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fellowshippers2004-01-06 11:38 pm
There's a first time for everything.
I've enjoyed being in this community-- reading everyone's wonderful contributions. Up until tonight, I'd never written any of my own. I was listening to Viggo's poetry, and felt inspired. I hope you enjoy this meager contribution; go easy on me.
Title: Hands. (Taken from Viggo's piece of poetry/prose by the same name.)
Author: Sarah (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
mot)
Rating: I would say G, but just to be safe, PG.
Disclaimer: While I have no doubt that somewhere deep down this is probably not too far from the truth (just listen to Viggo's poetry!) it's not factual. So, therefore, a complete work of fiction.
Notes: Much of the dialogue was based upon Viggo's poem/prose "Hands" which is the centerpiece of this selection. If you would like to listen to Viggo speak this poem, let me know and I can get it to you.
He took his place upon the makeshift stage, a whisper of a pedestal. He looked out upon the audience and swallowed, making fists while waiting for the silence required for such an admission of heart and soul. He opened his mouth to begin, and found that his eyes catching on a single face– in the back, shrouded from view– rendered him speechless. Fleeting as it was, this discovery unnerved him, enough so that his voice took upon an even huskier tone than usual.
“He sat down across from me and said he was in love. That he just wanted to enjoy it for as long as it lasted; that he didn’t want to judge the feeling– compare it to other times, with other partners. ‘All that does is rob you of better times spent in new arms,’ he said. There wasn’t anything for me to say; I listened, and imagined the memorable summer he was having. Felt how easily his breathing came. He seemed stronger than I remembered.”
“It was pleasant to be with him. I was left staring out the plate glass at the lushness of a willow, long after he hurried home to her. I forgot about my work, my family, the weather– everything. I almost forgot to pay the check.”
“Walking slowly across the park, in no hurry to get back to the office, I couldn’t think of anything except his hands.”
He exhaled, and walked off the stage– his heart in his throat. Those hands. Those hands were there. He was suffocating in his own words, an admission that paled in comparison to the image of those hands. His mind was rushing through more of those same summer moments, and all, focusing upon one thing. Those hands were engraved upon his mind, and oh– in his own.
He moved under the low light, the murmurs of the crowd silenced at another’s admission of their soul. He was off the pedestal now, free to return to that despair which encompasses everything. He walked out of the small café, into the harsh cold of London in the winter; cobblestone streets playing tricks on him, reflecting the very image of himself he wished to avoid.
“Viggo.” The familiar voice stopped his feet from moving further, but not his thoughts. He knew that this would be it– the moment that he had dreaded for two years. Two years he had seen those hands in his mind. Those hands that tormented his heart. He knew that he couldn’t keep his back to this moment forever, so he turned and raised his head.
“Orli.” He said, a plea, an acknowledgment of desperation. He stared at his cobblestone reflection and felt weak in his heart’s fervor to pump blood vigorously through his veins. His eyes darted– from the cobblestone street, to those hands. Pale in the winter’s moonlight, cold.
“Viggo... why didn’t you tell me?” He knew. He knew that those hands weren’t just a figure of beauty, but a symbol of undying love. He knew that every moment was an imprint upon his soul. He knew; there was no more hiding.
“You never asked.” He paused, thoughtfully, knowing this meager explanation wouldn’t do. Oh– to only hold those hands. That would speak a thousand truths. He continued, doing his best to fight the weakness in his knees and heart. “I would have told you if I thought you needed to know. If I thought that it would have changed the course of things.” He swallowed, and knew that it was time. “I would have told you if I thought I could’ve held your hands forever, and not just for one moment. I would have told you if I thought that you loved me too.” He closed his eyes, and inhaled sharply, trying to memorize the cold reality of the moment.
Those hands hung at his side. Those hands, still cold and pale, limp at the shock of these words. It wasn’t good enough. Not thinking wasn’t good enough. He needed to know– know, not think.
“I’m asking now.” He moved closer, blocking the cobblestone reflection that was haunting and true. “Do you love me?”
He looked at his own hands, the worn hands of a painter, a poet, a man. They were not worthy of this. They were not like his, pure and without flaw. He could not have prepared himself for this, he could not have delved deep enough in his soul to find the courage in advance. “Yes.” For the first time, his words apprehensive, without confidence. He was broken.
“Tell me again.” He said, moving closer. Their bodies were inches apart, and yet, still so cold and pale.
“Yes. I love you.” He gained confidence– he wanted to say his name, he wanted to make him believe that his words were not full of a fallacy. “I love you, Orlando.”
“I won’t judge this feeling, Viggo. I won’t judge this moment. All it will do is rob us of better times.” He repeated the lines that had been spoken two summers ago, leaving off a further explanation. He repeated the words he had spoken in front of an audience that didn’t know of the magnitude of this fact. Better times– did they even exist?
“Better times spent in new arms.” He finished the thought that was spoken to him, and begun to walk away; the moment had passed. It was completed, and the memory was kept as such.
Until a pair of hands surrounded his. Hands that warmed his own– pure, true, flawless hands. Hands that were not walking away, but were walking with him. His breathing erratic, he knew only of one thing, the thing he could feel. Forever.
“Better times spent in your arms, Viggo.” He tightened his hold, combining his soul with his. “These hands are as much mine as they are yours; I will not judge this feeling.”
Breathlessly, he matched their foreheads together, hands intertwined. He stood there on that cobblestone street in the cold winter of London and felt warm– all despair washed from him, his own hands made better. Their hands, forever.
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L.
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thank you !
:)
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