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roxann-ireland.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fellowshippers2004-09-24 09:28 pm
roxann-ireland.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-09-24 09:28 pm
Chicagoland
Title: Chicagoland
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
roxann_ireland
Rating: PG
Pairing: VM/OB
Summary: Viggo is stuck in a Chicago hotel, sick and sidelined in the middle of a film shoot. Orlando shows up to take care of him.
Disclaimers and such: Of course none of this is real, silly, especially the shirt._cee both inspired and beta'd this thing, so it's all her fault. Geography and zombies courtesy of violetisblue, shirt by claudelemonde who doesn't know I stole it, so please don't tell her. Oh, and this is my first post to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fellow_shippers, so ::waves::
Viggo lay on his back on the hotel bed, concentrating on one thought. Do not scratch. He'd never really worked wearing prosthetics before, and now he had cause for a great deal of retroactive compassion for all the hobbits and elves who'd gone around constantly picking at their feet and ears. He'd been lucky. He never would have survived three years of this.
When the rash first appeared on his face, the makeup people figured it was the latex that had set him off and went through the rather onerous process of re-doing all of his decaying-zombie attachments (or were they detachments, if you were decaying?) in nitrile instead. But it wasn't the latex after all, it was the glue, and there wasn't a hell of a lot they could do for that.
They worked as fast as they could from then on, arranging the schedule to have him in and out of makeup as quickly as possible, trying different brands of glue, but eventually it spread to his neck, and then his hands. When he started wheezing by the end of the day, the production doctor insisted he take a break before he ended up in an emergency room with an anaphylactic reaction.
So they'd packed him off for an impromptu break in a Chicago hotel, with a bunch of creams and pills and dermatologist's appointments, hoping to get the reaction under control for the last few necessary live-action scenes. Luckily, the final scenes of him shambling around and crumbling to his tragic death in the dunes were going to be CGI.
God bless Andy Serkis.
On the nightstand, his cell phone, set to vibrate, buzzed like a cicada for the length of six rings, then went mercifully still.
The very first phone he'd ever had, he'd thrown out the window the second time it rang. He stood by the wisdom of that decision.
After a few moments of silence, just long enough for someone to hang up on the voicemail and redial, the cell went off again.
The windows of this hotel didn't open.
Damn.
The third time the thing went off, he didn't need the caller ID to know who it was.
"Hello, Orlando."
"Hi! How'd you know it was me?" Caller ID was Unknown User. Payphone most likely. Had he lost his phone or simply forgotten to charge it again?
"Psychic."
"Well then," Orlando chirped, "you don't need me to tell you where I am!" In the background Viggo could hear a delayed departure announcement for flight something-or-other.
"Airport."
"Damn, you're good. So, ok, yeah, but which airport?"
Oh no, not-- "O'Hare?"
"Yeah! Surprise!"
"Listen, Orlando, that's very nice of you, but I'm not feeling well right--"
"I know, I know, so I've come to take care of you."
"Take care of me?" Orlando had been the death of countless plants, several fish, and one slightly psychotic gerbil. Maybe he should just check himself into the hospital now.
It would take Orlando an hour to get here from the airport, maybe more, so he could either try to take a nap, maybe get a little rest, or he could get up, shower, smear a bunch of cream all over himself, and hope he looked a little less like an acne-sunburn combo platter by the time Orlando arrived. Or he could pack and change hotels.
No, really, that was totally unworthy of him. Tempting but unworthy.
It's not that he didn't want to see Orlando. It's just that he was so much work. Worth it, but, Jesus, so much work.
Shower. Shower and cream and maybe one of those itch-killing pills the doctor gave him for when it got bad enough to keep him awake. He hoped it worked. He never took pills if he could help it, but Orlando on a tear sometimes made him want to crawl right out of his skin, even when his immune system wasn't shooting itself in the foot.
Half an hour later he was reminded why he never took pills. The itch had completely disappeared, replaced with dry mouth and the sensation that he was on an elevator that had just stopped. When he called the production doctor, wrong number twice because he couldn't quite focus, trying not to panic (Jesus Christ, he fucking hated fucking telephones!) the man laughed, "Oh yeah, antihistamines can leave you a little loopy sometimes. It's no big deal. I wouldn't worry about it. Do me a favor though and don't drive, ok?"
