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fellowshippers2006-04-18 04:11 am
v-angelique.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2006-04-18 04:11 am
Un Cadeau du Roi (6/8)
Title: Un Cadeau du Roi (6/8)
Author: Viktoria Angelique
Email: viktoria_angelique@hotmail.com
Pairings: anything's possible among VM, BB, DM, HS, DW, OB, EW (this part HS/VM, VM/DW)
Rating: series PG-13
Disclaimer: AU and very not true.
Feedback: Please do! It's very much appreciated.
A/N: Only two more chapters and the epliogue to go, dear readers. Herein lies extraneous fluff. Be warned ;-)
Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five
After Viggo’s outburst on the last outing, Harry didn’t plan any more impromptu trips for the two of them. And it was just as well, as the rain didn’t let up the next day, or the day after that. The storms was quite intense, and Viggo didn’t want to admit that the rattling of the windowpanes made him just a tinny bit nervous. Harry joked that Viggo was lucky he hadn’t come in spring, when the Mistral would be blowing, but despite his teasing Viggo was touched when one late night during a particularly loud series of thunderclaps Harry brought him a blanket and a cup of tea downstairs, lighting a fire and then returning to his room to let Viggo weather the storm in peace.
On the third day after Uzes, Viggo came downstairs a bit after lunch and found Harry sitting on a leather sofa in the library, thumbing through a well-worn history that seemed ready to fall apart in his hands. He smiled at the frown of concentration on Harry’s face, noting his slight squint at the old French words, and casually lowered himself onto the sofa’s arm.
“You might want to get some glasses soon, old man,” Viggo joked, and Harry laughed loudly, marking his place with a length of green ribbon and setting the volume down next to him.
“Not like you aren’t right behind me, mate,” Harry replied with a smile, and Viggo just smiled back, pointing over his head in the vague direction of his guest room.
“Got a pair up in my bag.” Harry smiled and Viggo was struck by how handsome the man really was, despite his habit of being a royal pain-in-the-arse when he was busy philosophizing on prophecies and family legacies. The warm glow of a desk lamp softened his features, but the strong jaw and high cheekbones were still defined, his skin a particularly alluring shade in the light and his eyes a warmer, more inviting brown. Viggo’s smile faded slightly, as it would do his resolve little good to start admiring this near-stranger. He chalked it up to the proximity, and the storm, and the fact that he hadn’t so much as glanced at another man this way since Dave died. He had read, in fact, that the Napoleonic Code actually excused “crimes of passion” committed during a Mistral that blew in excess of three days, due to the close quarters in which citizens of the Midi were often living, and he couldn’t blame them. Shaking his head to clear it of any unseemly thoughts, Viggo reminded himself of what he had come down here to do.
“Harry, I owe you an apology,” he admitted. “This whole thing isn’t your fault, and I guess it’s not so bad, really. I mean, say you do fall in love with me, it isn’t half bad to have someone who loves you, and you never know, I might grow to love you in return. Maybe.” He offered a weak smile at this thought, and was surprised when Harry’s smile in return was no stronger, almost sad. “Well anyway… I am sorry about Orlando, and maybe chasing him wasn’t worth it after all. I mean, you’re probably right. It seems he only wants you anyway, and it would be fruitless to interfere…” At this, Harry did smile, and stood suddenly, clapping a hand down on Viggo’s shoulder.
“Come. I want to show you something.”
Viggo followed, dumbfounded, as Harry led him up the stairs, past the guest bedrooms and his own master suite, to a closed door at the end of the hall. Grinning broadly, Harry gestured for Viggo to go in front of him, but reached up when Viggo took hold of the doorknob and settled his own broad hand across Viggo’s eyes. “Trust me,” Harry whispered, and though Viggo had little reason to at this juncture, he found he did trust Harry, at least a little, and allowed the other man to lead him with his free hand gentle but firm on Viggo’s lower back. He heard the flip of a switch, and registered light beyond Harry’s hand, but waited dutifully until the hand was removed to open his eyes.
