Four Loves [Árni/Original Characters]
Sep. 27th, 2015 05:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roesslyngTitle: Four Loves
Characters/Pairing: Árni Reynisson/Various OCs
Rating: 10+? vague references to mature subjects are very vague.
Length: 2.2K
Summary: Loves come and go. Some memories of love are held closer to the heart than others.
Other: This was a response to a tumblr prompt from Solovei. Prompt was Árni + bisexuality, beyond that open-ended. I decided that the simplest approach would be a matter-of-fact exploration of (imagined/original) previous relationships. This is mostly set before the prologue, but part of it is after.
Four Loves
Thirteen years. Everything moving fast, busy, rushing, start of a new school year. A new friendship formed on the first day of class, the quiet boy with the hair in his face. He looked mysterious, Árni decided as he looked over at him, but his smile was wide-open and friendly.
Trading hellos and names was all it took. They were hardly seen apart after that.
He liked music, that one. Writing songs, strumming away on his guitar, he was always open, eyes a spark. There was fire in there, warm as a hearth.
Árni didn't say it; the question didn't come out right. But somehow he knew what he was thinking, anyway.
"I could teach you!" he said, laughing, when he caught the way Árni watched him play. "Come on, it's easy. Want to try?"
Every note took them closer.
Árni stayed awake at night, most nights, thinking. And if he didn't think, he'd dream. In his dreams, he dreamed of those hands in their fingerless gloves; he dreamed of holding them tightly, feeling that they were roughened and calloused from the strings, but so warm.
He knew he'd have to keep that to himself.
They laughed, they sang, they grew closer. Árni learned to play the guitar, picking away at the strings with his friend's encouragement in his ear. The emotions crackled along his spine.
They sang together, and Árni didn't say a word. Couldn't.
She was light, she was laughter, sunny as her waves of golden hair. They were friends at the start. They grew close, closer, closer as over the years they grew taller, but not the same. Árni followed her, tripping over his own feet as she grabbed him by the hand and pulled him along; but as for her, she moved with quiet grace.
The words were on the tip of his tongue, and she knew it. She took his hand, kissed his cheek, and asked if he liked her - as if he'd give any other answer than yes, as if both of them hadn't known for months but weren't sure how to say it.
On weekends they would walk by the shore together, wind stirring their hair every time, messing it. Árni tried to neaten it, tried to flatten it back into order. It looked like he had a rat's nest on his head, he was sure, but she looked amazing, and she never let go of his hand.
They talked about the future, sometimes.
"Hey, Árni," she said, giving his hand a squeeze, "I want to travel. You know? Everywhere. As soon as I'm done school. Will you come with me?"
"Um..."
"I'll go without you if you don't." And he knew that it wasn't an empty threat, knew that her words were true. She never said anything if she didn't mean it. I'll go without you. The words stirred his insides. Maybe she was joking, just this once.
The next year, she made good on that promise, asking the question again, responding to his "I don't know if I -" with "Okay, but I'm going." She left their cold rainy island so fast it left his head spinning.
There were postcards at first. Letters with stamps from England. Spain. United States. Mexico. Argentina. Árni checked the mail diligently, searching for them every day. He read them, once, twice, three times over, his heart aching at every new step in the path she took away from him. Wishing he had given a different answer, he pinned the cards to the wall above his bed.
Eventually, the postcards and letters stopped coming. When Árni took them down from the wall a few years later, sifting through the relics of their relationship, it was the first time in ages that he'd thought of her. He remembered her name, her face -
Well. Maybe she was happy.
A cloudy day. A firm knock to his door.
"Are you Árni Reynisson? Your mail was delivered to my place by mistake -"
Somehow, the words came easily, and for once in his life Árni's tongue untied itself at the right moment. "Yes, that's me. I just put the coffee on, would you like to -" Somehow, and stranger still, this stranger said yes.
His new neighbour was tall, bookish, grey eyes and thick-rimmed glasses, scarf draped around his neck. Long, elegant fingers moved when he spoke, gesturing here and there as he emphasized one thing or another. His voice was comfortable as a well-made sweater.
That was the first time Árni invited him into his house.
It was not the last.
