Temptation
Title: Temptation
Author: Moraya
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Genre: historical AU
Disclaimer: Definitely neither real nor true.
Feedback: Yes, please!
Beta: liriel1810 and lise_ann. Thank you both so much! *hugs*
Notes: written for thalassatx as part of vo_xmas
Summary: Sometimes, love is the greatest art of all.
Temptation
Adhering to a long-standing family tradition, once my sister became engaged, my family commissioned for her portrait to be painted. I do not remember if I had any expectations about the artist, but if I had them, reality soon made expectations a moot point. He took my breath away the very first time I laid my eyes on him.
Mr Mortensen, the artist, had come highly recommended by friends, and was said to be a well-mannered gentleman with admirable skills at portraits, and my mother and sister had been very pleased when he responded favourably to my mother’s letter. A price for the finished painting was quickly agreed upon, and appointments for the sittings made for the weeks ere Samantha’s wedding were to take place.
At the first of the six arranged sittings, we all took the time to attend, my dear sister for obvious reasons, and my mother and I expecting it to be an interesting pastime to watch a true professional at his art.
Mortensen raised no objections to my mother’s announcement after each of us had greeted the man, only the slightest tilt of his mouth betraying his amusement at my mother’s continued excited chatter that let barely a chance for anyone else to get a word in.
Luckily, I was able to surmount my heavy initial reaction to the man before it became apparent to anyone but myself; and by the time Mortensen looked around the room, scrutinizing it in all its details, I was certain my face showed only polite interest. After a few moments, he requested for one of the chairs to be placed by the window and Samantha to be seated there; for, as he patiently told my mother, the spot provided the best illumination.
Once the easel was set up to his liking and an empty canvas placed upon it, he enquired politely if there was a piano stool or a similar seating for him to use while he worked; explaining apologetically that he found himself unable to pay the fullest attention to his work when he had to worry about not getting any paint stains on the furniture, and it had become so ingrained that he now sincerely preferred a stool to a chair whenever painting or drawing.
The wish was readily granted, and as soon as the stool was brought, Mortensen quickly went to work. His eyes flitted back and forth between my sister and the canvas, the scraping of the pencil as he sketched her outlines a melody on its own for a while as we all, with the exception of Samantha, watched in admiration how her silhouette took shape under the artist’s deft fingers.
I found myself entranced by his strong hands, the flex of the muscles as he drew with sure strokes, and the minuscule traces of paint clinging to the edge of his nails. It was just as well that at this point my mother and my sister had taken up a conversation about the wedding preparations, an exchange I was neither required nor expected to partake in, and thus allowed me to simply watch Mortensen work.
When I, at last, could bring myself to lift my gaze to his face, I found it in deep concentration, and as captivating in its seriousness as the hint of a smile had been before. It had been quite some time since I had allowed myself to think another man attractive, and though I did not mean to grant my thoughts the liberties they took in their direction, I found no way to stop them, and myself unwilling to try any harder.
All too soon for my liking the sketch was finished, and my mother and sister commended the artist on the likeness of it while I wanted nothing more than for him to take up the pencil again and carry on drawing for hours, just so I could prolong the pleasure of watching him.
I was mollified when my mother invited Mortensen to stay and join us for tea, which he readily accepted. Now there was ample time to discover more about the man, and he did not disappoint any of us, freely answering questions about his profession as well as his life. Even though I had yet to shake off the spell I felt myself trapped in, I remembered enough of my manners to partake in the conversation, and more than once did my eyes meet his.
He was studying me with the same intensity I had observed earlier, when he had been sketching; and had we been alone, I might have asked him about it. As it was, it gave my wayward mind further reason to wander dangerously, and I had trouble regaining a clear head.
How I longed for the freedom to speak to him in private, uncaring about the consequences!
I could not say what exactly it was about Mortensen that stirred up these urges in me; I had not felt this much out of control of myself since my boarding school days.
By the time the painting was nearing completion, Mortensen had become more to us than merely a painter doing his handiwork. After each sitting, none of which I missed being present at, he joined us for tea, amusing all of us with stories of his life and the many travels he had undertaken to learn his craft to perfection. When he spoke, we could see the azure blue of the Mediterranean Sea; hear the voices of people from all over the world on the piazzas of Venice; and smell the sweet scent of lavender fields that reached up to the horizon in the Provence as clear as if we had be standing in the same spot he had been standing.
My admiration did not fade with time as I had assumed would surely happen. I must admit to feeling a bit the lovesick fool, yearning to see him once more the minute the door closed behind him. Nothing I tried to divert my exceedingly illustrative thoughts from straying to the artist had a lasting effect. Had I perceived no sign of attraction on his part, I might have contented myself as we were, not even persuading to build a friendship that exceeded acquaintanceship, but whenever we met, I would at one point feel his eyes rest on me in a way I believed to echo my own thoughts.
