Title: An untitled story about Jude, Orlando and a Lot of Things that Shan't be Named
Rating: PG13
Status: It's finished, but I won't be posting this in one go
Pairing: Orlando Bloom/Jude Law
Warnings: Slash, excessive smiling on Jude's part, general randomness
Disclaimer: I do not own these guys. This story sprung from my imagination only.
A/N: For Cecine, who loves car-rides about as much as Jude does art.
An untitled story about Jude, Orlando and a Lot of Things That Shan’t Be Named
The air was a sullen grey above his head when he walked the streets of London. The ominous gathering of dark clouds left no room for doubt: within minutes an excessive amount of water would be released from the sky. The prospect of rain didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest way – the languid pace with which he walked was remarkable amidst the hasty steps of the people that, unlike him, were swift in their attempts to get to their respective destinations before the gates of the sky would open up above them.
A woman in a tartan coat hurriedly escorted a young girl with two blond pony-tails through the crowd, her high heels clicking against the pavement. When she rushed past him, the woman looked at him, at this man who managed to keep his calm amongst the chaos that seemed to have taken over the minds of the others. A flicker of recognition appeared in her eyes when they fell on his face, but upon deciding she would rather be in the safety of her own house than run the risk of getting caught in a rainstorm by slowing down and trying to remember exactly where she knew him from, she moved on. By the time she had crossed the street she had already forgotten him.
The man continued, his face pensive, his steps unhurried. He was completely oblivious to the activity that surrounded him – it was merely a subconscious sort of awareness that led him. His mind was busy spinning out webs of gloom he was all too eager to get caught into. Once upon a time, he thought to himself, once upon a time he had no trouble being alone, but now somehow the nights seemed longer, the days duller. He had tried to avoid the word almost as much as the sentiment itself, but he felt there was no room for denial any longer: he was lonely. The desire to fight that feeling had driven him out of his empty house into the world and here he was, passing through street after street with a mind that lingered where the body had escaped.
When he rounded the corner he bumped into a teenager that by the look of it had just outgrown his awkwardness and was now trying to develop an image that was cool enough to meet the standards of his classmates.
“Watch your steps, mate!” the boy said a little crankily, then, when he saw who he had just crashed into, added in a voice that was high-pitched with excitement, “Hey! You’re Orlando Bloom, right? I saw you in Kingdom of Heaven the other night.”
The man snapped out of the dreamlike wanderings of his mind and, when he met the expectant expression on the face of the kid that had addressed him, his face broke into a friendly smile with an ease of someone who has learned how to deal with being recognized in public. They exchanged a few polite words that didn’t differ much from the usual chitchat between admirer and admired, and after a short greeting they went their own ways again.
As brief as the encounter had been, the boy’s genuine excitement to be talking to him had somehow managed to lift his spirit and pull him back into reality. Where his wandering had seemed aimless before, his steps were more resolute now, and in long, confident strides he walked on, a smile having replaced his gloomy expression. He stopped in front of a modern white building and let his eyes pass quickly over the exterior before he went inside, just in time before the first drops landed with a splatter on the pavement.
He wouldn’t call himself an art-lover pur sang, although he certainly had respect for the artist’s ability to create something out of nothing. He had never heard of David Graham, the painter exhibiting his work tonight, but the advertisement in the newspaper had caught his attention somehow, and it had seemed a good excuse to leave the house. He had visited numerous exhibitions before, mostly Viggo’s or friends of Viggo’s, and he had enjoyed them most of the time. This time, he hoped, wouldn’t be an exception.
He handed his coat to a friendly man who wished him a pleasant evening and passed through a gleaming vestibule that led to a rectangular room with a high ceiling. The place was filled with people moving slowly from painting to painting, scrutinizing them closely with what seemed an expert’s eye. It wasn’t very crowded, which led him to believe that the painter was either not very known or not very good. A few well dressed men, one of them probably David Graham himself, were having a conversation that seemed to consist solely of things they were expected to say rather than things they meant to say. Their heads turned when he moved passed them, but he ignored them, and, feeling he had maybe underdressed a bit, quickly went to the far end of the room so that nobody would pay attention to him.
A fairly large multi-coloured painting was attached to the wall and although his knowledge of art history was limited, he had spent enough time in Viggo’s presence to know that it was a classic example of expressionism. Subconsciously imitating the others in their quest to find beauty in details, he stepped closer to the canvas and narrowed his eyes a little as if the brightness of the reds and yellows blinded him. It was obvious that the brush had been wielded by a man of talent and he found the abundance of colours rather pleasing to the eye. He was about to move to the next painting when a voice stopped him.
“It’s hideous, isn’t it?”
