Green Dark by shegollum -- Part 8/?
Sep. 21st, 2005 06:05 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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rugbytackleTitle: Green Dark by shegollum -- Part 8/?
Author: shegollum
Pairing: Viggo/Bean; includes some Orlando, too.
Rating: R - NC17
Summary: Morning after the night before...where are they in this strange new space?
Warnings: Angst; mental cruelty/instability; possibly non-con; cutting; substance abuse -- you name it...we've probably got it.
Disclaimer: No truth in it at all.
Archive: Viggo-Cursive and rugbytackle
A/N: Not beta'd. All errors are completely mine and mine alone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Banner bestowed upon me by the monstrously talented Amanda (![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
legomyarrow). I am not worthy, but I LOVE it so much. Thank you, sweets. :-)
Viggo focused intently on his work. The high ceilings in the bright studio allowed light to bounce all around, showcasing an odd behavior as the man bent at the waist over a large drafting table, using his left hand to hold fabric taut while with his right he pulled a razor end to end across it, slicing through the coarse cross-hatching of the burlap. The satisfaction of the clean cut ended with disagreeable silence and he slid the heavy fabric to the side just enough to allow for another long, strident cut parallel to the ones that had gone before.
The phone rang as he worked and he ignored it, vacantly wishing that the shrill artifice of the sound would stop so that he could better hear and feel the elemental resistance of fibers being separated one from another. Finally it did stop – one ring short of when his machine would answer. There was a bit of a pause and then it started ringing again, stopping just after four rings as it had done before. Again and again, the series of four electronic squeals interrupted only by one slightly longer interval played out. Finally Viggo straightened up and set the razor blade on the table, brushing a hand over the last protests of strands that had sprung upward in defiance, smoothing them into submission and collecting himself – smoothing his shattered, scattered thoughts and straightening their dissonant edges together before clipping the entire compilation that was him together – in order to take the call.
As the ringing stopped and then started again, he walked across the studio to pick up the handset, his motions regular and controlled in a way that might have made someone wonder if the person inside the skin was unused to movement. But he was alone; there was no one to see or to wonder.
As soon as he picked up the handset, he heard Orlando’s voice rushing from the phone.
“Viggo, its Orlando. What the fuck is going on? I’m at Beanie’s and he is all fucked up. Answer me, mate. You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah…listen. I need your help with Bean. We’re at the—“
“What do you need, Orlando? Why are you calling?” Viggo interrupted flatly.
The unfamiliar remoteness in his voice and question threw Orlando off for a moment until he realized that he must have interrupted the artist at work. He took a deep breath and tried to reorient himself so he could better explain the situation. This was Viggo he was speaking to after all. He must have just caught his friend in the middle of some project or another. He tried again.
“Vig, I’m worried about Bean. He’s into some kind of shit…I don’t know. He’s going through scotch like crazy. I’ve never seen him like this. I need your help. For him.”
Viggo listened carefully to Orlando’s continued description of Sean’s appearance and the state of his room, only barely realizing that he’d moved back around the studio and was standing at the table again. The rectangle of fabric squarely placed on the rectangle of the table seemed right. But the rectangle of the razor was askew, jarring their orderliness. He slowly reached for it as Orlando continued.
“Vig?”
“I’m here,” he heard himself say from a place that sounded far away even to his own ears.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Orlando. Finish what you were saying.”
The utility blade had both a sharp edge and a thicker, blunted side. Fingers found one side and rejected it in favor of the other. Orlando’s voice, softer and slower now, floated through the phone.
“He’s sick, Viggo. Drinking like a fucking fish, mate. It looks like he’s been holed up in here for days – just drinking and smoking.”
Vivid red drops fell on the dry brown of the burlap, here and there catching and seeming to balance before abdicating independent form and becoming just another variation in color.
“Where is he now?”
“He’s taking a shower. He didn’t want me to call you. Fuck!"
Hands clenched tighter – one around the phone, the other around the razor – as Viggo knew whose anger he suddenly heard and felt. A rough, ragged breath and a sound of scraping followed Orlando’s surprised exclamation and then the other man spoke, his rich voice cold and sharp, dismissive.
