Title: Red
Author:  namárië120
E-mail:  namarie120@gmail.com
Live Journal:  www.livejournal.com/users/namarie120
Rating:  NC-17
Type:  RPS
Pairing:  Viggo / Orlando
Warnings: none
Disclaimer:  Based on an actual sofa.  Everything else is pure fiction.
Feedback:  is most welcome
Summary:  A portrait of the Artist and the Young Man
A/N:  Written for the adorf*ckable "Red is the Color of Love" Valentine's
Day challenge
Beta:  the wonderful Ariel

~~~~~

The red sofa was a most elegant piece of furniture when it was first made,
but time and wear had taken their toll upon it.  When new, only the
well-to-do could afford furniture of this quality.  Its frame was made of
the strongest wood; only the softest padding filled its cushions.  The legs
and trim were crafted of rare mahogany and ebony; and the red velvet
fabric, pleated and tufted in an intricate design across the curved back,
was thick and luxurious.  In its first home, it occupied a place of honor
in the formal parlor; but it was seldom used, except when guests were
invited.  Over time sunlight began to fade the vibrancy of the crimson
velvet, and disuse to stiffen its suppleness.  After several years, tastes
changed; the ornate sofa was replaced with a sleek leather divan, and
relegated to an upstairs playroom.  There it was constantly employed by the
household's children; spilled drinks and dirty shoes began to soil and
abrade its surface.  Then one day the children were grown and the playroom
abandoned, and eventually the red sofa was carried downstairs and left by
the curb, along with other discards deemed too old or too damaged to be
saved.

Its story might have ended there, had it not been for the Artist.  He had
been passing by on the street, but pulled to the curb to examine the jumble
of discards with a critical eye.  Spotting the sofa, he ran a palm over its
elegantly curved back with a smile.  'What's a beautiful piece like you
doing here on the street?'  he asked in a slightly husky voice.  'Looks
like you need someone to rescue you, Red, and it just so happens that I
need a sofa.  This could be a match made in heaven.'  The sofa was large
and heavy, but the Artist was young and determined.  With some effort he
wedged it into the hatchback of his small car and dragged it up the stairs
to his mostly empty apartment.

Over time, the Artist brought home other treasures - one day, a low table
with a top made from a slice of tree trunk; on another, a brass lamp in the
form of a woman wreathed in vines, its glass bulbs shaped like ripe
clusters of grapes.  He filled the apartment with books and boxes of found
items, and with easels and canvas and paints and photographs.  At times he
would sprawl on the sofa for hours, scribbling in notebooks or resting
between bursts of painting.  He once slept on the sofa for a week in
paint-splattered clothes, begrudging the time he had to close his eyes, so
he could begin painting again as soon as he awoke.  Its fabric became
marked with oils and acrylics, solvents and developing chemicals.  But the
Artist still thought the sofa was beautiful.

The Artist was mostly alone, although sometimes, not often, he brought
someone home, a man, a woman; sometimes they would sit and talk for hours,
sometimes make love, but few returned more than once, until the Singer.
The first time they made love on the sofa she didn't remove her long black
boots, and the heel tore a new gash in the worn velvet.  Shortly
afterwards, she moved in; and soon after that, the Boy was born.  The
Artist spent long hours on the sofa with the Boy, telling him stories or
singing or simply holding him.  New stains marred the sofa's cushions, but
no one seemed to care.

They moved several times as the Boy grew older, and the Artist began to
spend periods of time away.  He and the Singer seemed to argue whenever he
was home, and finally one day she and the Boy moved out, leaving the Artist
alone.  Sometimes the Boy would come back to stay for a few days; and
sometimes when he left the Artist would sit on the sofa and cry.

A time came when the Artist was gone longer than he had ever been before,
and when he returned, he moved into a new home, and the Young Man was with
him.  The Young Man was light when the Artist was in darkness, and warmth
when he was cold, and the Artist was happier than he had ever remembered
being.  Though the Young Man often complained about the ragged red sofa,
they spent many hours entwined upon it, talking and kissing and loving;
sometimes feverishly, almost frantically; other times slow and soft and
sweet.  Both the Artist and the Young Man were often away, sometimes one or
the other, sometimes both; lately it had been rare for them both to be
together.

~~~~~

The Artist usually didn't pay much attention to the condition of his
studio.  But on this day he cleared the paints and stacked the canvases and
swept the floor; and he brushed the worn velvet of the sofa as if grooming
a horse.  He started a fire and lit candles around the room; he opened a
bottle of wine and placed it with two glasses upon the low table whose top
was a slice of tree trunk; and he slid something small under the sofa.
When the Young Man arrived, he rushed into the Artist's arms, pushing him
back onto the sofa in his enthusiasm.  The Artist pulled the Young Man's
head down to his, and they kissed for long moments, slow, deep kisses that
spoke of loneliness and longing and joyful reunion.  The Young Man lifted
his head at last, wiggling until he sat comfortably across the Artist's
lap.

