LOTR RPS: Meet Me in the Tower
Title: Meet Me in the Tower
Series: Ours
Rating: R
Pairing: Orlando Bloom/Viggo Mortensen, Orlando Bloom/OMC
Disclaimer: No ownership, no profit, no truth.
Warnings: Attempted angst, rough sex, long (25pg Word doc)
A/N: Thanks to shrinetolust for preliminary beta, and to eeeevil_genius for reading and encouragement. Full author’s notes and whinging may be found here Title and lyrics belong to Ours.
i. I'm paralyzed from head down
Realized pushing their doubts
I'm burned by all the fire
That’s spread within my house
You put them there so you can put them out
The anger boiled just under the surface, begging for release.
He knew what Viggo thought, what they all thought.
He let the arrow fly, and felt a surge of justification shoot through him as it landed in the bull’s-eye next to the others.
A wet-behind-the-ears actor fresh from drama school. An eager puppy pissing himself with excitement at the once in a lifetime opportunity. Another pretty face, brain optional, thankyouverymuch.
The next arrow went whizzing along, snapping through the air before taking purchase in the target a few inches from his previous shots.
Ok, he’d give them that this was new, that he was keen, even, being a realist and possessing a mirror, that he was easy on the eyes. None of this, however, was in Orlando’s mind a reason for the dismissal he was getting. John would sooner snap at him than speak to him, Viggo spoke in riddles, and Sean… well, Sean didn’t say much at all.
Orli grabbed two arrows out of his bag, and sent them flying. They traveled together, competing for speed. He smiled in grim satisfaction as they split at the last moment and buried their barbs in the outer rings, just where he’d intended.
The hobbits had it easy, he thought mutinously. They were all on the same level. They were the same age, mentally at least. He felt… he felt a species apart from them all. Not a man, not a hobbit, but an elf among strangers. He snorted as he walked to the target and began ripping out the arrows. Talk about life imitating art… and he wasn’t even a Method actor!
He fired arrow after arrow into the defenseless target, resentment turning into self-pity. He didn’t fit in, didn’t belong. PJ would see it, and replace him as he had Stuart. Doubt after doubt clamored through his head as he flung the arrows into the target again and again.
He swooped to pick up the last of the arrows lying at his feet. A shadow fell across his face, and he looked up.
“Hey, Livvy-loo,” he forced the anger down and away as he smiled up into her serene face.
“Orlando,” she peered into his eyes solemnly. “What’s wrong?”
“What makes you think something’s wrong?” He put on the act he used for them all, the cheery, carefree-elf look.
“Well, your target looks like it’s already suffered through the battle of Helm’s Deep. And since you forgot to wear these,” she tossed his archery gloves at him. “So do your hands.”
He looked down for the first time at his hands, blistered, sliced and bleeding. He hadn’t felt the sting at all. Not good.
She bent down to examine his wounds. Taking a bottle of Evian out of her bag, and a scarf, she cleaned the cuts. “What’s going on in that head of yours, Orli? You’re worrying me.”
“I don’t mean to, Liv,” he replied earnestly. He started to say something, then paused. Watching him closely from her seat beside him on the warm ground, she could nearly pinpoint the exact moment in which he decided to tell her the truth.
“I… I’m scared,” the words came out as a whisper, and he had to clear his throat to raise the volume of them. “I’m screwing this up. Everyone looks at me like they’re expecting great things of me, and I don’t know what else I can give… I’m putting everything I’ve got into this already! I look at everyone, and they’re at the top of their game, and I feel like I’m running to catch up. I mean, my god, look at Viggo! He is the king! And I’ll never… I’m just not…”
He trailed off, wiping away the tears of frustration that were escaping down his cheeks. Liv touched her hand to his chin and smiled sadly into his eyes.
“What makes you think you’re failing, Orlando? Because I’ve seen the dailies, and you aren’t.”
The anger pushed past the surface again, and he spat out the words. “He thinks so! I can see it in his eyes.”
To her credit, Liv didn’t ask to whom he was referring. She just looked at him and shook her head slowly. “I think you’re wrong, Orli. Are you sure you aren’t just seeing the reflection of your own fears there?”
“I know what they all think of me!” Liv leaned back in shock as the words jumped out of his mouth, full of vitriol and hurt. “The pretty elf boy, nice to look at, but not too bright, if you know what I mean, who’d he fuck to get this part, don’t you mean who didn’t he fuck to get this part, et cetera, et cetera. It’s always about the face, never the talent.”
“Oh, boo-fuckin’ hoo, Orli,” Liv scorned. Orlando looked at her in surprise, having fully expected the usual round of sympathy and advice. “Don’t bitch to me about being pretty, or being underestimated, or misjudged. Look at me: do you think there’s ever an article printed about me that doesn’t imply that I’m only employed because my dad’s Steven Tyler, or that I don’t turn down role after role as the beautiful but air-headed girlfriend because that’s all Hollywood wants to see me as? You get past it, you learn to use it to your advantage, or you’re in the wrong fucking business, Orlando. Look around you, look at Astin, look at Billy, look at Andy, fantastic actors all of them, but are they ever going to carry the lead in a big-budget film? Realistically, no. But you will, and it’s your face that opens that door, then your talent that carries you through it.”
She paused in her tirade, catching her breath as anger turned her cheeks a becoming shade of pink. Orlando stared at her in a mixture of awe and horror. In a calmer voice, she continued. “And then ask yourself why you care whether the assistant grip or the makeup girl thinks you’re talented. Or is it someone else’s opinion you’re worried about?”
Orlando flushed and suddenly became really interested in the grass around his trainers. He pulled a few blades loose and began shredding them into tiny pieces, letting them blow away in the gentle breeze. “It’s just… it’s important to me that…”
He sighed, and looked over at Liv. “I need his respect. I can’t even explain why.”
“Why on earth would you think you don’t have it?”
“How could I? I’m always asking him stupid questions, and I never understand his bleedin’ answers anyway. I wish he’d yell at me like John does or ignore me like Sean. At least then I wouldn’t feel dumb.”
“First off, I think John’s so uncomfortable in all those prosthetics that he’s just grumpy with everyone. And what do you mean Sean ignores you? He talks to you as much as he talks to anyone, which admittedly isn’t much. I don’t think he’s overly verbal.”
Orlando snorted back a laugh. “Yeah, I s’pose you’re right.”
“You need to talk to Viggo, really talk to him. I’m sure this is all in your head, and even if it isn’t, you need to get past it to do your job,” Liv lectured.
“Yeah, alright,” Orlando looked grim at the prospect, but nodded in agreement.
“Good, settled then,” she beamed a lethal smile at him. “Now let’s go get your hands looked at and then you can drive me home. Can’t have me killing any of the natives, you know!”
ii. When courage strikes we'll come out
From waiting around with our heads down
Turn me to the sky, turn me upside down
A way to feel alive, the life that’s mine
Orlando cautiously stepped onto the porch of Viggo’s rented home. He wasn’t really sure what he was doing here or what he hoped to accomplish. The only thing he was sure of was that coming here would be easier than facing Liv’s wrath tomorrow if he told her he’d chickened out.
He rang the doorbell and waited in the soft darkness of the cooling evening. He could hear the insects beginning their nightly symphony and in the distance, the sound of cars passing on the motorway. Viggo’s house was secluded, set in a wooded area, and really quite tranquil, he decided.
Light flooded the veranda as the outdoor fixture flicked to life. Orlando turned back to the door, stuffing his bandaged hands into the back pockets of his jeans as the door opened. Viggo stood there, barefoot, with a paintbrush in his hand.
“Orlando!” Viggo grinned at him. “Hey, man, wasn’t expecting you!”
“Yeah, sorry, I should have called first,” Orli stuttered out. “If it’s a bad time, I can go…”
“Get in here,” Viggo grinned and stepped back from the doorway to let Orlando through. The familiar scents of turpentine and oil paint filled Orlando’s senses as he passed by, reminding him of art classes past.
“I was just about to grab a beer, y’ want one?”
“Sure,” he said, following Viggo toward what must be the kitchen. He watched as Viggo set the brush down by the sink and grabbed two bottles out of the fridge. He grabbed a bottle opener that doubled as a magnet on the freezer door and popped the tops off before handing one to Orli. Not American, the British beer snob in Orlando noticed before taking a swig. Not bad.
Viggo leaned against a counter as he took a drink and looked expectantly at Orlando. This is the part where I’m supposed to say why I’m here, he thought, and tried to gather his courage.
“So you paint?” Duh. A) The man is covered in paint and carrying a paintbrush, and B) you knew he painted. No wonder you get the bimbo jokes, OB.
Viggo nodded. “Would you like to see what I’m working on?”
“Sure,” Orlando grasped enthusiastically at any activity that kept him from blurting out ‘So Vig, why don’t you like me?’
Viggo picked up his brush and motioned for Orli to follow back down the hall. They went past the entry way to the end of the hall. Viggo pushed the partially closed door open and led the way into a brightly lit room, surrounded on three walls by floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The house sat on a cliff, he realized, looking down at the sparkling lights of Wellington, and out into the harbor as well. It was breathtaking, and he said as much to Viggo.
An easel stood in the center of the otherwise unfurnished room, with a large canvas propped on it. Orlando walked over to it. He looked at the painting in silence for a good ten minutes, cocking his head first to the left then to the right, trying to figure out what on earth the swirls of vibrant color were supposed to represent.
“What do you think?” Viggo asked quietly.
“Well, the perspective is really quite unusu- ” Orlando turned to meet his gaze, and was surprised to see genuine interest there. “Aw, fuck it, I’ve got absolutely no clue what it’s supposed to be!”
Viggo tilted his head back and laughed. Orlando could feel the anger begin to burn once again in the pit of his stomach. Viggo’s next words, however, doused those flames effectively. “Good. It’s not supposed to be anything. What does it make you feel?
“Dizzy?”
Viggo laughed again. “See, that’s honest, yeah? A real feeling that you didn’t have in you before, a feeling that I gave you, whether I meant to or not. That’s what art is to me, a force to cause a reaction, to change what was there before.”
Orlando nodded, and for once felt he actually understood Viggo. Maybe the problem before had been that he was trying to give the answer he thought Viggo wanted to hear, rather than what he really thought. He opened his mouth to say something and listened in horror as he heard his voice form the words. “So why don’t you like me, Viggo?”
“I… you… what?”
Orlando had a feeling that Viggo was very rarely speechless and that if the circumstances had been different, he might have taken time to appreciate the moment. Closing his eyes, he prayed fervently for the hardwood panels to slip silently apart and for the earth beneath to swallow him whole. When he opened them, he was sad but unsurprised to note that it hadn’t happened. He was still above ground, and Viggo was still looking at him in complete shock. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought and continued. “It’s just… sometimes, I feel like you, maybe just, um. ThinkI’mstupid.”
Which I am. Which I have just proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. God, kill me now. Or just make me shut the fuck up. Either-or, doesn’t matter which.
“Orlando, I have never, ever, thought you were unintelligent. I’m sorry if I did or said something to make you think that. What would make you think that?”
Orlando shoved his hands into his front pockets, and studied the knot on the shiny floor that he was currently attempting to rub into oblivion with the toe of his grubby trainers. Wondering if he could rub himself into oblivion along with it.
“And what the fuck have you done to your hands?” Viggo crossed the room and grabbed one of Orlando’s hands from its denim safe-haven. He silently examined the dressing and looked up at Orlando with clear, questioning blue eyes.
“I, uh, got a little overzealous with practise today,” he mumbled.
“With both hands?”
“Yeah, well, I was trying to see if I could do it with both hands, ambidextrous like, ya know? Just in case, I mean. Pete might want…” Stop the rambling, stop it. Fuck.
Viggo’s brow wrinkled, his face mirroring the consternation in his voice. “If he wants, he’ll tell you or just flip the film and make it look like you can. There’s no need to rip yourself to shreds over something someone might or might not want.”
Orlando jerked his hand out from Viggo’s and stalked to the window looking out over the night sky. There it was again, the humiliation, the white-hot shame mixing with anger, at himself, at Viggo, at the world. He was trying too hard, he couldn’t find his place, his rhythm, his footing in this place on the other side of the world from everything he knew.
“Could you do it?”
“Huh?” Orlando swiveled his head to meet Viggo’s gaze.
“Can you shoot with either hand now?”
“Yeah.”
Orlando watched as a grin flashed across Viggo’s face like lightening in a winter storm, quick and unexpected. “Fucking cool.”
And just like that, darker feelings were banished back down into the shadows, and Orlando found himself laughing with Viggo. On the drive home, Orlando found himself smiling, truly smiling, for the first time since filming had begun. Maybe I can do this, maybe I won’t fuck it up.
Maybe.