An understanding. That was what it became; that was what it was. An understanding that grew deeper, closer over the months they knew each other. One evening, months after that first meeting, Árni wrote a letter and stuffed it into his friend's pocket before they parted, his insides twisting and turning, tightening as he watched him leave. He did not sleep that night, pacing in his kitchen, staring at the phone until, at one in the morning, it suddenly vibrated.
The text said simply: I like you too.
His ears burned with happy embarrassment. Árni let out a long, relieved breath and grinned to himself.
It was easy at first. Close. Comfortable. Often they'd go together, side by side, brisk walks down cloudy streets. Coffee shared before they'd part ways for work, exchanging quiet words and the touch of a hand. Árni would meet him in the evenings, coming to him to wait while he shut up the library for the night.
They would go home together, usually. They slept little in those days.
It was too much all at once. That's what he said in a low, quiet, apologetic voice while Árni listened and felt his hopes sinking with every word. "I need to slow down, I think. Take it more slowly. A breather, just for a while. Is that okay with you?"
The words caught in his throat, and the no, it isn't okay with me was left unsaid. All Árni could do was nod.
When the coast guard job came up, he took it with barely a thought. A week later, over coffee, those familiar eyebrows arched upward when Árni told him.
"It isn't what I'd have expected of you."
The feelings returned, twisting upward, uncertain. "Well," Árni said, after a deep breath. "You needed a change. Maybe I do too. And... it sounds like it could be fun! How hard could it be?" He allowed himself a smile, then, and when they clasped hands, he took the congratulation for what it was.
Months later, Árni stared up at the ceiling of the quarantine facility and remembered that conversation. It'll be fun. That's what he said. How could he have expected it?
He remembered the hand grasping his own, warm through the thin gloves, and those grey eyes that looked at him so fondly. "Good luck with it. But you'll be busy, won't you. You'll stay in touch, right? You know where to find me."
He did know. And now, notice had been sent. He'd be back on the land again. Will you still be there? Árni thought. Would the address be the same? How much had changed?
They met again in the rain. The sky was grey as granite, hanging thick and heavy as it disgorged a downpour that showed no sign of stopping.
He looked just the same, neat and tidy even with the storm above, his rainjacket buttoned to the throat. His face was thinner; that was all Árni could see of the new world on him.
Árni stared at him for a second or two, trying to take it in, trying to say "Hello", but the words wouldn't come. Unable to force them out, he pulled him close instead.
One second, two - and then the long arms folded around him, secure and familiar, even with the hiss of the new world's rain around them.
"You look like a drowned rat," said the soft, amused voice by his ear. Then, more quietly, "Do you need somewhere to stay?"
"I..." Árni fumbled for the words, before simply nodding. "Yes. As a matter of fact, I do. Um, if that's okay." He had options. He didn't want to take them. This was what he wanted.
Later that night, worn out from their reunion, they stayed awake and listened to the sound of the rain as it fell in the dark.
It had never been like this between them before, and as Árni listened to the quiet sigh from the man on the bed beside him, he knew it would never be like this again.
"You said you want to move out to the country." The voice was soft, thoughtful, resigned. "You aren't the only one thinking about it. I've heard it from others, too."
"I know. I mean, I guessed." Árni pushed his hair out of his face and shut his eyes tight. Even if he'd thought about that, it was another thing to hear it. "But I really, really have to go. I can't stay here."
There was a long pause. Not a lull, but something uncertain, almost calculated. Árni listened to it, wondering if the absence of words meant that he'd said the wrong thing. "It isn't because of you," Árni added quickly, wanting to make himself clear. "It's just - you don't know what I saw. I can't -"
"Shh." Two long fingers pressed to his lips, quieting him. Árni did as asked, and said nothing, and after a moment the soft words continued. "I know someone. A family friend. She lives - well, never mind, but it's far away from here. On a farm, like you said you wanted. They were looking for someone to lend a hand, last I heard from them. If I can get in contact with her, she might take you."
The fingers moved away from Árni's mouth. He breathed in, out, in, tried to steady the twisting of his insides. Even the chance - the idea - "Thank you," he whispered.
"Don't worry about it."
"No, I-" The words failed. The 'thank you' was once again on the tip of his tongue, but rather than say it again, he reached for him instead. The kiss said everything that he couldn't.
