AndreaLyn (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
andrealyn) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fellowshippers2004-06-26 12:59 pm
andrealyn) wrote in fellowshippers2004-06-26 12:59 pm
The Virtue of Men: Dom/Billy, Karl/Viggo
Title: The Virtue Of Men
Rating: R
Pairings: Dom/Billy, Karl/Viggo
Disclaimer: Not mine. This really didn't happen.
Summary: The holding pattern breaks. Things fall apart, and some things just don't change. Viggo's plans fall through and Dom is falling apart fast.
Notes: This is a sequel to Seven Sins For Seven Men. Huge thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
captnobvious for the beta. twinklypixie and arwen_elvenfair were great helping me with translations. My eternal thanks. This is a monumentally dramatic story. Be warned. And I hope it's enjoyed.
Dom recognizes this as the holding pattern. He knows it when he sees it. The whole world knows it, including all those far off, isolated civilizations. It’s the official position that everyone slips into when things are deemed “okay for the moment”. But just like everything else in Dom’s life, the holding pattern cannot last forever. There’s always a crucible. There’s a cracking point that sends things scattering. Everything falls apart.
The holding pattern, Dom reflects, began to falter the night that Billy fell into the hospital for a check-up. Nothing major happened – at least, nothing major had happened immediately. If Dom or Billy had ever taken the time to reflect on that night, they would realize that it had quite possibly been the most important night of their year. On that night, however, nothing major happened because the doctors deemed Billy “okay”.
“It was a nasty fall down the stairs,” the doctor had laughed amicably. “But your Billy will be okay. He’s received a few colourful bruises around the back, and he’s inflamed an existing one around his shoulder…”
Dom had tuned out around then, wondering just what the existing bruise was from. A part of him had known, but mostly, Dom had been enjoying his foray into denial. When he had started paying attention to the doctor again, the conversation had turned to medication.
“…so if he takes this for a few days, he’ll be right as rain in no time.”
“So, he’s fine?” Dom had nervously asked – for what had to be the sixth time.
“He is fine,” the doctor had replied affirmatively.
Dom only wishes the doctor had told him that before he’d made five frantic phone calls.
Dom exhales slowly as he paces the front walk of the hospital where mobile phones are permitted. He hates to leave Billy alone in that hell of a hospital room for even a second, but the doctor had forced him out so they could do tests – and Dom hates the word, hates the way they say it, so pessimistically, as though tests were code for something being wrong. So he’s taking the time to let everyone know what had happened.
He doesn’t actually hold conversations. He merely tells the news – sounding slightly hysterical, even to himself – and hangs up. As a result, he gets an array of confused, angry, and bewildered voice mails. A part of him hopes that by listening to them, he can calm himself down.
Karl seems most worried about the technicalities.
“Dom, check the drug if they give him one. You know, check to see if it’s addictive. Make sure he’s not got anything imbedded in the skin, you know…” and there’s a cocky tone to the next word, “…splinters and what-not. Vig’s on his way. Be well.”
Elijah is distracted.
“Yeah…yeah, I’m sure…” there’s laughter in the background, and Elijah’s muffled voice away from the phone. “Fuck off, Daisy. It’s Billy!” Silence, shuffling, and Elijah is back. “I’m sure I can get down there. Dom, do me a favour, and don’t be yourself until someone gets there. God knows you do enough stupid things. Don’t do anything when Billy can’t fix it.”
Orlando is in shock.
“Billy’s hurt? Billy…he…what happened Dom, did he…” Quick breaths, and Dom briefly worries that Orlando’s had a panic attack. “Dom, call me. Okay? Call. Me.” There’s more quick breathing, and then Dom can barely hear the last part. “Oh god, Bill…”
Astin is furious.
“What the hell do you mean Billy is in the hospital? How? Why? What have you done to him? Dominic! I swear to god, if you did something, I will personally come down there and wring your neck. How could you fail him like this…how could…”
Viggo is succinct.
“Dominic. Sit still, don’t touch anything, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Viggo’s message does the trick, and it works enough to slightly calm Dom. He puts his mobile away, heads back into the hospital, and patiently sits in the waiting room while the nurses and doctors run their tests.
Viggo’s right, and Dom knows it.
