THE WAY WE ARE (41 / 44)
PAIRING: Orlando / Michael (OMC- Yep; the best OMC in the entire story!)
RATING: Overall NC 17
DISCLAIMER: I made this story up. It isn’t true.
SUMMARY (story): While in London to shoot a movie, Orlando meets Michael who stirs new feeling in him. Soon he is forced to re-consider his sexuality, what he wants and how much he is prepared to risk.… And a lot of other stuff thrown in for entertainment!
SUMMARY (chapter): Orlando crosses the street to make a visit.
BETA: The fantastic
idlesloth makes this story better *hugs her tightly*
BANNER:
roomfor2 made the lovely banner.
FEEDBACK: Makes my day better.
AUTHORS NOTE: Sorry for the long wait, it’s shameful and I have no great excuse. Hope you enjoy the update :)
All previous chapters are saved here: http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=tessa111&keyword=%2A&filter=all
Chapter 41
Orlando only had to cross the street and yet the wet snowflakes had him drenched and freezing when he stopped in front of the fourth floor door. Hesitantly, he raised his hand to ring the doorbell but paused mid-air.
He wasn’t sure what he hoped to accomplish by being here. He just had to see Michael, if only for a moment. He couldn’t return to LA without knowing how Michael was or how he would feel seeing Michael again. His heartbeat raced with anxiety as his hand hovered over the doorframe - then he slowly withdrew it, unable to make actual contact. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he should leave. Orlando took a step back but before he could turn around the door was flung open and his heart skipped a beat as he found himself face to face with Michael.
Michael held his black rucksack in one hand, carrying things for work, and kept the other hand on the door as he stared at the man in front of him, almost as if he didn’t recognize Orlando at first. He looked at his door then back at Orlando, possibly wondering if it was really his door or if he had stepped back in time.
Orlando smiled nervously, “Hi.”
“Hi.” Michael cleared his throat and shifted his footing awkwardly.
“I was in the area and thought I would drop by. You know, just see if I caught you before you left for work.” Orlando ran a hand quickly through his hair, attempting to improve the wet locks as he discreetly took in Michael’s appearance. Michael’s hair was shorter; it looked good, he looked good; suntanned, healthy, and better than Orlando.
“Oh! Right!”
“I was about to ring the bell,” Orlando lied.
“Okay. Yeah, I didn’t hear you.”
Orlando moistened his lips, knowing he was expected to say something more. “So…. I guess you’re on your way out,” he gestured at the bag, wishing he was wrong. This was too little time, the visit was too short.
“Heading for work,” Michael explained.
Orlando nodded.
Michael changed his grip on the bag as he looked at the wet man before him. His freezing ex-boyfriend whom he still thought about, worried about, and missed when he allowed himself any feelings. “It’s not important. Just some editing I want to do,” Michael shrugged casually, “I guess it can wait.”
Orlando nodded again.
“If you wanted coffee or something?”
“Yes. Thanks,” Orlando re-found his voice and followed Michael inside the apartment, through the familiar living room and into the small kitchen where he shook off his coat and sat down at the table. He took several deep breaths as he watched Michael prepare two mugs of coffee; feeling relieved the visit hadn’t ended too soon but panicked at what to do with the time given. He took off his burgundy tie which, despite hanging loose, suddenly felt as if it was strangling him.
Michael looked at him questioningly, “Did you dress up for me?”
“No,” Orlando chuckled, embarrassed. “It’s…. there was this thing I was at.”
“Oh.” Michael finished making their drinks, not questioning what thing Orlando had been at that required a tie before nine in the morning.
“What happened to your arm?” Orlando asked looking at a white bandage wrapped around Michael’s right arm.
“Ahh, it’s nothing,” Michael placed a steaming mug in front of Orlando and sat down opposite him. “I just hurt it at work.”
“Oh.” Orlando remembered the last time Michael had hurt his arm. How Orlando had stood in a bar wishing he could touch the bruises and make them better with tender caresses. Admitting to himself that he wanted to touch Michael had been difficult that night - now there was no denying it but, once again, he was in no position to kiss the hurt better. “You always hurt your arm at work.”
