Mea Culpa 15/?
Dec. 13th, 2005 11:21 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
imogen-lily.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
vigorliSorry for the delay, uni work had to come first!
Mea Culpa
by Imogen
Note: A massive hug goes to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
finelinezz as she beta'ed this chapter for me and actually made it make sense! Thanks so much! *hugs you tight*
Neither man was paying attention to the movie on the screen. It was some ridiculous Sunday B-type movie that was only fit to watch on a rainy afternoon. He’d long ago stopped paying attention to the plot, focusing instead on running his fingers through a sleeping Orlando’s hair, which Viggo had decided had become his new favourite pastime...or an old one depending on how you looked at things.
They seemed to have come to some sort of silent understanding; they didn’t talk about the past, or the future. Viggo couldn’t say he was happy with the arrangement, but it seemed to work for Orlando. The younger man seemed to be relaxing more, was less jumpy. Using a rare opportunity Viggo looked, really looked at Orlando. Most of the bruises had faded by now. Only a yellowish one around his ribs and a still vaguely purple one on his collarbone lingered, not that Orlando knew Viggo had seen them and Viggo wanted to keep it that way. Before all this had happened, before that furiously panicked phone call from Dominic, Viggo was pretty sure there was little he was uncertain or surprised about in life. Of course, fate decided to give him a kick up the arse over that way of thinking. He let Orlando keep his secrets for now. There was no reason to let Orlando know he knew otherwise. Some secrets were simply needed to function, to live; he understood that now all too well.
In truth, Viggo was slightly unsure about touching Orlando, even with the most platonic gesture. He wasn’t naïve enough to think their relationship was healed yet, and just what the relationship was, Viggo honestly couldn’t say; ex-lovers-former-and-still-not-quite-friends might be an accurate label. There was always the burning question in the back of Viggo’s mind as to when things, for better or worse, were going to change. When Orlando stopped needing him, would he cut Viggo from his life again, as he had every reason to; would he want to be friends but move on? That idea hurt Viggo more than he cared to admit. A part of him felt he would rather lose Orlando from his sight forever than see him in someone else’s arms. It was terribly selfish to think that way, considering Mark’s actions, but they still remained. However, at other times, Viggo felt he would take Orlando in whatever form he could, be that friend or lover. Lover. It was strange to think of Orlando in those terms now.
So much had passed between them that he wondered if they would ever be able to get to the stage where Orlando was comfortable with the intimacy lovers were supposed to share. He doubted it somehow. He wanted to be Orlando’s lover again, desperately so. To be able to touch and kiss Orlando at will without fear or guilt creeping in between them, he wanted to make Orlando cry in pleasure again, to feel Orlando’s body next to his, remind him that sex didn’t, shouldn’t, come with pain, but that was unlikely to happen, when the merest touches seemed to make Orlando flinch.
He missed being Orlando’s lover, he wouldn’t deny that. It wasn’t just the sex he missed, although no one had ever touched him, literally or metaphorically, like Orlando, but it was the intimacy they’d shared when they were lovers, the way Orlando had always leaned into and craved his touch. He’d never pushed Viggo away, never sought to hide them or his love, he didn’t know how. To Orlando, love was a gift to be shown and cherished, not hidden away because it did not conform with other people’s ‘standards’.
He did miss touching Orlando, but he missed Orlando as a person so much more. At times Viggo felt he could withstand not being able to touch Orlando, of bringing each other pleasure as long as he could be with him; to see him each day, to share his life his hopes and dreams - that was more important than any physical gratification could bring. He could cope with no touching, it would be hell, but he could cope.
Taking advantage of Orlando’s sleeping, Viggo continued his silent inspection, making mental notes.
He was still far too thin. Viggo didn’t want to play nursemaid to Orlando, knowing the younger man wouldn’t appreciate it, and while he had gained a little weight, that wasn’t much comfort to Viggo considering that on his arrival at Viggo’s house he’d have made a skeleton look obese. His wrists looked too frail still. Looking closer Viggo could make out a silvery scar risen up across each wrist. Those would never fade, not completely. They would stand as a silent testimony to Orlando’s darkest hour. The t-shirt Orlando wore, a grey, faded, lose thing with a cartoon cat printed on it, that seemed to resemble a moth-ball more than anything in Viggo’s humble opinion, was at least a step up from those monstrous black-hole clothes he’d taken to wearing, which Viggo would quite happily burn as soon as he got the chance. Although black was still very much a predominant colour in his wardrobe, it was a start.
He noticed Orlando was beginning to take care of his appearance again; his hair, had been tamed, bringing a slight lustre back to the curls. His appearance was beginning to look slightly less like the ‘wild man of Borneo’ which relieved Viggo immensely, not so much that Orlando’s appearance was improving, but that he was slowly beginning to care enough to take better care of it.
If Orlando had been genuinely happy looking like a tramp it wouldn’t have bothered Viggo in the least. Orlando could have been bald with fangs, bat-like ears and covered in bruises and he would still be the most beautiful person in the world to Viggo. But to have seen Orlando like that, looking like a zombie, had unnerved Viggo and sent out a blaring signal that things were very wrong.
However, it seemed Viggo’s harsh words about his appearance a couple of weeks ago had finally begun to sink in. Not that he wanted his ex-lover to feel his only value, his only contribution was to be a pretty ornament, Viggo wanted Orlando to feel good about himself, and he couldn’t do that swathed in black, shoulders hunched, pale appearance, hair hanging in lank clumps and his every movement oozing apology for his very existence. Viggo wouldn’t accept that, neither should Orlando. Mark had beaten him into believing he was a worthless whore whom no one could love, when nothing could be further from the truth. Although the truly sickening thing was, that Mark did have a basis for such ludicrous statements.
All Orlando’s major relationships had been disasters. Shannon had cheated on him, Viggo left, and Mark had destroyed him emotionally and physically. The only innocent party was Kate, but even the painless break up with her had further shattered Orlando’s ice-thin confidence. No wonder he’d clung to Mark so tightly. Even now it would be so easy for Mark to worm his way back into Orlando’s life…Viggo suddenly put a mental block on the direction his thoughts were going, rather concentrating on his visual assessment of Orli.
Another small scar rested above Orlando’s eyebrow, a ‘blink and you miss it’ mark and the once swollen lips had regained their normal shape, the cut above had healed nicely, and the pallor of his skin wasn’t such a death-like white.
Orlando’s outside shell was beautiful again. It didn’t matter to Viggo though; he wanted Orlando to regain his inner beauty, to see confidence shine through him again. That laugh, the insane sense of humour, his constant movement, his tenacity, the way he talked with his hands and eyes, that over-flowing energy, an all encompassing love of life and those who touched him. Viggo wanted that back. That was what made Orlando beautiful, not finely defined cheekbones, soulful eyes, full lips, a muscled torso, that tattoo… It was a beautiful exterior, no one would deny that but it was one which Viggo felt was justified because, on this rare occasion, it actually matched an equally, if not more beautiful, interior.
Viggo fought the urge to kiss the too-thin wrists, to cover each scar, each bruise, faded or not – because he would never forget where a single one was. Each mark, bruise and cut was imprinted forever in his mind. But however much it pained him Orlando was not his to kiss, not anymore. Viggo wondered if Orlando would be able to be anyone’s ever again. Certainly he didn’t encourage any physical contact from Viggo which left him in a sort of limbo. He was fairly certain that Orlando still felt something for him. No one truly forgot their first love.