"OK."
There was a click, then the dial-tone mingling with the faint buzzing in his ears. Ha ha oh yeah loopy don't worry. Bastard. There had to be something, something he could do to clear his head. Maybe he could fill the sink with cold water and put his face in it. Or he could fill the sink with cold water and put the phone in it. If Orlando weren't going to be showing up soon, he would drive out to the dunes (or take a cab--the doctor was right, he was in no shape to drive), scoop out a hollow in the sand and curl up in it until all this misery just stopped. Instead, he pulled a can of seltzer out of the mini-fridge, cracked it, and held it to his forehead. In the upholstered hush of the hotel room, he could hear the hiss and pop of the rising bubbles.
Another twenty minutes at least before Orlando arrived. Probably more.
Hurry.
----------------
Do you think this is weird?
That was the question he'd asked everyone who knew them both. No seemed to be the general answer. Liv thought it was "sweet". Dom and Sean just laughed. Elijah liked the idea of someone as quiet as Viggo going out with a "total spazz". John seemed vaguely jealous, and Ian thought the boy was exceptionably fuckable, even if he couldn't really act. And then there was Bean, "No, I don't think it's weird, and I won't think it's weird when you finally come to your senses and strangle the annoying little shit either." Said in all affection of course.
"Why would it be weird?" Billy asked, munching on a bowl of pineapple he'd picked out of the fruit salad at the catering table for the latest installment of the Master and Commander franchise. "Because he's a guy? Please. Age difference? He's no younger than Schnotty Schnabel, and you never had your knickers in a twist over her. In a tent maybe, but not a twist." Billy couldn't stand Lola, and Billy liked everybody, which should have been his first warning to get out while the getting was good. As it was, he'd waited until even the spectacular make-up sex wasn't worth the constant fighting. Jesus Christ, just the memory alone was exhausting. One thing in Orlando's favor--he didn't have the attention span for a successful sulk.
"No," Billy continued, "I think it makes perfect sense. He's got that extrovert thing going that keeps you from collapsing into your own navel, and besides, you always date people that make you look normal by comparison."
"What?"
"What do you mean, What?"
"What do you mean, 'make me look normal?'"
"Oh, come on Vig. Look at the people you end up with: the queen of the LA punks--brilliant match for a jazz musician, that--a New York scenester princess with the personality of a Chihuahua on crack, and now you've got an accident-prone teen-idol who should not under any circumstances be allowed to dress himself. Next to that, anyone would look well-adjusted."
"And you don't think I'm well-adjusted." Now he was pissed.
"Oh, here we go with the brooding face. Give it up, Elessar. Doesn't work on me, remember?" Billy laughed, "I think you're perfectly well-adjusted. In fact, you are the most well-adjusted really fucked-up person I know."
"What--?"
"It's true. I don't know if it's just some Danish Hamlet-complex or what, or maybe that school they sent--"
"Bullshit!" He strode away angrily, then turned back again, sputtering, "Look! I'm not some...fucked up...Hamlet! I..."
"Well," Billy interrupted, looking at his watch, "I've got to get back to work." Viggo glowered down at him, but he seemed very unimpressed and more than a bit amused. "I'll tell you what," said Billy, with a little triumphant smile, "I'll give you a call later tonight, and we can discuss it over the phone."
The smile was contagious. "Kiss my ass."
"Now, that would be weird." Billy tossed the cardboard bowl into the trash, shot him a grin and a wink, and turned back towards the set, calling over his shoulder. "He knows how to be happy, you know. That's why it feels so strange."
------------------------------
Viggo was jarred awake by what he was certain was the hotel fire alarm but turned out to be the phone on the nightstand.
"Yes?"
"Hi Vig! I'm downstairs, come get me."
"'K, be down in a minute."
He wandered down the hall to the elevator, not realizing until the sixth floor that he had forgotten his shoes. His head felt like a balloon on a string, bobbing along behind him as he stepped out of the elevator into the lobby. At the front desk, a well-dressed, middle-aged couple standing in front of a small mountain of designer luggage stared unabashed at the his unshaven face, glassy eyes, t-shirt, sweats, and bare feet. He was tempted to go lurching toward them with his staggering zombie walk, but before he could give into the urge, Orlando came running across the lobby and threw an arm around him. This did nothing to improve Viggo's image in the eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Vuitton, who continued to stare. Not that he blamed them. Orli was dressed, as usual, like an explosion at the Hollywood Salvation Army.
