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fellowshippers2002-12-30 12:33 am
azrhiaz.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2002-12-30 12:33 am
FIC, Fugue, R, Viggorli
Title: Fugue
Author: Azrhiaz
Rating: R
Pairing: Viggorli, Billy/Dom implied.
Series: Third and final in the Masque series; follows Carnivale.
Summary: Sometimes when we descend into the darkness, we lose our way.
Warnings: Brief violence.
Disclaimer: The events described herein are complete fiction.
Archive: BTF and Night’s Garden; others please ask.
Author’s notes: For Gloria, of course. The drabble “Intermezzo” has been worked into the fabric of this fic, as I intended. It appears as the first contrepoint. An excellent article on fugue structure is here: http://musik.freepage.de/cpb7079/inhalt.html
While that, of course, applies to a musical fugue, I have attempted to apply the principles explained to this literary fugue, inasmuch as they can be translated (however awkwardly).
Fugue, n. 1. Mus. A musical composition in which the theme is elaborately repeated by different voices or instruments. 2. A psychological disturbance in which actions are not remembered after return to a normal state.
La Tete de Sujet - Ensemble
The water splashed in the sink, cold droplets sputtering into warm. Orli flicked the razor under the tap, wetting it before drawing down across his shadowed face. Avoided his own eyes in the mirror. Too many questions looking back at him.
What the hell are you doing?
Yesterday he’d finally gotten the courage up to ask a question of Viggo. Viggo had been sitting at his kitchen table, eating; the urge for sex fulfilled, he turned his attention to another basic need. Orli watched in fascination as Viggo’s strong fingers tore apart the sweet naan, dipping chunks of it into the ghee and popping them into his mouth. His lips were slick-shiny with the clear melted butter, a pink flash of tongue occasionally darting out to lick it away. As usual, he paid no attention to Orli.
Orli drew his knees up, planting his feet on the chair, and wrapped his arms around his legs. When Viggo swallowed Orli blurted it out.
“Viggo…what…” –vague flapping gesture of hands—“is this?”
Viggo looked up at Orli, eyes flat like the winter sea.
“This?” Viggo said softly, drawing the word out, his fingers caressing the soft bread. The earthy warm smell of it filled the tiny kitchen. “This,” –his fingers twist and tear the bread—“is whatever you want it to be, Orli.”
He didn’t offer more. Orli bit his lip and rested his chin on his knees. The rest of the bread vanishes without further conversation.
La Reponse
Later, it didn’t really matter what it was, only mattered that he was bent over the kitchen table, eyes gliding over the reflective smear of spilled butter, crumbs pressing into his cheek as Viggo took him again roughly, fingers digging bruises into perfect hips.
Contrepoint
Orli has become obsessed with silence.
It echoes in the spaces between furtive meetings -- Viggo does not speak to him socially. Echoes through their encounters, broken only by rasp of breath and slap of bodies.
Silence takes on new meanings, qualities. It is black. It tastes like Viggo, burnt whiskey and sweat.
Orli, alone, fingers curled around his cock, remembers. Craves the heavy quiet press of Viggo, the scrape of hair rough along his razor-sharp jaw. Arches into his strokes, biting back his moans. When he comes, he presses his face hard into the pillow, cutting off sound.
Silence.
Codetta
Orli is cold and soaked through, the layers of costume clinging heavily to his skin. The artificial rain continues to fall and weariness sits on him, bone-deep. Again and again he draws back his bowstring until his arm muscles quiver and burn. Viggo stands beside him, an endless whirl of lunging steel. He must be exhausted too, Orli thinks, but he hasn’t complained.
Finally, when Orli is quite certain that he is going to fall over, a wrap is called. He closes his eyes in mute gratitude and startles when a hand snakes up underneath Legolas’ long hair to brush like lightning across the skin of his neck. Despite his fatigue Orli feels a pulse of swelling heat in his groin, immediate, automatic. He turns around, but Viggo is already walking away.
Sujet
Viggo’s trailer door shuts with a creak behind Orli. He blinks into the heavy darkness, his eyes struggling to adjust. He reaches out, fumbling along the wall for the light switch.
