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fellowshippers2003-08-07 08:18 am
chaosmanor.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2003-08-07 08:18 am
"Flying South", R, Viggorli, 1/1
Title: Flying South
Author: Elaine Kemp
Pairing: Viggorli
Rating: R
Betaed by: Celebrian and Mina
Summary: Sequel to “Stranger to the Ground.” The trip home. You probably need to have the read the first story to make any sense of this one.
Disclaimer: Fiction. I made it all up.
Viggo felt exuberantly happy: wildly, ecstatically happy. He was driving, heading back towards Wellington; and Orlando was beside him in the car, bent over rummaging around amongst the CDs. They’d been listening to Indigo Girls; to one of Viggo’s favourite CDs. Now it was Orlando’s turn to choose.
He sat back up and loaded the CD. “What is it?” Viggo asked, not actually caring. Orlando could listen to the worst Industrial Band crap, and Viggo would still feel great.
“It’s a burnt CD,” Orlando said, and the music started and proved to be innocuous pop by a female vocalist Viggo couldn’t place. The next track was equally inane pop and vaguely familiar, too. Viggo turned his head slightly to watch Orlando with his peripheral vision as he drove, unable to keep his eyes off of him for long. Orlando was jiggling in his seat, singing along, and Viggo smiled again. He concentrated on the road for a moment as a moron in a small truck successfully overtook them around a blind corner; then let his sight drift back to the man beside him. Something niggled at his mind; something about the way Orlando looked or sounded.
Or didn’t sound. He was miming, not singing, but doing it so well it took awhile for Viggo to notice.
“You’re lip-synching. Properly,” said Viggo slowing down as they passed a ‘Stock on the Road’ warning sign. They had all learnt that New Zealand road warning signs had to be taken seriously. “Bloody hell, you’ve done drag.” He slowed down even more as they passed a group of enormous pigs milling around on the verge.
The logging truck behind them sounded its horn and pulled out to overtake, apparently unconcerned about the impact damage that several hundred kilos of bacon would do. Orlando grinned. “Sure, with my face and build, I was born to do drag. I performed for most of the time I was at Guildhall. Used to get 250 quid a night, plus all I could drink. Bloody good pay for an acting student.” Viggo watched him as he gestured, and thought that he would have been very good at drag. The song changed, and the next one was Kylie, and Viggo laughed out loud as Orlando pursed his lips and cocked his head in a characteristic pose. “What, no teasing?” Orlando said.
Viggo shook his head. “Hell, no. I’ll tell you a secret. When I worked behind the bar in the gay bar, all I wore was a jockstrap. Drag sounds fine to me.”
Orlando turned to look at Viggo, eyes wide. “A jockstrap? No wonder you got laid all the time.” And then, after Viggo had picked up speed again, “So, I tucked, and you padded?”
Viggo shook his head. “Couldn’t pad. I used to charge 10 dollars a look.”
Orlando shrieked with laughter and Viggo joined him, “You would have loved the life then. Total hedonism. You could do anything you wanted and there were no consequences.”
The Spice Girls came on and Orlando said, “Wow. I’ve never fucked a stranger. Sure, lots of blow-jobs, but fucking had to be someone I knew and trusted, because if a condom broke, you had to be able to find the person.”
They drove on for a while, with Mt. Tongariro looming on their right, and Baby Spice warbled and then Viggo looked sideways at Orlando, “Show me a routine. Now.”
“What?” Orlando asked, surprised.
“Show me a dance routine. Here,” and Viggo turned on the indicator and slowed down at the turnoff for a lookout over the gorge that Oturere Stream fell through. The gravel parking lot was empty and the view over the gorge was wonderful- dense forest giving way to the plunging falls. A little below them a car passed on the highway looping around the twists and turns as the road descended to the bottom of the gorge.
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. Go on- you jump off bridges for fun, this should be nothing.”
Orlando looked at Viggo, who was grinning; daring him. Elijah was excellent at inciting Orlando to behave recklessly. He suspected that Viggo might be even better at it than Elijah.
Orlando grinned back and said “Sure. Are you going to take photos?”
