Love is Like a Violin
Jul. 15th, 2018 05:56 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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vigorliTitle: Love is Like a Violin
Author: Artemis Allen
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Orlando/Viggo
Beta: The wonderful![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
silvan_lady; but I have tinkered, a little bit, so all mistakes are mine.
Dedication:This is a birthday gift for the adorablegattodoro.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, unfortunately.
Summary: Another day in the life of ‘The Conductor & The Concert Violinist’
Word Count:
Written in ‘The Conductor & The Concert Violinist’ universe.
It isn’t strictly necessary to be familiar with this universe, but it probably helps.
For those who aren’t: Viggo is a conductor and composer and Orlando is a concert violinist. They live in London and have been together for nearly six years. Orlando is in his early thirties and Viggo almost fifty.
Love was like a violin playing soft and low
In your heart you held the strings, in my heart the bow
Together we made soft sweet music, together we believed
In every day in every hour our love was everything
Love is Like a Violin – Barclay James Harvest
*******************************
5,500 app words
Orlando was beginning to think that his unscheduled stopover in Birmingham last night had been a very bad idea. He was currently on a two-week tour of British cities with the Bergen Philharmonic Orchestra. They had played at the Sage in Gateshead the night before last and were due to play in Nottingham this evening. But yesterday had been a rest day for him, and since the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra and Chorus had been performing Carmina Burana just an hour’s train ride away on their home turf, and Freddy Kempf was appearing with them, playing Grieg’s first piano concerto, Orlando had thought it well worth the detour. Although they had never been close friends, he and Freddy had been both at school and college together, so he had envisaged doing some catching up after the concert while having a quiet drink in the bar.
And he had certainly enjoyed himself, it had been a great evening at the Symphony Hall. The performance of Carmina Burana often being something of a festive occasion, there had been an after party for the performers to which Orlando was immediately invited. It began as a relatively civilised affair due to the presence of the youth choirs but deteriorated somewhat after the youngsters had been whisked away by their proud parents. Freddy and the orchestra were playing again on the following day but this didn’t seem to deter anyone from indulging. And then, after they were ejected from the Hall, already slightly drunk, several of them had merely continued the celebrations in the hotel bar and now the dull hammering in Orlando’s brain was telling him that he might have had rather more than the couple of drinks he had intended.
He needed to catch a train back to Nottingham that morning to rejoin the Bergen and Hugo Weaving their associate conductor, but his alarm had not yet gone off and he felt he really could have done with the extra sleep. However, he had been awake for a good fifteen minutes now because the other occupant of the room whom, he surmised, was also suffering a hangover and therefore exceptionally grumpy, had been making something of a racket while showering and then filling the kettle and arranging the mugs. To Orlando, this translated as ‘it’s bloody well time you got up and left’ but he’d so far managed to ignore this request and refused to even raise his head above the bed clothes. Eventually though, after another round of wardrobe door banging and teaspoon rattling, he decided that he would at least have to acknowledge the presence of the other person.
“Where am I?” he asked in a croaky voice from beneath the mound of bedclothes that totally engulfed him.
“Birmingham,” an equally raspy voice replied curtly. Yes, his room mate definitely sounded grumpy, Orlando thought. Well, at least it was good to know that he wasn’t the only one suffering this morning.
“Birmingham?” Orlando said dubiously. “Really? Shouldn’t I be in Nottingham?”
“Yes, you should.”
“Bugger. That’s a nuisance. So, this is Birmingham then, fabulous.”
“The Hyatt Regency hotel, if you were looking for more precision,” the man said, “room 954.”
“Right, thanks.” He left a lengthy pause. “And, sorry… but who are you again?” he asked in an apologetic voice.
“Who am I?” the man said, clearly perplexed, “What do you mean, who am I?”
“Oh, come on,” Orlando wheedled, “just give me a clue. I know it’s lame of me not to remember but it’s been a busy week, so many hotel rooms, so many dicks.”
A teaspoon fell into a mug with a clang. “You don’t know who I am?”
“Oh, bugger,” Orlando sighed, “you’re someone really famous, aren’t you?”
He heard the man stalk over to the bed and was therefore unsurprised when the duvet was dragged off him. He curled up on the mattress and clutched a pillow to his face, his whole body shaking with the effort of trying not to laugh out loud.
There were a few moments of total silence then.
“That was not fucking funny!” Viggo said, angrily, as he dumped the duvet on the floor.
Orlando rolled onto his back. “It really was,” he spluttered. Then he opened his eyes and saw the distraught look on Viggo’s face. “Oh shit,” he stopped laughing and propped himself up onto his elbows, “you didn’t really think I was serious, did you?”
Viggo seemed too stunned to speak, he just turned and slumped down heavily on the bed, as if his knees had given way.
“Viggo?” Orlando, prompted anxiously, he could see the older man’s shoulders were shaking slightly and he was breathing heavily, trying to control his emotion. “It was just a joke, you were making so much noise and I wanted to divert you.”
“You were scarily convincing,” Viggo said at last, a slight tremor in his voice, “and we both know how much screwing around goes on, while orchestras are on tour.”
Orlando had been in the act of manouvering himself upright so that he could embrace his lover but he paused. “So, you screw around when you’re away on tour, do you?” he said sharply.
“Of course not.”
“But you think I do?”
“No.”
“That’s not how it sounded.”
Viggo turned towards him, his expression was a mixture of uncertainty and something Orlando thought looked like fear. “I didn’t mean it to sound like that. You took me by surprise. And I’m not exactly at my best this morning. There was far, far too much wine last night.”
“But, you have screwed around on tour,” Orlando persisted, then he added more tentatively, “before we met?”
Viggo’s expression turned to one of impatience. “Of course. Didn’t you?”
“Well, yes, but I sort of imagined you might be above that kind of thing.”
“Do I look like a fucking monk?”
“And while you were married, did you screw around then?”
Viggo hesitated, pursing his lips, then shrugged. “Yes, I did,” he said flatly. “Just once. That was what finally made me realise that the marriage was over; that it had been over for some time in fact. I went home and immediately asked Chris for a divorce.”
“Was she playing around too?”
Viggo shrugged again. “I don’t know, and honestly, I suppose I didn't really care, I certainly didn't ask.”
“And, so, after the divorce. Were you screwing around a lot while you were on tour?”
“And how would you define ‘a lot’ exactly?” Viggo raised his hands in a gesture of annoyance. “I certainly didn’t jump into bed with someone after every concert just for sex. And when I did sleep with someone, I certainly remembered their name in the morning. Unlike you apparently.”
Orlando wasn’t sure why he was pushing this debate; his head was throbbing, he’d been pissed at being woken up, but Viggo’s reaction had both alarmed and annoyed him and this last comment had gone entirely too far.
“It was a fucking joke!” he hissed. “I didn’t just jump into bed with people either.”
“Really?” Viggo raised his eyebrows. “It seemed like you were pretty keen to jump into bed with me the first time we met.”
Orlando opened his mouth to issue a retort but for a couple of moments he was too disconcerted to reply. It was mean of Viggo to say it in that tone, but it was true; he had done everything possible to entice Viggo into suggesting it that night. But it wasn’t just for sex. Well, maybe it was, at first, but drunk as he’d been, he would definitely have remembered whom he’d slept with the next morning.
