Breathing Room (9/?)
Jan. 21st, 2005 06:59 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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vigorliTitle: Breathing Room (9/?)
Author: Rainweaver13
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Summary: Monteverde II
Rating/Warnings: R. All made up. There's not a lick of truth in it. Definitely AU, since Orlando's not at the Golden Globes in the world, and Viggo's not going to be at Slamdance.
Disclaimer: Don't own them; don't know anything about them - 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
January 2005
Orlando's despair was interrupted by a tap at the door, repeated after a moment. He sat up, glanced out at Viggo, who clearly hadn't heard, and got up to answer the door.
"Senor Bush?" said the cheerful waiter with a rolling cart outside. "I have your lunch. Where would you like it?" His English was good, if heavily accented.
Orlando just blinked at him for a moment, then called, "Viggo!"
Viggo whirled around, stumbling a little, pulled the door open and came in with a grin, immediately speaking to the waiter in Spanish, gesturing and signing the bill. Orlando started picking up covers and checking out the food as the waiter left, then looked up at Viggo with a 'you've got to be kidding me' eyebrow.
"Senor Bush?"
"Yeah. George and Jeb. That's us." Viggo grinned. "I started to make you Laura, but I thought you might take exception. Considered Tony, too." He pulled the food cart over between the couch and one of the chairs and dropped onto the couch. "C'mon. Sit. Eat."
Orlando stood warily, watching. "I'm not hungry."
"Horseshit," Viggo said easily, uncovering the food, which had begun to smell temptingly good. "You haven't had a decent meal since breakfast yesterday at best. Eat." He began dishing food up onto two plates, setting one on the coffee table closest to the chair where Orlando had been sitting.
Finally admitting to himself that there was no reason why he shouldn't eat, Orlando sat and began to investigate the food. "Any tea?"
"Fraid not. Some of the best coffee you'll ever taste, though." Viggo poured Orlando a cup from the thermal carafe, then wandered out to get his own cup from the balcony and refresh it.
Orlando picked at the fresh fruit on his plate - pineapple and melon - and took a tentative taste of what appeared to be a tomato and cabbage salad. Viggo settled in as if this were the most normal thing in the world, tucking away beans and rice interspersed with fruit, clearly enjoying the food. They ate in silence, and Orlando was annoyed to find his appetite hearty. Somehow he wanted to be angry, or depressed, or something that would cause him to find food distasteful and make him want to stay in his room and mope. But the food was tasty, he was starving, the fresh air from the open balcony was wonderfully clean and clear, and the fact that he was registered in a hotel room in Costa Rica under the name of Jeb Bush was actually funny.
Damn Viggo Mortensen. Damn him all to hell and back. Ten times.
---
A good morning, Viggo thought. Orlando hadn't brought up leaving yet, and he'd been awake almost two hours. He polished off his gallo pinto and sat back on the couch, holding a chunk of pineapple up on his fork, considering it thoughtfully.
"The pineapple got its name because it looks like a pinecone," he mused. "But the only thing you get out of a pinecone is a hard little nut. Tastes all right, though."
"You are a freak of nature," Orlando said mildly.
"Did you know that some people believe pineapple can help induce labor in a woman who's overdue?"
"What earthly reason would I have for knowing that?"
"Because it's interesting?"
"I repeat, freak of-"
"Nature. Right. I remember." Viggo popped the pineapple chunk into his mouth and chewed it slowly, savoring every bit. "I don't believe that would induce labor for me. Might induce some sloth, though." He flashed Orlando a grin and scratched his much shorter beard.
"You cut your beard," Orlando said, as if on cue.
"Took a shower, too. Never let it be said I don't know how to treat company."
Orlando reached for his coffee and Viggo noticed that the cup shook for a split second before he got it under control. He took a cautious sip, then those beautiful brown eyes opened wide almost the way they used to, years ago. "That's ... that's excellent. So smooth."
"Told you."
Viggo watched him sip the coffee for a while, his eyes nearly closed as he savored the richness. "Sleep okay?"
"Slept great, in fact."
Time to introduce a reality. "We don't have a phone in this suite, Orlando. My cell's in the safe downstairs. I'd like to put yours with it." Now to wait and see how he took that idea.
