vigorli

Title: Breathing Room (17/?)
Author: Rainweaver13
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Summary: Monteverde VII: Talktalktalk

Rating/Warnings: PG-13. 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: I'm honored by the generous feedback so far. It's keeping me going
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Previous Chapters Look under Personal Fics

January 2005, Day 10, Part 2

After a lunch punctuated by Orlando's gleeful renditions of Sean's side of the Ditch the Bitch conversation, and much laughter on both sides, the younger man excused himself and vanished on some mysterious mission of his own.

Viggo, still chuckling, went up to the suite, kicked his shoes off, and dug around in his duffel until he found his untouched hidden pack of cigarettes. Snagging a lighter from the clutter on the nightstand and then a bottle of water from the fridge, he went out onto the balcony and allowed himself a boneless sprawl onto a deck chair.

He could realistically allow himself a little credit, he thought, as he lit up the first smoke in better than two weeks and drew in a slow, aching drag. Orlando got dumped on him, to be blunt. And at a time when he, Viggo, was in no condition to even deal with himself, much less anybody else. But damn it, he'd sucked it up and tried to do what was right by Lan. It looked like, maybe, it was working. Orlando was very close to being off the painkillers. He had taken the biggest step toward getting rid of Robin, and Lynne - or whoever Lynne found for him - would help him get some control over his professional life.

Viggo took another drag and made a mental note to remind Lynne that Orlando mostly needed help with learning to say no. The boy had always been dangerously eager to please, and that was a trait that could only get you eaten alive in Hollywood.

He's not a boy any more, a little voice reminded Viggo, and he conceded that that was true. The willowy boy had grown into a slender but sturdy man, and the dark eyes that were all unshuttered wonder and overflowing joy six years ago had become wary and on their way to jaded. As pissed as Viggo was for being put in this untenable and unfair position, he had to admit that it was almost worth it in the last two days, just to see Orlando's eyes light up with wonder again in the cloud forest and joy during the Bitch Ditching Incident.

Leaning over to drag an ash tray into reach, he tapped off a load of ash and resumed smoking, staring up into today's clear blue sky. The thin line of smoke twisting upward against the blue caught his attention. With no wind, it simply kept rising until it dispersed for lack of anything holding it together. Viggo wondered if he would do that, if things kept going as they were going. Once he didn't have Alatriste to keep him moving forward, once Henry was in college, would he just start to disperse?

Shit. He'd sworn to himself he wasn't going to do this. Maybe it was time for a drink.

He pulled the last drag off the cigarette, ground it out, and was lighting a second when the door opened behind him and Orlando stepped out onto the balcony. Even if he weren't the only other person who should be in the suite, Viggo would have recognized him without looking anyway. It was the smell. Orlando always smelled like a cosmetics counter. Viggo chuckled as Orlando dropped into the deck chair across the small patio table.

"What're you laughing at, old man?" Orlando asked, mock offended.

"How you always smell so good," Viggo replied honestly, laying back and taking a drag.

"Not all of us can manage to smell like a greenhouse," Orlando said loftily. "Including fertilizer."

"Jealous."

"Frightfully honest."

"I know you always wanted to share my funk."

"Now you're getting personal."

"At least I don't have girly hair."

Orlando snorted, then shifted to find a more comfortable position in the chair. "What are you upset about?"

"What?" The abrupt shift out of pointless banter startled Viggo and he glanced over at Orlando, then quickly away.

"You're smoking," Orlando said patiently. "You only smoke when you're upset."

Viggo thought of several ways to respond, to deflect, to slide the conversation away from this potentially hazardous point, but ultimately he realized he was just too damn tired to care. Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing to talk about it a little to somebody. But only a little.

"Just have a lot on my mind, that's all."

The other deck chair creaked as Orlando stretched out on it, reaching over to snag Viggo's water bottle, open it, and help himself to a swig. He put it back down between them.

"Like what?"

