vigorli

For everyone with a birthday in April...

Title: Hands Off
Author: ranmaru
Rated: PG-13
Betas:

gattodoro
Summary: Viggo hates Mohawks until Orlando gets one. (NZ fic)
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own, don't sue.

Mohawks were not sexy.

Viggo had seen enough of them in his time to have a very bad opinion of them. Spiked up, spray-painted, dyed, a shellacked imitation of a Roman soldier’s helmet; none of them had ever held any sexual appeal.

So why the hell did he get hard when Orlando showed him his new haircut?

Viggo scowled and jerked his fishing rod more in agitation than to attract the fish.

The kid, oh yes, he was definitely a kid, was practically bald now, except for a little grassy runway running from forehead to nape. Gone were the glossy, chestnut waves that Viggo fantasized about running his fingers through. Hacked down to dark, stubby bristles that people kept touching. Rubbing.

Pissing Viggo off.

“Where are the god damned fish?” he growled, whipping back the rod and nearly throwing it forward, barely hearing the line as it slapped the water’s surface.

“Your aura is scaring them off,” said an amused English voice.

“Then use your powers, elf, to sooth them. I’m hungry.”

Orlando chuckled from his spot on the riverbank. “It only works when I’m wearing the wig.”

Viggo looked over his shoulder to see the Brit plonk himself down, cross his ankles and lean back on his hands, face tilted towards the sun. From that angle, he couldn’t see Orlando’s naked head. “Is it the color or the fact that you have hair at all,” he found himself saying before he could stop himself.

Orlando sat up. “I knew it! You hate my Mohawk!”

Viggo pressed his lips together and looked forward. Reeled in the line a little.

“Admit it!”

“I plead the fifth.”

“Any idiot knows that’s an admission of guilt.”

Viggo glanced back to see the young actor scramble to stand. He wanted to say something deep and profound that would make Orlando smile and forget about the conversation altogether, but he stayed quiet.

“You’re always going on about being practical and-“

“Wait, you’re bald because of me?” Viggo almost dropped the fishing pole into the water before catching himself and quickly reeling the line in.

“I’m not bald.” Orlando crossed his arms over his chest and glared.

“Near enough,” Viggo grumbled as he secured the end of the line. He turned to face his friend. “And you didn’t deny it.”

“That it’s your fault?” Orlando snorted. “Where’s No Ego Viggo now?”

“Standing in a fucking river talking to an idiot.” Oh Christ, he regretted it before the last syllable left his tongue.

Orlando’s arms dropped to his sides and they stared at each other for a long, uncomfortable minute before the Brit turned and walked away.

“Come and get our Orli,” Dom said when Viggo picked up the phone later that night.

“Where?” Viggo was already searching for his car keys, the ball of dread in his stomach making him feel nauseous.

“Lij’s. He’s pissed.”

“Pissed as in angry or-“

“Drunk. Blind, stinking drunk. It’s not pretty.”

Viggo knew without a doubt that it was his fault. For real, this time. “Five minutes,” he said, and hung up.

You should have known better, he thought to himself as he started the car and backed down the driveway. If only being older always meant being wiser.

Was it really the hair? Was he really so shallow as to hold a grudge for something so superficial? Was it really worth hurting his friend over?

Elijah’s front door was open and Viggo walked in to see the Hobbits and his Elf in various states of sprawl in the living room. The only one who looked sober was Astin, but that wasn’t a surprise.

“He’s been cursing you all night,” Elijah said, slumped into the corner of the couch. Beside him, Orlando was curled into a ball, asleep. Elijah affectionately rubbed his hand over Orlando’s head and Viggo’s spine stiffened.

“He’s gonna have one hell of a hangover tomorrow,” Dom told him. He was draped over one of the two loungers, looking at Viggo upside down.

“Why did you call me?” Viggo asked, stepping over Billy’s prone body in the middle of the floor to get to the couch. He squatted down in front of Orlando and gently shook his shoulder. “Wake up, elf,” he said softly.

“You know why,” Astin said, and Viggo didn’t bother to deny it.

Instead, he watched the way Orlando’s face scrunched up as he awoke, the way his eyes moved behind the closed lids. Giving in to temptation, he reached out and touched the dark, oddly soft bristles that lengthened slightly towards the top of the Brit’s head.

“Viggo?”

Viggo’s heart melted at the sleepy slurring of his name. He met Orlando’s glassy eyes and let his hand rest fully on the younger man’s head, cupping it protectively.

Possessively.

“Can you walk?” he whispered, and waited while Orlando’s inebriated, tired brain processed his question.

