Fic: Vanity Fair (VM/OB) 1/8
Title: Vanity Fair
Author: laeglass
Pairing: VM/OB; mentions of OB/other and VM/other
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Adult themes all around. AU, angst, mentions of substance abuse, violence, mentions of promiscuity.
Summary: Orlando Bloom is living the perfect, enviable life of a celebrated male supermodel, but looks aren't everything.
Disclaimer: This is just a dream and a lie. No profit made.
A/N: This story has finally progressed from a WIP to Finished. Beta read by a dear friend. *hugs*
The door slamming closed raised some heads, but Orlando just didn’t care. He tore his woollen cap from his head and threw it away, shrugged off his coat as he went and let it fall down on the floor. He knew he was late already and people were waiting, but today he couldn't snap into his professional persona like it was some magic trick, so they would have to wait just a few minutes more.
“Orli? You okay?” Jennifer, his assistant, followed him to see if he was alright.
“Bugger off,” he snapped, not even bothering to look at her. “I'll be back in a few.”
The door of the men’s room closed behind him, and finally, finally he was alone. A tear stained face stared back at him from the mirror, and Orlando flipped a bird to his mirror image.
“Fucking shit,” he snapped at the mirror. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
There were days when he hated his face, hated the fame it had brought, hated his god-damn career and how it ate up his privacy. Hated living in L.A. where everybody was somebody and everybody knew you. Hated the fucking god-damn paps. They respected nothing, didn’t give a shit about anything other than the perfect shot, never mind the story behind it or how it affected the person they were chasing after; and him crying, his feelings all over the place was just the best thing to happen all week. He knew he looked like a fright with his bruised face; the last thing he needed was a hundred cameras going off on his skin.
Orli Bloom, the model, the Face. The loved and adored runway wet dream. Orlando sneered at his image in the mirror and wiped his cheeks angrily. This was why he never got involved with anyone. He wasn’t a real person with thoughts and feelings, he was just a face and a body and a bank account. He was his classic Corvette and the Rolex on his wrist, but not Orlando. Never just Orlando.
A sudden noise from one of the toilet stalls broke his reverie, and his head whipped around, angry and embarrassed to get caught in such a state. A man stepped out of a stall, and Orlando had to gawk despite himself; he couldn't have said why, because he was surrounded by beautiful people day in and day out, but... darkish blonde hair and blue eyes, Orlando’s brain registered, and it took him two whole seconds to remember that he was maybe supposed to say something. It took a couple of seconds more to remember that he was supposed to be pissed.
“Sorry,” the man said, and Orlando’s gaze was then glued to the small scar on his upper lip. “Didn't want to intrude or anything, but there wasn't much to be done back there anymore and I'm needed back there for the job.” He jabbed his thumb in the direction of the door.
“Fine, do whatever you want,” Orlando said quickly and stuck his hands into his pockets, hoping to find a tissue to blow his nose with, but the jeans were so skin-tight one couldn’t fit a coin inside the pockets. He raised his eyes in surprise as the stranger handed him one, and quietly accepted it.
“It’s clean,” the man said, and Orlando had to answer his smile. It made him feel all weird inside, like small butterflies flying around inside his stomach. “I’m Viggo, by the way. Your photographer for today.”
Viggo Mortensen, of course. Orlando could have slapped himself. What a fucking airhead he was for not remembering that he was supposed to work with the guy today; it wasn't like Jennifer hadn't told him a million times already. Here he was acting pissy and huffy to one of the most talented and, consequently, most sought-after photographers in the industry. Luckily the man was regarding him not with annoyance over his antics, but with something akin to sincere kindness.
“Thank you, Viggo,” Orlando said, and blew his nose, aware of the way the other man was looking at him. “What's up?”
“Have you hurt yourself?” Viggo asked.
There was a dark bruise forming on the left side of Orlando’s face, reaching from his temple to his cheekbone, marring his otherwise flawless complexion. The skin still throbbed where his head had met with an unforgiving surface, but considering the circumstances surrounding his 'accident' Orlando felt lucky that he'd walked away with such a minor hurt.
Orlando shook his head quickly. “Just... a little accident with the car,” he said. “Fucking paps. Fucked up my Corvette.”
”Your car’s wrecked?” the other man asked, and Orlando nodded a little.
“Totalled, I'm afraid,” he said.
“That's too bad. Do you need a ride home?”
Orlando contemplated the suggestion, knowing full well that trying to get into a cab would be a total nightmare, cameras flashing and people shouting at his face, and he wasn’t ready to deal with that today. For all he cared, the paparazzi had already gotten all they deserved; a few hazy shots of his face covered by his shades and his woollen cap pulled low to preserve what was left of his anonymity.
Besides, this Viggo guy didn't seem like an axe murderer, and Orlando had always relied on the kindness of strangers. Especially attractive, blond, blue-eyed strangers who treated him like an actual person deserving of some kindness.
“Sure,” he said and smiled, again surprised at how easily it came around this man. “Sure, I’d really appreciate it.”
Now it was time to rise and shine, and no-one did that better than Orli Bloom.
* * *
“Hey, Orli!”
One of the other models caught up with him as they were leaving, and Viggo went to get the car while Orlando talked to Andrea. He was a pretty twenty-year old, second generation American-Italian, and seemed to look up to him much more than was healthy in Orlando's opinion. They went out bar-hopping and clubbing together somewhat regularly - or had, before Orlando had started seeing Davide. He was one of the very few people that Orlando called friend. Others might have deemed their friendship superficial, but to Orlando it was rare to be with people in whose company he didn't have to pretend to be anything he wasn't.
Andrea was currently going out with an older man that Orlando had dated for a brief while some years back, but then, it was a small world.
Andrea asked him about the Balmain casting Orlando had been to the past week, and he shrugged, even though he did know it was a sure thing; his agent had let slip that much, even if she did like to manage him without always filling in the details until the last possible moment. After he'd been on the runway for their autumn/winter show in Paris Fashion Week last year they had let him know that they'd be happy to work with him any time, and the ‘go and see’ had been more a formality than a real interview. He didn't want to brag to Andrea, though.