The morning of the last sitting then, my mother fell unwell, as the biting cold wind of the late November days had overwhelmed her. Nevertheless, she resolutely stated that her indisposition was no reason to postpone the sitting, and so it came that in the afternoon, it was only my sister and I who greeted Mortensen. There was little left to do on the painting, indeed to my eyes, it appeared done already, but who was I to question the artist, especially as it gave me leisure to watch him once more.
Still it was undeniably a solemn affair; Samantha was troubled for not attending to my mother, and I was terribly aware of it being the final sitting, after which I was likely to only meet Mortensen again in social company, yet we did our best not to let show that anything was amiss, and it was only the intimate knowledge of my sister that allowed me to read her thoughts in her stiff posture and the manner in which she clasped her hands.
Our polite conversation came to a sudden stop when at last, Mortensen proclaimed, “it is done.” My sister jumped from her chair, coming around the easel to look at her likeness, declaring she felt looking at the half-length was as if gazing at herself in a mirror. She exaggerated only little; for myself, I had seen many portraits less resembling those who were depicted.
“Oh! my mother will be ever so pleased, Mr Mortensen,” she said, excitedly, then asked if he would stay for tea as we were wont to. It took both Samantha and my insisting that he simply must stay for him to concur; we would have been chided terribly by our mother for less than polite manners had we let him go then.
Just the same, my sister grew anxious to see after mother, and excused herself soon thereafter. She appealed for Mortensen and me to enjoy the tea without her though, not knowing what favour she did me with this, her mind simply on aiding my mother’s recovery within the fortnight left until Samantha’s wedding day.
“I would hope it is not anything dire that has befallen Mrs Bloom,” he said to me once Samantha was gone.
“We have been assured of a swift recovery,” I answered. “It is the cold weather which afflicted her; but tell me more of your time in France,” I added, steering the conversation back to the tale which he had begun before.
I listened to him with rapture, both words and voice capturing my attention, and I felt as if now, where there were not three people between whom he had to divide his consideration, he spoke more freely than ever before, and more than ever, I found his eyes resting intently on me. I could not mistake the air of intimacy, though nothing untoward was ever uttered; indeed the words were such that they could have been spoken in any company.
When he had ended his anecdotes, I cried, “The things you have seen! Oh! how I envy you for your travels. I beg your pardon, but I myself have never seen another country, and your words stir the wanderlust in me. Allow me to ask then, Mr Mortensen, have you seen Napoleon as he returned to Paris, for you must have if you have dwelled there just at that time!”
“I fear I must disappoint you then,” he said, regretfully. “I was naught but a foreigner there, with few acquaintances in the city, and all my desire was on seeing the countless masterpieces displayed at the musée du Louvre. I was truly fortunate too, as after the battle of Waterloo, many of the pieces of art were reclaimed by the countries from which they had been collected. To see all those, one needs to travel far across Europe nowadays again.”
“Which you have done nevertheless.”
“This is true, and yet the sheer overwhelming feeling of walking from room to room, from epoch to epoch, from genius to genius is not something I can describe in words.” He sighed, lost in thought, and my heart grew heavy as I imagined him leaving London for those countries on the continent he clearly held in high regard. What did we have to offer this man here but small collections that hung in private rooms and chambers, only to be seen by those whom they belonged to and their guests?
“What brought you here then?” I asked before I could stop myself, although it was a question I had long wondered about.
“A commission for a painting of course,” he said. “I believe you have heard of Sir Ian McKellen, the General? We met some years ago, and he always had faith in my abilities to paint; though why I do not know as when he said so, he had not seen a single one of my pieces. At last, then, he asked me to travel to London to paint him.”
“So then you stayed.”
“That I did. And while England does not have grand public galleries like there are in Paris or Madrid, I have been granted access to many private collections with exquisite works. But more than that!” he added--“I finally have the opportunity to fully immerse myself in creating my own works, be it the portraits which support my living or the landscapes I paint in my leisure time, even if no one apart from myself will ever care to look at them.”
He did not sound upset at that particular thought, but I could not let the opportunity go by to ask, “If I may be so bold, would you care to show them to me? I must admit that I know little of art, but that I can say when I like a painting and when I do not. I would be most eager to see more of your works, especially when they are a labour of love instead of obligation.”
Mortensen regarded me with honest surprise, but then a smile spread on the handsome face, and he said he would gladly allow me to view them, if I but promised to be frank about my opinion of them.
“I would rather have you tell me that you do not like them if you truly do not, than if you felt compelled to be dishonest simply to spare my feelings,” he said.