With a slight start he turned around and was greeted by the sight of a man with dirty-blond hair. Like himself, the man hadn’t dressed up the way the other people seemed to have done – his outfit was casual and consisted of linen pants that were a light shade of grey and a green short-sleeved shirt with a print Orlando couldn’t quite decipher. His appearance was charming, like he remembered from earlier encounters, and his smile was broad and genuine beneath his sparkling jade eyes. Even though they had met before, they had somehow never actually talked to one another. A friendly nod with the head was as far as they had come.
“We never properly met before, have we?” the man said with a pleasant smile as he approached him. “I’m Jude.”
He extended his hand by way of introduction and Orlando shook it. “Orlando,” he said with a smile, “and I rather like it. The painting, that is.”
“Really?” Jude said in a slightly amazed voice. “I’m surprised. Do you know the artist?”
Orlando shook his head. “I’d never heard of him before today. Do you?”
“We’re related,” Jude said, “In a weird, complicated sort of way. I could explain our exact relation but I’m sure I’d only bore you.” He dismissed the topic of conversation with a short gesture of the hand, and, after a brief moment of silence, asked, “Are you here by yourself?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too. I wanted to bring my sister along but wild horses couldn’t drag her. Soap-addict, that one.” He rolled his eyes and Orlando grinned.
“Sounds familiar. I got a sister just like that.”
“They’re a pain in the arse, aren’t they?” Jude said with a smile.
They moved to the next painting, which, like the other one, was an explosion of colours. Side by side they stared at the canvas and Jude crossed his arms and tilted his head to get a better look. “I don’t get it,” he said after a moment of complete silence. “Do you get it?” He looked at Orlando, who chuckled.
“I don’t think it’s meant to be ‘get’. I think it’s meant to, I don’t know, inspire.”
“The only thing it inspires me to do is to look the other way,” Jude said, turning around to face another one of David Graham’s creative outbursts in the shape of multiple expressive strokes of purple and green.
Orlando couldn’t suppress a chuckle and shook his head. “You know,” Jude said from behind him, “when I see these sort of things I always have the feeling I could have done it too. Better, at that.”
“Trust me,” Orlando said, turning around. “Painting is not nearly as easy as it seems.”
“You sound like my former art history teacher,” Jude said with a laugh, walking further with an apparent lack of interest in what he was seeing.
“I’m sorry,” Orlando said with a lopsided smile. “Having an artist among your friends does that to a man, I guess.”
Jude let out a laugh and waited until Orlando had caught up with him. They moved along the paintings in a languid pace and talked with effortless flow. They discovered they had both went to Guildhall, which led to a lengthy discussion about teachers and a comparison of the subjects they had taken. The art history teacher Jude had mentioned earlier appeared to be the same woman Orlando had secretly had a crush on, something that made Jude laugh, because he, too, had found her attractive.
“But everybody did,” was his feeble defence, and Orlando grinned and was glad to revive his Guildhall years with someone who understood his love for them.
They only spent a few moments glancing at all the works of art hanging against the walls – they were too caught up in their conversation, and besides that, Jude claimed it hurt his eyes looking at them. Every now and then a man or woman looked in their direction in mild annoyance, as if it personally hurt them that they seemed to be there mainly to talk instead of to indulge in the finesse of art. The two failed to notice the looks they received, but when they eventually did it was quickly settled they would continue their conversation elsewhere, in a place where nobody would be casting them glances in the hope to shut them up.
Jude said a quick goodbye to David Graham, lied blatantly that he absolutely loved his paintings and wished him good luck with his art in the future. From a distance Orlando overheard their conversation and realized that Jude probably would be able to make anyone believe anything with that typical British charm he didn’t hesitate to use. It made him laugh, but, determined not to show this, he looked at Jude with disapproval when he returned.
“You’re terrible,” he said, though he found himself unable to keep the amusement out of his voice.
Jude grinned. “What else should I have said? That his paintings blinded me with their hideousness and that he should consider an early retirement?”
“Shh,” Orlando hissed with a half-chuckle, taking Jude by the elbow to lead him out of earshot, “they can hear you.”
“Oh, well,” Jude said, unimpressed, and left to get their coats.
A few minutes later they were sitting in a cab, Jude next to the driver and Orlando on the backseat. Jude was animatedly talking to the man on his right, whose only contribution to the conversation were non-committal noises every now and then. This however didn’t seem to discourage Jude, because he kept on talking and talking about things so random that Orlando could only snigger under his breath about the silliness of it.
They got out in front of a small Irish pub that Orlando had passed numerous times without actually entering. With its soberness it was rather inconspicuous among the other pubs, whose exteriors were painted in garish colours – “I wonder if they hired David for that,” Jude said dryly – and that were shaking to their foundations to the rhythm of the music that was blaring inside. They went in, Jude leading the way, and the interior appeared to be as austere as the outside. A small bar was placed at the far back, and a few wooden tables and matching chairs were the only furniture. The place was free of superfluous decorations and to Orlando it looked rather grim. It wasn’t the kind of place he would have picked out himself, but Jude rather liked it, probably because of the quietness of it: apart from three guys playing darts and a greying man reading yesterday’s newspaper at the bar, they were the only costumers.
