LOTR RPS fic: "Early Last Sunday"
So I haven't written RPS in a while, or anything, for that matter. But this is something that just came on a whim last night, and it's not finished.
Title: Early Last Sunday
Author: Meixia
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Early last Sunday, the rain had started to fall. Gray, ominous clouds gathered and obscured the yellow sun, and Orlando’s cell phone rang like a shrill siren. Reminded him of police cars, ambulance, fire trucks that passed him on his way home.
The feathers – the feathers were random, something that fell from the branches of a towering tree that he passed by, trunk too wide to wrap his arms around. The feathers were rare and pale, the edges tinged pink, so he saved a couple and stuffed them in his coat pocket. They rustled every time he moved, and later, when he had emptied his pockets and placed them on the counter, he had missed the sound.
But, the call. His voice had sounded rather cryptic, hard to tell what the man was feeling over the static, so Orlando had decided to concentrate on the words. But the words were slurred, muttered under his breath even, so Orlando’s mouth went on auto-pilot and responded with the appropriate sounds. Still, he got the gist of the conversation.
Viggo was coming to town.
Viggo was coming to visit him.
Late last Sunday, Orlando sat in the bath and popped bubbles frothing on the surface. He drank some red wine to celebrate the good news, and fell asleep in the tub. When he blinked awake thirty minutes later, his fingers and toes and his whole body had become wrinkled. Even so, he had managed to smile.
That night, he cleaned up until the early hours of Monday in a sudden burst of insomnia. He watched the prepubescent sunrise until it became a glowing ball of bright canary hanging in the cloudless sky, but fell asleep before the clock chimed noon.
An empty stomach woke him at three in the afternoon. He’d looked around, hunted through the cupboards and deep into the fridge and freezer, but all he found were raw meats and green vegetables. There was some fruit in the bin: apples, oranges, and even some pears. He’d taken one of each and washed them, the skins left un-peeled.
It was Monday afternoon, a glorious, new afternoon, somehow different from all the rest, and he had settled down deep into the couch and stared at the black television screen as the crisp taste of apples revived his taste buds.
His eyes wandered and caught sight of the feathers from Sunday, white Sunday, stark and striking and oddly bohemian on the lacquered, onyx-colored countertop. He’d left the apple core on the coffee table, along with the untouched orange and pear, and moved toward the feathers.
He thought they’d look splendid strung on a leather cord and hung around someone’s neck.
Screws, batteries, and miscellaneous items were kept in a kitchen drawer, and it was the first place he had thought to look for some jewelry making material. Just a cord; it didn’t need to be leather.
Orlando found a long strand twenty minutes later at the bottom of a shoe box, and he wasn’t sure because it was so thin, but it might’ve originally been a shoelace.
The rest of Monday afternoon was spent in quiet, super-gluing the feathers on methodically one by one and twisting and turning the cord around a small steel ring (possibly a part from a car) so that it would be easier to press the feathers in. He was finished by dinner time and glanced up, placed the thing on the table and leaned back. He had glued the feathers not only on to the leather, but the leather on to the ring as well. There was still a considerable amount of shoelace left.
Oddly, it reminded him of Viggo.
Then Orlando wondered if he could make something to catch dreams.
**
Viggo arrived Tuesday afternoon, and the sun glowed a soft orange behind his back when Orlando opened the door.
“It’s so good to see you,” he said, “Please, come in.”
Viggo was such a good guest – even took off his shoes without having to be asked. He had lugged with him a small suitcase, and by the ease with which he was carrying it, Orlando assumed he had only brought clothes.
“Can I set this here?”
“Of course, go ahead.”
“Are you sure you’re free? I mean, I hate to intrude and all. You didn’t sound very enthused over the phone so I thought….”
“Oh no, don’t worry. I was just a bit preoccupied that day. Sunday and all.” Orlando smiled and flashed his teeth, not knowing what to do with his hands. “I’m really glad you came.”
Viggo was frowning, examining a piece of artwork hanging on the wall next to them in the foyer. “Who did this?” he asked in a sudden change of subject.
“Oh,” Orlando blushed, but Viggo didn’t see, “Actually, that one’s by me.”
“No.” Slate-blue eyes turned, stared, the corners crinkled up into small, amused creases, “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh man,” Viggo laughed and clapped him on the back. Orlando’s skin soaked up the warmth greedily. It was always greedy for that man’s touch.
But he said nothing more, didn’t even mention it again. Orlando didn’t know what to think.
“I think I’ll call Henry now.” Viggo said, and flipped open his cell phone.
Orlando was left alone, but not really. Viggo was only a few feet away. Orlando still hadn’t known what to do with his hands.
He turned to lock the door and his eyes landed on the black suitcase sitting in the middle of his foyer, his peach creamed walls modestly named the color ‘salmon’ and his tiled floor, and it looked comfortable. It didn’t intrude, and it didn’t clash.
Sound of the phone flipping closed signaled the end of the call, and Viggo turned to face him again, somehow calmer and happier than before.
And suddenly everything felt comfortable. Like being back in his own skin.
“So I hear the weather here is going to be great this week.” Viggo smiled, and turned to move into the kitchen, “There’s an art exhibit I saw being advertised somewhere that looked interesting…. Oh well, I guess you’d know what I’m talking about, right?” He continued, and Orlando winced happily as he heard the clanking and clattering sounds of Viggo digging through his kitchen.
“Hey,” a golden brown head peered around the corner at him, “Don’t just stand there; help me find something to cook. I’m starving.”
