Never on a Sunday
Nov. 21st, 2021 01:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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vigorliTitle: Never on a Sunday
Rating: Rish for language
Pairing: Orlando/Viggo
Beta: And encourager -gattodoro ; Thank you.
Word Count: 3,424
Dedication: This is a birthday fic for the adorablesilvan_lady
Disclaimer: All fiction, unfortunately.
Notes: Written in the ‘Pictures at an Exhibition’ universe
Summary: If you are not familiar with this universe you can find earlier parts here.
Pictures
Orlando was not a happy bunny! In his opinion, when you’d worked on a Saturday - a matinée as well as an evening performance of the West End play in which he was currently appearing - Sunday mornings were for lounging in bed, having lazy sex and then eating a late, full English brunch while still wearing your PJs. Actually, all Sundays were supposed to be like that but on this particular Sunday he had been dragged from bed and forced to dress at fuck knows what o’clock in the morning and then frog-marched out of the apartment by his annoyingly wide-awake lover; by the time he was sufficiently conscious to wonder where the hell he was going the sun had risen and they had escaped the London traffic. Viggo had pointed the Defender north, so he assumed that they were going to Robin Hood’s Bay. He had no idea why; perhaps Dominic had finally managed to set fire to the bookshop - he was prone to having a crafty fag in the alley and then, if a customer appeared, taking it inside still alight and forgetting about it - he certainly wasn’t going to ask because he was damned if he was going to speak to his lover after such abominable treatment. Much to Viggo’s amusement he even managed to maintain the grumpy silence when they stopped for breakfast at a motorway service station; only responding to Viggo’s laughing observation that he always boasted he had no problem getting up early for film shoots with a menacing snarl.
The Defender, although top of the range, was not as comfortable as the king size, double sprung, soft topped mattress he’d so recently been denied, nevertheless having now consumed a hearty fried breakfast, he managed to drift back to sleep and only resurfaced when Viggo parked up and announced loudly that they had arrived. They were definitely not in Robin Hood’s Bay. They were beside the sea though; in fact the Defender was only separated from a wide expanse of flat sandy beach and some towering waves, by a set of waist high railings. To their immediate left there was a long, and surprisingly intact, pier and to the right but further off, a sheer cliff jutting out into the sea.
“Where the hell are we?” he demanded.
“Saltburn-by-the-Sea.” Viggo replied brightly.
“I think the ‘by the sea’ bit is pretty redundant but okay. And why are we here?”
Viggo gestured, somewhat over dramatically, to the scene in front of them; huge, blue-grey waves were crashing on to the beach and the water was dotted with surfers.
“Because they have great surf here.”
Orlando gaped in astonishment. “You want me to go surfing? You have to be fucking kidding me! It’s the middle of fucking winter!”
“Actually, it’s only the middle of fall,” Viggo replied.
“It’s still fucking freezing.”
Viggo grinned broadly. Orlando recognised that grin; it usually preceded his being mocked.
“It really isn’t, the sun is shining and the surf is really good. Just look at it. I thought you loved surfing, and I thought since you’d spent your entire summer hamming it up on the London stage, you might be missing it.”
“I do love surfing,” Orlando replied, through clenched teeth, “in California where the water is warm.”
“Surely you’ve surfed in other places.”
“Not in the fucking Arctic ocean!”
“You know perfectly well that this is the North Sea; the water doesn’t get really cold until February and the temperature out there today is about 10 degrees.”
“Fahrenheit?” Orlando gasped, appalled.
Viggo rolled his eyes. “Centigrade,” he said, emphatically. “So nowhere near as cold as you think it is and anyway I’ve rented us full body wetsuits, we’ll be fine.”
“We?”
“Well, yes, I’m coming in too.”
Orlando clenched his teeth again. “So you surf.”
Viggo shrugged. “I can bodyboard.”
“You can bodyboard, huh. Did you learn that in college too?”
“No, I learnt while I was in New Zealand.”
“In New Zealand?”
“Are you just going to repeat everything I say, cos in a couple of hours we’ll be losing light and I’d like to get out there?”
Orlando grunted peevishly. “You just seem to have been everywhere and done everything.”
“Yeah, I’ve lived a long time, thanks for highlighting that.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know exactly what you meant, I hear it in your tone every time you discover something new about me and it’s getting fucking annoying,” Viggo said sharply.
