Fic: Vanity Fair (VM/OB) 4/8
Title: Vanity Fair
Author: laeglass
Pairing: VM/OB; mentions of OB/other and VM/other. Some OB/other action in this chapter.
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* Feedback is very much appreciated. :)
Previous chapters
Orlando pushed his shoulders back and affected an empty, bored look.
He couldn't quite envision why anybody should look bored wearing a pair of skimpy Armani swimming trunks and having two girls flanking him on both sides, both seemingly vying for his attention, but that had been the photographer's orders and Orlando was ever so good at following orders when it was about work. The girls were both staring up at him, their pink lips parted in lust, and he was to act the part of the jaded playboy.
Suited him just fine.
“That's the look!” the photographer said exultantly, and the camera went off and off, and Orlando did his best to clear his mind of all thoughts.
The girls giggled when they were asked to switch pose; the other girl was pulling at the behind of his trunks, as if trying to pry them off of him, and the other was told to place her hands on his hips, her head tilted as she struck a flirtatious pose that best accentuated her cleavage. Again Orlando looked far off and away from the camera, his mind clearly elsewhere, as though the girls didn't even make a blip on his radar. (He silently wondered if the photographer was envisioning a closeted gay bloke posing as a ladies man, since any straight man would be all over these girls at the drop of a hat, but then he was actually gay and didn't otherwise care in the slightest who or what he was posing as, since it was all just work.)
Orlando was glad that he never went fully pale, even in winter, because he hated self-tanning products like nothing else; the smell was always horrid and what's worse, you'd have to shave all over and Orlando was too fond of his leg hair to see it all go. The girls had fake tans (of course) and Orlando couldn't shake the idea that the Aussie girl was a shade too orange to look natural.
Then again, everyone was orange in L.A., so maybe he shouldn't judge.
Switch pose. Switch. Switch. Orlando couldn't hold back a smirk at the last one as they were getting into position; the girls were both sitting/kneeling in the sand, looking up at him with wide eyes and parted lips, and he was towering over them with his arms across his chest. Sexist as shit, but apparently it sold. The trunks were a bit ridiculous, anyway, since no red-blooded American male would ever wear such a skimpy pair without fearing being labelled as gay. Maybe they were targeting the gay populace, then, but what would explain the girls?
Of course it was all about the look, and the image. Armani men were sexy and successful and had gorgeous girls throwing themselves at them, without having to put in the least amount of effort.
After the shoot he donned his baggiest sweats and hoodie that he had worn coming in - no tight clothes, or underwear, so as to avoid lines on his skin - and downed a bottle of water. The lights were hot and he was thirsty, having had to refrain from too much eating or drinking all day to keep his stomach looking flat. The girls stuck around, talking with him and the photographer, and Orlando made sure to kiss them both goodbye and say they had been wonderful and that he wished to see them both again very soon and hopefully work together again sometime.
When he left the set he realised he didn't even remember their names.
* * *
Some weeks passed, and Viggo didn't try to contact Orlando.
Christmas rolled by as well, and Orlando sent a bundle of presents to his mother and sister across the pond, including a cashmere wrap for Sonia, and a Balenciaga bag for Samantha. He didn't get himself a tree or put up any decorations, but Elijah and Matt stopped by for a gift exchange the day before Christmas Eve. Apparently they were planning to spend both Christmas and New Year's with Matt's family in Connecticut and were flying out in a few days. Orlando bit his lip as he realised that he had no plans, and no heart to start making any.
Usually he had his calendar full well before December, but apparently since he'd stopped partying he'd become invisible to a lot of people he used to go out with. Out of sight, out of mind. Orlando didn't particularly care, but the contrast to what had been before was stark. And he wouldn't have minded some company. His mother did call on Christmas Day, and Sam sent a long e-mail thanking him for the presents, but otherwise he spent the holidays watching old movies and going to the gym.
What a glamorous life.
Orlando told himself that he shouldn't feel hurt, or disappointed, that Viggo hadn't even called. Joaquín was probably over and all too happy to pick up where they'd left off just like Orli Bloom had never been there. The man probably didn't even remember him, and if he did, he was probably congratulating himself for dodging the bullet. Orlando knew he wasn't a prize by any means. He had a lot of baggage, and any man who wanted anything more serious with him should have his head examined, pronto. And clearly, Viggo didn't want to be that man.
The white roses had stopped for the time being, but Orlando refused to let himself be lulled into a false sense of security. What did give him security were the changed locks, and the new alarm system wired up in his car.
On New Year's Eve he had just come home from the gym when he realised that someone had left a message on his answering machine on his landline. He dropped down his gym bag and pressed the necessary buttons to listen to the message.
“Hi, this is Joaquín, you know, Viggo's friend? He's having a party tonight to celebrate New Year with his friends and family. Anyway, I got the impression that he didn't remember to ask you to come, so I am calling in his stead. I thought you and I could get to know each other a bit better, too, no? Any time after ten pm is fine; I will let you in. Adiós.”
Orlando rolled his eyes at the message as he deleted it. Sure you'd like to get to know me. He knew he could probably further Joaquín's career if he just decided to take an interest in him, but he wasn't noble enough to do a favour for someone who insisted on engaging him in a pissing contest every time they were forced to communicate. It was clear that Joaquín considered Viggo his private property and that didn't sit well with Orlando.
As he was loading his clothes into the washing machine he kept thinking about the message and Viggo's party. He hadn't taken Viggo as someone who would throw parties left, right and centre, but then he didn't know Viggo much at all really. So Viggo hadn't called him, but there could be a number of reasons for that. Number one being the message he'd left behind where he had all but said goodbye.
However, if he wanted to consider Viggo his friend, he should act like one.
Perhaps he'd just make a quick appearance to say hi, and then leave him to party with his chosen companions. Of course it stung that Viggo hadn't invited him himself, but after his note, who could blame him? Perhaps Viggo had thought he wouldn't want to come, or that he'd be too busy. Oh, if he only knew. Orlando had had to cancel a couple of gigs because of the bruising, an act that hadn't exactly endeared him to his agent.
It could turn up to be a huge, gigantic mistake, but Orlando was infamous for not playing it safe. What was the worst that could happen? He was quite sure that Viggo wouldn't throw him out. Worst case scenario would be having to bear witness to Viggo and Joaquín necking in front of him. Still, Viggo had claimed not to be involved with anyone, and Orlando chose to believe him; just because Joaquín was a clingy little thing with some boundary issues didn't mean that Viggo actually cared about him.
His mind made up, Orlando threw his favourite shirt in the washing machine, deciding that if he were to turn up, he'd better dress the part.
Later in the evening, all dressed in black Versace, Orlando was buzzing on Viggo's doorbell, and as promised, it was Joaquín's voice that came through the voice-com and bid him to enter. He came to open the door with a drink in hand, which he readily handed to Orlando. They briefly shook hands, and Orlando forced a smile on his face. Joaquín was Viggo's friend, too, so they would just have to learn to get along.
“I'm glad you could come,” Joaquín said. “Viggo's head is in the clouds, what can I say? I don't know what he would do without me.”
“Thank you,” Orlando said, trying to see past Joaquín to the living room.
He could hear people talking and laughing, some music playing softly in the background, and suddenly he wanted to be a part of that group, wanted to be one of those Viggo considered his closest friends, an insider. He wanted to have the right to walk up to Viggo, wrap his arms around the man and plant the biggest, wettest kiss imaginable on his lips, unnerved and certain of a warm welcome.
“Just a moment.” Joaquín took Orlando by his elbow and pulled him aside, and out of sight of those in the living room. “Perhaps he hasn't explained things to you. Viggo's naughty like that, not explaining the rules to those he plays with. You care about him, no?”
“He's my friend,” Orlando said, lifting his chin slightly, refusing to be intimidated by this slip of a boy.
“Oh, a friend,” Joaquín nodded knowingly. “You're his friend, and I'm more than just a friend. You understand? You're beautiful and young, of course he likes you. Viggo likes everything that is beautiful.”
“Who doesn't,” Orlando muttered to himself and took a swig of his drink. It was strong, and burned going down his throat; Orlando made a mental note to keep count on the drinks he had. He'd gone without booze for four weeks now, and was bound to react more strongly to alcohol now than before his self-enforced period of sobriety.
Joaquín was looking at him through narrowed eyes as if gauging his reactions. “I know you slept here one night a week ago. Did Viggo fuck you? I don't think he did, he likes to take things slowly. But he has fucked me; do you want to know what it's like?”
Orlando shook his head, torn between amusement and disgust. He most certainly didn't want to hear any details concerning Joaquín's sex life, whether it included Viggo or not. His reaction didn't seem to matter much for Joaquín, who continued, undisturbed.
“First off, he's big,” Joaquín said. “And the way he fucks; like there's no tomorrow and no-one else in the world but you and him.”