“Pro’ly not,” the Brit admitted, moving his head a little, and Viggo’s palm tingled.

“We’ll help,” Billy volunteered.

“You’re not tall enough,” Elijah taunted.

“Stop it guys,” Astin said, always the peacemaker. Viggo shared a smile with Orlando.

“Come on, elf.” Viggo helped the Brit to sit up, fighting to not think of the younger man as a child, especially when Orlando rubbed his eyes with his fists and yawned. When his eyes blinked open, Viggo saw that they were bloodshot and red.

As if he’d been crying.

Viggo shied away from the thought as he, Astin and Elijah managed to get Orlando out to his car and into the passenger seat. Dom and Billy followed behind, arms around each other’s shoulders, softly singing a song that Viggo didn’t recognize.

Astin had just finished buckling Orlando’s seat belt when Viggo closed his own door. Their eyes met, and Viggo felt the urge to apologize to the guy, even if that wasn’t who should be on the receiving end. Then Astin broke the gaze and stepped back, firmly closing the door.

“I don’t feel well,” Orlando admitted as the car began to move backwards and Viggo almost jammed his foot on the brakes, but he was too conscious of the four men watching them.

“Do you want to go back to your place?” he asked, checking both ways before easing onto the street.

“No.”

“Okay.” Viggo sighed, Orlando’s answer allowing him to relax just a little. A very little.

They didn’t speak again until they were pulling into Viggo’s drive way. Orlando said, “I’d like to be sick now.”

Viggo jammed on the brakes.

“Feeling better?” Viggo handed Orlando the blue and white striped hand towel Bean had given him for no apparent, sane, reason. The Brit spat toothpaste into the sink and wiped his mouth.

“I feel like an arse.”

“But are you finished puking?” Viggo asked, wishing the air freshener he’d sprayed would get to work before he puked himself.

“Yes.”

“Gargle.”

“I brushed my teeth.”

“Gargle,” Viggo repeated, staring at Orlando in the mirror. The younger man didn’t look up, staring instead down at the towel.

“Why?”

Viggo leaned one hand on the counter and said softly near Orlando’s ear, eyes still looking at the mirror. “I’m going to kiss you.” He saw the way Orlando’s knuckles went white, his grip on the towel was so tight.

“You want to kiss a bald idiot?” Orlando threw the towel into the sink and shoved Viggo back. Viggo let Orlando flee the small bathroom, giving him until the count of ten before he followed.

The Brit was standing in the hallway, staring at the front door. Viggo kept his distance.

“This isn’t about my lack of hair, is it?”

“No.” Viggo sighed and scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Yes.”

“I’m still drunk, Vig.” Orlando stepped to the side and leaned back against the wall, staring down at the floor. He looked so fragile, his slim body, long graceful neck, and his vulnerable head.

“I’m…not sure of what I’m doing,” Viggo admitted.

“You said you wanted to kiss me.”

“I did.” Viggo took a step closer. “I do.”

“Why don’t you like my Mohawk?”

“I lived through the eighties, Orlando. In New York.” Viggo knew the joke fell flat, but he honestly didn’t know how to answer. How did he say, “I want to protect your skull” without sounding creepy and sending Orlando screaming out of the door?

“I need to sit down.”

“O-“ Viggo watched Orlando slide down the wall and winced at the thump of his butt hitting the wood floor. “Kay.” He shrugged and walked over to sit beside the younger man. He bumped his head against the wall behind him.

Orlando pulled up his legs and rested his forearms on his knees. “I’m up for a role. Army Ranger.”

Viggo swallowed and closed his eyes. “You’d need a shaved head for the part.”

“Right.”

He wanted to be happy for Orlando, proud of him for putting himself out there for another movie, but all Viggo could think about was Orlando getting the part and going away before he was ready to let the younger man go.

“Why do you want to kiss me?”

“Why not?”

“We’re guys.”

Viggo moved his head from side to side. “Obviously, I don’t care about that.”

“You hate my hair.”

“I hate people touching your head,” Viggo told him. He opened his eyes to find Orlando watching him. “It’s…” Viggo breathed out through his nose and wished for a cigarette. “I don’t like Mohawks, never have, but when I saw you-“ He reached out and ran his hand over the top and down the back of Orlando’s head, smiling as the bristles tickled his palm. He cupped his hand behind Orlando’s neck. “I didn’t hate it.”

Orlando grasped Viggo’s wrist. “It made you want to kiss me.”

“Every time you smile, I want to kiss you.” Viggo saw Orlando’s Adam’s apple move.

“I didn’t gargle.”

Viggo chuckled and leaned closer. “I know.”

Orlando smiled.

The End