"Message in a Bottle" (LotR RPS VM/OB) (R)
Title: Message in a Bottle
Author: Leale
Rating: R (Sexual Innuendo)
Fandom: LOTR RPS, VM/OB
Summary: "Honestly, Orlando. Your version of foreplay--"
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Archive: Sure, just let me know.
Author's Note: Many many thanks to valour for the beta and at least three of the lines in the end. She's so patient with my whining. :) Part of the "Stupid Bar Tricks" series available on my LJ. No real timeline except after Cherry Bomb, and set recently. All the drinks can be found at Webtender.Com I love that site. It fuels my muse.
Disclaimer: I have never met the men mentioned in this story and I have no knowledge of their sexuality. Everything in this story has come completely from my imagination.
Message in a Bottle
Stupid people annoy Viggo. So do sycophants, 85% of the Republican party leadership and those who assume they know what he's thinking. The fact that he's eating dinner with people who meet three-quarters of these specifications is barely mitigated by the knowledge that they'll be picking up the tab.
He's stuck in a contract meeting, the worst perversion of his art--the art that pays the bills, anyway--and his necktie becomes more like a noose as the evening wears on. He's star power, now, no longer the eccentric nut but the leading man and some days he wishes for a good character role, if for nothing else but old time's sake.
Hildago isn't even out yet, but the preview audiences have responded so positively, that Viggo is starting to get calls that result in this kind of meeting. He goes because he should, because he does like the scripts, really, and because Orlando isn't around. Orlando is in the Cayman Islands, Morocco, or Spain and it doesn't surprise Viggo that Orlando doesn't know which end of the world he's in from one day to the next. He's been on the move since he packed up and headed for New Zealand and the closest he's been to stable was shooting The Calcium Kid in London. Viggo perversely wants him to take a role that will land him a good six months on a Hollywood soundstage, just to see if he cracks from the routine or finds comfort in order. Of course having Orlando nearby for an extended period of time has its own advantages.
They are in the phase where everyone is nodding and congratulating everyone else and predicting the success of the movie before a single minute is filmed, a single effect is staged or a single note of music is composed. Alcohol-drenched coffee drinks are being consumed and there's a lot of back-slapping and hearty handshakes. Viggo is bored and would be annoyed if he had anything better to do, but he doesn't. Well, he does--anything would be an improvement over this--but Henry's with Exene and Orlando's who-knows-where so Viggo's night has a decidedly mild outlook.
That's when the drink arrives.
A shot, really, rather than a proper drink. Small and chilled and a frightening shade of green. Viggo's sure he's had it before but can't remember the name.
"Mr. Mortensen?" the waiter asks, but he already knows because he is setting the shot in front of Viggo. "From an admirer."
"An admirer?" Viggo raises an eyebrow and lifts the glass with two fingers and his thumb. It smells fruity. Peaches, maybe. "What is this?"
The waiter clears his throat and makes an obvious attempt not to be embarrassed.
"Triple sec, peach schnapps and Midori, sir."
Viggo grins wolfishly at the drink and raises his eyes to the waiter.
"What's the name?" he clarifies, knowing that only a few of the studio executives have noticed the exchange and even those are paying just minimal attention.
The waiter bends to speak quietly in his ear.
"The name of the drink is Cockteaser, sir," he says stiffly.
Viggo shouts with laughter, which startles several of his dining companions into silence. The waiter straightens, ramrod-like, and waits for further instructions.
"Guess I'd better give it a shot, heh?" he asks the discomfited server and upends the drink into his mouth. It's a pleasant drink, very mild, which amuses him when he considers the dichotomy of taste and title. He smiles as he swallows and the other inhabitants of the large table drift back into their previous conversations.
"Do me a favor?" he asks the waiter, putting the shot glass back on the small tray. "Start a new tab for me and send my admirer a drink called Sweet Temptation."
"Of course, sir." The young man inclines his head and hurries off to the bar.