“Fucking Balmain, man,” Andrea said, with a dreamy little moan. “Put in a good word for me, will you? I'd kill to work for Balmain. Think of the résumé, man.”
“Will do, gorgeous,” Orlando said, and ran a suggestive hand down Andrea's front. “But it'll cost ya.”
“Oh, what exactly?” Andrea asked, pursing his lips. This was familiar banter for the two of them; suggestive talk that never went anywhere and wasn't meant to.
“Well, you know that I've always rather fancied Givenchy?” Andrea shrugged an affirmative. “Your bloke works for fucking Givenchy, mate, I'm sure he could bring my name up somewhere. Fair trade, is what I call it.”
“Fine, I'll talk to him. Aw, Viggo's waiting,” Andrea said, with a suggestive tilt of his eyebrows, and then leaned in for goodbye kisses on both cheeks. “See you, and take care. Call me when you want to hit the town. Ciao.”
“Ciao, bello.”
He got into the car, and made a show of fastening his seatbelt, lest Viggo think he was just a punk kid with no regard for safety issues.
Orlando leaned his head on the passenger side window and chewed on his lip, narrowing his eyes against the flashing lights of the cars passing them. It was dark already, the hours having disappeared into the frenzy of shooting, posing and re-adjusting the lights, clothing and make-up. There was a migraine attack forming behind his eyes, just waiting to be unleashed if he stopped to think...
He was aware of the looks Viggo was throwing his way, and finally he realised that the older man was awaiting instructions to his place. His place. Davide. Panic started to rise inside him but he stomped it down quickly and ruthlessly. Stop. Just. Stop. Breathe.
“I swear I'm not coming onto you,” he began, adding a little pursed-lip grin to accompany his words. “But could we go to your place? I feel a bit shaken, I don't think I should be alone right now. With my head having been hit and all.”
“Sure,” Viggo said easily, his eyes fixed on the road.
They had just reached a busy intersection and Viggo bit back a curse as a Ford Excursion SUV cut in front of him and he was forced to hit the brakes to avoid a collision. The young woman driving the car never noticed anything, busily chatting on her cell as she was. Viggo glanced at him from the corner of his eye as soon as they were clear. “Are you okay? You look a bit pale.”
“Just the usual tiredness after being ordered around by a bitch of a photographer all day,” Orlando said, grinning as Viggo lazily gave him the finger. “I wouldn't mind a drink, though. If that's cool.” He smiled as Viggo started to say something. “I know, nothing with alcohol in it, dad.”
“Brat,” Viggo muttered.
The parking garage was built below ground level and Viggo steered his vehicle into the semi-dark tunnel that lit up as soon as they reached the parking area itself. He manoeuvred his car next to a battered looking Ferrari and grinned at Orlando, turning off the engine of his Prius.
“See, you're not the only one who's careless with expensive automobiles.”
“Bastard,” Orlando murmured and got out of the car. Bugger, he'd been genuinely fond of his 'Vette; it was the first thing he'd bought after his first big paying modelling job. 1958 Corvette Cabriolet. A fucking beauty. He sighed. “You know, it's not always about you. Other people fuck up too, sometimes even without your help.”
Viggo stopped getting his equipment out of the trunk and met his gaze. “And you're only responsible for your own actions. Same goes for everyone else.”
“True enough, I guess.” Orlando smiled wanly and helped Viggo by taking one of his bags inside without being asked. It was widely known that the photographer only worked with his own equipment, and as he used his home studio for his own personal projects he was bound to carry his camera and other belongings to work with him.
The ride in the elevator was quiet; Orlando studied his face in the mirror in the harsh lighting and resisted the urge to don his shades. Good thing they covered nearly half of his face; for once fashionable was also practical. Across the small space, Viggo was looking at him in a way that made him nervous. There was nothing predatory or lustful about his gaze; it was simple, quiet appreciation that warmed Orlando more than it perhaps should have.
He knew he had collected himself phenomenally after his initial outburst, like a true professional, and all in all the photo shoot had been a really successful one. Viggo somehow knew how to bring out the depth in his beauty; not just skin-deep but something one had to look for to catch it. Viggo had caught it seemingly with no effort.
Viggo Mortensen was a master of light and shadow, and somehow he had managed to photograph Orlando from all sides and yet mask the bruise marring his face without any additional help from the make-up artists. One simply didn't pay attention to such a minor detail when there was so much else to look at; the graceful bow of his upper lip, the dark winged brows furrowing above downcast eyes. The mischievous glint accompanied by a pair of pursed lips, a look that was downright indecent without being lewd.
Orlando smiled, meeting Viggo's eyes across the space. He'd always taken pride on his professionalism and his ability to perform well even on his bad days, but he'd outdone himself today. What had started as a day from hell had turned into a professional triumph.
It felt good. To be working again, for starters. To actually feel like a real human being instead of a pre-programmed robot that went through the motions looking perfect and detached. Or worse, a drugged-out sex toy who remembered nothing from the day before, or the day before that.
Viggo let them in and kicked the door closed after himself. “I'd apologise for the mess if I didn't know your place is the same.” He glanced at Orlando again, one corner of his mouth curling upwards.
“How do you figure that?” Orlando asked and followed the other man's example by toeing off his moccasins. The tiled floor was warm, and Orlando got the silly urge to ditch his socks and go barefoot. “For all you know I could be a neat-freak going batshit insane over the smallest speck of dust.”
“Something about the way you seem to shed your clothing wherever it is you happen to walk and let other people clean up your mess.” Viggo paused. “Just a guess, really.”
Orlando blinked. What an assumption to make about someone who was practically a stranger! “Just so you know, I have a cleaning lady coming in twice a week. It's so clean you could eat off the floors.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, an old memory flashed through his mind. Davide pressing his face against the kitchen floor, rubbing it in the spilled salad dressing and telling him to clean up his fucking mess right that fucking minute.
