Breathing Room (19/20
Feb. 18th, 2005 06:21 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
rainweaver13.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
vigorliTitle: Breathing Room (19/20)
Author: Rainweaver13
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Summary: Monteverde IX: Final days in paradise
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: As always, thanks so much for your helpful feedback.
-----------------
Previous Chapters Look under Personal Fics
January 2005, Day 13
On Orlando's 13th day in Costa Rica, Viggo's 18th, the two men took a sky canopy tour of the cloud forest. Orlando thought he'd died and gone to heaven. Viggo laughed until his sides hurt.
After climbing steps up, up and up high into the canopy of the forest, they found themselves confronted with a system of rope bridges, zip lines, and tree-anchored platforms that allowed them to roam acres of forest without ever touching the ground.
Orlando, of course, loved the zip lines, and went whizzing through the trees like an overgrown monkey, getting wet branch smacks for his trouble and loving it. Viggo wasn't so crazy about the zip lines, but he chortled watching Orlando act a fool, zipping here and there and wandering the rope bridges trying to find his way back.
They weren't alone in the trees this time, but got mostly amused looks from other tourists - none of the "oh my god, aren't you...?" they'd both learned to loathe. For a short while Orlando took up company with a pair of preteen boys, racing to the zip lines and making the rope bridges shake so much that they all got yelled at by one nervous woman.
Viggo stared out over the forest, into the mist, watching for the brilliantly colored birds that would sometimes erupt from the canopy without warning. One bridge swung within a yard of an enormous tree; a single limb arcing over the walkway was bigger than Viggo could reach around. By stretching a little, he could touch the tree's main trunk, leaning only a bit on the rope barrier. He closed his eyes and shut everything else out, focusing all his attention on the few inches where his hand touched the tree. Taking in, with tiny fingertip brushes, the exact texture of the bark, the pattern of its cracks, the presence of small cool mossinesses within the overall damp roughness. It felt green, he decided. No surprise. But dark green with brown, and black with touches of gray. Emerald should show up, too, but only in bits, like jewels hidden.
He could paint this.
Murmuring a brief but heartfelt thanks, he faced the tree and opened his eyes. Directly in front of him - although he hadn't seen it at all before - was an exquisite yellow orchid. Three blooms, each no larger than his thumb, bobbed lightly on long, thin stems.
Three yellow orchids. A gift. They go in the painting, too.
He needed to write this down.
Viggo patted his pockets and came up dry. No pen. No pencil. No nothing. He pulled away from the tree and turned to see if he could find any likely looking tourists and there was Orlando.
Grinning. Holding the napkin and a pen out to him.
Viggo grabbed them, muttered, "Thank you," then "Turn around." And while Orlando stood as still as he could on the slightly swaying bridge, Viggo propped the napkin on Orlando's back and jotted notes - and a rough sketch - for a possible painting. When he finished, he ceremoniously handed the folded napkin and pen back to Orlando, then caught him in a hard, rib-crunching hug.
"God help me, but I love you," Viggo murmured into Orlando's ear. "How can you be so damned loveable?"
"Just lucky, I guess," Orlando said with a grin, sliding one hand into Viggo's back pocket. The other hand still held the precious writing implements. He pulled their bodies together, held the embrace for a moment, then let Viggo back away.
"Now what say we finish up this funhouse ride?" Orlando said cheerfully. "I'm about an hour from starving and I have business this afternoon. Which does not involve you." A crisp nod.
"Huh. Guess I feel told. Okay, let's do it, then."
For the rest of the tour, Orlando stayed off the zip rides and they walked side by side on the rope bridges, hands brushing more often than not.
-----
Once upon a time, a handsome prince fell in love with a gentle king.
-----
Left to his own devices for the afternoon, Viggo picked up Defourneaux's Daily Life in Spain in the Golden Age, got comfortable on the balcony and read until he dozed.