Orlando froze; was it true, did he conduct this type of accusatory interrogation every time? Maybe he did; even after all these months he somehow couldn’t completely dismiss his original assumption that Viggo had led a quiet life and even though he now knew that Viggo’s life had been anything but quiet, every revelation about his partner’s experiences was a mild irritation to him.
“So,” Viggo’s tone was still firm but slightly less aggressive. “We are going to change into the suits, pick up the boards and get in the sea.”
“Alright.” Orlando surrendered with a disgruntled huff but he had to admit the waves did look tempting. “But if I die of exposure it’s your fault.”
Viggo grinned wolfishly. “I promise I'll warm you up afterwards.”
Orlando couldn’t help smiling but he nodded at the view and said tartly. “You’ll be lucky if you can find my dick after I’ve spent a couple of hours out there.”
“I’ll find it,” Viggo said firmly. “It’s very dear to me.”
“You’re a fucking idiot.”
“And you’re a fucking wuss, now get changed and let’s get surfing.”
The surf shop where Viggo had rented suits and boards was only yards from where they had parked and Orlando could see that the whole area catered surprisingly well for surfers with not only equipment shops and a surf school but changing rooms and proper shower units with actual hot water. He was extremely grateful for these facilities a few hours later when he finally agreed that it was time to call it a day and emerged, shivering pitifully, from the sea. He was both exhausted and exhilarated but he had thoroughly enjoyed his afternoon surfing the waves; there had been some really excellent surf and some very friendly surfers who knew this area well and had given him advice about the local conditions and, best of all, Viggo had been exaggerating when he said he could bodyboard. His lover had gamely battled the surf for an hour or so, more often under his board than on it, before abandoning the fight. He had changed out of his wet suit and spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on a rug on the sand, furnishing Orlando with snacks and drinks or taking photos of the action. Some of the surfers had even performed some quite astonishing stunts for his camera, including – albeit briefly - the infamous Dirty Dancing lift, and Orlando had been surprised at the high level of ability being exhibited in this small northern seaside town that he’d never even heard of.
While chatting to the other surfers he had casually asked how far they were from Robin Hood’s Bay because he knew they must be in the general area. They had told him it was about a forty-five minute drive south along the coast and he hoped Viggo’s intention was to head for there because even after showering and dressing, Orlando was convinced that most of his body and certainly his extremities, were still blue; he really needed a stiff drink and a warm bed and London was at least five hours away. His informants had also helpfully pointed out the coast road that was their route to the Bay, so when Viggo didn’t take it Orlando’s spirits flagged. He decided that complaining would be churlish; he’d had fun and he was still elated from the thrill of the surf, and the joy of watching Viggo repeatedly parting company with his board, so he pulled his fleece more tightly around his shuddering frame, turned up the heating, burrowed down in the passenger seat and hoped he could at least doze for most of the journey. He was therefore surprised when less than five minutes later, having negotiated the hairpin climb to the top of the cliff, Viggo pulled up at the kerb on a wide, tree lined street.
“Now where are we?” he demanded. He was annoyed to be further delayed from reaching a warm apartment.
“Still Saltburn,” Viggo replied cheerily, lifting a couple of overnight bags from the rear of the vehicle. “I didn’t want the long drive back to London tonight and the flat in the Bay is more fitted for summer use so I thought we’d stay here overnight.”
Orlando quickly got out and followed Viggo across the road to the entrance of an imposing, red brick building which looked more like a gothic mansion than a hotel. They negotiated the unexpectedly narrow doorway and Orlando was somewhat surprised by the full size bear standing just inside. Viggo was already striding across the hall to a small desk at the foot of a grand, sweeping staircase. Orlando was used to hotels, he spent a lot of time in them but glancing around, he decided this one looked more like the home of some eccentric lord of the manor. Viggo had already pressed the bell on the desk when Orlando reached it.
“Viggo, out there…” Orlando said, pointing back towards the entrance inarticulately. “There’s a bear in the porch.”
“It’s stuffed,” Viggo replied with a grin. “It won’t bite.”
“I realise that,” Orlando snapped. “It’s just a very weird thing to have in a hotel.”
“My friend is nervous of your bear,” Viggo said, to the smartly dressed young lady who had now appeared at the desk.
“He’s quite tame,” she giggled, complicity.
“Oh funny, ha, ha,” Orlando said, stepping up to the desk and pulling back the hood of his fleece. The girl’s expression instantly changed when she saw his face and he cursed his own stupidity. He should have hovered in the background while Viggo sorted out the room and kept his hood on till they were safely inside it.