The older man shrugged. “If you say so.” He studied the younger man and frowned at the look on his face. Orlando had that faraway look again, and Viggo decided he didn't like it. “What is it?”
“Uh, just remembered I should pay her the next time I see her,” Orlando dodged lamely. Had Viggo heard about him and Davide? He thought everyone knew; it was hardly a big industry secret and what with the last weeks' exposure in the media. He lifted the bag. “So where should I put this?”
“In my studio,” Viggo said and then, changing his mind, reached for the bag. “I'll take it. Just make yourself comfortable, I'll try and get you your drink asap.”
He watched Viggo disappear behind the first door on the left, his eyes following the firm ass covered by dark denim. Very nice. Orlando knew way too many men who gave up after turning forty and gave in to middle-aged spread. Which of course didn't stop them from coveting fresh-faced eighteen-year-olds, clearly thinking that their money and name would make up for the lack of physical appeal.
Shaking his head he sat down on the cream coloured sofa and pinched the bridge of his nose. What the hell was he doing? Going to a stranger's apartment, half-hoping the man would seduce him and give him respite from his problems? That was so lame, using the older man as a crutch just because he was too big a coward to stand up for himself. Only, he wasn't. If Davide could almost bash his head in who knew where it'd stop. If it indeed stopped at all.
Orlando felt chilled all of a sudden and stuck his hands into his armpits. Viggo's place was air-conditioned to the max and entering the apartment had a similar effect to one stepping inside a fridge. He looked up when Viggo came back, noting that the older man had ditched his shirt and donned a black long sleeved tee, looking absolutely edible. Orlando looked up from the man's lips when he spoke, finding a pair of blue eyes looking at him intently.
“Are you okay, really? You seem to be narrowing your eyes a lot...”
“Migraine coming,” Orlando said quietly, giving up the pretence of being simply tired. “Other than that, fine.”
“Should you lie down?” Viggo asked, reaching for a quilt that was folded at the other end of the couch. “I can put off the lights too if that'd make it better.”
“Maybe if I could have a drink first,” Orlando requested. Viggo nodded and got up when the door buzzer went off.
His brows raised quizzically and he glanced at Orlando. “I'm not expecting anyone,” he said by way of explanation. “I'll try and get rid of them quickly.”
Viggo let the visitor in, and the door opened to reveal one of the most astonishingly beautiful young men Orlando had ever seen. He was around Orlando's age, a little shorter perhaps, but equally lithe and slender. The colouring matched Orlando's, as well; dark brown hair cut in a trendy do and big, brown eyes gazing at Viggo as if he were the maker of all things.
“Joaquín. I didn't know you were going to drop by,” Viggo said, and the tone of his voice wasn't that of a delighted lover. If anything, he sounded careful, as if a wrong word or gesture could set the boy off.
Impossibly long lashes fluttered in Viggo's direction, and in a sudden pang of realisation it dawned on Orlando that perhaps Viggo wasn't as unattached as he'd claimed to be. Or perhaps claimed was too strong a word; led to believe was maybe more accurate. A fist clenched around his gut and he swallowed thickly, suddenly wishing that he was some place else.
“Viggo. I just came to get the latest set of photos,” he said smoothly and then smiled. “Ven aquí y dame un beso. Old man.”
Viggo stepped closer and Joaquín all but launched himself at him. He wrapped his slender arms around Viggo's form and kissed him on both cheeks, and then landing one squarely on his mouth. Orlando spied a hint of tongue and had to suppress a brief flash of sudden jealousy before the boy stepped back and regarded Viggo with open suspicion.
“¿Es así como me saludan después de dos semanas?” he asked.
“Joaquín, tengo un visitante,” Viggo interrupted softly, nodding his head at Orlando who was still perched on the edge of the couch. The Brit felt uncomfortable with this new boy present who treated Viggo with the familiarity reserved for long-time friends, or lovers.
“Oh,” Joaquín said blankly, and then, recovering quickly, extended his hand to Orlando who half-rose from the couch to accept it. “You are Viggo's friend, yes? I am too. Joaquín.”
“I'm Orlando. Hi.”
Joaquín's eyes travelled up and down Orlando's body and finally a smile formed on his perfect lips. “Él es bello,” he said slowly. “Viggo, you old dog.” He then added something in Spanish, and cast a long look at Viggo beneath his long lashes, offering a wicked grin.
“Joaquín, ahora no,” Viggo said tiredly. “Would you care for that drink, Orlando? Is iced tea okay?”
“Sure,” Orlando answered and drew a small sofa cushion into his lap, irritated at his own sudden timidity.
He didn't like the way the other boy looked at him, as if he were an intruder in Viggo's house, or a possible competitor, and he had to wonder about his own reaction. He'd just met Viggo; it wasn't like he could stake any claim on the man, for heaven's sake. Biting his lip he watched Viggo disappear to the kitchen and raised his eyes to the other boy standing in front of him. Joaquín gave him a tight little smile and disappeared to Viggo's studio, returning some seconds later with a fat leather bound portfolio under his arm.
“I've seen you at the industry get-togethers,” Joaquín said to Orlando suddenly. “Last time was some weeks ago in Milan, I think? Of course, I'm not as big as you are so you probably don't remember me; no big entourage or anything.”
Orlando didn't know how to react to the other boy's passive-aggressive behaviour, so he offered a neutral shrug. Joaquín was of the ten a penny European pretty boy variety, and he honestly couldn't remember seeing him before. Not to mention the hassle that was Milan fashion week; people came and went, and Orlando was hard-pressed to remember any faces or names at all.
“Sorry, no.”
“You are with Davide Armand, right?” Joaquín asked, smirking to himself as Orlando blanched and bit his lip hard enough to hurt. “I saw you two at the Ferré after party. I've always wanted to work with him, there's this amazing quality to his photographs.”