I hastened to assure him that I would speak freely, though--“I have no doubt that I will love them, if Samantha’s portrait is any indication of your skills, which you have to agree it must be.” How could he even feel that there was any way I would be able to dislike his art? I was sure that even if he were painting scenes of misery and gloom, the works would still be a marvelous demonstration of his talent.
“Excuse me, Mr. Bloom,” he said. “I meant no insult to your sincerity; it is simply my anxiety that led me to speak those words; and to have your sincere thoughts on these works of mine matters much to me.”
For the first time since we met, I saw something other than the handsome and intelligent gentleman that had so quickly captured my attention. I knew not why such a man as Mr Mortensen was burdened with an air of insecurity, indeed, I would never understand, but in this moment, I vowed to myself to do all that was in my power to assure him of his worth.
Our chat soon changed to other matters, before at last, we were astonished to notice how much time had passed since we had first sat there, never even having noticed the bell of the nearby church chiming the hours.
Mortensen went home, but not before recalling my request and assuring me that he would gladly receive me on any day that suited me as long as it was in the morning as he never went out before noon.
I was almost convinced now that my affection for him was returned, but at the very least, even if it weren’t, I would be content with having found a friend in Mortensen. My heart swelled at recalling his words, his smiles and the looks he had bestowed on me, and I was loathe to remind myself that none of them had to mean anything, and moreover, they could merely be a fabrication of my cruel imagination.
Oh! but how sweet those thoughts were to me all the same. They carried me through the next day and the ones after that, during both of which I refrained from hurrying to him as soon as I woke, albeit my resistance to the urge was grudgingly. The preparations for Samantha’s wedding were as much of a fine excuse not to appear shockingly eager towards Mortensen though - especially as my mother was unable to oversee them herself at the moment - than they genuinely left me barely any free time. I did not want to visit him only to be forced to leave soon thereafter.
Luckily though, my mother’s condition improved in a timely manner, and not a week had gone by since I had last spoken to Mortensen. Too long my heart insisted; I missed him.
The morning I finally went to him was freezing but clear, and my breath turned into thin white clouds as the hackney I had taken tottered over London’s streets. Not soon enough did it slow to a stop in front of the hotel Mortensen resided at.
A bellboy ushered me to Mortensen’s rooms, and I knocked at the door, hearing only the blood pounding in my ears. All throughout the coach trip, I had imagined this moment, and now that I was standing here, every second was a second too long.
It seemed to me like hours, though I am sure not even a minute had gone by, until he opened the door, standing before me in simple trousers and just a shirt, the sleeves rolled up halfway to his elbows.
“Mr Bloom!” he exclaimed, warmly, a smile spreading on his face. “Do come in.”
He turned to let me enter, and then closed the door behind me whilst I regarded the room with great interest. It was not a large room by far, and it was filled with the pungent smell of the oils that would forever remind me of watching every movement of his hands as he painted. An easel was placed sideways next to the window and I spied another that was leaned against the wall besides it; but most of all, the room was filled with paintings, most of them small of scale, but several larger ones also, leaning against the walls instead of hanging from them, which I found peculiar until I reminded myself that this was a hotel, and he probably had been asked not to hang them up.
“You must excuse the disarray,” he said, startling me out of my observations, and I turned towards him.
“I am not bothered by it,” I assured him, then added- “I dare say it suits the idea of an artist’s living accommodations very well. Have you been painting just now?”
He told me he had, and indeed, the canvas on the easel, which I had not been able to fully see from where I had been standing in the room, was only halfway covered with paints, the other half still of creamy white. The picture, though, was recognizable already as a coast view, stormy clouds a deep dirty grey on the sky and the waves rolling onto shore towering high and white crested.
“Where is it?” I asked, for I could not recognize any landmark, try as I might.
“I do not know,” he said. “It could be any coast I suppose.”
“Then you have painted it purely from your imagination?” Only now did I realize that unlike on the portrait of my sister, there were no pencil lines to fill in here.
He affirmed my question, adding that it was part memory and part imagination, then pointed me to the other, finished paintings, and we went from one to the next; I regarding the paintings, he telling me what they showed if they indeed depicted a certain location.
“I know not what I expected to see today, but I can say that, beyond a doubt, I have never before seen so many beautiful pieces together. I feel as if they are inviting me to go out and search for their counterparts in nature,” I told him at the end, raising my eyes to meet his.
“You would find my meagre attempts less beautiful if you did,” he said, modestly.
“Never! And it is a moot point, is it not? For you have just told me that most of these have no counterparts in nature, so I must content myself with never being able to find them before I can even try.”
“Surely you must have been in the countryside before,” he said. “It holds so much beauty, so much splendour as only nature can create. Even a true genius, which I assure you I am not, can only ever hope to come as close as his equipment will let him.”
“It is not the fault of the artist then,” I countered, insisting--“but that of his tools, which do not measure up with creation.”