Out in the country, the air was fresher. The land sprawled out, peaceful and empty, as if all the horrors of the outside world couldn't ever touch it.
They took him in, that family. Árni wondered if it was only out of kindness, or an owed favour to the friend he left behind. There must have been others out there who could do it, people who fit better. He could feel them looking him over, was sure that they would be muttering when he was out of earshot. But nobody said a thing, not where he could hear it, and he decided not to ask.
When formal introductions were over, it was time for more scrutiny. As he stood unpacking in the room he was given, he heard a noise. There she was, standing in the doorway, watching him.
The farmer's daughter was about his own age, tall and gangling, with a mess of hair tied back behind her. She looked him up and down, surprise in her voice.
"So, you want to learn to raise sheep?" she asked. Without waiting for a reply, she moved, circling him, examining him as if he were an animal she'd never seen before. She almost looked as if she was half-considering opening his mouth to check his teeth. Instead she took his hands, feeling over them, raising an eyebrow at the lack of roughness from farmwork. "You look like you've never seen a sheep in your life!"
There was no judgment in her voice; the broad smile she gave him showed only amusement at what she'd been given to work with.
"Well -" Árni pulled back his hands and stuffed them in his pockets, feeling his ears heat with embarrassment. His tongue stuck in his mouth; he wanted to say something reassuring but all he could come up with was- "I can learn! Everyone has to start somewhere, right?"
That must have been the answer she had hoped to hear, because she was smiling again. "Right! Well - " She grabbed his hand. "Come on, then. I'll show you our flock. Come on!"
She tugged him to the door. There they stopped, bumping into each other, echoing one another as they poured out "Excuse me!" and "Sorry!". Confusion for a moment as they each snatched up the wrong coat, then on realizing that, traded them with embarrassed smiles. And when they bent to put on their boots -
"Ow!"
"Sorry!"
"No, it was me." She grinned at him, bright red fringe falling in her face, her eyes bright as they met his own. "You know, Árni, if this keeps up, we'll both be black and blue before the day's over."
Something gripped his insides and twisted. Not too much; just right. "That's -"
"Okay? Great!"
And as she reached for him again and tugged him out the door, Árni decided that it really was.
End
Characters/Pairing: Árni Reynisson/Various OCs
Rating: 10+? vague references to mature subjects are very vague.
Length: 2.2K
Summary: Loves come and go. Some memories of love are held closer to the heart than others.
Other: This was a response to a tumblr prompt from Solovei. Prompt was Árni + bisexuality, beyond that open-ended. I decided that the simplest approach would be a matter-of-fact exploration of (imagined/original) previous relationships. This is mostly set before the prologue, but part of it is after.
Four Loves
Thirteen years. Everything moving fast, busy, rushing, start of a new school year. A new friendship formed on the first day of class, the quiet boy with the hair in his face. He looked mysterious, Árni decided as he looked over at him, but his smile was wide-open and friendly.
Trading hellos and names was all it took. They were hardly seen apart after that.
He liked music, that one. Writing songs, strumming away on his guitar, he was always open, eyes a spark. There was fire in there, warm as a hearth.
Árni didn't say it; the question didn't come out right. But somehow he knew what he was thinking, anyway.
"I could teach you!" he said, laughing, when he caught the way Árni watched him play. "Come on, it's easy. Want to try?"
Every note took them closer.
Árni stayed awake at night, most nights, thinking. And if he didn't think, he'd dream. In his dreams, he dreamed of those hands in their fingerless gloves; he dreamed of holding them tightly, feeling that they were roughened and calloused from the strings, but so warm.
He knew he'd have to keep that to himself.
They laughed, they sang, they grew closer. Árni learned to play the guitar, picking away at the strings with his friend's encouragement in his ear. The emotions crackled along his spine.
They sang together, and Árni didn't say a word. Couldn't.
She was light, she was laughter, sunny as her waves of golden hair. They were friends at the start. They grew close, closer, closer as over the years they grew taller, but not the same. Árni followed her, tripping over his own feet as she grabbed him by the hand and pulled him along; but as for her, she moved with quiet grace.
The words were on the tip of his tongue, and she knew it. She took his hand, kissed his cheek, and asked if he liked her - as if he'd give any other answer than yes, as if both of them hadn't known for months but weren't sure how to say it.