Viggo noticed the sudden change in the girl’s demeanour as well and sniggered. Then he leant forward and said conspiratorially. “Yes, surprisingly Mr Bloom is not as brave as some of the characters he portrays.”
Orlando was torn between swearing filthily at his lover or behaving like the charming, talented, but surprisingly down to earth, film star his publicity claimed him to be. He squinted at her badge, “So, Samantha, does the bear have a name?” he asked, giving her his most dazzling smile. The girl blushed and smiled adoringly back. Viggo sniggered again.
“He’s called Topo,” she said, “obviously.”
“Ah, yes, obviously,” Orlando agreed, nodding and smiling, although he had no idea why it was obvious and was far too cold and exhausted to ask.
Viggo must have guessed this, or was just keen to move the operation along because he interjected. “Mr Bloom has been surfing and is keen to get to the room and have a hot bath, so if you could check us in. We’re booked under Mortensen.”
“Oh, of course, sorry, straight away,” Samantha blushed again and consulted her computer. “Yes, I have the booking here.” She pushed the necessary papers across the desk for Viggo to complete but kept glancing over at Orlando and smiling coyly; and he smiled dutifully back, hoping the check in would be quick because he couldn’t keep it up indefinitely.
When Samantha finally passed over the key, Viggo said he knew where the room was and shepherded Orlando up the main staircase.
“Topo?” Orlando asked when the desk was out of earshot.
“This is Topo Morto Hall, so…”
“Ah, right, that figures, odd name though.” Orlando said as he paused to stare at an elaborate, rattan, peacock chair sited on a landing halfway up the main staircase. As they progressed they encountered other random items of decoration; they seemed to inhabit every corridor, or corner, anywhere there was a space. Cushions made from leather jackets or faux animal skins, others hung with gilt chains and feathers. “This place is…”
“Quirky?” Viggo suggested as he led Orlando down a short narrow flight of stairs, round a corner, past another landing furnished with what looked like a six foot high, cocktail umbrella sheltering a cane lounger, then back up another short flight of stairs with a tapestry hanging over the banister.
“You could say that. Are you sure you know where you’re going? I swear we’ve turned back the way we came.”
“Very probably,” Viggo agreed. “This place is like a maze. It’s actually several buildings knocked together but the floors are all at different levels and you sometimes have to go north to get south and up to go down.”
“Oh, dear god, please don’t leave me on my own anywhere, I’ll never find my way back. And there better be an actual bath in this room when we get there.”
Viggo started to laugh, “There is definitely a bath.”
When they arrived at the room Viggo opened the door with a flourish. “Bed and bath, Sir?”
Orlando took in the décor. The room was enormous; it had two large bay windows and was decorated in an ornate antique style; there were comfy chairs and a sofa, a table and dining chairs, a huge double bed and standing just a few feet from the bed, an enormous, freestanding, double ended, slipper bath. “This is…”
“Unusual?” Viggo chuckled.
“Er, yeah,” Orlando agreed. “I take it you’ve stayed here before.”
“Yes, a few times.”
“Why, when the flat in the bay is so close?”
“I like this little town, and I enjoy spending time here. Some of the Victorian architecture is wonderful and I’ve taken a lot of photographs. It’s also less popular with the tourists than Robin Hood’s Bay or Whitby, so quieter. And there are some very good eateries, including this hotel, and some artisan and boutique type shops.”
Orlando thought back to some of the pictures that had been included in Viggo’s last exhibition, there had been a lot of coastal themed scenes and he wondered now if some of the one’s he hadn’t recognised from his expeditions with Viggo to Whitby and Scarborough had come from Saltburn.
“Is this the only hotel in town then?”
“No. But I like the serendipitous excitement of this place, how you encounter something visually interesting around every corner and how the layout is almost like an Escher drawing.”
Orlando smiled fondly at Viggo; of course this was exactly the kind of place that would appeal to his artistic lover. He guessed that he had spent time wandering the corridors; just for the fun of it. “You are a very strange man,” he said, and moving closer he pressed his lips against Viggo’s in a chaste kiss.
Viggo flinched. “Fuck! Your lips are freezing!”
“All of me is fucking freezing,” Orlando said. “If I do die of hypothermia all the money goes to my sister but you can have my motorbike collection.”
Viggo laughed but hurried over to the bath and turned on the taps. “Get undressed and get in.”
The bath was filling quickly so Orlando obeyed but when he stepped into the water it was only tepid. “I was really hoping for a hot bath.” He frowned at Viggo.