So Dom doesn’t touch anything, because Dom breaks everything he touches.
Billy wakes up alone.
It’s been one year, two months, three weeks, two days, and about five minutes since Billy has woken to find himself utterly and completely alone. Dom is nowhere to be seen, there are the distinctive sounds of a hospital, but the fact of the matter is that he’s got no one around him to confirm this.
Which means, he’s wound up alone.
He tries to move, and the slight action sends a wave of pain through his body that makes him lie back down, regretting his attempt at movement. The only thought he can really be sure of is the hissed repetition of two words: ‘Be. Strong.’ A little bout of pain never did anyone in. Billy will be damned before he lets the pain from a trip down the stairs get the best of him. He realizes, however, that he’s never going to live this one down. It’ll be the splinter for Dom, and the stairs for Billy. He can see it now. “So Billy, how’s that step on the stairs? I hear you’ve been missing it awfully fierce lately,” it’ll be.
He wonders where Dom’s wandered off to. Briefly, he wonders if Dom is still angry with him. They’d fought a few minutes before all the tumbling had happened. It hadn’t been anything important. Billy had been asking about dinner, and Dom had rolled his eyes and had muttered something about having to do everything himself.
Which led to more snapping, angry words from Billy, and the newest trend in Dom, a passive aggressive blasé attitude when it came to everything. Sometimes, Billy misses the anger just because it shows that there’s something stirring inside Dom. With this new nonchalant way of life, Dom seems emptier inside than Billy’s ever seen him.
It’s wrong, but Billy wants Dom to be angry – really, actually angry – at something.
Billy shifts in the bed and feels a sharp pain in his upper arm. He winces and rolls up the sleeve of the paper sheet the hospital is getting away with calling a hospital gown. The doctor had said that all his bruises were going to fade easily except for a previously existing one on his arm that might linger.
Billy looks at that bruise, and pokes it gently with the flat of his fingertips. It sends a throbbing pain through his whole arm, and he closes his eyes. That’s the last of the bruises from the part of his life when he had allowed his body to be a canvas to Dom and their dysfunction. He pokes it again, and the pain is greater this time.
He presses the heel of his palm to the bruise and slowly – ever so slowly – runs it over the bruise as he closes his eyes and gives in to the sensation of intense pain coursing through him. He doesn’t cry out, and he certainly doesn’t admit that it begins to take away the guilt, and the frustration, and all the anger he’s been feeling.
And a tiny part of him inside is crying out that he deserves the pain. This is the payment he must give for everything he’s done.
It’s not all that bad. One bruise for all the wrongs he’s committed.
Billy can live with that.
While Dom is waiting for Viggo to arrive and the doctors to let him see Billy, he makes his way to the gift shop and ambles around without purpose, without thought, and without goal. He hates waiting around the room in the midst of all the nurses and doctors. They don’t trust him. Dom can see it in their eyes and the way they speak with hesitation when they brief him regarding Billy’s condition.
He doesn’t even realize he’s dug out his wallet and is rooting through cash until he’s heading for the register, something weighing heavy in his hands. It’s a cross. It’s a plain, simple, wooden cross that promises him faith, security, and a sort of peace of mind. In his heart, Dom can easily see through all this and tell that it’s a lie. There’s always lies lurking beneath the surface, and with Dom, the lie is always bound to catch up to him. He’s never been able to outrun deceit before, and he’s sure that nothing’s changed.
Temporary lies are still very comforting.
He buys the plain crucifix. In the middle of the mediocrity, he plans to have a piece of Billy’s necklace – which he will chip off in secrecy – embedded in the centre. No one will know about it, not even Billy. He briefly considers telling Viggo, but he comes to his senses before he can resolve to do it. This could be his biggest mistake, Dom knows, because secrets have never been good for him in the past. He’s not ready to bear all his mysteries as common knowledge just yet.
Dom isn’t about to try to make a difference. Enough has changed in the last twenty-four hours. The shiny polish of his life is slowly beginning to show each and every crack, and if Dom had the sense to look at those five phone calls he’s just made, he would know that there are six other lives with heavy damage starting to show their cracks.
Because some things just can’t change.