Before he can find it, fingers curl firmly around his wrist and he is pulled against Viggo’s familiar hard shape. Orli slides his arms up around Viggo’s neck and yields to the melting invasion of tongue. The taste of beer warmed by Viggo’s breath floods his senses when they slide to the floor, Viggo lowering him back, pressing him under. Orli whimpers, lost to the ache.
Contrepoint
He did not come tonight.
Orli waited, running his nails between his teeth, not biting. He knows he should just call, but he won’t. The hours pass from the sofa to the kitchen table back to the sofa and finally to the bed, where he stares at the ceiling in the dark. Sleep eludes him; it’s been weeks since he’s slept properly.
Finally, around three, waking slips to dreaming. Viggo is pushing inside him, filling him, beginning the slow ascension, making him, breaking him apart, reforging him anew with each liquid thrust.
It seems like it’s only a second later that the alarm goes off in a strident blare. Clumsy fingers turn it off and Orli shuffles, zombie-like, to the shower.
Episode
Orli listlessly pushes cold green beans around the plastic plate. The Craft Services tent is nearly empty, people clearing out one by one, lunches completed. He exhales in a slow susurration of breath, near giving up and leaving himself when Billy and Dom make their way over to him.
“Hey, Orli,” Dom says in a too-bright voice as he swings his legs over the bench. Billy sits down quietly, his eyes fixed on Orli’s face. Something in them makes Orli feel like a bug squirming underneath the microscope, and he slides his gaze away.
“What’s up?” Orli asks, and cringes inwardly. His voice sounds hollow even to his own ears.
“We were going to ask you the same question,” Billy says gently, “we haven’t seen you at all lately.” Billy tilts his head slightly, increasing Orli’s sensation that he’s being studied. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” Orli says as he stands up, plate in hand. “Just fine.”
“You look like shit,” Dom calls to his retreating back.
Sujet
The view from the other end of the lens is somewhat different.
Shooting hasn’t resumed yet from lunch, and people are standing around talking, little clusters of various species. Orli watches Viggo laughing easily with Bean with something very like jealousy twisting in his guts, razor-wire sharp. They never laugh. Orli isn’t sure he remembers how. There has never been anything- anyone- like this before.
Viggo looks over and sees Orli watching him, eyes full of incrimination and entreaty. Mumbles something to Bean and slides up to Orli.
“Something on your mind?”
“Can we—“ Orli hates the sound of his own voice, hates the pleading he hears there, and at that precise moment, he despises Viggo—“go somewhere and talk? Like, um, now?”
Slight crease of Viggo’s forehead, there and gone in an eyeblink. Smooth calmness reasserts itself over his features. “All right. Lead the way.”
Orli nods. “Okay.” Surprised. He realizes he hadn’t expected Viggo to agree so easily. He begins walking, heading for the back of the Medical Tent, aware of Viggo’s soft footsteps behind him. The Medical Tent is set against a sloping rise of earth, and Orli climbs the embankment, turning when he’s completely obscured by the heavy canvas.
“Make it quick,” Viggo says flatly, “we’re starting again in a minute.”
“Yeah, okay,” Orli replies, his tongue suddenly heavy in his mouth. “Um…remember the other day, when I asked you what this was?” Viggo’s eyes glittering, and Orli can’t read him, can’t ever read him—“well, you said it was whatever I want it to be, and, um…”
Orli twists his fingers rhythmically in the loose folds of his jerkin. “I want it to be more.” There. Exhale.
“More?” Raised eyebrow, and Orli stops, mid-inhale. “What sort of more did you have in mind, Orli?”
Oh, fuck, don’t make me say it, Orli thinks, but what comes out of his mouth is oddly bitter. “You know what I meant. Why does everything have to be a sodding game to you?”
Viggo shifts backwards on his heels and crosses his arms over his chest. “I never said that it was. But it is what it is. Nothing more, Orli.” His head tilts sideways and Orli has to suppress a hysterical giggle. “I’m sorry if you want me to love you. I don’t.” slipslidetwist. His voice softens a little, and he reaches up to brush his hand across Orli’s cheek. Orli tries not to flinch; it’s worse than a punch. Then Viggo’s hand is gone, empty air filling the space against Orli’s skin.