On weekends they would walk by the shore together, wind stirring their hair every time, messing it. Árni tried to neaten it, tried to flatten it back into order. It looked like he had a rat's nest on his head, he was sure, but she looked amazing, and she never let go of his hand.
They talked about the future, sometimes.
"Hey, Árni," she said, giving his hand a squeeze, "I want to travel. You know? Everywhere. As soon as I'm done school. Will you come with me?"
"Um..."
"I'll go without you if you don't." And he knew that it wasn't an empty threat, knew that her words were true. She never said anything if she didn't mean it. I'll go without you. The words stirred his insides. Maybe she was joking, just this once.
The next year, she made good on that promise, asking the question again, responding to his "I don't know if I -" with "Okay, but I'm going." She left their cold rainy island so fast it left his head spinning.
There were postcards at first. Letters with stamps from England. Spain. United States. Mexico. Argentina. Árni checked the mail diligently, searching for them every day. He read them, once, twice, three times over, his heart aching at every new step in the path she took away from him. Wishing he had given a different answer, he pinned the cards to the wall above his bed.
Eventually, the postcards and letters stopped coming. When Árni took them down from the wall a few years later, sifting through the relics of their relationship, it was the first time in ages that he'd thought of her. He remembered her name, her face -
Well. Maybe she was happy.
A cloudy day. A firm knock to his door.
"Are you Árni Reynisson? Your mail was delivered to my place by mistake -"
Somehow, the words came easily, and for once in his life Árni's tongue untied itself at the right moment. "Yes, that's me. I just put the coffee on, would you like to -" Somehow, and stranger still, this stranger said yes.
His new neighbour was tall, bookish, grey eyes and thick-rimmed glasses, scarf draped around his neck. Long, elegant fingers moved when he spoke, gesturing here and there as he emphasized one thing or another. His voice was comfortable as a well-made sweater.
That was the first time Árni invited him into his house.
It was not the last.
An understanding. That was what it became; that was what it was. An understanding that grew deeper, closer over the months they knew each other. One evening, months after that first meeting, Árni wrote a letter and stuffed it into his friend's pocket before they parted, his insides twisting and turning, tightening as he watched him leave. He did not sleep that night, pacing in his kitchen, staring at the phone until, at one in the morning, it suddenly vibrated.
The text said simply: I like you too.
His ears burned with happy embarrassment. Árni let out a long, relieved breath and grinned to himself.
It was easy at first. Close. Comfortable. Often they'd go together, side by side, brisk walks down cloudy streets. Coffee shared before they'd part ways for work, exchanging quiet words and the touch of a hand. Árni would meet him in the evenings, coming to him to wait while he shut up the library for the night.
They would go home together, usually. They slept little in those days.
It was too much all at once. That's what he said in a low, quiet, apologetic voice while Árni listened and felt his hopes sinking with every word. "I need to slow down, I think. Take it more slowly. A breather, just for a while. Is that okay with you?"
The words caught in his throat, and the no, it isn't okay with me was left unsaid. All Árni could do was nod.
When the coast guard job came up, he took it with barely a thought. A week later, over coffee, those familiar eyebrows arched upward when Árni told him.
"It isn't what I'd have expected of you."
The feelings returned, twisting upward, uncertain. "Well," Árni said, after a deep breath. "You needed a change. Maybe I do too. And... it sounds like it could be fun! How hard could it be?" He allowed himself a smile, then, and when they clasped hands, he took the congratulation for what it was.
Months later, Árni stared up at the ceiling of the quarantine facility and remembered that conversation. It'll be fun. That's what he said. How could he have expected it?
He remembered the hand grasping his own, warm through the thin gloves, and those grey eyes that looked at him so fondly. "Good luck with it. But you'll be busy, won't you. You'll stay in touch, right? You know where to find me."
He did know. And now, notice had been sent. He'd be back on the land again. Will you still be there? Árni thought. Would the address be the same? How much had changed?
They met again in the rain. The sky was grey as granite, hanging thick and heavy as it disgorged a downpour that showed no sign of stopping.
He looked just the same, neat and tidy even with the storm above, his rainjacket buttoned to the throat. His face was thinner; that was all Árni could see of the new world on him.