* * *
The next day, Orlando approached the make-up trailer with some trepidation. What if last night was a fluke? What if the connection he’d finally felt with Viggo was gone?
He was, as usual, the first to arrive to the make-up trailer he shared with Bean and Viggo. The ears added an hour to his regimen that the others didn’t have to endure.
He fidgeted his way through the first forty-five minutes as the ears were meticulously attached. The finishing touches were just going on his right ear when the door open and the source of his nervous energy walked through the door. Bean was right behind Viggo, the two men engaging in their usual banter as they entered the room. Moment of truth…
“Hey, Lando,” Viggo called and rifled fingers through Orlando’s still wig-free Mohawk before hopping into his own seat. “Drive home ok last night?”
“Yeah, just fine,” A bright smile burst forth on Orlando’s face, wider and freer than he meant to, but the joy at being included couldn’t be contained. Lando, hmm… no one had ever called him that. He kind of liked it.
Lando. Not a bad start to the day.
* * *
Viggo thought, when he saw it, that the smile might break Orlando’s face, it was that wide and that bright. The situation must be worse than he’d thought, if a simple greeting could cause such a reaction.
He’d noticed things weren’t quite right with their Elf, hadn’t been for a couple of weeks now. He’d talked to Sean about it over the weekend, and Sean had agreed something was definitely out of sorts with the boy. Orlando had been the sweetest of them all when they’d arrived for training, Sean noted, quick with a hug and a laugh. Now he was quiet most days, he seemed to find more excuses to avoid nights out, and he hadn’t laughed in days. Viggo was relieved to find he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the change, who worried about the dark smudges under Orlando’s eyes, the tightened corners of his mouth, the frustration that seemed to be simmering just under his surface.
“Lad’s probably just homesick,” Bean had offered. “The Hobbits’ll get him sorted soon, I’m sure.”
Viggo had agreed, albeit with less certainty, and the subject had been dropped. Still, Viggo had been happy to open his door last night and see Orlando standing there. And taken aback when he realized what the reason behind the visit was. He still couldn’t believe that Orlando had thought that. Had he been unfriendly to the boy? Condescending? He couldn’t remember saying anything that might have been misconstrued, but obviously he had. He’d just have to be sure to rectify that then.
“Hey, Lando!” he raised his voice to stop the now completely Legolased Orlando as he headed out the door on his way to wardrobe. “Wanna go fishing this weekend?”
He bit back a chuckle as Orlando nearly tripped over his own feet trying to stop his forward motion out the door.
“Yeah, that’d be great!” Orlando flashed another solar-bright grin his way before racing out the door.
Poor kid, Viggo mused, he must’ve been really lonely.
* * *
Two weeks later
“Who’s coming to movie night?” Dom bellowed down the table at the assembly of actors attempting to peacefully inhale their lunch before being called back to set. Bean and John were quick to utter their “Not I’s,” having witnessed first-hand how quickly Hobbit movie nights could degenerate into tequila-fueled Twister tournaments.
“How ‘bout you, Vig?” Dom quirked his brow. “You up for it?”
Viggo was about to bow out, citing a lack of limberness that was sure to confuse all those around him as they hadn’t been privy to the Twister train of thought, when Orlando sent him a beseeching glance across the table. “Oh, what the hell, why not?”
Eight hours, two Jim Carrey movies, and six tequila shots later, Viggo found himself with his head shoved against Orlando’s abdomen and his right arm entwined rather too intimately between Billy’s legs. He struggled to find a way to put his left leg on red without putting his back out or getting to know the Scot in the Biblical sense.
I’m getting too old for this shit, he thought, as he blew a stray strand of hair out of his face.
* * *
The quivering in Orlando’s stomach was weakening the strength of his arms, and he flexed his biceps in a vain attempt to stop the tremors. The backbend had seemed like such a clever move when he’d had two feet on Red and the arrow had required one hand on Green. Now, with Viggo breathing heavily on his exposed abdomen, it seemed both more and less brilliant. He tried sending “down boy” messages southward but it was not working. Fuck. The last thing he needed to do was screw up the camaraderie he’d found with Viggo over the last couple of weeks by shoving a raging hard-on in his new mate’s face. He’d spent a good portion of his free time lately trying to work out which way Viggo swung. Some days, Viggo seemed so straight that Orlando would have laughed out loud if someone had even suggested differently. Then there were other days, like the days when Viggo kissed Bernard on the lips, or grabbed Ian’s ass through Gandalf’s robes, that the idea didn’t seem so outrageous. Wishful thinking. He tried to force the thought away and focus on balance and strength as he shifted his weight from one hand to the other.
A gust of air attacked his navel and shorted out his central nervous system. And they all came tumbling down, a tangled mess of limbs. Everyone else struggled to disentangle themselves while Orlando struggled to come up with an explanation for falling over that didn’t include getting turned on by Viggo breathing on his stomach.
Fuck. Bloody fucking hell.
* * *
One month later
“Fuck!”
Viggo watched, outwardly calm, as Orlando spun a path of mayhem and destruction through the trailer, spewing pieces of costume and bits of gelatin ear as he went. He was one rascally rabbit away from the Tasmanian devil, Viggo thought, biting back a chuckle he didn’t think the younger man would appreciate.
Orlando kept repeating the single epithet he’d started muttering the second they’d cleared the set. Reaching for the closet door where he kept his street clothes, he caught sight of himself in the mirrored door: Legolas still, only flushed and messy and pissed off and everything an elf should never be. So he slammed it, as hard as he could, and watched with pleasure as the mirror shattered and shards of glass rained onto the floor. The door bounced back and he slammed it again, latching this time, and followed it with two quick, bare-fisted punches against recently bared hardwood, left, right. Sweet pain licked its way up his forearms and he reared back to have another go.
Shit, but the kid was mad. Viggo had seen hints of his temper before, but not to this extent. He was afraid Orlando wasn’t going to stop until he’d really hurt himself. He reached out, grabbing Orlando’s cocked-back arm before he could land another punch into the oak cabinet. Orlando spun, blindly, and threw the other fist in the direction of this new target. Viggo ducked and moved closer, wrapping his arms tightly round Orlando’s chest, hugging him closely, like a boxer avoiding the heaviest of blows.
“Whoa there, hang on now,” Viggo murmured low in Orlando’s ear, rubbing calming circles on Orlando’s back. He felt the rage shuddering through the young man’s body in shaking gasps that reminded him of a spooked thoroughbred he’d seen once on a farm in Argentina. A young boy, he’d watched helplessly as the horse had kicked its way through the wooden stall wall and broken its leg. Viggo tightened his grip around Orlando as he recalled the painful sounds of hearing the horse put down, and ran one hand through the mane of Orlando’s Mohawk. “Easy now, just breathe.”
Orlando wound his arms tighter around Viggo and turned his face into the curve of Viggo’s neck. Breathe, he thought, and tried to match his tripping heartbeat to the steadier one he could feel pulsing underneath the tunic costume Viggo still wore. Viggo smelled of leather and trees and man, and desire shimmered through the fury flowing under Orlando’s skin. Tremors, aftershocks, rumbled through him, making his shoulders shake as he focused on controlling the air going in and out of his lungs.
“Now what was that all about?” Viggo asked when he felt Orlando regain a modicum of composure. Brown eyes flashed incredulously at him as Orlando’s head snapped back.
“What do you mean, what was that about? You were there, you… I just couldn’t get it right.” He finished with anguish in his voice.
“What, the council scene?”
“Um, yeah… did you not notice the forty-two takes we just did?”
“Well, yeah,” Viggo drawled slowly. “Things get screwed up. I flubbed some lines. So did Elijah. So did Ian, for fuck’s sake. The lighting is wrong. Continuity gets fucked up. It’s not like you single-handedly ruined every take. And even if you had, which you didn’t, so what? Everybody’s entitled to an off day.”
Orlando pulled away, wrapping his arms tightly around himself, and walked over to one of the trailer’s tiny windows. He stared out at muddy, dying grass and spoke so lowly that Viggo had to move closer to even hear him. “What if it’s not an off day? What if… what if I’m not good enough?”
“That’s just bullshit,” Viggo said with quiet gravity. Orlando turned pained eyes toward him, and Viggo continued. “You’re good enough, Lando. You’re new to this, sure. But you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t good enough. Do you think Pete would waste his time, his dream, his future on you if you weren’t?”
Orlando shrugged, dropping his gaze to the ugly carpeting. Viggo watched the conflict cross over the expressive frame of Orlando’s face. He didn’t know what else to say to make the boy see his worth. He’d come to think of Orlando as a brother, the younger one you want to see do well, to see remain unsullied by life’s crueler moments. He reached out and put his hand on Orlando’s jaw, forcing him to look Viggo in the eye. “You’re a good actor, Orlando. You’ve just got to learn to trust yourself, and you’re going to be fine. But you’ve got to quit beating yourself up about the little shit,” he smiled slowly. “There’ll be enough people waiting to do it for you once you hit the big time.”
Orlando leaned into the caress imperceptibly, and smiled tenuously. “The big time, eh? Think so?”
Viggo leaned forward and touched his forehead lightly to Orlando’s. “Know so.”
He pressed a comforting kiss to Orlando’s forehead. “I’ll go find something to help you clean up this mess.”
* * *
Later that night
Orlando was on fire. The warmth, the heat, was nearly unbearable, but the best kind of unbearable. The kind where you think that if the person you’re with touches you again, you might incinerate, and if they don’t, then you know you will. And then the touch came, feather-light in pressure, callused hands skimming down his arms and up his thighs. It felt like he was floating, swimming in slick desire, outside of himself. He moaned, needful and pleading, wanting harder, faster, more.
He writhed as lips slowly, sinfully worked their way down his chest, leaving a trail of scorching, wet fire in their wake. And all he could do was feel, soft lips, raspy beard, silky hair as Viggo slid the tip of Orlando’s cock into his mouth, and…
Orlando jolted awake with a pounding heart and a vice-grip on his softening cock. His sheets were damp with sweat and his boxers were covered with come. The dream left him reeling with shock and shame. Shock, because it had all felt so real, that he was left with the disappointment that it was only a fantasy. And shame because the fantasy was about someone who was a friend. A good friend. A friend who went out of his way to spend time with Orlando. A friend who had hugged him and touched him with caring, and maybe, just maybe, a glimmer of more?
Orlando sighed heavily as he slid out of bed and made his way toward the toilet to clean up. You’re fucking hallucinating now, mate. Why would he want you when he could have anyone?
* * *
Six weeks later
Orlando stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Ok, the Mohawk looked stupid, but it couldn’t be helped. Otherwise, he was looking as good as he possibly could, hair gelled, sides cleanly shaven, cologne applied. He was wearing his favorite shirt, a wildly colorful number that Viggo had once said looked like it had been attacked by Jackson Pollack on acid, along with his best jeans, the ones that he secretly thought made his ass look fantastic, if he did say so himself. He grabbed his jacket off the doorknob behind him and headed out the door.
Each encounter made him more aware of Viggo, not as a friend, but as a man. A man he found attractive. And Orlando found himself wanting more than friendship. He wanted love. He’d gone back and forth, trying to weigh every move Viggo made, trying to determine which way to construe his actions, trying to decide what to do. What to say. When to say it.
Fuck it. He was just going to go for it, just going to reach out and grab what he wanted and believe that for once, he was good enough, that he deserved this happiness, that it could be his.
Tonight was the night. He rang Viggo’s doorbell and waited, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He’d find the right moment.
iii. The mirror fell and I
I may as well have been blind
The days passing like hours
I'll meet you in the tower
If they can dream then why
Oh why can't I?
They were sitting on Viggo’s dilapidated excuse for a sofa when the moment came. Orlando was telling a story about something stupid, and Viggo was laughing, laughing so hard he was half draped across Orlando, and Orlando knew. This was it.
Orlando leaned in, eyes half-lidded, and pressed his lips to Viggo’s. He rubbed against stubble and smooth skin, smelled red wine and Viggo’s soap, felt… felt the discomfort radiating from Viggo in waves.
“Orlando, no,” Viggo pulled away.
Orlando struggled to open his eyes and meet Viggo’s stare. It wasn’t a horrified stare, but it wasn’t far off. He saw confusion, sadness, discomfort, and a tinge of what he thought might be pity swirling around in a pool of blue-green. And he knew. Knew just how wrong he’d gotten it all. Viggo was… or rather he wasn’t…
“Oh, fuck, you’re not gay.” Once again, with the stating the obvious, OB. Only not so fucking obvious this time, apparently. At least not to him.
Viggo shook his head. He started to say something, then stopped.
Rendered him speechless again, seems to be a talent of mine. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK! Orlando stared into his lap, at his clenched-white hands.