"No phone?" A barely visible tremor shook the younger man, and Viggo could only imagine what he was thinking. It had taken decades of strong willpower to keep the damned telephone from becoming too much interference in his life, and he knew for a fact that Orlando hadn't even made an attempt. He was constantly on the phone, having his life interrupted until it had become nothing but an endless flow of interrupted interruptions and he'd lost the drift of his own existence. Would he be able to give up the drug?
"I- I need to call Robin."
"Why?" No accusatory, just asking.
Orlando stuttered, tried to find a reason, gave up. "My mum."
Viggo took a deep breath and let it out slow. "Did your mum know where you were three days ago, Orlando?"
"Of course she did!" Orlando's indignation was fast and fiery. "She always knows."
"Two days before that premiere, she knew?" Viggo was gambling now, but he felt like it was a pretty safe bet. He'd seen the way Lan was going, years ago.
"Of cour-" And the expected choke. Of course not. He no longer kept his mother informed of all his comings and goings, only the high points. Orlando flushed, then slowly looked drained. "My lawyer," he said, softly.
"Doesn't care." Viggo wouldn't let himself be soft, as much as he wanted to. "You told Robin you were going away for a while, right?"
Orlando nodded slowly, turning the coffee cup between pale fingers.
"She'll tell anybody who needs to know. Your people. Any friends you need to tell? Anybody who'll miss you if they don't hear from you for three weeks?"
Orlando shrank into himself and Viggo felt like the most evil of grinches. "Eric knows. He set this up. Maybe Sean. He calls sometimes."
"Sean knows." Viggo allowed himself a wry smile. "I thought Sean set it up. Sounds like your friends have been conspiring, Lan." The nickname slipped out by accident and Viggo froze.
Silence settled on the room for a long moment, a nervous rattly blanket of a silence.
"I need to be by myself for a while," Orlando said finally.
"Take the balcony," Viggo offered, standing. "It's a great view. I'll go downstairs for a swim."
"You shouldn't swim after eating."
"You're right, Mom. I'll be careful." As he walked past Orlando, his hand almost dropped to that familiar shoulder again, but again he caught it just in time. He went into his bedroom to change into his swim trunks, pulling the sweat pants back atop them and adding a baggy tee for decency's sake. On his way back across the living room to the door he met Orlando, who grabbed his hand and pressed a cell phone into it.
"For the safe downstairs," he said.
"Good deal," Viggo said, smiled, and left Orlando to his thoughts.
----
Beneath the balcony a world of emerald stretched down to a world of dusty leaf green that faded into brown until it banged up against the sapphire sparkle of the Pacific in the distance. Orlando stood just outside the door for a long while, afraid to commit further to the beauty of the place. The flagstones of the inside floors continued onto the balcony, and eventually he took a step forward to look down the side of the building.
It was as he'd remembered from his exhausted first look last night, all exotic wood and expanses of glass. He could hear the murmur of voices - other guests, he supposed, or staff - and then a shout of childish laughter that brought an automatic responding smile to his face. Other sounds filtered in slowly - the growl of a car engine in the distance, birds, birds and more birds, a woman's laughter, a faint clang of metal followed by a shout and a burst of what sounded suspiciously like giggles.
Without realizing it, Orlando had moved to the front of the balcony and stood leaning against the thick, smooth wooden railing. A soft sound of steady splashing drew his attention and he peered down and around one corner of the building, where he realized he could see one end of a swimming pool. A familiar form surged into sight, Viggo swimming laps, gliding underwater toward the pool wall, turning a smooth somersault and launching back away from the wall, unfolding into a sleek shark before breaching the surface to grab air and pull himself out of sight again. Orlando wondered what he was thinking about as he worked steadily through god knows how many laps he'd do this time. There was never any logic to it.
He broke away from the mesmerizing view of the aqua pool and dropped into one of the deck chairs, pulling his robe tight around him.
Why was he here? He should have left last night when he realized Viggo was here, but he didn't. And why did he hand over his cell? That was stupid. What if somebody needed to get in touch with him? About something important?
Orlando huddled inside the robe, arms tight around himself, and seriously thought about that.
Who would need to get in touch with him? Really need to? Nobody. Nobody that Robin or his lawyer couldn't take care of. Otherwise it was just people wanting him, wanting a part of him. Wanting his smile, his body, his face, his attention, his approval. Orli, be at this place at this time, wear those clothes. Orli, talk to this person, emphasize this thing, don't mention that thing. Orli, dress nice, don't drink so much, don't hug those people so much. Orli, here's a nice girl, she's got a movie deal pending, she can go with you. Orli, smile. Orli, smile. Orli, smile.
