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fellowshippers2003-07-24 11:13 am
chaosmanor.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2003-07-24 11:13 am
"The Phoenician Sailor", NC17, Viggorli, 1/1
Title: The Phoenician Sailor
Author: Elaine Kemp kaitlin@echidna.id.au
Pairing: Viggorli
Rating: R, for language and sexual situations. Look, I wrote something without explicit sex in it!
Disclaimer: It is fiction. I made it all up.
Betaed by: Mina and Celebrian
Summary: Surfing, fungi, confusion and an obscure literary reference.
Notes: The lines of poetry quoted are from The Waste Land, by T. S. Eliot. And the fungi are from the genus Omphalotus.
Viggo had been persuaded to go surfing with Dom and Elijah and the others. It would be fun, they assured him. So he had gone and it had not been fun. And now his head hurt. He’d been dumped by a wave; slammed against the gritty sand; and whacked on his head by his board. And it fucking hurt. Dom’s hand was firm on his shoulder; Billy’s on his other elbow as they led him, dizzy and disoriented, up the sand.
They guided him down to the ground and Viggo tentatively opened his eyes and squeezed them shut again when the bright light was too much. He felt gentle hands on his face and pressure on the pain in his head. Orlando’s voice, British and calm said, “Elijah, see how close you can get the car,” and then, “Viggo, can you open your eyes for me?”
Viggo thought about nodding and decided against it, and opened his eyes. Spread around him on the towel were the contents of a first aid kit, and Orlando was kneeling over him, shading him from the sun, concern on his face. “Did you pass out at all?” Orlando asked.
Viggo thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so,” he ventured.
“How do you feel?” Orlando asked, lifting the pressure from the other’s head for a moment, then pressing down again.
Viggo looked at Orlando, his deep brown eyes full of worry, and was struck again by his beauty. “I’m drowning, aren’t I?” he said, suddenly confused
Orlando smiled at him. “No, you’re not. But I think you’re concussed, so you’re going to hospital. Do you think you can hold the pad to your head whilst you walk to the car?”
Viggo reached a hand up to his scalp, to where Orlando was pressing. “Yes,” he said, feeling a latex rubber covered hand slip away from under his.
Whilst he sat in Casualty, feeling anaesthetic being injected, feeling sutures pulling through his skin; he thought again of the feeling of drowning, of slipping under and being tumbled around and wondered why it hadn’t stopped when he had gotten out of the water.
* * * * * * * * * * *
When Viggo walked away from the campground, the sky had cleared and the stars were close in the clean air. Alien stars. He wasn’t yet accustomed to the new constellations; even though one of the crew had told him the names of the brightest stars, and how to find celestial south. Strange to have a dark space dominating the night sky, instead of the North Star.
There was movement beside him, and the night was disturbed. Orlando stood beside him, looking up too. “I’m not used to the stars yet,” Viggo said.
Orlando nodded beside him, cigarette smoke suddenly sharp on the air; glowing ember marking the movement of his head. “Me either. Not that there is a lot of night sky in London. This is so far away from everything I’ve known, I can’t quite believe I’m here. It must be even more dislocating for you. I at least knew I was coming here in advance.”
Viggo nodded; the movement lost in the darkness. “One day I’m in LA, not thinking of much except painting. Three days later I’m in New Zealand, about to start filming.”
They walked silently down into the valley, into the forest. The forest was magical; dripping with the earlier rain; impossibly old, bursting with life. Viggo couldn’t imagine why there had been a set built for Fangorn, when a forest like this actually existed.
They weren’t even here to film this amazing forest; only to film on the nearby river. They walked further along the path away from the campground they were staying at- further into the gloom and dampness and the night deepened as the canopy closed over them; the moist, dark smell of the ground was all around them. A ghostly shape loomed from the branch of a tree, glowing faintly in the darkness. Then another, then another, until the path they stood on was surrounded by phosphorescent fans of fungi, clinging to the close grown trees; hanging from branches and wrapped around trunks. In the US, Viggo might have known the name of the fungi, but not here where everything was alien. Beside him, Orlando spoke in a hushed tone; “Do you have any idea what they are?”