“Yeah,” Orlando said numbly and searched for Viggo with his eyes.
He very well remembered that 'talk' at the after party between him and Davide; the older man had flown into a jealous rage over what he thought was someone else making passes at Orlando. It was then that Orlando had finally had enough, telling Davide in no uncertain terms that they were no longer a couple, and the older man should just try and find someone younger and more stupid to control and manipulate, because he wasn't taking it anymore. They were done.
Of course it hadn't ended there and then. Orlando shook his head to clear his mind of the unwanted thoughts and refocused on the boy in front of him, taking in the sneer marring his lips and the knowing look in his eyes. What did this kid think he knew? And what was he still doing here, anyway; hadn't he already got what he wanted?
Viggo returned with a tall glass of iced tea, the ice cubes clinking against each other, and handed it to Orlando. He took a careful sip, grateful for the interruption. Their host seemed oblivious to the barely veiled hostility between the two younger men, and Joaquín had pasted on a smile the moment Viggo came back.
“You got what you came for?” Viggo asked, sitting down next to Orlando, and Joaquín flashed him the folder in his right hand.
“Yes,” he said. “I might come back later for those photos you mentioned before, yes?”
Viggo nodded. “Why not. Maybe later this week?”
“"No quise decir esta noche. Sé que vas a estar ocupado.", “Joaquín said somewhat darkly.
“Por favor, no empieces,” Viggo said, and the boy shrugged, feigning indifference, and replied in Spanish.
Orlando started to feel left out and took another sip of his tea. Suddenly coming home with Viggo didn't seem like such a great idea after all. Viggo had led him to believe that he was single and free of attachments, but this Joaquín guy was all but pissing all over him to mark his ownership. Orlando saw through his act; hadn't Davide treated him exactly like this? Flaunted him and yet made clear to everyone else that Orlando was his, and his alone. His to touch, his to hurt, his to share.
“I think I'd better go,” he said suddenly, and met Viggo's gaze as the older man turned to look at him. “Long day and all that jazz, yeah?”
“Are you sure?” Viggo asked. “I'll take you home if you wish, but you're more than welcome to stay.”
Orlando chewed on his lip in sudden indecision and glanced up at Joaquín. He gazed back at the Brit with narrowed eyes, his lips tightened into a thin line, and Orlando realised that he was hoping Orlando would say no. Irritation flared inside him. Viggo was the first man who'd acted the least bit civil toward him in ages, and he wasn't going to let some snot-nosed no-one scare him away.
“Why not,” he said, and couldn't suppress a grin as Joaquín huffed and turned on his heels.
“Voy a venir mañana. Adiós,” he said to Viggo, and then offered a sweet but frosty “goodbye” to Orlando.
“Sorry about that,” Viggo said after the door had closed behind Joaquín, rubbing his neck. “I had no idea he was coming over tonight. I wouldn't have brought you here if I knew he was going to show up.”
Orlando smiled and took another sip from his drink. “It's okay,” he said. “Trust me; I've seen worse. Does he always act this territorial though?”
“Not usually,” Viggo said, and then his smile turned a little wry. ”But then, I don't usually have Orli Bloom over.”
“Is he your ex or your current boy or something?” Orlando asked bluntly. “Because I usually like to know if I'm stepping on someone's toes.”
Viggo shrugged. “Not really, just a friend and someone I work with from time to time.” He turned on the couch to face the younger man, his knee brushing Orlando's thigh. “But let's forget about him.. I'd much rather discuss the people present.”
Orlando smiled and his cheeks warmed. He really should know better than to fall victim to pretty words and smooth courting, but Viggo was the first man who'd treated him like something other than a tight ass and a flawless face for a long while. Hell, the older man hadn't even tried to come onto him despite the opportunity presented to him.
Orlando was used to going up into guys' hotel rooms, excusing himself to the men's room and then, upon returning to the living space, being expected to perform oral sex, or more, on command. He couldn't remember how many times he'd come back to be presented with the sight of his host having unzipped his trousers and stroking his cock, his legs splayed in a wide vee that would allow Orlando to kneel between them. It was no great secret that Orli Bloom gave wicked good head, especially after he'd been caught with one of the less known designers of Versace. Apparently a lot of guys thought nothing of kissing and telling.
“Nothing much to talk about, besides the usual sordid past,” he said and squeezed the cushion in his lap. “I just wanted to say how much I appreciate what you did for me today. I just... couldn't have dealt with any more publicity right now, you know?”
“I know,” Viggo said. “About your 'Vette. Should you be in contact with your insurance company?”
Orlando's eyes widened and he exhaled softly. “Fuck, you're right. I should. It's not too nice a neighbourhood, yeah? I'll call Jennifer and ask her to deal with it. I don't think I'm making enough sense at the moment to deal with insurance people.”
Viggo nodded. “What about your face?”
Orlando's hand flew to his face and he touched his temple, wincing as he did so. “No, I think it's okay. Looks worse than it is.”
As far as bruises went, that one wasn't even all that bad. He'd seen worse, hell, he'd had worse. He picked up the glass and pressed the cool surface against his temple, meeting Viggo's eyes. His smile froze as yet another memory assaulted him; Davide grabbing and pushing him, finally slamming his head sideways against the bathroom mirror, hard enough to daze him.
Orlando blinked and started as Viggo grabbed his wrist. Gently Viggo pried the glass from his fingers and then allowed Orlando to wrench his hand free. They stared at each other wordlessly, both wishing there wasn't a huge elephant in the room with them, and finally Orlando turned away.
“Really, I should leave.”
Viggo just nodded and stood up. “I'll go get your coat, and then I'll take you home.”
“No! I'll just hail a cab,” Orlando said firmly. “Really. Thanks for everything, the iced tea and all. I just... need to go home.”
He hesitated, then leaned in to brush his lips against Viggo's stubbled cheek, and then he was gone.