Viggo sighed. "Like I'm gonna sell the LA house when I get back, unless Henry has a problem with it."

"But why? I thought you liked that house."

And it was the house that was ours, Viggo thought, for that small time when there was an "us." "I can't take LA any more. I'm making Idaho my home base." Viggo shrugged, took another drag and exhaled away from Orlando. "I've moved so many times in LA, and every time it was into more of a prison. This last place... now I've got high stone walls and security gates, and people still think it's necessary to take pictures of my ass when I'm picking up newspapers in my own yard. I just... I can't breathe any more. I can't go to the neighborhood grocery store without somebody hidden in the security cage with a camera." He glanced over at Orlando. "I don't know how you stand it. But I can't."

"I don't... so particularly well," Orlando said quietly. "Sometimes it's okay."

"Yeah. If it's when you expect it, like at events. No problems there. I just can't stand losing my private life. So. I'm off to Idaho."

"When will you leave?"

"Depends on Henry." Ashes spill like gray snow into the drifts below. "If he wants me to hold out for another year, til he goes off to college, I'll try to do that."

"If not?"

"Then yesterday's not soon enough. I despise that place." Viggo reached for the water bottle, took a sip and put it back. "I may have to keep a small apartment, just for when I need to be there on business, but that's all. Otherwise I'm shaking the dust of LA off my feet."

He looked over at Orlando. "I always envied you, y'know. That you had London. And Canterbury. Places to get away from the mob."

Orlando snorted. "London's no good for that, not for me. Not any more. I can't take a piss in London without the rags knowing what color it was. What it smelled like. Its chemical composition."

Viggo studied him for a moment. "Must save a fortune in drug tests."

Orlando rolled his head over and stared, then broke up laughing. "Christ, I've missed you."

"Still just Viggo." He smiled and looked away, up at the sky, still smiling. "Although I appreciate the compliment."

Orlando was still chuckling when a small hard object hit Viggo on the thighs. He glanced down, then picked up a package wrapped in newspaper. "What's this?"

"A gift. Hilario didn't have any gift wrap. I had to improvise."

Viggo smiled, bemused. "No birthday around that I know of. Is it a bomb?"

"No, asswipe, it's not a bomb." Orlando rolled his eyes, grinning. "Open it."

Tucking the cig in one corner of his mouth, Viggo pulled loose the newspaper to reveal a rectangular cardboard box in a blinding neon yellow, with attachments front, back and top. He cradled it in his hands and stared at it for a long silent moment.

"It's a camera," Orlando said finally.

"I can see that."

"It's just one of those cheap disposables, but that's all I could find. Vig, you don't have a camera here."

"I'm aware of that." Quietly.

"But you never go anywhere without a camera. Sometimes you don't even go to bed without-" Orlando trailed off, clearly unsure what this reaction was. "Vig... something's wrong. I'm sorry I've been such a self-absorbed asshole and haven't even noticed, but I- I've- been noticing, the last couple of days."

"Lan..."

"You don't have a camera. I haven't seen you writing. Not even those little doodles you always make all over the place. You don't look sick, but something's not right. It's in your eyes -"

"Orlando..." A little stronger, still not looking at him.

"It's like something's died, Vig. Is something wrong with Henry? Is something wrong with you?"

"Stop! Just... stop!" Viggo didn't realize he was trembling until he saw the small camera shaking in his hands. He closed both hands over it firmly and stilled himself with a deep breath, then reached up to pull the last drag off the cigarette. Grinding the butt out much more viciously than he intended, he sent ash flying all over the tabletop.

"There's things I need to say to you, Lan," he said finally, shakily. "But you're gonna have to give me a little time."

"Sure," Orlando said, his voice quiet but tense. "I can wait."

Viggo shoved himself out of the chair and stood into a stretch, bending all around before turning to face Orlando, ready to take on the worried chocolate eyes. "Thank you for the camera," he said quietly. "I'll see if... maybe..." He shrugged, running out of words to address that particular problem right now.

