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fellowshippers2004-02-28 11:47 pm
axis2cluster-b.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-02-28 11:47 pm
Wrong Way; OB/VM; R
Title: Wrong Way
Author: Amiss
Pairing: Orlando/Viggo, mentions Orlando/Elijah
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own them, I don't make money off of this. Pity, that.
Archive: Please ask.
Notes: Thanks, Jen. Also, title is from a Sublime song by the same name. The lyrics just fit.
Orlando flinches when someone touches him without warning him first. I noticed that in the first week, then watched him closely to see who that applied to, what circumstances surrounded him shrinking inside his skin as something dark and indefinable skated briefly across his features, just because someone touched him without him realizing they were about to.
It’s everyone, even when it’s Elijah.
Everyone’s caught on to it to some degree or another, consciously aware or just sensing around the edges of it, and we’ve all adjusted. It’s just become a given that you make sure Orlando knows you’re there, that you’re about to touch him. Some days, the flinch is barely there, automatic, and some days it’s worse, some days he’s tongue-tied and scrambling for some way for it to be normal, under the radar, unnoticed.
And some times, on nights like this, when it’s just a few of us gathered together and Orlando’s a long sprawl on the couch with his head in Elijah’s lap and his feet in Billy’s, I can almost convince myself that I’m imagining it, that it’s just something dark in me pushing itself out, staining him with my own taint.
“Viggo?” and I jump a little at Sean Bean’s voice in my ear, low and sympathetic as he settles into the chair beside mine. “You’re staring.”
I sigh, leaning my head back, eyes finding the ceiling but I’m still seeing him, animated and laughing as he uses his hands to shape words in the air above his chest. “I don’t doubt it.”
“When’re you going to say something to him, then?”
Orlando’s laughing now, probably at something Elijah said to him.
“I’m starting with never and working up from there.”
“Viggo--”
“Look at him,” I say, lowering my head again. Elijah’s hands are resting on Orlando’s head, sliding through his hair and Orlando’s stretching, smiling, eyes closing and fuck, it pisses me off. “He needs that. Calm and laughing and relaxed.”
“And you can’t--”
“And I can’t,” I cut in. “I’m not… not right for him.”
“Viggo--”
“Good night, Sean,” I say, clasping his hand briefly before I retreat, leaving his troubled face and Orlando’s low laughter and Elijah’s pale fingers threaded through dark hair.
**
I first catch Orlando kissing Elijah on the front steps of his trailer and I freeze, caught in a moment that’s slow and beautiful and indefinable.
And not mine.
So very much not mine.
It’s Elijah who breaks it, pulling away to smile at Orlando, angelic as Orlando’s hands fit against his skinny hips, pulling Elijah closer. There’s such an intimacy in that one subtle gesture, such a promise that I feel my face burning even as I realize that I can’t look away from it.
“Looks like you just may get your never,” Sean Bean says and I jump, turning on him as my heart catches, pounding in my throat.
“How do you *do* that?” I demand quietly, once I can breathe again.
He’s smirking, propping himself against a tree. “Do what? Show up when you’re brooding over Orlando?”
“You’re like some sort of fucked up Jiminy Cricket,” I growl, putting my back to his surprised bark of laughter.
“Encouraging you to go against your conscience?”
It’s too late, though. They’re gone and the trailer door is closed and I’m not going to demean myself by listening at it to see if they’re in there together.
I’m not.
And I wouldn’t even if I couldn’t feel Sean’s eyes on me.
Leaves crunch sharply under Sean’s feet as he comes up behind me, close enough that I can feel his warmth at my back, his breath on my neck. “He watches you, too. As much as you watch him.”
“Sean--”
“Just think about it. That’s all I’m telling you. Think about it.”
I’m not thinking about anything later, though, can’t think around the roaring in my ears when I corner Orlando and ask him to have dinner with me.
And then I can’t think around blind panic when he says yes.
**
“This is all your fault,” I accuse, planting myself between Sean and the steps up to his trailer.
He pulls up short, pretending surprise, but the look on his face, in his eyes, gives it away. There’s triumph there, just under the amusement. “Pardon?”
“I did it, and now I don’t know what to do about it.” I sigh in frustration, rubbing at my temples. “I asked him to have dinner with me, and he said yes, so now I’m stuck.”
