Breathing Room (13/?)
Feb. 1st, 2005 10:45 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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vigorliTitle: Breathing Room (13/?)
Author: Rainweaver13
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Summary: Monteverde IV: Jazz and shopping
Rating/Warnings: R. All made up. Fiction. There's not a lick of truth in it.
Disclaimer: Don't own them; don't know anything about them - they are their own. I mean no disrespect and I'm certainly not profiting from this.
A/N: Please be warned: The geography and road system of Costa Rica are about to be totally trashed. Maybe you can forgive me; it's fiction. Also, my Spanish remains unreliable. Thanks for all the feedback so far. I'm honored and humbled.
-----------------
Previous Chapters Look under Personal Fics
January 2005, Day 7
Orlando, for lack of much else to do, had been acquainting himself with the English speakers on the Heliconia staff. It was a lazy, wandering occupation, but a surprisingly interesting one. For one thing, he learned that Viggo had somehow Orlando-proofed the hotel, at least as much as possible. Nobody would get him his phone, or tell him how to use any of the hotel phones. Nobody would get him a drink stronger than a beer. And nobody would act like he was anybody special.
Which really pissed him off, to be honest. But then he caught himself almost browbeating some poor maid, actually asking her, "Do you know who I am? I'm a really important movie star!" And it struck him what he was doing.
He apologized, then apologized again, and then fled back to the suite, developing a sudden overpowering need to call Robin, just to touch base, just to see how things were going. Viggo didn't even question his frantic demands for the cell from the safe, just gestured for him to sit down on the couch and used the remote to turn on the TV, tuning in the English-language version of CNN.
Orlando wanted to kill him. Strangling would be so satisfactory. He could just imagine the visceral pleasure of his fingertips grinding ever further into that stubbly neck. Heaven. But he let his fingers strangle his knees instead and watched CNN talk about the continued aftermath of deadly tsunamis, and dozens of U.S. soldiers newly killed in Iraq along with uncounted numbers of civilians and more killed in a botched suicide attempt that derailed two trains in Los Angeles and deadly winter weather all over the map.
After a while, Viggo sat forward and stretched, spine crackling softly. "Y'ever watch the news, Orlando?"
"Um... not so much, no. No time."
"Kinda helps you keep things in perspective." He stood and stared absently out the window. "B'lieve I'll go for a swim."
Orlando watched the news show for a while longer, thinking about the maid he'd yelled at. What was he to her life? A nice tip? So maybe she could go home and tell her friends she met Orlando Bloom. And that would mean what, exactly, to her life? Maybe a little magic. That's the best you could say. Of course he'd screwed that by shouting at her.
Fucking hell Viggo Mortensen. Cunting bastard. Christ, but Orlando hated him. He yanked up the book Viggo had left on the couch, to see what he was reading, but the goddamn thing was in Spanish. In a fit of frustration, Orlando hurled it across the room, the spine catching a vase and toppling a large flower arrangement to the flagstone floor.
Well. That was a satisfying crash. Also a huge mess. Orlando stared at it for a long moment, then made sure he had his key and went downstairs to ask for help. He felt like an idiot. Suddenly a nap seemed like a really fine idea.
When Orlando woke it was dark. A floor lamp in the living room glinted light off a few covered dishes on the coffee table. Closer inspection revealed his pain meds beside a bottle of water. Of Viggo there was no sign. Not on the balcony, not in his open-doored bedroom. Nowhere. The book he'd been reading, which had gotten wet in the Great Vase Incident, was lying open on the couch, pages waving gently with every sporadic breeze. Drying, Orlando thought, and reached down to ruffle the pages, breaking apart a few that wanted to stick together.
He ate his meal, a dish of richly seasoned chicken and rice with a salad and the ubiquitous fruit, and still no sign of Viggo. Although why he should care, he wasn't sure. It wasn't like he needed Viggo to be around all the time. And he certainly didn't need Viggo to report in on his whereabouts like some snot-nosed kid. Hell, for all he knew, Viggo was off fucking the chambermaid. Or the bartender. Or both. Or maybe there was some massive orgy going on in the staff quarters, all heaving sweaty bodies and everyone murmuring in that soft sexy Spanish. And all of them lavishing their attention on Viggo because they love him, because everybody loves him and he doesn't even have to try.
Christ.
Now he had to have a fucking shower. And a goddamn wank.
Orlando slammed everything he could conceivably slam on the way to the shower, through the shower, and out of the shower. It made him feel no better at all. And Viggo was still not there. Finally he gave up, dressed, and went looking for the damn lunatic.
After a cursory look around the lobby, restaurant and outdoor patios, Orlando decided the best bet was just to ask. A cheerful young woman with a torrent of red-brown curls looked up as he approached the front desk and gave him a broad smile.
"Buenos noches, Senor... Bush. How may I help you?"
Orlando thought she almost winked at the name. "Yeah, umm... bonus nachos to you, too." He gave her his almost-best smile. "Have you seen V- er... the other Senor Bush around tonight?"
"Si, senor... I believe someone said he is in the lounge."
Lounge? Orlando didn't even know this place had a lounge. He knew there was a casual bar attached to the restaurant. "You mean the restaurant bar?"
"No, senor. The lounge..." She pulled a hotel brochure from a display and opened it to a diagram of the floor plan, pointing to a small area tucked in behind the bar on the side away from the restaurant. "Go past the the bar and the restrooms and you will see it."
"Thank you." Orlando smiled and gave a little tip of the head, adding almost shyly, "Gracias."
