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vigorli2006-08-20 04:28 pm
shaan-lien.livejournal.com) wrote in vigorli2006-08-20 04:28 pm
Idaho
Title: Idaho
Rating: NC-17 (for language and sex)
Category: LotR RPS VM/OB
Summary: Inspired by several paintings of Kurt Halsey and this quote: “The subtleties of familiarity”. Oddly enough for me, it’s a very relaxed, mellow story.
Previous Chapters:
Waiting for Inspiration, Settling, Four and A Half, Six Years, Simply Holding, Adjusting , The Days Without, Remembrances, Blank
Author’s Note: Some of the quotations in italics are from Kurt Halsey Frederiksen, off his paintings and such, which inspired most of this fic. Obviously, I make no claim on the characters or any actual knowledge of these people. The song Orli starts to sing is “Fix You” by Coldplay. This can be read by itself, or the above chapters as this is part of a series. Dedicated to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
millisa17 for all her support over the years with life and my writing.
I sat at the counter of my kitchen in Idaho; one hand wrapped around a steaming mug of tea and the other cradled a pencil. Tea that I didn’t even drink and wasn’t especially fond of. Beside me lay a notebook filled with fragments, fragments of sentences, thoughts, and memories. Sidi was curled up at the base of the stool I was perched on, missing the same person perpetually in my thoughts.
awakening to tea and croissants,
because they remind me of you
None of it flowed, though it was all connected by a single person I didn’t even realise I had been thinking of. Such was the way of things, I suppose. Thinking of him more since he would finally be home tomorrow. Never unmissed, not even if he was gone for just an hour—me and Sidi both.
Strange the realization that you’re so much
a part of someone else
Ends and beginnings lost by the wayside liken to a phantom limb that you’ll never lose sensation of, yet not a tragic loss, but the realization of what you’ve been missing for so many years.
I looked up when Sidi suddenly leapt to his feet, barrelling to the door, his claws slipping on the tile floor, yipping enthusiastically. I wasn’t expecting anyone, certainly not one who could evoke that much of a reaction from the dog. So immersed in writing, I hadn’t heard a car, but I recognized the voice immediately as the door opened. “Hey, Boy, you wouldn’t believe how much I missed you.”
Surprised as I had ever been, I stood staring at Orlando, who was looking up at me. He was petting Sidi, who was barking like mad, nearly wagging his entire body, licking Orlando’s chin, neck, and hands. There was a smile in his eyes before it spread slowly—like the gradual recognition of contentment lazily coming to the fore—across his face. He, on one knee in the open doorway, with only his keys in hand.
“Don’t tell Sidi, but I think I missed you more.”
I laughed at that, clearing the distance between us as he rose and embraced him with the vigour that one easily accepted from Orlando, but would never expect of me. I didn’t care that he smelled of the dog now, because it was him here instead just his fading scent on the sofa or his coat in the closet. I held him close to me. Such unconscious familiarity—whose arm went where, how our bodies would fit just right. I pressed my lips behind his ear, that tender place right next to his jawline and he sighed against me, his arms tightening.
getting to know your hands by touch
I felt a shiver run through him as we stood there together, just breathing. “You’re early,” I finally stated and I felt him laugh against me. “I’m glad.”
“I nicked that T-shirt of yours that says ‘vote’,” Orlando explained, though I wasn’t sure what it had to do with anything. “I wear it to bed when it’s actually cool enough for it in the Caribbean. Johnny used to take the piss until I told him why I wore it.”
I drew back and looked at him. “What’d you tell him?”
“Cause it smells like you,” Orlando answered succinctly and I grinned broadly. “It’s your fault, Vig, I didn’t used to be this sentimental. And I had to come home because the damned thing started to smell like me. No point in that.”
“None at all.”
“Are you laughing at me?”
Although I was laughing aloud by now, I shook my head sincerely, looping an errant lock of his long hair behind one ear. “No, at both of us. I’m drinking your fucking god-awful tea because it reminds me of you.”
“Oh, we are pathetic,” he said grinning also as he stooped to scratch behind Sidi’s ear. Whatever he was about to say was drown out by a particularly large yawn. I just raised an eyebrow as it endured for a moment longer, his eyes watering.
“That was impressive.”
“Think I’m going to do the cardinal sin of travelling across multiple time zones and take a bit of a kip,” Orli said, I realising then just how tired he was. “How have you been since the last time I talked to you?” he asked wandering out to his car with Sidi at his heels.
“You mean yesterday?”
“Was that yesterday?” he asked with a frown as he dragged his suitcase out of the back of his car.
“Fine, Orlando,” I promised, taking the case from him, earning an exasperated glare from Orlando. I ignored him and led the way back into the house, Sidi following all the whiles. Orli relented halfway and scooped Sidi up in his arms, planting a kiss straight on his muzzle.
“There. Happy yet?” I heard him ask of the pooch as I set the suitcase down in our bedroom. A yip from Sidi would be enough of a response for Orli. “No? Well then . . .” I watched in amusement, arms crossed over my chest, leaned against the doorframe as Orlando smothered his dog in kisses. If dogs purred, then I swore Sidi was doing so and loudly.
“Are you two done yet?” I asked, trying to keep a straight face. I might have managed that, but Orlando would see the light-heartedness in my eyes. They both looked at me, Orli quirking an eyebrow, though I could see now that he looked exhausted.
“You think he’s jealous, Sidi?”
The only response was that pink tongue emerging as Sidi continued to pant. Orli and I exchanged glances and I could see his shoulders shaking as he set down Sidi and moved to hug me tightly, feeling his silent laughter against me again. He yawned into my shoulder, kissed me on the neck, and moved past me to the bathroom, singing as he passed.
“High up above or down below/when you’re too in love to let it go.”
With a contended sigh, I looked down at Sidi who woofed at me and then moved to sit in front of the bathroom door. It was twenty minutes later that Orlando reappeared wearing a pair of jeans, his hair wet, the rim of his boxers showing, feet bare—I in my studio, though writing as I hadn’t done in a while. He sunk down into the couch wordlessly, curled up on his side with Sidi at his feet. He offered me a sleepy smile and closed his eyes. Often enough he had slept there on the couch when inspiration struck and I didn’t want to sleep until I had gotten everything down.