Some things don’t change. Some parts of people cannot. Who and what they are remain with them throughout life. A balance of good and evil, in fact, and the part that is often haunting in the dead of night when a person cannot sleep is one chronic thought: The balance never goes away. Who a person is will never change.
These are among the thoughts Orlando is having. They do not, however, dominate his thoughts, because an even greater and more urgent matter is at the fore of his mind.
“Go to sleep!” Orlando rolls over with pillow in hand, other hand pounding fiercely against the wall aimed specifically at a room filled with exuberant giggling. Every time he even attempts to shut his eyes and fall to the glorious clutches of sleep and suspending darkness, there comes another burst of energy and voices.
Screeching, pounding, high-pitched, awakening, annoying, friendly voices.
Things that have not changed.
Suddenly, spending three weeks renting a house with the other members of the cast seemed to turn from good to bad idea in seconds flat. He couldn’t help thinking it was a good idea, though. Dom had pitched it – in what was a saving face routine, Orlando is sure, to make up for worrying them so badly after Billy’s ill-fated trip down the stairs. To Dom’s credit, it had come across as an impressive idea. It was so good that ten of them had decided to come in the end. The hobbits – because there is no separating them – along with Karl and Viggo had immediately said yes.
Karl and Viggo, thinks Orlando with a childish sneer, have been apart for months. And still are.
He’s not sure why that thought still gives him immature delight. Perhaps it’s because he’s never really given up on the hope that maybe, one day he might have a chance with Viggo. On top of them, Ian and Miranda had tailed along, seemingly desperate to hold onto the bonds the movie had created. Now that all the movies have been released, there seems to be the fear that everyone is going to strike out on their own and forget all about the years in New Zealand.
Impossible, Orlando thinks. There are ties that bind them there, memories they cannot let go, no matter how much they want to.
Another burst of laughs, and a bout of Billy singing something at the top of his lungs. This time, Orlando doesn’t bother to protest. He sinks down into the bed and covers his head with a pillow, muttering a few grumbles into the mattress.
“Some things don’t change,” Orlando mutters to himself as he flips himself over violently and as far away from the noise as possible.
prudentia
In the history of his many years spread over numerous continents, countries, cities, towns, and villages, Viggo has kept a firm grasp on his emotions. He is an artist, of course, and so he plays it cool. Instead of using himself as a conduit for his emotions, he pipes his bouts of anger, of rage, and the fits of depression through a trusted medium.
Words, paintings, poems, photos; these are his forms of support in times of dire need.
A lesser talent, but perhaps not a lesser art that Viggo possesses is the ability to plan events in perfect detail, right down to the most miniscule element. To him, the entire existence of the universe is an end product of a complicated cause-and-effect relationship. The Big Bang theory of his life states that the singular action of his birth is the cause for the array of effects that guide and shape his life. Everything that Viggo plans is a cause that will inevitably derive a chain of effects – just like his birth.
And just as with every cause, not every effect can be controlled. Viggo has trouble recalling that. In his art, his words, and his photos, he has absolute control over the elements that create the final product. His plans are not so stable.
It’s just that Viggo forgets that at times. He’s too busy admiring all the detail and complexity his plans tend to contain. Eventually, in every plan there are some details that get overlooked and lost. At times, this is acceptable. There are times, of course, when this forgotten detail tends to blow up in Viggo’s face.
Viggo has been lucky. It’s only happened once in his life.
Viggo took great pains to put together his first gallery showing. Once all the pieces had been finished, he had mounted them, sent them to a friend and his agent for a quick once-over and had then gone on to plan his showing down to the last detail. His downfall, had he thought carefully about it, was sending half the pieces to one person and the other half to his employee who was, suffice to say, not in his employment long after the incident.
It was supposed to have been his moment of victory upon which he would smile benevolently and with great pride at the completion of his works, and the display of his mind and soul on canvas.
The night before the showing however had been a disaster. Three pieces had not arrived to Los Angeles to be mounted upon a wall with their title cards, and readied for their admiration the following day. To say the least, Viggo had not reacted well.
“What do you mean they’re not here,” he had snapped at the manager of the gallery. He had motioned to the door – his arm moving in staccato beats – and had pointed emphatically at the locked French doors. “They should be here. At this very moment.”
