FIC: Cracks in the Pavement Ch2
Jun. 2nd, 2008 07:23 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
lenalove.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
vigorli
RATING: PG-NC17
PAIRING: Orlando Bloom/Viggo Mortensen, Billy/Dom implied. Other characters: Sean Bean
WARNINGS: Angst, h/c, mention of drug use, Alternate Universe.
BETAED: By the wonderful
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liriel1810 and ranmaru SUMMARY: An American actor and artist gets lost in downtown London on his way to visit a freind and pops into a small 7/11 for directions. He gets more than he bargained for in the shape of the shopkeeper, a young man named Orlando Bloom. It turns out London isn't the safest place to be in the dead of night.
DISCLAIMER: Not true, never happened. I do not claim that Orlando suffers this much pain and discomfort with his back injury in real life.
......................................................................................................
Chapter 2:
Orlando worked his way slowly towards consciousness, cracking an eye open before slamming it shut again when the bare light bulb above burned his retinas. He had seen enough to register that he was still in the shop storeroom and his heart sank with that realisation. He had hoped it had all been a bad dream and that he was really lying in his own bed in his own comfy bed and everything had simply been a bad dream. Except maybe for the handsome blond American, that is.
He could feel the cement floor beneath him, a numbing cold seeping into his bones and the familiar deep ache that ran the full length of his back. He knew if he moved it would threaten agony, so Orlando lay as still as possible for now, hoping the threat would pass. His head was propped up on something soft, something that smelled vaguely of Hugo Boss cologne. Twisting his neck carefully away from the light above before opening his eyes, Orlando could see in the folded jacket he was lying on. It was the American’s.
He tried to recall the man’s name but came up blank. What he did remember was Paul and his gang locking the two men in the storeroom, then the American reaching forward and pulling the star-shaped weapon from his shoulder. He recalled feeling the excruciating pain of sharp steel grinding against his collarbone and his own voice rising in a piercing scream. After that, everything was blank.
A shadow suddenly loomed over him, mercifully blocking out the piercing light for a moment while his eyes adjusted, and he looked up into the handsome visage of the American, looking rather more dishevelled than the last time Orlando had seen him. The older man's face was creased with concern
“Hey, glad you decided to come back,” Viggo remarked in relief, as bleary brown eyes squinted up at him from a very pale face. He had been starting to become seriously worried about the young shopkeeper.
When Orlando had passed out, all Viggo could do was wrap the injured shoulder in the torn up tea towels and press on it until the bleeding stopped. He had ripped the young man’s t-shirt open at the front to allow him access to the deep wound once he had removed the small but lethaly sharp weapon. Viggo had cleaned the wound as best he could by dampening one of the thin cotton towels with water from the washroom then he had bandaged the deep wound.
Viggo had found a dusty old sleeping bag on a top shelf and used that to cover the unconscious man and keep him warm, adding his own jacket under the younger man's head as a makeshift pillow. The storeroom was decidedly chilly now and he missed the warmth of the jacket, but the injured shopkeeper needed it more.
Blearily, Orlando squinted up at the ruggedly handsome face above him, trying hard not to move a muscle. The man’s name came to him, finally. “Viggo? How long have I been out?”
“Long enough to scare me,” Viggo replied with a reassuring smile. “About half an hour or so. The bleeding has stopped but I’m sure you don’t feel too good.” He reached around behind him and fetched a bottle of lemonade he had taken from the shelf earlier to wet his own thirst. He had read somewhere a while ago that the weakening effects of blood loss and shock could be eased by drinking some sugary fluids, and he figured the fizzy pop was as good as anything right now. “Come on, I think you would feel better if you sat up and drank some of this,” he promted, as brown eyes regarded his actions warily.
Leaning forward to put an arm under the shopkeeper’s neck and ease him up into a sitting position to drink, Viggo was surprised when Orlando grabbed his wrist in a crushing grip and halted the older man's movements.
“Don’t!” Orlando knew that the slightest movement now could send his back into painful spasms. Lying still so long on the hard, cold floor - it didn't bear thinking about. Noticing the wince on the older man's man's face prompted him to ease his grip, but he didn't let go. “Just…don’t move me. Please, Viggo?” he implored.
Viggo frowned with concern. “What is it? Your shoulder? I really think sitting up from the cold floor will ease the discomfort, and you must be thirsty...”
“I am, believe me. I’d love a drink, just don’t…” Orlando sighed heavily and closed his eyes. He hated admitting to his disabilty, but he knew this stranger was only trying to help him and he also knew the two of them could very well be stuck here all night. If that was true, his back was only going to get worse no matter what he did. He needed be honest with the man.
Swallowing around a dry throat made him cough and Orlando winced when the action jarred his back. He breathed deep, eyes closed, forcing himself to relax and praying that the pain subsided.
He could hear the American breathing hard beside him, and sensed the man's concern. “Orlando?”
Thankfully the tightness in his spine eased once again and Orlando risked opening his eyes. The American was hovering helplessly over him, those startling pale blue eyes wide with worry.
“It’s my back,” the younger man told him hesitantly, figuring it was best to just get it said and done as quickly as possible. “I...I broke it a couple of years ago and it has never been right since. It isn’t sore as such at the moment, but I know the tight feeling. If I move now, it’ll seize up completely.” He watched the face above him for reaction. "I have pills, but they're in my bag out in the shop. If I focus on relaxing and maybe move slowly later, it should be fine. Just...no sudden movements, okay?"
Viggo could only stare at him in amazement. “Wow. That’s…You really broke your back? That’s what you were talking about earlier, in the shop. The old war wound?”