"Christ, Vig, you look like shit!"
"Thank you. How was the flight?"
Viggo turned back and pushed the button for the elevator. Almost immediately, Orlando reached out and hit the same lit button three more times, just in case the elevator hadn't heard them the first time. Up up up. Now now now.
"It was ok. Little bouncy, but nothing bad." They stepped into the elevator, and saw the couple and their luggage cart coming up behind them. Orlando, always the gentleman, held the door, but the woman gave a nervous shake of her head and indicated she'd catch the next one, thanks. Suit yourself, Orlando shrugged.
"Twenty-five," Viggo told him.
Orlando gave the button another triple punch. "Thought I was going to kill the guy next to me though. After, like, three drinks, he kept on trying to show me all the games and shit on his cell phone. And then he wanted to have a look at mine."
There had been two assistant producers on the set doing the same thing. "Yeah, 'I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours'--it's the new penis size."
"I woulda shown him my prick, if that'd shut him up."
Viggo gave him a suggestive little smile. "Hey, wanna see my cell phone?"
"What, you didn't throw it out the window?"
"Doesn't open."
"Ah."
Up in the room, Viggo flopped out on the bed and watched Orlando go through his usual inspection routine. It was, Viggo thought, rather like watching a cat sniff every inch of an unfamiliar room. Orlando walked the perimeter, dragging his fingertips over the walls and drawn drapes, turned on all the lights and the TV, flipped through the channel selection, and turned them all off again, sat in both the armchairs, bounced on the edge of the bed, peeked into the closet, then wandered into the bathroom.
"Nice." Orlando's voice floated out on a wave of reverb, the hollow ring of marble and tile. "You've got a jacuzzi."
"Yeah, the shower is a sauna, too."
"How is it?"
"Dunno. Hot water makes me itch."
Orlando emerged from the bathroom frowning as he took a hard look at the red, peeling skin on Viggo's face and arms. "How bad is it? Is it, like, all over?"
"No, just my face and arms and chest." Orlando's attempt to hide his relief so obvious, Viggo was tempted to add, "so don't worry, no leper-dick."
He watched Orlando go back to his inspection of the room, methodically going through the drawers of the dresser and nightstand, then pulling open the drapes to stand with his nose and forehead pressed to the glass. Viggo couldn't blame the woman downstairs for refusing the elevator. The boy should never under any circumstances be allowed to dress himself--isn't that what Billy had said? And there could hardly be a better example of that than this particular ensemble.
He had a silk paisley scarf on his head (remnants of that old crush on Johnny Depp--was he never going to grow out of this penchant for pirate drag?) and battered huaraches on his feet. His jeans were starting to blow out at the knees, and the nametag of the Texaco gas station jacket declared him to be "Jesus". But it was the t-shirt that made Viggo's eyes hurt. Hell, it made his brain hurt. It featured what appeared to be a garden gnome standing next to a plate of eggs fried sunny-side up, and off to the side was another egg, shell intact, wearing a crown. There was a little heart over the gnome's head, indicating its deep and abiding love for eggs. "Egg would be sounding good for now," read the slogan. "Try Egg: Is King of Eating." *
"Wow," said Orlando, "this view is fantastic!" It really was. A strip of park gave way to a basket weave of freeway ramps and boulevards, beyond that another, broader swath of green, the Gehry amphitheater looking like an armor-plated tornado, and then the silver expanse of Lake Michigan stretched out beyond it all.
"Yeah, it is" Viggo smiled. "You should see it at night, and on the weekend the lake is full of sailboats, all these little triangles sprinkled all over the water like confetti."
″You paint it?″
″No,″ said Viggo, pleased to be asked. Orli was the only one that ever did.
″You should.″
″You think so?″
″Yeah,″ said Orlando, fiddling absently with the curtain-pull. ″It's pretty. You should keep it.″ Keep it, that's how he always put it, understanding somehow in two words the element of possession, which Viggo never explained to anyone because if he had to, there wasn't any point. Summer snow falling in New Zealand, Orlando banging on his trailer door: Vig, come on, man! It's completely fucking gorgeous! If you don't hurry, you'll never get to keep any of it!