“I think…we’d better stop now,” Viggo says quietly, the sound of the P.A. calling places nearly drowning him out. “This is not…”
Some essential part of Orli—the part responsible for delineating that which is and that which, well, isn’t—slides from its moorings. Viggo is still talking, his voice rolling over Orli like cold, murky water, but the words aren’t making sense. They could be Hindi, or Gaelic, or Portuguese. Sound warps, becoming sensation on skin. The motion of Viggo’s lips sends ripples lapping soundlessly across Orli’s body. He blinks, once, twice, and turns slowly away from Viggo and walks automatically back towards his trailer.
Codetta
A hand grasps his arm and Orli turns and swings automatically; blindred painangerhurt and he connects, tastes blood a second later as his head snaps back and the ground comes up to meet him. Dirt in his mouth. Darkness.
Sujet
They are all leaning over him, Orli realizes, consciousness returning with a wave of nausea. Faces- Billy, crouched down beside him, his jaw set. Elijah, biting his nails. Dom. Bean, standing a bit apart.
“Don’t crowd him, back up, now—“ Peter, insistent and frowning in concern. A medic is lifting his eyelids and shining a penlight in his eyes, bright and awful.
Orli turns his head and sees Viggo sitting on the ground beside Bean. He turns his eyes from Orli and spits, sticky red.
“Peter, I—“ Orli tries to sit up, and wobbles slightly. Someone steadies him.
“Hush, now there’s a good lad. We’ll talk later.” Gentle, yes, but his tone brooks no argument.
“He should be fine,” the medic pronounces after checking Orli’s pulse. “Mild concussion at most. He should rest, but not sleep.”
“I’ll take him back to his trailer,” Billy says immediately. “I’m through for the day anyway.” He doesn’t look at Dom, doesn’t see Dom’s frown crease his forehead with a deep fold. Billy helps Orli to his feet and puts his arm around Orli’s waist, and Orli’s grateful that he can lean on Billy, because the world is tilting rather oddly. One by one the spectators peel away as Peter claps. Show’s over.
Pedal-Point
Orli throws a glance over his shoulder as Billy starts walking him towards his trailer. Another wave of nausea threatens to engulf him as Sean’s fingers slide gently across Viggo’s neck.
Cadenza
Sitting on his couch, swathed in a soft green blanket, Orli watches Billy fussing about the kitchen as he makes some tea. Billy opens and shuts each cabinet in turn, and Orli lets him. Telling him where the sugar is seems like far too much effort at this point. Eventually he finds the old yellow Tupperware container and stirs two spoonfuls into a steaming mug for Orli. He brings it over and presses it into Orli’s hands before pulling up a chair and sitting across from Orli. Billy leans over, hands clasped, elbows on knees, and Orli knows he’s not getting out of this one easily.
“So tell me what’s going on. And I mean everything.”
Orli does.
Words come haltingly at first, then faster, stumbling over each other in waves. Billy listens, his face slowly darkening until Orli almost doesn’t recognize him underneath the murderous film.
“I hit him, didn’t I?” Orli asks.
Billy nods. “You don’t remember?”
“No. The last thing I remember is…” Orli looks down into the cooling tea, embarrassment flushing his cheeks. “He said he was sorry if I wanted him to love me.” He takes a swallow, and the sweetness does little to dispel the lingering bitter taste of Viggo’s words. “I’ve been so fucking stupid.”
Billy takes his hand and squeezes gently. “No, you haven’t. You just got totally wrapped up in him. And he doesn’t deserve you.” This last is said with such vehemence that Orli looks up, startled.
Realization dawns on him. “But Dom—“
“Forget it—just forget I said anything.” Billy says quickly, and now it’s Billy’s turn to look away. He stands up abruptly and goes back into the kitchen. Orli kicks away the covers and gets up, follows him. “I’m sorry. You don’t need this right now. I’ll just—“
“—go?” Orli says, and Billy jumps at Orli’s hand on his shoulder, turns to face him. “I’d rather you stayed.”
“You should be sitting down,” Billy says, and Orli decides he likes the way Billy’s eyes turn down slightly at the corners. Sunlight is streaming in from the kitchen window, catching those eyes, shining dusty warm green. Nothing like the winter sea. He likes that, too. Some part of him wonders how much of this is honest appreciation, and how much is grasping at straws. The emotional flailings of a drowning man—scrabbling for the surface only to find he’s upside down and going deeper. Disorientation.