“Right,” Orlando said, and brought his drink to his lips again. He could tell that this wasn't a conversation he'd want to partake in while sober, so why not get drunk?
“We're a good match, he and I,” Joaquín continued. “He's very passionate in the bedroom, very much like the Spanish in that regard. I remember when we met we spent two whole weeks barely leaving his bed; he just couldn't get enough of me. He couldn't see anyone else but me.”
“Sorry to hear that the romance has cooled off since then,” Orlando said and downed his drink in one go, Joaquín's words causing his stomach to burn. It took all his self-control to place his glass down on the tabletop instead of smashing it against Joaquín's pretty skull. “I think I saw someone I know, excuse me.”
Joaquín's smile never reached his eyes. “So long as you know that Viggo's not actually in the free market, niño bonito. He likes to play a bit but he always comes back to me.”
Orlando turned and left, not sure what he'd say if he stayed around, and headed to the living room. He grabbed a drink from a nearby table and gulped it down, needing the numbing effect of alcohol. That fucking spiteful pretty thing had a knack of getting under his skin, and he didn't like it one bit. He liked the idea of Viggo toying with him even less. Fuck, he'd actually believed the older man when Viggo'd said that he wasn't involved with anyone.
He mingled a little among the guests, recognising some of the people attending Viggo's party. One of them was another photographer Orlando had worked with before, and they were soon lost in conversation while Orlando downed one drink after another. Then the man asked about Davide, and Orlando didn't know what to say. The full story behind their break-up wouldn't be an appropriate topic for this setting, and Orlando didn't want to air his private business in front of strangers anyway.
“Oh, you know how it is. Too busy to settle down,” he dodged.
Did everyone really know about him and Davide? How much had Viggo heard through the grapevine? And more importantly, how much did he believe of it? Orlando realised he was drunker than he'd thought when someone bumped into him from behind and sent him stumbling right into Eric's arms. Not a bad place to be, incidentally, but Eric was married and Orlando didn't go for straight blokes.
“Hey, no need to throw yourself at me,” Bana chuckled and settled Orlando back to his feet. Orlando realised his knees felt wobbly and leaned his hip on a nearby table to keep himself from swaying. Just how much had he drunk? “I didn't know that you knew Viggo, or vice versa. Although I shouldn't be surprised.”
“Oh, really?” Orlando asked. “Is he fond of pretty young things?”
Eric laughed. “You said it, mate, not me.”
Suddenly Orlando felt nauseous; it seemed that his view of Viggo was very different from everyone else's. Hell, everyone here probably thought that he was Viggo's plaything, his toy for the night, chosen because of his youth and his face and his name. Maybe they were right and he'd mistaken Viggo for someone he wasn't, a knight in shining armour whereas he was just like the rest of them, always after the tastiest piece of ass.
He'd seen a few glimpses of Viggo, and he was quite sure that the older man had seen him, as well, but he hadn't come over once to say hi. Orlando was suddenly wishing that he hadn't come. What was he doing here, anyway, if he was so intent on avoiding Viggo? He couldn't deny it, he had been avoiding the older man ever since Joaquín had chosen to reveal some private things about what he and Viggo got up to together; things that Orlando could've done very well without ever knowing.
It was a mistake, Orlando realised, coming here so soon after disappearing from Viggo's guest room. Viggo was probably mad at him, and Orlando wanted to leave. He excused himself and headed to the door, his head pounding with each step he took. He hoped that he wouldn't run into Viggo now. He was sure that Viggo wouldn't appreciate finding him this drunk, not after what he'd told Viggo about himself and his earlier problems with booze. He could take pretty much anything, but he didn't want Viggo looking at him with disgust, or even worse, pity.
He bolted into the nearest available room when Viggo came from the kitchen, desperate to avoid a face-to-face meeting, finding himself in a toilet. He relieved himself and then leant on the toilet sink, watching his face in the mirror. His stomach was busy trying to decide whether to behave or to act up, and Orlando closed his eyes when the room seemed to spin around him. Too much alcohol too quickly. What a dumb-ass, he should know better than this. He should be better than this.
Orlando felt his knees wobble a little when he finally exited the toilet, and then someone bumped into him from behind, again.
“So you do feel as good as you look,” the woman said, letting go of his ass when Orlando turned. “Don't mind me, pretty meat just always gets to me.” She stuck out her hand expectantly. “I'm Christine, previously Mortensen. Viggo calls me Exene, but you can call me whatever you like, beautiful.”
Orlando gawked before his brain caught up. Viggo's ex-wife? She was brown-haired and not very tall, with a figure that was more curvy than skinny. He'd mentally pictured someone with long blonde hair and two-meter-long legs when Viggo'd mentioned having been married for a while. He realised that Exene was still waiting with her hand extended, and accepted it, shaking it a bit too excitedly.
“Oh, Exene! Orlando. People usually call me a fucker or a cunt, but mostly just behind my back.”
“Oh, I know who you are,” Exene said, dimples appearing on her cheeks, and then raised her voice in a shout. “Viggo! You piece of shit, you should've told me that the Face was going to attend. I would've worn my party knickers for the occasion.”
“Ex, leave him alone,” Viggo said from somewhere in the kitchen. “You'll scare him off.”
Orlando started at hearing Viggo's voice. So Viggo did know that he was here. Bollocks. Out of the window went his plan of leaving unnoticed. He shifted his weight on his other foot, and realised he was still feeling wobbly. Double-bollocks. He was drunk and Exene was looking at him like a fat cat looks a canary.
“I'm just checking if he's worth keeping,” Exene said. “Well, are you?”
Orlando's stomach did an odd lurch and his spine stiffened. “I don't think that's for you to decide.”
“Oh, the kitty has claws,” Exene said happily. “I was afraid you'd be one of the blank pretty things, primo face and no brain to talk about.”
Ha. Orlando knew plenty of people who would describe him using those very exact words.
“The kitty has claws, alright, and knows how to use them,” Orlando said, his words still slurring a little. “What're you having?”
Exene handed him her glass filled with pink liquid. “Taste it. Viggo makes those especially for me.”
Orlando took a little sip and made a face. Pure vodka with a little something just to change the colour.
“Fuck, this shit's strong. Good, too.” He tasted again just to be able to form an opinion, and before he knew it, he was holding an empty glass.
“Just the way I like my men,” Exene said. She eyed Orlando from head to toe and pursed her lips. “Jesus, I usually go for the rugged type but you're the prettiest thing I have ever seen. I'd bet you're just as gorgeous all around, without clothes and everything.”
A surprised giggle burst forth from Orlando's mouth at her straightforwardness; he was used to people, women at least, making subtle innuendo, not saying out loud just exactly what they were thinking. Men on the other hand didn't necessarily use any words at all.
“Some people think so,” he said, winking subtly. He wasn't too used to flirting with women, but he was also no stranger to trading a couple of suggestive words. “Why? Would you like to see for yourself?”
“You offering?” Exene's eyes twinkled, and there was a definite challenge to her words.
“See this?” Orlando slurred and grabbed his package. “It's like a cock, but bigger.”
Exene clapped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with mirth. The boy had balls alright. Time to see if he was all talk and no action.
“Any chance to see the uncovered version?” she asked archly after she'd regained her aplomb. “I know Viggo's got a couple of spare bedrooms around here somewhere.”
Orlando's drunken brain registered the name of the man he'd been avoiding all night, and his stomach tumbled again. He didn't want to think about Viggo.
“You interested in a test-drive?” he asked, pursing his lips as he regarded the woman.
She wouldn't have been quite his type even if he were straight, but he could easily understand why Viggo had chosen to give bisexuality a go and to marry this woman all those years ago. Right now she gave him a pouty smile and stepped closer, lowering her voice to a throaty purr.
“You bet your ass, lover boy.”
Before Orlando could react Exene had taken his mouth in a kiss, her tongue pushing inside his mouth past his teeth, and he let out a muffled noise in surprise. She kissed unlike any other female he'd kissed before, more intensely and aggressively, but it lacked the trademark roughness of a man's kiss, and thus lacked one of the key elements that turned Orlando on.
His eyes slipped shut as he allowed the kiss to continue, but then some sixth sense prompted him to open his eyes and see Viggo standing in the doorway, watching him and Exene locked in what must have seemed like a passionate embrace and then disappearing in the kitchen again. Not so quickly, though, that Orlando could have missed the momentary confusion and then the hurt in his eyes.
Stumbling away from her he made to follow Viggo, but Exene's hand shot out and grabbed his arm. “You hurt him and I'll cut off your balls and feed them to my dog,” she said, all traces of playfulness gone. “Now go.”
Viggo was doing the dishes, and slamming the glasses and mugs on the counter with a bit more force than necessary, and Orlando hovered by the doorstep, biting on the insides his cheeks and wondering what to say. Perhaps he should apologise for showing up, and then acting like a wanker all evening, or perhaps he should begin by apologising for his flippant behaviour the other night. In any case, he felt like he owed an apology, and that, too, was another novelty. In the past, he'd apologised to no-one. No excuses and all that jazz. And now...