And who would want to get in touch with him? Mum. Sam. But be honest, Orlando... They don't call as much as they used to, do they? Maybe they got tired of always getting a brush-off. "Gotta run. Busy. Love you." And when was the last time you called either of them? Can't have been long. I called them for Christmas, of course.
Of course. Not. He was filming at Christmas, and it just seemed too far to make the long flight to London and back for a few days, so he didn't go home. He meant to call, but he'd spent the weekend - the week - with a few friends. He didn't remember who, sweet christ. And it was all a lot of blurry drinks and partying and ... god. And he never called. He never called.
When he realized his shaking was making the chair rattle, Orlando jerked himself up and stumbled across the living room into his bedroom. Digging through his luggage, he found the bottle of painkillers where he always kept it and just held it to his chest for a long time, waiting for the shaking to subside, waiting for the roaring in his ears to quieten.
When things settled just a bit, he started to open the bottle.
"What ya got there?" came the belov- hated voice from his doorway.
"Leave me alone!" Great Orli, sound like a snippy teen-age girl, why not?
"Not bothering ya. Just standing here."
Orlando ground his teeth and tried again to open the bottle. It was none of Viggo's damned business.
"Back hurting?"
"N- yes."
"I could rub it for you. No strings. Used to help."
His voice sounded closer and Orlando's hands were shaking so hard he couldn't get the goddamned bottle open. "Go away, Vig." It sounded weak and pathetic even to him.
A warm, hard hand closed over his and the bottle was gently pried away. When the bottle left his hands, Orlando felt like a puppet suddenly left without its strings. Some vital connection to something he didn't even have a name for was suddenly gone, and his life lay rolled out in front of him like an elaborate prayer rug, facing nowhere. He stared at it, looking for clues, and realized that he wasn't even in it. Only clever simulacra were there, wearing his face, flashing his smile, doing his dog and pony show, and he was nowhere to be found.
He collapsed onto the bed and was only vaguely aware of tender hands positioning him, pulling covers up, a gentle touch to his arm, and then the bedroom door was closed and he was left to drift into the darkness that became sleep.
---
Viggo felt battered. Battered and old, and not at all ready to go through with this. Slumping into his bedroom, he peeled off the wet trunks and replaced them with soft old jeans and a battered sweatshirt, then just sat on the bed for a while, staring at the floor. Dammit, he'd known it would be like this. He'd known he would come here for rest, and then Orlando would show up and no matter how much he tried not to care, he'd want to help him.
That way lies madness, he reminded himself. He doesn't need you. He doesn't want you. The two of you are over. He's a broken friend, that's all. You'll help him like you would any friend.
And who will help you? his mind asked annoyingly.
Shut the fuck up, he told it firmly, grabbed a book at random from the floor and padded into the living room to read.
---
It was dark by the time Orlando shuffled out of his bedroom, rubbing his eyes and yawning. "Tell me I didn't just sleep away the afternoon."
"Wouldn't want to lie." Viggo flipped a page but otherwise didn't move from where he was stretched out on the couch. "Probably needed it."
Orlando didn't respond, but wandered to the still-open balcony door and out into the cooling night. Viggo kept reading, finishing a chapter before tucking a feather in to hold his place and sliding the book onto the coffee table. "Hungry?" he called out.
Getting no answer, he got up, stretched, slid his feet into a pair of beat-up loafers and headed for the door. "Going downstairs for a few minutes," he called out. "Be right back."
As soon as Viggo left the room, Orlando came back in and headed straight for Viggo's bathroom. Hands trembling slightly, he checked through the sparse personal care items on the counter, then dug into the small kit bag, finding nothing more than some Tylenol. With a frustrated huff, and refusing to look at himself in the mirror, he went back out into the bedroom and stared around, narrow-eyed.
Viggo clutter. Clothes on chair backs, books on the floor, water bottles - full, empty and in-between- on the night stand. Papers. Sketches. No... wait... Even in his frustration, Orlando's attention was caught by an oddity. He'd spent enough time with Viggo to recognize full-out Viggo clutter and something wasn't right about this. Something wasn't making sense. He was still staring around at the floor, trying to work out the problem, when Viggo cleared his throat.
"Looking for these?" he asked, pulling the bottle of pills from his pocket.
Orlando just looked at him, defiantly. Or at least that's what he was hoping for.