Billy is fidgety, leading Orli into the living room. Rabbitlike motions of hands darting around the thin blanket, tucking it in around Orli on the sofa, and Billy’s leaning has brought his neck close-in so that Orli smells clean spicy skin like woodsmoke. He reaches fingers up to touch the curve of bone where Billy’s jaw joins his neck and Billy jerks back as if burned.
“You don’t really want this,” he says, and Orli finds himself staring at his jaw again, at the tense and flex of it, because he somehow can’t look in his eyes.
Orli opens his mouth to reply, pure reflex, and fails in the attempt. He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know if he wants it or not. Doesn’t know. Doesn’t.
“I’ll check on you later,” Billy says as he hands him the remote to the t.v. “Don’t fall asleep.” He makes his retreat to the door. Orli watches him stop, hesitate, turn.
“You’ll be fine,” Billy says, and the small crack in his voice makes Orli wonder whom he’s really talking about.
“Yes,” Orli hears himself agree, and Billy’s smile darts across his face and is gone before the door shuts behind him.
The light in the living room is gray with the fading sun, dust motes flickering in Orli’s field of vision. His legs look strange and funereal cocooned in the old green of the blanket—Billy tucked it in tightly—and Orli clenches the soft cotton in his fist. Releases it. Looks at the remote in his other hand. Ordinary plastic and batteries and flimsy metal Made in Taiwan hinges. Mundane and real. He can hold on to it. A sudden sharp ache, taste of whiskey on his tongue, twists through his gut without warning before subsiding into a dull no more no more gone throb.
Orli sets the remote aside and inhales deeply. Exhales. Opens his eyes wider to take in the new landscape, acclimating by slow degrees.
Slow silent degrees.
End.
Author: Azrhiaz
Rating: R
Pairing: Viggorli, Billy/Dom implied.
Series: Third and final in the Masque series; follows Carnivale.
Summary: Sometimes when we descend into the darkness, we lose our way.
Warnings: Brief violence.
Disclaimer: The events described herein are complete fiction.
Archive: BTF and Night’s Garden; others please ask.
Author’s notes: For Gloria, of course. The drabble “Intermezzo” has been worked into the fabric of this fic, as I intended. It appears as the first contrepoint. An excellent article on fugue structure is here: http://musik.freepage.de/cpb7079/inhalt.html
While that, of course, applies to a musical fugue, I have attempted to apply the principles explained to this literary fugue, inasmuch as they can be translated (however awkwardly).
Fugue, n. 1. Mus. A musical composition in which the theme is elaborately repeated by different voices or instruments. 2. A psychological disturbance in which actions are not remembered after return to a normal state.
La Tete de Sujet - Ensemble
The water splashed in the sink, cold droplets sputtering into warm. Orli flicked the razor under the tap, wetting it before drawing down across his shadowed face. Avoided his own eyes in the mirror. Too many questions looking back at him.
What the hell are you doing?
Yesterday he’d finally gotten the courage up to ask a question of Viggo. Viggo had been sitting at his kitchen table, eating; the urge for sex fulfilled, he turned his attention to another basic need. Orli watched in fascination as Viggo’s strong fingers tore apart the sweet naan, dipping chunks of it into the ghee and popping them into his mouth. His lips were slick-shiny with the clear melted butter, a pink flash of tongue occasionally darting out to lick it away. As usual, he paid no attention to Orli.
Orli drew his knees up, planting his feet on the chair, and wrapped his arms around his legs. When Viggo swallowed Orli blurted it out.
“Viggo…what…” –vague flapping gesture of hands—“is this?”
Viggo looked up at Orli, eyes flat like the winter sea.
“This?” Viggo said softly, drawing the word out, his fingers caressing the soft bread. The earthy warm smell of it filled the tiny kitchen. “This,” –his fingers twist and tear the bread—“is whatever you want it to be, Orli.”
He didn’t offer more. Orli bit his lip and rested his chin on his knees. The rest of the bread vanishes without further conversation.
