Green Dark by shegollum -- Part 11/?
Sep. 27th, 2005 04:38 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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rugbytackle**Please, please, please heed the warnings -- this is dark. But I will say that it is always darkest before the dawn! Trust your tour guide, okay?**
-- Shegollum
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Title: Green Dark by shegollum -- Part 11/?
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 eventually
A/N: Not beta'd. All errors are completely mine and mine alone. If you like it, please take the time to let me know. It is always appreciated. Thanks a bunch.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Banner by the wonderful Amanda (![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
legomyarrow). :-)
“Hey, Vig. It’s me.”
“Hey.”
“How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“No. I mean how are you?"
There was a silence that Orlando sensed was filled with a great deal of frustration before Viggo continued.
“I’m fine, Orlando,” he finally said in a voice that signaled the rapidly approaching end of that particular thread of their discussion.
“Okay, mate. But I’ll be by in a day or so to see you anyway, yeah? And Viggo, you have my numbers. You could always call me when you’re feeling…you know…”
“What? When I feel like being a dick and slicing into my arm or something? Is that what you mean?”
Orlando floundered, not at all sure what to say in response, but a gruff laugh from Viggo saved him and then the other man continued.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed into the phone. “I know you just want to help but you have to understand that this has worked for me. It does work for me. And it doesn’t hurt anyone else. But yeah…it’s not something I would have chosen to have you know.”
His voice trailed off.
“It’s okay, Vig. Just be a little easier on yourself, would you? What could be so bad that that is the only way around it?”
He waited, but didn’t get an answer to that question. Instead, he got a falsely cheerful, “Okay, okay. I’m sorry, Orlando. Or should I call you Mom?”
The younger man gave in, amused, “Call me whatever you want, mate.”
“Oh I do, you little shit…believe me, I do.”
For a moment, they were both laughing and things felt blissfully normal but then Orlando moved on to the real reason for his call.
“He’s here. We’re at a friend’s place up in the hills away from everything. He says he wants to dry out but then again it’s not yet been that long since his last drink. Right now he just seems tired. And ashamed, Vig. He doesn’t want to call his daughters yet but he’s going to call their mums so they know he’s not entirely disappeared.”
“He should call his girlfriend. Has he?”
Orlando was surprised by the question but soldiered on quickly.
“He’s made no mention at all of her so I had the impression that was over.”
He heard a sigh over the phone and then Viggo asked another question.
“Are you staying with him, Orlando?”
“I’ll be here if he needs me, Vig.”
“Okay. Yeah. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Sure, mate. What now?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what now, you stupid fucking American. Are you going to do something smart or something stupid?”
“Well, I don’t know, oh great sage of all things related to gay romance. What would you recommend?”
Orlando smiled at the realization that he was annoying the hell out of the other man. He hoped that his ability to still get pissed off at him meant he was less bad off than he'd feared.
“I’d recommend that you get off your dead ass and get in front of Bean so that you two can talk, you stupid cunt.”
“And I’ve told you already, Orlando, that I won’t be doing that.” Viggo’s voice was a quiet threat that sailed right past the younger man.
“And I don’t understand why not, Vig.”
“Orlando, know that I love you. You’re some weird bastardized mix of friend and son and you are dearer to me than you know. But you don’t get to know everything. I simply can’t -- I won’t -- tell you everything. But you can know this: whatever he has told you is undoubtedly true. I am responsible and I have well and truly fucked up. And he is better off with better -- truer -- friends.”
“What the fuck are you on about, Viggo? That makes no sense at all. Don’t be a fucking martyr!”
“Orlando, I need to go.”
“Viggo, wait—“
“I need to go, okay?”
With that last rushed comment, Viggo was gone, the connection broken.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The studio was full of sound. Huge deep resonance poured from the speakers, a force unto itself. Fabric gave way to blade with raspy rips, wood clunked pleasantly as frames and easels were moved about, paper, plastic and cellophane all rustled and whispered as they opened and closed, closed and opened.
But after a while, everything fell silent.
The music was turned off, the frenzy of thought captured in ink and paint. Viggo sat on the floor, quiet, resigned, not sure where to seek shelter anymore. Between his long legs, he held a warming beer. Next to him, a can half-filled with water was his ashtray. His cigarette flared and retreated as he smoked in the near dark, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs before pushing it out through mouth and nose meditatively.
Thoughts were creeping up on him. He could feel the dissolution of the walls around them. And he was angry and scared and alone.