Viggo shook his head, then realised that Orlando couldn’t see him in the gloom. “No. No idea. This can’t be real, can it?”
The silence returned and they stood in the darkness, and the air was cold, and they turned and walked back towards the real world. When they reached the campground, the forest was spread out before them across the valley and the stars still shone overhead, wheeling around the darkness. Viggo turned to go back to his trailer, paused and said, “Coffee?”
Orlando shook his head and said, “I’ll never sleep. But hot chocolate would be good. I’ll go and get some from my trailer.”
Orlando pushed the trailer door open a minute later, chocolate powder and soy milk in his hands. Viggo had already put the kettle and heater on, and Orlando pulled off his beanie and jacket and sat down at the tiny table.
When Viggo joined him, two steaming mugs between them, he was struck again by the loveliness of Orlando’s face. He didn’t really understand why PJ wanted to put makeup and a wig on Orlando when he already had elfin beauty. He knew little about Orlando personally; they had not really gotten to know each other in the short time he had been there. Orlando socialised with the younger cast members and Viggo usually spent time with Sean Bean. Orlando’s kindness when Viggo had been hurt lingered in Viggo’s mind; the calmness and certainty of his hands and voice.
Viggo looked up at him now. “I’ve never thanked you for looking after me when I hurt my head surfing. Thankyou. And you actually knew what to do.”
“Not a problem. I’ve done some first aid training, so if you really had drowned, I could have saved you.” Orlando looked at the easel standing in the tiny space available, and the canvas resting on it. The surface was partially covered with twisted, organic shapes of deep browns and leaf greens. “May I ask you about your painting?”
Viggo nodded. “What do you want to know?”
“How much do you shape what’s on the canvas? Does it just happen? Or do you consciously create the image? I’ve seen some of your other paintings. Do they have meaning in themselves? Or does the meaning only exist in what other people see in them?”
Viggo sat in silence for a moment. These were not the questions he had expected. People always asked where he got his inspiration from, that was the standard question. Orlando’s questions indicated he had some idea of the creative process.
“Each painting is different. This one is about the forest outside, as much as it is about anything. But the paintings mostly happen spontaneously. It’s not until near the end that I see what they are really about, what their intrinsic meaning is. Does that make any sense?”
Orlando nodded. “Yes. I sometimes wonder what the world must look like through your eyes. How intense colours and shades must be when you look at them.” And then he stood up to leave. “Good night,” he said, and Viggo stood too and Orlando leaned across the space between them and brushed his lips across Viggo’s.
After Orlando had left, Viggo touched his lips with his fingertips. He had seen Orlando hug and kiss Elijah and Billy and Dom; just like that; seen all the casual affection he had been socialised not to offer; but had never thought it would happen to him.
* * * * * * *
The next night, Orlando came to stand beside him again in silence at the edge of the forest. There was the quiet hum of human occupation behind them; the sound of people moving around their trailers; the sound of Elijah laughing. Orlando slipped his hand into Viggo’s and pulled at it gently as they walked into the forest, letting the slippery ground and dripping leaves swallowed the murmur of the campground.
By silent consent, they walked back to the grove of glowing fungi, Orlando slipping his hand free to balance better at one point, leaving Viggo vaguely relieved his touch was gone.
Viggo found Orlando standing right beside him in the grove, fingers brushing across his shoulders, and then drifting over his face. Viggo knew what was going to happen next; knew Orlando was going to kiss him; knew that this was when he stepped away, turned away; said something; anything. But he didn’t do any of these. He was caught in the feather of fingers on his neck, the ghost of breath across his lips. Then Orlando’s lips were pressed against his and he surrendered to the kiss, moving his lips, parting them as Orlando’s tongue slid into his mouth.