Looking up at the screen, Viggo saw the last of the credits flicker with an almost fanfare music signalling the end of the movie Orlando had barely stirred. He was hesitant to wake Orlando, even so the younger man could go up to bed. Viggo often privately wondered how much sleep Orlando had been getting. He tried not to pry too much into Orlando’s mental state, knowing it would not be warmly greeted, but he kept a quite eye on the number of sleeping pills, although the bottle was still almost full. Viggo wasn’t sure whether that was a good or bad thing. He hated keeping tabs on Orlando. It felt as if he was betraying his trust. But to Viggo the idea of loosing Orlando again due to an oversight on his part was simply not acceptable. He slowly eased himself off the coach, disturbing Orlando as little as possible as he crept out of the room, only to silently pad back with a blanket that he draped over Orlando’s slumbering figure. The action went unnoticed, as did the kiss Viggo dared to brush against his brow. Only when Viggo flicked off the lights did Orlando’s brow furrow slightly.
Pausing at the top of the landing, Viggo slowly went into Orlando’s room. A part of him felt guilty for invading this private space. He so badly wanted to feel close to Orlando it was like a physical ache within him. Was it too much to ask that Orlando let him in once in a while? He felt he didn’t know Orlando anymore; his thoughts, worries and emotions were all locked away behind those mesmerising eyes. He wanted Orlando to feel safe with him, not just from Mark but with himself, he wanted to tell Orlando that his secrets were safe, that whatever Orlando told him, he wouldn’t be judged, that he’d always be there for Orlando, that they could get through this, but Orlando had to trust him.
Trust. That was the whole problem wasn’t it? No one trusted the other. Dominic and Elijah didn’t trust each other’s judgement (yes he had noticed their estrangement), Orlando didn’t trust himself or anyone else…it was a vicious cycle, not including that it was Mark’s distrust of Orlando’s faithfulness that had started everything. Trust, once broken, was never an easy thing to repair. He knew that from bitter experience when your very beliefs about a person were shattered. He could still remember the look in Orlando’s eyes when he’d left, the look of betrayal still haunted him, how all at once all Orlando’s illusions about his perfect boyfriend, of love being eternal, had been shattered.
He picked up the vase he’d retrieved from Orlando and Mark’s house, the same one that had fallen victim to one of Mark’s rages but sealed and covered over. So much like Orlando, beautiful yet cracked, seemingly mended but never quite whole. He hadn’t rung the police yet. He was torn by his desire to protect Orlando and respecting his wishes. He knew he could count on the support of Dom and Lij if he went through with it. He’d tried a couple of times, even got as far as dialling the number, but had always hung up. He knew this wasn’t something Orlando would ‘forgive in time’ if he did at all. It was a catch-22 situation and something Viggo was heartily sick of. He was sick of having to second guess his actions all the time. Gazing at the beautiful vase for a moment, Viggo felt a rage welling up within him, a desperate need to break something, anything to release the anger and pain he bottled up.
Unable to stand the sight of the vase, he threw it against the wall, feeling nothing but satisfaction as it broke into pieces. The satisfaction didn’t last however as he gazed at the ruined pieces of Orlando’s work. It could’ve been Orlando’ heart for all the work that had gone into it. Bending down he looked at the pieces of the vase. It would be unlikely that it would be able to be repaired, there were too many little shards lying on the carpet. Gazing at the ruined object, Viggo felt his anger ebb away. Why did he break it? He always thought himself above such senseless violence. Cracked, broken beyond repair. What a fucking perfect metaphor for his life. Even his Orli.
He picked up a broken piece, and couldn’t stop a dry chuckle coming out. Wincing as he felt the jagged edge press into his flesh, Viggo was nearly hypnotised as the blood rose to the surface. The physical pain was almost a relief. Was that what Orlando thought when he slit his wrists? The thought jarred Viggo back to reality. There was no pleasure in inflicting pain, to himself or to others. Life was pain and he simply had to deal with it in a constructive way, not destroy random objects. He’d lay bets that’s how Mark started out. Where was the harm in destroying objects? They were lifeless, inanimate things. Problem was, over the course of time Orlando had become an object to Mark, so it hadn’t mattered if he’d damaged Orlando. The cracks could be repaired, sealed over and no one would be any the wiser. Even broken objects could still be used, couldn’t they?
Slowly he picked up the shattered vase, a feeling of shame creeping over him. He was going to have to show Orlando. He couldn’t take keeping any more secrets from him.
He carefully placed the pieces into a box, determined to at least attempt to mend it tomorrow. Right now his hands were shaking too much, from what Viggo honestly couldn’t pinpoint and he suddenly felt cold. Trying not to look at the shattered pieces, he placed them on a shelf and decided to make some hot chocolate, needing something to take his mind off recent events as he crept downstairs, still mindful of the sleeping Orlando.
Deciding not to turn the lights on he was suddenly stopped by a noise, an almost whimper. At first Viggo was sure he’d imagined it, his mind too weary to pursue it, but when it came again, it was directed from the front room, where Orlando was sleeping. He briefly wondered if he’d waken Orlando, and was debating over apologising when a sob was ripped from Orlando’s throat. It was such a painful sound Viggo flinched even as he moved towards Orlando.
Viggo stopped when he reached Orlando, thought the younger man was asleep. Tears were running down his cheeks, his lips trembled as he tried to curl in on himself. The blanket was mostly kicked off, now only partially covering one leg. Another sob escaped Orlando’s lips.
Viggo felt himself frozen in place. He didn’t have a clue how to handle this. With Henry it was the aftermath of a bad dream Viggo had to deal with. With Henry’s nightmares it was easy to console a crying child that monsters didn’t live under the bed, aliens weren’t going to attack or that his parents would always love him. Henry had always believed Viggo, an absolute trust placed in his father and relaxed, the promises of his father soothing him. Even when they were together the nightmares had attacked Orlando and had been easily dealt with. Reassurances over his back or their relationship could be given while pulling Orlando close to him. It was amazing what a kiss could make the body forget.
But now Orlando’s nightmares were different because they were true. In Orlando’s world, living and sleeping, there were monsters, one’s which Viggo simply couldn’t protect him from. He couldn’t brush them away because in the safety of daylight, they didn’t disappear and always haunted Orlando. He felt so utterly helpless as he stood there, fearing waking Orlando and causing more panic to the already stricken young man. The choice was made for Viggo when Orlando’s body jerked to wakefulness, tears streaming down his face, breathing laboured as his mind tried desperately to adjust to his new surroundings and the fact that he was awake and safe.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, soothing him, words of comfort being whispered into his ear. Orlando craved the warmth of the other body and moved closer, his breathing getting under control. At least he wasn’t shaking as badly this time. He didn’t question what Viggo was doing here, all that mattered was he was here right now, offering the comfort and protection he needed. Even after the sobs ceased, Viggo kept stroking him, touching him. Without thinking, he pulled Viggo closer on the sofa and he curled up next to the older man, head buried on the strong chest, revelling in the warmth and strength he found there. If Viggo was surprised by the closeness he didn’t show it, only continued the stroking, which had become longer and more measured.
The only time Viggo had been this close to him recently was when he’d been wracked with sobs. He didn’t want this to be the only reason the older man touched him, but he was afraid he would loose Viggo, that he was already loosing him. A part of him knew this couldn’t last. Viggo had a life apart from him, had for a long time. Henry, friends, painting, acting…Viggo had a whole life he had put on hold for Orlando and he was terrified of Viggo going back to his life leaving him behind. He didn’t encourage Viggo’s touch, not only because the memory of Mark’s touches burned him, but because whenever Viggo tried to reach him, he couldn’t handle loosing Viggo again, just when the possibility of getting him back was within his grasp.
Viggo forced down a yawn, wondering how long they’d sat here. Orlando’s terror had long since subsided, but he made no move to detach himself from Viggo’s embrace, a fact that comforted Viggo himself.
