Fic: We Get To Carry Each Other (1/1) VM/OB
Title: We Get To Carry Each Other
Author: laeglass
Pairing: VM/OB
Rating: R
Disclaimer: This is fiction.
A/N: To alilacia. Although with a bit more angst than originally intended. *g* Beta read by filinya; thank you. *hugs*
Viggo was gone again.
He'd taken to going out for long walks these days, and after a few offers of joining him - which were rebuffed - Orlando was quite content just to stay inside reading, cooking, and warming the house.
Especially today, as it was pouring down with rain.
He'd half-expected Viggo to take one look out of the window and forego his daily walk, but he should've known better. Viggo took one look out of the window and, as a concession to the miserable weather, dug out his rubber boots from the hallway closet.
Half the time Orlando still saw the Man when he looked at Viggo; it was just a brief glimpse, but it was enough to unsettle him. Granted, it was less than it had been, but it was still disquieting, and a little bit scary. It was nothing he could put his finger on exactly, only the look on his face, or the tilt of his head, or the angle in which his back was bent at a random moment.
Calling it a role almost felt like undermining the whole thing, the experience. Viggo had gone in as one man, and came out quite different. Once Orlando might've felt threatened or unsure about how he'd fit into the life of such a man, but that was years ago. It was quite simple really. Orlando belonged wherever Viggo was.
He stared out into the rain, his chin digging into his palm. The book that he'd finished just some twenty minutes earlier was still lying on his lap. Viggo had handed it over as if it was just another novel - or perhaps, knowing Viggo's reading habits, yet another volume counting out the mishaps and shortcomings of the current administration - and asked if Orlando wanted to look it over. His agent had sent it some days earlier, saying that someone was turning it into a film and wanting to know if Viggo would be available, but he hadn't had the time to read it yet.
Orlando had collected his proverbial jaw from the floor. “Another movie?”
Viggo had shrugged and put on his baseball cap. “Just let me know what you think. If it's any good.”
He'd read it and wished he hadn't.
A man loses his son, and then his mind; his sanity gradually crumbling, he becomes convinced of a global conspiracy to ensure that young, first world organs keep flowing into the black market, his son was just another victim. He kidnaps a young man, a son of wealthy parents, who he believes had received his son's organs, and tortures him until eventually consuming the young man in a cannibalistic climax of the story.
It should have been banal and cringe worthy, but somehow it wasn't. It was bleak and terrifying and, with impassioned words, depicted a man's decline into madness, a fate that could befall anyone.
Orlando read the novel with growing unease, shivers like cold fingers dancing up and down his spine. He could see Viggo doing this, getting lost in the mad rage of a father deprived of his child, and knew that he was second only to Henry when it came to Viggo's love.
Jenny had done great things for Viggo's career and he'd never doubted or second guessed her suggestions and advice, but right now a big part of him was screaming for him to get her on the phone and explain herself. Did she really, honestly believe that Viggo would be up for such a role - or any role, for that matter - so shortly after The Road? He still felt half the man he'd been, the man he should be, and Orlando was grasping at him with everything he had to keep him grounded, fed, and cared for.
Because Viggo never did things half-way; either he threw himself into it, or he didn't do it at all. There was no safe middle-ground to fall back on.
And this role would take all of him, leaving nothing for the people who loved him.
Orlando broke from his reverie as he heard the front door opening and closing, and then sounds of Viggo mucking about. He'd felt a bit apprehensive about the weather, but hadn't said anything, knowing that Viggo needed these walks, as much as he, Orlando, loathed the enforced solitude. In his opinion they should have talked perhaps, and made love, not spent time apart as this almost ritualistic schedule took Viggo from him for a couple of hours each day.
But he hadn't said anything. Now, however, he did.
“You're dripping wet!”
Viggo pulled the baseball cap off and fluffed his soaking, wet hair with his other hand, grimacing a little.
“It's raining,” he said. “Good, you’ve got the fire going.”