“Stuck having dinner with him?” Sean asks, going around me and up the steps, holding the door open for me.
“Exactly.” I flop down on the small sofa, tilt my head back and close my eyes.
“And?”
“And do I take him somewhere? Cook for him? I haven’t done any of this in a very long time, Sean.”
“And never for someone quite like him?” Sean asks quietly, and I sigh.
“Something like that.”
**
My small kitchen feels even smaller with Orlando in it, like he’s somehow compressing the air around us as he helps me with dinner. He’s calm tonight, his smile and his laugh easy and frequent.
He’s also stoned.
Not a lot, not so much that he’s… impaired. Not so much that it’s even really noticeable. He’s a little glassy around the edges, but I’m not sure that I would have even picked up on that if it hadn’t been for how he hugged me when I let him in: completely and easily, with no hesitation or reserve. There wasn’t even the faintest hint of marijuana, though, so something else, something calming… something…
“Viggo? Viggo!”
I jump a little, his voice pulling me out, and I realize with more than a little shock that he’s already taken the lasagna out.
“You got lost for awhile,” he says, putting plates on the kitchen table.
“I do that,” I say, moving to help as he smiles at me.
“Wasn’t complaining.”
**
He follows me into the living room after we’ve cleaned up the kitchen, settles himself on my couch and smiles up at me.
“C’mon,” he says, and it’s all over his face, that he’s reading my hesitation and daring me to do something about it, daring me to go to him.
I can feel his warmth when I sit down, too close to him and not close enough. One movement takes care of that, though, one slither-slide that carries him across my lap, gets him settled with his knees pressed to either side of my hips. It’s fluid grace, pure Legolas. He smiles down at me, his hands coming up to rest against my shoulders.
“Orlando, what—“
“It’s what you wanted, yeah?” he says, the words breathed against my lips, almost a kiss.
“Yes, it is,” I say, and he smiles at me, this slow spread of a grin that promises anything I want.
“Then why are you still talking?”
“You’re not exactly sober, Orlando,” I say quietly, and he stiffens just a little, even though his smile stays in place.
“No, not exactly, but I’m not fucked up, either. I know exactly what I’m doing, and I’m exactly where I want to be.” His teeth find my lower lip, nipping just enough to sting and it makes me moan, then his tongue is soothing the small swelling, licking at my lips, teasing me.
It’s out of control already, gone past anything that I thought would happen, so much faster than I thought it would go and even though I do believe him about being mostly sober, there’s one more thing… one thing that I have to ask about while I can still make myself find the words.
One thing that I can’t ignore.
“What about Elijah?” I say weakly, and that’s all I can manage, weak almost-protest as he presses himself against me, letting his mouth find my jaw and wander down, down along my throat, nipping just enough to make me gasp, my hands going to his hips so I’ll have something to squeeze.
“Elijah’s… confused about things,” Orlando says softly, and jesus, that in itself shouldn’t be enough to make me even harder, the sound of Orlando talking about Elijah, but he’s saying it right in my ear, words sliding inside my brain on a warm breath of air and it’s enough to make me forget.
I run my hands down along his back, slide my fingers under the worn softness of his t-shirt, press indentations into the warm skin along his spine, playing over the little dip in the center of his back. It makes him whimper, push himself up against me even harder, hips against mine and *there*, so close but there’s too much between us and I can’t have that, no more between us. Something I was meant to be remembering before his hand slid flat under my shirt and over my stomach, something I needed… “Elijah,” I get out again, and he sighs, pulls back. He’s smiling at me, but it’s amusement with a full complement of exasperation.
“If you keep talking about Elijah, I’m going to start to think you don’t want me here,” he says lightly.
“No, no, not that,” I say, my fingers at his hips again, holding him close to me because I’m pretty sure that’s important to him, would be to anyone in a situation like this. “I just… I don’t want…”
“You want to make sure I’m not fucking him over?” Orlando supplies, and Jesus, it sounds so much worse when it’s put back to me like that. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to make you answer that. And I’m not, by the way.” He laughs, and I know I probably look blank, but he’s talking circles around it and me and his hands are still on me, which I would think would be a perfectly good excuse for me to be having problems thinking. “I’m not fucking him over. Is that plain enough?”