“Yes,” he said at last. “I was trying to get you into bed, but I wasn’t looking for a random fuck, I wanted you.” He had spoken slowly, carefully, but his aching, semi-functioning brain, was suggesting to him that this wasn’t entirely true either. He hadn’t been intending to pick someone up at the awards ceremony, but if Viggo hadn’t responded to him, he might easily have been inclined to look elsewhere, not least because sitting next to Viggo for a couple of hours had made him desperately horny. But Viggo had made arrangements to meet him for dinner the following week, so he had gone home alone, but happy, and jerked off in the shower.
“Why me though?” Viggo asked, his tone still brusque. “Just because I was rich and famous and sleeping with me might possibly have furthered your career?”
Orlando’s stomach, like his head, had already been objecting to last night’s abuse but now he felt distinctly nauseous. This was not like Viggo, he could be frighteningly intimidating with an inattentive orchestra or an arrogant soloist but he was rarely vicious. And although they’d naturally had disagreements in the five, nearly six, years they’d been together, it was always about trivial domestic or professional issues. They had never had a conversation, Orlando was trying really hard not to see it as an argument, like this before.
“I actually didn’t know you were rich,” Orlando said levelly. “But I did think you were hot and I very much wanted to get my hands on your arse.” He gnawed at his lip, Viggo was still scowling and didn’t seem at all reassured. He didn’t feel reassured himself. Had Viggo been the one looking for a quick fuck that night. He’d said later he hadn’t wanted to take advantage of Orlando in his drunken state, but had he gone home with someone else? Orlando had never asked, never thought to ask. He was deeply upset by Viggo’s assertions but the rational side of his brain told him that they were both hungover and cranky and he needed to try to diffuse the situation rather than fuel the hostility. “I didn’t envisage..., certainly wasn’t looking for a long term relationship that night, or even when we first got together really,” he said slowly, his voice low. “But I fell in love with you, and since then I have never looked elsewhere.”
Viggo’s shoulders sagged and his expression became, almost tortured. Then he shook his head as if trying to clear it and pressed his fingers to his temples massaging the skin there. “You scared the crap out of me,” he said, his voice shaky, “And I had a sudden vision of a life without you.”
“Viggo, you’re overreacting, I’m not going anywhere.”
“Maybe not now but…,” Viggo sighed heavily. “I don’t know how to explain this Orlando, except to say that, I’m nearly fifty now and some mornings I look in the mirror and see an aging body and then I look at you and wonder why you’re still with me.”
“How can you possibly think that?” Orlando stared at his lover in amazement. “I love you, the inner you, not how you look.”
Viggo smiled tightly. “Really, and it was the inner me that attracted you that first night was it?”
“Alright,” Orlando said carefully, taking a deep breath and trying not to grab his partner and throttle him until the man saw sense. “So, yes, I said, I thought you were hot, but I also thought you were a nice guy, you were funny and charming, and I already knew you were clever and insanely talented and I just don’t understand where all this negativity is coming from.” He slumped back onto the pillows and rubbed his hands over his face. “I don’t imagine it’s ever been difficult to get people to sleep with you,” he continued more impatiently. “We’ve already established that you could have had me the first night we met. Me and that very giggly mezzo soprano who was on our table. Oh, and also, probably, Cassel,” Orlando spoke the name with some distaste, “who just stopped by to say ‘Hi’ apparently, but then blatantly flirted with you. Although maybe it was just that he was drunk too.”
“You’re not one of Vincent’s many fans then?” Viggo said, with a wry smile.
At the time Orlando had been a little drunk himself, but all his attention had been focused on Viggo and he had watched curiously when the French violinist, after approaching their table and, as a necessary professional courtesy, congratulated Orlando on his award, had then turned, slung a possessive arm around Viggo’s shoulders, closed his other hand over Viggo’s where it rested on the table, and with a seductive smile, whispered conspiratorially in his ear. Viggo’s reaction had been, not unfriendly, but certainly guarded and as a result of this cool reception, Vincent had not lingered.
“I don’t know him particularly well,” Orlando said pensively, then after a pause. “Was he the one? While you were still married?”
Viggo nodded.
“Did you have a relationship with him?”
Viggo took a breath and then turned to meet Orlando’s gaze. “Yes, I did.”
“How long did it last?”
Viggo shrugged. “Almost two years, but if you take all the time apart while we were touring into account it was more like six months.”
“But he cheated?”
Viggo nodded again. “In fact, he had a couple of other parallel relationships, apparently.”
Orlando pursed his lips. “Yes, that sounds like Vincent.”
Viggo tilted his head curiously. “Did you and he…?”
“God no!”
“But he’s well-known for sleeping around, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is.”
“I didn’t know that, at the time.”
Orlando smiled sympathetically at his lover. Viggo was usually such a confident, perceptive man and yet in other ways he was too trusting, and maybe more insecure that Orlando had realised.
“Well,” Orlando gestured with his hand, “he’s French, so no surprise really.”
Viggo smiled. “That’s a little prejudiced.”
Orlando watched Viggo’s expression, it had softened; was it at the memory of Vincent. “Were you… ?” Orlando found he couldn’t quite ask the question. He’d wondered before, occasionally, about Viggo’s previous lovers but he knew that discussing old flames was pointless. Viggo guessed his query anyway.
“I didn’t see us spending the rest of our lives together, no, but I did think that while we were together it was an exclusive relationship.”
Orlando sat up again and reached out to touch Viggo’s arm. “I’m not like him, Viggo.”
“I know you’re not.” Viggo covered Orlando’s hand with his own. “And I’m not judging you. It’s just…, it happens, you know it happens. You’re a long way from home, for weeks at a time, so you get lonely. Then every night you come off stage high on adrenaline and you’re too buzzed to sleep, so you go for a drink in the bar and there are other equally lonely, equally hyped up, musicians there. You start talking, you laugh, you share horror stories of life on the road, conductors you’ve worked under, other members in the orchestra. You have a few more drinks and then the bar closes so you take a bottle up to the room and then eventually you think it’s a good idea to fall into bed together, just to work off the energy.”
Orlando pulled back hurt and confused again. He thought they’d finished with this line. “You really think that’s what I do?”
“No, I don’t, I really don’t, not deliberately, but it’s an occupational hazard if you like.”
“I would never do that!”
Viggo turned and pressed a finger over Orlando’s lips, “I know you would never mean to, but since we’re talking about this, if it ever happened, and it was just sex,” Viggo paused for a moment, “please don’t confess, I’d rather not know about it.”
Orlando shuffled away from him up the bed, “How can you even say that? You absolute bastard. You really don’t trust me do you.”
“I do, I’m just being pragmatic.”
“Fuck pragmatic, we’ve been together all this time but now I discover you’re always thinking I might be cheating on you, I don’t understand you.”
“Calm down, I do trust you, but your little joke just highlighted one of the main problems of our professions. We spend a lot of time away from each other in the company of other people in exactly the same position.”
“It was a joke. You were making a racket. I have a hangover. I wanted to…”
“Upset me? Well, that worked out really well.”
“You know what?” Orlando scrambled off the bed and headed for the bathroom grabbing up his clothes en route. “I’m not sure I want to be around you right now, so I’m going to get dressed and then I’m going to the station and I’m going to think very hard about everything you’ve just said.”