La Reponse
Later, it didn’t really matter what it was, only mattered that he was bent over the kitchen table, eyes gliding over the reflective smear of spilled butter, crumbs pressing into his cheek as Viggo took him again roughly, fingers digging bruises into perfect hips.
Contrepoint
Orli has become obsessed with silence.
It echoes in the spaces between furtive meetings -- Viggo does not speak to him socially. Echoes through their encounters, broken only by rasp of breath and slap of bodies.
Silence takes on new meanings, qualities. It is black. It tastes like Viggo, burnt whiskey and sweat.
Orli, alone, fingers curled around his cock, remembers. Craves the heavy quiet press of Viggo, the scrape of hair rough along his razor-sharp jaw. Arches into his strokes, biting back his moans. When he comes, he presses his face hard into the pillow, cutting off sound.
Silence.
Codetta
Orli is cold and soaked through, the layers of costume clinging heavily to his skin. The artificial rain continues to fall and weariness sits on him, bone-deep. Again and again he draws back his bowstring until his arm muscles quiver and burn. Viggo stands beside him, an endless whirl of lunging steel. He must be exhausted too, Orli thinks, but he hasn’t complained.
Finally, when Orli is quite certain that he is going to fall over, a wrap is called. He closes his eyes in mute gratitude and startles when a hand snakes up underneath Legolas’ long hair to brush like lightning across the skin of his neck. Despite his fatigue Orli feels a pulse of swelling heat in his groin, immediate, automatic. He turns around, but Viggo is already walking away.
Sujet
Viggo’s trailer door shuts with a creak behind Orli. He blinks into the heavy darkness, his eyes struggling to adjust. He reaches out, fumbling along the wall for the light switch.
Before he can find it, fingers curl firmly around his wrist and he is pulled against Viggo’s familiar hard shape. Orli slides his arms up around Viggo’s neck and yields to the melting invasion of tongue. The taste of beer warmed by Viggo’s breath floods his senses when they slide to the floor, Viggo lowering him back, pressing him under. Orli whimpers, lost to the ache.
Contrepoint
He did not come tonight.
Orli waited, running his nails between his teeth, not biting. He knows he should just call, but he won’t. The hours pass from the sofa to the kitchen table back to the sofa and finally to the bed, where he stares at the ceiling in the dark. Sleep eludes him; it’s been weeks since he’s slept properly.
Finally, around three, waking slips to dreaming. Viggo is pushing inside him, filling him, beginning the slow ascension, making him, breaking him apart, reforging him anew with each liquid thrust.
It seems like it’s only a second later that the alarm goes off in a strident blare. Clumsy fingers turn it off and Orli shuffles, zombie-like, to the shower.
Episode
Orli listlessly pushes cold green beans around the plastic plate. The Craft Services tent is nearly empty, people clearing out one by one, lunches completed. He exhales in a slow susurration of breath, near giving up and leaving himself when Billy and Dom make their way over to him.
“Hey, Orli,” Dom says in a too-bright voice as he swings his legs over the bench. Billy sits down quietly, his eyes fixed on Orli’s face. Something in them makes Orli feel like a bug squirming underneath the microscope, and he slides his gaze away.
“What’s up?” Orli asks, and cringes inwardly. His voice sounds hollow even to his own ears.
“We were going to ask you the same question,” Billy says gently, “we haven’t seen you at all lately.” Billy tilts his head slightly, increasing Orli’s sensation that he’s being studied. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” Orli says as he stands up, plate in hand. “Just fine.”
“You look like shit,” Dom calls to his retreating back.
Sujet
The view from the other end of the lens is somewhat different.
Shooting hasn’t resumed yet from lunch, and people are standing around talking, little clusters of various species. Orli watches Viggo laughing easily with Bean with something very like jealousy twisting in his guts, razor-wire sharp. They never laugh. Orli isn’t sure he remembers how. There has never been anything- anyone- like this before.
Viggo looks over and sees Orli watching him, eyes full of incrimination and entreaty. Mumbles something to Bean and slides up to Orli.
“Something on your mind?”
“Can we—“ Orli hates the sound of his own voice, hates the pleading he hears there, and at that precise moment, he despises Viggo—“go somewhere and talk? Like, um, now?”
Slight crease of Viggo’s forehead, there and gone in an eyeblink. Smooth calmness reasserts itself over his features. “All right. Lead the way.”