The damaged angel with clipped wings. Viggo sighed and watched him go.
tbc in Chapter two
Author: laeglass
Pairing: VM/OB; mentions of OB/other and VM/other
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Adult themes all around. AU, angst, mentions of substance abuse, violence, mentions of promiscuity.
Summary: Orlando Bloom is living the perfect, enviable life of a celebrated male supermodel, but looks aren't everything.
Disclaimer: This is just a dream and a lie. No profit made.
A/N: This story has finally progressed from a WIP to Finished. Beta read by a dear friend. *hugs*
The door slamming closed raised some heads, but Orlando just didn’t care. He tore his woollen cap from his head and threw it away, shrugged off his coat as he went and let it fall down on the floor. He knew he was late already and people were waiting, but today he couldn't snap into his professional persona like it was some magic trick, so they would have to wait just a few minutes more.
“Orli? You okay?” Jennifer, his assistant, followed him to see if he was alright.
“Bugger off,” he snapped, not even bothering to look at her. “I'll be back in a few.”
The door of the men’s room closed behind him, and finally, finally he was alone. A tear stained face stared back at him from the mirror, and Orlando flipped a bird to his mirror image.
“Fucking shit,” he snapped at the mirror. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
There were days when he hated his face, hated the fame it had brought, hated his god-damn career and how it ate up his privacy. Hated living in L.A. where everybody was somebody and everybody knew you. Hated the fucking god-damn paps. They respected nothing, didn’t give a shit about anything other than the perfect shot, never mind the story behind it or how it affected the person they were chasing after; and him crying, his feelings all over the place was just the best thing to happen all week. He knew he looked like a fright with his bruised face; the last thing he needed was a hundred cameras going off on his skin.
Orli Bloom, the model, the Face. The loved and adored runway wet dream. Orlando sneered at his image in the mirror and wiped his cheeks angrily. This was why he never got involved with anyone. He wasn’t a real person with thoughts and feelings, he was just a face and a body and a bank account. He was his classic Corvette and the Rolex on his wrist, but not Orlando. Never just Orlando.
A sudden noise from one of the toilet stalls broke his reverie, and his head whipped around, angry and embarrassed to get caught in such a state. A man stepped out of a stall, and Orlando had to gawk despite himself; he couldn't have said why, because he was surrounded by beautiful people day in and day out, but... darkish blonde hair and blue eyes, Orlando’s brain registered, and it took him two whole seconds to remember that he was maybe supposed to say something. It took a couple of seconds more to remember that he was supposed to be pissed.
“Sorry,” the man said, and Orlando’s gaze was then glued to the small scar on his upper lip. “Didn't want to intrude or anything, but there wasn't much to be done back there anymore and I'm needed back there for the job.” He jabbed his thumb in the direction of the door.
“Fine, do whatever you want,” Orlando said quickly and stuck his hands into his pockets, hoping to find a tissue to blow his nose with, but the jeans were so skin-tight one couldn’t fit a coin inside the pockets. He raised his eyes in surprise as the stranger handed him one, and quietly accepted it.
“It’s clean,” the man said, and Orlando had to answer his smile. It made him feel all weird inside, like small butterflies flying around inside his stomach. “I’m Viggo, by the way. Your photographer for today.”
Viggo Mortensen, of course. Orlando could have slapped himself. What a fucking airhead he was for not remembering that he was supposed to work with the guy today; it wasn't like Jennifer hadn't told him a million times already. Here he was acting pissy and huffy to one of the most talented and, consequently, most sought-after photographers in the industry. Luckily the man was regarding him not with annoyance over his antics, but with something akin to sincere kindness.
“Thank you, Viggo,” Orlando said, and blew his nose, aware of the way the other man was looking at him. “What's up?”
“Have you hurt yourself?” Viggo asked.
There was a dark bruise forming on the left side of Orlando’s face, reaching from his temple to his cheekbone, marring his otherwise flawless complexion. The skin still throbbed where his head had met with an unforgiving surface, but considering the circumstances surrounding his 'accident' Orlando felt lucky that he'd walked away with such a minor hurt.
Orlando shook his head quickly. “Just... a little accident with the car,” he said. “Fucking paps. Fucked up my Corvette.”
”Your car’s wrecked?” the other man asked, and Orlando nodded a little.
“Totalled, I'm afraid,” he said.
“That's too bad. Do you need a ride home?”
Orlando contemplated the suggestion, knowing full well that trying to get into a cab would be a total nightmare, cameras flashing and people shouting at his face, and he wasn’t ready to deal with that today. For all he cared, the paparazzi had already gotten all they deserved; a few hazy shots of his face covered by his shades and his woollen cap pulled low to preserve what was left of his anonymity.
Besides, this Viggo guy didn't seem like an axe murderer, and Orlando had always relied on the kindness of strangers. Especially attractive, blond, blue-eyed strangers who treated him like an actual person deserving of some kindness.
“Sure,” he said and smiled, again surprised at how easily it came around this man. “Sure, I’d really appreciate it.”
Now it was time to rise and shine, and no-one did that better than Orli Bloom.
* * *
“Hey, Orli!”
One of the other models caught up with him as they were leaving, and Viggo went to get the car while Orlando talked to Andrea. He was a pretty twenty-year old, second generation American-Italian, and seemed to look up to him much more than was healthy in Orlando's opinion. They went out bar-hopping and clubbing together somewhat regularly - or had, before Orlando had started seeing Davide. He was one of the very few people that Orlando called friend. Others might have deemed their friendship superficial, but to Orlando it was rare to be with people in whose company he didn't have to pretend to be anything he wasn't.
Andrea was currently going out with an older man that Orlando had dated for a brief while some years back, but then, it was a small world.
Andrea asked him about the Balmain casting Orlando had been to the past week, and he shrugged, even though he did know it was a sure thing; his agent had let slip that much, even if she did like to manage him without always filling in the details until the last possible moment. After he'd been on the runway for their autumn/winter show in Paris Fashion Week last year they had let him know that they'd be happy to work with him any time, and the ‘go and see’ had been more a formality than a real interview. He didn't want to brag to Andrea, though.