Viggo shook his head. “You need to warm up slowly. Now sit down in the tub and I’ll gradually raise the temperature until Sir is happy with it.” Orlando eased himself down into the warm water;, it felt wonderful on his chilled flesh. Viggo knelt down beside the bath and dangled his hand in the water, monitoring the temperature. “Are you warming up?”
“Yes, I suppose, are you getting in too?”
“If I get in there we both know what will happen and I booked us a table for dinner.”
“I’m only hungry for you,” Orlando said, grinning seductively at his lover.
Viggo laughed so hard he nearly fell over. “Smooth, Orlando, real smooth.”
“Oh come on.” Orlando wheedled. “You must be cold too.”
“I spend winters in New York; I’m used to the cold. And I probably have more body fat than you, and certainly more body hair.” Viggo ran an affectionate hand over Orlando’s almost hairless chest. “When we first met I assumed you waxed.”
“I hate you,” Orlando said mildly, sliding further down into the warm water. “Ahhhh, this is good.”
“I have a bottle of whisky in my bag,” Viggo said, “do you want some?”
“Isn’t alcohol bad for hypothermia?”
“Yes, it’s very bad, but you don’t have hypothermia, you’re just a melodramatic, southern softie who’s a bit cold.”
“You got that expression from Sean, didn’t you?” Orlando said accusingly. He was happy that Viggo and his manager got along so well, but also a bit miffed because they were a similar age and related easily to one another; and sometimes they ganged up on him.
“Possibly.” Viggo admitted. “Do you want the whisky or not?”
“I’d prefer a cup of tea.”
“Coming right up.” Viggo jumped to his feet and went to fill the kettle; he returned presently with a mug of tea.
Orlando sipped gratefully at the scalding liquid while Viggo added more hot water. “Do we have to go down to dinner?” he asked plaintively as steam began to rise from the bathwater and the feeling returned to his toes.
“We can get room service if you’d rather.”
“I would rather. I’m tired and I really don’t want to get out of this bath, and there will be other people in the restaurant, and this isn’t London where I’m not so conspicuous.” He half expected Viggo to tell him to get over himself, he could always rely on his partner to pop his ego bubble but Viggo just nodded.
“Sure, we’ll eat in the room and have an early night.” Viggo bent down and kissed him, drawing back with a smile. “Mmmm, much warmer. What would you like for dinner?”
“I don’t care,” Orlando said, leaning back in the tub and closing his eyes, “a burger or something, you choose.”
A couple of hours later, his stomach satisfyingly full of good food and his mood mellowed by wine, Orlando was snuggled in Viggo’s arms in the middle of the huge, warm, comfortable bed.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” he purred into Viggo’s chest. “How did you know the surf would be so good today?”
“Technology,” Viggo replied, stroking Orlando’s hair.
“What?”
“Saltburn is a hotspot for the surfing community so there’s a dedicated surf line and cameras. I’ve been getting the forecasts sent directly to my phone every day and I’ve been waiting for a good enough report to make it worth driving up.”
“You could have told me where we were going.”
“I wanted to surprise you. And I very much enjoyed the monumental sulking en-route.”
“Fuck you.” Orlando kicked Viggo’s shin with his toes. “You’re a tease. But I did have a really good day.”
“Me too.”
“Really?” Orlando began to snigger. “You didn’t do much surfing; you spent more time on the beach with your camera.”
“That’s because I surf badly and I take very good photos.”
“Really badly,” Orlando snorted. “And you lied about how warm the water was.”
“Seriously, Orlando, you’ve spent far too long on the west coast, you are a total wuss, I’ve swum in much colder waters.”
“Have you? Where? I’m assuming you don’t mean the Hudson River?”
“When I tell you that I’ve been on trips to both the Arctic and Antarctic circles are you going to do the whole freaking out thing again?”
Orlando bit back his immediate annoyed retort and instead mumbled, “No.” But then couldn’t help the follow up. “It’s just…”
Viggo sighed impatiently. “Just what?”
“There are things I want to do, places I want to go, you know… with someone, and you’ve already done them all.”
“I can do them again,” Viggo said.
“But it won’t be the same,” Orlando said quietly.
“No, it won’t,” Viggo agreed. He insinuated his fingers under Orlando’s chin and gently raised his head so that they made eye contact. “It will be better, because I’ll be doing them with you.”
Orlando’s lip wobbled dangerously. “I love you, you sweet talking bastard,” he said softly. “But never, ever again drag me out of bed before noon on a Sunday.