“Sure,” Orlando said softly. Viggo was standing in the middle of the living room in his socks, his anorak darkened from its usual olive to an angry shade of green, and his hands pale and wet. He made no move, however, to get closer to the fire despite the shivers Orlando saw racking his body.
“Did you read it?” Viggo asked.
“I did, yeah.” Again, Orlando felt cold at the mere mention of the book.
“What did you think?”
Orlando knew what that meant. Is it worth my time? And consequently; is it worth your time? Is it worth being apart?
It wasn't. It was a gripping story, the kind that lingered long after the movie was over and the book put away, but someone else would have to do it. Perhaps they wouldn't bring the anguished father into life quite as well as Viggo would, putting their very soul to shaping a two-dimensional character into a real person of flesh and blood, yet Orlando didn't care about any of that.
“It's a great story. And I know why Jenny sent it over - if this actually was made into a film you'd do a great job. No, make that tremendous.” He swallowed. “And I wouldn't want you to do it. I don't want you to even consider it.”
“You don't?”
Viggo sounded mild, indifferent even. As if he didn't still carry the ghosts of the Man with him.
“I most certainly don't,” Orlando said. “If The Road didn't already kill you, this one would most definitely finish the job. It's one thing to be an actor, and it's quite another to tear your bloody soul to shreds just so that you could do the role as well as you wanted.”
Viggo shrugged, giving no outward reaction to Orlando's heated reply. Cold water was still sluicing its way down his neck, drawing forth goose bumps on the tightly stretched skin. Still Viggo didn't seek the warmth of the fireplace.
“I know it's been difficult,” Viggo said. “I know I haven't been there for you as much as I would've wanted. So, you don't want me to do it. I won't, then.”
“Vig, I don't want to tell you what do,” Orlando said, exasperated. This Viggo, capitulating to his lover's needs without careful consideration, wasn't his, wasn’t the Viggo he knew. As if he didn't trust himself to make the decision. “Shit, I never ask you for career advice. Maybe I should, looking how things are going. But you never ask me either. So why are you asking now?”
Viggo shrugged again. Orlando started to think that unless he peeled off his anorak in two minutes, he was wrestling his lover out of the soaking wet garment. He had to be freezing, his lips thinned from being pressed together to stop his teeth from chattering. His hair, almost Aragorn-length now, was plastered to his skull, revealing just how gaunt his cheeks were.
“You need me around, not whacked out of my senses in some weird head space,” Viggo said, and to Orlando's relief grasped the hem of his anorak and pulled it over his head. The wellies, one of the few practical gifts from Orlando, he'd already ditched in the mud room.
“What I need is you happy,” Orlando said. “Whatever it is. But this story... I think you'd lose yourself in it, and I don't want to lose you. Maybe there's an Oscar in it, who knows. Probably is. But even though I love Jenny to death I could just strangle her for mailing this out for you. You just about killed yourself with the Man. The last thing you need right now is another role that'd suck the life out of you. Maybe for good.”
He got up suddenly, and headed for the kitchen.
“I'll put the kettle on.”
He banged the ceramic mugs down on the counter top, and rifled through the cabinets for some teabags. He heard Viggo puttering around, and hoped that he'd take the wet clothes to the mud room where they could be dealt with later. Glad that he'd had the sense to build a fire, Orlando put the teabags to steep and contemplated the tea mugs severely, his brow furrowing into a deep crease.
They'd been together for a long time. Work and circumstances kept them apart the better part of a year, but there'd never been a time where Viggo hadn't been there for him, loved him when he'd felt too over-worked, thinly stretched, and fragile. Viggo was his one constant in a world of turbulence and chaos.
It was time that Orlando stepped up and did the same.
When he returned with the mugs Viggo was sitting by the fireplace, a blanket wrapped around him carelessly, his legs bent at the knees and his arms wrapped around them. Orlando smiled a little tremulously at the sight, knowing that this was what Viggo had seen countless times - his lover, in need of support and loving. It was odd how a man of fifty-one could look so much like a little boy.
Viggo startled as Orlando came up behind him, pressing a little kiss to his cheek.
“I love you,” he said softly, his nose rubbing along Viggo's cheekbone. “You know I always will.”