Michael looked at him puzzled. “Do I?”
“Yeah.” Orlando slowly sipped his coffee trying to think of something else to say. “So, did you ever get a permanent contract?” he eventually enquired into the warm mug.
“No, I decided I didn’t want one.”
Orlando found a small smile. “Want to stay independent, huh?”
“Guess so,” Michael agreed. He blew into his coffee; he used not to do that, Orlando remembered. Normally, Michael took a big sip then cursed when it was too hot. Maybe he had changed, become more cautious; maybe he was feeling uncomfortable. Orlando cleared his throat, trying to shake off his thoughts and pretend this was a normal moment of two friends having coffee. They had, after all, agreed to be friends.
“So, are you getting work?” he asked in an overly-conversational tone.
“Yeah, I just came back from Turkey.”
“Oh yeah, I’ve seen it on TV. I was wondering if it was your footage. Guess some of it was.”
“Probably,” Michael agreed.
Orlando cocked his head, “It’s bad there, huh? It must have been a rough assignment.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty bad,” Michael shrugged and didn’t meet Orlando’s eyes. A while back Orlando would have probed and queried until Michael told him more but now he made no such attempt, unsure if Michael wanted to share the experience with him.
Michael didn’t elaborate, didn’t share any other information and didn’t ask any questions. Michael didn’t ask him about Yasmine, didn’t ask about Atlantis, he didn’t ask about anything. But Orlando just started talking and told him about the premiere last night, the people who had attended, the motorbike he considered buying in LA, the herbal tea that tasted just like real honey. He told Michael anything he could think of that wasn’t remotely important or related to how Orlando had felt after their break-up; how he still felt. And he kept talking to avoid the strange silence that had grown between them and to delay the point where he would have to either leave or tell Michael that he missed him.
When Michael stood up and placed his empty mug in the sink Orlando knew it was time to leave; the courage just wasn’t there for anything else.
“Yeah, I guess I should get going.” He gathered his coat and let Michael walk him to the doorway where Orlando paused, looking dejected but finding no energy to attempt a more cheerful façade. “It was nice to see you.”
“Yeah, drop by any time,” Michael said politely. It was obvious Orlando wasn’t doing well. He hadn’t visited for the sake of coffee and chitchat but if he wouldn’t reveal his reasons then Michael certainly wasn’t going to force it. It wasn’t Michael who had initiated the contact; he didn’t need to see Orlando, Orlando wasn’t his boyfriend and it really wasn’t his business if Orlando was going through some personal crisis. And yet Orlando looked as if he hadn’t slept in a month, as if he didn’t eat, and sending him off in such a state made Michael’s chest tighten painfully.
“Goodbye then,” Orlando said quietly.
“Bye,” Michael gave him a small smile. “Take care of yourself, yeah.”
Orlando nodded vaguely, “You too.”
And then Orlando was alone in the stairwell again. And nothing had changed, nothing was different and nothing was better than when he stood there an hour ago.
He started walking down the stairs but stopped after two steps and leaned against the white wall to steady himself. It was very cold here, the wall was cold, he liked the cold but what if the frost froze him to the spot as he left? Turned him into solid ice like he was icy inside; numb and incapable of feeling anything except a few raw emotions that had been frozen in place at a point in time when he was in love and felt loved by Michael. The stairs suddenly seemed awfully steep; if he took one step he would surely lose his balance and tumble to the bottom. He had to sit. Sit down and he would be safe. He held onto the wall and slowly eased himself down on the steps, fighting for air that refused to fill his lungs.
He had just been there - inside the apartment. Had been with Michael and had done nothing. Had looked at Michael’s arm and not touched, had talked and talked but had said nothing. He should have said he was sorry. That he was lost. That he needed Michael. But he didn’t know how to say that. He didn’t know how to admit that he had been so entangled in his celebrity persona, so caught up in expectations and self-made deceit it had been impossible to see a way out. That he still couldn’t see a way out - and the only person who could help him was the man he had sacrificed for the very thing he now couldn’t escape. Orlando held a hand against his throat, trying frantically to open it up and stop his breathing from coming in such shallow heaves.