Now, it was wholly distracting, short story interrupted for fragments of poetry that struck me as I watched him sleep. So many differences with Orlando, different being with him, but I supposed that shouldn’t have been surprising since he was the only man I had been with. I don’t think he was entirely comfortable with us both being men, not to say that he didn’t love me, just physically. Emotionally, I don’t think I had ever been so aware of anyone, never been so open, and I knew he felt the same. Physically was something different, though Orlando was naturally an affectionate person. I had tried to talk to him about it once a few months ago—having the sense that he held himself back sometimes, on occasion seeing an internal debate in his eyes when he looked at me.
He had looked at me with wide eyes, wanting to answer me, but then I realised he didn’t know himself, that the distance was affecting him too and he wanted to rectify it, but didn’t know how. After not seeing him for a few months, I didn’t know if he had thought about it more or left it at that. My pencil stilled when he shifted on his back, a grimace on his face, a hand on his stomach.
It was foolish to think that his back problems would disappear, but I wished prayed he could just be free of it for one day. Setting aside my notebook on the table that held Orlando’s sculptures and some of my paints, I moved to kneel next to the couch. Slipping my hand beneath him, I pressed it against the small of Orlando’s back. There was a quiet sigh of appreciation as he relaxed against the warmth. The peacefulness didn’t last long when he woke soon after, a hand reaching down and strong fingers curling around my wrist before his eyes even opened.
“You don’t have to do that,” Orlando murmured.
“I know,” I stated resolutely and he opened his eyes to look at me with very little of what he was thinking in his dark eyes. “I’ll get the heating pad.”
His hand tightened on my wrist. “No, I’ll get it,” he insisted, sitting up, careful to avoid disturbing Sidi.
“When was the last time you let someone do something for you? Let me do anything for you?”
“You have better things to do and I can do it.”
“I know you can, but no, I don’t have anything better to do. You do the simplest, most considerate things for me throughout every day, but you don’t understand when I want to do something for you. Explain that to me, Orlando.”
Orlando just shook his head, bracing his elbows on his knees. Off my unrelenting stare, he shrugged and said in a voice rife with frustration, “I don’t know, Vig. Jesus . . . what do you want me to say?”
“I want you to be comfortable with me.”
“I know,” he said softly, looking down at his hands. “And I’m trying, I just . . . I don’t know what’s wrong. . . . I love you so much, but sometimes . . . sometimes I feel like a fucking teenager when you touch me. Sounds stupid with how touchy-feely I can be, but I can’t stop it.”
“Don’t . . . you shouldn’t feel pressured. You don’t ever have—”
“—don’t,” Orlando interrupted, shaking his head as he rose. “I know what you’re going to say and I can’t even bear to hear it.”
I rose now as well, not knowing what this conversation meant anymore. So many thoughts as I looked at Orlando who stood at the table with his hands braced on the edge—stoic and still. Orlando was never stoic. In the company of his friends of those he trusted of those that he knew care for him, his features were open and expressive. “Did I hurt you?” I asked and he looked over at me, his brow knitted, regarding me blankly. “The last time . . . when we had sex last. Did I hurt you? You haven’t—”
“—No, you didn’t. It’s . . . that I know how much you love me; I can see that in so much of what you do. . . . I can feel it in the way you touch me, when you look at me. God . . . fuck—you’re the first person I’ve ever truly loved. And I know that you’re older and been married, more experienced and everything, and I just feel that I can’t even comprehend what you feel for me. When you touch me, when you’re inside me it’s like you’re—like all the control I’ve ever had in my life is coming undone and it fucking scares the shit out of me, Viggo. I know you’ll say I shouldn’t be afraid of it or whatever, but it’s not that simple.” He took in a deep breath, watching me as I sat slowly on the couch, not knowing what to think of all that Orlando had said. “I’m not like blaming you or saying that I want you to change cause I don’t. This is me, Viggo. I just—I know we’ve been . . . I’ve been distant and that we’ve taken this slow enough, but I can’t go any faster. I’m all over the shop between being scared shitless to never wanting you to stop holding me.”
The silence was filled with a tension I had never before felt between us, but after his heartfelt words, my mind was whirling. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
I rose again, approaching him. “I love you and I will always love you. No matter if we fuck tomorrow or a year from now. That’s not what is important here, I will accept whatever you are comfortable with, you just have to talk to me, Orli. You can’t compare my feelings to yours, that’s not how love works. Sometimes I can’t understand the way you love me, I’m afraid that I have hurt you, that I’m old enough to be your father and that we’re so different . . .”
“Fuck . . .”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He released a long breath and rested his hand over mine. “Me neither.”
• • •
Awakened by nothing in particular, I lay still facing the window of our bedroom. Unlike in LA, here, in Idaho, outside was pitch black. I could hear the pattern of rain softly upon the roof, the slightly open window admitting a cool breeze that made me notice a particular lack of warmth that was pressed against me when I laid down. I was surprised to find that Lan was still in the bed, but his back was to me and I knew by his breathing that he was far from sleep. Shifting closer, I ran a hand up his back and he shivered because of my touch. “What is it?” I asked, knowing it wasn’t the nap he took earlier today that prevented him from sleeping.
“Thinking, just thinking. Go back to sleep, Vig,” he assured me, looking over his shoulder at me. I couldn’t really make out his features, but I knew that he had turned. His voice I could sleep by, smooth and soft. I loved the way he spoke, with even imperfection. Blamed on his dyslexia, Orlando often came out with the wrong word first and sometimes had difficulties finding just what word he meant, though the intended was one he had used dozens of times before. I didn’t claim to understand it, but it was definitely one of the things that made Orlando Orlando.
“You didn’t get much of a nap this afternoon and I can see the tiredness in your eyes. Tell me to fuck off, but I’d want to know what’s bothering you.”
He chuckled faintly at my words, turning to lie on his back. “I was just thinking about what you said . . . about the first time we—I don’t know what you’d call it. Made out? Screwed around? It all makes me sound like an overgrown teenager.”
“Henry already thinks you are.” I knew he would have been amused by that, but he didn’t respond. “What made you think of that?” I asked, moving to spoon my body around his. He moved his shoulder in a way I took as a shrug, feeling the gesture against my own body.