Oddly dark blue eyes studied him expressionlessly for a long, uncomfortable time. "How many do you usually take?" was all he said, finally.
Orlando opened his mouth to deny that he "usually" did anything. He needed to tell Viggo to butt out, to arrange him some transport away from here and back to his life. He wanted to explain that he was a grown man, goddammit, and capable of fucking up things for himself, thank you very fucking much.
"Three," he said.
Viggo nodded, opened the bottle and shook out two, extending them to him. "How often?"
Orlando just stared at the floor. "No set time," he murmured. "No more often than six hours." He held out his hand and let the pills fall into his palm.
"How long?" The familiar voice had taken on a soft rasp now.
"Couple years."
"Not so much," Viggo said gently. "Not so bad. Water's in the fridge. Supper'll be up soon." He drifted away from the door and back to the living room, opening a cabinet beside the TV and cocking his head to study the DVD titles inside. "How about a movie night?"
Orlando stared at the two pills in his palm and thought about how Orli of five years ago would be in tears by now, throwing himself at Viggo and hoping the older man would make everything all right. That Orli was gone. He wondered briefly if that was the Orlando Viggo had loved, but shook the thought away. Might as well get some water, take the damn pills and face the music ... or the movie.
He was here. He could rest. He could get off the pills, maybe. He could have some time to think. Who knows, maybe he could even remember who he was.
----------
Viggo is a caring man. But you know that already, right? As a kid, he brought home strays. He worries about homeless people. He's infuriated by the status of health care in the wealthiest nation on earth.
He likes to give people things, to make them happy. Little gifts, big gifts; it's all the same. They're all from a crystal desire to cause that moment of joy, that slice of pure pleasure. He would have made a terrific fairy godfather, featherbrained and all.
But sometimes it all gets to be too much. He can't be caring, he can't give gifts, because the big white light of attention spears him all the time, and it all starts to look self-serving. And the man who often can't find his shoes and once kept his poetry in the refrigerator is suddenly being organized and sorted and scheduled in that white glare and he feels like he's dying in the light.
Viggo cares that he's in danger of losing himself, and that's a gift no one can give him back.
Author: Rainweaver13
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Summary: Monteverde II
Rating/Warnings: R. All made up. There's not a lick of truth in it. Definitely AU, since Orlando's not at the Golden Globes in the world, and Viggo's not going to be at Slamdance.
Disclaimer: Don't own them; don't know anything about them - 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
January 2005
Orlando's despair was interrupted by a tap at the door, repeated after a moment. He sat up, glanced out at Viggo, who clearly hadn't heard, and got up to answer the door.
"Senor Bush?" said the cheerful waiter with a rolling cart outside. "I have your lunch. Where would you like it?" His English was good, if heavily accented.
Orlando just blinked at him for a moment, then called, "Viggo!"
Viggo whirled around, stumbling a little, pulled the door open and came in with a grin, immediately speaking to the waiter in Spanish, gesturing and signing the bill. Orlando started picking up covers and checking out the food as the waiter left, then looked up at Viggo with a 'you've got to be kidding me' eyebrow.
"Senor Bush?"
"Yeah. George and Jeb. That's us." Viggo grinned. "I started to make you Laura, but I thought you might take exception. Considered Tony, too." He pulled the food cart over between the couch and one of the chairs and dropped onto the couch. "C'mon. Sit. Eat."
Orlando stood warily, watching. "I'm not hungry."
"Horseshit," Viggo said easily, uncovering the food, which had begun to smell temptingly good. "You haven't had a decent meal since breakfast yesterday at best. Eat." He began dishing food up onto two plates, setting one on the coffee table closest to the chair where Orlando had been sitting.
Finally admitting to himself that there was no reason why he shouldn't eat, Orlando sat and began to investigate the food. "Any tea?"
"Fraid not. Some of the best coffee you'll ever taste, though." Viggo poured Orlando a cup from the thermal carafe, then wandered out to get his own cup from the balcony and refresh it.
Orlando picked at the fresh fruit on his plate - pineapple and melon - and took a tentative taste of what appeared to be a tomato and cabbage salad. Viggo settled in as if this were the most normal thing in the world, tucking away beans and rice interspersed with fruit, clearly enjoying the food. They ate in silence, and Orlando was annoyed to find his appetite hearty. Somehow he wanted to be angry, or depressed, or something that would cause him to find food distasteful and make him want to stay in his room and mope. But the food was tasty, he was starving, the fresh air from the open balcony was wonderfully clean and clear, and the fact that he was registered in a hotel room in Costa Rica under the name of Jeb Bush was actually funny.
