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fellowshippers2004-01-03 09:21 pm
v-greyson.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-01-03 09:21 pm
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The Laws of Masochism
It seemed right to add to the auditory chaos.
PG-13
Viggo/Orlando
I claim not.
He's out of turpentine and so he wanders into the kitchen because there's bound to be some sponge or another in there. The paint slid across his fingertips today, preferring to turn his fingers rather than the canvas five shades of bitterblack. He can't remember what he was painting, already, and examines the stains on his hands for patterns arranging themselves into almostmaps, picks at the multicoloured grit beneath his nails in search of clues.
The steel wool catches the sunset's smog wreaked glow as it drips down the windowsill and onto the edge of the sink which is half full with white featherfluff from last night's dishes. He hasn't eaten since this morning; he's getting hungry and it feels almost foreign to register a bodily need after spending the day locked in his studio (his head), chained to the canvas (his soul). He picks the grey mass up and drags it purposefully through the grooves etched between his knuckles.
He's never been one to enjoy pain. But once, when he might have been drunk and might just have been in an odd mood (neither of which is really strange), he scribbled in a notebook the Laws of Masochism.
The first one was Only fools would not suffer for truth.
And after that, It is an honour to ruin oneself over poetry, which was really an Oscar Wilde quote, but he's always felt that it's best to let the masters say it when you don't know a better way to.
The third was The best art is that which wounds the artist most.
And the last: Love only exists if it's worth dying for, and Love is only worth dying for if it hurts.
They fall into his head as the raw skin between the ridges of bone on the back of his left hand falls away and his blood climbs awkwardly out across his skin. He remembers keeping a (American) dollar bill (that he found in the pocket of a neglected jacket) with barely legible penscars that could be translated into them beside his bed during the Helm's Deep shoot - he memorized them one daynight when he couldn't sleep. He stares at the blood and it's so familiar - this is how he bled then, his knuckles battered from the swords and the falls. And every night he would throw himself into strict adherence to those laws -- suffering for an honest performance, ruining himself for the poetry of the lines and wounding himself shamelessly in hopes of a better portrayal of the man who would be king.
And of course he was in love then. Could still be now. Love is like bleeding from somewhere you can't see -- after a while, you can't really tell if it's still happening or not. But there's always a stain that you'll never be able to look at long enough to wash away.
He turns the cold faucet on and thrusts his hand beneath the strands of nearice flowing out. The water catches on the blood and drags it away, staining the soap bubbles pinkreddish in some places. He decides it's a really interesting colour and ponders ways to duplicate it with something besides his bodily fluids.
During Helm's Deep pain was the great valuator of all things and if it didn't hurt then it wasn't good enough for him. PJ only seemed to reinforce his somewhat delusional approach to life by applauding the takes which took the most out of him. And that's why he couldn't really believe he was in love with Orlando -- there wasn't enough pain involved. Because Orlando was too fucking good at making it not hurt. At cheering Viggo up and tending his wounds and he knew how to get the buttons on Viggo's shirt open without scratching him and always where to put his hands and how to move. And after they had caught their breath he knew where to arrange his limbs and settle his head so that no one would be any more stiff and sore than their fate already would have it when it was time to wake up again.
He turns the water off and decides that he can always just bleed on the canvas. Maybe he can do it in public and call it performance art.
So it wasn't supposed to matter because it didn't hurt. But then, watching Orlando struggle through another take of parrythrust cutparry, he started to wonder as much as he could through the mist and haze that had migrated from the set to the space behind his irises why exactly it didn't hurt. Someone screamed "CUT!" and Orlando carefully put the knives in their sheaths before sliding down the nearest wall and letting out what sounded like a more forceful variant of the cough that was currently overtaking most of the stunties.
He turns his hand over and starts scratching away at the colourful residue on the tips of his fingers. He wonders how hard he would have to scrub to wear away his fingerprints, how easy it would be to get rid of the one truly unique thing about him. He wonders if it would feel different. If he would feel like less of a person if his fingers were blank.