Blinking, Viggo looked around the room he stood at the centre of, and gasped. He barely registered Harry’s fond smile as he spun around slowly in place, taking in the amazing collection of art on the walls, and then reverently approached one wall, inspecting what appeared to be original Monets, Renoirs, Manets, Lautrecs….
“This is amazing,” he finally spoke in a reverent half-whisper, and Harry just grinned, coming up behind him as he examined a particularly lovely Boucher. “Harry, these… they must date back to…”
“The Renaissance, a few of them. There are many more in New Zealand, but I enjoy this collection quite a bit. Seeing it through your eyes only reminds me of how much…” he added, trailing back as he allowed Viggo to observe each work in turn.
“But you’ve never considered selling them, or donating?”
“I have no desire to,” Harry replied simply. “These here, especially, I love personally. Certainly, after I die, they will go to museums, but why not be allowed to enjoy them while they’re here? I keep this room temperature-controlled, no harsh lighting… they’ll be as well preserved here as in any museum.”
“I guess…” Viggo paused in his exploration to turn and look at Harry. “I had a Manet, once. It was David’s grandmother’s; she left it to him when she died…”
“And he left it to you?”
“No. No, he gave it to me for a present, and I loved it dearly, but… after he died, I couldn’t look at it again. I donated to the Met; I’m sure they appreciate it more than I.”
Harry nodded, placing a cautious hand on Viggo’s shoulder and squeezing gently. “It’s hard to have reminders of someone you loved.”
Viggo just nodded, leaning unconsciously into the touch as he pretended to admire the art, tears pricking at his eyes.
“Did you… keep anything, of his?” Harry asked gently.
Viggo shook his head. “I couldn’t, not at the time… it was just too much. I might go someday, to Australia, see his family, but…”
“Wound’s too fresh?”
“Probably always will be, honestly. The places he grew up, the people he knew before me… I don’t think it’s my place,” Viggo admitted.
“He never took you there?”
“No, like I said, I’ve never been to the South Pacific.”
“You’d like to go?” Harry asked, his tone gentle.
“Maybe, but not to his hometown. I couldn’t handle it.”
“You should try New Zealand. I think you’d like it, even if I’m biased,” Harry suggested with a shrug, and Viggo smiled.
“I probably would.”
An hour later, once Harry had excused himself to get back to his reading, and Viggo had done enough looking at the art for an afternoon, Viggo returned to his bedroom. He glanced at his duffle bag, and sighed. There, in the little hidden inner pocket, where he had left it all these years. Yes, it was still there; where could it have gone? But he hadn’t taken it out since… well, since it happened.
“Here, I want you to take it with you, you know. As protection.”
“Protection from what?” Viggo asked, turning the photo over in his hand and reading the inscription on the back as his boyfriend watched him with his usual soft, shy smile. ‘To Vig, Love Dave. May we be together in our hearts, wherever life may take us.’
“I don’t know, the oogledy-boogledies under foreign beds. Come on, just put it in your bag. It’ll make me feel better.”
Viggo smiled, and cupped his hand around the back of Dave’s neck, drawing him in for a long, searching kiss. “I’ll keep it on me,” he promised when he finally pulled away, breathless.
“You do that,” Dave replied with a grin. That grin, Viggo had always said, even to his aunt once in loosely translated Danish, could cause train wrecks. That grin could make the Pope fall in love.
Viggo smiled at the memory, his fingers tracing the well-worn edges of the little 3 x 5 piece of glossy paper, the pad of his thumb smoothing over the words at the back that he didn’t have the courage to read once again. For the first few weeks, even seeing Dave’s familiar loopy handwriting had sent him into shock and produced seizure-like fits. In an act that Viggo could never be grateful enough for, Sean paid for a hotel room, only stopping in occasionally to make sure Viggo didn’t drink himself to death, while he personally went through the whole apartment and removed all traces of his friend’s dead lover.
After those weeks, after the living hell that was those weeks in a hotel room, Viggo never cried. He had never cried for David, not in years, but here on his knees, surrounded by plush carpeting and antique furniture, he let the salty drops begin to fall.
