The moon shone. Cold and white. Hostile. Bathing everything in a pale glow bright enough to see... clearly. The time of Harvest Moon, and he thought it should be huge, golden. A moon full of promise and love, like it had been, once. It should rise above the horizon scarlet, ripening to deep gold on their awakening. Then, rising to the brilliant clarity of yellow light shining in on his limbs, spread careless after their loving on the purple sheets. They'd made love so often in the moonlight. He remembered, he knew, ‘the length of his slim legs, dusted with dark hairs, then the mat of deep, crisp curls above and around his soft cock, still large enough after love, to lie across his thigh.’
Bloody moon. It meant the windows would have to have the big curtains across tonight or he wouldn't be able to sleep at all. He'd look at the bed, those paisley sheets bought specially so that they wouldn't show the stains from love, and he'd expect to see those long legs, that slightly woolly chest, and the smile. 'SOD and dammit. Why does a whole world have to come between him and what should be, with us both. And what the hell was all that about, that stupid behaviour the last time in Barcelona?'
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Across the world, the sun was still shining. Hot. White and hostile. The gardens were crisp, dried up with the continual days of heat, not a whiff of humidity. His garden would be a shambles, everything overgrown, the garden chairs newly-painted last fall, baked to a paint-peeling crunchiness. There'd be fallen leaves everywhere, scuffing into hidden corners, shuffling like frightened souls under the worktable he always left out, in spite of meaning to take it into the verandah. Always the fallen leaves. Leaves of thought, dead and dying, curled in his mind. He began to wonder where in the world was there a place to stop, to rest, to come home. He had a house there, another ranchhouse over there, three States away, one in Argentina now, he had use of another in Madrid. He could rent another here in this yellow dusty land of men in white cotton dresses, and women hidden in thick black robes, dark mysterious eyes promising... 'but probably discovery would be a horror film, of toothless hag, enormous thighs. The mysteries so veiled would perhaps best remain hidden'.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In another part of the northern hemisphere, a tall, dark-curly-haired man slammed the car door, and glanced up at the moon. New risen, it shone pearl-white, smiling, he could see the Man up there so well. The smile reminded him of... 'No, don't go there.' He opened the back door of the car, gathered up the many bundles, bags, and the plastic sack of wet nappy, then nudging the door shut with his jean-clad bottom. The front door was already open, waiting, and a warm glow welcomed, as did the warm air breathing soft in his face as he crossed the sill. 'The warm breath... NO! Don't keep going there! But he had made such a mistake. A stupid mistake, that spoilt so much for too many of his... what could he call them, his loves?'
Kicking the door shut, he dropped all his bundles on the waiting table in the utility room. He opened the back door, and looked up again at the Moon. 'O.K. You win... I'll do it tonight. I will!'
The telephone in that far, hot, house rang, chipping at the heat. Then stopped ringing. The mobile phone on the table, fine-dusted from non-use, whirred feebly, twitched and fell silent. There was no reply. No answer. No-one. He thought of that line from the poem, who was it…‘The Listeners...the man who came to the house and knocked and there was no-one there. The traveller had cried 'Tell them I came.' He closed his small instrument, and went downstairs. The baby was sleeping, and his wife was in the kitchen preparing the night bottle, and maybe a sandwich for them. He went to the bureau, an antique piece they had been given for the wedding, and sat before it. He reached into the drawer, then sat looking down at the plain blank piece of cream paper. 'How to start. what the hell could he say?' He picked up the biro, wrote. Wrote fast, not caring what his writing looked like, he had to get this down on paper before he did the cowardly thing again, throwing it into the fire. Another sheet of paper. His large careless hand calling its message to the reader, sharply black. Imperious. 'READ ME'.
~~~~~~~
Sorting through the junk mail which appeared miraculously in the postbox, despite multiple pleas to the Post Office to abstain, he found three plain envelopes. Throwing the heavy glossy paper into the junk-paper-box with a thud, he kicked the lounge door shut, and flopped onto the sofa.
His long fair arm reached for the opener... couldn’t find it, so returned with his big thumb, using it to rip open the first letter. ‘Sodding gas bill. It was only last week they’d sent one. Oh, ok, a coupla months ago. Oh well.’ The second letter was peered at, the postmark from Whitstable, Kent? Dated? He couldn’t make out the date. Was it from another fan, escaping the net? He hoped it wouldn’t be another kinky one, he received too many of those. His gold-green eyes admired the thick cream-coloured notepaper. As he unfolded the double sheets, they widened. ‘This wasn’t for him, it was for … soddendammit… it was for Viggo! Whotinhell…’ Sean grabbed for the envelope…‘Nope, it was addressed to him. S. Bean Esq.. And the address was right, but no return address on the back.' He gaped at the bottom of the second page.' What in hell is Orlando Bloom doing? Has he gone barmy?’
Sean couldn’t help himself, although he knew he should have simply bundled it back into the envelope and sent it back. ‘Where to? There was no address on the top or the end of the letter. Where did Orlando live now… suppose it could go back to his parents, marked private?’ Sean read on.