“Good enough,” I say, pulling him close again, my fingers at the base of his skull pulling his face to mine so I can kiss him right this time, full and deep, his tongue warm and slick against mine. “Are we really going to do this on the couch?” I finally ask, and he laughs against my skin, tongue doing clever little things along my throat that make me want to grab him and shove him face-first into the couch and fuck him.
“Good enough for me,” he says, and his mouth has gotten to my collarbone now, teeth scraping along the left side.
“Fuck,” I growl, and that’s what does it, his teeth on my skin. “Not enough room,” I say, as my hands grip his ass, pull him to me as I shift our weight enough to stand. He laughs, low and startled, as he wraps his legs around my hips, hanging on as I carry him down the short hallway to the bedroom.
**
He curls close to me in sleep, an arm over my waist and a leg worked through mine, his face nuzzled against my chest, close like he can never seem to manage while he’s awake. He’s warm and close, and it’s fucking terrifying.
**
Elijah knows.
He’s got to, it’s all over both of us. Orlando touches me now, warm fingers sliding through mine whenever he gets the chance, and never mind where we are, who else is around. And I don’t stop him, don’t *want* to stop him. More often than not, he stays at my apartment now, rides to the set with me, wraps himself around me whenever there are no cameras on us.
So, Elijah knows, and I feel the guilt that Orlando doesn’t seem to. That’s what drives me to him early one morning when Orlando’s still in make-up, the only time I’ve caught him alone since all of this went spinning.
He doesn’t look surprised when I corner him, even though all I can seem to do is open my mouth. Really, really should have put some planning into this, I guess.
I’m still searching when he speaks, his blue eyes calm. “It’s okay, Viggo.” He’s smiling a little as he tugs out his pack of cigarettes and lighter. It’s a smile, but it’s just that little bit off, that little bit bitter.
“I just wanted to tell you—“
“It’s okay,” and it’s harsher now, his hands shaking just a little as he lights the cigarette and I honestly can’t tell if it’s the cold or the anger that he’s struggling to hide. It catches me again how short his nails are, how far back he gnaws them. “It’s not *you.* I…” He sighs, and I can see him gathering himself. “Look, I told Orli that I thought I might be gay, that I thought… that Dom… well, never mind that part, it’s not important. Anyway, I told Orlando that I was… curious, I guess, and Christ, I fucking hate that word. He told me we could… well, it was an arrangement. For me to see. That’s it, I don’t have any fucking place to be pissed off, at either one of you.”
“But you are pissed off.”
The cigarette jitters, the plume of smoke getting jagged. “I hope that he gives you more than he gave me.”
Elijah’s gone then, rescued by Peter calling for him, and I’m left confused and strangely empty.
**
Orlando cries out in his sleep some nights, these choked out, glass-sharp sounds that are almost words. I wish sometimes that I could leave him to his nightmares long enough for me to get the answers to just a few of my questions.
I can’t leave him vulnerable, though, pale and fitful in the moonlight, mouth working as his long legs shift restlessly against the sheets.
Nights like this, when it’s bad, I don’t last past the first jump, the first wordless plea. I pull him close to me, press my mouth to the soft hollow where his neck meets his shoulder and whisper against his skin. “Orlando? Orli, you’re with me, you’re okay. You’re okay.”
He’s moving abruptly, shoving at my bare chest, and even in the dimness of the room I can see that his eyes are glazed. “Orlando!” and I’m sharp with him this time, trying to pierce the fog of sleep and panic that have him so tense, have him fighting someone who isn’t me.
I hope it isn’t me.
He’s slowing now, eyelids closing over fear-black eyes, then opening again and I can breathe now. He’s in there again, confused and tired and haunted, but in there. “Viggo?”
“It’s me. You were dreaming again,” I say as I slide my arm over his narrow waist, pull him to me again. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He’s already shaking his head, settling against me, eyes closing as he slips his leg between mine. “’M tired. I just want to go back to sleep.”
“Orlando—“
“No, Viggo. Just… no, okay? I don’t feel like going into this in the middle of the night.”
“Then when?”
He sighs, pulling away from me and rolling onto his back, staring at the vaulted darkness of the ceiling. “Have we talked about pushing me yet?”