Peter sent the two of them home early, Orlando because he couldn't speak without coughing and Viggo because they came in the same car and PJ didn't really want Orlando driving until Orli had a few more hours of sleep anyway. When they made it back to the apartment Orlando stumbled into the bedroom and Viggo followed him and turned the overhead light on (something neither of them had done for at least six weeks, because Viggo didn't like bright light much these days and so Orlando used the dim glow of the bedside table lamp out of deference to Viggo's eyes whenever he needed to get up from the bed). And he wasn't ready to find out how pale and slightly haggard Orli looked, how strange he looked with such light skin (like the first time Viggo ever met Orlando, when he was in jeans and the Legolas tunic and the makeup but not the wig and had one contact in, some strange halfway revealed hybrid creature, but a beautiful thing nonetheless).
He moves on to the other hand, scratching at the skin between his thumb and his index finger (he spreads his hand out, studies that stretch, determines that it must be something left over from when flesh laced all our fingers together and we spent our days underwater).
Orli covered his eyes with his hand and said
-- I'm sorry.
It's gotten dark now. He reaches for the light switch and turns the garbage disposal instead. The phone chimes in and he presses his palms over his ears and screams (rough animal noise) because it only seems right to add to the auditory chaos.
Viggo turned the light out and would have leapt across the room had there been any energy left in him. Instead he made his was slowly across the carpet, hands stretched in front of him, stroking the air in search of the bed frame.
Behind his eyelids the stains left by the streetlamp tumble back and forth. His voice has been fading for weeks, and he doesn't know if he'll be able to talk after yelling like this for a while, so he lowers his hands and shuts his mouth and curls his fingers around the phone (feels the wounds on his knuckles split).
He ended up running into it, and it fucking hurt, and Orli turned on the little lamp, and Viggo collapsed onto the mattress and dragged himself over to where Orlando was reclining against the headboard.
"Hello?"
-- Don't you ever apologize to anyone ever again for something that isn't your fault because you don't want someone to get hurt, he whispered.
"Christ, you sound like shite."
That day Orli had to sleep sitting up to keep from coughing constantly and Viggo ended up in a strange position twisted around him and woke up so sore that it hurt to move for a week after. And for those seven days he didn't wince without smiling because he felt stupidgiddy with belief that he was inlove.
His hands are sore and his throat is burning and he needs to eat and piss and sleep and he's never been happier to get a phone call in his life.
"Occupational hazard, Orli."
--33--
notes:
this fic caused me great pain. i dragged each word out of myself while it was fighting tooth and nail to stay in my head. so, i can actually still write. even if it fucking hurts to do so. ack.
It seemed right to add to the auditory chaos.
PG-13
Viggo/Orlando
I claim not.
He's out of turpentine and so he wanders into the kitchen because there's bound to be some sponge or another in there. The paint slid across his fingertips today, preferring to turn his fingers rather than the canvas five shades of bitterblack. He can't remember what he was painting, already, and examines the stains on his hands for patterns arranging themselves into almostmaps, picks at the multicoloured grit beneath his nails in search of clues.
The steel wool catches the sunset's smog wreaked glow as it drips down the windowsill and onto the edge of the sink which is half full with white featherfluff from last night's dishes. He hasn't eaten since this morning; he's getting hungry and it feels almost foreign to register a bodily need after spending the day locked in his studio (his head), chained to the canvas (his soul). He picks the grey mass up and drags it purposefully through the grooves etched between his knuckles.
He's never been one to enjoy pain. But once, when he might have been drunk and might just have been in an odd mood (neither of which is really strange), he scribbled in a notebook the Laws of Masochism.
The first one was Only fools would not suffer for truth.
And after that, It is an honour to ruin oneself over poetry, which was really an Oscar Wilde quote, but he's always felt that it's best to let the masters say it when you don't know a better way to.
The third was The best art is that which wounds the artist most.
And the last: Love only exists if it's worth dying for, and Love is only worth dying for if it hurts.
They fall into his head as the raw skin between the ridges of bone on the back of his left hand falls away and his blood climbs awkwardly out across his skin. He remembers keeping a (American) dollar bill (that he found in the pocket of a neglected jacket) with barely legible penscars that could be translated into them beside his bed during the Helm's Deep shoot - he memorized them one daynight when he couldn't sleep. He stares at the blood and it's so familiar - this is how he bled then, his knuckles battered from the swords and the falls. And every night he would throw himself into strict adherence to those laws -- suffering for an honest performance, ruining himself for the poetry of the lines and wounding himself shamelessly in hopes of a better portrayal of the man who would be king.
And of course he was in love then. Could still be now. Love is like bleeding from somewhere you can't see -- after a while, you can't really tell if it's still happening or not. But there's always a stain that you'll never be able to look at long enough to wash away.