“They’re not,” the manager had coolly said.
“They should have been,” Viggo had replied icily, mimicking her tone perfectly. He had paced around the room until his legs had tired of trying to wear the wood floor of its’ finish.
He had run his hands vigorously through his hair as he sat, talking on his cell phone with his agent going over every last possible nook and cranny the paintings might have wound up in. “Just find them,” he had tiredly relayed as he hung up, collapsing into a chair and clasping his head in his hands. The one detail he should have remembered was that people couldn’t be trusted when timelines were tight.
He had shaken his head, vowing to never do something along these lines again. Details must be pressed, worked out to perfection and put into play so that nothing will go wrong. On that occasion, he had surrendered to things going wrong. He would not do it again.
“Bang,” he had murmured to himself, scoffing with self-deprecating laughter and exhaling slowly, closing his eyes tightly and losing himself in a myriad of persistent thoughts and feelings of frustration.
And so, when Viggo finalizes his plans for Karl’s arrival, it slips past him that he might be overlooking one tiny detail. He is coasting by on the assumption that his plans will be happily accepted and put to use. The florist has been called, the flight has been checked, and Viggo has arranged a pick-up party.
He’s missed the detail though, and he only barely realizes it in the back of his mind. The crux of his entire plan is flying down to join him in less than forty-eight hours, and Viggo has somehow made a tiny error in his plans.
He’s forgotten to ask for Karl’s input.
“Bang,” he murmurs cheerfully to himself, miming firing a gun as he sits back in his chair and signs one last form for the flowers he’s ordered. With that, his plan is ready to simply fall into place and be perfection. He grins to himself, and laughs a little as he closes his notebook and heads out of his room, singing a jaunty Elvish tune while searching for Elijah so they can go shoot some pool.
Viggo doesn’t look up when he hears a knocking on his door. He closes his eyes, and hums out something in Elvish that’s supposed to calm down animals and creatures alike. “Vig?” Dom’s voice sounds gently, and Viggo looks up to see Dom stepping into the room, unbidden. Dom looks at him, cocking an eyebrow.
“Naeg teli an ai fara ha,” Viggo murmurs under his breath, clasping to the language like he’ll forget it if he doesn’t use it.
“Uh, okay,” Dom replies, seemingly confused. “What’s that mean?” he asks, sounding as though he’s making conversation rather than actually caring about the meaning. He leans against the dresser and crosses his arms. Viggo laughs quietly.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says with a collected shake of his head. He raises an eyebrow, filled with curiosity. “Why are you in my room? Hiding?”
Dom gives a nervous laugh and scratches the side of his face. “Vig! That’s ridiculous! I mean, why would I be hiding from anyone when…I…could just…” Dom sighs and rolls his eyes, shrugs, and sits beside Viggo on the bed. “I don’t want to be out there,” he confides quietly. “Don’t think I can take it.”
“Who are we talking about?” Viggo turns and gives Dom a gaze that he hopes is piercing. Dom bites his lip, gives another wild shrug, and another nervous laugh as one of his hands moves to tug at the collar of his shirt. “Billy?”
“People in general, really,” Dom admits quietly.
Viggo taps the floor with his foot as they sit in silence.
“You can’t avoid him,” Viggo says finally. Dom turns away and tilts his head backwards to the ceiling. “At some point, you’re going to have to talk to him, and...”
“He keeps the bruise, you know,” Dom interrupts and mumbles quickly. He casts his eyes downwards and lets out a heavy sigh, running a thumb over his upper arm, as if to indicate the area. Viggo makes a mental note to talk to Billy at some point in the near future. He just has to remember to be careful about how he approaches this.
“Tread softly, Dom,” Viggo warns, shaking his head slowly. “Don’t push him away.”
“Viggo!” Dom cries out, looking at him with a panicked expression on his face. “He keeps the fucking bruise that I gave him! I mean…I can’t…fuck!”
Viggo recognizes that this isn’t anger Dom is wearing, but a very fragile sort of panic; the kind that can make a man snap if he’s not careful how he handles it. Viggo doesn’t say a word until Dom is breathing evenly again.
“Give him time,” Viggo says plainly, “and give him yourself.”
Dom closes his eyes and clutches the duvet on the bed.