Crossing around to the far side of Orlando's chair, he knelt there, looking slightly up at the young man. "I need to go for a walk, okay?" Orlando nodded slightly, eyes wide and still worried. "When I come back, I'll talk."

Viggo stood, looking down at the face that was once more precious than any other but Henry's, and felt good sense and resistance crumbling moment by moment. He brushed his knuckles lightly across Orlando's cheekbone and down his jaw. "Thank you," he murmured, then practically ran into the suite, dove into his shoes and out the door.

-----
Orlando Bloom is no fool, although he's beginning to think maybe he's been acting like one. At least somewhat. But that's beside the point right now. Right now he's sprawling on a deck chair in the afternoon sun, toying with a water bottle, and thinking about the last six years. Specifically, he's thinking about himself and about Viggo.

Viggo frustrated Orlando in New Zealand; there's no two ways around that. Orlando wanted the older man so bad that it physically hurt sometimes, and yeah, okay, he'd taken some comfort here and there from some people who weren't so damn noble about on-set relationships. But none of those meant anything other than a one or two-time tension reliever. He was pretty sure Viggo knew about at least some of them, but he'd never said anything about them.

And the thing was, Orlando had gotten so accustomed to Viggo's being there, to his being steady and calm and reliable, that it had become easy to, well... yeah... to take him for granted. Viggo was always good for a ride home if you'd had too much to drink, or a back rub if you'd overworked yourself. He was no saint - he'd flake off in mid-sentence, he took the whole "filthy ranger" thing way too seriously, he'd just vanish for days at a time, with nobody except maybe Pete knowing where he was.

Truth was, he was - and is - a mind-boggling combination of completely reliable and utter nutcase. He could remember the precise position he'd ended a scene in four days ago and hit that spot on the money when the follow-up scene was to shoot, but then he wouldn't know what day it was.

Just about every woman on set was at least a little bit in love with him, from Fran and Philipa on down, and he treated them all with the same courteous friendliness. Orlando was pretty sure he'd had at least a few nights with some local women, although he was exceedingly discreet. A handful of times Bean or Bernard had had to haul Viggo home at the end of a long night at the Parrot, but that was rare.

Now that he thinks about it, Orlando wonders why he was never the one to take Viggo home. He must have been at least somewhat sober, or he wouldn't have such a vivid memory of Viggo's arm slung around Bean's shoulders, long dark hair spilling against blond as they wavered their way to the door, Bean's laugh drifting back into the restaurant.

Because he'd taken Viggo for granted, even then. Orlando tips the water bottle end to end, absently watching the tiny waveforms travel their truncated paths inside.

Then filming was over and Viggo came to him, all fire and freedom, offering everything, and Orlando had never known anything like that. Never. Every physical relationship he'd ever had had involved secrets and limits and withholdings, but Viggo was just wide open. Body, heart, spirit, everything. And then 2002 had been heaven.

Now it's Orlando's turn to stare up at the relentless blue of the sky, and remember. Take the blinders off himself and really remember just how good it had been for those precious few months. It's time, Orlando, he tells himself.

Remember how good it felt, knowing that somebody cared for you because of who you are, not what you do or how beautiful you are? Remember how good it felt, knowing that somebody paid enough attention to note your preferences and quirks and little oddities? How long did you play at relationship with Kate and she never bothered to learn something as simple as how to make a decent cup of tea, or that you like your toast nearly burned, with red currant jelly? Remember how good it felt feeling safe? Feeling calm? Feeling protected? Feeling loved?

So why, why, why did you leave him? Because let's face it, O.B., Orli, Orlando old buddy, you left that man. You let yourself drift away from him and you made no effort to stop it. Why? Because - if you thought at all - you thought he'd always be there. That you could do whatever dumbass shit you were gonna do, and when it was all over and you were too metaphysically drunk to get your butt home safe, Viggo would magically be there.

That's the bottom line. You took him for granted, and when he put the reins into your hands, you threw them away and went out of control.