"De nada, Senor Bush. Have a good evening."
Feeling much better with his prey cornered, Orlando sauntered into the restaurant, nodding to the staff he'd met, then through the bar, past the Senors and Damas and, sure enough, there was another room back there. Cozy, dimly lit, with a small bar along one wall, a line of intimate booths along another, and a dozen or so tables scattered through the room. Soft, meandering jazz came from a piano in the far corner. All in all, an excellent little gem of a room, Orlando thought, heading to the bar to order a beer. No wonder Viggo was here. He'd probably been hiding out here other times, too, the bastard. This looked like the kind of place where he liked to hole up with one of those ever-present notebooks and scribble for hours.
Sipping his beer, Orlando scanned the room, looking for his absentee roommate. He wasn't at any of the tables, but Viggo was more of a booth man, anyway. By craning and then standing and peering, Orlando could see at least partway into most of the booths, but didn't see Viggo anywhere. He looked back around at the bartender, who was wiping down a stack of freshly washed glassware.
"Senor?" he called softly, not wanting to disturb the atmosphere of the place.
The bartender looked up, zeroed in on him and hustled right over, wiping his hands. "Si? Puedo le ayudo?"
"Er... do you speak English?" Orlando asked hopefully.
"Lo siento," the bartender said with regret. "Solamente un poco. Little."
"Do you know Senor Bush? George Bush?" Abruptly Orlando felt utterly stupid saying that name, and felt himself begin to blush.
"Ah!" The bartender grinned. "Si. Alla." He pointed toward the corner near the piano.
"Thank you," Orlando said, the blush fading a little. "Gracias." He moved over a few seats at the bar to get a better look at the area around the piano. He must've overlooked Viggo on his first scan of the room.
The pianist ended a piece and reached up to take a glass from atop the piano. He sat up slightly to take a long drink, and shook chin-length gray-streaked blond hair back from his face as he stared for a moment at the wall. Then he put the glass back down, leaned over the keyboard and crept into a Fats Waller tune, slow and silky and somehow dangerous.
Orlando watched the whole thing, and still his brain didn't make the connection until several minutes later. Shit. The piano player was Viggo. Sitting there unannounced, in black jeans and a plain white button-down hanging loose, barefoot, he was every inch the jazz musician. Head down, back to the room and attention apparently riveted on the music, he seemed lost to the world. Orlando flicked a glance to the top of the piano and noted the four glasses lined up there, idly wondering how many, if any, had been taken away already.
As we watched, the bartender walked over and eased a fresh drink atop the piano, but Viggo never looked up from wherever he was lost in the music. Orlando was no great judge of musicianship, but he could tell Viggo was pretty good. Not great, but certainly adequate to a cozy lounge. Orlando had heard him play guitar before, and noodle around on a banjo - poorly - and squawk pretty sadly on a harmonica, but he'd forgotten that piano was Viggo's first instrument,
Another sip of what appeared to be whisky, and another number, this one with a Latin sound, a sultry salsa rhythm that could only be about pure sex. Orlando swigged his beer and relaxed against the bar, letting himself just enjoy the music. It was getting late; couples were starting to drift out of the lounge hand in hand, arm in arm. Maybe the music was stimulating some ideas; god knows it was making Orlando want to sway and get a little horizontal.
Abruptly Orlando was reminded of a rare rainy day in LA, of nestling against Viggo's chest on the comfortably beat-up old couch, listening to jazz music while Viggo talked about Art Tatum and Miles Davis, Ornette Coleman and Herbie Hancock, John Coltrane and Bill Evans. Orlando's taste in music ran more toward techno and house, but after a while he'd begun to appreciate the subtler charms of jazz. Or maybe it was just the combination of the warm body behind him and the soft raspy voice in his ear that made jazz sound so good that day.
Whatever, Orlando finished his beer and suddenly realized the room was empty except for him and the piano player... and the bartender, who looked tired.
Viggo reached up for the most recent fresh glass, almost fumbled it but made a clean save, and Orlando slid off his barstool to amble over to the piano.
"Hey, old man," he said softly, scrunching onto the bench beside Viggo. "B'lieve it's time for bed."
"Been here long?" Viggo didn't look up from the glass, which he was tilting back and forth to catch the light.
"Three or four songs. Took me a while to find you."
"Wasn't hiding."
"I know."
Viggo tipped the glass up and finished the last drink, then set the empty carefully in the line of dead soldiers. "I miss you, Lan."
Orlando sighed and slid an arm around the familiar shoulders. "I miss you, too, Vig."
They sat for a while, staring at the keyboard as if all the answers to all their problems could be found there, then Orlando slid off the bench and gently hauled Viggo over and up. Arms over shoulders, they headed for the door, Viggo calling out, "Hasta manana" to the bartender, only very slightly slurred.
The stairs were a bit of a trial, but not so bad. Orlando thought of how many times Viggo had brought him home from nights out and parties in New Zealand, when he'd lose track late in the evening and wake up the next day safe in his own bed. He always knew who'd taken care of him. He always knew who hadn't taken advantage of him. It took a little while, but Orlando had finally come to understand that Viggo was that rarity in the entertainment world, a truly nice person. And that truly nice, wonderfully talented, deeply caring man had loved him.
So what had Orlando done? Turned his back. Shut him out. Given him up for a double-decker busload of "friends" who wouldn't bother to remember his name the moment his star dimmed or the next big thing came along. Viggo began to hum softly as they ambled to the suite door, and Orlando thought for a brief moment that his heart might break.