“I think that was the first time you held me like this.”
“Lan . . . you’re ok, right?” I asked quietly, my lips against that shallow dip behind his ear. “You would tell me, wouldn’t you?”
“There’s nothing wrong . . . I know I’ve been more . . . contemplative than normal, but I’ve never thought—no, I shouldn’t say that. . . . I’ve never really stopped and thought about a lot of things since my career started . . . but I’m going to have to think about them sometime. I’m going to be thirty this year. I can’t keep barrelling through life like I have been. What happens when I don’t have this career? You have Henry and your paintings, writing, and photography.”
“Acting isn’t all you have, Orlando. Never in my career have I seen someone make so many lifelong, dedicated and loyal friends. And who said your career would be over soon? Robin?”
“No.”
“Then what made you think that?”
“It’s Hollywood, Viggo.”
“You could go back to theatre, work on your sculpting. You never went back to that piece in the studio.”
“Yeah, well, you know how that goes.”
“Tell me.”
“I have to see what I’m going to create before I can make it. In that, I had so much emotion I wanted to put in it but there was too much I think and I couldn’t find a way to express that. Not concretely, not with clay.”
“Why not abstractly?”
“It doesn’t work that way for me. . . . About earlier,” he began, but then didn’t continue.
“It wasn’t just today,” I pressed, “and it was more to it than what you said.”
“I was never gay, Viggo. I was never attracted to another man. I’ve never looked at a mate twice. Those sort of things aren’t supposed to change overnight and in a way, they haven’t. Beyond you, Viggo. I still have never thought about another man. I’m attracted to women. But you . . . you’ve found other men attractive.”
“Yeah, I have. I do. I wish there was an answer for you, but if there is, I don’t know it. I’ve known for a long time that you weren’t physically attracted to me. I’m not an exception to how you feel.”
“Viggo—”
“—I know you love me.”
“No, I am attracted to you . . . maybe not physically, but I am attracted. Maybe not in the same way I’m attracted to a girl, beyond the obvious, but I am. Would we even be here if I wasn’t?”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“I know. Sorry.”
“Orlando, this was—”
“No, Vig, don’t even think it.”
“I want what’s best for you even if that doesn’t mean we’re together. I couldn’t bear you being unhappy.”
“I’ve told you once that I’ve never been happier. I didn’t lie and I wasn’t exaggerating. You’ve seen the sculptures I have in the studio, but those are a demonstration of the way you make me feel. I guess you haven’t seen what I’ve done previously, before Rings, before I broke my back.”
“Has anyone?”
“My mother, I suppose.”
“I mean what I said about you always doing things for me, things you think I don’t notice. And I know you’re the same way with everyone you care for—Sean, Eric, Johnny, Brad, but when someone thinks to return the favour it’s as if you don’t understand why. Like you don’t understand why people love you.”
“Maybe I don’t.”
I ran my hand through his hair and pressed my lips against the back of his neck. “I wish I could make you understand, that I could show you, that you would just take my word for it.”
He pressed back against me, turning his face against mine. He didn’t say anything and this time, I let him have his silence, that the way we fell asleep once more.
I glanced up from my book as Orlando came to sit next to me in front of the fireplace. Wearing only a pair of boxer briefs, Orlando still warm from sleep. “What are you doing up?” I asked of him, though he seemed content to sit still and stare at the fireplace.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Orlando admitted, wrapping his arms around his middle.
“What’s on your mind?”
“You,” he stated, looking at me quite seriously. “It’s been three months since I told—since we discussed our feelings.”
Now, I set the book aside, resting a hand on his thigh as I turned to face him. “I didn’t think you wanted anything more.”
“I don’t know what I want,” Orlando admitted, shifting restlessly.
I studied his face carefully for a moment, then caressed his face boldly as I had wanted to do every day for the past six years. After that day in the barn, it had been strangely uncomplicated for the two of us, except in terms of physical closeness. While we embraced with the strength that was too much between friends and for a length of time that can only be between lovers, that was the only physical affection Orlando seemed truly comfortable. Without a second thought, Orlando would plant a kiss on a friend’s cheek, or the corner of a mouth, or even full on the lips in jest or just because he felt like it. He could do that easily enough, but I believed it was what came after those kisses that concerned him.
“It’s not that different,” I assured him.
He laughed a little at himself, resting his forehead against mine. “It is. Even if you weren’t a man, everything is different with you. You’re not like anyone I’ve ever known.”
“Do you want to do this?”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“Because I’m a man . . .”
“My father was Jewish and my mum’s church of England,” Orlando said placing a hand on my chest, fingers settled between buttons. “I believe I remember the word ‘abomination’. But something that wrong . . . it shouldn’t, couldn’t feel like this. The way I love you, it doesn’t feel wrong.”
“It’s love, Lando, you don’t have to put a name to it,” I countered, stroking my thumb over the curve of his cheekbone. “I know what you were taught, I grew up in Argentina. The only place more Catholic than South America is the Vatican.”
He grinned a little, then tipped his chin forward and closed his lips around my bottom lip, kissing twice then claiming my top lip. I returned the kiss cradling his face in both of my hands, parting his lips with my own. He tasted of toothpaste and apple juice, his skin warm and soft. His kisses were tentative and I tried to keep a rein on how much I wanted to touch all of him, to see all of him. When I finally broke the kiss, we were both breathing heavily, his hand fisting the front of my shirt. “Tell me when you want to stop.”
He nodded mutely and I looked carefully into his eyes while slowing my breathing. I wanted to be gentle with him yet at the same time I appreciate the strength of his arms and chest, the contours of his body. The way I could easily feel the strength in his hands as they settled just beneath my ribs and above my navel. I ran my hands over his arms, chest, and stomach, over his shoulders and through his hair, kissing him over and over again. On his cheeks, forehead, sucking on his tongue and exploring his mouth. I moved closer, a knee between his thighs and it suddenly struck me that he would be uncomfortable sitting like that on the wooden floor.
