Breathing Room (7/?)
Jan. 18th, 2005 09:23 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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vigorliTitle: Breathing Room (7/?)
Author: Rainweaver13
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Summary: Monteverde
Rating/Warnings: R. I made every bit of this up. 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. If I made any money from this, I could put my kid through college.
A/N: Feedback would really help a struggling newbie fanfic writer.
-----------------
Previous Chapters Look under Personal Fics
"You look like shit, Orlando," Viggo said.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" was all Orlando could think of to respond.
"It's my room." Viggo said, taking a bite of banana and mumbling around it. "Welcome to Costa Rica."
"Your room?" Orlando felt stupid, lost, as if he'd walked onto a set that no one had given him the script for and now people were expecting him to make sense of it.
"Actually, this part is mine." Viggo indicated what was obviously a bedroom behind him. A flickered glance confirmed that, yes, it was definitely Viggo's space, already littered with papers, books, clothes and everything else he'd picked up, put down and forgotten for however long he'd been here. "This part is ours." He swung an arm to take in the open living suite, complete with fireplace and tiny kitchenette.
"And this part is yours." Polishing off the banana and tossing the peel in a trash can, he pushed open a door about eight feet from "his." "I gave you the inside suite 'cause I know you don't like morning sunshine."
Orlando just stood there, well and truly stuck, his body paralyzed and his mind at least 5 minutes behind his body.
"I- I- can't stay here," he managed finally.
"Sure you can." Viggo crossed his arms and leaned against the wall between the two suites, ice-blue eyes studying Orlando with a determined lack of emotion.
Somewhere outside, a night bird sang a jazz riff against the cool darkness.
"I've been misled," Orlando said finally, his voice shaking just a little. "Nobody said you'd be here. I don't appreciate this."
"It wasn't exactly my idea, either, elf boy."
"Don't call me that. I'm nobody's boy, not yours, not anybody else's."
"Whatever you want."
"If this isn't your idea of a joke, then whose was it?"
"Not a joke, Orlando. A friend who thinks you need some rest, that's all."
"But not you."
"No. I was coming here for a vacation anyway."
"Then why here? Why with- with you?"
Viggo shrugged, looked out into the darkness across the living area, then back at Orlando. "I said it would be okay. That we could relax." He paused to consider Orlando, really taking in his appearance, from the slight puffy weight gain to the dark bags under his eyes to the yellowish cast of his skin. "That we could be alone. Together. And not bother each other."
Orlando took a step toward Viggo, his express blank and desolate, then he turned and slumped into one of the overstuffed chairs facing the unlit fireplace, dropping his face into his hands. "I can't stay here, Viggo. But there's nowhere I want to go." His voice, muffled against his hands, was rough and thick. "I'm just too tired to go anywhere any more. I'm just too tired-"
Viggo moved silently over to stand by the chair, a hand reaching out to Orlando's shoulder but then hovering there, in mid-air, before retreating back to slide into his pocket.
"How 'bout just going to bed, eh?" Viggo asked quietly. "I already put your luggage in your room. You've got your own bath in there. Just go crash. We can tackle everything fresh tomorrow, when you're rested."
Orlando nodded slowly, scrubbing his face and picking up his shoulder bag as he stood, wincing slightly.
"That drive can't have been good for your back," Viggo murmured, following Orlando across toward his bedroom door.
"Yeah. Bastard driver didn't give me enough rest stops." A faint smile touched the weary words.
"I'll have words with him."
"When you do, Vig -"
"Yeah?"
"Tell him to take a shower, for christ's sake."
Orlando closed the bedroom door and Viggo stood chuckling softly for a few moments before wandering into his own bathroom to consider the grizzled, unkempt old man in the mirror. Maybe it was time for a shower. Even a bit of a shave might be in order.
said a million words to the sky
wrote a thousand on your skin
Orlando slept late the next day, as Viggo had figured he would. After having a late breakfast - for him - in the restaurant downstairs, Viggo had a carafe of coffee sent up to the room, then just sat on the balcony sipping coffee and watching morning sunlight glint off the waves of the distant Bay of Nicoya. He wasn't sure what to do about Orlando.