“Orlando, don’t…” Viggo moved towards him but Orlando jumped out of the way.
“Don’t touch me, just don’t touch me.” He slid into the bathroom, locked the door and, fortunately, reached the toilet before vomiting, copiously.
************************************************************************
Orlando was stretched out on the small sofa in his dressing room rubbing his temples; it was twelve hours since he’d left the hotel in Birmingham and he still had a headache but he wasn’t sure if it was the remnants of his hangover or tension because he was so annoyed with Viggo.
He’d left with a curt goodbye, no kiss, no hug. Viggo had stood in stony silence and let him leave and that had hurt too, even though Orlando would have tried to push him away if he’d attempted an embrace. And now he wasn’t sure how he felt about the situation. Maybe he would have overreacted as much as Viggo had if his lover had pretended that he was sleeping around. But the older man’s inference that it was more than probable Orlando would be unfaithful eventually had been deeply upsetting. Of course he accepted that, in general, Viggo was right; the concert circuit was a hotbed of intrigue and illicit affairs and the only, unspoken, rule was that it was fine to behave that way as long as it didn’t affect your performance.
He wasn’t entirely sure that had been the case tonight. His emotional state had had a huge impact on his performance. Overall the concert seemed to have gone very well, he could hear the final applause now. His playing, might have lacked any true passion, but the audience had been enthusiastic so he assumed that he’d done an adequate job, however torn up he was feeling inside.
He was only still at the venue because he’d agreed to wait for the conductor. He liked Hugo, they’d worked together several times before, and as the only two non Norwegians in the ensemble, they had fallen into spending time together. They’d planned to go out for a drink tonight and Orlando was hoping that some of Hugo’s irrepressible good humour might lift his spirits. He knew that Viggo and the CBSO would be at the Symphony Hall until at least ten thirty and his lover was unlikely to contact him any earlier, but he had resolved to be back in his own hotel room by then because Viggo would surely ring him tonight and he didn’t want to take the call in a bar.
He had dozed while waiting and so was still slightly woozy when he answered the door to Hugo’s knock. The conductor had already changed out of his evening dress and as Orlando opened the door he was checking his phone.
“Have you seen the news?” he said agitatedly. “They’ve blown up the Symphony Hall.”
“Who’s blown up what?” Orlando asked, rubbing his eyes.
“They don’t know who yet, the assumption is terrorists but there was a huge explosion at the Symphony Hall in Birmingham tonight.”
Orlando’s sleepy brain finally processed this and he felt as if the blood had suddenly drained from his entire body and left him limp, almost lifeless. He staggered to the sofa and dropped on to it before his legs gave way, then he tried to say something but his chest was tight as if all the air had been sucked out of his lungs.
“Vi..., Vi…, Viggo’s there,” he finally stammered.
“Oh Christ!” Hugo began scrolling through the news feed on his phone. ”Look, don’t panic, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
“Somebody blew up the fucking hall, how will he be fine?” Orlando gasped out.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Hugo said, rapidly reading his screen, “It says people were evacuated, from the concert hall and the theatre next door. There is no mention of casualties. Has he called you, surely he’d have called you, where’s your phone?”
“In my bag,” Orlando said, grabbing it from the table in front of him. “I haven’t checked it since I came off stage.”
His hands were trembling as he pulled out the phone; there were no calls or messages from Viggo, he felt sick.
“Anything?” Hugo asked.
Orlando shook his head, tears blurring his eyes.
“Try calling him,” Hugo suggested, gently.
His fingers didn’t seem to understand what his brain was telling them to do but finally he punched in the right speed dial number. The phone rang but then cut to voicemail, Orlando punched the number again, and again it went to voicemail. He tried it a few more times with the same result, tears streaming down his face, until Hugo grabbed his wrist.
“Okay, stop! He’s not answering and you’re just getting into a state. There may be a reason for him not answering.”
Orlando just stared at him, of course there was a fucking reason, he was envisaging it now, Viggo, injured, bleeding; dead. He groaned and buried his head in his hands, and he couldn’t stop the events of that morning from spooling through his brain, in glorious technicolour. He could clearly remember the bereft look on Viggo’s face when they’d parted. He should never have left without trying to resolve things between them. Now he might never get the chance.
“We argued, this morning, before I left. Really argued, we’ve never argued before, not like that,” he said, haltingly.
“Bugger!” Hugo breathed out, but then quickly added. “I’m sure he’s fine Orlando.”
“Then why hasn’t he called me?”
Hugo pursed his lips. “Is it at all possible that he doesn’t want to? You know, if you argued.”
“I don’t know. But that would be cruel of him. I thought…, I mean we’re still…, together.” Orlando regarded him miserably. “I don’t know what I’ll do if something has happened to him.”
“Right.” Hugo ran a distracted hand across his forehead. “Was it the CBSO playing?”
Orlando nodded dumbly.
“I’ll call Mirga, she’ll surely know what’s happening.”
Mirga was the musical director of the CBSO and Orlando watched hopefully as Hugo dialled.
“Engaged,” he said apologetically. “Unsurprising I suppose.”
Orlando nodded and wiped his face on his sleeve. Just then his phone began to ring. Orlando froze, and just stared at it in horror.
“For fuck’s sake Orlando, will you answer that. Or do you want me to?”
“No, no!” Orlando snatched up the phone and saw Viggo’s number. “Viggo?”
“Orlando, is that you?”
“Of course, it’s me,” Orlando’s voice cracked with emotion, half laughing, half sobbing.
“Are you alright? You sound strange,” Viggo said.
“Strange!” Orlando almost bellowed down the line. “What the hell is going on there, Viggo? Hugo has the BBC news stream on, it says the Symphony Hall was blown up, is that right? Are you hurt?”
“It’s fine, Orlando,” Viggo said calmly. “I’m fine, the Symphony Hall is fine. I think the media over-reacted.”
“So there wasn’t an explosion?”
“Yes, there was, but it was next door at the Repertory theatre.”
“Oh my God, someone bombed the theatre? That’s awful.”
“Er, no. There was an electrical fault with the heating system in their basement apparently. No one was hurt but it was a huge explosion. We certainly heard it in the auditorium, the whole building shook.”
“An electrical fault?” Orlando repeated weakly, “But the reports said people were evacuated.”
“Yes, that’s standard procedure I imagine. No one knew at first exactly what had happened and all public places are on high alert for terrorist attacks, so they evacuated everybody from the immediate area.”
“Why didn’t you call me?” Orlando finally asked, plaintively. “You must have realised I’d see the news and worry.” He heard Viggo sigh.
“There was a lot going on here Orlando, we were all busy dealing with the situation and I didn’t think about the news getting out so quickly. Stupid of me I suppose.”
The relief was having as much of an effect on Orlando as the initial shock had done, he felt lightheaded and he couldn't hold back an involuntary sob.
“Please, Orlando, don’t get upset, I’m okay, there is no danger here. I promise.”
Orlando sobbed again, he was so overcome with the relief that he was unable to articulate actual words.
“Orlando, please, love, I don’t want to hang up on you but I have to go, the police are letting us back into the hall now to retrieve the instruments. I promise I will call you later when everything is sorted, will you be alright?”