Orlando climbed out of the 4WD and swung his arms around and laughed at Viggo. “Can’t dance in a heavy jumper,” he said and pulled his jumper and t-shirt off.
Viggo shook his head and reached behind him to the backseat for his camera. Taking the t-shirt off was just exhibitionism, Viggo knew. Just for his benefit. Viggo sat on the bonnet of the car, camera in hand and Orlando leant into the car and fiddled with the CD player.
Then, in a gravel parking lot, beside Oturere Stream, Orlando Bloom- dressed only in jeans and boots- danced for Viggo Mortensen, accompanied by Tina Tuner singing “Simply The Best”.
Of all the strange things that had ever happened to Viggo, he thought that this might just be the most surreal. Orlando was competent, and Viggo had seen enough drag to be able to picture Orlando in wig, sequins and heels; but seeing him dance now, in New Zealand on a chilly day, wearing only jeans and sporting a Mohawk, was bizarre.
Viggo took a few photos and put his camera down. He wouldn’t need photos to remind him of this.
Orlando swung his hips and turned and raised his arms over his head, and a logging truck sounded its horn as it passed by them on the highway. Suddenly the enormity of what had happened over the past three days hit Viggo. He had been grief stricken and frozen inside and Orlando had cared for him enough to reach out and help him make sense of his grief after all these years. And Viggo had let him.
And now, watching Orlando dance, and remembering how passionate they had been the night before, Viggo knew how he felt; knew that he wanted the warmth between them to continue growing.
The song ended, and the gorge was quiet. Orlando did coy waves to his imaginary audience, blew Viggo a kiss and slunk over to him. Viggo pulled Orlando into his arms and Orlando slid his bare arms inside of Viggo’s jacket and buried himself in the warmth. Viggo pulled his jacket closed around him and Viggo’s mouth was amongst his hair, his words soft when he said, “I’m twenty years older than I used to be and I’ve had my heart broken a couple of times and I’ve got a son. Everything is full of meaning; of consequences for me now.”
Orlando pulled back a little and smiled at Viggo, "I’m not planning on hurting you.”
Viggo shook his head a little and said, “Tell me now if you’re just going to walk away tomorrow, and act as if nothing has happened between us, because I’m falling in love with you.”
Orlando’s face was serious now, “I’m more than a little in love with you. I was hoping you would want us to keep seeing each other after we got back to Wellington. Hoping we could be lovers.”
Viggo embraced Orlando tightly and murmured, “Lovers. I like the sound of that.”
Orlando kissed Viggo gently, longingly, and whispered, “How far are we from Wellington?”
Viggo stroked the fingers of one hand down Orlando’s face. “Four and a half hours; maybe a bit more.”
“I can’t wait that long.”
Viggo’s eyes were held by Orlando’s, by the need he saw in them. “We’ll stop at the next town.”
Orlando paused in the doorway of the tiny motel room they’d rented. Viggo turned from closing the blinds and switching on the heater and thought for a moment that Orlando looked nervous. “What is it?” he said, crossing the room and taking Orlando’s hand. “What’s wrong?”
Orlando looked at Viggo, uncertainty in his eyes. “I’ve never done this before.”
Viggo pulled the door closed behind them and said, “Done what?”
“Made love.”
Viggo paused. It had not occurred to him that this amazing person, who knew about grief and death and compassion and flight, did not know about love. “Let me show you,” he said, and kissed Orlando softly.
And they made love in a cheap motel room in New Zealand; with the heater humming to fight off the gathering winter night’s cold. They made love with fingers and mouths and cocks, touching everywhere, feeling everything. With skin and sweat and every breath. For each of them, every moment was about the other person; about touching and sliding and listening to each sound of pleasure, until there was nowhere left to hide.
Afterwards, after Orlando had stopped trembling, they lay in bed wrapped around each other, “Do you want to see if the truckstop café has food you can eat? Or do you just want to get back in the car and drive to Wellington tonight?” Viggo asked quietly
The café had lentil burgers and soy shakes, so they ate sitting in bed; watching rugby on the only TV channel available, and speculated about what the various codes of football played said about the people that played them. Orlando said, “What does it say about New Zealanders that they have to tape their ears on with duct tape before playing football?”
Viggo shrugged, “I’m not sure, but it’s probably related to one lane bridges with train tracks down the middle and the national urge to commit suicide by logging truck.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The next afternoon, the door to Billy’s apartment was opened by Elijah, who shouted and threw himself at Orlando. Orlando hugged him back and pushed him off and looked at him quizzically, seeing hurt in his eyes, behind the smile. “What’s happened?” he said quietly, following Elijah into the hall. “Trouble in Hobbiton?”
Then he was on the floor of the lounge, underneath the three hobbits, tickling all the skin he could reach. This was their standard greeting, the sort of greeting that broke furniture; that made the crew look at them strangely; and, on one memorable occasion, made Fran shout at them.
After a minute or two, Orlando pulled himself out of the scrum, appropriated a beer and claimed the only decent armchair. “So, did you miss me?” he asked as Billy and Dom scrambled for the lounge and Elijah went to replace the beer he had lost.
“You should have come with us,” Billy said. “We went out clubbing on Saturday night and Dom pulled a babe.” Suddenly, the hurt in Elijah’s eyes made sense. Dom had no clue how Elijah felt. “What about you, Orli? Did you get laid?” Billy asked.
Orlando nodded and Billy grinned at him and said, “Typical. You go spend four days driving around North Island in the middle of nowhere, and you still get lucky.”
Elijah was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, beer in his hand, watching Orlando closely. He said, “It was more than that, Orli. What’s happened?”
Orlando looked at Elijah. They were close- close enough that only Orlando knew Elijah was in love with Dom- and could read each other. Orlando said simply, “I fell in love.”
Billy said, “No way. You met a chick,”
-“or bloke” Dom interjected, and Billy thumped him-
“and fell in love, all in four days.”
Orlando was still holding Elijah’s gaze. Elijah said, “That’s not what happened, is it?”
Orlando shook his head, “It was Viggo.”
Billy said, “No way,” and Dom’s mouth hung open and Elijah threw himself across the room into Orlando’s lap and hugged him, saying “Tell us, I want to know all the details.”
Orlando wiped beer off his arm onto Elijah’s shirt and said “Get off ’Lij. No way am I reminiscing about bonking Viggo with you in my lap.”
Billy cried “Arrgghh. I can’t listen to this. It threatens my masculinity,” and blocked his ears with his fingers. Elijah clambered in between Dom and Billy on the couch and said, “Go on, tell.”
Orlando considered what to say. He and Viggo had agreed that he should tell the hobbits immediately that they were lovers, there being few secrets from them anyway; and thus avoid any hideously embarrassing walk-in incidents. “Viggo was really down because it was the anniversary of the death of an ex of his on Friday. We went to this incredible place: a headland where falcons were soaring everywhere, and he was crying. Later on, he told me why; he told me about all sorts of things, none of which I’m going to repeat. The next day, we went to this beach which was piled with enormous amounts of driftwood, and we kissed. And then all this amazing stuff happened between us, and now we’re together.”
Elijah was grinning at him, Dom still looked incredulous and Billy said, “Really?”, obviously forgetting he was threatened.
Later on, when Billy and Dom had gone out for more beer, Elijah looked at him intently and said, “He’s in love with you too, isn’t he?”
Orlando nodded, feeling the happiness shining out of himself.
* * * * * * * *
The production offices were quiet when Viggo went looking for Fran to return the car keys. One of the tech staff pointed him towards the Weta workshops, and he found Fran standing outside in one of the open spaces, dubiously poking a lump of…something… that was on the ground with her foot as one of the Weta chemists waved his arms excitedly. She saw him walking towards her and excused herself from the chemist and the lump and went to meet Viggo.
“What was that stuff?” he asked, looking at the goop stuck to her shoe. She looked down and began scraping her foot along the ground, trying to dislodge it.
“You’re an actor, there are some things you don’t need to know.”
He held out the car keys to her, “Is PJ around? I’d like to talk to you both.”
She looked at him with concern. He was one of the stars, and part of her job was to keep him happy. “I’m on my way to meet him in post-production. We can catch him there.”
