vigorli

Title: Breathing Room (6/?)
Author: Rainweaver13
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Summary: Separate Lives

Rating/Warnings: R. I made every bit of this up. There is no truth in it. The timing of various events is almost certain to be off somewhat, since I don't live in these guys' pockets. Not that I would mind that.
Disclaimer: Don't own them; wouldn't want to - they are their own. Wouldn't mind talking with Viggo, though. If I made any money from this, I could put my kid through college.
A/N: Feedback is the chips in my ice cream.
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December 2000
Rings primary filming ended. A fine tension hung between Viggo and Orlando during the last week of filming, like the subsonic hum of a high-power line. The last night they were together, they found themselves once more walking on the beach, as they had dozens of times through the months of filming.

"D'you suppose there really are more stars here?" Orlando mused, nibbling on a piece of melon he'd snagged from the ongoing party in the house.

"You talking science or magic?" Viggo squelched his toes in the warm sand, so strange in December, and enjoying the brisk breeze off the ocean.

"Magic."

"Definitely, then. And all wishes on them come true."

"All?"

"All."

Orlando laid a hand, fingers still slightly sticky with melon juice, on Viggo's bare arm, pulling him to a halt.

"There's a wish I've had ever since ... well ... since very early on in filming," he said, all dark eyes and wind-tumbled curls in the moonlight.

"Maybe you should wish on a star." Viggo held his ground, feeling the tiny stings of hair lashing across his face. Mea culpa, he thought, I've wished, too.

The moon trailed special gravity down to loop them together and when Orlando's hand slid up behind Viggo's neck to tip his head down that fraction of an inch into a kiss, he had no chance of resisting. At every step Viggo told himself to keep it friendly, keep it easy, and with every moment he fell headlong and hungry into the kind of kiss that burns bridges, that changes things.

By the time it ended, they were breathless and molded together so tight that their bodies had no secrets any more. Viggo rested his face for a moment against Orlando's hair, eyes closed, trying to decide, trying to decide. Orlando's hand stroked his back, rested for a moment in the hollow above his hips, and the blood-tide was rising so fast he couldn't blame the moon any longer.

"What do you want, Orlando?" he whispered roughly into the sea air.

"Everything," came the exuberant response.

Back in Orlando's rental, with packed suitcases standing sentinel, the power lines finally tangled in an explosion of sparks. No words, no niceties, nothing but hunger pure and simple. Clothes littered three rooms and sliding, tumbling, writhing bodies tore sheets from the bed, left a sweat-damp Hiroshima of linen behind.

They dozed, and then, knowing this was it - the one and only chance - went at it again. Bite marks, bloody scratches, bruises already beginning to show up red, sticky fluid everywhere: Lust was finally satiated, but only barely.

The sun came up and Viggo rose slowly, wincing and stretching out a knee that liked to cramp. He stood for a long moment looking down with a wistful expression at the lively boy sprawled across the bed, sound asleep and drooling a little onto the bare mattress.

Then he dressed and left quietly.

That day the cast left to go their separate ways.

May 2001 Cannes
Viggo didn't have to go to Cannes. It wasn't in his contract, since nobody had known that the movie would be invited. And normally he didn't go anywhere movie-related that he wasn't contractually obligated to go, but he made exception with Cannes for two reasons.

One, it was to honor Peter Jackson and his accomplishment. The man had done damn incredible work on the Rings movies, and it was great to see that they were already starting to get some notice.

Two, it was to get people off his fucking back. He was sick to death of Lynn and Pilar and Exene and Bean and Dom and even Henry, for god's sake, ragging his ass all the time about "getting out." Like there was something magical about being outside your chosen place. He'd told one of his writer friends one day that up until this century the vast majority of people rarely got more than five miles from their house in their lives. The asshole had just looked at him and said, "Five miles would be good."

Bastards.

So he'd been a little caught up in his work. A person was allowed. It wasn't like he was hurting anybody. So he went for weeks without leaving the house. Big fucking deal. He didn't need to leave the house. He was busy. Painting. And writing. There'd been the exhibition in Santa Monica to prepare for. Shit, he'd never done anything that big before. It took a lot of work.