They ordered a Guinness and went to a table situated at the front. Once he sat down, Jude reached in the back-pocket of his pants and retrieved a pack of cigarettes that was already half-empty. He looked at its contents briefly and held it towards Orlando in an invitation.
“No thanks, I quit,” the dark-haired man replied in a somewhat regretful voice.
The corners of Jude’s lips went up in a half-smile. “Really?” he said, gently taking a cigarette out of the pack. “I’m in the process of quitting.” He winked before he put the little white stick between his lips and lit it. With narrowed eyes and a certain concentration he inhaled deeply, and Orlando watched him with a slight expression of jealousy on his face.
Jude blew out the smoke with a deep sigh. “Ah,” he said, leaning back in his seat. He gave the cigarette a soft tap so that the burning cinders fell off it into the stained ashtray on the table. “I needed that, after all the art-rape I was forced to witness tonight.”
Orlando laughed. “You’re exaggerating. It was really quite lovely.”
“It would have been lovelier if they had handed out blindfolds at the entrance though,” Jude said under his breath.
“Jude, stop it,” Orlando said, the reproachful sound of his voice not matching the amusement shining in his eyes. “You’re being awful.”
“Alright, alright,” Jude said, holding his hands up in the air in a mixture of defence and apology. “I won’t say anything nasty about the appalling ugliness of David’s painting anymore.”
Orlando looked at him with raised eyebrows. “Really! I mean it,” Jude said, eyes widened in defence. “I swear it on, ah, this cigarette.” To emphasize his statement, he took a long drag of it, his eyes closed in bliss.
“That’s nice,” Orlando said, looking away. The sight of Jude smoking made his insides churn with craving. Although he was perfectly aware of the fact that smoking was unhealthy and, well, unnecessary, he was dying to take a drag. That smell...
“Did I detect a note of jealousy there?” Jude asked, opening a lazy eye. His lips curls into the charming sort of smile Orlando was already growing accustomed to, and, leaning across the table almost conspiratorally, the blonde man asked, “Exactly how long have you quit?”
Orlando cast a glance at the old clock hanging above the bar. “Forty-two hours, roughly.”
Jude threw his head back and laughed. “Forty-two hours? You made it sound like you hadn’t touched a cigarette in years!”
The corners of Orlando’s lips went upwards into a lopsided smile and he lowered his eyes. “Yeah, well...”
Jude gazed at him for a moment. “Come on, then,” he said, leaning across the table even further. He held the cigarette between his slender fingers in an invitation, the burning end pointed to himself. “A last drag.”
His eyes were wide and green in their encouragement, but Orlando was hesitant. “Oh, I don’t know...” he said, looking at the cigarette the way a hungry child would at a strawberry-pie.
“Yes you do,” Jude said. “Come one. One last drag. And I’m only offering this because it’s obvious that you’re aching for it.”
Orlando’s eyes flicked from the smouldering cigarette to Jude’s eyes. “If my mother were here,” he said, smiling, “she would say you’re having a bad influence on me.”
“Nothing I haven’t heard before,” Jude replied, unmoved. “Now c’m ‘ere.”
Orlando obeyed without further hesitance and leaned forward, his fingers touching Jude’s around the cigarette. He brought his head closer to it and inhaled deeply, his face a mask of pleasure. Jude’s eyes were fixed on the cigarette they were both holding, his mouth opening slightly as Orlando took his drag, as if he were sharing the obvious delight the other man was experiencing. Moments later Orlando let go of the cigarette and withdrew. “Oh, God,” he said, exhaling. “I needed that. Thank you.”
Jude grinned at his blissful expression. “You’re welcome. Good thing you’ve enjoyed it because that was the last drag you’ll ever get from me.”
“I know. I don’t even want another.”
They smiled at each other across the table before Jude averted his eyes to look at the barman, who, like the man sitting at the bar, was reading a newspaper. The dart-players had finished their game and were leaning against a wall, laughter erupting from their throats. Jude turned his head and looked at Orlando again.
“Your mother,” he said, as if only seconds had passed since Orlando’s remark, “is she really that protective of you?”
Orlando laughed, his eyes suddenly glimmering as he thought about her. “Well, you know how mothers can be. I think she will always see me as her little Orlando. She calls me up practically every day to ask how I’m doing, if I’m eating healthy, you know, mother-stuff.”
“That’s quite annoying,” Jude said, his eyes smiling, “in a devastatingly adorable kind of way.”
“Yeah. It’s a good thing she doesn’t know my breakfast consists of warmed-up pizza most of the time. I bet you anything she’d have a seizure.”