Viggo breathed suddenly, leaning his head against Orlando's face.
“You too, Orlando.”
Orlando wrapped his arms around the older man, burrowing his face into Viggo's neck and breathing deeply. He stared into the fire, unseeing, as he felt Viggo gradually relax against him, the shivers slowly quieting, and finally ceasing completely. This was so precious to him, the feel of Viggo's lean body against his, no matter the state of dress or undress, nor position, nor location.
“I'll draw you a bath,” he said quietly. “I don't want you to get sick.”
“ 'm fine,” Viggo almost slurred, now relaxed to the point of near bonelessness.
“You were freezing when you came in,” Orlando said flatly. “Now drink your tea. I'll draw you a bath and change the bed. You still have the flannel sheets somewhere?”
Viggo mumbled an affirmative and Orlando regretfully extricated himself from his lover, pressing the mug of tea, the liquid almost lukewarm, into his hands.
“I'll be right back.”
He bathed Viggo like he would bathe his own child, scrubbing with a washcloth with tender efficiency, giving voice to instructions when needed (“lean over”, “close your eyes, I'll rinse out your hair now”) but otherwise keeping quiet. The bath sheet wrapped itself almost twice around Viggo's frame, and Orlando withheld yet another frown, reminding himself that while Viggo was quick to lose weight, he was always slow to gain it, and that in itself it was no cause for great worry.
It didn't mean he had to like it, though.
The flannel sheets were both soft and warm when he finally slipped under the covers after locking the doors and switching off all the lights downstairs, and his feet met Viggo's somewhere at the end of the bed. Viggo's toes were warmer than his, however, and Viggo made a small hiss as Orlando's chilled ones wriggled their way into Viggo's warmth. Viggo's arm gathered him close, and Orlando went easily, snuggling closer to the man who wanted him near even in sleep.
Viggo wouldn't take the role. He'd gain weight, spend time with Henry, take the time to follow San Lorenzo's games more carefully, and take to reading again.
And when he was well again, truly well in both body and spirit, Orlando would still be there.
finis
Author: laeglass
Pairing: VM/OB
Rating: R
Disclaimer: This is fiction.
A/N: To alilacia. Although with a bit more angst than originally intended. *g* Beta read by filinya; thank you. *hugs*
Viggo was gone again.
He'd taken to going out for long walks these days, and after a few offers of joining him - which were rebuffed - Orlando was quite content just to stay inside reading, cooking, and warming the house.
Especially today, as it was pouring down with rain.
He'd half-expected Viggo to take one look out of the window and forego his daily walk, but he should've known better. Viggo took one look out of the window and, as a concession to the miserable weather, dug out his rubber boots from the hallway closet.
Half the time Orlando still saw the Man when he looked at Viggo; it was just a brief glimpse, but it was enough to unsettle him. Granted, it was less than it had been, but it was still disquieting, and a little bit scary. It was nothing he could put his finger on exactly, only the look on his face, or the tilt of his head, or the angle in which his back was bent at a random moment.
Calling it a role almost felt like undermining the whole thing, the experience. Viggo had gone in as one man, and came out quite different. Once Orlando might've felt threatened or unsure about how he'd fit into the life of such a man, but that was years ago. It was quite simple really. Orlando belonged wherever Viggo was.
He stared out into the rain, his chin digging into his palm. The book that he'd finished just some twenty minutes earlier was still lying on his lap. Viggo had handed it over as if it was just another novel - or perhaps, knowing Viggo's reading habits, yet another volume counting out the mishaps and shortcomings of the current administration - and asked if Orlando wanted to look it over. His agent had sent it some days earlier, saying that someone was turning it into a film and wanting to know if Viggo would be available, but he hadn't had the time to read it yet.
Orlando had collected his proverbial jaw from the floor. “Another movie?”
Viggo had shrugged and put on his baseball cap. “Just let me know what you think. If it's any good.”
He'd read it and wished he hadn't.