Orli nods. “Okay.” Surprised. He realizes he hadn’t expected Viggo to agree so easily. He begins walking, heading for the back of the Medical Tent, aware of Viggo’s soft footsteps behind him. The Medical Tent is set against a sloping rise of earth, and Orli climbs the embankment, turning when he’s completely obscured by the heavy canvas.
“Make it quick,” Viggo says flatly, “we’re starting again in a minute.”
“Yeah, okay,” Orli replies, his tongue suddenly heavy in his mouth. “Um…remember the other day, when I asked you what this was?” Viggo’s eyes glittering, and Orli can’t read him, can’t ever read him—“well, you said it was whatever I want it to be, and, um…”
Orli twists his fingers rhythmically in the loose folds of his jerkin. “I want it to be more.” There. Exhale.
“More?” Raised eyebrow, and Orli stops, mid-inhale. “What sort of more did you have in mind, Orli?”
Oh, fuck, don’t make me say it, Orli thinks, but what comes out of his mouth is oddly bitter. “You know what I meant. Why does everything have to be a sodding game to you?”
Viggo shifts backwards on his heels and crosses his arms over his chest. “I never said that it was. But it is what it is. Nothing more, Orli.” His head tilts sideways and Orli has to suppress a hysterical giggle. “I’m sorry if you want me to love you. I don’t.” slipslidetwist. His voice softens a little, and he reaches up to brush his hand across Orli’s cheek. Orli tries not to flinch; it’s worse than a punch. Then Viggo’s hand is gone, empty air filling the space against Orli’s skin.
“I think…we’d better stop now,” Viggo says quietly, the sound of the P.A. calling places nearly drowning him out. “This is not…”
Some essential part of Orli—the part responsible for delineating that which is and that which, well, isn’t—slides from its moorings. Viggo is still talking, his voice rolling over Orli like cold, murky water, but the words aren’t making sense. They could be Hindi, or Gaelic, or Portuguese. Sound warps, becoming sensation on skin. The motion of Viggo’s lips sends ripples lapping soundlessly across Orli’s body. He blinks, once, twice, and turns slowly away from Viggo and walks automatically back towards his trailer.
Codetta
A hand grasps his arm and Orli turns and swings automatically; blindred painangerhurt and he connects, tastes blood a second later as his head snaps back and the ground comes up to meet him. Dirt in his mouth. Darkness.
Sujet
They are all leaning over him, Orli realizes, consciousness returning with a wave of nausea. Faces- Billy, crouched down beside him, his jaw set. Elijah, biting his nails. Dom. Bean, standing a bit apart.
“Don’t crowd him, back up, now—“ Peter, insistent and frowning in concern. A medic is lifting his eyelids and shining a penlight in his eyes, bright and awful.
Orli turns his head and sees Viggo sitting on the ground beside Bean. He turns his eyes from Orli and spits, sticky red.
“Peter, I—“ Orli tries to sit up, and wobbles slightly. Someone steadies him.
“Hush, now there’s a good lad. We’ll talk later.” Gentle, yes, but his tone brooks no argument.
“He should be fine,” the medic pronounces after checking Orli’s pulse. “Mild concussion at most. He should rest, but not sleep.”
“I’ll take him back to his trailer,” Billy says immediately. “I’m through for the day anyway.” He doesn’t look at Dom, doesn’t see Dom’s frown crease his forehead with a deep fold. Billy helps Orli to his feet and puts his arm around Orli’s waist, and Orli’s grateful that he can lean on Billy, because the world is tilting rather oddly. One by one the spectators peel away as Peter claps. Show’s over.
Pedal-Point
Orli throws a glance over his shoulder as Billy starts walking him towards his trailer. Another wave of nausea threatens to engulf him as Sean’s fingers slide gently across Viggo’s neck.
Cadenza
Sitting on his couch, swathed in a soft green blanket, Orli watches Billy fussing about the kitchen as he makes some tea. Billy opens and shuts each cabinet in turn, and Orli lets him. Telling him where the sugar is seems like far too much effort at this point. Eventually he finds the old yellow Tupperware container and stirs two spoonfuls into a steaming mug for Orli. He brings it over and presses it into Orli’s hands before pulling up a chair and sitting across from Orli. Billy leans over, hands clasped, elbows on knees, and Orli knows he’s not getting out of this one easily.