“Warmed-up pizza? Classic, that one,” Jude laughed. “Every mother’s nightmare, I believe.”
“Well, at least it’s better than cold pizza.”
“Let’s toast to that,” Jude said, and they brought their half-empty Guinness-bottles together with a clink.
@ ninque_elen: don't be silly, your English is so good as well! ^_^
Anyway, here the second and last part. It's a bit long, but yeah.
Twelve hours later Orlando was sleeping soundly in his bed, oblivious to the sunshine that was trying to penetrate the curtains. It had gotten quite late the previous night – the two men had found good company in each other and even though none of them had voiced this thought for fear of coming across as sentimental or cliché, they felt like they had known one another for years. They had parted without making plans for another appointment, but on his way home, in a cab they had shared because Jude had insisted, Orlando had had the distinct feeling that there would certainly be a next meeting. When this would be, he didn’t know, but instead of expressing his desire to see Jude again he had decided to leave it up to chance, or, if there was such a thing, fate.
And now he was deeply entrenched in a dreamless sleep, his limbs spread across the bed as if he meant to occupy every single inch of space. Birds were singing outside his window and cars were passing by his house, but, unaware as he was of his surroundings, the sounds didn’t manage to reach his ears. But then, suddenly, the doorbell rang, a piercing noise that startled him awake.
“Wha...?” he said sleepily to nobody in particular, not quite awakened yet.
A quick look at his alarm-clock told him it was past 10am. The doorbell rang again and he swore, cursing the person that had the courage to wake him at such an ungodly hour. Reluctantly, his mind hazed with sleep, he got up, eyes squinting against the light that filled his bedroom. He put on his striped pajama bottoms that were hanging unused across the seat of a chair and descended the stairs. In the meantime the doorbell rang for the third time, and, starting to feel really annoyed now, he cried an irritated “Coming!” followed by a softer “Jesus Christ” as he padded down the hallway that lead to the door.
He opened it, and, expecting to see a collector of some sorts, was immensely surprised when in front of him stood an exceptionally awake-looking Jude with a brown paper bag in his hand. He was smiling in that broad way of his as though the world was a happy, wonderful place to live in, and even though he must have had even less sleep than Orlando, he managed to look impeccable.
“Good morning,” Jude said in a chipper voice to the bewildered man standing in the doorway, and, when he received no answer, added, “Are you going to let me in?”
Orlando silently stepped aside and Jude moved past him, sending him an amused smile. With an air of confidence that stunned Orlando he walked down the hallway and disappeared around the corner into his kitchen without saying a word. The brown-haired man frowned and followed him, not knowing whether to be annoyed or merely confused, and when he got into his kitchen he saw Jude moving around in the place as though he had been there countless times before. He was opening various cabinets and he reminded Orlando vaguely of his mother, who tended to do the same thing when she was at his place.
“Excuse me, but... what are you doing here?”
Jude turned around, and when he saw Orlando’s puzzled expression his face broke into a smile. “Got you some breakfast,” he said like it was the most normal thing in the world, holding up the paper bag. “I couldn’t let you eat pizza again, could I? Where do you keep your plates?”
Orlando pointed to a cabinet, still not quite comprehending what was going on. Jude was standing in his kitchen, preparing breakfast for a man he had only just gotten acquainted with, and even though it was touching, he also found it the strangest thing that had happened to him in a long time.
“Why don’t you take a shower in the meantime?” Jude suggested, retrieving a couple of oranges from the bag. “I promise everything will be ready when you get back.”
“Eh, alright,” Orlando said, scratching his head absentmindedly. “Feel free to, ah, you know.” He gestured vaguely towards his cabinets and Jude laughed. “I’ll be fine. You just go and shower, alright?”
Orlando nodded and left the kitchen. When he passed the mirror hanging in the hallway he cast a quick look into it and groaned at what he saw. His hair was a complete mess – it seemed like someone had performed a terroristic attack on it. There were dark circles around his eyes, the evidence of a short night’s sleep, and his entire face looked puffy. It must have costed Jude a lot of self-constraint not to burst into laughter upon seeing him. He quickly made his way over to the bathroom and took a warm shower, which made him feel remarkably better. When he returned downstairs a good fifteen minutes later, the smell of coffee and rolls greeted him, and it was only then that he realized he was starving.
Jude was reading the newspaper at the table when he got into the kitchen, and when he noticed him his lips curled into a delighted smile. “You’re right on time,” he said, pointing to a plate full of delicious looking rolls. “They’ve just come out of the oven.” He gestured towards the seat opposite his own and Orlando sat down, looking at all the food in front of him. There were croissants, rolls, apples, pieces of pineapple and various kinds of cheese, meat and jelly. It had been a long time since he’d had a breakfast like this, and the sight of it made his mouth water.