Granted, he hadn't agreed to do anything. So if he did nothing at all except see to it that the boy - no, not a boy any longer - got some rest, that'd be enough. Damn, he looked like hell, though. It hurt to see him this way. Viggo knew that he looked like a shaggy old reprobate himself, but at least a healthy one. Lan looked bad. Something was not right in OrlandoWorld.
A cool breeze swept up from the west, bringing the scent of distant salt water to the balcony. Viggo put his cup down and stood to stretch, letting the hotel bathrobe slide off. In a pair of ratty old sweats, he set out to do a lazy set of yoga stretches, savoring the feel of sun on skin, favoring the right knee that had never been entirely right since TJ trapped his leg against a wall one day.
Whatever happened with Lan, he was here to rest himself, and he wasn't going to let anything mess that up.
---
Inside the suite, Orlando wandered out of his bedroom, toweling his face, and into the living area. "Vig?"
No answer, and the feeling of unreality from last night came flooding back. This was just too crazy. He turned abruptly to look at the second bedroom door. It was open, and there was the familiar creative chaos that defined Viggo territory. So he was here.
Orlando found himself standing in the doorway with no memory of having gotten there. How long had it been since he'd been around Viggo's particular brand of craziness? A year? Two years? He couldn't remember the last time he'd stumbled over a stack of books in the dark and cursed a blue streak while Viggo sniggered in the bed somewhere behind him. He couldn't remember the last time they'd fucked each other stupid in Viggo's bedroom while trying to keep a hand over each other's mouths so they didn't make too much noise because Henry was just down the hall. He couldn't remember the last time they'd laughed so hard they'd cried, muffling it against each other's necks, when Henry would pointedly turn his music up to window-rattling volumes.
Orlando stood there and looked, and found his fingers itched just to touch some of the papers, to flip through the books. His life then... it was a better life, wasn't it? Was it?
He could remember so many firsts with Viggo; The first time they kissed, the first time they fucked, the first time they- he thought they made love. So many firsts, but no lasts. If he'd known they were going to be lasts, he'd have remembered them, he'd have paid better attention. Wouldn't he?
Rubbing his head, Orlando pulled away from the door and padded barefoot into the living room. As he passed a decorative outcrop of wall, he saw Viggo. Outside on the balcony, stretching through a graceful but eccentric yoga routine. Sunlight painting his lean body gold, picking out all the small scars and dents of a lifetime, turning the shaggy blond-gray hair into pure bronze.
Orlando felt for a chair and sat abruptly, knowing this was a phenomenally bad idea.
still the empty space
vacant midnight sanctuary
echoing with need
not sure you ever heard
-------------
Viggo tries to live a life without regrets.
That's not entirely possible, of course, but he likes to think he does a decent job of it. He tries to make himself stop and think often, Is there anybody I've wronged? Is there someone I need to say I'm sorry to? Is there a situation I need to handle better? Is there something I can do to make someone's life better that I haven't done out of laziness or inattention?
Orlando confuses him. He knows that he feels regret, but he doesn't know about Orlando. And under the circumstances, for him to apologize stands as good a chance of making things worse as better. Maybe. Did he do anything wrong to Orlando, after all? Or was the whole thing like that old joke about God, when the guy prays and says, "God, you just seem so far away these days," and God replies, "I haven't moved."
Truth is, Orlando probably just got tired of him, the way Viggo always figured he would. Viggo didn't move, but somehow Orlando was far away. And now Viggo has regrets.
Author: Rainweaver13
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Summary: Monteverde
Rating/Warnings: R. I made every bit of this up. 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. If I made any money from this, I could put my kid through college.
A/N: Feedback would really help a struggling newbie fanfic writer.