“Lando, I - ” Viggo started, and suddenly Orlando could hear the whole conversation, could see it in his mind before it even happened, could hear Viggo uttering platitudes and forgiving him, fucking forgiving him, for making a pass at him, and he just snapped. A low buzzing started in his ears, drowning out the low gravel of Viggo’s voice.
He looked up at Viggo, through rage-tinged vision, tuning in to the last bit of Viggo’s speech. “-value your friendship…”
“Friendship? Next you’ll be telling me I have a bloody great personality,” Orlando sneered. “If you don’t want to shag me, mate, just have the balls to say so.”
He strode to the front door as he threw a parting shot over his shoulder. “There’ll be no shortage of those willing to take what you’re passing up.”
* * *
Orlando stepped into the dark, throbbing room, letting the seediness seep into him, pounding into his pores through the music, the lights, the teeming mass of inhumanity writhing together on the dance floor.
He paused at the top of the stairs, taking in his surroundings, marking the location of the bars, the bathrooms, the exits, and the people he might be interested in fucking.
All duly noted, he made his way down the steps and over to the bar. Absolut, straight up, a double, and he smiled grimly as he felt the stinging warmth sliding down his throat, into his stomach. It loosened the knots and fueled the spark of anger and insecurity dormant for weeks while he’d basked in Viggo’s attention. Attention he’d misunderstood, misinterpreted. Fucking idiot, he thought as he ordered another vodka, and wasn’t sure if he meant himself or Viggo, or both. He downed the second drink as quickly as he had the first, and turned away from the bar to the dance floor.
The beat was a raging, sensual presence in the room. Swaying, weaving, touching, and being touched, Orlando closed his eyes and lost himself in a world where only movement mattered. The smell of sweat and sex seduced his senses, and he gave himself over to the hands that stroked him, the tongues that tasted him, and the erections that rubbed against him. He was desired, wanted, sought after. Fuckable if not lovable.
One song blended into the next and eventually he found himself writhing with a specific stranger instead of all of them. The man was tall, at least 3 inches taller than Orli, and ashy blond, with sharp angular features. The club’s strobe lights bounced off of the planes of the stranger’s face as Orlando shot him a coy look from half-lidded eyes.
As the beat pounded around them, they circled each other almost warily, like opposing boxers sizing one another up.
“I like it rough,” the man whispered into the hollow of Orlando’s neck, and he felt the words rather than hearing them.
“I can keep up,” Orlando returned.
“Are you sure?” The man caught Orlando’s gaze with a sardonic grin.
“Quite.” Orlando sent his hands down the man’s body, leaving in their wake equal parts pleasure and pain, to prove what his words had not. Showing always works better than telling, he thought as he watched light eyes darken with lust.
They slid away from the crowd, down a darkened hallway, to a door lit red by a single exit sign. The man, whose whispered name Orlando had already forgotten, pressed him against the door, the metal handle biting into the small of his back. Rough hands explored Orlando’s body, twisting and pinching as they mapped a course in all directions. Biting lips captured his own in a cruel parody of a kiss, before winding their way down his neck.
Orlando was just getting into the assaulting pace his new playmate had set when he felt the door give way behind him. A strong grip on the back of his shirt sent him sailing across the alley and face first into the brick wall on the other side. Only his arms, thrown up at the last minute, saved him from some hard-to-account-for scrapes and bruises.
“Are you sure you want it, like this? ‘Cause this is the last time that I’ll listen if you say stop,” the man growled in Orlando’s ear as he pressed Orlando harder against the cold roughness of the brick wall.
“I’m sure,” Orlando hissed. “But the face is off-limits.”
A grunt of agreement was the only response as Orlando found himself flying from one side of the alley to the other. He hit the wall hard, taking the blow on the shoulder. Pain raced through his brain, erasing all the other thoughts he’d been hammering himself with. The man was on him before he could move, mixing blows with a litany of taunts and slurs. Orlando fought back, struggling hard against the superior strength and size of his chosen foe. Adrenaline burned through him, sweet and clean, as he allowed his rage to overtake him.
He’d chosen his partner well, a man who knew how to bruise without breaking, and recognized when the tide needed to turn without being told. In no time at all, Orli found himself bent over against some crates in the alley as the man yanked Orli’s pants down to his knees.
“You’re fucking dying for this, aren’t you, my little slut?” the man hissed into Orlando’s ear, biting the earlobe as his hand squeezed tightly around Orlando’s hard cock. Orli thrust into his hand in response.
The sex was furtive, dirty, hard, and fast: in other words, exactly what Orlando had been searching for since he’d set foot in the club. As the stranger worked his way in and out of Orlando at a furious pace that suited them both just fine, Orlando stroked himself. Everybody was responsible for his own pleasure in this harsh world. He found his release, calling for one he couldn’t have. The one he was with followed him over the edge just moments later.
He felt the stranger pull out of him, heard the used condom hit the pavement. He reached down and pulled his pants back up. Doing up the last button, he turned to face his lover.
WHAM! Fist connected with mouth, and Orlando’s head snapped back with the force. He stumbled back into the wall, leaning on it more out of shock than pain. The man leaned over him, looking him square in the eye. “If you ever want to do this again, lover, you know where to find me. Regardless of what name you want to scream when I make you come.”
He grasped Orlando by the chin and angled his head up, then licked the trickle of blood flowing from the fresh cut on Orlando’s lower lip. A flash of a smile sweeter than it ought to have been, and the man was gone, leaving Orlando alone in the grimy alley.
I said the face was fucking off-limits, he thought and sighed, wincing at the stabbing pain in his lungs. Oh, well, he’d just explain it away as a surfing accident or something. Couldn’t get in a cab looking like this, though. The rumour mill in Wellington would crank at high gear. Crumpling to the filth of the alley floor, he tugged his phone out of his pocket. The display was cracked, unreadable, so he simply pressed the send button, trusting that the last person he’d called would surely be someone who would help him.
The voice on the other end of the line said hello, and Orlando hesitated a moment, before drawing in a tight, painful breath. “Can you come get me?”
* * *
Viggo crouched in the dank alley and wiped the trickle of dried blood from the corner of Orlando’s mouth. “What did you let him do to you, Orlando?”
Orlando laughed, clutching at bruised ribs, “Well, old man, it’s like the song says: I let him violate me, desecrate me, penetrate me.”
Viggo didn’t find that nearly so amusing. “You’re worth more than that.”
“Not to you.”
Orlando watched as Viggo turned his head away, pausing for a long moment before turning back. Orli could see the sheen of unshed tears in the crystalline blue eyes as Viggo spoke. “You know that’s not true.”
“What, was I supposed to read something more into your rejection of me? Sorry if I’m too sodding shallow to get the greater point.” Bitterness twisted through his words as Orlando struggled to get to his feet.
“It wasn’t meant to be a rejection of you, Lando.” Viggo slipped an arm around Orlando, supporting his weight and assisting him as they walk-limped toward the street where Viggo’s parked car sat. “I was trying to explain when you walked out.”
“Maybe I don’t want to listen to your explanations,” Orlando hissed, an exhalation of fury and pain as he settled into the passenger seat.
Viggo reached around and buckled him securely in. “That’s your choice, of course. But I think you made that choice when you called me, so now you have to listen, at least as long as you are in my car.”
He swung the door shut, leaving Orlando staring past his own reflection in the window into the darkness of the night. Orlando heard the driver’s door open, felt the car rock with Viggo’s weight as he got in and slammed the door shut. The engine rumbled to life and the buildings of Wellington began to pass by in alternating shadow and artificial light. He stared into the dark abyss through the reflection of his own eyes and wondered if there was any way he could avoid this further humiliation and hurt. He guessed not, as Viggo cleared his throat and began to speak.
“Lando. Orlando. Fine, don’t look at me. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, but I honestly had no idea you felt that way toward me. I thought we were just mates, and I was flattered that you might prefer the company of an old man to the Hobbits, and I just didn’t think.”
Orlando continued his love affair with the glass wall on his side of the vehicle, and Viggo sighed as he continued. “I thought you knew I was straight. I… I’ve flirted with women in front of you! I have a kid, for fuck’s sake. Although admittedly the two aren’t mutually exclusive, I know.”
He paused again, and Orlando couldn’t help but steal a look at Viggo, who was watching the road as he drove, pain still easily visible on his profile as he continued his rambling. “I didn’t mean to… lead you on, I guess, that was never my intention. You’re my friend, Orlando, I know that must sound terrible to you right now, but you are. And I have to admit I don’t know what to do right now or what to say to get rid of this awkwardness between us, but whatever it is, I want to do it and I want to say it… I just want…”
His voice drifted off, unsure how he wanted to finish that sentence, as he glanced away from the road for a moment to find Orlando making an in-depth study of the laces of his boots. His heart hurt at the thought of causing this young friend unnecessary pain, and mentally kicked himself, as he’d been doing since Lando’s flight from his home earlier, for whatever words he’d said or actions he’d taken to encourage this misunderstanding. He flipped on the turn signal and slowed to turn into the next driveway, pulling in and parking neatly next to the rental car Liv never used. He watched Orlando look up in confusion as he shut the motor off and Liv switched on the porch light.
“I didn’t want you to be alone, and I figured you wouldn’t want to stay with me,” he explained. “So I called Liv on the way to get you.”
Orlando nodded and began to open the car door. Viggo reached out to stop him, grasping him firmly by the wrist. “Promise me one thing. Give some solid thought to why you let yourself get hurt tonight, why you went looking for it. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you, Orlando.”
Orlando pulled his wrist away, and got out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Viggo watched him climb the steps to the porch, slowly and painfully, and returned Liv’s wave as she herded Orlando through the door and closed it behind them. Viggo rested his forehead on the steering wheel for a moment before restarting the engine and throwing it in reverse.
I’m definitely getting too old for this shit.
* * *
“Here, put this on your lip.”
Orlando screwed up his face as he realized what Liv had just slapped into his hand. “That’s raw meat. That’s so incredibly disgusting, Liv! I’m a vegetarian! I can’t put that anywhere near my mouth.”
“It’s for the swelling. I’m not asking you to suck on it, that portion of the evening is apparently over.”
“Oh, you’re so fucking funny,” he sulked, gingerly pressing the hideous slab of carcass to his face.
“Seriously, Orli, what happened? Viggo called me out of the blue, said you needed me, that he didn’t know what was going on. Your filthy human sounded pretty upset.”
“He’s not my filthy human, he’s… he isn’t my anything.” Orlando sighed, eyes downcast.
“Oh, shit. You told him you liked him.” Liv accused.
“How did you know I liked him?” Orlando returned. “I never said anything to anyone!”
“No, you never said anything,” Liv shot him a disgusted look. Pasting a lovesick look on her face, she chirped, “Viggo and I went fishing, Viggo and I rented movies last night. What are you doing this weekend, Orli? Oh, just hanging out with Viggo. Viggo is so smart, Viggo is so nice, Viggo likes my hideous shirts, Viggo, Viggo, Viggo. If I’d made my backend deal on the number of times you’d say his name during this production, I’d have made millions.”
Orlando stuck his tongue out at her, and smiled wryly. Ok, maybe he’d been a little more obvious than he’d thought. But he hadn’t thought he’d need to hide his interest, had thought it was returned. Had thought wrong. He was too tired to work up the anger that had gotten him through the evening; it had been beaten out of him. Without the rage, he couldn’t hold back the pain. Propping his elbows on Liv’s kitchen table, he covered his face with his free hand to hide the tears that threatened to fall. He felt Liv’s fingers stroke through his Mohawk and absorbed the comfort they offered.
“So what happened? Don’t tell me you kissed Viggo and he decked you?”
He laughed from behind the safe wall of his hands, dropping them both and throwing the meat on the table before answering. “Well, you’re half right. I kissed him, but he didn’t deck me. He politely declined to sample the wares. Apparently I missed the memo that said Viggo was straight. So I fucked off to get drunk and get laid. The trick I pulled at the club decked me.”
“Someone you picked up hit you? Why? Was he trying to rob you?”
“Ah, sweet Livvy,” he smiled wickedly as he tapped her on the chin. “There are so many ways to enjoy the evening, and pain and pleasure are not mutually exclusive.”
“Oh. OH!,” Liv stared at Orlando blankly as his words sunk in. “So you… and this was on purpose… and you’re into… oh. Shit, Orli, Peter’s gonna finish you off when he sees your lip!”
“Which is precisely why he’s getting a slightly different version of the story, in which I went surfing and banged myself up on my board,” Orlando explained.
“Leaving out the kinky sex details, good plan,” Liv nodded. “But why?”
“Well, there’s the aforementioned killing reason, plus I don’t think Pete’s really interested in the finer points of my sex life - ”
“No, I mean why did you want to do this, why did you let this… this stranger hurt you?”