Árni stared at him for a second or two, trying to take it in, trying to say "Hello", but the words wouldn't come. Unable to force them out, he pulled him close instead.
One second, two - and then the long arms folded around him, secure and familiar, even with the hiss of the new world's rain around them.
"You look like a drowned rat," said the soft, amused voice by his ear. Then, more quietly, "Do you need somewhere to stay?"
"I..." Árni fumbled for the words, before simply nodding. "Yes. As a matter of fact, I do. Um, if that's okay." He had options. He didn't want to take them. This was what he wanted.
Later that night, worn out from their reunion, they stayed awake and listened to the sound of the rain as it fell in the dark.
It had never been like this between them before, and as Árni listened to the quiet sigh from the man on the bed beside him, he knew it would never be like this again.
"You said you want to move out to the country." The voice was soft, thoughtful, resigned. "You aren't the only one thinking about it. I've heard it from others, too."
"I know. I mean, I guessed." Árni pushed his hair out of his face and shut his eyes tight. Even if he'd thought about that, it was another thing to hear it. "But I really, really have to go. I can't stay here."
There was a long pause. Not a lull, but something uncertain, almost calculated. Árni listened to it, wondering if the absence of words meant that he'd said the wrong thing. "It isn't because of you," Árni added quickly, wanting to make himself clear. "It's just - you don't know what I saw. I can't -"
"Shh." Two long fingers pressed to his lips, quieting him. Árni did as asked, and said nothing, and after a moment the soft words continued. "I know someone. A family friend. She lives - well, never mind, but it's far away from here. On a farm, like you said you wanted. They were looking for someone to lend a hand, last I heard from them. If I can get in contact with her, she might take you."
The fingers moved away from Árni's mouth. He breathed in, out, in, tried to steady the twisting of his insides. Even the chance - the idea - "Thank you," he whispered.
"Don't worry about it."
"No, I-" The words failed. The 'thank you' was once again on the tip of his tongue, but rather than say it again, he reached for him instead. The kiss said everything that he couldn't.
Out in the country, the air was fresher. The land sprawled out, peaceful and empty, as if all the horrors of the outside world couldn't ever touch it.
They took him in, that family. Árni wondered if it was only out of kindness, or an owed favour to the friend he left behind. There must have been others out there who could do it, people who fit better. He could feel them looking him over, was sure that they would be muttering when he was out of earshot. But nobody said a thing, not where he could hear it, and he decided not to ask.
When formal introductions were over, it was time for more scrutiny. As he stood unpacking in the room he was given, he heard a noise. There she was, standing in the doorway, watching him.
The farmer's daughter was about his own age, tall and gangling, with a mess of hair tied back behind her. She looked him up and down, surprise in her voice.
"So, you want to learn to raise sheep?" she asked. Without waiting for a reply, she moved, circling him, examining him as if he were an animal she'd never seen before. She almost looked as if she was half-considering opening his mouth to check his teeth. Instead she took his hands, feeling over them, raising an eyebrow at the lack of roughness from farmwork. "You look like you've never seen a sheep in your life!"
There was no judgment in her voice; the broad smile she gave him showed only amusement at what she'd been given to work with.
"Well -" Árni pulled back his hands and stuffed them in his pockets, feeling his ears heat with embarrassment. His tongue stuck in his mouth; he wanted to say something reassuring but all he could come up with was- "I can learn! Everyone has to start somewhere, right?"
That must have been the answer she had hoped to hear, because she was smiling again. "Right! Well - " She grabbed his hand. "Come on, then. I'll show you our flock. Come on!"
She tugged him to the door. There they stopped, bumping into each other, echoing one another as they poured out "Excuse me!" and "Sorry!". Confusion for a moment as they each snatched up the wrong coat, then on realizing that, traded them with embarrassed smiles. And when they bent to put on their boots -
"Ow!"
"Sorry!"
"No, it was me." She grinned at him, bright red fringe falling in her face, her eyes bright as they met his own. "You know, Árni, if this keeps up, we'll both be black and blue before the day's over."
Something gripped his insides and twisted. Not too much; just right. "That's -"
"Okay? Great!"
And as she reached for him again and tugged him out the door, Árni decided that it really was.
End