'So, I take it you missed me,' he teased, draping his arms around the
Artist's shoulders.

The Artist grasped the Young Man's hips and slid them across his lap,
rubbing over the evidence of his arousal.  'Does this answer your
question?' he asked in reply, his soft voice husky with desire.

The Young Man drew one of the Artist's hands from his hip to cover his own
hard length.  'Guess I missed you too, old man,' he murmured, claiming the
Artist's mouth in another deep kiss.

'Let me show you how much I missed you,' the Artist rasped, sliding his
hands under the Young Man's shirt.  He ran his palms slowly over the smooth
curves of his back with a smile.  He kissed the pulse beating in the Young
Man's neck and sucked his Adam's apple into his mouth, smiling again as he
felt the moan rumbling through the Young Man's throat vibrate against his
lips.  The Young Man threw his head back to allow greater access, so the
Artist nibbled and licked his way down the tanned throat until he reached
the neckline of the Young Man's shirt.  The Artist pulled his head away
only long enough to strip the garment over the Young Man's head, before
returning his attentions to the smooth chest bared before him.

The Young Man gasped when the Artist's talented mouth fastened over a dusky
nipple.  He threaded his fingers through the Artist's hair, combing through
the touches of grey at the temples.  The gasp turned into a moan as the
Artist repeated the actions on the other pebbled nipple, his hands moving
to the buttons of the Young Man's jeans.

'Oh god yes,' the Young Man groaned as the Artist's hand slid inside to
palm the silky flesh of his arousal.  'C'mon, old man, let's go to bed,' he
whispered.

'What's wrong with right here?' the Artist asked.  'It's Red - what could
be more appropriate?'

'I refuse to make love one more time on this ragged refugee from the trash
yard,' the Young Man teased.  'I don't know why you haven't replaced it
years ago.'

'You're hurting Red's feelings,' the Artist said reproachfully.

'It's old, and it's worn out, and it smells,' the Young Man complained.

'You could say all the same things about me,' the Artist replied with a
smile.  Before the Young Man could protest, he continued, 'I'm forty-six
years old, angel, and my body's starting to show it.  And I seem to
remember you calling me "smelly human" quite frequently.'  His voice was
teasing, but his vivid blue eyes were hooded.  'Will you want to replace me
in a few years too?'

The Young Man kissed him fiercely, desperate to drive any doubts from the
Artist's mind.  'I love you, old man,' he vowed.  'I love you now and I'll
only love you more when we both really are old men.'  He emphasized this
with another, gentler kiss.  'I just don't understand why you hang onto
this old wreck of a couch.'

The Artist gave a wry smile.  'I've had this sofa since...' he sighed
softly, '...since before you started kindergarten.  Henry was conceived on
this sofa.  I studied for my first role, wrote my first poems, designed my
first book sitting right here.  So many memories make it special.  And
every time we're together on this sofa adds another special memory.'  He
smiled at the Young Man, his eyes gleaming with emotion.  'I hold on to the
things I love.'

The Young Man blinked away tears as the Artist kissed him reverently.  'I
love you,' he whispered against the Artist's lips.  'I love you, you
hopeless romantic, more and more every day.'  He joined their lips together
again, worshipping the Artist's mouth while his fingers began to unbutton
his denim shirt.  'Make love to me,' he pleaded.

'Not until you apologize to Red.'  The Artist pulled back, his eyes
glittering wickedly.

'I don't care how much you love it, I am *not* apologizing to a sofa,' the
Young Man retorted, laughing.

'Well, I'm not making love to you until you do,' the Artist growled,
shifting suddenly to flip the Young Man on his back against the crimson
cushions and pin him with his firm weight.

'What are you doing?' the Young Man asked as the Artist teased his nipples
with calloused fingertips.  'I thought you said you wouldn't make love to
me.'

'I'm not,' the Artist replied.  'I'm just ... indulging myself.'  He bent
to the Young Man's chest and caught a nipple in his teeth, tugging it
gently.  Settling between the Young Man's legs, he rocked his hips to rub
against his insistent erection.

'You bloody tease,' the Young Man groaned.

'All you have to do is say the words,' the Artist reminded him, rolling the
wet nipple between his fingers as he suckled the other in turn.  The
rocking motion of his hips soon had them both breathing raggedly.

'You think you can outlast me?' the Young Man challenged.  'I don't think
so, old man.'

'Let's see about that, shall we?' the Artist countered, raising his hips to
slide the Young Man's jeans down his legs.  The Young Man whimpered as the
Artist's denim-covered erection pressed against his naked flesh.  'That's
hardly fair,' he moaned as the Artist rotated his hips against him.  'Why
do you get to keep your clothes on?  Gives you an unfair advantage.'

'My sofa, my rules,' the Artist retorted.  'But I'll give you this one ...
just so you'll see that I can be ... flexible.'  He stood and quickly
stripped off his remaining clothing.  The Young Man drank in the sight of
his lover's lean body before it was once again lowered over his.