But the moment passed, and there was business to keep him occupied. Doors to unlock, lights to turn on, tipsy Viggos to drop onto the bed. He didn't even have to take his shoes off... how convenient. Orlando paused for a moment, then reached into the front pocket of Viggo's jeans.
"Y'trying to molest me?"
Orlando snorted. "I'm getting my meds, okay?"
Viggo opened his eyes and forced himself to focus on Orlando's face. "Be good."
"One and a half, Vig. One and a half."
Viggo nodded and let his eyes droop closed. Orlando waited, not sure why, simply watching, until Viggo's breathing smoothed out and deepened and his face relaxed into sleep. Then, hating himself and cheering himself, he leaned over to press a soft, tender kiss to those familiar lips, smiling at the tickle of the brushy mustache.
Viggo murmured something unintelligible and brushed a hand at the disturbance but never woke up. Orlando shook out his one and a half pills, left the rest of the bottle sitting in Viggo's bathroom, and went to bed.
Day 8
Viggo studied Orlando over his glass of mango refresco, sprawling back on the couch to let breakfast settle. The younger man looked better, he decided. After a week away from the frustrations of his unreal life, he was starting to look almost like Orlando again - the dark circles fading from under his eyes, the yellowish tone of his skin giving way to the former smooth olive.
"You're staring at me. Why are you staring at me?" Orlando lifted his coffee cup to wash down a final bite of huevos fritos and tortilla.
"I miss your clothes."
"Hello. Still wearing clothes." Orlando indicated the dark jeans and dark blue silk shirt.
"I miss your old clothes. They were... unique. Individual. Very much Orlando."
"They were crap. I had the taste of a water buffalo."
Viggo tilted his head to one side and studied Orlando thoughtfully. "Who told you that?"
"Nobody had to tell me that. It was obvious."
Viggo simply sipped his juice and waited.
"They were kid clothes. Dumb kid clothes. Not the kind of thing I should be wearing now." Orlando leaned over to put his coffee cup down then sat back, crossing his arms and scowling. "Besides, you're one to talk. Whatever happened to that hideous green suit? The one you used to wear everywhere."
"Still got it. Lynne just said she'd burn it if I kept on wearing it to every single appearance." Viggo grinned. "Almost kept wearing just to see if she would, but I like that suit. So I got a blue one. And a gray one. Now I swap'em up. Everybody's happy."
"Yeah, well how about the plaid shirts?"
"Still wear those, too. Stop changing the subject. Who said your clothes were dumb kid clothes? Robin?"
"It's her job."
"To make you feel bad about yourself. Right. Bet you've got a stylist, too. Does the stylist make you feel bad about yourself?"
"No! Will you quit twisting everything?" Orlando jumped up and started prowling the edges of the room.
Viggo watched him for a few minutes, then stood and stretched, flexing that hinky knee. "Let's go shopping."
"What?" Orlando nearly ran into a plant, whipping around to blink at him owlishly.
"Let's go shopping. What the hell? We're grown men, loose in the world. We can do whatever the fuck we want to. Let's go shopping and buy anything we want for ourselves, and Lynne and Robin be damned."
Orlando just goggled at him and then slowly, gradually as the birth of a landslide, started laughing. Viggo grinned along, turning to amble into the bedroom for shoes, a wallet and car keys. He remembered to tuck Orlando's pills into his pocket on the way out of the room.
"Get your shoes on, elf boy. We've got things to do."
Viggo was heartened when, after a moment's hesitation, Orlando decided to go with the spur-of-the-moment idea. The younger man even laughed and made a few lame jokes as they rounded up some water and fruit ("Long way between MacDonald's out here") and got themselves loaded in the cruiser. The Great Shopping Expedition started in the small town of Monteverde, continued to the even smaller town of Santa Elena, then took a long winding trip down toward the Pacific to Puntarenas, a much larger tourist town on the Bay of Nicoya.
By late afternoon, they were loaded down with handwoven mesh bags, carved tagua nut figurines and charms, brilliantly colored mola shirts and bags, touristy T-shirts and, in a stunning coup de grace on Orlando's part, a neon orange baseball cap emblazoned with Costa Rica Bites and a crocodile.
When they settled in for supper at a restaurant on the beach, they were men transformed. Orlando sported bright green skateboarder shorts and a green, orange and cream striped dashiki-type pullover cotton shirt. Viggo took a seat at an outdoor table in loose cream cotton drawstring pants and a bright red shirt with a vibrant mola design of horses front and back. They grinned at each other across the table.
"Now that's the Orlando I remember," Viggo said, lifting his water bottle and tipping it toward his companion. "It suits you."
Orlando touched his water bottle to Viggo's, unable to keep the easy smile off his face as well. "I don't remember the last time I've been this relaxed."
"Good thing you're here, then."
"Good thing."
A waitress arrived to take their orders and, after a bit of negotiation, Viggo got their meal sorted out. "I'm just having one beer. Gotta drive. You suit yourself, though."
Orlando nodded, somewhat absently, staring out at the water. "Why am I here, Vig?"
Viggo leaned back in his chair, got comfortable. "All I can tell you is what I know. I planned to take a three-week vacation down here. Next thing I know, I get a call from Sean saying you need a break, asking if you could come here. Just so you could be alone but not all the way alone."
Waves rolled in with a calming hiss. The ocean, larger than all problems, taking away the day's offerings and leaving behind polished fragments of old traumas.
