vigorli

Title: Look to the West where the Ocean is (1:1/3) ~Post too big for lj, comes as a two piece.

Beta: Scarrlett, evil_scarrlett, the one person who has stood behind me from the beginning of this adventure; trusted me, told me to cool off sometimes, held my hand when storms raged. I love you.

Pairing: Viggorli but there is something else in this fic too, please read "warning".

Rating: NC 17

Summary: AU. Orlando is a young Brit who lives in Santa Barbara, California; sometimes he wonders what he is doing there.

Disclaimer: This is not for real, it is just the name, "Real Person Slash" that is real around here.

Feedback: Yes if you like

Warning: A pairing that is... not Viggorli is included but includes one of them.

Notes: dalehead came up with the original idea for this fic and xandrinuccia made the icon.

Look to the west where the ocean is (1:1)

Down the road in a small and exclusive suburb town of Santa Barbara, California lived once (not long ago) a young married couple. Their house was not very exciting and neither was their garden (but it was well kept). They had two very nice cars and even if the house looked like the other houses on the street, their house was better on the inside because they had a lot of money to spend on decor- even more money than their neighbors.

One of the spouses was Orlando; a Brit who was the prettiest lad you would ever meet. His hair was dark and brown and his eyes were too. He had a funny button nose and his skin was the color of wood honey. Orlando was always smiling and he often laughed out of the blue; when others met him they liked him immediately or were envious, because Orlando was so beautiful that clocks stopped when he walked by.

Orlando had a part time job as a bellboy at the hotel where his husband-to-be stayed while on a business trip. They met one evening and then the next; and the third evening the American asked Orlando to please marry him, because no where in the world would Orlando get a better life than in Santa Barbara with the American.

So Orlando spoke to his mother and his sister and his friends at the University. Within a few weeks only he was on a plane to California to get married. He couldn’t really remember what his husband-to-be looked like, but Orlando did remember he was a nice man, six years Orlando's senior. Why did Orlando say yes to this man? Orlando would not be the right person to answer; he had not often thought twice about things.

In California the weather was nice and Orlando really couldn't believe that his husband made that much money. Even if Orlando had believed most of the drunken bragging he hadn't believed all of it. But it was true- after he got married Orlando was wealthy. Or, his husband was.

And Orlando got a car so that he could drive to the mall; in the mall he could go to the gym or get groceries. His husband told him to get a home gym or have the groceries delivered but Orlando liked to get out sometimes and besides, why had the husband bought him a car if Orlando was not to drive it?

And Orlando took care of the garden, he was good with plants and within a few months the garden was one of the prettier in the neighborhood.

They had a swimming pool and a nice patio and in the cellar the husband had re decorated and turned the large room into a lounge sort of, where he hung out with his business associates the nights they came over for dinner. They had made a vacation trip to Acapulco the first summer as married; and the summer that had just started they were probably going back. Orlando had suggested they could perhaps go to the Caribbean, but his husband said why change a winning concept? And he was right about that of course.

And there it was; Orlando took care of the house and the garden, and his husband made a lot of money and worked long hours. Orlando missed him sometimes but mostly he missed something he couldn't really voice, something… more? Sometimes in the evenings when his husband had fallen asleep, Orlando would walk out on the patio and look to the west where the ocean was somewhere, and he'd whisper to the wind-

"I love you too!" just to try the feeling of it on his tongue. And he touched his face and his hands and he whispered,

"I love you too…"

~

A sunny Wednesday morning in July Orlando stood in the hallway of the nice house. He was going to say goodbye to his husband who was leaving to go to work. The husband tied his shoes and Orlando then gave him his briefcase. The husband took it and leaned to kiss Orlando; Orlando stiffened instinctively and backed off just a little. The smell of the husbands after shave was very strong, and Orlando didn’t like to get it on himself. Orlando's nose never seemed to get used to or like that smell.

"Have a nice day," the husband said and Orlando smiled and nodded. When the husband was just going to open the door he stopped and turned.

"Did I give you some money to buy a shirt for tomorrow?"

"Yes you did," Orlando said.

"Then get yourself something nice today, ok?" the husband said and smiled. Orlando smiled back once again but as soon as the door was shut again the smile disappeared and Orlando got a lost look on his face instead. He stood where he was for a while, until his gaze met its reflection in the mirror and Orlando saw himself how awkward he seemed.

"Stop it, silly!" he said to the reflection, and smiled. "Go and take care of the dishes!"

~

This was his ordinary morning routine.

Get up, wake husband and send him to the shower, make breakfast, pour coffee (tea for Orlando) while the husband gets the morning paper, then eat breakfast, in silence mostly. The husband makes some comments on the stock market perhaps, and Orlando says something about what would happen that day; neither of them listening much to the other because those were the things they said to each other every day.