-----------------
Previous Chapters Look under Personal Fics
"You look like shit, Orlando," Viggo said.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" was all Orlando could think of to respond.
"It's my room." Viggo said, taking a bite of banana and mumbling around it. "Welcome to Costa Rica."
"Your room?" Orlando felt stupid, lost, as if he'd walked onto a set that no one had given him the script for and now people were expecting him to make sense of it.
"Actually, this part is mine." Viggo indicated what was obviously a bedroom behind him. A flickered glance confirmed that, yes, it was definitely Viggo's space, already littered with papers, books, clothes and everything else he'd picked up, put down and forgotten for however long he'd been here. "This part is ours." He swung an arm to take in the open living suite, complete with fireplace and tiny kitchenette.
"And this part is yours." Polishing off the banana and tossing the peel in a trash can, he pushed open a door about eight feet from "his." "I gave you the inside suite 'cause I know you don't like morning sunshine."
Orlando just stood there, well and truly stuck, his body paralyzed and his mind at least 5 minutes behind his body.
"I- I- can't stay here," he managed finally.
"Sure you can." Viggo crossed his arms and leaned against the wall between the two suites, ice-blue eyes studying Orlando with a determined lack of emotion.
Somewhere outside, a night bird sang a jazz riff against the cool darkness.
"I've been misled," Orlando said finally, his voice shaking just a little. "Nobody said you'd be here. I don't appreciate this."
"It wasn't exactly my idea, either, elf boy."
"Don't call me that. I'm nobody's boy, not yours, not anybody else's."
"Whatever you want."
"If this isn't your idea of a joke, then whose was it?"
"Not a joke, Orlando. A friend who thinks you need some rest, that's all."
"But not you."
"No. I was coming here for a vacation anyway."
"Then why here? Why with- with you?"
Viggo shrugged, looked out into the darkness across the living area, then back at Orlando. "I said it would be okay. That we could relax." He paused to consider Orlando, really taking in his appearance, from the slight puffy weight gain to the dark bags under his eyes to the yellowish cast of his skin. "That we could be alone. Together. And not bother each other."
Orlando took a step toward Viggo, his express blank and desolate, then he turned and slumped into one of the overstuffed chairs facing the unlit fireplace, dropping his face into his hands. "I can't stay here, Viggo. But there's nowhere I want to go." His voice, muffled against his hands, was rough and thick. "I'm just too tired to go anywhere any more. I'm just too tired-"
Viggo moved silently over to stand by the chair, a hand reaching out to Orlando's shoulder but then hovering there, in mid-air, before retreating back to slide into his pocket.
"How 'bout just going to bed, eh?" Viggo asked quietly. "I already put your luggage in your room. You've got your own bath in there. Just go crash. We can tackle everything fresh tomorrow, when you're rested."
Orlando nodded slowly, scrubbing his face and picking up his shoulder bag as he stood, wincing slightly.
"That drive can't have been good for your back," Viggo murmured, following Orlando across toward his bedroom door.
"Yeah. Bastard driver didn't give me enough rest stops." A faint smile touched the weary words.
"I'll have words with him."
"When you do, Vig -"
"Yeah?"
"Tell him to take a shower, for christ's sake."
Orlando closed the bedroom door and Viggo stood chuckling softly for a few moments before wandering into his own bathroom to consider the grizzled, unkempt old man in the mirror. Maybe it was time for a shower. Even a bit of a shave might be in order.
wrote a thousand on your skin
Orlando slept late the next day, as Viggo had figured he would. After having a late breakfast - for him - in the restaurant downstairs, Viggo had a carafe of coffee sent up to the room, then just sat on the balcony sipping coffee and watching morning sunlight glint off the waves of the distant Bay of Nicoya. He wasn't sure what to do about Orlando.
Granted, he hadn't agreed to do anything. So if he did nothing at all except see to it that the boy - no, not a boy any longer - got some rest, that'd be enough. Damn, he looked like hell, though. It hurt to see him this way. Viggo knew that he looked like a shaggy old reprobate himself, but at least a healthy one. Lan looked bad. Something was not right in OrlandoWorld.
