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LA. Night. Nowish. [Mar. 25th, 2005|10:28 pm]
not yet day

_ming
Don’t say it; if you don’t say it, then it isn’t. It isn’t something that exists, and it isn’t something that can be taken away. It isn’t something you’ll, you know, lose. This time. It’s not. It isn’t.

It isn’t Orlando’s fake hair, that’s for sure. Not the chemical relaxation or the genuine extensions. It isn’t his straggling facial hair either, or his clogged pores, or his Old Spice derivative deodorant, or his stupid fucking Cavalli undershirt or his buffed nails. Not his trendy old man suspenders or his fucking beautiful piece of shit lovely longed-for… it isn’t anything in particular about Orlando, really, that has Viggo staring at him, him, bathed in moonlight even. It’s not that. It’s none of those things. It isn’t-

isn’t

-any one thing. But for some reason, not a reason that needs to be talked about, thought about, Viggo is here. His hand is here on Orlando’s ribcage, rising and falling, rising and falling, and Orlando is a mess, truth be known. He’s a very expensive mess in a Los Angeles hotel room, but he’s sleeping. And that’s something.

Something they won’t talk about in the morning.
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The journey thus far: [Jul. 30th, 2004|09:53 pm]
not yet day

_ming
I. Wednesday (the day after my birthday)
II. Thursday (always comes too late)
III. Friday (when the day is done)
a. Saturday (dawning fast)
IV. (and twice on) Sunday
b. Monday (morning, you gave me no warning)
V. Tuesday becomes Wednesday becomes Today
VI. And the sun should always set this way
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And the sun should always set this way [Mar. 29th, 2004|09:18 pm]
not yet day

_ming
They hold each other in near silence for several minutes, close but not closenough out of habitual reluctance. They'll have to talk about This, about the unvoiced sentiment that compelled Viggo to travel thousands of miles on a seeming whim, just for This. But not yet. Not even soon.

They've said enough for now.

Viggo presses his nose behind Orlando's ear. The soft skin there still smells strongly sweet, a kind of burnt sugar scent that Viggo remembers achingly well. It used to make him toss at night whenever Orlando was near. He'd dream of cold mornings in New York, of bakeries and street vendors that sold candied nuts starting at dawn, of something rich and just a little unexpected that early in the day. It's a good smell, and on Orlando it always makes him crazy to fuck.

"You," Orlando mouths into the crook of Viggo's neck, and the almost admission makes Viggo all the crazier. He smiles madly into Orlando's hair.

Yeah, you is all Viggo can think, tired and sweaty and hard against an unfamiliar door frame in a small Spanish town, thank you for closed eyes with long lashes that tickle his chin, for thin hips that press so tightly against his own, for full body acceptance and answering lust, thank you thank you for you you you.
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Tuesday becomes Wednesday becomes Today [Feb. 8th, 2004|06:30 pm]
not yet day

traveller
Orlando was always crap at maths, but the time difference between Spain and Los Angeles is the same as the difference for London so it expends no extra effort for him. It's like speaking a new language, at first you have to translate in your head, but after a while it's just automatic, it's:

Walk in the door. Drop your keycard and your wallet and your cap on the table. Four-thirty-two in the morning means it's seven-thirty-two in the evening which means Viggo's leaning against the kitchen counter eating condensed tomato soup cold out of the can. With a fork.

Orli pushes up his jumper, scratches his belly. Shower would be nice, hot water for his aching muscles. Toss off a bit (although that probably won't change the fact that he'll be hard again, just as soon as he hears Viggo's voice) and then order up something rich, buttery-creamy and sinful for breakfast.

He strips down and steps into the steamy bliss of the shower, rolling his shoulders under the pounding spray. He turns, tips his face up into it, runs his hands through his hair and thinks about California, not the one in his past but the one in his future. He smiles, lets the water run down into his mouth, spits it out through his teeth.

Orlando realises with a funny sort of shock that this thing he is feeling, this is happy. It's disconcerting. Certainly he's had recent moments of happiness, of joy, even, but not this sort of laid-back contentment. There's none of the low-grade anxiety that has coloured his days for three years now, the neurotic tension that would sometimes flare up into acts of remarkable stupidity.

What if I- What if I- What if I-

He smooths his hands over his face, pushes his hair back and turns round again, lolling his head in a lazy circle. This feeling, this feeling is merely:

I am.
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Monday (morning, you gave me no warning) [Jan. 28th, 2004|01:49 pm]
not yet day

traveller
He gives Viggo a quick ring during a 2 am break, stutters and blushes through a conversation that reminds him ridiculously of teenaged courting.

"Listen, I have to take care of something when I get home this morning, but I'll ring you back if I have time, yeah?"

"You're not obligated to call me, Orlando." Viggo's voice is warmly amused and roughly sexy.

"But I want to," he says, and is grateful that no-one is around to hear him sighing like a schoolboy.

Orlando gets back to the hotel some three and a half hours later, tiredly satisfied with the night's work but with a growing knot of tension at the base of his neck. Nothing for it. Make the call, mate, push the little buttons.

You owe her that much.