Michael’s apartment had been the same, Michael had been the same - with his apartment and his rucksack and his work and scratched arm; his life was the same as ever, only Orlando no longer had a place in it. There was no place for him any more. No tiny little room for him in Michael’s small apartment.
The shallow breathing was making him dizzy and the white walls were closing in on him. This had to be almost what a panic attack felt like. This was how he had always imagined a panic attack. This was a panic attack. Orlando gasped, shuddered and hyperventilated even more from that apparent insight.
There was no more air in the hallway, none.
In an attempt to drown out the claustrophobia-inducing walls he focused his eyes on a fire extinguisher hanging on the wall. A fire extinguisher was made for emergencies and yet it was absolutely useless, it made him want to scream. But he couldn’t scream, he couldn’t even breathe - couldn’t focus on anything but the lack of air. What he needed was a brown paper bag but none of those were hanging on the wall. He cast an alarmed look behind him at Michael’s door. Why would Michael care? Why would Michael love someone who couldn’t even breathe? He would rather die than crawl through Michael’s door, in need of a brown paper bag.
Did people die from panic? His mum would definitely be upset then. Surely it was better to kiss a boy than freeze to death. If he fainted, would Michael even care? Where could Orlando go now to feel safe when there was no room for him with Michael? Now he always had to lie and pretend, miss Michael and be cold. Clutching his throat tighter, he opened his mouth wide, hoping that air would just float inside with his minute breaths. It didn’t work. It just didn’t work, so instead he bent his head down between his knees as he continued wheezing.
“Will you be here every time I open my door?”
Orlando looked up in horror at Michael standing next to him, then turned his attention back to the fire extinguisher and his need for oxygen.
“Orlando, are you okay?”
Michael was carrying his bag again. Why was he outside when they had just said goodbye? When Orlando couldn’t handle it? How could Michael go to work when Orlando couldn’t reach the third floor?
“Orlando?” Michael hunched down next to him, looking at him with pure concern. Apparently Michael did care if he fainted.
Orlando managed a slight shake of the head.
“Can’t you breathe?”
A few shallow heaves for breath were followed by another small head shake.
“Shit, Orlando!” Michael let the rucksack fall to the ground and placed a hand on Orlando’s shoulder. “You need to calm down,” Michael said in a comforting voice. “Take a deep breath now. You can do that, just breathe.” Orlando wanted to point out that if he could just take deep breaths there would be no need for the logical advice and no spectacle in the hallway but all he managed was a feeble glare - more panicked than sarcastic.
A large hand was rubbing his neck now, massaged in soothing circles but all the touch accomplished was to bring tears to the brink of his eyes; sad, desperate, and frightened tears. He looked away, coughed, and choked on what little air made it inside him.
Michael quietly sat down on the step above Orlando, legs on either side of him and wrapped both arms around him, holding his hands flat against Orlando’s chest. “You can breathe now,” Michael told him. “Just breathe with me. Focus on my hands.” Part of Orlando wanted to object to the closeness, fearing it would make matters worse, but even the feel of Michael was overpowered by his need for oxygen. Michael was pressing in slightly when he wanted Orlando to exhale and releasing when his lungs were to refill. Speaking softly and breathing with him, breathing for him.
“Breathe in,” Michael loosened his grip. “Breathe out,” the hands clutched his chest. At first the pace was too slow and Orlando took double counts but gradually he fell into the rhythm. He focused on the hands, the useless fire extinguisher, the air returning to the hallway until he could draw breaths on his own - just as he had always been able to do, his entire life until now.
Slowly Michael stopped his movements but kept his hands on Orlando, feeling the natural rise and fall of his ribs. “Are you better now?”
Orlando couldn’t answer; could only sit still and feel the warm hands on his chest; feel as they warmed him up and melted the ice and all the feelings locked in place. He continued to stare blindly at the wall, afraid if he moved his gaze tears would fall. Michael waited patiently for even a small indication that his question had been heard but after a while he tried again and asked softly, “Orlando are you okay? You can breathe now, yeah?”