He was not truly surprised to realize that the face swimming around in his mind was Alan’s but a part of him thought it should be Sean’s. He was recalling a room in a house up the coast, not a hotel in New York. And he found himself swallowing deeply, fighting an urge to be sick.
Guilt washed over him. He didn’t want to even think of Alan; didn’t want to allow himself a moment of pity or self-hurt or anger. He tried to direct his thoughts to Sean, feeling a compulsion to reflexively flagellate himself for his failures there. He wanted to focus on what he could do, how he should atone…anything but what he knew he was going to relive that night. Every thought devolved into a vision, a smell, a taste related to that mistake so long ago.
His head thunked against the wall behind him and he gave up for a long minute. He didn’t try to direct the traffic racing through his brain. Instead, he just let it do what it would, wondering how long he’d be able to stand it this time. His face was drained of blood and his hair wet with sweat. His hands shook as he finished the beer, wondering if he could get to the table by the door for another one before he puked.
And then—fuck! – it was all right there. Right the fuck in front of his face…in his brain…under his skin.
There’d been a wooden slatted headboard. And a mattress that smelled of a cloying freshener, clogging his nostrils as his face was pressed into it. Alan had wanted to go away for the weekend. Had said he wanted to make him enjoy himself. To feel special. He’d encouraged him, cajoled him, surprised him, tricked him. He’d said he knew a place up along the coast – an opportunity to really be together for more than just a quick night. Viggo had wanted to more fully explore their relationship, to allow himself to enjoy a new intimacy, deeper than what until then had been mostly frantic exploration. He’d trusted Alan. Had made that choice -- to trust him, to give himself to him. He’d been willing to try anything and had laughingly gone along when Alan had greeted him with suggestions of play and eroticism and desire. He’d denied the other man nothing, even agreeing to the bonds – the ridiculously pretty leather straps that seemed so inordinately grotesque as he thought of them now. Once he’d accepted them, allowed his wrists to be kissed and then secured, he‘d been lost.
All these years later, he did not believe that he’d ever managed to find himself again. Not quite.
Naked and tied and beneath the other’s weight, he’d realized the enormity of the betrayal and the huge, irreversible error of his trust. Nothing about this remained a game to him. To Alan, that had been all it was.
And just as now, there had been no word, no sound, no plea that had brought safety.
He realized he was crawling. He slid across the tile floor to the wooden crate of supplies. He knew what he was looking for and he knew that he wanted not to want it with a desperation equaled only by his absolute need for it. He stopped, trying every discipline he knew to stop the thoughts. But they wouldn’t quit: parading in front of him, taunting, infuriating, sickening, humiliating, emasculating, dehumanizing.
He felt a cry well up in his chest, long-denied tears spilling over the sills of reddened eyes. Rage was its own entity and it sought to burst out from him, looked for any chink through which to claim and control him. And he couldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t give in to a rage that would sweep him away and leave him not who he was but only an echo of what he thought he’d been. Once reduced to only what Alan had left, he knew he couldn’t be himself, couldn’t be his father’s son, one of a trio of brothers, and most unforgivably – if he gave in, he could not be the father to Henry that his son deserved.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” he heard himself whispering it, sobbing it into dirty hands held over his face, hiding him. Fear and shame owned any part of him not swallowed by the rage.
After – or between, he reminded himself, not allowing himself even the small relief of recalling only the first violation -- Alan sat by his head and flipped through his wallet, stopping at photos and commenting. Sometime during that long night, he’d mentioned that he’d always wanted kids himself, revealing to Viggo that the children he’d spoken to him about had never even existed. And then Viggo had known that absolutely everything about him had been lies.
Most of the pictures in his wallet had been of Henry. His baby boy. In grade school then –a happy, round-cheeked angel. And this filthy man had commented on how he looked like his father and wondered aloud how else he might be like him, leaning over to lick along Viggo’s jaw line as he did so, laughing at his ineffectual wrestling against the restraints, his anger and his ludicrous imaginings that he could do anything to stop him.
Good God, he recalled for the millionth time, the man had had his keys, his address, everything he’d needed to leave him there and do what he’d wanted to Henry. His Henry. And he could have done nothing to stop him.
His brain wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Flew around and around in a frenzy of images and sounds and smells that continually heightened his anger, anxiety, shame and futile regret. He couldn’t face it. Not now. Not when he had things to take care of. He couldn’t imagine letting himself go into this pain and ever finding his way back out. It had to be repackaged and put away.
He reached again for the wooden box, knowing that the razors were there.
Free Hit Counter
-- Shegollum
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Title: Green Dark by shegollum -- Part 11/?