Orlando thought, right until their mouths were touching, that he was going to be pushed away. Damn, he knew that Viggo was heterosexual. Orlando knew he was going to be rejected, but had been unable to stop himself in the twilight magic of the forest. And now the impossible had happened; Viggo had opened his mouth to him, and Orlando made a small moan in the back of his throat and slid one hand down from Viggo’s neck and in between his shirt and jacket. And Viggo pushed a hand against Orlando’s chest, breaking the contact, stepping back, and their breathing was loud in the damp silence of the forest.
Orlando said, trying to keep his voice even, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. You’re straight, aren’t you?”
Viggo’s voice was low and ironic as he said, “That was a question I knew the answer to until a few moments ago.”
They walked back to the trailers in silence, the sounds of human habitation, the TVs, the voices, reaching them as they left the forest and climbed to the campground. As Orlando turned to his trailer, Viggo said, “I still have your hot chocolate. Come and drink some.”
Orlando followed him to his cabin, found himself sitting at the table, gazing at the painting from the night before. Out of the hidden patterns of darkness, edges were lit with an alien phosphorescence that hadn’t been there the night before. And in the centre of the painting, a dark space had opened up amongst the tangled shapes, untouched by light or shadow.
When Viggo handed him his mug, Orlando said, “You’ve done a lot of work since last night. Did you stay up all night?”
“For too much of it; yes,” Viggo answered, and then they sat in silence for a while. When Orlando stood to leave, Viggo rose too and slipped his hand behind Orlando’s neck and pulled him close until their mouths met. Viggo’s kiss was hungry and Orlando met its urgency with his own hunger and found himself mentally calculating how to move the metre distance to the bed without either of them falling over.
Then, just as suddenly, Viggo pulled free, and leant across and opened the trailer door. “Go, “ he said.
Orlando didn’t, he stayed where he was and said, “You kiss me and throw me out. I’m confused.”
Viggo waved at the door and said, “You can’t possibly be as confused as me. Now go. If I’m going to have a mid-life crisis, I’d like to do it in private.” And Orlando left.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Orlando pulled himself up from the floor and stretched and clambered over Billy’s legs, causing Elijah to toss popcorn at him as he blocked the TV screen temporarily on his way to the kitchen. The British cast members had gathered to watch soccer together, as they occasionally did, and Sean Bean had insisted they watch it at Viggo’s house on his widescreen TV. Viggo had seemed resigned to the intrusion, though he professed to be frankly bewildered by a game where a nil/nil draw was a valid result. Dom, Billy and Sean all took football seriously and earnestly discussed form and match tactics. Orlando didn’t really care about soccer, but found that watching matches with his mates dealt with his vague feelings of missing home. Ian had joined them because, as he said, looking at all those lovely young men did him wonders, and there was an honesty to the kissing after a goal was scored that was completely missing in gay porn. Elijah had come along because he could never bear to be left out of anything.
Viggo was in the kitchen when Orlando wandered in. As Dom shouted instructions to a player in the next room, Viggo said, “I’ve finished the forest painting. Would you like to see it?”
Orlando nodded and said, “I’d love to,” and Viggo led him down the hall to the studio. Viggo flicked the lights on, and Orlando stood in front of the painting and held his breath.
The hidden tangle of shapes, of olive greens and dark umbers, that he had seen before was suffused from behind with an eerie glow, a strange alien light that shone from fan shaped brushmarks of acid green and cool yellow. The darkness in the centre seemed about to swallow the colours; the light that spun around it. The whole painting had on otherworldliness to it that echoed the magic of the forest at night.
Viggo said, “What do you think?”
Orlando stared at the painting and said, “It’s fey. That’s what the forest felt like. I have no idea how you managed to catch that.”