“Fucking Balmain, man,” Andrea said, with a dreamy little moan. “Put in a good word for me, will you? I'd kill to work for Balmain. Think of the résumé, man.”
“Will do, gorgeous,” Orlando said, and ran a suggestive hand down Andrea's front. “But it'll cost ya.”
“Oh, what exactly?” Andrea asked, pursing his lips. This was familiar banter for the two of them; suggestive talk that never went anywhere and wasn't meant to.
“Well, you know that I've always rather fancied Givenchy?” Andrea shrugged an affirmative. “Your bloke works for fucking Givenchy, mate, I'm sure he could bring my name up somewhere. Fair trade, is what I call it.”
“Fine, I'll talk to him. Aw, Viggo's waiting,” Andrea said, with a suggestive tilt of his eyebrows, and then leaned in for goodbye kisses on both cheeks. “See you, and take care. Call me when you want to hit the town. Ciao.”
“Ciao, bello.”
He got into the car, and made a show of fastening his seatbelt, lest Viggo think he was just a punk kid with no regard for safety issues.
Orlando leaned his head on the passenger side window and chewed on his lip, narrowing his eyes against the flashing lights of the cars passing them. It was dark already, the hours having disappeared into the frenzy of shooting, posing and re-adjusting the lights, clothing and make-up. There was a migraine attack forming behind his eyes, just waiting to be unleashed if he stopped to think...
He was aware of the looks Viggo was throwing his way, and finally he realised that the older man was awaiting instructions to his place. His place. Davide. Panic started to rise inside him but he stomped it down quickly and ruthlessly. Stop. Just. Stop. Breathe.
“I swear I'm not coming onto you,” he began, adding a little pursed-lip grin to accompany his words. “But could we go to your place? I feel a bit shaken, I don't think I should be alone right now. With my head having been hit and all.”
“Sure,” Viggo said easily, his eyes fixed on the road.
They had just reached a busy intersection and Viggo bit back a curse as a Ford Excursion SUV cut in front of him and he was forced to hit the brakes to avoid a collision. The young woman driving the car never noticed anything, busily chatting on her cell as she was. Viggo glanced at him from the corner of his eye as soon as they were clear. “Are you okay? You look a bit pale.”
“Just the usual tiredness after being ordered around by a bitch of a photographer all day,” Orlando said, grinning as Viggo lazily gave him the finger. “I wouldn't mind a drink, though. If that's cool.” He smiled as Viggo started to say something. “I know, nothing with alcohol in it, dad.”
“Brat,” Viggo muttered.
The parking garage was built below ground level and Viggo steered his vehicle into the semi-dark tunnel that lit up as soon as they reached the parking area itself. He manoeuvred his car next to a battered looking Ferrari and grinned at Orlando, turning off the engine of his Prius.
“See, you're not the only one who's careless with expensive automobiles.”
“Bastard,” Orlando murmured and got out of the car. Bugger, he'd been genuinely fond of his 'Vette; it was the first thing he'd bought after his first big paying modelling job. 1958 Corvette Cabriolet. A fucking beauty. He sighed. “You know, it's not always about you. Other people fuck up too, sometimes even without your help.”
Viggo stopped getting his equipment out of the trunk and met his gaze. “And you're only responsible for your own actions. Same goes for everyone else.”
“True enough, I guess.” Orlando smiled wanly and helped Viggo by taking one of his bags inside without being asked. It was widely known that the photographer only worked with his own equipment, and as he used his home studio for his own personal projects he was bound to carry his camera and other belongings to work with him.
The ride in the elevator was quiet; Orlando studied his face in the mirror in the harsh lighting and resisted the urge to don his shades. Good thing they covered nearly half of his face; for once fashionable was also practical. Across the small space, Viggo was looking at him in a way that made him nervous. There was nothing predatory or lustful about his gaze; it was simple, quiet appreciation that warmed Orlando more than it perhaps should have.
He knew he had collected himself phenomenally after his initial outburst, like a true professional, and all in all the photo shoot had been a really successful one. Viggo somehow knew how to bring out the depth in his beauty; not just skin-deep but something one had to look for to catch it. Viggo had caught it seemingly with no effort.
Viggo Mortensen was a master of light and shadow, and somehow he had managed to photograph Orlando from all sides and yet mask the bruise marring his face without any additional help from the make-up artists. One simply didn't pay attention to such a minor detail when there was so much else to look at; the graceful bow of his upper lip, the dark winged brows furrowing above downcast eyes. The mischievous glint accompanied by a pair of pursed lips, a look that was downright indecent without being lewd.
Orlando smiled, meeting Viggo's eyes across the space. He'd always taken pride on his professionalism and his ability to perform well even on his bad days, but he'd outdone himself today. What had started as a day from hell had turned into a professional triumph.
It felt good. To be working again, for starters. To actually feel like a real human being instead of a pre-programmed robot that went through the motions looking perfect and detached. Or worse, a drugged-out sex toy who remembered nothing from the day before, or the day before that.
Viggo let them in and kicked the door closed after himself. “I'd apologise for the mess if I didn't know your place is the same.” He glanced at Orlando again, one corner of his mouth curling upwards.
“How do you figure that?” Orlando asked and followed the other man's example by toeing off his moccasins. The tiled floor was warm, and Orlando got the silly urge to ditch his socks and go barefoot. “For all you know I could be a neat-freak going batshit insane over the smallest speck of dust.”
“Something about the way you seem to shed your clothing wherever it is you happen to walk and let other people clean up your mess.” Viggo paused. “Just a guess, really.”
Orlando blinked. What an assumption to make about someone who was practically a stranger! “Just so you know, I have a cleaning lady coming in twice a week. It's so clean you could eat off the floors.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, an old memory flashed through his mind. Davide pressing his face against the kitchen floor, rubbing it in the spilled salad dressing and telling him to clean up his fucking mess right that fucking minute.
