aleathiel | Strangers: final part

Strangers, part V
With thanks to my wonderful beta

olivia_ramirez

Earlier parts here

Part V

Orlando isn’t sure how long he’s been standing motionless. It’s completely ridiculous really, but he has no urge to laugh. His hands are submerged in soapy, fatty water and out through the window in front of him he can see the grey of London rain. Some inconsequential pop-tune is playing aimlessly on the radio and even if he were to try he’ll never remember it later. His bare feet are cold on the wooden floor. All the little things flood his brain as time stops and some part of him just blankly refuses to acknowledge the obvious.

Viggo is pressed against his back, and Viggo is as hard as Orlando.

Viggo’s hands drop from Orlando’s bare chest and rest lightly on his hips as if asking a question. Orlando involuntarily arches his back and presses against his friend. It’s the weirdest sensation. That’s another guy’s cock he can feel. And yet it doesn’t feel repulsive.

Not at all.

There is no signal between them, no reply to Viggo’s unspoken question, but they melt into fluid movement, Orlando turning , his soapy-wet hands grabbing at the belt loops of Viggo’s jeans, his face pressing against the crook of Viggo’s neck as Viggo’s hands slide around to pull him closer. Orlando can hear Viggo’s breathing getting harsher as they strain against one another and he feels his own heart rate increase.

Part of him is distant, is watching unbelieving from somewhere across the room. But no part of him criticises, no part of him is disgusted. No part of him is capable of much thought beyond acknowledgement and realisation.

Viggo backs up against the table and Orlando scrabbles up into his lap, trying not to let their groins break contact. Viggo is making soft whimpering noises now, his hips moving with jagged thrusts at counterpoint to Orlando’s. The gentle movement has become harsh and needy, faster and rougher, but it’s not fast enough or hard enough and the seam of his jeans is in just the wrong place, the denim too thick, but stopping to undo it would mean stopping and that just isn’t going to happen...

Then the urgency is gone, his balls tighten and warm pleasure shoots through him and he is limp in Viggo’s arms and unable to think anything except how strange this morning is becoming. With a noise of frustration, Viggo thrusts against his languid body a few times before stopping with a wrenched sigh. Viggo lies back on the kitchen table, Orlando still in his arms, their bodies still moving gently against one another.

“This is all wrong,” Viggo breathes and Orlando stops breathing, heart still racing.

He tries to pull away but Viggo’s strong grasp prevents it. “It should have been naked and in bed and on a day when I didn’t have to leave for the airport in seven hours,” Viggo murmurs. “And in an ideal world I would be twenty years younger.”

Suddenly his earlier comment makes sense and Orlando feels incredibly stupid that he didn’t see this coming. Viggo obviously knows him better than he knows himself.

*

Almost a week later Orlando receives an envelope with an American postmark. He’d recognise Viggo’s handwriting with his eyes shut he thinks humourlessly and props the envelope up on the kitchen table before resting his chin level with it on the smooth surface.

I’ve sent you a little something. Viggo had said on the phone. The thing I saw that changed everything .

Gingerly Orlando opens the envelope. It’s a black and white photograph, and at first Orlando can’t work out what it is, then the shapes become less of a blur of grey as his eyes connect up light and shadow. It’s taken from a weird angle, but that’s not unusual for Viggo. It’s his mouth, open in sleep, pressed against the pale skin of Viggo’s shoulder. His eyes, shut, buried against one arm. It’s his hand, reaching, grasping for Viggo’s.

Instinct Viggo has written on the border. And underneath, No longer strangers .

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

kinseymill.livejournal.com

This is gorgeous. And the last lines..aaaaaw! *melts*

From:

Strangers: final part

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags