Bittersweet Symphony 6/17

[sileya.livejournal.com]

And because I promised not to torture you, here's another chapter.

Title: Bittersweet Symphony (6/17)
Author: Sileya, sileya@yahoo.com, www.sileya.net, sileya at LiveJournal
Pairing: VM/OB
Rating, Warnings: overall NC-17, AU
Summary: Viggo watches a plane crash and helps the survivors – one of whom will change the direction of his life.
Disclaimer: This is a work of celebrity fan FICTION. I make no claims as to the veracity of this material, it is for entertainment purposes only.
Author’s Note: Beta by the gracious razzleslash. This plotline is very loosely based on a rather obscure 1980s movie. I’ll reveal the movie after the last chapter, cause I don’t want to risk giving major plot points away.
Feedback: PLEASE.

Previous Chapters

==



==

His mouth felt like it was full of cotton. His eyes felt like they were full of sand. And the light was awfully bright for his bedroom, where he always kept the blinds closed.

Viggo cracked open an eye, blinking against the bright sun that slanted through the cut-glass doors to the patio. Recognizing his office, he groaned and felt around the couch, grasping the empty crystal decanter he half lay on.

He sat up, groaning again at the rush of pain in his head. “Christ,” he muttered, grabbing his head, blinking at the carpet.

A short glass of fizzy liquid appeared in front of him. Without question, he took it and drank it down with a grimace. He looked up and blinked.

Orlando stood there in the sunshine, waiting.

Viggo just looked at him for a few silent moments. He’s real, Viggo told himself. You could have dismissed last night as a drunken dream – but not this. Not him standing there, clear as day. Viggo soaked in the knowledge, studying the other man. Orlando was dressed in tailored black trousers and a white dress shirt covered with a rust-colored sweater that looked very soft. He must have worn the light leather jacket because of the weather, Viggo thought. The soft brown leather fell past Orlando’s hips, the ties hanging at the sides. They were the same clothes Viggo had seen him in days ago.

Orlando stayed silent, hoping Viggo would acknowledge him. What else can I do? he wondered, watching as the American looked him over. He fought the urge to shuffle his feet nervously, his hands hidden in the pockets of his jacket.

The silence seemed to stretch time into slow motion. Viggo was momentarily entranced by dust motes in the air between them turned to glitter in the golden glare. The glitter just enhanced what was suddenly a frozen moment. He’s really beautiful, Viggo acknowledged, realizing distantly that he was staring. He’s really real.

Orlando’s attention was pulled away from Viggo as the light grew brighter. He looked to the doors and suddenly felt an almost overwhelming urge to walk through them. The light grew brighter, turning white in its power, until the doors disappeared in an incandescent flare.

His eyes widened and he shifted his weight -- almost ready to take a step -- when Viggo spoke.

“Thank you. That really helped.”

Orlando looked back to Viggo, surprised. He jerked his head back around to look at the doors, only seeing golden sunshine pouring dully through the glass. The impulse was gone and for a moment, Orlando felt a huge loss.

“Orlando?”

Viggo was looking at him questioningly. He relaxed and took back the glass, now empty. “You’re welcome,” he muttered, grasping the glass with both hands as he watched Viggo stand unsteadily.

“I have work to do,” Viggo said, stumbling against the low table in front of the couch.

Orlando’s eyes widened. “You’ve got a hangover, and you’re going to work?”

Viggo frowned and looked over at him. “Someone’s got to keep things going.”

“It’s Sunday. A day of rest,” Orlando pointed out.

Viggo stopped and blinked slowly, then he eased into the overstuffed chair. “Sunday.”

Orlando nodded and smiled, repressing a chuckle. “You’re out of it, mate. Best to take it easy.”

Viggo leaned back and frowned. “Right. Do I remember listing off my problems to you last night?”

Orlando nodded.

“Then you know why I needed help to ‘take it easy’,” Viggo said, waving the empty decanter.

Got me there, Orlando admitted silently. “Quite,” he agreed aloud.

Viggo snickered. Orlando looked offended. “What?”

“Quite,” Viggo parroted, leaning over one arm of the chair.

Orlando narrowed his eyes. “You’re making fun of the way I talk?”

“Quite,” Viggo repeated, chuckling in earnest now.

Orlando crossed his arms and sat on the couch, a petulant frown marring his face. “I’m glad I can provide such amusement for you.”

Viggo laughed aloud, earning a darker stare. He tried to stifle the laughs, which were quickly turning into giggles. “You just sound like such the British gentleman.”

Orlando’s face grew pained. “I AM a British gentleman, I’ll have you know.”

Viggo laughed harder.

Orlando sighed. “I don’t think you’re hung over. I think you’re still drunk.”

“How do you get to be a proper English gentleman?” Viggo asked suddenly.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Humor the depressed drunk man and answer the question.”

Orlando heaved a sigh. “Born to it, I suppose. Lots of land and money in the family, so I don’t have to work, per se. I like to do charity work, and people seem to think I’m fashionable.”

“The fashionable and charitable Orlando Bloom,” Viggo intoned in a television reporter’s voice.

Orlando got that pained look again. “Quite.” He sighed as soon as he said it, shaking his head as Viggo pealed off into giggles again.

“Well, at least I wasn’t somebody important who went and got himself killed in a stupid, bloody plane crash,” Orlando huffed.

Viggo calmed, looking at him evenly, thinking of the charity work Orlando mentioned. “I’m sure you’re somebody important. To somebody.”

Orlando met his eyes. After a few moments of silence, he said a muttered thank you.

Viggo nodded.

“What about you?”

Viggo looked at him questioningly.

“What do you do?”

Viggo turned the decanter in hand. “I’m a broker, of sorts. I buy companies and resell them in parts.”

“You don’t sound too enthused.”

Viggo shrugged. “It lost its appeal some years ago.”

“So why stay with it?” Orlando studied the American, stubbly and scruffy, dressed in jeans and a white wife beater. He didn’t seem the type to let himself be pigeonholed. He mentioned this to Viggo.

“I can’t change. It’s easier not to rock the boat,” Viggo said.

“But it’s not fulfilling.”

Viggo shook his head. “That’s why I bought this place and the stables. I love horses.”

Orlando smiled as Viggo’s eyes brightened and his heart warmed. He tried to think of something Viggo could talk about that would keep that spark shining. “What else do you love?”

A smile touched Viggo’s lips as he relaxed in the chair. “I love…my son, Henry. Did you know I have a son? I love taking pictures. I love traveling. I love…being creative.” He sighed, the smile slowly dying. Orlando watched the spark fade from Viggo’s eyes and he felt sad. “I just don’t have time for those things anymore.”

“Even your son?” Orlando murmured.

“Henry’s at college. Too grown up to need his father on a daily basis anymore, I guess. He calls when he needs something, and I try to call at least once a week,” Viggo admitted. “I miss him. He would come out here with me.”

Orlando sat quietly. “Maybe if you spent more time doing things you enjoy, you’d be happier.”

Viggo glanced to him, a quick retort on his lips. But he stifled it when he saw the serious set of Orlando’s eyes. Instead, he sighed.

“I’ve thought about remodeling an upstairs room to use as a studio. I just never seem to find the time to get around to it.”

Orlando’s lips quirked. “You ought to make time before it’s too late.”

Viggo’s eyes narrowed and Orlando met his gaze, eyebrow lifting. “I should know, shouldn’t I?” Orlando asked.

He pressed his lips together, refusing to answer. The man’s dead. I guess this means he has regrets.

“Don’t pass up on happiness, if you can find it, Viggo,” Orlando said. “One day there will be a plane crash, and it will be too late.”