“No, but—“
“Don’t. You have me with you, isn’t that enough?”
Sighing, I roll to him, let my fingers skim along his chest, letting myself absorb his warmth, the comfort of having him here with me. Maybe it is enough.
Then it hits me, how tense he still is against me, even as I’m trying to relax and do I really want him this way? Just… part of him, the little bits and pieces that he’ll let me have?
Do I want him like Elijah had him?
“It’s not enough,” I say, and he lets out a long breath, then pulls himself away, sits up and puts his face in his hands.
“Why can’t you leave it alone, Viggo? I like you, like being with you, but… don’t pry at me, okay? Why can’t you just not pry at me?”
“Because I want to know you. I don’t want to just… sleep with you now and then and not have any idea of who you really are. You give me just enough for me to know that I want to know more.”
“I’m not what you think I am, who you think I am!” he cries out suddenly, standing and pushing himself away from the bed, away from me, giving me nothing but the tensed, slim line of his back.
I stand and move forward slowly, until I’m at his back, close enough to touch him, but I don’t reach for him. I can almost feel his body vibrate, muscles drawn so taut, too taut, and I’m afraid he’d shatter like spun glass at the first brush of my fingers. “When I look at you, I only see Orlando,” I whisper, and he laughs, sharp and brittle and too old for him.
“What the bloody hell would you know about it anyway?” he asks, stepping further away from me, to the night-dark window. “Don’t you know by now that you’re not meant to look too deeply into your toys, Vig? Takes all the fun from the fucking.”
“Toys? I don’t understand, is that what you think you are to me? A toy?” I can feel the red flush of anger climbing my throat, the heat of it along my jaws, my cheeks. “A fuck?” I spit the last word at him, even as I’m telling myself to calm down because he’s baiting me, fucking baiting me and I don’t know why.
“Isn’t it?” he asks, and the absolute toneless defeat of his voice drains my anger, shames me and humbles me, and I have to touch him, take his shoulder and turn him to my face.
“No.”
“Yes. A toy.”
“No.”
“Yes. A fuck. A way to kill some time.”
“No.”
His face breaks apart then, that mask that he always wears cracking open, all of that careful composure spilling away and letting out the rest of it, rage and pain and sorrow. All of the things that never do more than flit indefinable through the dark of his eyes are suddenly brought out screaming. “This is wrong, all wrong, fucking wrong,” he gets out, turning half away from me again.
“I didn’t do any of this right, did I?” I finally ask, letting him keep that distance. “I fucked up all the way around. I’m sorry, Orli, I didn’t—“
“You didn’t realize how fucked up I was? How neurotic? Not worth the trouble?”
“That you needed me to take my time,” I say quietly, and he laughs.
“It’s not like I wasn’t all over you, Viggo. You can’t blame yourself for me being a slut.”
“You’re not—“
“You don’t *know*,” he says again. “Don’t act like you know me just because you work with me, because I’ve let you fuck me. Christ knows if that was true, a fuck of a lot of people would know me real bloody well.”
“Stop it, Orlando, just stop,” I grind out, my hands clenching into fists because I’ve never heard him like this and I hate it, and hate myself for feeding it. For not taking my time with him, for losing my control.
“What? You like to think that I was lily white before you? That I was pure until you had me? Well, whatever makes you feel better, Viggo.” He bends over and snatches his boxers up from the floor where I threw them earlier, begins to tug them on, all of his usual grace replaced by the jerkiness of anger.
“Where are you going?” I force calm into my voice, a calm I’ve never been further from feeling. Maybe it’s not too late here, maybe I can still salvage something from this mess.
He sighs, his body suddenly loose again, almost limp. “Christ, I don’t know. To take a fucking shower.”
**
The shower seems to hiss forever, and I’m actually dozing when he curls next to me again, warm and damp and pliant.
“Okay?” I murmur, pressing my lips to his forehead.
“Okay,” he says as he snuggles closer, and he’s calm now, relaxed and easy and stoned.
“What do you take, Orli? Can you tell me that much?”
He sighs, but there’s no tension to this. This isn’t the big mystery. “Valium. I’ve done it for years, Viggo.”