“That’s all you can do,” Viggo adds softly.
tbc
Note: translation is: Don’t look for trouble, it will come to you.
Rating: R
Pairings: Dom/Billy, Karl/Viggo
Disclaimer: Not mine. This really didn't happen.
Summary: The holding pattern breaks. Things fall apart, and some things just don't change. Viggo's plans fall through and Dom is falling apart fast.
Notes: This is a sequel to Seven Sins For Seven Men. Huge thanks to
captnobvious for the beta. twinklypixie and arwen_elvenfair were great helping me with translations. My eternal thanks. This is a monumentally dramatic story. Be warned. And I hope it's enjoyed. Dom recognizes this as the holding pattern. He knows it when he sees it. The whole world knows it, including all those far off, isolated civilizations. It’s the official position that everyone slips into when things are deemed “okay for the moment”. But just like everything else in Dom’s life, the holding pattern cannot last forever. There’s always a crucible. There’s a cracking point that sends things scattering. Everything falls apart.
The holding pattern, Dom reflects, began to falter the night that Billy fell into the hospital for a check-up. Nothing major happened – at least, nothing major had happened immediately. If Dom or Billy had ever taken the time to reflect on that night, they would realize that it had quite possibly been the most important night of their year. On that night, however, nothing major happened because the doctors deemed Billy “okay”.
“It was a nasty fall down the stairs,” the doctor had laughed amicably. “But your Billy will be okay. He’s received a few colourful bruises around the back, and he’s inflamed an existing one around his shoulder…”
Dom had tuned out around then, wondering just what the existing bruise was from. A part of him had known, but mostly, Dom had been enjoying his foray into denial. When he had started paying attention to the doctor again, the conversation had turned to medication.
“…so if he takes this for a few days, he’ll be right as rain in no time.”
“So, he’s fine?” Dom had nervously asked – for what had to be the sixth time.
“He is fine,” the doctor had replied affirmatively.
Dom only wishes the doctor had told him that before he’d made five frantic phone calls.
Dom exhales slowly as he paces the front walk of the hospital where mobile phones are permitted. He hates to leave Billy alone in that hell of a hospital room for even a second, but the doctor had forced him out so they could do tests – and Dom hates the word, hates the way they say it, so pessimistically, as though tests were code for something being wrong. So he’s taking the time to let everyone know what had happened.
He doesn’t actually hold conversations. He merely tells the news – sounding slightly hysterical, even to himself – and hangs up. As a result, he gets an array of confused, angry, and bewildered voice mails. A part of him hopes that by listening to them, he can calm himself down.
Karl seems most worried about the technicalities.
“Dom, check the drug if they give him one. You know, check to see if it’s addictive. Make sure he’s not got anything imbedded in the skin, you know…” and there’s a cocky tone to the next word, “…splinters and what-not. Vig’s on his way. Be well.”
Elijah is distracted.
“Yeah…yeah, I’m sure…” there’s laughter in the background, and Elijah’s muffled voice away from the phone. “Fuck off, Daisy. It’s Billy!” Silence, shuffling, and Elijah is back. “I’m sure I can get down there. Dom, do me a favour, and don’t be yourself until someone gets there. God knows you do enough stupid things. Don’t do anything when Billy can’t fix it.”
Orlando is in shock.
“Billy’s hurt? Billy…he…what happened Dom, did he…” Quick breaths, and Dom briefly worries that Orlando’s had a panic attack. “Dom, call me. Okay? Call. Me.” There’s more quick breathing, and then Dom can barely hear the last part. “Oh god, Bill…”
Astin is furious.
“What the hell do you mean Billy is in the hospital? How? Why? What have you done to him? Dominic! I swear to god, if you did something, I will personally come down there and wring your neck. How could you fail him like this…how could…”
Viggo is succinct.
“Dominic. Sit still, don’t touch anything, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Viggo’s message does the trick, and it works enough to slightly calm Dom. He puts his mobile away, heads back into the hospital, and patiently sits in the waiting room while the nurses and doctors run their tests.
Viggo’s right, and Dom knows it.
So Dom doesn’t touch anything, because Dom breaks everything he touches.
Billy wakes up alone.