Fran evicted a tech from an office and she and PJ looked at Viggo with concern. “Good holiday?” she asked.
“The best. Thanks for the use of the car. There’s something I need to talk to you both about; something personal,” Viggo said.
“A problem?” PJ said worriedly. Viggo had saved their butts by stepping in when Stuart Townsend hadn’t worked out and they couldn’t afford to lose him now, months into filming.
Viggo shook his head and smiled. “I hope not, but as you’re the bosses, I do need to tell you that Orlando and I are lovers.”
Fran flicked a glance at PJ, who seemed too surprised to talk, before she said, “Have you succumbed to Hobbit madness, Viggo?” Elijah, Dom, Billy and Orlando had proven to be a dangerous combination, and she continued to be worried that one of their episodes of stupidity was going to wind up hurting one of them. Tossing Viggo- who was intensely volatile and argued constantly with her and Phillipa about Aragorn’s characterization- into the mix did not seem like a good idea.
“Consider me the voice of reason in the wilderness, Fran.”
PJ finally spoke. “Thanks for letting us know. Just don’t screw up my movie, will you?”
After Viggo had left, Fran looked at Peter and said, “Did you have any idea?”
Peter shook his head and said, “Nope. We must just about have the campest Fellowship imaginable. Ian and Orlando I knew about. Now Viggo.”
“And Elijah,” added Fran, knowledgeably.
“Oh God,” said Peter. “Frodo’s queer. I keep telling myself it could have been so much worse. We could be dealing with a rampaging Russell Crowe, or Keanu Reeves could be crashing his motorbike all the time. Or we could have hired Julia Roberts.”
“Not whilst I’m producer, love.”
* * * * * * * * * *
Late the next afternoon, the cast had gathered in the large meeting room to watch the dailies. Viggo was leaning against the wall at the back of the room, his arms around Orlando; watching footage of them riding through the set of Meduseld. Viggo whispered, “No wonder you’re so at home being Legolas. A wig and some tights. Just like performing.”
Orlando laughed silently and whispered back, “If PJ wants me to tuck, he’s going to have to pay me more.”
Author: Elaine Kemp
Pairing: Viggorli
Rating: R
Betaed by: Celebrian and Mina
Summary: Sequel to “Stranger to the Ground.” The trip home. You probably need to have the read the first story to make any sense of this one.
Disclaimer: Fiction. I made it all up.
Viggo felt exuberantly happy: wildly, ecstatically happy. He was driving, heading back towards Wellington; and Orlando was beside him in the car, bent over rummaging around amongst the CDs. They’d been listening to Indigo Girls; to one of Viggo’s favourite CDs. Now it was Orlando’s turn to choose.
He sat back up and loaded the CD. “What is it?” Viggo asked, not actually caring. Orlando could listen to the worst Industrial Band crap, and Viggo would still feel great.
“It’s a burnt CD,” Orlando said, and the music started and proved to be innocuous pop by a female vocalist Viggo couldn’t place. The next track was equally inane pop and vaguely familiar, too. Viggo turned his head slightly to watch Orlando with his peripheral vision as he drove, unable to keep his eyes off of him for long. Orlando was jiggling in his seat, singing along, and Viggo smiled again. He concentrated on the road for a moment as a moron in a small truck successfully overtook them around a blind corner; then let his sight drift back to the man beside him. Something niggled at his mind; something about the way Orlando looked or sounded.
Or didn’t sound. He was miming, not singing, but doing it so well it took awhile for Viggo to notice.
“You’re lip-synching. Properly,” said Viggo slowing down as they passed a ‘Stock on the Road’ warning sign. They had all learnt that New Zealand road warning signs had to be taken seriously. “Bloody hell, you’ve done drag.” He slowed down even more as they passed a group of enormous pigs milling around on the verge.