“So tell me what’s going on. And I mean everything.”
Orli does.
Words come haltingly at first, then faster, stumbling over each other in waves. Billy listens, his face slowly darkening until Orli almost doesn’t recognize him underneath the murderous film.
“I hit him, didn’t I?” Orli asks.
Billy nods. “You don’t remember?”
“No. The last thing I remember is…” Orli looks down into the cooling tea, embarrassment flushing his cheeks. “He said he was sorry if I wanted him to love me.” He takes a swallow, and the sweetness does little to dispel the lingering bitter taste of Viggo’s words. “I’ve been so fucking stupid.”
Billy takes his hand and squeezes gently. “No, you haven’t. You just got totally wrapped up in him. And he doesn’t deserve you.” This last is said with such vehemence that Orli looks up, startled.
Realization dawns on him. “But Dom—“
“Forget it—just forget I said anything.” Billy says quickly, and now it’s Billy’s turn to look away. He stands up abruptly and goes back into the kitchen. Orli kicks away the covers and gets up, follows him. “I’m sorry. You don’t need this right now. I’ll just—“
“—go?” Orli says, and Billy jumps at Orli’s hand on his shoulder, turns to face him. “I’d rather you stayed.”
“You should be sitting down,” Billy says, and Orli decides he likes the way Billy’s eyes turn down slightly at the corners. Sunlight is streaming in from the kitchen window, catching those eyes, shining dusty warm green. Nothing like the winter sea. He likes that, too. Some part of him wonders how much of this is honest appreciation, and how much is grasping at straws. The emotional flailings of a drowning man—scrabbling for the surface only to find he’s upside down and going deeper. Disorientation.
Billy is fidgety, leading Orli into the living room. Rabbitlike motions of hands darting around the thin blanket, tucking it in around Orli on the sofa, and Billy’s leaning has brought his neck close-in so that Orli smells clean spicy skin like woodsmoke. He reaches fingers up to touch the curve of bone where Billy’s jaw joins his neck and Billy jerks back as if burned.
“You don’t really want this,” he says, and Orli finds himself staring at his jaw again, at the tense and flex of it, because he somehow can’t look in his eyes.
Orli opens his mouth to reply, pure reflex, and fails in the attempt. He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know if he wants it or not. Doesn’t know. Doesn’t.
“I’ll check on you later,” Billy says as he hands him the remote to the t.v. “Don’t fall asleep.” He makes his retreat to the door. Orli watches him stop, hesitate, turn.
“You’ll be fine,” Billy says, and the small crack in his voice makes Orli wonder whom he’s really talking about.
“Yes,” Orli hears himself agree, and Billy’s smile darts across his face and is gone before the door shuts behind him.
The light in the living room is gray with the fading sun, dust motes flickering in Orli’s field of vision. His legs look strange and funereal cocooned in the old green of the blanket—Billy tucked it in tightly—and Orli clenches the soft cotton in his fist. Releases it. Looks at the remote in his other hand. Ordinary plastic and batteries and flimsy metal Made in Taiwan hinges. Mundane and real. He can hold on to it. A sudden sharp ache, taste of whiskey on his tongue, twists through his gut without warning before subsiding into a dull no more no more gone throb.
Orli sets the remote aside and inhales deeply. Exhales. Opens his eyes wider to take in the new landscape, acclimating by slow degrees.
Slow silent degrees.
End.
no subject
Orli has become obsessed with silence.
My very favorite sentence in the entire fic. It says a ton.
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You're wonderful, you know that? Just what I needed today :)
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Glad you liked it! Thankies!
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Well, thank you, darling- and I'm very, very glad it added something to your day. :) Yes, no love from this Viggo at all, but at least Orli's coming back up into the world of light.
*hugs*
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so sorry, um. *laughs* Well, not terribly so, because I don't think I've ever managed to make anyone cry before, and from a writing perspective, um, wow. But from raining on your birthday perspective, am quite sorry.
Perhaps I can make it up to you? Say, a drabble, the pairing and category of your choice. :) *hugs* and happy birthday!
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