Viggo lets his gaze wander around the restaurant, looking for a familiar tousled dark head and laughing eyes. He doesn't find them but he has caught the interest of one of his dining companions.
"What's going on?" the man asks and it's more real humanity than anyone else has exhibited that evening. Viggo thinks his name is Mike, although he could easily be confusing the various producers.
"Joke with an old friend," Viggo replies, oddly pleased to have someone to share his amusement.
Mike grins. "Sounds like a good one."
"Usually is."
Viggo's companions are making noise about leaving when the next drink arrives. It's in a frosted beer pilsner and an odd color, almost a purple. It smells like cherries and again like other fruit.
"What's this one?" Mike asks. He seems honestly curious.
Viggo looks at the waiter expectantly.
"This drink," the waiter recites, deliberately avoiding eye contact, "is a Purple Hard On."
"Nice," Mike says with an approving nod.
"What's in it?" Viggo asks, just for the spirit of the game.
"Cherry liquor, Southern Comfort, sour mix and Sprite." The waiter seems relieved to have survived the drink name--the ingredients roll much more smoothly off his tongue.
Viggo nods and takes a sip.
"Will there be anything else, sir?" The waiter asks, apparently anticipating a counter-request.
"Oh, yes," Viggo assures him, taking another sip and rolling it around in his mouth. Orlando's had an obsession with fruit since December. "Send back a Strip and Go Naked."
"A Strip and Go Naked," the waiter repeated. "Yes, sir."
People are starting to get up as the waiter leaves--dinner's on the studio, and payment is, of course, prearranged--so Viggo stands too, making sure his drink is in his hand.
"Think I'm going to stick around a bit," he says as people put on their coats and take their leave. He shakes a lot of hands and realizes that he really hasn't paid close attention to anyone's name. He's fairly certain Mike isn't really Mike at all, but either Paul or something trendy that he would never name a helpless child or a grown man.
Freed of his societal shackles, he wanders to the bar, not looking too hard for Orlando but not resisting a casual scan of the room, either. It's no one else, it can't be anyone else. Even the hobbits don't have Orlando's mental catalogue of dirty drinks. He's not sure why Orlando isn't in the Caymans/Morocco/Spain but he doesn't care. It can't be all that bad if Orlando's sitting in a restaurant, sending him suggestive drinks.
The bar is starting to get busy but the party crowd doesn't come out 'til later so Viggo manages to get a stool toward the back, where he can sit against the wall and survey the restaurant. The establishment has clusters of rooms, set up like a honeycomb, allowing for semi-private parties and hidden tables. Orlando could be anywhere and for now it's just enough that he's out there.
"Mr. Mortensen?" The bartender this time, hovering with a glass of pale, pale liquid, decorated with crushed ice and half a strawberry.
"That's me."
"For you, sir." This is undoubtedly the girliest drink Viggo's ever seen. He's almost a little embarrassed by it, in a way he just wasn't offended by the Purple Hard On.
"What's this one?" he asks resignedly, poking at the strawberry with a swizzle stick.
"It's called a Perfect Kiss," the bartender tells him with much more grace than the waiter had demonstrated. Viggo wonders if he'd use the same tone for announcing some of Orlando's more extreme choices.
Perfect Kiss is...oddly appropriate, though, and Viggo has to think hard for his reply.
"Could you send back a Sex on the Beach?" he asks, somewhat disappointed with himself. He's trying not to mix liquors too badly--a courtesy Orlando has cheerfully ignored--and although Orlando had taken him on a grand tour of Sex on the Area-of-Choice drinks, he can't remember for sure which are vodka-based.
"My pleasure, sir."
Viggo is sure the bartender is laughing at him. He shakes it off and tosses back the rest of the Purple Hard-On before tasting the Perfect Kiss. Rum and peach schnapps in this one. Peach seems to be a theme tonight. He smiles at himself, realizing he's getting a buzz. Things are a little too bright, a little too clear, and he sees everything--the clear bra strap that gleams from tanned skin at the edge of a woman's tank top, the tiny cut her companion has under his chin from a too-hasty shave, the crisp precision of the folds in the bartender's sleeve as he arrives with a shot glass.