The End
Rating: Rish for language
Pairing: Orlando/Viggo
Beta: And encourager -
gattodoro ; Thank you.Word Count: 3,424
Dedication: This is a birthday fic for the adorable
silvan_ladyDisclaimer: All fiction, unfortunately.
Notes: Written in the ‘Pictures at an Exhibition’ universe
Summary: If you are not familiar with this universe you can find earlier parts here.
Pictures
Orlando was not a happy bunny! In his opinion, when you’d worked on a Saturday - a matinée as well as an evening performance of the West End play in which he was currently appearing - Sunday mornings were for lounging in bed, having lazy sex and then eating a late, full English brunch while still wearing your PJs. Actually, all Sundays were supposed to be like that but on this particular Sunday he had been dragged from bed and forced to dress at fuck knows what o’clock in the morning and then frog-marched out of the apartment by his annoyingly wide-awake lover; by the time he was sufficiently conscious to wonder where the hell he was going the sun had risen and they had escaped the London traffic. Viggo had pointed the Defender north, so he assumed that they were going to Robin Hood’s Bay. He had no idea why; perhaps Dominic had finally managed to set fire to the bookshop - he was prone to having a crafty fag in the alley and then, if a customer appeared, taking it inside still alight and forgetting about it - he certainly wasn’t going to ask because he was damned if he was going to speak to his lover after such abominable treatment. Much to Viggo’s amusement he even managed to maintain the grumpy silence when they stopped for breakfast at a motorway service station; only responding to Viggo’s laughing observation that he always boasted he had no problem getting up early for film shoots with a menacing snarl.
The Defender, although top of the range, was not as comfortable as the king size, double sprung, soft topped mattress he’d so recently been denied, nevertheless having now consumed a hearty fried breakfast, he managed to drift back to sleep and only resurfaced when Viggo parked up and announced loudly that they had arrived. They were definitely not in Robin Hood’s Bay. They were beside the sea though; in fact the Defender was only separated from a wide expanse of flat sandy beach and some towering waves, by a set of waist high railings. To their immediate left there was a long, and surprisingly intact, pier and to the right but further off, a sheer cliff jutting out into the sea.
“Where the hell are we?” he demanded.
“Saltburn-by-the-Sea.” Viggo replied brightly.
“I think the ‘by the sea’ bit is pretty redundant but okay. And why are we here?”
Viggo gestured, somewhat over dramatically, to the scene in front of them; huge, blue-grey waves were crashing on to the beach and the water was dotted with surfers.
“Because they have great surf here.”
Orlando gaped in astonishment. “You want me to go surfing? You have to be fucking kidding me! It’s the middle of fucking winter!”
“Actually, it’s only the middle of fall,” Viggo replied.
“It’s still fucking freezing.”
Viggo grinned broadly. Orlando recognised that grin; it usually preceded his being mocked.
“It really isn’t, the sun is shining and the surf is really good. Just look at it. I thought you loved surfing, and I thought since you’d spent your entire summer hamming it up on the London stage, you might be missing it.”
“I do love surfing,” Orlando replied, through clenched teeth, “in California where the water is warm.”
“Surely you’ve surfed in other places.”
“Not in the fucking Arctic ocean!”
“You know perfectly well that this is the North Sea; the water doesn’t get really cold until February and the temperature out there today is about 10 degrees.”
“Fahrenheit?” Orlando gasped, appalled.
Viggo rolled his eyes. “Centigrade,” he said, emphatically. “So nowhere near as cold as you think it is and anyway I’ve rented us full body wetsuits, we’ll be fine.”
“We?”
“Well, yes, I’m coming in too.”
Orlando clenched his teeth again. “So you surf.”
Viggo shrugged. “I can bodyboard.”
“You can bodyboard, huh. Did you learn that in college too?”
“No, I learnt while I was in New Zealand.”
“In New Zealand?”
“Are you just going to repeat everything I say, cos in a couple of hours we’ll be losing light and I’d like to get out there?”
Orlando grunted peevishly. “You just seem to have been everywhere and done everything.”
“Yeah, I’ve lived a long time, thanks for highlighting that.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know exactly what you meant, I hear it in your tone every time you discover something new about me and it’s getting fucking annoying,” Viggo said sharply.
Orlando froze; was it true, did he conduct this type of accusatory interrogation every time? Maybe he did; even after all these months he somehow couldn’t completely dismiss his original assumption that Viggo had led a quiet life and even though he now knew that Viggo’s life had been anything but quiet, every revelation about his partner’s experiences was a mild irritation to him.