Orlando risked a tiny shake of his head.
“But…”
“No,” Orlando interrupted with a whisper, “No. I can’t breathe. I can never breathe. I’m not okay.” Admitting it out loud made him realize how true the words were and he felt slow tears escaping down his cheek despite not moving his gaze from the wall. “I’m choking and I pretend and I smile. I smile all the time and I can’t…” Using the palm of his hand he stubbornly wiped off the tears that were now streaming more persistently from his eyes. “I can’t… It’s all a lie, I think.” He turned to look at Michael, pleading with him to understand, “It’s just so difficult.”
Michael’s eyes conveyed nothing but care and understanding as he quietly reached up and ran a thumb over Orlando’s cheek. The gentle caress made Orlando lose the final grip on himself and he started trembling, “Michael, I don’t know what to do,” his voice came in stutters and he looked down in a futile attempt to hide the uncontrollable tears.
Without a word Michael entangled his hand in Orlando’s hair and pulled him into a tighter embrace. Part of Orlando wanted to resist, he wanted to be strong, wanted to keep control, but he soon gave up, clutched at Michael’s jacket and pressed his face against Michael’s collarbone. His chest heaved and his body trembled in Michael’s arms as he broke down and allowed himself to be comforted by the only person who had any chance of doing so. For months he had been numb, had forced himself not to feel, not to think and now the tears wouldn’t stop. Michael’s face was buried in his hair as he rocked him gently; and he recognized the smell of Michael, the touch of his hand, the feel of his chest - and Orlando could not stop crying because he still needed this, because he didn’t have Michael any more and because he knew Michael would soon let go of him.
“Shh, I’m sure it’ll be okay,” Michael whispered soothingly.
Orlando knew Michael was merely trying to comfort him but he still shook his head in disagreement. He pulled back slightly, tried to get his voice under control but failed miserably as his words came out between subdued sobs. “No, it won’t be… How will it? My life isn’t even real. I’m not real and I don’t know how to stop it.” A person passed them in the hallway and Orlando pressed his face against Michael again both to hide the tears and his identity.
“Right,” Michael muttered and gave Orlando’s back a friendly pat, “let’s take this inside, okay?” Orlando agreed with a small nod, let Michael pull him to his feet and quietly followed him back inside the apartment.
“Do you want tea or something?” Michael asked closing the door behind them.
“No!” Orlando let out a small laugh at Michael’s attempt at homely comforts, gesturing at his own tear-streaked face. “Man tea won’t fix this.”
“Okay, then.”
For a moment they stared at each other awkwardly then Michael disappeared into the kitchen. Orlando stayed still. Standing in the middle of the living room he discreetly dried his nose with his sleeve. His face felt tight, as if a rash was forming from the salt drying up his cheeks.
Soon Michael returned. “Here, blow your nose,” he handed over a piece of kitchen towel and Orlando did as told. God, how humiliating was this?
Now that the wailing had subsided, Orlando suddenly felt very self-conscious and acutely aware that this was not how a man should be seen by an ex-lover. No matter the break-up circumstances, people wanted to seem at least somewhat together, give the impression that they were coping with the situation in a dignified manner and panic attacks, puffy eyes, and running snot did not convey that well.
“I’m sorry… about the breathing thing. It’s never happened before.”
“Right. It was a bit extreme.”
“Yeah,” Orlando nodded, crunched the kitchen towel into a tight ball and put it in his pocket. “I think it was the cold. And I haven’t slept yet, with the premiere and all. It’s below zero out there, I think.”
“Yeah, it is pretty damn cold,” Michael agreed. “It’s supposed to snow all day.”
“Hmmm. Thanks for the…” Orlando gestured in the general direction of the hallway.
“Oh. You’re… that’s okay.” Michael started picking at invisible spots on the wall, occasionally looking at Orlando to observe his expressions.