Damn Viggo Mortensen. Damn him all to hell and back. Ten times.
---
A good morning, Viggo thought. Orlando hadn't brought up leaving yet, and he'd been awake almost two hours. He polished off his gallo pinto and sat back on the couch, holding a chunk of pineapple up on his fork, considering it thoughtfully.
"The pineapple got its name because it looks like a pinecone," he mused. "But the only thing you get out of a pinecone is a hard little nut. Tastes all right, though."
"You are a freak of nature," Orlando said mildly.
"Did you know that some people believe pineapple can help induce labor in a woman who's overdue?"
"What earthly reason would I have for knowing that?"
"Because it's interesting?"
"I repeat, freak of-"
"Nature. Right. I remember." Viggo popped the pineapple chunk into his mouth and chewed it slowly, savoring every bit. "I don't believe that would induce labor for me. Might induce some sloth, though." He flashed Orlando a grin and scratched his much shorter beard.
"You cut your beard," Orlando said, as if on cue.
"Took a shower, too. Never let it be said I don't know how to treat company."
Orlando reached for his coffee and Viggo noticed that the cup shook for a split second before he got it under control. He took a cautious sip, then those beautiful brown eyes opened wide almost the way they used to, years ago. "That's ... that's excellent. So smooth."
"Told you."
Viggo watched him sip the coffee for a while, his eyes nearly closed as he savored the richness. "Sleep okay?"
"Slept great, in fact."
Time to introduce a reality. "We don't have a phone in this suite, Orlando. My cell's in the safe downstairs. I'd like to put yours with it." Now to wait and see how he took that idea.
"No phone?" A barely visible tremor shook the younger man, and Viggo could only imagine what he was thinking. It had taken decades of strong willpower to keep the damned telephone from becoming too much interference in his life, and he knew for a fact that Orlando hadn't even made an attempt. He was constantly on the phone, having his life interrupted until it had become nothing but an endless flow of interrupted interruptions and he'd lost the drift of his own existence. Would he be able to give up the drug?
"I- I need to call Robin."
"Why?" No accusatory, just asking.
Orlando stuttered, tried to find a reason, gave up. "My mum."
Viggo took a deep breath and let it out slow. "Did your mum know where you were three days ago, Orlando?"
"Of course she did!" Orlando's indignation was fast and fiery. "She always knows."
"Two days before that premiere, she knew?" Viggo was gambling now, but he felt like it was a pretty safe bet. He'd seen the way Lan was going, years ago.
"Of cour-" And the expected choke. Of course not. He no longer kept his mother informed of all his comings and goings, only the high points. Orlando flushed, then slowly looked drained. "My lawyer," he said, softly.
"Doesn't care." Viggo wouldn't let himself be soft, as much as he wanted to. "You told Robin you were going away for a while, right?"
Orlando nodded slowly, turning the coffee cup between pale fingers.
"She'll tell anybody who needs to know. Your people. Any friends you need to tell? Anybody who'll miss you if they don't hear from you for three weeks?"
Orlando shrank into himself and Viggo felt like the most evil of grinches. "Eric knows. He set this up. Maybe Sean. He calls sometimes."
"Sean knows." Viggo allowed himself a wry smile. "I thought Sean set it up. Sounds like your friends have been conspiring, Lan." The nickname slipped out by accident and Viggo froze.
Silence settled on the room for a long moment, a nervous rattly blanket of a silence.
"I need to be by myself for a while," Orlando said finally.
"Take the balcony," Viggo offered, standing. "It's a great view. I'll go downstairs for a swim."
"You shouldn't swim after eating."
"You're right, Mom. I'll be careful." As he walked past Orlando, his hand almost dropped to that familiar shoulder again, but again he caught it just in time. He went into his bedroom to change into his swim trunks, pulling the sweat pants back atop them and adding a baggy tee for decency's sake. On his way back across the living room to the door he met Orlando, who grabbed his hand and pressed a cell phone into it.
"For the safe downstairs," he said.
"Good deal," Viggo said, smiled, and left Orlando to his thoughts.