″Maybe I will.″
Orli turned and hopped onto the bed at Viggo's side. ″Still, couldn't they have gotten you something better than this? A suite at least.″
″They tried, but I got rid of it. Couldn't sleep with the extra room,″ he replied. Orlando nodded and said nothing.
If Orlando examined unfamiliar places, Viggo patrolled them, roaming back and forth in the middle of the night, awakened by the sound of the room on the other side of the door, it's emptiness and strangeness ringing like a bell in the dark. When he'd moved into his new apartment, except for his bedroom, he'd kept all the lights on all night and all the doors open for weeks, to insure the rooms wouldn't somehow transform themselves while he slept. Orlando laughed at him and learned to sleep with the glare from the hallway on his face.
″What's that?″ Orlando threw himself across Viggo's lap, intent on something on the other nightstand. ″What are these? Rocks?″
″Mmhmm. From the lake shore a couple hours east of here.″ Viggo tugged at one of the curls escaping from under Orlando's scarf and twisted it around his finger. ″It's one of the locations, this big nature preserve with woods, and the beach, and these big sand dunes. And all these stones down at the waters edge.″
″Man, look at these colors,″ said Orlando, turning a piece of pink and black granite over in his hands. ″I don't think I've ever seen a pink rock before. And this dark blue one here, what kind of rock is that?″
″Don't know.″
″How about this one?″ Orlando asked, holding up a flat, layered, copper-green stone, almost perfectly rectangular in shape, its worn strata creating a wave pattern on its smooth surface.
″Slate, I think,″ said Viggo, pulling the silk scarf away and running his hand through the younger man's dark curls.
″Huh.″ Then, as Viggo watched, Orlando paused and carefully touched it to the pointed tip of his tongue.
″Did you just lick that rock?″
″Well...yeah, I quess...″ Orlando replied hesitantly.
″Why did you lick the rock?″
″I wanted to see if it tasted the way it smelled.″ Orlando tried to squirm away, embarrassed, but Viggo held him in place.
″Let me see if I've got this right,″ said Viggo with an incredulous smile. ″You sniffed the rock and then you licked it?″
″It smelled nice!″ Orlando thrust the piece of slate at Viggo's face. ″Here, smell!″
″I'm not going to smell your rock.″
″It's not my rock, its your rock, and you should smell it! It smells really cool. Try it! Here! Smell it! Smell it!″ They were laughing and wrestling, Orlando pushing the stone towards Viggo's nose as Viggo tried to fend him off. ″Smell it! Smelly-smelly-smell!″
″All right! All right! Jesus, you practically shoved it up my nose!″ And leaning forward, Viggo gave it a cautious sniff.
″Doesn't it smell cool?″
″Yeah, yeah it does.″ And it did, like hot dust and ice water. He wondered what it tasted like, but didn't dare try. Instead he folded Orli's hand around it. ″Keep it.″
″You sure?″
″I'm sure. I'll take you out to the dunes before you go, so you can get some of your own.″
Orlando bounced off the bed and put the stone in one of the pockets of his duffel bag. ″I'm going to get one of those pink ones, definitely. I didn't know rocks even came in pink.″ He rummaged around in his bag a bit, started to unpack into one of the empty drawers, decided against it, sat back down, picked his scarf off the bed, put it on, took it off, and put it back on again. He looked at the blank TV, sat on the edge of the bed drumming his hands on his knees, got up, stood looking out the window, messed with the air conditioning, messed with the curtains, and sat back down on the edge of the bed.
Viggo knew it was coming.
″Vig,″ said Orlando in a plaintive, apologetic little voice, ″I'm bored.″
part 2
Author:
roxann_irelandRating: PG
Pairing: VM/OB
Summary: Viggo is stuck in a Chicago hotel, sick and sidelined in the middle of a film shoot. Orlando shows up to take care of him.
Disclaimers and such: Of course none of this is real, silly, especially the shirt.