"Ready for something else, sir?" he asks, and this time, Viggo thinks, he isn't even bothering to hide his amusement.
"Depends on what it is," Viggo tells him, sitting aside the bottom half of his Perfect Kiss, though he salvages the strawberry garnish for later.
"This, sir, is called a Cum Shot," and yes, the bartender does have much more grace in the face of explicit drink names than the young waiter.
"Nice." Viggo eyes the glass with its fresh dollop of whipped cream covering the mouth of the tiny tumbler.
"Do you want to know the ingredients?"
"No." Viggo shakes his head. "I don't think I do." He dumps the contents of the glass into his mouth. Whiskey burns through whipped cream and down his throat, but some of it gets waylaid and dribbles down his chin. He catches it with a cocktail napkin and swallows the whipped cream that stood in its way. The whiskey rushes warmth through his body, as if he needs more, and he knows his eyes are bright when he turns back to the waiting bartender.
"Guess he'll want a response, huh?"
"If that's how the game's played," the bartender says tactfully. He's a good bartender, professional and friendly. Viggo wants to tell him everything but resists. He's not completely drunk.
"All right, then," he says instead. "After the Cum Shot comes...." He chuckles at his own words, then realizes they probably weren't that funny. "Is there a drink called an Afterglow? I think I remember one?"
"Yep," the bartender confirms. "Grenadine and fruit juice. Orange and pineapple."
"One of those," Viggo confirms. "He's gotta be getting tipsy, too."
"No problem. I'll send that right over."
They'll have to call a taxi tonight, Viggo realizes, not displeased with the idea. Mostly, he suspects, because of the 'they'. He likes to think of himself as a patient man but he hasn't seen Orlando in months and he's just a little drunk. Inspiration hits and he grabs a cocktail napkin. He keeps a fountain pen in a little case in his jacket pocket and he pulls it out now, intent on writing something brilliant that captures the dreamy sensation of being drunk and the anticipation of waiting for your boyfriend to find his way home. Words come faster than he can sort them in his mind and they all go on the napkin, and then he can't find the words at all. He sits at the bar, pen in hand, for several minutes, feeling words rush by him and slip from his fingertips whenever he reaches out for them.
The bartender's return startles him into looking--really looking--at the napkin and seeing nothing there but gibberish, he crumples it and tosses it into the Perfect Kiss glass, which is still partly full.
"Whatcha got for me?" he asks; still relatively clear of voice.
"We call this a Pillow Mint," the bartender tells him.
"A Pillow Mint," he repeats and this is a new one--he wonders if Orlando picked this one up in Mexico or the Caymans or home in England. It's another whiskey drink and fortunately not large. It's got an odd taste to it and Viggo runs his tongue over his lips trying to soak up every last bit of essence.
He orders a return drink and pays his tab. He's done playing, he wants to see Orlando and go home. He goes to the restroom while the bartender runs his credit card and mixes the drink. Viggo signs the receipt and goes outside. The air is cool on his flushed skin and it feels good to be on the street already, in that hour after most have gone home and the rest have yet to come out. He almost likes LA like this, in its very brief moments. It makes the other times bearable.
Before he can get too philosophical, the door behind him opens and he turns to see Orlando stride out of the restaurant and right toward him. They have no words before Orlando wraps his hand around Viggo's neck and pulls him into the shadow of the building. He kisses Viggo, long and hard and hungry. Viggo returns the kiss desperately. He has missed Orlando, but the pain's been an amorphous, theoretical sort of emptiness. Having Orlando pressed against him, in his arms, hurts more than the months without him, because he hasn't had this and he hadn't realized how badly he needed it.
"Hello to you, too," he says when Orlando's mouth eases away.