I tugged him up onto the couch, laying him back, slipping my hands between him and the couch to knead the muscles of his strong back. My lips found the hollow of his throat, the curve of his collarbone, the point of his shoulder, the centre of his chest. Orlando was gripping my shirt tightly in both hands now, breathing heavily beneath me, watching my every action. “You okay?”
Again, he nodded undoing my shirt and running his hands over my stomach and chest. Such a contrast between us with his naturally dark skin tanned from his seeming aversion to being indoors for too long—or perhaps just being still for too long. His chest smooth, with soft hairs that were barely visible, his muscles much more defined than my own. He sat up under me and pushed the shirt off my shoulders, catching my bottom lip between his again, then running the tip of his tongue through the cleft of my chin, the scar of my upper lip. His tongue was in my mouth, kissing me with a brief show of the passion I expected from Orlando—it certainly left me breathless, my hand settling on his stomach and the rim of his boxers.
“Tell me what you want,” I breathed against the side of his neck.
His eyes met mine, looking up to me, his cheeks flushed and his hair a bit tousled. “What do you want, Viggo?”
I hesitated, but he didn’t look away. “I want to see all of you, to touch you. But I know you’re not sure of this, you don’t have to hide it.”
“I’m fine, I promise you. . . . I don’t want to disappoint you.”
I frowned at him. “You never could.”
“I’m twenty-nine years old, I shouldn’t be nervous about this.”
“I am,” I told him bluntly. “I don’t want to push you.”
“You won’t, I can speak for myself, you know that.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“This isn’t either of our first time.”
“Doesn’t feel that way,” I stated, kissing his shoulder. “It’s my first time with you. You’re not a fuck to me, Orlando. You’re the only person I’ve ever loved like this, ever felt this way for. Don’t be nervous.”
A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he lay back on the sofa again. I captured his mouth once more, sliding my tongue past his thin lips while my other hand ghosted over his hip and then rubbed over his half-erect cock still confined by his boxers. He shifted beneath me, spreading his legs as much as he could manage with my knees planted over either side of him.
My lips found their way back to the dip just behind his ear, kissing him there, running my tongue over the back of his ear. He sighed beneath me, his eyes nearly closed, his hands running slowly up and down my back—this the way it should be between us, I couldn’t help but think. Slow, relaxed . . . relaxed, that was the way we had always been around each other, none of this tension or nervousness.
Then that enticing spot was being pulled away as he kissed my cheek. A shiver passed through him as I sought to follow, my face pressed against the side of his neck. Our eyes met and I caressed the side of his face, wondering if my contentment showed on my face. Pushing myself up with one arm, I pressed my lips to the centre of his chest as I pushed down his boxers, he lifting his hips enough for me to slide them down to mid-thigh. His breathing hitched as I stroked my hand over his cock, groin, and then up his chest, kissing the crest of his hip not far from his sun tattoo.
This time when I touched his cock, I was looking at his face, half lying next to him, half looking down at him. Lightly, just lightly with two fingers and my thumb, stroking slowly, watching his reaction. He was breathing more heavily than before, though was looking straight at me. I kissed the apex of his shoulder, then the curve of muscles, then the side of his neck, feeling a shiver and his rapid pulse. He pulls me down against him, between his spread thighs and as he moves against me I think perhaps I’ve never appreciated friction quite this much.
His strong rough hands are down the back of my jeans, his strong hands slipping against my flesh that seems cool in comparison. He is quiet beneath me even though the speed and strength with which I stroked his penis, it is now fully hard in my hand. Now his hands are ghosting over my back and he thrusts his hips a bit harder against me, reminding me that I’m still confined with my jeans and boxers. When I sit back on my haunches, only his eyes follow me. I pull away his boxers completely, they soon forgotten on the floor beside the sofa. Looking to his face, I undo my jeans and shove them and my boxers down as far as they will go, freeing my erection. Then I covered his body with mine again, returning to his lips as I feel my cock align with his.
He’s no longer moving beneath me, but his knees are raised on either side of my hips and his hands are on my shoulder. I thrust gently against the hard muscles of his groin and his thighs tighten around me and I can’t tell if by that gesture he wants me to stop or move faster. His eyes are closed and his body is tense, his cock still hard between us. With one hand I brush away the lock that has fallen down over his nose and lips and then just run my fingers through his hair over and over until he opens his eyes and looks at me, not needing to ask why I stopped.
“Just me,” I assured him, now caressing the side of his face.
His eyes closed again. “I know. I know.”
“I don’t want to upset you.”
“I’m not—you aren’t,” he started to retort, but then stopped and closed his eyes briefly once more, gathering himself. “I’m not upset, just . . . adjusting. It’s . . . odd.”
I raised an eyebrow at him, never before had I heard that adjective used before relating to sex. “Odd?”
He grinned sheepishly at his choice of words. “Different?” he suggested hopefully.
“It’s okay.”
“Just . . . I’ll tell you if I want you to stop.”
“Will you?”
He looked confused for a moment. “You think I wouldn’t?”
I kissed him instead and his hand went between us to loosely grasp both of our cocks with one hand. I slid my arms around him and thrust into his hand, against his erection repeatedly. I was lost in him in a way I had never felt before, not merely the sensations or his body against mine, but all of him. The way he touched me, his scent, the ever so quiet moan I heard from him when he came between us, the hitch of his breath when I followed soon after. The darkness of his eyes when he looked up at me and the soft caress of his hand against my stubble-covered chin.
And I lay there, on top of him, stroking his chest and shoulders with one casual hand, memorizing the curve of his muscles, the softness of his skin, the warmth of him, the pattern of his breathing. I kissed his bearded chin, the raise of his cheekbone, the hollow of his throat—slowly, gently while he kept his arms around me, not ready, not willing, not wanting to let go. I kissed his eyelids, closed lightly over his beautiful eyes, any part of him I could reach without moving from him, without moving from the circle of his arms.
and we will never be farther than a short breath and a goosebumped shiver away . . .
Rating: NC-17 (for language and sex)
Category: LotR RPS VM/OB
Summary: Inspired by several paintings of Kurt Halsey and this quote: “The subtleties of familiarity”. Oddly enough for me, it’s a very relaxed, mellow story.