Viggo’s blue eyes squeezed shut in silent pain as words assailed him.
“You’re a fucking cunt, Viggo. I’ve no need of either of you. Stay where you are until you rot, mate. I’m through.”
Seeking a pain even bigger and more absolute than the ice slashing its way through him, Viggo welcomed the distraction each laceration offered. Opening his fist only to find fresh space, he cut again and again, each spike of pain offering enough cover fire for him to retreat completely. He heard a clattering sound and he tilted his head away from the phone reflexively and then he knew that the phone had been thrown aside, the voices on the other end still further removed.
“Get the fuck out of here, Orlando. Go do whatever you will with that fucking bastard. Just stay the fuck away from me." The older man glowered at the slighter man and drew his arm back as though to throw a punch. Green eyes widened and then narrowed again and the punch became a shove that slammed Orlando into the broad surface of an ornate sideboard. A vase of long-dead flowers hit the floor, sour, stagnant water splashing around their feet, and then Orlando was up, surprising himself as his own anger and frustration had him directly in Sean’s face before he knew it.
“I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you, you fucking drunk – but back the fuck off!”
Brown eyes glared into green ones that were equally angry, but as Orlando yelled he felt a twinge in his back where he’d made a solid connection with the marble countertop. He instinctively winced and moved to painfully stretch it out, seeing Sean’s anger give way ever so slightly to annoyance – and perhaps from somewhere, despair -- as he did so. The other man wiped his hand across his eyes, then his mouth, his hand staying there as he peered over his well worn fingers at his friend. He finally moved his hand and spoke.
“Your back? Are you all right?”
Orlando nodded brusquely and turned away, waving dismissively at him.
“Fuck, Orlando. I’m sorry. Truly. I lost me temper. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
Orlando kept his back to him, furious and hurt and confused. He finally felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and he turned slowly to face his friend, speaking in little more than a whisper.
“What the fuck, Sean? What have you two done to each other to make it this bad?"
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Author: shegollum
Pairing: Viggo/Bean; includes some Orlando, too.
Rating: R - NC17
Summary: Morning after the night before...where are they in this strange new space?
Warnings: Angst; mental cruelty/instability; possibly non-con; cutting; substance abuse -- you name it...we've probably got it.
Disclaimer: No truth in it at all.
Archive: Viggo-Cursive and rugbytackle
A/N: Not beta'd. All errors are completely mine and mine alone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Banner bestowed upon me by the monstrously talented Amanda (
legomyarrow). I am not worthy, but I LOVE it so much. Thank you, sweets. :-)Viggo focused intently on his work. The high ceilings in the bright studio allowed light to bounce all around, showcasing an odd behavior as the man bent at the waist over a large drafting table, using his left hand to hold fabric taut while with his right he pulled a razor end to end across it, slicing through the coarse cross-hatching of the burlap. The satisfaction of the clean cut ended with disagreeable silence and he slid the heavy fabric to the side just enough to allow for another long, strident cut parallel to the ones that had gone before.
The phone rang as he worked and he ignored it, vacantly wishing that the shrill artifice of the sound would stop so that he could better hear and feel the elemental resistance of fibers being separated one from another. Finally it did stop – one ring short of when his machine would answer. There was a bit of a pause and then it started ringing again, stopping just after four rings as it had done before. Again and again, the series of four electronic squeals interrupted only by one slightly longer interval played out. Finally Viggo straightened up and set the razor blade on the table, brushing a hand over the last protests of strands that had sprung upward in defiance, smoothing them into submission and collecting himself – smoothing his shattered, scattered thoughts and straightening their dissonant edges together before clipping the entire compilation that was him together – in order to take the call.
As the ringing stopped and then started again, he walked across the studio to pick up the handset, his motions regular and controlled in a way that might have made someone wonder if the person inside the skin was unused to movement. But he was alone; there was no one to see or to wonder.
As soon as he picked up the handset, he heard Orlando’s voice rushing from the phone.