Orlando took a deep breath, grateful that he was able to, in preparation for his next words. The panic had been explained but he still needed some sort of excuse for the sea of tears. “I’m having a hard time at the moment,” he said honestly. He paused. Michael’s attention stayed on the spotless wall. “I didn’t mean to bother you with it. Just...I wanted to see you.”
“It’s no bother.” Michael’s voice was quiet, still the idle picking and still no eye contact but it wasn’t a display of indifference, Orlando wasn’t being rejected. Michael simply didn’t know what to say or how to handle the situation now.
“Can I stay here for a little while?”
Michael nodded and let go of the wall. “Do you want me to do anything? Get you something or…”
“No.” A small, sad smile found Orlando’s lips at the sight of Michael looking so uncertain. Michael wanted to help but Orlando would have to ask for what he needed. “Will you sit with me?”
“Sure,” Michael gestured towards the sofa, looking almost relieved that he had been given a task. Orlando flopped down in the sofa, legs spread, hands in his lap and head leaning on the backrest. Michael mimicked the position next to him, their knees barely touching, and for a while they sat still staring up at a lamp hanging from the ceiling. Originally a pale yellow, it was now a mixture of grey and beige from layered dust. Did Michael ever clean it?
“You should get a cleaner.”
“Got one. A pretty college girl. She’s saving up for a scooter.”
“But look at your lamp,” Orlando pointed lazily.
“I know. She’s not doing the best job,” Michael chuckled in agreement. “But to be fair, she only comes on Wednesdays.”
“That serves her right if she won’t clean.” Orlando threw his forearm over his face as he suddenly spun into a giggling fit. His chest started shaking, now from laughter rather than tears, and judging by the sounds next to him, Michael was quickly following suit. “Maybe if you met her needs she would be more compliant,” Orlando choked out in a snort.
It felt good to hear Michael laughing again, to laugh with Michael again, it felt good to laugh. It relieved the tension in the room and lifted the seriousness of panic and teary breakdowns.
“She just cleans, you moron,” Michael punched Orlando’s shoulder without much force. “She doesn’t prance around in a maid’s uniform looking for orgasms.”
“Good! Cause she sure came to the wrong place for that.”
Michael agreed with a small smile, “Yeah, she’s not really my type.”
“Mine neither,” Orlando declared sombrely.
“You haven’t even seen her.” Michael turned his head, leaning his cheek on the sofa’s back to observe Orlando as he spoke.
Orlando went back to staring at the dirty light. “She’s female though.”
“That she is.”
“I don’t want a girlfriend.”
“Don’t you have one?” Michael asked quietly.
“Yeah,” Orlando gave a wry smile to the lamp.
“So is she just for show or… or what?” It wasn’t an accusation; it was a genuine question, as if Michael had been wondering about it.
Orlando shrugged, “Yeah. No. Not really. I mean I am with her and she is nice enough. It’s not that I don’t like her.”
“She’s female too, though,” Michael stated dryly.
“That she is.” Orlando nodded, bit his lip, exhaled loudly. “I think I might be gay.”
“You think so?”
Orlando shook his head lightly. No. The lying, the pretending, his inability to accept facts had to end now. “No. I am. I’m pretty sure about that.” He turned his head bravely to meet Michael’s eyes. “I think maybe I’ve always been but I didn’t know. Maybe I suspected a little but not really, not till now. How could I not have known that?”
“I guess you didn’t want to. It’s not that uncommon,” Michael argued, “for some it takes a major event or meeting someone who…” he trailed off and shrugged, embarrassed.
“Yeah, I guess it took that for me,” Orlando agreed quietly. “It’s not just because of you, though. I mean, you were the first guy I was ever with…” He watched Michael unconsciously fist his hand and paused, “…you’re still the only man I’ve been with…” The fist loosened slightly, and Orlando felt a glimmer of hope return from Michael’s tenseness. “But still… it’s not like you turned me into something I wasn’t already. You just sort of un-wrapped the parcel, I guess.”
“That’s a fitting analogy.”