Previous Chapters:
Waiting for Inspiration, Settling, Four and A Half, Six Years, Simply Holding, Adjusting , The Days Without, Remembrances, Blank
Author’s Note: Some of the quotations in italics are from Kurt Halsey Frederiksen, off his paintings and such, which inspired most of this fic. Obviously, I make no claim on the characters or any actual knowledge of these people. The song Orli starts to sing is “Fix You” by Coldplay. This can be read by itself, or the above chapters as this is part of a series. Dedicated to
millisa17 for all her support over the years with life and my writing.I sat at the counter of my kitchen in Idaho; one hand wrapped around a steaming mug of tea and the other cradled a pencil. Tea that I didn’t even drink and wasn’t especially fond of. Beside me lay a notebook filled with fragments, fragments of sentences, thoughts, and memories. Sidi was curled up at the base of the stool I was perched on, missing the same person perpetually in my thoughts.
awakening to tea and croissants,
because they remind me of you
None of it flowed, though it was all connected by a single person I didn’t even realise I had been thinking of. Such was the way of things, I suppose. Thinking of him more since he would finally be home tomorrow. Never unmissed, not even if he was gone for just an hour—me and Sidi both.
Strange the realization that you’re so much
a part of someone else
Ends and beginnings lost by the wayside liken to a phantom limb that you’ll never lose sensation of, yet not a tragic loss, but the realization of what you’ve been missing for so many years.
I looked up when Sidi suddenly leapt to his feet, barrelling to the door, his claws slipping on the tile floor, yipping enthusiastically. I wasn’t expecting anyone, certainly not one who could evoke that much of a reaction from the dog. So immersed in writing, I hadn’t heard a car, but I recognized the voice immediately as the door opened. “Hey, Boy, you wouldn’t believe how much I missed you.”
Surprised as I had ever been, I stood staring at Orlando, who was looking up at me. He was petting Sidi, who was barking like mad, nearly wagging his entire body, licking Orlando’s chin, neck, and hands. There was a smile in his eyes before it spread slowly—like the gradual recognition of contentment lazily coming to the fore—across his face. He, on one knee in the open doorway, with only his keys in hand.
“Don’t tell Sidi, but I think I missed you more.”
I laughed at that, clearing the distance between us as he rose and embraced him with the vigour that one easily accepted from Orlando, but would never expect of me. I didn’t care that he smelled of the dog now, because it was him here instead just his fading scent on the sofa or his coat in the closet. I held him close to me. Such unconscious familiarity—whose arm went where, how our bodies would fit just right. I pressed my lips behind his ear, that tender place right next to his jawline and he sighed against me, his arms tightening.
getting to know your hands by touch
I felt a shiver run through him as we stood there together, just breathing. “You’re early,” I finally stated and I felt him laugh against me. “I’m glad.”
“I nicked that T-shirt of yours that says ‘vote’,” Orlando explained, though I wasn’t sure what it had to do with anything. “I wear it to bed when it’s actually cool enough for it in the Caribbean. Johnny used to take the piss until I told him why I wore it.”
I drew back and looked at him. “What’d you tell him?”
“Cause it smells like you,” Orlando answered succinctly and I grinned broadly. “It’s your fault, Vig, I didn’t used to be this sentimental. And I had to come home because the damned thing started to smell like me. No point in that.”
“None at all.”
“Are you laughing at me?”
Although I was laughing aloud by now, I shook my head sincerely, looping an errant lock of his long hair behind one ear. “No, at both of us. I’m drinking your fucking god-awful tea because it reminds me of you.”
“Oh, we are pathetic,” he said grinning also as he stooped to scratch behind Sidi’s ear. Whatever he was about to say was drown out by a particularly large yawn. I just raised an eyebrow as it endured for a moment longer, his eyes watering.
“That was impressive.”
“Think I’m going to do the cardinal sin of travelling across multiple time zones and take a bit of a kip,” Orli said, I realising then just how tired he was. “How have you been since the last time I talked to you?” he asked wandering out to his car with Sidi at his heels.
“You mean yesterday?”
“Was that yesterday?” he asked with a frown as he dragged his suitcase out of the back of his car.
“Fine, Orlando,” I promised, taking the case from him, earning an exasperated glare from Orlando. I ignored him and led the way back into the house, Sidi following all the whiles. Orli relented halfway and scooped Sidi up in his arms, planting a kiss straight on his muzzle.
“There. Happy yet?” I heard him ask of the pooch as I set the suitcase down in our bedroom. A yip from Sidi would be enough of a response for Orli. “No? Well then . . .” I watched in amusement, arms crossed over my chest, leaned against the doorframe as Orlando smothered his dog in kisses. If dogs purred, then I swore Sidi was doing so and loudly.
“Are you two done yet?” I asked, trying to keep a straight face. I might have managed that, but Orlando would see the light-heartedness in my eyes. They both looked at me, Orli quirking an eyebrow, though I could see now that he looked exhausted.
“You think he’s jealous, Sidi?”
The only response was that pink tongue emerging as Sidi continued to pant. Orli and I exchanged glances and I could see his shoulders shaking as he set down Sidi and moved to hug me tightly, feeling his silent laughter against me again. He yawned into my shoulder, kissed me on the neck, and moved past me to the bathroom, singing as he passed.
“High up above or down below/when you’re too in love to let it go.”
With a contended sigh, I looked down at Sidi who woofed at me and then moved to sit in front of the bathroom door. It was twenty minutes later that Orlando reappeared wearing a pair of jeans, his hair wet, the rim of his boxers showing, feet bare—I in my studio, though writing as I hadn’t done in a while. He sunk down into the couch wordlessly, curled up on his side with Sidi at his feet. He offered me a sleepy smile and closed his eyes. Often enough he had slept there on the couch when inspiration struck and I didn’t want to sleep until I had gotten everything down.
Now, it was wholly distracting, short story interrupted for fragments of poetry that struck me as I watched him sleep. So many differences with Orlando, different being with him, but I supposed that shouldn’t have been surprising since he was the only man I had been with. I don’t think he was entirely comfortable with us both being men, not to say that he didn’t love me, just physically. Emotionally, I don’t think I had ever been so aware of anyone, never been so open, and I knew he felt the same. Physically was something different, though Orlando was naturally an affectionate person. I had tried to talk to him about it once a few months ago—having the sense that he held himself back sometimes, on occasion seeing an internal debate in his eyes when he looked at me.