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 eventually
A/N: Not beta'd. All errors are completely mine and mine alone. If you like it, please take the time to let me know. It is always appreciated. Thanks a bunch.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
legomyarrow). :-) “Hey, Vig. It’s me.”
“Hey.”
“How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“No. I mean how are you?"
There was a silence that Orlando sensed was filled with a great deal of frustration before Viggo continued.
“I’m fine, Orlando,” he finally said in a voice that signaled the rapidly approaching end of that particular thread of their discussion.
“Okay, mate. But I’ll be by in a day or so to see you anyway, yeah? And Viggo, you have my numbers. You could always call me when you’re feeling…you know…”
“What? When I feel like being a dick and slicing into my arm or something? Is that what you mean?”
Orlando floundered, not at all sure what to say in response, but a gruff laugh from Viggo saved him and then the other man continued.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed into the phone. “I know you just want to help but you have to understand that this has worked for me. It does work for me. And it doesn’t hurt anyone else. But yeah…it’s not something I would have chosen to have you know.”
His voice trailed off.
“It’s okay, Vig. Just be a little easier on yourself, would you? What could be so bad that that is the only way around it?”
He waited, but didn’t get an answer to that question. Instead, he got a falsely cheerful, “Okay, okay. I’m sorry, Orlando. Or should I call you Mom?”
The younger man gave in, amused, “Call me whatever you want, mate.”
“Oh I do, you little shit…believe me, I do.”
For a moment, they were both laughing and things felt blissfully normal but then Orlando moved on to the real reason for his call.
“He’s here. We’re at a friend’s place up in the hills away from everything. He says he wants to dry out but then again it’s not yet been that long since his last drink. Right now he just seems tired. And ashamed, Vig. He doesn’t want to call his daughters yet but he’s going to call their mums so they know he’s not entirely disappeared.”
“He should call his girlfriend. Has he?”
Orlando was surprised by the question but soldiered on quickly.
“He’s made no mention at all of her so I had the impression that was over.”
He heard a sigh over the phone and then Viggo asked another question.
“Are you staying with him, Orlando?”
“I’ll be here if he needs me, Vig.”
“Okay. Yeah. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Sure, mate. What now?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what now, you stupid fucking American. Are you going to do something smart or something stupid?”
“Well, I don’t know, oh great sage of all things related to gay romance. What would you recommend?”
Orlando smiled at the realization that he was annoying the hell out of the other man. He hoped that his ability to still get pissed off at him meant he was less bad off than he'd feared.
“I’d recommend that you get off your dead ass and get in front of Bean so that you two can talk, you stupid cunt.”
“And I’ve told you already, Orlando, that I won’t be doing that.” Viggo’s voice was a quiet threat that sailed right past the younger man.
“And I don’t understand why not, Vig.”
“Orlando, know that I love you. You’re some weird bastardized mix of friend and son and you are dearer to me than you know. But you don’t get to know everything. I simply can’t -- I won’t -- tell you everything. But you can know this: whatever he has told you is undoubtedly true. I am responsible and I have well and truly fucked up. And he is better off with better -- truer -- friends.”
“What the fuck are you on about, Viggo? That makes no sense at all. Don’t be a fucking martyr!”
“Orlando, I need to go.”
“Viggo, wait—“
“I need to go, okay?”
With that last rushed comment, Viggo was gone, the connection broken.
The studio was full of sound. Huge deep resonance poured from the speakers, a force unto itself. Fabric gave way to blade with raspy rips, wood clunked pleasantly as frames and easels were moved about, paper, plastic and cellophane all rustled and whispered as they opened and closed, closed and opened.
But after a while, everything fell silent.
The music was turned off, the frenzy of thought captured in ink and paint. Viggo sat on the floor, quiet, resigned, not sure where to seek shelter anymore. Between his long legs, he held a warming beer. Next to him, a can half-filled with water was his ashtray. His cigarette flared and retreated as he smoked in the near dark, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs before pushing it out through mouth and nose meditatively.
Thoughts were creeping up on him. He could feel the dissolution of the walls around them. And he was angry and scared and alone.
He was not truly surprised to realize that the face swimming around in his mind was Alan’s but a part of him thought it should be Sean’s. He was recalling a room in a house up the coast, not a hotel in New York. And he found himself swallowing deeply, fighting an urge to be sick.
Guilt washed over him. He didn’t want to even think of Alan; didn’t want to allow himself a moment of pity or self-hurt or anger. He tried to direct his thoughts to Sean, feeling a compulsion to reflexively flagellate himself for his failures there. He wanted to focus on what he could do, how he should atone…anything but what he knew he was going to relive that night. Every thought devolved into a vision, a smell, a taste related to that mistake so long ago.