So he didn't sleep much. So he tended to just fall asleep on the couch in his clothes and get back up and start to work again. It's not like there was anybody else in the house he was offending. Henry might bitch a little, but he was a teen-ager. Shit, his room was a toxic waste dump. Exene bitched when she came over to pick Henry up, but he reminded her that she didn't have to stay close enough to him to care what he smelled like any more, thank you very much.

But still, it all got to be frustrating. And the truth was, he could feel himself starting to pull away from people as a whole, to be uneasy with groups, nervous with strangers. Although he'd never admit it to any of the ones who gave him hell, it probably was good for him to get out again.

So he went to Cannes. And it was good to see the film, although, as always, he was disappointed by all that had to be left out. It was good to see the other actors, even though Orlando wasn't there yet.

But maybe he had been a little too withdrawn, because he was very very uncomfortable at Cannes. Even more than he usually was at bullshit events like this. Everybody having to joke about him looking like a "fucking hippie" got really old after a while. He was wearing a suit, wasn't he? And everything was just too big, too noisy, too busy. People would ask questions, but they were never interested in hearing answers. He couldn't just pop a five-word answer off the top of his head; he never could. He had to think, and try to make a sensible answer, one that had meaning. But nobody wanted to listen.

Truth was, within a day, he was miserable.

Then came the red carpet hell. All those cameras and microphones, all asking questions and none wanting answers. He had just started trying to formulate an answer for yet another inane question when he caught a blur of motion out of the corner of his eye and suddenly there was Orlando, complete with buzz cut, grabbing him, ruffling his hair, planting a big kiss right on the corner of his lips, and murmuring, "Human scum." Viggo blinked, gathered himself for a moment, then said to the interviewer, "Maybe you should ask him," indicating Orlando.

Much laughter, and Viggo managed to escape, leaving Orlando to deal with the press.

Late that night, Viggo sat in his room with the lights off and the drapes open, sipping a glass of wine and looking out over the city. When the light tap came at his door, he smiled.

He had Orlando inside and up against the door in a heartbeat, locking the door as he pressed an urgent kiss against those willing lips. Before the kiss ended, he had Orlando's shirt open and was reacquainting himself with the wiry chest.

Orlando broke from the kiss, panting a little. "Hello to you, too."

"I've missed you."

"You didn't say goodbye."

"Knew I'd see you again."

"You look like a fucking hippie." The grin was clear in Orlando's voice.

"You look like a member of Hitler Youth." Viggo grinned back.

"Let's get it on, hippie."

"Less talk."

Later, much later, Viggo lay barely awake in the dark and thought about being alone. He thought about the young man lying in front of him, and how he couldn't afford to care. He thought about not caring.

This was all about sex, nothing more. He knew that. Maybe they'd get together now and then and fuck each other senseless, until Orlando found somebody better, probably somebody younger, and that'd be the end of that. He brushed a featherlight fingertip down Orlando's arm.

He'd just enjoy it while it lasted. That's all.

After a while, he let himself move a little closer to Orlando's back, almost but not quite touching him as he slept. Just for the warmth. Just because the room had become a little cold.

Orlando had no idea what to think of his relationship with Viggo. Was it even a relationship? They saw each other now and then, when they happened to be in the same city at the same time. They'd meet and there'd be the same uncontrollable combustion of pure lust that would last a night, or maybe a full day or even two. They'd both end up sore but satisfied, leaving some hotel room with smiles on their faces, but sometimes ... Orli wasn't sure.

Sometimes the smiles didn't seem to reach Viggo's eyes. Fuck, maybe they weren't reaching Orli's eyes either. Because he was never glad to see Viggo leave. He always wished that this time would be the time they would maybe ... talk a little. Maybe have dinner that wasn't just foreplay. He wished they could go back to the friendship they'd been building in New Zealand and just add the amazing sex on top of it.

But Viggo was different now. A sense of something almost like desperation seemed to enter the room with him, and sex ... fuck... the sex had become even more intense, more mind-boggling, more exhausting.

Getting dressed for the London premiere, grateful to be in his own home for a change, Orli pulled on his jacket slowly, absently brushing it into place. Lately, every time he'd been with Viggo had been almost wordless, and a few times he'd woken in the wee hours to find one of Viggo's hands resting lightly on his side, a finger tracing patterns - maybe words - on his skin.

It was almost as if Viggo were treating every time they were together as the last.