It’s been one year, two months, three weeks, two days, and about five minutes since Billy has woken to find himself utterly and completely alone. Dom is nowhere to be seen, there are the distinctive sounds of a hospital, but the fact of the matter is that he’s got no one around him to confirm this.
Which means, he’s wound up alone.
He tries to move, and the slight action sends a wave of pain through his body that makes him lie back down, regretting his attempt at movement. The only thought he can really be sure of is the hissed repetition of two words: ‘Be. Strong.’ A little bout of pain never did anyone in. Billy will be damned before he lets the pain from a trip down the stairs get the best of him. He realizes, however, that he’s never going to live this one down. It’ll be the splinter for Dom, and the stairs for Billy. He can see it now. “So Billy, how’s that step on the stairs? I hear you’ve been missing it awfully fierce lately,” it’ll be.
He wonders where Dom’s wandered off to. Briefly, he wonders if Dom is still angry with him. They’d fought a few minutes before all the tumbling had happened. It hadn’t been anything important. Billy had been asking about dinner, and Dom had rolled his eyes and had muttered something about having to do everything himself.
Which led to more snapping, angry words from Billy, and the newest trend in Dom, a passive aggressive blasé attitude when it came to everything. Sometimes, Billy misses the anger just because it shows that there’s something stirring inside Dom. With this new nonchalant way of life, Dom seems emptier inside than Billy’s ever seen him.
It’s wrong, but Billy wants Dom to be angry – really, actually angry – at something.
Billy shifts in the bed and feels a sharp pain in his upper arm. He winces and rolls up the sleeve of the paper sheet the hospital is getting away with calling a hospital gown. The doctor had said that all his bruises were going to fade easily except for a previously existing one on his arm that might linger.
Billy looks at that bruise, and pokes it gently with the flat of his fingertips. It sends a throbbing pain through his whole arm, and he closes his eyes. That’s the last of the bruises from the part of his life when he had allowed his body to be a canvas to Dom and their dysfunction. He pokes it again, and the pain is greater this time.
He presses the heel of his palm to the bruise and slowly – ever so slowly – runs it over the bruise as he closes his eyes and gives in to the sensation of intense pain coursing through him. He doesn’t cry out, and he certainly doesn’t admit that it begins to take away the guilt, and the frustration, and all the anger he’s been feeling.
And a tiny part of him inside is crying out that he deserves the pain. This is the payment he must give for everything he’s done.
It’s not all that bad. One bruise for all the wrongs he’s committed.
Billy can live with that.
While Dom is waiting for Viggo to arrive and the doctors to let him see Billy, he makes his way to the gift shop and ambles around without purpose, without thought, and without goal. He hates waiting around the room in the midst of all the nurses and doctors. They don’t trust him. Dom can see it in their eyes and the way they speak with hesitation when they brief him regarding Billy’s condition.
He doesn’t even realize he’s dug out his wallet and is rooting through cash until he’s heading for the register, something weighing heavy in his hands. It’s a cross. It’s a plain, simple, wooden cross that promises him faith, security, and a sort of peace of mind. In his heart, Dom can easily see through all this and tell that it’s a lie. There’s always lies lurking beneath the surface, and with Dom, the lie is always bound to catch up to him. He’s never been able to outrun deceit before, and he’s sure that nothing’s changed.
Temporary lies are still very comforting.
He buys the plain crucifix. In the middle of the mediocrity, he plans to have a piece of Billy’s necklace – which he will chip off in secrecy – embedded in the centre. No one will know about it, not even Billy. He briefly considers telling Viggo, but he comes to his senses before he can resolve to do it. This could be his biggest mistake, Dom knows, because secrets have never been good for him in the past. He’s not ready to bear all his mysteries as common knowledge just yet.
Dom isn’t about to try to make a difference. Enough has changed in the last twenty-four hours. The shiny polish of his life is slowly beginning to show each and every crack, and if Dom had the sense to look at those five phone calls he’s just made, he would know that there are six other lives with heavy damage starting to show their cracks.
Because some things just can’t change.
Some things don’t change. Some parts of people cannot. Who and what they are remain with them throughout life. A balance of good and evil, in fact, and the part that is often haunting in the dead of night when a person cannot sleep is one chronic thought: The balance never goes away. Who a person is will never change.