Resuming the gentle rocking of his hips, the Artist slowly licked and
nibbled his way down one side of the Young Man's chest and back up the
other.  Panting slightly, the Young Man reached for the Artist's waist,
only to have his hands captured and pulled over his head.  'Say it,' the
Artist demanded, knowing how quickly the Young Man's touch could undo him.
The Young Man laughingly shook his head.  'Then you can't touch me,' the
Artist dictated, glancing around the room for inspiration.  His eyes fell
upon the bottle of wine on the low table.

'Stay there,' he ordered as he sat up to fill one of the glasses.  Drinking
deeply, he smiled at the Young Man over the rim.  'Would you like some
wine, angel?' he purred, licking the liquid from his lips.  The Young Man
nodded.  Smiling, the Artist tipped the glass over his lover's body,
trailing ruby droplets down his chest and creating a small pool around his
navel.  The Young Man gasped as the cool liquid slid over his heated flesh.
The Artist bent to lick away the trail of droplets and lap up the nectar
from his belly.  'Delicious,' he murmured, 'sprightly, with a hint of
muskiness.'

The Young Man whimpered as the Artist lifted the glass again.  'How rude of
me,' the Artist realized, 'you must be thirsty too.'  Taking another
mouthful of wine, he bent over the Young Man, pressing his mouth to his
lips.  The Young Man parted them eagerly, and the Artist let the sweet
vintage flow into the Young Man's mouth, following it with his tongue.  The
Young Man met it with his own, the two swirling in the heady wine as the
Artist continued to slide his hips between the Young Man's thighs.
Swallowing at last, the Young Man broke the kiss and surrendered to the
inevitable.

'I apologize,' he gasped.  'I love Red, I really do.  Now will you *please*
make love to me?'

'I thought you'd never ask,' the Artist grinned.  He slid down to sip the
last ruby drops from the Young Man's stomach, then followed the fine trail
of hairs down his abdomen to his long, slender cock.  The Artist swirled
his tongue over the silken rod of flesh, lapping up the moisture that
seeped from its tip, sweeter to him than any wine.  The Young Man moaned
and pulled at the Artist's shoulders, drawing him back up his body.  'Want
you inside me,' he pleaded.  'Want it now.'

The Artist wet his fingers in the wineglass and reached between the Young
Man's open legs to stroke over the soft flesh behind his sacks.  He circled
the entrance with dripping fingers, easing one finger in gently and slowly
twisting it within the tight channel.  A few drops of wine fell to the
sofa, adding a new stain to the velvet cushions. As the Young Man bucked
beneath him, the Artist withdrew almost completely, returning with two
fingers and flexing them apart until the Young Man groaned his readiness.
Reaching for the Artist's hard shaft, already slick with its own moisture,
the Young Man slid the Artist's fingers out and guided the tip of his cock
to take their place.

'Angel,' the Artist hesitated, 'let me...'

'No,' the Young Man moaned, 'can't wait, need you now...'  He flexed his
hips forward, pushing until the tip breached the tight ring of muscle and
sank slowly into the welcoming heat.

The Artist groaned at the exquisite friction as the Young Man clenched
around him.  When he was buried as deeply as he could reach, he drew a
shuddering breath, fighting the urge to begin thrusting fiercely.  Pulling
back almost his entire length, he clenched his teeth and slid home again,
slowly.  The heat and friction were too intense; he knew he couldn't last
long.  He reached for the Young Man's hard length and wrapped his fist
around it as the Young Man wrapped his legs around his waist.

'Love, you, angel,' he sighed as he began thrusting in a slow, steady
rhythm.

'Love you,' the Young Man moaned with each firm stroke.  'Love you, love
you, love you...' the chant turned into a wail as the Young Man stiffened,
shooting his creamy fluid over the Artist's trembling hand.  The Artist
threw back his head and groaned as his own climax engulfed him, filling the
shaking Young Man with the warmth of his love.

The two lay spent on the worn velvet cushions, panting against each other's
chests until reality returned.  The Young Man slid from beneath the Artist
to snuggle against his side.

'Happy Valentine's Day, Vig,' he whispered dreamily.

'Happy Valentine's Day, Orlando,' the other replied.  He reached under the
sofa until his questing fingers found what they sought.  Sitting up
slightly, he offered the small box to his sated lover.  'I have something
for you.'

'What is it?' Orlando asked, sitting up himself.

'Open it and see,' Viggo answered.  Orlando pushed back the lid to reveal a
plain platinum band, elegant in its simplicity.  He looked up at his lover
with shining eyes.

'I want you with me forever,' the older man smiled.  'I hold on to what I
love.'

'Yes,' the Young Man answered, throwing his arms around the Artist's neck.
'Yes ... yes ... yes ...'

And another special memory was created on the red velvet sofa.