With a huge effort Orlando managed to get his breathing under control. “I’m fine,” he said shakily. “Go, do what you have to, I’ll talk to you later.” He shut off the phone and turned to Hugo. “Would you do me a favour and call a taxi, while I get my stuff together. I’m going to the station.”
*****************************************************
Orlando had managed to catch the 22.15, the last train out of Nottingham that evening and now, just an hour and a half later, he was in the lift at the Hyatt Regency. Viggo had called him while he’d been in the taxi from Birmingham International station but Orlando had just asked him if he was at the hotel and when Viggo confirmed that he was, he’d said he would call him back in a couple of minutes. He virtually ran down the corridor and hammered on the door. When Viggo opened it, Orlando dropped his bag and flung himself at his lover.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Viggo just hugged him close and buried his face against Orlando’s shoulder. “No, I’m sorry,” he said. “It was all my fault.”
They continued standing in the doorway, just holding each other, until Orlando finally kicked his bag inside, pushed Viggo backwards into the room, and let the door fall shut behind them.
“I said a lot of things, I really didn’t mean,” Viggo said.
“Shhh,” Orlando soothed, still holding his lover in a fierce embrace. “I know that.”
“It’s just that I love you so much and sometimes it scares me.”
“You’re an idiot,” Orlando said. “But I love you too.”
He managed to shuffle off his coat without letting Viggo go by freeing one arm at a time and then manouvered them both over to the bed so that they could sit down. His own legs still felt unsteady, and Viggo was trembling in his arms. “Are you really alright?” he asked, stroking his lover’s back as they clung together. “It must have been scary.”
Viggo pulled away slightly and raised a hand to caress Orlando’s cheek. “You know what my first thought was, when we heard the explosion? I wished you were there with me, because if I was going to die, I wanted to be holding your hand when it happened. My second, more rational and less selfish thought was that, thank God you were somewhere else and safe.”
Orlando chuckled softly. “I suppose that’s quite romantic, in a way.”
“And I’m sorry, I didn’t call you right away, but it was chaos and we didn’t know exactly what was happening, and…”
“It doesn’t matter, it really doesn’t matter.” Orlando closed his own hand over Viggo’s fingers. “But I never want to go through something like that ever again.”
“Me neither,” Viggo said. “Although it’s probably a good thing the concert was interrupted. The rehearsal was gruesome enough but I’d completely lost control of the orchestra before we’d even finished the Bax overture. I could see the principal cellist exchanging ‘what the fuck’ looks with the leader. It’s a good thing the CBSO are so highly disciplined, but they may never invite me back.”
“It’s been a really, really shitty day all round, hasn’t it?” Orlando said.
“It certainly has. But I can’t excuse what happened this morning,” Viggo said, woefully. “I was hungover, obviously, but I was irritated about last night, I felt, I don’t know, that I was sidelined.”
“I don’t understand.” Orlando frowned. “Sidelined? How?”
“Well, the CBSO all seem to like you a lot.”
“I’ve played with them quite often, you know that. They’re a great bunch of people and they certainly know how to party.”
“Exactly, but even after a few drinks they were still treating me with unnecessary deference. Sometimes I’d just like to be one of the guys.”
Orlando tried not to laugh, it was a complaint he’d heard from his lover before, and he resisted the urge to mock him, settling instead for some reassurance. “Trust me Viggo, they were very friendly with you, I’ve seen them totally freeze a conductor out when they don’t like them. They can be brutal.”
“And then you and Freddy seem to get along really well.”
“We don’t meet up often but we’ve known each other since we were kids, so yeah, I suppose we do.”
“You certainly made a very handsome couple.”
“You do know he’s totally straight and happily married?”
“I do. It was just the picture the two of you presented. I could see quite a few of the orchestra and chorus eyeing you both up.”
Orlando sighed heavily. “Viggo, you’re not going to start with the, screwing around on tour, again, are you?”
“No! No! No!” Viggo shook his head vehemently. “I’m just offering some very poor excuses for my state of mind this morning. And, also, I didn’t even get sex last night because you fell asleep as soon as you hit the mattress, and you snored, loudly, all night.”
Orlando laughed at his lover’s disgruntled expression. “Firstly, I do not snore. Secondly, why do you think I’m here?” He squeezed Viggo’s hand tightly. “I needed to see you were really still in one piece but most of all I just needed you.”
Viggo smiled at him. “Why are we sitting here then, when we could be in bed?”
“I have to use the bathroom,” Orlando said, standing up and moving towards the ensuite. “But get rid of the clothes and I’ll join you in a minute.”
When Orlando emerged from the bathroom Viggo was still sitting on the bed, fully dressed and with an anxious expression on his face. “Orlando, where is the violin?”
“What?”
“Your violin, where is it?”
Orlando looked down at his bag and then back up at Viggo, the colour rapidly draining from his face. “Fuck! It’s still in Nottingham. I left in such a hurry. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck fuck!”
Like many soloists Orlando did not own the violin he played. It was on permanent loan to him from a foundation which supplied a variety of instruments to professional musicians. Orlando liked his antique Stradivarius very much, he’d been using it for several years now and it suited his style; it was also extremely valuable, so when he was at an engagement and especially while he was on tour, it never left his side.
Orlando wrenched his phone out of his pocket and stabbed in a number. “Hi, Hugo, yes, it’s Orlando, by any chance did you…? Oh thank God.” Relief overwhelmed him and he sank down onto the bed because his legs had yet again turned to jelly. “Yes, I only just realised that I didn’t have it with me. Thank you so much for doing that. Yes, everything is okay, Viggo is fine.” Orlando looked over at his lover who, having deduced that Hugo had the missing violin safely in his possession, was now stretched out on his back, snorting with laughter. “For the moment anyway, because if he doesn’t stop fucking laughing about this, I’m actually going to kill him. Yes, yes, you have a good evening too, and thanks again, I really owe you for this.” He shut off the phone and tossed it onto the bedside table, then scowled at Viggo. “Quit laughing, that wasn’t fucking funny.”
“It really was,” Viggo said, wiping his eyes. “And I shouldn’t have laughed. But this entire day has been something of a rollercoaster and I’m just so very happy that you are here.”
Orlando flopped backwards onto the mattress and then rolled over to face his lover. “I was really mad at you this morning.”
“I know, and I deserved it,” Viggo said, quickly.
“Yes, you did,” Orlando said, firmly. “But I kind of ran away, and that wasn’t the best way to deal with it.”
“You have nothing to apologise for,” Viggo said, pulling Orlando into his arms. “And I’m touched that you abandoned your precious violin because you were worried about me.”
Orlando snuggled up against his lover. “At least it finally proves to you that I do love you more than I love my violin,” he chuckled. It was a, joking, allegation that Viggo was prone to making whenever they had to include the instrument in their arrangements. “But the McKellen Foundation would have killed me if anything had happened to it.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t,” Viggo said. “But I would have very much enjoyed hearing you explain to them that you lost it because your boyfriend was traumatised by a malfunctioning boiler.”
“Yes, I’m sure you would,” Orlando said, dryly as he unbuttoned Viggo’s shirt and pressed his palm against the warm flesh. “You know, I sometimes think our love is like a violin. In my heart are the strings, in your heart the bow and together we make soft sweet music.”
“You’re quoting a pop song at me, aren’t you?” Viggo said.