“Jesus, Dave. What the fuck am I going to do about this?” Viggo whispered, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling. Not surprisingly, he found no answers there. Not tonight.
“Hey Viggo.”
“Yeah?” Viggo looked up from his book; it was ten ‘o clock at night and he had been here two weeks. In terms of work, it wasn’t really justifiable. He should be leaving France, moving on, finding someone else to interview. But the house was comfortable, and Harry was a kind host. Curiosity motivated him still, but also a since of belonging. He hadn’t felt that way in a long time.
“You ever listen to jazz?”
Viggo blinked, objectively followed Harry’s form with his eyes as he crossed the room to an old record player, pulling a large black disc from its sleeve as Viggo watched. “Um, yeah, used to from time to time,” he finally answered as the machine crackled to life and Miles Davis flooded the room.
“Dance with me,” Harry commanded simply, a soft smile on his face. Viggo looked up, blinked again. Harry was leaning against the cabinet that held the record player with one hand, and there was a comfortable ease about his body that Viggo hadn’t noticed before. He had seen Harry act almost nervous around him, anticipatory, desirous. But he had never noticed him acting so casual.
“Sure.” The word was out of his mouth before he could stop it, but Harry just smiled wider and crossed the room again, lifting the book from Viggo’s hands and setting it place-down on the coffee table. He extended a hand and Viggo took it, silently, gulping as he found himself pulled into a dancing position for the first time in as long as he could remember. It certainly was the first time he could remember following, and he laughed softly at the thought.
“Something funny?” Harry murmured, smiling as his hand firmly guided Viggo by the lower back, almost as it had been that day he had first shown off his paintings.
“Just… I don’t think I’ve ever been the girl,” Viggo admitted, smiling sheepishly and then ducking his head to rest on Harry’s shoulder to hide his blush. Harry laughed and pulled him slightly closer than standard ballroom position, and Viggo tried not to think too hard about just how comfortable this position was.
“You can lead if you like,” Harry suggested, breathily, and Viggo got the feeling he wasn’t talking about dancing.
“I used to,” Viggo whispered by way of reply, surprising himself with the emotion in his voice.
“Lead?” Harry questioned gently.
“All the time.”
“And now?”
“I’m content to follow,” Viggo admitted, his posture relaxing a bit, letting Harry guide him in small circles around the room. They danced for several minutes in silence, drifting closer, until Harry’s arm was fully around Viggo’s waist, his shoulder resting underneath Viggo’s armpit, and their clasped hands slid apart naturally, coming to wrap around each other’s bodies so that they were simply swaying in a comfortable embrace, almost like overgrown secondary schoolers at a dance.
“Vig, I…”
“Shhh,” Viggo cautioned, pulling back a fraction of an inch and touching the pad of his finger to Harry’s lips. “Please. I’m happy.” His admission took some effort, but Harry just nodded in response, unsmiling, his gaze intense. “Let me be happy,” he requested, and Harry didn’t deny him that, pulling him close again and reaching up to stroke Viggo’s hair when he felt choking sobs against his shoulder.
“We are all shaped by our past,” Harry whispered, after what seemed to Viggo like an eternity of silence. “It is what we choose to make of the future that shapes us as men,” he continued, and Viggo felt oddly comforted by the words. He simply sighed as Harry pulled back, lifting his tearstained face with a finger under Viggo’s chin, urging the other man to look into his eyes. “You are a beautiful man,” Harry stated, and for a long moment Viggo felt an urge to kiss him. But he let the disappointment slide over him, familiar, when Harry leaned in and brushed his lips over Viggo’s cheekbone. “Go up to sleep, love. I’ll be here in the morning.” And Harry would, Viggo realised. It seemed so simple, but yet was difficult to grasp. Harry would be there in the morning, and Dave would not. And suddenly, Viggo was okay with that.
Author: Viktoria Angelique
Email: viktoria_angelique@hotmail.com
Pairings: anything's possible among VM, BB, DM, HS, DW, OB, EW (this part HS/VM, VM/DW)
Rating: series PG-13
Disclaimer: AU and very not true.