_cee both inspired and beta'd this thing, so it's all her fault. Geography and zombies courtesy of violetisblue, shirt by claudelemonde who doesn't know I stole it, so please don't tell her. Oh, and this is my first post to fellow_shippers, so ::waves::Viggo lay on his back on the hotel bed, concentrating on one thought. Do not scratch. He'd never really worked wearing prosthetics before, and now he had cause for a great deal of retroactive compassion for all the hobbits and elves who'd gone around constantly picking at their feet and ears. He'd been lucky. He never would have survived three years of this.
When the rash first appeared on his face, the makeup people figured it was the latex that had set him off and went through the rather onerous process of re-doing all of his decaying-zombie attachments (or were they detachments, if you were decaying?) in nitrile instead. But it wasn't the latex after all, it was the glue, and there wasn't a hell of a lot they could do for that.
They worked as fast as they could from then on, arranging the schedule to have him in and out of makeup as quickly as possible, trying different brands of glue, but eventually it spread to his neck, and then his hands. When he started wheezing by the end of the day, the production doctor insisted he take a break before he ended up in an emergency room with an anaphylactic reaction.
So they'd packed him off for an impromptu break in a Chicago hotel, with a bunch of creams and pills and dermatologist's appointments, hoping to get the reaction under control for the last few necessary live-action scenes. Luckily, the final scenes of him shambling around and crumbling to his tragic death in the dunes were going to be CGI.
God bless Andy Serkis.
On the nightstand, his cell phone, set to vibrate, buzzed like a cicada for the length of six rings, then went mercifully still.
The very first phone he'd ever had, he'd thrown out the window the second time it rang. He stood by the wisdom of that decision.
After a few moments of silence, just long enough for someone to hang up on the voicemail and redial, the cell went off again.
The windows of this hotel didn't open.
Damn.
The third time the thing went off, he didn't need the caller ID to know who it was.
"Hello, Orlando."
"Hi! How'd you know it was me?" Caller ID was Unknown User. Payphone most likely. Had he lost his phone or simply forgotten to charge it again?
"Psychic."
"Well then," Orlando chirped, "you don't need me to tell you where I am!" In the background Viggo could hear a delayed departure announcement for flight something-or-other.
"Airport."
"Damn, you're good. So, ok, yeah, but which airport?"
Oh no, not-- "O'Hare?"
"Yeah! Surprise!"
"Listen, Orlando, that's very nice of you, but I'm not feeling well right--"
"I know, I know, so I've come to take care of you."
"Take care of me?" Orlando had been the death of countless plants, several fish, and one slightly psychotic gerbil. Maybe he should just check himself into the hospital now.
It would take Orlando an hour to get here from the airport, maybe more, so he could either try to take a nap, maybe get a little rest, or he could get up, shower, smear a bunch of cream all over himself, and hope he looked a little less like an acne-sunburn combo platter by the time Orlando arrived. Or he could pack and change hotels.
No, really, that was totally unworthy of him. Tempting but unworthy.
It's not that he didn't want to see Orlando. It's just that he was so much work. Worth it, but, Jesus, so much work.
Shower. Shower and cream and maybe one of those itch-killing pills the doctor gave him for when it got bad enough to keep him awake. He hoped it worked. He never took pills if he could help it, but Orlando on a tear sometimes made him want to crawl right out of his skin, even when his immune system wasn't shooting itself in the foot.
Half an hour later he was reminded why he never took pills. The itch had completely disappeared, replaced with dry mouth and the sensation that he was on an elevator that had just stopped. When he called the production doctor, wrong number twice because he couldn't quite focus, trying not to panic (Jesus Christ, he fucking hated fucking telephones!) the man laughed, "Oh yeah, antihistamines can leave you a little loopy sometimes. It's no big deal. I wouldn't worry about it. Do me a favor though and don't drive, ok?"
"OK."
There was a click, then the dial-tone mingling with the faint buzzing in his ears. Ha ha oh yeah loopy don't worry. Bastard. There had to be something, something he could do to clear his head. Maybe he could fill the sink with cold water and put his face in it. Or he could fill the sink with cold water and put the phone in it. If Orlando weren't going to be showing up soon, he would drive out to the dunes (or take a cab--the doctor was right, he was in no shape to drive), scoop out a hollow in the sand and curl up in it until all this misery just stopped. Instead, he pulled a can of seltzer out of the mini-fridge, cracked it, and held it to his forehead. In the upholstered hush of the hotel room, he could hear the hiss and pop of the rising bubbles.
