![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
viva-gloria.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
rugbytackleTITLE: The Orange Grove (31/32): Unhurried
AUTHOR: Cinzia and Gloria
Full headers here
At last Viggo's kisses stopped, and he just looked down at Sean, his eyes so happy Sean had to draw a long, awe-filled breath.
He had already looked at Viggo like this. He already knew what Viggo looked like from this angle. Lying on his back, propped on the pillows, Viggo on top of him, cradled between his legs... Except this time there was no one else here, but them. There were no layers between them, no props... no tears in Viggo's eyes. There was no loss. And Viggo -- differently than that first time, Viggo was actually leaning his weight fully against him, their lower bodies pressed against each other, no holding back now.
Whatever fear Sean might've had, of this reminding him too much of his previous experience, faded away. Something about lying like this, like Boromir, made half-forgotten fantasies flicker through Sean's mind, half-acknowledged shards of dreams from years before. Sean took one look at them, allowing himself to see them clearly for the first time; then he let them go.
It wasn't the time for dreams any more.
He lifted one hand, cradled Viggo's face in his palm, fingers carding through sweaty, tousled hair, feeling the smile in Viggo's eyes fill his chest with wonder.
"To see you once from below," he murmured.
Viggo was so distracted that it took him a moment to recognise the words. His own words. Sean had read his poetry; Sean was quoting his own words back at him, words written for Orlando but so much more right, now, as though they had always been meant for Sean.
Sean was smiling up at him with that wonderful smile that made Viggo ache for him.
"You..." he began, and shook his head helplessly, grinning back at Sean, lost. Lost for words; lost in Sean.
Sean felt the colour rise to his cheeks, but he smiled, still caressing Viggo's face. "Yeah," he simply said. He wondered if Viggo too was thinking of the lines that followed. It was Viggo's poem, after all; his lines. His words. Sean pulled him down for a kiss, enveloping him in his arms. When they parted, he looked into Viggo's eyes. He thought that yes, Viggo was thinking of those lines.
Viggo leant into Sean's caress again, pushing his cheek against Sean's hand the way a cat would. So easy to kiss Sean, to nip at his mouth until his lips were swollen and red; Viggo's mouth still felt sore from where he'd bitten it again and again, thinking of Sean, biting back Sean's name. Viggo remembered Petros: but Petros was long ago and far away, more distant than Boromir and Aragorn -- than Orlando, and New Zealand -- more distant than the moon.
There was no need to rush things, not this morning. Sean wasn't dying, and Viggo wasn't leaving him. They could lie here in bed, birds singing outside, air scented with the rich smell of dead grass and dry leaves after rain, and just be together. Boromir was dead, Aragorn was gone, and Viggo and Sean were skin to skin, breathing the same warm air, Viggo's hand stroking over the curve of Sean's collar-bone and Sean settling under Viggo's weight. Time enough to let things happen at their own speed. Because now, he was finally sure, it was all going to happen.
"No hurry," Viggo said, and kissed Sean's neck. "No rushing." He kissed Sean's jaw. "Plenty of time to get it right," he whispered, against Sean's lips. Sean thought he heard a question in there, but Viggo was warm and solid in his arms, and he didn't feel like disrupting the moment. Time, he thought -- if not for anything else, there would at least be time for questions.
Sean moaned, and pushed up against Viggo -- their cocks sliding together -- and they both laughed a little, because whether or not there was any need to rush, they didn't know if they could hold--
And then, faintly, downstairs, the phone began to ring.
Sean swore.
"Yeah," Viggo sighed, and let his forehead rest against Sean's chest for a moment, before kissing him lightly there. "I'll get it," he said. He and Sean looked at one another, remembering at last that the day wasn't entirely at their disposal, after all.
But there was no rush.
Viggo paused only long enough to pick up a pair of trousers that Sean had folded on a chair and then he padded to the door, quite unconcerned -- not to mention, still naked and half-aroused.
Sean looked at his cotton trousers in Viggo's hand, and the sight made him smile happily, for some reason, while he watched Viggo walk away. On the door, Viggo paused, looked back at him: a small, vaguely incredulous smile lit up his face for a second; then he ducked out of the room.