The older man shrugged. “If you say so.” He studied the younger man and frowned at the look on his face. Orlando had that faraway look again, and Viggo decided he didn't like it. “What is it?”
“Uh, just remembered I should pay her the next time I see her,” Orlando dodged lamely. Had Viggo heard about him and Davide? He thought everyone knew; it was hardly a big industry secret and what with the last weeks' exposure in the media. He lifted the bag. “So where should I put this?”
“In my studio,” Viggo said and then, changing his mind, reached for the bag. “I'll take it. Just make yourself comfortable, I'll try and get you your drink asap.”
He watched Viggo disappear behind the first door on the left, his eyes following the firm ass covered by dark denim. Very nice. Orlando knew way too many men who gave up after turning forty and gave in to middle-aged spread. Which of course didn't stop them from coveting fresh-faced eighteen-year-olds, clearly thinking that their money and name would make up for the lack of physical appeal.
Shaking his head he sat down on the cream coloured sofa and pinched the bridge of his nose. What the hell was he doing? Going to a stranger's apartment, half-hoping the man would seduce him and give him respite from his problems? That was so lame, using the older man as a crutch just because he was too big a coward to stand up for himself. Only, he wasn't. If Davide could almost bash his head in who knew where it'd stop. If it indeed stopped at all.
Orlando felt chilled all of a sudden and stuck his hands into his armpits. Viggo's place was air-conditioned to the max and entering the apartment had a similar effect to one stepping inside a fridge. He looked up when Viggo came back, noting that the older man had ditched his shirt and donned a black long sleeved tee, looking absolutely edible. Orlando looked up from the man's lips when he spoke, finding a pair of blue eyes looking at him intently.
“Are you okay, really? You seem to be narrowing your eyes a lot...”
“Migraine coming,” Orlando said quietly, giving up the pretence of being simply tired. “Other than that, fine.”
“Should you lie down?” Viggo asked, reaching for a quilt that was folded at the other end of the couch. “I can put off the lights too if that'd make it better.”
“Maybe if I could have a drink first,” Orlando requested. Viggo nodded and got up when the door buzzer went off.
His brows raised quizzically and he glanced at Orlando. “I'm not expecting anyone,” he said by way of explanation. “I'll try and get rid of them quickly.”
Viggo let the visitor in, and the door opened to reveal one of the most astonishingly beautiful young men Orlando had ever seen. He was around Orlando's age, a little shorter perhaps, but equally lithe and slender. The colouring matched Orlando's, as well; dark brown hair cut in a trendy do and big, brown eyes gazing at Viggo as if he were the maker of all things.
“Joaquín. I didn't know you were going to drop by,” Viggo said, and the tone of his voice wasn't that of a delighted lover. If anything, he sounded careful, as if a wrong word or gesture could set the boy off.
Impossibly long lashes fluttered in Viggo's direction, and in a sudden pang of realisation it dawned on Orlando that perhaps Viggo wasn't as unattached as he'd claimed to be. Or perhaps claimed was too strong a word; led to believe was maybe more accurate. A fist clenched around his gut and he swallowed thickly, suddenly wishing that he was some place else.
“Viggo. I just came to get the latest set of photos,” he said smoothly and then smiled. “Ven aquí y dame un beso. Old man.”
Viggo stepped closer and Joaquín all but launched himself at him. He wrapped his slender arms around Viggo's form and kissed him on both cheeks, and then landing one squarely on his mouth. Orlando spied a hint of tongue and had to suppress a brief flash of sudden jealousy before the boy stepped back and regarded Viggo with open suspicion.
“¿Es así como me saludan después de dos semanas?” he asked.
“Joaquín, tengo un visitante,” Viggo interrupted softly, nodding his head at Orlando who was still perched on the edge of the couch. The Brit felt uncomfortable with this new boy present who treated Viggo with the familiarity reserved for long-time friends, or lovers.
“Oh,” Joaquín said blankly, and then, recovering quickly, extended his hand to Orlando who half-rose from the couch to accept it. “You are Viggo's friend, yes? I am too. Joaquín.”
“I'm Orlando. Hi.”
Joaquín's eyes travelled up and down Orlando's body and finally a smile formed on his perfect lips. “Él es bello,” he said slowly. “Viggo, you old dog.” He then added something in Spanish, and cast a long look at Viggo beneath his long lashes, offering a wicked grin.
“Joaquín, ahora no,” Viggo said tiredly. “Would you care for that drink, Orlando? Is iced tea okay?”
“Sure,” Orlando answered and drew a small sofa cushion into his lap, irritated at his own sudden timidity.
He didn't like the way the other boy looked at him, as if he were an intruder in Viggo's house, or a possible competitor, and he had to wonder about his own reaction. He'd just met Viggo; it wasn't like he could stake any claim on the man, for heaven's sake. Biting his lip he watched Viggo disappear to the kitchen and raised his eyes to the other boy standing in front of him. Joaquín gave him a tight little smile and disappeared to Viggo's studio, returning some seconds later with a fat leather bound portfolio under his arm.
“I've seen you at the industry get-togethers,” Joaquín said to Orlando suddenly. “Last time was some weeks ago in Milan, I think? Of course, I'm not as big as you are so you probably don't remember me; no big entourage or anything.”
Orlando didn't know how to react to the other boy's passive-aggressive behaviour, so he offered a neutral shrug. Joaquín was of the ten a penny European pretty boy variety, and he honestly couldn't remember seeing him before. Not to mention the hassle that was Milan fashion week; people came and went, and Orlando was hard-pressed to remember any faces or names at all.
“Sorry, no.”
“You are with Davide Armand, right?” Joaquín asked, smirking to himself as Orlando blanched and bit his lip hard enough to hurt. “I saw you two at the Ferré after party. I've always wanted to work with him, there's this amazing quality to his photographs.”