He refused to let himself think about Orlando, or about what might or might not be happening between them. It was enough that he'd felt a small flare of interest in painting again, a slight urge to put words to paper. Maybe the doctor was right; maybe he could climb back out of the hole he'd fallen in. That was enough hope to cling to for one sunny afternoon. So he let himself fall deep into the ups and downs of everyday life in the great Spanish empire, pondered Diego Alatriste, and relaxed.
----
Supper was solitary, in a private corner of the restaurant patio. Annetta, his waitress, brought him two extra candles and tried to talk him into going for a warmer shirt, but he finally gave her a kiss on the back of the hand and his most winning smile and she conceded to leave him alone with his thoughts.
Some things about Costa Rica reminded him of Idaho, like the way the people could be so unexpectedly kind, and the way wildness was only a few steps away at any time. But Idaho couldn't touch the kind of lushness that ruled here. He wondered whether that much lushness, over time, would tend to erode your senses rather than enhance them. That thought kept him busy through supper.
Over coffee and the flan he'd grown addicted to, he pondered what to say to Orlando tomorrow. He allowed himself the luxury of imagining what a real partnership might be like, something strong and rooted but with plenty of flexibility and freedom for lifestyles that would never be ordinary. He wondered whether Orlando would even consider making any sort of commitment. Viggo knew that he was not an easy person to live with. Exene wasn't the only person who'd ever accused him of being remote, aloof, obsessive, withdrawn. Sometimes he wondered why anybody put up with him at all, and in his deepest heart was grateful for Henry, who was more or less obliged to.
But that wasn't where he needed his mind to go. Not right now.
Viggo brought himself back to the pleasure of the caramel custard and the cool, ever-moving night sky, and held himself steadily in the present.
---
By the time he finished supper it was well after dark and Viggo wasn't worried about Orlando. He idly checked the suite, which was still empty, but he wasn't worried. Orlando was a grown man and fully capable of taking care of himself, even all alone in a country where he didn't speak the language and dammit Viggo was not responsible for him and wouldn't worry. And that was that.
So he asked Enrique the night desk clerk if he knew, by chance, where Senor Jeb might be, and Enrique asked around among the staff and came back with the news that Senor Jeb had left after lunch with Hilario's daughter Marisa and they were supposed to be back by midnight.
By midnight.
Okay. No problem. Viggo was tired, anyway. Stripping and sliding under the covers back in the suite, he picked up Spain in the Golden Age again and enjoyed some more uninterrupted reading time.
-----
Once upon a time, a handsome prince fell in love with a gentle king.
The princewas would have been the luckiest man on earth, if only he if not for a tendency habit of sticking his head up his arse on a regular basis.
-----
A full half-hour was still left before midnight when Orlando, arms laden with shopping bags, crept quietly into the suite at the Heliconia. The lights were out in the living room but still on in each of the bedrooms, so he made his way stealthily, yawning widely, into his room and stashed the bags there. Pausing, he listened but heard no sound from Viggo's room, so he figured he hadn't been busted.
It had been a long day but a fun one, and he was ready to crash and burn. Stretching like a lazy cat, he wandered into the bathroom and quickly brushed his teeth and took his single pain pill. Stripping down to boxers, he pulled down the covers of his bed but then paused thoughtfully and looked over his shoulder toward the adjoining room. For a few long minutes he wrestled with the idea, but dammit, he was just so tired of being alone. He didn't want anything from Viggo, really, so much as just company.
Finally making up his mind, he padded silently from his room, clicking off the light, and to the door of Viggo's, where he lost another little piece of what was left of his heart. The older man had clearly fallen asleep reading, because a hardcover book lay sprawled open across his chest. One arm was draped across his eyes to block the light from the lamp, which was shining practically directly in his face. The other arm sprawled across the second pillow, hand curled almost tenderly against it, loosely holding a large leaf. Maybe that was the bookmark. One foot had managed to migrate clear of the covers and wore a startling neon blue sock. God knew where that came from: The man rarely wore socks during the day and almost never at night, as far as Orlando knew.
Gently Orlando plucked the leaf from the outstretched hand and lifted the book from Viggo's chest. He wasn't overly worried about waking him: Viggo didn't tend to sleep long, but when he slept, he slept like the dead. It took trumpeting herds of elephants to wake him from a sound sleep.