Sean stretched contentedly on the bed, his own arousal not bothering him, feeling more like a slow burn than an urgent ache, as though his body knew it would be sated soon enough, and felt no need to clamour for attention; not yet. He took a long, deep breath, and tried to remember the last time he'd felt so good, so happy; the last time he'd felt anticipation dancing like a sweet fire in his blood, making him feel so alive he could've laughed out loud. He couldn't recall.
There were stray leaves and grass stains on the covers, and that reminded him that both his sweatpants and Viggo's jeans were still outside in the grove. He got up, found a pair of old jeans, and joined Viggo downstairs, less grimacing than smiling at the muddy footprints all over the steps and the floor.
Sean could hear Viggo talking in the other room. He hoped they weren't due on set right away, but he was determined to make the most of what time they could have: and if they needed to leave soon, he reasoned happily, they could share the shower.
Viggo hadn't hurried, but the phone in the kitchen had still been ringing when he reached it.
"Hello?"
"Viggo? It's Helena."
"Kaliméra, Helena!" Viggo said, tucking the phone into the crook of his shoulder and pouring a glass of orange juice from the carton in the refrigerator.
"You want me to talk to you in Greek, yes?" said Helena, laughing. "No -- it's easier in English. Listen, the storm last night? Very loud, yes? Anyway, the set is damaged. Steve wants to see how bad, before we start filming again. So, maybe no shooting today. He wants to shoot the last scene today or tomorrow, if he can. But nothing until lunchtime, at least."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Viggo lied. A free morning, with Sean... "You'll telephone later?"
"This afternoon. Don't go too far, no? The roads are dangerous in the rain."
Sean went out onto the terrace, noticing that they'd left the French doors open last night. It was a clear morning, sunny but not as hot as the day before: the sky was so bright Sean had to shield his eyes with a hand to look at it, at the luminous white clouds peacefully drifting in that perfect blue; and Sean remembered that it was on a day like this, under a sky like this, that he'd arrived in Crete, less than a month before; and Viggo had come to take him home.
He couldn't remember much of the journey, he realised now: he must've fallen asleep almost at once. He only knew that it must've been long, because they were a fair distance from Irákleio; and that Viggo had driven for hours just to spare him the helicopter.
What Sean could recall most clearly about that journey was how safe he'd felt.
He crossed the terrace, its tiles still wet where the rays of the sun had yet to reach, and went to retrieve their clothes from the grove.
In the kitchen, Viggo hung up, wondering if it was bad luck to hope for a whole day's lost shooting. He really couldn't bring himself to care.
He had heard Sean come downstairs and go outside. It looked as though the storm had blown itself out: the sky was a clear, almost summery blue, and the herbs in the kitchen garden seemed greener than they had yesterday. He was beginning to believe Helena, who'd told him that the best weather came in the autumn. A strange time to make a movie, Viggo had thought, but if they could look forward to warm, clear days like this...
He thought again about the last scene, the scene they'd be filming later today, if the weather held. The Comte sitting at the dinner table with Athina's father, Doctor Seferis, toasting the future of the newly-weds. (But that future was in the past for Sean, he reminded himself. Not that it mattered.) A boy runs in, gasping. The boy runs in, gasping, and goes straight to the Comte.
"There's a ship come in at the harbour!" he cries, all excitement and self-importance. "And there's a fine lady, asking for the Frenchman with the books!"
The very last shot would linger on Viggo, on the Comte, as his face lit up with hope.
And today, Viggo thought, that hope was more real than it had ever been.
"...last night's storm," said Viggo's voice from behind him as Sean shook his head over the pitiful state of their clothes. Viggo's footsteps were so silent on the still-damp grass that Sean hadn't noticed him approach until he spoke. "Looks like we have the morning free," Viggo added, and smiled. He was looking at Sean's lips.
"Fucking brilliant," Sean breathed, and dropped the clothes he'd just picked up.
From Viggo's poem, Communion:
YOU ORDERED ME
OFF MY KNEES
INTO YOUR ARMS.
WASN'T TO BEG
THAT I KNELT; ONLY
TO SEE YOU ONCE
FROM BELOW.
