Four and a Half

[shaan-lien.livejournal.com]

Title: 4 1/2
Category: OB/VM RPS
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Summary: I'm no good at these . . . just take a gamble please. A short fic, a conversation over breakfast turns into far more than Viggo expected.
Notes: I don't have a beta. I wrote it at 1 o'clock in the morning after reading Amanda's "Growing Up"
Feedback: Please. Pretty please.

Previous Chapters:
Waiting for Inspiration
Settling




It was strange waking up in this house to another's voice. Henry never woke this early and no one else had stayed over for a long time, years perhaps. With my sleep-addled brain, it took me a moment to figure out who's muffled voice I was hearing--Orlando's. Glancing over at the clock I noticed it was 6:30. Not early for me, but I was surprised that Orli would know of such a time. He must have been speaking on the phone to someone, undoubtedly not local since everyone else would undoubtedly be asleep also. I made no rush to head downstairs, going through a semi-traditional morning routine, though pulling on a pair of jeans far sooner than I would have in Orlando's absence.

Before I reached the base of the stairs, I spotted Orlando in the kitchen, sitting at the counter, an elbow braced with the phone to his ear. "Glad you got back safely, mate, I really enjoyed having you. It was good to seen you again," he was saying to whoever was on the other line, perhaps Billy or Eric, he had mentioned those two last night. He had mentioned Eric once or twice after filming Black Hawk Down, the two becoming something of friends during the training and the course of the shoot. Then their friendship flourished even further during Troy and the promotions the two did for the movie, or as much as them he could manage while Orlando was filming Kingdom of Heaven. Something the other man said made him laugh, Orlando glancing back at me as I entered the kitchen, eyes sparkling unlike what I saw in them last night.

"Yeah, right," he mumbled, a grin still on lips as his eyes followed me into the kitchen. He rose to greet me, hugging me as much as possible while still on the phone, resting his head on my shoulder and I could hear Eric's pronounced Aussie accent, though I couldn't make out the words. "Say hello to the kids for me and Becca." A pause as he squeezed my arm gently but firmly and then returned to the stool. "Love you too, mate. I'll talk to you later."

After another moment, he switched off the phone and tossed it uncerimoniously onto the counter. "Sorry to wake you, jet lag, you know."

"Don't we all," I mused, pulling out two glasses and setting them both on the counter between us.

"Cheers."

"You hungry?" I asked as I poured us both a glass of orange juice--without the "juicy bits" as Orlando called them, Americans, we call it "pulp". Juicy bits . . . it made me smile as I put away the carton, hearing it in Orlando's soft accent instead of the percieved indelicaies of the typical mid-western accent.

"No, not really," he replied, shifting forward so he could tuck his leg under him. His long strong fingers wrapped around the glass, just cradling it, not taking a drink just yet.

I paused at that notation, knowing that he hadn't eaten much last night. It was habit, I'm a father and Orlando so many years younger, I couldn't help it. Yet, I knew Orlando was a grown man and was more than capable of taking care of himself as he demonstrated by reaching his twenty-seven years of age. If he needed to speak to me about something, whatever was bothering him, he would do so in his own time, even if I did feel unexpected impatience--a longing to help him.

I couldn't help but stare at him a little longer than perhaps I should have, taking in his now wavy hair that was still damp from the shower and the goatee, a darker tan to his features. Some of it suited him: his broad shoulders, the recognition that he had recieved, to say nothing of his natural beauty, but that was another matter, but this tiredness that was evident upon him beyond simple jetlag. I watched him shift again uncomfortably as he pushed the glass of orange juice away and rose from where he sat. That movement brought me from my musings and I raised my eyes to meet his. "Your back bothering you?"

"Always," he said with a shrug. "Be right back."

I watched him go, saddened by the slowness of his movements and the way he gripped the railing a little too tightly for a man his age when he headed up the stairs. Once he was out of sight, I released a sigh and took a long drink of my orange juice before setting to make breakfast--for two.

He returned a few minutes later with something in his fist, I cast a glance over to him as I poured the pancake batter into the skillet. I saw him frown slightly at the two places I had set at the breakfast table, but he said nothing as he downed what must have been his pain killers with half of the glass of orange juice. "I'm a father, I can't let you go on without the most important meal of the day," I apologized, though with nothing of apologies in my tone.

"Didn't have one of those," he stated with an unexpected bitterness in his voice. "Not for the past twenty-three years anyway. Think maybe I've done okay without one?" There wasn't chastizement in his question, not annoyance at my words, but an honest question. In the years I had known him, I don't recall if he had ever mentioned his father, I'm sure what I knew of Harry Bloom hadn't actually come from him. Once I had heard him mention Colin's name, but I couldn't remember the context.

"Why would you think differently?" I asked pointedly and he looked to me as if not knowing that he spoke aloud.

"Isn't that said? That they don't turn out right?"

I turned off the stove. "What is this about, Orli?"

He shook his head seemingly shaking himself from his contemplation. "Nothing, forget it."

"What is this about?" I repeated, stepping closer to him.

"I . . ." he looked at me and anything I had in mind to say to him fell away. "I think I need to go for a walk, yeah?"

I grabbed his hand before he could head for the glass door that lead out to the patio. "After breakfast, I know you shouldn't take those pills on an empty stomach."

"I don't," he began suddenly, angrily, but then stopped and ran both hands through his damp hair, curtailing his anger almost before it could plainly show itself. I watched him war with his words, so many things sprining up and I could see he wanted to say them all, but he ended up saying none of them. It was taking it's toll too, his breath quick, the young man more agitated than I had even seen him.

"Orli, just stop, all right. Stop. Tell me what's bothering you."

And he did stop, not looking at me as he stepped close, one hand on my shoulder, the other limp at his side as he stepped close and rested his head on my collarbone, breathing out controlling breaths. My arms were around him instantly, drawing him closer, one arm around his waist, the other cradling the back of his skull, my fingers tangled in his hair. He held tightly to my shoulder as he pressed his face against the crook of my neck, his eyelashes and his exhalations tickling my skin.

His other hand went to my waist eventually as the other came up to cup the back of my neck, us closer now if that was possible. "You know I will always love you. When ever you need me, you don't have to hesitate, because I'll do anything for you."

Now the hand at my side clutched the t-shirt I was wearing. He wasn't crying, just standing there, in my arms, just breathing. I let my breaths slow for a moment so I could match his, inhaling when he exhaled. He was relaxing now, but only slightly, I could feel the cadance of his heart that spoke of anything but calm. "Talk to me, Orli."

He stepped away, his head hung, not meeting my eyes. "I think I should go. I-I'm sorry I came, Vig, fucked everything up, but I really think I should go," he said moving around me and seizing his cell-phone from the counter. "I'll just call a taxi."

"Orli, what the fuck is going on?" I demanded, becoming angry now at his silence. He wasn't startled by my outbreak, but he stopped, his shoulders slumping.

Then he was moving to me quickly, his arms around me in a different way as I felt his lips on mine. My lips parted in shock and I was at once greeted by his tongue, insistent in my mouth, his frustration and passion poured into the kiss even though I responded pitifully, neither pushing him away or kissing in return. But he pulled away before I could react, his gaze not failing to meet mine. "Four and a half years . . . that's why I have to go."