"Eric called me," Orlando said softly. "Said I needed a break. Said he'd already arranged it with Robin. All I had to do was pick up the ticket at the airport and go."
"You're a lucky man. Not too many people have friends who care that much."
"But why here? Why... with you?"
"I can't answer that one for you, elf boy." Although he thinks he probably could, and it involves nosy butt-in friends who won't accept reality.
The waitress bustled up to the table to serve their drinks and salads, breaking the conversation. Dinner continues with easy talk about this and that until they end up savoring rich flans and coffee while watching the sun go down in a postcard blaze over the ocean.
"So how's Kate?" Viggo asked finally.
"Over."
Long pause. Watch the ocean. Viggo sipped his coffee and waited.
"She got her big movie. Didn't really need the assist any more."
Orlando forked up the last of his flan, glanced across at Viggo. "How about that Spanish woman?"
"She was nice." Shrug. "She was a month, give or take. Turned out like they all do."
Chocolate eyes stared, openly curious, across the table. Viggo met the stare sidelong, then looked back at the ocean.
"Wanting the money, the glamour. The high life. Not some crazy fuck who gets up painting at two in the morning and forgets to comb his hair." Wry smile.
Orlando's laugh was the old, easy one of years past. "You do have your ways."
They sat in comfortable silence, watching as darkness melted across the ocean and climbed up the beach, bringing a deepening chill.
"Orlando..." Drawling to a halt, uncertain. The pause sits there, equally uncertain. "Is there anyone in your life? Now?" The question was hesitant; he suspected he had no right to ask but compulsion drove him.
Orlando stared out over the purpling ocean, eyes bittersweet black in the deepening twilight. "No." He seemed to consider, licking his lips once, absently. "I keep busy." As if that explained his aloneness, this beautiful young man who starred in the wet dreams of half the females of the world.
The drive back to Monteverde in the dark - and it is very dark on totally unlit roads - was long, winding and treacherous. Orlando picked the music and they ended up with an odd mixture of Led Zeppelin, Abba and Queen. "I can only work with what you've got here," he bitched under his breath as he dug through the few CDs in the cruiser. "Fossil."
Viggo laughed quietly and swatted him upside the head. "Rent your own car, pup."
As Viggo swigged a Pepsi he'd brought from the restaurant to keep him awake, Orlando slowly ran out of steam and began dozing off. After squirming for a while to find a comfortable position, he blinked sleepily at Viggo.
"C'mon," Viggo smiled, mellow after an excellent day. They'd had fun, and Orlando had only had one round of pills since morning.
Orlando shifted and adjusted himself across the middle of the seat until he rested his head on Viggo's shoulder. He sighed softly and wedged his head into the familiar spot, curls tickling Viggo's jaw, arm and shoulder warm through the thin cotton shirts. Slowly the familiar body went more limp as drowsiness took over. Viggo kept his eyes on the road and his heart in seclusion, and refused to think about the familiar feel, the familiar smell.
"Thanks, m'king," a barely audible sleep-fogged voice murmured.
A stab of pain shot through Viggo's heart and he honestly thought for a moment he'd have to stop the cruiser and throw up. His heart hammered against the inside of his rib cage so hard he was afraid it might break bones and fly free. I can't do this again, he thought. I can't do this again. God help me, I don't want to do this again. I want it so bad.
But what could he do? He drove on, into the dark.
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Viggo believes in living in the moment. He tries very hard not to let the past hold him down or possible futures hold him back. He wants to be awake, right now. Because right now is all we have. Savor the moment is his motto.
If it's raining, be in the rain, and then you can compare it to not being in the rain, if you want. Be in the moment. Even if it hurts.
But some moments hurt more than others.
Author: Rainweaver13
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Summary: Monteverde IV: Jazz and shopping
Rating/Warnings: R. All made up. Fiction. There's not a lick of truth in it.
Disclaimer: Don't own them; don't know anything about them - they are their own. I mean no disrespect and I'm certainly not profiting from this.
A/N: Please be warned: The geography and road system of Costa Rica are about to be totally trashed. Maybe you can forgive me; it's fiction. Also, my Spanish remains unreliable. Thanks for all the feedback so far. I'm honored and humbled.
-----------------
Previous Chapters Look under Personal Fics
January 2005, Day 7
Orlando, for lack of much else to do, had been acquainting himself with the English speakers on the Heliconia staff. It was a lazy, wandering occupation, but a surprisingly interesting one. For one thing, he learned that Viggo had somehow Orlando-proofed the hotel, at least as much as possible. Nobody would get him his phone, or tell him how to use any of the hotel phones. Nobody would get him a drink stronger than a beer. And nobody would act like he was anybody special.
Which really pissed him off, to be honest. But then he caught himself almost browbeating some poor maid, actually asking her, "Do you know who I am? I'm a really important movie star!" And it struck him what he was doing.
He apologized, then apologized again, and then fled back to the suite, developing a sudden overpowering need to call Robin, just to touch base, just to see how things were going. Viggo didn't even question his frantic demands for the cell from the safe, just gestured for him to sit down on the couch and used the remote to turn on the TV, tuning in the English-language version of CNN.
Orlando wanted to kill him. Strangling would be so satisfactory. He could just imagine the visceral pleasure of his fingertips grinding ever further into that stubbly neck. Heaven. But he let his fingers strangle his knees instead and watched CNN talk about the continued aftermath of deadly tsunamis, and dozens of U.S. soldiers newly killed in Iraq along with uncounted numbers of civilians and more killed in a botched suicide attempt that derailed two trains in Los Angeles and deadly winter weather all over the map.