Two friends, one night, same question. Somehow Orlando didn’t think Liv would appreciate the Nine Inch Nails answer anymore than Viggo had. He sighed and stared at the cracked Formica as if it might hold all the answers.
“I guess I just thought… Viggo… you should have seen the look on his face, Liv. He didn’t want me and it hurt. It hurt so bad and I just couldn’t… deal with it. It felt like I was being torn apart from the inside out and I felt helpless to stop it. I just wanted the control back, or something that I could touch, put my hands on, understand why there’s so much pain. At least a beating’s an honest hurt.” He stretched his arms across the kitchen table, leaning his head down on them and looking over at Liv bleakly.
She laid one hand on his cheek, comforting. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I knew you liked him, but I wasn’t sure which directions his interests lay in, or I would have warned you. I wish I could take the heartache away for you, but I can’t. Getting your heart broken is never easy, but honey, you can’t keep letting your anger get the best of you. One of these times, you’re really going to get hurt. I’m worried about you.”
Tears were welling up in her bright blue eyes, and Orlando felt like a heel for being the one to put them there. “I’m sorry, Liv, I don’t mean to worry you.”
“Promise me you’ll call me first next time, before you go looking for trouble?”
“Promise.”
“Promise me you’ll take better care of yourself?”
“Promise.”
“Promise me you’ll make up with Viggo?”
“Prom - Liv!”
“Seriously, Orli, you’ve got to. All your scenes are with him, and you can’t just ignore him for the next year.”
“I can’t face him right now, Liv. We’re doing all the action/running crap for the next couple of weeks, it’ll be ok. I’ll get it together, don’t worry.”
She gave him a doubtful look, but nodded. He smiled, and leaned over to kiss her cheek. “Thanks for the TLC, and for listening. I’m going to walk home and get a couple hours sleep.”
* * *
For the first time since principle filming had begun, Orlando was late for work. Purposefully, intentionally, and with full awareness of his cowardice. Viggo had long been artfully dirtied and sent on his way by the time Orlando slid his completely sore and aching ass into the makeup chair.
He made half-hearted apologies to the makeup artists who were double-timing it to get his ears applied in time for his call to set whilst mentally plotting diversions to get him through the day with total Viggo-avoidance. Not an easy task, he realized as he looked at the revised shooting list. Running had been postponed due to muddy conditions, a pile of roasted Orcs and possibly hobbits taking its place. This would require him to spend copious amounts of the current day with exactly the last person he wanted to see: Viggo. And Brett, of course, and Peter, and sundry other crew members, none of whom could he allow to see even the slightest glimmer of tension between two principle actors.
He stood quietly as Brett uttered a line in John’s stead, then looked broken-heartedly at the ground as he uttered the Elvish prayer. Peter stopped the action and Orlando looked up. He saw Viggo turn in his direction, and did what he’d been doing all morning: he ran.
“Was that alright, Pete?” Orlando hovered unnecessarily near his director. Pete looked a bit surprised, but nodded and went on about his business.
“Orlando.” Serious tone, serious face. Orlando knew he couldn’t ignore Viggo completely, not on set. He turned and looked Viggo in the eye.
“Last night - ”
“I’m sorry, does this have something to do with today’s scenes?”
Viggo shook his head negatively.
“Character motivation? Story arc? No? Then I’d rather not discuss it right now, thanks.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked away. He tried not to think about how much he’d just pissed off Viggo, tried not to feel the heat of that anger he imagined was radiating from the Ranger’s eyes into the dead center of his back. Professional didn’t have to mean friendly.
Peter called them back to their marks next to the steaming pile of Uruk ‘ai corpses, and prepared them to finish filming the scene they’d worked on a few hours ago, a scene showing Aragorn’s reaction to the site. As Peter walked away from them, Viggo tried one more time to reach out to Orlando, touching him on the sleeve as Orli walked past him to get in position. Orlando shrank back, avoiding the touch, and kept moving. He heard Viggo growl with frustration as Pete yelled action on the scene.
Viggo rocketed past, aiming for the Orc helmet he’d spent a good portion of the morning booting toward different locations at Pete’s request. This time he really got behind it, and for a second Orlando thought it was going to smack right into the camera. A demented howl emanated from Viggo as he sunk down on his knees in grief. That was new, and a nice touch, Orlando thought grudgingly.
Peter must have thought so too, because after giving it a moment’s cinematic pause, he was out from behind the camera and over to tell Viggo that that was it, perfect.
Viggo still knelt on the ground, hadn’t moved, and Orlando wondered for a moment exactly how far into character he’d disappeared. Wondered how Viggo managed to do it, until he saw the older man look up at Pete with an expression of pure pain.
“Fuck, I think I broke something.”
“Oh, hell,” Peter turned back to the crowd behind the cameras. “Medic!”
Well, Orlando thought guiltily, at least that’s today’s filming done.
* * *
One week later
Broken toes, and Viggo kept going. There was no stopping that man, must never take a sick day in his life. They’d filmed arduously physical scenes on horseback for two days, and he hadn’t complained once. If Orlando hadn’t been so busy trying to hate him, he’d have been really impressed.
As it was, he just tried to keep his concentration. It wasn’t working well, he reflected as he brushed one hand around the bandage currently wound around his ribs. Stupid spooked horse. He’d looked away for only a second, and the next thing he knew he’d been on the ground, trapped under the weight of the life-sized Gimli doll he had strapped to his back.
It fucking hurt, but of course he couldn’t complain, couldn’t rest, because if Viggo could work injured, he bloody well could too. So he kept working. Kept running, because that was what they were meant to be doing, he and Viggo and Brett. And he couldn’t do just any running. No he had to do fucking elf running, where nothing hurt and he never got tired or broke a sweat or even a facial expression.
He honestly thought he might die.
But instead he kept running at a crackled command over a stupid walkie-talkie, mentally planning dastardly things to do to Americans with over-developed work ethics and trying to ignore the fiery pains in his chest as he went.
The hated machine crackled out another command, and the three men halted their action. A horde of hidden crew members made their way over the rise to their left and the typical chaos that reigned between shots began anew. It was late afternoon, and they were starting to lose the light. Orlando hoped sincerely that the first AD would call it a day. He looked over and noticed that Viggo was deep in conversation with the man. He could only here snippets of the conversation.
“Running through the night… no rest… sunrise would be amazing.”
“… overnight?”
“Yeah!”
“…if you can convince the others.”
Viggo slapped the guy enthusiastically on the shoulder and walked away. Orlando leaned against a rock and surreptitiously watched Viggo go to every crew member, every grip and gaffer and make-up girl, watched in amazement as he sold his plan, whatever it was, to the entire group. Finally, he watched as Viggo walked cautiously toward him.
“Hey, Lan- Orlando.”
“Hey.”
“Look, I’ve been talking to the AD, yeah? And we were talking about how our characters are running tirelessly through the night, and wouldn’t it be a fucking amazing way to show that if the audience could see them running past the rising sun?”
Orlando had to admit it was a great idea, but he was a little pissed at being asked last. “What would it entail?”
“Well, we’d have to stay here tonight. Camp out. There’s that lake over there and we could fish and get a bonfire going and -”
“Have you talked everyone else into it?”
Viggo looked sheepish and nodded. “Then I guess I’ll have to go along then won’t I? Thanks.” Orlando said flatly and pushed away from the rock, walked away from Viggo. He was being a right bastard and he knew it, and part of him cared about it and was embarrassed for him, but that apparently wasn’t the part that was controlling his mouth.
* * *
A few hours later, even Orli had to admit he was having a good time. Word had spread about the impromptu camping trip and the caravan that had gone back to town for supplies had brought back with it hobbits and elves and men, anyone whose call time the next day allowed for a night spent under the stars. He sat alone at a campfire, watching Billy and Dom pretend to look for their characters’ body parts amongst the Orc rubble.
“Orlando.”
Viggo. Damn. He’d done such a good job of avoiding him for the evening. He looked around, but there was no one to save him from this conversation, no graceful excuse to walk away. Alone in the middle of a fucking crowd of people, it was just bloody typical. He stared into the heart of the fire, not looking at Viggo as the older man settled himself on the ground a few feet away.
“Still mad, then?”
Silence. Say nothing, and nothing can incriminate you.
“I’m sorry about the way I engineered this evening. You were right to be pissed. I should have asked you first, you and Brett, before anyone else. I just… I just didn’t want to give a chance to say no, to walk out again, and that wasn’t fair.”
Fucker always had to be the bigger man, didn’t he? “S’okay,” Orlando mumbled. Then sighed. “It was a good idea. I like to think I’d have agreed to stay anyway, but I think we both know that probably isn’t true.”
He made an art of studying the knees of his jeans as Viggo chuckled quietly. The part of Orlando’s heart that had blossomed under Viggo’s friendship and humor ached hotly, and Orlando wanted to double over from the hurt of it, so tired of the burden of wronged lover, scorned man, ex-friend. That part of him just wanted to go back to the time when he didn’t know how Viggo felt, when he could live in the fantasy he’d clung to for weeks.
Viggo sighed in the silence that had grown between them, and started to rise to his feet.
“You don’t have to go.”
Viggo stopped, staring down at Orlando, gaze inscrutable. Orlando watched the firelight flicker across the hard planes of his face, and his gut twisted, longing and lust and pain and hurt and guilt mixing. He knew Viggo was waiting for him to speak, and he wanted to but he just couldn’t think of a thing to say that would make it better, make it not awkward, make it all go away.
Viggo walked toward Orlando. The guy looked completely miserable, and Viggo wished again, for the thousandth time that week, that he’d noticed this before and done something to head it off. He sat down next to Orlando, leaning back to share the piece of driftwood that Orlando was propped up against. Both men stared into the pop and crackle of the fire in front of them for a long moment, before Viggo spoke quietly. “I’m sorry, Orlando.”
Orlando startled, as much from the silence being broken as the words, before he shrugged them off. “S’ok, mate, like I said, I probably would have gone home out of spite, and that wouldn’t have been-”
“No, I don’t mean about today,” Viggo interrupted. “I mean I’m sorry about what happened between us. I’m sorry for not noticing what you were really feeling, for being oblivious, for hurting you.”
Orlando rocked back, staring up at the sky bright with stars, as sharp pain rolled through him. Tears escaped slowly from the edges of his eyes. He felt a rolling, hollow sensation in his throat, and honestly didn’t know if he was going to cry or to throw up. “Not your fault.”
“No,” Viggo agreed. “Not my fault. Not yours, either. Nobody’s at fault here, Lando. But it doesn’t make my sorrow any less. Nor, I would imagine, does it yours.”
Sorrow? Orlando thought. Is that what this is? He’d let himself feel angry, feel hurt, feel undesirable, but he’d never considered sorrow. Mourning, really, for what he’d wanted, and now knew he couldn’t have. And for what he’d had, Viggo’s friendship, and now feared he’d lost.
“Vig, I’m sorry too,” he said in a rush, fighting back the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. “I’m sorry I got it all wrong, I’m sorry I’ve been such an utter bastard this week, I’m sorry I ruined our friendship.”
Tears were running down Orlando’s face freely now, and Viggo watched sadly as his friend’s composure broke completely and a low sob broke free into the night air. Viggo grabbed him, hugging him tight. “You didn’t, Lando. You didn’t ruin anything.”
iv. I finally stabilized
I finally stabilized
Everyone will see
Everyone will see
“I’m like, ‘Fuck off,’ and he says, ‘Come on.’ So we’re barefoot, waist-high in water, walking on these little rocks to get to the other side and I’m doing it because I’m an idiot and I’m following his lead. Because he’s an idiot. And because he’s amazing,” Bloom laughs. “I can’t believe how much this is going to make me sound like I’m in love with the guy.”*
Orlando pressed the end button on his mobile phone and shoved it into the side pocket of his jeans. He flipped up the collar on his pea coat to protect his ears from the chill of the late November London night, and thrust his hands into the coat pockets as he walked down the darkened Islington High Street.
Sighing, he wondered why he’d said it. I sound like I’m in love with the guy. He wondered, not for the first time, how long it was going to take him to learn to shut his fucking mouth and think before he spoke during an interview. How long before he would remember that he was not having a conversation with a bloke in a pub, but with someone who would take his words and put them out into the world for all to see. There was no way the reporter would not use the quote, he knew better than that. All he could do now is hope that it would be quoted in context, and that Viggo would understand what he’d meant by it.
That he really had found his peace, that he knew there would never be anything between them. Their moment had passed, and Orlando knew he wasn’t the same person he’d been in New Zealand. He was calmer, more secure.
But not everything had changed.
I sound like I’m in love with the guy, Orlando mused, and I suppose I always will.
*Quote from Premiere Magazine, the only words in this entire piece of fiction that actually came out of Orlando Bloom’s mouth.