----
Beneath the balcony a world of emerald stretched down to a world of dusty leaf green that faded into brown until it banged up against the sapphire sparkle of the Pacific in the distance. Orlando stood just outside the door for a long while, afraid to commit further to the beauty of the place. The flagstones of the inside floors continued onto the balcony, and eventually he took a step forward to look down the side of the building.
It was as he'd remembered from his exhausted first look last night, all exotic wood and expanses of glass. He could hear the murmur of voices - other guests, he supposed, or staff - and then a shout of childish laughter that brought an automatic responding smile to his face. Other sounds filtered in slowly - the growl of a car engine in the distance, birds, birds and more birds, a woman's laughter, a faint clang of metal followed by a shout and a burst of what sounded suspiciously like giggles.
Without realizing it, Orlando had moved to the front of the balcony and stood leaning against the thick, smooth wooden railing. A soft sound of steady splashing drew his attention and he peered down and around one corner of the building, where he realized he could see one end of a swimming pool. A familiar form surged into sight, Viggo swimming laps, gliding underwater toward the pool wall, turning a smooth somersault and launching back away from the wall, unfolding into a sleek shark before breaching the surface to grab air and pull himself out of sight again. Orlando wondered what he was thinking about as he worked steadily through god knows how many laps he'd do this time. There was never any logic to it.
He broke away from the mesmerizing view of the aqua pool and dropped into one of the deck chairs, pulling his robe tight around him.
Why was he here? He should have left last night when he realized Viggo was here, but he didn't. And why did he hand over his cell? That was stupid. What if somebody needed to get in touch with him? About something important?
Orlando huddled inside the robe, arms tight around himself, and seriously thought about that.
Who would need to get in touch with him? Really need to? Nobody. Nobody that Robin or his lawyer couldn't take care of. Otherwise it was just people wanting him, wanting a part of him. Wanting his smile, his body, his face, his attention, his approval. Orli, be at this place at this time, wear those clothes. Orli, talk to this person, emphasize this thing, don't mention that thing. Orli, dress nice, don't drink so much, don't hug those people so much. Orli, here's a nice girl, she's got a movie deal pending, she can go with you. Orli, smile. Orli, smile. Orli, smile.
And who would want to get in touch with him? Mum. Sam. But be honest, Orlando... They don't call as much as they used to, do they? Maybe they got tired of always getting a brush-off. "Gotta run. Busy. Love you." And when was the last time you called either of them? Can't have been long. I called them for Christmas, of course.
Of course. Not. He was filming at Christmas, and it just seemed too far to make the long flight to London and back for a few days, so he didn't go home. He meant to call, but he'd spent the weekend - the week - with a few friends. He didn't remember who, sweet christ. And it was all a lot of blurry drinks and partying and ... god. And he never called. He never called.
When he realized his shaking was making the chair rattle, Orlando jerked himself up and stumbled across the living room into his bedroom. Digging through his luggage, he found the bottle of painkillers where he always kept it and just held it to his chest for a long time, waiting for the shaking to subside, waiting for the roaring in his ears to quieten.
When things settled just a bit, he started to open the bottle.
"What ya got there?" came the belov- hated voice from his doorway.
"Leave me alone!" Great Orli, sound like a snippy teen-age girl, why not?
"Not bothering ya. Just standing here."
Orlando ground his teeth and tried again to open the bottle. It was none of Viggo's damned business.
"Back hurting?"
"N- yes."
"I could rub it for you. No strings. Used to help."
His voice sounded closer and Orlando's hands were shaking so hard he couldn't get the goddamned bottle open. "Go away, Vig." It sounded weak and pathetic even to him.
A warm, hard hand closed over his and the bottle was gently pried away. When the bottle left his hands, Orlando felt like a puppet suddenly left without its strings. Some vital connection to something he didn't even have a name for was suddenly gone, and his life lay rolled out in front of him like an elaborate prayer rug, facing nowhere. He stared at it, looking for clues, and realized that he wasn't even in it. Only clever simulacra were there, wearing his face, flashing his smile, doing his dog and pony show, and he was nowhere to be found.
He collapsed onto the bed and was only vaguely aware of tender hands positioning him, pulling covers up, a gentle touch to his arm, and then the bedroom door was closed and he was left to drift into the darkness that became sleep.