After a while, Viggo sat forward and stretched, spine crackling softly. "Y'ever watch the news, Orlando?"
"Um... not so much, no. No time."
"Kinda helps you keep things in perspective." He stood and stared absently out the window. "B'lieve I'll go for a swim."
Orlando watched the news show for a while longer, thinking about the maid he'd yelled at. What was he to her life? A nice tip? So maybe she could go home and tell her friends she met Orlando Bloom. And that would mean what, exactly, to her life? Maybe a little magic. That's the best you could say. Of course he'd screwed that by shouting at her.
Fucking hell Viggo Mortensen. Cunting bastard. Christ, but Orlando hated him. He yanked up the book Viggo had left on the couch, to see what he was reading, but the goddamn thing was in Spanish. In a fit of frustration, Orlando hurled it across the room, the spine catching a vase and toppling a large flower arrangement to the flagstone floor.
Well. That was a satisfying crash. Also a huge mess. Orlando stared at it for a long moment, then made sure he had his key and went downstairs to ask for help. He felt like an idiot. Suddenly a nap seemed like a really fine idea.
When Orlando woke it was dark. A floor lamp in the living room glinted light off a few covered dishes on the coffee table. Closer inspection revealed his pain meds beside a bottle of water. Of Viggo there was no sign. Not on the balcony, not in his open-doored bedroom. Nowhere. The book he'd been reading, which had gotten wet in the Great Vase Incident, was lying open on the couch, pages waving gently with every sporadic breeze. Drying, Orlando thought, and reached down to ruffle the pages, breaking apart a few that wanted to stick together.
He ate his meal, a dish of richly seasoned chicken and rice with a salad and the ubiquitous fruit, and still no sign of Viggo. Although why he should care, he wasn't sure. It wasn't like he needed Viggo to be around all the time. And he certainly didn't need Viggo to report in on his whereabouts like some snot-nosed kid. Hell, for all he knew, Viggo was off fucking the chambermaid. Or the bartender. Or both. Or maybe there was some massive orgy going on in the staff quarters, all heaving sweaty bodies and everyone murmuring in that soft sexy Spanish. And all of them lavishing their attention on Viggo because they love him, because everybody loves him and he doesn't even have to try.
Christ.
Now he had to have a fucking shower. And a goddamn wank.
Orlando slammed everything he could conceivably slam on the way to the shower, through the shower, and out of the shower. It made him feel no better at all. And Viggo was still not there. Finally he gave up, dressed, and went looking for the damn lunatic.
After a cursory look around the lobby, restaurant and outdoor patios, Orlando decided the best bet was just to ask. A cheerful young woman with a torrent of red-brown curls looked up as he approached the front desk and gave him a broad smile.
"Buenos noches, Senor... Bush. How may I help you?"
Orlando thought she almost winked at the name. "Yeah, umm... bonus nachos to you, too." He gave her his almost-best smile. "Have you seen V- er... the other Senor Bush around tonight?"
"Si, senor... I believe someone said he is in the lounge."
Lounge? Orlando didn't even know this place had a lounge. He knew there was a casual bar attached to the restaurant. "You mean the restaurant bar?"
"No, senor. The lounge..." She pulled a hotel brochure from a display and opened it to a diagram of the floor plan, pointing to a small area tucked in behind the bar on the side away from the restaurant. "Go past the the bar and the restrooms and you will see it."
"Thank you." Orlando smiled and gave a little tip of the head, adding almost shyly, "Gracias."
"De nada, Senor Bush. Have a good evening."
Feeling much better with his prey cornered, Orlando sauntered into the restaurant, nodding to the staff he'd met, then through the bar, past the Senors and Damas and, sure enough, there was another room back there. Cozy, dimly lit, with a small bar along one wall, a line of intimate booths along another, and a dozen or so tables scattered through the room. Soft, meandering jazz came from a piano in the far corner. All in all, an excellent little gem of a room, Orlando thought, heading to the bar to order a beer. No wonder Viggo was here. He'd probably been hiding out here other times, too, the bastard. This looked like the kind of place where he liked to hole up with one of those ever-present notebooks and scribble for hours.
Sipping his beer, Orlando scanned the room, looking for his absentee roommate. He wasn't at any of the tables, but Viggo was more of a booth man, anyway. By craning and then standing and peering, Orlando could see at least partway into most of the booths, but didn't see Viggo anywhere. He looked back around at the bartender, who was wiping down a stack of freshly washed glassware.
"Senor?" he called softly, not wanting to disturb the atmosphere of the place.
The bartender looked up, zeroed in on him and hustled right over, wiping his hands. "Si? Puedo le ayudo?"
"Er... do you speak English?" Orlando asked hopefully.
"Lo siento," the bartender said with regret. "Solamente un poco. Little."
"Do you know Senor Bush? George Bush?" Abruptly Orlando felt utterly stupid saying that name, and felt himself begin to blush.
"Ah!" The bartender grinned. "Si. Alla." He pointed toward the corner near the piano.
"Thank you," Orlando said, the blush fading a little. "Gracias." He moved over a few seats at the bar to get a better look at the area around the piano. He must've overlooked Viggo on his first scan of the room.