“How…long have these nightmares been going on?” Viggo asked at last, half wishing he would get no answer. Orlando shook his head “It’s been the first in months.” Viggo was amazed; Orlando had become a better liar than he thought. If he didn’t know Orlando inside out, he would swear Orlando was telling the truth. It unsettled him somewhat how easily the lie had fallen off Orlando’s tongue, but then what could he expect? Years of fear didn’t exactly encourage truth and forthrightness, especially when the correct answer wasn’t the right answer, and when even the right answer could lead to a broken rib or black eye. It wasn’t that Orlando was being duplicitous, being an actor meant a certain amount to truth bending, a suspension of disbelief, Orlando was good at that, but barefaced lying was another matter altogether. His innate honesty would never allowed it, Viggo used to tease him about it and now he found it crushing that slowly Orlando was mastering the great lies. These necessary lies became part of his survival, a means which allowed Orlando to function, even on the most basic level. Lies, which Viggo had used to convince himself. When had the lies that had sustained them start becoming truths?
Viggo considered letting it slide, but against his better judgement. He tried again, “how long?” Orlando hadn’t even seem surprised that Viggo didn’t accept his earlier answer. His eyes held no rancour to Viggo for having been ‘discovered’
There was a pause while Orlando considered the question. “I don’t know. Sometimes they go for a while and I think things will be OK, that I can cope, then they come back and won’t stop, they just carry on for weeks, months. I loose track. They haven’t been as bad recently though. This one…it’s been the worst one since…since…before” he trailed off.
He’d never really talked about his nightmares before. He’d had them since before he could remember, long back from childhood, fears that only children could possess had given way to much more vivid fears. These dreams were different to the ones before; pain was an over-riding theme in them all, but fear was there.
These dreams were detailed memories, not the fogless worries of yesteryear. These were real, tangible leaving his heart pounding, limbs shaking, body wracked with mindless sobs. How could one man cripple him with such fear? The horrible irony was Mark had held him through nightmares similar to this, he’d stoked his hair, held him close until the shaking stopped. He was never sure if Mark realised that very often he was the cause of the violent tremors that wracked his lover’s body. Yet every nightmare had been Mark’s doing. Long forgotten memories of painful falls, of rejections and callous words haunted him. Mark understood those fears and at those times he played the dutiful lover to perfection.
Only those times when the nightmares began did they switch roles as Mark cradled Orlando for hours at a time, rubbing his back, his touches gentle and loving. At those times he never pushed Orlando for information, never sought his own pleasure or chastised him while protecting him from all the ills of the world. He asked nothing of Orlando but was simply there to hold him. At those times, he’d had Mark back. He’d loved him. Then the nightmares would go, and things slowly changed. It was an ever vicious cycle. Would things be the same with Viggo? But would he loose Viggo when the nightmares left? A part of him knew that for better or ill Viggo was firmly lodged back in his life. He’d promised after all to stay as long as Orlando wanted him to. Yet how long did he need Viggo or, more importantly, how long did he want him? Eternity seemed a nice, if unrealistic answer. He’d settle for a lifetime, he silently mused.
Viggo didn’t press what the nightmares were about for there was no real need. It wasn’t hard to guess what they’d involved and somehow the knowledge that Orlando was no stranger to nightmares didn’t surprise him either. It was always the good ones who suffered, those that loved the most, felt the most, helped the most – Orlando qualified for all of the above and he paid the price for that. At times Viggo found it easy to hate the world, the same world that would condemn their love and condemn Orlando for not fighting back, for not protecting himself. Society turned a deaf and embarrassed ear to the plight of the abused man. The tabloids would almost wet themselves over such a juicy story. He didn’t want Orlando’s life to be public property, to have every aspect of their uncertain and shaky relationship delved into or to read the sordid secrets behind Mark and Orlando’s relationship. He didn’t want a part of any of it, yet he knew it would happen.
“Do you want to go back upstairs?” Viggo asked at last. It felt wrong to offer an opinion, even sympathy for these nightmares. Orlando had never appreciated pity, if he wanted help he asked, or you gave it to him under protest but you didn’t pity him. There was a growing kink in his neck, Viggo wasn’t sure how long they’d been on the sofa now and he suddenly noticed how dark the room was. He could barely make out the clock hands but it read 2.30 am. Glancing at the clock too, Orlando gave a cautionary nod.
There probably wouldn’t be more nightmares tonight. It was as if his subconscious realised he couldn’t take another dose tonight. The next night would be another matter. He’d make sure to close the door tomorrow and Viggo’s as well. And possibly shove a sock in his own mouth for good measure. Viggo couldn’t do this for him every night. The exhaustion on the older man’s face was beginning to show, Orlando already had enough to feel guilty about, he didn’t want to add to it, not when he could avoid it. Perhaps sleeping pills would help.
Unconsciously lacing his fingers with Orlando’s, Viggo lead him upstairs, guiding him into Orlando’s room before hovering indecisively for a moment. “You’ll be OK. Leave the door open if you want or the light on –not that I think you need it, but sometimes that helped Henry feel safer,” Viggo babbled, inwardly cringing but unable to stop himself. Since when did he act like a teenager on a date? There was nothing remotely romantic or sensual unless you happened to like Orlando with dried tear streaks and a pained gleam in his eyes. It was not a look Viggo sought to encourage. So why was he suddenly so nervous? Perhaps it was because he was in Orlando’s room at night for the first time, or because of the still charged emotions rushing around him. All he knew was that he desperately wanted to kiss Orlando, to take him to bed pulling Orlando close and safeguard his sleep.
Making his way to the door, he stopped at Orlando calling his name. Turning around Viggo bit his lips to keep himself from blurting out yet more embarrassing and possibly detrimental statements.
“I…Viggo…stay with me tonight, please?” Orlando blurted, wrapping his arms around himself. He suddenly looked so vulnerable, so unsure of himself that Viggo wanted to cry for him. “Not doing anything I mean, I just…I don’t want to be alone for the rest of tonight,” he whispered.
Not waiting for Orlando to change his mind, Viggo gently shepherded Orlando to the bed and rather tentatively him close. To his relief, Orlando immediately relaxed into the embrace. “Dom and Elijah used to do this for me,” he murmured, looking up at the ceiling. It seemed sleep wasn’t going to be easy for either to find. “They’d just hold me all night when Mark left. It just felt better when I had someone beside me, someone who hadn’t hit me an hour before. We never did anything despite what Mark thought. He couldn’t understand that I didn’t want to sleep with them that sharing a bed didn’t mean I was shagging them blind or something. They never said anything They just held me...it was so strange, we all knew what was happening but we never talked and I could just forget for a bit. It was nice.”
“And now?” the words were meant to stay inside his head, but somehow tumbled out into the open. Damn.
“Now…right now I feel safe again. It’s a nice feeling” he murmured as he turned his gaze to Viggo. He couldn’t work out who was more surprised by that statement that old Orli Honesty™ was back. Not able to think of a competent reply, Viggo pulled Orlando still closer to him before kissing his temple, a deliberately conscious move on Viggo’s part, one which he wouldn’t allow himself to feel guilty for. He loved Orlando and he wanted to show that love and browbeating himself over every touch, accidental or not wasn’t going to help. He wasn’t going to give Orli the option of letting Mark come back into his life. Orlando had to believe he was worth so much more, that there was a better way of being loved. Orlando knew what he felt comfortable with and he trusted Orlando’s judgement.
Orlando looked at Viggo a moment. The older man had always shied away from openly touching him, not without reason it had to be argued but that didn’t mean Orlando wanted this situation to continue. The desire to be loved was one everyone could relate to, but one that few had to suffer from. He was loved, by his family by Dominic and Elijah, by estranged friends, even Mark in a twisted way. Viggo loved him, but just what that love meant, what it entailed was another matter. With Mark he learned that love wasn’t always enough. Just because love was there didn’t mean the relationship would survive. He needed more than love with Viggo if they had a hope of being together.