I bite my tongue on all of the questions that will make me too old to both of us, hold it all in and settle for running my fingers through his dark hair until he sleeps.
Author: Amiss
Pairing: Orlando/Viggo, mentions Orlando/Elijah
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own them, I don't make money off of this. Pity, that.
Archive: Please ask.
Notes: Thanks, Jen. Also, title is from a Sublime song by the same name. The lyrics just fit.
Orlando flinches when someone touches him without warning him first. I noticed that in the first week, then watched him closely to see who that applied to, what circumstances surrounded him shrinking inside his skin as something dark and indefinable skated briefly across his features, just because someone touched him without him realizing they were about to.
It’s everyone, even when it’s Elijah.
Everyone’s caught on to it to some degree or another, consciously aware or just sensing around the edges of it, and we’ve all adjusted. It’s just become a given that you make sure Orlando knows you’re there, that you’re about to touch him. Some days, the flinch is barely there, automatic, and some days it’s worse, some days he’s tongue-tied and scrambling for some way for it to be normal, under the radar, unnoticed.
And some times, on nights like this, when it’s just a few of us gathered together and Orlando’s a long sprawl on the couch with his head in Elijah’s lap and his feet in Billy’s, I can almost convince myself that I’m imagining it, that it’s just something dark in me pushing itself out, staining him with my own taint.
“Viggo?” and I jump a little at Sean Bean’s voice in my ear, low and sympathetic as he settles into the chair beside mine. “You’re staring.”
I sigh, leaning my head back, eyes finding the ceiling but I’m still seeing him, animated and laughing as he uses his hands to shape words in the air above his chest. “I don’t doubt it.”
“When’re you going to say something to him, then?”
Orlando’s laughing now, probably at something Elijah said to him.
“I’m starting with never and working up from there.”
“Viggo--”
“Look at him,” I say, lowering my head again. Elijah’s hands are resting on Orlando’s head, sliding through his hair and Orlando’s stretching, smiling, eyes closing and fuck, it pisses me off. “He needs that. Calm and laughing and relaxed.”
“And you can’t--”
“And I can’t,” I cut in. “I’m not… not right for him.”
“Viggo--”
“Good night, Sean,” I say, clasping his hand briefly before I retreat, leaving his troubled face and Orlando’s low laughter and Elijah’s pale fingers threaded through dark hair.
**
I first catch Orlando kissing Elijah on the front steps of his trailer and I freeze, caught in a moment that’s slow and beautiful and indefinable.
And not mine.
So very much not mine.
It’s Elijah who breaks it, pulling away to smile at Orlando, angelic as Orlando’s hands fit against his skinny hips, pulling Elijah closer. There’s such an intimacy in that one subtle gesture, such a promise that I feel my face burning even as I realize that I can’t look away from it.
“Looks like you just may get your never,” Sean Bean says and I jump, turning on him as my heart catches, pounding in my throat.
“How do you *do* that?” I demand quietly, once I can breathe again.
He’s smirking, propping himself against a tree. “Do what? Show up when you’re brooding over Orlando?”
“You’re like some sort of fucked up Jiminy Cricket,” I growl, putting my back to his surprised bark of laughter.
“Encouraging you to go against your conscience?”
It’s too late, though. They’re gone and the trailer door is closed and I’m not going to demean myself by listening at it to see if they’re in there together.
I’m not.
And I wouldn’t even if I couldn’t feel Sean’s eyes on me.
Leaves crunch sharply under Sean’s feet as he comes up behind me, close enough that I can feel his warmth at my back, his breath on my neck. “He watches you, too. As much as you watch him.”
“Sean--”
“Just think about it. That’s all I’m telling you. Think about it.”
I’m not thinking about anything later, though, can’t think around the roaring in my ears when I corner Orlando and ask him to have dinner with me.
And then I can’t think around blind panic when he says yes.
**
“This is all your fault,” I accuse, planting myself between Sean and the steps up to his trailer.
He pulls up short, pretending surprise, but the look on his face, in his eyes, gives it away. There’s triumph there, just under the amusement. “Pardon?”
“I did it, and now I don’t know what to do about it.” I sigh in frustration, rubbing at my temples. “I asked him to have dinner with me, and he said yes, so now I’m stuck.”