TRIED TO SAY SOMETHING
THAT FILLED MY MOUTH
AND LONGED TO REST
IN YOUR EAR.
DON'T DARE WRITE
IT DOWN FOR FEAR IT'LL
BECOME WORDS, JUST
WORDS.
AUTHOR: Cinzia and Gloria
Full headers here
At last Viggo's kisses stopped, and he just looked down at Sean, his eyes so happy Sean had to draw a long, awe-filled breath.
He had already looked at Viggo like this. He already knew what Viggo looked like from this angle. Lying on his back, propped on the pillows, Viggo on top of him, cradled between his legs... Except this time there was no one else here, but them. There were no layers between them, no props... no tears in Viggo's eyes. There was no loss. And Viggo -- differently than that first time, Viggo was actually leaning his weight fully against him, their lower bodies pressed against each other, no holding back now.
Whatever fear Sean might've had, of this reminding him too much of his previous experience, faded away. Something about lying like this, like Boromir, made half-forgotten fantasies flicker through Sean's mind, half-acknowledged shards of dreams from years before. Sean took one look at them, allowing himself to see them clearly for the first time; then he let them go.
It wasn't the time for dreams any more.
He lifted one hand, cradled Viggo's face in his palm, fingers carding through sweaty, tousled hair, feeling the smile in Viggo's eyes fill his chest with wonder.
"To see you once from below," he murmured.
Viggo was so distracted that it took him a moment to recognise the words. His own words. Sean had read his poetry; Sean was quoting his own words back at him, words written for Orlando but so much more right, now, as though they had always been meant for Sean.
Sean was smiling up at him with that wonderful smile that made Viggo ache for him.
"You..." he began, and shook his head helplessly, grinning back at Sean, lost. Lost for words; lost in Sean.
Sean felt the colour rise to his cheeks, but he smiled, still caressing Viggo's face. "Yeah," he simply said. He wondered if Viggo too was thinking of the lines that followed. It was Viggo's poem, after all; his lines. His words. Sean pulled him down for a kiss, enveloping him in his arms. When they parted, he looked into Viggo's eyes. He thought that yes, Viggo was thinking of those lines.
Viggo leant into Sean's caress again, pushing his cheek against Sean's hand the way a cat would. So easy to kiss Sean, to nip at his mouth until his lips were swollen and red; Viggo's mouth still felt sore from where he'd bitten it again and again, thinking of Sean, biting back Sean's name. Viggo remembered Petros: but Petros was long ago and far away, more distant than Boromir and Aragorn -- than Orlando, and New Zealand -- more distant than the moon.
There was no need to rush things, not this morning. Sean wasn't dying, and Viggo wasn't leaving him. They could lie here in bed, birds singing outside, air scented with the rich smell of dead grass and dry leaves after rain, and just be together. Boromir was dead, Aragorn was gone, and Viggo and Sean were skin to skin, breathing the same warm air, Viggo's hand stroking over the curve of Sean's collar-bone and Sean settling under Viggo's weight. Time enough to let things happen at their own speed. Because now, he was finally sure, it was all going to happen.
"No hurry," Viggo said, and kissed Sean's neck. "No rushing." He kissed Sean's jaw. "Plenty of time to get it right," he whispered, against Sean's lips. Sean thought he heard a question in there, but Viggo was warm and solid in his arms, and he didn't feel like disrupting the moment. Time, he thought -- if not for anything else, there would at least be time for questions.
Sean moaned, and pushed up against Viggo -- their cocks sliding together -- and they both laughed a little, because whether or not there was any need to rush, they didn't know if they could hold--
And then, faintly, downstairs, the phone began to ring.
Sean swore.
"Yeah," Viggo sighed, and let his forehead rest against Sean's chest for a moment, before kissing him lightly there. "I'll get it," he said. He and Sean looked at one another, remembering at last that the day wasn't entirely at their disposal, after all.
But there was no rush.
Viggo paused only long enough to pick up a pair of trousers that Sean had folded on a chair and then he padded to the door, quite unconcerned -- not to mention, still naked and half-aroused.
Sean looked at his cotton trousers in Viggo's hand, and the sight made him smile happily, for some reason, while he watched Viggo walk away. On the door, Viggo paused, looked back at him: a small, vaguely incredulous smile lit up his face for a second; then he ducked out of the room.