The logging truck behind them sounded its horn and pulled out to overtake, apparently unconcerned about the impact damage that several hundred kilos of bacon would do. Orlando grinned. “Sure, with my face and build, I was born to do drag. I performed for most of the time I was at Guildhall. Used to get 250 quid a night, plus all I could drink. Bloody good pay for an acting student.” Viggo watched him as he gestured, and thought that he would have been very good at drag. The song changed, and the next one was Kylie, and Viggo laughed out loud as Orlando pursed his lips and cocked his head in a characteristic pose. “What, no teasing?” Orlando said.
Viggo shook his head. “Hell, no. I’ll tell you a secret. When I worked behind the bar in the gay bar, all I wore was a jockstrap. Drag sounds fine to me.”
Orlando turned to look at Viggo, eyes wide. “A jockstrap? No wonder you got laid all the time.” And then, after Viggo had picked up speed again, “So, I tucked, and you padded?”
Viggo shook his head. “Couldn’t pad. I used to charge 10 dollars a look.”
Orlando shrieked with laughter and Viggo joined him, “You would have loved the life then. Total hedonism. You could do anything you wanted and there were no consequences.”
The Spice Girls came on and Orlando said, “Wow. I’ve never fucked a stranger. Sure, lots of blow-jobs, but fucking had to be someone I knew and trusted, because if a condom broke, you had to be able to find the person.”
They drove on for a while, with Mt. Tongariro looming on their right, and Baby Spice warbled and then Viggo looked sideways at Orlando, “Show me a routine. Now.”
“What?” Orlando asked, surprised.
“Show me a dance routine. Here,” and Viggo turned on the indicator and slowed down at the turnoff for a lookout over the gorge that Oturere Stream fell through. The gravel parking lot was empty and the view over the gorge was wonderful- dense forest giving way to the plunging falls. A little below them a car passed on the highway looping around the twists and turns as the road descended to the bottom of the gorge.
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. Go on- you jump off bridges for fun, this should be nothing.”
Orlando looked at Viggo, who was grinning; daring him. Elijah was excellent at inciting Orlando to behave recklessly. He suspected that Viggo might be even better at it than Elijah.
Orlando grinned back and said “Sure. Are you going to take photos?”
Orlando climbed out of the 4WD and swung his arms around and laughed at Viggo. “Can’t dance in a heavy jumper,” he said and pulled his jumper and t-shirt off.
Viggo shook his head and reached behind him to the backseat for his camera. Taking the t-shirt off was just exhibitionism, Viggo knew. Just for his benefit. Viggo sat on the bonnet of the car, camera in hand and Orlando leant into the car and fiddled with the CD player.
Then, in a gravel parking lot, beside Oturere Stream, Orlando Bloom- dressed only in jeans and boots- danced for Viggo Mortensen, accompanied by Tina Tuner singing “Simply The Best”.
Of all the strange things that had ever happened to Viggo, he thought that this might just be the most surreal. Orlando was competent, and Viggo had seen enough drag to be able to picture Orlando in wig, sequins and heels; but seeing him dance now, in New Zealand on a chilly day, wearing only jeans and sporting a Mohawk, was bizarre.
Viggo took a few photos and put his camera down. He wouldn’t need photos to remind him of this.
Orlando swung his hips and turned and raised his arms over his head, and a logging truck sounded its horn as it passed by them on the highway. Suddenly the enormity of what had happened over the past three days hit Viggo. He had been grief stricken and frozen inside and Orlando had cared for him enough to reach out and help him make sense of his grief after all these years. And Viggo had let him.
And now, watching Orlando dance, and remembering how passionate they had been the night before, Viggo knew how he felt; knew that he wanted the warmth between them to continue growing.
The song ended, and the gorge was quiet. Orlando did coy waves to his imaginary audience, blew Viggo a kiss and slunk over to him. Viggo pulled Orlando into his arms and Orlando slid his bare arms inside of Viggo’s jacket and buried himself in the warmth. Viggo pulled his jacket closed around him and Viggo’s mouth was amongst his hair, his words soft when he said, “I’m twenty years older than I used to be and I’ve had my heart broken a couple of times and I’ve got a son. Everything is full of meaning; of consequences for me now.”
Orlando pulled back a little and smiled at Viggo, "I’m not planning on hurting you.”
Viggo shook his head a little and said, “Tell me now if you’re just going to walk away tomorrow, and act as if nothing has happened between us, because I’m falling in love with you.”