A cool breeze swept up from the west, bringing the scent of distant salt water to the balcony. Viggo put his cup down and stood to stretch, letting the hotel bathrobe slide off. In a pair of ratty old sweats, he set out to do a lazy set of yoga stretches, savoring the feel of sun on skin, favoring the right knee that had never been entirely right since TJ trapped his leg against a wall one day.
Whatever happened with Lan, he was here to rest himself, and he wasn't going to let anything mess that up.
---
Inside the suite, Orlando wandered out of his bedroom, toweling his face, and into the living area. "Vig?"
No answer, and the feeling of unreality from last night came flooding back. This was just too crazy. He turned abruptly to look at the second bedroom door. It was open, and there was the familiar creative chaos that defined Viggo territory. So he was here.
Orlando found himself standing in the doorway with no memory of having gotten there. How long had it been since he'd been around Viggo's particular brand of craziness? A year? Two years? He couldn't remember the last time he'd stumbled over a stack of books in the dark and cursed a blue streak while Viggo sniggered in the bed somewhere behind him. He couldn't remember the last time they'd fucked each other stupid in Viggo's bedroom while trying to keep a hand over each other's mouths so they didn't make too much noise because Henry was just down the hall. He couldn't remember the last time they'd laughed so hard they'd cried, muffling it against each other's necks, when Henry would pointedly turn his music up to window-rattling volumes.
Orlando stood there and looked, and found his fingers itched just to touch some of the papers, to flip through the books. His life then... it was a better life, wasn't it? Was it?
He could remember so many firsts with Viggo; The first time they kissed, the first time they fucked, the first time they- he thought they made love. So many firsts, but no lasts. If he'd known they were going to be lasts, he'd have remembered them, he'd have paid better attention. Wouldn't he?
Rubbing his head, Orlando pulled away from the door and padded barefoot into the living room. As he passed a decorative outcrop of wall, he saw Viggo. Outside on the balcony, stretching through a graceful but eccentric yoga routine. Sunlight painting his lean body gold, picking out all the small scars and dents of a lifetime, turning the shaggy blond-gray hair into pure bronze.
Orlando felt for a chair and sat abruptly, knowing this was a phenomenally bad idea.
vacant midnight sanctuary
echoing with need
not sure you ever heard
-------------
Viggo tries to live a life without regrets.
That's not entirely possible, of course, but he likes to think he does a decent job of it. He tries to make himself stop and think often, Is there anybody I've wronged? Is there someone I need to say I'm sorry to? Is there a situation I need to handle better? Is there something I can do to make someone's life better that I haven't done out of laziness or inattention?
Orlando confuses him. He knows that he feels regret, but he doesn't know about Orlando. And under the circumstances, for him to apologize stands as good a chance of making things worse as better. Maybe. Did he do anything wrong to Orlando, after all? Or was the whole thing like that old joke about God, when the guy prays and says, "God, you just seem so far away these days," and God replies, "I haven't moved."
Truth is, Orlando probably just got tired of him, the way Viggo always figured he would. Viggo didn't move, but somehow Orlando was far away. And now Viggo has regrets.
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Date: 2005-01-18 04:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-18 04:56 pm (UTC)I hope they talk!!! :) Love it xxx
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Date: 2005-01-19 02:19 am (UTC)How did I miss this chapter?!?!
Well okay, I was wondering why you hadn't gotten back to them being in Costa Rica, and that is because I missed the blasted chapter lol
Great job in describing Orlando's shock at finding himself face to face with Viggo again, and his disbelief in thinking that he was tricked, yet too tired to deal with it. Poor guy!
Since I've obviously already read chapter 8 and you know my thoughts on that, I'll just slink off and wait for the next chapter. Hopefully I'll be able to keep them straight from now on. :o\