He laughed heartily at that. “I can not possibly answer that,” he said--“so we must call it a draw.”
“Does it trouble you to find your works lacking?” I asked, growing bold.
“At times,” he admitted. “When the beauty is right there in front of me, and I know that no matter how much I wish it, I cannot take hold of it.”
His voice softened to the end, and he gazed not at any of the paintings, but straight at me. There was no doubt left then in me that he was not merely speaking of the beauty of the landscape at that moment. I was vain enough to be conscious of my own appearance in the eyes of others, and proud enough to recognize when being flirted with, however hidden the remark.
“What if you could?” I asked, daringly. “It is not the nature of beauty to be elusive no matter the circumstances.”
He said nothing for a while, but searched my face, and I gazed back openly. I had as much as given him permission to do as he wished, and though I wished to have the right to simply close this last step that remained between us, I now would rather wait for him than humiliate us both and risk losing a friend.
Then he lifted his hand to my face, and I saw it trembling slightly; I can not say if with fear or from excitement, though I expect it might have been in equal parts.
“Orlando,” he said, softly, and, my Christian name still on his lips, leant in to cover my mouth with his.
I sighed at the sensation of his lips against mine; there could be no feeling more sublime than this. It was no rapture, no ecstasy, but tender intimacy that let me forget anything but the feel of him so close to me, touching, kissing, and I wanted to sink into him so we could never be parted again. Words cannot possibly begin to describe what I felt in those moments.
We sank down onto the sofa, his arm wound around my waist, and my hand resting on his bare forearm, the warmth of his skin burning me. I wanted to feel more of it, the thought so wanton and sudden that it caused me to moan. He was quick to take advantage, and I moaned again as his tongue entered my mouth, finding mine.
My hand found the edge of his waistband, and I tugged on his shirt impatiently until it came free and I was able to slide my fingers beneath it, discovering more bare, heated skin.
“You undo me,” he gasped, freeing my mouth and taking heaving breaths. There was a fire in his eyes that no doubt was echoed in mine, for I felt it in the depths of my body.
“As you me,” I replied. “I have never known a yearning so strong as this.”
“Never before?” he asked then, and he did not have to speak any clearer for me to hear the hidden question.
“Never one so deep, so commanding as this,” I said--“but I do know of its nature. I long to feel more of you.”
My words dissolved the serious expression from his face, and when he stood up, he extended his hand to me. “You shall,” he promised.
The bedroom was smaller even than the sitting room, and it was bare of paintings, though there was a map with sketches sitting on the bedside table. The bed was unmade, but inviting; and we were kissing once more, our hands fumbling to loose buttons and remove fabric.
It had been years since I had been touched in a manner such as this, and I trembled and jerked as his fingers brushed the skin they revealed, my lust raising to unbearable heights. My own hands were not idle either, pulling at his clothes until they came off him and he was bared to my eyes as I was to his.
We lay on the bed, and he claimed my mouth again, his weight pressing me into the mattress. I felt his hardness against mine, and ground up against it, the friction sending sizzling bouts of pleasure through me. He answered with a groan, dampened by the kiss, and the air filled with the unmistakably scent of desire.
My gasp resounded loudly in the room as he freed my mouth, kissing my jaw, then the side of my throat, and we rolled on our sides, facing each other, so there was more space to touch. I let my hands travel down the planes of his chest, threading my hands through the hair that covered it, brushing his nipples and making him gasp my name.
He was caressing me as well, inching lower and lower until he wound his hand around the base of my length, and I cried out wordlessly at the touch. He stroked me, the fluid leaking from my member soon coating his hand, easing the slide, and I bent to taste his skin, seeking his nipples with my mouth, sucking on the nub as I found it.
The sounds I was evoking from him were like the sweetest music to my ears, and I reached between us, taking hold of his throbbing hardness. He faltered momentarily, before matching his strokes to mine, and I lifted my head off his chest so I was able to see him.
His eyes were darkened with lust, and I imagine mine were the same as we touched one another.
“So beautiful,” he gasped, his voice thick.
“Viggo,” I breathed his name. “So close.”
“Come with me then.” His voice hitched, and I knew he was on the brink as well.
I rocked closer, so our hands were touching, then entwining, both of our lengths pressed together, slippery and wet, and he bent to kiss me with ardour, catching my cry of fulfilment as I came just then, spilling myself over our hands. He followed me scant seconds later.
How long we lay there, kissing until our hearts stopped beating quite so wildly, I do not know, but I could have spent eternity in his arms.
“I love you,” I murmured, contentedly, when I had enough of my wits back to speak.
“Oh! my Orlando,” he replied, briefly pressing his lips to mine once more, and tightening his arms around me.
I gladly let myself be held as we succumbed to sleep, even though it could barely have been noon, neither of us desiring to return to the world at any time soon.