.......Collapse )
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(and twice on) Sunday [Jan. 25th, 2004|08:46 pm]
not yet day

traveller
Orlando's unrelenting cheer through the night's shooting aggravates nearly the entire cast and crew; he finds it hilarious that they think doing this for three or four days in good weather is a hardship. He wants to laugh in their faces.

Come back and complain when you've done this for 87 nights in the rain wearing suede trousers while enormous Maori warriors charge at your head with swords. You fucking amateurs.

He resists the urge to call them all a lot of tossers and instead bops through the night, as wide awake when he gets back to the hotel as when he left it eighteen hours before.

Five-fourteen am. Eightish Saturday night in L.A. He picks up the phone, is halfway through Viggo's number before he puts it down again. No, no fair. Have to call Kate, mate, have to... talk to her, have a real conversation about their real issues.

Have to do the right thing.

But he is really really bad at the right thing, and very very good at the easy thing. Orlando throws open the balcony drapes and then flops on the bed, toes his shoes off, folds his arms behind his head. The town is just waking up, the sun is staining the horizon pink and gold. Spain is warm and quiet. Spain is peaceful. It's not so bad.

His stomach growls loudly, and he sits up, picks up the phone again. Yeah, yeah. The right thing can wait until after he eats.
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Saturday (dawning fast) [Jan. 23rd, 2004|08:16 pm]
not yet day

traveller
His heart is still racing, the blood hasn't stopped rushing to his cock; Orlando sucks in air through his nose, not trusting himself to open his mouth lest some half-animal noise escape. Ridiculous, really. The phone's been hung up for five minutes, like, maybe ten, and still there is a pounding in his ears and an ache in his balls.

He should be going back to sleep. Night shoots for the next three days at least. Need your rest. Conservation of energy, like.

Right.

Whatever.

.......Collapse )
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Friday (when the day is done) [Jan. 21st, 2004|05:36 pm]
not yet day

_ming
Four phone interviews, two instant meals, and one long shower later it is Friday afternoon, going on evening, and Viggo is taken aback by the near spontaneous passage of time. He sits in the backyard with a yellow box of American Spirits close at hand. Ankle high crabgrass tickles his bare toes and the sun starts to set with the speed of a chemical burn. Before he knows it he's back inside and looking for excuses to hang around the kitchen, waiting for what's sure to come all too soon.

It occurs to Viggo that he's becoming a recluse, the crazy old kook who lives at the end of the street and hangs around every kid's nightmares. He doesn't mean to be so sedentary, but he's searched for so long now only to find that like the joke about Jesus, what he's been looking for has been under his couch all along. Or in the kitchen, anyway. Okay, in Spain, actually, but easily reachable. Just within reach, so close, and if he doesn't get out now he may never want to leave.

The house. If he doesn't get out of the house.

Viggo lights another cigarette as he rises to amble around the yard one last time, then sits by the phone and taps his ashes against its pastel green shell. It looks like a cartoon turtle beached on red and white checkered linen.

Viggo doesn't bother opening the window this time. He's probably agonizing over what will be better for him the long run. Just don't bother none he thinks, and suddenly he can't figure out if he's been smiling all day or if he just started.
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admin crap [Jan. 20th, 2004|04:57 pm]
not yet day

traveller
hi. I don't want to be a hardass about this, but um, please don't try to join the community. if you'd like to keep track of the story - and we WANT you to! - then friend the community like you'd friend any other user - click the little plus sign.

to the two people I just deleted, please don't take offence. it just doesn't work if people other than the authors are members.

thanks,
CEE
Link

Thursday (always comes too late) [Jan. 19th, 2004|09:27 pm]
not yet day

traveller
It is well after dark by the time Orlando gets back to the hotel, bone-tired and aching, his expensive Russian headache having never really gone away. He spent the entire day gritting his teeth and hitting his marks, got both the scenes from the day before in the can and two more besides.

In between takes he sips tea and munches crackers; at lunch he locks himself in his trailer and catches twenty minutes of desperately needed sleep. His hands are going to shake no matter what, either from lack of food or lack of sleep, so he goes with what he considers the lesser of two evils.

He feels unbelievably old and at the same time ridiculously young. Old because he hurts all over, deep down in every joint and muscle, because he feels like he's walked a thousand miles and back again, because he's so weary that he's practically drooling. But young, yeah, because he's got that flippy feeling in his chest, the one he remembers so well from when he was fifteen and this bird called Angie with enormous tits and a perky arse asked for his number and said she'd ring him after school.

It's half heart-attack and half-hard on, knowing that if he can just make the next nine hours go as fast as possible, then he'll have... something, maybe not all of everything, like, not entirely what he's... but it's...

It's Viggo.

He eyeballs the clock, it eyeballs him back. Yeah, nine hours, give or take. Viggo's still in bed, probably, won't get up until Henry hollers up the stairs something about there being laws in California requiring you to feed your children. Unless it's a school day. Orlando scrunches up his forehead, trying to remember whether or not Viggo said school was back in session. Bloody Americans, mucking up the terms.

But yeah, nine hours. Time enough for a long hot soak, a late supper, maybe nod off for a while in front of CNN Worldview. It's the only channel that's in English.

He can wait. He's waited before.
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