Series: Ours
Rating: R
Pairing: Orlando Bloom/Viggo Mortensen, Orlando Bloom/OMC
Disclaimer: No ownership, no profit, no truth.
Warnings: Attempted angst, rough sex, long (25pg Word doc)
A/N: Thanks to shrinetolust for preliminary beta, and to eeeevil_genius for reading and encouragement. Full author’s notes and whinging may be found here Title and lyrics belong to Ours.
i. I'm paralyzed from head down
Realized pushing their doubts
I'm burned by all the fire
That’s spread within my house
You put them there so you can put them out
The anger boiled just under the surface, begging for release.
He knew what Viggo thought, what they all thought.
He let the arrow fly, and felt a surge of justification shoot through him as it landed in the bull’s-eye next to the others.
A wet-behind-the-ears actor fresh from drama school. An eager puppy pissing himself with excitement at the once in a lifetime opportunity. Another pretty face, brain optional, thankyouverymuch.
The next arrow went whizzing along, snapping through the air before taking purchase in the target a few inches from his previous shots.
Ok, he’d give them that this was new, that he was keen, even, being a realist and possessing a mirror, that he was easy on the eyes. None of this, however, was in Orlando’s mind a reason for the dismissal he was getting. John would sooner snap at him than speak to him, Viggo spoke in riddles, and Sean… well, Sean didn’t say much at all.
Orli grabbed two arrows out of his bag, and sent them flying. They traveled together, competing for speed. He smiled in grim satisfaction as they split at the last moment and buried their barbs in the outer rings, just where he’d intended.
The hobbits had it easy, he thought mutinously. They were all on the same level. They were the same age, mentally at least. He felt… he felt a species apart from them all. Not a man, not a hobbit, but an elf among strangers. He snorted as he walked to the target and began ripping out the arrows. Talk about life imitating art… and he wasn’t even a Method actor!
He fired arrow after arrow into the defenseless target, resentment turning into self-pity. He didn’t fit in, didn’t belong. PJ would see it, and replace him as he had Stuart. Doubt after doubt clamored through his head as he flung the arrows into the target again and again.
He swooped to pick up the last of the arrows lying at his feet. A shadow fell across his face, and he looked up.
“Hey, Livvy-loo,” he forced the anger down and away as he smiled up into her serene face.
“Orlando,” she peered into his eyes solemnly. “What’s wrong?”
“What makes you think something’s wrong?” He put on the act he used for them all, the cheery, carefree-elf look.
“Well, your target looks like it’s already suffered through the battle of Helm’s Deep. And since you forgot to wear these,” she tossed his archery gloves at him. “So do your hands.”
He looked down for the first time at his hands, blistered, sliced and bleeding. He hadn’t felt the sting at all. Not good.
She bent down to examine his wounds. Taking a bottle of Evian out of her bag, and a scarf, she cleaned the cuts. “What’s going on in that head of yours, Orli? You’re worrying me.”
“I don’t mean to, Liv,” he replied earnestly. He started to say something, then paused. Watching him closely from her seat beside him on the warm ground, she could nearly pinpoint the exact moment in which he decided to tell her the truth.
“I… I’m scared,” the words came out as a whisper, and he had to clear his throat to raise the volume of them. “I’m screwing this up. Everyone looks at me like they’re expecting great things of me, and I don’t know what else I can give… I’m putting everything I’ve got into this already! I look at everyone, and they’re at the top of their game, and I feel like I’m running to catch up. I mean, my god, look at Viggo! He is the king! And I’ll never… I’m just not…”
He trailed off, wiping away the tears of frustration that were escaping down his cheeks. Liv touched her hand to his chin and smiled sadly into his eyes.
“What makes you think you’re failing, Orlando? Because I’ve seen the dailies, and you aren’t.”
The anger pushed past the surface again, and he spat out the words. “He thinks so! I can see it in his eyes.”
To her credit, Liv didn’t ask to whom he was referring. She just looked at him and shook her head slowly. “I think you’re wrong, Orli. Are you sure you aren’t just seeing the reflection of your own fears there?”
“I know what they all think of me!” Liv leaned back in shock as the words jumped out of his mouth, full of vitriol and hurt. “The pretty elf boy, nice to look at, but not too bright, if you know what I mean, who’d he fuck to get this part, don’t you mean who didn’t he fuck to get this part, et cetera, et cetera. It’s always about the face, never the talent.”
“Oh, boo-fuckin’ hoo, Orli,” Liv scorned. Orlando looked at her in surprise, having fully expected the usual round of sympathy and advice. “Don’t bitch to me about being pretty, or being underestimated, or misjudged. Look at me: do you think there’s ever an article printed about me that doesn’t imply that I’m only employed because my dad’s Steven Tyler, or that I don’t turn down role after role as the beautiful but air-headed girlfriend because that’s all Hollywood wants to see me as? You get past it, you learn to use it to your advantage, or you’re in the wrong fucking business, Orlando. Look around you, look at Astin, look at Billy, look at Andy, fantastic actors all of them, but are they ever going to carry the lead in a big-budget film? Realistically, no. But you will, and it’s your face that opens that door, then your talent that carries you through it.”
She paused in her tirade, catching her breath as anger turned her cheeks a becoming shade of pink. Orlando stared at her in a mixture of awe and horror. In a calmer voice, she continued. “And then ask yourself why you care whether the assistant grip or the makeup girl thinks you’re talented. Or is it someone else’s opinion you’re worried about?”
Orlando flushed and suddenly became really interested in the grass around his trainers. He pulled a few blades loose and began shredding them into tiny pieces, letting them blow away in the gentle breeze. “It’s just… it’s important to me that…”
He sighed, and looked over at Liv. “I need his respect. I can’t even explain why.”
“Why on earth would you think you don’t have it?”
“How could I? I’m always asking him stupid questions, and I never understand his bleedin’ answers anyway. I wish he’d yell at me like John does or ignore me like Sean. At least then I wouldn’t feel dumb.”
“First off, I think John’s so uncomfortable in all those prosthetics that he’s just grumpy with everyone. And what do you mean Sean ignores you? He talks to you as much as he talks to anyone, which admittedly isn’t much. I don’t think he’s overly verbal.”
Orlando snorted back a laugh. “Yeah, I s’pose you’re right.”
“You need to talk to Viggo, really talk to him. I’m sure this is all in your head, and even if it isn’t, you need to get past it to do your job,” Liv lectured.
“Yeah, alright,” Orlando looked grim at the prospect, but nodded in agreement.
“Good, settled then,” she beamed a lethal smile at him. “Now let’s go get your hands looked at and then you can drive me home. Can’t have me killing any of the natives, you know!”
ii. When courage strikes we'll come out
From waiting around with our heads down
Turn me to the sky, turn me upside down
A way to feel alive, the life that’s mine
Orlando cautiously stepped onto the porch of Viggo’s rented home. He wasn’t really sure what he was doing here or what he hoped to accomplish. The only thing he was sure of was that coming here would be easier than facing Liv’s wrath tomorrow if he told her he’d chickened out.
He rang the doorbell and waited in the soft darkness of the cooling evening. He could hear the insects beginning their nightly symphony and in the distance, the sound of cars passing on the motorway. Viggo’s house was secluded, set in a wooded area, and really quite tranquil, he decided.
Light flooded the veranda as the outdoor fixture flicked to life. Orlando turned back to the door, stuffing his bandaged hands into the back pockets of his jeans as the door opened. Viggo stood there, barefoot, with a paintbrush in his hand.
“Orlando!” Viggo grinned at him. “Hey, man, wasn’t expecting you!”
“Yeah, sorry, I should have called first,” Orli stuttered out. “If it’s a bad time, I can go…”
“Get in here,” Viggo grinned and stepped back from the doorway to let Orlando through. The familiar scents of turpentine and oil paint filled Orlando’s senses as he passed by, reminding him of art classes past.
“I was just about to grab a beer, y’ want one?”
“Sure,” he said, following Viggo toward what must be the kitchen. He watched as Viggo set the brush down by the sink and grabbed two bottles out of the fridge. He grabbed a bottle opener that doubled as a magnet on the freezer door and popped the tops off before handing one to Orli. Not American, the British beer snob in Orlando noticed before taking a swig. Not bad.
Viggo leaned against a counter as he took a drink and looked expectantly at Orlando. This is the part where I’m supposed to say why I’m here, he thought, and tried to gather his courage.
“So you paint?” Duh. A) The man is covered in paint and carrying a paintbrush, and B) you knew he painted. No wonder you get the bimbo jokes, OB.
Viggo nodded. “Would you like to see what I’m working on?”
“Sure,” Orlando grasped enthusiastically at any activity that kept him from blurting out ‘So Vig, why don’t you like me?’
Viggo picked up his brush and motioned for Orli to follow back down the hall. They went past the entry way to the end of the hall. Viggo pushed the partially closed door open and led the way into a brightly lit room, surrounded on three walls by floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The house sat on a cliff, he realized, looking down at the sparkling lights of Wellington, and out into the harbor as well. It was breathtaking, and he said as much to Viggo.
An easel stood in the center of the otherwise unfurnished room, with a large canvas propped on it. Orlando walked over to it. He looked at the painting in silence for a good ten minutes, cocking his head first to the left then to the right, trying to figure out what on earth the swirls of vibrant color were supposed to represent.
“What do you think?” Viggo asked quietly.
“Well, the perspective is really quite unusu- ” Orlando turned to meet his gaze, and was surprised to see genuine interest there. “Aw, fuck it, I’ve got absolutely no clue what it’s supposed to be!”
Viggo tilted his head back and laughed. Orlando could feel the anger begin to burn once again in the pit of his stomach. Viggo’s next words, however, doused those flames effectively. “Good. It’s not supposed to be anything. What does it make you feel?
“Dizzy?”
Viggo laughed again. “See, that’s honest, yeah? A real feeling that you didn’t have in you before, a feeling that I gave you, whether I meant to or not. That’s what art is to me, a force to cause a reaction, to change what was there before.”
Orlando nodded, and for once felt he actually understood Viggo. Maybe the problem before had been that he was trying to give the answer he thought Viggo wanted to hear, rather than what he really thought. He opened his mouth to say something and listened in horror as he heard his voice form the words. “So why don’t you like me, Viggo?”
“I… you… what?”
Orlando had a feeling that Viggo was very rarely speechless and that if the circumstances had been different, he might have taken time to appreciate the moment. Closing his eyes, he prayed fervently for the hardwood panels to slip silently apart and for the earth beneath to swallow him whole. When he opened them, he was sad but unsurprised to note that it hadn’t happened. He was still above ground, and Viggo was still looking at him in complete shock. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought and continued. “It’s just… sometimes, I feel like you, maybe just, um. ThinkI’mstupid.”
Which I am. Which I have just proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. God, kill me now. Or just make me shut the fuck up. Either-or, doesn’t matter which.
“Orlando, I have never, ever, thought you were unintelligent. I’m sorry if I did or said something to make you think that. What would make you think that?”
Orlando shoved his hands into his front pockets, and studied the knot on the shiny floor that he was currently attempting to rub into oblivion with the toe of his grubby trainers. Wondering if he could rub himself into oblivion along with it.
“And what the fuck have you done to your hands?” Viggo crossed the room and grabbed one of Orlando’s hands from its denim safe-haven. He silently examined the dressing and looked up at Orlando with clear, questioning blue eyes.
“I, uh, got a little overzealous with practise today,” he mumbled.
“With both hands?”
“Yeah, well, I was trying to see if I could do it with both hands, ambidextrous like, ya know? Just in case, I mean. Pete might want…” Stop the rambling, stop it. Fuck.
Viggo’s brow wrinkled, his face mirroring the consternation in his voice. “If he wants, he’ll tell you or just flip the film and make it look like you can. There’s no need to rip yourself to shreds over something someone might or might not want.”
Orlando jerked his hand out from Viggo’s and stalked to the window looking out over the night sky. There it was again, the humiliation, the white-hot shame mixing with anger, at himself, at Viggo, at the world. He was trying too hard, he couldn’t find his place, his rhythm, his footing in this place on the other side of the world from everything he knew.
“Could you do it?”
“Huh?” Orlando swiveled his head to meet Viggo’s gaze.
“Can you shoot with either hand now?”
“Yeah.”
Orlando watched as a grin flashed across Viggo’s face like lightening in a winter storm, quick and unexpected. “Fucking cool.”
And just like that, darker feelings were banished back down into the shadows, and Orlando found himself laughing with Viggo. On the drive home, Orlando found himself smiling, truly smiling, for the first time since filming had begun. Maybe I can do this, maybe I won’t fuck it up.
Maybe.