His head thunked against the wall behind him and he gave up for a long minute. He didn’t try to direct the traffic racing through his brain. Instead, he just let it do what it would, wondering how long he’d be able to stand it this time. His face was drained of blood and his hair wet with sweat. His hands shook as he finished the beer, wondering if he could get to the table by the door for another one before he puked.
And then—fuck! – it was all right there. Right the fuck in front of his face…in his brain…under his skin.
There’d been a wooden slatted headboard. And a mattress that smelled of a cloying freshener, clogging his nostrils as his face was pressed into it. Alan had wanted to go away for the weekend. Had said he wanted to make him enjoy himself. To feel special. He’d encouraged him, cajoled him, surprised him, tricked him. He’d said he knew a place up along the coast – an opportunity to really be together for more than just a quick night. Viggo had wanted to more fully explore their relationship, to allow himself to enjoy a new intimacy, deeper than what until then had been mostly frantic exploration. He’d trusted Alan. Had made that choice -- to trust him, to give himself to him. He’d been willing to try anything and had laughingly gone along when Alan had greeted him with suggestions of play and eroticism and desire. He’d denied the other man nothing, even agreeing to the bonds – the ridiculously pretty leather straps that seemed so inordinately grotesque as he thought of them now. Once he’d accepted them, allowed his wrists to be kissed and then secured, he‘d been lost.
All these years later, he did not believe that he’d ever managed to find himself again. Not quite.
Naked and tied and beneath the other’s weight, he’d realized the enormity of the betrayal and the huge, irreversible error of his trust. Nothing about this remained a game to him. To Alan, that had been all it was.
And just as now, there had been no word, no sound, no plea that had brought safety.
He realized he was crawling. He slid across the tile floor to the wooden crate of supplies. He knew what he was looking for and he knew that he wanted not to want it with a desperation equaled only by his absolute need for it. He stopped, trying every discipline he knew to stop the thoughts. But they wouldn’t quit: parading in front of him, taunting, infuriating, sickening, humiliating, emasculating, dehumanizing.
He felt a cry well up in his chest, long-denied tears spilling over the sills of reddened eyes. Rage was its own entity and it sought to burst out from him, looked for any chink through which to claim and control him. And he couldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t give in to a rage that would sweep him away and leave him not who he was but only an echo of what he thought he’d been. Once reduced to only what Alan had left, he knew he couldn’t be himself, couldn’t be his father’s son, one of a trio of brothers, and most unforgivably – if he gave in, he could not be the father to Henry that his son deserved.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” he heard himself whispering it, sobbing it into dirty hands held over his face, hiding him. Fear and shame owned any part of him not swallowed by the rage.
After – or between, he reminded himself, not allowing himself even the small relief of recalling only the first violation -- Alan sat by his head and flipped through his wallet, stopping at photos and commenting. Sometime during that long night, he’d mentioned that he’d always wanted kids himself, revealing to Viggo that the children he’d spoken to him about had never even existed. And then Viggo had known that absolutely everything about him had been lies.
Most of the pictures in his wallet had been of Henry. His baby boy. In grade school then –a happy, round-cheeked angel. And this filthy man had commented on how he looked like his father and wondered aloud how else he might be like him, leaning over to lick along Viggo’s jaw line as he did so, laughing at his ineffectual wrestling against the restraints, his anger and his ludicrous imaginings that he could do anything to stop him.
Good God, he recalled for the millionth time, the man had had his keys, his address, everything he’d needed to leave him there and do what he’d wanted to Henry. His Henry. And he could have done nothing to stop him.
His brain wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Flew around and around in a frenzy of images and sounds and smells that continually heightened his anger, anxiety, shame and futile regret. He couldn’t face it. Not now. Not when he had things to take care of. He couldn’t imagine letting himself go into this pain and ever finding his way back out. It had to be repackaged and put away.
He reached again for the wooden box, knowing that the razors were there.
Free Hit Counter
no subject
Date: 2005-09-28 04:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-28 09:01 am (UTC)Wow.
You're amazing, dear.
no subject
Date: 2005-10-12 07:15 pm (UTC)This abuse really explains his desperate need to cut himself, to control his pain, and why he has no self-esteem or apparent courage when it comes to his relationship with Sean. Crikey, the man's living in a nightmare.
Please please please post the next chapter soon. I am DYING to know what happens next!
xxx