Viggo stood behind Orlando, looking over his shoulder at the painting and said, “My memories of the forest are intensely vivid. It was easy to paint from them.” Viggo’s breath was warm on Orlando’s neck as he moved closer. “Orlando,” Viggo whispered against the skin of his neck. “I am drowning.”
Orlando felt the heat of Viggo’s body pressed against him; felt his arms sliding around him and answered softly, “Do you want me to teach you to swim?”
Viggo shook his head slightly, and Orlando felt his mouth move on his neck. “No, I want you to teach me to breathe water.”
And then Orlando was pushed against the worktable and they were kissing hard and Orlando’s hands were pulling at Viggo’s clothes, trying to reach skin. Viggo’s hand was pressing firmly against the front of Orlando’s jeans, rubbing against his cock, making him moan and rock his hips, when there was a roar from the lounge room and Sean Bean shouted “Fucking morons.”
Viggo pulled away and said, “I’d forgotten there was room full of soccer hooligans next door.”
Orlando grinned at him and said, “Mid-life crisis resolution is bound to be noisy. It’s probably best to wait until later.”
Later, when Viggo was sprawled beneath Orlando and they were both breathless, Viggo opened the eyes he had closed when the pleasure had become too much. They gleamed in the darkness, shining with the light spilling into the room through the partly open door. Orlando at first thought they glowed like the fungi in the forest; but then decided they were lustrous, like freshwater pearls, reflecting the world around them.
* * * * * * * * *
The next morning, when Viggo sat down at his seat in the make-up trailer, ready to be turned into Aragorn, artificial mud and all, there was a scrawl across the mirror. It read:
Here…
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Author: Elaine Kemp kaitlin@echidna.id.au
Pairing: Viggorli
Rating: R, for language and sexual situations. Look, I wrote something without explicit sex in it!
Disclaimer: It is fiction. I made it all up.
Betaed by: Mina and Celebrian
Summary: Surfing, fungi, confusion and an obscure literary reference.
Notes: The lines of poetry quoted are from The Waste Land, by T. S. Eliot. And the fungi are from the genus Omphalotus.
Viggo had been persuaded to go surfing with Dom and Elijah and the others. It would be fun, they assured him. So he had gone and it had not been fun. And now his head hurt. He’d been dumped by a wave; slammed against the gritty sand; and whacked on his head by his board. And it fucking hurt. Dom’s hand was firm on his shoulder; Billy’s on his other elbow as they led him, dizzy and disoriented, up the sand.
They guided him down to the ground and Viggo tentatively opened his eyes and squeezed them shut again when the bright light was too much. He felt gentle hands on his face and pressure on the pain in his head. Orlando’s voice, British and calm said, “Elijah, see how close you can get the car,” and then, “Viggo, can you open your eyes for me?”
Viggo thought about nodding and decided against it, and opened his eyes. Spread around him on the towel were the contents of a first aid kit, and Orlando was kneeling over him, shading him from the sun, concern on his face. “Did you pass out at all?” Orlando asked.
Viggo thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so,” he ventured.
“How do you feel?” Orlando asked, lifting the pressure from the other’s head for a moment, then pressing down again.
Viggo looked at Orlando, his deep brown eyes full of worry, and was struck again by his beauty. “I’m drowning, aren’t I?” he said, suddenly confused
Orlando smiled at him. “No, you’re not. But I think you’re concussed, so you’re going to hospital. Do you think you can hold the pad to your head whilst you walk to the car?”
Viggo reached a hand up to his scalp, to where Orlando was pressing. “Yes,” he said, feeling a latex rubber covered hand slip away from under his.
Whilst he sat in Casualty, feeling anaesthetic being injected, feeling sutures pulling through his skin; he thought again of the feeling of drowning, of slipping under and being tumbled around and wondered why it hadn’t stopped when he had gotten out of the water.