These are among the thoughts Orlando is having. They do not, however, dominate his thoughts, because an even greater and more urgent matter is at the fore of his mind.
“Go to sleep!” Orlando rolls over with pillow in hand, other hand pounding fiercely against the wall aimed specifically at a room filled with exuberant giggling. Every time he even attempts to shut his eyes and fall to the glorious clutches of sleep and suspending darkness, there comes another burst of energy and voices.
Screeching, pounding, high-pitched, awakening, annoying, friendly voices.
Things that have not changed.
Suddenly, spending three weeks renting a house with the other members of the cast seemed to turn from good to bad idea in seconds flat. He couldn’t help thinking it was a good idea, though. Dom had pitched it – in what was a saving face routine, Orlando is sure, to make up for worrying them so badly after Billy’s ill-fated trip down the stairs. To Dom’s credit, it had come across as an impressive idea. It was so good that ten of them had decided to come in the end. The hobbits – because there is no separating them – along with Karl and Viggo had immediately said yes.
Karl and Viggo, thinks Orlando with a childish sneer, have been apart for months. And still are.
He’s not sure why that thought still gives him immature delight. Perhaps it’s because he’s never really given up on the hope that maybe, one day he might have a chance with Viggo. On top of them, Ian and Miranda had tailed along, seemingly desperate to hold onto the bonds the movie had created. Now that all the movies have been released, there seems to be the fear that everyone is going to strike out on their own and forget all about the years in New Zealand.
Impossible, Orlando thinks. There are ties that bind them there, memories they cannot let go, no matter how much they want to.
Another burst of laughs, and a bout of Billy singing something at the top of his lungs. This time, Orlando doesn’t bother to protest. He sinks down into the bed and covers his head with a pillow, muttering a few grumbles into the mattress.
“Some things don’t change,” Orlando mutters to himself as he flips himself over violently and as far away from the noise as possible.
In the history of his many years spread over numerous continents, countries, cities, towns, and villages, Viggo has kept a firm grasp on his emotions. He is an artist, of course, and so he plays it cool. Instead of using himself as a conduit for his emotions, he pipes his bouts of anger, of rage, and the fits of depression through a trusted medium.
Words, paintings, poems, photos; these are his forms of support in times of dire need.
A lesser talent, but perhaps not a lesser art that Viggo possesses is the ability to plan events in perfect detail, right down to the most miniscule element. To him, the entire existence of the universe is an end product of a complicated cause-and-effect relationship. The Big Bang theory of his life states that the singular action of his birth is the cause for the array of effects that guide and shape his life. Everything that Viggo plans is a cause that will inevitably derive a chain of effects – just like his birth.
And just as with every cause, not every effect can be controlled. Viggo has trouble recalling that. In his art, his words, and his photos, he has absolute control over the elements that create the final product. His plans are not so stable.
It’s just that Viggo forgets that at times. He’s too busy admiring all the detail and complexity his plans tend to contain. Eventually, in every plan there are some details that get overlooked and lost. At times, this is acceptable. There are times, of course, when this forgotten detail tends to blow up in Viggo’s face.
Viggo has been lucky. It’s only happened once in his life.
Viggo took great pains to put together his first gallery showing. Once all the pieces had been finished, he had mounted them, sent them to a friend and his agent for a quick once-over and had then gone on to plan his showing down to the last detail. His downfall, had he thought carefully about it, was sending half the pieces to one person and the other half to his employee who was, suffice to say, not in his employment long after the incident.
It was supposed to have been his moment of victory upon which he would smile benevolently and with great pride at the completion of his works, and the display of his mind and soul on canvas.
The night before the showing however had been a disaster. Three pieces had not arrived to Los Angeles to be mounted upon a wall with their title cards, and readied for their admiration the following day. To say the least, Viggo had not reacted well.
“What do you mean they’re not here,” he had snapped at the manager of the gallery. He had motioned to the door – his arm moving in staccato beats – and had pointed emphatically at the locked French doors. “They should be here. At this very moment.”
“They’re not,” the manager had coolly said.
“They should have been,” Viggo had replied icily, mimicking her tone perfectly. He had paced around the room until his legs had tired of trying to wear the wood floor of its’ finish.