A man loses his son, and then his mind; his sanity gradually crumbling, he becomes convinced of a global conspiracy to ensure that young, first world organs keep flowing into the black market, his son was just another victim. He kidnaps a young man, a son of wealthy parents, who he believes had received his son's organs, and tortures him until eventually consuming the young man in a cannibalistic climax of the story.
It should have been banal and cringe worthy, but somehow it wasn't. It was bleak and terrifying and, with impassioned words, depicted a man's decline into madness, a fate that could befall anyone.
Orlando read the novel with growing unease, shivers like cold fingers dancing up and down his spine. He could see Viggo doing this, getting lost in the mad rage of a father deprived of his child, and knew that he was second only to Henry when it came to Viggo's love.
Jenny had done great things for Viggo's career and he'd never doubted or second guessed her suggestions and advice, but right now a big part of him was screaming for him to get her on the phone and explain herself. Did she really, honestly believe that Viggo would be up for such a role - or any role, for that matter - so shortly after The Road? He still felt half the man he'd been, the man he should be, and Orlando was grasping at him with everything he had to keep him grounded, fed, and cared for.
Because Viggo never did things half-way; either he threw himself into it, or he didn't do it at all. There was no safe middle-ground to fall back on.
And this role would take all of him, leaving nothing for the people who loved him.
Orlando broke from his reverie as he heard the front door opening and closing, and then sounds of Viggo mucking about. He'd felt a bit apprehensive about the weather, but hadn't said anything, knowing that Viggo needed these walks, as much as he, Orlando, loathed the enforced solitude. In his opinion they should have talked perhaps, and made love, not spent time apart as this almost ritualistic schedule took Viggo from him for a couple of hours each day.
But he hadn't said anything. Now, however, he did.
“You're dripping wet!”
Viggo pulled the baseball cap off and fluffed his soaking, wet hair with his other hand, grimacing a little.
“It's raining,” he said. “Good, you’ve got the fire going.”
“Sure,” Orlando said softly. Viggo was standing in the middle of the living room in his socks, his anorak darkened from its usual olive to an angry shade of green, and his hands pale and wet. He made no move, however, to get closer to the fire despite the shivers Orlando saw racking his body.
“Did you read it?” Viggo asked.
“I did, yeah.” Again, Orlando felt cold at the mere mention of the book.
“What did you think?”
Orlando knew what that meant. Is it worth my time? And consequently; is it worth your time? Is it worth being apart?
It wasn't. It was a gripping story, the kind that lingered long after the movie was over and the book put away, but someone else would have to do it. Perhaps they wouldn't bring the anguished father into life quite as well as Viggo would, putting their very soul to shaping a two-dimensional character into a real person of flesh and blood, yet Orlando didn't care about any of that.
“It's a great story. And I know why Jenny sent it over - if this actually was made into a film you'd do a great job. No, make that tremendous.” He swallowed. “And I wouldn't want you to do it. I don't want you to even consider it.”
“You don't?”
Viggo sounded mild, indifferent even. As if he didn't still carry the ghosts of the Man with him.
“I most certainly don't,” Orlando said. “If The Road didn't already kill you, this one would most definitely finish the job. It's one thing to be an actor, and it's quite another to tear your bloody soul to shreds just so that you could do the role as well as you wanted.”
Viggo shrugged, giving no outward reaction to Orlando's heated reply. Cold water was still sluicing its way down his neck, drawing forth goose bumps on the tightly stretched skin. Still Viggo didn't seek the warmth of the fireplace.
“I know it's been difficult,” Viggo said. “I know I haven't been there for you as much as I would've wanted. So, you don't want me to do it. I won't, then.”
“Vig, I don't want to tell you what do,” Orlando said, exasperated. This Viggo, capitulating to his lover's needs without careful consideration, wasn't his, wasn’t the Viggo he knew. As if he didn't trust himself to make the decision. “Shit, I never ask you for career advice. Maybe I should, looking how things are going. But you never ask me either. So why are you asking now?”