* * * * * * * * * * *
When Viggo walked away from the campground, the sky had cleared and the stars were close in the clean air. Alien stars. He wasn’t yet accustomed to the new constellations; even though one of the crew had told him the names of the brightest stars, and how to find celestial south. Strange to have a dark space dominating the night sky, instead of the North Star.
There was movement beside him, and the night was disturbed. Orlando stood beside him, looking up too. “I’m not used to the stars yet,” Viggo said.
Orlando nodded beside him, cigarette smoke suddenly sharp on the air; glowing ember marking the movement of his head. “Me either. Not that there is a lot of night sky in London. This is so far away from everything I’ve known, I can’t quite believe I’m here. It must be even more dislocating for you. I at least knew I was coming here in advance.”
Viggo nodded; the movement lost in the darkness. “One day I’m in LA, not thinking of much except painting. Three days later I’m in New Zealand, about to start filming.”
They walked silently down into the valley, into the forest. The forest was magical; dripping with the earlier rain; impossibly old, bursting with life. Viggo couldn’t imagine why there had been a set built for Fangorn, when a forest like this actually existed.
They weren’t even here to film this amazing forest; only to film on the nearby river. They walked further along the path away from the campground they were staying at- further into the gloom and dampness and the night deepened as the canopy closed over them; the moist, dark smell of the ground was all around them. A ghostly shape loomed from the branch of a tree, glowing faintly in the darkness. Then another, then another, until the path they stood on was surrounded by phosphorescent fans of fungi, clinging to the close grown trees; hanging from branches and wrapped around trunks. In the US, Viggo might have known the name of the fungi, but not here where everything was alien. Beside him, Orlando spoke in a hushed tone; “Do you have any idea what they are?”
Viggo shook his head, then realised that Orlando couldn’t see him in the gloom. “No. No idea. This can’t be real, can it?”
The silence returned and they stood in the darkness, and the air was cold, and they turned and walked back towards the real world. When they reached the campground, the forest was spread out before them across the valley and the stars still shone overhead, wheeling around the darkness. Viggo turned to go back to his trailer, paused and said, “Coffee?”
Orlando shook his head and said, “I’ll never sleep. But hot chocolate would be good. I’ll go and get some from my trailer.”
Orlando pushed the trailer door open a minute later, chocolate powder and soy milk in his hands. Viggo had already put the kettle and heater on, and Orlando pulled off his beanie and jacket and sat down at the tiny table.
When Viggo joined him, two steaming mugs between them, he was struck again by the loveliness of Orlando’s face. He didn’t really understand why PJ wanted to put makeup and a wig on Orlando when he already had elfin beauty. He knew little about Orlando personally; they had not really gotten to know each other in the short time he had been there. Orlando socialised with the younger cast members and Viggo usually spent time with Sean Bean. Orlando’s kindness when Viggo had been hurt lingered in Viggo’s mind; the calmness and certainty of his hands and voice.
Viggo looked up at him now. “I’ve never thanked you for looking after me when I hurt my head surfing. Thankyou. And you actually knew what to do.”
“Not a problem. I’ve done some first aid training, so if you really had drowned, I could have saved you.” Orlando looked at the easel standing in the tiny space available, and the canvas resting on it. The surface was partially covered with twisted, organic shapes of deep browns and leaf greens. “May I ask you about your painting?”
Viggo nodded. “What do you want to know?”
“How much do you shape what’s on the canvas? Does it just happen? Or do you consciously create the image? I’ve seen some of your other paintings. Do they have meaning in themselves? Or does the meaning only exist in what other people see in them?”
Viggo sat in silence for a moment. These were not the questions he had expected. People always asked where he got his inspiration from, that was the standard question. Orlando’s questions indicated he had some idea of the creative process.
“Each painting is different. This one is about the forest outside, as much as it is about anything. But the paintings mostly happen spontaneously. It’s not until near the end that I see what they are really about, what their intrinsic meaning is. Does that make any sense?”