* * *
The next day, Orlando approached the make-up trailer with some trepidation. What if last night was a fluke? What if the connection he’d finally felt with Viggo was gone?
He was, as usual, the first to arrive to the make-up trailer he shared with Bean and Viggo. The ears added an hour to his regimen that the others didn’t have to endure.
He fidgeted his way through the first forty-five minutes as the ears were meticulously attached. The finishing touches were just going on his right ear when the door open and the source of his nervous energy walked through the door. Bean was right behind Viggo, the two men engaging in their usual banter as they entered the room. Moment of truth…
“Hey, Lando,” Viggo called and rifled fingers through Orlando’s still wig-free Mohawk before hopping into his own seat. “Drive home ok last night?”
“Yeah, just fine,” A bright smile burst forth on Orlando’s face, wider and freer than he meant to, but the joy at being included couldn’t be contained. Lando, hmm… no one had ever called him that. He kind of liked it.
Lando. Not a bad start to the day.
* * *
Viggo thought, when he saw it, that the smile might break Orlando’s face, it was that wide and that bright. The situation must be worse than he’d thought, if a simple greeting could cause such a reaction.
He’d noticed things weren’t quite right with their Elf, hadn’t been for a couple of weeks now. He’d talked to Sean about it over the weekend, and Sean had agreed something was definitely out of sorts with the boy. Orlando had been the sweetest of them all when they’d arrived for training, Sean noted, quick with a hug and a laugh. Now he was quiet most days, he seemed to find more excuses to avoid nights out, and he hadn’t laughed in days. Viggo was relieved to find he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the change, who worried about the dark smudges under Orlando’s eyes, the tightened corners of his mouth, the frustration that seemed to be simmering just under his surface.
“Lad’s probably just homesick,” Bean had offered. “The Hobbits’ll get him sorted soon, I’m sure.”
Viggo had agreed, albeit with less certainty, and the subject had been dropped. Still, Viggo had been happy to open his door last night and see Orlando standing there. And taken aback when he realized what the reason behind the visit was. He still couldn’t believe that Orlando had thought that. Had he been unfriendly to the boy? Condescending? He couldn’t remember saying anything that might have been misconstrued, but obviously he had. He’d just have to be sure to rectify that then.
“Hey, Lando!” he raised his voice to stop the now completely Legolased Orlando as he headed out the door on his way to wardrobe. “Wanna go fishing this weekend?”
He bit back a chuckle as Orlando nearly tripped over his own feet trying to stop his forward motion out the door.
“Yeah, that’d be great!” Orlando flashed another solar-bright grin his way before racing out the door.
Poor kid, Viggo mused, he must’ve been really lonely.
* * *
Two weeks later
“Who’s coming to movie night?” Dom bellowed down the table at the assembly of actors attempting to peacefully inhale their lunch before being called back to set. Bean and John were quick to utter their “Not I’s,” having witnessed first-hand how quickly Hobbit movie nights could degenerate into tequila-fueled Twister tournaments.
“How ‘bout you, Vig?” Dom quirked his brow. “You up for it?”
Viggo was about to bow out, citing a lack of limberness that was sure to confuse all those around him as they hadn’t been privy to the Twister train of thought, when Orlando sent him a beseeching glance across the table. “Oh, what the hell, why not?”
Eight hours, two Jim Carrey movies, and six tequila shots later, Viggo found himself with his head shoved against Orlando’s abdomen and his right arm entwined rather too intimately between Billy’s legs. He struggled to find a way to put his left leg on red without putting his back out or getting to know the Scot in the Biblical sense.
I’m getting too old for this shit, he thought, as he blew a stray strand of hair out of his face.
* * *
The quivering in Orlando’s stomach was weakening the strength of his arms, and he flexed his biceps in a vain attempt to stop the tremors. The backbend had seemed like such a clever move when he’d had two feet on Red and the arrow had required one hand on Green. Now, with Viggo breathing heavily on his exposed abdomen, it seemed both more and less brilliant. He tried sending “down boy” messages southward but it was not working. Fuck. The last thing he needed to do was screw up the camaraderie he’d found with Viggo over the last couple of weeks by shoving a raging hard-on in his new mate’s face. He’d spent a good portion of his free time lately trying to work out which way Viggo swung. Some days, Viggo seemed so straight that Orlando would have laughed out loud if someone had even suggested differently. Then there were other days, like the days when Viggo kissed Bernard on the lips, or grabbed Ian’s ass through Gandalf’s robes, that the idea didn’t seem so outrageous. Wishful thinking. He tried to force the thought away and focus on balance and strength as he shifted his weight from one hand to the other.
A gust of air attacked his navel and shorted out his central nervous system. And they all came tumbling down, a tangled mess of limbs. Everyone else struggled to disentangle themselves while Orlando struggled to come up with an explanation for falling over that didn’t include getting turned on by Viggo breathing on his stomach.
Fuck. Bloody fucking hell.
* * *
One month later
“Fuck!”
Viggo watched, outwardly calm, as Orlando spun a path of mayhem and destruction through the trailer, spewing pieces of costume and bits of gelatin ear as he went. He was one rascally rabbit away from the Tasmanian devil, Viggo thought, biting back a chuckle he didn’t think the younger man would appreciate.
Orlando kept repeating the single epithet he’d started muttering the second they’d cleared the set. Reaching for the closet door where he kept his street clothes, he caught sight of himself in the mirrored door: Legolas still, only flushed and messy and pissed off and everything an elf should never be. So he slammed it, as hard as he could, and watched with pleasure as the mirror shattered and shards of glass rained onto the floor. The door bounced back and he slammed it again, latching this time, and followed it with two quick, bare-fisted punches against recently bared hardwood, left, right. Sweet pain licked its way up his forearms and he reared back to have another go.
Shit, but the kid was mad. Viggo had seen hints of his temper before, but not to this extent. He was afraid Orlando wasn’t going to stop until he’d really hurt himself. He reached out, grabbing Orlando’s cocked-back arm before he could land another punch into the oak cabinet. Orlando spun, blindly, and threw the other fist in the direction of this new target. Viggo ducked and moved closer, wrapping his arms tightly round Orlando’s chest, hugging him closely, like a boxer avoiding the heaviest of blows.
“Whoa there, hang on now,” Viggo murmured low in Orlando’s ear, rubbing calming circles on Orlando’s back. He felt the rage shuddering through the young man’s body in shaking gasps that reminded him of a spooked thoroughbred he’d seen once on a farm in Argentina. A young boy, he’d watched helplessly as the horse had kicked its way through the wooden stall wall and broken its leg. Viggo tightened his grip around Orlando as he recalled the painful sounds of hearing the horse put down, and ran one hand through the mane of Orlando’s Mohawk. “Easy now, just breathe.”
Orlando wound his arms tighter around Viggo and turned his face into the curve of Viggo’s neck. Breathe, he thought, and tried to match his tripping heartbeat to the steadier one he could feel pulsing underneath the tunic costume Viggo still wore. Viggo smelled of leather and trees and man, and desire shimmered through the fury flowing under Orlando’s skin. Tremors, aftershocks, rumbled through him, making his shoulders shake as he focused on controlling the air going in and out of his lungs.
“Now what was that all about?” Viggo asked when he felt Orlando regain a modicum of composure. Brown eyes flashed incredulously at him as Orlando’s head snapped back.
“What do you mean, what was that about? You were there, you… I just couldn’t get it right.” He finished with anguish in his voice.
“What, the council scene?”
“Um, yeah… did you not notice the forty-two takes we just did?”
“Well, yeah,” Viggo drawled slowly. “Things get screwed up. I flubbed some lines. So did Elijah. So did Ian, for fuck’s sake. The lighting is wrong. Continuity gets fucked up. It’s not like you single-handedly ruined every take. And even if you had, which you didn’t, so what? Everybody’s entitled to an off day.”
Orlando pulled away, wrapping his arms tightly around himself, and walked over to one of the trailer’s tiny windows. He stared out at muddy, dying grass and spoke so lowly that Viggo had to move closer to even hear him. “What if it’s not an off day? What if… what if I’m not good enough?”
“That’s just bullshit,” Viggo said with quiet gravity. Orlando turned pained eyes toward him, and Viggo continued. “You’re good enough, Lando. You’re new to this, sure. But you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t good enough. Do you think Pete would waste his time, his dream, his future on you if you weren’t?”
Orlando shrugged, dropping his gaze to the ugly carpeting. Viggo watched the conflict cross over the expressive frame of Orlando’s face. He didn’t know what else to say to make the boy see his worth. He’d come to think of Orlando as a brother, the younger one you want to see do well, to see remain unsullied by life’s crueler moments. He reached out and put his hand on Orlando’s jaw, forcing him to look Viggo in the eye. “You’re a good actor, Orlando. You’ve just got to learn to trust yourself, and you’re going to be fine. But you’ve got to quit beating yourself up about the little shit,” he smiled slowly. “There’ll be enough people waiting to do it for you once you hit the big time.”
Orlando leaned into the caress imperceptibly, and smiled tenuously. “The big time, eh? Think so?”
Viggo leaned forward and touched his forehead lightly to Orlando’s. “Know so.”
He pressed a comforting kiss to Orlando’s forehead. “I’ll go find something to help you clean up this mess.”
* * *
Later that night
Orlando was on fire. The warmth, the heat, was nearly unbearable, but the best kind of unbearable. The kind where you think that if the person you’re with touches you again, you might incinerate, and if they don’t, then you know you will. And then the touch came, feather-light in pressure, callused hands skimming down his arms and up his thighs. It felt like he was floating, swimming in slick desire, outside of himself. He moaned, needful and pleading, wanting harder, faster, more.
He writhed as lips slowly, sinfully worked their way down his chest, leaving a trail of scorching, wet fire in their wake. And all he could do was feel, soft lips, raspy beard, silky hair as Viggo slid the tip of Orlando’s cock into his mouth, and…
Orlando jolted awake with a pounding heart and a vice-grip on his softening cock. His sheets were damp with sweat and his boxers were covered with come. The dream left him reeling with shock and shame. Shock, because it had all felt so real, that he was left with the disappointment that it was only a fantasy. And shame because the fantasy was about someone who was a friend. A good friend. A friend who went out of his way to spend time with Orlando. A friend who had hugged him and touched him with caring, and maybe, just maybe, a glimmer of more?
Orlando sighed heavily as he slid out of bed and made his way toward the toilet to clean up. You’re fucking hallucinating now, mate. Why would he want you when he could have anyone?
* * *
Six weeks later
Orlando stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Ok, the Mohawk looked stupid, but it couldn’t be helped. Otherwise, he was looking as good as he possibly could, hair gelled, sides cleanly shaven, cologne applied. He was wearing his favorite shirt, a wildly colorful number that Viggo had once said looked like it had been attacked by Jackson Pollack on acid, along with his best jeans, the ones that he secretly thought made his ass look fantastic, if he did say so himself. He grabbed his jacket off the doorknob behind him and headed out the door.
Each encounter made him more aware of Viggo, not as a friend, but as a man. A man he found attractive. And Orlando found himself wanting more than friendship. He wanted love. He’d gone back and forth, trying to weigh every move Viggo made, trying to determine which way to construe his actions, trying to decide what to do. What to say. When to say it.
Fuck it. He was just going to go for it, just going to reach out and grab what he wanted and believe that for once, he was good enough, that he deserved this happiness, that it could be his.
Tonight was the night. He rang Viggo’s doorbell and waited, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He’d find the right moment.
iii. The mirror fell and I
I may as well have been blind
The days passing like hours
I'll meet you in the tower
If they can dream then why
Oh why can't I?
They were sitting on Viggo’s dilapidated excuse for a sofa when the moment came. Orlando was telling a story about something stupid, and Viggo was laughing, laughing so hard he was half draped across Orlando, and Orlando knew. This was it.
Orlando leaned in, eyes half-lidded, and pressed his lips to Viggo’s. He rubbed against stubble and smooth skin, smelled red wine and Viggo’s soap, felt… felt the discomfort radiating from Viggo in waves.
“Orlando, no,” Viggo pulled away.
Orlando struggled to open his eyes and meet Viggo’s stare. It wasn’t a horrified stare, but it wasn’t far off. He saw confusion, sadness, discomfort, and a tinge of what he thought might be pity swirling around in a pool of blue-green. And he knew. Knew just how wrong he’d gotten it all. Viggo was… or rather he wasn’t…
“Oh, fuck, you’re not gay.” Once again, with the stating the obvious, OB. Only not so fucking obvious this time, apparently. At least not to him.
Viggo shook his head. He started to say something, then stopped.
Rendered him speechless again, seems to be a talent of mine. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK! Orlando stared into his lap, at his clenched-white hands.