Leaning back against the wall and resting his elbows on bent knees, Viggo eyes were wide in dismay. The accident explained why a young man with movie star looks and intelligent wit was stuck serving pensioners in a small grocery store. “That’s amazing, that you can still walk.” He had never heard of anyone recovering from such an injury enough to walk again. There was more to this story than the kid was saying.
Orlando huffed out a dry, humourless laugh from his supine position. “If you can call it that,” he remarked ruefully, studying the cracked and stained ceiling above him. “On a good day I can walk, on a bad day, I shuffle like an old man.”
“So what happened?” Viggo prompted carefully, not sure what else he could say to that. "How did you break your back?"
“I was at a rave party with a few friends,” Orlando began tentatively. “In a warehouse on the other side of London, down at the docks.” He sighed heavily, hating having to relive the experience. It never got any easier.
“There were drugs on hand, those E tabs, yeah? Well I took one, and later on I foolishly decided that it would be a great idea if we all went up on the roof to get a good view of the city. I was dancing with my boyfriend on one part of the roof, away from the others. We were…well, we had wandered away for some privacy,” he added bashfully. “Anyway, the warehouse was old and abandoned…the roof under us collapsed. Colin managed to jump out of the way but I fell right through. Eighty feet, right to the floor below and landed flat on my back.”
He fell silent, waiting for the American to say something, slowly realising he had just come out to a complete stranger. His eyes closed in embarrassment then suddenly flew open again when he felt fingers slowly comb through his hair. Whether the American was aware he was doing it or not, it felt nice. Comforting. His eyes closing again, Orlando relaxed into the motion.
“And this was just two years ago?” Viggo sensed the young shopkeeper's tension relax under his fingers. He wasn't sure when or why he had reached his hand down and into the long, soft curls splayed across the fabric of his jacket, but now he had started, he didn't want to stop.
Orlando shrugged in response to the American's question. “I would like to say it was long ago when I was too young to know better,” came the reply. “I was twenty-four and definitely old enough to know better.”
“That must have been a very hard time for you,” Viggo immediately cursed his lame response. Talk about stating the obvious...
“Yeah, well…” Orlando closed his eyes again, enjoying the simple action of the fingers in his hair and he couldn’t help smiling. “Lying here in a shop storeroom, in the middle of the fucking night, with a complete stranger whom I have just come out to, wrapped up in bloody tea towels with a hole in my shoulder isn't exactly a picnic, either.”
“I suppose I’ve had better times too," Viggo remarked dryly as he straightened up and reached for the bottle of pop beside him and, to Orlando’s chagrin, he withdrew his hand from the younger man's hair. “But we could be here a while, so we need to make the best of it,” Viggo added.
Carefully and meticulously, Viggo poured small amounts of the room temperature lemonade into Orlando’s mouth using the lid of the bottle as a tiny cup. That way he didn’t spill any and all Orlando had to do was lift his head a little to drink.
When he was satisfied that Orlando had had enough, Viggo recapped the bottle. He suggested breaking into a box of cookies for further sustenance but Orlando didn’t think he could eat anything, so he let that idea drop.
An uneasy silence settled between them, both feeling the need to talk but not sure what to say. Viggo wanted to give the young man some words of encouragement to keep his spirits up but he wasn’t sure how to begin.
Orlando wanted to talk to keep his mind off the situation they were in, but he couldn’t think how to top coming out to the American and recounting the worst time of his life in practically the same sentence. It had been surprisingly easy to talk to Viggo, though. He didn’t know if it was something about the older man personally or if it was always easier to talk to complete strangers about personal matters in odd situations. He suspected it was a little of both.
As it was, it was finally Viggo who broke the quiet. “Is that yours?” the American asked suddenly.
Glanced up at the American at the strange remark, Orlando followed the other man's line of sight to see what he was looking at. It was a large foolscap portfolio, the one he used for college, in plain brown with fortified corners, its surface marred with paint splodges and doodles. He didn’t usually bring it to work, but Bernie had asked him to start earlier today, coming straight to work after he finished his classes rather than going home first like he usually did. Therefore the portfolio had ended up in the storeroom for safekeeping. Right across the front he had painted his name in foot high letters, so he knew Viggo’s question was rhetorical.
He answered anyway. “Yeah, it’s mine.”
“Do you mind if I have a look?” The artist in Viggo was rearing his head. The only thing he loved more than indulging in his own art was perusing the talents of other artists, striving to understand people through their work. But Orlando’s answer disappointed him.
“Look, I’d rather not. My art…well, it's personal, okay?” He shrugged disarmingly, immediately wincing when the action jarred his shoulder and his back. “I don’t mean any offence, but I think I’ve shared enough with you for the moment. Now it’s your turn.”
The kid was certainly mature and forthright for his age, Viggo had to concede. And he had made a valid point - he knew nothing about Viggo apart from his name.
“Okay, fair enough.” The older man nodded. “On one condition, though." When Orlando raised an eyebrow in query, he continued. “If I tell you all about me, we’re even again. Then it’s your turn to tell me more about yourself.”
To Viggo's relief, Orlando smiled. “Fine then,” the shop keeper conceded with a roll of his eyes. “And if I like what you tell me about yourself, I might let you look at my work. But first,” he began, experimentally flexing his back carefully on the floor, “...you can help me sit up again. My back has loosened up a bit and I’m getting fed up with lying down here looking up your nose.”
The older man couldn’t help but laugh, glad to see the return of the young shop keeper’s easy manner. Viggo dutifully obliged, carefully helping Orlando to sit up and lean against the wall, the sleeping bag wrapped snugly around him and his wounded shoulder as comfortable as he could make it.