“So,” Viggo’s tone was still firm but slightly less aggressive. “We are going to change into the suits, pick up the boards and get in the sea.”
“Alright.” Orlando surrendered with a disgruntled huff but he had to admit the waves did look tempting. “But if I die of exposure it’s your fault.”
Viggo grinned wolfishly. “I promise I'll warm you up afterwards.”
Orlando couldn’t help smiling but he nodded at the view and said tartly. “You’ll be lucky if you can find my dick after I’ve spent a couple of hours out there.”
“I’ll find it,” Viggo said firmly. “It’s very dear to me.”
“You’re a fucking idiot.”
“And you’re a fucking wuss, now get changed and let’s get surfing.”
The surf shop where Viggo had rented suits and boards was only yards from where they had parked and Orlando could see that the whole area catered surprisingly well for surfers with not only equipment shops and a surf school but changing rooms and proper shower units with actual hot water. He was extremely grateful for these facilities a few hours later when he finally agreed that it was time to call it a day and emerged, shivering pitifully, from the sea. He was both exhausted and exhilarated but he had thoroughly enjoyed his afternoon surfing the waves; there had been some really excellent surf and some very friendly surfers who knew this area well and had given him advice about the local conditions and, best of all, Viggo had been exaggerating when he said he could bodyboard. His lover had gamely battled the surf for an hour or so, more often under his board than on it, before abandoning the fight. He had changed out of his wet suit and spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on a rug on the sand, furnishing Orlando with snacks and drinks or taking photos of the action. Some of the surfers had even performed some quite astonishing stunts for his camera, including – albeit briefly - the infamous Dirty Dancing lift, and Orlando had been surprised at the high level of ability being exhibited in this small northern seaside town that he’d never even heard of.
While chatting to the other surfers he had casually asked how far they were from Robin Hood’s Bay because he knew they must be in the general area. They had told him it was about a forty-five minute drive south along the coast and he hoped Viggo’s intention was to head for there because even after showering and dressing, Orlando was convinced that most of his body and certainly his extremities, were still blue; he really needed a stiff drink and a warm bed and London was at least five hours away. His informants had also helpfully pointed out the coast road that was their route to the Bay, so when Viggo didn’t take it Orlando’s spirits flagged. He decided that complaining would be churlish; he’d had fun and he was still elated from the thrill of the surf, and the joy of watching Viggo repeatedly parting company with his board, so he pulled his fleece more tightly around his shuddering frame, turned up the heating, burrowed down in the passenger seat and hoped he could at least doze for most of the journey. He was therefore surprised when less than five minutes later, having negotiated the hairpin climb to the top of the cliff, Viggo pulled up at the kerb on a wide, tree lined street.
“Now where are we?” he demanded. He was annoyed to be further delayed from reaching a warm apartment.
“Still Saltburn,” Viggo replied cheerily, lifting a couple of overnight bags from the rear of the vehicle. “I didn’t want the long drive back to London tonight and the flat in the Bay is more fitted for summer use so I thought we’d stay here overnight.”
Orlando quickly got out and followed Viggo across the road to the entrance of an imposing, red brick building which looked more like a gothic mansion than a hotel. They negotiated the unexpectedly narrow doorway and Orlando was somewhat surprised by the full size bear standing just inside. Viggo was already striding across the hall to a small desk at the foot of a grand, sweeping staircase. Orlando was used to hotels, he spent a lot of time in them but glancing around, he decided this one looked more like the home of some eccentric lord of the manor. Viggo had already pressed the bell on the desk when Orlando reached it.
“Viggo, out there…” Orlando said, pointing back towards the entrance inarticulately. “There’s a bear in the porch.”
“It’s stuffed,” Viggo replied with a grin. “It won’t bite.”
“I realise that,” Orlando snapped. “It’s just a very weird thing to have in a hotel.”
“My friend is nervous of your bear,” Viggo said, to the smartly dressed young lady who had now appeared at the desk.
“He’s quite tame,” she giggled, complicity.
“Oh funny, ha, ha,” Orlando said, stepping up to the desk and pulling back the hood of his fleece. The girl’s expression instantly changed when she saw his face and he cursed his own stupidity. He should have hovered in the background while Viggo sorted out the room and kept his hood on till they were safely inside it.
Viggo noticed the sudden change in the girl’s demeanour as well and sniggered. Then he leant forward and said conspiratorially. “Yes, surprisingly Mr Bloom is not as brave as some of the characters he portrays.”