He had looked at me with wide eyes, wanting to answer me, but then I realised he didn’t know himself, that the distance was affecting him too and he wanted to rectify it, but didn’t know how. After not seeing him for a few months, I didn’t know if he had thought about it more or left it at that. My pencil stilled when he shifted on his back, a grimace on his face, a hand on his stomach.
It was foolish to think that his back problems would disappear, but I wished prayed he could just be free of it for one day. Setting aside my notebook on the table that held Orlando’s sculptures and some of my paints, I moved to kneel next to the couch. Slipping my hand beneath him, I pressed it against the small of Orlando’s back. There was a quiet sigh of appreciation as he relaxed against the warmth. The peacefulness didn’t last long when he woke soon after, a hand reaching down and strong fingers curling around my wrist before his eyes even opened.
“You don’t have to do that,” Orlando murmured.
“I know,” I stated resolutely and he opened his eyes to look at me with very little of what he was thinking in his dark eyes. “I’ll get the heating pad.”
His hand tightened on my wrist. “No, I’ll get it,” he insisted, sitting up, careful to avoid disturbing Sidi.
“When was the last time you let someone do something for you? Let me do anything for you?”
“You have better things to do and I can do it.”
“I know you can, but no, I don’t have anything better to do. You do the simplest, most considerate things for me throughout every day, but you don’t understand when I want to do something for you. Explain that to me, Orlando.”
Orlando just shook his head, bracing his elbows on his knees. Off my unrelenting stare, he shrugged and said in a voice rife with frustration, “I don’t know, Vig. Jesus . . . what do you want me to say?”
“I want you to be comfortable with me.”
“I know,” he said softly, looking down at his hands. “And I’m trying, I just . . . I don’t know what’s wrong. . . . I love you so much, but sometimes . . . sometimes I feel like a fucking teenager when you touch me. Sounds stupid with how touchy-feely I can be, but I can’t stop it.”
“Don’t . . . you shouldn’t feel pressured. You don’t ever have—”
“—don’t,” Orlando interrupted, shaking his head as he rose. “I know what you’re going to say and I can’t even bear to hear it.”
I rose now as well, not knowing what this conversation meant anymore. So many thoughts as I looked at Orlando who stood at the table with his hands braced on the edge—stoic and still. Orlando was never stoic. In the company of his friends of those he trusted of those that he knew care for him, his features were open and expressive. “Did I hurt you?” I asked and he looked over at me, his brow knitted, regarding me blankly. “The last time . . . when we had sex last. Did I hurt you? You haven’t—”
“—No, you didn’t. It’s . . . that I know how much you love me; I can see that in so much of what you do. . . . I can feel it in the way you touch me, when you look at me. God . . . fuck—you’re the first person I’ve ever truly loved. And I know that you’re older and been married, more experienced and everything, and I just feel that I can’t even comprehend what you feel for me. When you touch me, when you’re inside me it’s like you’re—like all the control I’ve ever had in my life is coming undone and it fucking scares the shit out of me, Viggo. I know you’ll say I shouldn’t be afraid of it or whatever, but it’s not that simple.” He took in a deep breath, watching me as I sat slowly on the couch, not knowing what to think of all that Orlando had said. “I’m not like blaming you or saying that I want you to change cause I don’t. This is me, Viggo. I just—I know we’ve been . . . I’ve been distant and that we’ve taken this slow enough, but I can’t go any faster. I’m all over the shop between being scared shitless to never wanting you to stop holding me.”
The silence was filled with a tension I had never before felt between us, but after his heartfelt words, my mind was whirling. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
I rose again, approaching him. “I love you and I will always love you. No matter if we fuck tomorrow or a year from now. That’s not what is important here, I will accept whatever you are comfortable with, you just have to talk to me, Orli. You can’t compare my feelings to yours, that’s not how love works. Sometimes I can’t understand the way you love me, I’m afraid that I have hurt you, that I’m old enough to be your father and that we’re so different . . .”
“Fuck . . .”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He released a long breath and rested his hand over mine. “Me neither.”
• • •
Awakened by nothing in particular, I lay still facing the window of our bedroom. Unlike in LA, here, in Idaho, outside was pitch black. I could hear the pattern of rain softly upon the roof, the slightly open window admitting a cool breeze that made me notice a particular lack of warmth that was pressed against me when I laid down. I was surprised to find that Lan was still in the bed, but his back was to me and I knew by his breathing that he was far from sleep. Shifting closer, I ran a hand up his back and he shivered because of my touch. “What is it?” I asked, knowing it wasn’t the nap he took earlier today that prevented him from sleeping.
“Thinking, just thinking. Go back to sleep, Vig,” he assured me, looking over his shoulder at me. I couldn’t really make out his features, but I knew that he had turned. His voice I could sleep by, smooth and soft. I loved the way he spoke, with even imperfection. Blamed on his dyslexia, Orlando often came out with the wrong word first and sometimes had difficulties finding just what word he meant, though the intended was one he had used dozens of times before. I didn’t claim to understand it, but it was definitely one of the things that made Orlando Orlando.
“You didn’t get much of a nap this afternoon and I can see the tiredness in your eyes. Tell me to fuck off, but I’d want to know what’s bothering you.”
He chuckled faintly at my words, turning to lie on his back. “I was just thinking about what you said . . . about the first time we—I don’t know what you’d call it. Made out? Screwed around? It all makes me sound like an overgrown teenager.”
“Henry already thinks you are.” I knew he would have been amused by that, but he didn’t respond. “What made you think of that?” I asked, moving to spoon my body around his. He moved his shoulder in a way I took as a shrug, feeling the gesture against my own body.
“I think that was the first time you held me like this.”
“Lan . . . you’re ok, right?” I asked quietly, my lips against that shallow dip behind his ear. “You would tell me, wouldn’t you?”
“There’s nothing wrong . . . I know I’ve been more . . . contemplative than normal, but I’ve never thought—no, I shouldn’t say that. . . . I’ve never really stopped and thought about a lot of things since my career started . . . but I’m going to have to think about them sometime. I’m going to be thirty this year. I can’t keep barrelling through life like I have been. What happens when I don’t have this career? You have Henry and your paintings, writing, and photography.”