“First of all, I’m an actor, though I doubt you’ve heard of me,” Viggo began, watching the bridge of the shopkeeper's nose wrinkle in concentration, frowning as he no duobt struggled to recall if had seen any of Viggo's films. “I’ve had a few parts in some good movies, but they were ‘blink and you miss me’ parts,” he elaborated.
He went on to tell Orlando about the one good part he did have, a 'baddie' in one of the older Bond movies. “I had a couple of good lines, then I got killed rather violently two seconds later. It was the one with Sean Bean, as double oh six.”
Orlando’s eyes widened. “You’ve worked with Sean Bean? Richard Sharpe? That Sean Bean?” he gushed.
Viggo grinned. “Yeah, he’s what you Brits would call a 'good bloke'. We became firm friends and have hung out a few times since. In fact, he’s the reason I’m in London,” he admitted. “It’s Sean's place I was trying to get to tonight, before I got hopelessly lost.”
“And got locked up in a shop with a beat up cripple for the night,” Orlando mumbled, the sudden reminder of where they were bringing his mood crashing down.
“Hey, none of that now.” Before he could think about it, Viggo reached out and put his arm around the younger man’s shoulders, careful of his injury, and gently squeezed. “Don’t go getting depressed on me, Orlando. Not until you hear the bad parts of my long and sorry life. And no more of that cripple stuff, okay?” he admonished. “You are a very brave and very beautiful young man.”
“Beautiful?” Orlando gaped at the American in shock. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“Because I mean it,” Viggo replied simply. “Look, the acting is more of a sideline for me these days…what I really enjoy doing is painting on canvas. I also write a bit of poetry, but my one true love is photography.” He met Orlando’s eyes earnestly. “I know beauty when I see it, Orlando, and you are beautiful.”
The younger man broke the eye contact first, ducking his chin to his chest. He’d heard the words before, of course. Colin used to say it to him all the time, before he fell through a warehouse roof. Colin had tried his best to keep the relationship going after that disastrous event, but Orlando knew deep down that he had driven his boyfriend away, pushing him further and further until he left Colin no choice but to walk away. He believed at the time that he had only been holding Colin back, especially when he couldn’t be a proper boyfriend anymore, not when he couldn’t even have sex without his back injury playing up.
Viggo watched the look on Orlando’s face grow distant and sensed that the young man was deep in some personal thoughts and whatever they were, they were not good thoughts. He gently squeezed the young man’s uninjured shoulder again in encouragement.
“Hey, it’s my turn to talk about me, remember?” he prompted, relieved when Orlando looked at him again and nodded. “So, where was I?”
He told Orlando all about his ranch in Idaho where he would prefer to spend his days with the mountains and his horses, but had to come out into the big wide world occasionally for gallery showings of his paintings and photographs.
“As much as I would like to stay on the ranch, I do have to go out and make money and selling my paintings and other creative work is the best way I know how to do that,” the American explained. “As I said before, Sean would prefer me to make it big in Hollywood as an actor, but the idea doesn’t appeal to me. To be an actor in Hollywood is to sell your soul to the devil, and I would rather keep my sorry soul all to myself.”
Orlando was looking at him again. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” he asked shyly.
“Not at all. I can't promise I'll answer if I feel it's too personal, but I rather doubt you'll ask me anything I won't want to answer.”
“This ranch that you have, do you live there alone? You have no family? You know, a wife and two-point-three children?”
Viggo shook his head. “Not anymore,” he replied, before elaborating. “I was married once, and I have one son whom I love very much. He’s fourteen now, and my one regret in life is that I don’t get to see him often enough. In fact, he’s the one good thing to come out of my marriage to Chris.”
“My dad died when I was five,” Orlando supplied wistfully, feeling that it was his turn again to share. “I never really knew him, though one of my earliest memories is of me playing in the snow with him during my first white Christmas. Mum never remarried, and my sister Samantha moved to New Zealand a year ago with her husband Dave. She has one little girl now that I’ve never seen.”
Orlando was staring at the cracked ceiling again, lost in thought. “Oh, I’ve seen pictures of course, Sam sends us photos and stuff. But I’ve never actually met her. It’s just mum and me now.”
“So you live with your mum?” Viggo assumed.
Orlando shook his head. “I moved out six months ago. She was…” He dropped his head and studied his shoe. “I moved back with her, after the accident but, after a while it became a bit much.”
Viggo nodded in understanding. “She was a little bit over-protective, maybe?”
“Yeah, she would hardly let me out of the door, constantly nagging at me to do this, do that, don’t do the other.” He shook his head fondly. “I know she was only trying to help and that the accident really scared her at the time; she had a lot to cope with. The first few days after…before they operated...well, the doctors told her that there was a strong chance I wouldn’t be able to walk again…” His voice trailed off again, shocked that once more he had spoken so openly to this stranger beside him.
Viggo didn’t say anything for a while, but he bent the arm that was resting across the back of Orlando’s neck, his hand once more finding its way into soft chestnut curls. For a moment the only sound in the room was the breathing of the two men.
Overcome by the unusual happenings of the night, exhausted and vulnerable, Orlando found his eyes drifting shut and his head arching back into the comforting hand. When he realised what he was doing, he pulled sharply forward, away from the soothing fingers, unable to stop the yelp of pain that the sudden movement prompted.
“Jesus, Viggo…,” he breathed, the words heavy with regret. “Don’t, man.”
Viggo obliged and silently retracted his hand, removing his arm altogether from Orlando’s shoulders. The younger man immediately missed the warmth and comfort, but he couldn’t risk getting lost in the whole situation. He had to stop now, before things got out of hand.
“I’m sorry,” the American whispered, so quietly that Orlando barely heard him. “I didn’t mean to take advantage, I just wanted to make you feel better.”