~~~~~~~~~~~
In The Sultanate of Oman, in the Arabian States, the heat was growing again. Early morning was the only time bearable, and Viggo had returned from his bathe in the sea, having spent a long time on his knees admiring the ankle deep sea-shells that made up the shore. He already had buckets of them back in his rooms, and knew they would all end up back on the beach where they shone in the clear salty seawater that kissed them so gently. He hadn’t been kissed softly for such a long time. No-one here to kiss him, no David, no co-stars of like foolishness, no Sean, no Orli… Orlando was married now, married and done for. No hope for him now, despite the call for help when he had almost broken it off just before the wedding. Viggo pushed his way into the hotel, one of so many glittering facades on the long hot tarmac road, already twinkling into the blurry heat-hazed fuzzy air. Reception handed him his card, and a bundle of messages. Viggo shuffled through them in the lift to the eighty-first floor, and recognised a heavy cream envelope with an English stamp.
The suite had a silver letter-opener, a slim miniature Kunja, the ceremonial dagger, which should never be drawn unless to taste blood. Viggo wondered how much blood had been tasted in the letters this kunja had kissed open. He unfolded the sheets, two big cream sheets, filled with a black scrawled writing. He read…’Sean, I have to explain. I must. It was a stupid thing to do. I only thought of myself…’ Viggo stopped reading.
He slowly folded the sheets together and closed them. Replaced them in the envelope, then wandered across to the window balcony, open to the sea breezes. Viggo had known that Orlando had come to him in distress, not for love, just for comforting, while he sorted out his fears and worries about being a real man, a real husband to his beloved beautiful woman. Viggo had held him close that night, as Orlando had struggled to reason with himself. That night that had led into the morning, and Sean turning up with the roses for Viggo as it was their umpteenth anniversary for something Sean had decided needed an anniversary. The roses had ended up stamped underfoot, dropped in shock at finding Orlando and Viggo in their comfortable nakedness having the first wakeup cup of the morning. Viggo had had to take the rose-thorn out of his foot afterwards, because he had dashed barefoot to the door shouting for Sean to come back, being pushed in his back by Orlando, screaming past his ear. “Sean, Sean, come back, its not what you… S-E-a-n-n…’
Viggo turned back into the room, sat in the over-soft opulent arm chair, folding the letter over and over in his hands. He pulled the pages out again, and read. He, Viggo, read the letter intended for his love. He wondered…' perhaps after these preliminary discussions were over, he could detour back to London and drop this letter into Sean, and then who knows… maybe?' He read again. Surely if Sean read these distressed words, obviously written with such sudden urgency, he would at last chew on that stupid pride of his and spit out the stones of his hurt.
Viggo’s Agent rang him three times in the next week. Odd, just to check that he was still in residence? Of course he was, the last meeting with the Quaboosh wasn’t until Saturday night, and it promised to go on until well into Sunday. Viggo grinned, a man has to have some sort of repayment for having a Friday spent on your knees and a restricted diet of everything. Viggo didn’t refrain from very much, even on the Christian day of worship, Sundays, and for him a Friday was ... just a Friday.
Thursday night was a cross between being pampered to the utmost and the awful belly-twitching of take-off and landing. Gulf Air really did have some awfully pretty stewardesses, who knew instinctively how comfortable he wasn’t, or how his pillow needed plumping. They smelt nice too, sorta flowery. Sean enjoyed that part of the flight. The landing in bright sunlight was so smooth, Sean didn’t know they were down until the plane turned in front of the wide white building. The doors opened, and the pretty creature that smelt of frangipani wished him a happy stay, and a peaceful return. The heat hit like a hammer… No, a chisel. His hand on the rail whipped back from the scalding burn. The interior of the limo was ice-cold, almost lime-flavoured in its sharpness. Sean thought, ’From one extreme to another… not for me, a soft Yorkshire bloke. India was a bit like this, only a heavier heat.’
The Reception Desk at the Hotel was at the end of a vast echoing hall, reminiscent of the set for The Gods in something. High-ceilinged, bronze, gold, the thick velvet carpets cooling their backs on chilly deep-coloured marble. He left his big bag, but hefted a small black bag which clinked, to the discreet amusement of the gentleman behind the desk.
The doors were white with gold ornamentation. Sean smiled. Viggo really didn’t go a bundle on this sort of flashy life. He’d probably be in there with a pair of boxers on, and bare feet, and some shirt from that Argentinian Football team he was so nutty about. He knocked, paused then called,
“Room Service, Sir”
He leant on the gold-coloured handle, the door opened, and he slipped inside. Viggo was sitting on the sofa, one leg raised in the air half-covered in a jean-coloured trouser. He waved an arm toward the window “Put it over there, the little table, please,” and produced another leg for the other half of the trousers. Sean put his bag down very quietly, then leant over the sofa back and reached down with his hands.
“You don’t want those on now, and I don’t think you really want me on the little table. We would wreck it!”
Viggo froze. Let his breath out in a hurricane of joy.
“You came! You came! You CAME... to ME!!!! I couldn’t get to you till Monday earliest. McKinley insisted I stay here till…”
He reached up, folded both hands behind Sean’s head, gripped and pulled down. Sean rolled over into his lap, a large bundle of grinning tears and hiccupping laughter. Viggo’s Self smiled inside, a contented smile as vast and serene as the wide emptiness of the desert. His face smiled down at his lover, his great baby, his prickly-pride lover, and he remarked, quite non-a-propos to anything in particular,
"It's Friday. The Day of Prayer, of giving Thanks to the Great, All Powerful, Mahomet, Blessed be his Name." Then they kissed, softly, longingly and long.
Muezzin may call several times each day, but the call of true Love rings louder, incessantly, beyond days, Blessed be its Name.
Summary: Its all such silly misunderstandings, in the end, just silly...
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 2221 Read: 536
Published: 21 Oct 2011 Updated: 21 Oct 2011