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Flying With Eagles	By : Zar Category: Individual Celebrities > Orlando Bloom Views: 10191 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know Orlando Bloom. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Title: Flying with Eagles
Author: Zar
Email: squishypiglet@hotmail.co.uk
Warnings: This is slash. Don't like it? Don't read it!
Pairings: Viggorli with special guest Eric Bana.
Disclaimer: This is not true, despite all my wishes.
Summary: "This is my place..."

Chapter 2

I now have all my stuff in the apartment, and it’s 11 pm. How did the day go by so quickly? Must have been the help of Mr Leopard downstairs – if I had used the lift, I would have been in this same position by dinner time.

While I was lying spread-eagled on my new carpet in the middle of the floor, I finally hear my inspiration again.

It begins slowly…so slowly, almost lazily, yet so softly you wonder if you actually hear something or if it’s just a figment of your imagination.

It is meandering along before it begins to pick up a little pace. Holding my breath, I can hear the tinkering slightly louder now…the bass is following a steady and soothing rhythm, encouraging my heart to adopt the same pattern.

Thump…thump…thump-thump…thump…thump…thump-thump…

I had taken off my shoes and plonked down on the floor before realising that I had found the perfect place to appreciate the reason I bought this apartment. The music drifting from downstairs is reverberating through me as I lie as flat as I can, with my arms stretched out to my sides with my palms down. I can feel conflicting emotions running through me as the pianist begins playing earnestly now.

My heart is speeding up and before I am conscious of what I am doing, my right hand has moved itself into my pants. It is a relief that the bass of the piece is steady; it gives me something to which I can anchor myself. Whoever is playing must be feeling emotional today…or perhaps angry. It no longer has the same whispery quality as the beginning. There is no single melody to be picked up from any of this and my right hand tries to keep up with the new hasty pace that has been set.

Anger. So much anger.

With the music surging and urging me forwards, the intense counterpoint between the bass and melody, the constant switches between major and minor keys, it’s not surprising that I am soon screaming out my orgasm as the music reaches its final all-encompassing clashing crescendo.

I must have blanked out because when I come to again, there is no evidence of the rage from before. Once again, there is only a soft gentle lulling of trills from downstairs, softly, softly soothing me in the afterglow. Had I imagined the…? No, my pants are uncomfortably wet and I don’t want to even imagine the state of the new carpeting.

Get up and go to bed? Dig out the box with the bedsheets and make the bed, dig out the pillows? Or just stay here?

The decision is made in seconds. I snag my coat from a nearby chair and squash it into a rough pillow shape before letting my head flop back tiredly. Closing my eyes, I let the enchanting tune with the drowning bass have its way with me and I begin dozing off.

As most people do in the few seconds before sleep, I had my stroke of genius, an epiphany if you will, and the thought haunted me in my dreams.

The pianist wasn’t angry. He was frustrated.

~~~~~~~~~

When house searching, some look for two bedrooms. Others look for three bedrooms. Certain other individuals look for swig pog pools in the backyard with pink bathrooms and blue living rooms. Me? I am much pickier. I wanted a place with the right “feel”. I needed a place where I could be inspired. As you can imagine, I drove my realtor up the wall, and it was particularly obvious when I rejected one of the houses as having a negative “aura”. She gave me one look, and I didn’t hear from her for nearly a fortnight.

Therefore, it was surprising when she brought me to an overly pretentious establishment self-entitled, “Paradise”. Huh. Paradise. I rejected it in my head before we even got out of the car. As expected, there was a flawlessly attired security guard in the lobby which smelt like roses. Not my scene at all, but I allowed Ms Otto to lead me up to “Suite Four”.

It was hard resisting the urge to snicker when I saw the little gold plaque with an eagle engraved on it.

“Do all the suites have different poultry? Or is it just mine? I wanted chicken…”

Ms Otto forced a smile for me. She isn’t a very easy-going person. I suppose as a real estate agent, her life must be pretty stressful, especially when faced with clients like myself.

“The Eagle Suite is thusly named as it is higher than the others, on the fourth floor. You will have the best view of the river here.”

I nod politely at her practiced spiel as we enter the brightly lit lobby of the condo. It is very spacious and even from the entrance, you can see that there is floor to ceiling glass panes giving the place interesting dimensions. I can see potential here, and from the corner of my eye, Ms Otto must be seeing something promising about my expression as she launches eagerly into another prepared speech.

I tone her out easily and walk to the glass, sliding the stylishly concealed door aside and walking out on the narrow balcony. It’s narrow, but curls with the apartment, giving an unlimited 180 degree view of the city and the river below. Gazing down, it’s almost as if I am suspended above the water and despite myself, I take a step back. Wow. This place isn’t that bad.

However, looking around at the three bedrooms and the master bedroom, I feel my earlier enthusiasm waning. Yes, this place is elegant and sophisticated and perfectly functional…but it’s lifeless. It is probably even too large for just me. I could reserve one of the bedrooms for Henry when he comes over, and convert one of the other bedrooms into what could be my working studio…but this place is too polished. Too artificial. I don’t need the security guard in his clown uniform and the delicately scented flowers in the lobby. This place isn’t for me.

Heading back out to the living room, I hear it. It isn’t loud, but it’s a bright, happy tune. Cocking my head, I try to locate the source of the music. Ms Otto takes one look at my pensive expression and laughs nervously.

“Oh, that’s nothing. Probably just a kid downstairs playing around on his mother’s piano. We can inform the security and they’ll tell the child to keep the noise down. No embarrassment on your part at all. I know that as an artist, you would need your privacy and of course, silence is essential when working, but –“

I hold up my hand to halt her.

“No,” I whisper, “This is magical. Is the music coming from downstairs?”

She looks around as if the pianist could have mysteriously appeared beside us.

“I suppose…” she whispers back hesitantly.

The cheerful tune brings to mind images of girls dancing in the rain wearing colourful dresses…purple and yellow. Lots of yellow. Brown as well, the beautiful brown of melted chocolate before you dip a strawberry in it. And curls. Waves. Interlacing and springing back in an intricate dance.

Looking around at the living room again, it seems as if someone has just breathed life into it. The flowers on the dining table seem to bob their heads to the tune and the sun setting on the horizon is casting everything in a warm glow. I am seeing the room for the first time and it is full of life. The furniture won’t do, but the place has an energy to it now and I am pulsing with visions – visions and inspiration I haven’t had in a long time.

Yes. This is the place.

I voice my thought and Ms Otto appears stunned before whipping out her mobile phone and making enquiries. Not anything that interests me, so I head back out to the balcony where the music is not muffled through a floor. The sunset is magnificent today, and especially vibrant with the lively rhythm dancing around me.

Yes. This is the place.

My place.

TBC...
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Flying With Eagles