Orlando was studying his shoes again. It was working, that’s the problem, he thought. “Yeah, well…you heard all that about me being gay, yeah?” He turned finally to meet the blue-grey eyes. “I get the vibe from you, you know? Okay, so you were married. But I am guessing you’re bi?” Viggo nodded wordlessly, so he ploughed on. “And you and Sean Bean?”
This time Viggo shook his head, his eyes going comically wide in mock horror. “God, no! Beanie is most assuredly straight, Orlando. The three wives thing is real and he’s currently on the look-out for number four, the crazy bastard.”
“Okay.” Once more Orlando found his left shoe fascinating. “Then you should know I don’t do the one night stand thing, yeah? In fact, I don’t date, full stop. Right now I’m just trying to get by financially with this shitty shop job, and concentrate on my art course.”
He looked up suddenly, his expression sincere and searching. “The course is just a crappy first-rung thing in the art world, but it's what I love doing, Viggo. If I make the grade at 'tech then maybe I can get myself into one of the big art colleges in the country. I’m looking into Glasgow or Leeds…anywhere that isn’t London will do fine at the moment.” He sighed heavily. “Anywhere that isn’t here.”
Viggo nodded in silent acquiescence, feeling Orlando slump back against the wall next to him with a huge sigh. He heard the words and digested them, wondering at the maturity behind them. It was obvious that Orlando had had to grow up pretty fast, but those dark, expressive eyes belied the young man’s words. Viggo saw determination and strength in them, but he also saw a heartbreaking loneliness. His heart went out to the kid; he wanted to help in some way, but he couldn’t help if this independent young soul wasn’t willing to let him.
Once again both men sat in silence.
Orlando shifted a few times in what the older man suspected was discomfort and pain from either the vicious wound to his shoulder or his back stiffening up again, but Viggo left him alone, not wanting to impose himself. His own backside was growing numb from the cold, hard floor.
The sudden bang and rattling from outside the door made both men jump. They briefly looked at each other, before turning to stare at the locked door in something akin to hope. Sure enough, muffled voices and several curses were followed by the distinct sound of a key turning in a lock.
“Orli? You in there, mate?”
****
It was almost two in the morning before Viggo finally arrived in front of Sean Bean’s house in South Kensington, in the back seat of a Metropolitan Police car.
The front door flew open as soon as the panda car stopped in the long gravel driveway and Sean came rushing out to greet him.“Where the hell were you mate? Holy fuck, Vig…you look like shit!”
Sean had ushered him into the house after getting the short version of the night's happenings then he thanked the officers in the car, immediately set about making Viggo something to eat once they got into the house, chasing his friend up the stairs to shower and change. When Viggo had come down again dressed in a borrowed t-shirt and sleeping pants, Sean set a large plate of ham and cheese sandwiches in front of him with a huge mug of sweet tea. He patiently listened as Viggo recounted the full tale of his first night in London, butting in with questions now and again.
“So how did this Orlando guy’s friends find you?”
“They left the pub early, apparently, and decided to bring Orlando home a couple of beers, seeing as he hadn’t joined them on their night out,” Viggo told him around bites of food and deep, jaw-breaking yawns. “When they saw he wasn’t there in the flat they all share, the two guys started to worry, and headed for the shop to check on him. Dominic I think his name was, he had a set of keys to the shop, he was supposed to be opening up early the next morning. He said he nearly died when he saw the state of the place. It didn’t take much deduction to figure out the shop had been robbed. They searched the place and found the two of us locked in the back.”
“Then what?” Sean prompted.
“They called an ambulance for Orlando, he was pretty beat up and his shoulder was bleeding again.” Viggo omitted any mention of Orlando’s back trouble to his friend. He didn’t think Orlando was the type of guy who wanted everyone to know about it. “The Scottish guy - Billy - he went with Orlando in the ambulance and Dominic stayed with me to talk to the cops. I told them what I knew, then the cops brought me here. Dominic was gonna stay and clear the shop up a bit for the morning.”
The rented Merc had been gone from the front of the shop when Viggo had finally made his way out of the store. He hadn’t been surprised, but it meant phoning the rental company and sorting out his insurance sometime soon. Sean assured him that he would sort out the rental company. Then he escorted the barely awake Viggo up to his room, hugging him on the threshold before urging him into the bed and wishing him a restful night's sleep.
“Or what’s left of it.” Sean smiled with affection at his long time friend. “Don’t hurry on getting up in the morning, Vig. I’ll see you when I see you, mate.”
With that he left Viggo to his own devices.
Viggo found himself standing in the middle of the comfortable room. It was familiar; he always used this room when he stayed with his friend. The last couple of times he had come over, Sean had met him at the airport and drove him home.
His fuzzy brain couldn’t remember why his friend hadn’t been able to meet him again this time, something about a meeting for a new movie. Viggo had been so sure the drive to Kensington wouldn’t be a problem, he had felt like he would know the way. That hadn’t turned out to be true.
Viggo climbed into the large bed and snuggled under the warm blankets. He thought again of the hassle over the next few days to come, sorting out his insurance for the car and talking to the police again. His suitcase and all its contents was gone with the car, but thankfully he had some jeans and stuff in Sean’s house, left behind the last time he had stayed. His clothes and toiletries were gone with the car, his cash and credit cards in the hands of which ever of the young thugs had taken his wallet, but nothing that couldn’t be replaced eventually by a phone call or two or a trip to the shops. His passport would be a bigger problem. He had his Danish passport, which would suffice as ID at the American Embassy, but he suspected it was going to take several weeks before his American passport was replaced. Until then, he was stuck in London.