“Lando, I - ” Viggo started, and suddenly Orlando could hear the whole conversation, could see it in his mind before it even happened, could hear Viggo uttering platitudes and forgiving him, fucking forgiving him, for making a pass at him, and he just snapped. A low buzzing started in his ears, drowning out the low gravel of Viggo’s voice.
He looked up at Viggo, through rage-tinged vision, tuning in to the last bit of Viggo’s speech. “-value your friendship…”
“Friendship? Next you’ll be telling me I have a bloody great personality,” Orlando sneered. “If you don’t want to shag me, mate, just have the balls to say so.”
He strode to the front door as he threw a parting shot over his shoulder. “There’ll be no shortage of those willing to take what you’re passing up.”
* * *
Orlando stepped into the dark, throbbing room, letting the seediness seep into him, pounding into his pores through the music, the lights, the teeming mass of inhumanity writhing together on the dance floor.
He paused at the top of the stairs, taking in his surroundings, marking the location of the bars, the bathrooms, the exits, and the people he might be interested in fucking.
All duly noted, he made his way down the steps and over to the bar. Absolut, straight up, a double, and he smiled grimly as he felt the stinging warmth sliding down his throat, into his stomach. It loosened the knots and fueled the spark of anger and insecurity dormant for weeks while he’d basked in Viggo’s attention. Attention he’d misunderstood, misinterpreted. Fucking idiot, he thought as he ordered another vodka, and wasn’t sure if he meant himself or Viggo, or both. He downed the second drink as quickly as he had the first, and turned away from the bar to the dance floor.
The beat was a raging, sensual presence in the room. Swaying, weaving, touching, and being touched, Orlando closed his eyes and lost himself in a world where only movement mattered. The smell of sweat and sex seduced his senses, and he gave himself over to the hands that stroked him, the tongues that tasted him, and the erections that rubbed against him. He was desired, wanted, sought after. Fuckable if not lovable.
One song blended into the next and eventually he found himself writhing with a specific stranger instead of all of them. The man was tall, at least 3 inches taller than Orli, and ashy blond, with sharp angular features. The club’s strobe lights bounced off of the planes of the stranger’s face as Orlando shot him a coy look from half-lidded eyes.
As the beat pounded around them, they circled each other almost warily, like opposing boxers sizing one another up.
“I like it rough,” the man whispered into the hollow of Orlando’s neck, and he felt the words rather than hearing them.
“I can keep up,” Orlando returned.
“Are you sure?” The man caught Orlando’s gaze with a sardonic grin.
“Quite.” Orlando sent his hands down the man’s body, leaving in their wake equal parts pleasure and pain, to prove what his words had not. Showing always works better than telling, he thought as he watched light eyes darken with lust.
They slid away from the crowd, down a darkened hallway, to a door lit red by a single exit sign. The man, whose whispered name Orlando had already forgotten, pressed him against the door, the metal handle biting into the small of his back. Rough hands explored Orlando’s body, twisting and pinching as they mapped a course in all directions. Biting lips captured his own in a cruel parody of a kiss, before winding their way down his neck.
Orlando was just getting into the assaulting pace his new playmate had set when he felt the door give way behind him. A strong grip on the back of his shirt sent him sailing across the alley and face first into the brick wall on the other side. Only his arms, thrown up at the last minute, saved him from some hard-to-account-for scrapes and bruises.
“Are you sure you want it, like this? ‘Cause this is the last time that I’ll listen if you say stop,” the man growled in Orlando’s ear as he pressed Orlando harder against the cold roughness of the brick wall.
“I’m sure,” Orlando hissed. “But the face is off-limits.”
A grunt of agreement was the only response as Orlando found himself flying from one side of the alley to the other. He hit the wall hard, taking the blow on the shoulder. Pain raced through his brain, erasing all the other thoughts he’d been hammering himself with. The man was on him before he could move, mixing blows with a litany of taunts and slurs. Orlando fought back, struggling hard against the superior strength and size of his chosen foe. Adrenaline burned through him, sweet and clean, as he allowed his rage to overtake him.
He’d chosen his partner well, a man who knew how to bruise without breaking, and recognized when the tide needed to turn without being told. In no time at all, Orli found himself bent over against some crates in the alley as the man yanked Orli’s pants down to his knees.
“You’re fucking dying for this, aren’t you, my little slut?” the man hissed into Orlando’s ear, biting the earlobe as his hand squeezed tightly around Orlando’s hard cock. Orli thrust into his hand in response.
The sex was furtive, dirty, hard, and fast: in other words, exactly what Orlando had been searching for since he’d set foot in the club. As the stranger worked his way in and out of Orlando at a furious pace that suited them both just fine, Orlando stroked himself. Everybody was responsible for his own pleasure in this harsh world. He found his release, calling for one he couldn’t have. The one he was with followed him over the edge just moments later.
He felt the stranger pull out of him, heard the used condom hit the pavement. He reached down and pulled his pants back up. Doing up the last button, he turned to face his lover.
WHAM! Fist connected with mouth, and Orlando’s head snapped back with the force. He stumbled back into the wall, leaning on it more out of shock than pain. The man leaned over him, looking him square in the eye. “If you ever want to do this again, lover, you know where to find me. Regardless of what name you want to scream when I make you come.”
He grasped Orlando by the chin and angled his head up, then licked the trickle of blood flowing from the fresh cut on Orlando’s lower lip. A flash of a smile sweeter than it ought to have been, and the man was gone, leaving Orlando alone in the grimy alley.
I said the face was fucking off-limits, he thought and sighed, wincing at the stabbing pain in his lungs. Oh, well, he’d just explain it away as a surfing accident or something. Couldn’t get in a cab looking like this, though. The rumour mill in Wellington would crank at high gear. Crumpling to the filth of the alley floor, he tugged his phone out of his pocket. The display was cracked, unreadable, so he simply pressed the send button, trusting that the last person he’d called would surely be someone who would help him.
The voice on the other end of the line said hello, and Orlando hesitated a moment, before drawing in a tight, painful breath. “Can you come get me?”
* * *
Viggo crouched in the dank alley and wiped the trickle of dried blood from the corner of Orlando’s mouth. “What did you let him do to you, Orlando?”
Orlando laughed, clutching at bruised ribs, “Well, old man, it’s like the song says: I let him violate me, desecrate me, penetrate me.”
Viggo didn’t find that nearly so amusing. “You’re worth more than that.”
“Not to you.”
Orlando watched as Viggo turned his head away, pausing for a long moment before turning back. Orli could see the sheen of unshed tears in the crystalline blue eyes as Viggo spoke. “You know that’s not true.”
“What, was I supposed to read something more into your rejection of me? Sorry if I’m too sodding shallow to get the greater point.” Bitterness twisted through his words as Orlando struggled to get to his feet.
“It wasn’t meant to be a rejection of you, Lando.” Viggo slipped an arm around Orlando, supporting his weight and assisting him as they walk-limped toward the street where Viggo’s parked car sat. “I was trying to explain when you walked out.”
“Maybe I don’t want to listen to your explanations,” Orlando hissed, an exhalation of fury and pain as he settled into the passenger seat.
Viggo reached around and buckled him securely in. “That’s your choice, of course. But I think you made that choice when you called me, so now you have to listen, at least as long as you are in my car.”
He swung the door shut, leaving Orlando staring past his own reflection in the window into the darkness of the night. Orlando heard the driver’s door open, felt the car rock with Viggo’s weight as he got in and slammed the door shut. The engine rumbled to life and the buildings of Wellington began to pass by in alternating shadow and artificial light. He stared into the dark abyss through the reflection of his own eyes and wondered if there was any way he could avoid this further humiliation and hurt. He guessed not, as Viggo cleared his throat and began to speak.
“Lando. Orlando. Fine, don’t look at me. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, but I honestly had no idea you felt that way toward me. I thought we were just mates, and I was flattered that you might prefer the company of an old man to the Hobbits, and I just didn’t think.”
Orlando continued his love affair with the glass wall on his side of the vehicle, and Viggo sighed as he continued. “I thought you knew I was straight. I… I’ve flirted with women in front of you! I have a kid, for fuck’s sake. Although admittedly the two aren’t mutually exclusive, I know.”
He paused again, and Orlando couldn’t help but steal a look at Viggo, who was watching the road as he drove, pain still easily visible on his profile as he continued his rambling. “I didn’t mean to… lead you on, I guess, that was never my intention. You’re my friend, Orlando, I know that must sound terrible to you right now, but you are. And I have to admit I don’t know what to do right now or what to say to get rid of this awkwardness between us, but whatever it is, I want to do it and I want to say it… I just want…”
His voice drifted off, unsure how he wanted to finish that sentence, as he glanced away from the road for a moment to find Orlando making an in-depth study of the laces of his boots. His heart hurt at the thought of causing this young friend unnecessary pain, and mentally kicked himself, as he’d been doing since Lando’s flight from his home earlier, for whatever words he’d said or actions he’d taken to encourage this misunderstanding. He flipped on the turn signal and slowed to turn into the next driveway, pulling in and parking neatly next to the rental car Liv never used. He watched Orlando look up in confusion as he shut the motor off and Liv switched on the porch light.
“I didn’t want you to be alone, and I figured you wouldn’t want to stay with me,” he explained. “So I called Liv on the way to get you.”
Orlando nodded and began to open the car door. Viggo reached out to stop him, grasping him firmly by the wrist. “Promise me one thing. Give some solid thought to why you let yourself get hurt tonight, why you went looking for it. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you, Orlando.”
Orlando pulled his wrist away, and got out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Viggo watched him climb the steps to the porch, slowly and painfully, and returned Liv’s wave as she herded Orlando through the door and closed it behind them. Viggo rested his forehead on the steering wheel for a moment before restarting the engine and throwing it in reverse.
I’m definitely getting too old for this shit.
* * *
“Here, put this on your lip.”
Orlando screwed up his face as he realized what Liv had just slapped into his hand. “That’s raw meat. That’s so incredibly disgusting, Liv! I’m a vegetarian! I can’t put that anywhere near my mouth.”
“It’s for the swelling. I’m not asking you to suck on it, that portion of the evening is apparently over.”
“Oh, you’re so fucking funny,” he sulked, gingerly pressing the hideous slab of carcass to his face.
“Seriously, Orli, what happened? Viggo called me out of the blue, said you needed me, that he didn’t know what was going on. Your filthy human sounded pretty upset.”
“He’s not my filthy human, he’s… he isn’t my anything.” Orlando sighed, eyes downcast.
“Oh, shit. You told him you liked him.” Liv accused.
“How did you know I liked him?” Orlando returned. “I never said anything to anyone!”
“No, you never said anything,” Liv shot him a disgusted look. Pasting a lovesick look on her face, she chirped, “Viggo and I went fishing, Viggo and I rented movies last night. What are you doing this weekend, Orli? Oh, just hanging out with Viggo. Viggo is so smart, Viggo is so nice, Viggo likes my hideous shirts, Viggo, Viggo, Viggo. If I’d made my backend deal on the number of times you’d say his name during this production, I’d have made millions.”
Orlando stuck his tongue out at her, and smiled wryly. Ok, maybe he’d been a little more obvious than he’d thought. But he hadn’t thought he’d need to hide his interest, had thought it was returned. Had thought wrong. He was too tired to work up the anger that had gotten him through the evening; it had been beaten out of him. Without the rage, he couldn’t hold back the pain. Propping his elbows on Liv’s kitchen table, he covered his face with his free hand to hide the tears that threatened to fall. He felt Liv’s fingers stroke through his Mohawk and absorbed the comfort they offered.
“So what happened? Don’t tell me you kissed Viggo and he decked you?”
He laughed from behind the safe wall of his hands, dropping them both and throwing the meat on the table before answering. “Well, you’re half right. I kissed him, but he didn’t deck me. He politely declined to sample the wares. Apparently I missed the memo that said Viggo was straight. So I fucked off to get drunk and get laid. The trick I pulled at the club decked me.”
“Someone you picked up hit you? Why? Was he trying to rob you?”
“Ah, sweet Livvy,” he smiled wickedly as he tapped her on the chin. “There are so many ways to enjoy the evening, and pain and pleasure are not mutually exclusive.”
“Oh. OH!,” Liv stared at Orlando blankly as his words sunk in. “So you… and this was on purpose… and you’re into… oh. Shit, Orli, Peter’s gonna finish you off when he sees your lip!”
“Which is precisely why he’s getting a slightly different version of the story, in which I went surfing and banged myself up on my board,” Orlando explained.
“Leaving out the kinky sex details, good plan,” Liv nodded. “But why?”
“Well, there’s the aforementioned killing reason, plus I don’t think Pete’s really interested in the finer points of my sex life - ”
“No, I mean why did you want to do this, why did you let this… this stranger hurt you?”