Orlando sits and stares and thinks hard thoughts.

Afternoon sun has lifted the mist from the trees and they glow a brilliant emerald near the hotel. He hears children shouting and laughing, a woman's voice calling a warning. Distantly, metal and glass sounds clang from the kitchen. A breeze has arisen and it stirs the treetops into a lazy brew. He can smell ash from Viggo's cigarettes, a hint of chiles from the kitchen, an underlying rich mossiness from the forest.

Orlando feels as alive as he has felt in years.

And he realizes that his life had gone out of control, and by some miracle, Viggo was here. And now things are better.

He fingers the charms on his chest, closes his eyes, and frames a prayer to a higher power he doesn't have a name for, asking for a second chance.

-----
By the time Viggo returned, darkness had fallen. Orlando, forcing himself not to worry, had ordered room service dinner and had someone start a small fire in the fireplace to knock the chill out of the room. He turned the TV on, searching for something as background, and settled thoughtfully on CNN for a while. He wasn't entirely sure about this watching the news business, but he'd give it a try.

Viggo entered quietly not long after the news started. Orlando glanced over immediately at the movement and stood in a hurry.

"Vig? Are you okay?" Orlando took in the dirty bare feet, the jeans wet up to the knees, the grass and leaves literally from head to toe on the artist's back.

"Yeah. Fine. Just took a nap."

"Where're your shoes?"

"Did I have shoes?"

Orlando snorted softly and moved toward him, chuckling. "Need a shower?"

"Probably." Viggo headed toward his bedroom, handing Orlando the now slightly crushed camera. Then he dug in a pocket and wordlessly handed him two pill bottles, immediately slipping into the bedroom, into the bath and closing the door.

Orlando just stood there, abandoned, and stared at the bathroom door. Finally he thought to look down at the items in his hands. The camera, he figured out rapidly, had had about ten shots taken. The two pill bottles - one was his pain pills, and Orlando was surprisingly moved that Viggo would trust him with the bottle now. The other was a medication he didn't recognize immediately, but it rang a nagging bell of familiarity in the back of his mind.

Crossing back to the couch, he put the pills and the camera on the coffee table just in time to answer the doorknock announcing the arrival of dinner. By the time Viggo came out, clean and still damp in threadbare sweats and an ancient T-shirt, dinner was on the coffee table and Orlando was settled in on one end of the couch, starting to eat.

Viggo made himself comfortable on the other end of the couch, tucking one bare foot under a thigh, and took a few bites, glancing at the muted TV news, then putting his fork down.

"Last year was hell," he murmured quietly, eyes unseeing on the TV. Shifting slightly, taking a deep breath and placing his hands carefully on his knees, "I stopped painting. Couldn't write. Couldn't take pictures. It was sometime after Thanksgiving. After Violence principle filming wrapped. Don't know when exactly, but I just felt sick. Thought maybe I had the flu or something. Things got... fuzzy. I remember looking at my fingernails. I don't have fingernails. They're always broken off or clipped, but I had fingernails. And I thought 'fingernails keep growing after you die.' Maybe that's it. Maybe that's it."

The mumble had grown so soft that Orlando felt himself leaning toward Viggo just to be able to hear. One hand unconsciously grasped the spill of charms around his neck, holding on to all the good luck he could grab.

"I thought about just going to sleep until it was all over, but I was afraid I'd scare Henry. I'd already been a shit father once last year and scared him bad. So I... umm... I called Sean to see if he could hear me." A little crooked smile lightened his face at that memory, but he kept that death grip on his knees. "That was an interesting call."

"I can imagine," Orlando said very softly, not wanting to interrupt.

"Sometime later Sean showed up at the house and said we were going to a doctor. Long story short, doc said I have severe depression. Put me on some medicine. Got things I'm supposed to be doing." A tired shrug. "There y'go. Whole story."

Orlando suspected it was nowhere near the whole story, but he wasn't about to pry at this point. "You came down here to work on the depression."