Feedback: Please do! It's very much appreciated.
A/N: Only two more chapters and the epliogue to go, dear readers. Herein lies extraneous fluff. Be warned ;-)
Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five
After Viggo’s outburst on the last outing, Harry didn’t plan any more impromptu trips for the two of them. And it was just as well, as the rain didn’t let up the next day, or the day after that. The storms was quite intense, and Viggo didn’t want to admit that the rattling of the windowpanes made him just a tinny bit nervous. Harry joked that Viggo was lucky he hadn’t come in spring, when the Mistral would be blowing, but despite his teasing Viggo was touched when one late night during a particularly loud series of thunderclaps Harry brought him a blanket and a cup of tea downstairs, lighting a fire and then returning to his room to let Viggo weather the storm in peace.
On the third day after Uzes, Viggo came downstairs a bit after lunch and found Harry sitting on a leather sofa in the library, thumbing through a well-worn history that seemed ready to fall apart in his hands. He smiled at the frown of concentration on Harry’s face, noting his slight squint at the old French words, and casually lowered himself onto the sofa’s arm.
“You might want to get some glasses soon, old man,” Viggo joked, and Harry laughed loudly, marking his place with a length of green ribbon and setting the volume down next to him.
“Not like you aren’t right behind me, mate,” Harry replied with a smile, and Viggo just smiled back, pointing over his head in the vague direction of his guest room.
“Got a pair up in my bag.” Harry smiled and Viggo was struck by how handsome the man really was, despite his habit of being a royal pain-in-the-arse when he was busy philosophizing on prophecies and family legacies. The warm glow of a desk lamp softened his features, but the strong jaw and high cheekbones were still defined, his skin a particularly alluring shade in the light and his eyes a warmer, more inviting brown. Viggo’s smile faded slightly, as it would do his resolve little good to start admiring this near-stranger. He chalked it up to the proximity, and the storm, and the fact that he hadn’t so much as glanced at another man this way since Dave died. He had read, in fact, that the Napoleonic Code actually excused “crimes of passion” committed during a Mistral that blew in excess of three days, due to the close quarters in which citizens of the Midi were often living, and he couldn’t blame them. Shaking his head to clear it of any unseemly thoughts, Viggo reminded himself of what he had come down here to do.
“Harry, I owe you an apology,” he admitted. “This whole thing isn’t your fault, and I guess it’s not so bad, really. I mean, say you do fall in love with me, it isn’t half bad to have someone who loves you, and you never know, I might grow to love you in return. Maybe.” He offered a weak smile at this thought, and was surprised when Harry’s smile in return was no stronger, almost sad. “Well anyway… I am sorry about Orlando, and maybe chasing him wasn’t worth it after all. I mean, you’re probably right. It seems he only wants you anyway, and it would be fruitless to interfere…” At this, Harry did smile, and stood suddenly, clapping a hand down on Viggo’s shoulder.
“Come. I want to show you something.”
Viggo followed, dumbfounded, as Harry led him up the stairs, past the guest bedrooms and his own master suite, to a closed door at the end of the hall. Grinning broadly, Harry gestured for Viggo to go in front of him, but reached up when Viggo took hold of the doorknob and settled his own broad hand across Viggo’s eyes. “Trust me,” Harry whispered, and though Viggo had little reason to at this juncture, he found he did trust Harry, at least a little, and allowed the other man to lead him with his free hand gentle but firm on Viggo’s lower back. He heard the flip of a switch, and registered light beyond Harry’s hand, but waited dutifully until the hand was removed to open his eyes.
Blinking, Viggo looked around the room he stood at the centre of, and gasped. He barely registered Harry’s fond smile as he spun around slowly in place, taking in the amazing collection of art on the walls, and then reverently approached one wall, inspecting what appeared to be original Monets, Renoirs, Manets, Lautrecs….