He turns the cold faucet on and thrusts his hand beneath the strands of nearice flowing out. The water catches on the blood and drags it away, staining the soap bubbles pinkreddish in some places. He decides it's a really interesting colour and ponders ways to duplicate it with something besides his bodily fluids.
During Helm's Deep pain was the great valuator of all things and if it didn't hurt then it wasn't good enough for him. PJ only seemed to reinforce his somewhat delusional approach to life by applauding the takes which took the most out of him. And that's why he couldn't really believe he was in love with Orlando -- there wasn't enough pain involved. Because Orlando was too fucking good at making it not hurt. At cheering Viggo up and tending his wounds and he knew how to get the buttons on Viggo's shirt open without scratching him and always where to put his hands and how to move. And after they had caught their breath he knew where to arrange his limbs and settle his head so that no one would be any more stiff and sore than their fate already would have it when it was time to wake up again.
He turns the water off and decides that he can always just bleed on the canvas. Maybe he can do it in public and call it performance art.
So it wasn't supposed to matter because it didn't hurt. But then, watching Orlando struggle through another take of parrythrust cutparry, he started to wonder as much as he could through the mist and haze that had migrated from the set to the space behind his irises why exactly it didn't hurt. Someone screamed "CUT!" and Orlando carefully put the knives in their sheaths before sliding down the nearest wall and letting out what sounded like a more forceful variant of the cough that was currently overtaking most of the stunties.
He turns his hand over and starts scratching away at the colourful residue on the tips of his fingers. He wonders how hard he would have to scrub to wear away his fingerprints, how easy it would be to get rid of the one truly unique thing about him. He wonders if it would feel different. If he would feel like less of a person if his fingers were blank.
Peter sent the two of them home early, Orlando because he couldn't speak without coughing and Viggo because they came in the same car and PJ didn't really want Orlando driving until Orli had a few more hours of sleep anyway. When they made it back to the apartment Orlando stumbled into the bedroom and Viggo followed him and turned the overhead light on (something neither of them had done for at least six weeks, because Viggo didn't like bright light much these days and so Orlando used the dim glow of the bedside table lamp out of deference to Viggo's eyes whenever he needed to get up from the bed). And he wasn't ready to find out how pale and slightly haggard Orli looked, how strange he looked with such light skin (like the first time Viggo ever met Orlando, when he was in jeans and the Legolas tunic and the makeup but not the wig and had one contact in, some strange halfway revealed hybrid creature, but a beautiful thing nonetheless).
He moves on to the other hand, scratching at the skin between his thumb and his index finger (he spreads his hand out, studies that stretch, determines that it must be something left over from when flesh laced all our fingers together and we spent our days underwater).
Orli covered his eyes with his hand and said
-- I'm sorry.
It's gotten dark now. He reaches for the light switch and turns the garbage disposal instead. The phone chimes in and he presses his palms over his ears and screams (rough animal noise) because it only seems right to add to the auditory chaos.
Viggo turned the light out and would have leapt across the room had there been any energy left in him. Instead he made his was slowly across the carpet, hands stretched in front of him, stroking the air in search of the bed frame.
Behind his eyelids the stains left by the streetlamp tumble back and forth. His voice has been fading for weeks, and he doesn't know if he'll be able to talk after yelling like this for a while, so he lowers his hands and shuts his mouth and curls his fingers around the phone (feels the wounds on his knuckles split).
He ended up running into it, and it fucking hurt, and Orli turned on the little lamp, and Viggo collapsed onto the mattress and dragged himself over to where Orlando was reclining against the headboard.
"Hello?"
-- Don't you ever apologize to anyone ever again for something that isn't your fault because you don't want someone to get hurt, he whispered.
"Christ, you sound like shite."
That day Orli had to sleep sitting up to keep from coughing constantly and Viggo ended up in a strange position twisted around him and woke up so sore that it hurt to move for a week after. And for those seven days he didn't wince without smiling because he felt stupidgiddy with belief that he was inlove.
His hands are sore and his throat is burning and he needs to eat and piss and sleep and he's never been happier to get a phone call in his life.
"Occupational hazard, Orli."
--33--
notes:
this fic caused me great pain. i dragged each word out of myself while it was fighting tooth and nail to stay in my head. so, i can actually still write. even if it fucking hurts to do so. ack.