The pianist ended a piece and reached up to take a glass from atop the piano. He sat up slightly to take a long drink, and shook chin-length gray-streaked blond hair back from his face as he stared for a moment at the wall. Then he put the glass back down, leaned over the keyboard and crept into a Fats Waller tune, slow and silky and somehow dangerous.
Orlando watched the whole thing, and still his brain didn't make the connection until several minutes later. Shit. The piano player was Viggo. Sitting there unannounced, in black jeans and a plain white button-down hanging loose, barefoot, he was every inch the jazz musician. Head down, back to the room and attention apparently riveted on the music, he seemed lost to the world. Orlando flicked a glance to the top of the piano and noted the four glasses lined up there, idly wondering how many, if any, had been taken away already.
As we watched, the bartender walked over and eased a fresh drink atop the piano, but Viggo never looked up from wherever he was lost in the music. Orlando was no great judge of musicianship, but he could tell Viggo was pretty good. Not great, but certainly adequate to a cozy lounge. Orlando had heard him play guitar before, and noodle around on a banjo - poorly - and squawk pretty sadly on a harmonica, but he'd forgotten that piano was Viggo's first instrument,
Another sip of what appeared to be whisky, and another number, this one with a Latin sound, a sultry salsa rhythm that could only be about pure sex. Orlando swigged his beer and relaxed against the bar, letting himself just enjoy the music. It was getting late; couples were starting to drift out of the lounge hand in hand, arm in arm. Maybe the music was stimulating some ideas; god knows it was making Orlando want to sway and get a little horizontal.
Abruptly Orlando was reminded of a rare rainy day in LA, of nestling against Viggo's chest on the comfortably beat-up old couch, listening to jazz music while Viggo talked about Art Tatum and Miles Davis, Ornette Coleman and Herbie Hancock, John Coltrane and Bill Evans. Orlando's taste in music ran more toward techno and house, but after a while he'd begun to appreciate the subtler charms of jazz. Or maybe it was just the combination of the warm body behind him and the soft raspy voice in his ear that made jazz sound so good that day.
Whatever, Orlando finished his beer and suddenly realized the room was empty except for him and the piano player... and the bartender, who looked tired.
Viggo reached up for the most recent fresh glass, almost fumbled it but made a clean save, and Orlando slid off his barstool to amble over to the piano.
"Hey, old man," he said softly, scrunching onto the bench beside Viggo. "B'lieve it's time for bed."
"Been here long?" Viggo didn't look up from the glass, which he was tilting back and forth to catch the light.
"Three or four songs. Took me a while to find you."
"Wasn't hiding."
"I know."
Viggo tipped the glass up and finished the last drink, then set the empty carefully in the line of dead soldiers. "I miss you, Lan."
Orlando sighed and slid an arm around the familiar shoulders. "I miss you, too, Vig."
They sat for a while, staring at the keyboard as if all the answers to all their problems could be found there, then Orlando slid off the bench and gently hauled Viggo over and up. Arms over shoulders, they headed for the door, Viggo calling out, "Hasta manana" to the bartender, only very slightly slurred.
The stairs were a bit of a trial, but not so bad. Orlando thought of how many times Viggo had brought him home from nights out and parties in New Zealand, when he'd lose track late in the evening and wake up the next day safe in his own bed. He always knew who'd taken care of him. He always knew who hadn't taken advantage of him. It took a little while, but Orlando had finally come to understand that Viggo was that rarity in the entertainment world, a truly nice person. And that truly nice, wonderfully talented, deeply caring man had loved him.
So what had Orlando done? Turned his back. Shut him out. Given him up for a double-decker busload of "friends" who wouldn't bother to remember his name the moment his star dimmed or the next big thing came along. Viggo began to hum softly as they ambled to the suite door, and Orlando thought for a brief moment that his heart might break.
But the moment passed, and there was business to keep him occupied. Doors to unlock, lights to turn on, tipsy Viggos to drop onto the bed. He didn't even have to take his shoes off... how convenient. Orlando paused for a moment, then reached into the front pocket of Viggo's jeans.
"Y'trying to molest me?"
Orlando snorted. "I'm getting my meds, okay?"
Viggo opened his eyes and forced himself to focus on Orlando's face. "Be good."
"One and a half, Vig. One and a half."
Viggo nodded and let his eyes droop closed. Orlando waited, not sure why, simply watching, until Viggo's breathing smoothed out and deepened and his face relaxed into sleep. Then, hating himself and cheering himself, he leaned over to press a soft, tender kiss to those familiar lips, smiling at the tickle of the brushy mustache.
Viggo murmured something unintelligible and brushed a hand at the disturbance but never woke up. Orlando shook out his one and a half pills, left the rest of the bottle sitting in Viggo's bathroom, and went to bed.
Day 8
Viggo studied Orlando over his glass of mango refresco, sprawling back on the couch to let breakfast settle. The younger man looked better, he decided. After a week away from the frustrations of his unreal life, he was starting to look almost like Orlando again - the dark circles fading from under his eyes, the yellowish tone of his skin giving way to the former smooth olive.
"You're staring at me. Why are you staring at me?" Orlando lifted his coffee cup to wash down a final bite of huevos fritos and tortilla.
"I miss your clothes."
"Hello. Still wearing clothes." Orlando indicated the dark jeans and dark blue silk shirt.
"I miss your old clothes. They were... unique. Individual. Very much Orlando."
"They were crap. I had the taste of a water buffalo."
Viggo tilted his head to one side and studied Orlando thoughtfully. "Who told you that?"
"Nobody had to tell me that. It was obvious."