“I am,” Orlando laughed, and gently tweaked Viggo’s nipple. “But that doesn’t make it any less true.”
Author: Artemis Allen
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Orlando/Viggo
Beta: The wonderful
silvan_lady; but I have tinkered, a little bit, so all mistakes are mine.Dedication:This is a birthday gift for the adorable
gattodoro.Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, unfortunately.
Summary: Another day in the life of ‘The Conductor & The Concert Violinist’
Word Count:
Written in ‘The Conductor & The Concert Violinist’ universe.
It isn’t strictly necessary to be familiar with this universe, but it probably helps.
For those who aren’t: Viggo is a conductor and composer and Orlando is a concert violinist. They live in London and have been together for nearly six years. Orlando is in his early thirties and Viggo almost fifty.
Love was like a violin playing soft and low
In your heart you held the strings, in my heart the bow
Together we made soft sweet music, together we believed
In every day in every hour our love was everything
Love is Like a Violin – Barclay James Harvest
*******************************
5,500 app words
Orlando was beginning to think that his unscheduled stopover in Birmingham last night had been a very bad idea. He was currently on a two-week tour of British cities with the Bergen Philharmonic Orchestra. They had played at the Sage in Gateshead the night before last and were due to play in Nottingham this evening. But yesterday had been a rest day for him, and since the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra and Chorus had been performing Carmina Burana just an hour’s train ride away on their home turf, and Freddy Kempf was appearing with them, playing Grieg’s first piano concerto, Orlando had thought it well worth the detour. Although they had never been close friends, he and Freddy had been both at school and college together, so he had envisaged doing some catching up after the concert while having a quiet drink in the bar.
And he had certainly enjoyed himself, it had been a great evening at the Symphony Hall. The performance of Carmina Burana often being something of a festive occasion, there had been an after party for the performers to which Orlando was immediately invited. It began as a relatively civilised affair due to the presence of the youth choirs but deteriorated somewhat after the youngsters had been whisked away by their proud parents. Freddy and the orchestra were playing again on the following day but this didn’t seem to deter anyone from indulging. And then, after they were ejected from the Hall, already slightly drunk, several of them had merely continued the celebrations in the hotel bar and now the dull hammering in Orlando’s brain was telling him that he might have had rather more than the couple of drinks he had intended.
He needed to catch a train back to Nottingham that morning to rejoin the Bergen and Hugo Weaving their associate conductor, but his alarm had not yet gone off and he felt he really could have done with the extra sleep. However, he had been awake for a good fifteen minutes now because the other occupant of the room whom, he surmised, was also suffering a hangover and therefore exceptionally grumpy, had been making something of a racket while showering and then filling the kettle and arranging the mugs. To Orlando, this translated as ‘it’s bloody well time you got up and left’ but he’d so far managed to ignore this request and refused to even raise his head above the bed clothes. Eventually though, after another round of wardrobe door banging and teaspoon rattling, he decided that he would at least have to acknowledge the presence of the other person.
“Where am I?” he asked in a croaky voice from beneath the mound of bedclothes that totally engulfed him.
“Birmingham,” an equally raspy voice replied curtly. Yes, his room mate definitely sounded grumpy, Orlando thought. Well, at least it was good to know that he wasn’t the only one suffering this morning.
“Birmingham?” Orlando said dubiously. “Really? Shouldn’t I be in Nottingham?”
“Yes, you should.”
“Bugger. That’s a nuisance. So, this is Birmingham then, fabulous.”
“The Hyatt Regency hotel, if you were looking for more precision,” the man said, “room 954.”
“Right, thanks.” He left a lengthy pause. “And, sorry… but who are you again?” he asked in an apologetic voice.
“Who am I?” the man said, clearly perplexed, “What do you mean, who am I?”
“Oh, come on,” Orlando wheedled, “just give me a clue. I know it’s lame of me not to remember but it’s been a busy week, so many hotel rooms, so many dicks.”
A teaspoon fell into a mug with a clang. “You don’t know who I am?”
“Oh, bugger,” Orlando sighed, “you’re someone really famous, aren’t you?”
He heard the man stalk over to the bed and was therefore unsurprised when the duvet was dragged off him. He curled up on the mattress and clutched a pillow to his face, his whole body shaking with the effort of trying not to laugh out loud.
There were a few moments of total silence then.
“That was not fucking funny!” Viggo said, angrily, as he dumped the duvet on the floor.
Orlando rolled onto his back. “It really was,” he spluttered. Then he opened his eyes and saw the distraught look on Viggo’s face. “Oh shit,” he stopped laughing and propped himself up onto his elbows, “you didn’t really think I was serious, did you?”
Viggo seemed too stunned to speak, he just turned and slumped down heavily on the bed, as if his knees had given way.
“Viggo?” Orlando, prompted anxiously, he could see the older man’s shoulders were shaking slightly and he was breathing heavily, trying to control his emotion. “It was just a joke, you were making so much noise and I wanted to divert you.”
“You were scarily convincing,” Viggo said at last, a slight tremor in his voice, “and we both know how much screwing around goes on, while orchestras are on tour.”
Orlando had been in the act of manouvering himself upright so that he could embrace his lover but he paused. “So, you screw around when you’re away on tour, do you?” he said sharply.
“Of course not.”
“But you think I do?”
“No.”
“That’s not how it sounded.”
Viggo turned towards him, his expression was a mixture of uncertainty and something Orlando thought looked like fear. “I didn’t mean it to sound like that. You took me by surprise. And I’m not exactly at my best this morning. There was far, far too much wine last night.”
“But, you have screwed around on tour,” Orlando persisted, then he added more tentatively, “before we met?”
Viggo’s expression turned to one of impatience. “Of course. Didn’t you?”
“Well, yes, but I sort of imagined you might be above that kind of thing.”
“Do I look like a fucking monk?”
“And while you were married, did you screw around then?”
Viggo hesitated, pursing his lips, then shrugged. “Yes, I did,” he said flatly. “Just once. That was what finally made me realise that the marriage was over; that it had been over for some time in fact. I went home and immediately asked Chris for a divorce.”
“Was she playing around too?”
Viggo shrugged again. “I don’t know, and honestly, I suppose I didn't really care, I certainly didn't ask.”
“And, so, after the divorce. Were you screwing around a lot while you were on tour?”
“And how would you define ‘a lot’ exactly?” Viggo raised his hands in a gesture of annoyance. “I certainly didn’t jump into bed with someone after every concert just for sex. And when I did sleep with someone, I certainly remembered their name in the morning. Unlike you apparently.”
Orlando wasn’t sure why he was pushing this debate; his head was throbbing, he’d been pissed at being woken up, but Viggo’s reaction had both alarmed and annoyed him and this last comment had gone entirely too far.
“It was a fucking joke!” he hissed. “I didn’t just jump into bed with people either.”
“Really?” Viggo raised his eyebrows. “It seemed like you were pretty keen to jump into bed with me the first time we met.”
Orlando opened his mouth to issue a retort but for a couple of moments he was too disconcerted to reply. It was mean of Viggo to say it in that tone, but it was true; he had done everything possible to entice Viggo into suggesting it that night. But it wasn’t just for sex. Well, maybe it was, at first, but drunk as he’d been, he would definitely have remembered whom he’d slept with the next morning.