Marking his place with the leaf and setting the book aside, Orlando clicked off the light and felt his way around to the other side of the bed, pulling down the covers and sliding in with as little disruption as possible. Christ, but Viggo was so warm. He always was. It made him irresistible in cold rooms. Orlando had accused him once of keeping his room so fucking cold at night just so he - Orli - would be forced to cuddle for warmth.
"How 'bout all those nights you aren't here?" Viggo had asked lazily, chuckling.
"Then it's just to keep your libido in check," Orlando had said, sliding a still-chilly hand down Viggo's flat belly to perform a libido check.
"Otherwise I would be such a danger." Sarcastically amused.
"Starlets would have to wear chastity belts." Orlando's hand had grown friendly with danger. "Stars would have to wear chastity - er - jock straps."
"Maybe you should... just spend more... nights ... here."
"That's another option."
"More of what you're doing... less talk."
"Yes, m'lord."
Smiling at the memory, Orlando rolled gently into the heat sink that was Viggo, curling up against his side and breathing a sigh of utter contentment as Viggo adjusted in his sleep to wrap around the once-habitual presence. He was still smiling when he slid into sleep.
------------
Once upon a time, a handsome prince fell in love with a gentle king.
The prince would have been the luckiest man on earth, if not for a habit of sticking his head up his arse on a regular basis. When he got it up there, all he could see was his own selfishwishes wants wishes and he forgot that the rest of the world was out there existed. He surrounded himself with beautiful blank puppets and every toy he'd ever imagined, and he declared himself king of his the world.
-------
Day 14
Viggo woke early, as was his habit, and not alone. It had been quite a while since the last time he awoke sharing a bed. He knew immediately, of course, that it was Orlando. No one snuggled close quite like Orlando. He'd spent ten years in bed with Exene, on and off, and she'd never snuggled to speak of after the first few weeks. Bit of a blow torch herself, Exene was. Between the two of them, it's a wonder the sheets didn't just smolder into flame some night and burn the fucking house down.
Smiling to himself, Viggo rolled over slightly, wincing at the total numbness that was his right arm, trapped under Orlando's head, and struggled to focus on the soft-featured face lax in sleep, half on his arm.
"Glad you made it back, babe," he murmured softly, touching his left hand lightly against the side of Orlando's face. There was a small perfection in how his hand fit Lan's face, he'd always thought. Almost, the face felt fragile under his hands, but never quite. It wasn't like a woman's face, and he took strength from that. His thumb brushed lightly over the thin beginnings of beard before rising to hover, not quite touching, over a full bottom lip, dry from sleep.
Orlando murmured incoherently and wrapped an arm around Viggo's side. Viggo studied the familiar face with total concentration. He was all too aware that if nothing came of this time together, this was probably the last time he would ever see Orlando. In a few days this forced togetherness would end. Orlando would return to his life of ever-booming stardom, and Viggo would return to... something different from the last year. Clearly the frenzy of activity he'd thrown himself into to try to get over the beautiful young man now resting on his arm had done him more damage than good. Maybe it was time to turn inward.
Viggo really didn't know, to be honest. The combination of late-appearing fame, however moderate, and the whole ordeal with Orlando had turned his life upside down. One hell of a mid-life crisis, he smiled crookedly to himself.
Closing his eyes, he let his fingertips brush lightly down the side of Orlando's face, down the relaxed tendons of his neck. They spread across the elegant bridge of clavicle, forefinger straying down to remember the V at the bottom of his throat. As the questing hand slid up and over the familiar shoulder, learning the new, heavier muscles there, the touch grew less gentle, more firm. He caressed a bicep thicker with muscle, remembering each freckle, each small scar. With his eyes closed, he could see Orlando more clearly, in some ways, than with them open, and he lost himself in sensory input. Bringing the hand back up to Orlando's shoulder, he started downward again, this time over the smooth skin of his chest, ghosting across a nipple, shifting slightly to slide his hand around Orlando's side where it had rested so often.