Orlando nodded. “Yes. I sometimes wonder what the world must look like through your eyes. How intense colours and shades must be when you look at them.” And then he stood up to leave. “Good night,” he said, and Viggo stood too and Orlando leaned across the space between them and brushed his lips across Viggo’s.
After Orlando had left, Viggo touched his lips with his fingertips. He had seen Orlando hug and kiss Elijah and Billy and Dom; just like that; seen all the casual affection he had been socialised not to offer; but had never thought it would happen to him.
* * * * * * *
The next night, Orlando came to stand beside him again in silence at the edge of the forest. There was the quiet hum of human occupation behind them; the sound of people moving around their trailers; the sound of Elijah laughing. Orlando slipped his hand into Viggo’s and pulled at it gently as they walked into the forest, letting the slippery ground and dripping leaves swallowed the murmur of the campground.
By silent consent, they walked back to the grove of glowing fungi, Orlando slipping his hand free to balance better at one point, leaving Viggo vaguely relieved his touch was gone.
Viggo found Orlando standing right beside him in the grove, fingers brushing across his shoulders, and then drifting over his face. Viggo knew what was going to happen next; knew Orlando was going to kiss him; knew that this was when he stepped away, turned away; said something; anything. But he didn’t do any of these. He was caught in the feather of fingers on his neck, the ghost of breath across his lips. Then Orlando’s lips were pressed against his and he surrendered to the kiss, moving his lips, parting them as Orlando’s tongue slid into his mouth.
Orlando thought, right until their mouths were touching, that he was going to be pushed away. Damn, he knew that Viggo was heterosexual. Orlando knew he was going to be rejected, but had been unable to stop himself in the twilight magic of the forest. And now the impossible had happened; Viggo had opened his mouth to him, and Orlando made a small moan in the back of his throat and slid one hand down from Viggo’s neck and in between his shirt and jacket. And Viggo pushed a hand against Orlando’s chest, breaking the contact, stepping back, and their breathing was loud in the damp silence of the forest.
Orlando said, trying to keep his voice even, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. You’re straight, aren’t you?”
Viggo’s voice was low and ironic as he said, “That was a question I knew the answer to until a few moments ago.”
They walked back to the trailers in silence, the sounds of human habitation, the TVs, the voices, reaching them as they left the forest and climbed to the campground. As Orlando turned to his trailer, Viggo said, “I still have your hot chocolate. Come and drink some.”
Orlando followed him to his cabin, found himself sitting at the table, gazing at the painting from the night before. Out of the hidden patterns of darkness, edges were lit with an alien phosphorescence that hadn’t been there the night before. And in the centre of the painting, a dark space had opened up amongst the tangled shapes, untouched by light or shadow.
When Viggo handed him his mug, Orlando said, “You’ve done a lot of work since last night. Did you stay up all night?”
“For too much of it; yes,” Viggo answered, and then they sat in silence for a while. When Orlando stood to leave, Viggo rose too and slipped his hand behind Orlando’s neck and pulled him close until their mouths met. Viggo’s kiss was hungry and Orlando met its urgency with his own hunger and found himself mentally calculating how to move the metre distance to the bed without either of them falling over.
Then, just as suddenly, Viggo pulled free, and leant across and opened the trailer door. “Go, “ he said.
Orlando didn’t, he stayed where he was and said, “You kiss me and throw me out. I’m confused.”
Viggo waved at the door and said, “You can’t possibly be as confused as me. Now go. If I’m going to have a mid-life crisis, I’d like to do it in private.” And Orlando left.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Orlando pulled himself up from the floor and stretched and clambered over Billy’s legs, causing Elijah to toss popcorn at him as he blocked the TV screen temporarily on his way to the kitchen. The British cast members had gathered to watch soccer together, as they occasionally did, and Sean Bean had insisted they watch it at Viggo’s house on his widescreen TV. Viggo had seemed resigned to the intrusion, though he professed to be frankly bewildered by a game where a nil/nil draw was a valid result. Dom, Billy and Sean all took football seriously and earnestly discussed form and match tactics. Orlando didn’t really care about soccer, but found that watching matches with his mates dealt with his vague feelings of missing home. Ian had joined them because, as he said, looking at all those lovely young men did him wonders, and there was an honesty to the kissing after a goal was scored that was completely missing in gay porn. Elijah had come along because he could never bear to be left out of anything.
