Gray, Black, and Red.
Jun. 19th, 2005 10:18 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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vigorliTitle: Gray, Black, and Red
Author: Sirena de Plata
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Warnings: I guess it could be considered angsty.
Rating: PG (I'm never good with these things)
Disclaimer: It's not real.
Summary: A future fic, with the relationship already established. Could be confusing to read at first, just remember that the POV changes with each paragraph, but it should be easy to figure out. As for the actual summary? The world has turned to gray, black, and red for two people.
The painting across from his bed is gray, black, and red. He carries it everywhere. It’s what he wakes up to. It’s what he goes to bed to. There’s no blue. There’s no Viggo in the painting, nor in his bed. The painting is all that’s left of Viggo and he hates it.
He hasn’t done a movie in two years. Nor has he watched one. Movies remind him of Orlando. So, he’s locked himself away for two years in his studio and painted. He doesn’t get it. His paintings have sold like he’s dead. He might just be. He doesn’t care if they sell or not. He just wants them all out of his house. Away from him. He’s never painted with only gray, black, and red before this. He hates the paintings and he hates that he can’t get rid of all the heartbreak and love for someone that has been gone for so long.
He stands at the door and watches his Dad covers another canvas with gray, black, and red paint. It’s almost like his parent’s divorce, but it’s not. He doesn’t know what to say that hasn’t been said. So, he wipes a smile on his face and goes to pull his Dad out of the studio for a few hours of telling him about the life of a college student. Maybe for a few hours his Dad can forget.
It’s driving him mad trying to keep this balance. Always being careful not to say one thing to the other. It’s almost enough to make him wish that he had never met either of them, let alone shared a trailer with them. But he did. Now he gets to watch them go into these spirals and he can’t stop or even follow them. All he can do is wait and be there. And wish everything wasn’t so gray, black and red between the two of them.
He’s lying in the bed, listening to her breathing, as she sleeps. He’s holding a black and white picture of Viggo and feeling guilty. Though he’s not sure who it’s toward or because of. With tears in his eyes, he puts the picture in the book he’s been reading and wishes it was all different. He closes his eyes and tries to fall asleep, knowing it will be dawn before the memories let him rest.
He wakes up, smelling paint, turpentine and linseed oil. He fell asleep in his studio again, painting himself into exhaustion. He went to sleep holding Orlando’s picture again. He stands up, shoving the picture in a drawer, hoping this time he will forget where he put it. He knows that he will always remember where it is, when he’s exhausted and lonely and drunk on too much cheap wine. As for now, it’s off to the kitchen for some aspirin and toast. Then off to another day of painting. A glance out the window shows gray skies that look like they might drop the rain at any second. Maybe he can pretend he’s painting a rainy day instead of how he feels. Maybe.
He doesn’t want to go out. He just wants a few moments alone. Tired from being so busy. Tired from life. Tired from being so damn unhappy. Nobody listens to him and now he’s looking at some dinner he doesn’t want and wishing he was just away. He makes his excuses, wanting to go outside and smoke or to the bathroom to escape everyone. As he heads to the door outside, he bumps into someone. A quick look up and his heart stops.
He’s not comfortable with crowds or even with people anymore. But he will do things for his friends that he won’t do for most people. So, when Beanie says dinner out, he goes along and wishes that he was far away. When someone bumps into him, he opens his mouth to apologize. The words freeze when he looks into all too familiar brown eyes.
Neither of them knows what to say. It’s been so long since they’ve spoke, let alone seen the other. What words can be said. So, without a word, but the sound of two hearts breaking all over again, they turn away from each other. Both drowning in a sea of gray, black, and red wishing it wasn’t this way.
It’s been three days since that moment. He’s drank enough to drown a fish. Her half hearted smile lets him know that she knows something is up, but he can’t care. All he can think about is him. Does he still feel the same? Could they? Should they? With shaking fingers, he dials a number that he knows even after all this time. He’s got to take the chance. Swear that he’ll change. Anything. He can’t keep living like this.
He’s not sure what to think. All he can see those brown eyes. He’s done nothing but remember and cry over what was. He knows that after all this time, he still isn’t over him by a long shot. He’ll probably never be over him. But apparently Orlando doesn’t feel the same, because he hasn’t heard from him in three days. Maybe it’s time to put all his feelings for Orlando away. Or at least try to all over again. Then the phone rings. He picks it up.