“Do you want tea or coffee?” Jude asked, holding up two cans. “I didn’t know what you usually get so I made both.”
“Coffee would be nice,” Orlando said with a smile, and Jude filled both their mugs with the black liquid. “Jude, I have no idea to what I owe all this, but thank you. Really. I’m touched.”
Jude beamed. “No need to thank me,” he said. “It took me awhile to find your house again, though. It looks different in the morning than it does at night, really.”
“Ah, so that’s why you wanted to share a cab last night? Just to see where I was living?”
Jude grinned guiltily. “Yeah, well, it’s not like you’re in the Yellow Pages or anything.”
“You could have just asked me, you know,” Orlando said, helping himself to a croissant.
“That kind of would have ruined it though, wouldn’t it?” Jude said, following his example. “Not to mention that I would have come across as, I don’t know, a stalker or something.”
Orlando chuckled. “Yes, well, that’s a price you’d have to pay,” he said, and took a bite of his croissant.
When they had finished breakfast and Orlando had again thanked Jude excessively for his kindness, Jude came with the idea to take a stroll in the park, if Orlando felt like it of course. He did, and they spent the majority of the afternoon hanging around in the park that was flourishing under the rain and sun it had received over the last few days. They talked about anything and nothing with the same ease as the day before and even though they didn’t do anything in particular apart from taking walks and sitting on benches that overlooked a lake where geese were gliding effortlessly over the surface of the water, they had a great time together. Reluctant to put such a good day to an end Orlando suggested to have dinner at an Italian restaurant. Jude accepted his offer gratefully and they agreed to meet each other later that day in front of the restaurant. The food served there turned out to be delicious, and Jude promised to cook for him someday to prove that his ‘spaghetti à la Jude’ was equally tasty. After a brief quarrel about who would pay the bill they decided to split it up, and after a night cap they both went their ways again.
They saw each other almost every day in the weeks that followed, whether it were for a lunch at one of the cosy luncheonettes London had to offer, a tour around Tate Britain for Orlando to convince Jude that not all art was as bad as David’s – he didn’t succeed - or to grab a beer in a pub. Orlando had grown accustomed to Jude’s company so much that he felt strangely restless when he didn’t see him. Jude had this mischievous kind of cheerfulness about him that hadn’t faltered once since Orlando had met him, and he had a sense of humour that Orlando simply adored. He loved spending time with him, he made him feel better and the loneliness that had taken a hold of him had disappeared completely. So when Jude invited him over for dinner one night, he was delighted, both because he’d never been at Jude’s before and because he would finally get the chance to taste his famous spaghetti.
He arrived at exactly 7pm. While he was waiting for Jude to let him in he took his time to admire the exterior of the house, which was plain white yet really quite gorgeous. The house itself was large but not scandalously so and it was situated in a quiet neighbourhood. For some reason Orlando had expected Jude to live somewhere closer to the centre, and just when he was about to wonder why, Jude opened the door. He was wearing a white apron with the word CHEF written in large black letters across his chest, something that amused Orlando to no end, and he was holding a ladle.
“Hi! Come in!” he said with his usual enthusiasm, ushering Orlando inside. “Sorry, but I got to get back to my sauce before it’ll burn.” He hurried back to the kitchen with an apologetic smile and Orlando hung his coat on the hall-stand, looking around with eyes that were gleaming in appreciation of what they encountered. The hallway was a light yellow, which matched the parquet floor. Various black and white photos were hanging against the wall and he took his time to take a look at them all. When he entered the living room he was surprised to find the walls painted in a fresh shade of green that gave the place a brightness the sun could barely rival with. He followed the smell of food and came into the kitchen, where Jude was just putting his finishing touches to his spaghetti.
“Smells good,” he said, leaning against the doorway.
Jude looked up from his pan and smiled. “It should be finished in a minute or so. You can sit down, if you want.”
Orlando obeyed and sat down at a round table situated in the middle of the spacious kitchen. “Your house is beautiful,” he remarked, his eyes following the movements of the ladle that Jude swirled around in the pan.
“Thank you,” Jude replied, beaming slightly. “I could give you a tour later, if you’d like to.”
“I’d love to.”
Jude took the ladle out of the pan and wiped off a bit of its red sauce with his finger. He put it into his mouth and tasted it, and after a moment of contemplation his expression changed into an approving one. “Okay, I think it’s done,” he said, taking the pan from the fire.
He placed various bowls and pans on the table and took off his apron. Orlando uncorked the bottle of red wine that was already standing on the table and filled their glasses while Jude dished up the food. They toasted to Italy because they considered friendship and health too cliché, and after taking a sip from the wine they started on the ‘spaghetti à la Jude’. Jude was watching Orlando with a nervous sort of anticipation when he took his first bite, but when Orlando closed his eyes and made various sounds of pleasure he grinned in relief.