Another twenty minutes at least before Orlando arrived. Probably more.
Hurry.
----------------
Do you think this is weird?
That was the question he'd asked everyone who knew them both. No seemed to be the general answer. Liv thought it was "sweet". Dom and Sean just laughed. Elijah liked the idea of someone as quiet as Viggo going out with a "total spazz". John seemed vaguely jealous, and Ian thought the boy was exceptionably fuckable, even if he couldn't really act. And then there was Bean, "No, I don't think it's weird, and I won't think it's weird when you finally come to your senses and strangle the annoying little shit either." Said in all affection of course.
"Why would it be weird?" Billy asked, munching on a bowl of pineapple he'd picked out of the fruit salad at the catering table for the latest installment of the Master and Commander franchise. "Because he's a guy? Please. Age difference? He's no younger than Schnotty Schnabel, and you never had your knickers in a twist over her. In a tent maybe, but not a twist." Billy couldn't stand Lola, and Billy liked everybody, which should have been his first warning to get out while the getting was good. As it was, he'd waited until even the spectacular make-up sex wasn't worth the constant fighting. Jesus Christ, just the memory alone was exhausting. One thing in Orlando's favor--he didn't have the attention span for a successful sulk.
"No," Billy continued, "I think it makes perfect sense. He's got that extrovert thing going that keeps you from collapsing into your own navel, and besides, you always date people that make you look normal by comparison."
"What?"
"What do you mean, What?"
"What do you mean, 'make me look normal?'"
"Oh, come on Vig. Look at the people you end up with: the queen of the LA punks--brilliant match for a jazz musician, that--a New York scenester princess with the personality of a Chihuahua on crack, and now you've got an accident-prone teen-idol who should not under any circumstances be allowed to dress himself. Next to that, anyone would look well-adjusted."
"And you don't think I'm well-adjusted." Now he was pissed.
"Oh, here we go with the brooding face. Give it up, Elessar. Doesn't work on me, remember?" Billy laughed, "I think you're perfectly well-adjusted. In fact, you are the most well-adjusted really fucked-up person I know."
"What--?"
"It's true. I don't know if it's just some Danish Hamlet-complex or what, or maybe that school they sent--"
"Bullshit!" He strode away angrily, then turned back again, sputtering, "Look! I'm not some...fucked up...Hamlet! I..."
"Well," Billy interrupted, looking at his watch, "I've got to get back to work." Viggo glowered down at him, but he seemed very unimpressed and more than a bit amused. "I'll tell you what," said Billy, with a little triumphant smile, "I'll give you a call later tonight, and we can discuss it over the phone."
The smile was contagious. "Kiss my ass."
"Now, that would be weird." Billy tossed the cardboard bowl into the trash, shot him a grin and a wink, and turned back towards the set, calling over his shoulder. "He knows how to be happy, you know. That's why it feels so strange."
------------------------------
Viggo was jarred awake by what he was certain was the hotel fire alarm but turned out to be the phone on the nightstand.
"Yes?"
"Hi Vig! I'm downstairs, come get me."
"'K, be down in a minute."
He wandered down the hall to the elevator, not realizing until the sixth floor that he had forgotten his shoes. His head felt like a balloon on a string, bobbing along behind him as he stepped out of the elevator into the lobby. At the front desk, a well-dressed, middle-aged couple standing in front of a small mountain of designer luggage stared unabashed at the his unshaven face, glassy eyes, t-shirt, sweats, and bare feet. He was tempted to go lurching toward them with his staggering zombie walk, but before he could give into the urge, Orlando came running across the lobby and threw an arm around him. This did nothing to improve Viggo's image in the eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Vuitton, who continued to stare. Not that he blamed them. Orli was dressed, as usual, like an explosion at the Hollywood Salvation Army.
"Christ, Vig, you look like shit!"
"Thank you. How was the flight?"
Viggo turned back and pushed the button for the elevator. Almost immediately, Orlando reached out and hit the same lit button three more times, just in case the elevator hadn't heard them the first time. Up up up. Now now now.
"It was ok. Little bouncy, but nothing bad." They stepped into the elevator, and saw the couple and their luggage cart coming up behind them. Orlando, always the gentleman, held the door, but the woman gave a nervous shake of her head and indicated she'd catch the next one, thanks. Suit yourself, Orlando shrugged.