Orlando was torn between swearing filthily at his lover or behaving like the charming, talented, but surprisingly down to earth, film star his publicity claimed him to be. He squinted at her badge, “So, Samantha, does the bear have a name?” he asked, giving her his most dazzling smile. The girl blushed and smiled adoringly back. Viggo sniggered again.
“He’s called Topo,” she said, “obviously.”
“Ah, yes, obviously,” Orlando agreed, nodding and smiling, although he had no idea why it was obvious and was far too cold and exhausted to ask.
Viggo must have guessed this, or was just keen to move the operation along because he interjected. “Mr Bloom has been surfing and is keen to get to the room and have a hot bath, so if you could check us in. We’re booked under Mortensen.”
“Oh, of course, sorry, straight away,” Samantha blushed again and consulted her computer. “Yes, I have the booking here.” She pushed the necessary papers across the desk for Viggo to complete but kept glancing over at Orlando and smiling coyly; and he smiled dutifully back, hoping the check in would be quick because he couldn’t keep it up indefinitely.
When Samantha finally passed over the key, Viggo said he knew where the room was and shepherded Orlando up the main staircase.
“Topo?” Orlando asked when the desk was out of earshot.
“This is Topo Morto Hall, so…”
“Ah, right, that figures, odd name though.” Orlando said as he paused to stare at an elaborate, rattan, peacock chair sited on a landing halfway up the main staircase. As they progressed they encountered other random items of decoration; they seemed to inhabit every corridor, or corner, anywhere there was a space. Cushions made from leather jackets or faux animal skins, others hung with gilt chains and feathers. “This place is…”
“Quirky?” Viggo suggested as he led Orlando down a short narrow flight of stairs, round a corner, past another landing furnished with what looked like a six foot high, cocktail umbrella sheltering a cane lounger, then back up another short flight of stairs with a tapestry hanging over the banister.
“You could say that. Are you sure you know where you’re going? I swear we’ve turned back the way we came.”
“Very probably,” Viggo agreed. “This place is like a maze. It’s actually several buildings knocked together but the floors are all at different levels and you sometimes have to go north to get south and up to go down.”
“Oh, dear god, please don’t leave me on my own anywhere, I’ll never find my way back. And there better be an actual bath in this room when we get there.”
Viggo started to laugh, “There is definitely a bath.”
When they arrived at the room Viggo opened the door with a flourish. “Bed and bath, Sir?”
Orlando took in the décor. The room was enormous; it had two large bay windows and was decorated in an ornate antique style; there were comfy chairs and a sofa, a table and dining chairs, a huge double bed and standing just a few feet from the bed, an enormous, freestanding, double ended, slipper bath. “This is…”
“Unusual?” Viggo chuckled.
“Er, yeah,” Orlando agreed. “I take it you’ve stayed here before.”
“Yes, a few times.”
“Why, when the flat in the bay is so close?”
“I like this little town, and I enjoy spending time here. Some of the Victorian architecture is wonderful and I’ve taken a lot of photographs. It’s also less popular with the tourists than Robin Hood’s Bay or Whitby, so quieter. And there are some very good eateries, including this hotel, and some artisan and boutique type shops.”
Orlando thought back to some of the pictures that had been included in Viggo’s last exhibition, there had been a lot of coastal themed scenes and he wondered now if some of the one’s he hadn’t recognised from his expeditions with Viggo to Whitby and Scarborough had come from Saltburn.
“Is this the only hotel in town then?”
“No. But I like the serendipitous excitement of this place, how you encounter something visually interesting around every corner and how the layout is almost like an Escher drawing.”
Orlando smiled fondly at Viggo; of course this was exactly the kind of place that would appeal to his artistic lover. He guessed that he had spent time wandering the corridors; just for the fun of it. “You are a very strange man,” he said, and moving closer he pressed his lips against Viggo’s in a chaste kiss.
Viggo flinched. “Fuck! Your lips are freezing!”
“All of me is fucking freezing,” Orlando said. “If I do die of hypothermia all the money goes to my sister but you can have my motorbike collection.”
Viggo laughed but hurried over to the bath and turned on the taps. “Get undressed and get in.”
The bath was filling quickly so Orlando obeyed but when he stepped into the water it was only tepid. “I was really hoping for a hot bath.” He frowned at Viggo.