Then Orlando would wave his husband off and go back to the kitchen to wash the dishes (like he did this morning), and maybe, maybe, maybe Orlando needed a headache tablet. He'd gotten these headaches every now and then the last months. He worried about the headaches; because his mother said she'd had them too all the while she was married to Orlando's step dad. But this morning it was not the headaches that made Orlando worry. No, this morning Orlando was worried about an appointment he had at the doctor's office (he was often worried but not this much normally).

What could possibly take place at the clinic went round and round in his head and this made him clumsy; when he put the last things in the dishwasher he broke a glass that cut his finger.

He cursed and put his finger in his mouth. The taste of the blood was sharp; iron and warmth. Orlando found a band-aid to protect the cut and then finished what was left to do. The appointment was at nine so he was in a bit of a hurry.

~

The cut was rather deep Orlando noticed when he had parked the Audi TT cab outside the doctor's office; it had bled through the band-aid and hurt quite a lot. Orlando forgot about it as soon as he entered the building though; he was embarrassed and thought everybody could see why he was there. The receptionist was nice to him and the doctor too, but that didn't help, when Orlando sat on the chair at the doctor's desk he was red in the face with embarrassment.

~

"And you wanted to see me because…" the doctor said and waited for Orlando to answer. Orlando tried but he couldn't get the words out of his mouth.

"Most of my patients feel bad about coming here, they are ashamed and think no one else is like them," the doctor tried and Orlando nodded, eager all of a sudden.

"My husband says so too," he said; fast, almost like a whisper. "He says I am not alone and there is help to get."

"And what is it you need help with?"

This third attempt bore fruit; Orlando found some inner strength to speak.

"I do not feel anything when my husband touches me- in that way. Or I do- but…"

Orlando bit his lip.

"I don't feel good I feel… bad, rather." He lowered his eyes, did not want to look at the doctor.

"Bad, in what way?"

“I want him to stop- I… I don't want him near. There seems to be something wrong with my body, my husband thinks perhaps I am… asexual. He says there are… asexual people, and that maybe I am one of them."

The doctor took notes and said,

"Very few people are asexual, mister Astin. There are different ways to get around the problem. You can…"

"Astin-Bloom!" Orlando interrupted; suddenly it was extremely necessary for him to be called by his own name too and not just his husband’s. "My name is Orlando Astin-Bloom. Or, Bloom-Astin; yes- Orlando Bloom-Astin."

The doctor inspected Orlando a bit curiously after this small outburst.

"Well, mister Bloom-Astin," he went on eventually; "there are things you can do to try and overcome your sexual discomfort. There are a few practices I recommend my patients to start off with, a few things that have proven to be quite successful."

The doctor brought forth a piece of paper- pink paper- and on it words were written.

The lines spun before Orlando's eyes, he couldn't concentrate but he tried to listen to what the doctor said. The cut on his finger caught Orlando’s eye suddenly, he wondered if he could ask the doctor for a fresh band-aid but the next instant he thought the idea stupid.

He nodded and nodded and pretended to be listening attentively. And he thought about his husband and him trying these things that the doctor suggested and all of a sudden he felt so tired.

"I can at least give it a try," he thought. "It is so important to Sean."

~

When Orlando came back home he was stressed, he had really tried to find a nice shirt for his and Sean’s celebration of their special day.

Tomorrow was their one-year wedding anniversary and Sean had wanted them to have a dinner at home where Orlando could wear a new shirt that was silky maybe- that was Sean’s suggestion. Orlando had found a shirt; but there had been some seemingly endless running in shops before he did.

A U-Haul parked almost too close to the Bloom-Astin driveway made it hard to enter it and when Orlando stepped out he glared angrily at the U-Haul and wondered what idiot had parked it there. He got the grocery bag out of the car and thought that he should've put the things in two bags, this was too heavy and maybe it would rip before he got it inside. It did of course, right over the gravel in front of the door it ripped and all the food fell down on the ground.

This was it; the worst thing that could have happened right now. Orlando stood absolutely still with the pink (pink!) paper in his hand, the cut in the finger throbbing and hurting; and all over the gravel before him lay the dinner; a bag of fresh shrimp

("…a glass of cold white wine, lit candles and fresh shrimp you can peel and eat
while you talk is a nice way to start your laid back, sensuous evening, but remember, it is not going to lead to anything sexual so you can be completely relaxed!")

…among other things.

"I don't want this!" he thought. "Why me?"

Footsteps approaching in the gravel pulled him out of his gruesome thoughts.

"Can I help you?" a soft voice said. "You seem to need a hand."

Orlando looked up at the person who had spoken to him. He saw a man

a man-

a man-

who in his turn looked at Orlando with a question in his pale blue eyes.