“Yes,” he said at last. “I was trying to get you into bed, but I wasn’t looking for a random fuck, I wanted you.” He had spoken slowly, carefully, but his aching, semi-functioning brain, was suggesting to him that this wasn’t entirely true either. He hadn’t been intending to pick someone up at the awards ceremony, but if Viggo hadn’t responded to him, he might easily have been inclined to look elsewhere, not least because sitting next to Viggo for a couple of hours had made him desperately horny. But Viggo had made arrangements to meet him for dinner the following week, so he had gone home alone, but happy, and jerked off in the shower.
“Why me though?” Viggo asked, his tone still brusque. “Just because I was rich and famous and sleeping with me might possibly have furthered your career?”
Orlando’s stomach, like his head, had already been objecting to last night’s abuse but now he felt distinctly nauseous. This was not like Viggo, he could be frighteningly intimidating with an inattentive orchestra or an arrogant soloist but he was rarely vicious. And although they’d naturally had disagreements in the five, nearly six, years they’d been together, it was always about trivial domestic or professional issues. They had never had a conversation, Orlando was trying really hard not to see it as an argument, like this before.
“I actually didn’t know you were rich,” Orlando said levelly. “But I did think you were hot and I very much wanted to get my hands on your arse.” He gnawed at his lip, Viggo was still scowling and didn’t seem at all reassured. He didn’t feel reassured himself. Had Viggo been the one looking for a quick fuck that night. He’d said later he hadn’t wanted to take advantage of Orlando in his drunken state, but had he gone home with someone else? Orlando had never asked, never thought to ask. He was deeply upset by Viggo’s assertions but the rational side of his brain told him that they were both hungover and cranky and he needed to try to diffuse the situation rather than fuel the hostility. “I didn’t envisage..., certainly wasn’t looking for a long term relationship that night, or even when we first got together really,” he said slowly, his voice low. “But I fell in love with you, and since then I have never looked elsewhere.”
Viggo’s shoulders sagged and his expression became, almost tortured. Then he shook his head as if trying to clear it and pressed his fingers to his temples massaging the skin there. “You scared the crap out of me,” he said, his voice shaky, “And I had a sudden vision of a life without you.”
“Viggo, you’re overreacting, I’m not going anywhere.”
“Maybe not now but…,” Viggo sighed heavily. “I don’t know how to explain this Orlando, except to say that, I’m nearly fifty now and some mornings I look in the mirror and see an aging body and then I look at you and wonder why you’re still with me.”
“How can you possibly think that?” Orlando stared at his lover in amazement. “I love you, the inner you, not how you look.”
Viggo smiled tightly. “Really, and it was the inner me that attracted you that first night was it?”
“Alright,” Orlando said carefully, taking a deep breath and trying not to grab his partner and throttle him until the man saw sense. “So, yes, I said, I thought you were hot, but I also thought you were a nice guy, you were funny and charming, and I already knew you were clever and insanely talented and I just don’t understand where all this negativity is coming from.” He slumped back onto the pillows and rubbed his hands over his face. “I don’t imagine it’s ever been difficult to get people to sleep with you,” he continued more impatiently. “We’ve already established that you could have had me the first night we met. Me and that very giggly mezzo soprano who was on our table. Oh, and also, probably, Cassel,” Orlando spoke the name with some distaste, “who just stopped by to say ‘Hi’ apparently, but then blatantly flirted with you. Although maybe it was just that he was drunk too.”
“You’re not one of Vincent’s many fans then?” Viggo said, with a wry smile.
At the time Orlando had been a little drunk himself, but all his attention had been focused on Viggo and he had watched curiously when the French violinist, after approaching their table and, as a necessary professional courtesy, congratulated Orlando on his award, had then turned, slung a possessive arm around Viggo’s shoulders, closed his other hand over Viggo’s where it rested on the table, and with a seductive smile, whispered conspiratorially in his ear. Viggo’s reaction had been, not unfriendly, but certainly guarded and as a result of this cool reception, Vincent had not lingered.
“I don’t know him particularly well,” Orlando said pensively, then after a pause. “Was he the one? While you were still married?”
Viggo nodded.
“Did you have a relationship with him?”
Viggo took a breath and then turned to meet Orlando’s gaze. “Yes, I did.”
“How long did it last?”
Viggo shrugged. “Almost two years, but if you take all the time apart while we were touring into account it was more like six months.”
“But he cheated?”
Viggo nodded again. “In fact, he had a couple of other parallel relationships, apparently.”
Orlando pursed his lips. “Yes, that sounds like Vincent.”
Viggo tilted his head curiously. “Did you and he…?”
“God no!”
“But he’s well-known for sleeping around, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is.”
“I didn’t know that, at the time.”
Orlando smiled sympathetically at his lover. Viggo was usually such a confident, perceptive man and yet in other ways he was too trusting, and maybe more insecure that Orlando had realised.
“Well,” Orlando gestured with his hand, “he’s French, so no surprise really.”
Viggo smiled. “That’s a little prejudiced.”
Orlando watched Viggo’s expression, it had softened; was it at the memory of Vincent. “Were you… ?” Orlando found he couldn’t quite ask the question. He’d wondered before, occasionally, about Viggo’s previous lovers but he knew that discussing old flames was pointless. Viggo guessed his query anyway.
“I didn’t see us spending the rest of our lives together, no, but I did think that while we were together it was an exclusive relationship.”
Orlando sat up again and reached out to touch Viggo’s arm. “I’m not like him, Viggo.”
“I know you’re not.” Viggo covered Orlando’s hand with his own. “And I’m not judging you. It’s just…, it happens, you know it happens. You’re a long way from home, for weeks at a time, so you get lonely. Then every night you come off stage high on adrenaline and you’re too buzzed to sleep, so you go for a drink in the bar and there are other equally lonely, equally hyped up, musicians there. You start talking, you laugh, you share horror stories of life on the road, conductors you’ve worked under, other members in the orchestra. You have a few more drinks and then the bar closes so you take a bottle up to the room and then eventually you think it’s a good idea to fall into bed together, just to work off the energy.”
Orlando pulled back hurt and confused again. He thought they’d finished with this line. “You really think that’s what I do?”
“No, I don’t, I really don’t, not deliberately, but it’s an occupational hazard if you like.”
“I would never do that!”
Viggo turned and pressed a finger over Orlando’s lips, “I know you would never mean to, but since we’re talking about this, if it ever happened, and it was just sex,” Viggo paused for a moment, “please don’t confess, I’d rather not know about it.”
Orlando shuffled away from him up the bed, “How can you even say that? You absolute bastard. You really don’t trust me do you.”
“I do, I’m just being pragmatic.”
“Fuck pragmatic, we’ve been together all this time but now I discover you’re always thinking I might be cheating on you, I don’t understand you.”
“Calm down, I do trust you, but your little joke just highlighted one of the main problems of our professions. We spend a lot of time away from each other in the company of other people in exactly the same position.”
“It was a joke. You were making a racket. I have a hangover. I wanted to…”
“Upset me? Well, that worked out really well.”
“You know what?” Orlando scrambled off the bed and headed for the bathroom grabbing up his clothes en route. “I’m not sure I want to be around you right now, so I’m going to get dressed and then I’m going to the station and I’m going to think very hard about everything you’ve just said.”
“Orlando, don’t…” Viggo moved towards him but Orlando jumped out of the way.