The one thing he missed out of the missing car, besides the inconvenience of having no clothes, was a rather elaborate and carefully drawn street map on a white sheet of A4 paper. He never did get to use it to find his way to Sean. His last thought before falling into a deep, exhausted sleep was the hope that one day soon he would once again meet the beautiful, brown-eyed young man who had drawn it for him.
TBC
Chapter 3
Orlando worked his way slowly towards consciousness, cracking an eye open before slamming it shut again when the bare light bulb above burned his retinas. He had seen enough to register that he was still in the shop storeroom and his heart sank with that realisation. He had hoped it had all been a bad dream and that he was really lying in his own bed in his own comfy bed and everything had simply been a bad dream. Except maybe for the handsome blond American, that is.
He could feel the cement floor beneath him, a numbing cold seeping into his bones and the familiar deep ache that ran the full length of his back. He knew if he moved it would threaten agony, so Orlando lay as still as possible for now, hoping the threat would pass. His head was propped up on something soft, something that smelled vaguely of Hugo Boss cologne. Twisting his neck carefully away from the light above before opening his eyes, Orlando could see in the folded jacket he was lying on. It was the American’s.
He tried to recall the man’s name but came up blank. What he did remember was Paul and his gang locking the two men in the storeroom, then the American reaching forward and pulling the star-shaped weapon from his shoulder. He recalled feeling the excruciating pain of sharp steel grinding against his collarbone and his own voice rising in a piercing scream. After that, everything was blank.
A shadow suddenly loomed over him, mercifully blocking out the piercing light for a moment while his eyes adjusted, and he looked up into the handsome visage of the American, looking rather more dishevelled than the last time Orlando had seen him. The older man's face was creased with concern
“Hey, glad you decided to come back,” Viggo remarked in relief, as bleary brown eyes squinted up at him from a very pale face. He had been starting to become seriously worried about the young shopkeeper.
When Orlando had passed out, all Viggo could do was wrap the injured shoulder in the torn up tea towels and press on it until the bleeding stopped. He had ripped the young man’s t-shirt open at the front to allow him access to the deep wound once he had removed the small but lethaly sharp weapon. Viggo had cleaned the wound as best he could by dampening one of the thin cotton towels with water from the washroom then he had bandaged the deep wound.
Viggo had found a dusty old sleeping bag on a top shelf and used that to cover the unconscious man and keep him warm, adding his own jacket under the younger man's head as a makeshift pillow. The storeroom was decidedly chilly now and he missed the warmth of the jacket, but the injured shopkeeper needed it more.
Blearily, Orlando squinted up at the ruggedly handsome face above him, trying hard not to move a muscle. The man’s name came to him, finally. “Viggo? How long have I been out?”
“Long enough to scare me,” Viggo replied with a reassuring smile. “About half an hour or so. The bleeding has stopped but I’m sure you don’t feel too good.” He reached around behind him and fetched a bottle of lemonade he had taken from the shelf earlier to wet his own thirst. He had read somewhere a while ago that the weakening effects of blood loss and shock could be eased by drinking some sugary fluids, and he figured the fizzy pop was as good as anything right now. “Come on, I think you would feel better if you sat up and drank some of this,” he promted, as brown eyes regarded his actions warily.
Leaning forward to put an arm under the shopkeeper’s neck and ease him up into a sitting position to drink, Viggo was surprised when Orlando grabbed his wrist in a crushing grip and halted the older man's movements.
“Don’t!” Orlando knew that the slightest movement now could send his back into painful spasms. Lying still so long on the hard, cold floor - it didn't bear thinking about. Noticing the wince on the older man's man's face prompted him to ease his grip, but he didn't let go. “Just…don’t move me. Please, Viggo?” he implored.
Viggo frowned with concern. “What is it? Your shoulder? I really think sitting up from the cold floor will ease the discomfort, and you must be thirsty...”
“I am, believe me. I’d love a drink, just don’t…” Orlando sighed heavily and closed his eyes. He hated admitting to his disabilty, but he knew this stranger was only trying to help him and he also knew the two of them could very well be stuck here all night. If that was true, his back was only going to get worse no matter what he did. He needed be honest with the man.
Swallowing around a dry throat made him cough and Orlando winced when the action jarred his back. He breathed deep, eyes closed, forcing himself to relax and praying that the pain subsided.
He could hear the American breathing hard beside him, and sensed the man's concern. “Orlando?”
Thankfully the tightness in his spine eased once again and Orlando risked opening his eyes. The American was hovering helplessly over him, those startling pale blue eyes wide with worry.
“It’s my back,” the younger man told him hesitantly, figuring it was best to just get it said and done as quickly as possible. “I...I broke it a couple of years ago and it has never been right since. It isn’t sore as such at the moment, but I know the tight feeling. If I move now, it’ll seize up completely.” He watched the face above him for reaction. "I have pills, but they're in my bag out in the shop. If I focus on relaxing and maybe move slowly later, it should be fine. Just...no sudden movements, okay?"
Viggo could only stare at him in amazement. “Wow. That’s…You really broke your back? That’s what you were talking about earlier, in the shop. The old war wound?”
Leaning back against the wall and resting his elbows on bent knees, Viggo eyes were wide in dismay. The accident explained why a young man with movie star looks and intelligent wit was stuck serving pensioners in a small grocery store. “That’s amazing, that you can still walk.” He had never heard of anyone recovering from such an injury enough to walk again. There was more to this story than the kid was saying.
Orlando huffed out a dry, humourless laugh from his supine position. “If you can call it that,” he remarked ruefully, studying the cracked and stained ceiling above him. “On a good day I can walk, on a bad day, I shuffle like an old man.”
