VigBean ficlet one shot
May. 28th, 2007 07:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
archetA short little something that wouldn't leave me alone, and a bit different from my usual sap stuff. ;P
Title: Getting On (1/1)
Author: Archet
Pairing: Viggo/Sean
Summary: Probably just made a brilliantly huge mistake, but he couldn’t go on as he had, what with the wondering and the waiting, he just wasn’t made for such
Disclaimer: all fiction, for entertainment purposes only, in no way implies anything as to the real lives to the lovely men who are inspirations for these characters.
Rating: PG
Feedback: welcomed and appreciated!
~*~
The photograph, worn about the edges and creased in one corner, was his favorite, once. Having been with him for a while, it has traveled the world, kept him company in his breast pocket as he’d tolerated the uncomfortable transitions from being earthbound to flying during trips for work. It's lived by his bed, held safe in a tasteful silver frame, the last thing he looked to before going to sleep, the first thing he took notice of on waking. Didn’t last long there, though, as he’d found he didn’t like it cased under polite glass. Rather, he’d preferred it bare, out where he could hold and touch, and a silly thing that, but that’s what he did.
Holding it again, this slip of paper imprinted with two grinning men, lovers, he found the memories suddenly heavy with him. Like the aroma of something cooking on the stovetop in the next room, their presence invaded his senses. He drew in a deep breath, half expecting to discover the scent of a certain minty cologne on the air, a hint of familiar pleasure and warmth, a hint of things that should have lingered longer than they had.
Setting the photo down, he leaned back in his chair, staring at the image from a distance, now. Smiling faces, hands touching, and where has those men had disappeared to? Why has the warmth, so apparent, even in this black and white, cooled, leaving a bitter aftertaste of regret, a calm sense of inevitable disrepair. But no sense in walking a carpet bare, he supposed, and rolling the same thoughts over and over in his mind had brought him no closer to a satisfying answer. He reckoned, when it came to this ending there might always be a certain layer of incompleteness.
Having stared for an hour, and finding nothing in himself that wanted to try, anymore, for a different ending, he took the photo. Turning it over, he scribbled a short message onto the blank back, finding it more difficult to sign his name, rather than actually setting down the note itself. Bringing out an envelope and inscribing an address, the one he remembers best, he slipped the photo inside, not waiting to see if the ink has dried proper. Pausing, one final look at those men, their smiles, he tucked the photo away, sealing the envelope.
An hour later, returning home with mist clinging to his jacket and coolness on his skin, and the envelope successfully delivered to the post, he's done with it, and already well into second guessing himself. No point in that, he knew, but it was impossible not to. Probably just made a brilliantly huge mistake, but he couldn’t go on as he had, what with the wondering and the waiting, he just wasn’t made for such.
Maybe, in a week or two, his phone would ring . . . or, maybe not, though honestly, he’d stopped waiting for it to ring days ago. Honestly, he’d stopped wanting to pick it up himself, days ago. He well knew what that meant, if he didn’t understand anything else.
The sun was well up now, penetrating the morning mist that gathered thickly, shrouding his garden with a curtain of dampness. Not ready to venture outside just yet, he drifted through the house, wondering when the post would send the photo out, then acknowledged the utter foolishness of such musing.
Dishes sat in the kitchen sink, not many, but enough to annoy so he sets to sorting them out, staring as warm water issued from the faucet, slipping through his fingers, a miniature white-water rapid, bubbling, chaotic, harmless, disappearing down the drain. The dishes a terribly fleeting distraction, and his inner self being a persistent git, he wishes he knew when it happened . . . when the passion thinned, and the need to extend an effort faded. When had promises made become more of a hindrance, rather than a good reason to pick up the phone and dial?
When had days begun to collect into a week or more, between calls, and when had weeks become months between their reunions? His birthday passed with hardly a word, and long standing plans were broken at the last moment. He supposes, interest has simply waned, which is an utter gloss-over, but that’s all he’s prepared to confront, just now.
Drying his hands, he finally ventures outside into the building daylight that’s gradually breaking the grey morning. Maybe that's what is happening in him, he’s breaking through the grey, headed towards a better place, or maybe he was just being a bloody wanker about it all. Christ. Either way, what’s done is done, he fully expects to feel even worse come tomorrow.
Donning his gardening gloves, he moves across the lawn toward his roses. Maybe this latest break is on him, more than anyone. Maybe it’s all a big, bright, fucking mystery, and he’s as bloody clueless as he’s ever been. Kneeling beside the bed of roses, he finds it in himself to be glad for the sun’s late appearance, if nothing else. It’s time to just get on with things. Sinking fingers into the moist soil, dark and rich with the promise of growing new things, he finally feels a glimmer of satisfaction, and something, at last, to look forward to.