Sean stretched contentedly on the bed, his own arousal not bothering him, feeling more like a slow burn than an urgent ache, as though his body knew it would be sated soon enough, and felt no need to clamour for attention; not yet. He took a long, deep breath, and tried to remember the last time he'd felt so good, so happy; the last time he'd felt anticipation dancing like a sweet fire in his blood, making him feel so alive he could've laughed out loud. He couldn't recall.
There were stray leaves and grass stains on the covers, and that reminded him that both his sweatpants and Viggo's jeans were still outside in the grove. He got up, found a pair of old jeans, and joined Viggo downstairs, less grimacing than smiling at the muddy footprints all over the steps and the floor.
Sean could hear Viggo talking in the other room. He hoped they weren't due on set right away, but he was determined to make the most of what time they could have: and if they needed to leave soon, he reasoned happily, they could share the shower.
Viggo hadn't hurried, but the phone in the kitchen had still been ringing when he reached it.
"Hello?"
"Viggo? It's Helena."
"Kaliméra, Helena!" Viggo said, tucking the phone into the crook of his shoulder and pouring a glass of orange juice from the carton in the refrigerator.
"You want me to talk to you in Greek, yes?" said Helena, laughing. "No -- it's easier in English. Listen, the storm last night? Very loud, yes? Anyway, the set is damaged. Steve wants to see how bad, before we start filming again. So, maybe no shooting today. He wants to shoot the last scene today or tomorrow, if he can. But nothing until lunchtime, at least."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Viggo lied. A free morning, with Sean... "You'll telephone later?"
"This afternoon. Don't go too far, no? The roads are dangerous in the rain."
Sean went out onto the terrace, noticing that they'd left the French doors open last night. It was a clear morning, sunny but not as hot as the day before: the sky was so bright Sean had to shield his eyes with a hand to look at it, at the luminous white clouds peacefully drifting in that perfect blue; and Sean remembered that it was on a day like this, under a sky like this, that he'd arrived in Crete, less than a month before; and Viggo had come to take him home.
He couldn't remember much of the journey, he realised now: he must've fallen asleep almost at once. He only knew that it must've been long, because they were a fair distance from Irákleio; and that Viggo had driven for hours just to spare him the helicopter.
What Sean could recall most clearly about that journey was how safe he'd felt.
He crossed the terrace, its tiles still wet where the rays of the sun had yet to reach, and went to retrieve their clothes from the grove.
In the kitchen, Viggo hung up, wondering if it was bad luck to hope for a whole day's lost shooting. He really couldn't bring himself to care.
He had heard Sean come downstairs and go outside. It looked as though the storm had blown itself out: the sky was a clear, almost summery blue, and the herbs in the kitchen garden seemed greener than they had yesterday. He was beginning to believe Helena, who'd told him that the best weather came in the autumn. A strange time to make a movie, Viggo had thought, but if they could look forward to warm, clear days like this...
He thought again about the last scene, the scene they'd be filming later today, if the weather held. The Comte sitting at the dinner table with Athina's father, Doctor Seferis, toasting the future of the newly-weds. (But that future was in the past for Sean, he reminded himself. Not that it mattered.) A boy runs in, gasping. The boy runs in, gasping, and goes straight to the Comte.
"There's a ship come in at the harbour!" he cries, all excitement and self-importance. "And there's a fine lady, asking for the Frenchman with the books!"
The very last shot would linger on Viggo, on the Comte, as his face lit up with hope.
And today, Viggo thought, that hope was more real than it had ever been.
"...last night's storm," said Viggo's voice from behind him as Sean shook his head over the pitiful state of their clothes. Viggo's footsteps were so silent on the still-damp grass that Sean hadn't noticed him approach until he spoke. "Looks like we have the morning free," Viggo added, and smiled. He was looking at Sean's lips.
"Fucking brilliant," Sean breathed, and dropped the clothes he'd just picked up.
From Viggo's poem, Communion:
YOU ORDERED ME
OFF MY KNEES
INTO YOUR ARMS.
WASN'T TO BEG
THAT I KNELT; ONLY
TO SEE YOU ONCE
FROM BELOW.