Viggo pulled in a long, deep breath and let it out slowly, beginning to flex the numb fingers of his right hand in preparation for the soon-to-be painful job of waking that arm up. But mostly, he simply lay and enjoyed the warmth and the feeling of rightness that came with having his hand on Orlando's bare waist, wishing it could last.
"Hey," Orlando said softly, voice low and gravelly with sleep.
Viggo startled, hand flinching guiltily away from its resting place.
Orlando chuckled and reached up to pull the hand back into place. "You look about ten years old and like you just got caught with your hand in the biscuit tin."
"I thought you were asleep."
"I was. Had a pleasant awakening, though."
"Bit presumptuous of me, I guess."
Sleep-drunk brown eyes studied blue from a pillow apart. "No," Orlando said.
"Sorry I woke you. It's early yet. You should go back to sleep."
"Vig?"
"Mmmm?"
"Do you remember any Elvish? The songs you sang?"
"Some." His fingers, unruly, insisted on stroking the soft skin of Orlando's side, firmly enough not to tickle.
"Sing to me?"
"If you'll let me have my dead arm." Viggo offered a small smile.
Orlando blinked, raised his head and looked down, then chuckled sheepishly. "Christ. That's gonna hurt like hell."
"I'll live." Viggo gingerly got the limb in question down so that circulation could begin to return. "If I sing, will you go back to sleep?"
"Promise."
"Okay then."
Orlando readjusted so that he was lying against Viggo but not actually on him, and obediently closed his eyes. Viggo took a deep breath, steadied, and began to sing softly.
Tinúviel elvannui
Elleth alfirin ^edhelhael
O hon ring finnil fuinui
A renc gelebrin^ thiliol ...
-------------
Viggo wants to believe. He allows himself to hope. He is scared shitless at the position he has allowed himself to get into right now. In a week's time, he could be a very happy man or he could be emptied of all but the most basic will to keep going.
How did he let this happen?
He will kill Sean Bean. It will be in all the tabloids.
----------------
Author's Note: The song Viggo sings is near the beginning of The Lay of Luthien. I figured nobody would want to hear more than four lines. Translated, it is: Tinuviel the elven-fair, Immortal maiden, elven-wise, About him cast her shadowy hair And arms like silver glimmering.
Author: Rainweaver13
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Summary: Monteverde IX: Final days in paradise
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: As always, thanks so much for your helpful feedback.
-----------------
Previous Chapters Look under Personal Fics
January 2005, Day 13
On Orlando's 13th day in Costa Rica, Viggo's 18th, the two men took a sky canopy tour of the cloud forest. Orlando thought he'd died and gone to heaven. Viggo laughed until his sides hurt.
After climbing steps up, up and up high into the canopy of the forest, they found themselves confronted with a system of rope bridges, zip lines, and tree-anchored platforms that allowed them to roam acres of forest without ever touching the ground.
Orlando, of course, loved the zip lines, and went whizzing through the trees like an overgrown monkey, getting wet branch smacks for his trouble and loving it. Viggo wasn't so crazy about the zip lines, but he chortled watching Orlando act a fool, zipping here and there and wandering the rope bridges trying to find his way back.
They weren't alone in the trees this time, but got mostly amused looks from other tourists - none of the "oh my god, aren't you...?" they'd both learned to loathe. For a short while Orlando took up company with a pair of preteen boys, racing to the zip lines and making the rope bridges shake so much that they all got yelled at by one nervous woman.
Viggo stared out over the forest, into the mist, watching for the brilliantly colored birds that would sometimes erupt from the canopy without warning. One bridge swung within a yard of an enormous tree; a single limb arcing over the walkway was bigger than Viggo could reach around. By stretching a little, he could touch the tree's main trunk, leaning only a bit on the rope barrier. He closed his eyes and shut everything else out, focusing all his attention on the few inches where his hand touched the tree. Taking in, with tiny fingertip brushes, the exact texture of the bark, the pattern of its cracks, the presence of small cool mossinesses within the overall damp roughness. It felt green, he decided. No surprise. But dark green with brown, and black with touches of gray. Emerald should show up, too, but only in bits, like jewels hidden.