“So what happened?” Viggo prompted carefully, not sure what else he could say to that. "How did you break your back?"
“I was at a rave party with a few friends,” Orlando began tentatively. “In a warehouse on the other side of London, down at the docks.” He sighed heavily, hating having to relive the experience. It never got any easier.
“There were drugs on hand, those E tabs, yeah? Well I took one, and later on I foolishly decided that it would be a great idea if we all went up on the roof to get a good view of the city. I was dancing with my boyfriend on one part of the roof, away from the others. We were…well, we had wandered away for some privacy,” he added bashfully. “Anyway, the warehouse was old and abandoned…the roof under us collapsed. Colin managed to jump out of the way but I fell right through. Eighty feet, right to the floor below and landed flat on my back.”
He fell silent, waiting for the American to say something, slowly realising he had just come out to a complete stranger. His eyes closed in embarrassment then suddenly flew open again when he felt fingers slowly comb through his hair. Whether the American was aware he was doing it or not, it felt nice. Comforting. His eyes closing again, Orlando relaxed into the motion.
“And this was just two years ago?” Viggo sensed the young shopkeeper's tension relax under his fingers. He wasn't sure when or why he had reached his hand down and into the long, soft curls splayed across the fabric of his jacket, but now he had started, he didn't want to stop.
Orlando shrugged in response to the American's question. “I would like to say it was long ago when I was too young to know better,” came the reply. “I was twenty-four and definitely old enough to know better.”
“That must have been a very hard time for you,” Viggo immediately cursed his lame response. Talk about stating the obvious...
“Yeah, well…” Orlando closed his eyes again, enjoying the simple action of the fingers in his hair and he couldn’t help smiling. “Lying here in a shop storeroom, in the middle of the fucking night, with a complete stranger whom I have just come out to, wrapped up in bloody tea towels with a hole in my shoulder isn't exactly a picnic, either.”
“I suppose I’ve had better times too," Viggo remarked dryly as he straightened up and reached for the bottle of pop beside him and, to Orlando’s chagrin, he withdrew his hand from the younger man's hair. “But we could be here a while, so we need to make the best of it,” Viggo added.
Carefully and meticulously, Viggo poured small amounts of the room temperature lemonade into Orlando’s mouth using the lid of the bottle as a tiny cup. That way he didn’t spill any and all Orlando had to do was lift his head a little to drink.
When he was satisfied that Orlando had had enough, Viggo recapped the bottle. He suggested breaking into a box of cookies for further sustenance but Orlando didn’t think he could eat anything, so he let that idea drop.
An uneasy silence settled between them, both feeling the need to talk but not sure what to say. Viggo wanted to give the young man some words of encouragement to keep his spirits up but he wasn’t sure how to begin.
Orlando wanted to talk to keep his mind off the situation they were in, but he couldn’t think how to top coming out to the American and recounting the worst time of his life in practically the same sentence. It had been surprisingly easy to talk to Viggo, though. He didn’t know if it was something about the older man personally or if it was always easier to talk to complete strangers about personal matters in odd situations. He suspected it was a little of both.
As it was, it was finally Viggo who broke the quiet. “Is that yours?” the American asked suddenly.
Glanced up at the American at the strange remark, Orlando followed the other man's line of sight to see what he was looking at. It was a large foolscap portfolio, the one he used for college, in plain brown with fortified corners, its surface marred with paint splodges and doodles. He didn’t usually bring it to work, but Bernie had asked him to start earlier today, coming straight to work after he finished his classes rather than going home first like he usually did. Therefore the portfolio had ended up in the storeroom for safekeeping. Right across the front he had painted his name in foot high letters, so he knew Viggo’s question was rhetorical.
He answered anyway. “Yeah, it’s mine.”
“Do you mind if I have a look?” The artist in Viggo was rearing his head. The only thing he loved more than indulging in his own art was perusing the talents of other artists, striving to understand people through their work. But Orlando’s answer disappointed him.
“Look, I’d rather not. My art…well, it's personal, okay?” He shrugged disarmingly, immediately wincing when the action jarred his shoulder and his back. “I don’t mean any offence, but I think I’ve shared enough with you for the moment. Now it’s your turn.”
The kid was certainly mature and forthright for his age, Viggo had to concede. And he had made a valid point - he knew nothing about Viggo apart from his name.
“Okay, fair enough.” The older man nodded. “On one condition, though." When Orlando raised an eyebrow in query, he continued. “If I tell you all about me, we’re even again. Then it’s your turn to tell me more about yourself.”
To Viggo's relief, Orlando smiled. “Fine then,” the shop keeper conceded with a roll of his eyes. “And if I like what you tell me about yourself, I might let you look at my work. But first,” he began, experimentally flexing his back carefully on the floor, “...you can help me sit up again. My back has loosened up a bit and I’m getting fed up with lying down here looking up your nose.”
The older man couldn’t help but laugh, glad to see the return of the young shop keeper’s easy manner. Viggo dutifully obliged, carefully helping Orlando to sit up and lean against the wall, the sleeping bag wrapped snugly around him and his wounded shoulder as comfortable as he could make it.
“First of all, I’m an actor, though I doubt you’ve heard of me,” Viggo began, watching the bridge of the shopkeeper's nose wrinkle in concentration, frowning as he no duobt struggled to recall if had seen any of Viggo's films. “I’ve had a few parts in some good movies, but they were ‘blink and you miss me’ parts,” he elaborated.
He went on to tell Orlando about the one good part he did have, a 'baddie' in one of the older Bond movies. “I had a couple of good lines, then I got killed rather violently two seconds later. It was the one with Sean Bean, as double oh six.”