“This is gorgeous,” Orlando said, his mouth full. “Really. I’m impressed.”
Jude chuckled, his eyes shimmering. “You’re flattering me.”
“Flattering or not, I’m serious. This is delicious.”
“Thank you,” Jude said, obviously pleased and he stuck a fork full of spaghetti into his mouth.
They ate in companionable silence for awhile, the only sound being heard the clattering of cutlery against plates. Orlando hadn’t exaggerated his previous utterings of delight – he was genuinely impressed with Jude’s cooking qualities. He was once again stunned by the fact that he had met Jude only a fortnight ago. There was a certain familiarity between them that allowed room for new discoveries such as Jude’s undeniable ability to cook, and it was this combination of intimacy and newness that made Orlando value his new-found friendship highly.
He looked at Jude, who was struggling with an exceptionally long strand of spaghetti, and he couldn’t suppress a chuckle at the sight. The sound made Jude look up at him from underneath his lashes with a half-grin, and the image was so typically Jude that Orlando couldn’t help but smile.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Jude said with a somewhat bashful look Orlando had never encountered on his face. “You’re making me nervous.”
“I’m sorry,” Orlando replied, grinning. “I’m just going to keep staring at my plate then, alright?”
“Nah, you’re allowed to look anywhere you like, just don’t... smile at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re doing now.”
“Oh.” Orlando made sure to wipe anything that could even remotely look like a smile off his face. “Better?”
Jude shook his head and laughed. “Would it change anything if I said ‘no’?”
“I don’t know, you’re the one that’s having problems with me smiling,” Orlando said with a grin.
“I’m not having problems with you smiling,” Jude said, averting his eyes. “I just... oh, never mind.”
They let the subject rest and concentrated on their food again, that was disappearing into their stomachs at a rapid pace. Orlando ate until he thought he would burst if he had any more, and with a satisfied sigh he leaned back in his chair, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
“That was delicious. And now I’m stuffed.”
Jude grinned. “I take it you don’t want a dessert yet?”
“I’m afraid there’s no room for anything anymore at the moment,” Orlando said, patting his stomach regretfully.
“What say you I give you a tour around the house now and we’ll have that dessert later?”
“Sounds good to me,” Orlando said, and he stood up to carry the dirty plates to the sink.
“I assume you’ve already seen the living room?” Jude asked once they had finished cleaning up a bit. He had led Orlando to the living room, which, indeed, he had already seen on his way to the kitchen. He had however only cast a quick look around, and at first glance he had totally missed the beautiful large windows and the comfortable-looking couches.
“I have. It’s gorgeous. I love the green,” Orlando said, looking around.
“Thanks,” Jude said, obviously pleased that Orlando liked it. “I like a bit of colour in my house, as you’ll see later.”
He led Orlando upstairs and showed him various rooms that were all painted in a different colour. The bathroom was azure blue, his bedroom a deep red, and the guestrooms respectively violet, orange and ochre. Like the hallway and the living room there was a certain brightness to each of them and it was obvious that Jude had done his best to decorate his house as beautifully as possible. Orlando loved the daring style and he couldn’t stop exclaiming how gorgeous he thought it was, which never failed to make Jude beam with obvious pride.
The last room Jude showed him was situated next to the bathroom.
“It’s my relax-room, basically,” he said and he opened the door to let them in. Orlando stepped inside and was in awe immediately. The room was larger than the others, and it was the only one that didn’t centre around a specific colour. Instead, it was filled with old-fashioned furniture and accessories. A grey couch was standing in front of an old TV and against one of the walls stood an enormous bookcase. A small table was littered with papers and magazines and an ostentatious chandelier was dangling from the ceiling.
“Wow,” Orlando said. “This is awesome.”
He moved further into the room and looked around with an awed expression on his face. Then, to his surprise, his eyes fell on an old piano that was standing against the far wall in a corner, almost as though Jude had done his best to hide it as best as he could.
“I didn’t know you played the piano,” Orlando said, casting Jude a quick look. He came closer to the instrument and stroked it in reverence. It was white and obviously well-used and the keys were gleaming invitingly in the sunlight that the windows allowed to stream inside.
“I don’t,” Jude said, nearing him. “I inherited it from my grandmother.”
“Really? It’s beautiful.”
Orlando struck one of the keys with what seemed to be respect and a low tune sounded through the room. His eyes were almost drinking in the sight of the instrument – his instant love for it was apparent.
“Can I?” he asked tentatively, looking at Jude with a questioning and almost shy look in his eyes.
“Do you know how to play?”
Jude’s sounded surprised and Orlando blushed slightly as though embarrassed. “A little,” he admitted. “I’ve been thinking of buying one myself, actually.”