He could paint this.
Murmuring a brief but heartfelt thanks, he faced the tree and opened his eyes. Directly in front of him - although he hadn't seen it at all before - was an exquisite yellow orchid. Three blooms, each no larger than his thumb, bobbed lightly on long, thin stems.
Three yellow orchids. A gift. They go in the painting, too.
He needed to write this down.
Viggo patted his pockets and came up dry. No pen. No pencil. No nothing. He pulled away from the tree and turned to see if he could find any likely looking tourists and there was Orlando.
Grinning. Holding the napkin and a pen out to him.
Viggo grabbed them, muttered, "Thank you," then "Turn around." And while Orlando stood as still as he could on the slightly swaying bridge, Viggo propped the napkin on Orlando's back and jotted notes - and a rough sketch - for a possible painting. When he finished, he ceremoniously handed the folded napkin and pen back to Orlando, then caught him in a hard, rib-crunching hug.
"God help me, but I love you," Viggo murmured into Orlando's ear. "How can you be so damned loveable?"
"Just lucky, I guess," Orlando said with a grin, sliding one hand into Viggo's back pocket. The other hand still held the precious writing implements. He pulled their bodies together, held the embrace for a moment, then let Viggo back away.
"Now what say we finish up this funhouse ride?" Orlando said cheerfully. "I'm about an hour from starving and I have business this afternoon. Which does not involve you." A crisp nod.
"Huh. Guess I feel told. Okay, let's do it, then."
For the rest of the tour, Orlando stayed off the zip rides and they walked side by side on the rope bridges, hands brushing more often than not.
-----
Once upon a time, a handsome prince fell in love with a gentle king.
-----
Left to his own devices for the afternoon, Viggo picked up Defourneaux's Daily Life in Spain in the Golden Age, got comfortable on the balcony and read until he dozed.
He refused to let himself think about Orlando, or about what might or might not be happening between them. It was enough that he'd felt a small flare of interest in painting again, a slight urge to put words to paper. Maybe the doctor was right; maybe he could climb back out of the hole he'd fallen in. That was enough hope to cling to for one sunny afternoon. So he let himself fall deep into the ups and downs of everyday life in the great Spanish empire, pondered Diego Alatriste, and relaxed.
----
Supper was solitary, in a private corner of the restaurant patio. Annetta, his waitress, brought him two extra candles and tried to talk him into going for a warmer shirt, but he finally gave her a kiss on the back of the hand and his most winning smile and she conceded to leave him alone with his thoughts.
Some things about Costa Rica reminded him of Idaho, like the way the people could be so unexpectedly kind, and the way wildness was only a few steps away at any time. But Idaho couldn't touch the kind of lushness that ruled here. He wondered whether that much lushness, over time, would tend to erode your senses rather than enhance them. That thought kept him busy through supper.
Over coffee and the flan he'd grown addicted to, he pondered what to say to Orlando tomorrow. He allowed himself the luxury of imagining what a real partnership might be like, something strong and rooted but with plenty of flexibility and freedom for lifestyles that would never be ordinary. He wondered whether Orlando would even consider making any sort of commitment. Viggo knew that he was not an easy person to live with. Exene wasn't the only person who'd ever accused him of being remote, aloof, obsessive, withdrawn. Sometimes he wondered why anybody put up with him at all, and in his deepest heart was grateful for Henry, who was more or less obliged to.
But that wasn't where he needed his mind to go. Not right now.
Viggo brought himself back to the pleasure of the caramel custard and the cool, ever-moving night sky, and held himself steadily in the present.
---
By the time he finished supper it was well after dark and Viggo wasn't worried about Orlando. He idly checked the suite, which was still empty, but he wasn't worried. Orlando was a grown man and fully capable of taking care of himself, even all alone in a country where he didn't speak the language and dammit Viggo was not responsible for him and wouldn't worry. And that was that.
So he asked Enrique the night desk clerk if he knew, by chance, where Senor Jeb might be, and Enrique asked around among the staff and came back with the news that Senor Jeb had left after lunch with Hilario's daughter Marisa and they were supposed to be back by midnight.