“Don’t touch me, just don’t touch me.” He slid into the bathroom, locked the door and, fortunately, reached the toilet before vomiting, copiously.
************************************************************************
Orlando was stretched out on the small sofa in his dressing room rubbing his temples; it was twelve hours since he’d left the hotel in Birmingham and he still had a headache but he wasn’t sure if it was the remnants of his hangover or tension because he was so annoyed with Viggo.
He’d left with a curt goodbye, no kiss, no hug. Viggo had stood in stony silence and let him leave and that had hurt too, even though Orlando would have tried to push him away if he’d attempted an embrace. And now he wasn’t sure how he felt about the situation. Maybe he would have overreacted as much as Viggo had if his lover had pretended that he was sleeping around. But the older man’s inference that it was more than probable Orlando would be unfaithful eventually had been deeply upsetting. Of course he accepted that, in general, Viggo was right; the concert circuit was a hotbed of intrigue and illicit affairs and the only, unspoken, rule was that it was fine to behave that way as long as it didn’t affect your performance.
He wasn’t entirely sure that had been the case tonight. His emotional state had had a huge impact on his performance. Overall the concert seemed to have gone very well, he could hear the final applause now. His playing, might have lacked any true passion, but the audience had been enthusiastic so he assumed that he’d done an adequate job, however torn up he was feeling inside.
He was only still at the venue because he’d agreed to wait for the conductor. He liked Hugo, they’d worked together several times before, and as the only two non Norwegians in the ensemble, they had fallen into spending time together. They’d planned to go out for a drink tonight and Orlando was hoping that some of Hugo’s irrepressible good humour might lift his spirits. He knew that Viggo and the CBSO would be at the Symphony Hall until at least ten thirty and his lover was unlikely to contact him any earlier, but he had resolved to be back in his own hotel room by then because Viggo would surely ring him tonight and he didn’t want to take the call in a bar.
He had dozed while waiting and so was still slightly woozy when he answered the door to Hugo’s knock. The conductor had already changed out of his evening dress and as Orlando opened the door he was checking his phone.
“Have you seen the news?” he said agitatedly. “They’ve blown up the Symphony Hall.”
“Who’s blown up what?” Orlando asked, rubbing his eyes.
“They don’t know who yet, the assumption is terrorists but there was a huge explosion at the Symphony Hall in Birmingham tonight.”
Orlando’s sleepy brain finally processed this and he felt as if the blood had suddenly drained from his entire body and left him limp, almost lifeless. He staggered to the sofa and dropped on to it before his legs gave way, then he tried to say something but his chest was tight as if all the air had been sucked out of his lungs.
“Vi..., Vi…, Viggo’s there,” he finally stammered.
“Oh Christ!” Hugo began scrolling through the news feed on his phone. ”Look, don’t panic, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
“Somebody blew up the fucking hall, how will he be fine?” Orlando gasped out.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Hugo said, rapidly reading his screen, “It says people were evacuated, from the concert hall and the theatre next door. There is no mention of casualties. Has he called you, surely he’d have called you, where’s your phone?”
“In my bag,” Orlando said, grabbing it from the table in front of him. “I haven’t checked it since I came off stage.”
His hands were trembling as he pulled out the phone; there were no calls or messages from Viggo, he felt sick.
“Anything?” Hugo asked.
Orlando shook his head, tears blurring his eyes.
“Try calling him,” Hugo suggested, gently.
His fingers didn’t seem to understand what his brain was telling them to do but finally he punched in the right speed dial number. The phone rang but then cut to voicemail, Orlando punched the number again, and again it went to voicemail. He tried it a few more times with the same result, tears streaming down his face, until Hugo grabbed his wrist.
“Okay, stop! He’s not answering and you’re just getting into a state. There may be a reason for him not answering.”
Orlando just stared at him, of course there was a fucking reason, he was envisaging it now, Viggo, injured, bleeding; dead. He groaned and buried his head in his hands, and he couldn’t stop the events of that morning from spooling through his brain, in glorious technicolour. He could clearly remember the bereft look on Viggo’s face when they’d parted. He should never have left without trying to resolve things between them. Now he might never get the chance.
“We argued, this morning, before I left. Really argued, we’ve never argued before, not like that,” he said, haltingly.
“Bugger!” Hugo breathed out, but then quickly added. “I’m sure he’s fine Orlando.”
“Then why hasn’t he called me?”
Hugo pursed his lips. “Is it at all possible that he doesn’t want to? You know, if you argued.”
“I don’t know. But that would be cruel of him. I thought…, I mean we’re still…, together.” Orlando regarded him miserably. “I don’t know what I’ll do if something has happened to him.”
“Right.” Hugo ran a distracted hand across his forehead. “Was it the CBSO playing?”
Orlando nodded dumbly.
“I’ll call Mirga, she’ll surely know what’s happening.”
Mirga was the musical director of the CBSO and Orlando watched hopefully as Hugo dialled.
“Engaged,” he said apologetically. “Unsurprising I suppose.”
Orlando nodded and wiped his face on his sleeve. Just then his phone began to ring. Orlando froze, and just stared at it in horror.
“For fuck’s sake Orlando, will you answer that. Or do you want me to?”
“No, no!” Orlando snatched up the phone and saw Viggo’s number. “Viggo?”
“Orlando, is that you?”
“Of course, it’s me,” Orlando’s voice cracked with emotion, half laughing, half sobbing.
“Are you alright? You sound strange,” Viggo said.
“Strange!” Orlando almost bellowed down the line. “What the hell is going on there, Viggo? Hugo has the BBC news stream on, it says the Symphony Hall was blown up, is that right? Are you hurt?”
“It’s fine, Orlando,” Viggo said calmly. “I’m fine, the Symphony Hall is fine. I think the media over-reacted.”
“So there wasn’t an explosion?”
“Yes, there was, but it was next door at the Repertory theatre.”
“Oh my God, someone bombed the theatre? That’s awful.”
“Er, no. There was an electrical fault with the heating system in their basement apparently. No one was hurt but it was a huge explosion. We certainly heard it in the auditorium, the whole building shook.”
“An electrical fault?” Orlando repeated weakly, “But the reports said people were evacuated.”
“Yes, that’s standard procedure I imagine. No one knew at first exactly what had happened and all public places are on high alert for terrorist attacks, so they evacuated everybody from the immediate area.”
“Why didn’t you call me?” Orlando finally asked, plaintively. “You must have realised I’d see the news and worry.” He heard Viggo sigh.
“There was a lot going on here Orlando, we were all busy dealing with the situation and I didn’t think about the news getting out so quickly. Stupid of me I suppose.”
The relief was having as much of an effect on Orlando as the initial shock had done, he felt lightheaded and he couldn't hold back an involuntary sob.
“Please, Orlando, don’t get upset, I’m okay, there is no danger here. I promise.”
Orlando sobbed again, he was so overcome with the relief that he was unable to articulate actual words.
“Orlando, please, love, I don’t want to hang up on you but I have to go, the police are letting us back into the hall now to retrieve the instruments. I promise I will call you later when everything is sorted, will you be alright?”
With a huge effort Orlando managed to get his breathing under control. “I’m fine,” he said shakily. “Go, do what you have to, I’ll talk to you later.” He shut off the phone and turned to Hugo. “Would you do me a favour and call a taxi, while I get my stuff together. I’m going to the station.”