TRIED TO SAY SOMETHING
THAT FILLED MY MOUTH
AND LONGED TO REST
IN YOUR EAR.
DON'T DARE WRITE
IT DOWN FOR FEAR IT'LL
BECOME WORDS, JUST
WORDS.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Hmmph. Easy for them to say!
Date: 2003-11-26 11:48 am (UTC)Yeah, right. Viggo's only been waiting a week. We've been waiting a freakin' month for this!
goes off muttering
Re: Hmmph. Easy for them to say!
Date: 2003-11-26 11:27 pm (UTC)The best things in life should be savoured.
Come back, come back!
Re: Hmmph. Easy for them to say!
Date: 2003-11-27 01:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-26 11:33 pm (UTC)Thank you for commenting -- and for applauding!
no subject
Date: 2003-11-26 01:45 pm (UTC)Absolutely wonderful, as usual.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-26 11:26 pm (UTC)Thank you for commenting!
no subject
Date: 2003-11-26 03:47 pm (UTC)Viggo's been waiting. We've been waiting. And at last!!
I really look forward to the next, but can't believe that will be the ending. I will certainly miss you....
no subject
Date: 2003-11-26 11:32 pm (UTC).. and I'm very sorry to say that there's only one chapter left!
Thank you for commenting -- it's lovely to hear from people who are reading and enjoying ...
no subject
Date: 2003-11-26 04:18 pm (UTC)When last chapter you for the first time combined their voices within a single part it was a sign, even more than the dream-ripe orange. I'm so happy!
no subject
Date: 2003-11-26 11:31 pm (UTC)And thank you for commenting on the combined point of view. We were a little worried that everyone would hate that. But yes, it's a sign all right!
Thank you, thank you for commenting so faithfully throughout!
no subject
Date: 2003-11-26 04:47 pm (UTC)this does not mean, however, that I don't have an internal *AUGH!!!* at the sex being interrupted. *G*
God, that line from "Communion"--I read it and went, "Wait, what is that? I know that!! Oh--oh! It's Viggo's poem!!" I *LOVE* Communion, and was all warm and fuzzy inside that you used it here.
I always know there's gonna be yummy, gorgeous fic to read three times a week--what am I gonna do when this is over?? *wails*
no subject
Date: 2003-11-26 11:29 pm (UTC)what am I gonna do when this is over?
Er, go back and read it again? It'll all be on a website very soon! With amendments and pretty layout!
Thank you so much for commenting, it means a lot to know that people are enjoying the story so much!
no subject
Date: 2003-11-26 07:00 pm (UTC)Loved it as always.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-26 11:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-26 07:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-26 11:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-26 08:45 pm (UTC)I love how happy and at ease they are together, this complete trust.
*content* and *anticipating*
no subject
Date: 2003-11-26 11:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-26 11:27 pm (UTC)And *sob* that there's only one more part left
no subject
Date: 2003-11-26 11:35 pm (UTC)Glad you've enjoyed the journey!
no subject
Date: 2003-11-27 12:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-27 12:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-27 05:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-27 03:17 am (UTC)He took a long, deep breath, and tried to remember the last time he'd felt so good, so happy; the last time he'd felt anticipation dancing like a sweet fire in his blood, making him feel so alive he could've laughed out loud.
Ahh.
(I'll be very sorry to see the end of the series. And looking forward to reading it all in a go again.)
no subject
Date: 2003-11-27 12:50 pm (UTC)One more day to go -- but then, after that, you can read it on the web site ...
Thanks for telling us that we made you feel good: it's a great feeling!
no no no!
Date: 2003-11-27 10:44 am (UTC)Re: no no no!
Date: 2003-11-27 12:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-27 06:37 pm (UTC)words written for Orlando grr, first Elf-boy claims my perfect Araboro song, because it vaguely fits a scene in ROTK, and now *this* *glares at Orli muse, who runs to hide behind Karl* Anyway, I love this and I adore you two *hugs Gloria, rugby-tackles Cinzia*
no subject
Date: 2003-11-28 03:02 pm (UTC)pretty much sums up the way you told us this story from chapter one.
Thank you, mormegil.