"You said, Kiss Me Quick," Orlando reminds him, his breath leaving behind the memory of cranberry and apple.
"Good thing you can follow directions," Viggo says, drawing him into a warm embrace. Orlando's body is pliable against his and Viggo needs to remember it, to make up for the months when it was just an idea and not a living thing. The obvious occurs to him and he almost doesn't ask in case it turns out Orlando isn't really here, but he is, Viggo's holding him, so he guesses that it's safe. "What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be...somewhere else?"
"Funny thing," Orlando says, his voice a little hoarse, the way it gets when he's been reading the same line over and over, "I looked at the schedule--" Viggo loves the way he says 'schedule' and is still stroking the sound in his head when he realizes Orlando has gone on, "--and it said I was in Morocco one day and then it said Spain, but not for…fuck, like four days after Morocco. So I don't know if someone forget those days or what, but I figured you could do with a little surprise." His mouth splits in the grin that first drew Viggo to him. "So? Surprised?"
"In the best way possible," Viggo assures him. He presses his forehead to Orlando's affectionately. The gesture has, in some way, come to mean more between them than a kiss actually does. "I missed you."
Something softens in Orlando's face before he answers. "Missed you, too."
A taxi pulls up to the curb and Orlando grins giddily. "Figured we could use the ride," he explains, tugging at Viggo's hand. "Let's go home and fuck 'til dawn," he urges. His eyes are bright in the streetlights. He's drunk, too. Drunk on vodka and Viggo and victory--because tonight was a game, after all. A game and a story and everything childish brought into an adult world.
"Honestly, Orlando. Your version of foreplay--"
"Is really going to hurt tomorrow," Orlando interrupts with a laugh, his palm pressing the stubble on Viggo's cheek the wrong way. "So why don't we fuck while we still can?"
Viggo tilts his head consideringly at the taxi and feels the length of Orlando's body pressed up his side. It's not as if he was going to argue. "Well," he says, unable to keep the satisfaction out of his voice, "in that case, what are we standing around here for?"
The End
Author: Leale
Rating: R (Sexual Innuendo)
Fandom: LOTR RPS, VM/OB
Summary: "Honestly, Orlando. Your version of foreplay--"
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Archive: Sure, just let me know.
Author's Note: Many many thanks to valour for the beta and at least three of the lines in the end. She's so patient with my whining. :) Part of the "Stupid Bar Tricks" series available on my LJ. No real timeline except after Cherry Bomb, and set recently. All the drinks can be found at Webtender.Com I love that site. It fuels my muse.
Disclaimer: I have never met the men mentioned in this story and I have no knowledge of their sexuality. Everything in this story has come completely from my imagination.
Message in a Bottle
Stupid people annoy Viggo. So do sycophants, 85% of the Republican party leadership and those who assume they know what he's thinking. The fact that he's eating dinner with people who meet three-quarters of these specifications is barely mitigated by the knowledge that they'll be picking up the tab.
He's stuck in a contract meeting, the worst perversion of his art--the art that pays the bills, anyway--and his necktie becomes more like a noose as the evening wears on. He's star power, now, no longer the eccentric nut but the leading man and some days he wishes for a good character role, if for nothing else but old time's sake.
Hildago isn't even out yet, but the preview audiences have responded so positively, that Viggo is starting to get calls that result in this kind of meeting. He goes because he should, because he does like the scripts, really, and because Orlando isn't around. Orlando is in the Cayman Islands, Morocco, or Spain and it doesn't surprise Viggo that Orlando doesn't know which end of the world he's in from one day to the next. He's been on the move since he packed up and headed for New Zealand and the closest he's been to stable was shooting The Calcium Kid in London. Viggo perversely wants him to take a role that will land him a good six months on a Hollywood soundstage, just to see if he cracks from the routine or finds comfort in order. Of course having Orlando nearby for an extended period of time has its own advantages.