At least he could admit that was what he wanted. Mark was right about that- it had always been Viggo. That had never changed. It hadn’t meant that he would’ve thrown away what he and Mark had. He would have treasured their love, it just would have been a different sort, he was a different person to the carefree man who’d loved Viggo. This was the sort of thing that was supposed to happen on TV. No one’s love life, functioning or not, was supposed to be this fucked up. A miserable part of Orlando just wanted to give up; not in that sense, but to just throw his arms up and join a monastery, probably a Buddhist one. They didn’t have to worry about relationship issues.
He didn’t want to deal with this anymore, no matter what choices were made, everyone was going to loose something. No one escaped from abuse unscathed and that wasn’t just the abused. He didn’t want to think about this anymore. He just wanted to forget about Mark and the past and didn’t want to face the possibility of what was to come. It was all he could do to focus on the present, to get through each day. He didn’t want to think about the regrets to come or of what could go wrong he did that enough with the past. He had enough ghosts and regrets to keep him company for ten lifetimes.
Viggo was looking at him. It sounded strange, but Orlando had almost forgotten what he looked like. Yes, he looked at Viggo each day, but looking and seeing were very different. Most days seemed pre-programmed and there was little to do but shuffle through them. There was a strange softness about the man that Orlando had never seen before, or perhaps never noticed. He had always been fascinated by Viggo’s face. So many experiences lived there; the lines of his face only enhanced it in Orlando’s mind. It was a beautiful face, maybe not adhering to most people’s notion of beauty, perhaps. Oh, people thought Viggo was handsome ‘in a rugged way’ and even sexy (yes he’d seen the polls, read the drooling comments), but to him Viggo had always been beautiful. Of course, people would argue that Orlando was biased on that score, which he couldn’t deny. It wasn’t anything to do with the physical (although he’d be the first to admit it was a very enticing package). It was the entire package. The way Viggo had whispered endearments in Spanish and Danish, knowing he couldn’t understand them but loved the sounds. How he was so passionately vocal about his beliefs even if they were not popular at the time. His all consuming love for his son. The wonderful, ridiculous things Viggo did because he could get away with it (artists were forgiven just about anything).
He couldn’t say how long they’d sat in silence, looking at each other. Desperation and fear was pumping through his body. He just wanted to stop thinking, not to have to worry about tomorrow.
The kiss took Orlando as much by surprise as Viggo. He hadn’t realised he was so close. It hadn’t been planned, but Viggo didn’t pull away. It was a shock to feel Viggo’s lips against his that Orlando almost gasped. Six years had past since their last kiss. His lips felt rougher, he was sure his own were trembling, but he refused to break contact. The kiss seemed to linger. He didn’t want to end it, scared it was only a dream. It wasn’t the desperate, passionate kisses Hallmark portrayed between estranged lovers. This was quiet and there were no pawing hands, ravaging of lips. That relieved Orlando in truth and Viggo’s arm wound round Orlando’s shoulder, very slowly, barely touching. Then the kiss ended. They pulled back and it was over. Orlando’s eyes met Viggo’s, not quite sure what to say. He’d kissed Viggo, who’d kissed back. It had felt good. It felt right. Viggo’s slight smile reassured Orlando that the kiss hadn’t been misplaced, that it was wanted. He didn’t protest when Viggo pulled him back to his chest.
Perhaps it was disappointing for an almost first kiss, but time would help. This was only a beginning.
****
Orlando almost congratulated himself when he didn’t jump when the phone rang. It was hard to control such a ‘knee jerk’ reaction. The phone had a been a source of so much contention between him and Mark. Orlando had always lived by his phone. Meeting was difficult, conflicting schedules and air travel didn’t leave a lot of free time and a computer never had the same impact as hearing someone’s voice. He needed something physical not simply a screen with words. His calls had been monitored, text messages had been deleted. Orlando had begun to dread the end of each month when the bill would arrive Mark would invariably confront him, demanding to know why unknown numbers showed up, why he’d talked to Beanie or Eric for up to half an hour, sometimes longer.
He remembered in a fit of fury, Mark had broke his phone, hurled it against the wall screaming at him that Orlando didn’t give a fuck about him, about them. The phone had been broken beyond repair, all the numbers, memories, from that phone shattered, gone. Orlando would have yelled at Mark for that. That phone had his life in it, unfortunately he’d been prevented for expressing his displeasure as Mark had backhanded him. God that had hurt, almost as much as when the force of the blow caused his head to collide with the door. That had left him with a black eye and a gash in the forehead that required five stitches, all explained to co-stars and his agent by a runaway horse and his own bad timing, even though they all knew Orlando’s skill with horses was impressive. None passed comments on his injuries bar a few concerned looks and suggestions to talk if the need arose. After a couple of weeks the injuries were healed and a bad memory, at least until the next day.
Up until recently Viggo had fielded all the calls. If he could, Orlando thought he would happily hide from the world, if only until things in his head were more clear. Unfortunately at this current rate that could take years. He had to take this call by himself Viggo was out, against his own will, but Orlando had insisted he buy those paints they saw at the market. He’d never had a chance to buy them last time, thanks to Mark.
“Orlando speaking-”
“Orlando…don’t put down the phone, please.” There was a pleading in the voice that made Orlando stop as he was about to slam the phone down. Why did he have to ring now, after what had happened at the market, after what had happened last night? Things were beginning to happen with Viggo now, the distant possibility of a new start lingered on the horizon. He couldn’t let Mark jeopardise that, no matter what his intentions, which to Orlando’s mind, were far too transparent.
“You can’t ring here Mark, it’s not safe.”
Safe? Safe for who, Mark? Did he want to protect Mark from Viggo’s wrath, or from his own? Why would he even want to protect the man who had hurt him so much, had possibly damaged him for any hope of a new relationship? Why should he care? What was a little more violence after everything that had happened?
There was a slight chuckle on the other end, so different from the mocking, harsh sound he’d grown accustomed to. This was gentle, a genuine humour behind it. This wasn’t the Mark he’d grown to fear, to hate. “Same old Orlando. You can’t help caring, can you? It’s one of the things I love about you. No matter how much someone hurts you, you can’t hate them”
“Stop it.” The voice was little more than a whisper.
Why did his resolve seem to collapse around Mark? If he could kiss Viggo, he should be able to stand up to Mark. All he needed to do was tell him to sod off and hang up the phone, yet he didn’t. For some unfathomable reason he chose to listen.
“It’s true though. I don’t think anyone loves as deeply as you do.”
“Did you want something?” He was trying so, so hard not to break. When listening to Mark he could almost forget the warmth of Viggo’s embrace, the safety it provided, those amazing eyes. His voice was like warm honey, flooding his senses. This was the voice that seduced him back, made him believe that they stood a chance, that Mark was able to change. It was the same voice that made Orlando think Mark was able to do anything. That they could achieve anything.
“I did ring for a purpose, I’m not here to torture you Orlando, despite what you probably think. I want to make amends.”
It would have made Orlando laugh in that insane, disturbing way if the voice hadn’t been so serious. Of all the things Mark could have said, that was the least likely. Mark always needed forgiveness for his actions, that Orlando had been able to give up to a point, but never had he wanted to make amends. Was that even possible after everything that had happened between them?
“I meant what I said earlier Orlando. I want to try again, but I want your forgiveness even more. I can’t let this go until I know you’ll forgive me. If you want me out of your life then I’ll leave, no argument. I don’t want Mortensen to win you back, but he never hit you so he has one over me on that score. I just want you to be happy Orlando, you deserve it. I want you to be happy with me but that probably isn’t going to happen, so I’d settle for your forgiveness. Do you think you could?”
Forgiveness. That was a tall order. A part of him still loved Mark, but would that love be enough to forgive all the wrongs done? Would it even be the end of them? Orlando wasn’t sure if he was ready for that. Forgiveness meant closure, which meant Mark would be gone. That was what he wanted. Mark gone and to start over.