“I…” Orlando said, “I dropped the bag, it ripped,” as if that was necessary. His hands went to his face and he removed his sunglasses. When they were gone, the handsome man before Orlando smiled.

“Hello,” he said, and Orlando blinked a few times; the man’s face got even more handsome when it was crowned with a smile.

“Hello,” Orlando answered reluctantly. Neither of them moved for a while and Orlando wondered why.

“Maybe you should go inside and get another bag,” the man said, “before your ice cream melts.”

“Of course,” Orlando said, woke up from his stare suddenly, “Right away.”

Orlando’s hands shook when he got the key up and he unlocked the door. He turned to take another look at the man in the blue working-trousers and the stained-with-paint t shirt before he went inside. Orlando dropped the keys on the hallway set of drawers and went to the kitchen to get something to carry the food in.

“Who is he?” Orlando thought, “and why did he show up in my… our front yard?” An image of the U-Haul and the man’s well used clothing entered Orlando’s mind; this was a craftsman of some kind.

Orlando was back outside very soon; the… worker or whatever to call him had gathered all the dropped things in a neat pile and held the most urgent items in his hands.

“Bring these inside,” he said and gave Orlando the ice cream container and the bag of shrimp. “I’ll get the rest.”

The shrimp (bloody shrimp) were soon in the fridge and Orlando wiped his hands on his denim clad thighs when his helper showed up in the doorway and attempted to get his shoes off.

“No!” Orlando said, “You don’t need to take them off. Come; let me help you with the bag.” He reached for it, but the other stepped up to a kitchen bench close to himself reluctantly and put it down there.

“Your floors are so nice and clean,” he said with a small smile, “I don’t want to mess them up.”

And with that his helping mission was ended and he nodded to Orlando; he looked very calm, a bit amused, and very much like he seemed to find Orlando a total mess.

“Well, then, enjoy the shrimp,” he said and made an attempt to step out again.

“Stay!” Orlando said and scolded himself for sounding so childish. He cleared his throat and thought in panic of some reason for the man to stay for a few minutes.

“It is hot outside; can I get you something to drink?”

Orlando was staring at him again, right in the eyes; they were like magnets, Orlando just couldn’t stop no matter how embarrassing it felt.

And he was staring in the blue eyes because he mustn’t stare at the wide mouth or the firm jaw, the jaw of someone very determined and maybe stern, such contrast to the calm and soulful eyes; neither did Orlando stare at his shoulders that were broad under the t shirt, not too broad, but he was strong, the muscles stretching under the dark skin of the lower arms told Orlando that; but he did not stare at the arms, or the muscles of the chest that he could see too under the stained gray t shirt- Orlando only stared into the eyes. That is where you normally look when you speak to a person.

“Why not,” the man said. He was much older than Orlando, Orlando had noticed before but now that they were not in the strong sunlight Orlando could see his face better. Orlando wanted to ask how old he was but why should he ask that for?

“My name is Viggo, by the way.”

“Viggo,” Orlando replied. He tore his eyes away and found a towel. “Here, wash your hands if you like, sorry you had to get all dusty.”

Viggo smiled that small smile again and nodded thanks to Orlando, who turned the tap on and found the right temperature.

“Not that they were clean before that,” Viggo said casually and put his hands under the running water; Orlando remained by the sink a second too long before he got his feet working again and stepped away from Viggo, whom Orlando found to be of exactly the same height as Orlando himself.

Why his knees were wax suddenly Orlando could not understand. Or, maybe he could.

Viggo washed his hands; Orlando’s eyes were wide open and shot glances constantly from where he stood by the fridge and tried to find the lemonade. Viggo looked up suddenly and Orlando’s head jerked back to the content of the refrigerator.

“There it i-!” he said cheerfully but the last word got stuck in his throat. How he could get the glasses down from the shelves (the shelves were just over the sink and Viggo was still by the sink, wiping his hands on the towel Orlando had handed him) without dropping them was a wonder, because his arm brushed over Viggo’s shoulder when he opened the cabinet door and the touch made Orlando’s elbow become wax too.

The glasses landed safely on the tabletop behind Viggo’s back and then Orlando poked his hurt finger into the lemonade-bottle when he reached for it.

“Ouch,” he said quietly and almost put the finger in the mouth again when he saw the band-aid with the dried blood on it and frowned.

“I think I must…” he began to say; searched the surfaces for the box of band-aids he remembered leaving there this morning.

“You cut yourself?” Viggo’s eyes were not only very steely blue, they were also very observant.

“M-hm,” Orlando nodded and fumbled with the sticky piece of bandage and reached for the box of band-aids at the same time.

“Here, let me help you.”

Viggo took a step closer and Orlando gave his hand to Viggo. Yes, Orlando only laid his hand in Viggo’s and did not do anything else after that; all motion in his body stopped.

