vigorli

Title: Growing Room: Long Distance
Author: Rainweaver13
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Summary: Working to keep in touch

Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for language/concepts. AU in that this takes place "now," but blithely refuses to take into account current realities.
Disclaimer: Don't own them, don't know what they do in their private lives; wouldn't want to - they are their own. This is fond fiction.

This is one of a series of followups to a longer fic, Breathing Room, which can be found here:
Breathing Room Look under Personal Fics

Early March 2005, 9 p.m. Cayman Islands

Orlando was tossing his dirty clothes toward the room's laundry bag in anticipation of a long, hot shower when the phone started ringing. With a growl of exasperation, he considered not answering it, but few people had the direct line to his room and it might be important. Yanking up the phone on the eighth ring and falling on the bed, he answered with a noncommittal, "Yeah?"

"Islands making you that easy?" the familiar murmury voice purred, made even sexier by a faint Spanish accent. "I haven't even asked yet."

"Vig!" Delighted, Orlando pulled the bedspread over him and curled into the pillows for a better talking position. "Christ, what time is it there?"

"Umm... three or so. Something like that."

"What are you doing up? Shouldn't you be getting some rest?"

"Couldn't sleep. Too tired."

Orlando shook his head and reached for a water bottle from the nightstand. "Filming starts in, what, three days?"

"Yeah." For a brief unguarded moment, pure misery slid through the connection, a sound Orlando had heard before.

"Been doing a lot of working out, eh?" Orlando asked gently, wishing he could somehow teleport himself across the ocean.

"Fair amount." A deep breath whispered over the depths, sighed away into the atmosphere.

"How about if, tomorrow, you go for a massage?"

"You know I don't-"

"Viggo! You're wearing yourself out. I've seen pictures, lover. You're down to nothing but muscle and if I know you, you're abusing the muscles. Please... please take care of yourself."

"I'll be okay." The stubborn tone started hinting around the edges of his words, taking little bites out of the vowel sounds, flattening them.

Orlando had learned - was learning - how to deal with this tantalizingly delicious bundle of contradictions he'd decided to tie himself to. So he changed the subject. "Taken any good pictures lately?" And took a sip of water.

Gladly distracted, Viggo settled in to tell him about a rambling trip to Leon on a snowy day. About the rivers famous for trout fishing and the snow-covered mountains in the distance. He told about wandering the streets of cities all alone, exploring book stores, and of a small cafe where he had lunch. "And the waiter hovered between me and the cash register like he was afraid I was gonna jump up and rob the place." Viggo's voice had settled into the smiling murmur that warmed Orlando as much as a good fire.

"Can't say I blame him. I've seen pictures of the full facial hair." Orlando chuckled. "You look pretty damn disreputable."

"Good. Diego's a disreputable man. I need to look that way."

"Wish you were here right now. We could see who's most disreputable, the Spanish mercenary or the pirate wanna-be." A familiar, welcome ache began its beautifully contradictory itchy throb in his groin and Orlando rolled over onto his stomach to gain some useful pressure.

"Swap you a blow job for a back rub," Viggo's voice sandpapered across the miles, thick with longing.

Orlando's heart ached. "Ah, lover... I wish you were here so I could rub your back. Then get you settled all perfect comfy in bed with a book or three and I could curl up beside you with my head in your lap and a script to read. Sooner or later you'd end up with your hand in my hair and I'd fall asleep hugging your thigh and I can't imagine anything more perfect."

Through the faint hiss of the long connection, he could hear Viggo's breath, deep and shaky, being forced into a steady rhythm. "This is harder than I expected," the familiar voice murmured. "I saw you at the Oscars, at the parties. With Kate."

Orlando, surprised, said the first thing that came into mind. "You watched the Oscars?"

"Pictures. On the internet. You looked great."

Orlando's brain caught up with his mouth and he finally heard what Viggo originally said. "Kate's been a bit... bothersome. She wants us to get back together. I've told her no, in no uncertain terms."

Cosmic sounds crackled across the Atlantic, filling the silence with supposition until Viggo responded. "Lan... I know ... I ..." He cleared his throat. "You're a young man and we both know you've got an active libido-"

"Vig-"

"I'm just saying," Viggo continued over his attempted interruption. "I'm just saying if you need.. y'know, somebody... I'll understand."

"Viggo Peter Mortensen, will you climb down off that martyr cross and listen to me? I need you. YOU! Nobody else. And I can wait. Even if we didn't see each other until the end of this shoot, it would only be eight months. I'm hardly likely to die of blue balls in eight months. Jesus Christ!"

Dead silence except for the jeering hissing from the other side of the Atlantic, then a soft rhythmic sound that Orlando recognized immediately. He grinned into the phone. "Muttley," he accused. The sound grew louder and picked up a high note, then bloomed into a full-grown Mortensen snigger. "And besides," Orlando said, laughing, "I don't need no damn partners as long as I've got Rosie Palm and her five sisters."

There was a resounding thump on the other end of the line, a rousing chorus of fucks and flat-out laughter. "God, I love you, Orlando Bloom," the beloved voice said from far away.

"Yeah, well, you're pretty okay yourself, for a hired killer."

"I get a long weekend in late March, for Easter."

"So do I."

"How does Jamaica sound to you?"

"Like halfway."

"Your turn to make the arrangements, except for my flight."

"You want beach or mountains?"

"Beach, maybe."

"Consider it done." Orlando rolled over on his back and smiled up at the ceiling. "Have I told you how sexy that Spanish accent is?"

"I have a Spanish accent?"

"Oh yeah. Your voice is sexier than Antonio Banderas. I bet you don't speak English at all these days, do you?"

A soft chuckle rumbled across the world. "Only to you, Henry and Lynne. And Bob. Anderson. He doesn't speak Spanish. Only the language of pain."

"I bet you're exhausted."

"I was exhausted when I started this call. Your voice makes me feel better."

"Say something to me in Spanish."

The familiar rough laugh insinuated his ear. "Tarde nublada, brisa cálida. Granitos de olvido en tus pestañas. Te veo, te llamo. Pienso que hablo en voz alta. Me traga el trafico; me alegro, voy medio mojado, casi limpio. No pido ni tengo que dar el perdon."

"Mmmmm.... so sexy." Orlando stretched over to tug aside the curtain so he could look out at the ocean. "What does it mean?"

A little growl and a quiet grumbly laugh. "I knew you'd ask that. It's hard to translate, exactly."

"So get close."

"Mmmm... Cloudy afternoon, warm breeze. Little grains of forgetfulness in your eyelashes. I see you, call out to you. I think I speak loud enough. Traffic swallows me; I'm glad, I'm still half damp, not quite clean. I don't ask nor do I give pardon."

"Sounds better in Spanish."

"That's why it's written in Spanish, perrito."

"Are you naked?"

"Pretty much. How 'bout you?"

"Yep. You caught just as I was about to get in the shower."

"Hold still for a minute. I want to look at you, all naked like that. What color are the sheets?"

"Blue. Sky blue." Softly, sliding his free hand over his bare chest.

"That's how I'll see you until the next time we talk," Viggo barely more than whispered. "Naked against the blue sky. My Orlando. Will you think of me?"

"I don't go more than an hour without thinking of you all day, lover. Every day."

"I miss you."

"And I miss you." Orlando swallowed hard to keep the tears from choking his voice.

"Get some sleep now. Te amo con todo mi corazon."

"Je t'aime, mon coeur."

"Sleep well, elf boy."

"Try to sleep, my king."