The End
Author: Moraya
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Genre: historical AU
Disclaimer: Definitely neither real nor true.
Feedback: Yes, please!
Beta: liriel1810 and lise_ann. Thank you both so much! *hugs*
Notes: written for thalassatx as part of vo_xmas
Summary: Sometimes, love is the greatest art of all.
Temptation
Adhering to a long-standing family tradition, once my sister became engaged, my family commissioned for her portrait to be painted. I do not remember if I had any expectations about the artist, but if I had them, reality soon made expectations a moot point. He took my breath away the very first time I laid my eyes on him.
Mr Mortensen, the artist, had come highly recommended by friends, and was said to be a well-mannered gentleman with admirable skills at portraits, and my mother and sister had been very pleased when he responded favourably to my mother’s letter. A price for the finished painting was quickly agreed upon, and appointments for the sittings made for the weeks ere Samantha’s wedding were to take place.
At the first of the six arranged sittings, we all took the time to attend, my dear sister for obvious reasons, and my mother and I expecting it to be an interesting pastime to watch a true professional at his art.
Mortensen raised no objections to my mother’s announcement after each of us had greeted the man, only the slightest tilt of his mouth betraying his amusement at my mother’s continued excited chatter that let barely a chance for anyone else to get a word in.
Luckily, I was able to surmount my heavy initial reaction to the man before it became apparent to anyone but myself; and by the time Mortensen looked around the room, scrutinizing it in all its details, I was certain my face showed only polite interest. After a few moments, he requested for one of the chairs to be placed by the window and Samantha to be seated there; for, as he patiently told my mother, the spot provided the best illumination.
Once the easel was set up to his liking and an empty canvas placed upon it, he enquired politely if there was a piano stool or a similar seating for him to use while he worked; explaining apologetically that he found himself unable to pay the fullest attention to his work when he had to worry about not getting any paint stains on the furniture, and it had become so ingrained that he now sincerely preferred a stool to a chair whenever painting or drawing.
The wish was readily granted, and as soon as the stool was brought, Mortensen quickly went to work. His eyes flitted back and forth between my sister and the canvas, the scraping of the pencil as he sketched her outlines a melody on its own for a while as we all, with the exception of Samantha, watched in admiration how her silhouette took shape under the artist’s deft fingers.
I found myself entranced by his strong hands, the flex of the muscles as he drew with sure strokes, and the minuscule traces of paint clinging to the edge of his nails. It was just as well that at this point my mother and my sister had taken up a conversation about the wedding preparations, an exchange I was neither required nor expected to partake in, and thus allowed me to simply watch Mortensen work.
When I, at last, could bring myself to lift my gaze to his face, I found it in deep concentration, and as captivating in its seriousness as the hint of a smile had been before. It had been quite some time since I had allowed myself to think another man attractive, and though I did not mean to grant my thoughts the liberties they took in their direction, I found no way to stop them, and myself unwilling to try any harder.
All too soon for my liking the sketch was finished, and my mother and sister commended the artist on the likeness of it while I wanted nothing more than for him to take up the pencil again and carry on drawing for hours, just so I could prolong the pleasure of watching him.
I was mollified when my mother invited Mortensen to stay and join us for tea, which he readily accepted. Now there was ample time to discover more about the man, and he did not disappoint any of us, freely answering questions about his profession as well as his life. Even though I had yet to shake off the spell I felt myself trapped in, I remembered enough of my manners to partake in the conversation, and more than once did my eyes meet his.
He was studying me with the same intensity I had observed earlier, when he had been sketching; and had we been alone, I might have asked him about it. As it was, it gave my wayward mind further reason to wander dangerously, and I had trouble regaining a clear head.
How I longed for the freedom to speak to him in private, uncaring about the consequences!
I could not say what exactly it was about Mortensen that stirred up these urges in me; I had not felt this much out of control of myself since my boarding school days.
By the time the painting was nearing completion, Mortensen had become more to us than merely a painter doing his handiwork. After each sitting, none of which I missed being present at, he joined us for tea, amusing all of us with stories of his life and the many travels he had undertaken to learn his craft to perfection. When he spoke, we could see the azure blue of the Mediterranean Sea; hear the voices of people from all over the world on the piazzas of Venice; and smell the sweet scent of lavender fields that reached up to the horizon in the Provence as clear as if we had be standing in the same spot he had been standing.
My admiration did not fade with time as I had assumed would surely happen. I must admit to feeling a bit the lovesick fool, yearning to see him once more the minute the door closed behind him. Nothing I tried to divert my exceedingly illustrative thoughts from straying to the artist had a lasting effect. Had I perceived no sign of attraction on his part, I might have contented myself as we were, not even persuading to build a friendship that exceeded acquaintanceship, but whenever we met, I would at one point feel his eyes rest on me in a way I believed to echo my own thoughts.