Viggo simply sipped his juice and waited.
"They were kid clothes. Dumb kid clothes. Not the kind of thing I should be wearing now." Orlando leaned over to put his coffee cup down then sat back, crossing his arms and scowling. "Besides, you're one to talk. Whatever happened to that hideous green suit? The one you used to wear everywhere."
"Still got it. Lynne just said she'd burn it if I kept on wearing it to every single appearance." Viggo grinned. "Almost kept wearing just to see if she would, but I like that suit. So I got a blue one. And a gray one. Now I swap'em up. Everybody's happy."
"Yeah, well how about the plaid shirts?"
"Still wear those, too. Stop changing the subject. Who said your clothes were dumb kid clothes? Robin?"
"It's her job."
"To make you feel bad about yourself. Right. Bet you've got a stylist, too. Does the stylist make you feel bad about yourself?"
"No! Will you quit twisting everything?" Orlando jumped up and started prowling the edges of the room.
Viggo watched him for a few minutes, then stood and stretched, flexing that hinky knee. "Let's go shopping."
"What?" Orlando nearly ran into a plant, whipping around to blink at him owlishly.
"Let's go shopping. What the hell? We're grown men, loose in the world. We can do whatever the fuck we want to. Let's go shopping and buy anything we want for ourselves, and Lynne and Robin be damned."
Orlando just goggled at him and then slowly, gradually as the birth of a landslide, started laughing. Viggo grinned along, turning to amble into the bedroom for shoes, a wallet and car keys. He remembered to tuck Orlando's pills into his pocket on the way out of the room.
"Get your shoes on, elf boy. We've got things to do."
Viggo was heartened when, after a moment's hesitation, Orlando decided to go with the spur-of-the-moment idea. The younger man even laughed and made a few lame jokes as they rounded up some water and fruit ("Long way between MacDonald's out here") and got themselves loaded in the cruiser. The Great Shopping Expedition started in the small town of Monteverde, continued to the even smaller town of Santa Elena, then took a long winding trip down toward the Pacific to Puntarenas, a much larger tourist town on the Bay of Nicoya.
By late afternoon, they were loaded down with handwoven mesh bags, carved tagua nut figurines and charms, brilliantly colored mola shirts and bags, touristy T-shirts and, in a stunning coup de grace on Orlando's part, a neon orange baseball cap emblazoned with Costa Rica Bites and a crocodile.
When they settled in for supper at a restaurant on the beach, they were men transformed. Orlando sported bright green skateboarder shorts and a green, orange and cream striped dashiki-type pullover cotton shirt. Viggo took a seat at an outdoor table in loose cream cotton drawstring pants and a bright red shirt with a vibrant mola design of horses front and back. They grinned at each other across the table.
"Now that's the Orlando I remember," Viggo said, lifting his water bottle and tipping it toward his companion. "It suits you."
Orlando touched his water bottle to Viggo's, unable to keep the easy smile off his face as well. "I don't remember the last time I've been this relaxed."
"Good thing you're here, then."
"Good thing."
A waitress arrived to take their orders and, after a bit of negotiation, Viggo got their meal sorted out. "I'm just having one beer. Gotta drive. You suit yourself, though."
Orlando nodded, somewhat absently, staring out at the water. "Why am I here, Vig?"
Viggo leaned back in his chair, got comfortable. "All I can tell you is what I know. I planned to take a three-week vacation down here. Next thing I know, I get a call from Sean saying you need a break, asking if you could come here. Just so you could be alone but not all the way alone."
Waves rolled in with a calming hiss. The ocean, larger than all problems, taking away the day's offerings and leaving behind polished fragments of old traumas.
"Eric called me," Orlando said softly. "Said I needed a break. Said he'd already arranged it with Robin. All I had to do was pick up the ticket at the airport and go."
"You're a lucky man. Not too many people have friends who care that much."
"But why here? Why... with you?"
"I can't answer that one for you, elf boy." Although he thinks he probably could, and it involves nosy butt-in friends who won't accept reality.
The waitress bustled up to the table to serve their drinks and salads, breaking the conversation. Dinner continues with easy talk about this and that until they end up savoring rich flans and coffee while watching the sun go down in a postcard blaze over the ocean.
"So how's Kate?" Viggo asked finally.
"Over."
Long pause. Watch the ocean. Viggo sipped his coffee and waited.
"She got her big movie. Didn't really need the assist any more."
Orlando forked up the last of his flan, glanced across at Viggo. "How about that Spanish woman?"
"She was nice." Shrug. "She was a month, give or take. Turned out like they all do."
Chocolate eyes stared, openly curious, across the table. Viggo met the stare sidelong, then looked back at the ocean.
"Wanting the money, the glamour. The high life. Not some crazy fuck who gets up painting at two in the morning and forgets to comb his hair." Wry smile.
Orlando's laugh was the old, easy one of years past. "You do have your ways."
They sat in comfortable silence, watching as darkness melted across the ocean and climbed up the beach, bringing a deepening chill.
"Orlando..." Drawling to a halt, uncertain. The pause sits there, equally uncertain. "Is there anyone in your life? Now?" The question was hesitant; he suspected he had no right to ask but compulsion drove him.
Orlando stared out over the purpling ocean, eyes bittersweet black in the deepening twilight. "No." He seemed to consider, licking his lips once, absently. "I keep busy." As if that explained his aloneness, this beautiful young man who starred in the wet dreams of half the females of the world.
