almost makes Orlando cry. Viggo resumes the reading, while stroking the sore skin of the bruise absent-mindedly but lightly and carefully. Orlando knows his whole body shivers, and Viggo will think it is from the cold. He wishes they would be the only persons left in the world, so Viggo would have no choice but to love him.


Orlando stands up and stretches the limbs he will soon tangle with Viggo’s, wrap around him as close as he can. He will read Viggo’s mood, he always does, with impeccable accuracy. What Viggo needs -fierceness, seduction, slow tenderness, rough straightforwardness– Orlando will deliver. That is what he has, that is what he desires. Tomorrow, Orlando will use the credit card Viggo gave him and shop for Armani shirts. He will fetch up the vintage red wine from Viggo’s favourite restaurant. Not that he would have to, but because he wants to. Tonight, Orlando will make love, and cry a little after Viggo has fallen to sleep.

“Come to bed with me. Forget those papers”, he says, smiling and tilting his hips invitingly.

Forget who you are, forget your name, is what he wants to say. Do not forget me.