The morning of the last sitting then, my mother fell unwell, as the biting cold wind of the late November days had overwhelmed her. Nevertheless, she resolutely stated that her indisposition was no reason to postpone the sitting, and so it came that in the afternoon, it was only my sister and I who greeted Mortensen. There was little left to do on the painting, indeed to my eyes, it appeared done already, but who was I to question the artist, especially as it gave me leisure to watch him once more.
Still it was undeniably a solemn affair; Samantha was troubled for not attending to my mother, and I was terribly aware of it being the final sitting, after which I was likely to only meet Mortensen again in social company, yet we did our best not to let show that anything was amiss, and it was only the intimate knowledge of my sister that allowed me to read her thoughts in her stiff posture and the manner in which she clasped her hands.
Our polite conversation came to a sudden stop when at last, Mortensen proclaimed, “it is done.” My sister jumped from her chair, coming around the easel to look at her likeness, declaring she felt looking at the half-length was as if gazing at herself in a mirror. She exaggerated only little; for myself, I had seen many portraits less resembling those who were depicted.
“Oh! my mother will be ever so pleased, Mr Mortensen,” she said, excitedly, then asked if he would stay for tea as we were wont to. It took both Samantha and my insisting that he simply must stay for him to concur; we would have been chided terribly by our mother for less than polite manners had we let him go then.
Just the same, my sister grew anxious to see after mother, and excused herself soon thereafter. She appealed for Mortensen and me to enjoy the tea without her though, not knowing what favour she did me with this, her mind simply on aiding my mother’s recovery within the fortnight left until Samantha’s wedding day.
“I would hope it is not anything dire that has befallen Mrs Bloom,” he said to me once Samantha was gone.
“We have been assured of a swift recovery,” I answered. “It is the cold weather which afflicted her; but tell me more of your time in France,” I added, steering the conversation back to the tale which he had begun before.
I listened to him with rapture, both words and voice capturing my attention, and I felt as if now, where there were not three people between whom he had to divide his consideration, he spoke more freely than ever before, and more than ever, I found his eyes resting intently on me. I could not mistake the air of intimacy, though nothing untoward was ever uttered; indeed the words were such that they could have been spoken in any company.
When he had ended his anecdotes, I cried, “The things you have seen! Oh! how I envy you for your travels. I beg your pardon, but I myself have never seen another country, and your words stir the wanderlust in me. Allow me to ask then, Mr Mortensen, have you seen Napoleon as he returned to Paris, for you must have if you have dwelled there just at that time!”
“I fear I must disappoint you then,” he said, regretfully. “I was naught but a foreigner there, with few acquaintances in the city, and all my desire was on seeing the countless masterpieces displayed at the musée du Louvre. I was truly fortunate too, as after the battle of Waterloo, many of the pieces of art were reclaimed by the countries from which they had been collected. To see all those, one needs to travel far across Europe nowadays again.”
“Which you have done nevertheless.”
“This is true, and yet the sheer overwhelming feeling of walking from room to room, from epoch to epoch, from genius to genius is not something I can describe in words.” He sighed, lost in thought, and my heart grew heavy as I imagined him leaving London for those countries on the continent he clearly held in high regard. What did we have to offer this man here but small collections that hung in private rooms and chambers, only to be seen by those whom they belonged to and their guests?
“What brought you here then?” I asked before I could stop myself, although it was a question I had long wondered about.
“A commission for a painting of course,” he said. “I believe you have heard of Sir Ian McKellen, the General? We met some years ago, and he always had faith in my abilities to paint; though why I do not know as when he said so, he had not seen a single one of my pieces. At last, then, he asked me to travel to London to paint him.”
“So then you stayed.”
“That I did. And while England does not have grand public galleries like there are in Paris or Madrid, I have been granted access to many private collections with exquisite works. But more than that!” he added--“I finally have the opportunity to fully immerse myself in creating my own works, be it the portraits which support my living or the landscapes I paint in my leisure time, even if no one apart from myself will ever care to look at them.”
He did not sound upset at that particular thought, but I could not let the opportunity go by to ask, “If I may be so bold, would you care to show them to me? I must admit that I know little of art, but that I can say when I like a painting and when I do not. I would be most eager to see more of your works, especially when they are a labour of love instead of obligation.”
Mortensen regarded me with honest surprise, but then a smile spread on the handsome face, and he said he would gladly allow me to view them, if I but promised to be frank about my opinion of them.
“I would rather have you tell me that you do not like them if you truly do not, than if you felt compelled to be dishonest simply to spare my feelings,” he said.