“You need any help with that?” he asked, aiming for casualness. Viggo glanced at him over his shoulder and shook his head. “You sure?”
“You've got lipstick smeared all over your mouth,” Viggo stated matter-of-factly. “Exene has been wearing that cherry color for at least a decade. Awful sight.”
Orlando rubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand, wincing at Viggo's tone. Big fucking surprise, he'd fucked up again. Only, this time he wasn't sure exactly what it was that he'd managed to mess up. Viggo obviously wasn't after anything serious, and if Joaquín was to be believed the two men were sleeping together. And still it had been Orlando who'd run away each and every time. He wasn't used to this, feeling the need to explain and apologise when in the past he'd solved such problems by doing either more blow or his infamous disappearing act.
Another mug was slammed onto the table top, and Orlando winced at the noise. At this rate Viggo was going to break something. He just hoped it wasn't over his head.
“I know I'm shit,” he said, speaking slowly because his mouth didn't want to obey his brain and speak intelligibly. “See, Viggo. This is the real me; the Face. The kind of guy that will screw up a million times given the chance. What you see is what you get in its purest form.”
Bang. A delicate champagne flute ended on the table top all soapy and wet, and for a little while looked like it was going to topple over, but at the last moment righted itself.
Viggo dried his hands on the kitchen towel and turned around, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Don't you ever grow tired of your own bullshit?”
Orlando blinked. “What?” He cleared his throat and tried again, realising that for some reason Viggo wasn't listening. Viggo not listening must have meant that he was really, really pissed off. “Look, I'm trying to apologise here, okay? There's no need to be a fucking wanker about it, mate.”
“Was that an apology?” Viggo asked. “In that case you should try again, because frankly it sucked.”
Somewhere in the distance, people were counting the seconds for midnight.
“Why are you being such a jerk?” Orlando asked. “So I kissed your ex-wife, but so what? It's not like I'm the one fucking many people at the same time and playing some twisted mind games just because I can.”
A chorus of 'Happy New Year' sounded from the living room, glasses clinking together, but neither Viggo nor Orlando were listening.
“Are you saying that I am?” Viggo asked, still not raising his tone. “Don't project your own insecurities on me, Orlando. I know you're drunk off your ass and that kind of explains your behavior, but frankly that's beneath you and I don't want to listen to this.”
“Well, why don't you just throw me out then?” Orlando snarled, and took a step closer. “If I'm such a grand failure that you just can't stand the sight of me why are you still talking to me? Joaquín's in there somewhere, I'm sure he'd love to spread his legs for you any time. No need for me, yeah?”
“With that childish attitude, not really,” Viggo said, his face set and unreadable. “And really not when you're drunk. Now was there anything else you wanted? If not, you're free to go back and make out with Exene all you like. I'll bring out some canapés in ten.”
“Meaning, you're gonna sulk and pout here in the kitchen for the next ten minutes, and then come out to make me feel even shittier,” Orlando said, no longer caring what came out of his mouth. If Viggo wanted to be a complete asshole why would he have to be the one to act all nice and polite? “You were saying something about a childish attitude?”
“Damn it, Orlando!” Viggo's hands clenched the counter and he inhaled through his nose, trying to calm himself. “Are you completely blind and deaf to everything and everyone but yourself?”
“I know we aren't, so please keep the fucking noise down,” Exene said dryly from the doorway. “Seriously, go get a room and fuck that petty bickering out of your systems before you drive everyone else here mad.”
Viggo glared at her. “Ex, not now.”
Orlando hung back, not wanting to get in the middle of that conversation. Let Viggo deal with her. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep, wanting to clear his head. When he next opened them, the kitchen didn't seem to sway half as badly as before.
“Vig, yes now,” she said mockingly. “You get that pissed only when you're not getting any, and anyone can tell you want to pound that ass. Just look at that boy.” Exene shook her head at the expressions on their faces and chuckled to herself. “Fine, I know when I'm not welcome. Why don't I just go and tell everyone that the party's over and you two overgrown babies can then proceed to fuck and make up? It's New Year, anyway. Better kick it off with style.”
“Didn't know you were in the matchmaking business nowadays,” Viggo said dryly. “I do like your suggestion, though. At least the part where you make yourself scarce and leave us alone. The part with the overgrown babies fucking was a bit gross, though.”
“Fucker,” Exene said fondly and then turned to Orlando, giving him a genuine smile. “It was nice to meet you, Orlando.” She winked and blew him a kiss before disappearing again.
Orlando blushed hotly and looked away. “Bye,” he mumbled. He glanced up at Viggo through his lashes, his anger forgotten for the time being. “She's something else, isn't she?”
Viggo snorted and relaxed slightly. “You can say that again. Used to drive me absolutely mad when we were married.” He smiled a little. “Nowadays she's one of my few real friends.”
“Lets you know which of your boyfriends are for keepers, does she?”
Viggo's eyebrow rose. “She's a mother hen, but I'm a big boy. I can usually tell that by myself.”
“And I didn't pass that test, did I,” Orlando said.
He felt suddenly tired, and all of the residual fight left him. He didn't want to stand there with Viggo and have a shouting match. It suddenly dawned on him that this wasn't what he'd been after when he came here; he hadn't meant to avoid Viggo all evening just to snog his ex-wife and have a tiff with him later on. In fact, he'd been in a conciliatory mood until Joaquín had seen it fit to inform him of Viggo's abilities as a lover as well as the enthusiasm, frequency and exclusivity of their lovemaking.
Viggo's face changed and he shook his head. “There's no test. Orlando.” His voice was softer than usual and for the first time Orlando saw him indecisive. “I know you don't need another older man telling you what to do any more than I want to be that man. I just don't know what I'm able to give you right now. ”
“I thought we'd be friends, at least,” Orlando said slowly, as if uncertain. At least he wasn't slurring anymore, and he counted that as a big victory; Viggo wouldn't be able to chalk up his words to alcohol; at least not all of them. “I'm such a mess. I know I am. And honestly, I don't expect anything from you. I have a lot of issues that I'm dealing with, and that's putting it lightly. I can't clean up my act overnight, yeah?”
“I suppose I could quit being a judgmental asshole,” Viggo said, a small smile tugging on one corner of his mouth. “So...”
“Yeah?”
“Happy New Year.”
Orlando laughed. “Happy New Year to you too. Here's hoping for a year with fewer fuck-ups.”
“I'd drink to that,” Viggo said, and Orlando could tell from his tone that he meant it. “I should probably go and check if everyone left already.” He tugged on his earlobe and chuckled. “Some host I am.”
“I'm sorry if I ruined your party,” Orlando said and plopped down onto the kitchen chair, staring at the table top. There was a bowl of potato chips placed in front of him on the table, and Orlando stared at the pile of fat and carbs in drunken fascination. He then shook his head, trying to focus. They were having a serious conversation and it wouldn't do to mentally check out at this point. “I swear I didn't mean it to go like this. I really wanted to see you and talk to you, but...”
His words trailed off. He didn't mean to sound like he was making excuses, but Viggo seemed to understand, because he nodded.
“Let me guess; Joaquín said something.”
“Yeah.” Orlando chewed on the side of his thumb and then settled his hands back on the table. “He did. And I guess I reacted exactly the way I was meant to. Shit. I should know better. I really didn't mean for this to go like this.”
“He doesn't play well with others,” Viggo said. Orlando nearly chuckled at this understatement. “I guess mommy didn't teach him to share.”
“So, you two are an item then,” Orlando said, and his eyes left Viggo's in sudden disappointment. “I wish you'd told me that before --”
“No, we're not. Orlando. We're really not.” At Viggo's tone of voice Orlando was forced to meet Viggo's eyes again, and they were honest. “What I meant was, he's not really used to having to share my attention with someone else. Like I said that one time when we were having coffee, I don't have that many friends in town. He's used to having me all to himself. And then you come along, glowing and beautiful and larger than life, and he lashes out. He's not my lover and I'm not his, no matter how hard he tries to convince you otherwise.”
Viggo just called him beautiful. Orlando didn't want to read too much into it, since people called him beautiful all the time.
“No need to explain,” Orlando said quickly. “I hardly have any room to judge. It’s not as if if I know anything about men or relationships.”
“Hey now. Nothing that you couldn't learn.”
Orlando raised a tired eyebrow. “We're still talking about me? Come on, it's me, Orlando. I have no idea how to be in a relationship with someone. I mean, the bed stuff, that's easy. But then they start having expectations and demands and needs and I can't deal with that.”
He took a potato chip from the bowl in front of him, and munched on it thoughtfully. He hoped he didn't look like he was spacing out. In truth, he was hungry. Maybe Viggo could magically produce some of those canapés he'd talked about?
“Maybe concentrating less on the bed stuff could teach you something about the other,” Viggo said carefully. “Or yourself.”