Orlando’s face was serious now, “I’m more than a little in love with you. I was hoping you would want us to keep seeing each other after we got back to Wellington. Hoping we could be lovers.”
Viggo embraced Orlando tightly and murmured, “Lovers. I like the sound of that.”
Orlando kissed Viggo gently, longingly, and whispered, “How far are we from Wellington?”
Viggo stroked the fingers of one hand down Orlando’s face. “Four and a half hours; maybe a bit more.”
“I can’t wait that long.”
Viggo’s eyes were held by Orlando’s, by the need he saw in them. “We’ll stop at the next town.”
Orlando paused in the doorway of the tiny motel room they’d rented. Viggo turned from closing the blinds and switching on the heater and thought for a moment that Orlando looked nervous. “What is it?” he said, crossing the room and taking Orlando’s hand. “What’s wrong?”
Orlando looked at Viggo, uncertainty in his eyes. “I’ve never done this before.”
Viggo pulled the door closed behind them and said, “Done what?”
“Made love.”
Viggo paused. It had not occurred to him that this amazing person, who knew about grief and death and compassion and flight, did not know about love. “Let me show you,” he said, and kissed Orlando softly.
And they made love in a cheap motel room in New Zealand; with the heater humming to fight off the gathering winter night’s cold. They made love with fingers and mouths and cocks, touching everywhere, feeling everything. With skin and sweat and every breath. For each of them, every moment was about the other person; about touching and sliding and listening to each sound of pleasure, until there was nowhere left to hide.
Afterwards, after Orlando had stopped trembling, they lay in bed wrapped around each other, “Do you want to see if the truckstop café has food you can eat? Or do you just want to get back in the car and drive to Wellington tonight?” Viggo asked quietly
The café had lentil burgers and soy shakes, so they ate sitting in bed; watching rugby on the only TV channel available, and speculated about what the various codes of football played said about the people that played them. Orlando said, “What does it say about New Zealanders that they have to tape their ears on with duct tape before playing football?”
Viggo shrugged, “I’m not sure, but it’s probably related to one lane bridges with train tracks down the middle and the national urge to commit suicide by logging truck.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The next afternoon, the door to Billy’s apartment was opened by Elijah, who shouted and threw himself at Orlando. Orlando hugged him back and pushed him off and looked at him quizzically, seeing hurt in his eyes, behind the smile. “What’s happened?” he said quietly, following Elijah into the hall. “Trouble in Hobbiton?”
Then he was on the floor of the lounge, underneath the three hobbits, tickling all the skin he could reach. This was their standard greeting, the sort of greeting that broke furniture; that made the crew look at them strangely; and, on one memorable occasion, made Fran shout at them.
After a minute or two, Orlando pulled himself out of the scrum, appropriated a beer and claimed the only decent armchair. “So, did you miss me?” he asked as Billy and Dom scrambled for the lounge and Elijah went to replace the beer he had lost.
“You should have come with us,” Billy said. “We went out clubbing on Saturday night and Dom pulled a babe.” Suddenly, the hurt in Elijah’s eyes made sense. Dom had no clue how Elijah felt. “What about you, Orli? Did you get laid?” Billy asked.
Orlando nodded and Billy grinned at him and said, “Typical. You go spend four days driving around North Island in the middle of nowhere, and you still get lucky.”
Elijah was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, beer in his hand, watching Orlando closely. He said, “It was more than that, Orli. What’s happened?”
Orlando looked at Elijah. They were close- close enough that only Orlando knew Elijah was in love with Dom- and could read each other. Orlando said simply, “I fell in love.”
Billy said, “No way. You met a chick,”
-“or bloke” Dom interjected, and Billy thumped him-
“and fell in love, all in four days.”
Orlando was still holding Elijah’s gaze. Elijah said, “That’s not what happened, is it?”
Orlando shook his head, “It was Viggo.”
Billy said, “No way,” and Dom’s mouth hung open and Elijah threw himself across the room into Orlando’s lap and hugged him, saying “Tell us, I want to know all the details.”