“This is amazing,” he finally spoke in a reverent half-whisper, and Harry just grinned, coming up behind him as he examined a particularly lovely Boucher. “Harry, these… they must date back to…”
“The Renaissance, a few of them. There are many more in New Zealand, but I enjoy this collection quite a bit. Seeing it through your eyes only reminds me of how much…” he added, trailing back as he allowed Viggo to observe each work in turn.
“But you’ve never considered selling them, or donating?”
“I have no desire to,” Harry replied simply. “These here, especially, I love personally. Certainly, after I die, they will go to museums, but why not be allowed to enjoy them while they’re here? I keep this room temperature-controlled, no harsh lighting… they’ll be as well preserved here as in any museum.”
“I guess…” Viggo paused in his exploration to turn and look at Harry. “I had a Manet, once. It was David’s grandmother’s; she left it to him when she died…”
“And he left it to you?”
“No. No, he gave it to me for a present, and I loved it dearly, but… after he died, I couldn’t look at it again. I donated to the Met; I’m sure they appreciate it more than I.”
Harry nodded, placing a cautious hand on Viggo’s shoulder and squeezing gently. “It’s hard to have reminders of someone you loved.”
Viggo just nodded, leaning unconsciously into the touch as he pretended to admire the art, tears pricking at his eyes.
“Did you… keep anything, of his?” Harry asked gently.
Viggo shook his head. “I couldn’t, not at the time… it was just too much. I might go someday, to Australia, see his family, but…”
“Wound’s too fresh?”
“Probably always will be, honestly. The places he grew up, the people he knew before me… I don’t think it’s my place,” Viggo admitted.
“He never took you there?”
“No, like I said, I’ve never been to the South Pacific.”
“You’d like to go?” Harry asked, his tone gentle.
“Maybe, but not to his hometown. I couldn’t handle it.”
“You should try New Zealand. I think you’d like it, even if I’m biased,” Harry suggested with a shrug, and Viggo smiled.
“I probably would.”
An hour later, once Harry had excused himself to get back to his reading, and Viggo had done enough looking at the art for an afternoon, Viggo returned to his bedroom. He glanced at his duffle bag, and sighed. There, in the little hidden inner pocket, where he had left it all these years. Yes, it was still there; where could it have gone? But he hadn’t taken it out since… well, since it happened.
“Here, I want you to take it with you, you know. As protection.”
“Protection from what?” Viggo asked, turning the photo over in his hand and reading the inscription on the back as his boyfriend watched him with his usual soft, shy smile. ‘To Vig, Love Dave. May we be together in our hearts, wherever life may take us.’
“I don’t know, the oogledy-boogledies under foreign beds. Come on, just put it in your bag. It’ll make me feel better.”
Viggo smiled, and cupped his hand around the back of Dave’s neck, drawing him in for a long, searching kiss. “I’ll keep it on me,” he promised when he finally pulled away, breathless.
“You do that,” Dave replied with a grin. That grin, Viggo had always said, even to his aunt once in loosely translated Danish, could cause train wrecks. That grin could make the Pope fall in love.
Viggo smiled at the memory, his fingers tracing the well-worn edges of the little 3 x 5 piece of glossy paper, the pad of his thumb smoothing over the words at the back that he didn’t have the courage to read once again. For the first few weeks, even seeing Dave’s familiar loopy handwriting had sent him into shock and produced seizure-like fits. In an act that Viggo could never be grateful enough for, Sean paid for a hotel room, only stopping in occasionally to make sure Viggo didn’t drink himself to death, while he personally went through the whole apartment and removed all traces of his friend’s dead lover.
After those weeks, after the living hell that was those weeks in a hotel room, Viggo never cried. He had never cried for David, not in years, but here on his knees, surrounded by plush carpeting and antique furniture, he let the salty drops begin to fall.
“Jesus, Dave. What the fuck am I going to do about this?” Viggo whispered, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling. Not surprisingly, he found no answers there. Not tonight.
“Hey Viggo.”
“Yeah?” Viggo looked up from his book; it was ten ‘o clock at night and he had been here two weeks. In terms of work, it wasn’t really justifiable. He should be leaving France, moving on, finding someone else to interview. But the house was comfortable, and Harry was a kind host. Curiosity motivated him still, but also a since of belonging. He hadn’t felt that way in a long time.