I hastened to assure him that I would speak freely, though--“I have no doubt that I will love them, if Samantha’s portrait is any indication of your skills, which you have to agree it must be.” How could he even feel that there was any way I would be able to dislike his art? I was sure that even if he were painting scenes of misery and gloom, the works would still be a marvelous demonstration of his talent.
“Excuse me, Mr. Bloom,” he said. “I meant no insult to your sincerity; it is simply my anxiety that led me to speak those words; and to have your sincere thoughts on these works of mine matters much to me.”
For the first time since we met, I saw something other than the handsome and intelligent gentleman that had so quickly captured my attention. I knew not why such a man as Mr Mortensen was burdened with an air of insecurity, indeed, I would never understand, but in this moment, I vowed to myself to do all that was in my power to assure him of his worth.
Our chat soon changed to other matters, before at last, we were astonished to notice how much time had passed since we had first sat there, never even having noticed the bell of the nearby church chiming the hours.
Mortensen went home, but not before recalling my request and assuring me that he would gladly receive me on any day that suited me as long as it was in the morning as he never went out before noon.
I was almost convinced now that my affection for him was returned, but at the very least, even if it weren’t, I would be content with having found a friend in Mortensen. My heart swelled at recalling his words, his smiles and the looks he had bestowed on me, and I was loathe to remind myself that none of them had to mean anything, and moreover, they could merely be a fabrication of my cruel imagination.
Oh! but how sweet those thoughts were to me all the same. They carried me through the next day and the ones after that, during both of which I refrained from hurrying to him as soon as I woke, albeit my resistance to the urge was grudgingly. The preparations for Samantha’s wedding were as much of a fine excuse not to appear shockingly eager towards Mortensen though - especially as my mother was unable to oversee them herself at the moment - than they genuinely left me barely any free time. I did not want to visit him only to be forced to leave soon thereafter.
Luckily though, my mother’s condition improved in a timely manner, and not a week had gone by since I had last spoken to Mortensen. Too long my heart insisted; I missed him.
The morning I finally went to him was freezing but clear, and my breath turned into thin white clouds as the hackney I had taken tottered over London’s streets. Not soon enough did it slow to a stop in front of the hotel Mortensen resided at.
A bellboy ushered me to Mortensen’s rooms, and I knocked at the door, hearing only the blood pounding in my ears. All throughout the coach trip, I had imagined this moment, and now that I was standing here, every second was a second too long.
It seemed to me like hours, though I am sure not even a minute had gone by, until he opened the door, standing before me in simple trousers and just a shirt, the sleeves rolled up halfway to his elbows.
“Mr Bloom!” he exclaimed, warmly, a smile spreading on his face. “Do come in.”
He turned to let me enter, and then closed the door behind me whilst I regarded the room with great interest. It was not a large room by far, and it was filled with the pungent smell of the oils that would forever remind me of watching every movement of his hands as he painted. An easel was placed sideways next to the window and I spied another that was leaned against the wall besides it; but most of all, the room was filled with paintings, most of them small of scale, but several larger ones also, leaning against the walls instead of hanging from them, which I found peculiar until I reminded myself that this was a hotel, and he probably had been asked not to hang them up.
“You must excuse the disarray,” he said, startling me out of my observations, and I turned towards him.
“I am not bothered by it,” I assured him, then added- “I dare say it suits the idea of an artist’s living accommodations very well. Have you been painting just now?”
He told me he had, and indeed, the canvas on the easel, which I had not been able to fully see from where I had been standing in the room, was only halfway covered with paints, the other half still of creamy white. The picture, though, was recognizable already as a coast view, stormy clouds a deep dirty grey on the sky and the waves rolling onto shore towering high and white crested.
“Where is it?” I asked, for I could not recognize any landmark, try as I might.
“I do not know,” he said. “It could be any coast I suppose.”
“Then you have painted it purely from your imagination?” Only now did I realize that unlike on the portrait of my sister, there were no pencil lines to fill in here.
He affirmed my question, adding that it was part memory and part imagination, then pointed me to the other, finished paintings, and we went from one to the next; I regarding the paintings, he telling me what they showed if they indeed depicted a certain location.
“I know not what I expected to see today, but I can say that, beyond a doubt, I have never before seen so many beautiful pieces together. I feel as if they are inviting me to go out and search for their counterparts in nature,” I told him at the end, raising my eyes to meet his.
“You would find my meagre attempts less beautiful if you did,” he said, modestly.
“Never! And it is a moot point, is it not? For you have just told me that most of these have no counterparts in nature, so I must content myself with never being able to find them before I can even try.”
“Surely you must have been in the countryside before,” he said. “It holds so much beauty, so much splendour as only nature can create. Even a true genius, which I assure you I am not, can only ever hope to come as close as his equipment will let him.”
“It is not the fault of the artist then,” I countered, insisting--“but that of his tools, which do not measure up with creation.”