Orlando wiped beer off his arm onto Elijah’s shirt and said “Get off ’Lij. No way am I reminiscing about bonking Viggo with you in my lap.”
Billy cried “Arrgghh. I can’t listen to this. It threatens my masculinity,” and blocked his ears with his fingers. Elijah clambered in between Dom and Billy on the couch and said, “Go on, tell.”
Orlando considered what to say. He and Viggo had agreed that he should tell the hobbits immediately that they were lovers, there being few secrets from them anyway; and thus avoid any hideously embarrassing walk-in incidents. “Viggo was really down because it was the anniversary of the death of an ex of his on Friday. We went to this incredible place: a headland where falcons were soaring everywhere, and he was crying. Later on, he told me why; he told me about all sorts of things, none of which I’m going to repeat. The next day, we went to this beach which was piled with enormous amounts of driftwood, and we kissed. And then all this amazing stuff happened between us, and now we’re together.”
Elijah was grinning at him, Dom still looked incredulous and Billy said, “Really?”, obviously forgetting he was threatened.
Later on, when Billy and Dom had gone out for more beer, Elijah looked at him intently and said, “He’s in love with you too, isn’t he?”
Orlando nodded, feeling the happiness shining out of himself.
* * * * * * * *
The production offices were quiet when Viggo went looking for Fran to return the car keys. One of the tech staff pointed him towards the Weta workshops, and he found Fran standing outside in one of the open spaces, dubiously poking a lump of…something… that was on the ground with her foot as one of the Weta chemists waved his arms excitedly. She saw him walking towards her and excused herself from the chemist and the lump and went to meet Viggo.
“What was that stuff?” he asked, looking at the goop stuck to her shoe. She looked down and began scraping her foot along the ground, trying to dislodge it.
“You’re an actor, there are some things you don’t need to know.”
He held out the car keys to her, “Is PJ around? I’d like to talk to you both.”
She looked at him with concern. He was one of the stars, and part of her job was to keep him happy. “I’m on my way to meet him in post-production. We can catch him there.”
Fran evicted a tech from an office and she and PJ looked at Viggo with concern. “Good holiday?” she asked.
“The best. Thanks for the use of the car. There’s something I need to talk to you both about; something personal,” Viggo said.
“A problem?” PJ said worriedly. Viggo had saved their butts by stepping in when Stuart Townsend hadn’t worked out and they couldn’t afford to lose him now, months into filming.
Viggo shook his head and smiled. “I hope not, but as you’re the bosses, I do need to tell you that Orlando and I are lovers.”
Fran flicked a glance at PJ, who seemed too surprised to talk, before she said, “Have you succumbed to Hobbit madness, Viggo?” Elijah, Dom, Billy and Orlando had proven to be a dangerous combination, and she continued to be worried that one of their episodes of stupidity was going to wind up hurting one of them. Tossing Viggo- who was intensely volatile and argued constantly with her and Phillipa about Aragorn’s characterization- into the mix did not seem like a good idea.
“Consider me the voice of reason in the wilderness, Fran.”
PJ finally spoke. “Thanks for letting us know. Just don’t screw up my movie, will you?”
After Viggo had left, Fran looked at Peter and said, “Did you have any idea?”
Peter shook his head and said, “Nope. We must just about have the campest Fellowship imaginable. Ian and Orlando I knew about. Now Viggo.”
“And Elijah,” added Fran, knowledgeably.
“Oh God,” said Peter. “Frodo’s queer. I keep telling myself it could have been so much worse. We could be dealing with a rampaging Russell Crowe, or Keanu Reeves could be crashing his motorbike all the time. Or we could have hired Julia Roberts.”
“Not whilst I’m producer, love.”
* * * * * * * * * *
Late the next afternoon, the cast had gathered in the large meeting room to watch the dailies. Viggo was leaning against the wall at the back of the room, his arms around Orlando; watching footage of them riding through the set of Meduseld. Viggo whispered, “No wonder you’re so at home being Legolas. A wig and some tights. Just like performing.”
Orlando laughed silently and whispered back, “If PJ wants me to tuck, he’s going to have to pay me more.”