“Yeah,” Orlando said numbly and searched for Viggo with his eyes.
He very well remembered that 'talk' at the after party between him and Davide; the older man had flown into a jealous rage over what he thought was someone else making passes at Orlando. It was then that Orlando had finally had enough, telling Davide in no uncertain terms that they were no longer a couple, and the older man should just try and find someone younger and more stupid to control and manipulate, because he wasn't taking it anymore. They were done.
Of course it hadn't ended there and then. Orlando shook his head to clear his mind of the unwanted thoughts and refocused on the boy in front of him, taking in the sneer marring his lips and the knowing look in his eyes. What did this kid think he knew? And what was he still doing here, anyway; hadn't he already got what he wanted?
Viggo returned with a tall glass of iced tea, the ice cubes clinking against each other, and handed it to Orlando. He took a careful sip, grateful for the interruption. Their host seemed oblivious to the barely veiled hostility between the two younger men, and Joaquín had pasted on a smile the moment Viggo came back.
“You got what you came for?” Viggo asked, sitting down next to Orlando, and Joaquín flashed him the folder in his right hand.
“Yes,” he said. “I might come back later for those photos you mentioned before, yes?”
Viggo nodded. “Why not. Maybe later this week?”
“"No quise decir esta noche. Sé que vas a estar ocupado.", “Joaquín said somewhat darkly.
“Por favor, no empieces,” Viggo said, and the boy shrugged, feigning indifference, and replied in Spanish.
Orlando started to feel left out and took another sip of his tea. Suddenly coming home with Viggo didn't seem like such a great idea after all. Viggo had led him to believe that he was single and free of attachments, but this Joaquín guy was all but pissing all over him to mark his ownership. Orlando saw through his act; hadn't Davide treated him exactly like this? Flaunted him and yet made clear to everyone else that Orlando was his, and his alone. His to touch, his to hurt, his to share.
“I think I'd better go,” he said suddenly, and met Viggo's gaze as the older man turned to look at him. “Long day and all that jazz, yeah?”
“Are you sure?” Viggo asked. “I'll take you home if you wish, but you're more than welcome to stay.”
Orlando chewed on his lip in sudden indecision and glanced up at Joaquín. He gazed back at the Brit with narrowed eyes, his lips tightened into a thin line, and Orlando realised that he was hoping Orlando would say no. Irritation flared inside him. Viggo was the first man who'd acted the least bit civil toward him in ages, and he wasn't going to let some snot-nosed no-one scare him away.
“Why not,” he said, and couldn't suppress a grin as Joaquín huffed and turned on his heels.
“Voy a venir mañana. Adiós,” he said to Viggo, and then offered a sweet but frosty “goodbye” to Orlando.
“Sorry about that,” Viggo said after the door had closed behind Joaquín, rubbing his neck. “I had no idea he was coming over tonight. I wouldn't have brought you here if I knew he was going to show up.”
Orlando smiled and took another sip from his drink. “It's okay,” he said. “Trust me; I've seen worse. Does he always act this territorial though?”
“Not usually,” Viggo said, and then his smile turned a little wry. ”But then, I don't usually have Orli Bloom over.”
“Is he your ex or your current boy or something?” Orlando asked bluntly. “Because I usually like to know if I'm stepping on someone's toes.”
Viggo shrugged. “Not really, just a friend and someone I work with from time to time.” He turned on the couch to face the younger man, his knee brushing Orlando's thigh. “But let's forget about him.. I'd much rather discuss the people present.”
Orlando smiled and his cheeks warmed. He really should know better than to fall victim to pretty words and smooth courting, but Viggo was the first man who'd treated him like something other than a tight ass and a flawless face for a long while. Hell, the older man hadn't even tried to come onto him despite the opportunity presented to him.
Orlando was used to going up into guys' hotel rooms, excusing himself to the men's room and then, upon returning to the living space, being expected to perform oral sex, or more, on command. He couldn't remember how many times he'd come back to be presented with the sight of his host having unzipped his trousers and stroking his cock, his legs splayed in a wide vee that would allow Orlando to kneel between them. It was no great secret that Orli Bloom gave wicked good head, especially after he'd been caught with one of the less known designers of Versace. Apparently a lot of guys thought nothing of kissing and telling.
“Nothing much to talk about, besides the usual sordid past,” he said and squeezed the cushion in his lap. “I just wanted to say how much I appreciate what you did for me today. I just... couldn't have dealt with any more publicity right now, you know?”
“I know,” Viggo said. “About your 'Vette. Should you be in contact with your insurance company?”
Orlando's eyes widened and he exhaled softly. “Fuck, you're right. I should. It's not too nice a neighbourhood, yeah? I'll call Jennifer and ask her to deal with it. I don't think I'm making enough sense at the moment to deal with insurance people.”
Viggo nodded. “What about your face?”
Orlando's hand flew to his face and he touched his temple, wincing as he did so. “No, I think it's okay. Looks worse than it is.”
As far as bruises went, that one wasn't even all that bad. He'd seen worse, hell, he'd had worse. He picked up the glass and pressed the cool surface against his temple, meeting Viggo's eyes. His smile froze as yet another memory assaulted him; Davide grabbing and pushing him, finally slamming his head sideways against the bathroom mirror, hard enough to daze him.
Orlando blinked and started as Viggo grabbed his wrist. Gently Viggo pried the glass from his fingers and then allowed Orlando to wrench his hand free. They stared at each other wordlessly, both wishing there wasn't a huge elephant in the room with them, and finally Orlando turned away.
“Really, I should leave.”
Viggo just nodded and stood up. “I'll go get your coat, and then I'll take you home.”
“No! I'll just hail a cab,” Orlando said firmly. “Really. Thanks for everything, the iced tea and all. I just... need to go home.”
He hesitated, then leaned in to brush his lips against Viggo's stubbled cheek, and then he was gone.
The damaged angel with clipped wings. Viggo sighed and watched him go.
tbc in Chapter two