By midnight.
Okay. No problem. Viggo was tired, anyway. Stripping and sliding under the covers back in the suite, he picked up Spain in the Golden Age again and enjoyed some more uninterrupted reading time.
-----
Once upon a time, a handsome prince fell in love with a gentle king.
The prince
-----
A full half-hour was still left before midnight when Orlando, arms laden with shopping bags, crept quietly into the suite at the Heliconia. The lights were out in the living room but still on in each of the bedrooms, so he made his way stealthily, yawning widely, into his room and stashed the bags there. Pausing, he listened but heard no sound from Viggo's room, so he figured he hadn't been busted.
It had been a long day but a fun one, and he was ready to crash and burn. Stretching like a lazy cat, he wandered into the bathroom and quickly brushed his teeth and took his single pain pill. Stripping down to boxers, he pulled down the covers of his bed but then paused thoughtfully and looked over his shoulder toward the adjoining room. For a few long minutes he wrestled with the idea, but dammit, he was just so tired of being alone. He didn't want anything from Viggo, really, so much as just company.
Finally making up his mind, he padded silently from his room, clicking off the light, and to the door of Viggo's, where he lost another little piece of what was left of his heart. The older man had clearly fallen asleep reading, because a hardcover book lay sprawled open across his chest. One arm was draped across his eyes to block the light from the lamp, which was shining practically directly in his face. The other arm sprawled across the second pillow, hand curled almost tenderly against it, loosely holding a large leaf. Maybe that was the bookmark. One foot had managed to migrate clear of the covers and wore a startling neon blue sock. God knew where that came from: The man rarely wore socks during the day and almost never at night, as far as Orlando knew.
Gently Orlando plucked the leaf from the outstretched hand and lifted the book from Viggo's chest. He wasn't overly worried about waking him: Viggo didn't tend to sleep long, but when he slept, he slept like the dead. It took trumpeting herds of elephants to wake him from a sound sleep.
Marking his place with the leaf and setting the book aside, Orlando clicked off the light and felt his way around to the other side of the bed, pulling down the covers and sliding in with as little disruption as possible. Christ, but Viggo was so warm. He always was. It made him irresistible in cold rooms. Orlando had accused him once of keeping his room so fucking cold at night just so he - Orli - would be forced to cuddle for warmth.
"How 'bout all those nights you aren't here?" Viggo had asked lazily, chuckling.
"Then it's just to keep your libido in check," Orlando had said, sliding a still-chilly hand down Viggo's flat belly to perform a libido check.
"Otherwise I would be such a danger." Sarcastically amused.
"Starlets would have to wear chastity belts." Orlando's hand had grown friendly with danger. "Stars would have to wear chastity - er - jock straps."
"Maybe you should... just spend more... nights ... here."
"That's another option."
"More of what you're doing... less talk."
"Yes, m'lord."
Smiling at the memory, Orlando rolled gently into the heat sink that was Viggo, curling up against his side and breathing a sigh of utter contentment as Viggo adjusted in his sleep to wrap around the once-habitual presence. He was still smiling when he slid into sleep.
------------
Once upon a time, a handsome prince fell in love with a gentle king.
The prince would have been the luckiest man on earth, if not for a habit of sticking his head up his arse on a regular basis. When he got it up there, all he could see was his own selfish
-------
Day 14
Viggo woke early, as was his habit, and not alone. It had been quite a while since the last time he awoke sharing a bed. He knew immediately, of course, that it was Orlando. No one snuggled close quite like Orlando. He'd spent ten years in bed with Exene, on and off, and she'd never snuggled to speak of after the first few weeks. Bit of a blow torch herself, Exene was. Between the two of them, it's a wonder the sheets didn't just smolder into flame some night and burn the fucking house down.
Smiling to himself, Viggo rolled over slightly, wincing at the total numbness that was his right arm, trapped under Orlando's head, and struggled to focus on the soft-featured face lax in sleep, half on his arm.