So why did he suddenly feel so empty?
TBC in chapter 16
Mea Culpa
by Imogen
Note: A massive hug goes to
finelinezz as she beta'ed this chapter for me and actually made it make sense! Thanks so much! *hugs you tight*Neither man was paying attention to the movie on the screen. It was some ridiculous Sunday B-type movie that was only fit to watch on a rainy afternoon. He’d long ago stopped paying attention to the plot, focusing instead on running his fingers through a sleeping Orlando’s hair, which Viggo had decided had become his new favourite pastime...or an old one depending on how you looked at things.
They seemed to have come to some sort of silent understanding; they didn’t talk about the past, or the future. Viggo couldn’t say he was happy with the arrangement, but it seemed to work for Orlando. The younger man seemed to be relaxing more, was less jumpy. Using a rare opportunity Viggo looked, really looked at Orlando. Most of the bruises had faded by now. Only a yellowish one around his ribs and a still vaguely purple one on his collarbone lingered, not that Orlando knew Viggo had seen them and Viggo wanted to keep it that way. Before all this had happened, before that furiously panicked phone call from Dominic, Viggo was pretty sure there was little he was uncertain or surprised about in life. Of course, fate decided to give him a kick up the arse over that way of thinking. He let Orlando keep his secrets for now. There was no reason to let Orlando know he knew otherwise. Some secrets were simply needed to function, to live; he understood that now all too well.
In truth, Viggo was slightly unsure about touching Orlando, even with the most platonic gesture. He wasn’t naïve enough to think their relationship was healed yet, and just what the relationship was, Viggo honestly couldn’t say; ex-lovers-former-and-still-not-quite-friends might be an accurate label. There was always the burning question in the back of Viggo’s mind as to when things, for better or worse, were going to change. When Orlando stopped needing him, would he cut Viggo from his life again, as he had every reason to; would he want to be friends but move on? That idea hurt Viggo more than he cared to admit. A part of him felt he would rather lose Orlando from his sight forever than see him in someone else’s arms. It was terribly selfish to think that way, considering Mark’s actions, but they still remained. However, at other times, Viggo felt he would take Orlando in whatever form he could, be that friend or lover. Lover. It was strange to think of Orlando in those terms now.
So much had passed between them that he wondered if they would ever be able to get to the stage where Orlando was comfortable with the intimacy lovers were supposed to share. He doubted it somehow. He wanted to be Orlando’s lover again, desperately so. To be able to touch and kiss Orlando at will without fear or guilt creeping in between them, he wanted to make Orlando cry in pleasure again, to feel Orlando’s body next to his, remind him that sex didn’t, shouldn’t, come with pain, but that was unlikely to happen, when the merest touches seemed to make Orlando flinch.
He missed being Orlando’s lover, he wouldn’t deny that. It wasn’t just the sex he missed, although no one had ever touched him, literally or metaphorically, like Orlando, but it was the intimacy they’d shared when they were lovers, the way Orlando had always leaned into and craved his touch. He’d never pushed Viggo away, never sought to hide them or his love, he didn’t know how. To Orlando, love was a gift to be shown and cherished, not hidden away because it did not conform with other people’s ‘standards’.
He did miss touching Orlando, but he missed Orlando as a person so much more. At times Viggo felt he could withstand not being able to touch Orlando, of bringing each other pleasure as long as he could be with him; to see him each day, to share his life his hopes and dreams - that was more important than any physical gratification could bring. He could cope with no touching, it would be hell, but he could cope.
Taking advantage of Orlando’s sleeping, Viggo continued his silent inspection, making mental notes.
He was still far too thin. Viggo didn’t want to play nursemaid to Orlando, knowing the younger man wouldn’t appreciate it, and while he had gained a little weight, that wasn’t much comfort to Viggo considering that on his arrival at Viggo’s house he’d have made a skeleton look obese. His wrists looked too frail still. Looking closer Viggo could make out a silvery scar risen up across each wrist. Those would never fade, not completely. They would stand as a silent testimony to Orlando’s darkest hour. The t-shirt Orlando wore, a grey, faded, lose thing with a cartoon cat printed on it, that seemed to resemble a moth-ball more than anything in Viggo’s humble opinion, was at least a step up from those monstrous black-hole clothes he’d taken to wearing, which Viggo would quite happily burn as soon as he got the chance. Although black was still very much a predominant colour in his wardrobe, it was a start.
He noticed Orlando was beginning to take care of his appearance again; his hair, had been tamed, bringing a slight lustre back to the curls. His appearance was beginning to look slightly less like the ‘wild man of Borneo’ which relieved Viggo immensely, not so much that Orlando’s appearance was improving, but that he was slowly beginning to care enough to take better care of it.
If Orlando had been genuinely happy looking like a tramp it wouldn’t have bothered Viggo in the least. Orlando could have been bald with fangs, bat-like ears and covered in bruises and he would still be the most beautiful person in the world to Viggo. But to have seen Orlando like that, looking like a zombie, had unnerved Viggo and sent out a blaring signal that things were very wrong.
However, it seemed Viggo’s harsh words about his appearance a couple of weeks ago had finally begun to sink in. Not that he wanted his ex-lover to feel his only value, his only contribution was to be a pretty ornament, Viggo wanted Orlando to feel good about himself, and he couldn’t do that swathed in black, shoulders hunched, pale appearance, hair hanging in lank clumps and his every movement oozing apology for his very existence. Viggo wouldn’t accept that, neither should Orlando. Mark had beaten him into believing he was a worthless whore whom no one could love, when nothing could be further from the truth. Although the truly sickening thing was, that Mark did have a basis for such ludicrous statements.
All Orlando’s major relationships had been disasters. Shannon had cheated on him, Viggo left, and Mark had destroyed him emotionally and physically. The only innocent party was Kate, but even the painless break up with her had further shattered Orlando’s ice-thin confidence. No wonder he’d clung to Mark so tightly. Even now it would be so easy for Mark to worm his way back into Orlando’s life…Viggo suddenly put a mental block on the direction his thoughts were going, rather concentrating on his visual assessment of Orli.
Another small scar rested above Orlando’s eyebrow, a ‘blink and you miss it’ mark and the once swollen lips had regained their normal shape, the cut above had healed nicely, and the pallor of his skin wasn’t such a death-like white.
Orlando’s outside shell was beautiful again. It didn’t matter to Viggo though; he wanted Orlando to regain his inner beauty, to see confidence shine through him again. That laugh, the insane sense of humour, his constant movement, his tenacity, the way he talked with his hands and eyes, that over-flowing energy, an all encompassing love of life and those who touched him. Viggo wanted that back. That was what made Orlando beautiful, not finely defined cheekbones, soulful eyes, full lips, a muscled torso, that tattoo… It was a beautiful exterior, no one would deny that but it was one which Viggo felt was justified because, on this rare occasion, it actually matched an equally, if not more beautiful, interior.
Viggo fought the urge to kiss the too-thin wrists, to cover each scar, each bruise, faded or not – because he would never forget where a single one was. Each mark, bruise and cut was imprinted forever in his mind. But however much it pained him Orlando was not his to kiss, not anymore. Viggo wondered if Orlando would be able to be anyone’s ever again. Certainly he didn’t encourage any physical contact from Viggo which left him in a sort of limbo. He was fairly certain that Orlando still felt something for him. No one truly forgot their first love.