At the party after the premiere, Orlando couldn't keep still. Always restless, he was a regular perpetual motion machine that night, never sitting, constantly flitting from person to person. His laugh washed over the room and he could feel himself glowing, incandescent, at the peak of his joy in life. Everywhere he went, smiles followed.

"He's astonishing, isn't he?" Ian murmured to Viggo in one relatively quiet corner of the room. "It's a rare talent, that ability to light up an entire room."

"He has no idea," Viggo said, sipping his red wine. "It fascinates me."

"So I've noticed."

Viggo gave Ian a brief sidelong look. "Meaning?"

"Meaning it's clear you've a ... passion for the boy."

Draining the wine, Viggo looked around for somewhere to put the glass down, finally snagging a spot on a circulating server's tray. The move kept his face turned from Ian's. "It's a physical infatuation. He'll be tired of me soon, I suspect."

"I wasn't talking about him, Viggo."

Viggo sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "I know what it's like to fall for stars, Ian. You just get burned, and then it turns out they were nothing but falling rock anyway. And Orlando's gonna be a star. A big star."

"Cynicism doesn't become you," Ian said softly, turning to walk away, then looking back. "And if you're fooling anybody, it's only yourself."

Orlando, bouncing around in a five-way conversation with the hobbits, kept an eye on Ian and Viggo out of curiosity, especially when Ian moved away and Viggo stood for a long moment facing the wall, scrubbing at his face. Sean Bean walked up behind Viggo and threw an arm around him, and Elijah tugged Orlando back into a random making of plans for the New York premiere in three days.

Later, moth to flame, Orli stood outside Viggo's door in the deserted hotel corridor and tapped lightly. When the door opened, the strip of light that fell on Viggo's face sliced him precisely in half, giving an uneasy sense of incompletion to the welcoming smile.

"Hey there, elf boy." A rough-fingered hand closed around his chin and tugged him gently inside the room.

"Hello, my king," Orli whispered, and had no idea why. It wasn't anything he'd ever called Viggo before.

Closing the door had left the room in pitch darkness, and without any visual cues Orli couldn't recognize the small sound Viggo made. But suddenly it didn't matter, because the familiar lips were on his, and then there was nothing left to say or think beyond pleasure and being pleasured and sometimes the bright white highlight of pain.

Deep in the morning hours, Orlando lay with his head resting on Viggo's sweaty shoulder, fingers toying idly with nipples and chest hair. "Are you coming to the L.A. premiere?"

"No."

Another few lazy breaths, while Orli considered what he wanted to ask and why it mattered so much. "You still live there, though."

"Yep." A fine shiver eeled through Viggo's body, and Orli reached down to pull a damp sheet up partway over them.

"Can I see you then? When I'm there for the premiere?"

"I might be able to get into your hotel without being seen. Is that what you want?"

"I just want to see you, Vig. Even if we just... I dunno ... have lunch somewhere or something. It'd be cool to talk again, like we used to."

Viggo had gone very still, the hand that had been toying idly with Orli's curls simply resting against them now. After a long moment, he cleared his throat and said, "We should do that, then. Get together for lunch. Maybe I could show you the gallery that had my exhibit."

Orlando beamed and leaned up to kiss the corner of that sexy mouth. "Perfect. I'll make sure I leave a whole day open for you."

"It's a deal."

Sometime later, when Viggo rolled over and began to press kisses against his throat and collarbone, there was an almost frantic taste to them. Even later, when their bodies were pressed together, one in the other, in a sweating, slapping frenzy of grunts and moans and paralytic ecstasy, it was like saying goodbye to someone who'd died.

Orlando had no idea what was happening. He just held on tight and hoped for the best.

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Viggo is a gentle man. Sometimes it's been a problem for him. He's not much of a fighter, really, although he can fake it if need be.

But he has a tendency to let things go rather than fight for them, at least on a personal level. He'll fight for Henry, or for his friends. He'll fight for principles, things that mean a lot to him because he believes them to be important. But he's never really been one who'll fight much for himself. Maybe that's why he doesn't have much luck with relationships; because when things get tough he's generally willing to just let them go rather than fight for them.

Some people say that's just general wussiness. He might not even really argue with that, not much. Life is too short to spend defending himself, arguing about himself. He'd rather just let it slide and keep moving.

Is that gentility? Or is that just fear?

He doesn't know, but he knows it's essential.