Title: Getting On (1/1)
Author: Archet
Pairing: Viggo/Sean
Summary: Probably just made a brilliantly huge mistake, but he couldn’t go on as he had, what with the wondering and the waiting, he just wasn’t made for such
Disclaimer: all fiction, for entertainment purposes only, in no way implies anything as to the real lives to the lovely men who are inspirations for these characters.
Rating: PG
Feedback: welcomed and appreciated!
~*~
The photograph, worn about the edges and creased in one corner, was his favorite, once. Having been with him for a while, it has traveled the world, kept him company in his breast pocket as he’d tolerated the uncomfortable transitions from being earthbound to flying during trips for work. It's lived by his bed, held safe in a tasteful silver frame, the last thing he looked to before going to sleep, the first thing he took notice of on waking. Didn’t last long there, though, as he’d found he didn’t like it cased under polite glass. Rather, he’d preferred it bare, out where he could hold and touch, and a silly thing that, but that’s what he did.
Holding it again, this slip of paper imprinted with two grinning men, lovers, he found the memories suddenly heavy with him. Like the aroma of something cooking on the stovetop in the next room, their presence invaded his senses. He drew in a deep breath, half expecting to discover the scent of a certain minty cologne on the air, a hint of familiar pleasure and warmth, a hint of things that should have lingered longer than they had.
Setting the photo down, he leaned back in his chair, staring at the image from a distance, now. Smiling faces, hands touching, and where has those men had disappeared to? Why has the warmth, so apparent, even in this black and white, cooled, leaving a bitter aftertaste of regret, a calm sense of inevitable disrepair. But no sense in walking a carpet bare, he supposed, and rolling the same thoughts over and over in his mind had brought him no closer to a satisfying answer. He reckoned, when it came to this ending there might always be a certain layer of incompleteness.
Having stared for an hour, and finding nothing in himself that wanted to try, anymore, for a different ending, he took the photo. Turning it over, he scribbled a short message onto the blank back, finding it more difficult to sign his name, rather than actually setting down the note itself. Bringing out an envelope and inscribing an address, the one he remembers best, he slipped the photo inside, not waiting to see if the ink has dried proper. Pausing, one final look at those men, their smiles, he tucked the photo away, sealing the envelope.
An hour later, returning home with mist clinging to his jacket and coolness on his skin, and the envelope successfully delivered to the post, he's done with it, and already well into second guessing himself. No point in that, he knew, but it was impossible not to. Probably just made a brilliantly huge mistake, but he couldn’t go on as he had, what with the wondering and the waiting, he just wasn’t made for such.
Maybe, in a week or two, his phone would ring . . . or, maybe not, though honestly, he’d stopped waiting for it to ring days ago. Honestly, he’d stopped wanting to pick it up himself, days ago. He well knew what that meant, if he didn’t understand anything else.
The sun was well up now, penetrating the morning mist that gathered thickly, shrouding his garden with a curtain of dampness. Not ready to venture outside just yet, he drifted through the house, wondering when the post would send the photo out, then acknowledged the utter foolishness of such musing.
Dishes sat in the kitchen sink, not many, but enough to annoy so he sets to sorting them out, staring as warm water issued from the faucet, slipping through his fingers, a miniature white-water rapid, bubbling, chaotic, harmless, disappearing down the drain. The dishes a terribly fleeting distraction, and his inner self being a persistent git, he wishes he knew when it happened . . . when the passion thinned, and the need to extend an effort faded. When had promises made become more of a hindrance, rather than a good reason to pick up the phone and dial?
When had days begun to collect into a week or more, between calls, and when had weeks become months between their reunions? His birthday passed with hardly a word, and long standing plans were broken at the last moment. He supposes, interest has simply waned, which is an utter gloss-over, but that’s all he’s prepared to confront, just now.
Drying his hands, he finally ventures outside into the building daylight that’s gradually breaking the grey morning. Maybe that's what is happening in him, he’s breaking through the grey, headed towards a better place, or maybe he was just being a bloody wanker about it all. Christ. Either way, what’s done is done, he fully expects to feel even worse come tomorrow.
Donning his gardening gloves, he moves across the lawn toward his roses. Maybe this latest break is on him, more than anyone. Maybe it’s all a big, bright, fucking mystery, and he’s as bloody clueless as he’s ever been. Kneeling beside the bed of roses, he finds it in himself to be glad for the sun’s late appearance, if nothing else. It’s time to just get on with things. Sinking fingers into the moist soil, dark and rich with the promise of growing new things, he finally feels a glimmer of satisfaction, and something, at last, to look forward to.