“Yes,” he said, after a long delay and stared at the hand that held his; and the fingers that carefully removed the band-aid.

“My, that was a bad cut,” Viggo said when he’d dropped the band-aid in the waste basket but had not let go of Orlando’s hand.

“Yes,” Orlando agreed and stared at the cuts and scratches on Viggo’s hands, and Viggo’s long fingers, and the nails that were so white despite the obvious wear and tear his hands had been trough.

“Come.”

Viggo brought Orlando with him the two steps to the sink and there he turned the tap again.

“This will hurt,” he said and Orlando replied,

“Yes,” a third time. And it did, it hurt, but more than the hurt Orlando felt Viggo’s careful hands take the blood away and when he did he touched not only the finger but also Orlando’s whole hand. And Viggo’s lower arms were close to Orlando’s lower arm and Viggo’s body was close to Orlando’s body.

When the water and the soap had done its job the bleeding started again, slowly, and Viggo swiftly got some paper from the roll on the wall over the sink.

“Press,” he said when he had folded the paper just as swiftly and put it over the cut. He closed Orlando’s left hand over the hurt right hand as if he thought Orlando couldn’t think for himself. And it was correct; Orlando couldn’t think for himself right now.

Because Viggo had been in the sun all morning, he had carried material from the U-Haul to the house next to Orlando’s and his body was warm and had been sweating for many hours. He smelled of fresh sweat and of wood, of the soap he’d washed his hands with; and of something else that was deeply pleasant- all his scents filled Orlando’s nose and Orlando had never met a man before who smelled like this.

Orlando held on to the paper and Viggo got a band-aid out of the box.

“Why are you here?” Orlando said suddenly; and he did not know if Viggo would think Orlando meant “here next to me” or “here by my house”, since Orlando had no clue himself. Viggo took the paper away gently; put the band-aid over the cut. When he answered he spoke quietly.

“I am helping my old father repair his porch.”

“Mister Mortensen’s porch?” Orlando asked and Viggo nodded. He still held Orlando’s hand

One, two, three, four, five seconds longer than necessary

But sighed suddenly and let go of it.

“I better get back to that. Take care of this cut now; don’t get it dirty when you empty the bag.”

Orlando didn’t understand first, but it quickly dawned on him that Viggo meant the groceries that were dirty after they’d been on the ground. And while Orlando tried to grasp the idea of Viggo as a man who was considerate to such an extent, who would think of a thing like that and who cared enough to remind Orlando of it, Viggo raised his hand in a good bye and stepped out again as carefully as he had come inside.

Orlando heard the door close. He hadn’t said “thank you” or “bye” or even told Viggo his own name, and he hadn’t shut his mouth after saying the words “Mister Mortensen’s porch?” he just stood there, arms to his sides.

“What is wrong with you, Orlando Bloom, what has happened?” he whispered, and even if he didn’t think the answer straight out his eyes knew, his hands knew, and his own body knew what had happened.

Orlando wiped dust off the food boxes and milk cartons and yogurt jars and plastic bags of fruit and his hands shook like they had when he had unlocked the door. He knew very well that the glass of lemonade was still on the table; that he had forgotten to give it to Viggo, or maybe Viggo had forgotten about it.

“My name is Orlando, by the way!” he said loudly to himself when he turned on the water to rinse his hands for who knows what time in order this day. But just when he was going to wet his skin he stopped himself and held his hands close to the water, but did not put them under it.

“I am thankful you helped me with this mess and good bye.”

He shut the water off and said “Did you want the lemonade?” before he turned and poured the other glass full of lemonade as well.

“I am Or-lan-do and thank you so much for helping me, don’t you want some lemonade?”

Orlando walked, talking like that, with the filled glasses in his hands to the hallway where he checked himself in the mirror like he always did before he walked outside.

“Hair!” he whispered, put the glasses down, ran his hands over his hair to try and get the curls in order. “Friggin hair!” Sean could go on and on about Orlando's hair, because Orlando couldn’t grow it any longer; it was too curly for that.

“Friggin’?” Orlando said to his reflection. “It is just because I am British… aha, you could tell? Exactly, I am not from Santa Barbara at all, I am from London, from Europe…” Orlando pulled at the collar of his shirt, felt stiff and too serious in it suddenly. So he hurried upstairs, got a t shirt out instead, took the shirt off and the t shirt on with nervous movements and caught a glimpse of his reflection in this mirror too.

His stomach was like a hole where no food wanted to go; food did not want to compete with the stress that lingered there. The lowest set of ribs was visible in a way that was not so nice- Orlando knew that but had yet not been able to handle that problem too. It was the issue with the pink paper that had been the closest at hand before the vacation; Sean had spoken much about sensuous nights on the beach in Acapulco.

Another knot in the stomach was added to the others and Orlando hurried down the stairs again.

Part 1:2