“Is that a posh way of saying 'quit being a whore and talk to the guy before sucking his cock'?” Orlando chortled at Viggo's expression, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You still surprised at the potty mouth?”
“I'm starting to expect surprises from you,” Viggo said, and Orlando's stomach tightened at the look in his eyes.
“I guess I should go home,” he said, his throat suddenly dry, canapés forgotten.
Viggo was watching him across the room, and he had the feeling that if he stayed they'd be doing exactly what Exene had told them to do before leaving them alone; rutting on the table like animals in heat, and Orlando wasn't sure if he could take that. It was just sex and nothing he hadn't done before, but he felt vulnerable in a way that didn't feel all that comfortable.
Maybe it was because he knew he could never view Viggo as an ordinary fuck that could be ditched after the deed, maybe it was because he couldn't take it if Viggo simply wanted a piece of tail and nothing more.
“Good night, Orlando. Although you're still welcome to spend a night here, if you wish.”
Orlando paused on the doorstep, his back turned to Viggo, and smiled. “G'night, Vig.”
* * *
The following week, something resembling a truce was made; Viggo called Orlando's mobile, and Orlando invited him over for dinner on Thursday night, promising a home-cooked meal. After the call ended he banged his head against the fridge door, because he couldn't actually cook to save his life, but the words had just come out of his mouth before he could reconsider them. However, the last thing he wanted was to go out with Viggo and risk the paparazzi and the gossip that would follow; besides, he wanted a more intimate setting just in case... He didn't complete that thought.
That week he was working on the photo shoot for the US Vogue editorial, this time donning Balenciaga; minimal make-up, hair slicked back and black clothes thrown seemingly haphazardly on him while he stretched himself over furniture and gazed out of windows with haunted eyes while the camera went off and off and off.
He was nervous, finding himself biting his fingernails and smoking cigarette after cigarette on his breaks until his throat felt raw and rough. It was pathetic, feeling so out of sorts just because a bloke was coming over; Orlando was used to entertaining all sorts of company, and he certainly never had to worry whether the others liked him, or what they really thought. Of course they adored him, because everybody did.
Viggo, on the other hand, was different. More important, for one. For some reason, his opinion mattered, and as much as Orlando tried to tell himself that Viggo had already seen him at his worst and still liked him, it didn't calm his frayed nerves much.
What did he really have to offer? They had talked about being friends, but what good was Orlando as a friend? Now that he'd given sobriety a shot, his friends and mates, people he had thought cared about him, had suddenly vanished as if they'd never been there in the first place. Only Elijah was loyal as ever, ringing him up at least a couple of times a week, asking him to come over and laze around, or go and grab something to eat together. The problem was, Orlando wasn't good at ordinary things. He didn't deal well with boredom, or routine.
Orlando sighed. He would have to learn. For once in his life he would make an effort to be the kind of person that Viggo could be friends with; he wanted to be worthy of that friendship, and not just for Viggo's sake, but his own. He needed to do this for himself.
* * *
“I'm turning into a fucking bore.” It came out sounding more whiny than Orlando would have liked, but he was past caring. Thursday was still days away, and he was starting to feel jittery again.
“You need to go out more, bello,” Andrea said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Let's go out tonight. I have some friends who'd like to meet you. Let's take them to some gay bar and just dance the night away.”
“Andrea, you're so bad,” Orlando moaned and hid his face in his hands. “I shouldn't go out drinking. You know where that'll lead.”
“Um, I didn’t say drinking, you beautiful moron, I said dancing,” Andrea said, and eyed him. “Orli, come on. There's this Danish boy you'd really like. I promise. And who says you have to fuck the dude if you don't want to.”
Orlando looked at him glumly, but had to admit that Andrea was right; just because he went to a bar didn't mean he had to get wasted. And just because he danced with somebody didn't mean he had to fuck them afterwards. And damn, it was getting fucking boring lounging home all day, every day, even if he did maintain his gym routine and had met some friends for coffee that week.
And he needed to do something that didn't include fretting over his dinner date with Viggo.
“You're on,” he said to Andrea. “It's been a while since I last went out, actually. Gotta keep up the rep, right?”
It was hard to tell whether the stares were due to his face, or his celeb status, but Orlando was more than conscious of all the looks he, and they, were drawing; and why wouldn't they? Andrea's friends, Roberto and 'the Danish boy', had turned out to be models, too, and Orlando could admit without conceit that they were the four most beautiful dudes in that bar. That wasn't to say that the other boys and men weren't good-looking, though; the place was all but packed with beautiful Latinos and gringos alike, and the dress code seemed to be 'shirtless' tonight. Orlando reckoned he was garnering enough attention as it was, and left his tank top on.
Andrea went to talk to the bartender that he knew - and hooked up with every now and then, although more rarely now that he was seeing someone - and Orlando took his friends out on the dance floor. Roberto found a willing dance partner soon enough, and Orlando took it on himself to entertain Andrea's other friend.
'The Danish boy' turned out to be a gorgeous, blue-eyed and blond youth named Steen, whose grasp of English was a bit sketchy at best. He was cute, though, and awfully tall, and Orlando thought they made a funny sight on the dance floor, grinding on each other, but maybe not so funny after all because Andrea kept throwing him 'told you so' looks all evening and Steen started to get a little grabby with his hands.
The music washed over them, and Orlando raised his arms in the air and closed his eyes, swaying to the sultry beat, and smiling as he felt Steen's hands slip under his tank top and slide down along his ribs to his waist. He smiled because in the not too distant past, he'd always taken such actions for come-ons and been on his knees in the backroom in less than ten, an arrangement that had always suited everyone. He'd had a few drinks, so he was pleasantly buzzed, but when Steen offered to get him another drink Orlando only requested ice water.
“Vogue shoot in the morning,” he said, and Steen looked at him in complete awe and went to get his water.
“Get that while it's hot,” Andrea said to his ear as soon as Steen disappeared in the writhing mass of bodies. Orlando grinned. Andrea was a sucker for hot blonds. “Che bello! He's only been in town for a couple of weeks. Fresh out of the air plane almost.”
“Actually, I'm thinking about maybe starting to see someone,” Orlando said, “and that someone's not your gorgeous Danish friend. So why don't you go for it? He's cute, from what I've seen.”
Andrea rolled his eyes. “Spoken for, remember. Which means no more flings for poor old me.”
“Yeah, poor you,” Orlando said, and then accepted the water bottle from Steen who returned miraculously quickly. Orlando suspected that Andrea had sweet-talked the bartender into giving them VIP service for the evening. “Thanks, love.”
Steen encouraged Orlando to wrap his arms around his neck, and they danced face to face, their hips pumping to the beat, and Orlando looked a bit perplexed when Steen's hands combed his sweaty hair back from his face and then leaned in to kiss him on the lips. He reflexively raised himself on his tiptoes to meet the kiss better, because Steen really was that tall, and Steen deepened the kiss immediately.
He didn't have to think, or to reflect, or to analyse, he only had to feel the damp heat of the other's body against his own, the tongue in his mouth, the hand that was in his nape and was holding him steady, and for that moment it was all he needed, or could ever want.
Then Steen's other hand went to his ass, and Orlando broke off the kiss, slightly out of breath. Steen might not know English all that well, but he knew how to kiss.
“Sorry, love, I'm not really available,” he said. “You see, you've caught me at a really bad time. Bad luck on your part, because just a few months ago I would've happily blown you in the gents if you'd asked, and just because you asked and were cute. But I was doing drugs then and I would've been totally wasted, anyway, so that would've played a major part. But to get to the point, I kind of like someone right now and it'd be tacky to start cleaning someone else's pipes at a gay bar while we're still figuring things out.”
“Hvad?” Steen said, perplexed, and Orlando rolled his eyes and laughed.
“Hands off the ass, okay?” he said. “But I don't think a few kisses hurt.”
They didn't hurt, and they thankfully didn't incite in him the lust to get on his knees, and so they danced and kissed the night away, drawing looks and a few wandering hands from the people all around them.
It felt liberating to realise that he didn't owe anyone anything. That he could dance, and flirt, and buy drinks for the other boys and didn't have to feel guilty, or try and make out which one - or ones - wanted to have sex with him and whether he should comply. Quitting your vices didn't mean you had to turn yourself into a recluse, or stop having fun on nights out, he decided. It only meant you couldn't do lines in the men's room, or from some bloke's ass, and didn't have to choke on anyone's dick when they were too drunk to be considerate, or thought it looked hot.
But when Steen started to get frisky again, Orlando delegated him to his acquaintance Luke, who was a regular he'd got to know and whom he knew had a thing for blonds, and that way everyone came out as a winner.
And when he was in the taxi on the way home, he left a definitely non-slurring voice message on Viggo's mobile, telling him that he would be home sometime after eight on Thursday and Viggo would be welcome any time after that and Orlando couldn't wait to see him then.