*****************************************************
Orlando had managed to catch the 22.15, the last train out of Nottingham that evening and now, just an hour and a half later, he was in the lift at the Hyatt Regency. Viggo had called him while he’d been in the taxi from Birmingham International station but Orlando had just asked him if he was at the hotel and when Viggo confirmed that he was, he’d said he would call him back in a couple of minutes. He virtually ran down the corridor and hammered on the door. When Viggo opened it, Orlando dropped his bag and flung himself at his lover.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Viggo just hugged him close and buried his face against Orlando’s shoulder. “No, I’m sorry,” he said. “It was all my fault.”
They continued standing in the doorway, just holding each other, until Orlando finally kicked his bag inside, pushed Viggo backwards into the room, and let the door fall shut behind them.
“I said a lot of things, I really didn’t mean,” Viggo said.
“Shhh,” Orlando soothed, still holding his lover in a fierce embrace. “I know that.”
“It’s just that I love you so much and sometimes it scares me.”
“You’re an idiot,” Orlando said. “But I love you too.”
He managed to shuffle off his coat without letting Viggo go by freeing one arm at a time and then manouvered them both over to the bed so that they could sit down. His own legs still felt unsteady, and Viggo was trembling in his arms. “Are you really alright?” he asked, stroking his lover’s back as they clung together. “It must have been scary.”
Viggo pulled away slightly and raised a hand to caress Orlando’s cheek. “You know what my first thought was, when we heard the explosion? I wished you were there with me, because if I was going to die, I wanted to be holding your hand when it happened. My second, more rational and less selfish thought was that, thank God you were somewhere else and safe.”
Orlando chuckled softly. “I suppose that’s quite romantic, in a way.”
“And I’m sorry, I didn’t call you right away, but it was chaos and we didn’t know exactly what was happening, and…”
“It doesn’t matter, it really doesn’t matter.” Orlando closed his own hand over Viggo’s fingers. “But I never want to go through something like that ever again.”
“Me neither,” Viggo said. “Although it’s probably a good thing the concert was interrupted. The rehearsal was gruesome enough but I’d completely lost control of the orchestra before we’d even finished the Bax overture. I could see the principal cellist exchanging ‘what the fuck’ looks with the leader. It’s a good thing the CBSO are so highly disciplined, but they may never invite me back.”
“It’s been a really, really shitty day all round, hasn’t it?” Orlando said.
“It certainly has. But I can’t excuse what happened this morning,” Viggo said, woefully. “I was hungover, obviously, but I was irritated about last night, I felt, I don’t know, that I was sidelined.”
“I don’t understand.” Orlando frowned. “Sidelined? How?”
“Well, the CBSO all seem to like you a lot.”
“I’ve played with them quite often, you know that. They’re a great bunch of people and they certainly know how to party.”
“Exactly, but even after a few drinks they were still treating me with unnecessary deference. Sometimes I’d just like to be one of the guys.”
Orlando tried not to laugh, it was a complaint he’d heard from his lover before, and he resisted the urge to mock him, settling instead for some reassurance. “Trust me Viggo, they were very friendly with you, I’ve seen them totally freeze a conductor out when they don’t like them. They can be brutal.”
“And then you and Freddy seem to get along really well.”
“We don’t meet up often but we’ve known each other since we were kids, so yeah, I suppose we do.”
“You certainly made a very handsome couple.”
“You do know he’s totally straight and happily married?”
“I do. It was just the picture the two of you presented. I could see quite a few of the orchestra and chorus eyeing you both up.”
Orlando sighed heavily. “Viggo, you’re not going to start with the, screwing around on tour, again, are you?”
“No! No! No!” Viggo shook his head vehemently. “I’m just offering some very poor excuses for my state of mind this morning. And, also, I didn’t even get sex last night because you fell asleep as soon as you hit the mattress, and you snored, loudly, all night.”
Orlando laughed at his lover’s disgruntled expression. “Firstly, I do not snore. Secondly, why do you think I’m here?” He squeezed Viggo’s hand tightly. “I needed to see you were really still in one piece but most of all I just needed you.”
Viggo smiled at him. “Why are we sitting here then, when we could be in bed?”
“I have to use the bathroom,” Orlando said, standing up and moving towards the ensuite. “But get rid of the clothes and I’ll join you in a minute.”
When Orlando emerged from the bathroom Viggo was still sitting on the bed, fully dressed and with an anxious expression on his face. “Orlando, where is the violin?”
“What?”
“Your violin, where is it?”
Orlando looked down at his bag and then back up at Viggo, the colour rapidly draining from his face. “Fuck! It’s still in Nottingham. I left in such a hurry. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck fuck!”
Like many soloists Orlando did not own the violin he played. It was on permanent loan to him from a foundation which supplied a variety of instruments to professional musicians. Orlando liked his antique Stradivarius very much, he’d been using it for several years now and it suited his style; it was also extremely valuable, so when he was at an engagement and especially while he was on tour, it never left his side.
Orlando wrenched his phone out of his pocket and stabbed in a number. “Hi, Hugo, yes, it’s Orlando, by any chance did you…? Oh thank God.” Relief overwhelmed him and he sank down onto the bed because his legs had yet again turned to jelly. “Yes, I only just realised that I didn’t have it with me. Thank you so much for doing that. Yes, everything is okay, Viggo is fine.” Orlando looked over at his lover who, having deduced that Hugo had the missing violin safely in his possession, was now stretched out on his back, snorting with laughter. “For the moment anyway, because if he doesn’t stop fucking laughing about this, I’m actually going to kill him. Yes, yes, you have a good evening too, and thanks again, I really owe you for this.” He shut off the phone and tossed it onto the bedside table, then scowled at Viggo. “Quit laughing, that wasn’t fucking funny.”
“It really was,” Viggo said, wiping his eyes. “And I shouldn’t have laughed. But this entire day has been something of a rollercoaster and I’m just so very happy that you are here.”
Orlando flopped backwards onto the mattress and then rolled over to face his lover. “I was really mad at you this morning.”
“I know, and I deserved it,” Viggo said, quickly.
“Yes, you did,” Orlando said, firmly. “But I kind of ran away, and that wasn’t the best way to deal with it.”
“You have nothing to apologise for,” Viggo said, pulling Orlando into his arms. “And I’m touched that you abandoned your precious violin because you were worried about me.”
Orlando snuggled up against his lover. “At least it finally proves to you that I do love you more than I love my violin,” he chuckled. It was a, joking, allegation that Viggo was prone to making whenever they had to include the instrument in their arrangements. “But the McKellen Foundation would have killed me if anything had happened to it.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t,” Viggo said. “But I would have very much enjoyed hearing you explain to them that you lost it because your boyfriend was traumatised by a malfunctioning boiler.”
“Yes, I’m sure you would,” Orlando said, dryly as he unbuttoned Viggo’s shirt and pressed his palm against the warm flesh. “You know, I sometimes think our love is like a violin. In my heart are the strings, in your heart the bow and together we make soft sweet music.”
“You’re quoting a pop song at me, aren’t you?” Viggo said.
“I am,” Orlando laughed, and gently tweaked Viggo’s nipple. “But that doesn’t make it any less true.”
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