Author: Sirena de Plata
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Warnings: I guess it could be considered angsty.
Rating: PG (I'm never good with these things)
Disclaimer: It's not real.
Summary: A future fic, with the relationship already established. Could be confusing to read at first, just remember that the POV changes with each paragraph, but it should be easy to figure out. As for the actual summary? The world has turned to gray, black, and red for two people.
The painting across from his bed is gray, black, and red. He carries it everywhere. It’s what he wakes up to. It’s what he goes to bed to. There’s no blue. There’s no Viggo in the painting, nor in his bed. The painting is all that’s left of Viggo and he hates it.
He hasn’t done a movie in two years. Nor has he watched one. Movies remind him of Orlando. So, he’s locked himself away for two years in his studio and painted. He doesn’t get it. His paintings have sold like he’s dead. He might just be. He doesn’t care if they sell or not. He just wants them all out of his house. Away from him. He’s never painted with only gray, black, and red before this. He hates the paintings and he hates that he can’t get rid of all the heartbreak and love for someone that has been gone for so long.
He stands at the door and watches his Dad covers another canvas with gray, black, and red paint. It’s almost like his parent’s divorce, but it’s not. He doesn’t know what to say that hasn’t been said. So, he wipes a smile on his face and goes to pull his Dad out of the studio for a few hours of telling him about the life of a college student. Maybe for a few hours his Dad can forget.
It’s driving him mad trying to keep this balance. Always being careful not to say one thing to the other. It’s almost enough to make him wish that he had never met either of them, let alone shared a trailer with them. But he did. Now he gets to watch them go into these spirals and he can’t stop or even follow them. All he can do is wait and be there. And wish everything wasn’t so gray, black and red between the two of them.
He’s lying in the bed, listening to her breathing, as she sleeps. He’s holding a black and white picture of Viggo and feeling guilty. Though he’s not sure who it’s toward or because of. With tears in his eyes, he puts the picture in the book he’s been reading and wishes it was all different. He closes his eyes and tries to fall asleep, knowing it will be dawn before the memories let him rest.
He wakes up, smelling paint, turpentine and linseed oil. He fell asleep in his studio again, painting himself into exhaustion. He went to sleep holding Orlando’s picture again. He stands up, shoving the picture in a drawer, hoping this time he will forget where he put it. He knows that he will always remember where it is, when he’s exhausted and lonely and drunk on too much cheap wine. As for now, it’s off to the kitchen for some aspirin and toast. Then off to another day of painting. A glance out the window shows gray skies that look like they might drop the rain at any second. Maybe he can pretend he’s painting a rainy day instead of how he feels. Maybe.
He doesn’t want to go out. He just wants a few moments alone. Tired from being so busy. Tired from life. Tired from being so damn unhappy. Nobody listens to him and now he’s looking at some dinner he doesn’t want and wishing he was just away. He makes his excuses, wanting to go outside and smoke or to the bathroom to escape everyone. As he heads to the door outside, he bumps into someone. A quick look up and his heart stops.
He’s not comfortable with crowds or even with people anymore. But he will do things for his friends that he won’t do for most people. So, when Beanie says dinner out, he goes along and wishes that he was far away. When someone bumps into him, he opens his mouth to apologize. The words freeze when he looks into all too familiar brown eyes.
Neither of them knows what to say. It’s been so long since they’ve spoke, let alone seen the other. What words can be said. So, without a word, but the sound of two hearts breaking all over again, they turn away from each other. Both drowning in a sea of gray, black, and red wishing it wasn’t this way.
It’s been three days since that moment. He’s drank enough to drown a fish. Her half hearted smile lets him know that she knows something is up, but he can’t care. All he can think about is him. Does he still feel the same? Could they? Should they? With shaking fingers, he dials a number that he knows even after all this time. He’s got to take the chance. Swear that he’ll change. Anything. He can’t keep living like this.
He’s not sure what to think. All he can see those brown eyes. He’s done nothing but remember and cry over what was. He knows that after all this time, he still isn’t over him by a long shot. He’ll probably never be over him. But apparently Orlando doesn’t feel the same, because he hasn’t heard from him in three days. Maybe it’s time to put all his feelings for Orlando away. Or at least try to all over again. Then the phone rings. He picks it up.
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Date: 2005-06-20 10:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-20 05:37 pm (UTC)