“Stuck having dinner with him?” Sean asks, going around me and up the steps, holding the door open for me.
“Exactly.” I flop down on the small sofa, tilt my head back and close my eyes.
“And?”
“And do I take him somewhere? Cook for him? I haven’t done any of this in a very long time, Sean.”
“And never for someone quite like him?” Sean asks quietly, and I sigh.
“Something like that.”
**
My small kitchen feels even smaller with Orlando in it, like he’s somehow compressing the air around us as he helps me with dinner. He’s calm tonight, his smile and his laugh easy and frequent.
He’s also stoned.
Not a lot, not so much that he’s… impaired. Not so much that it’s even really noticeable. He’s a little glassy around the edges, but I’m not sure that I would have even picked up on that if it hadn’t been for how he hugged me when I let him in: completely and easily, with no hesitation or reserve. There wasn’t even the faintest hint of marijuana, though, so something else, something calming… something…
“Viggo? Viggo!”
I jump a little, his voice pulling me out, and I realize with more than a little shock that he’s already taken the lasagna out.
“You got lost for awhile,” he says, putting plates on the kitchen table.
“I do that,” I say, moving to help as he smiles at me.
“Wasn’t complaining.”
**
He follows me into the living room after we’ve cleaned up the kitchen, settles himself on my couch and smiles up at me.
“C’mon,” he says, and it’s all over his face, that he’s reading my hesitation and daring me to do something about it, daring me to go to him.
I can feel his warmth when I sit down, too close to him and not close enough. One movement takes care of that, though, one slither-slide that carries him across my lap, gets him settled with his knees pressed to either side of my hips. It’s fluid grace, pure Legolas. He smiles down at me, his hands coming up to rest against my shoulders.
“Orlando, what—“
“It’s what you wanted, yeah?” he says, the words breathed against my lips, almost a kiss.
“Yes, it is,” I say, and he smiles at me, this slow spread of a grin that promises anything I want.
“Then why are you still talking?”
“You’re not exactly sober, Orlando,” I say quietly, and he stiffens just a little, even though his smile stays in place.
“No, not exactly, but I’m not fucked up, either. I know exactly what I’m doing, and I’m exactly where I want to be.” His teeth find my lower lip, nipping just enough to sting and it makes me moan, then his tongue is soothing the small swelling, licking at my lips, teasing me.
It’s out of control already, gone past anything that I thought would happen, so much faster than I thought it would go and even though I do believe him about being mostly sober, there’s one more thing… one thing that I have to ask about while I can still make myself find the words.
One thing that I can’t ignore.
“What about Elijah?” I say weakly, and that’s all I can manage, weak almost-protest as he presses himself against me, letting his mouth find my jaw and wander down, down along my throat, nipping just enough to make me gasp, my hands going to his hips so I’ll have something to squeeze.
“Elijah’s… confused about things,” Orlando says softly, and jesus, that in itself shouldn’t be enough to make me even harder, the sound of Orlando talking about Elijah, but he’s saying it right in my ear, words sliding inside my brain on a warm breath of air and it’s enough to make me forget.
I run my hands down along his back, slide my fingers under the worn softness of his t-shirt, press indentations into the warm skin along his spine, playing over the little dip in the center of his back. It makes him whimper, push himself up against me even harder, hips against mine and *there*, so close but there’s too much between us and I can’t have that, no more between us. Something I was meant to be remembering before his hand slid flat under my shirt and over my stomach, something I needed… “Elijah,” I get out again, and he sighs, pulls back. He’s smiling at me, but it’s amusement with a full complement of exasperation.
“If you keep talking about Elijah, I’m going to start to think you don’t want me here,” he says lightly.
“No, no, not that,” I say, my fingers at his hips again, holding him close to me because I’m pretty sure that’s important to him, would be to anyone in a situation like this. “I just… I don’t want…”
“You want to make sure I’m not fucking him over?” Orlando supplies, and Jesus, it sounds so much worse when it’s put back to me like that. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to make you answer that. And I’m not, by the way.” He laughs, and I know I probably look blank, but he’s talking circles around it and me and his hands are still on me, which I would think would be a perfectly good excuse for me to be having problems thinking. “I’m not fucking him over. Is that plain enough?”