“Wow. Well, be my guest,” Jude said, and he pointed to the oblong stool that was standing in front of the instrument.
Orlando sat down and let his fingers cautiously glide across the keys without actually striking them, as though he wanted to get acquainted with their feel. Jude was standing behind him, leaning against the couch with his arms crossed and his eyes fixed on the man sitting behind his piano. Orlando was still merely touching the keys - it was clear that there was something that held him back.
“Go on,” Jude said softly, and his quiet encouraging made Orlando turn his head. The gentleness in the eyes that were watching him was unarming and he looked away quickly.
Hesitant, as if he was afraid that the keys might break beneath his fingers, he started to play. He started softly, slowly, but as he gained confidence the separate notes became a flowing melody that was delicate in its melancholy. The both of them didn’t speak – Orlando was concentrating on the movement of his fingers and Jude was watching him, a silent adoration hiding in his tender gaze. Orlando was unaware of this and he played on, extracting beautiful tones from the instrument. He was so caught up in what he was doing that it was as if his surroundings were dissolving into nothingness. But then he became aware of movement, and suddenly he felt Jude standing right behind him, his warmth radiating onto his skin, his hands gently touching his shoulders. The heat of Jude’s fingers seemed to burn right through his shirt and Orlando’s breath hitched in his throat. With slow, quiet movements the man came sitting right behind him on the stool and Orlando’s fingers fumbled on the keys.
“No, keep playing,” Jude said softly. His voice was like silk wrapping around him and Orlando could only obey, although a part of him wanted to run, to flee. He could feel Jude’s breath caressing his neck, the pressure of his chest against his back and Orlando’s heart was beating almost out of control, but he concentrated on the keys, concentrated on the melody that was emanating from the piano. Jude’s hands touched his upper arms and they slid downwards with a gentle slowness that made Orlando tremble beneath their touch. He was trapped in so many ways and he felt Jude’s hands moving up again – they touched his hair, moved through his curls as if rearranging them. Orlando closed his eyes and shivered. But he played, he played even when Jude’s lips found his neck, even when he felt warm arms enveloping his waist in a loose embrace. He swallowed and Jude’s breathing was hot and heavy against his ear and Orlando faltered, finally, because his fingers had forgotten their song. He leaned back against the other man, feeling oddly light-headed, and Jude held him close and they sat in a silence that even their breathing could hardly disturb.
And then, suddenly, Jude placed a kiss on his hair and let go of him. He slowly stood up and left the room without saying a word. Orlando watched his retreating back with a dazed and confused expression. He touched his neck where Jude had kissed him and his stomach was making somersaults when he thought of what had happened only moments ago. Trying to calm himself down a bit, he decided to go after him, his heart still not beating in its regular pace.
He found Jude in the kitchen, where he was removing a dish from the fridge. A light glow spread across his features when their gazes met and his eyes were shining brightly.
“Hey,” Jude said in his usual airy and lively voice, concentrating on the task at hand again. “I made tiramisu, I don’t know if there’s room in your stomach already, but I thought—”
“Jude.”
Orlando interrupted him without knowing what he was going to say. He wanted Jude to drop his act – he seemed desperate to pretend there was nothing going on and he didn’t seem like the man who had just held and kissed him at all.
“Yes?” Jude looked up at him with large, innocent eyes.
“I, ah...” he started, gesturing vaguely in his sudden embarrassment. The words that could leave his lips varied from ‘I love you’ to ‘your tiramisu looks delicious’, but he found himself unable to utter anything at all. He could feel his cheeks burn. “Tiramisu would be great, thanks,” he said eventually, taking his place at the table again.
“Good,” Jude said, and the glittering of his eyes made Orlando’s heart leap up.
He served the tiramisu on the table and they scooped some of it onto their plates. The silence that hung between them while they ate wasn’t comfortable as usual – instead it was awkward, tensed, filled with words too intimate to be spoken.
“Tastes good,” Orlando said after awhile, desperate to say something, anything.
“Thanks,” Jude said, looking at him with those beaming eyes again. It made Orlando slightly nervous, although he couldn’t exactly say he minded being looked at like that. “I’ve been a bit liberal with the amaretto, I hope you don’t mind.”
“Oh no, I don’t,” Orlando said quickly. “There’s no such thing as too much alcohol.”
Jude grinned softly. “That sounds funny from the mouth of a man who gets smashed after two glasses of wine.” He raised an eyebrow at Orlando, who chuckled.
“We can’t all be alcoholics, hm?” he said, sticking a spoonful of tiramisu in his mouth.
“Am I supposed to feel offended now?” Jude demanded, his eyes a sparkling emerald.
“Depends on whether you feel addressed or not,” Orlando teased. “Which, judging by your reaction, you do.”
“You know, I think I’m just not going to react on that.”
“You know, I think you just have.”