We could just order take-out, Orlando wanted to say, but the words never made it out of his mouth.
Title: Early Last Sunday
Author: Meixia
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Early last Sunday, the rain had started to fall. Gray, ominous clouds gathered and obscured the yellow sun, and Orlando’s cell phone rang like a shrill siren. Reminded him of police cars, ambulance, fire trucks that passed him on his way home.
The feathers – the feathers were random, something that fell from the branches of a towering tree that he passed by, trunk too wide to wrap his arms around. The feathers were rare and pale, the edges tinged pink, so he saved a couple and stuffed them in his coat pocket. They rustled every time he moved, and later, when he had emptied his pockets and placed them on the counter, he had missed the sound.
But, the call. His voice had sounded rather cryptic, hard to tell what the man was feeling over the static, so Orlando had decided to concentrate on the words. But the words were slurred, muttered under his breath even, so Orlando’s mouth went on auto-pilot and responded with the appropriate sounds. Still, he got the gist of the conversation.
Viggo was coming to town.
Viggo was coming to visit him.
Late last Sunday, Orlando sat in the bath and popped bubbles frothing on the surface. He drank some red wine to celebrate the good news, and fell asleep in the tub. When he blinked awake thirty minutes later, his fingers and toes and his whole body had become wrinkled. Even so, he had managed to smile.
That night, he cleaned up until the early hours of Monday in a sudden burst of insomnia. He watched the prepubescent sunrise until it became a glowing ball of bright canary hanging in the cloudless sky, but fell asleep before the clock chimed noon.
An empty stomach woke him at three in the afternoon. He’d looked around, hunted through the cupboards and deep into the fridge and freezer, but all he found were raw meats and green vegetables. There was some fruit in the bin: apples, oranges, and even some pears. He’d taken one of each and washed them, the skins left un-peeled.
It was Monday afternoon, a glorious, new afternoon, somehow different from all the rest, and he had settled down deep into the couch and stared at the black television screen as the crisp taste of apples revived his taste buds.
His eyes wandered and caught sight of the feathers from Sunday, white Sunday, stark and striking and oddly bohemian on the lacquered, onyx-colored countertop. He’d left the apple core on the coffee table, along with the untouched orange and pear, and moved toward the feathers.
He thought they’d look splendid strung on a leather cord and hung around someone’s neck.
Screws, batteries, and miscellaneous items were kept in a kitchen drawer, and it was the first place he had thought to look for some jewelry making material. Just a cord; it didn’t need to be leather.
Orlando found a long strand twenty minutes later at the bottom of a shoe box, and he wasn’t sure because it was so thin, but it might’ve originally been a shoelace.
The rest of Monday afternoon was spent in quiet, super-gluing the feathers on methodically one by one and twisting and turning the cord around a small steel ring (possibly a part from a car) so that it would be easier to press the feathers in. He was finished by dinner time and glanced up, placed the thing on the table and leaned back. He had glued the feathers not only on to the leather, but the leather on to the ring as well. There was still a considerable amount of shoelace left.
Oddly, it reminded him of Viggo.
Then Orlando wondered if he could make something to catch dreams.
**
Viggo arrived Tuesday afternoon, and the sun glowed a soft orange behind his back when Orlando opened the door.
“It’s so good to see you,” he said, “Please, come in.”
Viggo was such a good guest – even took off his shoes without having to be asked. He had lugged with him a small suitcase, and by the ease with which he was carrying it, Orlando assumed he had only brought clothes.
“Can I set this here?”
“Of course, go ahead.”
“Are you sure you’re free? I mean, I hate to intrude and all. You didn’t sound very enthused over the phone so I thought….”
“Oh no, don’t worry. I was just a bit preoccupied that day. Sunday and all.” Orlando smiled and flashed his teeth, not knowing what to do with his hands. “I’m really glad you came.”
Viggo was frowning, examining a piece of artwork hanging on the wall next to them in the foyer. “Who did this?” he asked in a sudden change of subject.
“Oh,” Orlando blushed, but Viggo didn’t see, “Actually, that one’s by me.”
“No.” Slate-blue eyes turned, stared, the corners crinkled up into small, amused creases, “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh man,” Viggo laughed and clapped him on the back. Orlando’s skin soaked up the warmth greedily. It was always greedy for that man’s touch.
But he said nothing more, didn’t even mention it again. Orlando didn’t know what to think.
“I think I’ll call Henry now.” Viggo said, and flipped open his cell phone.
Orlando was left alone, but not really. Viggo was only a few feet away. Orlando still hadn’t known what to do with his hands.
He turned to lock the door and his eyes landed on the black suitcase sitting in the middle of his foyer, his peach creamed walls modestly named the color ‘salmon’ and his tiled floor, and it looked comfortable. It didn’t intrude, and it didn’t clash.
Sound of the phone flipping closed signaled the end of the call, and Viggo turned to face him again, somehow calmer and happier than before.
And suddenly everything felt comfortable. Like being back in his own skin.
“So I hear the weather here is going to be great this week.” Viggo smiled, and turned to move into the kitchen, “There’s an art exhibit I saw being advertised somewhere that looked interesting…. Oh well, I guess you’d know what I’m talking about, right?” He continued, and Orlando winced happily as he heard the clanking and clattering sounds of Viggo digging through his kitchen.
“Hey,” a golden brown head peered around the corner at him, “Don’t just stand there; help me find something to cook. I’m starving.”
We could just order take-out, Orlando wanted to say, but the words never made it out of his mouth.