Viggo shook his head. “You need to warm up slowly. Now sit down in the tub and I’ll gradually raise the temperature until Sir is happy with it.” Orlando eased himself down into the warm water;, it felt wonderful on his chilled flesh. Viggo knelt down beside the bath and dangled his hand in the water, monitoring the temperature. “Are you warming up?”
“Yes, I suppose, are you getting in too?”
“If I get in there we both know what will happen and I booked us a table for dinner.”
“I’m only hungry for you,” Orlando said, grinning seductively at his lover.
Viggo laughed so hard he nearly fell over. “Smooth, Orlando, real smooth.”
“Oh come on.” Orlando wheedled. “You must be cold too.”
“I spend winters in New York; I’m used to the cold. And I probably have more body fat than you, and certainly more body hair.” Viggo ran an affectionate hand over Orlando’s almost hairless chest. “When we first met I assumed you waxed.”
“I hate you,” Orlando said mildly, sliding further down into the warm water. “Ahhhh, this is good.”
“I have a bottle of whisky in my bag,” Viggo said, “do you want some?”
“Isn’t alcohol bad for hypothermia?”
“Yes, it’s very bad, but you don’t have hypothermia, you’re just a melodramatic, southern softie who’s a bit cold.”
“You got that expression from Sean, didn’t you?” Orlando said accusingly. He was happy that Viggo and his manager got along so well, but also a bit miffed because they were a similar age and related easily to one another; and sometimes they ganged up on him.
“Possibly.” Viggo admitted. “Do you want the whisky or not?”
“I’d prefer a cup of tea.”
“Coming right up.” Viggo jumped to his feet and went to fill the kettle; he returned presently with a mug of tea.
Orlando sipped gratefully at the scalding liquid while Viggo added more hot water. “Do we have to go down to dinner?” he asked plaintively as steam began to rise from the bathwater and the feeling returned to his toes.
“We can get room service if you’d rather.”
“I would rather. I’m tired and I really don’t want to get out of this bath, and there will be other people in the restaurant, and this isn’t London where I’m not so conspicuous.” He half expected Viggo to tell him to get over himself, he could always rely on his partner to pop his ego bubble but Viggo just nodded.
“Sure, we’ll eat in the room and have an early night.” Viggo bent down and kissed him, drawing back with a smile. “Mmmm, much warmer. What would you like for dinner?”
“I don’t care,” Orlando said, leaning back in the tub and closing his eyes, “a burger or something, you choose.”
A couple of hours later, his stomach satisfyingly full of good food and his mood mellowed by wine, Orlando was snuggled in Viggo’s arms in the middle of the huge, warm, comfortable bed.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” he purred into Viggo’s chest. “How did you know the surf would be so good today?”
“Technology,” Viggo replied, stroking Orlando’s hair.
“What?”
“Saltburn is a hotspot for the surfing community so there’s a dedicated surf line and cameras. I’ve been getting the forecasts sent directly to my phone every day and I’ve been waiting for a good enough report to make it worth driving up.”
“You could have told me where we were going.”
“I wanted to surprise you. And I very much enjoyed the monumental sulking en-route.”
“Fuck you.” Orlando kicked Viggo’s shin with his toes. “You’re a tease. But I did have a really good day.”
“Me too.”
“Really?” Orlando began to snigger. “You didn’t do much surfing; you spent more time on the beach with your camera.”
“That’s because I surf badly and I take very good photos.”
“Really badly,” Orlando snorted. “And you lied about how warm the water was.”
“Seriously, Orlando, you’ve spent far too long on the west coast, you are a total wuss, I’ve swum in much colder waters.”
“Have you? Where? I’m assuming you don’t mean the Hudson River?”
“When I tell you that I’ve been on trips to both the Arctic and Antarctic circles are you going to do the whole freaking out thing again?”
Orlando bit back his immediate annoyed retort and instead mumbled, “No.” But then couldn’t help the follow up. “It’s just…”
Viggo sighed impatiently. “Just what?”
“There are things I want to do, places I want to go, you know… with someone, and you’ve already done them all.”
“I can do them again,” Viggo said.
“But it won’t be the same,” Orlando said quietly.
“No, it won’t,” Viggo agreed. He insinuated his fingers under Orlando’s chin and gently raised his head so that they made eye contact. “It will be better, because I’ll be doing them with you.”
Orlando’s lip wobbled dangerously. “I love you, you sweet talking bastard,” he said softly. “But never, ever again drag me out of bed before noon on a Sunday.
The End
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Date: 2022-01-10 10:05 pm (UTC)