“Good enough,” I say, pulling him close again, my fingers at the base of his skull pulling his face to mine so I can kiss him right this time, full and deep, his tongue warm and slick against mine. “Are we really going to do this on the couch?” I finally ask, and he laughs against my skin, tongue doing clever little things along my throat that make me want to grab him and shove him face-first into the couch and fuck him.
“Good enough for me,” he says, and his mouth has gotten to my collarbone now, teeth scraping along the left side.
“Fuck,” I growl, and that’s what does it, his teeth on my skin. “Not enough room,” I say, as my hands grip his ass, pull him to me as I shift our weight enough to stand. He laughs, low and startled, as he wraps his legs around my hips, hanging on as I carry him down the short hallway to the bedroom.
**
He curls close to me in sleep, an arm over my waist and a leg worked through mine, his face nuzzled against my chest, close like he can never seem to manage while he’s awake. He’s warm and close, and it’s fucking terrifying.
**
Elijah knows.
He’s got to, it’s all over both of us. Orlando touches me now, warm fingers sliding through mine whenever he gets the chance, and never mind where we are, who else is around. And I don’t stop him, don’t *want* to stop him. More often than not, he stays at my apartment now, rides to the set with me, wraps himself around me whenever there are no cameras on us.
So, Elijah knows, and I feel the guilt that Orlando doesn’t seem to. That’s what drives me to him early one morning when Orlando’s still in make-up, the only time I’ve caught him alone since all of this went spinning.
He doesn’t look surprised when I corner him, even though all I can seem to do is open my mouth. Really, really should have put some planning into this, I guess.
I’m still searching when he speaks, his blue eyes calm. “It’s okay, Viggo.” He’s smiling a little as he tugs out his pack of cigarettes and lighter. It’s a smile, but it’s just that little bit off, that little bit bitter.
“I just wanted to tell you—“
“It’s okay,” and it’s harsher now, his hands shaking just a little as he lights the cigarette and I honestly can’t tell if it’s the cold or the anger that he’s struggling to hide. It catches me again how short his nails are, how far back he gnaws them. “It’s not *you.* I…” He sighs, and I can see him gathering himself. “Look, I told Orli that I thought I might be gay, that I thought… that Dom… well, never mind that part, it’s not important. Anyway, I told Orlando that I was… curious, I guess, and Christ, I fucking hate that word. He told me we could… well, it was an arrangement. For me to see. That’s it, I don’t have any fucking place to be pissed off, at either one of you.”
“But you are pissed off.”
The cigarette jitters, the plume of smoke getting jagged. “I hope that he gives you more than he gave me.”
Elijah’s gone then, rescued by Peter calling for him, and I’m left confused and strangely empty.
**
Orlando cries out in his sleep some nights, these choked out, glass-sharp sounds that are almost words. I wish sometimes that I could leave him to his nightmares long enough for me to get the answers to just a few of my questions.
I can’t leave him vulnerable, though, pale and fitful in the moonlight, mouth working as his long legs shift restlessly against the sheets.
Nights like this, when it’s bad, I don’t last past the first jump, the first wordless plea. I pull him close to me, press my mouth to the soft hollow where his neck meets his shoulder and whisper against his skin. “Orlando? Orli, you’re with me, you’re okay. You’re okay.”
He’s moving abruptly, shoving at my bare chest, and even in the dimness of the room I can see that his eyes are glazed. “Orlando!” and I’m sharp with him this time, trying to pierce the fog of sleep and panic that have him so tense, have him fighting someone who isn’t me.
I hope it isn’t me.
He’s slowing now, eyelids closing over fear-black eyes, then opening again and I can breathe now. He’s in there again, confused and tired and haunted, but in there. “Viggo?”
“It’s me. You were dreaming again,” I say as I slide my arm over his narrow waist, pull him to me again. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He’s already shaking his head, settling against me, eyes closing as he slips his leg between mine. “’M tired. I just want to go back to sleep.”
“Orlando—“
“No, Viggo. Just… no, okay? I don’t feel like going into this in the middle of the night.”
“Then when?”
He sighs, pulling away from me and rolling onto his back, staring at the vaulted darkness of the ceiling. “Have we talked about pushing me yet?”
“No, but—“
“Don’t. You have me with you, isn’t that enough?”