Looking up at the screen, Viggo saw the last of the credits flicker with an almost fanfare music signalling the end of the movie Orlando had barely stirred. He was hesitant to wake Orlando, even so the younger man could go up to bed. Viggo often privately wondered how much sleep Orlando had been getting. He tried not to pry too much into Orlando’s mental state, knowing it would not be warmly greeted, but he kept a quite eye on the number of sleeping pills, although the bottle was still almost full. Viggo wasn’t sure whether that was a good or bad thing. He hated keeping tabs on Orlando. It felt as if he was betraying his trust. But to Viggo the idea of loosing Orlando again due to an oversight on his part was simply not acceptable. He slowly eased himself off the coach, disturbing Orlando as little as possible as he crept out of the room, only to silently pad back with a blanket that he draped over Orlando’s slumbering figure. The action went unnoticed, as did the kiss Viggo dared to brush against his brow. Only when Viggo flicked off the lights did Orlando’s brow furrow slightly.
Pausing at the top of the landing, Viggo slowly went into Orlando’s room. A part of him felt guilty for invading this private space. He so badly wanted to feel close to Orlando it was like a physical ache within him. Was it too much to ask that Orlando let him in once in a while? He felt he didn’t know Orlando anymore; his thoughts, worries and emotions were all locked away behind those mesmerising eyes. He wanted Orlando to feel safe with him, not just from Mark but with himself, he wanted to tell Orlando that his secrets were safe, that whatever Orlando told him, he wouldn’t be judged, that he’d always be there for Orlando, that they could get through this, but Orlando had to trust him.
Trust. That was the whole problem wasn’t it? No one trusted the other. Dominic and Elijah didn’t trust each other’s judgement (yes he had noticed their estrangement), Orlando didn’t trust himself or anyone else…it was a vicious cycle, not including that it was Mark’s distrust of Orlando’s faithfulness that had started everything. Trust, once broken, was never an easy thing to repair. He knew that from bitter experience when your very beliefs about a person were shattered. He could still remember the look in Orlando’s eyes when he’d left, the look of betrayal still haunted him, how all at once all Orlando’s illusions about his perfect boyfriend, of love being eternal, had been shattered.
He picked up the vase he’d retrieved from Orlando and Mark’s house, the same one that had fallen victim to one of Mark’s rages but sealed and covered over. So much like Orlando, beautiful yet cracked, seemingly mended but never quite whole. He hadn’t rung the police yet. He was torn by his desire to protect Orlando and respecting his wishes. He knew he could count on the support of Dom and Lij if he went through with it. He’d tried a couple of times, even got as far as dialling the number, but had always hung up. He knew this wasn’t something Orlando would ‘forgive in time’ if he did at all. It was a catch-22 situation and something Viggo was heartily sick of. He was sick of having to second guess his actions all the time. Gazing at the beautiful vase for a moment, Viggo felt a rage welling up within him, a desperate need to break something, anything to release the anger and pain he bottled up.
Unable to stand the sight of the vase, he threw it against the wall, feeling nothing but satisfaction as it broke into pieces. The satisfaction didn’t last however as he gazed at the ruined pieces of Orlando’s work. It could’ve been Orlando’ heart for all the work that had gone into it. Bending down he looked at the pieces of the vase. It would be unlikely that it would be able to be repaired, there were too many little shards lying on the carpet. Gazing at the ruined object, Viggo felt his anger ebb away. Why did he break it? He always thought himself above such senseless violence. Cracked, broken beyond repair. What a fucking perfect metaphor for his life. Even his Orli.
He picked up a broken piece, and couldn’t stop a dry chuckle coming out. Wincing as he felt the jagged edge press into his flesh, Viggo was nearly hypnotised as the blood rose to the surface. The physical pain was almost a relief. Was that what Orlando thought when he slit his wrists? The thought jarred Viggo back to reality. There was no pleasure in inflicting pain, to himself or to others. Life was pain and he simply had to deal with it in a constructive way, not destroy random objects. He’d lay bets that’s how Mark started out. Where was the harm in destroying objects? They were lifeless, inanimate things. Problem was, over the course of time Orlando had become an object to Mark, so it hadn’t mattered if he’d damaged Orlando. The cracks could be repaired, sealed over and no one would be any the wiser. Even broken objects could still be used, couldn’t they?
Slowly he picked up the shattered vase, a feeling of shame creeping over him. He was going to have to show Orlando. He couldn’t take keeping any more secrets from him.
He carefully placed the pieces into a box, determined to at least attempt to mend it tomorrow. Right now his hands were shaking too much, from what Viggo honestly couldn’t pinpoint and he suddenly felt cold. Trying not to look at the shattered pieces, he placed them on a shelf and decided to make some hot chocolate, needing something to take his mind off recent events as he crept downstairs, still mindful of the sleeping Orlando.
Deciding not to turn the lights on he was suddenly stopped by a noise, an almost whimper. At first Viggo was sure he’d imagined it, his mind too weary to pursue it, but when it came again, it was directed from the front room, where Orlando was sleeping. He briefly wondered if he’d waken Orlando, and was debating over apologising when a sob was ripped from Orlando’s throat. It was such a painful sound Viggo flinched even as he moved towards Orlando.
Viggo stopped when he reached Orlando, thought the younger man was asleep. Tears were running down his cheeks, his lips trembled as he tried to curl in on himself. The blanket was mostly kicked off, now only partially covering one leg. Another sob escaped Orlando’s lips.
Viggo felt himself frozen in place. He didn’t have a clue how to handle this. With Henry it was the aftermath of a bad dream Viggo had to deal with. With Henry’s nightmares it was easy to console a crying child that monsters didn’t live under the bed, aliens weren’t going to attack or that his parents would always love him. Henry had always believed Viggo, an absolute trust placed in his father and relaxed, the promises of his father soothing him. Even when they were together the nightmares had attacked Orlando and had been easily dealt with. Reassurances over his back or their relationship could be given while pulling Orlando close to him. It was amazing what a kiss could make the body forget.
But now Orlando’s nightmares were different because they were true. In Orlando’s world, living and sleeping, there were monsters, one’s which Viggo simply couldn’t protect him from. He couldn’t brush them away because in the safety of daylight, they didn’t disappear and always haunted Orlando. He felt so utterly helpless as he stood there, fearing waking Orlando and causing more panic to the already stricken young man. The choice was made for Viggo when Orlando’s body jerked to wakefulness, tears streaming down his face, breathing laboured as his mind tried desperately to adjust to his new surroundings and the fact that he was awake and safe.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, soothing him, words of comfort being whispered into his ear. Orlando craved the warmth of the other body and moved closer, his breathing getting under control. At least he wasn’t shaking as badly this time. He didn’t question what Viggo was doing here, all that mattered was he was here right now, offering the comfort and protection he needed. Even after the sobs ceased, Viggo kept stroking him, touching him. Without thinking, he pulled Viggo closer on the sofa and he curled up next to the older man, head buried on the strong chest, revelling in the warmth and strength he found there. If Viggo was surprised by the closeness he didn’t show it, only continued the stroking, which had become longer and more measured.
The only time Viggo had been this close to him recently was when he’d been wracked with sobs. He didn’t want this to be the only reason the older man touched him, but he was afraid he would loose Viggo, that he was already loosing him. A part of him knew this couldn’t last. Viggo had a life apart from him, had for a long time. Henry, friends, painting, acting…Viggo had a whole life he had put on hold for Orlando and he was terrified of Viggo going back to his life leaving him behind. He didn’t encourage Viggo’s touch, not only because the memory of Mark’s touches burned him, but because whenever Viggo tried to reach him, he couldn’t handle loosing Viggo again, just when the possibility of getting him back was within his grasp.
Viggo forced down a yawn, wondering how long they’d sat here. Orlando’s terror had long since subsided, but he made no move to detach himself from Viggo’s embrace, a fact that comforted Viggo himself.