"Twenty-five," Viggo told him.
Orlando gave the button another triple punch. "Thought I was going to kill the guy next to me though. After, like, three drinks, he kept on trying to show me all the games and shit on his cell phone. And then he wanted to have a look at mine."
There had been two assistant producers on the set doing the same thing. "Yeah, 'I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours'--it's the new penis size."
"I woulda shown him my prick, if that'd shut him up."
Viggo gave him a suggestive little smile. "Hey, wanna see my cell phone?"
"What, you didn't throw it out the window?"
"Doesn't open."
"Ah."
Up in the room, Viggo flopped out on the bed and watched Orlando go through his usual inspection routine. It was, Viggo thought, rather like watching a cat sniff every inch of an unfamiliar room. Orlando walked the perimeter, dragging his fingertips over the walls and drawn drapes, turned on all the lights and the TV, flipped through the channel selection, and turned them all off again, sat in both the armchairs, bounced on the edge of the bed, peeked into the closet, then wandered into the bathroom.
"Nice." Orlando's voice floated out on a wave of reverb, the hollow ring of marble and tile. "You've got a jacuzzi."
"Yeah, the shower is a sauna, too."
"How is it?"
"Dunno. Hot water makes me itch."
Orlando emerged from the bathroom frowning as he took a hard look at the red, peeling skin on Viggo's face and arms. "How bad is it? Is it, like, all over?"
"No, just my face and arms and chest." Orlando's attempt to hide his relief so obvious, Viggo was tempted to add, "so don't worry, no leper-dick."
He watched Orlando go back to his inspection of the room, methodically going through the drawers of the dresser and nightstand, then pulling open the drapes to stand with his nose and forehead pressed to the glass. Viggo couldn't blame the woman downstairs for refusing the elevator. The boy should never under any circumstances be allowed to dress himself--isn't that what Billy had said? And there could hardly be a better example of that than this particular ensemble.
He had a silk paisley scarf on his head (remnants of that old crush on Johnny Depp--was he never going to grow out of this penchant for pirate drag?) and battered huaraches on his feet. His jeans were starting to blow out at the knees, and the nametag of the Texaco gas station jacket declared him to be "Jesus". But it was the t-shirt that made Viggo's eyes hurt. Hell, it made his brain hurt. It featured what appeared to be a garden gnome standing next to a plate of eggs fried sunny-side up, and off to the side was another egg, shell intact, wearing a crown. There was a little heart over the gnome's head, indicating its deep and abiding love for eggs. "Egg would be sounding good for now," read the slogan. "Try Egg: Is King of Eating." *
"Wow," said Orlando, "this view is fantastic!" It really was. A strip of park gave way to a basket weave of freeway ramps and boulevards, beyond that another, broader swath of green, the Gehry amphitheater looking like an armor-plated tornado, and then the silver expanse of Lake Michigan stretched out beyond it all.
"Yeah, it is" Viggo smiled. "You should see it at night, and on the weekend the lake is full of sailboats, all these little triangles sprinkled all over the water like confetti."
″You paint it?″
″No,″ said Viggo, pleased to be asked. Orli was the only one that ever did.
″You should.″
″You think so?″
″Yeah,″ said Orlando, fiddling absently with the curtain-pull. ″It's pretty. You should keep it.″ Keep it, that's how he always put it, understanding somehow in two words the element of possession, which Viggo never explained to anyone because if he had to, there wasn't any point. Summer snow falling in New Zealand, Orlando banging on his trailer door: Vig, come on, man! It's completely fucking gorgeous! If you don't hurry, you'll never get to keep any of it!
″Maybe I will.″
Orli turned and hopped onto the bed at Viggo's side. ″Still, couldn't they have gotten you something better than this? A suite at least.″
″They tried, but I got rid of it. Couldn't sleep with the extra room,″ he replied. Orlando nodded and said nothing.
If Orlando examined unfamiliar places, Viggo patrolled them, roaming back and forth in the middle of the night, awakened by the sound of the room on the other side of the door, it's emptiness and strangeness ringing like a bell in the dark. When he'd moved into his new apartment, except for his bedroom, he'd kept all the lights on all night and all the doors open for weeks, to insure the rooms wouldn't somehow transform themselves while he slept. Orlando laughed at him and learned to sleep with the glare from the hallway on his face.