“You know, I think you’re pretty annoying.”
“You know... I know. Sorry.” Orlando chuckled and Jude looked at him with a bemused expression on his face. “You bring out the worst in me.”
“It’s a good thing my piano compensates me, then,” Jude said, his voice soft, suddenly, and his eyes fixed on Orlando with a shyness he was obviously trying to suppress. “Seeing that it seemed to bring out the best in you.”
Orlando lowered his eyes, the abrupt change from teasing to this gentleness making him momentarily speechless.
“You played beautifully, Orlando,” Jude continued in the same soft voice, and Orlando looked up, not accustomed to Jude speaking his name. He had somehow managed to avoid using his actual name thus far, and hearing him say it, finally, made his stomach do multiple flip-flops. “I think I forgot to say that before.”
Orlando smiled in reply, not quite knowing what to say, and he poked his tiramisu absentmindedly with his spoon. Jude let the subject rest, much to Orlando’s relief, and said something random about his garden. It wasn’t a particularly interesting topic of conversation, but they managed to say a lot about the beautiful oak tree and the roses and the grass in their determination to keep talking to avoid any awkward moments.
Orlando was grateful when, after they could once again eat no more, Jude suggested watching a movie. They went to the living room and each took a couch, where they mutely sat for twenty minutes, watching a movie that despite its beautiful special effects they both had trouble focussing on. When for the umpteenth time Orlando had completely lost track of the storyline he shot a furtive sideways glance at Jude, expecting him to be looking at the screen with that intense gaze he had whenever he was absorbed in something. But if Jude was absorbed in anything it certainly wasn’t the movie. He was watching Orlando with that strange, shining look in his eyes, and their gazes met and locked. Jude smiled and blushed faintly, but he didn’t move his eyes away from him. They were incredible, those eyes, Orlando realized. So beautifully emotional, so perfectly adoring. They silenced him even before he could speak and all he could do was stare into them almost helplessly. Jude reached out a hand and Orlando grabbed it without thinking. He interlaced their fingers and they smiled at each other and it felt weird, somehow, to be doing this with Jude. And yet it also made sense, because this Jude, this smiling, glowing Jude was someone he had locked into his heart from the moment he had stood in front of his house with a brown paper bag in his hand.
Jude’s thumb was making circular motions on his hand and his face was all sweetness when he gazed at him. Orlando felt his face flush at the intimacy of the moment and the way Jude was smiling made him believe that he knew exactly what was going on inside his mind and heart at that moment.
“C’m ‘ere,” Jude said in a husky voice, his gaze so soft and tender that it almost hurt, and Orlando stood up as if transfixed, because how could he ever refuse such a request? Jude pulled him towards him with a gentle tug of his arm and Orlando landed half on the couch and half on Jude’s lap. Their faces were separated by mere inches of air and Orlando’s heart was doing that wild, crazy drumming inside his chest again.
“I like you better up close,” Jude whispered, letting go of Orlando’s hand to tuck a curl behind his ear. He gazed deeply into his eyes with a profound affection and then, without warning, he leaned forward and kissed him.
Jude lips were warm and soft and Orlando’s heart was melting from the sensation of it all. Strong arms were holding him and Jude’s hand was warm against his neck. The butterflies in Orlando’s stomach were dancing and he felt like he was losing himself in this kiss, this man, this love. Somewhere deep down he had always known that this would happen, but nothing could have prepared him for the tenderness and the slowness with which Jude kissed him. They broke apart against his will and Jude’s lips were curled into a smile that was mirrored in his eyes when they looked into his.
“You taste like amaretto,” Jude said in a soft, gently teasing voice.
“So do you,” Orlando replied with a smile, caressing the man’s face.
“I love amaretto.”
“And I love you.”
The words left his mouth before he could stop them, but Orlando knew he meant them the moment they left his lips. Jude’s eyes filled with emotion and his face glowed in the darkening room. He smiled and gazed at him and the jade in his eyes spoke volumes of love.
“This is the part where you say you love me too,” Orlando said, his dark eyes twinkling.
Jude’s eyes narrowed. “I love you,” he said in that low, soft voice that made the butterflies in Orlando’s stomach flutter.
“Say it like you mean it,” he said, tilting his head.
“I mean it,” Jude said, smiling still, “I love you. In fact I think I loved you from the moment I saw you studying that god-awful painting at the exhibition.”
Orlando hit him softly on the arm. “Stop saying that, it was a nice painting.”
“Yes. Very. Especially the blinding colours,” Jude mocked, and Orlando looked at him with a raised eyebrow, his lips pursed.
“That’s called expressionism,” he replied.
“I know better way to express myself, really,” Jude remarked, his eyes glittering.
“You do?”
“Oh yes,” Jude said, and with a smile he brought their lips together for another amaretto-flavoured kiss.
~The End~