They are in the phase where everyone is nodding and congratulating everyone else and predicting the success of the movie before a single minute is filmed, a single effect is staged or a single note of music is composed. Alcohol-drenched coffee drinks are being consumed and there's a lot of back-slapping and hearty handshakes. Viggo is bored and would be annoyed if he had anything better to do, but he doesn't. Well, he does--anything would be an improvement over this--but Henry's with Exene and Orlando's who-knows-where so Viggo's night has a decidedly mild outlook.
That's when the drink arrives.
A shot, really, rather than a proper drink. Small and chilled and a frightening shade of green. Viggo's sure he's had it before but can't remember the name.
"Mr. Mortensen?" the waiter asks, but he already knows because he is setting the shot in front of Viggo. "From an admirer."
"An admirer?" Viggo raises an eyebrow and lifts the glass with two fingers and his thumb. It smells fruity. Peaches, maybe. "What is this?"
The waiter clears his throat and makes an obvious attempt not to be embarrassed.
"Triple sec, peach schnapps and Midori, sir."
Viggo grins wolfishly at the drink and raises his eyes to the waiter.
"What's the name?" he clarifies, knowing that only a few of the studio executives have noticed the exchange and even those are paying just minimal attention.
The waiter bends to speak quietly in his ear.
"The name of the drink is Cockteaser, sir," he says stiffly.
Viggo shouts with laughter, which startles several of his dining companions into silence. The waiter straightens, ramrod-like, and waits for further instructions.
"Guess I'd better give it a shot, heh?" he asks the discomfited server and upends the drink into his mouth. It's a pleasant drink, very mild, which amuses him when he considers the dichotomy of taste and title. He smiles as he swallows and the other inhabitants of the large table drift back into their previous conversations.
"Do me a favor?" he asks the waiter, putting the shot glass back on the small tray. "Start a new tab for me and send my admirer a drink called Sweet Temptation."
"Of course, sir." The young man inclines his head and hurries off to the bar.
Viggo lets his gaze wander around the restaurant, looking for a familiar tousled dark head and laughing eyes. He doesn't find them but he has caught the interest of one of his dining companions.
"What's going on?" the man asks and it's more real humanity than anyone else has exhibited that evening. Viggo thinks his name is Mike, although he could easily be confusing the various producers.
"Joke with an old friend," Viggo replies, oddly pleased to have someone to share his amusement.
Mike grins. "Sounds like a good one."
"Usually is."
Viggo's companions are making noise about leaving when the next drink arrives. It's in a frosted beer pilsner and an odd color, almost a purple. It smells like cherries and again like other fruit.
"What's this one?" Mike asks. He seems honestly curious.
Viggo looks at the waiter expectantly.
"This drink," the waiter recites, deliberately avoiding eye contact, "is a Purple Hard On."
"Nice," Mike says with an approving nod.
"What's in it?" Viggo asks, just for the spirit of the game.
"Cherry liquor, Southern Comfort, sour mix and Sprite." The waiter seems relieved to have survived the drink name--the ingredients roll much more smoothly off his tongue.
Viggo nods and takes a sip.
"Will there be anything else, sir?" The waiter asks, apparently anticipating a counter-request.
"Oh, yes," Viggo assures him, taking another sip and rolling it around in his mouth. Orlando's had an obsession with fruit since December. "Send back a Strip and Go Naked."
"A Strip and Go Naked," the waiter repeated. "Yes, sir."
People are starting to get up as the waiter leaves--dinner's on the studio, and payment is, of course, prearranged--so Viggo stands too, making sure his drink is in his hand.
"Think I'm going to stick around a bit," he says as people put on their coats and take their leave. He shakes a lot of hands and realizes that he really hasn't paid close attention to anyone's name. He's fairly certain Mike isn't really Mike at all, but either Paul or something trendy that he would never name a helpless child or a grown man.