* * *
tbc in Chapter five
Author: laeglass
Pairing: VM/OB; mentions of OB/other and VM/other. Some OB/other action in this chapter.
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* Feedback is very much appreciated. :)
Previous chapters
Orlando pushed his shoulders back and affected an empty, bored look.
He couldn't quite envision why anybody should look bored wearing a pair of skimpy Armani swimming trunks and having two girls flanking him on both sides, both seemingly vying for his attention, but that had been the photographer's orders and Orlando was ever so good at following orders when it was about work. The girls were both staring up at him, their pink lips parted in lust, and he was to act the part of the jaded playboy.
Suited him just fine.
“That's the look!” the photographer said exultantly, and the camera went off and off, and Orlando did his best to clear his mind of all thoughts.
The girls giggled when they were asked to switch pose; the other girl was pulling at the behind of his trunks, as if trying to pry them off of him, and the other was told to place her hands on his hips, her head tilted as she struck a flirtatious pose that best accentuated her cleavage. Again Orlando looked far off and away from the camera, his mind clearly elsewhere, as though the girls didn't even make a blip on his radar. (He silently wondered if the photographer was envisioning a closeted gay bloke posing as a ladies man, since any straight man would be all over these girls at the drop of a hat, but then he was actually gay and didn't otherwise care in the slightest who or what he was posing as, since it was all just work.)
Orlando was glad that he never went fully pale, even in winter, because he hated self-tanning products like nothing else; the smell was always horrid and what's worse, you'd have to shave all over and Orlando was too fond of his leg hair to see it all go. The girls had fake tans (of course) and Orlando couldn't shake the idea that the Aussie girl was a shade too orange to look natural.
Then again, everyone was orange in L.A., so maybe he shouldn't judge.
Switch pose. Switch. Switch. Orlando couldn't hold back a smirk at the last one as they were getting into position; the girls were both sitting/kneeling in the sand, looking up at him with wide eyes and parted lips, and he was towering over them with his arms across his chest. Sexist as shit, but apparently it sold. The trunks were a bit ridiculous, anyway, since no red-blooded American male would ever wear such a skimpy pair without fearing being labelled as gay. Maybe they were targeting the gay populace, then, but what would explain the girls?
Of course it was all about the look, and the image. Armani men were sexy and successful and had gorgeous girls throwing themselves at them, without having to put in the least amount of effort.
After the shoot he donned his baggiest sweats and hoodie that he had worn coming in - no tight clothes, or underwear, so as to avoid lines on his skin - and downed a bottle of water. The lights were hot and he was thirsty, having had to refrain from too much eating or drinking all day to keep his stomach looking flat. The girls stuck around, talking with him and the photographer, and Orlando made sure to kiss them both goodbye and say they had been wonderful and that he wished to see them both again very soon and hopefully work together again sometime.
When he left the set he realised he didn't even remember their names.
* * *
Some weeks passed, and Viggo didn't try to contact Orlando.
Christmas rolled by as well, and Orlando sent a bundle of presents to his mother and sister across the pond, including a cashmere wrap for Sonia, and a Balenciaga bag for Samantha. He didn't get himself a tree or put up any decorations, but Elijah and Matt stopped by for a gift exchange the day before Christmas Eve. Apparently they were planning to spend both Christmas and New Year's with Matt's family in Connecticut and were flying out in a few days. Orlando bit his lip as he realised that he had no plans, and no heart to start making any.
Usually he had his calendar full well before December, but apparently since he'd stopped partying he'd become invisible to a lot of people he used to go out with. Out of sight, out of mind. Orlando didn't particularly care, but the contrast to what had been before was stark. And he wouldn't have minded some company. His mother did call on Christmas Day, and Sam sent a long e-mail thanking him for the presents, but otherwise he spent the holidays watching old movies and going to the gym.
What a glamorous life.
Orlando told himself that he shouldn't feel hurt, or disappointed, that Viggo hadn't even called. Joaquín was probably over and all too happy to pick up where they'd left off just like Orli Bloom had never been there. The man probably didn't even remember him, and if he did, he was probably congratulating himself for dodging the bullet. Orlando knew he wasn't a prize by any means. He had a lot of baggage, and any man who wanted anything more serious with him should have his head examined, pronto. And clearly, Viggo didn't want to be that man.
The white roses had stopped for the time being, but Orlando refused to let himself be lulled into a false sense of security. What did give him security were the changed locks, and the new alarm system wired up in his car.
On New Year's Eve he had just come home from the gym when he realised that someone had left a message on his answering machine on his landline. He dropped down his gym bag and pressed the necessary buttons to listen to the message.
“Hi, this is Joaquín, you know, Viggo's friend? He's having a party tonight to celebrate New Year with his friends and family. Anyway, I got the impression that he didn't remember to ask you to come, so I am calling in his stead. I thought you and I could get to know each other a bit better, too, no? Any time after ten pm is fine; I will let you in. Adiós.”
Orlando rolled his eyes at the message as he deleted it. Sure you'd like to get to know me. He knew he could probably further Joaquín's career if he just decided to take an interest in him, but he wasn't noble enough to do a favour for someone who insisted on engaging him in a pissing contest every time they were forced to communicate. It was clear that Joaquín considered Viggo his private property and that didn't sit well with Orlando.
As he was loading his clothes into the washing machine he kept thinking about the message and Viggo's party. He hadn't taken Viggo as someone who would throw parties left, right and centre, but then he didn't know Viggo much at all really. So Viggo hadn't called him, but there could be a number of reasons for that. Number one being the message he'd left behind where he had all but said goodbye.
However, if he wanted to consider Viggo his friend, he should act like one.
Perhaps he'd just make a quick appearance to say hi, and then leave him to party with his chosen companions. Of course it stung that Viggo hadn't invited him himself, but after his note, who could blame him? Perhaps Viggo had thought he wouldn't want to come, or that he'd be too busy. Oh, if he only knew. Orlando had had to cancel a couple of gigs because of the bruising, an act that hadn't exactly endeared him to his agent.
It could turn up to be a huge, gigantic mistake, but Orlando was infamous for not playing it safe. What was the worst that could happen? He was quite sure that Viggo wouldn't throw him out. Worst case scenario would be having to bear witness to Viggo and Joaquín necking in front of him. Still, Viggo had claimed not to be involved with anyone, and Orlando chose to believe him; just because Joaquín was a clingy little thing with some boundary issues didn't mean that Viggo actually cared about him.
His mind made up, Orlando threw his favourite shirt in the washing machine, deciding that if he were to turn up, he'd better dress the part.
Later in the evening, all dressed in black Versace, Orlando was buzzing on Viggo's doorbell, and as promised, it was Joaquín's voice that came through the voice-com and bid him to enter. He came to open the door with a drink in hand, which he readily handed to Orlando. They briefly shook hands, and Orlando forced a smile on his face. Joaquín was Viggo's friend, too, so they would just have to learn to get along.
“I'm glad you could come,” Joaquín said. “Viggo's head is in the clouds, what can I say? I don't know what he would do without me.”
“Thank you,” Orlando said, trying to see past Joaquín to the living room.
He could hear people talking and laughing, some music playing softly in the background, and suddenly he wanted to be a part of that group, wanted to be one of those Viggo considered his closest friends, an insider. He wanted to have the right to walk up to Viggo, wrap his arms around the man and plant the biggest, wettest kiss imaginable on his lips, unnerved and certain of a warm welcome.
“Just a moment.” Joaquín took Orlando by his elbow and pulled him aside, and out of sight of those in the living room. “Perhaps he hasn't explained things to you. Viggo's naughty like that, not explaining the rules to those he plays with. You care about him, no?”
“He's my friend,” Orlando said, lifting his chin slightly, refusing to be intimidated by this slip of a boy.
“Oh, a friend,” Joaquín nodded knowingly. “You're his friend, and I'm more than just a friend. You understand? You're beautiful and young, of course he likes you. Viggo likes everything that is beautiful.”
“Who doesn't,” Orlando muttered to himself and took a swig of his drink. It was strong, and burned going down his throat; Orlando made a mental note to keep count on the drinks he had. He'd gone without booze for four weeks now, and was bound to react more strongly to alcohol now than before his self-enforced period of sobriety.
Joaquín was looking at him through narrowed eyes as if gauging his reactions. “I know you slept here one night a week ago. Did Viggo fuck you? I don't think he did, he likes to take things slowly. But he has fucked me; do you want to know what it's like?”
Orlando shook his head, torn between amusement and disgust. He most certainly didn't want to hear any details concerning Joaquín's sex life, whether it included Viggo or not. His reaction didn't seem to matter much for Joaquín, who continued, undisturbed.
“First off, he's big,” Joaquín said. “And the way he fucks; like there's no tomorrow and no-one else in the world but you and him.”
“Right,” Orlando said, and brought his drink to his lips again. He could tell that this wasn't a conversation he'd want to partake in while sober, so why not get drunk?