He laughed heartily at that. “I can not possibly answer that,” he said--“so we must call it a draw.”
“Does it trouble you to find your works lacking?” I asked, growing bold.
“At times,” he admitted. “When the beauty is right there in front of me, and I know that no matter how much I wish it, I cannot take hold of it.”
His voice softened to the end, and he gazed not at any of the paintings, but straight at me. There was no doubt left then in me that he was not merely speaking of the beauty of the landscape at that moment. I was vain enough to be conscious of my own appearance in the eyes of others, and proud enough to recognize when being flirted with, however hidden the remark.
“What if you could?” I asked, daringly. “It is not the nature of beauty to be elusive no matter the circumstances.”
He said nothing for a while, but searched my face, and I gazed back openly. I had as much as given him permission to do as he wished, and though I wished to have the right to simply close this last step that remained between us, I now would rather wait for him than humiliate us both and risk losing a friend.
Then he lifted his hand to my face, and I saw it trembling slightly; I can not say if with fear or from excitement, though I expect it might have been in equal parts.
“Orlando,” he said, softly, and, my Christian name still on his lips, leant in to cover my mouth with his.
I sighed at the sensation of his lips against mine; there could be no feeling more sublime than this. It was no rapture, no ecstasy, but tender intimacy that let me forget anything but the feel of him so close to me, touching, kissing, and I wanted to sink into him so we could never be parted again. Words cannot possibly begin to describe what I felt in those moments.
We sank down onto the sofa, his arm wound around my waist, and my hand resting on his bare forearm, the warmth of his skin burning me. I wanted to feel more of it, the thought so wanton and sudden that it caused me to moan. He was quick to take advantage, and I moaned again as his tongue entered my mouth, finding mine.
My hand found the edge of his waistband, and I tugged on his shirt impatiently until it came free and I was able to slide my fingers beneath it, discovering more bare, heated skin.
“You undo me,” he gasped, freeing my mouth and taking heaving breaths. There was a fire in his eyes that no doubt was echoed in mine, for I felt it in the depths of my body.
“As you me,” I replied. “I have never known a yearning so strong as this.”
“Never before?” he asked then, and he did not have to speak any clearer for me to hear the hidden question.
“Never one so deep, so commanding as this,” I said--“but I do know of its nature. I long to feel more of you.”
My words dissolved the serious expression from his face, and when he stood up, he extended his hand to me. “You shall,” he promised.
The bedroom was smaller even than the sitting room, and it was bare of paintings, though there was a map with sketches sitting on the bedside table. The bed was unmade, but inviting; and we were kissing once more, our hands fumbling to loose buttons and remove fabric.
It had been years since I had been touched in a manner such as this, and I trembled and jerked as his fingers brushed the skin they revealed, my lust raising to unbearable heights. My own hands were not idle either, pulling at his clothes until they came off him and he was bared to my eyes as I was to his.
We lay on the bed, and he claimed my mouth again, his weight pressing me into the mattress. I felt his hardness against mine, and ground up against it, the friction sending sizzling bouts of pleasure through me. He answered with a groan, dampened by the kiss, and the air filled with the unmistakably scent of desire.
My gasp resounded loudly in the room as he freed my mouth, kissing my jaw, then the side of my throat, and we rolled on our sides, facing each other, so there was more space to touch. I let my hands travel down the planes of his chest, threading my hands through the hair that covered it, brushing his nipples and making him gasp my name.
He was caressing me as well, inching lower and lower until he wound his hand around the base of my length, and I cried out wordlessly at the touch. He stroked me, the fluid leaking from my member soon coating his hand, easing the slide, and I bent to taste his skin, seeking his nipples with my mouth, sucking on the nub as I found it.
The sounds I was evoking from him were like the sweetest music to my ears, and I reached between us, taking hold of his throbbing hardness. He faltered momentarily, before matching his strokes to mine, and I lifted my head off his chest so I was able to see him.
His eyes were darkened with lust, and I imagine mine were the same as we touched one another.
“So beautiful,” he gasped, his voice thick.
“Viggo,” I breathed his name. “So close.”
“Come with me then.” His voice hitched, and I knew he was on the brink as well.
I rocked closer, so our hands were touching, then entwining, both of our lengths pressed together, slippery and wet, and he bent to kiss me with ardour, catching my cry of fulfilment as I came just then, spilling myself over our hands. He followed me scant seconds later.
How long we lay there, kissing until our hearts stopped beating quite so wildly, I do not know, but I could have spent eternity in his arms.
“I love you,” I murmured, contentedly, when I had enough of my wits back to speak.
“Oh! my Orlando,” he replied, briefly pressing his lips to mine once more, and tightening his arms around me.
I gladly let myself be held as we succumbed to sleep, even though it could barely have been noon, neither of us desiring to return to the world at any time soon.
The End