---
Viggo felt battered. Battered and old, and not at all ready to go through with this. Slumping into his bedroom, he peeled off the wet trunks and replaced them with soft old jeans and a battered sweatshirt, then just sat on the bed for a while, staring at the floor. Dammit, he'd known it would be like this. He'd known he would come here for rest, and then Orlando would show up and no matter how much he tried not to care, he'd want to help him.
That way lies madness, he reminded himself. He doesn't need you. He doesn't want you. The two of you are over. He's a broken friend, that's all. You'll help him like you would any friend.
And who will help you? his mind asked annoyingly.
Shut the fuck up, he told it firmly, grabbed a book at random from the floor and padded into the living room to read.
---
It was dark by the time Orlando shuffled out of his bedroom, rubbing his eyes and yawning. "Tell me I didn't just sleep away the afternoon."
"Wouldn't want to lie." Viggo flipped a page but otherwise didn't move from where he was stretched out on the couch. "Probably needed it."
Orlando didn't respond, but wandered to the still-open balcony door and out into the cooling night. Viggo kept reading, finishing a chapter before tucking a feather in to hold his place and sliding the book onto the coffee table. "Hungry?" he called out.
Getting no answer, he got up, stretched, slid his feet into a pair of beat-up loafers and headed for the door. "Going downstairs for a few minutes," he called out. "Be right back."
As soon as Viggo left the room, Orlando came back in and headed straight for Viggo's bathroom. Hands trembling slightly, he checked through the sparse personal care items on the counter, then dug into the small kit bag, finding nothing more than some Tylenol. With a frustrated huff, and refusing to look at himself in the mirror, he went back out into the bedroom and stared around, narrow-eyed.
Viggo clutter. Clothes on chair backs, books on the floor, water bottles - full, empty and in-between- on the night stand. Papers. Sketches. No... wait... Even in his frustration, Orlando's attention was caught by an oddity. He'd spent enough time with Viggo to recognize full-out Viggo clutter and something wasn't right about this. Something wasn't making sense. He was still staring around at the floor, trying to work out the problem, when Viggo cleared his throat.
"Looking for these?" he asked, pulling the bottle of pills from his pocket.
Orlando just looked at him, defiantly. Or at least that's what he was hoping for.
Oddly dark blue eyes studied him expressionlessly for a long, uncomfortable time. "How many do you usually take?" was all he said, finally.
Orlando opened his mouth to deny that he "usually" did anything. He needed to tell Viggo to butt out, to arrange him some transport away from here and back to his life. He wanted to explain that he was a grown man, goddammit, and capable of fucking up things for himself, thank you very fucking much.
"Three," he said.
Viggo nodded, opened the bottle and shook out two, extending them to him. "How often?"
Orlando just stared at the floor. "No set time," he murmured. "No more often than six hours." He held out his hand and let the pills fall into his palm.
"How long?" The familiar voice had taken on a soft rasp now.
"Couple years."
"Not so much," Viggo said gently. "Not so bad. Water's in the fridge. Supper'll be up soon." He drifted away from the door and back to the living room, opening a cabinet beside the TV and cocking his head to study the DVD titles inside. "How about a movie night?"
Orlando stared at the two pills in his palm and thought about how Orli of five years ago would be in tears by now, throwing himself at Viggo and hoping the older man would make everything all right. That Orli was gone. He wondered briefly if that was the Orlando Viggo had loved, but shook the thought away. Might as well get some water, take the damn pills and face the music ... or the movie.
He was here. He could rest. He could get off the pills, maybe. He could have some time to think. Who knows, maybe he could even remember who he was.
----------
Viggo is a caring man. But you know that already, right? As a kid, he brought home strays. He worries about homeless people. He's infuriated by the status of health care in the wealthiest nation on earth.
He likes to give people things, to make them happy. Little gifts, big gifts; it's all the same. They're all from a crystal desire to cause that moment of joy, that slice of pure pleasure. He would have made a terrific fairy godfather, featherbrained and all.
But sometimes it all gets to be too much. He can't be caring, he can't give gifts, because the big white light of attention spears him all the time, and it all starts to look self-serving. And the man who often can't find his shoes and once kept his poetry in the refrigerator is suddenly being organized and sorted and scheduled in that white glare and he feels like he's dying in the light.
Viggo cares that he's in danger of losing himself, and that's a gift no one can give him back.
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Date: 2005-01-22 02:51 am (UTC)I so want Viggo to be able to help Lan, but Lan has to help himself first.
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Date: 2005-01-22 03:08 am (UTC)Glad you're enjoying!
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