“We're a good match, he and I,” Joaquín continued. “He's very passionate in the bedroom, very much like the Spanish in that regard. I remember when we met we spent two whole weeks barely leaving his bed; he just couldn't get enough of me. He couldn't see anyone else but me.”
“Sorry to hear that the romance has cooled off since then,” Orlando said and downed his drink in one go, Joaquín's words causing his stomach to burn. It took all his self-control to place his glass down on the tabletop instead of smashing it against Joaquín's pretty skull. “I think I saw someone I know, excuse me.”
Joaquín's smile never reached his eyes. “So long as you know that Viggo's not actually in the free market, niño bonito. He likes to play a bit but he always comes back to me.”
Orlando turned and left, not sure what he'd say if he stayed around, and headed to the living room. He grabbed a drink from a nearby table and gulped it down, needing the numbing effect of alcohol. That fucking spiteful pretty thing had a knack of getting under his skin, and he didn't like it one bit. He liked the idea of Viggo toying with him even less. Fuck, he'd actually believed the older man when Viggo'd said that he wasn't involved with anyone.
He mingled a little among the guests, recognising some of the people attending Viggo's party. One of them was another photographer Orlando had worked with before, and they were soon lost in conversation while Orlando downed one drink after another. Then the man asked about Davide, and Orlando didn't know what to say. The full story behind their break-up wouldn't be an appropriate topic for this setting, and Orlando didn't want to air his private business in front of strangers anyway.
“Oh, you know how it is. Too busy to settle down,” he dodged.
Did everyone really know about him and Davide? How much had Viggo heard through the grapevine? And more importantly, how much did he believe of it? Orlando realised he was drunker than he'd thought when someone bumped into him from behind and sent him stumbling right into Eric's arms. Not a bad place to be, incidentally, but Eric was married and Orlando didn't go for straight blokes.
“Hey, no need to throw yourself at me,” Bana chuckled and settled Orlando back to his feet. Orlando realised his knees felt wobbly and leaned his hip on a nearby table to keep himself from swaying. Just how much had he drunk? “I didn't know that you knew Viggo, or vice versa. Although I shouldn't be surprised.”
“Oh, really?” Orlando asked. “Is he fond of pretty young things?”
Eric laughed. “You said it, mate, not me.”
Suddenly Orlando felt nauseous; it seemed that his view of Viggo was very different from everyone else's. Hell, everyone here probably thought that he was Viggo's plaything, his toy for the night, chosen because of his youth and his face and his name. Maybe they were right and he'd mistaken Viggo for someone he wasn't, a knight in shining armour whereas he was just like the rest of them, always after the tastiest piece of ass.
He'd seen a few glimpses of Viggo, and he was quite sure that the older man had seen him, as well, but he hadn't come over once to say hi. Orlando was suddenly wishing that he hadn't come. What was he doing here, anyway, if he was so intent on avoiding Viggo? He couldn't deny it, he had been avoiding the older man ever since Joaquín had chosen to reveal some private things about what he and Viggo got up to together; things that Orlando could've done very well without ever knowing.
It was a mistake, Orlando realised, coming here so soon after disappearing from Viggo's guest room. Viggo was probably mad at him, and Orlando wanted to leave. He excused himself and headed to the door, his head pounding with each step he took. He hoped that he wouldn't run into Viggo now. He was sure that Viggo wouldn't appreciate finding him this drunk, not after what he'd told Viggo about himself and his earlier problems with booze. He could take pretty much anything, but he didn't want Viggo looking at him with disgust, or even worse, pity.
He bolted into the nearest available room when Viggo came from the kitchen, desperate to avoid a face-to-face meeting, finding himself in a toilet. He relieved himself and then leant on the toilet sink, watching his face in the mirror. His stomach was busy trying to decide whether to behave or to act up, and Orlando closed his eyes when the room seemed to spin around him. Too much alcohol too quickly. What a dumb-ass, he should know better than this. He should be better than this.
Orlando felt his knees wobble a little when he finally exited the toilet, and then someone bumped into him from behind, again.
“So you do feel as good as you look,” the woman said, letting go of his ass when Orlando turned. “Don't mind me, pretty meat just always gets to me.” She stuck out her hand expectantly. “I'm Christine, previously Mortensen. Viggo calls me Exene, but you can call me whatever you like, beautiful.”
Orlando gawked before his brain caught up. Viggo's ex-wife? She was brown-haired and not very tall, with a figure that was more curvy than skinny. He'd mentally pictured someone with long blonde hair and two-meter-long legs when Viggo'd mentioned having been married for a while. He realised that Exene was still waiting with her hand extended, and accepted it, shaking it a bit too excitedly.
“Oh, Exene! Orlando. People usually call me a fucker or a cunt, but mostly just behind my back.”
“Oh, I know who you are,” Exene said, dimples appearing on her cheeks, and then raised her voice in a shout. “Viggo! You piece of shit, you should've told me that the Face was going to attend. I would've worn my party knickers for the occasion.”
“Ex, leave him alone,” Viggo said from somewhere in the kitchen. “You'll scare him off.”
Orlando started at hearing Viggo's voice. So Viggo did know that he was here. Bollocks. Out of the window went his plan of leaving unnoticed. He shifted his weight on his other foot, and realised he was still feeling wobbly. Double-bollocks. He was drunk and Exene was looking at him like a fat cat looks a canary.
“I'm just checking if he's worth keeping,” Exene said. “Well, are you?”
Orlando's stomach did an odd lurch and his spine stiffened. “I don't think that's for you to decide.”
“Oh, the kitty has claws,” Exene said happily. “I was afraid you'd be one of the blank pretty things, primo face and no brain to talk about.”
Ha. Orlando knew plenty of people who would describe him using those very exact words.
“The kitty has claws, alright, and knows how to use them,” Orlando said, his words still slurring a little. “What're you having?”
Exene handed him her glass filled with pink liquid. “Taste it. Viggo makes those especially for me.”
Orlando took a little sip and made a face. Pure vodka with a little something just to change the colour.
“Fuck, this shit's strong. Good, too.” He tasted again just to be able to form an opinion, and before he knew it, he was holding an empty glass.
“Just the way I like my men,” Exene said. She eyed Orlando from head to toe and pursed her lips. “Jesus, I usually go for the rugged type but you're the prettiest thing I have ever seen. I'd bet you're just as gorgeous all around, without clothes and everything.”
A surprised giggle burst forth from Orlando's mouth at her straightforwardness; he was used to people, women at least, making subtle innuendo, not saying out loud just exactly what they were thinking. Men on the other hand didn't necessarily use any words at all.
“Some people think so,” he said, winking subtly. He wasn't too used to flirting with women, but he was also no stranger to trading a couple of suggestive words. “Why? Would you like to see for yourself?”
“You offering?” Exene's eyes twinkled, and there was a definite challenge to her words.
“See this?” Orlando slurred and grabbed his package. “It's like a cock, but bigger.”
Exene clapped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with mirth. The boy had balls alright. Time to see if he was all talk and no action.
“Any chance to see the uncovered version?” she asked archly after she'd regained her aplomb. “I know Viggo's got a couple of spare bedrooms around here somewhere.”
Orlando's drunken brain registered the name of the man he'd been avoiding all night, and his stomach tumbled again. He didn't want to think about Viggo.
“You interested in a test-drive?” he asked, pursing his lips as he regarded the woman.
She wouldn't have been quite his type even if he were straight, but he could easily understand why Viggo had chosen to give bisexuality a go and to marry this woman all those years ago. Right now she gave him a pouty smile and stepped closer, lowering her voice to a throaty purr.
“You bet your ass, lover boy.”
Before Orlando could react Exene had taken his mouth in a kiss, her tongue pushing inside his mouth past his teeth, and he let out a muffled noise in surprise. She kissed unlike any other female he'd kissed before, more intensely and aggressively, but it lacked the trademark roughness of a man's kiss, and thus lacked one of the key elements that turned Orlando on.
His eyes slipped shut as he allowed the kiss to continue, but then some sixth sense prompted him to open his eyes and see Viggo standing in the doorway, watching him and Exene locked in what must have seemed like a passionate embrace and then disappearing in the kitchen again. Not so quickly, though, that Orlando could have missed the momentary confusion and then the hurt in his eyes.
Stumbling away from her he made to follow Viggo, but Exene's hand shot out and grabbed his arm. “You hurt him and I'll cut off your balls and feed them to my dog,” she said, all traces of playfulness gone. “Now go.”
Viggo was doing the dishes, and slamming the glasses and mugs on the counter with a bit more force than necessary, and Orlando hovered by the doorstep, biting on the insides his cheeks and wondering what to say. Perhaps he should apologise for showing up, and then acting like a wanker all evening, or perhaps he should begin by apologising for his flippant behaviour the other night. In any case, he felt like he owed an apology, and that, too, was another novelty. In the past, he'd apologised to no-one. No excuses and all that jazz. And now...