"Mostly." No use denying it. "Thought maybe if I just had some time to think... But now I'm not so sure."

"You got me shoved on you."

Viggo looked at him, blue eyes clear and intense. "Yeah. But I think maybe it's turning out for the best. Maybe it wouldn't have been so good to be alone."

"But you didn't need ... me. A problem." Orlando took his own deep breath, letting it out slow. "A reminder."

Viggo studied him for an uncomfortably long moment, then reached over to place a hand on Orlando's shoulder. "It would have been a problem if you hadn't been so ready to help yourself, Lan. But you've done the work. And I am so fucking proud of you."

Blue eyes met brown and for a suspended time a million hopes, dreams and regrets flowed back and forth between them. Then Viggo squeezed Orlando's shoulder and turned back to his dinner.

Orlando absently reached up to touch the spot where Viggo's warmth still lay against his skin. He studied the familiar profile as Viggo ate, then went back to his own meal. They ate in companionable silence until they were down to the flan, which Viggo had such a taste for that the kitchen always sent him up two.

"Is the medicine helping?" Orlando asked during dessert.

"Seems to be. Doc said it'd take a month to six weeks to really kick in." Viggo shrugged. "Haven't had any creative ideas for cooking knives lately."

Orlando's stomach did an abrupt lurch into a slow roll at that casual comment. Viggo suicidal? The option didn't even come up on his personal list of worst things imaginable. Orlando put down his empty dessert plate and sat back abruptly, hugging himself against a sudden chill.

"Need a blanket?" Viggo asked.

"No." Orlando kicked his shoes off, pulled his legs up onto the couch and hugged them. "The thought of you... dying..."

Viggo watched him with forlorn fascination. "It's not like I seemed to matter to you, Orlando." The words were whisper soft, but seemed to cut like knives coming from his lips.

"I was a fool," Orlando whispered back. "I walked away from real treasure to chase after a handful of glitter."

Viggo's smile was slow as icemelt and brilliant as sunrise. It was also crooked, gap-toothed, goofy and the most gorgeous thing Orlando had seen in at least a year. "You've got six days to convince me you mean what I think you just said."

Orlando laughed, loud, relieved and gleeful. "Let's see how it goes, old man."

"Have some flan, elf boy." Viggo extended a forkful to Orlando's still smiling mouth.

With six days left in Costa Rica, the two men spent that evening watching "Citizen Kane" on the TV, with Viggo propped comfortably in one corner of the couch and Orlando nestled between his legs, leaned back against his chest. Viggo toyed with Orlando's hair and Orlando stroked Viggo's leg, and all in all, it was the best night either of them could remember in a long time.

-----------------------
Viggo has always tended toward depression. Many artists do. But he has a natural positiveness that works to fend the worst of the dark moods away. He has always had what he calls blue moods and black moods.

Blue moods are actually welcome. He tends to get a lot of work done during blue moods, which tend to last for weeks, sometimes even months. The work he does during blue moods tends to be his better work, which is why he likes them. It's also fairly easy to compensate for a blue mood if, for instance, you need to do a job or participate in some kind of event. You can jack yourself up enough to last a few hours, as long as you can just deflate somewhere afterward. Those are blue moods.

Black moods are a whole other ball of wax. Black moods tend to be both shorter and deeper. They may only last days, maybe a week, but during that time the world turns to ash. Food has no flavor. Drinks have no impact. The world is a faded black and white photo. People are fluttering paper at best, hostile predators at worst. Work done during a black mood tends to be frightening. It's not possible to compensate for a black mood. The best way to deal with it is just to shut yourself away from the world until it's over.

The depression that overcame him at the end of 2004 was a different kind, a kind he had no experience with. It had the flavor-sucking qualities of a black mood, but it lasted a long time like a blue mood. And he could compensate for it, but only with one helluva lot of effort. Frankly, it scared him.

He hopes that now, having been introduced to it, he won't have to deal with it again.