frahulettaes | Fic: Particles of Truth

Title: Particles of Truth
Author: fra
Pairing: ViggOrli Orli/Other
Rating: Mature
Summary: Artsy, self indulgent, Orli fic.
Warnings: RPS! Het references, comma abuse, lack of plot, rambling, general obtuseness.
Disclaimer: I don’t know either Orli or Viggo but if they knew about this, I'd love for them to take it as the highest form of worship. Archive: My lj's, Orlandoslash.
Author’s Notes: This format/style has been done to death. I'm sick and laying on the sofa feeling lifeless and useless and totally without merit and perhaps I've been drinking from the belly button for too long but I just wanted to write something sort of, well, strange and elliptical. I apologize in advance for my writerly transgressions. And I will get right back to Kings Ransom as soon as I'm less stupid. (Uh, oh. That'll be a while)

fra

2005

He used to think she was soft. She used to feel soft. Rounded soft bumps and hollows. He remembers craving her softness. Thinking about it used to drive him crazy horny, used to drive him into the loo for a quick, too quick, quick as a fourteen year old wank.

He can remember her even sounding soft. Maybe, a while ago, long before, she did sound soft. Maybe then she was trying to sound soft. Maybe sounding soft wasn't how she really was.

He thinks that now, when she's laying under him, she feels like a bundle of sticks wrapped in soft leather. The image makes him feel sick to his stomach. He thinks that her pussy, the one that drove him senseless and stupid at the drop of a fucking hat, now feels too wet, too slippery. Too much like her. Too fucking soft.

He thinks about how he feels so much need for her. He wonders if the need is for her or for the need for her. He thinks about how he doesn't think around her. How, somehow, she creates this null airspace that invades him mercilessly.

And he hates how when she's not there, he thinks about feeling not soft. How it feels not to feel soft or to feel something that's not soft. Skin like silk, hot and steady and not soft.
He thinks about laying under, over, next to, between not softness.

He thinks about how light she is and how much he misses heavy. And warm, he misses warm, hot, tangible. Her fingers and toes are always cold and he misses warm.

It takes him nearly two years, seven months and twelve days to admit to himself that the words were true. Those long quiet lost words carved into his mind, fingers into his flesh, tongue on his cock.

When he finally flips the phone open and fingers the numbers without looking, the muscles always remember, he looks at her but sees him. And he wonders why it has to be her or him. Why can't it just be because? Because he needs it. Because he's cold and he hasn’t been deep for so long he forgot what deep feels like.

Because he longs for hot, hard, silky weight. And heavy and deep and long and more than just seven and a half too cold, too soft, too bony minutes crammed between this gig and that.

When the line is picked up his pulse beats dark and hard.

"Hey." He says and wants to blurt, 'your were right'. And 'come and get me' and 'I'm so lonely' and 'please please god, I can't' and 'I don't know how to do this' and 'I don't want to do it without you'.

"Orli." Vig says. The same way he always does.

He breathes in a ragged breath and knows Viggo can hear him and what it means.

"Breathe, baby." Vig says and Orli tries.

"Yeah." He finally manages.

"Anytime." And he can hear the smile, warm, heat in Viggo's voice.

"Yeah." He says and flips the phone off.

Twelve hours, forty five minutes and thirty one seconds later, he fingers the phone again, muscles performing without thought the litany of numbers like a rosary. He bends the long ragged vine of bougainvillea and doesn't feel the thorns, looks through old glass, wood panels too many times painted and waits to see naked feet and denim.

The phone rings. The one on the little stand by the stack of books and the wildly overgrown spider plant. He remembers once knocking the plant over disastrously even though he wasn't drunk. He's looking at the plant and misses the feet but sees the hand lift the receiver and clutches the bougainvillea until blood drips down his wrist.

"Hey." He says.

"Orli." Viggo turns to the window, maybe he always does when he uses that phone.

Twelve minutes and forty seconds later he forgets soft and wet and slippery and opens his mouth and breathes, for Christ sake, for the first time in fucking years. And remembers how hot heavy is and how it burns and how fucking important it is to burn. And he loves that he doesn't have to explain because Viggo doesn't need it. And he loves how when he's with Viggo, Orli doesn't need to explain either.

But mostly he loves, remembers to love, the weight of it. The weight of him. The weight of because. And how none of the rest fucking matters. All of that stuff out there, the stuff that stays big and loud and torrential doesn't make it in here.

And if that's the only thing he ever learns from Viggo, though it isn't by a long hard dark dangerous thundering shot, than he's doing pretty fucking well. Now he thinks he can tell the difference between needing her and the meaning of need and the meaning of what this is. The this that doesn't have a gender or description or god damned fucking summary.

This thing that Viggo creates out of so much sound and light and voice and deep hard thorough fucking that leaves him breathlessly grounded, thoughtless, regretless.