“You need any help with that?” he asked, aiming for casualness. Viggo glanced at him over his shoulder and shook his head. “You sure?”
“You've got lipstick smeared all over your mouth,” Viggo stated matter-of-factly. “Exene has been wearing that cherry color for at least a decade. Awful sight.”
Orlando rubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand, wincing at Viggo's tone. Big fucking surprise, he'd fucked up again. Only, this time he wasn't sure exactly what it was that he'd managed to mess up. Viggo obviously wasn't after anything serious, and if Joaquín was to be believed the two men were sleeping together. And still it had been Orlando who'd run away each and every time. He wasn't used to this, feeling the need to explain and apologise when in the past he'd solved such problems by doing either more blow or his infamous disappearing act.
Another mug was slammed onto the table top, and Orlando winced at the noise. At this rate Viggo was going to break something. He just hoped it wasn't over his head.
“I know I'm shit,” he said, speaking slowly because his mouth didn't want to obey his brain and speak intelligibly. “See, Viggo. This is the real me; the Face. The kind of guy that will screw up a million times given the chance. What you see is what you get in its purest form.”
Bang. A delicate champagne flute ended on the table top all soapy and wet, and for a little while looked like it was going to topple over, but at the last moment righted itself.
Viggo dried his hands on the kitchen towel and turned around, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Don't you ever grow tired of your own bullshit?”
Orlando blinked. “What?” He cleared his throat and tried again, realising that for some reason Viggo wasn't listening. Viggo not listening must have meant that he was really, really pissed off. “Look, I'm trying to apologise here, okay? There's no need to be a fucking wanker about it, mate.”
“Was that an apology?” Viggo asked. “In that case you should try again, because frankly it sucked.”
Somewhere in the distance, people were counting the seconds for midnight.
“Why are you being such a jerk?” Orlando asked. “So I kissed your ex-wife, but so what? It's not like I'm the one fucking many people at the same time and playing some twisted mind games just because I can.”
A chorus of 'Happy New Year' sounded from the living room, glasses clinking together, but neither Viggo nor Orlando were listening.
“Are you saying that I am?” Viggo asked, still not raising his tone. “Don't project your own insecurities on me, Orlando. I know you're drunk off your ass and that kind of explains your behavior, but frankly that's beneath you and I don't want to listen to this.”
“Well, why don't you just throw me out then?” Orlando snarled, and took a step closer. “If I'm such a grand failure that you just can't stand the sight of me why are you still talking to me? Joaquín's in there somewhere, I'm sure he'd love to spread his legs for you any time. No need for me, yeah?”
“With that childish attitude, not really,” Viggo said, his face set and unreadable. “And really not when you're drunk. Now was there anything else you wanted? If not, you're free to go back and make out with Exene all you like. I'll bring out some canapés in ten.”
“Meaning, you're gonna sulk and pout here in the kitchen for the next ten minutes, and then come out to make me feel even shittier,” Orlando said, no longer caring what came out of his mouth. If Viggo wanted to be a complete asshole why would he have to be the one to act all nice and polite? “You were saying something about a childish attitude?”
“Damn it, Orlando!” Viggo's hands clenched the counter and he inhaled through his nose, trying to calm himself. “Are you completely blind and deaf to everything and everyone but yourself?”
“I know we aren't, so please keep the fucking noise down,” Exene said dryly from the doorway. “Seriously, go get a room and fuck that petty bickering out of your systems before you drive everyone else here mad.”
Viggo glared at her. “Ex, not now.”
Orlando hung back, not wanting to get in the middle of that conversation. Let Viggo deal with her. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep, wanting to clear his head. When he next opened them, the kitchen didn't seem to sway half as badly as before.
“Vig, yes now,” she said mockingly. “You get that pissed only when you're not getting any, and anyone can tell you want to pound that ass. Just look at that boy.” Exene shook her head at the expressions on their faces and chuckled to herself. “Fine, I know when I'm not welcome. Why don't I just go and tell everyone that the party's over and you two overgrown babies can then proceed to fuck and make up? It's New Year, anyway. Better kick it off with style.”
“Didn't know you were in the matchmaking business nowadays,” Viggo said dryly. “I do like your suggestion, though. At least the part where you make yourself scarce and leave us alone. The part with the overgrown babies fucking was a bit gross, though.”
“Fucker,” Exene said fondly and then turned to Orlando, giving him a genuine smile. “It was nice to meet you, Orlando.” She winked and blew him a kiss before disappearing again.
Orlando blushed hotly and looked away. “Bye,” he mumbled. He glanced up at Viggo through his lashes, his anger forgotten for the time being. “She's something else, isn't she?”
Viggo snorted and relaxed slightly. “You can say that again. Used to drive me absolutely mad when we were married.” He smiled a little. “Nowadays she's one of my few real friends.”
“Lets you know which of your boyfriends are for keepers, does she?”
Viggo's eyebrow rose. “She's a mother hen, but I'm a big boy. I can usually tell that by myself.”
“And I didn't pass that test, did I,” Orlando said.
He felt suddenly tired, and all of the residual fight left him. He didn't want to stand there with Viggo and have a shouting match. It suddenly dawned on him that this wasn't what he'd been after when he came here; he hadn't meant to avoid Viggo all evening just to snog his ex-wife and have a tiff with him later on. In fact, he'd been in a conciliatory mood until Joaquín had seen it fit to inform him of Viggo's abilities as a lover as well as the enthusiasm, frequency and exclusivity of their lovemaking.
Viggo's face changed and he shook his head. “There's no test. Orlando.” His voice was softer than usual and for the first time Orlando saw him indecisive. “I know you don't need another older man telling you what to do any more than I want to be that man. I just don't know what I'm able to give you right now. ”
“I thought we'd be friends, at least,” Orlando said slowly, as if uncertain. At least he wasn't slurring anymore, and he counted that as a big victory; Viggo wouldn't be able to chalk up his words to alcohol; at least not all of them. “I'm such a mess. I know I am. And honestly, I don't expect anything from you. I have a lot of issues that I'm dealing with, and that's putting it lightly. I can't clean up my act overnight, yeah?”
“I suppose I could quit being a judgmental asshole,” Viggo said, a small smile tugging on one corner of his mouth. “So...”
“Yeah?”
“Happy New Year.”
Orlando laughed. “Happy New Year to you too. Here's hoping for a year with fewer fuck-ups.”
“I'd drink to that,” Viggo said, and Orlando could tell from his tone that he meant it. “I should probably go and check if everyone left already.” He tugged on his earlobe and chuckled. “Some host I am.”
“I'm sorry if I ruined your party,” Orlando said and plopped down onto the kitchen chair, staring at the table top. There was a bowl of potato chips placed in front of him on the table, and Orlando stared at the pile of fat and carbs in drunken fascination. He then shook his head, trying to focus. They were having a serious conversation and it wouldn't do to mentally check out at this point. “I swear I didn't mean it to go like this. I really wanted to see you and talk to you, but...”
His words trailed off. He didn't mean to sound like he was making excuses, but Viggo seemed to understand, because he nodded.
“Let me guess; Joaquín said something.”
“Yeah.” Orlando chewed on the side of his thumb and then settled his hands back on the table. “He did. And I guess I reacted exactly the way I was meant to. Shit. I should know better. I really didn't mean for this to go like this.”
“He doesn't play well with others,” Viggo said. Orlando nearly chuckled at this understatement. “I guess mommy didn't teach him to share.”
“So, you two are an item then,” Orlando said, and his eyes left Viggo's in sudden disappointment. “I wish you'd told me that before --”
“No, we're not. Orlando. We're really not.” At Viggo's tone of voice Orlando was forced to meet Viggo's eyes again, and they were honest. “What I meant was, he's not really used to having to share my attention with someone else. Like I said that one time when we were having coffee, I don't have that many friends in town. He's used to having me all to himself. And then you come along, glowing and beautiful and larger than life, and he lashes out. He's not my lover and I'm not his, no matter how hard he tries to convince you otherwise.”
Viggo just called him beautiful. Orlando didn't want to read too much into it, since people called him beautiful all the time.
“No need to explain,” Orlando said quickly. “I hardly have any room to judge. It’s not as if if I know anything about men or relationships.”
“Hey now. Nothing that you couldn't learn.”
Orlando raised a tired eyebrow. “We're still talking about me? Come on, it's me, Orlando. I have no idea how to be in a relationship with someone. I mean, the bed stuff, that's easy. But then they start having expectations and demands and needs and I can't deal with that.”
He took a potato chip from the bowl in front of him, and munched on it thoughtfully. He hoped he didn't look like he was spacing out. In truth, he was hungry. Maybe Viggo could magically produce some of those canapés he'd talked about?
“Maybe concentrating less on the bed stuff could teach you something about the other,” Viggo said carefully. “Or yourself.”