Sighing, I roll to him, let my fingers skim along his chest, letting myself absorb his warmth, the comfort of having him here with me. Maybe it is enough.
Then it hits me, how tense he still is against me, even as I’m trying to relax and do I really want him this way? Just… part of him, the little bits and pieces that he’ll let me have?
Do I want him like Elijah had him?
“It’s not enough,” I say, and he lets out a long breath, then pulls himself away, sits up and puts his face in his hands.
“Why can’t you leave it alone, Viggo? I like you, like being with you, but… don’t pry at me, okay? Why can’t you just not pry at me?”
“Because I want to know you. I don’t want to just… sleep with you now and then and not have any idea of who you really are. You give me just enough for me to know that I want to know more.”
“I’m not what you think I am, who you think I am!” he cries out suddenly, standing and pushing himself away from the bed, away from me, giving me nothing but the tensed, slim line of his back.
I stand and move forward slowly, until I’m at his back, close enough to touch him, but I don’t reach for him. I can almost feel his body vibrate, muscles drawn so taut, too taut, and I’m afraid he’d shatter like spun glass at the first brush of my fingers. “When I look at you, I only see Orlando,” I whisper, and he laughs, sharp and brittle and too old for him.
“What the bloody hell would you know about it anyway?” he asks, stepping further away from me, to the night-dark window. “Don’t you know by now that you’re not meant to look too deeply into your toys, Vig? Takes all the fun from the fucking.”
“Toys? I don’t understand, is that what you think you are to me? A toy?” I can feel the red flush of anger climbing my throat, the heat of it along my jaws, my cheeks. “A fuck?” I spit the last word at him, even as I’m telling myself to calm down because he’s baiting me, fucking baiting me and I don’t know why.
“Isn’t it?” he asks, and the absolute toneless defeat of his voice drains my anger, shames me and humbles me, and I have to touch him, take his shoulder and turn him to my face.
“No.”
“Yes. A toy.”
“No.”
“Yes. A fuck. A way to kill some time.”
“No.”
His face breaks apart then, that mask that he always wears cracking open, all of that careful composure spilling away and letting out the rest of it, rage and pain and sorrow. All of the things that never do more than flit indefinable through the dark of his eyes are suddenly brought out screaming. “This is wrong, all wrong, fucking wrong,” he gets out, turning half away from me again.
“I didn’t do any of this right, did I?” I finally ask, letting him keep that distance. “I fucked up all the way around. I’m sorry, Orli, I didn’t—“
“You didn’t realize how fucked up I was? How neurotic? Not worth the trouble?”
“That you needed me to take my time,” I say quietly, and he laughs.
“It’s not like I wasn’t all over you, Viggo. You can’t blame yourself for me being a slut.”
“You’re not—“
“You don’t *know*,” he says again. “Don’t act like you know me just because you work with me, because I’ve let you fuck me. Christ knows if that was true, a fuck of a lot of people would know me real bloody well.”
“Stop it, Orlando, just stop,” I grind out, my hands clenching into fists because I’ve never heard him like this and I hate it, and hate myself for feeding it. For not taking my time with him, for losing my control.
“What? You like to think that I was lily white before you? That I was pure until you had me? Well, whatever makes you feel better, Viggo.” He bends over and snatches his boxers up from the floor where I threw them earlier, begins to tug them on, all of his usual grace replaced by the jerkiness of anger.
“Where are you going?” I force calm into my voice, a calm I’ve never been further from feeling. Maybe it’s not too late here, maybe I can still salvage something from this mess.
He sighs, his body suddenly loose again, almost limp. “Christ, I don’t know. To take a fucking shower.”
**
The shower seems to hiss forever, and I’m actually dozing when he curls next to me again, warm and damp and pliant.
“Okay?” I murmur, pressing my lips to his forehead.
“Okay,” he says as he snuggles closer, and he’s calm now, relaxed and easy and stoned.
“What do you take, Orli? Can you tell me that much?”
He sighs, but there’s no tension to this. This isn’t the big mystery. “Valium. I’ve done it for years, Viggo.”
I bite my tongue on all of the questions that will make me too old to both of us, hold it all in and settle for running my fingers through his dark hair until he sleeps.