the only sour cherry on your fruit stand (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
walksbyherself) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fellowshippers2004-02-16 11:21 pm
walksbyherself) wrote in fellowshippers2004-02-16 11:21 pm
(no subject)
Well, children, it's my first completed ViggOrli piece.
Be kind. Rewind.
Title: Prayer of Saint Francis
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I do not know these boys, or their sexuality. It's fiction, children. Flames will be used to heat my house.
Warning: This piece contains ANGST and CHARACTER DEATH. Avoid if you can't deal with them.
Author's Note: Wrote this the other night between 2:00 and 2:30 AM. Was listening to Sarah Mclachlan's song "Prayer of Saint Francis" on repeat; hence, the title.
Cross posted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
viggorli, _insatiable_, and fellow_shippers.
When he dies, they send Orlando flowers.
No one ever admitted anything. There were internet rumors, and pictures that might have been interpreted a certain way, but no one ever admitted anything.
All the same, when he dies, they send Orlando flowers.
The apartment is full of them. A million perfumes so thick, Orlando expects to be able to see them. He feels like he's in a jungle, some tropical paradise. He opens his mouth to call for Viggo, to tell him to get the camera before they all wilt, before he remembers.
Orlando is new at this--grieving for a lover. He isn't sure what to say to anyone when they call, or if he should even answer the phone. He isn't sure what to do with the sympathy cards, so they pile up on the kitchen table; at least, until he needs the table for flowers, then the cards end up in a trash bag in the dining room.
Sometimes he eats, and sometimes he doesn't.
There are at least three days he cannot remember.
The week he died, half the fellowship showed up on his doorstep. Astin cooked, Bean fielded phone calls, and Elijah sat next to him on the couch, just listening when he talked and listening when he didn't.
He remembers Bernard crying at the funeral; he'd never seen a grown man cry like that.
He can't remember if he cried or not.
Sometimes he sleeps, and sometimes he doesn't.
Tonight, he doesn't. He stays up all night, wrapped in a blanket on the couch, and watches the sunrise. He sees the colors, and thinks about the studio down the hall, and the unfinished art. The post-it notes with scraps of poetry on the bathroom mirror. The undeveloped rolls of film on the nightstand. The four exposures left on the roll in the camera. The clothes in the closet.
He wonders if he should pack them away.
It will be almost five years before he thinks about packing them away again.
He wonders about thank you notes and watering the flowers. He wonders if everyone will ever stop staring at him when he refers to Viggo in the present tense.
He wonders if closure is a four-letter word.
A few hours later, he gets up and starts throwing the wilted flowers into the trash bag with the sympathy cards.
Thanks for reading. Reviews are much appreciated.
Be kind. Rewind.
Title: Prayer of Saint Francis
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I do not know these boys, or their sexuality. It's fiction, children. Flames will be used to heat my house.
Warning: This piece contains ANGST and CHARACTER DEATH. Avoid if you can't deal with them.
Author's Note: Wrote this the other night between 2:00 and 2:30 AM. Was listening to Sarah Mclachlan's song "Prayer of Saint Francis" on repeat; hence, the title.
Cross posted to
viggorli, _insatiable_, and fellow_shippers. When he dies, they send Orlando flowers.
No one ever admitted anything. There were internet rumors, and pictures that might have been interpreted a certain way, but no one ever admitted anything.
All the same, when he dies, they send Orlando flowers.
The apartment is full of them. A million perfumes so thick, Orlando expects to be able to see them. He feels like he's in a jungle, some tropical paradise. He opens his mouth to call for Viggo, to tell him to get the camera before they all wilt, before he remembers.
Orlando is new at this--grieving for a lover. He isn't sure what to say to anyone when they call, or if he should even answer the phone. He isn't sure what to do with the sympathy cards, so they pile up on the kitchen table; at least, until he needs the table for flowers, then the cards end up in a trash bag in the dining room.
Sometimes he eats, and sometimes he doesn't.
There are at least three days he cannot remember.
The week he died, half the fellowship showed up on his doorstep. Astin cooked, Bean fielded phone calls, and Elijah sat next to him on the couch, just listening when he talked and listening when he didn't.
He remembers Bernard crying at the funeral; he'd never seen a grown man cry like that.
He can't remember if he cried or not.
Sometimes he sleeps, and sometimes he doesn't.
Tonight, he doesn't. He stays up all night, wrapped in a blanket on the couch, and watches the sunrise. He sees the colors, and thinks about the studio down the hall, and the unfinished art. The post-it notes with scraps of poetry on the bathroom mirror. The undeveloped rolls of film on the nightstand. The four exposures left on the roll in the camera. The clothes in the closet.
He wonders if he should pack them away.
It will be almost five years before he thinks about packing them away again.
He wonders about thank you notes and watering the flowers. He wonders if everyone will ever stop staring at him when he refers to Viggo in the present tense.
He wonders if closure is a four-letter word.
A few hours later, he gets up and starts throwing the wilted flowers into the trash bag with the sympathy cards.
Thanks for reading. Reviews are much appreciated.
no subject
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loved it.
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Orli's...distance is very well portrayed. The distance he needs to take to be able to cope.
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