Viggo shrugged again. Orlando started to think that unless he peeled off his anorak in two minutes, he was wrestling his lover out of the soaking wet garment. He had to be freezing, his lips thinned from being pressed together to stop his teeth from chattering. His hair, almost Aragorn-length now, was plastered to his skull, revealing just how gaunt his cheeks were.
“You need me around, not whacked out of my senses in some weird head space,” Viggo said, and to Orlando's relief grasped the hem of his anorak and pulled it over his head. The wellies, one of the few practical gifts from Orlando, he'd already ditched in the mud room.
“What I need is you happy,” Orlando said. “Whatever it is. But this story... I think you'd lose yourself in it, and I don't want to lose you. Maybe there's an Oscar in it, who knows. Probably is. But even though I love Jenny to death I could just strangle her for mailing this out for you. You just about killed yourself with the Man. The last thing you need right now is another role that'd suck the life out of you. Maybe for good.”
He got up suddenly, and headed for the kitchen.
“I'll put the kettle on.”
He banged the ceramic mugs down on the counter top, and rifled through the cabinets for some teabags. He heard Viggo puttering around, and hoped that he'd take the wet clothes to the mud room where they could be dealt with later. Glad that he'd had the sense to build a fire, Orlando put the teabags to steep and contemplated the tea mugs severely, his brow furrowing into a deep crease.
They'd been together for a long time. Work and circumstances kept them apart the better part of a year, but there'd never been a time where Viggo hadn't been there for him, loved him when he'd felt too over-worked, thinly stretched, and fragile. Viggo was his one constant in a world of turbulence and chaos.
It was time that Orlando stepped up and did the same.
When he returned with the mugs Viggo was sitting by the fireplace, a blanket wrapped around him carelessly, his legs bent at the knees and his arms wrapped around them. Orlando smiled a little tremulously at the sight, knowing that this was what Viggo had seen countless times - his lover, in need of support and loving. It was odd how a man of fifty-one could look so much like a little boy.
Viggo startled as Orlando came up behind him, pressing a little kiss to his cheek.
“I love you,” he said softly, his nose rubbing along Viggo's cheekbone. “You know I always will.”
Viggo breathed suddenly, leaning his head against Orlando's face.
“You too, Orlando.”
Orlando wrapped his arms around the older man, burrowing his face into Viggo's neck and breathing deeply. He stared into the fire, unseeing, as he felt Viggo gradually relax against him, the shivers slowly quieting, and finally ceasing completely. This was so precious to him, the feel of Viggo's lean body against his, no matter the state of dress or undress, nor position, nor location.
“I'll draw you a bath,” he said quietly. “I don't want you to get sick.”
“ 'm fine,” Viggo almost slurred, now relaxed to the point of near bonelessness.
“You were freezing when you came in,” Orlando said flatly. “Now drink your tea. I'll draw you a bath and change the bed. You still have the flannel sheets somewhere?”
Viggo mumbled an affirmative and Orlando regretfully extricated himself from his lover, pressing the mug of tea, the liquid almost lukewarm, into his hands.
“I'll be right back.”
He bathed Viggo like he would bathe his own child, scrubbing with a washcloth with tender efficiency, giving voice to instructions when needed (“lean over”, “close your eyes, I'll rinse out your hair now”) but otherwise keeping quiet. The bath sheet wrapped itself almost twice around Viggo's frame, and Orlando withheld yet another frown, reminding himself that while Viggo was quick to lose weight, he was always slow to gain it, and that in itself it was no cause for great worry.
It didn't mean he had to like it, though.
The flannel sheets were both soft and warm when he finally slipped under the covers after locking the doors and switching off all the lights downstairs, and his feet met Viggo's somewhere at the end of the bed. Viggo's toes were warmer than his, however, and Viggo made a small hiss as Orlando's chilled ones wriggled their way into Viggo's warmth. Viggo's arm gathered him close, and Orlando went easily, snuggling closer to the man who wanted him near even in sleep.
Viggo wouldn't take the role. He'd gain weight, spend time with Henry, take the time to follow San Lorenzo's games more carefully, and take to reading again.
And when he was well again, truly well in both body and spirit, Orlando would still be there.
finis