Two friends, one night, same question. Somehow Orlando didn’t think Liv would appreciate the Nine Inch Nails answer anymore than Viggo had. He sighed and stared at the cracked Formica as if it might hold all the answers.
“I guess I just thought… Viggo… you should have seen the look on his face, Liv. He didn’t want me and it hurt. It hurt so bad and I just couldn’t… deal with it. It felt like I was being torn apart from the inside out and I felt helpless to stop it. I just wanted the control back, or something that I could touch, put my hands on, understand why there’s so much pain. At least a beating’s an honest hurt.” He stretched his arms across the kitchen table, leaning his head down on them and looking over at Liv bleakly.
She laid one hand on his cheek, comforting. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I knew you liked him, but I wasn’t sure which directions his interests lay in, or I would have warned you. I wish I could take the heartache away for you, but I can’t. Getting your heart broken is never easy, but honey, you can’t keep letting your anger get the best of you. One of these times, you’re really going to get hurt. I’m worried about you.”
Tears were welling up in her bright blue eyes, and Orlando felt like a heel for being the one to put them there. “I’m sorry, Liv, I don’t mean to worry you.”
“Promise me you’ll call me first next time, before you go looking for trouble?”
“Promise.”
“Promise me you’ll take better care of yourself?”
“Promise.”
“Promise me you’ll make up with Viggo?”
“Prom - Liv!”
“Seriously, Orli, you’ve got to. All your scenes are with him, and you can’t just ignore him for the next year.”
“I can’t face him right now, Liv. We’re doing all the action/running crap for the next couple of weeks, it’ll be ok. I’ll get it together, don’t worry.”
She gave him a doubtful look, but nodded. He smiled, and leaned over to kiss her cheek. “Thanks for the TLC, and for listening. I’m going to walk home and get a couple hours sleep.”
* * *
For the first time since principle filming had begun, Orlando was late for work. Purposefully, intentionally, and with full awareness of his cowardice. Viggo had long been artfully dirtied and sent on his way by the time Orlando slid his completely sore and aching ass into the makeup chair.
He made half-hearted apologies to the makeup artists who were double-timing it to get his ears applied in time for his call to set whilst mentally plotting diversions to get him through the day with total Viggo-avoidance. Not an easy task, he realized as he looked at the revised shooting list. Running had been postponed due to muddy conditions, a pile of roasted Orcs and possibly hobbits taking its place. This would require him to spend copious amounts of the current day with exactly the last person he wanted to see: Viggo. And Brett, of course, and Peter, and sundry other crew members, none of whom could he allow to see even the slightest glimmer of tension between two principle actors.
He stood quietly as Brett uttered a line in John’s stead, then looked broken-heartedly at the ground as he uttered the Elvish prayer. Peter stopped the action and Orlando looked up. He saw Viggo turn in his direction, and did what he’d been doing all morning: he ran.
“Was that alright, Pete?” Orlando hovered unnecessarily near his director. Pete looked a bit surprised, but nodded and went on about his business.
“Orlando.” Serious tone, serious face. Orlando knew he couldn’t ignore Viggo completely, not on set. He turned and looked Viggo in the eye.
“Last night - ”
“I’m sorry, does this have something to do with today’s scenes?”
Viggo shook his head negatively.
“Character motivation? Story arc? No? Then I’d rather not discuss it right now, thanks.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked away. He tried not to think about how much he’d just pissed off Viggo, tried not to feel the heat of that anger he imagined was radiating from the Ranger’s eyes into the dead center of his back. Professional didn’t have to mean friendly.
Peter called them back to their marks next to the steaming pile of Uruk ‘ai corpses, and prepared them to finish filming the scene they’d worked on a few hours ago, a scene showing Aragorn’s reaction to the site. As Peter walked away from them, Viggo tried one more time to reach out to Orlando, touching him on the sleeve as Orli walked past him to get in position. Orlando shrank back, avoiding the touch, and kept moving. He heard Viggo growl with frustration as Pete yelled action on the scene.
Viggo rocketed past, aiming for the Orc helmet he’d spent a good portion of the morning booting toward different locations at Pete’s request. This time he really got behind it, and for a second Orlando thought it was going to smack right into the camera. A demented howl emanated from Viggo as he sunk down on his knees in grief. That was new, and a nice touch, Orlando thought grudgingly.
Peter must have thought so too, because after giving it a moment’s cinematic pause, he was out from behind the camera and over to tell Viggo that that was it, perfect.
Viggo still knelt on the ground, hadn’t moved, and Orlando wondered for a moment exactly how far into character he’d disappeared. Wondered how Viggo managed to do it, until he saw the older man look up at Pete with an expression of pure pain.
“Fuck, I think I broke something.”
“Oh, hell,” Peter turned back to the crowd behind the cameras. “Medic!”
Well, Orlando thought guiltily, at least that’s today’s filming done.
* * *
One week later
Broken toes, and Viggo kept going. There was no stopping that man, must never take a sick day in his life. They’d filmed arduously physical scenes on horseback for two days, and he hadn’t complained once. If Orlando hadn’t been so busy trying to hate him, he’d have been really impressed.
As it was, he just tried to keep his concentration. It wasn’t working well, he reflected as he brushed one hand around the bandage currently wound around his ribs. Stupid spooked horse. He’d looked away for only a second, and the next thing he knew he’d been on the ground, trapped under the weight of the life-sized Gimli doll he had strapped to his back.
It fucking hurt, but of course he couldn’t complain, couldn’t rest, because if Viggo could work injured, he bloody well could too. So he kept working. Kept running, because that was what they were meant to be doing, he and Viggo and Brett. And he couldn’t do just any running. No he had to do fucking elf running, where nothing hurt and he never got tired or broke a sweat or even a facial expression.
He honestly thought he might die.
But instead he kept running at a crackled command over a stupid walkie-talkie, mentally planning dastardly things to do to Americans with over-developed work ethics and trying to ignore the fiery pains in his chest as he went.
The hated machine crackled out another command, and the three men halted their action. A horde of hidden crew members made their way over the rise to their left and the typical chaos that reigned between shots began anew. It was late afternoon, and they were starting to lose the light. Orlando hoped sincerely that the first AD would call it a day. He looked over and noticed that Viggo was deep in conversation with the man. He could only here snippets of the conversation.
“Running through the night… no rest… sunrise would be amazing.”
“… overnight?”
“Yeah!”
“…if you can convince the others.”
Viggo slapped the guy enthusiastically on the shoulder and walked away. Orlando leaned against a rock and surreptitiously watched Viggo go to every crew member, every grip and gaffer and make-up girl, watched in amazement as he sold his plan, whatever it was, to the entire group. Finally, he watched as Viggo walked cautiously toward him.
“Hey, Lan- Orlando.”
“Hey.”
“Look, I’ve been talking to the AD, yeah? And we were talking about how our characters are running tirelessly through the night, and wouldn’t it be a fucking amazing way to show that if the audience could see them running past the rising sun?”
Orlando had to admit it was a great idea, but he was a little pissed at being asked last. “What would it entail?”
“Well, we’d have to stay here tonight. Camp out. There’s that lake over there and we could fish and get a bonfire going and -”
“Have you talked everyone else into it?”
Viggo looked sheepish and nodded. “Then I guess I’ll have to go along then won’t I? Thanks.” Orlando said flatly and pushed away from the rock, walked away from Viggo. He was being a right bastard and he knew it, and part of him cared about it and was embarrassed for him, but that apparently wasn’t the part that was controlling his mouth.
* * *
A few hours later, even Orli had to admit he was having a good time. Word had spread about the impromptu camping trip and the caravan that had gone back to town for supplies had brought back with it hobbits and elves and men, anyone whose call time the next day allowed for a night spent under the stars. He sat alone at a campfire, watching Billy and Dom pretend to look for their characters’ body parts amongst the Orc rubble.
“Orlando.”
Viggo. Damn. He’d done such a good job of avoiding him for the evening. He looked around, but there was no one to save him from this conversation, no graceful excuse to walk away. Alone in the middle of a fucking crowd of people, it was just bloody typical. He stared into the heart of the fire, not looking at Viggo as the older man settled himself on the ground a few feet away.
“Still mad, then?”
Silence. Say nothing, and nothing can incriminate you.
“I’m sorry about the way I engineered this evening. You were right to be pissed. I should have asked you first, you and Brett, before anyone else. I just… I just didn’t want to give a chance to say no, to walk out again, and that wasn’t fair.”
Fucker always had to be the bigger man, didn’t he? “S’okay,” Orlando mumbled. Then sighed. “It was a good idea. I like to think I’d have agreed to stay anyway, but I think we both know that probably isn’t true.”
He made an art of studying the knees of his jeans as Viggo chuckled quietly. The part of Orlando’s heart that had blossomed under Viggo’s friendship and humor ached hotly, and Orlando wanted to double over from the hurt of it, so tired of the burden of wronged lover, scorned man, ex-friend. That part of him just wanted to go back to the time when he didn’t know how Viggo felt, when he could live in the fantasy he’d clung to for weeks.
Viggo sighed in the silence that had grown between them, and started to rise to his feet.
“You don’t have to go.”
Viggo stopped, staring down at Orlando, gaze inscrutable. Orlando watched the firelight flicker across the hard planes of his face, and his gut twisted, longing and lust and pain and hurt and guilt mixing. He knew Viggo was waiting for him to speak, and he wanted to but he just couldn’t think of a thing to say that would make it better, make it not awkward, make it all go away.
Viggo walked toward Orlando. The guy looked completely miserable, and Viggo wished again, for the thousandth time that week, that he’d noticed this before and done something to head it off. He sat down next to Orlando, leaning back to share the piece of driftwood that Orlando was propped up against. Both men stared into the pop and crackle of the fire in front of them for a long moment, before Viggo spoke quietly. “I’m sorry, Orlando.”
Orlando startled, as much from the silence being broken as the words, before he shrugged them off. “S’ok, mate, like I said, I probably would have gone home out of spite, and that wouldn’t have been-”
“No, I don’t mean about today,” Viggo interrupted. “I mean I’m sorry about what happened between us. I’m sorry for not noticing what you were really feeling, for being oblivious, for hurting you.”
Orlando rocked back, staring up at the sky bright with stars, as sharp pain rolled through him. Tears escaped slowly from the edges of his eyes. He felt a rolling, hollow sensation in his throat, and honestly didn’t know if he was going to cry or to throw up. “Not your fault.”
“No,” Viggo agreed. “Not my fault. Not yours, either. Nobody’s at fault here, Lando. But it doesn’t make my sorrow any less. Nor, I would imagine, does it yours.”
Sorrow? Orlando thought. Is that what this is? He’d let himself feel angry, feel hurt, feel undesirable, but he’d never considered sorrow. Mourning, really, for what he’d wanted, and now knew he couldn’t have. And for what he’d had, Viggo’s friendship, and now feared he’d lost.
“Vig, I’m sorry too,” he said in a rush, fighting back the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. “I’m sorry I got it all wrong, I’m sorry I’ve been such an utter bastard this week, I’m sorry I ruined our friendship.”
Tears were running down Orlando’s face freely now, and Viggo watched sadly as his friend’s composure broke completely and a low sob broke free into the night air. Viggo grabbed him, hugging him tight. “You didn’t, Lando. You didn’t ruin anything.”
iv. I finally stabilized
I finally stabilized
Everyone will see
Everyone will see
“I’m like, ‘Fuck off,’ and he says, ‘Come on.’ So we’re barefoot, waist-high in water, walking on these little rocks to get to the other side and I’m doing it because I’m an idiot and I’m following his lead. Because he’s an idiot. And because he’s amazing,” Bloom laughs. “I can’t believe how much this is going to make me sound like I’m in love with the guy.”*
Orlando pressed the end button on his mobile phone and shoved it into the side pocket of his jeans. He flipped up the collar on his pea coat to protect his ears from the chill of the late November London night, and thrust his hands into the coat pockets as he walked down the darkened Islington High Street.
Sighing, he wondered why he’d said it. I sound like I’m in love with the guy. He wondered, not for the first time, how long it was going to take him to learn to shut his fucking mouth and think before he spoke during an interview. How long before he would remember that he was not having a conversation with a bloke in a pub, but with someone who would take his words and put them out into the world for all to see. There was no way the reporter would not use the quote, he knew better than that. All he could do now is hope that it would be quoted in context, and that Viggo would understand what he’d meant by it.
That he really had found his peace, that he knew there would never be anything between them. Their moment had passed, and Orlando knew he wasn’t the same person he’d been in New Zealand. He was calmer, more secure.
But not everything had changed.
I sound like I’m in love with the guy, Orlando mused, and I suppose I always will.
*Quote from Premiere Magazine, the only words in this entire piece of fiction that actually came out of Orlando Bloom’s mouth.