“You ever listen to jazz?”
Viggo blinked, objectively followed Harry’s form with his eyes as he crossed the room to an old record player, pulling a large black disc from its sleeve as Viggo watched. “Um, yeah, used to from time to time,” he finally answered as the machine crackled to life and Miles Davis flooded the room.
“Dance with me,” Harry commanded simply, a soft smile on his face. Viggo looked up, blinked again. Harry was leaning against the cabinet that held the record player with one hand, and there was a comfortable ease about his body that Viggo hadn’t noticed before. He had seen Harry act almost nervous around him, anticipatory, desirous. But he had never noticed him acting so casual.
“Sure.” The word was out of his mouth before he could stop it, but Harry just smiled wider and crossed the room again, lifting the book from Viggo’s hands and setting it place-down on the coffee table. He extended a hand and Viggo took it, silently, gulping as he found himself pulled into a dancing position for the first time in as long as he could remember. It certainly was the first time he could remember following, and he laughed softly at the thought.
“Something funny?” Harry murmured, smiling as his hand firmly guided Viggo by the lower back, almost as it had been that day he had first shown off his paintings.
“Just… I don’t think I’ve ever been the girl,” Viggo admitted, smiling sheepishly and then ducking his head to rest on Harry’s shoulder to hide his blush. Harry laughed and pulled him slightly closer than standard ballroom position, and Viggo tried not to think too hard about just how comfortable this position was.
“You can lead if you like,” Harry suggested, breathily, and Viggo got the feeling he wasn’t talking about dancing.
“I used to,” Viggo whispered by way of reply, surprising himself with the emotion in his voice.
“Lead?” Harry questioned gently.
“All the time.”
“And now?”
“I’m content to follow,” Viggo admitted, his posture relaxing a bit, letting Harry guide him in small circles around the room. They danced for several minutes in silence, drifting closer, until Harry’s arm was fully around Viggo’s waist, his shoulder resting underneath Viggo’s armpit, and their clasped hands slid apart naturally, coming to wrap around each other’s bodies so that they were simply swaying in a comfortable embrace, almost like overgrown secondary schoolers at a dance.
“Vig, I…”
“Shhh,” Viggo cautioned, pulling back a fraction of an inch and touching the pad of his finger to Harry’s lips. “Please. I’m happy.” His admission took some effort, but Harry just nodded in response, unsmiling, his gaze intense. “Let me be happy,” he requested, and Harry didn’t deny him that, pulling him close again and reaching up to stroke Viggo’s hair when he felt choking sobs against his shoulder.
“We are all shaped by our past,” Harry whispered, after what seemed to Viggo like an eternity of silence. “It is what we choose to make of the future that shapes us as men,” he continued, and Viggo felt oddly comforted by the words. He simply sighed as Harry pulled back, lifting his tearstained face with a finger under Viggo’s chin, urging the other man to look into his eyes. “You are a beautiful man,” Harry stated, and for a long moment Viggo felt an urge to kiss him. But he let the disappointment slide over him, familiar, when Harry leaned in and brushed his lips over Viggo’s cheekbone. “Go up to sleep, love. I’ll be here in the morning.” And Harry would, Viggo realised. It seemed so simple, but yet was difficult to grasp. Harry would be there in the morning, and Dave would not. And suddenly, Viggo was okay with that.
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their exchange was subtle, and i always find it interesting when they say more then what their words mean. :smile:
Viggo has grown more comfortable with Harry, but should we?? :grin: i'm curious about Harry's motives for not kissing Viggo. is he making Viggo want him more by not doing the expected? i'm sorry we're only going to have 2 more chapters and an epilog. i've enjoyed the richness of this story very much.
A Gift of the King Un Cadeau du Roi... does this mean, literally, a gift from the King? or does it imply a "Kingly" gift, like riches or something much desired?
looking forward to your next update!
kerry =)
no subject