Orlando’s eyes widened. “You’ve worked with Sean Bean? Richard Sharpe? That Sean Bean?” he gushed.
Viggo grinned. “Yeah, he’s what you Brits would call a 'good bloke'. We became firm friends and have hung out a few times since. In fact, he’s the reason I’m in London,” he admitted. “It’s Sean's place I was trying to get to tonight, before I got hopelessly lost.”
“And got locked up in a shop with a beat up cripple for the night,” Orlando mumbled, the sudden reminder of where they were bringing his mood crashing down.
“Hey, none of that now.” Before he could think about it, Viggo reached out and put his arm around the younger man’s shoulders, careful of his injury, and gently squeezed. “Don’t go getting depressed on me, Orlando. Not until you hear the bad parts of my long and sorry life. And no more of that cripple stuff, okay?” he admonished. “You are a very brave and very beautiful young man.”
“Beautiful?” Orlando gaped at the American in shock. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“Because I mean it,” Viggo replied simply. “Look, the acting is more of a sideline for me these days…what I really enjoy doing is painting on canvas. I also write a bit of poetry, but my one true love is photography.” He met Orlando’s eyes earnestly. “I know beauty when I see it, Orlando, and you are beautiful.”
The younger man broke the eye contact first, ducking his chin to his chest. He’d heard the words before, of course. Colin used to say it to him all the time, before he fell through a warehouse roof. Colin had tried his best to keep the relationship going after that disastrous event, but Orlando knew deep down that he had driven his boyfriend away, pushing him further and further until he left Colin no choice but to walk away. He believed at the time that he had only been holding Colin back, especially when he couldn’t be a proper boyfriend anymore, not when he couldn’t even have sex without his back injury playing up.
Viggo watched the look on Orlando’s face grow distant and sensed that the young man was deep in some personal thoughts and whatever they were, they were not good thoughts. He gently squeezed the young man’s uninjured shoulder again in encouragement.
“Hey, it’s my turn to talk about me, remember?” he prompted, relieved when Orlando looked at him again and nodded. “So, where was I?”
He told Orlando all about his ranch in Idaho where he would prefer to spend his days with the mountains and his horses, but had to come out into the big wide world occasionally for gallery showings of his paintings and photographs.
“As much as I would like to stay on the ranch, I do have to go out and make money and selling my paintings and other creative work is the best way I know how to do that,” the American explained. “As I said before, Sean would prefer me to make it big in Hollywood as an actor, but the idea doesn’t appeal to me. To be an actor in Hollywood is to sell your soul to the devil, and I would rather keep my sorry soul all to myself.”
Orlando was looking at him again. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” he asked shyly.
“Not at all. I can't promise I'll answer if I feel it's too personal, but I rather doubt you'll ask me anything I won't want to answer.”
“This ranch that you have, do you live there alone? You have no family? You know, a wife and two-point-three children?”
Viggo shook his head. “Not anymore,” he replied, before elaborating. “I was married once, and I have one son whom I love very much. He’s fourteen now, and my one regret in life is that I don’t get to see him often enough. In fact, he’s the one good thing to come out of my marriage to Chris.”
“My dad died when I was five,” Orlando supplied wistfully, feeling that it was his turn again to share. “I never really knew him, though one of my earliest memories is of me playing in the snow with him during my first white Christmas. Mum never remarried, and my sister Samantha moved to New Zealand a year ago with her husband Dave. She has one little girl now that I’ve never seen.”
Orlando was staring at the cracked ceiling again, lost in thought. “Oh, I’ve seen pictures of course, Sam sends us photos and stuff. But I’ve never actually met her. It’s just mum and me now.”
“So you live with your mum?” Viggo assumed.
Orlando shook his head. “I moved out six months ago. She was…” He dropped his head and studied his shoe. “I moved back with her, after the accident but, after a while it became a bit much.”
Viggo nodded in understanding. “She was a little bit over-protective, maybe?”
“Yeah, she would hardly let me out of the door, constantly nagging at me to do this, do that, don’t do the other.” He shook his head fondly. “I know she was only trying to help and that the accident really scared her at the time; she had a lot to cope with. The first few days after…before they operated...well, the doctors told her that there was a strong chance I wouldn’t be able to walk again…” His voice trailed off again, shocked that once more he had spoken so openly to this stranger beside him.
Viggo didn’t say anything for a while, but he bent the arm that was resting across the back of Orlando’s neck, his hand once more finding its way into soft chestnut curls. For a moment the only sound in the room was the breathing of the two men.
Overcome by the unusual happenings of the night, exhausted and vulnerable, Orlando found his eyes drifting shut and his head arching back into the comforting hand. When he realised what he was doing, he pulled sharply forward, away from the soothing fingers, unable to stop the yelp of pain that the sudden movement prompted.
“Jesus, Viggo…,” he breathed, the words heavy with regret. “Don’t, man.”
Viggo obliged and silently retracted his hand, removing his arm altogether from Orlando’s shoulders. The younger man immediately missed the warmth and comfort, but he couldn’t risk getting lost in the whole situation. He had to stop now, before things got out of hand.
“I’m sorry,” the American whispered, so quietly that Orlando barely heard him. “I didn’t mean to take advantage, I just wanted to make you feel better.”
Orlando was studying his shoes again. It was working, that’s the problem, he thought. “Yeah, well…you heard all that about me being gay, yeah?” He turned finally to meet the blue-grey eyes. “I get the vibe from you, you know? Okay, so you were married. But I am guessing you’re bi?” Viggo nodded wordlessly, so he ploughed on. “And you and Sean Bean?”