“Yes,” Orlando confirmed in a small laugh. “Well, you un-wrapped me more than once. I think maybe that was my favourite part of it.” Michael’s eyes shifted, looked away, Orlando wasn’t sure why; maybe his comment was too close to their past, maybe it was too close to flirting. Orlando swallowed, Michael didn’t want to flirt. “I’m not flirting with you.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t even know how to flirt with men. I’m not very good at that.”
“I know you’re not,” Michael agreed, “You are, in fact, disastrous at it.”
“Yes,” Orlando smiled tiredly. Michael was looking at him again; it felt better when Michael would look at him, “guess I’ll have to learn that.” Michael looked away. “You know, in the future if…” Michael was scratching his chin, he wasn’t looking and Orlando had to get back on track. “But that’s not the point. The point is I don’t know what to do with what you uncovered.” Orlando slid further down in the sofa, crossing his arms protectively over his chest. “I have no idea how to be gay on my own. I can’t keep Yasmine,” he chortled lightly, knowing he made her sound like a pet dog, “and I can’t sign any more morality clauses. I don’t know how to tell people. I don’t know who to tell or what to say and I don’t know what to do with work. I don’t even know if I want to work. I’m just so tired.” He let his arms fall heavily to his sides, suddenly feeling completely drained; as if all energy had left him with the tears, the laughter and the whirl of emotions that had transpired this morning and in recent months.
“You don’t have to tell the entire world,” Michael said calmly. “It’s not everyone’s business who you sleep with.”
“I know. Eventually I will have to tell some people though.”
“Yeah.”
“If the story leaks I’ll just be known as ‘That Gay Actor’,” Orlando claimed with a sleepy, humourless laugh. “It’s all that will matter, not the work I do - not that I will get much work if it becomes public knowledge.”
“It might not get that bad,” Michael tried to reason.
Orlando gave an apathetic shrug, “Maybe not. It would still be better than lying, I think. I can’t go on as things are. I just can’t. I’m going to lean.”
“What?” Michael barely managed to ask before Orlando leaned down to rest his head against Michael’s side. Orlando stayed still, staring lazily into space. When Michael’s hand came to tentatively rest in his hair, he exhaled shakily; relieved that there was still a safe place for him in Michael’s small apartment, a space with Michael where it was okay to just be still.
“People will hate me,” Orlando mumbled quietly.
“I’m sure most people won’t hate you.”
“Some will,” he persisted stubbornly.
“Then they’re not worth worrying about,” Michael reasoned.
“I know… But I do worry,” Orlando whispered, fighting to keep his eyes open. “I like it when people like me.” That was true. Orlando went out of his way for people to like him. Always tried to be nice, courteous, and accommodating; taking great care not to offend anyone. All actors hate slander, criticism and harsh reviews, and Orlando, though he didn’t admit it, loathed it more than most - it somehow meant he should have done better. That he would soon be disliked by people for something he had no control over, for something he couldn’t change and couldn’t do better with time was hard to comprehend.
“People don’t expect you to be perfect.”
“Yeah they do.”
“None more than you,” Michael declared making Orlando smile vaguely; that was true, too. Michael’s thumb was idly caressing Orlando’s skull, an occasional finger twirled through the thick curls. Orlando wondered if Michael did it on purpose, touched because he wanted to, coiled the hair out of habit, or because it just happened to be underneath his hand. Orlando had changed his shampoo, he no longer smelled of trees and chocolate; he wondered if that mattered to Michael. He wondered why Michael didn’t hate him; Michael knew better than most that Orlando wasn’t perfect. “You really do look tired,” Michael said softly.
“Hmm, I haven’t slept. I took a walk.”
“Did you?”
“Hmm mm.” Orlando felt as if he hadn’t slept properly since he was last with Michael and tiredness overwhelmed him from the feel of the familiar body next to him. He knew they needed to talk but he couldn’t break the quiet, couldn’t keep his eyes open. As Michael kept caressing his hair Orlando felt safe, he felt warm; he felt Michael’s heartbeat, listened to his steady breathing, the wind howling….
SHORTCUT TO CHAPTER 42 :) http://tessa111.livejournal.com/10964.html