″What's that?″ Orlando threw himself across Viggo's lap, intent on something on the other nightstand. ″What are these? Rocks?″
″Mmhmm. From the lake shore a couple hours east of here.″ Viggo tugged at one of the curls escaping from under Orlando's scarf and twisted it around his finger. ″It's one of the locations, this big nature preserve with woods, and the beach, and these big sand dunes. And all these stones down at the waters edge.″
″Man, look at these colors,″ said Orlando, turning a piece of pink and black granite over in his hands. ″I don't think I've ever seen a pink rock before. And this dark blue one here, what kind of rock is that?″
″Don't know.″
″How about this one?″ Orlando asked, holding up a flat, layered, copper-green stone, almost perfectly rectangular in shape, its worn strata creating a wave pattern on its smooth surface.
″Slate, I think,″ said Viggo, pulling the silk scarf away and running his hand through the younger man's dark curls.
″Huh.″ Then, as Viggo watched, Orlando paused and carefully touched it to the pointed tip of his tongue.
″Did you just lick that rock?″
″Well...yeah, I quess...″ Orlando replied hesitantly.
″Why did you lick the rock?″
″I wanted to see if it tasted the way it smelled.″ Orlando tried to squirm away, embarrassed, but Viggo held him in place.
″Let me see if I've got this right,″ said Viggo with an incredulous smile. ″You sniffed the rock and then you licked it?″
″It smelled nice!″ Orlando thrust the piece of slate at Viggo's face. ″Here, smell!″
″I'm not going to smell your rock.″
″It's not my rock, its your rock, and you should smell it! It smells really cool. Try it! Here! Smell it! Smell it!″ They were laughing and wrestling, Orlando pushing the stone towards Viggo's nose as Viggo tried to fend him off. ″Smell it! Smelly-smelly-smell!″
″All right! All right! Jesus, you practically shoved it up my nose!″ And leaning forward, Viggo gave it a cautious sniff.
″Doesn't it smell cool?″
″Yeah, yeah it does.″ And it did, like hot dust and ice water. He wondered what it tasted like, but didn't dare try. Instead he folded Orli's hand around it. ″Keep it.″
″You sure?″
″I'm sure. I'll take you out to the dunes before you go, so you can get some of your own.″
Orlando bounced off the bed and put the stone in one of the pockets of his duffel bag. ″I'm going to get one of those pink ones, definitely. I didn't know rocks even came in pink.″ He rummaged around in his bag a bit, started to unpack into one of the empty drawers, decided against it, sat back down, picked his scarf off the bed, put it on, took it off, and put it back on again. He looked at the blank TV, sat on the edge of the bed drumming his hands on his knees, got up, stood looking out the window, messed with the air conditioning, messed with the curtains, and sat back down on the edge of the bed.
Viggo knew it was coming.
″Vig,″ said Orlando in a plaintive, apologetic little voice, ″I'm bored.″
part 2
GENIUS!
More...PLEASE!?!
Thank you!
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too too funny more please...
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More please.
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nice chapter, like this version of viggo and orlando
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This my versions of Viggo and Orlando are pretty much jacked direct from
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I once licked a rock that tasted like...I'm not kidding...cheese pizza.
I'm trying to find a rock that tastes of chocolate, now...
*ggggggg*
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*hugs*
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I'm glad you like it. :D
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Almost immediately, Orlando reached out and hit the same lit button three more times, just in case the elevator hadn't heard them the first time. Up up up. Now now now.
I can so picture in my head and it makes me want to hug him even more. *sigh*
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That is perfection. The characterizations are dead on, and I especially love your Orlando.
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If Orlando examined unfamiliar places, Viggo patrolled them, roaming back and forth in the middle of the night, awakened by the sound of the room on the other side of the door, it's emptiness and strangeness ringing like a bell in the dark.
gorgeous line. <3333
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the personalities seem like they are dead-on, and your attention to detail is amazing!
wow. just wow.
more please?
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All of a sudden, I am getting comments on this 2 months after I posted it--did I get rec'd or something?
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:)
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