“Acting isn’t all you have, Orlando. Never in my career have I seen someone make so many lifelong, dedicated and loyal friends. And who said your career would be over soon? Robin?”
“No.”
“Then what made you think that?”
“It’s Hollywood, Viggo.”
“You could go back to theatre, work on your sculpting. You never went back to that piece in the studio.”
“Yeah, well, you know how that goes.”
“Tell me.”
“I have to see what I’m going to create before I can make it. In that, I had so much emotion I wanted to put in it but there was too much I think and I couldn’t find a way to express that. Not concretely, not with clay.”
“Why not abstractly?”
“It doesn’t work that way for me. . . . About earlier,” he began, but then didn’t continue.
“It wasn’t just today,” I pressed, “and it was more to it than what you said.”
“I was never gay, Viggo. I was never attracted to another man. I’ve never looked at a mate twice. Those sort of things aren’t supposed to change overnight and in a way, they haven’t. Beyond you, Viggo. I still have never thought about another man. I’m attracted to women. But you . . . you’ve found other men attractive.”
“Yeah, I have. I do. I wish there was an answer for you, but if there is, I don’t know it. I’ve known for a long time that you weren’t physically attracted to me. I’m not an exception to how you feel.”
“Viggo—”
“—I know you love me.”
“No, I am attracted to you . . . maybe not physically, but I am attracted. Maybe not in the same way I’m attracted to a girl, beyond the obvious, but I am. Would we even be here if I wasn’t?”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“I know. Sorry.”
“Orlando, this was—”
“No, Vig, don’t even think it.”
“I want what’s best for you even if that doesn’t mean we’re together. I couldn’t bear you being unhappy.”
“I’ve told you once that I’ve never been happier. I didn’t lie and I wasn’t exaggerating. You’ve seen the sculptures I have in the studio, but those are a demonstration of the way you make me feel. I guess you haven’t seen what I’ve done previously, before Rings, before I broke my back.”
“Has anyone?”
“My mother, I suppose.”
“I mean what I said about you always doing things for me, things you think I don’t notice. And I know you’re the same way with everyone you care for—Sean, Eric, Johnny, Brad, but when someone thinks to return the favour it’s as if you don’t understand why. Like you don’t understand why people love you.”
“Maybe I don’t.”
I ran my hand through his hair and pressed my lips against the back of his neck. “I wish I could make you understand, that I could show you, that you would just take my word for it.”
He pressed back against me, turning his face against mine. He didn’t say anything and this time, I let him have his silence, that the way we fell asleep once more.
I glanced up from my book as Orlando came to sit next to me in front of the fireplace. Wearing only a pair of boxer briefs, Orlando still warm from sleep. “What are you doing up?” I asked of him, though he seemed content to sit still and stare at the fireplace.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Orlando admitted, wrapping his arms around his middle.
“What’s on your mind?”
“You,” he stated, looking at me quite seriously. “It’s been three months since I told—since we discussed our feelings.”
Now, I set the book aside, resting a hand on his thigh as I turned to face him. “I didn’t think you wanted anything more.”
“I don’t know what I want,” Orlando admitted, shifting restlessly.
I studied his face carefully for a moment, then caressed his face boldly as I had wanted to do every day for the past six years. After that day in the barn, it had been strangely uncomplicated for the two of us, except in terms of physical closeness. While we embraced with the strength that was too much between friends and for a length of time that can only be between lovers, that was the only physical affection Orlando seemed truly comfortable. Without a second thought, Orlando would plant a kiss on a friend’s cheek, or the corner of a mouth, or even full on the lips in jest or just because he felt like it. He could do that easily enough, but I believed it was what came after those kisses that concerned him.
“It’s not that different,” I assured him.
He laughed a little at himself, resting his forehead against mine. “It is. Even if you weren’t a man, everything is different with you. You’re not like anyone I’ve ever known.”
“Do you want to do this?”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“Because I’m a man . . .”
“My father was Jewish and my mum’s church of England,” Orlando said placing a hand on my chest, fingers settled between buttons. “I believe I remember the word ‘abomination’. But something that wrong . . . it shouldn’t, couldn’t feel like this. The way I love you, it doesn’t feel wrong.”
“It’s love, Lando, you don’t have to put a name to it,” I countered, stroking my thumb over the curve of his cheekbone. “I know what you were taught, I grew up in Argentina. The only place more Catholic than South America is the Vatican.”
He grinned a little, then tipped his chin forward and closed his lips around my bottom lip, kissing twice then claiming my top lip. I returned the kiss cradling his face in both of my hands, parting his lips with my own. He tasted of toothpaste and apple juice, his skin warm and soft. His kisses were tentative and I tried to keep a rein on how much I wanted to touch all of him, to see all of him. When I finally broke the kiss, we were both breathing heavily, his hand fisting the front of my shirt. “Tell me when you want to stop.”
He nodded mutely and I looked carefully into his eyes while slowing my breathing. I wanted to be gentle with him yet at the same time I appreciate the strength of his arms and chest, the contours of his body. The way I could easily feel the strength in his hands as they settled just beneath my ribs and above my navel. I ran my hands over his arms, chest, and stomach, over his shoulders and through his hair, kissing him over and over again. On his cheeks, forehead, sucking on his tongue and exploring his mouth. I moved closer, a knee between his thighs and it suddenly struck me that he would be uncomfortable sitting like that on the wooden floor.
I tugged him up onto the couch, laying him back, slipping my hands between him and the couch to knead the muscles of his strong back. My lips found the hollow of his throat, the curve of his collarbone, the point of his shoulder, the centre of his chest. Orlando was gripping my shirt tightly in both hands now, breathing heavily beneath me, watching my every action. “You okay?”
Again, he nodded undoing my shirt and running his hands over my stomach and chest. Such a contrast between us with his naturally dark skin tanned from his seeming aversion to being indoors for too long—or perhaps just being still for too long. His chest smooth, with soft hairs that were barely visible, his muscles much more defined than my own. He sat up under me and pushed the shirt off my shoulders, catching my bottom lip between his again, then running the tip of his tongue through the cleft of my chin, the scar of my upper lip. His tongue was in my mouth, kissing me with a brief show of the passion I expected from Orlando—it certainly left me breathless, my hand settling on his stomach and the rim of his boxers.