He had run his hands vigorously through his hair as he sat, talking on his cell phone with his agent going over every last possible nook and cranny the paintings might have wound up in. “Just find them,” he had tiredly relayed as he hung up, collapsing into a chair and clasping his head in his hands. The one detail he should have remembered was that people couldn’t be trusted when timelines were tight.
He had shaken his head, vowing to never do something along these lines again. Details must be pressed, worked out to perfection and put into play so that nothing will go wrong. On that occasion, he had surrendered to things going wrong. He would not do it again.
“Bang,” he had murmured to himself, scoffing with self-deprecating laughter and exhaling slowly, closing his eyes tightly and losing himself in a myriad of persistent thoughts and feelings of frustration.
And so, when Viggo finalizes his plans for Karl’s arrival, it slips past him that he might be overlooking one tiny detail. He is coasting by on the assumption that his plans will be happily accepted and put to use. The florist has been called, the flight has been checked, and Viggo has arranged a pick-up party.
He’s missed the detail though, and he only barely realizes it in the back of his mind. The crux of his entire plan is flying down to join him in less than forty-eight hours, and Viggo has somehow made a tiny error in his plans.
He’s forgotten to ask for Karl’s input.
“Bang,” he murmurs cheerfully to himself, miming firing a gun as he sits back in his chair and signs one last form for the flowers he’s ordered. With that, his plan is ready to simply fall into place and be perfection. He grins to himself, and laughs a little as he closes his notebook and heads out of his room, singing a jaunty Elvish tune while searching for Elijah so they can go shoot some pool.
Viggo doesn’t look up when he hears a knocking on his door. He closes his eyes, and hums out something in Elvish that’s supposed to calm down animals and creatures alike. “Vig?” Dom’s voice sounds gently, and Viggo looks up to see Dom stepping into the room, unbidden. Dom looks at him, cocking an eyebrow.
“Naeg teli an ai fara ha,” Viggo murmurs under his breath, clasping to the language like he’ll forget it if he doesn’t use it.
“Uh, okay,” Dom replies, seemingly confused. “What’s that mean?” he asks, sounding as though he’s making conversation rather than actually caring about the meaning. He leans against the dresser and crosses his arms. Viggo laughs quietly.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says with a collected shake of his head. He raises an eyebrow, filled with curiosity. “Why are you in my room? Hiding?”
Dom gives a nervous laugh and scratches the side of his face. “Vig! That’s ridiculous! I mean, why would I be hiding from anyone when…I…could just…” Dom sighs and rolls his eyes, shrugs, and sits beside Viggo on the bed. “I don’t want to be out there,” he confides quietly. “Don’t think I can take it.”
“Who are we talking about?” Viggo turns and gives Dom a gaze that he hopes is piercing. Dom bites his lip, gives another wild shrug, and another nervous laugh as one of his hands moves to tug at the collar of his shirt. “Billy?”
“People in general, really,” Dom admits quietly.
Viggo taps the floor with his foot as they sit in silence.
“You can’t avoid him,” Viggo says finally. Dom turns away and tilts his head backwards to the ceiling. “At some point, you’re going to have to talk to him, and...”
“He keeps the bruise, you know,” Dom interrupts and mumbles quickly. He casts his eyes downwards and lets out a heavy sigh, running a thumb over his upper arm, as if to indicate the area. Viggo makes a mental note to talk to Billy at some point in the near future. He just has to remember to be careful about how he approaches this.
“Tread softly, Dom,” Viggo warns, shaking his head slowly. “Don’t push him away.”
“Viggo!” Dom cries out, looking at him with a panicked expression on his face. “He keeps the fucking bruise that I gave him! I mean…I can’t…fuck!”
Viggo recognizes that this isn’t anger Dom is wearing, but a very fragile sort of panic; the kind that can make a man snap if he’s not careful how he handles it. Viggo doesn’t say a word until Dom is breathing evenly again.
“Give him time,” Viggo says plainly, “and give him yourself.”
Dom closes his eyes and clutches the duvet on the bed.
“That’s all you can do,” Viggo adds softly.
tbc
Note: translation is: Don’t look for trouble, it will come to you.