“How…long have these nightmares been going on?” Viggo asked at last, half wishing he would get no answer. Orlando shook his head “It’s been the first in months.” Viggo was amazed; Orlando had become a better liar than he thought. If he didn’t know Orlando inside out, he would swear Orlando was telling the truth. It unsettled him somewhat how easily the lie had fallen off Orlando’s tongue, but then what could he expect? Years of fear didn’t exactly encourage truth and forthrightness, especially when the correct answer wasn’t the right answer, and when even the right answer could lead to a broken rib or black eye. It wasn’t that Orlando was being duplicitous, being an actor meant a certain amount to truth bending, a suspension of disbelief, Orlando was good at that, but barefaced lying was another matter altogether. His innate honesty would never allowed it, Viggo used to tease him about it and now he found it crushing that slowly Orlando was mastering the great lies. These necessary lies became part of his survival, a means which allowed Orlando to function, even on the most basic level. Lies, which Viggo had used to convince himself. When had the lies that had sustained them start becoming truths?
Viggo considered letting it slide, but against his better judgement. He tried again, “how long?” Orlando hadn’t even seem surprised that Viggo didn’t accept his earlier answer. His eyes held no rancour to Viggo for having been ‘discovered’
There was a pause while Orlando considered the question. “I don’t know. Sometimes they go for a while and I think things will be OK, that I can cope, then they come back and won’t stop, they just carry on for weeks, months. I loose track. They haven’t been as bad recently though. This one…it’s been the worst one since…since…before” he trailed off.
He’d never really talked about his nightmares before. He’d had them since before he could remember, long back from childhood, fears that only children could possess had given way to much more vivid fears. These dreams were different to the ones before; pain was an over-riding theme in them all, but fear was there.
These dreams were detailed memories, not the fogless worries of yesteryear. These were real, tangible leaving his heart pounding, limbs shaking, body wracked with mindless sobs. How could one man cripple him with such fear? The horrible irony was Mark had held him through nightmares similar to this, he’d stoked his hair, held him close until the shaking stopped. He was never sure if Mark realised that very often he was the cause of the violent tremors that wracked his lover’s body. Yet every nightmare had been Mark’s doing. Long forgotten memories of painful falls, of rejections and callous words haunted him. Mark understood those fears and at those times he played the dutiful lover to perfection.
Only those times when the nightmares began did they switch roles as Mark cradled Orlando for hours at a time, rubbing his back, his touches gentle and loving. At those times he never pushed Orlando for information, never sought his own pleasure or chastised him while protecting him from all the ills of the world. He asked nothing of Orlando but was simply there to hold him. At those times, he’d had Mark back. He’d loved him. Then the nightmares would go, and things slowly changed. It was an ever vicious cycle. Would things be the same with Viggo? But would he loose Viggo when the nightmares left? A part of him knew that for better or ill Viggo was firmly lodged back in his life. He’d promised after all to stay as long as Orlando wanted him to. Yet how long did he need Viggo or, more importantly, how long did he want him? Eternity seemed a nice, if unrealistic answer. He’d settle for a lifetime, he silently mused.
Viggo didn’t press what the nightmares were about for there was no real need. It wasn’t hard to guess what they’d involved and somehow the knowledge that Orlando was no stranger to nightmares didn’t surprise him either. It was always the good ones who suffered, those that loved the most, felt the most, helped the most – Orlando qualified for all of the above and he paid the price for that. At times Viggo found it easy to hate the world, the same world that would condemn their love and condemn Orlando for not fighting back, for not protecting himself. Society turned a deaf and embarrassed ear to the plight of the abused man. The tabloids would almost wet themselves over such a juicy story. He didn’t want Orlando’s life to be public property, to have every aspect of their uncertain and shaky relationship delved into or to read the sordid secrets behind Mark and Orlando’s relationship. He didn’t want a part of any of it, yet he knew it would happen.
“Do you want to go back upstairs?” Viggo asked at last. It felt wrong to offer an opinion, even sympathy for these nightmares. Orlando had never appreciated pity, if he wanted help he asked, or you gave it to him under protest but you didn’t pity him. There was a growing kink in his neck, Viggo wasn’t sure how long they’d been on the sofa now and he suddenly noticed how dark the room was. He could barely make out the clock hands but it read 2.30 am. Glancing at the clock too, Orlando gave a cautionary nod.
There probably wouldn’t be more nightmares tonight. It was as if his subconscious realised he couldn’t take another dose tonight. The next night would be another matter. He’d make sure to close the door tomorrow and Viggo’s as well. And possibly shove a sock in his own mouth for good measure. Viggo couldn’t do this for him every night. The exhaustion on the older man’s face was beginning to show, Orlando already had enough to feel guilty about, he didn’t want to add to it, not when he could avoid it. Perhaps sleeping pills would help.
Unconsciously lacing his fingers with Orlando’s, Viggo lead him upstairs, guiding him into Orlando’s room before hovering indecisively for a moment. “You’ll be OK. Leave the door open if you want or the light on –not that I think you need it, but sometimes that helped Henry feel safer,” Viggo babbled, inwardly cringing but unable to stop himself. Since when did he act like a teenager on a date? There was nothing remotely romantic or sensual unless you happened to like Orlando with dried tear streaks and a pained gleam in his eyes. It was not a look Viggo sought to encourage. So why was he suddenly so nervous? Perhaps it was because he was in Orlando’s room at night for the first time, or because of the still charged emotions rushing around him. All he knew was that he desperately wanted to kiss Orlando, to take him to bed pulling Orlando close and safeguard his sleep.
Making his way to the door, he stopped at Orlando calling his name. Turning around Viggo bit his lips to keep himself from blurting out yet more embarrassing and possibly detrimental statements.
“I…Viggo…stay with me tonight, please?” Orlando blurted, wrapping his arms around himself. He suddenly looked so vulnerable, so unsure of himself that Viggo wanted to cry for him. “Not doing anything I mean, I just…I don’t want to be alone for the rest of tonight,” he whispered.
Not waiting for Orlando to change his mind, Viggo gently shepherded Orlando to the bed and rather tentatively him close. To his relief, Orlando immediately relaxed into the embrace. “Dom and Elijah used to do this for me,” he murmured, looking up at the ceiling. It seemed sleep wasn’t going to be easy for either to find. “They’d just hold me all night when Mark left. It just felt better when I had someone beside me, someone who hadn’t hit me an hour before. We never did anything despite what Mark thought. He couldn’t understand that I didn’t want to sleep with them that sharing a bed didn’t mean I was shagging them blind or something. They never said anything They just held me...it was so strange, we all knew what was happening but we never talked and I could just forget for a bit. It was nice.”
“And now?” the words were meant to stay inside his head, but somehow tumbled out into the open. Damn.
“Now…right now I feel safe again. It’s a nice feeling” he murmured as he turned his gaze to Viggo. He couldn’t work out who was more surprised by that statement that old Orli Honesty™ was back. Not able to think of a competent reply, Viggo pulled Orlando still closer to him before kissing his temple, a deliberately conscious move on Viggo’s part, one which he wouldn’t allow himself to feel guilty for. He loved Orlando and he wanted to show that love and browbeating himself over every touch, accidental or not wasn’t going to help. He wasn’t going to give Orli the option of letting Mark come back into his life. Orlando had to believe he was worth so much more, that there was a better way of being loved. Orlando knew what he felt comfortable with and he trusted Orlando’s judgement.
Orlando looked at Viggo a moment. The older man had always shied away from openly touching him, not without reason it had to be argued but that didn’t mean Orlando wanted this situation to continue. The desire to be loved was one everyone could relate to, but one that few had to suffer from. He was loved, by his family by Dominic and Elijah, by estranged friends, even Mark in a twisted way. Viggo loved him, but just what that love meant, what it entailed was another matter. With Mark he learned that love wasn’t always enough. Just because love was there didn’t mean the relationship would survive. He needed more than love with Viggo if they had a hope of being together.