“Tell me what you want,” I breathed against the side of his neck.
His eyes met mine, looking up to me, his cheeks flushed and his hair a bit tousled. “What do you want, Viggo?”
I hesitated, but he didn’t look away. “I want to see all of you, to touch you. But I know you’re not sure of this, you don’t have to hide it.”
“I’m fine, I promise you. . . . I don’t want to disappoint you.”
I frowned at him. “You never could.”
“I’m twenty-nine years old, I shouldn’t be nervous about this.”
“I am,” I told him bluntly. “I don’t want to push you.”
“You won’t, I can speak for myself, you know that.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“This isn’t either of our first time.”
“Doesn’t feel that way,” I stated, kissing his shoulder. “It’s my first time with you. You’re not a fuck to me, Orlando. You’re the only person I’ve ever loved like this, ever felt this way for. Don’t be nervous.”
A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he lay back on the sofa again. I captured his mouth once more, sliding my tongue past his thin lips while my other hand ghosted over his hip and then rubbed over his half-erect cock still confined by his boxers. He shifted beneath me, spreading his legs as much as he could manage with my knees planted over either side of him.
My lips found their way back to the dip just behind his ear, kissing him there, running my tongue over the back of his ear. He sighed beneath me, his eyes nearly closed, his hands running slowly up and down my back—this the way it should be between us, I couldn’t help but think. Slow, relaxed . . . relaxed, that was the way we had always been around each other, none of this tension or nervousness.
Then that enticing spot was being pulled away as he kissed my cheek. A shiver passed through him as I sought to follow, my face pressed against the side of his neck. Our eyes met and I caressed the side of his face, wondering if my contentment showed on my face. Pushing myself up with one arm, I pressed my lips to the centre of his chest as I pushed down his boxers, he lifting his hips enough for me to slide them down to mid-thigh. His breathing hitched as I stroked my hand over his cock, groin, and then up his chest, kissing the crest of his hip not far from his sun tattoo.
This time when I touched his cock, I was looking at his face, half lying next to him, half looking down at him. Lightly, just lightly with two fingers and my thumb, stroking slowly, watching his reaction. He was breathing more heavily than before, though was looking straight at me. I kissed the apex of his shoulder, then the curve of muscles, then the side of his neck, feeling a shiver and his rapid pulse. He pulls me down against him, between his spread thighs and as he moves against me I think perhaps I’ve never appreciated friction quite this much.
His strong rough hands are down the back of my jeans, his strong hands slipping against my flesh that seems cool in comparison. He is quiet beneath me even though the speed and strength with which I stroked his penis, it is now fully hard in my hand. Now his hands are ghosting over my back and he thrusts his hips a bit harder against me, reminding me that I’m still confined with my jeans and boxers. When I sit back on my haunches, only his eyes follow me. I pull away his boxers completely, they soon forgotten on the floor beside the sofa. Looking to his face, I undo my jeans and shove them and my boxers down as far as they will go, freeing my erection. Then I covered his body with mine again, returning to his lips as I feel my cock align with his.
He’s no longer moving beneath me, but his knees are raised on either side of my hips and his hands are on my shoulder. I thrust gently against the hard muscles of his groin and his thighs tighten around me and I can’t tell if by that gesture he wants me to stop or move faster. His eyes are closed and his body is tense, his cock still hard between us. With one hand I brush away the lock that has fallen down over his nose and lips and then just run my fingers through his hair over and over until he opens his eyes and looks at me, not needing to ask why I stopped.
“Just me,” I assured him, now caressing the side of his face.
His eyes closed again. “I know. I know.”
“I don’t want to upset you.”
“I’m not—you aren’t,” he started to retort, but then stopped and closed his eyes briefly once more, gathering himself. “I’m not upset, just . . . adjusting. It’s . . . odd.”
I raised an eyebrow at him, never before had I heard that adjective used before relating to sex. “Odd?”
He grinned sheepishly at his choice of words. “Different?” he suggested hopefully.
“It’s okay.”
“Just . . . I’ll tell you if I want you to stop.”
“Will you?”
He looked confused for a moment. “You think I wouldn’t?”
I kissed him instead and his hand went between us to loosely grasp both of our cocks with one hand. I slid my arms around him and thrust into his hand, against his erection repeatedly. I was lost in him in a way I had never felt before, not merely the sensations or his body against mine, but all of him. The way he touched me, his scent, the ever so quiet moan I heard from him when he came between us, the hitch of his breath when I followed soon after. The darkness of his eyes when he looked up at me and the soft caress of his hand against my stubble-covered chin.
And I lay there, on top of him, stroking his chest and shoulders with one casual hand, memorizing the curve of his muscles, the softness of his skin, the warmth of him, the pattern of his breathing. I kissed his bearded chin, the raise of his cheekbone, the hollow of his throat—slowly, gently while he kept his arms around me, not ready, not willing, not wanting to let go. I kissed his eyelids, closed lightly over his beautiful eyes, any part of him I could reach without moving from him, without moving from the circle of his arms.
and we will never be farther than a short breath and a goosebumped shiver away . . .
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I'll probably end up rereading this again. Great work.
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He's just confused. This is something completely new to him and has gone against what he was taught as a child and all that. He'll get it right in his head. I'm glad you enjoyed it and thank you for commenting.
Cheers,
SL
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What a beautiful story! It's full of all kinds of events and emotions - from a very tentative beginning to a most romantic end of this chapter, through pain and sadness, emptiness, fulfillment, heartache, love, tenderness, misunderstanding, joy and reunion.
I love the way you've focussed almost completely on Viggo and Orlando with hardly any input from anyone else - just their feelings overwhelming them until they are coming to realise "we will never be farther than a short breath and a goosebumped shiver away..."
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Just as you say I focus completely on Viggo and Orlando, I just started the next chapter and there is actually one additional character for once. Ten chapters . . . I hadn't realised.
Cheers again.
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Thanks~
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Cheers again,
SL