“Viggo, its Orlando. What the fuck is going on? I’m at Beanie’s and he is all fucked up. Answer me, mate. You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah…listen. I need your help with Bean. We’re at the—“
“What do you need, Orlando? Why are you calling?” Viggo interrupted flatly.
The unfamiliar remoteness in his voice and question threw Orlando off for a moment until he realized that he must have interrupted the artist at work. He took a deep breath and tried to reorient himself so he could better explain the situation. This was Viggo he was speaking to after all. He must have just caught his friend in the middle of some project or another. He tried again.
“Vig, I’m worried about Bean. He’s into some kind of shit…I don’t know. He’s going through scotch like crazy. I’ve never seen him like this. I need your help. For him.”
Viggo listened carefully to Orlando’s continued description of Sean’s appearance and the state of his room, only barely realizing that he’d moved back around the studio and was standing at the table again. The rectangle of fabric squarely placed on the rectangle of the table seemed right. But the rectangle of the razor was askew, jarring their orderliness. He slowly reached for it as Orlando continued.
“Vig?”
“I’m here,” he heard himself say from a place that sounded far away even to his own ears.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Orlando. Finish what you were saying.”
The utility blade had both a sharp edge and a thicker, blunted side. Fingers found one side and rejected it in favor of the other. Orlando’s voice, softer and slower now, floated through the phone.
“He’s sick, Viggo. Drinking like a fucking fish, mate. It looks like he’s been holed up in here for days – just drinking and smoking.”
Vivid red drops fell on the dry brown of the burlap, here and there catching and seeming to balance before abdicating independent form and becoming just another variation in color.
“Where is he now?”
“He’s taking a shower. He didn’t want me to call you. Fuck!"
Hands clenched tighter – one around the phone, the other around the razor – as Viggo knew whose anger he suddenly heard and felt. A rough, ragged breath and a sound of scraping followed Orlando’s surprised exclamation and then the other man spoke, his rich voice cold and sharp, dismissive.
Viggo’s blue eyes squeezed shut in silent pain as words assailed him.
“You’re a fucking cunt, Viggo. I’ve no need of either of you. Stay where you are until you rot, mate. I’m through.”
Seeking a pain even bigger and more absolute than the ice slashing its way through him, Viggo welcomed the distraction each laceration offered. Opening his fist only to find fresh space, he cut again and again, each spike of pain offering enough cover fire for him to retreat completely. He heard a clattering sound and he tilted his head away from the phone reflexively and then he knew that the phone had been thrown aside, the voices on the other end still further removed.
“Get the fuck out of here, Orlando. Go do whatever you will with that fucking bastard. Just stay the fuck away from me." The older man glowered at the slighter man and drew his arm back as though to throw a punch. Green eyes widened and then narrowed again and the punch became a shove that slammed Orlando into the broad surface of an ornate sideboard. A vase of long-dead flowers hit the floor, sour, stagnant water splashing around their feet, and then Orlando was up, surprising himself as his own anger and frustration had him directly in Sean’s face before he knew it.
“I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you, you fucking drunk – but back the fuck off!”
Brown eyes glared into green ones that were equally angry, but as Orlando yelled he felt a twinge in his back where he’d made a solid connection with the marble countertop. He instinctively winced and moved to painfully stretch it out, seeing Sean’s anger give way ever so slightly to annoyance – and perhaps from somewhere, despair -- as he did so. The other man wiped his hand across his eyes, then his mouth, his hand staying there as he peered over his well worn fingers at his friend. He finally moved his hand and spoke.
“Your back? Are you all right?”
Orlando nodded brusquely and turned away, waving dismissively at him.
“Fuck, Orlando. I’m sorry. Truly. I lost me temper. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
Orlando kept his back to him, furious and hurt and confused. He finally felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and he turned slowly to face his friend, speaking in little more than a whisper.
“What the fuck, Sean? What have you two done to each other to make it this bad?"
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Date: 2005-09-24 12:28 am (UTC)It's good to see a dark!fic that has a bit of emotional depth to it, rather than being just a mindless violence fest. I can understand their motivations to act the way they do, so good job on that!
-Maria-