At least he could admit that was what he wanted. Mark was right about that- it had always been Viggo. That had never changed. It hadn’t meant that he would’ve thrown away what he and Mark had. He would have treasured their love, it just would have been a different sort, he was a different person to the carefree man who’d loved Viggo. This was the sort of thing that was supposed to happen on TV. No one’s love life, functioning or not, was supposed to be this fucked up. A miserable part of Orlando just wanted to give up; not in that sense, but to just throw his arms up and join a monastery, probably a Buddhist one. They didn’t have to worry about relationship issues.
He didn’t want to deal with this anymore, no matter what choices were made, everyone was going to loose something. No one escaped from abuse unscathed and that wasn’t just the abused. He didn’t want to think about this anymore. He just wanted to forget about Mark and the past and didn’t want to face the possibility of what was to come. It was all he could do to focus on the present, to get through each day. He didn’t want to think about the regrets to come or of what could go wrong he did that enough with the past. He had enough ghosts and regrets to keep him company for ten lifetimes.
Viggo was looking at him. It sounded strange, but Orlando had almost forgotten what he looked like. Yes, he looked at Viggo each day, but looking and seeing were very different. Most days seemed pre-programmed and there was little to do but shuffle through them. There was a strange softness about the man that Orlando had never seen before, or perhaps never noticed. He had always been fascinated by Viggo’s face. So many experiences lived there; the lines of his face only enhanced it in Orlando’s mind. It was a beautiful face, maybe not adhering to most people’s notion of beauty, perhaps. Oh, people thought Viggo was handsome ‘in a rugged way’ and even sexy (yes he’d seen the polls, read the drooling comments), but to him Viggo had always been beautiful. Of course, people would argue that Orlando was biased on that score, which he couldn’t deny. It wasn’t anything to do with the physical (although he’d be the first to admit it was a very enticing package). It was the entire package. The way Viggo had whispered endearments in Spanish and Danish, knowing he couldn’t understand them but loved the sounds. How he was so passionately vocal about his beliefs even if they were not popular at the time. His all consuming love for his son. The wonderful, ridiculous things Viggo did because he could get away with it (artists were forgiven just about anything).
He couldn’t say how long they’d sat in silence, looking at each other. Desperation and fear was pumping through his body. He just wanted to stop thinking, not to have to worry about tomorrow.
The kiss took Orlando as much by surprise as Viggo. He hadn’t realised he was so close. It hadn’t been planned, but Viggo didn’t pull away. It was a shock to feel Viggo’s lips against his that Orlando almost gasped. Six years had past since their last kiss. His lips felt rougher, he was sure his own were trembling, but he refused to break contact. The kiss seemed to linger. He didn’t want to end it, scared it was only a dream. It wasn’t the desperate, passionate kisses Hallmark portrayed between estranged lovers. This was quiet and there were no pawing hands, ravaging of lips. That relieved Orlando in truth and Viggo’s arm wound round Orlando’s shoulder, very slowly, barely touching. Then the kiss ended. They pulled back and it was over. Orlando’s eyes met Viggo’s, not quite sure what to say. He’d kissed Viggo, who’d kissed back. It had felt good. It felt right. Viggo’s slight smile reassured Orlando that the kiss hadn’t been misplaced, that it was wanted. He didn’t protest when Viggo pulled him back to his chest.
Perhaps it was disappointing for an almost first kiss, but time would help. This was only a beginning.
****
Orlando almost congratulated himself when he didn’t jump when the phone rang. It was hard to control such a ‘knee jerk’ reaction. The phone had a been a source of so much contention between him and Mark. Orlando had always lived by his phone. Meeting was difficult, conflicting schedules and air travel didn’t leave a lot of free time and a computer never had the same impact as hearing someone’s voice. He needed something physical not simply a screen with words. His calls had been monitored, text messages had been deleted. Orlando had begun to dread the end of each month when the bill would arrive Mark would invariably confront him, demanding to know why unknown numbers showed up, why he’d talked to Beanie or Eric for up to half an hour, sometimes longer.
He remembered in a fit of fury, Mark had broke his phone, hurled it against the wall screaming at him that Orlando didn’t give a fuck about him, about them. The phone had been broken beyond repair, all the numbers, memories, from that phone shattered, gone. Orlando would have yelled at Mark for that. That phone had his life in it, unfortunately he’d been prevented for expressing his displeasure as Mark had backhanded him. God that had hurt, almost as much as when the force of the blow caused his head to collide with the door. That had left him with a black eye and a gash in the forehead that required five stitches, all explained to co-stars and his agent by a runaway horse and his own bad timing, even though they all knew Orlando’s skill with horses was impressive. None passed comments on his injuries bar a few concerned looks and suggestions to talk if the need arose. After a couple of weeks the injuries were healed and a bad memory, at least until the next day.
Up until recently Viggo had fielded all the calls. If he could, Orlando thought he would happily hide from the world, if only until things in his head were more clear. Unfortunately at this current rate that could take years. He had to take this call by himself Viggo was out, against his own will, but Orlando had insisted he buy those paints they saw at the market. He’d never had a chance to buy them last time, thanks to Mark.
“Orlando speaking-”
“Orlando…don’t put down the phone, please.” There was a pleading in the voice that made Orlando stop as he was about to slam the phone down. Why did he have to ring now, after what had happened at the market, after what had happened last night? Things were beginning to happen with Viggo now, the distant possibility of a new start lingered on the horizon. He couldn’t let Mark jeopardise that, no matter what his intentions, which to Orlando’s mind, were far too transparent.
“You can’t ring here Mark, it’s not safe.”
Safe? Safe for who, Mark? Did he want to protect Mark from Viggo’s wrath, or from his own? Why would he even want to protect the man who had hurt him so much, had possibly damaged him for any hope of a new relationship? Why should he care? What was a little more violence after everything that had happened?
There was a slight chuckle on the other end, so different from the mocking, harsh sound he’d grown accustomed to. This was gentle, a genuine humour behind it. This wasn’t the Mark he’d grown to fear, to hate. “Same old Orlando. You can’t help caring, can you? It’s one of the things I love about you. No matter how much someone hurts you, you can’t hate them”
“Stop it.” The voice was little more than a whisper.
Why did his resolve seem to collapse around Mark? If he could kiss Viggo, he should be able to stand up to Mark. All he needed to do was tell him to sod off and hang up the phone, yet he didn’t. For some unfathomable reason he chose to listen.
“It’s true though. I don’t think anyone loves as deeply as you do.”
“Did you want something?” He was trying so, so hard not to break. When listening to Mark he could almost forget the warmth of Viggo’s embrace, the safety it provided, those amazing eyes. His voice was like warm honey, flooding his senses. This was the voice that seduced him back, made him believe that they stood a chance, that Mark was able to change. It was the same voice that made Orlando think Mark was able to do anything. That they could achieve anything.
“I did ring for a purpose, I’m not here to torture you Orlando, despite what you probably think. I want to make amends.”
It would have made Orlando laugh in that insane, disturbing way if the voice hadn’t been so serious. Of all the things Mark could have said, that was the least likely. Mark always needed forgiveness for his actions, that Orlando had been able to give up to a point, but never had he wanted to make amends. Was that even possible after everything that had happened between them?
“I meant what I said earlier Orlando. I want to try again, but I want your forgiveness even more. I can’t let this go until I know you’ll forgive me. If you want me out of your life then I’ll leave, no argument. I don’t want Mortensen to win you back, but he never hit you so he has one over me on that score. I just want you to be happy Orlando, you deserve it. I want you to be happy with me but that probably isn’t going to happen, so I’d settle for your forgiveness. Do you think you could?”
Forgiveness. That was a tall order. A part of him still loved Mark, but would that love be enough to forgive all the wrongs done? Would it even be the end of them? Orlando wasn’t sure if he was ready for that. Forgiveness meant closure, which meant Mark would be gone. That was what he wanted. Mark gone and to start over.
So why did he suddenly feel so empty?
TBC in chapter 16
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Date: 2005-12-15 07:34 pm (UTC)