a gift for rawiyaparand

[salable-mystic.livejournal.com]

gravity (centerfold)
viggo/orlando, r, implied bdsm
viggo likes control, but he loses it without something to hold him steady.
for rawiyaparand as part of viggorli_xmas 2010

The thing about having a (nearly obscene, in his opinion) amount of money is that it can be spent on whatever one wants. Some people give to charity, some people buy cars and houses, and some people save. Viggo has a publishing company, because he can, and because that way he has almost total control over his writing when he polishes it into books.

Viggo likes control; he craves it, when he's himself, and he hates to surrender it when he's living in the skin of someone else. His time away from acting and that whole life was an opportunity to create, to mould and carve and refine a piece of reflection that he's not sure he really wants to share; but he wants it to be perfect, when it's done, all the same. He isn't ready to describe it; it's still raw, not quite tamed to the point where it can be explained in a sentence for people who wouldn't understand otherwise. There's something in it about being superficial, and the duality inherent in being famous enough to need to create a public life outside your home, but he hasn't found that kernel that allows him to translate.

He's out of practice. He's been distracted since the Lord of the Rings press finally died down, and some days it's like he never really settled back into himself after being with Orlando; a part of him is still pushed down out of reach, blocked by the thoughts of characters whose names he can't recall and an emptiness reflected in the way his voice, scratchy as it is from lack of use, echoes against the walls. It's not easy to reach in and find something to build this collection around; it's not quiet enough and yet it's too loud, especially at night when the loneliness feels heaviest on his soul.

There's a pile of magazines by the door; he bought them when he started work and hasn't touched them since, though he's sure he didn't forget. The cashier looked at him differently when he paid for them; perhaps it's not usual for greying men to buy gossip magazines, with pictures of people more famous than he is surrounded by pink writing designed to distract and intrigue. He stops for a minute, with words in his head and no pen with which to write them down. There's a pencil on the floor, near the paint stains and opposite the chair. It doesn't work very well on the thick, shiny paper, but he's deciphered worse, probably. He wrote on Orlando's thigh once with a whiteboard marker, and then woke up to find Orlando had showered and the only trace of his words was the smudged imprint on the hotel sheets. He has those words for the end, on the last page, before the blank leaves but after the pictures. This one is full of Orlando; memories and thoughts half-formed and forgotten.

It always comes back to Orlando. He's on page thirty seven, in high-contrast monochrome. Viggo sees the way shadow traces a line from eye to lip and the sadness cast down from brow to chin before he understands that it's real. Orlando's nipples are teased to hardness and the lines of his ribs are illuminated; Viggo remembers the skin there tasted like dry honey and felt smooth under his tongue. Orlando wasn't as thin, then, and when his eyes closed like that, with his eyelashes not quite brushing the skin, it meant that he was happy.

Viggo misses that. Orlando would let him have anything he needed, and give more than he dared to ask for. He could ask Orlando to stay still, to not touch, to not breathe; he didn't see it then, the way Orlando's brow is creased in pain immortal under his hand.

He turns the page, and feels a sudden chill settle in his chest. Orlando's head is tilted back, and Viggo wants to trace the curve of that bared throat, gently enough to make Orlando shiver. He can almost hear the clink of pendants as Orlando moves in his mind.

It's too much, and there's nothing in the world but brown hair and the remembered sound of Orlando's begging.

He left the magazine behind; it calls to him, but he's closed the door and he's on his bed, he won't think about it, how long it's been, what he still needs. There's something he still can't quite touch; he wants to reach in and pull aside the cloud that's hiding this one thing he needs, but his hands touch air and dust lit by the start of sunset.

The telephone rings; the tightness in his jeans urges him to ignore it, but it's the house phone, and it's so close. He picks it up out of reflex, answers with a lazy drawl that he meant to sound like a word. There's laughter on the other end, tinny and a little hollow.

"You're a hard man to find. I'm coming to visit," he hears, and for a moment he's tense, thinking about where he can go from here. There are few places nobody would be able to find him. He waits for the rest, like a time or a day, but there's no words, just the regular sound of breath in his ear. It was a question; must have been, or it wouldn't need an answer.

"Pick you up at the airport?" he says. He pushes his knuckles down on his fly and the pressure on his cock is enough to distract him, though it doesn't slow his heart.

"Have a car. See you soon, dirty human. Don't forget..." there's crackle, and the line drops out. Cell reception stops about fifty miles out of town, and Viggo's ten miles the other side. He has two hours, at most, and he almost has a stable core to build around.

This time he uses pen and a piece of paper that might have been an invoice. He can't finish the phrase; it's a fragment of a part, and the pen doesn't touch paper when he tries to finish it. But there's some kind of order to things now; this is the kernel, the piece that will explain the rest, like the last puzzle piece makes the picture whole. It will come to him.

Things have a way of being in order when Orlando comes to visit. Everything settles so he can focus on taking Orlando apart, make him keen and bite and scream, and then hold him until his tears have stopped and sleep heals him.