The drive back to Monteverde in the dark - and it is very dark on totally unlit roads - was long, winding and treacherous. Orlando picked the music and they ended up with an odd mixture of Led Zeppelin, Abba and Queen. "I can only work with what you've got here," he bitched under his breath as he dug through the few CDs in the cruiser. "Fossil."
Viggo laughed quietly and swatted him upside the head. "Rent your own car, pup."
As Viggo swigged a Pepsi he'd brought from the restaurant to keep him awake, Orlando slowly ran out of steam and began dozing off. After squirming for a while to find a comfortable position, he blinked sleepily at Viggo.
"C'mon," Viggo smiled, mellow after an excellent day. They'd had fun, and Orlando had only had one round of pills since morning.
Orlando shifted and adjusted himself across the middle of the seat until he rested his head on Viggo's shoulder. He sighed softly and wedged his head into the familiar spot, curls tickling Viggo's jaw, arm and shoulder warm through the thin cotton shirts. Slowly the familiar body went more limp as drowsiness took over. Viggo kept his eyes on the road and his heart in seclusion, and refused to think about the familiar feel, the familiar smell.
"Thanks, m'king," a barely audible sleep-fogged voice murmured.
A stab of pain shot through Viggo's heart and he honestly thought for a moment he'd have to stop the cruiser and throw up. His heart hammered against the inside of his rib cage so hard he was afraid it might break bones and fly free. I can't do this again, he thought. I can't do this again. God help me, I don't want to do this again. I want it so bad.
But what could he do? He drove on, into the dark.
-------------------------------------
Viggo believes in living in the moment. He tries very hard not to let the past hold him down or possible futures hold him back. He wants to be awake, right now. Because right now is all we have. Savor the moment is his motto.
If it's raining, be in the rain, and then you can compare it to not being in the rain, if you want. Be in the moment. Even if it hurts.
But some moments hurt more than others.
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wowowowow. wow.
Date: 2005-02-01 05:51 pm (UTC)i love their voices, very distinct, the humanity to both of them, their fears and anger and love.
I can't do this again, he thought. I can't do this again. God help me, I don't want to do this again. I want it so bad.
*weeps* poor poor viggo :(
If it's raining, be in the rain, and then you can compare it to not being in the rain, if you want
i loooove that he thought this, last week i saw an interview with viggo and he said just this. did you see it?
in short, GUH!!!
*squishes*
Re: wowowowow. wow.
Date: 2005-02-01 06:01 pm (UTC)Oh god, I'm so glad you like my Viggo. I must confess... my teen-age daughter beta reads for me and she claims I write Viggo like myself, so maybe I'm cheating. ::laughing:: I *wish* I were half as talented and fascinating as he is.
I did see that interview and loved the part about being in the rain, so I sorta nicked it. ::sheepish grin::
The poor babies are in such pain alone. I just hope they can find some common ground.
Thanks again for such lovely feedback. I'll be walking three inches above the ground the rest of the day.
Rain
Ego-boosted :D
no subject
Date: 2005-02-01 06:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-01 06:31 pm (UTC)"I can't do this again. God help me, I don't want to do this again. I want it so bad."
And this says everything about it. Life is a bitch as is fame and stardome, to think what they do to people...
I so hope they'll find together again or Orli to himself at least.
Thanks *hugs*
no subject
Date: 2005-02-01 07:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-02-01 07:27 pm (UTC)More to come...
Rain
no subject
Date: 2005-02-01 07:29 pm (UTC)Rain
no subject
Date: 2005-02-01 07:30 pm (UTC)Rain
no subject
Date: 2005-02-01 08:16 pm (UTC)I loved the part where Viggo was playing jazz on the piano, I could see it all in my mind, and hear the music!
Also tonight you have made me cry, poor dear Viggo, not wanting to go back to sad times with Orlando, but needing to. I am afraid that just cracked me up, and the tears fell.
Thank you for sharing this remarkable story with us. *Hugs you*
no subject
Date: 2005-02-01 08:54 pm (UTC)A little while further to go, I think. ::hug::
Rain
*sigh*
Date: 2005-02-02 01:47 am (UTC)We discussed how much this fic means to both of us. Sure it's only a story, but I hope you know it is so much more than that to us, to me really. I can't even really describe adequately what draws me in so much. I love both Viggo & Orlando so much individually, but the way you write them together is breathtaking. The story is so sad yet so beautiful.
I know I'm rambling, and you're probably tired of me gushing, but again I just wanted you to know how much I look forward each day to reading the next chapter to this wonderful fic. I know the ending I'd like to see, but regardless if that happens or not, I'm sure in your capable hands I will thoroughly enjoy what you come up with.
[/end of gushfest]
Re: *sigh*
Date: 2005-02-02 02:19 am (UTC)I'm not entirely sure of the ending yet. They haven't shown me. I know a couple of things coming up, but not everything. I'll say this: I went into this story not really liking Orlando, but I've come to feel much more sympathy for him during the writing. He's come alive for me more than I expected. I knew Viggo was alive, but Orlando was a surprise.
Anyway, thanks for the wonderful reactions. This keeps me writing.
Rain
no subject
Date: 2005-02-02 08:41 pm (UTC)If you didn't catch any of that...I LOVE THIS!!!
I just don't know or have any idea whether anything is gonna happen with them and it makes it so much better!
*smooches*
*bounces while she waits*
<3333
no subject
Date: 2005-02-02 09:53 pm (UTC)Glad you're enjoying it, though.
Rain