“Is that a posh way of saying 'quit being a whore and talk to the guy before sucking his cock'?” Orlando chortled at Viggo's expression, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You still surprised at the potty mouth?”
“I'm starting to expect surprises from you,” Viggo said, and Orlando's stomach tightened at the look in his eyes.
“I guess I should go home,” he said, his throat suddenly dry, canapés forgotten.
Viggo was watching him across the room, and he had the feeling that if he stayed they'd be doing exactly what Exene had told them to do before leaving them alone; rutting on the table like animals in heat, and Orlando wasn't sure if he could take that. It was just sex and nothing he hadn't done before, but he felt vulnerable in a way that didn't feel all that comfortable.
Maybe it was because he knew he could never view Viggo as an ordinary fuck that could be ditched after the deed, maybe it was because he couldn't take it if Viggo simply wanted a piece of tail and nothing more.
“Good night, Orlando. Although you're still welcome to spend a night here, if you wish.”
Orlando paused on the doorstep, his back turned to Viggo, and smiled. “G'night, Vig.”
* * *
The following week, something resembling a truce was made; Viggo called Orlando's mobile, and Orlando invited him over for dinner on Thursday night, promising a home-cooked meal. After the call ended he banged his head against the fridge door, because he couldn't actually cook to save his life, but the words had just come out of his mouth before he could reconsider them. However, the last thing he wanted was to go out with Viggo and risk the paparazzi and the gossip that would follow; besides, he wanted a more intimate setting just in case... He didn't complete that thought.
That week he was working on the photo shoot for the US Vogue editorial, this time donning Balenciaga; minimal make-up, hair slicked back and black clothes thrown seemingly haphazardly on him while he stretched himself over furniture and gazed out of windows with haunted eyes while the camera went off and off and off.
He was nervous, finding himself biting his fingernails and smoking cigarette after cigarette on his breaks until his throat felt raw and rough. It was pathetic, feeling so out of sorts just because a bloke was coming over; Orlando was used to entertaining all sorts of company, and he certainly never had to worry whether the others liked him, or what they really thought. Of course they adored him, because everybody did.
Viggo, on the other hand, was different. More important, for one. For some reason, his opinion mattered, and as much as Orlando tried to tell himself that Viggo had already seen him at his worst and still liked him, it didn't calm his frayed nerves much.
What did he really have to offer? They had talked about being friends, but what good was Orlando as a friend? Now that he'd given sobriety a shot, his friends and mates, people he had thought cared about him, had suddenly vanished as if they'd never been there in the first place. Only Elijah was loyal as ever, ringing him up at least a couple of times a week, asking him to come over and laze around, or go and grab something to eat together. The problem was, Orlando wasn't good at ordinary things. He didn't deal well with boredom, or routine.
Orlando sighed. He would have to learn. For once in his life he would make an effort to be the kind of person that Viggo could be friends with; he wanted to be worthy of that friendship, and not just for Viggo's sake, but his own. He needed to do this for himself.
* * *
“I'm turning into a fucking bore.” It came out sounding more whiny than Orlando would have liked, but he was past caring. Thursday was still days away, and he was starting to feel jittery again.
“You need to go out more, bello,” Andrea said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Let's go out tonight. I have some friends who'd like to meet you. Let's take them to some gay bar and just dance the night away.”
“Andrea, you're so bad,” Orlando moaned and hid his face in his hands. “I shouldn't go out drinking. You know where that'll lead.”
“Um, I didn’t say drinking, you beautiful moron, I said dancing,” Andrea said, and eyed him. “Orli, come on. There's this Danish boy you'd really like. I promise. And who says you have to fuck the dude if you don't want to.”
Orlando looked at him glumly, but had to admit that Andrea was right; just because he went to a bar didn't mean he had to get wasted. And just because he danced with somebody didn't mean he had to fuck them afterwards. And damn, it was getting fucking boring lounging home all day, every day, even if he did maintain his gym routine and had met some friends for coffee that week.
And he needed to do something that didn't include fretting over his dinner date with Viggo.
“You're on,” he said to Andrea. “It's been a while since I last went out, actually. Gotta keep up the rep, right?”
It was hard to tell whether the stares were due to his face, or his celeb status, but Orlando was more than conscious of all the looks he, and they, were drawing; and why wouldn't they? Andrea's friends, Roberto and 'the Danish boy', had turned out to be models, too, and Orlando could admit without conceit that they were the four most beautiful dudes in that bar. That wasn't to say that the other boys and men weren't good-looking, though; the place was all but packed with beautiful Latinos and gringos alike, and the dress code seemed to be 'shirtless' tonight. Orlando reckoned he was garnering enough attention as it was, and left his tank top on.
Andrea went to talk to the bartender that he knew - and hooked up with every now and then, although more rarely now that he was seeing someone - and Orlando took his friends out on the dance floor. Roberto found a willing dance partner soon enough, and Orlando took it on himself to entertain Andrea's other friend.
'The Danish boy' turned out to be a gorgeous, blue-eyed and blond youth named Steen, whose grasp of English was a bit sketchy at best. He was cute, though, and awfully tall, and Orlando thought they made a funny sight on the dance floor, grinding on each other, but maybe not so funny after all because Andrea kept throwing him 'told you so' looks all evening and Steen started to get a little grabby with his hands.
The music washed over them, and Orlando raised his arms in the air and closed his eyes, swaying to the sultry beat, and smiling as he felt Steen's hands slip under his tank top and slide down along his ribs to his waist. He smiled because in the not too distant past, he'd always taken such actions for come-ons and been on his knees in the backroom in less than ten, an arrangement that had always suited everyone. He'd had a few drinks, so he was pleasantly buzzed, but when Steen offered to get him another drink Orlando only requested ice water.
“Vogue shoot in the morning,” he said, and Steen looked at him in complete awe and went to get his water.
“Get that while it's hot,” Andrea said to his ear as soon as Steen disappeared in the writhing mass of bodies. Orlando grinned. Andrea was a sucker for hot blonds. “Che bello! He's only been in town for a couple of weeks. Fresh out of the air plane almost.”
“Actually, I'm thinking about maybe starting to see someone,” Orlando said, “and that someone's not your gorgeous Danish friend. So why don't you go for it? He's cute, from what I've seen.”
Andrea rolled his eyes. “Spoken for, remember. Which means no more flings for poor old me.”
“Yeah, poor you,” Orlando said, and then accepted the water bottle from Steen who returned miraculously quickly. Orlando suspected that Andrea had sweet-talked the bartender into giving them VIP service for the evening. “Thanks, love.”
Steen encouraged Orlando to wrap his arms around his neck, and they danced face to face, their hips pumping to the beat, and Orlando looked a bit perplexed when Steen's hands combed his sweaty hair back from his face and then leaned in to kiss him on the lips. He reflexively raised himself on his tiptoes to meet the kiss better, because Steen really was that tall, and Steen deepened the kiss immediately.
He didn't have to think, or to reflect, or to analyse, he only had to feel the damp heat of the other's body against his own, the tongue in his mouth, the hand that was in his nape and was holding him steady, and for that moment it was all he needed, or could ever want.
Then Steen's other hand went to his ass, and Orlando broke off the kiss, slightly out of breath. Steen might not know English all that well, but he knew how to kiss.
“Sorry, love, I'm not really available,” he said. “You see, you've caught me at a really bad time. Bad luck on your part, because just a few months ago I would've happily blown you in the gents if you'd asked, and just because you asked and were cute. But I was doing drugs then and I would've been totally wasted, anyway, so that would've played a major part. But to get to the point, I kind of like someone right now and it'd be tacky to start cleaning someone else's pipes at a gay bar while we're still figuring things out.”
“Hvad?” Steen said, perplexed, and Orlando rolled his eyes and laughed.
“Hands off the ass, okay?” he said. “But I don't think a few kisses hurt.”
They didn't hurt, and they thankfully didn't incite in him the lust to get on his knees, and so they danced and kissed the night away, drawing looks and a few wandering hands from the people all around them.
It felt liberating to realise that he didn't owe anyone anything. That he could dance, and flirt, and buy drinks for the other boys and didn't have to feel guilty, or try and make out which one - or ones - wanted to have sex with him and whether he should comply. Quitting your vices didn't mean you had to turn yourself into a recluse, or stop having fun on nights out, he decided. It only meant you couldn't do lines in the men's room, or from some bloke's ass, and didn't have to choke on anyone's dick when they were too drunk to be considerate, or thought it looked hot.
But when Steen started to get frisky again, Orlando delegated him to his acquaintance Luke, who was a regular he'd got to know and whom he knew had a thing for blonds, and that way everyone came out as a winner.
And when he was in the taxi on the way home, he left a definitely non-slurring voice message on Viggo's mobile, telling him that he would be home sometime after eight on Thursday and Viggo would be welcome any time after that and Orlando couldn't wait to see him then.
* * *
tbc in Chapter five