Freed of his societal shackles, he wanders to the bar, not looking too hard for Orlando but not resisting a casual scan of the room, either. It's no one else, it can't be anyone else. Even the hobbits don't have Orlando's mental catalogue of dirty drinks. He's not sure why Orlando isn't in the Caymans/Morocco/Spain but he doesn't care. It can't be all that bad if Orlando's sitting in a restaurant, sending him suggestive drinks.
The bar is starting to get busy but the party crowd doesn't come out 'til later so Viggo manages to get a stool toward the back, where he can sit against the wall and survey the restaurant. The establishment has clusters of rooms, set up like a honeycomb, allowing for semi-private parties and hidden tables. Orlando could be anywhere and for now it's just enough that he's out there.
"Mr. Mortensen?" The bartender this time, hovering with a glass of pale, pale liquid, decorated with crushed ice and half a strawberry.
"That's me."
"For you, sir." This is undoubtedly the girliest drink Viggo's ever seen. He's almost a little embarrassed by it, in a way he just wasn't offended by the Purple Hard On.
"What's this one?" he asks resignedly, poking at the strawberry with a swizzle stick.
"It's called a Perfect Kiss," the bartender tells him with much more grace than the waiter had demonstrated. Viggo wonders if he'd use the same tone for announcing some of Orlando's more extreme choices.
Perfect Kiss is...oddly appropriate, though, and Viggo has to think hard for his reply.
"Could you send back a Sex on the Beach?" he asks, somewhat disappointed with himself. He's trying not to mix liquors too badly--a courtesy Orlando has cheerfully ignored--and although Orlando had taken him on a grand tour of Sex on the Area-of-Choice drinks, he can't remember for sure which are vodka-based.
"My pleasure, sir."
Viggo is sure the bartender is laughing at him. He shakes it off and tosses back the rest of the Purple Hard-On before tasting the Perfect Kiss. Rum and peach schnapps in this one. Peach seems to be a theme tonight. He smiles at himself, realizing he's getting a buzz. Things are a little too bright, a little too clear, and he sees everything--the clear bra strap that gleams from tanned skin at the edge of a woman's tank top, the tiny cut her companion has under his chin from a too-hasty shave, the crisp precision of the folds in the bartender's sleeve as he arrives with a shot glass.
"Ready for something else, sir?" he asks, and this time, Viggo thinks, he isn't even bothering to hide his amusement.
"Depends on what it is," Viggo tells him, sitting aside the bottom half of his Perfect Kiss, though he salvages the strawberry garnish for later.
"This, sir, is called a Cum Shot," and yes, the bartender does have much more grace in the face of explicit drink names than the young waiter.
"Nice." Viggo eyes the glass with its fresh dollop of whipped cream covering the mouth of the tiny tumbler.
"Do you want to know the ingredients?"
"No." Viggo shakes his head. "I don't think I do." He dumps the contents of the glass into his mouth. Whiskey burns through whipped cream and down his throat, but some of it gets waylaid and dribbles down his chin. He catches it with a cocktail napkin and swallows the whipped cream that stood in its way. The whiskey rushes warmth through his body, as if he needs more, and he knows his eyes are bright when he turns back to the waiting bartender.
"Guess he'll want a response, huh?"
"If that's how the game's played," the bartender says tactfully. He's a good bartender, professional and friendly. Viggo wants to tell him everything but resists. He's not completely drunk.
"All right, then," he says instead. "After the Cum Shot comes...." He chuckles at his own words, then realizes they probably weren't that funny. "Is there a drink called an Afterglow? I think I remember one?"
"Yep," the bartender confirms. "Grenadine and fruit juice. Orange and pineapple."
"One of those," Viggo confirms. "He's gotta be getting tipsy, too."
"No problem. I'll send that right over."