This time Viggo shook his head, his eyes going comically wide in mock horror. “God, no! Beanie is most assuredly straight, Orlando. The three wives thing is real and he’s currently on the look-out for number four, the crazy bastard.”
“Okay.” Once more Orlando found his left shoe fascinating. “Then you should know I don’t do the one night stand thing, yeah? In fact, I don’t date, full stop. Right now I’m just trying to get by financially with this shitty shop job, and concentrate on my art course.”
He looked up suddenly, his expression sincere and searching. “The course is just a crappy first-rung thing in the art world, but it's what I love doing, Viggo. If I make the grade at 'tech then maybe I can get myself into one of the big art colleges in the country. I’m looking into Glasgow or Leeds…anywhere that isn’t London will do fine at the moment.” He sighed heavily. “Anywhere that isn’t here.”
Viggo nodded in silent acquiescence, feeling Orlando slump back against the wall next to him with a huge sigh. He heard the words and digested them, wondering at the maturity behind them. It was obvious that Orlando had had to grow up pretty fast, but those dark, expressive eyes belied the young man’s words. Viggo saw determination and strength in them, but he also saw a heartbreaking loneliness. His heart went out to the kid; he wanted to help in some way, but he couldn’t help if this independent young soul wasn’t willing to let him.
Once again both men sat in silence.
Orlando shifted a few times in what the older man suspected was discomfort and pain from either the vicious wound to his shoulder or his back stiffening up again, but Viggo left him alone, not wanting to impose himself. His own backside was growing numb from the cold, hard floor.
The sudden bang and rattling from outside the door made both men jump. They briefly looked at each other, before turning to stare at the locked door in something akin to hope. Sure enough, muffled voices and several curses were followed by the distinct sound of a key turning in a lock.
“Orli? You in there, mate?”
It was almost two in the morning before Viggo finally arrived in front of Sean Bean’s house in South Kensington, in the back seat of a Metropolitan Police car.
The front door flew open as soon as the panda car stopped in the long gravel driveway and Sean came rushing out to greet him.“Where the hell were you mate? Holy fuck, Vig…you look like shit!”
Sean had ushered him into the house after getting the short version of the night's happenings then he thanked the officers in the car, immediately set about making Viggo something to eat once they got into the house, chasing his friend up the stairs to shower and change. When Viggo had come down again dressed in a borrowed t-shirt and sleeping pants, Sean set a large plate of ham and cheese sandwiches in front of him with a huge mug of sweet tea. He patiently listened as Viggo recounted the full tale of his first night in London, butting in with questions now and again.
“So how did this Orlando guy’s friends find you?”
“They left the pub early, apparently, and decided to bring Orlando home a couple of beers, seeing as he hadn’t joined them on their night out,” Viggo told him around bites of food and deep, jaw-breaking yawns. “When they saw he wasn’t there in the flat they all share, the two guys started to worry, and headed for the shop to check on him. Dominic I think his name was, he had a set of keys to the shop, he was supposed to be opening up early the next morning. He said he nearly died when he saw the state of the place. It didn’t take much deduction to figure out the shop had been robbed. They searched the place and found the two of us locked in the back.”
“Then what?” Sean prompted.
“They called an ambulance for Orlando, he was pretty beat up and his shoulder was bleeding again.” Viggo omitted any mention of Orlando’s back trouble to his friend. He didn’t think Orlando was the type of guy who wanted everyone to know about it. “The Scottish guy - Billy - he went with Orlando in the ambulance and Dominic stayed with me to talk to the cops. I told them what I knew, then the cops brought me here. Dominic was gonna stay and clear the shop up a bit for the morning.”
The rented Merc had been gone from the front of the shop when Viggo had finally made his way out of the store. He hadn’t been surprised, but it meant phoning the rental company and sorting out his insurance sometime soon. Sean assured him that he would sort out the rental company. Then he escorted the barely awake Viggo up to his room, hugging him on the threshold before urging him into the bed and wishing him a restful night's sleep.
“Or what’s left of it.” Sean smiled with affection at his long time friend. “Don’t hurry on getting up in the morning, Vig. I’ll see you when I see you, mate.”
With that he left Viggo to his own devices.
Viggo found himself standing in the middle of the comfortable room. It was familiar; he always used this room when he stayed with his friend. The last couple of times he had come over, Sean had met him at the airport and drove him home.
His fuzzy brain couldn’t remember why his friend hadn’t been able to meet him again this time, something about a meeting for a new movie. Viggo had been so sure the drive to Kensington wouldn’t be a problem, he had felt like he would know the way. That hadn’t turned out to be true.
Viggo climbed into the large bed and snuggled under the warm blankets. He thought again of the hassle over the next few days to come, sorting out his insurance for the car and talking to the police again. His suitcase and all its contents was gone with the car, but thankfully he had some jeans and stuff in Sean’s house, left behind the last time he had stayed. His clothes and toiletries were gone with the car, his cash and credit cards in the hands of which ever of the young thugs had taken his wallet, but nothing that couldn’t be replaced eventually by a phone call or two or a trip to the shops. His passport would be a bigger problem. He had his Danish passport, which would suffice as ID at the American Embassy, but he suspected it was going to take several weeks before his American passport was replaced. Until then, he was stuck in London.
The one thing he missed out of the missing car, besides the inconvenience of having no clothes, was a rather elaborate and carefully drawn street map on a white sheet of A4 paper. He never did get to use it to find his way to Sean. His last thought before falling into a deep, exhausted sleep was the hope that one day soon he would once again meet the beautiful, brown-eyed young man who had drawn it for him.
TBC
Chapter 3
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Date: 2008-06-02 08:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-02 09:52 pm (UTC)