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[blurblely.livejournal.com]

Title: The Cure for What Ails You
Author: blurblely
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Rating: R for bad words and a short smutty thought.
Warnings: Angst.
Disclaimer: It's all a lie of course. No harm meant.
Feedback: please?
Beta: Ich habe keine beta.
Summary: Orlando is incredibly frustrated, and Viggo's the only one who can help him.
Length: Longer than a drabble, but shorter than your usual ficlet. I dunno what to call it, maybe a drablet, or how about a ficcle?



Author's note #1: Orlando probably sounds horridly American in this, but since that's what I am, I guess it would show through. Sorry, about that. See also author's note #2 after you read the fic.


*****
Saturday afternoon, and by all accounts it may as well be a Sunday, because it’s slow and nothing is fucking appealing at all, no reprieve is forthcoming and sleep is a long-gone hope, a distant memory. It’s nothing, and nothingness bothers you, skin tingling but not in a good way, no, more in a “jittery, skittery, impossible to endure” sort of way. It’s usually an indicator that something bad will happen, more often than not self-inflicted by baiting someone into hurting you. Your skin itches, it buzzes and you try to scratch the feeling away, scrape it away, tear it, destroy it, mutilate it away, but it won’t go. “Heroin Sundays” are what the Hobbits call the phenomenon, and there’s just no cure for them. But it’s Saturday and that really isn’t fair because Saturdays are supposed to be all smiles and fun, and Sundays, Sundays are for stares. It’s an incredibly appalling thought that this week you might get two Heroin Sundays in a row.

You’ve never had a Heroin Saturday before, never even taken drugs really, and the thought might be something interesting, something worth analyzing except for the fact that it is so incredibly not right now. Because nothing pleases. You knew better, it’s the second rule you’ve grown to memorize, right after never buy a hoagie on a Friday. *Never* But you slept in anyway. You had breakfast and then you went back to sleep again. Sleep is not an answer to your problems. You knew that. Once sleep is gone as a means of escape, then there is nothing left until you tire yourself out enough to sleep again. Nothing will entertain you, even the things you find most exciting during the week will seem dull. You still haven’t mastered the art of the weekend, think you may never manage, just gets harder as you get older. Because you’re not as naive as you used to be, and you know that though the feeling might pass, it’ll just be back with its ugly older brother and next time it’ll last longer. Maybe one day it will consume you entirely.

And as if it wasn’t bad enough, everyone else seems to be completely oblivious to your outlook. Viggo wants to take you on a nature trek. Nature. Let’s go feed the ducks. Let’s go take photos of a waterfall. Let’s go be cheery and maddening and wonder why you feel the need to be snappy and ruin everything. And you try appeasing him, try to be a sport and you go along. But all you can focus on is the general wrongness of the outing, the yellownesss of the waterfall, the leafy, rusty, oily surface and why is it that when round rocks are gathered together in a group, they still manage to stab the fuck out of your feet? It doesn’t make any sense, but neither does anything else in your life right now, like why Viggo is intent on dragging you out of the house to witness nature’s wonders instead of whipping out his own natural wonder and fucking the twitches right out of you. You always thought that a “date” with Viggo would be beautiful, no matter when or where or what you did and the day, this dreaded fucking cursed day is ruining it. So you don’t even have the energy to be surprised at yourself when you just blurt it all out. That you love him, have done for a good long while now, and that if he doesn’t land face-first on your lips soon, you may have to devour him.

You wonder what that sound is. No, it’s not Viggo’s laughter because he’s not making any noise, not one fucking sound. It’s not your tears, though you’re incredibly close to them right now. That would be Cupid’s arrow thunking solidly into the grass a few meters off target.

You get up, slowly, because that’s just what the day requires and take your bedraggled arse back home, where you can stare now, uninhibited at the walls. And hey, what do you know? There is a cure for a Heroin Day after all.
*****

Author's note #2: I hate Sundays. Always have, so that's where this story came from. I can never find anything to do on a Sunday and nothing pleases me. I don't really know why that is, but one of my friend's dubbed the phenomenon "heroin sundays" where you lay around and stare and just generally feel miserable without actually being sick. And the hoagie sentence refers to this really great sandwich shop near my house that sucks on Fridays because they have so many customers they just whip the sandwiches out and they never taste as good usual. They forget to toast them or to put the hoagie juice on them or what have you, and they taste, not quite bad, but not up to par with the usual stellarness of the sandwich. And even though I know they're not gonna taste as good, I still manage to buy one on a Friday. So it's quite a letdown and thus representative (albeit way obscurely since you wouldn't have any clue what i was talking about unless you read this note) of Orlando's glutton-for-punishment mindset. *Phew* There. Hope you liked it.

Comments

[blurblely.livejournal.com]

Hi. Thanks for the feedback. I really hate round rocks in rivers and waterfalls. I always manage to slip on them and then hit one that's sticking up at a funky angle. I always always end up with bruised soles. And I can't believe I referred to Viggo's peener as a natural wonder. Snort.