"Glad you made it back, babe," he murmured softly, touching his left hand lightly against the side of Orlando's face. There was a small perfection in how his hand fit Lan's face, he'd always thought. Almost, the face felt fragile under his hands, but never quite. It wasn't like a woman's face, and he took strength from that. His thumb brushed lightly over the thin beginnings of beard before rising to hover, not quite touching, over a full bottom lip, dry from sleep.
Orlando murmured incoherently and wrapped an arm around Viggo's side. Viggo studied the familiar face with total concentration. He was all too aware that if nothing came of this time together, this was probably the last time he would ever see Orlando. In a few days this forced togetherness would end. Orlando would return to his life of ever-booming stardom, and Viggo would return to... something different from the last year. Clearly the frenzy of activity he'd thrown himself into to try to get over the beautiful young man now resting on his arm had done him more damage than good. Maybe it was time to turn inward.
Viggo really didn't know, to be honest. The combination of late-appearing fame, however moderate, and the whole ordeal with Orlando had turned his life upside down. One hell of a mid-life crisis, he smiled crookedly to himself.
Closing his eyes, he let his fingertips brush lightly down the side of Orlando's face, down the relaxed tendons of his neck. They spread across the elegant bridge of clavicle, forefinger straying down to remember the V at the bottom of his throat. As the questing hand slid up and over the familiar shoulder, learning the new, heavier muscles there, the touch grew less gentle, more firm. He caressed a bicep thicker with muscle, remembering each freckle, each small scar. With his eyes closed, he could see Orlando more clearly, in some ways, than with them open, and he lost himself in sensory input. Bringing the hand back up to Orlando's shoulder, he started downward again, this time over the smooth skin of his chest, ghosting across a nipple, shifting slightly to slide his hand around Orlando's side where it had rested so often.
Viggo pulled in a long, deep breath and let it out slowly, beginning to flex the numb fingers of his right hand in preparation for the soon-to-be painful job of waking that arm up. But mostly, he simply lay and enjoyed the warmth and the feeling of rightness that came with having his hand on Orlando's bare waist, wishing it could last.
"Hey," Orlando said softly, voice low and gravelly with sleep.
Viggo startled, hand flinching guiltily away from its resting place.
Orlando chuckled and reached up to pull the hand back into place. "You look about ten years old and like you just got caught with your hand in the biscuit tin."
"I thought you were asleep."
"I was. Had a pleasant awakening, though."
"Bit presumptuous of me, I guess."
Sleep-drunk brown eyes studied blue from a pillow apart. "No," Orlando said.
"Sorry I woke you. It's early yet. You should go back to sleep."
"Vig?"
"Mmmm?"
"Do you remember any Elvish? The songs you sang?"
"Some." His fingers, unruly, insisted on stroking the soft skin of Orlando's side, firmly enough not to tickle.
"Sing to me?"
"If you'll let me have my dead arm." Viggo offered a small smile.
Orlando blinked, raised his head and looked down, then chuckled sheepishly. "Christ. That's gonna hurt like hell."
"I'll live." Viggo gingerly got the limb in question down so that circulation could begin to return. "If I sing, will you go back to sleep?"
"Promise."
"Okay then."
Orlando readjusted so that he was lying against Viggo but not actually on him, and obediently closed his eyes. Viggo took a deep breath, steadied, and began to sing softly.
Tinúviel elvannui
Elleth alfirin ^edhelhael
O hon ring finnil fuinui
A renc gelebrin^ thiliol ...
-------------
Viggo wants to believe. He allows himself to hope. He is scared shitless at the position he has allowed himself to get into right now. In a week's time, he could be a very happy man or he could be emptied of all but the most basic will to keep going.
How did he let this happen?
He will kill Sean Bean. It will be in all the tabloids.
----------------
Author's Note: The song Viggo sings is near the beginning of The Lay of Luthien. I figured nobody would want to hear more than four lines. Translated, it is: Tinuviel the elven-fair, Immortal maiden, elven-wise, About him cast her shadowy hair And arms like silver glimmering.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-02-19 02:15 am (UTC)