Viggo was in the kitchen when Orlando wandered in. As Dom shouted instructions to a player in the next room, Viggo said, “I’ve finished the forest painting. Would you like to see it?”
Orlando nodded and said, “I’d love to,” and Viggo led him down the hall to the studio. Viggo flicked the lights on, and Orlando stood in front of the painting and held his breath.
The hidden tangle of shapes, of olive greens and dark umbers, that he had seen before was suffused from behind with an eerie glow, a strange alien light that shone from fan shaped brushmarks of acid green and cool yellow. The darkness in the centre seemed about to swallow the colours; the light that spun around it. The whole painting had on otherworldliness to it that echoed the magic of the forest at night.
Viggo said, “What do you think?”
Orlando stared at the painting and said, “It’s fey. That’s what the forest felt like. I have no idea how you managed to catch that.”
Viggo stood behind Orlando, looking over his shoulder at the painting and said, “My memories of the forest are intensely vivid. It was easy to paint from them.” Viggo’s breath was warm on Orlando’s neck as he moved closer. “Orlando,” Viggo whispered against the skin of his neck. “I am drowning.”
Orlando felt the heat of Viggo’s body pressed against him; felt his arms sliding around him and answered softly, “Do you want me to teach you to swim?”
Viggo shook his head slightly, and Orlando felt his mouth move on his neck. “No, I want you to teach me to breathe water.”
And then Orlando was pushed against the worktable and they were kissing hard and Orlando’s hands were pulling at Viggo’s clothes, trying to reach skin. Viggo’s hand was pressing firmly against the front of Orlando’s jeans, rubbing against his cock, making him moan and rock his hips, when there was a roar from the lounge room and Sean Bean shouted “Fucking morons.”
Viggo pulled away and said, “I’d forgotten there was room full of soccer hooligans next door.”
Orlando grinned at him and said, “Mid-life crisis resolution is bound to be noisy. It’s probably best to wait until later.”
Later, when Viggo was sprawled beneath Orlando and they were both breathless, Viggo opened the eyes he had closed when the pleasure had become too much. They gleamed in the darkness, shining with the light spilling into the room through the partly open door. Orlando at first thought they glowed like the fungi in the forest; but then decided they were lustrous, like freshwater pearls, reflecting the world around them.
* * * * * * * * *
The next morning, when Viggo sat down at his seat in the make-up trailer, ready to be turned into Aragorn, artificial mud and all, there was a scrawl across the mirror. It read:
Here…
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
no subject
no subject
no subject
Really, it was a lovely story; the characters' actions were believable and the pace was perfect - no sudden awareness of overwhelming love or uncontrollable angst, just a slow slide into a beautiful relationship.
The only thing that I would suggest is to ground the narrative in the viewpoint of one of the characters, rather than switching back and forth. By making it someone's story specifically, it pulls us in more as readers, and we become more directly involved with the characters and the situation.
Very, very nice, though. I loved the use of the mushrooms, the 'fey' quality of the forest, and the awareness of how different things look through the eyes of an artist. And of course, the T.S. Eliot. *g* Thank you for sharing!
no subject
no subject
I will have to root around and see what else you got for me.
no subject
Orlando felt the heat of Viggo’s body pressed against him; felt his arms sliding around him and answered softly, “Do you want me to teach you to swim?”
Viggo shook his head slightly, and Orlando felt his mouth move on his neck. “No, I want you to teach me to breathe water.”
So beautiful. Thanks for posting and sharing!