They'll have to call a taxi tonight, Viggo realizes, not displeased with the idea. Mostly, he suspects, because of the 'they'. He likes to think of himself as a patient man but he hasn't seen Orlando in months and he's just a little drunk. Inspiration hits and he grabs a cocktail napkin. He keeps a fountain pen in a little case in his jacket pocket and he pulls it out now, intent on writing something brilliant that captures the dreamy sensation of being drunk and the anticipation of waiting for your boyfriend to find his way home. Words come faster than he can sort them in his mind and they all go on the napkin, and then he can't find the words at all. He sits at the bar, pen in hand, for several minutes, feeling words rush by him and slip from his fingertips whenever he reaches out for them.
The bartender's return startles him into looking--really looking--at the napkin and seeing nothing there but gibberish, he crumples it and tosses it into the Perfect Kiss glass, which is still partly full.
"Whatcha got for me?" he asks; still relatively clear of voice.
"We call this a Pillow Mint," the bartender tells him.
"A Pillow Mint," he repeats and this is a new one--he wonders if Orlando picked this one up in Mexico or the Caymans or home in England. It's another whiskey drink and fortunately not large. It's got an odd taste to it and Viggo runs his tongue over his lips trying to soak up every last bit of essence.
He orders a return drink and pays his tab. He's done playing, he wants to see Orlando and go home. He goes to the restroom while the bartender runs his credit card and mixes the drink. Viggo signs the receipt and goes outside. The air is cool on his flushed skin and it feels good to be on the street already, in that hour after most have gone home and the rest have yet to come out. He almost likes LA like this, in its very brief moments. It makes the other times bearable.
Before he can get too philosophical, the door behind him opens and he turns to see Orlando stride out of the restaurant and right toward him. They have no words before Orlando wraps his hand around Viggo's neck and pulls him into the shadow of the building. He kisses Viggo, long and hard and hungry. Viggo returns the kiss desperately. He has missed Orlando, but the pain's been an amorphous, theoretical sort of emptiness. Having Orlando pressed against him, in his arms, hurts more than the months without him, because he hasn't had this and he hadn't realized how badly he needed it.
"Hello to you, too," he says when Orlando's mouth eases away.
"You said, Kiss Me Quick," Orlando reminds him, his breath leaving behind the memory of cranberry and apple.
"Good thing you can follow directions," Viggo says, drawing him into a warm embrace. Orlando's body is pliable against his and Viggo needs to remember it, to make up for the months when it was just an idea and not a living thing. The obvious occurs to him and he almost doesn't ask in case it turns out Orlando isn't really here, but he is, Viggo's holding him, so he guesses that it's safe. "What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be...somewhere else?"
"Funny thing," Orlando says, his voice a little hoarse, the way it gets when he's been reading the same line over and over, "I looked at the schedule--" Viggo loves the way he says 'schedule' and is still stroking the sound in his head when he realizes Orlando has gone on, "--and it said I was in Morocco one day and then it said Spain, but not for…fuck, like four days after Morocco. So I don't know if someone forget those days or what, but I figured you could do with a little surprise." His mouth splits in the grin that first drew Viggo to him. "So? Surprised?"
"In the best way possible," Viggo assures him. He presses his forehead to Orlando's affectionately. The gesture has, in some way, come to mean more between them than a kiss actually does. "I missed you."
Something softens in Orlando's face before he answers. "Missed you, too."
A taxi pulls up to the curb and Orlando grins giddily. "Figured we could use the ride," he explains, tugging at Viggo's hand. "Let's go home and fuck 'til dawn," he urges. His eyes are bright in the streetlights. He's drunk, too. Drunk on vodka and Viggo and victory--because tonight was a game, after all. A game and a story and everything childish brought into an adult world.
"Honestly, Orlando. Your version of foreplay--"
"Is really going to hurt tomorrow," Orlando interrupts with a laugh, his palm pressing the stubble on Viggo's cheek the wrong way. "So why don't we fuck while we still can?"
Viggo tilts his head consideringly at the taxi and feels the length of Orlando's body pressed up his side. It's not as if he was going to argue. "Well," he says, unable to keep the satisfaction out of his voice, "in that case, what are we standing around here for?"
The End